The House of Hardie (20 page)

So from Gordon's point of view there were no hidden problems – but had Lucy, he wondered, considered the life she would be expected to lead when she returned to England? He ought to bring her to see his home, to meet his family, but he had not even suggested such a visit. Was that because he knew that she would not be allowed to come, or because he was afraid that she might be dismayed by what she saw? Or could it be – something he had not dared to admit to himself – that he almost hoped she would be shocked, but only when it was too late for her to escape: when she was tied to the Hardies by marriage and estranged from her own family by disobedience?

His conversation with Midge at the breakfast table had found its mark. Gordon's desire for Lucy was genuine enough – but so was his belief that a female companion could only be an impediment to his travels; the two balanced each other out. Some extra emotion had been required to tip the balance, and there could be little doubt that Archie had provided this. Gordon did indeed feel a wish to score off that conceited and insensitive young gentleman – to hurt his pride by proving that an alliance with The House of Hardie was not after all unthinkable. What
was
unthinkable, as Gordon belatedly realized, was that he should sacrifice an inexperienced girl to such a discreditable impulse.

It was not an easy conclusion to draw; and Gordon did not come to it within a single day. His decision was made
easier, though, by the fact that no further letters arrived from Castlemere. Lucy, he felt sure, had continued to write. What appeared as silence could only mean that her family was blocking all further communication. They would take precautions, as well, to prevent Lucy from running away, should she have any ideas of that kind. But since they would also have prevented his own letters from reaching her, she was more likely to be unhappily believing that he had forgotten her than making romantic plans for escape. It would be better for everyone if the situation were to be drawn to a tidy end. Without pausing to consider any longer whether he was regretful or relieved, Gordon sat down to write one last letter.

Lucy did not allow herself to become downcast by her family's opposition to her marriage. Her grandfather could not bear to see her miserable and would soon, she was sure, change his mind. Meanwhile, there was no time to be wasted if she was to be well prepared for the great journey.

During the eighteen years of her life at Castlemere Lucy had needed to make few decisions about her own affairs. Her grandfather issued orders and the machinery of the household ensured that they were carried out. If a dinner party was to be arranged, Lucy would discuss the menu with the cook and the flowers with the gardeners, but she was not required to solve any problems which might arise. She could order ices to be served on the hottest day of summer without needing to trouble herself about details – it was enough that an ice house existed and that somebody had presumably at the right time of year remembered to do whatever should be done with it. So it came as a surprise even to herself when she discovered that she was capable of being practical.

Another – more regrettable – discovery was that she could carry off deceit. It was only for a little while, she assured herself. As soon as her grandfather relented she would describe to him everything she had done, and they would laugh about it together. Concealment began even with the reading which encouraged her to make her plans. The adventures of Miss Marianne North, who had travelled all over the world, became her bible. Had the
marquess realized that Miss North was an explorer, he would have frowned. But because the purpose of her explorations was to depict the plants she found in every country, Lucy could openly admire her botanical artistry – a skill of which no young lady need be ashamed.

Lucy's packing list began, in fact, with her painting equipment. Gathering together the most necessary items, she took note of Miss North's hints, collecting jars with tightly-fitting lids in which to carry water, and commissioning the estate carpenter to construct a light-weight folding support to replace her unwieldy easel. Complaining of a headache, she visited a pharmacist and spent a fascinating hour discussing with him the contents of a medical pack which, she said, was to be given to a friend just about to embark on a long journey. Together they envisaged every possible illness and accident and listed a cure for each – and, if possible, a preventive.

‘And Keating's powder against fleas,' added Lucy, when it seemed that nothing could have been overlooked.

‘And a poison for cockroaches?' suggested the pharmacist.

Lucy hesitated. ‘We shall – I mean, he will be camping in the open as a rule. A poison is for use in a kitchen, I imagine. Besides, in some emergency, groping in the dark for a medicine …' She shook her head. ‘No. No poison. The list, I think, is long enough already.' She left the pharmacist to collect all the items together and arrange directly for the local saddler to make a leather and canvas roll for them, easier to carry than a wooden box.

The pharmacist entered cheerfully into the spirit of the adventure, but Lucy found it more difficult to persuade the dressmaker that she was not joking when she asked for several divided skirts to be made for her. ‘They are the latest fashion for playing games such as croquet and
lawn tennis,' Lucy assured her firmly and untruthfully. ‘And they should be a little shorter than is usual.'

‘In white, or in cream?' asked the dressmaker, preparing to measure Lucy in case she had grown taller since the most recent fitting.

‘Two in black and one dark brown. One of the black ones should be of a thin stuff which will dry quickly if it becomes soaked. The others should be of the warmest possible quality, to wear in the coldest weather.'

‘For croquet!' exclaimed the dressmaker. She had known Lucy all her life. In the end, of course, she always obeyed instructions. But there had been times when as a child or a very young woman Lucy had demanded something so unsuitable that a word of warning was necessary, and it must have seemed that this was just such an occasion. Lucy herself saw the absurdity of her request and burst into laughter – but without altering her requirements.

‘Well, you must keep a secret,' she said. ‘I intend to surprise my brother by abandoning my side-saddle. He will never be persuaded that a woman can ride as well over hedges as a man. I propose to appear at the hunt one day and amaze him by my new style of horsemanship.'

Part of her explanation was true, and the secret – although not of course the reason for it – was one which she was forced to share also with the grooms. But although they might gossip amongst themselves, there was no reason why they should discuss her affairs with the marquess – who would not in any case have listened to tittle-tattle. Lucy did not expect that she would need to ride fast in the course of the expedition. But she would certainly have to spend long hours in the saddle, and it was unlikely that a Chinese muleteer would saddle his animals in the manner taken for granted by ladies of
quality. There would be new muscles to stretch and a new habit of balance to acquire. It was only sensible to practise now rather than to develop aches and pains at the outset of her travels with Gordon.

All this secrecy was only necessary in case Archie and her grandfather remained obdurate. She hoped she could change their minds, but it was impossible to be sure. For this reason, she hardly hesitated for a moment when Archie asked her – in the most casual of manners – when young Hardie proposed to set out on this jaunt of his. If she was indeed to be forbidden to marry Gordon, a close watch would probably be kept on her for the day or two preceding his departure. Truthfulness would be unwise – yet she was almost shocked by the facility with which the lie tripped off her tongue.

‘On October the second,' she answered. It would not do for her answer to appear as offhand as the question, for then Archie would never believe her. ‘And I do ask you again, Archie, before it's too late, to give me whatever this stupid permission is that's needed so that I can join him. It means so much to me, and so little to you. It will break my heart to think of him sailing out of Southampton without me.' The scrap of paper which she kept in a locket round her neck assured her that Gordon would be leaving the Royal Albert Dock in London by the P & O ship
Parramatta
on October 14th. If on the much earlier date she had mentioned she was to display an appearance of melancholy, this would surely put to rest any suspicions of an elopement.

The thought of an elopement was a recent one; previously she had assumed that such events took place only in novels. But she was not used to having her wishes thwarted, and a stubbornness of character which she had not known herself to possess made her determined to get
her own way. Having not yet come out into society, she had no conception of how it might feel to be refused acceptance by that society. By the time the long expedition ended she would have passed her twenty-first birthday and would return from China as a married woman. What could be more respectable than that? Naturally she had complete trust in her fiancé as an honourable man.

It was worrying, nevertheless, that she received no answer to the letter in which she reported her family's opposition to him. Was he discouraged? Did he assume that under pressure she would change her mind? Lucy continued to write every day, and for the time being repeated her belief that her grandfather would eventually be persuaded to give consent. But time was passing. She continued to plead with the marquess and to make her quiet preparations, but her anxiety grew.

It was not until nearly the end of September that a letter was brought to her as she sat down to breakfast one morning. Recognizing Gordon's handwriting, she glanced to see whether her grandfather was watching her; but he, at the far end of the table, seemed absorbed in his copy of
The Times
. Lucy opened the letter and began to read.

‘My dear Miss Yates.' The very opening came as an unwelcome surprise, for he had previously addressed her as ‘My dearest Lucy'. But there was a further shock to come, when she read, ‘I have been distressed to hear nothing from you since you wrote to report your brother's opposition to our marriage. But through my disappointment I have to recognize that you show good sense in accepting the verdict of your family, because it would distress me even more if I were to find myself responsible for you severing relations with your grandfather and brother.

‘My love for you is unchanged. My heart will be yours for the rest of my life, and I shall make it my first business when I return to England to assure myself that you are happy. But that return will not be for three years. A young lady as beautiful as yourself will be courted during that long period by many suitors, better connected than myself and able to count on your grandfather's approval. I could not expect – and would not wish – you to turn your back on them in favour of a man who can offer you nothing but three years of neglect. And so I write now to release you from any promises by which you may have felt bound.'

There were a few other phrases at the end of the letter, wishing her well, but Lucy was too upset to read them. How could he give her up so easily? How could he accuse her of losing hope when she had written every day – sometimes twice a day – to assure him that she would get her way in the end? A possible answer to the second question presented itself to her mind almost at once, and this might provide an answer to the first. Blinking back her tears, she addressed the far end of the table.

‘Granda!'

The wall of newspaper was lowered. ‘Yes, m'dear?'

Without warning Lucy found herself unable to speak. Was it because she did not want her grandfather to hear her voice quavering with unhappiness? Whatever the reason, her silence succeeded in imposing itself on the marquess as a question.

‘The young man shows good sense, Lucy,' he said. ‘He's taken his time to come round to it, but what he says in the end is right. Three years is too long to mope along on your own. You'll soon forget him. So cheer up.'

Lucy's blue eyes opened wide and she slowly rose to her feet. There was no quavering in her voice now as she
spoke. ‘How do you know what he says?' she demanded. ‘Did you read the letter? You had no right even to open it. It was addressed to me. And have there been other letters that I've not even been allowed to see? You let this one through, I suppose, because it said what you wanted it to say, but what about all the others? And my letters to him – what happened to them? I might have sent Marie out to post them quietly in the village, but I didn't think that you would stoop to stealing them and … and …' Lucy could control her tears no longer, but by now they were tears of indignation as well as of unhappiness.

‘It's for your own good, Lucy,' said the marquess, a trace of uneasiness in his voice. ‘You're only a child. You haven't the judgement –'

‘If you treat me as a child, how can I be anything else? You had no right… no right… you've ruined my life.' She ran towards him, angry and appealing at the same time. ‘Granda, it might still not be too late. Let me see him – let me explain.'

‘Don't be a little fool, Lucy. It's all for the best.'

Lucy stamped her foot in a show of petulance. But she was acting. Her anger was genuine enough, but already a plan of action had flown ready-made into her mind. She no longer cared about behaving deceitfully, because she had been deceived herself. It was necessary that the whole household should know that she was upset, and in a decline.

Not for a moment did she consider that there was any wish on Gordon's part to break their engagement. The interception of her letters had misled him into thinking her unkind, but she felt sure that his true feelings, like hers, were unchanged. So when she returned to her room
there was no fear in her mind about the step she proposed to take.