Susan Speers (3 page)

“Jeremy has been granted the freedom of this estate for too long. I indulged him because he is heir, but my trust was abused.”

“It was an accident.”

“One I’ll not allow a second time.”

“I want to see him.” I would beg if necessary.

“Christmas holidays will come.” They were months away and I had not lived one day of my life without Jem. I opened my mouth to protest, but Father’s words stopped mine.

“Your good behavior will earn Jeremy’s holidays at Hethering. Otherwise he’ll remain at school.”

Father’s secretary escorted me back to Miss Prinn’s care. I put my head down on my folded arms and remained so for the rest of the day.

I didn’t sleep that night. The moon hid behind rolling black clouds. The hall clock chimed two, then I heard a scrabbling sound against my windowpane. It came again. I raised the sash, then ducked to avoid a third shower of pebbles. Jem stood below.

“The Tower,” he said. The folly on the hill.

I dressed quickly and ran through the night to meet him.

He stood, stiff with misery, waiting in the darkest shadows of the tower.

“Jemmy.” I wept, panting from exertion.

“Don’t cry, Clarry, I can’t bear it.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Uncle wills it, but I’ll return.”

“Will you write to me?”

“He won’t permit letters, but I’ll find a way.” Jeremy kissed me, awkward with youth, then ran away into the night.

*****

I could not eat. I could not sleep. Nurse didn’t scold, but her face grew more and more anxious until she shed the tears I couldn’t, as meal after meal returned to the kitchen untouched. After two days, she marched downstairs to Father’s study, but returned defeated and glowering.

The following morning, Miss Prinn, in despair over my abandoned schoolwork, paid Father a visit. The next day, Mr. Pickety arrived for an interview, and the day after that the vicar came.

Within a week, I was too weak and despondent to rise from my bed. I heard frantic whispers outside my bedroom door. Dr. Hazzard’s name was invoked.

At the stroke of twelve noon, my door opened and Father entered carrying a tray of food. He set it on the table beside my bed and sat in the chair where Nurse kept vigil. The rich smell of eggs basted in butter, freshly baked bread and cured bacon assailed me. My healthy body rebelled and my mouth began to water.

“Well, Clarissa.” Father was resigned rather than angry and there was a glint of amusement in his cold blue eyes. “One small girl has reduced my household to chaos. My obedient servants are close to mutiny. It seems the parish will be next.”

I swallowed but could not speak. The smell of the food overwhelmed me, and I could think of nothing else.

“I believe you are more stubborn than I. I believe you are near as stubborn as your mother.”

“She was not stubborn.” The words tore from my lips past any defiance.

“You will allow me, I think, to know her nature better. I knew her many years longer than you.”

I turned away from him and away from the food. I would not let him see me cry.

There was only silence. The he sighed. “I see.” I heard the tink of silver cutlery against china, and smelt the rich egg anew.

“Let us strike a bargain, Clarissa,” my father said. “Should you eat your meals and learn your lessons and comport yourself in the manner of a well behaved young lady, we will dine together once a week and we will discuss your mother. It’s time that you knew her better.”

My body turned back to him of its own volition and my mouth fell open. He fed me every bit of food on the tray and sat with me until I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I woke, Miss Prinn sat by my bedside with another tray. In the evening, Nurse supervised my supper. The next morning, I obediently ate my breakfast and returned to the schoolroom.

I was not yet myself. My appetite was poor and my schoolwork dreadful, but day by day, bit by bit, I improved. I had two sparks of hope. One day Jeremy would return, and until then I would begin to know my mother.

*****

My first dinner with Father was a quiet affair. I was brought to Hethering’s small dining room by our butler, Henry. Small or no, the table’s gleaming linen was daunting. Father was seated at its head, with my place setting to his right.

Father stood and Henry held out my chair. When I was seated, Father sat down again. Large bowls of clear soup were set out before us. I knew how to navigate the array of cutlery, china and crystal because of Miss Prinn’s constant drilling.

“Good evening Clarissa,” my father’s voice was deep and rich but held no emotion.

“Good evening, Father.”

We ate in silence. Cook must have consulted Nurse because each course contained my favorite foods. Despite my nerves, I could eat a little.

I fretted over our lack of conversation. How would I learn about my mother in this velvet blanket of quiet? The only sounds were discreet touches of heavy silver cutlery on translucent china.

After the main courses were cleared away, and pudding was eaten, Father placed a small triangle of blue veined cheese on the plate that remained in front of me. He smiled a little at my look of suspicion.

“Try the smallest bit, Clarissa,” he advised. “It may taste better than you imagine.”

I didn’t want to admit he was right.

He took a pair of molded silver shears and cut a branch of grapes. “Some fruit, Clarissa?”

When I nodded, he put them on my plate and asked in the same tone of voice “Would you like to ask me a question about your mother?”

I wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but it seemed he would serve me what I craved morsel by morsel.

“Was she beautiful?” The question tore from my throat. Her portrait had been taken down after her death, and I had no memory of it. I was a gawky sort of girl and often wondered, peering into my glass, if I would ever be pretty. I couldn’t ask Jeremy about it — he disdained such matters. Miss Prinn was of the regrettable ‘pretty is as pretty does’ opinion, and Willow looked confused when I asked.

Father snipped a larger branch of grapes, set them on his plate, and never touched them again. “Your mother was beautiful,” he said. He looked down at his hands as if they were useless and put them in his lap. “Marissa was a very beautiful woman. “ He looked at me and saw another question in my eyes. “You resemble her a little now. More later, I think.”

A network of fine lines surrounded his shuttered eyes. “I met her on Midsummer’s Day. The freshness and beauty of that June morning could not rival hers.” These were more words than I ever heard him say at one time.

Father closed his mouth and folded his napkin. Under his commanding gaze, I did the same. Our dinner was over.

My days were and drab without Jeremy. Weekday mornings, Miss Prinn and I met in the schoolroom. I tried my best, but only produced lackluster results. When Mr. Pickety arrived for Latin and mathematics instruction. I had little heart for them without Jeremy.

Miss Prinn excused me early so that I could visit Willow. She’d seen samples of the unique embroidery and use of colored silk thread I learned from my special friend and agreed there was artistic merit in the work. She and Mr. Pickety enjoyed afternoon strolls through Hethering’s gardens.

On Sundays, I sat in the family pew between Father and Uncle Paul, where Jeremy and I once sat side by side sharing a hymnal and speaking looks. We never dared whisper or snicker. Sometimes Mr. Pickety would speak the homily, his face quite pale as he watched for Father’s nod of approval.

One Sunday, I saw Mr. Pickety greet Miss Prinn after service, then they were joined by the vicar for earnest conversation. Father was with them, he nodded once or twice.

The very next morning as Miss Prinn began our history lesson, there was a brisk tap at the schoolroom door. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Cuttle, entered, followed by a small girl with yellow hair.

“Here is Miss Marguerite,” Mrs. Cuttle announced.

“You are very welcome to join us, Marguerite,” said Miss Prinn.

I stared and stared, forgetting my manners. I had little contact with other children and meeting another girl was a rare treat.

The girl looked me over with cool blue eyes. “I am called Daisy,” she said. I realized then that she was petite and very near my own age.

“Very well, Daisy, you may sit at the table beside Clarissa.” Miss Prinn produced a Bible, a blank tablet and a pen for Daisy, moving the inkwell between us. She gave Daisy her own copy of our history book.

“Today we will continue reading about the Renaissance in France,” Miss Prinn began. Just like that, I had a new schoolmate.

At elevenses, our teacher thoughtfully retreated to the anteroom to allow us private conversation.

“I’m the vicar’s niece,” Daisy told me. “My father came to a sad end after he lost our money. My mother threw us all on the mercy of Uncle Felix.”

“You have brothers and sisters?” I was eager for more new friends.

“Two older brothers, ugh they’re horrid,” she told me. “They go to school, thank goodness.”

“My cousin Jeremy is at the Darby School,” I said with pride. “I miss him something awful.”

“How can you like a boy?” She knelt on the window seat to peer out at the landscape.

“We’re good friends,” I answered.” One day we’ll marry and share Hethering.”

She smiled. One front tooth overlapped the other. “You are too funny!”

Did she think us too young to choose a mate for life? Jeremy and I were promised to each other.

*****

Daisy and I became friends of a sort, but I rarely mentioned Jeremy’s name to her. I didn’t like to see her mocking smile.

Willow grew more fey and childlike as the years passed. White streaks turned her red hair to faded rose. She didn’t get on with Daisy. She looked afraid when I first brought her to the cottage. Daisy yawned when we sat by the fire with our embroidery. Her silks tangled and knotted, she pricked her fingers and stained the fine cotton. She did like the frosted cakes and shortbread served at tea, though, and often pleaded for more.

Miss Prinn advised me to be kind, because Daisy had not had an easy life. She and Mr. Pickety invited my schoolmate to share their afternoon walks. If I carried home a bit of shortbread or a cake in my handkerchief for Daisy, she was more than content to let me go alone.

Dickon Scard often walked me home from Willow’s cottage when the sun was setting. He and I met in passing on Hethering land, he travelling back and forth to the fields, I to find wildflowers or colored leaves to copy in my embroidery. Once he showed me a tiny hidden pool in the woods beyond Willow’s meadow. It was ringed with rare wood violets. Their colors inspired us to create new pinks and blues and purples by combining threads.

Dickon and I became good friends, especially now I had no fear of Jeremy’s interference, but I could tell that he didn’t like Daisy. He was polite to her and far more deferent than he ever was with me, but his reserve hid disapproval. He always begged for Daisy’s wrapped treat, but I never gave in.

“If I don’t bring this, she’ll come with me next time,” I teased.

“That’s blackmail,” he said, but left me in peace. He and I and Willow, and to some extent, Miss Juniot, were a happy group, and that helped me cope with missing Jeremy.

I still did miss him terribly. No dinner with Father or cozy cottage tea kept me from crying myself to sleep. I could not stop looking for him from the schoolroom window, desperate to see his slim, dark haired figure cross Hethering’s rain swept acres.

One morning, Mr. Pickety came early for our Latin lesson. He smiled at my pinched face when I sat down with him at the anteroom’s small table.

“I have an interesting bit of translation for you today.”

Three sentences in a beloved spiky script.

Ego sum puteus. Ego mos reverto domus nunc. Ego duco dies.
[I am well. I will return home soon. I count the days.]

I turned the slip of paper with shaking fingers.

Vos es usquequaque in meus sentential.
[You are always in my thoughts]

My tears blurred the sight of Mr. Pickety’s kindly face. Jeremy had found his way to me.

Days passed, each one warmed by Jeremy’s secret message. I held his words within me like a glowing coal in a hearth presumed cold. Each afternoon that followed, I looked at Mr. Pickety with hope and yearning, but he only shook his head. After measureless disappointed days, I decided to forgo my pleading looks, because I knew his part in the deception could lead to his dismissal.

My dinners with Father continued. He spoke of my mother with great economy, as if each confidence diminished his hoarded riches of memory.

“Your mother was an only child,” he said one night. “Her father died before we married.”

“And my grandmother?” I asked.

“She died just after your birth. Her name was Clara.” A connection! If only time had granted us acquaintance.

One evening Father admired my blue silk sash. “Marissa loved the color blue.” Clara and Marissa combined made my name.

From then on I looked at every blue, flower, object or fabric with new eyes. Blue was Jeremy’s favorite color. Did Father know that? I think not.

During our next dinner, I asked “How did you meet her?”

He answered so swiftly I could hardly understand his words. “There was a summer gathering at a family estate. We are — we were distant cousins.”

I dropped my chin so that he would not see hope blaze across my face. Father cleared his throat, but instead of saying more, he nodded to Henry and I was excused. When I looked back, his head was turned away from me toward the fire.

I could have skipped and sung my way upstairs, but my last sight of Father stopped me. I knew him to be stern, unyielding and difficult. I never before considered that he was an unhappy man.

*****

Daisy asked question after question about my dinners with Father.