Читать книгу Torn - Karen Turner - Страница 7

“Miss Alex!”

The shout startled me and my eyes snapped open. Janet, the maid I shared with my sister, was rushing across the lawn towards me.

Breathing heavily and with her chestnut curls escaping her cap, she leaned over me. “I thought I’d find you here – lying in the grass with that dog. Look at the state of your dress!”

“Who cares about my dress?” I drawled grumpily, shading my eyes as I squinted up at her. “I was dozing – you scared six months out of me.”

“Sorry, miss.” She did not look apologetic in the least. “Sir Simon sent me to fetch you urgently.”

I sighed resignedly. “What does he want?”

“A pair of coaches arrived.”

“So? Why does he need me? Who are they?”

She shook her head. “Don’t recognise the colours, miss, but they look important.”

I nudged the dog with the toe of my boot. “C’mon, Jemima. Up you get.”

Janet briskly led the way up the lawn to where a path met the terraced walkways of the gardens behind our house. Broughton Hall had belonged to my family since the second Charles. It was grey with age and lichen, with large mullioned windows like all-seeing benevolent eyes watching over the park, gardens and bordering forest.

As we rounded the side of the house, my eyes slid towards the drive and porch to where two shiny wine-red coaches, each with four well-matched grey horses, and bearing an unfamiliar gold crest, stood rocking gently. Their occupants had not yet emerged and my siblings waited at the foot of the porch steps. I ranked between them in age and was the proverbial thorn between two roses, for Simon and Anne were extraordinarily attractive.

A young wine-liveried footman opened the door of the lead coach and unfolded the steps.

Jemima fussed around the horses’ hooves causing them to move restively. I clutched her collar tightly and watched a rotund, fair-haired gentleman appear from within the coach.

“Gently now, m’dear,” he said as he offered his hand to a second person behind him.

As the woman stepped down Anne gave a small gasp and I consciously closed my mouth.

“Remember yourselves,” Simon hissed, for our manners were momentarily forgotten at the unexpected sight of our mother. Pausing before us, she straightened and regarded us haughtily, her early yet obvious pregnancy displayed defiantly.

Simon was the first to recover. “Welcome home, Mother,” he stepped up to kiss her cheek. “We had no idea you –”

“Oh Mother! You’re home!” Anne cried and her excitement caused Jemima to leap and almost jerk me off my feet. The horses stirred, clanking their harness, and unsettling the coaches.

“Alexandra, control that dog!” Mother commanded. The chastisement stung and I tightened my grip on Jemima’s collar. Mother did not respond to my siblings’ greetings. She appeared tired, her eyes shadowed and the blue of her travelling gown lent her face a sallow tinge.

Our housekeeper appeared beside me. “Lady Broughton, you look weary, may I –”

Mother raised a silencing hand and proceeded towards the porch leaving Mrs Grainger to silently draw up her bosom.

The young footman waited beside the coach. His appraising eyes swept over us, pausing, if only for a moment, on Anne. He had a pleasing face and appeared no more than 18 or 19 years old, and I made a mental note to suggest Simon should keep an eye on our pretty sister.

Finally, Mother’s maid and companion emerged from the coach and I wondered, as I always did, why Mother kept her around. Eleanor, a waspish creature, was tall and rail-thin with a face that looked as though she perpetually sucked a lemon. Her hair was exactly the same as every other time I’d seen her – bright orangered and clawed back in a tight chignon.

She was utterly faithful to Mother and I reminded myself to be careful as her eyes rested on me. To avoid her gaze, I studied the big, rather jolly-looking blond fellow now offering Mother his arm as she ascended the stairs. As if I had voiced my curiosity, she paused on the porch and faced the gathering of her children.

“This is Gerrard Washburn, Earl of Thorncliffe. He will live here.” Turning, she presented her straight back to us and entered the house.

I was too stunned to remember my manners, but Anne sank into a practised curtsy as though King George stood before her.

Lord Thorncliffe hesitated and his hand toyed with his ear lobe. Offering a quick, apologetic smile and nod to the three of us, he then addressed his young footman. “Very well, Jeffrey. Have the coaches unloaded.”

I looked at Simon and he shrugged. “Annie?” he said.

Turning to our sister, I saw with dismay that she had already sidled over to where Jeffrey was directing others wearing the wine livery in the unloading of the coaches. Easily distracted though, he made Anne a courtly bow with a somewhat jaunty lift of one eyebrow.

I quickly grasped my sister’s shoulders. “Come, Annie, it’s almost time for dinner,” and shoved her towards the porch.

“We’ll have to watch that one,” Simon said, pointing with his chin in Jeffrey’s direction as Anne disappeared into the house.

“She won’t discourage him,” I said. “And she won’t be able to resist the flattery either.”

“No, she won’t.” My brother made a rueful expression, then bent towards my ear. “Council assembly … bring Anne … my office in an hour.”

As we climbed the porch steps Janet was waiting by the door. She glanced doubtfully at my boots. “Mrs Grainger’s had the maids beating the rugs. She’ll skin you alive if –”

“Pooh to Mrs Grainger! I’m going upstairs. I’ll be in my room. Come, Jemima.”

Holding my skirt in one hand, I pushed open one of the two enormous oak doors at the front of our house and stepped into the cool entry hall. It smelled of old wood and beeswax and had a great staircase directly before me and rooms either side; the parlour on the right and a morning room on the left.

True to form, Mrs Grainger stood guard, one large, square hand resting on the newel. With a face that threatened thunder, she held the power to strike fear into disobedient children with a single glance. She regularly examined our boots and clothing before grudgingly allowing us entry into our own house. Not even Simon, for all his looks and charm, could escape her inspections, and while he and I were forced to endure her recriminations about wallowing in stable-muck like commoners, Anne’s proud perfection extracted merely a grunt.

Mrs Grainger’s dignity had taken a blow with Mother’s disregard but she seemed to have recovered well enough, for now she watched disdainfully as my dog and I headed for the grand staircase and slid past her, effectively avoiding her scowl.

An hour later, I gave the briefest of knocks before Anne and I entered Simon’s office. It was an entirely masculine domain with dark wood-panelled walls and unfussy furniture, unchanged since our Papa’s death some five years ago.

The room was chilly. Being rarely used – Simon generally did his estate paperwork in the library – no-one had thought to light a fire and since the windows overlooked the eastern boundary of our property it did not enjoy the afternoon sun.

Simon was seated behind Papa’s heavy old desk. I took a seat opposite and Anne did likewise, sitting primly upright and flawlessly turned out, as though we were expecting exalted visitors.

My brother was more practical than my sister. Simon wore an old linen shirt beneath a green woollen waistcoat and a pair of dun-coloured trousers, attire perfect for a country gentleman – though he would look as well in rags for he was tall and in good proportion for his 17 years. His merry nut-brown eyes and beautiful smile reduced sturdy milkmaids and broad-shouldered washerwomen to giggly, brainless twits before him. It baffled me as it stoked my pride in him, the older brother who nurtured my penchant for mischief and adventure.

“I have had the opportunity to speak with Mother,” he began. “There’s … unexpected news.” He looked at me significantly, “Her post at court has been terminated.”

“Oh dear,” Anne murmured.

“Yes.” Simon continued, and his voice seemed deeper, “She didn’t say a lot, but I am given to understand her return to Broughton Hall is permanent … and it seems,” here he paused and gave a slight grimace, “Mother’s return is on the King’s orders and that man, her escort, is to be … well, they’re to be married.”

Instantly, Anne burst into a flood of tears while I stared at him in stunned silence. Now, I was not an unfeeling girl. Certainly I had felt Papa’s death in some manner all those years ago. But I had never thought Mother might remarry, though she was young enough, perhaps no more than her late thirties. So, I received this news with a strange kind of allegiance towards Papa.

Anne continued her sobbing and Simon reached for the bellpull, rang for a maid, and we watched dispassionately as our younger sister leaned heavily on Janet and was led away.

“She would not do it without an audience,” Simon commented drily as Janet closed the door.

I murmured something distractedly; I was wondering what Mother’s return might mean for Simon. Since Papa’s death, Simon had run our estate well and efficiently, despite his youth. He wouldn’t officially take over his inheritance until his majority, yet I wondered, would Mother’s return, with a new husband, change all this?

“Sime?” I waited for him to look at me. “This is so strange … I mean, what do you think it means … for you and everything?” My expansive gesture included the house, land, tenants, everything Simon was currently responsible for.

“We’ll see. Collings has practically run this place for years and shall continue to, I expect. But it’s not something you need to worry about. I think Mother’s first duty would be to marry you and Anne off to some ageing farmers who need good women to knead their bread and bear their children.”

I stared at him in alarm but he quickly smiled, “Stop snapping those brown eyes, Zan! I’m not serious.” Then sobering, “Mother is in a bit of a mood. Being sent home has aggrieved her.”

I nodded, knowing as he did, that to be expelled from court was no small matter. Yet my 14 years of life-experience was too limited to imagine what could have caused such dishonour, and I said as much.

He considered for a moment before answering. “We may never know, but one thing is certain – we will see some changes around here.”

We sat stiffly correct at supper that evening, not daring to speak. Mother directed Simon to the head of the table while she sat opposite. Lord Thorncliffe, ruddy and damp-browed, took the seat to her right. Maud, Cook’s new girl, served a vegetable broth followed by stuffed goose and roasted vegetables. The steaming, fragrant bowls and platters were arranged before us, then Maud discreetly withdrew.

Cook’s offerings remained largely untouched as Simon, Anne and I merely picked at our food, such was the brittle tension in the room. Only Lord Thorncliffe seemed to have an appetite, addressing his plate with gusto and quaffing enough wine to fill three farmers.

When Mother spoke, it was almost with relief that we placed our cutlery politely on our plates and turned to her.

“You have eyes – you know that I am with child.” Her stony gaze rested on each of us in turn. “The child is due in five months – early in the new year. As I’m certain Simon has advised you, Lord Thorncliffe and I shall be married.”

We nodded in unison and I shot furtive glances at my siblings. Simon was staring at Mother, his lips clamped firmly together. Anne’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, her fingers pressed to her mouth.

Meanwhile, Lord Thorncliffe studied the intense ruby-colour of his wine, his mouth unconsciously turned down.

Mother, having paused to allow us time to digest this news, now continued. “The wedding will take place next month. It shall be private – the three of you and Lord Thorncliffe’s children. They will travel from my lord’s estates in the south. Afterwards, they will live here with us.”

Mother served herself from the teapot and the only sound in the room was the heavy pouring of the steaming liquid into fine china.

Finally, Anne broke the silence. “Mother, if you please,” she said, tentatively. “How many, and how old, are Lord Thorncliffe’s children?”

“Patrick is almost seventeen, of age with Simon, and …” Mother turned questioningly to Lord Thorncliffe but he remained diverted by his wine. “Gerrard?”

He started slightly. “Er … sorry, m’dear?”

“How old is your daughter, Gerrard?”

“Oh, Maeve,” he gave a short laugh, more like a bark, and tugged at his earlobe. “Well, er … let me see now … she was born in ninety-six so she’d be … er … twelve.”

Mother looked around the table at each of us. “Anything else?”

We were silent as we filed from the room. And later, alone in my bed, I knew instinctively that the only life I’d ever known, was gone forever.

I was born Alexandra Rose Broughton on 22 May 1794, one of three children to Lady Miriam Broughton and Sir Dudley Broughton. We were not an important family, but my mother brought money to her marriage.

My Papa had been a naval officer and, in this class-conscious time, a baronet with estates and tenants. He had a respectable lineage but not a farthing in his cash-tin. Mother, daughter of a successful merchant, married him for the potential she saw in his title: he married her for her wealth. He presented her to the King, where from gratitude of her husband’s fidelity to the crown, she was offered a posting in Queen Charlotte’s court. Papa promptly returned to sea, making only infrequent visits to England which resulted in Simon, myself, and Anne – in that order – and we grew up as orphans in the reign of mad King George III.

Prudent investing of Mother’s money had made us prosperous. Our house and estates – Simon’s inheritance – were well maintained and brought steady income: our tenants were happy and healthy.

Yet these were difficult times for England under the reign of a King whose declining sanity resulted in public faux pas at best. In this age of debauchery, despotism and unrest, he was known to be utterly faithful, even boring, though his eldest son, George IV, was the opposite. Prinnie to his chums, was extravagant, impulsive and known to have a fondness for the ladies. It was to this group that Mother gravitated.

Meanwhile, across the Channel, the French had executed their King and much of their aristocracy and at the turn of the century Napoleon Bonaparte had proclaimed himself Emperor of France. By 1803, England was again under French attack – by Napoleon’s Continental System, intended to cause considerable damage to Britain’s trade.

But I was only a child and content to be so. My brother, sister and I ensconced in our country home in Yorkshire, were blissfully unaware of the future gaping before us and how European events would shape our lives.

And this night, after Mother’s unexpected return, I drifted on the cusp of sleep, and was vaguely aware of the lady gliding silently through my room. I cannot recall when it was that I first saw her. It seemed that she had always been there, floating without a sound from room to room with a strange, purposeful expression. I never thought of her as a ghost, for weren’t ghosts expected to frighten you? And she was pretty, if somewhat oddly clothed …

And while I lay there, stirring restlessly, the winds of change swirled and cried about our house.