White Water (11 page)

‘You are very generous,’ said Hugo, ‘but — ’

‘No buts! I insist the matter is of no importance. Their absence in no way spoiled our meal, and they have obviously enjoyed themselves. Youth is fleeting. We must make allowances. That syllabub looks very good. I wonder, could I … ?’

‘Most certainly.’ Maria nodded to Ellie who served him a large helping and the meal was resumed and the conversation returned to other topics.

*

After dinner Allan announced abruptly that he would take a short ride out. Maria’s heart sank.

‘Then take Eloise with you,’ she suggested. ‘You can show her the moor in its summer colours.’

But Eloise shook her head. ‘I must decline,’ she said. ‘Riding is not one of my accomplishments. I ride the streets of Rochester but only at a walking pace and then only when the street rubbish makes it necessary.’

Allan stood silent. Hugo said, ‘Allan will have to teach you. Without a horse you would not get very far here. Not even to the nearest town.’

Eloise nodded. ‘I shall learn most willingly but today I am weary and too full of good food to move from this stool. Do go alone, Allan.’

‘I will.’

In the stable yard Maria caught up with him and plucked at his sleeve.

He kept his face averted.

‘Allan! I know what grieves you,’ she said, ‘but pay no heed to it. ’Twas no more than a child’s careless prattle. It means nothing, believe me.’

‘They were Nat Gully’s words, not Lorna’s. Don’t pretend with me, Maria, I am past such make believe.’

He threw the saddle over the horse’s back and bent to adjust the strap.

‘But Allan, you take everything to heart so. You must learn to put the matter out of your mind. ’Twas so long ago.’

‘She was my grandmother! You can’t imagine how that feels.’

‘But she’s long dead, Allan. ’Tis all forgotten.’

‘Not by her grandson.’ He straightened up and faced her and she saw anger in his eyes as he went on:

‘If Isobel Gillis had lived a normal lifespan she would be alive now and then how would it be? Would I visit her and listen to her ramblings about my grandfather and their illicit love affair?’

‘Allan! Don’t speak that way — ’

‘Would she visit us? Would the Kendals be on speaking terms with the Gillises? All bad or mad, he said, and he’s likely right. They are despised in these parts and we all give thanks that Isobel died young. That may be well enough for the rest of you, but ’tis I have her blood in me! Nothing can change that. Which attributes have I inherited, Maria? Will I go mad or to the bad? It’s not a choice for the squeamish.’

He jerked himself free from her restraining hand and swung himself up into the saddle. ‘I need space,’ he said, ‘and time to think.’

‘Allan, for pity’s sake. Think clearly, Allan. Your father was her son. He was neither bad nor mad.’

‘Mayhap he didn’t live long enough to become either,’ said Allan. ‘He managed to die nobly in battle. Let go of me, Maria. I must ride out, I tell you.’

Maria clung to him more fiercely. ‘But you did like her, Allan. I saw it in your face. Tell me you did like her. She is as beautiful as I predicted, is she not? And she was taken with you, Allan. I saw that also.’

‘I have to think,’ he said. ‘She should not be kept in ignorance. Yet I doubt she will have me when she knows.’

‘Then do not tell her, Allan. In God’s name promise you will keep silent on the matter. Allan, answer me!’

But he leaned down, his face a mask, and wrenched at her fingers until he was free, then spurred his horse to a canter and rode off towards the darkening moor.

He rode with Lorna’s words ringing in his ears until Heron disappeared from view. Then he dismounted and flung himself down on to the springy turf, leaving his horse to graze. Clasping his knees, he stared at the sunset, but his eyes were blind to the trailing glory of pink and grey which streaked the yellow sky. He was deaf to the lark which rose nearby and oblivious to the scent of sun-baked heather.

For his eyes saw only Eloise and only her laughter rang in his ears. His heart beat for her and his body ached traitorously for hers. All his senses were alive in a way they never had been before. He felt a new awareness as though only now was he fully alive. Eloise Ballantyne! His mind raced and he fancied he heard his blood coursing through his veins. Dazedly he
shook
his head, astonished at the sweet confusion into which she had thrown him. Eloise! Dear God, he whispered. This cannot be! The girl he had been so reluctant to meet had swept away his defences with the first challenging look from those cool blue-green eyes. He was amazed, ashamed, delighted. Maria had warned him and he had paid no heed. ‘You will care for her,’ she had told him. Care for her? He almost laughed at the memory, shaking his head in disbelief at the wonderful, inexplicable joy that drowned his senses.

But had anyone else been aware of the strength of his feelings? He had tried so hard to hide them; tried so hard to keep the image of Harriet clear and strong in his mind. But he had finally lost her. Harriet had faded little by little, driven away by the power of Eloise’s presence. And he had surrendered her with scarcely a fight! Now he felt remorse pricking him and his joy was involuntarily dimmed. His sweet Harriet! He had betrayed her. Pray God she need not know of it, he thought, yet even that awful thought could not spoil his newfound happiness. The plain truth was that Eloise Ballantyne had bewitched him. He confessed it unreservedly, trying to come to terms with all that the confession entailed. He would wed the girl — if she would have him.

But would she accept him when she knew of the Gillis blood? A coldness seized him at the mere possibility Eloise Ballantyne might refuse him and who could blame her? Such a beautiful woman surely deserved a better match. If he told her the truth she could make up her own mind. But if she chose not to wed him could he accept it? And if she chose to go ahead with the betrothal — she would bear him sons and daughters that were part Gillis!

He sighed deeply and flung himself face down on the grass, his head cradled in his arms. For so many years — ever since he had known about Isobel Gillis — he had struggled to believe what Hugo and Maria told him — that there was nothing for him to fear and no reason to feel shame. He had married Harriet and, against his better judgement, had told her nothing. They had lived together lovingly for a few months and then God had seen fit to take her from him. But was it retribution? Was it God’s will that there should be no more Kendals marred with Gillis blood? Now a fresh thought struck him, sending a chill through him. Was he behaving abnormally by coming here to wrestle with his problem? ‘Oh God,’ he whispered, ‘is this the beginning? Am I obsessed with my past or is it normal to have such fears? If it were Martin in my place, would he be prey to the same anxieties? Sweet heaven, am I going mad? Is this madness? Or if I let my thoughts run wild will I then go mad?’ Desperately he tried to review his life so far to discover any strangeness in him that might forewarn him, but he could think of nothing untoward. Maria had spoken truly when she mentioned his father. Simon had no badness in him, and no madness. It had been churlish to answer her the way he did. Maria meant well but she did not understand him. He was the odd chick in the brood — the only child of Simon and Hannah. They were both dead and he had no one of his own to turn to. Beatrice and Martin shared Hannah and Hugo. The little ones shared Hugo and Maria. But he alone inherited Heron!

Slowly he sat up, clinging to that thought. Simon had made him heir to Heron. And what a heritage! He knew Martin envied him. Piers would one day envy him also. He, Allan Kendal, was heir to Heron. The Gillis blood could not alter that. Had Fate compensated him? The idea cheered him, a warm glow among the icy fears. He strove to nourish the idea and draw comfort from it. He was Simon’s only child. Simon himself had been a bastard — the bastard son of Luke Kendal and poor mad Isobel Gillis. Yet Fate had restored him to his rightful place in Heron and had given him a son to continue the line. So perhaps he and Eloise were meant to wed to continue the
rightful
Kendal line. Hugo, Simon’s cousin, had been an outsider, who had come to Heron through his marriage to Hannah.

If Allan left no heirs, the house and mine would pass to Martin and then to Piers.

Gradually his hands unclenched and the muscles in his face grew less taut. He breathed more easily and the darkness that had enveloped him lifted. He let his thoughts dwell on the luckless Isobel. Poor woman. She, too, had been a victim of Fate. Born a Gillis, what chance did she have, he wondered? And how she must have longed to be free of her family as Luke Kendal’s bride. And Luke had betrayed her. Wasn’t that enough to send a woman out of her mind? They said she was very beautiful. Poor mad, beautiful Isobel. He scrambled to his feet. He would no longer fear her poor little ghost. He would set aside all morbid fancies and at some time would speak openly to Eloise of his unfortunate grandmother. He would take his inheritance
and
his bride and they would fill Heron with Kendals! A smile touched his lips, he sighed deeply and for the first time the haunted look began to fade from his eyes.

*

The next day Maria set off for Romney House where Ruth lay ill. She had delayed the trip as long as she dared, determined to see Eloise settled in to her new home. Torn between her duty to Ruth and to her own family she had chosen the latter, rightly or wrongly, but she was now quite content to leave them and ride out. This time, to Matt’s dismay, she took Martin with her as escort. Her intention was to give Allan and Eloise some time alone to get to know each other. The two youngest children would be occupied for most of each day with their lessons and would amuse themselves under Ellie’s watchful eye for the rest of the time. Martin, however, was on holiday for several weeks. Maria had seen the interest in Eloise’s eyes when she first saw Martin and wanted to ensure that Eloise was not able to make unfair comparisons.

Allan had returned from his ride in a calmer frame of mind. He had kissed her lightly, whispered, ‘I will say nothing for the moment. Let her stay’, and the subject of the Gillis blood had not been referred to again. James would remain at Heron until the end of the week to satisfy himself of his daughter’s happiness and he would then return to Rochester. The immediate crisis seemed to be over, and presumably the betrothal would go ahead. Reasonably content, Maria turned her thoughts resolutely to whatever lay ahead for her at Romney House.

CHAPTER SIX

Felicity came out of the old lady’s bedchamber with a tray in her hand and almost collided with Martin.

‘Oops!’ he mocked and put out a hand to steady the tray.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Felicity.

‘Sorry? ’Tis I should apologize. ’Twas I bumped into you.’

‘Oh no, sir.’

‘Felicity! How many times must I tell you not to call me “sir”. You make me feel old.’

‘Forgive me. I — ’ she broke off, embarrassed as usual by Martin’s manner. She was unused to teasing and although she knew Martin meant it in a friendly way she did not know how to deal with it. She was two years older than him and yet felt much younger. In her eyes Martin Kendal was a worldly young man and she had never met his like before.

‘How is she?’ he asked gently, seeing her confusion.

‘She is failing rapidly. Poor soul — ’ Her lips trembled.

Hastily forestalling the tears he asked, ‘Is Maria with her?’

Felicity nodded and swallowed hard.

‘Then why not take back the tray and walk with me in the garden? I’m very bored and very lonely.’

She looked at him, startled. ‘Walk with you? Oh no, I think not, sir — I mean Martin.’

‘Well done! You said it!’ He grinned at her. ‘We are making progress. Now the next lesson is to teach you to accept when invited to walk in the garden. Why won’t you come? I won’t eat you.’

Felicity’s spirit quailed at the very idea. She would have nothing to say and he would find her a dull companion. ‘I’m too busy,’ she said. ‘The cook will want me — ’

‘And
I
want you. I want your company. Here, give me the tray and I’ll return it to the cook and tell her you are coming out with me for a while.’

‘Oh no!’ She clung to the tray like a drowning man to a straw, but he eased it from her.

‘Wait here,’ he commanded. ‘I shall be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, as Minnie used to say!’

He was gone before she could protest further, leaving her standing on the landing and then he was back again, taking the stairs two at a time. ‘’Tis all arranged,’ he said. ‘It won’t be so bad, I promise you. I’ll tell you the story of my life and you’ll tell me yours.’ As he spoke he took her hand and led her down the stairs and out into the garden.

When they reached the pond he turned and surveyed the house. ‘’Tis the first time I’ve seen Romney House,’ he told her. ‘One day I shall be master here. Mama has promised it to me because she has no use for it and Allan will inherit Heron.’

‘And your other brother?’

‘Piers? Oh, he will have nothing because he’s the youngest. I dare say he will go to London. I shall come home and breed sheep or cows — or pigs or chickens!’ She laughed as he intended her to do. ‘Will you still be here?’

‘I don’t know. If the old lady dies — ’

‘She will die, Felicity. She is over eighty and she has no joy in life. Don’t pray for her to live. Do you envy her that sad existence?’

‘No, no, but if she dies … ’ She stopped again, unable to put her fears into words.

‘What will become of you?’ he prompted.

She nodded, turning her head away.

‘Maria will not throw you out into the world. I am sure of that.’

‘Don’t speak of it, I beg you.’ She turned to face him and her long lashes were spiked with tears. ‘Let’s talk of something else.’

‘Felicity, don’t look so forsaken. Believe me, you will be well treated. Mayhap they will find a husband for you.’

‘Oh!’ She blushed furiously. ‘I think not. I’m not attractive and I have no dowry, nothing.’

He put an arm round her shoulder and gave her a comforting squeeze. ‘I find you attractive,’ he told her gallantly. ‘So stop fretting and sit with me. We’ll throw twigs at the ducks and you shall tell me your life story.’

‘You tell me yours.’

Martin laughed. ‘You know it already,’ he said. ‘Mama has told me that old Ruth talks of nothing else to you. Poor girl, you must know as much as I do, if not more, about Heron and the Kendals. Deny it if you can.’

‘I can’t deny it!’ At last she laughed with him.

‘Felicity! You look so bonny when you laugh and you have such grey eyes. Ah! I’ve embarrassed you again. Then I’ll say no more. Tell me your life story — from the very beginning. I want to know all about you. Come, sit down.’ They settled themselves on the grass and he plucked a long grass and began to chew it, staring out over the pond. An old boat floated on it and dabchicks called to each other among the reeds that edged the water.

Felicity hesitated and then began. She spoke haltingly. She had no memories of her mother. She had died giving birth to her. Her name was Alice. Felicity paused.

Martin took the grass out of his mouth and ran it along her bare arm. ‘Is that all?’

She jerked her arm away as though the grass had scorched her skin. Shocked, she looked at Martin to see if he knew what he was doing.

‘I’m still listening,’ he told her.

He did not know. She breathed out slowly. He was only a boy still, in spite of his size.

‘There’s so little to tell,’ she protested.

He reached out again with the grass but she snatched it away. Ecstasy, however fragile, was a new experience. It had made her forget where and who she was and she was startled by the intensity of her reaction. Martin sprawled on the grass beside her, Cupping his chin in his hands, watched her with amusement.

‘I’m still waiting.’

Slowly, she added a few details, careful not to look into his dark eyes. He nodded and waited and with an effort she continued. Her father’s name was William and he was a charcoal-burner from Bedgebury. He was a large man, honest, and sparing with his words. His summers were spent in a rough hand-made shelter, tending his fires. Having no wife with whom to leave his daughter he was forced to take her along.

‘All summer long? But what did you do all day?’

She shrugged. ‘Played among the trees, helped my father. He was always busy for while one stack burned he’d prepare the next.’ She smiled shyly. ‘I am quite well versed in the act of burning. I could lay a hearth, set the chimney round the stake, and layer the logs round it. Have you never seen a charcoal stack?’

He shook his head, amused by her earnest expression.

‘Then you should. There is an art in it, a skill — and my father was one of the best. A well stacked fire must burn very slowly and I was set to watch that the flames never broke through the crust.’

‘The crust?’

‘The earth crust which seals in the heat. My father was a craftsman in his way.’

He detected a note of defiance in her voice which puzzled him.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said gently.

‘My mother came from a good family but she ran away with my father and was never forgiven. Even when she lay dying and my father sent word … they would not come to see her.’ Her face darkened. ‘My father was very bitter from that time on. He never saw them again.’

‘And they never came to see you?
’

‘Never. I was never acknowledged. It mattered little to me for you don’t miss what you’ve never had. I grew up in with my father. In winter we shared a small cottage on the edge of the forest. In summer we lived in the heart of it.’

‘A lonely life for a young girl.’

‘Mayhap, but I had known no other way of life. I was content.’

Suddenly she stopped, afraid that she was boring him. While he waited for her to continue he picked a small posy of daisies from the grass and presented them to her.

‘Oh, my thanks.’ It was the first time anyone had given her such a gift and she was touched by the gesture.

‘I shall take them back,’ he warned, ‘if you don’t go on with your story. How did you come to Romney House? ’Tis a far cry from a charcoal burner’s hut.’

‘Aye.’ She held the daisies to her nose and sniffed delicately, twirling the flowers, admiring them from every angle. ‘How did I come to Romney House? ’Twas this way. My father died. I was eight or nine, I’m not certain. He had an accident. He was chopping wood and the axe slipped and injured his foot. It wouldn’t heal and there was no money for doctors’ fees. I nursed him as best I could but — ’ She sighed deeply, ‘He took a fever and his mind wandered. I knew then that he was dying. I lay beside him to warm him but when I woke in the morning he was dead. They buried him in a pauper’s grave.’

Martin was silent, no longer teasing. ‘My poor little Felicity.’

She stared past him, hardly hearing what he said. ‘I walked eleven miles to the big house where my grandparents lived and asked them what I should do. The gentleman was kindly and would have given me a place there but his wife would not hear of it. Their name was Lattimer.’ She saw herself again in the large room, the focus of all eyes. George Lattimer, small and round with his fussy manner. His wife Miriam, tall and austere, dressed in sombre brown and three other grandchildren, wide-eyed and curious, standing together by the window, occasionally whispering together. She heard Miriam’s voice, ‘Dead, you say?’ and saw herself nod, numb with grief and weariness. And Miriam’s answer: ‘I knew no good would come of it!’ Then they had argued about her future as though she were invisible, without speaking to her. They did not ask her to sit down, and she had waited, weak with hunger, until she fainted.

Martin waited. He said nothing but regarded her intently. In her nervousness she had twisted the daisy stems to a pulp and he took them from her and tossed them away. As she began to protest he put a finger to her lips.

‘I’ll pick you another posy. Finish your story.’

For a moment she watched his slim fingers darting among the grass blades, plucking the small white flowers. In search of more he rolled over so that he faced away from her and she considered the long, lithe body in the well fitting clothes. His dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck and his broad shoulders and back tapered to a slim waist. He would soon be a man, she thought, and recalled the touch of the grass against her skin and the warmth of his arm around her shoulder. He had taken her hand, too, when he led her down the stairs. She did not want to forget.

He rolled back and gave her the second posy. ‘And don’t spoil them!’

‘I won’t.’ She would press them, she decided, between the pages of a book.

‘And then … ? The Lattimers?’ he prompted.

‘Oh — then another man came in. James Lattimer, one of my uncles. He said he had friends who might find a use for me in their kitchen. I was taken there later that same day and they agreed to give me a trial. Their name was Cummins.’

‘Aha! Now we’re getting warmer!’

She smiled faintly. ‘Aye, Victor Cummins was a second cousin of Harold. When Harold died they were unable to come to the funeral but they visited Ruth a few weeks later and recommended me, if ever Ruth should need a companion. They were well-meaning, you see, and saw a chance for my advancement. Later when the old lady’s sight began to fail, she sent word to Maria to ask for me — and here I am.’

‘And you are happy here?’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘Hmm.’

She wondered, suddenly anxious, if anything in her story had offended him.

He said, ‘And who taught you to read and write?’

‘Victor Cummins had a governess for the children. I attended their lessons twice a week.’

He stood up and pulled her to her feet. ‘I challenge you to a race round the pond.’

‘A race?’ She was astonished and excited by the unexpected proposal.

‘I shall give you a start of three.’ He pointed. ‘That way round — No, I shall accept no excuses. You have legs. Use them. Ready — Go!’

He gave her a push and she began to run, holding up her skirts, her head thrown back, her long hair tossing behind her. At the count of three he ran after her but she was fleeter than he expected and not such an easy conquest. But he reached the starting point a few yards ahead of her and turned to wait for her. As she ran towards him, flushed and dishevelled, he opened his arms wide to stop her and then held her at arm’s length.

‘Now,’ he said lightly. ‘We are friends — and you will never call me “sir” again!’

*

‘I shall be along to see you next week,’ said the physician, pausing in the doorway. ‘I shall want to hear that your appetite is better. You eat all that they give you, a little white fish — ’

‘I don’t care for white fish,’ Ruth quavered and Maria, already outside the door, smiled at him. He pursed his lips humorously. He had dealt with plenty of cantankerous patients but none so old as Ruth Cummins. He was proud of her long survival and boasted of it to his friends and colleagues, taking an understandable pride in his care of her throughout the latter half of her life. He saw a great deal of death, many babies within a week of their births, more children before they reached the years of adolescence. Then he would lose boys to the rapacious consumption — eager young men who began to waste and grow pale and who would cough their way out of this life. And he, and other physicians, would stand helplessly by, unable to save them. Then the women would go in the young prime of their lives, taken by the dread childbed fever, living only a few days — a week or two at most — before losing sight of the beloved child and husband. And any that survived all this would live precariously, a prey to all manned of disease. Frequently, having steered them safely through these he would be finally robbed by an accident or design — a grandfather of forty-eight years run down by a wagon and horses, or a rich gentleman poisoned by his son for his money.