by Jean Plaidy
Beyond The Blue Mountains
By
Jean Plaidy
From The Cover:
Jean Plaidy’s robust historical novels, which range from the tempestuous, strife-torn eleventh century to the heady passions of the Georgian era, have enthralled readers the world over, bringing history vividly to life.
Beyond The Blue Mountains Set in the England and Australia of the late eighteenth to early nineteenth centuries, this is a compelling and convincing story told with vivid authenticity.
The adventures of the bold and reckless Carolan in the East End, in Newgate Jail, and aboard the prison ship transporting her to Australia forcefully recreate the perversion, vice and cruelty of that age.
Once in Sydney Carolan, now a convict maid-servant seeks freedom and status. But the way she chooses to ensure her future is such that it will haunt her for the rest of her life…
Jean Plaidy also writes as Victoria Holt and Philippa Carr
BEYOND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS
Due to illness, Jean Plaidy was unable to go to school regularly and so taught herself to read. Very early on, she developed a passion for the ‘past’. After doing a shorthand and typing course, she spent a couple of years doing various jobs, including sorting gems in Hatton Garden and translating for foreigners in a City cafe. She began writing in earnest following marriage and now has a large number of historical novels to her name. Inspiration for her books is drawn from odd sources a picture gallery, a line from a book, Shakespear’s inconsistencies. She lives in London and loves music, secondhand book shops and ancient buildings. Jean Plaidy also writes under the pseudonyms of Victoria Holt and Philippa Carr.
Also by Jean Plaidy in Pan Books
THE FERDINAND AND ISABELLA TRILOGY
Castile for Isabella Spain for Sovereigns Daughters of Spain
THE LUCREZIA BORGIA SERIES
Madonna of the Seven Hills Light on Lucrezia
THE MEDICI TRILOGY
Madame Serpent The Italian Woman Queen Jezabel
THE TUDOR SERIES
Murder Most Royal St. Thomas’s Eve The Sixth Wife The Spanish Bridegroom The Thistle and the Rose Gay Lord Robert
THE MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS SERIES
Royal Road to Fotheringay The Captive Queen of Scots
THE STUART SAGA
Murder in the Tower The Three Crowns The Haunted Sisters The Queen’s Favourites
THE CHARLES II TRILOGY
The Wandering Prince A Health Unto His Majesty Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION SERIES
Louis the Well-Beloved The Road to Compiegne Flaunting, Extravagant Queen
THE GEORGIAN SAGA
The Princess of Celle Queen in Waiting Caroline, the Queen The Prince and the Quakeress The Third George Perdita’s Prince Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill Indiscretions of the Queen Goddess of the Green Room The Regent’s Daughter
THE NORMAN TRILOGY
The Bastard King The Lion of Justice The Passionate Enemies
THE PLANTAGENET SAGA
The Plantagenet Prelude The Revolt of the Eaglets The Heart of the Lion The Prince of Darkness The Battle of the Queens The Queen from Provence
THE VICTORIAN SAGA
Victoria in the Wings The Captive of Kensington Palace The Queen and Lord M also Daughter of Satan The Goldsmith’s Wife Evergreen Gallant Jean Plaidy
BEYOND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS
Pan Books First published 1948 by Robert Hale & Company This edition first published 1973 by Pan Books an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd 2? Eccleston Place, London SW1W 9NF and Basingstoke Associated companies throughout the world ISBN 0 330 37020 0 Copyright Jean Plaidy 1948, 1964 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
13579 108642 A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.TO G.P.H.
Kitty Kennedy
It was hot in the coach. The June sunshine was merciless, and the dust raised by the horses’ hoofs powdered the hedges, penetrated the coach, tickled the throats of the travellers, and set their eyes smarting. They had dined adequately at Brentford off salt pork and malt liquor, but now they were crossing Staines Bridge and their thirst and peevishness more and more inclined them towards slumber. They were aware of the hardness of their seats, of the jolting of the coach, of the increasing tedium of a journey that with luck would go on for four days, and without luck longer; they were aware of the proximity of each other, not always pleasant; they thought, not without uneasiness, of Bagshot Heath. They should get over it in daylight, but they sat fingers crossed, guarding against ill luck, lest some mishap should befall the coach on its way across the Heath.
The merchant in the corner began to snore, his wife to nod. The middle-aged matron kept an unnecessarily watchful eye on her two daughters who were both fast approaching thirty, mousy-haired, one pimpled, the other pock-marked, and who seemed to be holding themselves in readiness for an attack on their virtue. It amused the girl of seventeen in the big straw hat, and the young man of eighteen with the leather brief-case across his knees.
They had been watchful of each other, these two, since he had boarded the coach at Kensington. He had sat opposite her; his eyes had tried to catch hers, but whenever he looked her way her charming oval face would be hidden by the brim of her hat. Her clothes were elegant; she had a mingled air of simplicity and sophistication which he found enchanting. Who was she? Why was she travelling alone by stage? How could her family allow it! He was intrigued and excited.
Her hair was golden like the corn in August, and when the sun caught it, it turned to the gold one saw in the goldsmiths’ shops. He had not seen her eyes; the ridiculous hat hid them every time he would look straight at them. There was a dimple in her chin; her mouth was lovely, frightened yet bold, full, a little sensuous just a little and childish too. She was a very attractive young person, and alone? He himself had thought it quite an adventure to leave the home he shared with his Uncle Gregory in the little town just beyond Exeter, and to visit his Uncle Simon in Lincoln’s Inn. An adventure for a young and adventurous man; but for a beautiful young woman! He studied her from head to foot. Her long green cloak almost enveloped her, but it was possible to see the striped poplin dress beneath it which at her tiny waist fell away from the gaily coloured quilted petticoat. Who was she? He was determined to find out.
The merchant was awakened suddenly by one of his own snores which was more violent than those which had gone before. He glared at his wife as though accusing her of having made the sound which had disturbed his slumber. She was meek, almost apologetic; she gave the impression of having taken as her due over a number of years any blame he cared to lay upon her.
The merchant began to address his fellow passengers. He was a garrulous man, and abject meekness in his wife had led him to expect it in all.
“Wars! Wars!” he declaimed. There will be wars as long as there are men to make them!”
He glanced expectantly at Darrell Grey, the
young man with the brief-case, and Barrel answered that indeed it looked as if there must always be these quarrels between nations; but his attention did not really stray from the young woman sitting opposite him.
“War with America!” went on the merchant.
“War with France! War with Spain!” Oratorically he began to enumerate the events of the past year.
“It is true Rodney put the French to flight, but what of the Americans and their independence …?”
The knees of Darrell Grey touched the green cloak momentarily, and hot colour crept up the fair neck and was lost in the biscuit-coloured straw of the hat.
“War is indeed a terrible thing, sir I’ said the matron.
“Why, I can assure you, sir, that were it not for the wars my daughters would be married. Betrothed, both of them, to sailors and gentlemen of the quality at that! I will not mention names. Were I to, I should startle the company. Great names! Fine names! And both fallen in battle! Ah, sir! You cannot tell me anything I do not know of the horrors of war!” She turned to the merchant’s wife.
“Have you any daughters?” she inquired, but the merchant’s wife merely shook her head and glanced from her questioner to the merchant as though to say: “Do you not hear that he is talking? How can you interrupt!” The matron was, however, so sure of her own importance that she had little respect for that of the merchant.
“It is good to have daughters if they are a credit to you!” she said.
The coach lurched suddenly; the girl in the poplin dress was thrown forward and Darrell Grey stretched out to catch her. For a moment his hands touched her shoulders. She smiled and he saw that her eyes were blue, her lashes golden as her hair.
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Please do not be,” he answered.
“You are staying with the coach for its entire journey?”
“Yes.”
“And after?” he asked.
“I shall be met. My aunt perhaps, or her servants, will meet me.”
He leaned back in his seat. She travelled alone, but she was not easy to know. He could wait. She was travelling all the way to Exeter, and Exeter was quite four days off.
The coach stopped suddenly. The matron and her daughters moved closer to each other. The merchant looked out of the window and cursed.
“We are stuck in a rut!” he said.
“Confound it!” And his wife looked wretched, as though it were her fault.
“We shall not cross Bagshot before dark if we stay here long,” said the elder of the daughters, and shivered.
“And they say,” said the merchant’s wife timidly, ‘that there is a very good inn on the other side of the Heath.”
“I could not bear to cross the Heath at dusk!” said the second daughter.
“They say there is much boldness in those rogues nowadays.”
The girl in the poplin dress raised scared eyes to Darrell. He smiled reassuringly; he rather hoped they would cross the Heath in twilight. He would look after her and she would be very grateful.
“I do hope…” she began.
He leaned towards her.
“They are desperate fellows, but you need have no fear of them.”
“Nonsense!” said the matron.
“Of what use are fine words when a man is armed! I tell you that Bagshot Heath is the most notorious hunting-ground for these men.”
“My good lady,” said the merchant, ‘it is obvious that you are unacquainted with my part of the country.”
“They say,” put in an elderly woman from a cornet of the coach, that they play odd tricks.”
“They well may. Madam,” boomed the merchant, ‘but they never forget to relieve one of one’s purse, and they are always ready with their pistols.”
One of the daughters shrieked, and at that moment the coach began to move forward. There was a little laughter then, but it was uneasy laughter. There was silence for some little time. The sun was a red ball declining westwards as they came to the edge of Bagshot Heath.
Darrell leaned forward, and the straw hat lifted momentarily.
“It is fortunate that there are so many of us,” she said softly.
“I
confess I should be frightened were there less.”
Fear was unleashing her reserve. She lay back against the woodwork of the coach. The cloak opened slightly to show the tiniest of waists and a ripe young bosom under striped poplin.
Darrell said: “You are on a visit?”
“No.”
Then you are staying… near Exeter?” She nodded. The coquetry faded from her eyes; she had the tremulous mouth of a child. He found her enchanting.
He said: “That is good.”
“Why good?”
“Because I am returning to my home near Exeter. Perhaps you are staying near my home.”
“Perhaps.” She turned her head now. He saw her girl’s profile and her woman’s throat; there were already signs of a voluptuousness to come.
Where was she going? he wondered. Who was she? She might be a young gentlewoman. Was she a lady’s maid? He tried to think of someone in his neighbourhood who might be requiring a lady’s maid. The only person who, to his knowledge, had ever had one, was the squire’s lady, and she had been dead two years. Mystery surrounded the young woman. Was she innocent or sophisticated? A gentlewoman or a serving woman dressed in her mistress’s clothes? And why was she travelling alone?
He had to find out, and here on Bagshot Heath was the place for boldness.
He said: “My uncle is a lawyer. I work with him.”
“You have no parents?”
He shook his head. His mother had died of the smallpox when he was five, he told her; his father, of he knew not what.
“My father?” she said, and wrinkled her nose very prettily.
“He died long ago. I never knew him. My mother?” Again her mouth trembled.
“She has just died … of what I know not.” She added: “I go to my Aunt Harriet, five miles out of Exeter.”
“Your Aunt Harriet!” he cried excitedly.
“Can it be Miss Harriet Ramsdale who is your aunt?”
“The very same.”
He was laughing, not with amusement but with pleasure, and his pleasure changed suddenly to concern. Harriet Ramsdale the aunt of this charming creature! It was impossible to believe. And she was going to live with her. He was delighted and dismayed.
“Her house,” he said, ‘is but a few miles from my uncle’s. We shall meet, I hope.”
“It is good,” she said demurely, ‘to have found a neighbour already.”
“It delights me,” he told her, leaning forward. This explained everything. Harriet Ramsdale would rather let her young niece face the dangers of lonely travel than spend the money to go and get her. He was filled with tenderness. Poor little girl! To live with Harriet Ramsdale!
She said eagerly: “If you know my aunt, you can tell me something of the life that is before me.”
He answered with a question: “Will you tell me your name?”
“Kitty Kennedy.”
“Mine is Darrell Grey.”
The golden lashes shone against her pale skin for a moment. It fascinated him to see the way she could play coquette and frightened child at the same time.
“I… I am glad we know each other.” he said.
“Shall you call on my aunt?”
He smiled, thinking of calling on Harriet Ramsdale.
“We shall meet be sure of that!”
They fell silent, not because they had nothing to say, but because there was so much to say. and they did not know how to begin to say it.
The Heath lay behind them; the passengers had ceased to talk of the terrors of the road; they talked of inns, inns they had heard of and inns they had stayed at. And then they talked of war… and uneasy peace.
The sun was setting as they drew into the yard of the inn.
Kitty was too excited to sleep much that night. The depression of
the last weeks had left her suddenly; life was not going to be so dreary after all. She had some idea of what life in Aunt Harriet’s house was going to be like. Her mother gay, attractive, clever, beautiful, laughter-loving had told her about her sister. How she had imitated Aunt Harriet! Though, as she said: “Bless you. Kit, it’s nigh on twenty years since I last saw her. But I can imagine what twenty years have done to Harry, poor soul!” And she would purse her lips and frown, and her face would cease to be her own, becoming that of another woman, a woman who had not been blessed with her own gay spirit.
“She was good, Harriet was; she was Father’s daughter. I was all Mother’s.”
Kitty knew the story of her mother’s flight from the country parsonage; how the atmosphere of piety had stifled her. Morning prayers. Sermons. No laughter. No singing. No acting. And Mother had loved to act. How vividly she had talked! It was possible to have a picture of the grey stone Devon house with the creeper climbing over its walls and the tower of the church looming over it, its graveyard just at the end of the garden, frightening Mother when she was a little girl. Years and years ago that had been. Why, Mother had not seen the place for twenty years, and that took one back to 1763 when another war had just ended. Kitty could picture her growing up, no longer afraid of the grey tombstones, playing in the graveyard with Squire Haredon’s son who was wild and reckless and haughty as Mother herself. She could picture the parsonage dining-room with its big windows and air of cleanliness and the family gathered there for morning prayers, the serving maids at one end of the table in sprigged muslin and mob-caps, and at the other end of the table Grandmother Ramsdale, very pretty and restless like a brightly plumaged bird in a cage, and Grandfather Ramsdale. stern and pious. Jeffry the eldest and Mother the youngest had both taken after Grandmother Ramsdale, but Harriet the middle one took after her father. Kitty thought of Mother and her brother always in mischief, helped by the squire’s boy to tease poor Harriet who had not their gay spirit and attractive charm. Grandfather Ramsdale was of the quality and it was in a mad moment that he had made a most unsuitable match with Grandmother Ramsdale who was the daughter of a blacksmith; she had plagued and tormented him until he, being pious, must marry her. Kitty had seen a miniature of Grandmother Ramsdale, had seen the exquisite little face with its crown of fair hair; had seen the wilful eyes and passionate mouth so like her own and her mother’s, and it was not so difficult then to understand how even a man such as Grandfather Ramsdale had been plagued into marriage. Extraordinary marriage it must have been. She had been unable to endure that country parsonage, and as soon as her youngest was able to walk and button her own clothes, like a bird which has taught her young to fly she no longer felt any ties held her to her nest; she flew off with a young lord who was passing through Exeter and saw her and was plagued by her, just as the parson had been. She was never heard of again. So the children grew in an atmosphere of pious gloom. They were beaten mercilessly by Their father, for he feared his son and younger daughter had inherited their mother’s bad blood. There was no fear in his heart for his favourite, Harriet. She was his daughter. And he was right to fear too, for at the age of eighteen Jeffry went to Oxford and in a year had run himself so deeply into debt that it meant several years of cheeseparing to extricate him; in his last year there he was killed in a tavern fight. And Bess, Kitty’s mother, had grown to look just like the blacksmith’s daughter, with the same fair colouring, the same laughing eyes, the same wanton mouth. A match had been arranged for her with George Haredon, but when a party of players came to Exeter there was among them one Peter Kennedy, and when the players left, Bess went with them.
