Ruined Page 3

  Thanks to a loveless childhood, brought up motherless and largely separated from his sister who was eight years older than himself, he was not used to looking for affection in his home. He and his sister had never been close. By the time he had been old enough to know her, she had been packed off to school, then he had been sent away to Eton, as soon as he was old enough to be accepted. He had hated it from the moment when, as one of the very smallest boys among a milling crowd, he had been sent from his boarding-house to collect bedding, and had found himself one of about fifty others trying to identify what had been allotted to him.

  That night, in the room which he shared with three other boys, he lay bitterly cold, and unable to sleep, and heard one of the others crying for his mother. He could not remember his mother, but he did shed a few silent tears for his nurse. When next he went home, he hurried up the stairs to look for her, and found that she was gone.

  ‘What do you need a nurse for, sir?’ his father had asked him, barely looking up from the letter that he was writing. ‘You’re not a baby.’

  He had protested; he could not now remember what it was he had said. He remembered the consequence, though. The pain from that beating had stayed with him for many days; and he had never pleaded with his father for anything again.

  So deep was he in memories of the past, that it took him by surprise when the movement of the carriage told him that they were turning into the drive of Crown Hall, the home of Sir Philip and Lady Gilchrist. It was a handsome building, only twenty years old, purchased by Sir Philip as somewhere to display the antiquities that he regarded so highly.

  As the carriage drew up at the foot of the steps which led up to the columned portico, Penelope Gilchrist emerged, and extended both her hands to him as he reached her side. ‘Welcome, Raff,’ she said, as he took them and kissed first one then the other. ‘It’s much too long since you were last here.’

  ‘It must be three years at least,’ he replied, as he offered her his arm and they walked together into the marble entrance hall, with its black and white checked floor and high ceilings. He looked about him, smiled down at her then said, ‘Now that, I like.’

  She smiled back at him roguishly. ‘Oh Raff, I’m so flattered,’ she murmured as he walked past her to a plinth on which stood a black two-handled bowl with figures of athletes painted on it in shades varying from cream to red.

  He did not pick it up, but cradled it gently in his hands. ‘Greek?’ he asked. ‘About 500 BC, I would guess.’

  Lady Gilchrist wandered over to join him. ‘I believe you are right,’ she answered. ‘Philip brought it back with him last time he came home. Someone handled the box carelessly at the docks and he nearly had a fit. It travelled the rest of the way on his knee.’

  ‘I believe I would have done the same. It’s magnificent.’

  ‘As well as being beautiful, fragile, and very expensive,’ she agreed, laughing. ‘Come along. I’ll show you to your room, and you can have a look at the rest of Philip’s collection. I believe he has acquired some pieces that you haven’t yet seen.’

  *

  After he had left his travelling things in his room, Ashbourne came back downstairs, carrying with him a package which he presented to his hostess.

  ‘It’s Meissen,’ he told her, as she opened the wrappings. ‘I thought it might be to your liking.’

  ‘This is charming,’ she declared, turning the pastoral figure around and admiring the delicate green and pink colouring. ‘You and Philip may keep your mouldy Greek and Roman pottery. I find this infinitely preferable.’

  ‘You see, I remember your taste,’ he murmured.

  ‘As I do yours,’ she replied, indicating a tray with glasses and a bottle of claret. ‘You did not stay long after the wedding, then.’

  He poured wine for each of them. ‘I am not so popular with my daughter-in-law’s family or with my sister that I felt tempted to stay,’ he replied. ‘Besides, after the bride and groom have gone these affairs acquire a degree of languor, I find.’

  ‘Your son’s wife is lovely,’ her ladyship observed. It was one of her attractions that she was able to see qualities to praise in other women.

  ‘Yes she is, isn’t she? She has some spirit, too. When we were dancing the other night, I asked her, out of devilment you know, whether she did not think that had she met me first, she might have been tempted. She told me that I was much too pretty for her.’

  Lady Gilchrist laughed. ‘What she should have said, of course, was that she was utterly besotted with Ilam. Anyone could see it.’

  ‘Yes. The boy is fortunate,’ answered Ashbourne, looking down into his wine. ‘Any news of when Philip will return?’

  Later on, the two of them sat down to a well-chosen dinner, eating in a small parlour rather than in the dining-room. ‘It’s much easier to keep warm in the winter,’ said Lady Gilchrist.

  They were both well-travelled people with a wide interest in art and books, and found plenty to talk about. After dinner, they went into the drawing-room together, Ashbourne carrying his glass of port in one hand and the decanter in the other. ‘Agatha would be surprised,’ he remarked. ‘I’m sure she thinks that I spend every dinner that I attend slowly sinking further and further under the table.’

  ‘You used to, didn’t you?’

  ‘In my youth,’ he agreed. ‘That was before I discovered that it didn’t drive the demons away; it just brought them back next morning with tiny hammers inside my head.’

  ‘And have the demons gone now?’

  ‘Don’t pry, Penelope,’ he said in a good-humoured tone that nevertheless held an edge of finality.

  In the drawing-room, Lady Gilchrist had found a place for her new Meissen figure on a table which stood against the wall with a mirror behind it. ‘It could have been made to stand there, don’t you think?’ she said. She paused then added delicately, ‘You must know that I would be very glad to show you how grateful I am.’

  ‘You are very good, my dear,’ he replied, with a graceful inclination of his head, ‘but you see, Philip has promised me something very special from Pompeii, so …’

  ‘You regard the delights of ancient pottery above…?’

  ‘No, my dear, I value Philip’s friendship very highly,’ Ashbourne replied frankly. ‘I don’t trespass on his preserves – as you well know.’

  She did not press the matter, but instead began to talk of other things. This had not been the first time that she had suggested a liaison, but, attractive though she was, he had never really been tempted to succumb. His friendship with Sir Philip, formed quite unexpectedly in Greece when they had both been in quest of the same amphora, was of ten years standing, and the nature of his upbringing had meant that he did not easily form attachments. He had therefore no intention of sacrificing one of the few that he valued for a romantic romp which, although it would no doubt be stimulating in its way, experience told him would prove to be all too brief.

  On the day of his departure, he stood at his bedroom window in his shirt sleeves looking out at the rain lashing down into the garden. He himself had been married on such a day as this. Not for him the glorious October sunshine that had seemed to offer a blessing to his son’s union with Eustacia Hope. He had been married to Laura Vyse in the chapel at Ashbourne Abbey on a day when the heavens had opened and powerful winds had ripped through the countryside. It was almost as though nature itself sensed that the enterprise was doomed to failure. The marriage had been planned by his father for some time, but his intention had been that it would not take place for two more years. It had been brought forward by circumstances for which he, Ashbourne, was largely responsible. As he looked at the patterns the driving rain made on the outside of the windows, he could still see the face of Dora Whitton, the farmer’s daughter whose gentle affection had been such a contrast to his father’s coldness, and who had given herself to him so sweetly in the first intimate contact that either of them had known….

  A murmured suggestion from Pointe
r reminded him that breakfast would be on the table. Turning, he allowed the manservant to help him into his coat. He looked at himself in the mirror. It would probably be the last time that he paid any attention to his reflection before dressing for dinner. He was so used to his astonishing good looks that he never thought about them, and was not personally vain. Now, however, he looked at himself critically, noticing the lines at the corners of his mouth, and the grey at his temples. Laura, his bride, had never loved him. She had, he suspected, been a little in love with his father, and his father with her. Clare Delahay the actress, now Lady Hope, had rejected him in favour of Sir Wilfred. His daughter-in-law had said that he was too pretty for her taste. Lady Gilchrist would have taken him to her bed, only because Philip was away. Even Jez Warburton, who had adored him for years, would probably marry Henry Lusty. Was he destined to be the kind of man with whom women played for entertainment, but who was always rejected eventually in favour of someone else?

  Firmly putting this destructive piece of introspection behind him, he took his handkerchief from Pointer and set off down the stairs. Lady Gilchrist was waiting for him in the breakfast parlour, and they sat down together. Ashbourne was not one of those men who favour silence at the breakfast table, and they talked as they ate with the ease of old acquaintances. The conversation turned to some of the items on display at the British Museum. As Lady Gilchrist had not seen some of the latest pieces she was eager to hear the earl’s descriptions.

  After the meal was over and Ashbourne’s belongings had been collected from his room, they stood in the hall to say goodbye, not venturing outside because of the inclement weather. ‘I’ll come and see Philip when he returns from the Continent,’ the earl promised.

  ‘You are welcome to come before that,’ Lady Gilchrist told him roguishly.

  ‘You are very kind, but I always avoid temptation if I don’t intend to succumb,’ he answered, grinning. He was walking to the door with his hat in his hand when a messenger arrived from the village with the post. He gave every appearance of being a drowned rat. ‘You cannot possibly expect someone to bring your letters to you in this weather,’ said Ashbourne.

  ‘I can and do, for three excellent reasons,’ she replied. ‘One, I pay him a huge sum of money to do it; two, he can now have a warm by the fire; and three, he is sweet on one of the maids.’ She looked down at her letters. ‘Here’s one from abroad, but it’s not in Philip’s writing. I wonder, would you excuse me if I opened it now?’

  Raff waved his assent. Her ladyship opened her letter, looked down at the writing and murmured, ‘No, it can’t be.’ Then the letter fluttered out of her grasp, she staggered and would have fallen, had Ashbourne not caught hold of her. The butler who had been hovering in the background, hurried forward in concern.

  ‘Your mistress has fainted,’ said the earl as he lifted her up in his arms. ‘Open the drawing-room door so that I may lay her down on the sofa, and send for her maid to attend her.’

  ‘At once, my lord.’

  ‘And bring me that letter.’ If it contained something shocking, it would never do for it to fall into the wrong hands. Having arranged Lady Gilchrist on the sofa, he took the letter which the butler was holding out to him. It only took him a moment or two to overcome his scruples about reading it.

  Dear Lady Gilchrist,

  It is with the deepest regret that I write to inform you of the death of your husband …

  ‘God in Heaven!’ muttered Ashbourne. No wonder her ladyship had fainted. He read on. It appeared that Sir Philip had been engaged upon an errand connected with his abiding passion, namely, seeking out pottery, the more ancient the better. He had gone to meet someone who had promised him some Roman pieces from the time of Tiberius. Either the message had been a hoax or someone had not wanted him to make his purchase, or perhaps he had simply been unlucky, for he had been set upon, robbed and murdered.

  A faint moaning sound alerted Ashbourne to the fact that Lady Gilchrist was coming round. He laid the letter down on a table and knelt on one knee by the sofa, taking her hand. A moment later, a maid came in with smelling salts. The earl relinquished his place to her and went in search of brandy. At the same time, he ordered Pointer to have his bags taken back upstairs. This was not the moment to leave her ladyship unsupported.

  ‘Is there anyone I can have sent for?’ he asked her, when she was fully conscious. ‘A relative, or a neighbour, perhaps?’

  She shook her head. ‘There is no one. I have no close relatives and neither does Philip. My closest neighbours are away from home. Oh Raff, it seems so unfair! Why did it have to be Philip who was attacked?’ Her voice broke, and she began to cry.

  Without any hesitation, he pulled her into his arms. ‘You won’t be alone,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay for as long as you need me.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re a real friend.’ Shortly after this, she went up to her room, supported by her maid. Ashbourne did not see her again that day.

  The following morning Lady Gilchrist came downstairs, looking stunning in black. ‘I have been thinking about my best course of action, and I have decided to go to Austria. I will not be there in time for the funeral, but I must see for myself where he is laid to rest. I must also deal with … with his affairs. I was wondering, Raff … could you…? Do you think…?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘When do you want to leave?’

  ‘It’s as I thought,’ said Lady Agatha, as she sat opening her post at breakfast one morning. ‘He’s gone to the Continent.’

  ‘Gone? Do you mean Raff?’ Jessie asked, her heart sinking.

  ‘Yes,’ answered her ladyship. ‘I never did think he’d call upon us. He’s gone off with Lady Gilchrist, apparently.’

  Jessie remembered the conversation that she had heard them having at the wedding breakfast. To think that she had been deciding which gown to wear in the event that he should arrive at the vicarage! What a fool she had been!

  This was her sign. When Henry Lusty asked her for her answer, she would accept.

  Chapter Three

  In the event, Mr Lusty did not renew his suit until after Christmas. He wrote Jessie several letters, informing her that a variety of matters had kept him from visiting as he intended. He mentioned specifically the very severe weather, the illness of the bishop, who had taken to his bed leaving many things in his chaplain’s hands, and the busyness of the festive season. However, he hoped to call upon her in the early spring.

  This was not very encouraging, particularly when Jessie had determined to accept his proposal as soon as it came. She managed to keep herself busy, and was given an effective distraction in the return of Lord and Lady Ilam from their wedding tour. No sooner had the happy couple settled in, than an invitation arrived for Jessie to come and take tea, since Eustacia was anxious to tell her friend as much about their honeymoon as was seemly.

  The new viscountess greeted Jessie with a fond embrace, and conducted her to the drawing-room where there was a roaring fire. ‘Gabriel has gone to visit his foster mother and father at Crossley Farm,’ Eustacia said, ‘so we may be quite cosy and free from interruption.’

  Lord and Lady Ilam had not gone abroad for their wedding tour, but had travelled in England instead, spending a large part of their time in Norfolk. ‘Gabriel wanted to inspect new farming methods pioneered by Coke of Holkham,’ said Eustacia with a twinkle in her eye. ‘I can never distract him from thinking about his acres for long.’

  ‘You must acknowledge that he is very good at tending them,’ Jessie put in.

  ‘Oh yes. That is largely down to his upbringing, I think. But we did have a lovely time, and I got the chance to do a little sketching.’ She took out her sketch-book and for a time, they were fully absorbed in looking at the drawings of the Ilams’ wedding tour, a large number of which seemed to feature the viscount, his hair blowing in the breeze, his shirt moulded seductively to the contours of his body.

  ‘So marriage agrees with you,’ Jessie
observed.

  ‘Oh Jessie, you cannot believe how much,’ sighed Eustacia. ‘If only you yourself could—’ she broke off, then spoke again. ‘How is Henry Lusty? Have you heard from him recently?’

  ‘I do hear from him,’ Jessie admitted. ‘He is quite a good correspondent, actually.’ She paused. ‘I have decided that when he comes for his answer, I will accept.’

  ‘Then I will wish you every happiness,’ said Eustacia warmly. Neither of them mentioned Lord Ashbourne.

  Lady Agatha and Jessie spent a large part of the Christmas celebrations at Illingham Hall. Jessie found these celebrations at one and the same time enjoyable, yet poignant. She had known Lord Ilam for as long as she had lived in Illingham. Never had she seen him so happy. His eyes glowed as they rested upon his new wife, and Eustacia was clearly similarly smitten. There was no doubt that theirs was a love match, although they were both too well bred to embarrass the company by flaunting their affection in public. Certainly no one would have guessed it from the decorous way in which they had kissed beneath the kissing bough, to the loud applause of all present. Had Jessie not been aware of their feelings, however, she would undoubtedly have guessed after wandering unexpectedly into the library, and finding the newly married couple locked in each other’s arms, exchanging a far more passionate embrace.

  Whatever marriage to Henry Lusty might hold, it would not be a love match. He esteemed and respected her. Plenty of marriages – that of her parents, for instance – did not have as much. She could not help hoping, however, that the clergyman would never seek to bestow such an embrace upon her. She was sure that she would dislike it extremely. As to what she would feel should Lord Ashbourne kiss her in such a way, she put it firmly from her mind. No doubt he would save such passionate embraces for Lady Gilchrist and her like.