Hope. Part 27

It transpired that Nell and Baines had effectively run the house between them; they set the standards for the other servants, and made sure their master and mistress never had to concern themselves with how all the many tasks were completed, or by whom.

Baines was the captain, Nell more of a foot soldier, but it had been her energy, pride in Briargate and the warmth of her personality which had created an environment that kept all the staff happy and willing to work hard. Without Nell, Baines soon floundered, his instructions were ignored, and the remaining servants bickered among themselves, all putting the blame for jobs left undone on someone else.

These days meals were often late, rooms were not always cleaned, and a strained, surly atmosphere had replaced the old cheerful and bustling one. As for Albert, he strutted around the grounds as if he owned the place, and everyone, Lady Harvey and Sir William included, was nervous of him.

Even back in the early days of Nell's departure, Anne knew she ought to stir herself and take control, but she didn't. Too late, she saw Nell had been far more than a mere maid; for along with being friend, sister and mother to her mistress, she'd acted as a buffer between her and the harsh reality of life. Without her maid she felt vulnerable, afraid and very lonely. She was also carrying a heavy burden of guilt at not defending or supporting her when she most needed it.

Six years on, Anne still blushed at the memory of how callous she must have appeared when Nell informed her that Hope was her daughter. Her only defence was that she'd been unable to believe that it could be true. Who would credit that a young maid would take a baby and bring it up as her own sister without any kind of reward, just to protect her mistress? And Nell's insistence that Albert had killed Hope seemed like hysterical melodrama.

In the weeks that followed, Anne remained in a kind of denial that Hope was her child. She veered between rage that her maid had walked out on her, terror that she might spread her ridiculous story far and wide, and a sickening disgust in herself for not foreseeing that a servant who knew too much could be very dangerous.

But as the weeks pa.s.sed without any scandalous gossip reaching her ears, and with time to reflect on everything Nell had told her, Anne came to see that she'd wronged her. Rumours reached her that Nell had gone mad with grief over her younger sister's disappearance, yet it was clear she still hadn't breathed a word about her former mistress. Even in deep distress Nell had remained loyal.

The Reverend Gosling came up to Briargate, incandescent with rage that Nell had brought shame on her family by breaking her marriage vows. He urged Anne to go and speak to her, to make her see sense and return to her husband, or to leave the village for good.

But Anne knew Nell would never return to Albert, and she couldn't bring herself to suggest the other alternative, or even, if she was honest, face Nell. So she did what she always did when faced with a problem, be that William's heavy drinking or their rapidly depleting wealth, and tried to pretend that it didn't exist.

It was a relief when she heard Nell had left her brother's farm for a new position near Bath. If anyone knew her new master's name it didn't reach Anne's ears, and she did her best to forget Nell.

But Rufus wouldn't let her forget Hope. Every time he came home on holiday from school his first question was always about her. He claimed that Hope had been his only real friend, admitting how they used to meet in the woods and play together. He took an almost fiendish delight in telling the story of how he was saved from drowning in the pond by her, and took his mother to task for her indifference when Meg and Silas Renton died, leaving the girl an orphan. Anne often wondered how he would react if he found out the girl was his half-sister. Just the thought of it made her tremble with fear.

But worse still was that Rufus seemed to have a much stronger attachment to the Rentons than he had to his own mother. Almost the moment he arrived home for the holidays, he'd rush off eagerly to Matt's farm. Sometimes he was gone from sunup to sundown, returning filthy dirty with tales of milking cows, collecting eggs, ploughing and seeding.

Anne felt the tragic irony in the fact that the Rentons had taken in her firstborn and brought her up as their own and now Rufus wanted to join their family too.

Perhaps she should have forbidden him to go there, or at least insisted he went less often, but until quite recently his father's behaviour had been so appalling that she felt her son was better off out of the way.

Shortly after Nell left, William's drinking had grown much worse, to the point where he was rarely sober when at home. He would shut himself away in his study with a bottle, only to come lurching out later to abuse her and anyone else who tried to remonstrate with him.

Then, without any warning, he would disappear without a word about where he was going, and stay away for days. To her shame, Anne often found herself wis.h.i.+ng he'd have a fatal accident so that she'd be set free to go home to her sisters. She knew it was wicked to think such things, but she was at the end of her tether and she had no one to turn to. Even Angus had deserted her entirely. She might have been the one who ended it, but she thought he might have retained enough affection for her to drop in now and then to see how she was.

But then, just when she thought she would never see him again, she ran into him.

It was less than a month ago, three days before Christmas.

She had gone into Bath to get some presents. Milsom Street was crowded with shoppers, a barrel-organ was playing gaily, the shop windows all looked so bright and festive, and the roast chestnut-sellers were loudly exhorting the crowds to buy their wares. The festive sight cheered her greatly and she reminded herself that Rufus was due home the following day, and only the previous night William had admitted he'd been behaving abominably, and vowed he was going to change.

She wasn't very optimistic about the latter. It wasn't the first time he'd made such promises, only to break them a few days later, but this time he had buried his head in her lap and sobbed his heart out. He said that drinking was his way of shutting out the anxiety about losing his fortune. He added that he'd let her and Rufus down very badly, that the house was falling into disrepair, and it was all too much for him.

Anne felt she had to try to believe in him again. She'd made the suggestion that in the New Year, he should go to his advisers and check exactly howmuch money they had left; then they could make plans to deal with it, however bad it was.

For now, all she wanted was for them to have a happy Christmas and drawcloser to one another.

She had just bought William a blue silk cravat, and was making her way down the street to buy Rufus some new paints when she saw Angus striding towards her. It was such a shock that she almost stumbled.

He was in his uniform, his blue coat with its gold braid and cherry-red breeches making him look taller and even more handsome than she remembered. He didn't appear to be equally shocked to see her, for his expression didn't change.

'Good morning, Lady Harvey,' he said, making a formal little bow. 'I trust you are well?'

She pulled herself together, feeling very glad she'd worn her blue sable-trimmed cape and the matching bonnet, for although it was out of fas.h.i.+on, she knew it flattered her. But she was fl.u.s.tered, for although it was six years since she'd written to him in the aftermath of her father's funeral, it was eight years since they'd last met face to face, and she knew those years showed on her face.

'I'm very well, thank you,' she managed to stammer out, noting that he had a sprinkling of grey hair at his temples and that he'd shaved off his moustache. 'Are you home on leave?'

She remembered he'd made some kind of sardonic remark about there being no good wars just now, and that soldiers were becoming fat and lazy. She asked if he was staying with his relatives in Chelwood.

'No, I have had a house of my own for some years,' he said rather curtly.

'I am sorry that my last letter was so cold and final,' she blurted out. 'I had been having such a difficult time with William, and what with Mother dying, and then Father so soon after, and Rufus going off to school, I was quite beside myself.'

'I a.s.sume that is also your excuse for treating Nell so shabbily too?' he said.

'Nell?' she repeated, dumbfounded not only by his accusation but that he'd even come to hear of her maid leaving Briargate. 'I don't know how you came to hear that Nell left of her own accord!'

'd.a.m.n it, Anne, you left her no choice but to go.' He raised his voice in his anger, dropping his earlier formal greeting. 'How could she stay with that blackguard of a husband? I hear he's still with you too!'

Anne looked around her nervously, afraid someone she knew might see them. She wanted to ask if they could talk somewhere where they would be less conspicuous, but she didn't know how to. 'I would have dismissed Albert, but William wouldn't have it,' she managed to say. 'It was Christmas too,' she ended lamely.

Angus raised one eyebrow. 'And as a good Christian you thought it best that the woman who had devoted most of her life to you should be banished to keep the peace?'

'It wasn't like that.' Anne was fast losing her composure in the face of his sarcasm. 'You will only have heard a distorted version of how it came about.'

'No. I heard the plain and unvarnished truth,' he said grimly. 'That Nell believed Albert had killed her young sister, and you and William refused to take her seriously. When I met her and took her home as my housekeeper she was a mere shadow of the able young woman I'd met at Briargate.'

'Your housekeeper?' She gasped, astounded that Rufus hadn't told her this, for surely Matt would have mentioned it to him? Her mind was whirling frantically. Had Nell told Angus he was Hope's father?

'Yes, and the best housekeeper any man could find,' he said with a faint smile. 'Only a fool would part with such a treasure.'

Anne felt chastened. 'We are in agreement there,' she admitted. 'I have missed her so much. But Angus, we did get the police to search for Hope, they found nothing suspicious. It looked to everyone as if she had truly run off.'

'Nell cannot believe that, for she feels if Hope were alive she would have contacted one of her brothers or sisters by now. I'm inclined to believe she ran off, but I'm absolutely certain Albert forced her to go. If I had my way I'd take a horsewhip to him and force the truth out of him, so at least Nell could have some peace of mind. But it isn't my place to do it; it should be done by her family or by William.'

It was clear by that statement that Angus didn't know Hope was his daughter. He was indignant because he didn't think she and William had showed enough concern for two loyal and hardworking servants. But if he had known who Hope really was, he'd have been up to Briargate immediately to thrash Albert, and he'd almost certainly feel murderous towards Anne too.

She was afraid to meet his eyes now, and although she promised she would tackle Albert herself, and asked him to pa.s.s on her warmest wishes to Nell, his stony expression made it clear that he had nothing but scorn for her. Excusing herself, she hurried away, blus.h.i.+ng to the tips of her toes.

She had always known that Angus hated injustice and cruelty he had often spoken out about the terrible conditions for enlisted men in the army and so it shouldn't have come as a surprise to her that he'd given Nell refuge in his own home.

As he strode away from her that morning in Milsom Street, she saw her own faults all too clearly. She was a weak, vain and selfish woman who had used other people's affections and loyalty all her life, without once offering anything in return. No wonder she saw no trace of love left in his eyes.

All over Christmas she could think of nothing but Angus. She was no stranger to immersing herself in thoughts of her one-time lover. Over the years she'd spent thousands of hours running the whole gamut of emotion, loving him, hating him, blaming him for ruining her life, and yet tingling with arousal as she dwelt on his lovemaking and always burning for more. But now it was different, no tremors of desire, no hate or blame, all she could see was just how self-centred she had been.

Angus was an honourable man. He had fallen in love with her, but he tried to fight against taking it any further because she was a married woman. It was she who made it happen, flirting, tempting and pus.h.i.+ng him. He tried to end it countless times, but she clung to him, even threatening to kill herself.

She only ever saw how it was for her: the lack of future, the disgrace if they were caught, the endless waiting while he was away soldiering. She never once considered his feelings or sawthat she was preventing him from marrying someone who would make a home for him and give him children.

Anne knew she couldn't make amends to Angus, not for all those wasted years, or the pain she'd put him through. But the one thing she could do, which she knew both he and Nell would appreciate, was to tackle Albert about Hope. If she could get him to admit what really happened that day and why, it might go some way to make up for the misery Nell had been through.

Regrettably she was frightened of Albert; he had a way of looking at her with those dark, penetrating eyes that made her s.h.i.+ver. Normally she avoided all contact with him, because she felt he believed she'd put Nell up to leaving him. But she had to be brave and face him or remain ashamed of herself for the rest of her life. Besides, Hope was her own daughter what mother wouldn't want to know what happened to her child?

Hope would be twenty-two in April. She might be married now, with children of her own. How terrible it was to remember that for so many years she'd never allowed herself to think about her firstborn. She'd never asked Bridie where she was buried, she hadn't even considered how old she would have been had she lived, or wondered what she might have looked like. Yet in the last couple of years, when it was too late, she'd thought about her all the time.

Having put on a cloak and some stouter shoes, Anne went out of the front door. Albert was clearing some bramble bushes that had sprung up over the hedge on the far side of the garden. As she walked towards him she became even more nervous. Albert was a powerfully built man, and if he had killed Hope he might attack her too if she pushed him too hard. He was obstinate as well. Anyone else in his position would have moved on, for it was common knowledge that Matt, Joe and Henry Renton hated him.

'Good morning, Albert,' she said as she got close to him. 'I would like a word with you.'

He didn't turn to her, but carried on pulling out the brambles.

'Stop that,' she said firmly. 'I expect you to look at me when I'm speaking to you.'

He turned then, but his expression was wooden. 'Yes, m'lady?' he responded with unconcealed insolence.

'I want you to tell me the truth about the day Hope left,' she said. 'I am not satisfied with the explanation you gave at the time.'

'Aren't you now!' he said, looking her up and down as if she were a common housemaid. 'But then you'll have had it hard without a maid. No one to pin up your hair or fill the bath.'

That he saw her as a pathetic creature who felt nothing more than resentment that she had to take care of herself now her maid was gone was another source of shame. 'She didn't leave me, she left you,' she retorted, trying to keep her voice from shaking. 'Sadly I was unable to keep her on while you were still here. I know you hit her, and Hope too. Men who hit women are cowards.'

'Is that so?' he said, taking a few steps closer to her, his jawjutting out threateningly. 'You've had a lot of experience with men, have you?'

Anne's stomach contracted with fear, not just at the way he was looking at her, but at the barbed question.

'It is my intention to go back to the police and ask for a new investigation into her disappearance,' she said more bravely than she felt. 'I'm giving you the chance now to tell me the truth before I go to them.'

'You don't want to go talking about me to the police,' he said, smirking at her. 'You've got too much to hide yourself.'

'I beg your pardon!' she said with some indignation.

'I know who you were carrying on with,' he said. 'You make trouble for me and I'll do the same for you. But let me tell you I've got proof, you ain't.'

Anne's bowels contracted with fear. It was a very long time since Angus had called here, and no one but Baines remained who knew about those visits, so maybe she could just call Albert's bluff.

'I haven't any idea what you are talking about,' she said archly. 'You are mistaken. You'd better show me this so-called proof.'

'I ain't got it on me right now,' he said. 'But I've got it safe right enough. A letter from Captain Angus Pettigrew, Royal Hussars, no less. He's been sniffing around you for years.'

A cold chill ran down her spine, for she suddenly realized how and when he'd got the letter. He must have caught Hope with it while she was away burying her father.

'That's knocked the stuffing out of you,' he said dryly, his eyes glinting with malice. 'Still going to the police?'

Anne turned and fled back to the house.

During the next three or four days she berated herself constantly for showing Albert her guilt by running away from him. What was she to do? Now that she'd threatened him with the police, he might tell William just to spite her.

She couldn't eat, sleep or sit still, her heart seemed to be beating too fast, and when William did come home, she had to make out she had a headache so she could shut herself away in her room.

The following morning she saw William talking to Albert out in the garden, and she waited, expecting that at any moment her husband would come running in angrily because he knew.

But that didn't happen. William was quite jovial when he came in, and all he wanted to talk to her about later that day was the possibility they might have to sell some of their more valuable pieces of furniture to raise some cash. But in the days that followed, each time Albert walked close to the windows, he would look in at her, smirk, and wave a piece of notepaper which could only be Angus's letter.

The strain of it, along with not eating or sleeping, made her shaky and clumsy. She knocked an ornament off the mantelpiece, twice she knocked over a teacup, then finally she caught the heel of her shoe in the hem of her dress while coming down the stairs, tumbling right to the bottom.

She had banged her head and arm, and William called the doctor, a.s.suming she was in terrible pain because she couldn't stop weeping.

The doctor told her that she would be fine, that she was only shaken up. But she knew he'd said something more to William, for as soon as the doctor had left, William came back to her room and sat on her bed.

'Tell me what's really troubling you,' he said. 'You've been nervy ever since I came back from London. Baines told me you haven't been eating.'

It was ironic that he'd chosen to revert to being the gentle, kind-hearted man she'd married, purely out of anxiety for her, and that made her cry even more. He stroked her hair back from her face and told her he knew he was responsible for her distress.

'We used to be such close friends,' he reminded her. 'Remember how we used to laugh so much together? We told each other everything. Can't we try to be like that again?'

She so much wished for that too, but she couldn't tell him the truth however much she wanted to, for it would hurt him too badly.

Days went past and still she lay in bed, wrapped in misery. But William didn't turn back to drink; he brought her meals to the bedroom and even fed her tenderly. Again and again he apologized for his drinking and losing their money and even admitted that he'd been nasty to her and her sisters when her father died.

He did owe her apologies for all these things, but her own wrongdoing was burning away inside her, and because she still couldn't bring herself to admit that, she attacked him.

'You've never been a real husband to me,' she sobbed. 'We've been married for nearly twenty-seven years but you've laid with me fewer than six times. Do you know how that makes me feel? It makes me feel ugly and undesirable.'

William's face crumpled and he began to cry. She felt sorry then and enfolded him in her arms to comfort him, shocked that he had taken it so hard.

As he continued to sob, Anne felt obliged to tone down her accusation. She said that it was almost certainly her fault, that maybe he thought she didn't welcome his advances. She wasn't even thinking about what she was saying; all she wanted was for him to stop crying.

'Don't make excuses for me,' he blurted out eventually. 'The fault is all mine and I wish more than anything else in the world that I wasn't the way I am. Don't you understand what it is, Anne? I have no desire for any woman. Only other men.'

For a few brief moments she thought she'd misunderstood what he said. But when he looked up at her like a little boy caught with his fingers in the jam, she suddenly realized it was true.

'No!' she exclaimed. 'That can't be right. Not you!'

She was beyond shock, beyond even horror. It was too outrageous to take in. No one could be married to a man for all those years and not find out such a thing.

All she knew about men with this problem had been learned from Bridie. Shortly before Anne was to marry William, Bridie had told her a tale of a butler and groom at her previous position. They were dismissed when they were found in bed together. Bridie called them 'nancy boys', but explained such men were often called sodomists. Anne had often wondered what prompted her old maid to tell her such a thing, but now it looked as if Bridie had sensed William might be one and she wanted to warn her.

'I have been so unfair to you,' William cried. 'I swear to G.o.d I didn't know when we got married, but I soon realized I wasn't right. I couldn't speak of it, though, not to you or anyone. I truly loved you; I still do, so I beg you not to doubt that. But after I'd managed to give you Rufus I thought it would be all right to go my own way.'

In an odd way Anne felt a kind of relief. Whether that was because what William had told her gave her some justification for her own behaviour, or because it finally made sense of all those questions about her marriage for which she could find no answers, she didn't know. But all at once she didn't feel quite so hunted.

She listened in horrified fascination as he poured out that he'd been seduced by another man at a card party in London just a year after their wedding.

'I loathed myself for giving in to it,' he sobbed. 'But I couldn't help myself.'

Maybe if Anne hadn't experienced illicit ecstasy herself she wouldn't have understood that explanation. But William's explanation was exactly how she would have described her own infidelity.

She had often raged to herself about the unfairness of a society which not only accepted a man taking a mistress, but almost applauded it, while an adulterous woman was seen as a harlot, and d.a.m.ned by everyone. It was a man's world. Men could rape servants, go with prost.i.tutes and bring diseases home to their wife; they could even deflower children and not be punished. Yet absurdly, a man could not have a preference for his own s.e.x without being considered a perverted animal, and if he was exposed, he would be an outcast in society.

She didn't want William to be an outcast. She didn't like what he'd told her, yet it seemed to her that it wasn't his fault he'd been made that way. But if he had had normal desires, then maybe she wouldn't have been unfaithful either.

In a way, it was like s.h.i.+ning a light in a dark corner, for suddenly she was remembering how he was when they first met and married, and seeing that there had been many pointers to suggest he was different from other young men.