The Hawthorne Heritage Read online

  ‘Tell Master Robert not to be late,’ Mrs Williams called after her. ‘It’s rabbit pie. His favourite.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. Come on Bran.’ Jessica, turning away, in swift guilt suppressed the familiar and she knew mortifyingly unworthy twinge of jealousy that contact with the small, warm world of Old Hall often brought. Stuffing a hot biscuit into her mouth she dashed through the shadowed Great Hall with its sombre panelling and tall stained glass windows that threw glimmering pools of coloured light upon the great carved staircase and the FitzBolton portraits that lined the walls. Back in the sunshine of the courtyard she raced over the clattering bridge and along the narrow river path.

  The tiny, age-old church of St Agatha stood almost derelict beside the lakeshore, within sound of the weir over which tumbled the lake waters into the dangerous depths of the river below. At least as ancient as the house, it had served for many years as chapel to Old Hall. Now, too far from the village and in any case too small to be used as a parish church it rarely over the past years had heard the glad and lifted voices of a congregation: the FitzBoltons and their people used the village church of St Mary’s, as did the Hawthornes. The old church stood empty and neglected within a tanglewood of weeds and nettles, its stone walls dark with age and lichen, its leering gargoyles all but faceless through the weathering of centuries. Its sturdy Norman tower with its more modern spire was a landmark from any part of the lakeside.

  Jessica, over the distant rush of the falling water, heard before she reached the church the sound that told her she had found Robert FitzBolton. Clear as ringing crystal the boy’s lucid tenor lifted, echoing, piercingly true. She stopped at the gate, still munching warm biscuit, and listened, Bran panting by her side; the lovely sound, muted yet clear in the darkness beyond the open door, held her poised and still. Bran, knowing its source as well as did his mistress, wagged his tail expectantly. Jessica put a hand on his rough head to still him for a moment. She dearly loved to hear Robert sing. The dog with beguiling placability licked the biscuit crumbs from her fingers with a warm tongue. The voice stopped in mid-phrase, lifted again, achingly lovely. Jessica pushed her way through the sagging gate, stole along the nettled path to the open door, and was greeted by the familiar dank and musty chill that even on the warmest and driest of days pervaded the neglected place. Within the framed darkness of the doorway light fell through the narrow arches of the pale, stained glass windows on either side of the tiny altar. She stood for a moment letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. Robert stood, his back to the altar so that the faint light from the windows fell upon the finely scripted manuscript he held in his hands and at which he frowned in fierce concentration. Softly, a little tentatively, he sang a phrase, hauntingly melodic, and then repeated it, stronger and joyously full, only to falter again. He broke off. ‘Blast it!’ he said, mildly.

  From the doorway Jessica could not restrain a small shout of laughter. ‘Mind what you say in such a place, Robert! Who knows who might be listening?’

  Bran, released from her restraining grip, bounded up the short aisle and nuzzled Robert, all but knocking the slight lad from his feet.

  ‘Get off! Stupid beast!’ But the protest was affectionate and Robert ruffled the shaggy ears and bent his face to the rough fur. The boy loved Bran almost as much as Jessica did. As any proper person would, Jessica thought, with dour dislike of the one who did not. Robert lifted his head and smiled at her, his sweet, brilliant smile. ‘Hello. Disturbing the world as usual?’

  She did not smile back, nor did she waste time in pleasantries. Thoughts of Giles had brought back all her forebodings in full force. ‘Robert – I’m sorry to interrupt – but something terrible’s happened – I just have to talk to you – oh, Mrs Williams gave me some biscuits. There’s one left if you’d like it. Well, almost anyway. I’ve only taken a bite.’

  He shrugged, eyed fastidiously the grubby, nibbled biscuit she held out and shook his head. Watching as the biscuit went down in one unladylike mouthful he carefully rolled the manuscript he held and tucked it into a capacious pocket. ‘Let’s go outside. It’s too cold to talk in here.’

  Licking her fingers before Bran could get to them she followed him back out into the sunshine. He was eighteen months older than she, yet not much taller. Like her he was slight, but unlike her his slightness bespoke frailty. His bones were prominent and fragile-looking, his features delicate. His large brown eyes, shadowed still, she saw, from his most recent illness, were soft as a girl’s and his skin was pale and fine. Smooth dark hair made a neat cap to his small, well-shaped head. In what could only be explained as an attraction of opposites he had been Jessica’s best and firmest friend for as long as she could remember, and his going away to the Cathedral school in London had left a yawning gulf in her life. She followed him now along the overgrown path to their favourite spot, a square stone tomb, moss-grown and weathered, its inscription long lost, that stood like a flat stone table above the waving sea of thistles, weeds and stinging nettles. Faintly the weir roared in the distance.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Jessica had picked up a stick and swished with automatic and destructive malice at the nettles. Robert walked neatly ahead as if the rank undergrowth, that tripped and clawed at her, parted meekly at his coming. Bran grabbed at the stick, tugged happily, almost pulling her from her feet.

  ‘Much better, thank you. A little tired still.’ They had reached the tombstone. Robert vaulted, elegantly and with composure, onto it.

  Jessica scrambled decidedly inelegantly up behind him and threw herself down beside him. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to sing? I thought that was why you haven’t been allowed back to school this term?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have to practise. That fool of a man! Old Margery knows more.’

  ‘But he said that singing would sap your strength—’

  Robert made a small, rude noise. ‘What rot! If anything it does the opposite. I can’t not sing. I can’t!’ There was in his voice an uncharacteristic note of intensity. She glanced at him, mildly surprised. He shrugged. ‘Stupid man,’ he said. ‘What do apothecaries know about singing? It doesn’t seem to occur to anyone that one day—’ He stopped.

  Her attention had been caught by a tiny, pale blue butterfly that hovered about the nettles. ‘One day what?’

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Now, come on – what brings you here looking like a waif from the poor house? What have you been crying for?’

  ‘I haven’t been crying.’ The denial was automatic and half hearted.

  ‘Of course you have.’ The words held an edge of impatience but were by no means unkind. ‘And your dress is torn and your boots are filthy. You’ll catch it when you get back.’

  She suddenly found herself, faced with the brusque, brotherly sympathy she had not in nearly twelve years ever received from a brother, blinking rapidly, colour rising uncomfortably as she fought off tears. ‘Giles says he’s going to have Bran knocked on the head,’ she said, voice quavering way beyond control, ‘and, oh, Robert, he means it! He does!’ Fiercely, looking anywhere but at Robert, she rubbed at a mud-stain on her skirt, and made it worse.

  ‘Oh, surely not – not even Giles would do such a thing—?’

  She turned her head sharply. ‘He would! He will! Oh, Robert – this time, truly, he means it!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake – why?’

  She scrubbed miserably at her skirt again. ‘I was in the stables – I shouldn’t have been there. I tried to hide when they came – but Bran saw Pasha and wanted to play – and stupid Pasha threw a fit, and Bran got all excited – you know how he does – and dashed in front of Belle, and she reared and Giles came off and looked such a fool – and, oh, you know that Giles can’t abide to be made a fool of—’ The words were pouring out, swift and urgent. ‘And he said he was going to have Bran knocked on the head. And he does mean it, Robert, I know that he does! I’m so afraid that Edward won’t be able to stop him – you know what Edward is – he can’t bear un
pleasantness, he always gives in – he can’t stand up against Giles when he’s made up his mind – and poor Bran so often seems to make a nuisance of himself – he’s for ever getting into trouble, though he never means to—’ She stopped, kicking in angry frustration at the tangle of undergrowth.

  Robert could not help but smile a little. ‘Sounds like someone else I know not a million miles from here?’

  She did not smile in return, did not even glance at him.

  He put out a small, sympathetic hand. ‘What can I do to help?’

  She turned eagerly to him. ‘Please – would you hide him for me? Here, at Old Hall somewhere? He likes you~;~ I’m sure he’ll stay with you. We can pretend that he’s run away – and then, after Giles has gone off to be a soldier – oh, Lord, I do hope he goes soon! – then I can say that he’s turned up again – with Giles gone, no one else will bother—’

  He thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ In her relief she flung herself at him, hugging him. Gently but very firmly he disentangled himself. She pushed the straying hair from her eyes and smiled at him, brilliantly, her small rather solemn face transformed by the light of it. ‘It won’t be for long, I’m sure. I heard Papa saying the other day that it had all been arranged for Giles to take up his commission – that means he’ll be a soldier soon, doesn’t it?’

  Robert nodded, then cocked his head to look at her. Often he reminded her of a small, quick brown bird. ‘Lucky Giles, off to kill some Frenchies and teach Boney a lesson.’ His voice was dry beyond his years. ‘Will he enjoy that, do you think?’

  She shrugged, a little doubtfully. It had not occurred to her to think in such terms. ‘I don’t know. I don’t really think so. I mean – I’m not sure that he awfully wants to be a soldier, but – well – that’s just what he has to do, isn’t it? Edward is to have the house, Giles is to go into the army and John is to join the church. It’s all arranged.’

  ‘How very well regulated your family is.’ Robert’s voice was light, slightly rasping, a tone that always made Jessica feel faintly uncomf ortable. She eyed him warily. ‘A son for the land, a son for the army, a son for the cloth. What a blessing that the fourth of the breed – what was his name? Samuel? – had the grace to die. What would they have done with him had he lived?’

  ‘Robert!’ Jessica was scandalized. ‘What an awful thing to say!’

  He shrugged, an odd tension holding him. Then he relaxed. When he spoke again his voice was normal, the hateful, mocking note altogether gone. ‘Giles will probably be sent to Spain, I should think. Or perhaps to Portugal. That’s where the fighting is likely to be, they say. I wonder what will happen? No one’s beaten Bonaparte in the field yet, though enough have tried—’

  Jessica shrugged disinterestedly.

  ‘It’s incredible. He’s got Rome. And Madrid. And Father says that the Low Countries can’t possibly stand against him. He’ll be master of Europe soon, if we don’t do something to prevent it.’

  ‘Why should we bother?’ Bored, she tugged Bran’s ears as he leaned against her perch beneath them. ‘Who cares what happens in Spain?’

  ‘Someone has to stop him,’ Robert said, seriously. ‘Or what’s to prevent him gobbling us up next?’

  ‘He’s already tried.’ Even Jessica knew that. ‘Nelson stopped him. At Trafalgar.’ Young as she had been she still remembered the spectacular rejoicing that had swept the country five years before at news of that victory, to be followed so soon by mourning.

  ‘Nelson’s dead. Now it’s Wellington’s turn. Perhaps Giles’ll come home a hero, who knows?’

  She groaned, not entirely joking. ‘Oh, Lord, don’t! He’d be utterly unbearable!’

  Robert laughed suddenly. ‘You don’t suppose the Guards’d take Clara for good measure, do you? That way both our problems would be solved in the same stroke!’

  Jessica giggled. ‘Clara FitzBolton – England’s secret weapon against Boney—!’

  Robert’s smile had faded. Thoughtfully he dug into a mossy cleft of stone with a piece of stick. In the spread canopy of the trees above a congregation of rooks had begun to quarrel noisily.

  Jessica tipped her head back and watched them as they wheeled and flew in the sunlit sky. ‘She’s bound to get married one of these days,’ she said with beguiling incharity, ‘and then she’ll go off to plague someone else—’

  ‘If anyone will have her.’

  She had to laugh at Robert’s tone of inconviction. ‘Oh, come on, she isn’t that bad! She’s really very—’ she stopped, uncertain, ‘—well, not pretty exactly – not like Caroline, that is – but—’

  ‘Striking,’ Robert said, gloomily, ‘that’s the word everyone uses about my sister. Striking.’ They sat for a while in silence. Bran had flopped to the ground, enwrapped in nettles, and lay with his chin on his paws, watching them devotedly.

  Robert eyed him. ‘You’d best give me something to hold him with,’ he said, ‘or he’ll follow you when you leave.’

  ‘You can have my sash.’ She jumped from her perch and pulled the sash from about her waist.

  ‘Won’t you get into hot water for losing it?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘The hot water I’m in already, will I notice?’

  He laughed and jumped down beside her. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  ‘If I knew what it meant I’d more than likely agree with you. Can I use your belt as a collar?’

  ‘It means very naughty indeed and open to no persuasion to improvement. Here.’ He handed over his belt.

  She looked up, frowning, faintly indignant. ‘Robert, I’m not naughty, you know I’m not! It’s just – well – things sort of keep happening—’ Even she could hear the lameness of that. She flushed a little.

  He grinned and bent to tie the sash to Bran’s improvised collar. The big dog’s tail thumped happily. Jessica hugged him, hard. ‘I’ll have to go. I’m supposed to be locked in my room. I persuaded Lucy to let me out. I don’t want to get her into trouble.’

  He shook his head, mockingly solemn. ‘Incorrigible,’ he pronounced again.

  She eyed him with disfavour. ‘If that’s going to become your favourite word, then I well might stop talking to you altogether.’ She led the way along the narrow path to the gate. ‘When do you go back to school, do you know?’

  ‘No.’ The word was sour. ‘When that fool of a quack says I may, I suppose. I’m missing all the preparations for Christmas – the best time of the year in the Cathedral—’

  She glanced back at him over her narrow shoulder. ‘You really love it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll say.’

  ‘And yet—’ she drew a sharp, affronted breath as a spiteful nettle caught her arm, ‘—you don’t talk about it very much, do you? Ouch – that hurt!’ She rubbed the spot hard.

  She sensed his shrug. ‘How can you talk about another world? To someone who knows nothing of it?’

  ‘You could try.’ She was truly piqued at the inference of the words, and her voice was sharp. They had reached the gate. She held it open as Robert led Bran through. ‘It isn’t any great secret, is it?’

  She saw in the boy’s dark eyes the far-away look that mention of this other life of his, the life of which she knew nothing, always brought and which always infuriated her. ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Well, then—’ Jessica stoppped, cocked her head. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Horses.’

  Swiftly and soundlessly she dropped to her knees beside the dog and closed a hand about his muzzle. ‘Ssh!’

  Like statues, they waited. From the main bridle path around the lake came the rhythmic thud of hooves, the jingle of a harness. A young man’s voice lifted, and another laughed. Bran pulled against her hand eagerly, whining a little. ‘Oh, hush, you! Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one day?’

  The sounds diminished as the riders passed. Robert let out a small, relieved breath. ‘It’s all right, the
y’ve gone. I’d better get the dog away now, quickly, before he’s missed.’

  She stood up, looking at him solemnly. ‘Thank you, Robert. We’ll never forget this, Bran and I, I promise.’

  The swift, bright smile illuminated his face but he said nothing.

  She ruffled the dog’s rough coat once more, then with a lift of her hand to the boy who held him she turned and sped into the woods without looking back.

  * * *

  She came across her brothers’ horses, tethered by the lakeside halfway to the house, next to the boathouse and tiny landing stage that their father had had constructed a couple of years before. Curious, she slipped through the trees to the lake’s edge. Out by the largest island a punt slid gracefully through the sunlit water, a sparkling ribbon of gold trailing in its wake. She recognized immediately Giles’ tall, elegant figure, fluently balanced, leaning easily upon the pole, driving the light boat through the water with a minimum of effort, his hair a bright halo in the sunshine. Edward, she saw, sat upon the cushioned seat, a hand trailing in the water, his narrow, laughing face lifted to his younger brother. Belle nickered a little, recognizing Jessica. The girl rubbed the velvet nose soothingly. The punt was too far away for either of her brothers to see her, she knew. She leaned against the mare’s neck, patting her. The glimmering waters lapped musically against the wooden structure of the landing stage. From beneath the overhang of the bank by her feet a moorhen and her family of chicks swam busily into the sunlight. Her attention caught, Jessica watched the small fleet in delight, the little ones paddling in fussy excitement around their mother, tiny scraps of fluff upon the water. A few feet away a dragonfly swooped and hung like a great jewelled pendant upon the warm air. Forgetting her urgency, and knowing herself safe for the moment at least she wandered along the bank, losing herself in the treasures of the tranquil day. As she struck away from the water and into the woodlands towards the house she made a detour by the great chestnut tree that always had the plumpest and juiciest of nuts. The ground beneath it was a prickly carpet of green shells, the shining brown fruits gleaming like dark eyes from the litter of leaf and spiky husk. She gathered some, ate a couple, peeling away the supple skin with sharp teeth, pocketed the others to cook with Lucy upon the nursery fire. The sun had dropped quite rapidly now to the west, and gleamed in long sword-falls of golden light through the trees. Reluctantly she had to face the fact that the delight of her stolen freedom must be surrendered if further trouble were to be avoided, both for herself and for others – and if she were not to be too obviously implicated in Bran’s fortuitous disappearance.