Wideacre twt-1

by Philippa Gregory

  Predictably, I tired of the game long before she did. Besides I had to drive down to the village to see the smith. She gripped my face when I kissed her goodbye, but when I actually disappeared she set up such a howl of protest that her nurse came bustling out of the house to see what was wrong.

  ‘She won’t settle now,’ she said, eyeing me with disfavour. ‘She’s all awake and playful now.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ I confessed. ‘What would settle her down?’

  ‘I shall have to rock her,’ said the nurse, grudgingly. ‘The movement of the cradle might do it.’

  ‘I have to drive to the village,’ I offered. ‘Would she fall asleep in the carriage?’

  The nurse’s face brightened at once at the prospect of an airing in my smart curricle and she bustled off to get her bonnet and an extra shawl for Julia.

  I had been right. As soon as she was lifted from the cradle, Julia beamed her approval and started her delightful coos of pleasure. And when we trotted down the drive with the bars of sunlight and shade from the roof of trees flickering in her eyes she waved her little hands to greet the wind and the sound of trotting hoofs and the brightness and rush and beauty of it all.

  I slowed down on the bridge over the Fenny.

  ‘This is the Fenny,’ I told her solemnly. ‘When you are a big girl I shall teach you how to tickle for trout here. Your papa can teach you how to use a rod and line like a lady, but I shall teach you how to tickle them and flick them out on the bank like a proper country child.’

  She beamed at me as if she understood every word, and I beamed back in mutual approval. Then I clicked to Sorrel and we trotted past the lodge gates where Sarah waved to us and out down the sunny lane to Acre.

  ‘These are the meadowlands, resting this year,’ I told Julia, gesturing with my whip. ‘I think good fields should be rested every three years and grow just grass. Your papa thinks they should be rested every five. You can be the judge of that for we have rested some for three years and some for five, and when you are a lady, farming the land like me, you can be the judge of which system kept the land in the greatest heart.’

  Julia’s little sun bonnet nodded gravely as if she could understand every word. But I think she may have caught the inflexion of my voice and heard my tones of love for the land, and of a growing tenderness for her.

  Half-a-dozen people were outside the smithy when I drew up, villagers and one fanner tenant waiting for his work-horse to be shod. The women were around the curricle in a second, admiring the pretty baby and the exquisite lace dress. I tossed the reins to the smith, who came out, wiping grimy hands on his leather apron, and passed the baby carefully down to the village women.

  They cooed over her, as maternal as broody hens; they touched her lace petticoats and her fleecy shawl and they stood in line so that each might hold her and admire the smoothness of her skin, the blueness of her eyes and the utter whiteness of her clothes.

  By the time I had finished with the smith, she had reached the end of the line, a little dishevelled but none the worse for being handed round like some sacred relic.

  ‘Better change her before her mama gets back,’ I said ruefully to her nurse, noting the lace trimming on her little gown was grey where it had been fingered by hands ingrained with years of dirt.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ said Nurse stiffly. ‘Lady Lacey has never taken her to the village and would never have let those people touch her.’

  I glanced sharply at her, but I said nothing for a moment.

  ‘She’s taken no harm,’ I said eventually. ‘Have you, little girl? And these people will be your people, as they are mine. These are the people who make the money that keeps Wideacre prosperous and beautiful. They are dirty so that we can have daily baths and fine clean clothes. You must always be ready with a smile for them, little one. You belong to each other.’

  I drove in silence then, enjoying the wind in my face and keeping a careful eye on the road ahead to make sure we struck no stones which might jog her. I was driving so carefully I hardly heard the noise of a carriage and pair and I jumped like a criminal when I suddenly saw, in the road ahead of us, the family chaise. They were just ready to turn into the lodge gate; another second earlier and I might have been home before them. As it was, Celia, gazing out of the offside window, had a perfect view of my curricle trotting briskly down the lane from Acre, with her nurse and her child sitting up bold as brass in the passenger seat.

  Her eyes met mine and her face was blank. I knew she was angry and I felt no surprise. I had a sinking feeling in my gut, the like of which I had not felt since I was a child in disgrace with my papa. I had never thought Celia capable of rages. But to take her child out for a drive without permission was, I knew, something she would regard as wrong. And faced with that icy stare I felt extremely guilty.

  I did not hurry to follow them up the drive, but there was no enraged mother waiting for me in the stable yard. Nurse and Julia dismounted and went into the house by the west-wing door, to slink up to the nursery for a total change of clothes, I guessed. I handed Sorrel over to the groom and went round to the front door. Celia was waiting for me in the hall and she drew me into the parlour. Harry, discreetly, perhaps obediently, was nowhere to be seen.

  I turned to the mirror above the fireplace and took off my hat.

  ‘What a wonderful day,’ I said lightly. ‘Did you find the things you need in Chichester? Or will you have to send to London?’

  Celia said nothing. I had to turn from the mirror to face her. She was standing still in the middle of the room, dominating it with her slight presence and the force of her anger.

  ‘I must ask you never to take Julia out without my express personal permission,’ she said evenly, totally ignoring my questions.

  I met her eyes but said nothing.

  ‘I must also remind you that Harry and I decided that Julia should not be taken out in a curricle, or any open-topped carriage,’ said Celia. ‘We, her parents, decided we did not think it safe for her so to travel.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Celia,’ I said airily. ‘She took no harm. I had the safest horse in the stable between the shafts. I trained Sorrel myself. I just took her down the lane to Acre because she would not settle on the terrace.’

  Celia looked at me. She looked at me as if I were an obstacle on her road that somehow had to be crossed over or gone around.

  ‘Her father and I decided we do not wish her to travel in an open carriage and that includes your curricle, whatever horse you are driving,’ she said slowly, as if explaining something to a stupid child.

  ‘Further, I do not wish her to be taken out of her cradle, or out of the house, or out of the estate, without my express and personal permission.’

  I shrugged. ‘Oh, Celia, let’s not pull caps over this,’ I said easily. ‘I am sorry. I should not have done such a thing without first confirming you had no objection. I merely had to drive to Acre and it amused me to take Julia and show her the land, her home, like my papa used to do with me and with Harry.’

  Celia’s gaze never wavered and her expression did not warm to the casual tone of my apology. ‘Her situation is very different from either yours or Harry’s,’ she said steadily. ‘There is no reason why she should have a similar upbringing.’

  ‘She’s a Wideacre baby!’ I said in surprise. ‘Of course she must learn about the land and go out on the land. This is her home, just as it is mine. She belongs here, even as I do.’

  Celia’s head jerked and her cheeks suddenly flushed scarlet.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘She does not belong here as you do. What your plans are, Beatrice, I do not know. I came into this house to live with my husband and with your mama and with you. But my Julia will not live here all her life. She will marry and leave. She will spend her girlhood here, but I dare say she will be away at school for much of the time. Then she will make visits to friends. Wideacre will not be the only house in the world for her. There will be very much more in her life than the lan
d and the house. She will not have a childhood like yours, nor interests like yours, nor a life like yours.’

  I gaped at Celia, but there was nothing I could say.

  ‘As you wish,’ I said in a tone as cold as hers. ‘You are her mother, Celia.’

  And then I turned on my heel and left her, standing alone in the middle of the parlour. And I went to my office and shut the door and leaned back against the panels. And I stood still in the quiet of my office with my papers around me, for a long time.

  Julia was utterly Celia’s child. It was all done as Celia wished. Mama would have had the baby’s diet supplemented with a spoonful of molasses, or at least honey, at every mealtime. Celia refused and the baby drank only pure breast milk. Harry wanted to give her little sips from his glass of port when she sat on his knee after dinner. But Celia did not allow it. Mama wanted her swaddled, and Celia stood up to her with as much polite certainty as she had ever shown against a wish of my mama’s — and she carried the day.

  Mama had threatened that Julia’s limbs would grow crooked if she were not strapped tightly to boards, but Celia stood against her and even called in Dr MacAndrew for support. He was full of praise for the decision and promised she would be stronger and healthier for her freedom.

  Dr MacAndrew’s voice in our household carried a great deal of weight. In our absence he had become a friend and confidant to Mama, who told him, I suspected, much about herself and her married life and her ill health. She told him also, I imagined, something about the problems she had encountered in rearing me, for I did not like the gleam I sometimes saw in the doctor’s eyes when we met. He looked always as if he liked what he saw, but he looked always as if I might somehow amuse him, in some way I could not fathom. And Mama watched us closely.

  The first time we met after our return from France was awkward. I was pouring tea for Mama in the parlour when he came in for a routine call on Julia and made social conversation to me with the skill of à well-mannered man, which ignored my quick flush, that had risen when he first came into the room.

  ‘You look as if France agreed with you, Miss Lacey,’ he said. Mama’s eyes were sharply upon us and I withdrew my hand from his clasp and sat down again behind the urn.

  ‘Indeed it did,’ I said equably. ‘But I am glad to be home.’

  I poured him tea and handed him the cup and saucer with a hand that was rock-steady. It would take more than a gentle smile from Dr MacAndrew to make me tremble.

  ‘I have made a new acquisition while you were away,’ he said, conversationally. ‘I have bought a new horse from abroad, a full-bred Arab, as a saddle-horse. I shall be interested to know what you think of him.’

  ‘An Arab!’ I said. ‘I think we shall not agree on that. I still prefer the English breeds for our climate and our terrain. I have yet to see a pure-bred Arab with the staying power necessary for a long day’s hunting.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, I shall take a wager with you on that,’ he said. ‘I would back Sea Fern against any hunter in your stables, on the flat or over hurdles.’

  ‘Oh, racing,’ I said dismissively. ‘I would not argue with you there. I see how well they do in short races, but it is stamina they lack.’

  ‘I have ridden Sea Fern all day on calls and he has been ready for a gallop over the downs in the evening,’ Dr MacAndrew said. ‘Miss Lacey, you will not fault him.’

  I laughed. ‘My papa always used to say it was a waste of time to talk sense to a man who was selling land or who had bought a horse. I shall not try to persuade you. Let me see him after one winter and perhaps we will agree then. After you have paid your corn merchant for an animal too high-bred to stomach anything but oats all the year round, you may come to agree with me.’

  The young doctor smiled, his blue gaze easy and direct.

  ‘Of course I shall spend a fortune on him,’ he said easily. ‘One should be proud to be ruined feeding a fine animal. I would rather spend money on oats than in my kitchen or on my cellar.’

  ‘Well, there we do agree,’ I smiled. ‘Horses are quite the most important thing in a household.’ I went on to tell him of the horses I had seen in France — such poor things on the streets and such fine animals in the noblemen’s stables. And he told me more about his precious Sea Fern. Then we talked of form and breeding until Harry and Celia came in with Nurse carrying the baby, and all rational conversation was ended for that day, for the baby had learned to hold her toes.

  But at parting he took the tips of my fingers in his assured clasp and said, ‘So when will you ride your challenge, Miss Lacey? Sea Fern and I are ready. Shall we ride a race? Ground and distance of your choosing.’

  ‘A challenge?’ I asked and laughed. Harry heard our voices and looked up from the cradle where he was dangling his watch.

  ‘I think you may lose, Beatrice,’ he warned me. ‘I have seen Dr MacAndrew’s horse and he is not one of the dainty Arabs that you know but something more impressive.’

  ‘I shall take my chance against any Arab in the land on Tobermory,’ I said, naming the best hunter in the stables.

  ‘Well, I’ll back you,’ said Harry with enthusiasm. ‘Fifty crowns, sir?’

  ‘Oh-ho! A hundred!’ said Dr MacAndrew and then we were all betting. Celia waged her pearl necklace against my pearl earrings; Mama bet me a new bookcase for the office. Harry promised me a new riding habit if I defended the honour of the Wideacre stables and I bet him a new silver-handled hunting whip that I would do so! Then John MacAndrew looked at me and I met the challenge of his sandy-lashed gaze.

  ‘And what shall be our wager?’ I asked.

  The room went silent; Mama watched us curiously, a half-smile on her face.

  ‘Winner names the forfeit,’ he said promptly, as if he had planned this. ‘If I win I shall claim a prize from you, Miss Lacey. And you may claim one from me.’

  ‘An open wager is a dangerous game for the loser,’ I said with a gurgle of laughter at the back of my voice.

  ‘Better win then,’ he said and left.

  The forthcoming race did two things to Harry. It concentrated his attention on me again and he and I spent a happy morning in the office with the new-drawn map of Wideacre before us, planning the course. Then, and this was even better, it inspired him to leave the baby and Celia and ride out with me to check the route where we could see the condition of the ground. It was the first ride we had taken together since my return and I deliberately suggested the bridle-way along the downs that passed the hollow where we had first made love.

  It was a sweet day, hot and promising to be hotter, with the smell of new-mown hay blowing off the meadows. On the upper slopes leading to the downs they were harvesting and the heady smell of the crops, herbs and the long-stemmed flowers breathed over us. Every heap of straw gleamed with red poppies, blue larkspur and the white and gold of moon daisies. I hooked up a swatch of a heap with the handle of my crop and sniffed at it with passionate delight. I should so adore to be a horse and eat the stuff. The smell of it is so appetizing, like the very best tea or good quality tobacco. I tucked the poppies under the band of my hat, although I knew they would be faded by the end of the morning. Poppies, like pleasure, do not last. But one should have them, anyway. My riding habit this year was a deep crimson and the scarlet of the flowers, bright as a blacksmith’s furnace, clashed wonderfully against the deep darkness of it. If Mama had seen the two reds shrieking at each other she would have smiled and said, ‘Beatrice has no eye for colour.’ But she would have been wrong. I had such an eye for colour, especially the colour of Wideacre flowers, that no colour can seem wrong to me. Harry smiled at me.

  ‘I can see you are happy to be home, Beatrice,’ he said lovingly.

  ‘It is heaven,’ I said, and I told no lie.

  He nodded and smiled. We rode on upwards, our horses pushing breast-high through the bracken, while flies buzzed around their heads and kept their ears twitching in irritation. Then we broke from the ferns as from a green sea, and scrambled u
p the crest of the downs like landfall.

  The horses lengthened their stride and snorted in anticipation. Harry was riding Saladin, a fresh young hunter, but my horse, Tobermory, was rested and eager and took the lead when I released the tension on the reins. We cantered easily along the track that winds along the crest of the downs and I looked down, as I always look down, to see a miniature Wideacre, like a perfect toy, nestling in the patchwork fields and woods below.

  The track wound its way between trees and I lost sight of my home, the home I carried always in my mind. We were in a secluded enough spot. Some earth movement had thrown up a trench on the smooth crest of the downs and hundreds and hundreds of years ago this little wood had taken root and was now grown to tower above us. Sweet green beeches and small oaks made a tiny shelter for us and around their roots pale woodland flowers were like stars in the darkness of the forest floor. It extended for no more than a couple of hundred yards but in that space there were little leafy hollows and the undergrowth was thick. I stole a sidelong glance at Harry and noted with anxiety the firmness of his mouth. He was looking straight forward, unseeing, past his horse’s ears. Saladin, on a short rein, shook his head in protest, but Harry’s grip only tightened.

  ‘Stop the horses, Harry,’ I said in a gentle voice. He reined in but there was no gladness in his face. He was holding Saladin too tightly and the horse pulled back at the bit. Harry’s face was grim and there was a hint of desperation in his eyes. I read him like a book. I had known him inside out when I seduced him, and I had known the chance I had taken when I sent him home to England alone. Now I realized coldly that Harry was seeking to make an end with me in order to be clean and guiltless and free to love — not Celia — but the adored baby.

  I sat in the saddle, as lovely as ever, as desirable as ever, and I knew with certainty that while I lived in the house that should be mine but that he called his, and rode on the land that should be mine but that he claimed, I had to have Harry. I knew also that I would hate and resent him every day and night for the rest of my life. My passion for him had gone. Why, I do not know. It had faded like a new-picked poppy the second I had his heart to wear in my hatband. Harry was so lightly won, so easily kept. In France, away from the land he owned, but which I needed so badly, he seemed such a very ordinary youth. Good-looking indeed, charming, amusing, not very bright; you could have half-a-dozen Harrys at any English-dominated hotel in any French town. Away from the land and empty of the magic of the harvest, Harry was not special.