A World Apart (14 page)

He tore open the letter and scrutinised the signature at its end. It was from Mrs Hawkins, venerable housekeeper of the Great House. Every time he remembered the village of his upbringing, he suffered the pangs of a love torn apart by his cold, authoritarian father. The man had likely never known love himself. Doubtless Harry and his sister had been born from a businesslike transaction between a wealthy but plain woman, the mother he never knew, and the elderly man who needed to sire children to inherit his estate. She would likely have been rejected by the young gentlemen of the day, pining for love and for babies as the years passed. And he, a breeder of fine cattle, would have seen her as a submissive dam, preferring an old bull to a life of spinsterhood. Then she died as she gave birth to Harry, the son she had never known. He sighed, flicked open the folded paper, and read.

Harry folded the letter and drew a long breath. He must go to Marley. At the least, he must see Eliza. It was sad that she had never replied to the needy letter he wrote as a newly arrived student at Oxford. For a man raised since birth to be strong, resolute, spare with words, and never to bow to the weepings and handwringings of the weaker sex, he had poured out his heart in that letter.

Mayhap the letter had never reached her. God forbid that his father had intercepted it and read it. But then his father, if any man could stoop so low, might indeed have done so.

He pondered as to when and how he should go to Marley. On his desk lay papers and notes he had collected for an essay he must write on the dreaded Renaissance, to be submitted before the term's end. To hell with it. If he failed the subject, was ejected from his degree studies, it mattered little. The journey to Marley was far more important.

He walked from the college, baggage in hand, as dawn shed enough light for him to see the road to the inn where the coaches stopped. Soon enough, he boarded a coach which would see him in Marley four long days hence.

Dusk settled over the hills of Morton-Somersby as Harry walked from the inn to the Great House.

‘You are home, my son.' His father greeted him from his study. ‘Yet the term is not yet over. Why, pray?'

Eliza Downing, Father. I learnt that she awaits sentencing for a crime she could never have committed. I beg you, drop those charges.'

‘My God! You spend a fortune journeying from Oxford to grovel before that…trollop!'

‘She is not a trollop, Father. She is perhaps the most intelligent, the kindest, prettiest woman I shall ever know in my lifetime. And for her to be transported beyond the seas is unconscionable.'

‘My son.' The old man cleared his throat, put down his near-empty glass of port. Then he looked into the middle distance, evidently having chosen to control his temper.

‘The wench — she is but a peasant wench, and I won't hear otherwise — has plotted against me. Her devilment might have ruined me if Amos Blunt had not caught her at her game, whispering into my workmen's ears, telling them to revolt like those fools from Tolpuddle. They are transported to the colonies now. Good riddance to them.'

Amos Blunt, rat catcher. Louisa. Harry's brain began to weave a plot as he drew breath to answer his father. From the first day the two girls had met, Louisa had hated the golden-haired sprite with the stellar intelligence who had stolen into their schoolroom, then dominated it. Before his father had despatched him to Oxford, Harry had overheard interesting kitchen gossip. Amos had been seen close to Louisa in situations which could only be seen as compromising. And more frequently of late. She would very likely have used Amos to spy on Eliza, creating false evidence if he must.

Good luck to his ugly, vicious-tempered sister if she took advantage of the little rat catcher's male urges. But for her to use him to plot against Eliza? It was as if a pair of slimy
insects with poisonous bites had invaded a princess's chambers. And they had succeeded in poisoning her, unless Harry could intervene.

He rose early next morning and rode into Marley. Already a gathering of village folk had massed round the old stone courthouse. As he watched from a low hill a hundred yards distant, a cart pulled away from the building and onto the road. He stared at the cart. It was enclosed with stout wooden walls except for its rear, which was closed by a net of bars. It must be a prison cart, likely brought from Dorchester to take criminals to the London hulks.

He tied his horse to a tree and walked towards the road to intercept the cart. The driver cracked his whip and the cart gathered speed. Harry broke into a run, too late to see it pass by. As he stared into its barred rear, he saw a woman standing, bracing herself against the rocking by holding the bars as she stood. Her face was haggard, tear-stained, but her golden hair shone as it cascaded to her shoulders. It could only be Eliza. He ran through the crowd, struggling to catch up with the cart. But as it left the village, it pulled away. As he strained to take a last look at the prisoner, he saw her let go the bars and move inside. Could this be the last time he ever saw the woman he would always love?

Harry pulled up breathless as the cart disappeared, its driver urging the horses into a gallop. Like as not, he wanted to clear the village in case a mob of angry people tried to block the road. Indeed, there had been shouts of protest as he drove through the crowd.

‘Eliza Downing. A saint!'

‘Now she be transported beyond the seas. For helping poor Rufus.'

‘The cursed gentry! May they all rot in hell.'

As Harry walked back to his horse, he learned from further murmurings that Eliza had indeed been sentenced to transportation. For the rest of their short, miserable lives, the villagers would hate the landowners. A few short years before, the French had marched against their gentry, fed them to
Madame La Guillotine
, created a republic. The same passion might well sweep across The Channel in a year or two. What should a man like himself, born to the gentry, do if that were to happen?

As he sat in his chambers that evening, Harry pondered his future. He must accept that Eliza was gone; gone to a place beyond the seas. And he was done with Oxford. Of what use was higher learning to a man who would likely spend his days in the isolated splendour of the Great House?

A few evenings later, father and son sat together in the conservatory, taking a sherry before dinner. Harry had seen it as the time when he must confront his father.

‘My son.' The elderly man drained his glass, refilled it from the decanter. ‘You are not returned to Oxford, yet the term continues, and you have been here for a week and more.'

‘I am finished with Oxford, Father.'

But — ' Harry watched his father's jaw harden.

‘Pray tell me, what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?'

‘Why, follow in my father's footsteps. As eldest sons must do.'

‘Mmm.' Now John De Havilland leaned back in his chair, contemplating his glass but not drinking from it. ‘Then you must wed. Soon.'

‘Why must I wed, Father?' Harry's manner flagged all too clearly that he already knew the answer well enough. All noble families became preoccupied with succession when their children reached marriageable age, if not before.

‘You know very well, my son. Despite my instructions, you have ignored Miss Agatha Thurber. Now that you have quit Oxford, you may make haste with your courting. The pair of you will make a fine match.'

‘I see, Father. You and Thurber plan to enlarge your holdings by merging the two adjoining properties. And Miss Thurber is to be the breeding cow to populate those new acres, so to speak.'

‘Since you put it that way.' He waved a hand in the direction of the neighbour's estate. ‘I grant you, she is not as handsome a woman as might be. But I understand she is well mannered, obedient. And no doubt interested in finding a man who will carry out his husbandly duty.'

Harry turned away lest his father see the revulsion which darkened his face like a storm cloud. His father had come from a line of gentlefolk. All Harry's life, the man had shown more interest in the quality of his herd than in the intellectual welfare of his children. Indeed, his decision to put Eliza into the schoolroom had been an adventurous departure. And it had sown in Harry's heart a love which would dominate his life. Now,
his
sole preoccupation must be as to how he could rescue Eliza from the horrible morass into which she was about to be thrown.

‘You are silent.' Harry did not answer. John De Havilland cleared his throat.

‘I repeat, you must marry Agatha, Harry. You must begin to court her forthwith. You will recall the ball Thurbers are to host with the express intention of having you court their daughter. That ball is now but a fortnight away. We expect you to woo her at that ball, then become betrothed soon afterwards. Very soon afterwards. If you do not, it will be but a matter of time until her parents look about for another swain. And I could not abide that he should buy land from a stranger. Not when we need his money if we are to keep those cursed bankers at bay. After all, Thurber has but one child, and that a girl. For hundreds of years, the land that he has lately bought and made into his estate has been destined to fall into our hands, my son. Now the time has come. You are the chosen one. Now go to it.'

‘But I cannot abide Agatha Thurber. She is small, surly. Her hair is… I should rather die than — ' Harry must flee the Great House, somehow subsist without his father's largesse.

‘Enough!' John De Havilland drained his glass, filled it again. ‘From this moment, I forbid you to travel. As I have told you often enough, we are near bankrupt. I shall not give you any more money than you need to live an ordered life in this house. As from today, you shall not travel beyond the village without my express permission. And if you choose to defy me and leave, I will cut you off without a shilling. Your sister will be more than happy to win your inheritance.' It was as if his father had read Harry's mind. Now he was trapped in the Great House like a monkey in a cage.

‘I understand, Father.' He stood and walked from the conservatory. Somehow, he must escape from that cage.

A month later, having lived each day like a prisoner who grips the bars of his cell, dreaming of escape, Harry dutifully attended the ball arranged by the Thurbers. It had been scheduled expressly for the purpose of matching Harry and Agatha, according to Harry's father. For most of the night, Harry evaded Agatha, dancing with any other young woman he could entice onto the floor. Then, towards the end of the evening, Agatha cornered him as he stepped outside for an urgent dose of solitude and quiet.

‘My papa has discussed with yours the prospect of blending our two estates into one, Mr Harry,' she said, slipping an arm through his as they walked the length of a pillared colonnade in the moonlight. ‘What say you to that?'

‘If he wishes, so be it.'

‘But…if we…if you… I mean that if you and I were to…wed, it would happen very, er, conveniently.'

Harry held his silence, sensing the grip of Agatha's gloved hand on his wrist. As they came under the glow of the festive lanterns hung about the garden, he looked down at her and flinched. Bedding the plain young woman with the permanent frown and drooping mouth would forever be beyond him. Yet his father had explained the situation to him in words that left him no choice. By attending the ball, he had accepted his fate.

As they walked, he prayed that she would relax her grip on his arm. It had become a manacle, growing ever tighter as they walked. When they returned to the ballroom, he made an excuse and left, ignoring her fuming tirade.

As he rode home, thoughts of Eliza dominated his mind for the thousandth time. How could he face a life shackled to Agatha Thurber when he loved Eliza? No. There must be a way to find Eliza, bind her to him for life. But how? He remembered his father's promise to cut him off without a shilling to his name if he were to leave the Great House. How could he come by some money — the sooner the better? Many people in this world had begun with nothing and amassed fortunes quickly, especially in these times of change. Industries of all shapes and sizes were expanding throughout the country, indeed in Europe and the New World as well. But how to take that first step to wealth? Perhaps those fortunate
nouveau riches
had won at cards, then invested their winnings wisely. Cards. Did not men gather at the inn to play cards?