Escapade, page 1
ESCAPADE
JANE AIKEN HODGE
Copyright © Jane Aiken Hodge 2014
The right of Jane Aiken Hodge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1993 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd.
This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
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Postcript
Extract from Runaway Bride by Jane Aiken Hodge
1
‘But Charlotte.’ John Thornton had not expected the refusal. ‘We have always been such good friends. Please —’ He reached for her hand.
‘No, John. No, and no, and no!’ She faced him squarely on the solitary cliff path, with only the sound of the sea below, and the cry of gulls around them. He had got her out here, beyond the formal gardens of Windover Hall, on the pretext that an enemy ship was in sight, to the north, off Scarborough. Charlotte Comyn was gazing at it now, without seeing it, the bonnet she had snatched off dangling in her hand, the spring breeze ruffling her cropped curls. Now, at last, her dark eyes focused on his fair, flushed face. ‘I doubt I’m the marrying kind,’ she went on more gently, seeing how much she had shocked her old friend. ‘I’m not fit for it. Not fit for anything.’ Her eyes met his levelly. ‘Do you remember, you and the boys tied me to that tree once, went off and forgot all about me? Pity anyone came, really. It would have solved everything, saved everyone a lot of trouble.’
‘Charlotte!’ He looked at the stunted tree with a kind of horror, remembering all the times he and her younger half-brothers had teased and tormented her, a shamefully easy victim. ‘It was only our fun,’ he said now. ‘And we did come back.’
‘You did. I’ve always remembered that. You were sorry.’
‘Of course I was sorry.’ He was remembering how gallantly that younger Charlotte had pretended she had not been frightened, abandoned there, helpless, on the lonely cliff where no one came but scavenging gulls. ‘Charlotte —’ He reached again for her hand.
‘No,’ she said again. ‘That was then, and this is now. And you should be calling me Miss Comyn. Everything is different, and I don’t much like it.’
‘Of course you don’t like it.’ He seized the opening. ‘It makes me mad as fire to see the way they neglect you. Everything for the boys, down at Hull, and you sent off to moulder here at Windover, with only servants for company. It will be quite other when you come of age, and the bank and the house in Hull are yours.’
‘Four years.’ She was looking beyond him, at the wide prospect of sea and sky, as if at an endless, intolerable vista. ‘How shall I bear it? What shall I do with myself ?’
‘That’s just what I mean. Marry me, Charlotte, and everything will be different. You’ll have a place in the world. Father says he will give us a house; he has his eye on one of the new ones in Albion Street. That would do very well until you are twenty-one, he says. And then, trust us to fight your battle for you if there should be any trouble over your taking possession of Comyn’s Bank and the house in Hull. But of course there won’t be. You know that as well as I do.’
‘Do I?’ Her long, thin hands were ruthlessly crushing the bonnet. ‘You have talked this over with your father?’
‘Of course. And with my mother. They say it is what they have always hoped for, Charlotte. A union between our two houses.’ If his proposal had been on the formal side, he was becoming eloquent now. ‘You know how hard times are, specially for banks like yours and Thornton’s. Napoleon’s decrees have been death to trade; and then the harvests bad, and this new trouble with those upstarts in what they call the United States of America. When I told my father I meant to ask for your hand, he said it was the first bit of good news for years. Charlotte, you can’t disappoint us now. My mother says she quite longs to have the dressing of you.’
‘I’m such a dowd?’ She looked down at well-washed muslin too large for her thin frame. ‘You mustn’t blame my mother for that. What pleasure is there in dressing a beanpole like me? Specially when I keep losing weight. But anyway, you know mother, she’s too busy with the Hull Review to care much about clothes, specially my clothes. And as for old Nurse Jenkins — she just thinks one should be clean, and covered. And what else should I care for, a long thin fright like me?’
‘But you’re not —’
‘I can’t do anything right.’ She went straight on, ignoring his attempt at protest. Not for anyone. And with every chance. Taught alongside the boys; Mark always insisted on that.’
‘Should you call your step-father Mark?’
‘He likes it. We’re all equals, he says. I think he’d like me to call mother Kathryn, but I won’t. She was my mother first, after all. I can’t help it if I was born less equal than the others. Even little Horatio can reckon faster than I can. I heard mother tell Mr. Jenner she was quite in despair over what would happen to Comyn’s Bank when I come of age and take over.’
‘My mother always said no good would come of that crazy idea of making you study along with the boys. It stands to reason: girls have different talents, she says. I’m sure you are a dab hand at a syllabub, Charlotte.’
‘No, I’m not. And you will kindly call me Miss Comyn, Mr. Thornton. And pray thank your mother from me for the kind interest she has taken in my education, along with everyone else in Hull.’ She was angry now, her colour high, dark eyes flashing under heavy brows that contrasted with the fair hair she had worn cropped short since her illness. He found himself thinking this might prove more than the practical marriage he had been brought up to expect.
‘Dear Charlotte.’ He put a tentative hand on the bony wrist.
‘Don’t touch me.’ She snatched it away as if his hand burned. ‘And don’t call me “Dear Charlotte” either. I’m nobody’s dear. And stop taking me for granted.’ She fixed smouldering eyes on him, a new thought striking her. ‘Tell me, have you discussed this proposal of yours with my mother and step-father too?’
‘Well, of course. You surely never thought I would address you without their permission. I most certainly have their blessing.’
‘Given with sighs of relief.’ Savagely. ‘Well, I am sorry to disappoint you all, but the answer is still no. I wouldn’t have you if you were the last —’ And then, seeing real hurt in his face at last: ‘Oh, John, I’m sorry. I think the devil gets into me sometimes. I’m all at odds with myself. Just be grateful I have the good sense to refuse you. You know — all Hull does, thanks to my grandmother — how bad things were between my mother and father.’
‘The ravings of a sick old woman.’ He did not pretend not to understand her. ‘We never for a moment believed that wicked tale of hers about your father killing himself on purpose. It was just what your mother said at the time — and after all she was the only witness — a terrible accident with his gun. My mother says it was a pity old Mrs. Comyn ever recovered from that seizure of hers. A paralysed old lady with nothing to think or talk about but the past, and the son she had lost. Of course she took to imagining things. You mustn’t let it trouble you. And those friends of hers, the Misses Harris, as spiteful a couple of cats as you could find in a month of Sundays. Natural enough, my father says, that there was talk when your mother married again so soon, and her childhood sweetheart too. Such a romantic tale; losing and finding each other like that. But you must never think, Charlotte, that your mother was anything but the best of wives to your father. Mother says she quite made a man of him. And she saved Comyn’s Bank, you know, after his death. Went off to London, bold as brass, shocking the old tabbies, and persuaded Goldferns the bankers to put up the money that was needed. Of course there was talk… You know Hull: there’s always talk. That’s why — don’t you see — Charlotte, I beg you to think again. It would solve everything; settle everything: your position; the talk. Our marriage would end it all. And I do truly love you.’ He very nearly believed it himself.
‘No.’ But she said it more gently now. There had been a moment, while he was speaking of her father’s death, when she had nearly told him about that old nightmare of hers. About her grandmother, old Mrs. Comyn, lying among her pillows, in the luxurious bedroom where she was waited on hand and foot by her daughter-in-law, and spitting out her venom about her, day after day. But she would not think about that last scene, the day old Mrs. Comyn died, the things she had said then. Not now, not ever. ‘Dear John, we’ve been such good friends, let’s not spoil it now. You’ve taken my side, time after time, and I’ve been grateful. But that’s not enough, and you know it as well as I do. You’ll be grateful to me, in the end, for saying no today.’
‘Your parents won’t be pleased.’
‘No.’ She faced it bleakly. ‘They really thought they were going to get me off their hands, did they?’
‘Don’t put it like that.’ But he was afraid it was true. Charlotte had always, somehow, seemed the odd one out in the Weatherby family. ‘What am I to say to them, Charlotte?’ A quick look at the watch on his fob. ‘I must be going; I said I would call in on my way home.’
‘Oh dear.’ She made a face that reminded him of a younger, happier Charlotte. ‘So I must expect my scold tomorrow. Unless there is a crisis at the paper and they are too busy. It always comes first.’
‘It’s a very good paper, the Hull Review, and a blessing to Hull.’
‘Which is more than anyone could call me.’ She chuckled suddenly and again he was reminded of his younger, carefree friend. ‘What a miserable, self-pitying wretch I am! No wonder my mother finds her newspaper more interesting. Off with you, John, tell them the bad news and leave me to brush through as best I may… With a bit of luck, and some dramatic news from our army in Spain, they may be too busy to scold me at all. And if they do — who cares?’
* * *
Standing on the wide steps of Windover Hall’s Palladian front to watch him ride away, she was amazed at how confident she had managed to sound. ‘Who cares?’ Well, who would? Nobody cares, she thought, and then: why should they? Her very existence was a shame to her mother; no wonder Kathryn preferred the boys.
If I were dead, she thought, the boys could have it all. I ought not to have been born. She thought about the sea, seething and churning below the cliffs, and something practical at the back of her mind whispered to her that the tide was low. Anyway, I don’t want to die, she thought, I just want everything to be different, to get away from it all.
But where to go? She was instinctively making her way round the side of the house to her favourite refuge, the stable yard, and the comforting company of horses. Passing the low windows of the servants’ quarters, she remembered a story she was not supposed to know, a story of the servants’ hall. Her grandmother, the heiress of Windover, had made a disastrous second marriage, to a woman-hunting brute of a clergyman. Failing other game, he had pursued the maidservants at the Hall, and one of them, Beth Prior, had jumped out of one of these very windows to escape him. And, later, that same Beth had been her mother’s dear friend, and gone with her on that venturesome journey to London. Beth Prior! Her mother never spoke of her now, but she was a successful actress in London. London. Charlotte patted her horse’s nose and hurried into the house.
* * *
‘She refused you?’ Kathryn Weatherby did not want to believe her ears. ‘Fool of a girl. Why?’
‘She said we did not love each other.’ John Thornton had thought of nothing but this interview on the long ride from Windover Hall down to Hull. He had not been sure whether to be glad or sorry when Kathryn Weatherby received him alone, explaining that her husband was still working at the offices of their paper, the Hull Review. Now he thought he was glad. ‘Mrs. Weatherby —’ He took his courage in both hands. ‘It’s true; and I respect her for it. She’s so young; it’s too soon.’
‘She’s almost eighteen.’
‘She doesn’t look it. What’s the matter with her, Mrs. Weatherby?’ Might as well be hung for a sheep. ‘She’s thin as a rail.’
‘She won’t eat. Says she can’t. And if we try to make her, she is sick, poor child. The doctor hoped that country air, and her old haunts up at the Hall would do her good, but it doesn’t sound as if it has. And, most of all, I had thought marriage… an old friend like you… Oh dear, I wish I knew what to do for the best. Thank goodness!’ Her face lit up as her husband entered the room. ‘There you are at last, Mark. Here’s John Thornton to tell us Charlotte has refused him.’
‘Pity.’ Mark Weatherby poured wine for them all. ‘But not a surprise. Forgive me, John; you know we would all have liked the match better than anything, but I did wonder whether our Charlotte was ready for it.’
‘But what are we to do with her?’ wailed his wife.
‘I’ll send the carriage for her tomorrow. It’s time she saw the doctor again. He had high hopes of the air at Windover; said it was the next best thing to a trip to the south of France. And we all know how impossible that is these days. He will be as disappointed as we are, I know.’
‘You won’t be cross with her?’ said John. ‘No scolding? Please?’
‘Does she expect one?’ A quick look at his wife. ‘No, John, no scoldings, I promise you. Not that we aren’t disappointed, because of course we are. Do, pray, give our kind regards to your parents.’
It was a dismissal and he was glad to take it as such.
* * *
When the Weatherby carriage reached Windover Hall the next day the house was in chaos. ‘We’ve sent a boy riding hell for leather to Hull,’ the housekeeper told Kathryn Weatherby’s maid, come to fetch Charlotte. ‘He will have taken the bridleways, so you’ll have missed him. But she’s gone, Miss Prime, the child is gone!’
‘Gone?’
‘She must have been up at first light this morning. Or maybe never went to bed. I’m sure I don’t know what has got into the girl. Mr. Thornton came yesterday; they were talking hours out on the cliff, which is what I cannot approve of, but. Mrs. Weatherby said I was to let the child have her head as much as possible. No interference, she said; let her alone; and of course they were children together, those two; I thought no harm at the time. She hardly ate a crumb for her supper, but you know what she is, Miss Prime, it’s a waste of good food cooking for her, if you ask me. And when I said something, just in my fun, you know, about the hungry poor at the Hull workhouse, she ups and says good night and off to bed without another word. And this morning she’s clean gone. And not a stitch of her clothes missing that her maid can see. She sent Burrows off; said she’d put herself to bed; not one to be waited on, Miss Charlotte, I’ll say that for her. Told Burrows to let her sleep in the morning. Come nine o’clock I thought it time she had some breakfast. Mrs. Weatherby was very firm she must be given her meals, even if she wouldn’t eat them. And the girl found the room empty. A note for her ma on the pillow; the clothes she wore yesterday neat on her chair — she was always a neat one, Miss Charlotte. Finicking neat, if you ask me.’ She paused for breath, both of them aware of the past tense she had used. ‘I thought she was over the cliff for certain, but then Tom Barnes comes up from the stable in a right lather to say her horse is gone, saddle and bridle and all.’
‘She’s run away?’
‘Looks like it, Miss Prime, and what a coil that is going to be! There’s been talk enough about our family without this. I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t find myself another position.’
‘You’ll go far enough to find one where you are better treated. I’d best be getting back. You sent the letter to her mother, of course.’
‘Yes. Well sealed, it was.’ An unmistakable note of regret. ‘And no clothes missing? No cloak bag?’
‘Not that Burrows can see. It’s a proper little mystery, Miss Prime, and no mistake. I hate to think what the gossips will say.’
‘They’ll say nothing if they don’t hear about it.’ Miss Prime drained her glass of ratafia and rose to her feet. ‘And if I were you, Mrs. Piddock, I’d see to it that they don’t. This house is lonely enough, lord knows. If you put it about that I came and fetched Miss Charlotte home to Hull no one will know any different, and mind you do, if you value a good position. Mr. Weatherby’s a powerful man, with his money and his newspaper and all. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, nohow. You might find yourself in the workhouse you told Miss Charlotte of. You ought to know by now, Mrs. Piddock, how she hates being fussed about her food. If I were you I’d sit tight and say nothing until you get further orders from the master.’
* * *
‘Gone to friends, she says.’ Kathryn Weatherby handed Charlotte’s note to her husband. ‘Nothing but a disappointment to us… Not to worry — Oh, I could shake her! But, what friends, Mark? Has she any friends?’ They faced each other over the bleak question, suddenly aware of a long tale of neglect. ‘She had some school friends in Scarborough, I remember, after that year she was in school there, but I thought she had lost touch with them.’
‘Do you know their names, their directions?’
‘No. She used to get letters for a while; I don’t think she answered them… We could look in her room.’
‘Yes, do that, my dear, while I get ready to ride to Scarborough. Let us hope the school knows the names of her friends. It’s the obvious place to start, anyway. She won’t have come here to Hull, that’s for certain.’ But not a pleasant thought. ‘Tell me, Kathryn, what does she know of that venture of yours to London? Might she have been copying that? Gone there?’
