The Favoured Child (25 page)

Richard cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said politely. I think only I could hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice, and I had a twinge of remorse and sympathy for Richard. I guessed he was thinking of Scheherazade.

‘Thank you, Uncle John,’ I said softly. ‘Mama is right and I have no manners at all. I was just so…so…so…’

Uncle John smiled at Mama as I ran out of words.

‘Boarding-school?’ he suggested.

‘Bedlam!’ Mama replied. ‘Julia, if you have nothing to say, you can go and fetch some writing-paper and ink for me, instead of kneeling there on the floor with your mouth open. Richard, it must be time for you to go to Dr Pearce.’

Richard bowed to her and bid us a general farewell and then took one last lingering look at the exquisite drawing, like a hungry man looking at a meal which might be taken from him. ‘Yes,’ he said unwillingly, and went to the door.

I waited for a smile from him, but I had none. He went from the house with his head down and not even a glance towards me, though I stood in the hall as he shrugged on his greatcoat and was at the front door when he went out. He went without a look
at me. He went without a word to me, though he knew I was waiting patiently for either. I stood at the parlour window and watched him stride down the drive, watched in case he relented and waved to me, but he did not. Mama saw my stillness and my eyes upon his vanishing figure when she came into the parlour.

‘Will you write some letters for me, my dear?’ she said invitingly.

‘Yes, I will,’ I said without hesitation.

She looked at me closely. ‘Is Richard still angry with you about John Dench?’ she asked softly.

I did not have tears in my eyes. I did not feel an ache in my heart. I did not feel the sense of dread which I learned in childhood when I thought of Richard’s rage. I gave a little impatient grimace. ‘He’s in the sullens,’ I said, unimpressed. ‘He’ll get out of them.’

And ignoring Mama’s look of surprise, I sat up at the table, collected some notepaper, dipped the pen in the standish and set to writing to her dictation as if I had never cried for Richard’s approval in my life.

Uncle John was lucky at the horse sales; but Richard and I were not.

‘I could see nothing which would suit either of you,’ he said. ‘I
am
sorry to disappoint you, and I am disappointed too. I had promised myself the pleasure of coming home in the carriage with three horses trotting behind me. I found this grand old hunter for me, but nothing suitable for the two of you.’

‘What was the problem, sir?’ Richard asked courteously.

We were sitting down to a late dinner, and Uncle John smiled down the table at Richard as he carved a plump goose into wafer-thin slices and Stride passed them around.

‘Bad breeding,’ he said briefly. ‘I wanted something steady and sound for both of you, but something with a bit of breeding so that you could have more fun when you were used to riding. I’d have looked for something fairly lively for you, Richard, don’t fret! And something slow and steady for Julia. But there
was nothing except some broken-winded hunters who would never get out of a trot without gasping like a landed fish.’

Richard laughed heartily. I watched him closely. He was out of his ill humour with me, and he seemed relaxed, even pleased. I could not understand it. I was trying very hard not to seem sulky, but I was so disappointed at Uncle John’s bad luck at the horse fair that I could have wept.

‘Perhaps you have saved your money, sir,’ Richard said. ‘I was thinking that, as I am going to Oxford, you would have bought a horse for me for nothing. I could not ride one there, I suppose?’

‘No,’ Uncle John agreed, carving the last slices of goose and sitting down to his own place. Stride served him with crunchy roasted potatoes, some succulent carrots from the Havering kitchen garden and roasted parsnip. Uncle John waved away the gravy, but took a liberal helping of Mrs Gough’s smooth lemon sauce. ‘But I had thought, Richard, to keep your horse here for you to use in the holidays. That is no great burden on the stables, you know.’

Richard smiled sweetly. ‘You’re kind to me, sir!’ he said. ‘But since you have had such trouble in finding a suitable horse at this fair, I do beg you not to trouble yourself any further. I have walked around Wideacre all my life, and am well able to continue to do so in the meantime. I am sure Julia feels the same.’

I opened my mouth to disagree, but a sharp blue look from Richard silenced me.

‘At any rate, there is no need for a horse this summer,’ Richard said smoothly. ‘I know Julia’s grandmama does not approve of ladies riding in summertime, and I am happy to go horseless to keep my cousin company.’

Mama smiled. ‘That is sweet of you, Richard!’ she said approvingly, and Uncle John nodded. ‘And he is quite right,’ she said to John. ‘It is not really the season to start to learn to ride. If there are no good horses available, perhaps the two of them can wait until the Christmas holidays.’

Uncle John shrugged. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘I should have liked to have produced two horses for the pair of you without
further ado, but there is certainly nothing suitable in the neighbourhood for sale at the moment. I shall keep my eyes open for you both, you may be sure. If we cannot find suitable riding horses, then you will have to drive around and I shall get a cob or something to pull the gig.’

I bit my lip and looked down. I seemed forever to be getting so close to having a horse and then being disappointed.

Mama saw my downcast face and smiled sweetly at me. ‘Never mind, Julia,’ she said. ‘We will order you a riding habit when we are next in Chichester and then at least when we find the right horse, you will be ready to ride at once.’

‘Thank you, Mama,’ I said, trying to sound pleased. And I turned my attention to the roast goose as if I had been fasting all day.

‘I met Lord Havering in Chichester and told him some of my ideas about the revival of the estate,’ Uncle John said. ‘He was kind enough to call them radical poppycock!’

‘You did not quarrel?’ Mama asked with an anxious frown.

‘Most certainly not,’ John said. ‘It takes two to make a quarrel, and his lordship made sure I did not have a word to say. I told him some of the ideas I had and he was torn between laughter at my naivety and rage at my revolutionary opinions.’

‘Are
you a revolutionary, Uncle John?’ I said, regarding him with some awe.

‘Compared to your grandpapa, I am a veritable traitor to the State!’ Uncle John said cheerfully. ‘But in all seriousness, Julia, I am just one of very many men who think that the world would be better run if the nation were not divided into a vast army of workers – something like six million people – who have no land, and a tiny minority – some four hundred families – who between them own it all.’

‘What would you do?’ I asked. ‘What would you do to change things?’

‘If I were made king tomorrow,’ Uncle John said, smiling, ‘I would pass a statute which would give everyone equal shares in the land, and order them to work in communities and farm the
land all together. Everyone would have his own house and his own patch of private land, his own little garden and his own animals – see, Celia, I am
not
against private property, whatever your step-papa says! – But everyone would work together on land which was held in common. Like the old village fields when the elders of the village decided what was planted and how it was to be done.’

‘Hurrah for John’s kingdom!’ I said, and Uncle John laughed at my bright face.

‘I have a convert,’ he said to Mama. ‘There is no need for you to look so grave, Celia. I have a convert and the future is on my side.’

‘What will you do before you become king of England?’ she asked. ‘How will you explain to Acre that the golden age has come around again?’

‘I shall consult my adviser,’ he said solemnly and turned to me. ‘Prime Minister, Miss Julia: how shall we persuade Acre that they must all work together and take a share in the profits?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Is it a serious plan, Uncle John?’ I asked. ‘Do you really want Acre to share in the profits of the estate?’

‘I’m tempted,’ he admitted. ‘I spent many hours in India reading and thinking about what went wrong on Acre. It seemed to me then that the only way to run an estate justly is if everyone has a say in how it is to be run and a slice of the profits.’ He paused and looked at my intent face and Mama’s doubtful one. Richard was listening with his habitual courtesy.

‘How would it be if every cottager – tenant or labourer – in Acre was invited to buy a share in the profits of the estate?’ John asked. ‘They work the first year and the profits are put into a central fund. Out of the fund come the costs of running the estate, and the new equipment and seeds and animals needed, and the share which is to be paid to each worker. But the rest of the fund is their own savings.’

‘And what about us?’ Richard asked. It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice sounded sharp. ‘We’re Laceys of
Wideacre,’ he said. ‘Where do we figure in this scheme? What do we benefit?’

‘We take our share of the profits,’ Uncle John replied. ‘We consider the money invested in Wideacre as our share of work, and we take out a share every year which would be the same as if we had invested money in speculation.’

‘We share the profits of our land with Acre?’ Richard asked. The question itself sounded as if he were just trying to understand, but something in his voice made the nape of my neck feel cold and prickly. ‘Won’t that make them think they have rights over our land? And won’t they argue for a greater share than they have earned?’

Uncle John nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But you would be the judge of their rights.’

Stride came forward to clear the table. He took the plates and refilled the wineglasses before Mama and John. No one was looking at Richard except me. He had gone quite white and his eyes were as black as a midnight sky, without a gleam of starlight or moonlight. He was trembling with rage as he sat at the table, and I dropped my gaze to the embroidered napkin on my lap, afraid that Richard would shout his claim to Wideacre and disgrace himself by an outburst of the temper he usually kept so well in check.

I should have known him better. By the time Stride came back with the puddings, a wonderful cream confection with meringue and apple sauce on top, and a plain jam tart, Richard was smiling and calm.

‘It’s a most exciting idea, sir,’ he said politely. I think no one but me could have heard the passion which was hidden beneath the calm tone. ‘Do you think you can take it beyond the stage of an idea?’

Stride served Mama and then me, and Uncle John accepted a plate with the jam tart from him and added Havering cream with a generous hand.

‘It depends,’ he said. ‘It depends on many factors. The people would have to like the idea. They suffered badly at the hands of
Lacey innovators once, and they’re not likely to want to repeat the experience. Mr Megson assures me that they will not go to work for us unless they have some belief in the future and some trust in us.’ He paused and smiled down the table at Richard and me. ‘It depends on you two,’ he said gently. ‘It is your inheritance. It will be your decision whether this land is run in the old way which brought so much wealth and so much grief in one lifetime, or whether you would want to try a new way.’

I glanced at Richard; his smile was untroubled, his face clear. ‘I agree with you, sir,’ he said. ‘I can think of no better way to run the estate than to share the profits of the land with the people who work on it.’

Uncle John nodded and looked at me. ‘Julia?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. I did not sound as enthusiastic as Richard. But I could not readily explain how the thought of feeling no guilt in Acre – none at all – of being free of the cruelty of the Laceys and the cruelty of the whole class of gentry was like a hard cleansing wind after rain. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Early days for any decision,’ Uncle John said gently. ‘But I should like the two of you to go and see Mr Megson and tell him of your support for these ideas, and discuss with him his thoughts on them. It’s a good way for him to get to know the two of you, and a good way for you to learn the obstacles you will face in Acre. He’s a hard man to persuade – he’s not susceptible to sweetening! But he’s as straight as a die. I’d like the two of you to tell him of this talk of ours and see what he thinks the chances are for a plan like that.’

‘I’d be pleased to go,’ Richard said, claiming the right of the boy and the squire-to-be to work for the estate.

‘And Julia will go too,’ Uncle John said, reminding him.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I should like to go.’

‘No reason why you should not go down to Acre this evening,’ Mama said, determinedly brave with us, her two children, going to the village she still disliked. ‘You could take the gig, and the carriage horse,’ she said.

Uncle John smiled. ‘Indeed, yes!’ he said. ‘Mr Megson will
doubtless give you tea and you can come home before it is dark if you would like it.’

I glanced at Richard. I had been in disgrace with him all day and I was not disposed to force my company on him if he was still angry with me. But the threat to his inheritance had driven all other injuries from his mind.

I ran to fetch my hat, and Richard went to the stable to tell Jem that we wanted the horse and the new gig. The sun was round and pink above a bank of rosy clouds as we trotted down the lane to Acre and I saw, with relief, that Richard was at ease on the seat of the gig, handling the reins well, unafraid.

‘I hope Megson is in,’ Richard said.

‘I’ll wager he’s expecting us,’ I said shrewdly. ‘I should think that Uncle John and he have spent some time with their heads together about the two of us as heirs to the estate.’

Richard glanced at me in surprise. ‘I suppose they might have done,’ he said. ‘Megson setting himself up as some kind of judge!’ He paused. ‘I don’t have to remind you not to put yourself forward in Acre,’ he said. It was not a question.

‘No, I remember,’ I said steadily.

He gave me a swift sideways glance but said nothing, and then we sat in silence as the gig bowled down the street of Acre. The Dench children were playing in the patch of earth outside the cottage; Clary was sitting on the bench watching them in the evening sunlight, with a bowl of potatoes on her knees and a bucket of water to wash them.