The child bowed her head.

  ‘Ask her yourself.’

  Her trembling lower lip told Clinton that unless he were more gentle she would start to cry and then he would learn nothing from her. Remembering her inexplicable blushings and exits in the middle of their conversations for no apparent reason, and her fury if she thought he was ignoring her, he was well aware of the store she set by everything he said. He sat down next to her at the table.

  ‘Does anything your mother said to you explain what you told those children?’ She shook her head emphatically. He said very softly: ‘Why did you tell them I was your father?’

  ‘They insulted me … called me names. I told them I was Lady Louise Danvers. They’re too ignorant to know viscounts’ daughters aren’t ladies in their own right. I knew I’d be found out but I couldn’t help it. I had to get the better of them.’

  ‘By lying?’

  ‘Yes,’ she shouted, ‘by lying.’ She stopped, fighting back sobs. ‘I was ashamed. They said they’d seen you and mother …’ She got up and turned her back. ‘It’s disgusting … horrible … They were going fishing for perch. They said you were there … without a stitch on by some slimy pond’ She was sobbing now; words wrung from her against her will. ‘They said people had to do that … to make babies. That a man can kiss a woman and make her do anything.’ Her voice sunk very low. ‘They said mummy was ill because of a baby.’ She spun round and faced him. ‘Is it true?’ she whispered gazing at him in horror.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You swear?’

  ‘They lied to you.’

  She looked at him with such thankfulness that he could have wept. Then when he was still stunned by her outburst, she ran up and kissed him on the cheek with clumsy violence. The next moment she ran from the room as if terrified by what she had done.

  *

  The time of her mother’s convalescence was a trying period for Louise. Their walks together ceased and she spent almost all her time with her governess. But by the middle of August Theresa was better and Louise had been given a pony chaise by Clinton. It soon became one of her favourite pastimes to drive herself around the estate.

  One afternoon she went to the stables to tell Harris to get her chaise ready and harness the pony. She found the servant talking to a boy outside the saddle room. Harris called her over.

  ‘The lad here says he’s got a letter for your mother, Miss Louise. Has to give it to her himself. Could you take him while I get Quickstep harnessed?’

  Though feeling it rather beneath her dignity to play escort to an errand boy, Louise’s curiosity got the better of her.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said, looking critically at her charge. The boy’s face was a mass of freckles under his thatch of butter-coloured hair. She noticed that his nose was peeling, and that an immense pair of boots made his legs look like sticks where they showed under his ragged knee-length trousers.

  Walking towards the house, she twirled her little parasol over her head, as she took sideways glances at this improbable messenger. The boy’s tattered clothes made her feel like a princess; but memories of the scant respect shown her by the doctor’s children made her suppress her regal instincts.

  ‘Why can’t you let me take the letter?’ she asked in a friendly voice. ‘I could give you a tip, you know.’

  ‘Keep thy brass. Miss Waller says I’m to gi’ it to the lady herself, and I will that.’

  ‘Who is this Miss Waller?’

  ‘Dressmaker in Sowerby, miss.’

  ‘That’s where we go to mass.’ Louise looked thoughtful. ‘Is she small and rather pink?’

  ‘Happen she is.’

  ‘I wonder she can’t use the post office like anybody else.’ The boy said nothing, but scuffed his boots on the gravel, kicking up dust. ‘Don’t you think it unusual?’

  ‘Mebbe ’tis. Mebbe ’tain’t.’

  His brusque tactiturnity amused Louise.

  ‘You don’t say much.’

  ‘Nowt to say.’

  Louise smiled at him kindly.

  ‘Would you like something to eat in the kitchen? You must be tired.’ He shook his head and walked on with hunched shoulders. She said sweetly: ‘Won’t you show it me?’

  ‘It’s nowt but an envelope, miss.’

  ‘I’d still like to see it. Perhaps you haven’t got a letter at all. Could be just an excuse to get into the house so you can take something.’

  They were only yards from the door, and the boy stopped, rigid with anger.

  ‘Shut thy gob,’ he muttered under his breath, pulling a crumpled envelope from his trouser pocket.

  Concealing her anger at his rudeness, Louise looked away.

  ‘So you brought an envelope,’ she said quietly. ‘They’re not hard to buy.’ She turned and met his eyes calmly. ‘Tell me the name on the letter.’

  He looked down at his dusty boots, blushing fiercely.

  ‘I can’t figure it … Lady of the house I been told.’

  ‘Better let me read it then.’ She held out an unhurried hand, but he stood there stubbornly refusing to relinquish it. His sullen defiance enraged her—an illiterate village boy refusing what she asked and proud of his stupid obstinacy. With a speed of movement that took her adversary completely by surprise, she snatched the envelope away from him and ran as fast as she could towards the door. Hampered by his heavy boots, the boy, though bigger, could not overtake her before she reached the house. Hearing him close behind her, and knowing he would catch her before she could cross the hall, she hit the dinner gong with the handle of her parasol, and turned to defend herself until help came.

  ‘Gi’ it back,’ the boy gasped, coming at her.

  ‘It’s for my mother. I’ll …’

  He lunged forward and she fenced at him with the parasol, catching him in the ribs with the point.

  ‘I told Miss Waller … She made me promise.’ He was desperate rather than angry, and for a moment Louise almost relented, but by now his determination to recover the letter had increased her curiosity to discover what it was. She saw him surreptitiously move to his right, and held up the parasol to parry any sudden move.

  ‘Do you want Miss Waller to hear how rude and silly you’ve been?’

  The boy grabbed at the end of the parasol. Because the letter was in her right hand, Louise was badly handicapped in the tug of war which followed, and was soon disarmed. As he lunged for the letter, she hit him hard across the face, screaming as she cut her knuckles on his teeth. Stunned by pain, and by the noise she was making, he hesitated a fatal moment. A second later a maid and a footman came in.

  ‘Put him out,’ cried Louise.

  ‘She took my letter afore ye came,’ said the boy, appealing to the footman who was advancing on him.

  ‘It’s for my mother. Of course I took it. She’d hardly want to see a village boy.’

  The footman took the boy’s arm and led him firmly to the door.

  Louise sat down on her bed and looked at the dirty envelope. Her hand shook a little as she held it up to the light, but the paper was far too thick for her to learn anything about the contents. The memory of the boy’s face after she had hit him, made her feel horribly guilty; especially since she now had no idea what to do with the letter. She wondered whether he would be sensible and say nothing, or whether next Sunday at Mass, if her mother were well enough to go, Miss Waller would angrily tell her what had happened to her errand boy. Re-examining the envelope to see if she could open it and then glue it again with no damage to the paper, she was horrified to see that she had managed to smear it with blood from her knuckles. She dabbed a handkerchief into the water jug on her washstand and tried to clean away the stain, but the paper was porous and she only succeeded in making the marks worse. The only remedy would be to use a new envelope and write her mother’s name in capital letters. Louise lost no time in opening the old one. To her disappointment, the only enclosure was another sealed envelope, directed to Mrs Barr, Care Of Miss E. Waller, Sowerby, North Lancashire. The postmark intrigued Louise: Ballygowan. She suspected the name was Irish. She turned the envelope over, and was relieved to find that the sender had not sealed it with wax. Who could have written to her mother and yet been scared to send it directly to Hathenshaw? Her heart was beating faster as she stared at the cramped handwriting on the envelope; with a shudder of fear and excitement she hid the letter under her pillow. Already she knew that she was going to open it. Since the servants, who had rescued her, might tell her mother that she had a note for her she realised that she would have to be quick.

  She left her room and went down to the kitchen by the back-stairs. Though a maid was rolling pastry at the table, Louise managed to take one of the large metal ladles from the row of hooks by the dresser without being seen. The servant’s back had been turned and the dresser had helped conceal her. Next Louise took a box of lucifers from the smoking room, and returned to her room, once more by the back-stairs. Having placed a chair against the door, she took two candles of the same length from the candelabrum on the dressing-table, and lighting one, dripped two blobs of wax onto the marble top of the washstand. Setting the base of the candles side by side in the warm wax, she then lit the second one, and, taking the letter from under her pillow, placed it on the edge of the washstand. When she had half-filled the ladle with water, she held it over the candle flames. It took longer than she had expected for the water to get hot, but as soon as it was, she picked up the letter gingerly and proceeded to steam it open.

  Inside were two sheets of paper. The first Louise read was headed, ‘The Presbytery, Rathnagar July 15th 1867’.

  ‘Dear Madam,

  I had great pleasure in receiving your letter communicating the good news of the expected arrival of a young stranger, and I rejoice that you feel I can be of service in bringing another lamb to the sheepfold. I commend your desire to take your precautions in advance concerning the baptism, and have no hesitation in forwarding to you the enclosed certificate. I must however ask you, in view of my promise to Lord Ardmore to preserve the strictest confidentiality, not to use the enclosed for any purpose other than that mentioned in your letter. Should you wish to, a brief note of assent from his lordship would put all straight with me. Since the object of this little request is to avoid misunderstanding, I trust it will not give offence. Secrecy sometimes places the celebrant upon the horns of a dilemma, especially when communicating with only one of the partners. I need not assure you, madam, that your secret is safe with me. I take great interest in your spiritual welfare, and will again be ready to, should any opportunity occur.

  Faithfully, yours in Jesus Christ,

  Bernard Maguire.’

  The second sheet was written more elegantly, as though by a clerk, in copperplate script; the priest’s signature being the only part in his hand.

  ‘From the book of marriages of the parish church of Rathnagar, in the diocese of Kildare, in Ireland, it appears that Clinton Cairns Danvers, Viscount Ardmore, was joined in matrimony with Theresa Catherine Barr, according to the rites of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, on the 6th January 1867, the witnesses being Jane MacDonagh and Mary Brennan. This I testify—Bernard Maguire P.P. Given at Rathnagar this 15th day of July 1867.’

  Louise dropped the letters and stood motionless, staring at the white squares of paper on the patterned carpet. At first she was too dumbfounded to react; then a surge of happiness swept through her. It was not long before this mood passed. She felt disquieted. There was so much she did not understand. Too much. If they were married, why had Clinton lied to her? And why had her mother said nothing? Not even anything about the baby or her illness. Louise sat down on the bed feeling suddenly scared. What was the promise Clinton had made the priest swear and what was her mother’s secret?

  She rolled back on the bed and tried to lie still but could not stop shivering. New thoughts battered her like waves. Esmond had hated Clinton and her mother had always refused to say why. Why had the priest been afraid to send his letter to Hathenshaw? Still confused, Louise became angry. She had thought her mother trusted her, but all the time these secrets had been kept from her—the child who could be told nothing. She bit her lip to keep back tears. Her eyes returned to the two white squares of paper. At any moment someone might come in. Moving swiftly to her davenport desk, she took out a new envelope, and pausing to steady herself, wrote out her mother’s name in large bold letters. Then she carefully replaced the contents of the priest’s letter, and with a few spots of glue stuck down the flap. Though feeling herself wronged by Clinton and her mother, Louise could not help experiencing sharp pangs of guilt. She would have been uneasy about opening any letter intended for somebody else; but to have opened one sent by a priest was far worse—perhaps sacrilegious. She knelt down and whispered an Act of Contrition, before hiding the ladle under the bed and replacing the candles in the candelabrum.

  Afraid to hand the letter to her mother, in case she gave herself away, Louise found her maid and implored her not to give it to her mistress unless she was alone; she also persuaded her to promise she would say she had been given it by a boy from Sowerby. Feeling calmer, Louise returned to her room.

  That evening she saw from her window a dull red point of light moving in the darkness on the lawn. On many other nights she had seen Clinton walking alone in the garden, cigar in hand, and had felt reassured and safe. Eyes filling with tears, she turned away and drew the curtains. For hours she lay twisting in bed, longing to confess to her mother, but not daring to. The lie she had asked the maid to tell now scared her. The boy might admit to the dressmaker that he had been tricked out of the letter. In her misery one thought sustained Louise, if nobody else could be trusted, she could still confide in her grandfather. He would explain everything to her. Reluctant to risk asking a maid to post a letter for her, Louise decided to wait till Harris next took her to Browsholme, where she might manage to elude him long enough to post one herself.

  29

  The arrival of her marriage certificate was soon almost forgotten by Theresa in the press of new events—each one of which seemed more important than the nebulous fears which had first led her to write to the priest. In the past few days, Louise had started to behave with a wayward instability that made her previous shifts seem trifling. Withdrawn for long periods, she would suddenly give way to outbursts of rudeness or tears. Finding herself, just as often as Clinton, the target for her daughter’s displeasure, Theresa wondered whether Louise might be infatuated with Clinton and therefore jealous; but she felt no certainty about this. More perplexing to her was the girl’s adamant refusal to come to Mass, in spite of other signs of increased piety. But worries about Louise were soon eclipsed by concern for Clinton.

  His gentleness and patience during her illness had deepened her love for him; and it caused her poignant pain to see fatalism begin to wear away his old gaiety and nonchalance. When he announced his intention of seeing his uncle before the month ended, he sounded confident of success, but his optimism seemed a shadow of other days and did not hide from her his underlying mood. Too detached to be described as stoical, there was something disdainful about his attitude to his misfortunes: a quality that chillingly reminded her of stories of the French nobility’s proud refusal to fight to stay alive in a world they could no longer control. But when the myth of Clinton’s invulnerability died for her, Theresa felt not disillusion but relief. If they faced hardships, she would be able to contribute far more to their lives. Used to the sudden shocks of theatrical failure or success, with no intervening hinterland of moderate security, she believed she would not easily be intimidated by anything they might have to face. Her first test came sooner than she thought.

  On a grey and windy morning, still several weeks before Clinton was due to see his uncle, Theresa was sitting in the library when Harris burst in without knocking.

  ‘There’s a sheriff’s officer asking for his lordship.’

  ‘You saw his warrant?’

  Though her voice was sharp, Theresa was hard put to master a suffocating wave of faintness. Harris looked at her with exasperation.

  ‘I know what he is… Gentleman, says he; you just fetch him here. He’s a bailiff plain as if he had Queen’s Bench stamped on his forehead.’ Harris came up to her and said gruffly: ‘You go tell the “gentleman” his lordship’s in Lancaster and won’t be back today.’

  Though badly shaken, the servant’s peremptory manner stung her.

  ‘What possible good would that do?’

  ‘Give the master time to meet his debt or make himself scarce till he can. That man’s come on a judgment summons or I’m a bleeding bashi-bazouk.’

  Theresa closed her book and stood up.

  ‘If he can meet his debt, he’ll meet it. A day or two can’t make the least difference.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that … I know what I’m about. Do as I say, and I’ll see he steers clear when he gets in from his ride.’

  The man’s urgency was so great, that after a moment’s thought, Theresa nodded silent assent. Though sure that Clinton would have told her if he had had notice of a writ, it was possible that his bank had stopped payment without his knowledge. She left the room in a daze.

  Outside the library, Harris hurried away in the direction of the back-stairs, while Theresa made for the hall at a more leisurely pace. The sheriff’s officer was portly and cheerful-looking; a loose-fitting Ulster partly concealed his considerable girth. He had already made himself comfortable in the deep leather porter’s chair by the door, and was smoking a pipe. Theresa stared down at him from the stairs, amazed that this buffoon-like figure could pose any threat to Clinton.

  The man rose, as he saw Theresa, and removed his brown bowler.

  ‘Forgive the liberty,’ he said, waving his pipe, and coming close enough to Theresa to give her the full benefit of the smoke. Ignoring his jocular deference, she quietly asked him his business.