Dust of the Land Page 11

  ‘I cannot believe you could do such a thing!’ Charlotte spat the words at Bella. She was not a woman who liked her plans thwarted.

  More and more Bella suspected that her stepmother had been behind everything from Charles’s disappearance to the major’s proposal, so she was not in the best of moods, either. ‘Such a ridiculous little man!’

  ‘A gentleman with his own estate?’ Charlotte said. ‘As the granddaughter of a bait-digger, I would have expected you to jump at it.’

  ‘I am also the granddaughter of an earl and the daughter of another one,’ Bella pointed out. ‘Both honest men, too, which is more than some can say of their ancestors.’

  Charlotte discussed what she called the Arabella problem with her husband.

  ‘That poor Major Lacey,’ she said.

  ‘Poor is right,’ Anthony said. ‘I have seldom seen a poorer example of a man.’

  ‘But the owner of an estate.’

  ‘Heavily mortgaged,’ said Anthony, who had made some enquiries of his own.

  ‘The question now is what is to be done about her. She was most distressed when Charles Hardy threw her over.’

  ‘I never understood how that happened,’ Anthony said. ‘One minute I was thinking wedding bells, the next…’

  ‘Young men and women fall in and out of love all the time,’ said Charlotte, who had never fallen in love at all.

  Anthony, who had fallen in love once but never out of it, was silent. Charlotte pressed her advantage.

  ‘I feel for her but since it happened her behaviour has been intolerable. The things she has said…’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘You would think she hated me!’

  ‘You never mentioned it before,’ Anthony said.

  He did not share her distress; he knew his wife better than she realised.

  ‘I believe it would be in her best interests to go away for a while,’ Charlotte said.

  Anthony pondered. Charlotte was up to something, but a break might help Bella get over the Hardy boy.

  ‘Where do you have in mind?’ he asked.

  ‘My brother Walter has an estate outside Sunbury-on-Thames. He tells me he is looking for a housekeeper and would be more than happy to offer Arabella the position.’

  ‘A housekeeper?’ Anthony frowned; he was not at all sure about Bella becoming a housekeeper. ‘She is a lady, after all.’

  Charlotte patted his arm. ‘I would hardly call her that. She needs to make her way in the world. She doesn’t get her grubby little claws on the money your father was foolish enough to leave her until she’s twenty-one; she cannot expect us to support her in the meantime. At Sunbury she will have staff working under her and will soon make many friends. She cannot type and is too young to be a lady’s companion. I would have said it was an ideal opportunity for her.’

  Anthony was unconvinced, but the two women loathed each other and there would be no peace in the house while Bella remained. Perhaps Charlotte was right.

  ‘Will you speak to her or shall I?’

  ‘Arabella has taken such a dislike to me that she might be more willing to accept the suggestion if it came from you,’ Charlotte said.

  But when Anthony came to discuss the matter with Bella, he found he was too late.

  Bella had never thought of going anywhere beyond Branksome Hall. Now Branksome was lost to her and everywhere she looked reminded her of the catastrophe that had destroyed her life. Convinced the countess was to blame, she would have seen her dead at her feet had it been feasible, but it was not. Consumed by bitterness, hatred and grief, she made up her mind to get as far away from her stepmother and Ripon Grange as she could.

  If she had married Major Lacey she would have achieved that, but Major Lacey had been a friend of the countess and she would die before she accepted anything from that quarter. Fortunately he had proved such a vile man that turning him down had been easy.

  She wanted her freedom but was determined to make the arrangements herself. On her next ride she stopped in the village, went to the post office and placed an advertisement in the Morning Post. Three days later she had a reply from a couple, conveniently located in York, who were emigrating to Australia. The Johnsons had lost a lot of money in the ’29 crash and now, seven years later, had decided to give up the struggle in England and try their luck in Australia. Fortunately they still had enough money to buy a 20,000 acre property in Queensland in what the agent had assured them was ideal cattle country, in the ranges west of a town called Charters Towers. They had two young children and were looking for a governess to go with them.

  The earl and countess were visiting friends in the Peak District so it was easy for Bella to get away with no questions asked. She took the train to York and later that day came back with everything arranged.

  She went upstairs, changed her clothes and sat at the window of her room, staring out at the familiar view. It was particularly lovely today, the sunlight golden across the distant moors, the stream sparkling beneath willows as it flowed down the valley.

  Now she was home she had time to be afraid. Her palms were damp, a taste like panic in her throat. What had she done? It was one thing to tell herself she would make her own way but now she had taken the first step she was scared stiff. To commit herself to two strangers and their children, to travel to the other side of the world: it was enough to scare anybody. She had not even liked slimy Mr Johnson; his wife, although a snob, had seemed harmless enough. And what did she know of the world outside Ripon Grange? She had hazy memories of a cottage with an apple tree in the garden, of the mother who had abandoned her, her voice a faint echo warning her to stand up for herself, but what did they have to do with her life now? To entrust herself to these strangers would be like throwing herself off a cliff, not knowing where or how hard she would land.

  It was not too late. She had the Johnsons’ telephone number. She could ring them and say she had changed her mind. And then? She would be a prisoner forever – of the countess and of her own cowardice.

  She could not bear to contemplate that. She closed her eyes, drawing the cool air into her lungs. She would not think of the things that might go wrong. No harm would come to her. And, if it did… She would face up to it. She would see new, wonderful things. She would survive.

  The next day, after his return from Derbyshire, her father put forward his wife’s suggestion, pretending it was his own, but Bella was not fooled.

  ‘I would not wish to do that,’ she said.

  It was a stiff way of talking but she could not help it: any mention of the countess or her family made her seize up.

  ‘You’d be near London,’ he said. ‘You would make new friends –’

  Bella had no interest in London or new friends. Most of all, she had no interest in working for the countess’s brother.

  ‘Don’t you think it would be better if you could get away for a while?’ Anthony wondered.

  She watched his eyes roaming uneasily about the room, never meeting her own. Why, she thought, he dislikes the idea as much as I do. For a moment she felt embarrassed by his embarrassment, even though she was convinced he had no one to blame but himself. If he had to marry a fortune, she told herself, he should have been man enough to handle the woman who came with it.

  ‘It’s too late,’ she said.

  He looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You are right about my going away. I have already arranged it.’

  ‘You are not marrying that fool Lacey?’

  Bella laughed scornfully. ‘I’d as soon marry a tinker as that man.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I have taken a position with a family called Johnson,’ she said. ‘They are moving to Queensland, in Australia, and need a governess to help with their children.’

  ‘Australia…?’ He was taken aback; he was not sure about Australia. ‘That was not at all what we had in mind for you,’ he said.

  Bella did not know what to say to that. Dig your heels in, she counselled herself. Don’t
let him talk you out of it.

  Once again she took refuge in the ploy that had stood her in such good stead since her earliest days at Ripon Grange. She said nothing.

  * * *

  The day before joining the Johnsons in London, Bella summoned her courage and made one final effort to resurrect her past life.

  The countess was visiting friends when Bella got the exchange operator to put her through to Branksome Hall. Her stomach was quaking as she waited, the telephone receiver clutched in her moist hand. She heard the phone ringing at the other end and took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm.

  ‘Branksome Hall…’

  It was the same man she had spoken to before.

  ‘May I speak to Mr Charles Hardy?’

  A pause.

  ‘May I ask who is enquiring for him?’

  ‘A friend,’ Bella said.

  ‘I am afraid Mr Charles is in Germany.’

  Hope sank out of sight.

  ‘Do you have any idea when he’s expected back?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. If you would care to leave a message…’

  Bella put the phone down with a shaking hand. She had hoped, despite everything.

  What a fool, she thought.

  Later she saddled Lady and rode along the lane towards Branksome Hall. She had no intention of paying a visit but had ridden here the day Charles had first declared his love, seeing the world with fresh colours, bright with her deepest feelings.

  How I loved him, she thought. She loved him still; it was no use but she knew she would love Charles Hardy until she died. That was her fate, but she would not let it destroy her life. For this reason she turned back before she reached the rise overlooking the house; the pain of seeing it might have been too much to bear.

  On her way back to the Grange she looked for the last time at the line of the moors, the tree-shaded lanes, the emerald brilliance of the young corn. She would not be here to see the harvest but its beauty filled her heart. She was glad of that; it gave hope that somewhere, sometime, there might be an end to pain.

  * * *

  ‘The boat leaves from London,’ Bella told her father that evening.

  The two of them were sitting in the library, Father with a brandy decanter and glass on a side table convenient to his knee, Bella watching him from an easy chair on the other side of the fireplace. They had grown closer since the old earl’s death but had still never sat and had a real talk. Tonight might be the last opportunity they would ever have.

  The lights were low and the firelight cast shadows across the spines of the books around the walls. The shifting light created a warm atmosphere where confidences were more easily exchanged than in daylight.

  ‘When I’m in London I shall see if I can find my mother,’ Bella said. ‘Do you really have no idea where she is?’

  ‘I lost touch with her years ago,’ he said. ‘I did try but I never found out where she went after you came to us. I’m sorry.’

  ‘She would have been sorry too,’ Bella said. ‘You know you’ve never told me anything about her?’

  ‘Not much to tell, really.’

  A log shifted in the fireplace, releasing a tongue of yellow flame.

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a place called Tankerton Manor shortly before the war. It was just outside Whitstable, on the Thames. She was one of the chambermaids. We fell for each other straight away. Once we knew you were on the way she had to leave, of course. I arranged for someone I knew on the Kent coast to look after her and after you were born I brought the pair of you up to live here, on the estate.’

  ‘Until we got thrown out,’ Bella said.

  ‘That was not my doing,’ Father said. He took a sip of brandy. ‘But I have always felt I should have done more for her. For the pair of you.’

  ‘You did what you could.’

  ‘Got knocked about a bit in the war. Afterwards I never seemed to have the same spirit I had before. Not much of an excuse, I know, but that’s the way it was.’

  ‘One thing I’d like you to do for me…’ she said.

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘That portrait Grandfather gave me. Will you hang on to it for me until I’ve got an address you can send it to?’

  ‘Of course. And when your money from the estate comes due I shall send it to you as well.’

  ‘If I find Mumma, shall I give her your love?’

  Anthony hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Better not.’

  ‘If you still feel for her…’

  ‘What good would it do?’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ said Bella. But knew she would do what seemed right to her at the time.

  She had tried to reach Mumma so often over the years, always without success. Perhaps this time she would have better luck.

  The boat was sailing in three days, which did not give her long to find someone in a place the size of London.

  Bella didn’t know where to start. Mumma might be anywhere – she might be dead. What Father had said about Tankerton Manor wasn’t news; she had taken her there when they had been living in Rotherhithe and she had never forgotten how the kitchen door had been slammed in their faces. No matter; the daughter of the Earl of Clapham was likely to get more co-operation than they’d had on that occasion so she gave the owner a call anyway. It did no good. The lady of the house pointed out that it was many years ago and they kept no record of junior staff. However, if Jenny Tempest had indeed worked there, and if her father had been a bait-digger, she must have come from somewhere along the river.

  Life had taught Bella that you had to persevere if you wanted anything. She caught the train to Whitstable. Unable to afford a taxicab, she set out to walk from one riverside village to the next. She did not know what she had expected, but what she found was poverty. Her earliest memories had been of the cottage. She had been brought up to think of herself as poor, but these tar-paper shacks… Had Mother really been raised in one of them?

  Bella was dressed like the lady she had been brought up to be, which was a disadvantage here. Wherever she went, she was met by suspicious eyes and a reluctance to talk.

  ‘Jenny Tempest? Anyone know Jenny Tempest?’

  ‘Never ’eard of ’er.’

  ‘I’m her daughter. I’m trying to find her.’

  ‘Never ’eard of ’er.’

  Until, on the afternoon of the second day, she walked along a jetty sticking out into the swirling tide and found a man, stocky and red-faced, brown hair turning grey, baiting long lines with large and hairy worms from a bucket at his feet.

  In answer to her usual question, the man looked up at her thoughtfully. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘My name is Arabella Tempest Richmond,’ Bella said slowly and clearly. ‘And I am Jenny Tempest’s daughter.’

  ‘Then let me tell you something: there ain’t no such person as Jenny Tempest.’

  Bella’s heart lurched. ‘Are you saying she’s dead?’

  ‘I’m sayin’ that ain’t ’er name,’ the man said. ‘’Asn’t bin for nigh on ten year. Her name is Mrs Jenny Such, an’ I’m her ’usband.’

  Bella could not help it; she stared. Mumma married? How could she have turned her back on her past? On her love? But wasn’t that what she was doing, and for the same reason? People lived their lives as best they could, and regrets were useless. So now she smiled at this stranger who, it seemed, was her stepfather.

  ‘Where is she? I am so longing to see her.’

  The fisherman’s brown eyes continued to study her. ‘But does she want to see you, I wonder?’

  Bella had not considered that possibility. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Not a word, all these years, and now turnin’ up, out of the blue… What you tryin’ to do, break ’er ’eart all over again?’

  Bella glared. ‘I must have written a dozen times! And never a word in reply. I was six years old when she sent me off to live among strangers. I know she did it for the best but I’ve heard nothing from her ever si
nce. Is that my fault?’

  The man’s expression changed. ‘You sayin’ you wrote to ’er?’

  ‘The first day I was there; I remember it clearly. I don’t suppose it was much of a letter at that age but I wrote it. I remember waiting, too, for an answer that never came.’

  She had told herself she would not dwell on the past but the memories of those childhood days, when she had believed herself abandoned by the one person she had trusted and loved above all others, brought tears to her eyes. ‘Never a word in all those years,’ she cried. ‘And you blame me for it?’

  The man was on his feet. ‘You’d best come wiv me,’ he said.

  They walked along the jetty side by side. Neither spoke. When they reached dry land Mr Such led the way through a tangle of shacks where women in sacking aprons stared and the rainwater lay in puddles along the rutted track. Eventually they reached higher ground and a brick cottage with views of the open country running south from the river. There was a paling fence, a vegie patch, a green-painted door that stood open, giving a glimpse of the room inside.

  Bella’s heart was beating fast.

  Her companion stopped by the fence and called in a loud voice, ‘Mrs Such! Visitor fer you!’

  For a few moments, nothing. Then a woman appeared in the doorway. ‘What you on about, Luke Such?’

  She looked at Bella, puzzled.

  ‘Mumma?’ Bella said. And saw recognition dawn.

  ‘My dear life!’ Jenny said faintly.

  Half an hour of wheres? and whos? and hows?, of broken explanations with both women talking at once, of tears and clutching hands, of joy miraculously erasing years of heartache.

  Somehow – Bella never remembered how – mother and daughter were sitting in the little parlour, their eyes eating each other up, while Luke Such smiled fondly, his big shoulders almost filling the room.

  ‘That dratted woman,’ Jenny said. ‘She was the one behind it, I’ll guarantee.’ She too had written a dozen times. ‘More, but never no answers. The old earl: passed on now, I suppose?’

  ‘In March,’ Bella said. ‘Father is the earl, now.’