The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  But he had apparently spoken nothing but the truth when claiming to be no scholar, for sections devoted to philosophy, and other subjects which he called ‘dry as dust’, had plainly not been dipped into during his reign at Ashburton. All this made cataloguing easy and she was able to proceed at her leisure, influenced by the atmosphere of the house. Ashburton was a tranquil place.

  The old gentleman left her mainly to her own devices. She was to rise when she pleased, do as she pleased, take meals with him and whatever company was present, or in her room. The choice was hers. His claim to be lonely in this ancient house was obviously unfounded; friends were prolific and his hospitality all she had heard.

  By Friday she felt stronger and more relaxed. She was sleeping better and her appetite had improved. The weather, though cold now it was nearly the end of November, was dry and invigorating, enticing her outdoors. She went for longer walks daily, sometimes alone, sometimes with her host, who proved to have a remarkable ability for sensing when she was ready for conversation and when she was not; when she wanted company or preferred her own.

  The desire to be alone diminished as the days passed, but her inner tension lingered. The original date of the expected birth — the beginning of December — was now imminent, and Acland’s promise to return for it haunted her. She wished she had had the courage to tell Simon of the man’s unexpected appearance on the day she pruned the vine. Had he taken her to task for her folly or questioned her about the accident, her reticence might have broken, but to open the subject herself was more than she had been capable of doing. So she had been glad of his silence and grateful for being spared any cross questioning. It had demanded supreme effort to take up the threads of everyday living again, and even more to come to terms with grief.

  She mourned the loss of her child. She had felt bereft when robbed of it. During the waiting months it had become so much a part of her, in ways more than physical, that its sudden departure had seemed to disrupt more than her body. She had grown to want the child, and when it had moved inside her she had sometimes placed her hands over her abdomen with a gentle touch, as if to let it know that she loved it and was waiting to welcome it. She had felt deeply maternal, and with the passing months she had thought less and less of its parentage; only that the child was hers.

  With its going she felt empty, lost, with no desire to talk to anyone about it. She had withdrawn into herself and wished only to remain so. She had had to force herself to adopt some semblance of normal behaviour, taking each moment as it came and the daily routine with it, reminding herself that she owed it to her husband to do so. He had been kind, patient, and considerate; he deserved as much in return.

  But beneath the struggle to pick up the threads of life again, she was aware that she must accept the responsibility of making a totally new start. She must set Simon free. She had resolved to tell him so before leaving for Ashburton, but at the last minute her courage had failed, and that she now regretted. Nor could she understand it. She had only to tell him the truth, and she had faced up to telling the truth at an earlier time of difficulty — and cruelly had Joseph tried to punish her for it. From Simon there would be no punishment. He might well be glad of his freedom. So why had she lacked courage?

  She wondered now how the head of the Drayton family would react when hearing that the child he had been determined to destroy before birth had not lived after all, but from that thought she turned away. Joseph’s opinions no longer mattered; only Simon’s. And when he came to Ashburton in two days’ time she would contrive to be alone with him and attempt to set things right.

  Meanwhile she sought refuge in this rare library. She had shared her father’s delight in books, dipping freely into his collection, but few such opportunities had come her way since Joseph had ruthlessly disposed of it, claiming that reading encouraged slothfulness and quoting their father’s inattention to business as an example. She recalled the outrage she had felt at the time, and how she had encouraged Martin to hide as many volumes as he could, and how intent Joseph had been on rooting them out, and how triumphant both she and Martin had felt when he didn’t wholly succeed.

  And how the boy would revel in the contents of these shelves! Simon, too, for as his reading had progressed, so had his appetite for it. Demands of work often frustrated it, but as the evenings drew in he would once more sit on the opposite side of the inglenook, lost in another volume Martin had loaned him.

  The thought pulled her up sharply. She would not be there to see him in that familiar setting, nor to find burned out candles beside his bed in the morning, telling their own tale of long night hours spent in reading. And on the heels of that thought came a question — was he doing the same, now she was at Ashburton? And did he miss her in the wheelwright’s cottage?

  That last question she dismissed because she felt she had no right to ask it. The only right she now had was to be honest with him. She had to tell him about Acland’s return, and the man’s vow to come back to claim her. Whether that vow was fulfilled or not, made no difference. She had to face Simon with the truth.

  The opportunity presented itself without manipulation on either side. After the Sabbath midday meal Sir Neville’s numerous guests indulged their own devices while their host took an afternoon nap. Jessica found herself walking in the surrounding park, alone with Simon.

  “You are looking much better,” he said, but though his eyes were glad, his tone was stilted, almost that of a stranger making polite conversation.

  “And I feel much better,” she agreed tritely, wondering how to bridge the gulf. Asking how he fared, how the village woman was caring for things, how frequently Martin had been able to ride over from Burslem, how soon all finishing touches would have been made to the Armstrong Canal, served only to pass the moments, and she felt irritated with herself for such a timorous approach.

  After that they walked in silence until the house was well behind them and a glade offered privacy. Here their footsteps turned automatically to an ancient garden seat. They moved in unison and they spoke in unison, turning to each other and saying in one voice, “We must talk — ”

  That eased the moment. They smiled. “You first,” Simon said. “You have something to say?”

  “So much, I am unsure where to start — ”

  “The beginning is always a good place.”

  “The beginning of our relationship, or the point it has now reached?”

  “The beginning of our relationship need not be touched on, for it is memorable, but what point do you consider it has now reached?” “The point of departure. We have to face it, Simon.”

  “I have already done so. Of late, I have had plenty of time in which to think.”

  “So — you agree that it must be.”

  “What I am waiting to hear is what you think must be.”

  She looked down at her hands, clasping and unclasping them stressfully, then she thrust hesitation aside.

  “I must set you free, Simon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your reason for marrying me exists no more.”

  “You refer to one reason only. You forget the other. I wanted a wife who would be an asset when my ambitions were achieved. That need comes closer daily. Do you remember what I said — that I intended to apply for the position of Surveyor General and that the right wife would be an advantage to a man in such a position, providing she were the right woman? You are still the right woman. The question is, am I still the right man for you? Your need of me no longer exists. My need of you remains.”

  “The need for a wife in name only?”

  He made no answer, avoiding her eyes.

  Silence fell between them, broken at last when he said, “I must tell you that I know about Acland’s return. I know he came to see you that day.”

  Startled, she asked, “How do you know? How did you hear? And when?”

  “A few days ago. How, is immaterial. All that matters now, all that happens now, hinges on you. You are free to
go to him, if you wish. But I would be obliged if you would tell me what was said between the pair of you.”

  “He swore he would return when the child was due, and take us both away.”

  “Which means he should arrive any day now.”

  “If he does arrive.”

  “You doubt it?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell. She had pinned her hopes on Roger Acland once before, but was she pinning her hopes on him now? The answer to that she kept to herself.

  Simon rose. “There seems nothing more to be said. If he does present himself in Cooperfield, I will send him here for your decision.”

  “Wait!” she cried as he turned to go, and when he continued on his way, unheeding, she ran after him, forcing him to face her.

  “Answer me one question, Simon. What sort of a wife do you really want? A real one, or one who never shares your bed?”

  “In God’s name,” he burst out, “what sort of a man do you think me to be? A man incapable of loving a woman?” His control snapped. “I have loved you as long as I can recall. I have wanted you every day since, and every night. I want your heart as well as your body. I want children by you, and by no other woman. But what I will never want and can now never accept is a wife who yearns for another man. Before God, I will no longer be a substitute husband, so whether Acland returns or not, you must make your choice.”

  With that, he strode away so fast that even had she been capable of following she would have failed to catch up with him. She watched his broad back disappear from view, and long after he had gone she remained exactly as she was — still as a statue, but without its frigidity. She felt as if life had been poured into her, and it was this that sent her running across the park, determined to find him again.

  She was too late.

  “I am sorry your husband had to leave so soon,” Neville Armstrong said when she reached the house. “Such a busy man — even on the Sabbath, it seems. He had much to attend to, he said. And have you heard the news, my dear? Old Lady Smethurst has driven over to join us, which is nice because she always has the latest gossip, but I expect this item will not be news to you at all.”

  “Which item?”Jessica asked absently.

  “That your brother Joseph has returned from London with his bride, and a veritable transformation has taken place in that young woman. Amazing, is it not? The transformation, I mean. But marriage can change people most astonishingly at times…” He yawned, stretched, and reached for his long clay pipe. “And one other item, dear Jessica, but a sad one. That poor stricken soul whom you and Simon moved to Larch Lane, has died. Her daughter is beside herself, we hear, even though it has been long expected. Poor Meg Gibson, what will she do now, I wonder?”

  It seemed to be a day for crises, for when Simon approached the wheelwright’s cottage, there was Acland, waiting. He was seated in a hired turn-out from the Duke’s Head, Stoke’s most expensive inn. The town had many hostelries, but none to compare with the Duke’s Head.

  Simon’s instinct was to halt abruptly; instead, he rode on, face impassive. As he descended at the gate, so too did Acland. The two men looked at each other, wordlessly.

  “You know why I have come,” Acland said at last. His tone was impatient. “I presume Jessica told you, and that the child has either been born, or is about to be? And you know, of course, that I am the father and therefore have a right to it.”

  Simon led his horse to the small stable adjoining the cottage. There he unsaddled, filled a pail with water from the well, gave the horse a drink and then placed a bag of oats over its head, for all the world as if these tasks were of greater importance than the arrival of an affluent caller. This done, he closed the lower half of the stable door ‘and said indifferently, “As to the legality, the ‘right’ as you call it, a child born in wedlock not only bears the name of the husband, but becomes his.”

  “In wedlock, yes, but this child was conceived outside it, as you must well know, and therefore you can scarce want it.” Acland’s voice betrayed his irritation. He had knocked long on this cottage door and then returned to the carriage and a driver who was plainly unwilling to wait, as a result of which both he and the driver were now thoroughly out of humour.

  His vexation increased when Simon turned his back and entered the cottage, implying that his visitor could follow or not, as he wished. Angrily, Acland followed, demanding to see Jessica.

  Only then did Simon turn to him.

  “As you can see, she is not here. You look surprised, but you should not be. Almost a month ago you arrived here unannounced, shocking her so badly that she fell — ”

  There was now a look in his eye that Acland did not like. It made him uncomfortable. With a gloved hand, elegantly gauntletted, Acland touched the lace jabot at his throat, brushed idly at his fine coat of silken brocade, fiddled with the silver knob of his fashionably long walking cane, and then cleared his throat.

  “A fall, did she call it? My dear sir, it was a slight tumble, no more, thanks to my presence of mind. Naturally, I sprang to her aid and all was well.”

  “Was it?” Added to the cold look was a note of anger which sent apprehension darting through Acland’s mind. Then he dismissed it, recalling that Kendall was a nobody who had married above his station. But when Simon took two heavy paces toward him, Acland edged away.

  “Was it?” Simon demanded again. “Was it nothing but a slight tumble? Was all well? Did you pause to find out, or did you take your leave in the complacent belief that you had done no harm? Or perhaps you feared otherwise, and hurried away in typically cowardly fashion, afraid of facing the consequences? You took a hurried departure once before, did you not?” Now the tone was threatening, the voice louder, the measured steps decidedly menacing.

  Acland backed toward the door. “I came to see Jessica. I insist on seeing her.”

  “Then you may. I will tell you where she is when I have finished with you.”

  “My good sir, I have finished with you already. My business was — is — solely with Jessica. I have come to take her and the child away, so if she has gone somewhere for the birth — her mother’s house, perhaps? — I will waste no more time in this place.”

  His voice cut off as a strong hand grasped his fine shirt, twisting it beneath his throat so that his head was forced back, rigid. Angry eyes focused close to his own and the clenched fist shook with rage.

  “You will be out of this place quicker than you can reach the door, the minute I have done with you. Meanwhile, you will hear me and make no attempt to open your lying mouth. That fall killed the child. You killed it. And in the process you nearly killed Jessica too. You left her here in agony, and the worst happened. My dear sir, you have gone quite pale! You tremble! But not through distress, not because you care, only because you are frightened of what I am going to do to you, and well might you be. It would give me satisfaction to thrash you until you had to crawl on hands and knees to that carriage outside. I would enjoy it because you are not worth sparing. But spare you I will because I have a promise to keep. No other reason could persuade me.”

  The clenched hand suddenly released its grip, pushing its victim aside. Acland stumbled further into the room, Kendall’s solid figure blocking the door. In the shocked recesses of his mind Acland observed that the man was bigger than he thought; an invincible barricade between himself and freedom. His only recourse was to bluster.

  “That is bad news — about the child, I mean — but I take it Jessica recovered, so all is well. These things happen…” He was adjusting the lace at his throat, straightening the brocade shoulders of his coat, flicking nervously at invisible specks of dust upon his person, and edging toward the door as he did so, all the while uttering expressions of regret but of no real concern. “No doubt she has forgotten the tragedy by now. I believe women forget such things quite quickly…” (Another yard or two, and he could make his escape…) “She will get over it completely once I take her away from here.”

  “Did she a
gree to go with you?”

  “Naturally. Ever since we were regrettably forced to part, she has been waiting for me to come back. Now tell me where I can find her and I will bid you good-day.”

  The change that came over Kendall astonished Acland so much that he was immediately revived. The man didn’t move a muscle, but it was as if he crumpled where he stood. Even his voice had changed when he said, “She is a guest at Ashburton, Sir Neville Armstrong’s home four miles south. She is waiting there for you.”

  Satisfied that he had won, Acland paused within the doorway and looked back.

  “Take heart, Kendall. You will find another woman, but look to your own class. I understand you can neither read nor write. You must find that a handicap when mixing with educated people. I imagine it must have embarrassed Jessica frequently. And now I will take my leave, but I cannot say I wish you well — not after your attempt to lay hands on me. You will regret that one day. I shall make it my business to see that you do.”

  With one last glance at the silent figure, now seemingly made of stone, Acland gave a faint but triumphant smile, and took his leave.

  For a while Simon remained unmoving, until disturbed by a sound from the door. It was Martin.

  “I heard — ” the boy stammered. “I was in my workshop — you didn’t know because I had tied up my old nag in the shade behind it…” He limped into the room. “I had no intention of listening, but both doors were open. Don’t let her go, Si. Not to him.”

  “He claims she has already agreed to.”

  “Do you believe it? Not I!”

  “The choice must be hers.”

  “She is in no fit state to make decisions.”

  “I think she is. I was with her today. She is considerably better, more rested, calmer. I promised to send him to her.”

  “Was that wise? The man caused enough turmoil earlier in the year. He hurt her. Now he can hurt you, and you will let him!” “Jessica’s happiness is my happiness. When you love a woman, young Martin, you will understand what I mean.”