Beyond the Blue Mountains

by Jean Plaidy

  She often told the story, lying back on her couch with her fair hair flowing about her shoulders and her rich wrap falling open to disclose her over-luscious charms.

  “Poor Peter! How I adored him, swaggering on the stage with his red cloak and his moustaches! But, Kit any dear, I was just a country wench then; I soon saw what a mistake I had made. Besides, was I to spend my life with a company of strolling players! But before I could do anything about it you were on the way; I wasn’t sorry-I have never been sorry for anything. And, once I’d set eyes on you, I had a soft spot for Peter Kennedy for evermore. Well, my dear, that’s the secret of life never stop to look back and sigh; go on and find something better. That’s what I did. There was Toby after Peter, and after Toby my Lord James. It has been a good life and we’ve enjoyed it, eh?”

  They had enjoyed it. There was always plenty to eat, good clothes to wear. No beggary for them. And Bess grew plumper and more luscious with the years, and Sir Harry took the place of Lord James, and it went on like that. A pleasant little house, a serving maid or two, and many fine gentlemen who always had a friendly pat for Bess’s little girl. There was the academy for young ladies where one learned to read a little and write a little, to speak French and do fine embroidery. Occasionally there were slightly unpleasant incidents. A look, a gesture, a disparaging remark overheard about her mother. Kitty did not care; she was completely insensitive to these things. She was a modern replica of her own mother and the blacksmith’s daughter; she was kindly, gentle, ready to be moulded by a stronger will, and these qualities, coupled with striking physical beauty, were at the root of her appeal to the egoistical male of all types and ages. In her firm, strong, flawless body and her pliable mind they saw perfection. She had her mother’s gift for looking forward, stifling regrets for the past. The old life was done with; the new one, presided over by the stern Aunt Harriet, lay before her. The prospect was not pleasing, yet because she was herself she must always expect good things from life, and here already, on the journey westwards, she had met a young man whose admiration excited her, who was pleasant of countenance, charming of manners, and who was apparently to be a near neighbour.

  Her mother had known death was coming to her; a certain breathlessness, a heightening of colour in her face, fainting fits; these were the forerunners of death. The doctors and apothecaries could not save her; perhaps she did not wish them to. She was thirty-eight years old. and that seemed to her no longer young. She had had her life and enjoyed it; she was ready to go. But what of Kitty, who was just on the threshold of life and had much to learn? She, who had never been afraid for herself, was suddenly fearful for her daughter. She thought constantly then, with a never-before-experienced respect, of the sheltered life in a country parsonage. Affectionately she remembered quiet fields and the glistening gold of buttercups in noon-day sunshine; she thought of lanes shaded by leafy trees, of homely fare and morning prayers and strict surveillance. There was safety in these things. She had not heard from her family since leaving it, in the company of Peter Kennedy, but it did not occur to her that her old home was not exactly as she had known it, so she dispatched a letter to her sister Harriet at the parsonage, and waited anxiously for a reply, while the fainting fits grew more frequent and the fight for breath a losing battle. It came at length, but not from the parsonage. There was a new parson now, Harriet wrote, for Their father had been dead ten years. Harriet had her own house; did Bess remember Oaklands? The little house just a stone’s throw from the parsonage, and a mile or so from Haredon? Harriet was far from rich, but however exacting her duty, she could be relied upon to perform it. That letter conjured up such a picture of Harriet that it made Bess laugh until she began to cough so violently that she thought her last moment had come. The same Harriet! Grim and virtuous, determined on duty. However much she disapproved of Bess, Bess’s daughter ; was her niece, and while she, Harriet, lived, it would always be her duty to see that any member of her family did not starve. Bess would have preferred to live a few years longer, to have seen her daughter safely married and settled for life; but that was not to be, and who knew that, by returning to the place from which her mother had escaped, Kitty might not make a more brilliant marriage than her mother would ever have been able to arrange for her in London Town? Respectability counted; Harriet was all respectability, and sometimes some very fine gentlemen went down to Haredon. So Bess began to convince herself that this was probably the best thing possible for Kitty’s welfare, and she died, as she had lived, happily.

  And here was Kitty on her way to Aunt Harriet, a little alarmed at the prospect of her new life, but not so very alarmed, because she was so like her mother. And when she at last fell asleep her thought was not of the lost life in London, nor of the new life which lay before her, but of Darrell Grey.

  The next day passed, and the next and the next. They crossed Salisbury Plain and entered the fine old town of Salisbury. They yawned and slept and laughed and chattered, were irritable and gay, taciturn and garrulous as they passed the milestones. The journey was a tedious business for all but Darrell and Kitty; to them there was pleasure in each moment as it passed. There was joy in the shaded lanes; there was excitement at dusk when a lonely stretch of road or plain had to be traversed; they were ; enthralled by each other. They loved the meals in the old inn I parlours; there was joy in getting out of the coach to stretch I cramped limbs, in settling in again to continue the journey. It I was a voyage of discovery; to Kitty each town through which they passed was new; but there were more exciting discoveries to be made, and how exhilarating it was learning of Darrell’s life, telling him about her own. He had heard of the parson’s daughter, Bess, who had run away from home. He had heard how Squire Haredon had been in love with her; how half the neighbourhood had been in love with her; it did not surprise him, if she had been anything like her daughter. They wished, how they wished, the journey would never end. The weather was perfect; it was all blue skies and unclouded sunshine, wonderful sunsets. Even the garrulous merchant and the disapproving matron added to their enjoyment. To Darrell’s amusement Kitty imitated them, for she had inherited her mother’s talent for imitations. He had never known anyone like her. She was different from the country girls of his acquaintance, and even had she not possessed such startling and alluring beauty, her gaiety and her vivacity would have made her the most charming of all the females he had ever met. As to her, she was equally delighted with him. He was just a little naive, so adoring, so longing to play the bold philanderer, and yet so awestruck and a little shy. With each hour he plunged deeper and deeper in love with her; and she followed at a respectable distance. It was an enchanting idyll, charming, delightful, but when they reached Dorchester it changed subtly.

  It was a comfortable inn. The landlord came out to receive them, his honest red face beaming a welcome. He had rooms for all and to spare. A fire burned in the open grate of the parlour; throughout the inn was a delicious smell of roasting meat, appetizing to hungry travellers.

  A serving maid showed Kitty her room, and when she was alone in it she flung herself down on the four-poster bed. She was tired after the day’s journey; it had been even hotter than usual and the atmosphere inside the coach had made her sleepy. She was pensive too, thinking that tomorrow she would see her Aunt Harriet for herself. Already she had made plans for meeting Darrell again.

  From below there was a sudden clatter of horses’ hoofs and the sound of wheels on the cobbles. New arrivals? Curiosity sent Kitty flying from the bed to peep through the window. It was an elegant carriage and the horses which drew it were beautiful indeed. The landlord, the ostlers, even the potmen were hovering about the carriage. Some personage evidently. Then she saw him… a big man, possibly in his late thirties a red-faced man with powerful shoulders, well dressed though in a country fashion. He was scowling and was decidedly out of temper. Now the reason was obvious; one of the horses had turned lame. He was cursing his postillion as though it were his fault; he waved aside the lan
dlord, he was cursing the roads, cursing the fools who were his servants, cursing all of them who stood there gaping at him.

  “Bring me a drink!” he shouted, and the landlord fled to do his bidding. He stood there, cursing. A most unpleasant personage, thought Kitty; a hateful creature, ugly too, with his red-purple face and his rough words. The serving maid who had shown Kitty her room came out with a glass of ale on a green tray. She stood before the man, curtsied awkwardly and waited with downcast eyes while he seized the glass. He drained it, complained that it was poor stuff and roughly commanded her to bring him another, and be quick about it unless she wanted a whip about her shoulders. She hastened to obey. Kitty drew back disgusted. She had never seen such a man before; he behaved as though he were king in this small world; he lacked the manners which she had come to expect in men, because the men who had visited her mother had always possessed them. He stamped his way across the courtyard, and when he had reached the door of the inn the serving maid again appeared with another glass of ale on the tray. He drank it, not quickly as he had drunk the first; he stood back, smacking his lips. His face was still purple with rage, but now the very way he stood there showed that his rage was receding. His voice floated up to her.

  “Ah! That’s better, eh, Moll!” He gripped the girl’s shoulder roughly, and with one hand drew her to him and kissed her loudly on the mouth. The ale spilled from the glass in his other , hand. Kitty heard the girl giggle. She turned away from the I window. She no longer felt in the mood to lie on her bed and ; dream. She called for hot water, and when it came she washed the dust of the day’s journey from her hands and face and went downstairs. She was hungry, and the smell of roasting meat was indeed pleasant, but as she turned the handle of the dining-room door, the landlord’s wife came running towards her.

  “Ma’am,” she said, ‘if you will but go into the parlour, in a very short time…”

  The woman looked harassed; Kitty hesitated.

  “I thought,” she began, ‘that you said it would be ready…”

  “Your fellow travellers, Ma’am, are in the parlour. The moment the dining-room is.disengaged I will let you know.”

  There was the sound of a chair being pushed back. A voice cried: “God damn you, Shut that door!” The door was however pulled from Kitty’s grasp, and the man whom she had seen in the courtyard was standing in the doorway; he did not see Kitty immediately; he glared at the landlord’s wife, who stammered: “The passengers from the coach, your Honour…”

  “Passengers from the coach! Let the scum wait. I tell you I won’t sit down to eat with coach passengers.” He stopped for he had seen Kitty now.

  “Aha!” he continued, putting a hand to his mouth to wipe away the gravy dinging there.

  “Who is the lady?”

  The woman said: The lady arrived with the coach this evening… the Exeter coach, your Honour.”

  “The Exeter coach.” His eyes were large and brown; he had been an exceptionally handsome man less than ten years ago. He turned to the host’s wife.

  “Come, woman!” he said, and there was a hint of laughter in his voice.

  “This lady will think me churlish.” He bowed to Kitty.

  “You will come in. Ma’am. I should deem it an honour if you would share my table.”

  Kitty noticed his hands; they were large, and dark hair grew plentifully on the backs of them. She thought of the way in which one of them had seized the not-unwilling serving maid, and she drew back into the darkness of the corridor.

  “Thank you,” she said, ‘but I am not travelling alone. I will call my fellow travellers; we are all very hungry.”

  In the parlour the matron was holding forth angrily.

  “I never heard the like! We must wait because some important person is to be served first and prefers to dine alone! I would like him to know that I have mixed with the quality. Is a lady to be insulted because, having fallen on evil times so that it was necessary to sell her carriage, she must take the coach…?”

  Kitty went to Darrell.

  “The food is ready,” she said, and they all went into the dining-room.

  The man did not look up as they entered. He went on stolidly eating his dinner. The serving man brought in the joint and put it on the sideboard; the landlord appeared, and began to carve nervously.

  The roast lamb was excellent, and there was no sound in the room except that made by hungry eaters. The big man had finished his dinner; he had turned his chair, and every time Kitty raised her eyes he was looking in her direction. Colour mounted her cheeks; she kept her eyes downcast, but she felt his were on her. He frightened her in a way she had never been frightened before, and she felt suddenly that to go upon a long journey alone and unprotected was something of an undertaking. She glanced at Darrell. How handsome he was, with his rather gentle scholar’s face and the love for her in his grey eyes! He was very slender, and looked almost frail when compared with the arrogant, red-faced, alarming man sitting there in pompous state alone at his table. She stole another glance in his direction. He smiled and tried to hold her eyes. She lifted her head haughtily and turned away.

  She said in a whisper to Darrell: “He seems a very coarse creature this man whom the host is so eager to please! Let us get out of here to the parlour; it will be better there.”

  They went back to the parlour and sat down in the window seat. Darrell said: “This is Squire Haredon. He is in a vile temper tonight!”

  “Haredon!” she said.

  “George Haredon!” And she thought of her mother’s playing in the graveyard with that red-faced man.

  Darrell said: “You have seen him at his worst; he is in a bad temper. His horse went lame and he has had to put up here instead of getting home as he intended. He is a good squire, but when he is in a rage he can be terrible; everyone avoids the squire when he is in a rage.”

  “I should hate him, rage or no rage,” she said.

  The door opened and in he came.

  “Bah!” he exclaimed. These inns are draughty places.” His rage had left him now; he smiled at them benignly.

  “Bless me, if it ain’t young Grey! It is young Grey, ain’t it? And the lady?”

  Darrell got to his feet, but it was Kitty who spoke.

  “My name is Kitty Kennedy.”

  “Kitty Kennedy!” said the squire. He brought his black brows together.

  “By God!” he went on.

  “Is it to your Aunt Harriet that you are going?”

  “It is to my Aunt Harriet.”

  He slapped his thigh and laughed deeply.

  “I thought I knew you. Why, my lady, you and I are not strangers.”

  He towered over her, and she drew farther back in the window seat, pretending not to see the huge hand extended towards her.

  “I do not think,” she said with dignity, ‘that you and I have met before.” And she made an almost imperious sign for Darrell to take the seat beside her; there was not room for three on the window seat.

  “The squire means.” explained Darrell, sitting down, ‘that he knows your aunt and knew your mother. That is why he does not feel you to be a stranger.”

  Trust a lawyer for putting his finger right on the point!” cried George Haredon. That’s right, I knew your family. Kitty. And you’re Bess’s girl! By God, I knew it! You’ve got Bess’s looks.”

  She resented his familiarity. She slipped her hand into Darrell’s, and because of a certain fear that had come to her she held her head higher.

  George Haredon leaned forward.

  “I could almost believe it was Bessie herself sitting there.” he murmured. He breathed heavily, excitedly, and his eyes glistened.

  “I have always heard.” said Kitty, coolly, ‘that I much resembled my mother.”

  “And, by God, whoever told you that was right!”

  He was so close that she could feel the warmth of his body; a smell of spirits was on his breath, and that of horses on his clothes. She wrinkled her nose in disgus
t, and she did not care that he saw this. She turned to Darrell and began to talk of the towns through which they had passed, and when George Haredon joined in she turned the subject to that of Their fellow passengers of whom he could know nothing. Darrell was embarrassed, for he was a good deal in awe of the squire. She thought how beautiful, how cultured, how gentlemanly Darrell was, compared with this man, and because she sensed that he was a little afraid of him she wanted to put her arms round him to protect him; it was a new feeling, this tenderness, a new and wonderful feeling. She made up her mind in that moment that she was going to marry Darrell whatever obstacles had to be overcome. He needed her and she needed him.