The Hawthorne Heritage Read online

  Giles was riding purposefully down the same track that Clara had taken a short while before. Wondering a little Jessica watched him go out of sight. Had the two of them been on the other side of the lake there would have been no cause for surprise – the rides through the ornamental woodlands were sanded and easy, the views of the lake, house and river very beautiful. But so far as she knew only Jessica herself ever came to this side; the woodland was dense and wild, the paths narrow and frequently blocked by undergrowth or fallen trees and the going uneven. She had never seen either Giles or Clara here before. Shrugging she slipped a hand through the collar that the New Hall blacksmith had made for Bran. ‘Come on, boy, I s’pose we’d better start back—’

  They scrambled around the lakeside, slipping on frozen mud, skidding and sliding on the snow-covered surface of the lake itself – this last an absolutely forbidden pastime. Cheeks glowing and fingers tingling with cold, for in her eagerness to be out undiscovered she had forgotten both muff and gloves, Jessica climbed onto a fallen log and gazed out across the magical winter iceland of the frozen lake. The vermilion sun was dipping, the air hard with frost. In the chill distance, faintly, she heard a voice calling, and then the sound of horses’ hooves, drumming hard. As she slid hastily from her perch and into the shelter of the tree the two horses burst almost together from the tangle of the woodland and danced to a halt, snorting, their breath clouding the darkening air. Giles, on the bigger horse, leaned from the saddle and caught the reins of Clara’s little mare in his hand. Clara lifted her head, smiling, looking directly into his face. Even from this distance Jessica sensed the challenge that fired every line of the young woman’s strong face. The horses danced again, unsettled, held together by Giles’ firm grip. There was a strange tension in the two figures as they leaned towards each other, an intensity that held their eyes each to the other and brought an unaccountable sense of unease to the small watcher. Then Clara lifted her riding crop, and for an incredulous moment Jessica thought that she would strike the man who had her rein: but she did not. Gently she touched his cheek with the whip, brought it in a stroking movement to his lips. As if burned Giles let go the rein and straightened in the saddle. Then with no word he wheeled Belle, dancing her upon her hind legs like a circus pony before thundering away in the direction of New Hall.

  Clara laughed. Watching him go she threw back her head and laughed, peal after peal of infectious amusement. Then, leisurely, she turned the little mare and rode back into the shadows.

  Jessica shivered; the wind must have turned to the north again. Hand buried in the warmth of Bran’s ruff of fur she too set off for home.

  * * *

  A couple of days later something of a thaw set in, and with the roads and countryside fast becoming a quagmire not many souls were foolhardy enough to brave the highways. It was therefore with some surprise that Jessica, from her perch upon the nursery window seat, saw the approach of a wagon along the sweeping drive of the house.

  ‘It’s the Scotchman! Oh ­– I wonder if Mama would let me join them—?’ So bored was she that the arrival of the chimney sweep and his boys would have been an occasion; this unexpected visit of Billy Heckford, known as the Scotchman, with his silks and satins, his laces and ribbons, his battered copies of Heideloff’s Gallery Of Fashions (far too out of date for the ladies of New Hall, but well received by the farmers’ wives) and The Lady’s Magazine was an event to rival a day at the fair.

  MacKenzie shook her head repressively. ‘Little girls have no business with a talleyman’s frills and flounces. Time enough for that when you’re grown.’

  ‘I’m nearly thirteen. Well – twelve-and-a-half—’ Jessica watched as the intriguing wagon, its shaggy little pony toiling in the slush, disappeared around the corner towards the tradesman’s court at the side of the house. ‘Caroline went to her first ball when she was fourteen – and she dined with Mama and Papa for AGES before that—’

  ‘Miss Caroline,’ said MacKenzie, deadly prim, ‘was no doubt a different kettle of fish to a certain young hoyden I know who can never keep her face clean nor her clothes neat and tidy—’

  Jessica stuck out a truly ferocious tongue at the sanctimonious back.

  ‘­—you’ll be invited to join the ladies of the household when you can learn to behave and not before. Besides, your parents dine in the evening now—’ the chill tone gave clear notice of the governess’ unvoiced disapproval of this new-fangled habit. ‘Hardly a fitting time for a child to eat—’

  Jessica craned her neck, cheek pressed against the cold window. The wagon had gone. Just once, four years ago, before the advent of the detested MacKenzie, she had been allowed to visit with her mother during one of Billy Heckford’s regular visits, and she had never forgotten the day. Orders from London – gown lengths for Mama and for a newly-grown Caroline – lace and a cascade of ribbons – little dolls, wonderfully clothed – flannel and calico for the servant girls – cotton for shirts and for shifts – handkerchiefs, bright waistcoat-pieces – the room had seemed to her an Aladdin’s cave of wonders. Buttons and buckles, bright and shining, ostrich feathers, and velvet swathes. She looked down in sudden and unexpected discontent at her dowdy brown woollen dress, the skirt an inch or so too short, the high waist pinching beneath a chest that was certainly at last showing some signs of budding. Even her one good gown, the red velvet that she wore on the three occasions a week that she was taken to be presented to her parents – on Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays in the salon after the light midday meal that was now luncheon at New Hall – no longer fitted her and was scuffed and worn at the seams. Neither had it ever recovered from an unfortunate accident with a buttered scone. For the first time she allowed herself to admit to envy for her older sister who had not only cleverly got herself born first – just about the only clever thing Caroline had ever done, she found herself thinking sourly – but whose fair grace and beauty was so enhanced by the delicate, high-waisted Grecian gowns that were still fasionable. She sighed.

  ‘Please, Miss—’ Lucy was at the open door, tapping awkwardly.

  ‘What is it, girl?’ MacKenzie, was, as always with Lucy, impatient.

  ‘It’s Smith, Miss. From downstairs.’ Anywhere in New Hall that was not the nursery was, to Lucy, simply ‘downstairs’. ‘She says she’s been sent to bring Miss Jessie to her Mama—’

  ‘Me?’ Jessica, with deplorable lack of elegance almost fell from the window seat. ‘To see the Scotchman!’

  Lucy’s good-natured smile lit the room. ‘Seems so, Miss.’

  Jessica was halfway to the door before MacKenzie’s firm and bony hand stopped her. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To see Mama – you heard Lucy – she’s sent for me—’

  ‘And you’ll attend your Mama looking like a chambermaid? Oh, no. Lucy fetch Miss Jessica’s red velvet. And you, Miss – stand still whilst I brush your hair—’

  Wild with impatience the child fidgeted beneath their ministrations. The red dress on, MacKenzie brushed and tugged at the mousy mop of hair with brisk disregard for a tender scalp.

  Jessica hopped from foot to foot. ‘Oh, PLEASE hurry! She might change her mind – or forget—’

  ‘Smith is waitin’, Miss Jessie, don’t you fret.’ Lucy brushed a last speck from the dress and stood back, admiring. ‘There. You do look a treat. Don’t she, Miss?’

  MacKenzie smiled. ‘Now, child. Remember your manners.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Show me your curtsey.’

  Rebellion raging at the futher delay Jessica bobbed a brusque curtsey.

  MacKenzie shook her head. ‘Again.’

  Jessica took a long, sustaining breath and swept into something that at least approximated a graceful curtesy.

  ‘Say “Good morning, Mama”.’

  Jessica glowered. ‘Good morning, Mama,’ she said, sweetly.

  ‘Keep your eyes down, and don’t babble.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

 
‘Right. You may go.’

  Jessica turned.

  ‘Miss Jessica!’

  She froze where she stood. In heaven’s name what now? ‘Yes, Ma’am?’

  ‘Under no circumstances – you hear me? – under NO circumstances – will you RUN. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘And neither will you answer back.’

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  ‘Speak when you’re spoken to. Hold your tongue when you’re not.’

  Jessica swung around, eyes ablaze, mouth open to shriek her exasperation. At the gleam of expectation in the woman’s pale and bulbous eyes she stopped. ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ she said obediently, seething.

  ‘Right. Now you may go.’

  The salon of New Hall was in the main wing on the first floor, next to the formal dining room and overlooking the sweep of drive and the park. It was to this elegant but somewhat chilly room with its pale, ornamented plaster ceiling, its tall gilded mirrors, its gracefully proportioned windows that Jessica had expected to be taken. Instead, to her delight, the maidservant Smith led her along a vaulted picture-gallery of a passage towards what she knew to be her mother’s private apartments. Almost overcome with excitement at this unexpected treat she fairly skipped at the girl’s side. At her mother’s sitting room door they stopped and Smith, having first surveyed Jessica from head to toe and tucked a wiry curl tidily if uncomfortably behind her ear, knocked. Here in the private apartments the formalities of footmen and flunkies were dispensed with.

  ‘Come.’

  The room, though fairly large, was cosy, rose velvet at the windows and in the upholstery, matching silk upon the small tables and in the soft cushions that were scattered about the comfortable furniture. A fire crackled companionably in the fireplace, with its carved ornamental overmantle. Deep rugs were scattered over the polished floor and on this winter’s day candles were lit, to reflect in myriad flickering images in the mirrors about the walls. Giles stood by the window, his back to the room, looking out over the park. He did not turn as Jessica entered. Caroline sat gracefully straight-backed upon a low chair, a swirling skein of glowing sapphire silk draped across her lap, her shoulders and the soft swell of her breasts fashionably exposed despite the season by the short-sleeved, almost diaphanous Grecian gown she wore. Her bright hair too was lifted and bound in the classic Greek style, fluffed at forehead and nape into ringlets that shone like spun gold in the candlelight. Jessica’s mother sat at a table that was heaped with lengths and bolts of material. Beside her stood Billy Heckford, an unctuous, portly man whose moon face shone sweatily in the warmth of the room.

  ‘Ah – Jessica—’ Like her elder daughter Maria Hawthorne wore a fashionable, high-waisted gown. Her figure was slim as a girl’s and the gown, black still for the mourning of her son, showed quite startlingly the pale ivory of her smooth skin. Nearly six months after Edward’s death, however, still nothing could disguise the fact that her lovely eyes, blue as summer speedwell, had not lost the desperate shadows of grief.

  Jessica, a little hesitantly, advanced. Her mother with a slight, faintly impatient smile held out her hand and beckoned her forward. Caroline lifted her head and smiled, vaguely. Giles still did not turn. His broad back, snugly clothed in a dark brown cloth coat that was cut short at the waist in front but hung in tails behind, fairly shrieked offence. Jessica wondered what had been under discussion before she had entered the room. Reaching her mother she curtseyed, a little unsteadily. ‘Good morning, Mama.’

  ‘Good morning, child.’ Her mother returned her greeting solemnly, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. She took her daughter by the shoulders and dropped the lightest of kisses upon her forehead. ‘Goodness, I do believe that you may be growing at last. Though I fear you’ll always be undersized. Mr Heckford; the striped cotton, if you please—’

  ‘Certainly, Madam.’ The man, agile despite his bulk, sprang to her side, a bolt of black and yellow striped cloth in his arms.

  Maria cocked an eye at her small daughter. ‘Do you like it?’

  Jessica, taken aback at being thus consulted, nodded her head shyly.

  ‘And the sprigged muslin, I think. You’ll need something for the summer.’

  Caroline looked up from her examination of a bolt of shimmering striped silk. ‘Try the pale green. It will suit her colouring best, I’m sure.’

  A deep blush of pleasure was mounting in Jessica’s cheeks. Never in her life had she been the object of such attention. Her mother turned from her and addressed the Scotchman. ‘The sprigged and the green then, I think. A small gown’s length of each, and the striped cotton. Caroline – you’ve finished?’

  Caroline made a pretty face of indecision. ‘Well the blue, definitely. And the striped – but for the spring the yellow would be so pretty – and if Bunty and I are to announce our engagement at the May Ball—?’

  Her mother gave a small, indulgent laugh. ‘Have it by all means. If I didn’t buy it for you I daresay your father would—’

  ‘Bunty likes me in yellow. He said so just the other day—’

  By the window Giles lifted a sudden, impatient head, flicking the fair, untidy curls from his eyes, and then was still. Jessica eyed him warily, as she might a chancy dog.

  Murmuring ingratiating thanks Billy Heckford packed his goods and picked up his orders.

  ‘Ask Smith to take you to the housekeeper’s room. We need some more material for uniforms, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, Madam. Thank you, Madam—’ He left.

  Giles turned. ‘Mother—’

  Maria ignored him. ‘Come here, child.’ She beckoned again to Jessica, who had moved a little away from her.

  Quailing a little Jessica obeyed.

  ‘Let me see – how old are you now?’

  ‘Twelve-and-a-half, Mama.’

  ‘As I thought. In a year or so you’ll be quite the young lady.’

  Jessica did not voice her own doubts of that.

  ‘And how do your lessons go?’

  ‘Well, I think, Mama, thank you.’ Eyes downcast Jessica prayed that the inevitable question would be an easy one.

  ‘Who is your favourite poet?’

  She let her breath out in a small puff of relief and lifted shining eyes. Safe ground, this. ‘William Wordsworth, Mama.’

  Giles made a small, impatient sound.

  Maria, real interest at last in her eyes, put her head on one side, surveying her small daughter. ‘Recite something for me.’

  Jessica lifted her head, dark eyes half-closed in concentration, thin face intent. ‘Ethereal minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound—?’ She spoke the poem well; it was indeed her present favourite. Finished, and suddenly self-conscious, she opened her eyes to find her mother regarding her with quizzically amused approval, whilst Caroline’s blue eyes were turned upon her in sheer astonishment. Giles tapped a polished table with a long fingernail.

  ‘Well done! So – you have finally discovered something in life beside horses? I think – yes, I really think that we must consider taking you from the nursery. There is no reason at all why you shouldn’t join us at luncheon once or twice a week now that—’

  ‘Mother!’ Giles, his hard-held control suddenly breaking as he all but overturned the small table as he swung round to face her. His brilliant eyes, the exact colour of his mother’s, were ablaze with anger and impatience. ‘I will not be treated like this! It’s intolerable! Second to talleymen and to babies! I need your decision on a matter of importance!’

  The silence that fell was dire. Jessica shrank back against the table, her worried eyes moving from her brother’s furious face to her mother’s apparently calm one.

  Maria stood. She was not a particularly tall woman, but the straightness of her spine and the arrogant lift of her head at that moment made her seem so. Her expression was icy, as was her voice. Only the slightest tremor betrayed her rage. ‘You’ve had my decision Giles, and no amount of questioning
will change it. The answer is no. Your father gave Fallows Farm to me, as a present. While it is mine the Salcomes are my tenants, and you shall not – You shall not! – turn them out, as you have turned others out—’ Giles began to speak but she pressed inexorably on, ‘I know that your father agrees with what you are doing. But in this he has promised to abide by my decision. And the answer is no. A thousand times. The Salcomes stay.’

  Giles fisted one hand into the other, fuming. ‘Mother – listen! You don’t know them! They’re an idle bunch – good for nothing! Fallows doesn’t pay. It never will. If we take it back we can enclose the common pastures beyond—’

  ‘No!’

  Jessica, struck speechless by the raised adult voices, felt her hand taken by Smith, who jerked her head towards the door. Caroline nodded. Reluctantly Jessica allowed herself to be led away. Her mother did not even look at her, did not, apparently, notice her going. At the doorway Jessica glanced back. Giles, knowing the argument lost, was stiff with anger. ‘You do this deliberately to frustrate my plans—’

  ‘I do it to prevent a family being turned out to starve!’ Her mother’s voice was scathing.

  ‘They starve already! They waste what they have – live on the charity of others—’

  The door shut on her mother’s answer.

  ‘Come on, Miss Jessie.’

  She trotted beside Smith, hearing her brother’s raised, angry voice dying behind her, and inwardly seething.

  Giles had done it again!

  How dared he? Second to talleymen, he had said – and to babies! Babies! Away from the over-awing scene her own temper rose explosively. Of all the hateful, black-humoured people, why did she have to be landed with Giles for a brother? And – interrupted as she had been – would Mama even remember that she had been on the point of promising Jessica a release from the choking confines of the nursery and MacKenzie’s constant and detested supervision? Jessica doubted it. Blast Giles! Blast him!