Susan Speers (14 page)

I offered no refreshment. “I suppose you’ve come to speak to me about Dickon Scard?”

“Yes.” Henry Putnam didn’t try to put a better face on it. “But not for the reason you might think.”

“We will marry,” I said, daring him to forbid it.

“Clarissa, I want you to marry the man you choose,” Henry said. “But there are things you must know about Dickon Scard, about the Scard family before you proceed.”

Henry Putnam and I sat together for a long time.

“What do you know about your ancestor Madison Marchmont?” he asked me.

“Madison lived almost a hundred years ago,” I said. “He built the four follies, he wanted to build a fifth.” The secret folly belonged to Jeremy and me. I didn’t want to tell Henry about it.

“Madison Marchmont’s greatest folly was his obsession with improving Hethering and its parkland,” Henry said. “He exhausted the rent monies and supplemented those funds with his considerable winnings at cards. When his luck ran out he took the estate into debt. He borrowed foolish sums, he mortgaged his lands. When he died, his son, your grandfather, Mathew Marchmont, devoted his life to clear the title.”

“There’s no debt now,” I said.

“Yes, that’s true, but one piece of land stayed in possession of a yeoman farmer, Walter Scard, a wealthy freeholder who lent Madison Marchmont a lot of gold.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This piece of land is a wooded hill. You can see the entire county from its peak. It was the crown of Hethering’s land, more valued than any other acreage. Its title was in contention since the fifteenth century, when Cecil Marchmont fought for the House of Lancaster and Edmund Scard fought for the House of York.”

“Go on,” I said. An ugly truth was hiding in this history.

“Hethering land changed hands many times between the Marchmont and Scard families, until the seventeenth century when the Marchmonts became gentry and were granted clear title. The Scard family bided its time and increased its wealth elsewhere until Madison Marchmont’s weakness gave them opportunity.”

“But Madison mortgaged the land, he didn’t sell it.”

“Walter Scard crafted an agreement that said if Madison Marchmont died before his debts to the Scard family were paid, one tract of land, the wooded hill, was forfeit.”

“Dickon owns it now,” I said.

“Walter Scard and his descendents let the woods grow dense and neglected to taunt the Marchmont family. Without that one property, Hethering will never be complete.”

I got up to pace the room. Jeremy knew about this, he had to. He’d scorned Dickon from the beginning. Their first words were a quarrel over trespass.

Dickon knew every tree in that overgrown forest. He’d led me to the fifth folly. He never told me it was on Scard land. Jeremy never told me it was on Scard land. Neither of them considered my feelings.

I paced back and forth several times and found myself in reluctant agreement with them. “I don’t understand,” I asked my solicitor. “Why does it concern me?”

“War changes everything,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

Then I remembered why Richard Marchmont wanted me to marry Henry Putnam. After Jeremy, I was heir to Hethering.

“But Henry, Jeremy has a son,” I protested.

“Forgive me, Clarissa, the child’s delicate health is no secret.”

“So if he doesn’t survive and Jeremy is k-killed in battle…” The very thought made me faint.

“As your husband, Dickon Scard could gain control of Hethering.”

*****

Every day I dressed in formal clothing instead of my usual skirt, blouse and pinny. I waited for Dickon. Four days passed. Then three more. Henry came in to announce a visitor. His satisfied demeanor confused me until I saw Jeremy a few steps behind him.

“Hallo Clarissa,” he said and kissed my cheek. At first I thought his cool manner was for Henry’s benefit but it continued as we looked over the estate books together.

“Is everything in good order?” I asked. He’d examined each ledger and register at least twice.

“You have a talent for management, Clarissa,” he replied, beginning again, looking from column to column of my neat figures.

“Then what are you looking for?”

He smiled a bit, his eyes distant. “Dickon Scard’s fingerprints.”

I sat back in my chair as vexed as I have ever been with my cousin. “Perhaps, then, you should examine me instead.”

He flinched as if I had slapped him. “How could you, Clarry?”

“How could I? Am I never to have a husband or children of my own? It’s all right for you to marry and have a son. Why must I stay a spinster with half a life?”

“That’s not what I want for you, Clarry. Though it will kill me when you wed, I won’t deny you your chance. But Dickon Scard?”

“Perhaps if you had been so good to tell me about our family’s history with the Scards, I might have made an educated choice.”

“You know I’ve never liked him, I’ve never approved of your friendship. That should have been enough for you.”

“I’m not your chattel, Jeremy,” I flung at him, “I never have been. I didn’t leave my Father’s house to take on a new master. I’m an independent woman of independent means and my decisions will be made independent of your jealousy and prejudice.”

“Just don’t fool yourself he cares for you. Hethering’s the attraction.”

This time I did slap him and it horrified us both.

“Forgive me,” he said at once. “I am jealous. You’re breaking my heart.”

“So you see,” I said, “how I have felt for a very long time.”

There were tears in his eyes and I stopped the one that fell with my finger touching his face.

He covered my hand with his and brought it to his lips. He pulled me to him and kissed my temples, my face and then, with infinite tenderness, my mouth. We sat squashed together on the small leather couch at the back of Father’s study, where penitents once waited for blessing or admonition. Jeremy’s held me tight against him.

“Imagine if Father saw us now,” I said with a shaky laugh.

“I want him to see us,” Jeremy’s voice was husky with restrained desire, then fierce. “I want him to know he never parted us. It simply can’t be done.”

It was enough to sit, my legs crossed over his, to feel Jeremy’s warm breath on my forehead, to hear his heart beat. He stirred with great reluctance and consulted his watch. “My train departs in an hour. This is a brief leave.”

An emergency leave, I thought. “Have a word with Henry,” I said. “This was an unusual circumstance, but I won’t be spied on and interfered with. If it happens again, I’ll leave Hethering and return to St. Ives.”

Jemmy looked at my face and saw my resolve. “An independent woman,” he said. “I was a fool to think otherwise.”

We had always been true partners. Now he knew it too.

*

Dickon arrived the next day. “Shall I serve tea in the salon?” Henry asked. I nodded. I could see Dickon was pleased by Henry’s new deference, but when he saw my face, his own grew bleak.

“Jeremy was here,” he said. “All is changed.”

I smoothed the folds of my pinny. There was no need for formal clothing, my feelings were evident. “Let’s drink our tea.”

We waited for the tray in silence, then I poured his cup and added the cream and sugar he loved. I remembered our teas with Willow. I knew Dickon cared for me, but now a shadow lay between us.

“Why did you never tell me that your family, the Scard family, owned the wooded hill by Willow’s land?”

“And the folly at its peak?” He put down his teacup without tasting its contents.

“And the folly.” Mad Madison’s crowning achievement, a place rife with memories of Jeremy.

“I thought it would make a difference to us, your knowing that. My father warned me when I was a child not to boast, not to brag, there’d been enough bad feeling between our families over property. I thought —” his ruddy color deepened. “I thought to make it a bride gift to you.”

I believed him, I did. But it wasn’t enough, and he saw that, too.

“You’re disappointed in me.” He compressed his mouth into a deep groove. I remembered his happy face at our last meeting and felt shame.

“I’ve lived my life in a garden of secrets, blind and running full tilt into one obstacle after another. I don’t want any secrets in my married life.”

“Some of this has to do with Jeremy.” His voice was so humble I didn’t take offence.

“Jeremy and I have always been close. We always will be in one way or another. But he’s resigned that I will — one day — marry.”

“But not resigned to me. He doesn’t like me.”

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“I daresay it’s for the same reason. A lady, not a piece of land.” He drank a little tea. “So were not promised?” He was too proud to beg with words, but the look in his eyes said everything he would not.

“We’re not promised right now.” How could I end his hope? How could I end mine? The war would be over one day and Jeremy would return to his family. I was fated to live alone unless I forged a new path.

Dickon exhaled. “Will you write to me?”

“Yes.” This much I could promise him.

“I won’t lose you the next time,” he said. His crooked smile flickered with regret and determination.

My quiet days at Hethering were interrupted by a trip to London to attend Daisy’s wedding. Her American beau, Ronald Gordon, had volunteered for the Royal Flying Corps and they made haste to wed before he left for France.

Daisy’s mother had remarried and hosted the reception after Daisy and Ronald’s registry office wedding. Clifton and Blaise were there with their wives. I was speaking with Blaise’s wife Louise, who was quite young and awed by the elegant party guests. Ronald’s father was a wealthy banker, and upper class Boston vowels brayed from the mouths of grandly dressed men and women.

A commotion was heard at the door and Chase Gordon entered. He dropped his cashmere coat over the butler’s arm.

“You can’t get married without me, Ronnie,” he shouted above the din of excited voices. “It took a ship, a train and a taxi, but I’m here.” He gave his stepbrother a hearty handshake and put a smacking kiss on Daisy’s cheek. “Prettier than ever, sweetheart.”

She was. Daisy was in love and happy and her natural prettiness bloomed into beauty. I felt spinsterish and as faded as an unwatered pot plant in her wake. But love and happiness had made Daisy kind.

“Clarissa is here,” I heard her say to Chase. “Let’s find her.”

I didn’t run and hide, but leaned back against the wall and waited for their approach. Chase was the picture of a handsome, wealthy American: clean shaven, impeccable tailoring, and as he drew near I sniffed a spicy cologne redolent of leather and wealth.

“Clarissa Marchmont,” he said. “How long has it been?”

Jeremy’s wedding day, I thought, but refused to bring my cousin’s presence into this happy reunion.

“I’ve dreamed about you,” he said.

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” I replied, but felt a slow foolish smile spread across my face.

“I’ve certainly written songs about you, inspired by you, I should say.”

“That might be true.”

“Just you wait and see, or hear, my dear.”

He made his way to the piano and played softly until the crowd grew quiet. Then, in a light, but telling voice he began

Every night I dream a dream,
She lingers when I wake.
People ask me why I seem
To cherish my heartache.
I hope the blessed day will come
When she and I are wed.
Then she will learn as she’s taught me
The words the poets said.

The verse had a lilting tune. It drew us all to the piano, but when he began the melody, I caught my breath at its beauty. He transcended the silly sentiment of our popular music.

I love you dearest, I always will
There’s not a moment that you don’t fill
With happy dreams and loveliness
My heart will break with tenderness.

We wouldn’t let Chase stop until he’d played the melody at least two more times. Daisy left Ronald’s side to link her arm in mine.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” she asked. “I can’t think where he gets such talent. He wrote that song for us you know, for Ronald and me, for our wedding day.”

I smiled and nodded. The sweet perfume of her pink rose corsage brought me back to the occasion. “I hope you and Ronald will be very happy.”

“We already are. We already have been,” she whispered, the hectic color in her cheeks underlined her meaning.

“I hope you’ll visit me at Hethering,” I said.

“We have only three days for a honeymoon.” Her smile faltered. “It’s France for sure after that.”

“Then you come,” I told her.

“Come where?” Chase had left the piano and overheard a bit of our conversation.

“Clarry wants me to visit her at Hethering.”

“You’re at Hethering?”

“I’m Jeremy’s agent until the war ends,” I told him. “Caroline wants to stay in the city.”

Chase’s eyes looked questions, but he held them back save one. “Do you still have that magnificent piano?”

“Yes, but my poor playing isn’t equal to it.”

“I’d like to be the judge of that.”

“You and I can visit together when Ronald goes to — to France,” Daisy looked happy with her plan.

“Of course,” I said. “Please do.”

Daisy winked at me. I hoped Chase didn’t see her, but he must have because he winked at me too.

*

I returned to Hethering and the quiet progress of weeks toward Christmas. The war, begun with furious clashes, settled into retreat and trenches, endurance and skirmishes over bits of territory as small as nine hundred meters. The names of Mons and Marne and Ypres were written in blood on our souls.