The Favoured Child twt-2 Page 17

  I did not stand there on purpose to eavesdrop, but I heard the silence in the room. And then I heard Richard say so kindly, so gently, ‘Please don’t be upset, Mama-Aunt, please don’t be offended, sir. Julia is never like this usually. Mama-Aunt will tell you that, and indeed it is true. There never was a sweeter-tempered girl than my cousin. I have never seen her like this before.’

  I let out a silent sigh at Richard’s loyalty. He was defending me in the next breath after I had raged at him. Then I remembered that I should not be standing there, within earshot, and I moved away from the door.

  I could have gone to my room, or gone to sit in the empty dining-room, but I needed to see the sky over Wideacre and needed the wind from the woods to blow away my temper and my confusion. I opened the front door and slipped out into the late afternoon.

  Careless of my gown, I sat on the stone steps and welcomed the chill of the damp air. Evenings had been pearl-light this spring, but today had been as dark as winter all day and the afternoon was grey and shady from the fog of the morning and the lowering clouds. I gulped in the damp air and felt it wet as mist against my cheek. Across the drive the woods of Wideacre were hazy with green growth, and invisible birds in the wet paleness were singing and singing with boundless energy, not to be distracted by the cold or the darkness, knowing in their little leaping hearts that it was spring and time for loving and courting and mating.

  I sighed. I felt the anger and the confusion drift away from me like blossoms tossed on the floodtide Fenny. It was all right. I had told a lie, a set of lies. But I had done it to protect an Acre man who looked to the Laceys for help. There had been enough arrests and threats in Acre in the past. Neither Richard nor I would add to it. Ralph Megson had returned with the promise of new hope for Acre, and if a little lie, or even a set of little lies, could keep that prospect safe, then I would tell those lies.

  I could forgive myself for the lie about Dench, and the secret told to me by Mr Megson I would not consider at all. Like the young girl they expected me to be, I would trust Uncle John’s judgement and make no judgement of my own. He thought Mr Megson a fit manager for the estate, and he knew something of his past. He had praised Mr Megson’s character and he was prepared to ignore the turbulence in the man’s youth. I could not betray Mr Megson, and I would not judge him. I let that lie go too – I let it melt from my mind like frost in the mornings. I took a deep breath of Wideacre air and let it out in a sigh.

  I must have appeared a rude ill-bred spoiled little miss; and that before the man my mama most loved and respected in the world. But it was a small enough thing for a Lacey to do for Acre. I would apologize to my mama, I would apologize to Uncle John and I might be able to tell the truth to Richard. I thought Richard might understand. And if he was not angry with me, then I could face anything.

  And thus I sat, while the rooks cawed hoarsely and tumbled home to their straggly nests, swaying at the very tops of the trees. Thus I sat and let the peace of Wideacre wash over me, until I was a Lacey on Wideacre again, knowing my home.

  The door behind me opened with a click and Richard came out. He nearly stumbled over me, not seeing me in the gloom.

  Oh, there you are,’ he said abruptly. ‘You’ll have to face them and apologize sooner or later, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I said comfortably. I smiled up at him. ‘Wasn’t I a shrew?’ I said ruefully. ‘But I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘I knew you were trying to tell some plumper, but I couldn’t think what you were saying,’ Richard said. He dropped down to sit on the step beside me and his shoulder brushed mine. I leaned slightly towards it and felt warmed with the comfort of his presence.

  ‘Who on earth is the mysterious Dan Tayler?’ he said. ‘You were trying to lead Mama all around the house on that taradiddle, Julia. But anyone who knows you could have seen you were fibbing. What were you trying to hide?’

  ‘Oh Richard,’ I said. ‘I know, it’s no good trying to lie to you. And I wouldn’t want to lie to Mama either, or Uncle John. But I was afraid to tell them!’

  Richard took my hand in his warm clasp. ‘Afraid to tell them what?’ he asked mystified. ‘What great secret have you, little Julia?’

  ‘It was Dench!’ I said in a rush. ‘John Dench, the Havering groom. He had obviously been hiding in Acre or near by all this time, perhaps Midhurst. And when they had the party, of course he came to it. We nearly bumped into him in the village street! It was quite awful. I didn’t know what Uncle John would do, but I could not have borne it if he had ordered Dench’s arrest.’

  Richard put his arm around my shoulder and I laid my head into the warm crook of his neck and sniffed at his warmth like a little sensual animal.

  ‘But Grandpapa Havering put out a reward for Dench’s arrest,’ Richard said softly. ‘You are a little criminal yourself, Julia, to help hide him.’

  I nodded. Richard’s gentle hand came up from my shoulder and caressed my cheek. I nearly purred like a stroked kitten.

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘I cannot explain it, Richard. I just thought how kind he had been to you when he was teaching you to ride, and how anxious he was for you on that awful day when you had your accident. And I know Clary Dench now, and he is her uncle and she loves him so much, you know, Richard. I just couldn’t have named him to Uncle John and watched them take him away.’

  ‘So you lied,’ Richard said. His voice was still gentle.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and I was no longer melting with his touch. I could hear an edge of anxiety in my voice. ‘It was all such a long time ago,’ I said, but I was less confident. ‘It was years ago. I could not have borne for the new start for Acre and Mr Megson’s first day here to be spoiled by an old, old score.’

  ‘You deliberately told my papa a false name. And then you lied to Mama-Aunt and to me?’ Richard’s voice was as smooth as silk.

  ‘Yes,’ I said again. ‘But I knew you would understand, Richard. I was sure you would understand. I was not lying to you, for see, I have told you as soon as I could. This is the first moment we have been together and I have told you at once. I was not lying to you, Richard.’

  ‘No,’ he said judicially. ‘You have told me the truth as soon as you could. But you have not told me something that I find very strange.’

  ‘What is that Richard?’ I asked. My voice was as thin as a child’s. ‘I will tell you anything, Richard. You know I never keep secrets from you.’

  Richard’s hand on my shoulder was no longer a caress. He was holding me to his side so there was no chance that I could get away. His voice was as soft and as gentle as ever. But I felt like a foolish rabbit hopping towards a snare.

  ‘Had you forgotten, Julia, why Grandpapa Havering wanted Dench arrested? Had you forgotten what he had done to my horse?’

  Oh, no, Richard!’ I cried. ‘How could I forget? I cried every night for a week for poor Scheherazade, and for you and your disappointment. You know how upset I was. Of course I had not forgotten!’ I broke off and paused, for it was the wrong answer and I knew it as soon as it had left my lips. ‘At least,’ I said, correcting myself, ‘I have not forgotten; but I did not remember it quite at the time. All I could really think of was poor Clary who loves her uncle so, and poor Dench who must have been living so poorly and so badly in hiding somewhere. And the village was so happy and alive that I could not bear to be the one who spoiled all that. And everyone was listening, Richard, and looking. You know how they do in Acre. I could not bear to be a Lacey breaking hearts in Acre again, Richard! I really could not have named him to Uncle John!’

  Richard’s grip on my shoulder was so hard that it hurt. His fingers were digging into the soft flesh of my upper arm like four blunt knives. But he said nothing.

  ‘Richard,’ I said. ‘You are hurting me, you are holding me too tight.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and there was a smile in his voice, but it was not a nice smile. It was too dark for me to see his eyes, but I knew they were black with rage. I had been
wrong to lie and then I had been wrong to try to explain, the lie to Richard. I had the old familiar sensation of the ground slipping away from under my feet, and I knew that there was no way of saving myself from Richard’s torrent of anger.

  ‘You deserve that I should hurt you,’ he said. ‘You have hidden the man who injured my horse, injured my horse so badly that she had to be killed. You saw him in Acre, and you lied to my papa so that he should be safe. I know why you did that, Miss Lacey of Wideacre. You did it so that you could queen it around Acre as the favourite of the village. You said yourself that everyone was looking at you and listening. You wanted them to think you were so nice, so sweet, such a little princess that you thought nothing of me and of the fact that John Dench killed my horse out of spite and hatred towards me!’

  ‘No, Richard!’ I said aghast. ‘No! That is not right! That is not how it was!’

  ‘You want to be the favourite in Acre,’ he said. His grip on my shoulder was like iron. ‘You think that if you can be little precious Miss Lacey of Wideacre, then the village will see you as the squire and they will all forget about me, me and my rights. That is what you are thinking of. I know it!’

  ‘No, Richard! No!’ I said.

  ‘You are trying to steal Wideacre from me!’ he accused.

  ‘No! Never! Never, Richard! I never could or would. When anyone asks me, I tell them that you are to be squire. That you are the favoured child!’

  ‘The what?’ he asked momentarily diverted.

  ‘It’s nothing, nothing,’ I said hastily. ‘Just a legend, a silly legend from the village.’ He stared at me and waited. I had to go on. ‘It is a legend they have,’ I said. ‘They believe that one of us is Beatrice’s true heir, with her gift of the sight, and the gift to make the land grow. They are wondering which of us it is. I always say it is you.’

  Richard suddenly released me with such a violent shove that I fell backwards on the stone step. My head hit the door with a thud and for a moment I could see nothing and hear nothing but the ringing in my ears from the blow.

  ‘Richard!’ I said shocked.

  ‘It is me!’ he hissed in absolute passion. ‘It is me! And yet I have been stuck in Dr Pearce’s study while you have been free to roam all around and make friends with people and make them think you are the natural heir. You would never even have told me if it had not slipped out like this! You are a cheat, Julia. You are an encroacher! This is my land, and I am Beatrice’s son. I shall be the heir.’

  I could say nothing. I was shattered that he should treat me so, dizzy from the blow. My fingers stroking through my tumbled hair found a swelling lump. My eyes were blurred with tears at the hurt, and the tears were spilling down my cheeks, but my voice was choked and I could say nothing in my defence. Richard was wrong, quite wrong. But he had the advantage of rage and the high ground of an accusation. And I looked very bad. Shielding Dench was exactly the sort of thing which would make me beloved in Acre, and I had kept the legend of the favoured child to myself.

  ‘I am sorry, Richard…’ I started.

  But it was no good. He spun on his heel and left me sitting like a peasant woman weeping on the doorstep. He opened the front door and went inside without another word to me. My hand was flat on the doorstep and as he shut the door it crushed the first joint of my middle finger with a sudden sharp agony which made me cry out in pain. I caught the finger in my other hand and squeezed it as tight as I could in an effort to stop the pain, and wept like a hurt child. He had not meant to do it, I knew he had not meant to do it; he had simply shut the door quickly. But the pain of the bruised flesh and the nail – which already wore a white half-moon of a scar across it – made me weep with self-pity.

  I did not sit there, sobbing on the doorstep, for very long. It seemed like a long time indeed, but I knew it was not. I wobbled my finger-nail cautiously, but it did not come away as I had feared it might.

  My tears stopped, and the thudding of my heart from fright gradually stilled, and the pain in my head from the blow and the tremble all over at Richard’s rage faded little by little as I sat on the stone steps in the darkening garden. The stone was cold – I could feel it through my silk gown – but still I sat on, waiting until the tears had dried on my cheeks and until my hands were steady, and trying to find, from deep inside myself, some source of peace and calm again. Richard was my betrothed, and my own grandmama had warned me that he would not always be a loving boy. I had promised myself to him and he had a right – he even had a legal right – to use me as he would. A bump on the head and an accidental injury to my hand was not unreasonable. So I sat still and quiet and worked to persuade myself that I was not insulted, that I was not injured, that I was not abused. And if I wanted to marry Richard – and I did want to marry Richard-then I would have to learn to take the rough parts of his temper with the smooth. It was his right.

  I sat there, getting colder and calmer as the little pale sickle moon came up behind a bank of clouds and shone on me with a veiled light. I heard a clatter of horse’s hooves and then the garden gate opened and Mr Megson came up the path with his rolling stride, balancing without crutches on the flagged path. He stopped short at seeing me, hair tumbling down, red-eyed and wet-cheeked, sitting on the doorstep of my own home like a beggar-girl.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said softly. He glanced up at the parlour window where the candlelight spilled out. ‘Locked out? Or sulking? Miss Julia?’

  I was silent for a minute and then I gave a watery chuckle that was almost a sob. ‘Sulking, I suppose,’ I said. ‘For I’m not locked out.’

  Mr Megson nodded, and put out one hand to steady himself on the doorknob and the other to pull me to my feet. I gave him the hurt hand and pulled back with a little cry of pain at his touch on my finger.

  ‘I shut my hand in the door,’ I explained. I gave him my other hand and he helped me to my feet and put a hand under my elbow when I staggered.

  ‘Dizzy?’ he asked.

  ‘I bumped my head on the step,’ I told him, and put my hand to the back of my head to feel the swelling. It was a little bigger and very tender to the touch.

  ‘When you sulk, you do it properly!’ Mr Megson said, a ripple of amusement in his voice. ‘Were you banging your head in a rage?’

  Of course not!’ I said stung. ‘It was an accident.’ ‘And your finger?’ he asked.

  ‘That was an accident,’ I said, unconsciously betraying myself.

  ‘How did you bang your head?’ he asked.

  I flushed to the roots of my hair. ‘It was an accident, as I’ve said.’ Richard was my husband-to-be. It was my duty to protect his reputation and my pride. If he had beaten me, I should never have told anyone.

  ‘Is Richard at home?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘No,’ I said at once. ‘It was an accident.’ And then I put out my hand to the cold stone of the doorpost to steady myself. ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said, clinging to my manners, though the dusky woods were wavering before my eyes and I was afraid of what Mr Megson might be thinking of me, might be thinking of Richard. ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said again. ‘I misunderstood you. Yes, Richard is home, and Mama and Uncle John. May I take you in?’

  Mr Megson nodded. He did not bow like a gentleman, but he offered me his arm with a grace which a gentleman might envy. I took it with a little smile and we went into the house.

  Stride was in the hall. ‘Miss Julia!’ he said reprovingly. ‘Miss Julia, I don’t know what possessed you. And what have you done to yourself now?’

  I smiled wanly at his anxious face. ‘I don’t feel very well, Stride,’ I said. ‘I shall go to bed. Please apologize for me to Mama and Uncle John, for I shan’t come down again this evening. And please tell Uncle John that Mr Megson is here to see him.’

  Stride nodded and took Mr Megson towards the library. I went wearily up the stairs to my room.

  I slid my clothes off and left them in a heap on the foot of the bed. The thin linen pillow was cool under my cheek, and wh
en I swept my hair off my neck the bruise was eased by the touch of the chill cloth. I lay on my back, nursing my hurt finger, waiting for the throbbing in my head to cease, and waiting for the pain in my heart to ease. I felt very alone, and very sad. And then I slept.

  The dream started at once, I think.

  I knew, I knew it was the dream. But some real days have seemed less real than that dream.

  I was gazing blank-eyed into a fire burning in a hearth I had never seen in waking life, in a room I had never visited. It was evening, late, late evening, and the sky was dark with a storm. There was thunder, and the sharp crack of lightning, but I had no fear, no fear at all. It was as though I had died and was a ghost and had nothing to fear any more.

  As I gazed at the flames of the fire, I heard a noise above the sound of the storm. I heard a window creak. The light from the stormy cloud-chased sky was blocked and the room went utterly black, for someone was climbing through the window into my room. I turned my head languidly, but I did not call for help. I opened my mouth, but did not scream. I froze, waiting, sprawled before the fire for what was coming to me.

  He came silently to me and he pushed the chair from behind my shoulders so that I lay flat on the floor. I trembled as if his very touch were an icy wind, but I did not move. Only my eyes blinked and gazed in a gleam of moonlight.

  He kissed my collar-bone, this dark familiar stranger in the dream. He opened my gown and kissed one breast, the nipple as hard as a blackberry, and then he kissed the other. In the dream I made a moan of soft longing, and in waking life the girl in the bed, a virgin, stirred and cried and struggled against a knowledge she did not yet want.

  In the dream the woman’s skilful hands went flat against his chest and smoothed down his belly till she felt his hardness; but he brushed her hand away and opened the front of her gown and slid his face, the stubble scratching her soft skin, down over her warm belly to take her in his mouth.