скачать книгу бесплатно
‘You will be. Mama liked you; I knew she would – Giles, too …’
‘Aye. Your brother tried fine to be the stern guardian, and all the time trying to work out what the upset was all about, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Mm. And wanting to get on with his work. He’s seeing to the library. Pa neglected it dreadfully, so Giles is trying to get it into some kind of order. Some of the older books need attention, and he’s packing them up, ready to send to London for repair. And oh, darling, isn’t it a beautiful morning?’
‘Aye. And will you smell that air?’ He breathed in deeply. ‘And look at that view. Do you ever look at it, Julia, or have you seen it so often that you take it for granted?’
‘Perhaps I do, darling,’ she smiled, looking at it with his eyes; at the last of the sweet-scented narcissi and the first of the summer’s roses, climbing the pergola, tangling with honeysuckle and laburnum. And at the delicate spring green of beech leaves and linden leaves, newly uncurled; and a sky, high and wide and blue, with the sun topping Brattocks Wood. ‘But I shall look at it differently now, and how I wish you could be here when evening comes. That’s when the honeysuckle smells so sweetly. The scent of it is unbelievable. I’ll ask that you be invited to dinner before you return, and we’ll walk here at dusk and you shall take the smell of it back with you to London, to remind you of me.’
‘Silly child.’ He gentled her face with his fingertips because he wanted so much to hold her and kiss her. ‘Can we walk in the woods, do you think?’
‘I think we’d better.’ She lifted her eyes to his, loving him, wanting him. ‘Because I need to kiss you, too. And don’t say you don’t want to, because I know you do. Your voice changes when you want me – did you know it? You speak to me with a – a lover’s voice and it makes me – oh, I don’t know …’
‘You do know, Julia, and one day we will – only don’t make me wait too long?’
‘I won’t. I promise I won’t. And can we please find a place where no one can see us?’
‘See us!’ he exulted. ‘But we are walking out, you and I, and in a year we shall announce our engagement. So let’s tell the world about it –’ he tilted her chin with his forefinger and laid his lips gently on hers – ‘with a kiss.’
It was, said Bess, who had been carrying coal to the library and was passing the window in the front hall when she saw it, so romantic you wouldn’t believe it. The way he’d kissed her, chin tilted, and she with her eyes closed, just like in a love book.
‘And then she picked a rosebud, and put it in his buttonhole,’ she sighed, misty-eyed. ‘I stood there and saw her do it and if you don’t believe me, then Mary’ll tell you when she serves luncheon. You’ll see that rosebud, Mary, then you’ll know I’m not making it up.’
‘Hm,’ grunted Tilda, annoyed that kitchenmaids saw nothing, stuck downstairs, whilst Bess and Mary had a better time of it altogether. ‘I never said I didn’t believe you.’ Tilda, who knew everything there was to know about falling in love from books in the penny library, had suspected all along that something was going on, and that Alice knew more about it than she was letting on. ‘And what’s more, I’ll bet you anything you like that Hawthorn knows more’n she’ll admit to.’
‘Alice?’ Cook demanded in a voice that commanded obedience.
‘I know no more than any of you,’ she offered reluctantly, ‘and that’s –’ That’s the truth, she’d been going to say, but when she thought about it, when there was one extra for luncheon and Miss Julia getting herself kissed in full view of the entire household … ‘that’s all I can say, except maybe that his name is Andrew MacMalcolm, and he’s a doctor, in London. And when Miss Julia fell and hurt herself –’
‘It was him!’ Tilda supplied triumphantly. ‘Him that brought her round and tended her, and saved her life!’
‘Him,’ Alice confirmed, pink-cheeked. ‘And if any one of you breathes so much as a word of what I’ve told you in the village, then I’ll never tell you anything again!’
They said they wouldn’t; never a word of it, and demanded of Bess what had happened then – after he’d kissed her, that was, and Miss Julia had picked the rosebud. And Bess said she couldn’t rightly say, as they’d climbed the park fence, then, and made hand in hand for the woods.
‘The woods,’ Mrs Shaw repeated, her mouth screwed up as if she had just swallowed vinegar.
‘Ooooh, the woods,’ Tilda sighed, closing her eyes in a shudder of purest bliss. ‘The woods …’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly,’ Alice snapped, annoyed she had told them anything at all. ‘Where’s the wrong in her walking in her own woods, will you tell me, with a guest?’
She wished she could talk to Miss Julia; tell her the cat was out of the bag. And she couldn’t wait to see Tom and tell him all about it, from first to last. It was awful, having to help out in the kitchen and not being able to take Morgan for his afternoon run and wanting, so much, to hold Tom, and kiss him – just as Miss Julia and Doctor Andrew were doing now, she fervently hoped.
She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers, wishing that tonight Mr Giles would be too busy to take Morgan out, because if she didn’t see Tom soon, she would die. She really would.
‘Hawthorn! That is enough!’
‘Well, if you’re set on wearing the green tonight, miss,’ Alice gave another determined tug on the corset laces, ‘they’ll have to be tighter.’
‘Ouch! Did you know that Doctor MacMalcolm does not approve of corsets? He says that tight lacing is unnatural and the cause of a lot of ailments in women. He blames them entirely for the vapours.’
‘Ooh, miss. You don’t talk to him about corsets?’ My word, but things had come on apace, if they were talking about unmentionables!
‘Indeed I do, and he said that two weeks free from corsets would do most women more good than two weeks at the seaside. But aren’t we both lucky? You and Dwerryhouse sharing a pew in church for all to see, and Andrew and me …’
‘Yes?’ Now at last they were getting down to brass tacks.
‘We-e-ell, since you were the cause of it – in a roundabout way, that is –’ How indeed would they have met if Hawthorn hadn’t sent the policeman flying? – ‘I want you to be the first to know. It’s going to be all right!’
‘Me, miss – the first? But they all know.’ Carefully Alice knotted the laces. ‘They put two and two together. You were seen in the garden, and that settled it. They’d all been wondering who the caller was, and when Mary came downstairs and told Cook there was one extra for lunch …’ She shrugged eloquently.
‘So did you tell them?’
‘N-not exactly. I kept getting looks from Mrs Shaw, but when Bess said she’d seen you and him – well –’
‘Kissing?’ Julia laughed.
‘Yes. That an’ all. I had to admit, then, that he was the doctor who’d taken care of your bruises. No more’n that though – honest.’
‘Hawthorn, it doesn’t matter. It’s all right for us to write and to meet, you see, but not to be engaged – not just yet. I’ve promised Mama we’d wait a year and then, if we are both of the same mind –’
‘Which you will be …’
‘Nothing is more certain! Anyway, in a year we can be properly engaged – isn’t it wonderful? And Andrew is invited to visit again, tomorrow, because Mama likes him. I could tell she was going to, right from the start.’
‘Yes, miss, and I’m glad. But what am I to tell them downstairs?’ Alice pleaded. ‘They’ll give me no peace till they’re told something.’
‘Poor Hawthorn. Never mind. Thank you for helping. I can finish dressing myself, now. And you mustn’t tell them anything at all, except –’ She smiled, then, and her eyes shone and she was all of a sudden so beautiful, Alice thought, that it fair took her breath away. ‘Except that tomorrow, when Doctor MacMalcolm visits again, I shall take him downstairs to meet them all.
‘And sorry – I’m in such a tizzy that I forgot. Giles said I was to ask if you could possibly find time to give that dog a run tonight – if Mrs Shaw will allow it, that is.’
‘I think,’ Alice smiled impishly, ‘that she will.’ Mrs Shaw would be in such a bother of delight when she heard that Miss Julia’s young man would be visiting her kitchen, that she would agree to anything. ‘And, miss, I’m that happy for you both, and I’ll come and unlace you at bedtime,’ she added soberly. ‘And thanks about Morgan.’
Because Miss Julia, bless her, had arranged it. Miss Julia was a dear, kind young lady who would grow to be like her mother; beautiful, and mindful of those around her, for she was beautiful – just like Cook said she would be, and she and the doctor would have beautiful children together and live happily ever after.
She hugged herself with sheer happiness, then ran to the kitchen with her news.
‘Off you go, then.’ Alice slipped the spaniel’s lead at the woodland fence, watching him go, nose down; sniffing, snuffling, scenting rabbit and partridge and hare. Away looking for Tom, she thought fondly, and when he found him he would yelp with delight and shiver all over, from his nose right down to the tip of his furiously wagging tail. Morgan was devoted to Tom and obeyed him, now, without question. But then, Tom had a way with dogs. They liked him. Everyone liked him and she loved him, and maybe around the next turning of the path he would be there and she would run to him and lift her face for his kiss …
The evening was warm, but so it should be, for it was almost summer. Tomorrow she would awaken to the first day of June, her birthday month. Eighteen. It sounded almost grown up.
She breathed deeply on air that smelled of honeysuckle and wild, white roses and green things growing. There were no buttercups in the wood. Buttercups grew in meadows, seeking the sun, collecting it, giving it back in a glint of gold. Buttercups were her very own flowers; Tom had said so.
She looked over to her right, where Reuben’s chimney puffed creamy woodsmoke. He was building up his fire for the night: Reuben was home, so it was Tom who would be doing the night round. Tom was there, somewhere in the deep greenness, and when Morgan found him he would know, whistling softly as he came to look for her, and oh, how was it possible for one person to have such happiness inside her?
Elliot Sutton walked angrily, head down, hands in pockets. He was wronged, misunderstood. He should have gone to London – anywhere but Leeds. He’d had no luck with the women there and less luck at cards. He’d lost his allowance twice over, paying his hotel bill with the last few sovereigns in his pocket. What was more, his moneygrasping mother had refused to make his losses good, reasoning, he shouldn’t wonder, that the less he had, the less he could spend on things she disapproved of. Women, for one, and wine, and wagers so ridiculously high as to make the game excitingly worth playing. His mother held fast to her money – she always had – pinching every penny, arguing over a shilling she believed overcharged. Nor could she understand that a gentleman always paid his gambling debts – but then, his mother wasn’t a lady.
‘Money! You’re always short of money!’ she had shouted. ‘I declare you pour it down the nearest drain the minute you lay hands on it. But you’ll get no more from me!’
‘Mama,’ he said softly, deliberately, ‘why must you always share our business with the servants? Your voice could sell fish in Billingsgate!’
‘Damn you, boy!’ His remark had struck the raw nerve he’d intended, though he hadn’t bargained on the contents of her teacup being flung in his face. ‘Get out! Get out of my sight!’
He had left, then, mopping his stinging cheek, because his mother in a rage was a match for any man, and the lash of her tongue was to be avoided. Mama in a fury harked back to her roots and became the embodiment of Mary Anne, his peasant forebear.
He walked without direction, his anger increasing. He needed comfort. He had a good mind to go to Creesby, to Maudie who loved him. In his present mood he’d marry her for two pins, then laugh in his mother’s face. But if he married the butcher’s daughter, two pins was all he’d be worth.
A pheasant rose clucking in his path. He supposed he was on Rowangarth land, now. No use calling, though. Aunt Helen would be at dinner. But dammit, he would go to Creesby, where he’d be welcome. Maudie was always available, always free. He turned about suddenly. He would take the motor and seek Maudie out – and serve his mother right, too. That was when he saw her – one of the Rowangarth servants if he wasn’t mistaken – slim and pretty, her waist a hand-span round. Her breasts reminded him of Maudie, and made him forget her at once. Eyes narrowed, he ran his tongue round his lips with pure pleasure.
‘Good evening,’ he murmured.
‘Mr Elliot.’ Eyes lowered, Alice moved to pass him, but he sidestepped, and barred her way.
‘Please, sir,’ she murmured, all at once uneasy, ‘if I might –’
‘No, you might not. You might do nothing that doesn’t please me. Tell me your name, and who you are.’
‘It’s Hawthorn, sir; Alice Hawthorn. I’m sewing-maid at Rowangarth and if you’ll excuse me I’m going to meet my friend.’
Small pulses of fear fluttered in her throat. She tried to call out for Tom, but her throat had gone tight and no sound came.
‘Your friend, Alice Hawthorn? What kind of a friend is it that you slink off to meet behind bushes? And he isn’t here, is he, so you’ll have to make do with me!’
Laughing, he reached for her, pulling her closer. She smelled whisky on his breath and oh, God! where was Tom?
His mouth groped for hers and she pushed him away. His moustache scrubbed her cheek as he grabbed her hair and held back her head.
‘No!’ She brought the heel of her boot down on his foot with all her strength.
‘Damn you!’ He gasped with pain, releasing her. She ran, stumbling, but he caught her again, pulling her to the ground, grunting his pleasure as he straddled her, pulling at her blouse, ripping it open.
‘No. No. No!’ She clawed at his face; pulled her fingernails down his cheek so hard that she felt pain in them. Blood oozed in tiny droplets, then ran in a little rivulet on to his chin, his stark white collar.
‘Leave me be!’ She rolled away from him, over and over, into a bramble bush. Branches lashed her, thorns clawed at her face, her neck, at her uncovered breasts.
‘Bitch!’ No more. He’d had enough of her teasing, her refusals. The games were over and he tore at her skirt. ‘Please – don’t!’ He was wild-eyed; a madman. He was drunk; he was going to kill her. Terror gave her sudden strength, gave back her voice. ‘Tom! Reuben!’ she screamed. ‘Help me, Tom! Oh, God – help me!’
There was a crashing in the undergrowth. Someone, something, was coming. With a howl of rage, a wedge of fury hurled itself at her attacker, snapping, snarling, fangs bared, knocking him to the ground.
‘Morgan!’ She pulled herself to her feet, eyes closed against the flailing, whipping branches. Oh, Tom, where are you?
She began to run; stumbling, sobbing, crying out. There was blood on her face, her hands; her hair fell untidily down her back.
‘Lass!’ It was Reuben, running down the path to meet her and oh, God, thank you, thank you!
Arms folded her, held her. She was safe. He couldn’t hurt her now. Sobs took her, shook her.
‘Elliot Sutton! He tried to – oh, Reuben …’
‘There now, lovey. It’s all right.’ He was making little hushing sounds, stroking her hair. ‘Tell me. Tell Reuben, then.’
‘Down there!’ She pointed along the woodland path. ‘Morgan went for him …’
‘Alice!’ It was Tom. Tom running. ‘Alice – was it you I heard?’ One glance told him. ‘Who, girl? Who did that to you?’
‘Down yonder,’ Reuben ground. ‘Down t’path. And lad, give that thing to me.’ He reached for Tom’s gun. You didn’t let a man white with hatred go seeking revenge with a shotgun in his hand.
‘Tell me!’ Tom spat.
‘Elliot Sutton.’ Alice closed her eyes at the shame of it. ‘But he’ll be gone, now. Leave him!’ She needed Tom to hold her, but he was away, hurling curses, murder in his eyes.
He found them, twenty yards down the path; the man crying out, hands shielding his face, the dog gone berserk, its teeth at Elliot Sutton’s throat.
‘Morgan! Stay!’
The spaniel heard authority in the voice and slunk to do its bidding. Tom reached down to touch its head briefly, then: ‘You! Sutton!’ His eyes blazed contempt. ‘On your feet!’
‘Now see here – that animal! If it’s yours, you’re in trouble.’ Bloody, mud-stained, Elliot Sutton rose unsteadily. ‘Damned beast went for me – for my throat. Could have killed me …’
‘Could he, now?’ Tom’s voice was soft as the fist of iron slammed into the arrogant face, sending the man sprawling again. Then, taking him by the lapels of his coat, Tom pulled him to his feet. ‘Could he just? Well, listen to me, Mister-fine-bloody-Elliot. If ever you lay so much as a finger on my young lady again; if you even walk on the same side of the street as her, it won’t be a dog you’ll have to contend with – it’ll be me. And I will kill you!’
He flung him away contemptuously to lie sprawled in the brambles, blubbering, threatening. ‘My aunt – Lady Sutton – she’ll hear about this! And the police! I’ll have you dismissed, run off the place. I’ll see to it you never work again! My mother’ll see to it …’
‘Go to hell, Sutton!’
Reuben had taken Alice inside, sitting her beside the fire, setting the kettle to boil, telling her it was all right, that Tom would see to it.
She leaned back, eyes closed, moaning softly, her body shaking still. Because it wasn’t all right, and if it hadn’t been for Morgan …
She began to weep again. Morgan had saved her, had turned into a devil. Lazy, lolloping Morgan had been her salvation.
The door latch snapped and Tom stood there, the spaniel at his heels.
‘Did he, sweetheart? Did he harm you?’ He was at her side, gathering her to him. ‘Tell me, if –’
‘No, Tom. He tried, but not – not that. Morgan came.’
‘Aye. Morgan. But for that daft dog –’ His smile was brief. ‘What are we to do, Reuben? Young Sutton can’t get away with this. I won’t let him!’
‘What happened out there?’ Reuben demanded. ‘Did you catch up with him?’
‘I did. The dog had him pinned down, so I called him off …’
‘And from the look of your knuckles, I’d say that wasn’t all.’
‘It wasn’t.’ Tom clenched and unclenched his right fist. ‘I hit him. And I told him if he even so much as looked at Alice again, I’d kill him.’
‘Tom! You shouldn’t have,’ Alice moaned. ‘Don’t you see, he’ll do you harm. We’ll both be out of work. You can’t go hitting the gentry …’
