by Ann Barker
‘No, I did not know,’ Emily replied. ‘He … Sir Gareth said that it was a good likeness.’
‘Was it also he who told you that Patrick wanted to be a soldier?’ her father asked. Emily nodded. ‘Perhaps I should ask him to tell me more,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘He is leaving tomorrow,’ Emily replied, in such a desolate tone that her father looked at her curiously. Before he could say anything, however, there was a knock at the door and the housekeeper came in.
‘Beg pardon, Miss Emily,’ said Mrs Ashby, ‘but you haven’t given me any instructions for today. Is there anything special?’
‘No, nothing, thank you,’ Emily answered.
The housekeeper was about to withdraw when Mr Whittaker said, ‘There is one thing that I would like to ask you, Mrs Ashby. You knew my son Patrick well, did you not?’
The woman’s gaze softened. ‘That I did, sir,’ she replied.
‘Then would you mind telling me if you think that this is a good likeness?’
Mrs Ashby came round the desk so that she could look at the picture the right way up. ‘Now there’s a question that will be difficult to answer, sir,’ she said frankly. ‘I’m so used to seeing it hanging above the fireplace, you see.’ She looked at the picture thoughtfully, and eventually she said slowly, ‘In some ways it’s a very good likeness.’ Seeing that they were waiting for more, she added reluctantly, ‘I’ve always thought that the painter’s missed the twinkle, though.’
‘The twinkle?’ asked the canon.
‘Yes, sir. Always had a twinkle in his eye, did Master Patrick.’ She glanced at the clergyman, half afraid that she would be reprimanded, but in his expression she saw only genuine interest. Emboldened by this, she went on, ‘Full of mischief he was; never cruel, mind you, but funny. Do you remember Doris, the kitchen maid, who married one of Dr Mitchell’s servants? The young master caught one of the lads in town laughing at her and calling her fat. He blacked the other boy’s eye for him, even though the lad was a year older and half a head taller than young Master Patrick.’
‘That was … brave of him,’ said Mr Whittaker slowly.
‘Yes, he was that,’ agreed Mrs Ashby. ‘We – the staff – always thought he’d end up a soldier.’ Suddenly aware that she might have said too much, the woman coloured a little. ‘Well, I must be about my duties if you’ll excuse me sir.’
Mr Whittaker looked at his daughter for a long time after the door had closed. ‘It appears that I really did not know Patrick at all,’ he said slowly, as he tucked a loose strand of Emily’s hair behind her ear. ‘I don’t seem to know you very well, either, my dear. You must teach me.’
‘I had to call in before I left in order to say goodbye,’ said Sir Gareth. Dressed for riding, he had his hat and his crop in his hand. ‘You know where to find me if there is any way in which I may serve you.’
Ernest Fanshawe smiled, an expression of sadness behind his eyes. ‘You are very good,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit that when the child was first born, I didn’t want to look at her, and if you’d asked me then, I would willingly have given her to you. I still find it hard to look at her now. But she is all that I have left of Nathalie.’ He paused, then forced himself to go on in a more cheerful vein. ‘But you will be returning to Lincoln, no doubt, to visit your sister. You may see how the child progresses then.’
‘I doubt if I will be returning soon,’ the baronet answered, his face set.
‘But I thought …’ Fanshawe’s voice tailed away.
‘So did I,’ sighed Sir Gareth. ‘So did I. But she will have none of me, I fear. She judges me on my reputation, you see.’
‘And you are too proud to explain.’
‘If she cannot trust me—’
‘Blades, happiness can be all too fleeting,’ Fanshawe interrupted in an urgent tone. ‘I know that. You have to seize it with both hands.’
‘But what if you try to seize it and find that it slips through your fingers like sand?’ Sir Gareth asked him.
Soon after this, the men parted. ‘I will keep you informed of the child’s progress,’ Fanshawe promised.
‘Thank you,’ replied the baronet. ‘And if there is anything I can do, please let me know.’
After Sir Gareth had left, it occurred to Ernest Fanshawe that he ought to enquire about the child’s progress. Looking at her was still something that he had to steel himself to do, but it was getting easier. He therefore went upstairs to the nursery, where his housekeeper was talking to Mrs Pearce. He was a little surprised, for he had forgotten all about the new arrangements for the wet nurse, but he greeted Mrs Pearce politely, and thanked her for her good offices.
‘It’s a pleasure, sir,’ the young woman answered, smiling pleasantly. ‘She’s no trouble at all.’
‘It was very good of Miss Whittaker to find Mrs Pearce for the little girl, sir,’ Mrs Dainty remarked. ‘But then of course you know that, for she came to find you to tell you so.’
Fanshawe looked puzzled. ‘No, Mrs Dainty, she did not,’ he replied. ‘I know that I have forgotten some things, but I do not recall that at all.’
‘But she came round here just a day or so ago, sir. It was the day when Sir Gareth first came to call on you.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked her. There was something very important here that he felt he ought to be able to grasp, but could not quite do so.
Mrs Dainty nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes, sir,’ she assured him. ‘I remember thinking that you had had two callers that day. It seemed to me, sir, if you’ll forgive my boldness, that it would do you some good.’ She coloured a little at her presumption.
‘Yes, no doubt it would have done had I seen her,’ he responded ruefully. ‘Perhaps she heard us talking and realized that I had a visitor.’ He frowned, looking thoughtful. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured. Then, before he left the room, he turned, conscious that he was being impolite. ‘Forgive me, I … I … have something that I must think about. Thank you for all your good offices – both of you.’
Since Nathalie’s death, Ernest Fanshawe had spent half his time conjuring up her image and the other half trying to banish it. Now, however, he began to think about what his wife had said in one of the last conversations that had taken place between them.
‘I am going to tell Emily about the baby,’ she had said. When he had objected, she had remained obdurate, surprisingly so for such a gentle person. ‘Someone else ought to know our story, just in case.’ When he had objected a second time, she had agreed for discretion’s sake not to tell Emily the name of any of the parties involved.
She knows the story but not the names, Fanshawe thought to himself. She did not know the name of the baby’s father. She came here while Blades and I were talking. She refused Blades’s offer because of his reputation …
He had been walking slowly down the stairs, and paused at about the middle of the flight. Suddenly filled with an energy that had deserted him since Nathalie’s death, he was galloping down the rest, and running to fling open the front door.
One day, Emily thought to herself, I shall go to bed and sleep all night, without being kept awake by my own thoughts. She had only slept fitfully that night, dozing off to be woken by nightmares, none of which she could remember. Over and over again, she thought about Nathalie’s disclosures and measured them against what she knew of Sir Gareth. Everything seemed to match up until she recalled his kindness to his nephews; his courtesy towards her father, together with his tact and discretion; his sheer humanity towards her grandfather; his chivalry towards herself.
The morning brought no respite; her mind still seemed to be struggling with itself, and although she knew that it would make no difference, she dreaded the moment when the messenger that Mrs Trimmer had promised would come to tell her that he was going.
The message arrived as she and her father were getting up from the breakfast table. They had still not decided what to do about Patrick’s portrait.
‘What was that about, my dear?’ her fath
er asked her.
‘Mrs Trimmer promised to tell me when Sir Gareth was going, that is all,’ she answered calmly. ‘I will go and sit with Grandpapa now. He seems to be improving every day. Did I tell you that he spoke a word or two the other day?’
She went upstairs, not realizing that after a few moments, her father had followed shortly behind her.
‘Why am I still so confused?’ she asked her grandfather. ‘I know about his wrong-doing. I could never ally myself to so base a man. Why, then, can I not feel peace of mind?’
‘Good man,’ her grandfather said, in as clear a tone as she had heard from him since his attack.
‘Grandfather?’ she exclaimed.
‘Good man,’ he said again.
‘Grandfather, you don’t know,’ she replied in frustrated tones.
‘Yes I do,’ he stated haltingly. ‘So do you.’ He paused. ‘Loves you. Good man.’
As Emily stared at the old man, it was if all the confusion suddenly dropped away from her, and at that moment she was filled with the peace of mind that she craved. Whatever she had heard that day at Ernest Fanshawe’s house, whatever Nathalie might have said, whatever Mrs Hughes might have intimated, she knew that Sir Gareth was noble and true, and she had let him go without allowing him to speak in his own defence, or telling him that his feelings were returned.
‘Oh Grandpapa!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s gone, thinking I despise him. What shall I do? It’s too late.’
‘Not too late,’ he breathed. ‘Steep Hill.’
‘Steep Hill?’ she echoed, too dazed to think clearly.
‘He used to run down it as a boy,’ said her father. He had come in through the dressing-room and had heard a large part of the conversation. ‘So did I. Sir Gareth will ride the long way, by New Road.’
For a brief moment, Emily stared at her father, before swiftly kissing him, then bending to salute her grandfather on his withered cheek. Then she fairly flew down the stairs and across the Minster Yard, not even stopping to put on her bonnet. She would not be too late. She must not be!
As she was nearing the West Front, Mr Fanshawe came rushing towards her at almost the same breakneck speed. ‘Miss Whittaker!’ he exclaimed. ‘Matters are not as you think – about the baby, I mean.’
She only checked for an instant. ‘Mr Fanshawe, I cannot stop!’ she exclaimed. ‘I must not miss him!’ And she hurried on through the Exchequer Gate, and turning left, gathered up her skirts and prepared to run down one of the steepest city streets in England.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After visiting Fanshawe, Sir Gareth had only returned briefly to his sister’s house before making his farewells. Mrs Trimmer had been hoping against hope that Emily would send some word, or even come herself, and she only managed to conceal her disappointment with extreme difficulty. Telling herself that it was her duty to send her brother off with a cheerful countenance, however, she waved him goodbye, smiling, before going indoors to weep on her husband’s chest. ‘Oh Alan,’ she sobbed, ‘I did so hope that they would be happy!’
‘They might be yet, my love,’ her husband replied. ‘Do not give up hope. Who can tell what may occur?’
Although his quickest route would have been through the Minster Yard, Sir Gareth rode up Bailgate and through Newport Arch, then round to the right, in order to join the road that would take him gently to the bottom of the hill. So Emily would have none of him; well, in that case, he did not want to risk laying eyes on her. Who knew what he would end up saying or doing? Better to begin to put her out of his mind altogether. He could go back to London and take up with someone like Annis Hughes, who would not expect him to be anything other than what he was.
My God, no! He exclaimed to himself. Better to hide away on his estate and look after his acres and his tenants. It was what he had intended to do anyway; it was just that he had not intended to do it alone.
By the time he had allowed these various cogitations to go round and round in his mind, he had reached the bottom of the hill and he paused at the point where the descending lane emerged onto New Road. He looked up towards the cathedral, remembering all that had taken place in and around it. Contrary to all logic, the soaring towers, the majesty of the place seemed to infect him with a most unexpected feeling of optimism.
‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I won’t give up! She must listen to me!’
He was on the point of retracing his steps, when he became aware of a commotion going on in the lane above him, and looking up the street more carefully, he saw a female figure flying in his direction, her skirts gathered up almost to her knees. Those taking the route at a more decorous pace were obliged to get out of the way as she ran. Those standing about at the side of the road shouted encouragement.
As he recognized her, his heart seemed to miss a beat, and he dismounted hastily, for he could see that given the momentum that she had built up, she was only going to stop with extreme difficulty.
Hastily giving the reins of his horse to a passing lad, with the promise of a coin or two when he had leisure, he threw himself into Emily’s path and braced himself for the impact.
She hurtled into his arms, he staggered, held her, swung around in an effort to keep them both upright, then lost his footing and fell, landing on his back with Emily on top of him.
Emily, thoroughly out of breath, but determined to explain herself before she lost courage, gasped, ‘You mustn’t go! I don’t want you to go! I was wrong to believe it, even for a minute. You are good and honourable and … and I love you, Gareth.’ The crowd, some of whom had followed Emily’s progress from part way down the hill, although not as rapidly as she, broke into a ragged cheer, with some of them making various suggestions as to what this strange couple might do now.
‘Give ’er a kiss, mister!’ was both the most repeatable and the most audible.
Sir Gareth, grinned, answered ‘I intend to,’ in tones that only Emily could hear, and pulling her head gently but firmly towards him, suited his action to his words, whilst the crowd cheered again. ‘My dearest,’ he said, when he had broken off this brief embrace, ‘I think perhaps we might get up now. We are attracting rather a lot of attention.’
Emily looked around, colouring as she heard comments such as, ‘It’s Canon Whittaker’s daughter!’ ‘Well I never!’ ‘Who would’ve thought she had it in her?’ The tone was admiring, rather than otherwise.
‘Who indeed?’ murmured Sir Gareth. ‘Emily, my dear …’
Hastily she got up, whereupon the baronet did the same, brushing himself down as well as he could, given that most of the dirt was on his back.
He turned around, and finding the boy who was holding his horse, tossed him a coin, the size and colour of which made the lad blink. Then he turned to Emily, smiling. ‘Come, my love,’ he said. ‘Let me take you home.’
They returned to the Minster Yard, retracing the route that Sir Gareth had taken just a short time previously, but with very different feelings. There was much to talk about, but this was neither the time nor the place. The baronet offered to put Emily up onto his horse, but she refused. She wanted to walk beside him, her hand tucked into his. For the most part, they walked in silence, exchanging smiles, and savouring this new joy of being together, knowing that the feelings of each were fully returned by the other.
‘The cathedral?’ Sir Gareth asked her, when at last their climb was finished, and he had entrusted his horse to a passing choirboy with the instruction to return it to Mr Trimmer’s stable.
She nodded. ‘You haven’t been up either of the western towers yet, have you?’ she said playfully.
‘No I haven’t, you baggage, but something tells me I’m going to climb one very soon,’ he replied. In truth, he was glad that she had made this suggestion for there were things that they had to say to one another that ought not to be heard by anyone else.
The western towers were not so high as the central tower, and it was an easier climb. As on a previous occasion, Emily went in front. ‘You
will have gathered by now, my darling, that my real purpose in taking this position is to leer at your ankles and your shapely … ah. … outline,’ remarked Sir Gareth provocatively as they neared the end of their climb.
‘Gareth!’ Emily exclaimed; then found herself smiling at how lovely it felt to be calling him by his Christian name.
At last they stepped out into the air, and Emily turned to Sir Gareth saying, ‘There you are.’
‘Yes; and there you are,’ he answered, pulling her into his arms.
She gasped. They were both a little out of breath, and they stood, gazing into each other’s eyes while the sun shone down on them and the noises of the city seemed very distant. Then, at last, he lowered his head and kissed her, pulling her close against him and holding her as if he would never let her go. He had kissed her before; once fleetingly beneath the Lincoln imp, and once with an intention of punishing her. This time his kiss was firm but tender, and with a hint of passion, and Emily responded fervently.
‘Now tell me,’ he said at last. ‘The last time I saw you, you never wanted to see me again. Why did you believe so ill of me? Was it something that that she-devil Annis Hughes said to you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, not really; although later her words about your unreliability came back to haunt me. It was more to do with Nathalie Fanshawe. I believe … I assume …’ She hesitated.
‘Yes, I know her story. You may speak freely.’
Emily blushed. ‘She told me that the father of her baby was a fashionable man about town, with good taste.’
‘Well that cuts it down to several hundred,’ the baronet observed.
‘I know, but listen. She also said that he had been injured in a duel, and you arrived with a recent injury to your shoulder.’
‘Again, not a strong argument for my guilt. In fact, my injury was sustained in a riding accident. Go on.’
‘Lord Stuart said that you ran with a dangerous set.’
