Dust of the Land Page 7

  Grant was incapable of admitting there was anything he could not do. ‘We must let nature take its course, young lady.’

  ‘In other words,’ Bella said, ‘if he dies, he dies.’

  ‘There is nae more any physician on this earth can do for his Lordship,’ he declared. And stalked out, nose pointing indignantly at the ceiling.

  Mrs Richmond gave Bella a baleful look. ‘I shall speak to you later,’ she said.

  Bella cared nothing for her stepmother’s outrage. She stared at the waxen features of the man who over the years had been her only friend and wished with all her heart that it might be possible to restore him to health.

  ‘I feel so useless,’ she said.

  ‘We are in the hands of God,’ said Mrs Richmond. ‘I have sent for Mr Pearce.’

  The earl had despised the minister even more than Dr Grant but Bella said nothing. In Mrs Richmond’s eyes Mr Pearce was so close to God that she regarded even the mildest criticism of him as blasphemy.

  They watched and waited and, twenty minutes later, Anthony Richmond arrived, followed closely by the minister. Bella and her father tried to smile at each other, but it was too hard; they had become strangers. Instead they stared at the dying man while Mr Pearce bleated a prayer.

  Bella gave her father’s hand a quick squeeze and left. She walked down the stairs and across the drawing room. She opened the French windows and stepped onto the terrace, which later in the year would be a wonderland of roses, before following the steps down to the courtyard. The ornamental ponds were pocked with raindrops but Bella did not care about that. She walked through what was no longer a shower until she reached the water. The ponds contained ornamental carp; she had read that in some countries they symbolised good luck so she waited, hoping to see one, but failing. Eventually, wet through and bedraggled, she walked back towards the house.

  Bella had never been one for prayer, mainly because her stepmother set such store by it, but now she prayed that Achilles Richmond, seventh earl of Clapham, would make a full recovery. She prayed for him because she loved him. He had befriended her when she had been an abandoned child, lonely and lost, and Miss Hunnicut, her stepmother and even her father had treated her as though she had no business being at Ripon Grange at all. How many times in those early days had she wept herself to sleep? How often, as a six- or seven-year-old child, had she known the despair of someone who had lost the one being in the world who mattered to her? Without the earl she believed she might never have survived at all. Walking back to the house through the rain she prayed with all her strength for the two beings who mattered most in her life: that the earl would make a complete recovery and that, whatever happened to her grandfather, she would still be able to marry Charles, whom she loved more than life itself, because without these two men at her side she would be lost.

  Charles will protect me, she thought. She remembered some words she had read long ago. Whatever happens to Grandpapa, Charles will be my sword and buckler.

  She reached the house, where she did not have to wait long for an answer to her prayer.

  She walked through the kitchen and down the flagged passage to the main part of the house, where she met Miss Hunnicut. The old lady was in such a state that she did not notice that Bella was soaked.

  ‘Oh Arabella…’

  Bella swayed, feeling the blood retreat from her cheeks. There was no need for Miss Hunnicut to say more, because Bella knew. Achilles Richmond, seventh earl of Clapham, was dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘We must do something about Arabella,’ Charlotte told her husband two weeks after the funeral.

  ‘If you mean marriage, she may have thoughts on that subject herself,’ said Anthony.

  Charlotte was aware of the attachment between Arabella and Charles Hardy, but it would never do. If they were married it would mean that the Hardys, husband and wife, would move in the same circle as the Earl and Countess of Clapham, and Charlotte was not prepared to accept the prospect of sitting at table with her husband’s bastard.

  ‘Surely you cannot mean the Hardy boy?’ Charlotte’s titter discarded that idea. ‘A girl of Arabella’s age needs a mature man, someone who knows the way of the world.’

  ‘You are thinking of Hector Lacey,’ Anthony said.

  ‘I think the major would make an ideal husband.’

  ‘He’s certainly mature. I’m not sure about the major bit. Friend of your brother, isn’t he?’

  And, like Charlotte’s brother and grandfather, making a name for himself in the City for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘They are acquainted,’ Charlotte said stiffly.

  ‘I wouldn’t have Lacey as a son-in-law if you paid me,’ said Anthony. ‘In any case Bella’s too young.’

  ‘Surely not? How old was her mother when you first became acquainted?’

  Which informed Anthony that the knives were out in earnest.

  ‘Many of the aristocracy marry young, do they not?’ Charlotte enquired.

  ‘Some may,’ Anthony said. ‘Lady Dutton did not get married until she was sixty-three.’

  ‘Are you suggesting Bella should wait so long? Of course,’ said Charlotte thoughtfully, ‘many of the working classes also marry young, I hear. Those who marry at all.’

  For years Anthony had thought his wife’s titter would drive him to murder.

  ‘It is strange, is it not,’ Charlotte said, ‘how so many of the upper classes enjoy slumming?’

  ‘It is strange, is it not,’ Anthony said, ‘how so many of the upper classes have to go slumming in order to find affection?’

  ‘If that is what you call it,’ Charlotte said. And tittered. ‘I have heard it called other names.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should be more careful of the company you keep,’ Anthony said.

  ‘I see that becoming the eighth earl may have gone to your head.’

  Perhaps Charlotte was right, Anthony thought. With the title had come responsibility: for the estate itself and all manner of things. For Bella most of all. He knew that Bella’s presence was a constant aggravation to his wife. This for two reasons: that he had fathered a child by another woman and that Charlotte had proved incapable of having any of her own. Now her resentment had been fuelled by a further development. The old earl had left Bella ten thousand pounds in his will. Admittedly she would not get it until she was twenty-one but Charlotte still thought it outrageous.

  ‘Perhaps we should challenge that clause,’ she had said. ‘I always suspected your father had been losing his mind and there’s the proof of it.’

  ‘We shall do no such thing,’ Anthony had told her.

  ‘But it is ridiculous! Ten thousand pounds? I am sure the courts would never support –’

  ‘No!’ Anthony spoke through his teeth. ‘Let us hear no more of it.’

  After the traumas of the war he had wanted a quiet life. Foreseeing problems, he had been against bringing Bella to Ripon Grange, but his father had as usual had his way. For this reason and because it was the easier option Anthony had left the nurturing of the child to his father. Now the old earl’s death had woken his conscience to belated life. However deficient in care he might have been until now, he was no longer prepared to have his child sacrificed on the altar of his wife’s resentment. The wife whom at that moment he did not like at all.

  ‘Make sure becoming the countess doesn’t go to yours,’ he said.

  Charlotte stuck her nose in the air but in truth her intentions were not affected by her husband’s boorishness. Since the old earl’s death Charlotte had observed Anthony and his daughter growing closer to each other. They had even begun to talk without the crippling sense of awkwardness she had done everything she could to encourage. On one occasion she had even overheard Arabella asking whether he was still in contact with her mother. What an outrageous suggestion! It reminded her of what Miss Hunnicut had told her many times in the early years, how Arabella had always been asking about her mother, whether anyone knew where she was a
nd how it might be possible to get in touch with her. Miss Hunnicut had told her nothing, of course, as was only right. Arabella had been too sensible to ask Charlotte, who would have told her nothing as a matter of principle. All Charlotte knew was that her father-in-law had been paying the wretched woman a regular annuity, so presumably she was still alive. She had no wish to find out any more about her but naturally took steps to stop the annuity as soon as she was in a position to do so.

  As for the growing intimacy between her husband and his daughter… That was something else she was not prepared to tolerate. The sooner Arabella was removed from the scene the better.

  The next morning she had Horrocks bring round the Rolls – no Delage for the new Countess of Clapham! – and drove off to pay a social visit on Mr Hardy of Branksome Hall.

  ‘I speak as a friend,’ Charlotte said to Mr Hardy, who was better equipped than most to hear what was not being said in any conversation.

  ‘I quite understand, ma’am.’

  The coffee was delightful, the silver pot in which it was served brilliantly polished. Beyond the tall windows, a pale sun watered the extensive lawns that sloped to an ornamental pond.

  ‘Are you acquainted with Major Hector Lacey?’

  ‘I know the name. I have not met him.’

  ‘A particular friend of mine. And – I tell you this in confidence – it is likely that very soon there will be the announcement of an understanding between the major and my husband’s daughter.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  The countess watched closely but Mr Hardy might have been fashioned from stone.

  ‘Such an arrangement would have our warmest approval,’ she said.

  Mr Hardy said nothing, while his eyes watched a family of ducks swimming on the pond.

  ‘Our belief,’ the countess said, ‘is that it would be ideally suited to all parties. A young gel needs – I am sure you will agree with me, Mr Hardy – a mature hand to guide her through those first all-important weeks of marriage. In the circumstances my husband is of the view, and I agree with him, that any other friendship should not be encouraged.’

  Now Mr Hardy looked her over thoughtfully. ‘I appreciate your telling me.’

  ‘However…’ The countess smiled warmly.

  ‘However?’ Mr Hardy wondered.

  ‘My husband and I value our relationship with your family and would like it maintained. If that is agreeable to you.’

  Mr Hardy was willing to concede that it would be agreeable to him also. If he wondered what the battleaxe was getting at he hid it well.

  ‘I cannot recall whether you have ever met my sister,’ the countess said.

  ‘I have not had that pleasure.’

  ‘Then we must make arrangements. A most delightful girl. And,’ as though it were of no consequence, ‘several years younger than I. Still in her twenties. Would you believe it?’

  ‘I would have said you were no older yourself, ma’am,’ he said with a straight face.

  ‘I understand that your son had been planning to go riding with Arabella tomorrow?’

  Their eyes met.

  ‘Unfortunately he will have to postpone that arrangement,’ Mr Hardy said. ‘I need him to go to London for me. Urgent family business. Regrettable, of course, but unavoidable.’

  The countess was looking for her gloves.

  ‘Would you like me to give her his apologies?’

  ‘That would be most kind.’

  ‘Will he be away long?’

  ‘It could be several months, I’m afraid. It is an important matter.’

  ‘Such a shame,’ the countess said. ‘But these things happen, do they not?’

  And left, very pleased with herself and her morning’s work. Poor Arabella, she thought complacently as she watched the fields flowing past. She will soon get over it. And the major will be much more suitable for her. I must invite Jane to stay. We are sisters, after all. And have been apart too long.

  Charles was aghast. ‘You’re sending me to Hackney?’

  ‘That boot manufacturer we took over last year,’ his father told him. ‘There’s the possibility of a big contract, supplying boots to the German war department, but it will mean major modifications to the plant and I want you to be involved in it.’

  ‘I know nothing about the plant. Or boots.’

  ‘You will be working with Mr Griffiths, the manager, and he will instruct you. In any case you won’t be there much of the time. Your main job will be to assist him in negotiations with the Germans, so you’ll be spending a lot of time in Berlin. From what I hear, their government is very demanding.’

  ‘I’m not sure my German is fluent enough for that.’

  Charles, obsessed with Bella, did not want to go anywhere but his father had never learnt to take no for an answer.

  ‘You studied German at Harrow, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But –’

  ‘Then do your best. Play your cards right, this could be a huge order for us.’

  ‘Bella and I had been planning –’

  Mr Hardy’s eyes were like flint. ‘You will have to forget about Bella Tempest.’

  Charles had never learnt the knack of dealing with his domineering father yet for Bella’s sake and his own was willing to try. ‘At least let me tell her what’s going on…’

  ‘No time for that. You need to be on the three-fifteen train. Mr Griffiths is expecting you in London tonight.’

  ‘Then I shall phone her from London,’ Charles said.

  ‘You would be wiser to forget her,’ his father said.

  Defiance took root. ‘That I shall never do.’

  But Mr Hardy’s response was merciless, and devastating. ‘You have no choice. Bella is engaged to be married.’

  ‘What?’

  Had the ceiling fallen on Charles’s head it would have been a lesser shock.

  ‘To a Major Lacey. A man, I may say, with a very bad reputation in the City of London.’

  Blackness overwhelmed Charles. What his father was saying was impossible. Every atom of his being rejected it. Bella had been with him less than an hour earlier. She had told him she loved him. She had permitted him to touch her. They had been happy, dreaming of a shared future.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Charles said.

  ‘The countess told me so herself.’

  ‘She is lying…’

  ‘Why should she do that?’

  Because if she was not, Charles thought, there was no truth left in the world.

  ‘Phone her from London, if you must,’ Mr Hardy said. ‘If it will put your mind at rest.’

  As though a restful mind were possible after news like this!

  ‘She is lying,’ he said again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bella was up at dawn. After drinking a cup of coffee she saddled Lady, her chestnut mare, trotted down the drive and out through the lodge gates.

  Above the moors the sky was streaked with green light and barred with cloud. The air was still, except for the occasional gust that came from nowhere and shivered the leaves of the trees before vanishing as quickly as it had come. Above the trees the rooks circled, cawing restlessly.

  Bella eyed the sky as she rode. Overhead it was clear but in these parts the weather could change in minutes, and she sensed a storm brewing. It might pass, it might not, but it would take more than a storm to stop her because she was riding to meet her love, and her heart was singing in expectation.

  She crested the rise and saw the massive elm tree beneath which they had arranged to meet, as they had every morning for weeks. Usually Charles was there first and she would wave and put heels to the mare, galloping down the lane to meet him, heart on fire with excitement and joy, but today there was no one. She had beaten him to it.

  She trotted on sedately, expecting to see him appear at any moment, but by the time she reached the tree he was still not in sight. No matter; she reined in and waited.

  Above the moors the clouds were winning. The streaks o
f green had disappeared and the sky was uniformly black, swallowing the light even where Bella was waiting. Lightning crackled, followed by a rumble of thunder. A gust of wind tore leaves from the trees and sent them tumbling along the lane, then all was still once more, save for the raucous circling of the uneasy rooks.

  They were in for a drenching; no doubt about it. Once again Bella looked up the lane leading to Branksome but it remained empty.

  What could have happened to Charles?

  To pass the time her brain turned to her favourite fantasy: Mr and Mrs Charles Hardy riding side by side up the oak-fringed driveway to Branksome, the golden lamplight beckoning through the tall windows of the library and reflecting on the surface of the ornamental pond as light faded slowly from the landscape. She could hear Charles’s voice and see his smile so clearly that it was a shock to return to reality and find herself still waiting beneath the elm tree’s spreading branches, with the first drops of rain falling and Charles nowhere in sight.

  He had never kept her waiting before. Now Bella began to worry. What if he’d been thrown? She still had vivid memories of his fall during their crazy downhill race. She had known she was in love with him before that but the accident had brought home to her what it would mean to lose him.

  The rain was heavier now. The lane remained empty. A crackle of lightning, almost overhead, was followed within seconds by a bellow of thunder, and Lady stirred uneasily at her side.

  ‘Steady, girl. Steady.’

  She remembered her grandfather saying it was dangerous to shelter under a tall tree in a thunderstorm but the rain was falling in earnest now and beyond its shelter she would be soaked in minutes; already she could see rivulets running down the lane.

  Still Charles did not come.

  She had intended to wait out the storm but eventually her anxiety became too much and she set out, head hunched against the downpour, to ride to Branksome. The lane remained empty and when she breasted the final rise and saw the distant shape of the house she knew that something must have prevented his coming. It was still very early and by now she must look like a drowned rat but she didn’t hesitate. Maybe he was sick; maybe something had delayed him. Whatever the reason, she had the right to find out what it was, and find out she would.