‘You and I have to find out what it means, Jane. You and I …’ He paused, searching despairingly for words to make his meaning true and clear. ‘You and I have been thrown together by circumstance and by our own wills ‒ as violently as any two people can be. It isn’t conventional and decorous, and it certainly isn’t part of any plan either of us had made for the future. But don’t you see, Jane …!’ She could feel the calloused palms of his hands against her shoulders eagerly, joyfully. ‘Don’t you see that this could be better than mere plans! If you and I are for each other then in Heaven’s name let us have the courage to say it!’ He rushed on. ‘Maybe in the eyes of the rest of the world Paul Fletcher is not the best thing that could happen to Jane Howard ‒ but that’s the rest of the world. It’s in our own hands, Jane, to make a different decision. Neither of our lives is so cut and dried, so tied and bound down, that we can’t face each other honestly and say that we love …’
‘And are we in love?’ she asked slowly.
‘Are we?’ he repeated. ‘Or did that moment of decision slip by without our noticing? Did we fall in love out there on the Marsh, or was it even so long ago as the first time we saw each other in the church. Do you know when it was, Jane?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know … I don’t even know that it’s happened.’
‘Do you believe it could? Can you look at me ‒ know what my life is, and what I am ‒ and believe that it could all be dedicated to you? ‒ that my life could be so dedicated that no moment of it was not bent to the purpose of serving and loving you?’
He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘Could you love me, Jane?’
She said softly, ‘I could … I do …’
With quiet movements he pushed the robe back off her shoulders, and plucked at the ribbons of her bodice.
‘You have such beautiful breasts, Jane …’ He touched her briefly, and then his hand dropped as she pulled away, flinching.
Instantly she recovered herself, her cheeks colouring hotly.
‘I’m sorry … sorry. For a second I forgot it was you …’ Her voice was muffled and low.
He gathered her into his arms. ‘Someone hurt you, Jane … and you still remember!’ He rocked her gently, as if she were a child. ‘I said you were never to be afraid … and you need never fear me.’
For answer she lifted her face to his, seeking his lips.
‘I’m not afraid … and I want to be sure I’ll never feel lonely again.’
He laid her down tenderly on the rug. ‘You never shall … never!’
III
The rain had gone when Jane and Paul rode back to Blake’s Reach. The wind was fresh, and the dark clouds scudded swiftly across the Marsh, parting sometimes to show them a glimpse of the pale young moon. Sometimes they saw its reflection in the pools of water on the road, and then the wind would stir and distort the water, and all they saw was starry points of light. The Marsh was dark and secret and at this hour there showed from the cottage windows only an occasional light or the glow of a dying fire. The beat of the horses’ hoofs was loud in the village streets; the clock struck the hour as they passed by the church at Appledore. In a cottage garden Jane could distinguish the ghostly outline of an apple tree in bloom. Briefly her senses were filled with the remembered fragrance of the hour they had spent by the dyke.
They spoke no words of farewell to each other as they rode up the hill and passed through the gates to Blake’s Reach; they had all the confidence of time to spend together in the future. Gently, before he dismounted, Paul leaned across and touched her mouth with his lips.
‘Remember, Jane … my door is never locked.’
They were engulfed then by a flood of light from the kitchen door; Kate and Patrick came hurrying out, lanterns held high and grave disapproval plain in their faces. Jane cut short their enquiries.
‘I’ll have you understand that I am mistress here,’ she said. Her tone was very quiet. ‘And when I come and go is no one’s concern but my own.’
Then she gave her hand to Paul. He dropped a kiss on it, mounted without a word, and rode out of the yard. Patrick took Blonde Bess into the stable; Kate waited silently to light her to the kitchen.
‘I’ll make ye a toddy, Mistress,’ Kate said. ‘A little something to get the warmth back into yer bones. Folk do go down with terrible fever from riding the Marsh b’ night. It’s the mists in the dyke, Mistress.’
‘I’m not cold, Kate ‒ but I’ll have the toddy, if it will please you.’
She sat on the settle by the fire, staring into the flames, and hearing nothing of Kate’s vague mumblings in the background. Dimly she understood that Kate was making dark hints of sickness and death and worse for those who didn’t stay safely within their own walls when darkness fell, but she heard her as if the voice came from another world. So much had changed from the moment she had ridden away from here, so much was different, and could never be the same again. Her body and her mind had been stirred to a depth she couldn’t as yet comprehend; she had been touched and altered and reshaped, and a deep peace and gentleness lay on her like a covering. The facts and personalities of her small world had not yet broken through it, nor did she want them. She sipped the toddy, and thought of Paul.
Patrick came back from tending to Bess, and he stood for a long time with his arm crooked over the corner of the settle opposite, his white bony face with its shock of dark hair on the forehead, meditative and wondering. She finished the toddy, and raised her head to look at him.
‘Heaven help us!’ he said. ‘… an’ here she is with eyes in her head as bright as stars!’
She rose to her feet, picking up her hat and gloves.
‘Patrick, do you remember what my mother looked like when she was in love?’
She took the lighted candle from Kate’s hand, and left the kitchen. Patrick straightened, shaking his head. The old woman clasped her hands nervously; her face, when she turned to Patrick, was grey and strained.
‘May Heaven help us, indeed! When a Blake falls in love there’s no tellin’ what things may come upon us. And here she’s fastened her heart on a wild one, an’ it’ll bring ruin to us all.’
***
As Jane reached the head of the stairs she saw the light from William’s candle under the edge of the door. She stood quite still, listened; she could hear his thin child’s voice running on and on, softly, like a trickle of water. In the empty silence of the house, the sound was eerie and disembodied. She went to the door and opened it.
The dog, General, raised his head, and William glanced up at the same moment. He sat propped up against the pillows, and the candle behind his rumpled hair gave it a fiery aura.
He grinned, and patted the edge of the narrow cot in invitation.
‘William ‒ you should have been asleep long hours ago.’ It was beyond her ability then to make her voice stern. He sensed her mood and took advantage of it.
‘I want to show you George and Washington.’
‘George and Washington?’ she said vaguely.
‘Yes! ‒ you remember!’ he said, hurt by her forgetfulness. ‘Mr. Fletcher gave them to me. I thought they might get tired being shut up in their cage ‒ you know ‒ cramped.’
Jane sat down where he indicated. There was a tiny movement among the folds of the blanket, and William suddenly pounced with his right hand, and then his left. Each of his hands was pressed firmly against the mattress, and between the thumb and first finger of each, Jane could see the whiskers and small bright eyes of a white mouse. William looked at her expectantly.
‘They’re very handsome.’
He nodded. ‘Yes ‒ they are,’ he said complacently. He indicated the cage on the floor. ‘Would you pass that up? I’d better put them in ‒ they’re frightened of strangers, and they might run away. They might go down the holes in the floor, and the other mice would kill them.’
She opened the cage door, and watched him deposit the animals, and close it quickly. She took a
crumb of cheese from his hand, and poked it through the bars.
‘Why are they called George and Washington?’
‘That’s what Mr. Fletcher called them. We gave them their names. The one called Washington is named after an American hero of the Revolution ‒ though Mr. Fletcher said it wasn’t considered the right thing in England to say he’s a hero. The other one is called George, after the King ‒ though Washington’s name is George, too.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t remember exactly what he said … something about the times when they fought each other they were the King George and George Washington, but the rest of the times they were just George and Washington. Mr. Taylor once explained to me about the American war of the Revolution ‒ but I don’t remember it all. Do you know much about it, Jane?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
The information seemed to please him. He bent his face towards the cage eagerly, tapping against the bars to attract the attention of the mice.
‘Aren’t they pretty, Jane! So quick and neat! … I wonder what my mother will say when she sees …’ His voice faltered, and he gazed up at Jane with an agonized look of realization and loneliness. He drew his breath in quickly, and his whole body seemed to heave.
‘Oh, Jane … I miss her so! I miss her! She always looked so pretty, and she smelled so …’
She caught him into her arms, and he buried his face against hers. At first his sobs were loud and violent, cries of outrage and fear; then they came more softly, tired and whimpering. He held himself close to her for the comfort and security of her living presence. She stroked his head, hearing herself murmuring words to him, saying things about Anne she had never known, but which she knew now he wanted to hear. He grew quiet in her arms, and finally he slept.
General lay at his feet on the bed; she placed the cage of white mice where William would see it when he woke. She rested her hand for a second on the dog’s head; then she took the candle quietly and left.
Seven
Early the next morning Jane sent Jed to Rye with a message for Robert Turnbull, asking for him to come to Blake’s Reach that afternoon. There was only one thought in her mind as she carefully penned the note ‒ that Blake’s Reach needed money desperately, and Paul’s plan to hire and use the lugger at Folkestone for carrying contraband was the only way to get it. But to hire the lugger and buy the cargo too she must find five hundred pounds to match what Paul could put up. And Robert Turnbull was the only one who might lend her that much money; there was no one else.
It was a golden May day, and the sun fell across the mirror as Jane dressed for his visit. She nodded to her own reflection as she brushed her hair.
‘You’re about to be a smuggler, Jane Howard! Have you thought what’s going to happen to you if you’re caught?’
Then she scowled, slamming the brush down, and reaching for her gown that lay ready for her. She turned back to her image. ‘Breaking the law, am I? Well it’s nothing more than thousands of other people are doing. And there’ll be no violence ‒ Paul promised me that! I’ll get into it and out of it quickly. And then I’ll forget it. Just as soon as I have some money to get things started here again, I’ll pull out and I’ll forget it.’
She studied herself in the lilac gown, that had been chosen with Robert Turnbull in mind. It gave her a look of calm and gentleness.
‘But what of Paul?’ she said suddenly. ‘I love Paul ‒ and I want him. I want him and Blake’s Reach both. There’s got to be some way I can have both … and Robert Turnbull’s the first step.’
She chose to wait for Robert by the broken wall at the bottom of the garden, where the climbing roses had made their own wilderness. She began cutting out the dead wood, as she had seen the cottagers do in Hampstead, clipping and tying back, working at a leisurely pace, until she saw him coming down the garden towards her. The stocky, expensively-clad figure was a shade too eager, the brown eyes were expectant and waiting. She waved a greeting, and then bent and clipped the rose bud she had been saving for him.
She held it towards him. ‘Welcome! This is for you ‒ the first bud! It’s early, and I don’t expect it will open … but I thought you might wear it for me.’
He accepted it from her, smiling a little, and put it in his buttonhole.
‘Save me the last one, also, Jane. I’ll come in the autumn to collect it.’
‘But the autumn’s a sad time in a rose garden,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to think of the last bloom … it makes me afraid I’ll be leaving Blake’s Reach …’
‘You won’t be leaving Blake’s Reach. I’ll be here to collect the first bud of next spring as well.’ He stepped back from her, head tilted a trifle, studying her.
‘You know ‒ I find it strange to see you here in the garden. Anne never cared to work in the garden. She said she had no understanding of flowers.’
‘She was made to look at flowers, not tend them,’ Jane replied laying down the clippers. She smiled teasingly. ‘You really must stop looking for Anne in me. I’m a woman in my own right, you know.’
He nodded. ‘And I do you a grave injustice if I suggest anything different. Forgive me, Jane ‒ it’s the face that tricks me.’
‘How well you remember her,’ Jane observed softly. ‘You remember everything about her ‒ everything she did and said.’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? Life is too slow in the country not to make a personality and a face like Anne’s exciting. It isn’t likely I’d forget.’
‘You never wanted to leave Rye? ‒ to go to London perhaps?’
He shook his head. ‘When I was young I saw no reason to ‒ and then years later when I woke up to the fact that I was bored, the habit of prosperity and comfort had become ingrained. I chose to remain where I was bored, rather than risk the dubious excitement of starving. I like good horses, fine wine and rare books … I’m a dull man, Jane, and I’ve grown reconciled to it.’
‘A dull man? ‒ never that, Robert!’ It was the first time she could recall speaking his name aloud. She bent down swiftly, and began piling the clippings and tall weeds into a flower basket; he stooped to help her, and their hands brushed, and then withdrew as if they had been stung. Jane smiled a little shakily, handing him the basket. At the same time she slipped her arm through his free one.
‘I’ve really brought you out here to boast,’ she said lightly. They began walking back towards the house. ‘I wanted to show you what I’d done. It was such a bright, wonderful day, and I have no conscience about bringing you away from piles of legal papers.’
‘Nor I in coming. Besides, aren’t the Blakes my clients? I’m here to serve them, and if it happens to be a beautiful spring day ‒ all the better!’
She halted, pulling on his arm. ‘I suppose … it’s just occurred to me that you must have been one of the people who suffered most with Spencer’s gambling. How long is it since you’ve had a bill to the Blakes paid?’
‘Hush!’ he said, urging her forward again. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Old John Blake, the general, put my great-grandfather into business, and made him prosperous. I don’t think the Blakes have seen a bill from us in nearly a hundred years.’
‘More fool you!’ she said. ‘But if that’s how you choose to do business …’ She tugged at his arm quickly. ‘No not there … I want you to come round to the vegetable garden. William and Patrick and I have worked on it ‒ and we’ll eat from it before the summer’s out.’ She gestured briefly. ‘And over there ‒ by the wall ‒ I thought I’d start an herb garden. Sally Cooper taught me a little about herbs … she used to make herb tea for anyone who was sick in the village.’
‘And you hope to do the same?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t tease me! I need the herbs for the kitchen … besides, the village has grown so used to Blake’s Reach in a state of beggary and ruin, I think they’d laugh to see me step out of a carriage bearing herb tea!’
They inspected the vegetable plot, and stopped to exchange greetings with Blonde
Bess in her box. Robert spent ten minutes admiring the greys, discussing and praising their fine points; then Jane and Robert went through the kitchen, Kate curtseying and looking disapproving of Robert’s presence there, Patrick bowing, with just the suggestion of a wink to Jane. She took Robert to see Spencer’s sitting-room, and then in triumph, to show him the drawing-room. His pleasure in all the changes was real and outspoken.
‘Jane …’ he said, shaking his head, ‘Jane! it’s incredible! The place hasn’t looked like this since Anne ‒ no, even before Anne left it was showing signs of Spencer’s lack of money. He had got rid of most of the servants ‒ the highest paid ones. How have you done it?’
‘I have Patrick,’ she said simply. ‘And Patrick is young ‒ and I am young. We believe in ourselves, and we don’t think Blake’s Reach is in a hopeless situation. Of course, I don’t know when Patrick sleeps ‒ if he ever does. He gets through the work of three men.’
Patrick had laid a tea-tray, and she made the tea from a spirit kettle, counting the tea from a rosewood caddy which had a tiny lock. She glanced at it, and smiled.
‘I can’t think why anyone who lived on the Marsh should trouble to lock up their tea. It isn’t much of a luxury in this part of the world.’
‘No it isn’t ‒ and there’s many an old labourer’s wife with an ache in her bones who thanks the Lord it isn’t. If it weren’t for the smugglers’ runs most of the people in this fair kingdom would never taste tea.’
She handed him the cup. ‘Are you feeling generous towards the smugglers to-day?’
‘Not especially. I don’t care what smugglers do as long as they keep out of my way. I enjoy cheap brandy and tea as much as anyone else.’
‘I hoped you were feeling soft about everything to-day.’ She faced him across the tea-tray, across the shining silver and the delicate cloth that had come from Anne’s house. ‘I hoped you were feeling soft because I have something to ask you.’
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