Читать книгу I’ll Bring You Buttercups - Elizabeth Elgin - Страница 7

Clementina Sutton’s heels tapped angrily across the floor. She had had enough, more than enough. This time Elliot had gone too far! She pulled on the bell handle, then pulled again. She was hurt and humiliated and near to tears. Debasing, it had been, and to hear it in such a way had been nothing less than mortifying.

How often, in the hope of an invitation, had she left her card at the home of Mrs Mounteagle; how many times had she been ignored – snubbed – and by a lady related by blood or marriage to half the gentry in the Riding. Yet this morning Mrs Mounteagle had finally acknowledged the existence of the mistress of Pendenys Place and had called, actually called, to a joyful reception.

Yet why had she come? Only to put her down; to humiliate Clementina Sutton. Not only to thrust in the knife of humiliation, but to turn it excruciatingly; to let it be known that Elliot was the subject of gossip of the worst possible kind and that his mother need only visit Creesby to learn the cause of it.

Then Mrs Mounteagle had risen to her feet and left at once. The coveted visit was over in less than four minutes and the lady had indicated, with the absence of even the slightest departing nod from her carriage window, that Clementina Sutton could never again expect to receive another call.

But this was the last time, the very last time she would brush Elliot’s affairs under the carpet. She would not be cheapened; not in Holdenby nor Creesby, nor anywhere! She began to pace the floor, eyes on the door, ears straining for the irritatingly unhurried step in the slateflagged corridor outside.

Below stairs, in the long, draughty passage where the bellboy spent his days sitting on a stool, the third bell in a row of twenty began its ringing and he was on his feet in an instant, hurrying to the kitchen.

‘Three,’ he called. ‘Number three!’ and the under-housemaid sighed, then ran to fetch the butler who had just taken his newspaper to his sitting-room and would bite her head off when she told him the breakfast-room bell was ringing.

It wasn’t as if, Clementina reasoned to her reflection in the wall mirror, there was any need for this kind of thing. Not hereabouts, anyway. Granted, young gentlemen always took their pleasures, and her own son was no exception. But not on their own doorstones; not where they were known. Elliot was a fool! Women in London were eager and willing, yet her son chose to pleasure himself not five miles away with the daughter of a butcher!

Her hand hovered over the bell handle, then fell to her side. He was coming, his tread measured, and he would open the door sedately, turn slowly to close it behind him with annoying quietness, then look down his nose and say, as he was saying now, ‘Mrs Sutton?’

‘What kept you?’ she hissed.

‘Madam?’ Didn’t she know a butler walked slowly; must never, ever, lose the dignity that years of butling for the quality – the quality, mark you – had bred into him, the dignity that rich Americans would pay good wages for, were he to put himself on offer.

‘Fetch me Mr Elliot!’

‘I will try to find –’

‘Now. This instant!’

He closed the door behind him, walking disdainfully, slowly, across the great hall – eighteen measured steps, it always took – to the door of the smoking-room, there to shatter the self-satisfaction of the young buck who would be filling it with the stink of Turkish tobacco.

She’d heard, then, about the butcher’s daughter? Did she, he wondered with distinct pleasure, know that the talk had reached Holdenby, too? My, but he’d like to be a fly on the breakfast-room ceiling, though they’d hear, like as not. Mrs Sutton in a fury could be heard the length of the house. Pausing briefly to remove all traces of smugness from his face, he drew a deep breath then opened the double doors with the aplomb of long practice.

‘Mrs Sutton asks that you join her in the breakfast-room,’ he murmured.

‘Oh, God.’ Elliot Sutton removed a leg from the chair arm. ‘What does she want now?’

‘The mistress did not tell me.’ But if I were you, laddie, I’d shift myself. He opened the doors wider, inclining his head as the young man slouched through them. And I wouldn’t be in your shoes for all the port in the cellar. Oh my word no – not if they threw in the Madeira, too!

‘Well?’ demanded Clementina of her son.

‘Well what?’

‘You know damn well, and don’t light a cigarette in here,’ she warned as his hand strayed to his inside breastpocket. ‘Creesby, that’s what. And stand up. I didn’t give you permission to sit!’

‘Oh – Maudie.’ He remained seated.

‘Maudie! I got told it this morning, and it wouldn’t surprise me if half the Riding doesn’t know, an’ all!’

‘Mother!’ He sucked air through his teeth, wincing at her directness. ‘Keep your voice down. Do you want the servants to hear?’

‘Hear? I’ll wager they know already. Aye, and the best part of Holdenby, as well.’ Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparked outrage. ‘Why can’t you take yourself off to London or to Leeds, even? Why must you shame me? This is going to cost me – but you know that, don’t you? It cost me plenty for your last brat!’

‘Mother!’ He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Must you talk like a fishwife?’ But then, every time Mama got into a rage she reverted to type. ‘Or a washerwoman …’

‘Damn you, boy!’ It was the ultimate insult. She lifted her hand and slammed it into his face. ‘And where ‘ud you be today, eh, if it hadn’t been for a washerwoman? Well, you can get out of this one yourself, because I’ll take no more of your arrogance! Pay her off out of your own pocket; I’m done with you. Done, I say!’

Tears spilled down her cheeks and not all Elliot’s sorries nor back-patting could stop the sobbing that could be heard all the way down the corridor and half-way across the great hall.

In the library, which was so vast that it needed two fireplaces to heat it, Edward Sutton laid down his pen as sounds of the confrontation in the room next door reached him.

Elliot, he sighed. Elliot upsetting his mother again so that the whole house would suffer for a week, at least. Why couldn’t Nathan have been their firstborn; that second son who would have made Pendenys a happier place, a home. Nathan was serious like himself, and in his final year at Cambridge; though what would be left for him afterwards but the Church, heaven only knew. But Nathan was a Sutton; Elliot was his mother’s son, and it would be to Elliot one day that Pendenys would pass, and Clementina’s influence would still be on him from far beyond the grave.

He looked around the ornate room, longing for the library at Rowangarth and the homeliness that once had wrapped him round. Rowangarth was where he’d been born, was still home to him. Pendenys was where he lived out his days.

A slamming door and hurrying footfalls caused him to close his eyes briefly. Elliot was in a rage, and soon Clementina would be here, pouring out her anger, pacing the floor, complaining about ‘your son’. Elliot was always his son, Edward smiled thinly, when he was in trouble, and his mother’s at all other times.

Well, this morning he would not take the backlash of her temper, be the whipping-boy for Elliot. He would walk to Rowangarth and be invited, hopefully, to lunch with his sister-in-law. Helen would be missing Julia and be glad of his company.

Julia. In London at his sister’s house and having the time of her young life, he shouldn’t wonder. Julia could have made a fine wife for Elliot, cousin or not, but she did nothing to hide her dislike of his elder son, and who could blame her? Julia, if she married into Pendenys, would be more inclined to Nathan, were she to choose, though that could never be. His second son had nothing to offer but kindness and goodness, and neither of those commendable graces paid bills.

Carefully he opened the long, low window. Like a schoolboy playing truant, he stepped out. Helen and Rowangarth would soothe him. Helen and Rowangarth always did.

Alice jabbed the last pin into the bun at the nape of her neck, then set her starched white cap primly upon it. Her hair, she supposed, was quite nice, though it went its own way at the sides and front and curled where it fancied and never, despite her efforts, where she wanted it to. But this was eight o’clock on a bright spring morning, and the whole of London was beckoning. Smiling, she picked up the tray.

‘Mornin’, miss,’ she called, drawing back the curtains. ‘Here’s a nice cup of – oh, my goodness!’

‘Hawthorn?’ Julia’s fingers moved reluctantly to her forehead. ‘Is it …?’

‘It is.’ There would be no covering that up with vanishing cream and face powder. ‘Your eye, an’ all. What on earth do we tell her ladyship?’ she whispered, reaching for the hand mirror.

‘That I tripped and fell, of course.’ Critically, Julia surveyed the bruising.

‘With a big fat policeman on top of you?’

‘Of course not. Oh, we’ll thank of something, and anyway, it might almost be gone by the time we get home.’

‘Does your head still ache?’ Solicitously, Alice plumped the pillows, then poured tea.

‘Only a little. I think, though, that a walk might help clear it. Where did you put the card, Hawthorn?’

‘The doctor’s card?’ Alice took it from her apron pocket. ‘You weren’t thinking of – well, wouldn’t it be better to call Miss Sutton’s doctor, if you need one?’

‘I don’t need a doctor – I want one.’

‘Doctor MacMalcolm?’ Alice swallowed hard.

‘Yes. I – well, I want to thank him. He was very kind, last evening,’ she murmured, oddly defiant.

Kind? Aye, and tall and handsome, Alice brooded. There had been a glazed look in her eyes last night that wasn’t altogether to do with the knock on her head. A look, she mourned, that could spell trouble for Alice Hawthorn.

‘Miss Julia – do you think it wise for us to –’

‘No. Not at all wise, but I want to see him again. And not us – me! Smithfield way, I think he lives.’ She reached for her wrap, put on her slippers, then ran downstairs. ‘I’ll have to check. There’s a street map in the desk.’ Aunt Sutton had said it might come in useful. ‘Yes, I was right. Look, Hawthorn. Little Britain. Quite near St Paul’s, and very near the hospital he works in. I can take a motor bus to Newgate Street, walk up King Edward Street, and I’ll be there.’

‘Miss! We’re not going to his lodgings?’

‘I am going to his lodgings.’

‘But Newgate Street – that awful prison …’

‘Not any more. It’s long gone. I’ll be perfectly all right. This is London and young women go about alone all the time. It isn’t right I should be escorted everywhere – well, not here.’

‘But you wouldn’t go inside his lodgings?’ She was becoming uneasy. You never knew, with Miss Julia. ‘Not without me, you wouldn’t?’

‘Of course I wouldn’t. I shall leave my card with his housekeeper – and anyway, he’s sure to be at the hospital. My card, that’s all – then if he wants to visit he can do so.’ And please, please, let him want to …

‘You promise, Miss Julia?’

‘Promise. Word of a Sutton.’

‘Mm …’ With that, Alice had to be content. Even though she was expected to take good care of her young mistress, she wasn’t her keeper, wasn’t her equal. She was the sewing-maid and sewing-maids didn’t tell their betters what to do. And she knew how Julia Sutton felt. Hadn’t it happened to herself? It had only taken, Does this creature belong to you? It was the same the world over, she was forced to admit, be it servants or ladies of quality.

‘We-e-ll – maybe just this once, miss …’

The air was cool in Brattocks Wood, and smelled headily of green things growing. Edward Sutton breathed deeply. Almost the instant he had set foot on Rowangarth land he had felt more calm.

‘Am I welcome?’ he smiled as he tapped on the morning-room window. Helen Sutton answered with a smile, and was waiting at the front door to greet him as he walked up the steps.

‘My dear.’ She held out her hands and offered her cheek for his kiss. ‘Come in, do. It’s far too late for coffee. Shall we have a sherry, and shall you stay to lunch?’

He lingered his lips on her cheek because, as her brother-in-law, it was his privilege, and because an imp of defiance inside him whispered that Clemmy wouldn’t have liked it.

‘Now, my dear,’ she said when they were settled, ‘tell me about it.’

‘It shows? How well you know me.’

‘And so I should. You are John’s brother, and you were here, shy and not a little perplexed, when first I came to Rowangarth. And debating, if I’m not mistaken, the pros and cons of proposing to Clementina Elliot.’

‘So long ago. And she accepted me the year Robert was born. I was a father myself not a year after. And now your Robert is a grown man, and –’

‘And miles away in India. I had a letter from him this morning, telling me he is well and happy, that the tea garden thrives, and not one word of what I most want to hear – that he’ll be bringing his bride home to Rowangarth. And how is Elliot?’ They were to talk of family, it seemed.

‘Elliot is – Elliot,’ he shrugged. ‘He’ll never change. But you’ll know. It’s why I’m here, really, to get out of Clemmy’s way.’ Clemmy always vented her anger on him, especially when it concerned their eldest son. Clemmy disliked the Suttons and all they were, yet fretted that it was Nathan and not Elliot who favoured them most.

‘Tell me about young Nathan.’ She knew what Edward would say, given the chance, for hadn’t Giles told her about the butcher’s daughter? ‘He’ll be coming down, soon. What will he do then, do you think?’

‘Holy orders, I imagine. Strange isn’t it, that I’ve sired a saint and a sinner – and a gigolo.’

‘Oh, poor Albert! Don’t call him that!’

‘Then what else should I say, will you tell me, when our youngest goes off with a woman fifteen years older – though he did have the sense to pick a wealthy one and the decency to marry her. But he’s a kept man, Helen, though I suppose I’m the last one to talk about being kept.’

‘Don’t, my dear.’ Her eyes showed pity. ‘He did what he thought best, I shouldn’t wonder. And you do hear from him from time to time. Only last week, Clemmy said there had been a letter from Capetown.’

‘Yes, and Auckland before that. And three months ago, one from St Petersburg. The lady must have a liking for travel. But it’s Elliot who caused the upset this morning. Somehow Clemmy found out – there was a caller, so maybe that was how. About the girl in Creesby – but I don’t have to tell you, do I?’

‘No.’ Helen studied her glass. ‘I’d – heard. Is the girl – I mean, did he get –’

‘Get her pregnant? I don’t believe so, but nothing Elliot does now would surprise me. And it isn’t the first time there’s been a scandal. There won’t be a father in the county lets his daughter within a mile of him if he carries on like this. He’ll end up with a butcher’s daughter, just see if he doesn’t. You’ve heard the saying, Helen: from clogs to clogs in three generations – back to Mary Anne Pendennis, it’ll be.’ Morosely he held out his empty glass. ‘Do you mind, m’dear?’

‘Don’t blame yourself, Edward.’ She placed the decanter on the table at his elbow. ‘Elliot has been spoiled and we can’t expect our children to be as perfect as we are,’ she smiled impishly. ‘But you aren’t alone. I have doubts and worries, too – Robert, you know …’

‘Trouble with the tea? Nothing wrong, I hope. Last time I asked you seemed to think there’d be a good picking.’

‘I was talking about his liking for bachelorhood. I want him home, Edward, not growing tea. And I want him married, and children – sons – about the place.’

‘And?’

‘And he stays unmarried and won’t tell me why. But I think he’s taken up with a married woman or someone who isn’t suitable, so I don’t ask. But why else would he go back to Assam after John died, when his place is here, now, at Rowangarth? And with almost indecent haste, too. Why doesn’t he tell me, Edward? Why the secrecy?’

‘As you just said – why can’t our youngsters be like us.’ He reached for her hand and held it gently, briefly. ‘But tell me about Julia? She’ll be having a fine time in London with Anne Lavinia away in France.’

‘She does have Hawthorn with her,’ Helen hastened to say. ‘I’ve missed her, but she’ll be home soon, full of the things they’ve seen. I wonder what they’re doing now?’

‘Oh, my Lor’,’ Alice muttered to the brass taps she was polishing furiously. ‘I didn’t ought to have let her go.’ ‘No, Miss Julia,’ she should have said, arms folded defiantly, ‘you don’t take one step in the direction of that Newgate Street motor bus without me beside you. And don’t you dare go to his lodgings, even if you don’t intend setting a foot over the doorstone, without your maid with you!’

But she hadn’t said it. She had stood there, lips set in disapproval as Julia Sutton, hat at an angle to hide the worst of the bruising, set out to find a street called Little Britain and a door with 53A upon it. Lord alone knew what trouble she could land herself in, her being so straightforward in her ways and a believer in votes for women. Only the Lord Himself knew, and for sure He’d never tell. Closing her eyes tightly she prayed fervently, ‘Get her back home in one piece, will you? And soon, please, afore she lands herself in more trouble. And if you do, Lord, I swear I’ll never let her go out alone again – not ever!’

Julia Sutton had stepped off the motor bus, walked the length of King Edward Street and found Little Britain with no trouble at all. Yet it came as a shock to see the street he lodged in, for though 53A was situated above the premises of a stationer and bookbinder, it was a rundown, cheap-looking shop and close by – too close – was an establishment whose sign announced that its owner was the purveyor of sweetbreads and pickled oxtongues.

Yet the doctor’s lodgings were comfortingly near the gates of St Bartholomew’s church, and the curtains at his windows were bright and clean. Doubts gone, she lifted the knocker and brought it down firmly, the noise of it echoing hollowly inside, mocking her that she’d been foolish enough ever to hope to find him at home and more foolish still to imagine that anyone who lived in so unfashionable a street could have employed a scrubbing-maid, let alone a housekeeper. And why had she come here – come without thinking – because might not Andrew MacMalcolm be in love with a nurse; might it not even be his wife who opened the door to her, in spite of those missing shirt buttons?

There were footfalls on the stairs – on uncarpeted stairs – then the sound of a bolt being drawn. She ran her tongue round dry lips as the door opened.

He was there as she had hoped, wished, prayed he might be, and for a long moment they stood, her eyes raised to his. Then he said, ‘Miss Sutton.’

His voice was low, indulgent; his eyes kind. He lifted his hand and laid gentle fingertips to the bruising beneath her eye.

‘My dear,’ he said, smiling softly, ‘I hoped you would come …’

‘So you see, it was right. Oh, I had doubts,’ Julia murmured huskily as they shared the firelight in the small parlour. ‘When I was waiting for the door to be answered I nearly turned and ran. But he was there and he isn’t married. Such a relief …’

‘Relief. Yes.’ Alice rose to build coal on the fire. Indeed, she in her turn had never been so relieved as when Miss Julia walked in, none the worse, it had seemed. ‘But miss, I’ve been thinking and I’ve made up my mind. If you’re to go out again, I shall go, too. I promised her ladyship I would see to you, and don’t tell me no, because it’ll do you no good.’

She had suffered agonies of conscience for almost three hours, and if there was to be a next time, it was best Miss Julia was given fair warning.

‘Hawthorn, listen. I didn’t go into his rooms. He was gentleman enough not to ask me to, because we’d have been alone together. At six tonight he goes on duty – all night – and tomorrow he’ll be sleeping till noon.’

He had told her that, walking her slowly back to the motor bus, seeing her safely aboard it, raising his hat as it moved away.

‘He’s very proper, Hawthorn. He’s invited you and me to walk in the park. At two tomorrow. And because you’ll be there, it’s perfectly all right for me to invite him back to tea.

‘So are you satisfied, you straight-laced Hawthorn, or are you going to be stuffy about it and say I can’t meet him because we haven’t been properly introduced?’

Alice pursed her mouth into a Mrs Shaw button, and frowned sufficiently deeply to make sure that Julia understood she was not giving in easily. Then, carefully considering every word, she murmured, ‘I think, just this once, miss, you might accept the invitation, since I’m to be there.’

Though what would happen if Miss Sutton should all of a sudden return to find the two of them drinking tea together and Alice Hawthorn aiding and abetting it, didn’t bear thinking about. Or if someone from Holdenby or Creesby or York, even, should chance on them in the park. Oh, the scandal!

‘Then why are you making such a bossy face? Frowning doesn’t suit you.’

‘I was just wondering, miss, what would happen if you were seen with him.’

‘Seen? But who in all London do we know?’

‘One of her ladyship’s friends, perhaps.’ Many of Lady Helen’s acquaintances had a house in London. Come to think of it, it was strange that someone as rich as Mrs Clementina hadn’t bought one, too. ‘Why, you might even run into Mr Elliot,’ she added as an afterthought, though in fact it was a distinct possibility, since that young man seemed always to be popping off to London.

‘I doubt it. Cousin Elliot won’t be walking in Hyde Park, even if he should decide to come to town. He’ll be eating and drinking all night and sleeping all day, be sure of that.

‘So do we have a fresh cucumber, Hawthorn, and an uncut cake, or must we got out shopping? And don’t spoil it for me, please? I do so want to meet him again.’

‘Then you’re being very forward, if you’ll pardon me.’ Alice was compelled to say it. ‘It isn’t for the likes of yourself to go running after a gentleman, no matter how nice he is, or how respectable. But you like him, don’t you, miss?’

‘I like him,’ Julia whispered, her eyes large and bright, her cheeks flushing. ‘You like Dwerryhouse – can’t you see how it is for me?’

Liked Tom? Loved him, more like. Yes, loved him and wanted, all at once, to hold him close, to lift up her face for his kiss.

‘Yes, I can see, and I’ll not spoil it for you. But be careful, miss. Please be careful.’

Liked him? Julia Sutton was smitten, that’s what. Alice knew the signs, for hadn’t it happened exactly the same to herself? Miss Julia had fallen head over heels for a man she knew nothing about, Alice fretted silently, and where it would end was anybody’s guess.

‘And since you ask, there is an uncut cake in a tin in the pantry,’ she said in final surrender. ‘Hope he likes cherry cake …’