Obsession (2 page)

The day had ended with one small tearful child standing in front of her father in the drawing room. A quick look at his bewhiskered, unsmiling face had undermined her confidence.

‘Miss Perkins has told me about your escapade this afternoon,’ he said, ‘for which very serious misdemeanor she wishes me to punish you. However, I do not intend to do so as I understand you were never actually forbidden to leave the house on your own.’ He cleared his throat, touched quite unexpectedly by the child’s likeness to her dead mother. ‘However …’ he repeated, ‘… I have my suspicions that you were aware of such an embargo. No matter! You are quite old enough now to have the ways of the world explained to you – or perhaps I should say the way society expects us to conform to its rules. You may sit down.’

He waited until the little girl was sitting facing him in an armchair which looked far too big for her small person. He cleared his throat a second time, unsure suddenly how to explain the somewhat complicated division of the populace in simple enough fashion for the child to understand.

‘It’s like this,’ he began. ‘The population is divided into three main classes depending on their parents’ status. We, people like ourselves, belong to the upper classes, who employ people to look after us and our properties; then there are the people in trades or businesses, who are in the middle classes, and then those who serve us. They belong to the working class. These classes do not mix with us – er, that is to say with ladies and gentlemen like ourselves. We do not as a rule speak to lower-class people unless it is to those to whom we give orders such as our servants or the tradesmen and craftsmen who provide our needs and we pay them to do so.’

Harriet had regarded her father wide-eyed. She herself talked happily to all the servants in and out of doors. Her father’s words did not make a lot of sense, nor did they answer the important matter on her mind.

‘Yes, Papa,’ she said, hoping to please him, ‘but why mustn’t I be friends with Bessie? I haven’t got anyone to play with except that stupid boy who comes with the vicar’s wife when she calls, and silly Cousin Jane who screams when she sees a spider. And I’m bored of Miss Perkins’s lessons and the books she wants me to read and I know she only does it to keep me from bothering her when her legs hurt!’

Sir Charles regarded the pretty but rebellious face of his youngest daughter – the unwanted after-thought who had been responsible for his wife’s death – and wondered if the child apprehended what he had attempted to explain to her about the strict divisions of the classes. He attempted a more forthright explanation, saying, ‘That girl who took you under her wing this afternoon … Benson’s daughter, I gather … well, as you know, Benson is my gamekeeper so he works for me and therefore he and his family belong to the working class. As I told you, they are quite separate from us and it would be against the rules for you to visit them socially. Do you understand?’

Harriet shook her head. ‘I just want Bessie to be my friend, Papa! I know Miss Perkins is old so it’s not her fault she doesn’t like doing the things I want to do, and there’s no one for me to play with and Bessie showed me how to feed the chickens and where the squirrels build their homes called drays and …’

As he continued listening to all the harmless enjoyments of his errant daughter’s afternoon, her father found himself questioning his own dictates. Benson’s wife had been their senior parlourmaid before she had left to marry him and, as a consequence, she should know the social boundaries. It was highly unlikely that his small daughter would suffer any harm or disrespect in the company of their offspring.

Thus it was, Sir Charles decided that such visits could do Harriet no harm whilst she was so young. Having relented, as much for his own need to be free of the problem, as for Harriet’s sake, he was obliged to send for her disapproving governess and inform her that Harriet might be permitted, whenever she had no lessons or piano practice to perform, to spend an afternoon twice a week visiting the Bensons.

Ten years had passed since that day, and by now the two girls had grown close despite the difference in their ages and social standings. Harriet regarded Bessie as a friend, but despite Harriet’s wish to be called by her Christian name, the older girl never forgot what she knew to be her place. Being trained now by the housekeeper as a lady’s maid to Harriet, this allowed the two girls to spend some time together in Harriet’s room.

Whilst Bessie was assisting Harriet to get dressed, Sir Charles’s valet was also busy laying out his master’s evening clothes and thinking him unusually silent. As a rule, Sir Charles would have been either enthusing or complaining about the day’s bag, but his thoughts were not on the afternoon’s beat – they were centred upon his young daughter. He had been surprised when, having half-heartedly agreed to permit her to join the ladies for luncheon in the shooting lodge to see how ably she had conducted herself, he had noticed how much time his friend, Walter Edgerton’s, son had spent chatting to Harriet, and questioned how the young man’s attention could possibly have been captivated by so young a girl. As his valet slipped his black tailcoat over his frilled white shirt and waistcoat, he decided that Edgerton’s boy would make a good match for her in a few years’ time.

Whilst such thoughts were occupying her father, Bessie was fastening a pearl locket containing a picture of Harriet’s mother round her neck. Harriet, still euphoric, was saying breathlessly,

‘If I can’t marry Mr Brook Edgerton when I’m old enough, I’ll have to be a spinster like poor Miss Perkins for the rest of my life, as I won’t marry anyone else!’

Much later that night, as Bessie helped her into bed and bade her goodnight, Harriet decided to add her poor old governess to the list of people in her nighttime prayers. Her last thought before falling asleep was a prayer for herself – that she would be placed somewhere near the handsome Brook Edgerton again soon, before he forgot all about her.

‘M
y dear chap, are you quite sure you know what you’re doing, eh?’

Sir Walter Edgerton regarded his only son over the top of his spectacles.

‘See here, Brook,’ he continued as he took a cigar out of the box on the table beside his favourite large studded leather armchair, ‘I’ve nothing against her … pretty little thing … but you say she is only seventeen.’

Brook got up and went to stand with his back to the fire where he could better observe his father’s face. His own expression was slightly ironic as he said gently, ‘I believe you told me, sir, that Mama was only eighteen when you married her.’

Sir Walter harrumphed and took time to cut the end of his cigar and light it before replying. Then he said, ‘Your mother had come out by then – done her season; knew a bit about adult conventions.’

The hint of a smile crossed Brook’s handsome face as he asked, ‘What kind of conventions do you have in mind, sir?’

Sir Walter paused, his round, florid face wrinkled in thought. ‘Dash it, Brook, you know perfectly well what I mean – keeping house, entertaining, social calling, that sort of thing.’

Once again, Brook’s voice was gentle as he replied to his father: ‘I am aware that Harriet is very far from being a sophisticated woman of the world, Father, but I propose to engage an experienced housekeeper to take care of domestic trivia. As for Harriet being … unsophisticated, I think you meant … yes, that is true, but ever since she turned fifteen years old her father has allowed her to act as hostess when – on the few occasions – he entertained formally, and he went to great pains to assure me that Harriet’s manners were as appropriate as they were charming, and so I have no qualms about her qualities or suitability to be my wife.’

Sir Walter shook his head. ‘No need to get on your high horse, m’boy – only wanting to make sure you know what you’re doing.’ He drew a long sigh which threatened to tip the ash off the end of his cigar. ‘Fact of the matter is, I’d thought once or twice that you and Denning’s sister might make a good match. Know who I’m talking about? Paul Denning – the railway chap – has his widowed sister living with him. Nice-looking woman – speaks a bit better than he does. Had a better education, I suppose … you’d never know she was – well, not exactly top drawer. She has money too.’ His face lit up as he gestured towards Brook. ‘Denning inherited the fortune his father made in the railways. Bought some shares m’self. Told you to do so, didn’t I?’

Giving Brook no time to reply, he continued, ‘Denning has none of his own flesh and blood, so like as not he’ll leave his ill-gotten gains to his sister, the widow. I gathered she was not yet thirty – so about the same age as you, m’boy!’

Brook was smiling. ‘Not exactly “ill-gotten gains”, sir. Mr Denning wisely had the foresight to see how the shares were likely to rise. However, rich as he is or his sister might be, it is little Miss Harriet Drake I happen to be in love with. It may interest you, sir, to know that when I proposed to her, she told me she had fallen in love with me when she was only fifteen years old. If you recall, I had just arrived back from Jamaica that January and Sir Charles was short of a gun for his weekend shooting, so you took me with you.’

Sir Walter frowned. ‘Young, maybe, but not too young to set her cap at you?’

Brook laughed. ‘No, Father, she gave no inkling of her feelings and was quite charming company. She only told me how she had felt at our first meeting once I had declared myself to her. I’m quite sure you will love her when you know her better, Father. She is delightfully innocent, sweet-natured but intelligent. If she can be said to have any fault, it is that she is, so she tells me, very impetuous. If there is something she feels should be done, she will wish it to be done yesterday rather than tomorrow. I find her enthusiasm for life quite enchanting, and I believe she will make me an excellent wife.’

Sir Walter sighed. ‘I suppose you are more than old enough to know your own mind, young fellow.’ He sighed again and then frowned as an uncomfortable thought struck him.

‘I suppose there will have to be quite a few changes here, won’t there, when you get married? I confess that after your mother died, I rather let Firlbury become a bachelor establishment. Remember when you were a boy, you used to complain that you had umpteen uncles but no aunts to spoil you! A young wife will want a few females around, I dare say …’

Smiling once more, Brook interrupted. ‘Having grown up here, I am well aware of your preference for the bachelor nature of your life, sir, and I am of the firm opinion that it is only right that it should remain so. However, as you say, Harriet and I will want young people to visit us, and we have agreed we shall have a large family of children, so I don’t think, large as this house is, that sharing Firlbury Manor with you is a good idea for any of us. I have, therefore, instructed the agent to buy Hunters Hall. It is a very attractive old house situated only an hour’s ride from here, so we can visit each other as often as we chose. Do you know it, sir?’

Diverted from his son’s matrimonial intentions, Sir Walter nodded. ‘Certainly do! Used to belong to the Harewoods. Dashed shame Harewood losing all his money the way he did. Always said gambling was a fool’s game – gets to be an addiction. Poor Alice Harewood had to take the children to Shropshire, I think it was, to live with her parents. I thought the place had been sold to pay the debts!’

‘It was, sir, but the new owners only stayed there a month or two – too isolated for them, I was told. It’s been empty ever since, so the asking price is a lot lower than it should be. I think Mama would be pleased to know to what use I am putting all that money she left me.’

For a moment or two, Sir Walter did not speak; then he tossed his half-finished cigar into the fireplace and, nodding his head, turned to look at his son.

‘Seeing you’ve got it all settled, m’boy, I’d best go along with it.’ He cleared his throat and, leaning over, pulled hard on the rope to summon his butler.

‘Bring up a bottle of the ’fifty-five!’ he instructed the servant, and turned to give Brook an impish smile. ‘Good excuse for a tot or two of the Perrier-Jouët, eh? Your mother always used to deplore the drinking of alcohol before luncheon! You make sure you set the rules in your home, m’boy. Start as you mean to go on, I say. Far too easy to play second fiddle when marriage is a bed of roses for the first year or two.’

Brook laughed. ‘I think you have forgotten what you were deploring earlier, sir. My darling Harriet is ten years younger than I am and I cannot envisage her ever overriding my wishes.’ His expression softened further into one of affection.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you in the matter of Mr Denning’s widowed sister, Father. If, as you say, she is an attractive woman with money, I’m sure it won’t be a problem for her to find a second husband.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Why don’t you marry her yourself, Father?’

Sir Walter shook his head vigorously. ‘The last thing I want is a woman fussing round me. Besides, half the time you can’t make them out. With men, we all know where we are – call a spade a spade, eh? I have more than enough companionship with my friends.’

His father did, indeed, have a great many long-standing male friends, Brook reminded himself as he finished his glass of wine and rang the bell to order the coach to be brought round to the front of the house in readiness to take him to the train station. It was his intention to go down to Sussex and call to see Harriet the following day. He couldn’t wait to tell her that his father had raised no objection to the marriage or to them living elsewhere after their wedding. He would also surprise her with the news that he had heard that morning from the land agent to say his offer for Hunters Hall had been accepted. He wanted to see if she would be as eager as he was to see their future home.

As the train steamed its way speedily towards London where he intended to spend the night in his club, he felt a brief moment of anxiety lest the lovely old house he had chosen for them did not meet with her approval. It did not cross his mind that, being as deeply in love with Brook as she was, Harriet would happily have lived with him in a tent in the Sahara Desert so long as he was there beside her.