The House of Hardie (13 page)

Naturally, Archie had often talked of his home, but he took it too much for granted to describe it in detail. He had never made it clear that Castlemere was not so much a house as a palace. Midge found herself counting the turrets, estimating the number of rooms and courtyards, wondering how many servants were needed to run it.
There was a moment in which her confidence faltered. She had not been brought up to be a châtelaine. She would have neither the confidence nor the experience to run such an establishment – nor, indeed, the wish to devote her time to such a task.

She shook her head, laughing at herself, although with little humour. What conceit, to object to a role which could not be offered to her! Castlemere would never belong to Archie. He had made it clear enough that he had little money of his own, but must rely on his grandfather to set him up in whatever profession he chose to follow. In fact, if he were to turn his back now on Midge, it was likely not to be because she was unqualified to run a grand house, but because she would lack the kind of marriage settlement to provide him with a comfortable life.

What kind of life would that be? Midge tried to imagine Archie in three or four years' time. Would he go into the army, as he had once suggested, condemning his wife to the gypsy life of any officer's family? Midge could hardly imagine him as a clergyman, and he was certainly not clever enough for any profession requiring brains and academic qualifications. A gentleman farmer was perhaps the only other possibility, offering his wife a place in county society, but almost certainly cutting her off from any kind of intellectual pursuits. And whatever he chose to do, he would never allow his wife to take paid employment. The time might come when Midge would have to ask herself whether her decision to be a teacher was a true vocation or merely an idea which would seem second-best when set against an offer of marriage.

Ruefully she remembered the advice that Gordon had given her the previous summer. The way to find happiness was first of all to choose a way of life and only then to
search for a companion with whom it could be shared. Did that apply only to men, or could a woman claim the same right?

Midge felt her back straightening and her resolve stiffening as she put the question to herself. She was still too much in love to follow the answer right through at this moment. If Archie were to appear now – to tell her again that he loved her, to ask her to marry him – she could not with her hand on her heart promise herself that she would pause to consider the future in detail before accepting him. But if he did not come …

There would be no need to wait long before the situation became clear, for there was an easy test of his intentions. If his feeling for her was sincere, he would surely take the opportunity of his coming-of-age to let her meet his family, allowing the grandfather of whom he stood in awe a chance to appraise the girl he professed to love. Not that he would necessarily be forced to make the relationship obvious. In a large party, Midge would be only one amongst scores of his friends. An invitation to the occasion would not necessarily be significant. But if he chose
not
to invite her – why then, Midge told herself, a student of history at the University of Oxford – a woman who was being trained to read documents and understand their significance – ought to be able to interpret silence and draw the only sensible conclusion from it.

And in that case she must put the past behind her. She had behaved foolishly, sinfully, but she ought not to allow the events of half an hour to determine the whole future course of her life. Instead of guilt, she must summon up pride. She had her own ambitions, her own plans for the future. They had been enough for her before, and they would be again.

The decision was easy to take, but did not prevent her
from listening for each postal delivery. News of her skating accident brought several notes of enquiry and good wishes from her friends; but not until three days after term had ended did she arrive at the breakfast table to find the letter she was hoping for waiting beside her place.

A letter, to describe it more accurately, which came from the right place. A coat of arms stamped into the thick red seal, told her that and made her spirits jump with hope. But the feel of the epistle between her fingers brought doubts. An invitation would have been printed on thick card. The contents of this, all too obviously, were handwritten on paper. But then, a letter might prove to be a special way of inviting a special guest …

Midge forced herself to laugh at these ridiculous imaginings which could so easily be resolved by the breaking of the seal. But a growing fear in her heart made her reluctant to risk the discovery in front of the rest of the family. At the sound of her father's firm footsteps coming down the stairs, she tucked the letter into the waistband of her skirt. Only later, when she was alone, did she find out what Archie had to say.

‘Dear Miss Hardie.' Archie's handwriting, unspoilt by any efforts to scribble lecture notes at speed, was round and clear: almost that of a schoolboy still. The purpose of his letter, alas, was equally clear.

‘I'd meant to write to you sooner to enquire after your injured ankle and hope that you took no harm from your ducking and by now are fully restored to health. But since my return to Castlemere I've been kept almost a prisoner in my room, with no company but the vacation reading list. My tutors, it seems, are displeased with my progress over the past five terms; and the Dean, reading their reports, has written a most ungentlemanly letter to my
grandfather. As though a chap should be expected to spend the whole of his life in libraries! I'm sure my grandfather had a high old time when he was up at Oxford himself, but now there are frowns of disapproval and lectures about too many distractions, and altogether it seems that my nose is to be forced to the grindstone. I've tried to persuade my grandfather that friendships are more important than books, but he'll have none of it.

‘So I fear that all the happy hours that you and I spent on the river last year, and which I'd hoped to repeat this summer, must remain a thing of the past. You can guess how much I shall regret this, because you're such a good sport and my admiration for you knows no bounds – but what can a fellow do when the whole world conspires to squash him flat?'

There were two further paragraphs to the letter, fulsome with compliments about her looks and intelligence and almost maudlin with regrets that some other chap would one day enjoy the benefit of them, but Midge hardly troubled to read the words. He had made his meaning plain enough. The shame which would have driven Midge herself into marriage, had it been offered, was driving Archie away from it. She was not good enough for him: the marquess must have made that clear. In a moment of anger she even wondered whether the wording of the letter had been dictated to its writer, so subtly did it avoid any phrase which might have justified a suit for breach of promise, had Midge been of a spiteful disposition.

For a second time within a few days she felt tears pricking at her eyes but this time, straightening her back and holding her head high, she forced them back. She must not, would not cry. An impulsive young man had
had second thoughts and, in doing so, had given her the opportunity to think sensibly herself. That she should feel unhappy for a moment was natural enough. But it was not the end of the world: only the end of a romance.

‘Haven't you ever been in love?'

Midge had hurled that question – almost an accusation – at Gordon on the summer afternoon when he agreed to provide her with a pretence of respectability. His answer had been an honest one. No, he had never been in love.

So passionate was his determination to travel to China one day that the only love affair he could allow himself was with his own ambition. Any entanglement with a young woman would be a distraction. Besides, how could it end except in the heartache of parting – for the idea that a female could endure the certain hardship of his expedition was unthinkable. It would be heartless to enter an engagement before his departure and to expect his betrothed to wait alone for three years, without any of the usual pleasures of courtship. And if – even worse – he were to marry, how could he possibly desert a young bride? So it was that during his early twenties he had kept a tight rein on his emotions, enjoying the company of young women, but careful never to encourage any intimacy.

‘You must have met beautiful girls!' That had been another of Midge's challenges. It was true; but only once had his breath been snatched away by such an intense physical attraction that he needed to curb his feelings immediately if he were not to be swept off his feet. Lucy Yates, painting in the herb garden at Castlemere or clapping her hands with excitement on the Magdalen barge, was the loveliest creature he had ever seen. Only
a child, of course, but beauty in bud was the purest of all.

Common sense had come to his rescue. Lucy Yates would never be allowed to marry into trade. The Marquess of Ross would have far more ambitious plans for such a beauty. So there was no point in considering even for a second what might happen if Gordon were to fall in love with her. Any such inclination was to be stifled at birth.

The fact that it was Archie Yates's sister who had so greatly attracted him helped his understanding of Midge's infatuation – but also his discouragement of it. Miss Hardie would not be considered good enough for the grandson of a marquess. And because Gordon himself had successfully resisted the temptation to fall in love, he believed his sister could and should do the same.

During the nine months following their conversation, though, he gave little thought to Midge's problems, for his own affairs needed all his attention. Before he could embark on his great adventure, there were plans which must be put into effect. And time was passing. He had fixed on October 1887 for the start of his expedition. Now it was April. Only six months more!

Almost ten years had passed since he returned to Oxford from his voyage to the South Seas: ten years in which he had devoted himself to the affairs of The House of Hardie. He had served his father well, working on each side of the business in turn. The danger was that he might come to be thought of as indispensable. That was one reason why he began to speak of his plans earlier than he had originally intended, in order that his replacement might be found and trained in good time.

Mr Hardie was at first astonished by Gordon's request for a three-year leave of absence, and then disapproving. But although Gordon put the request forward politely, as
though permission were being asked, he made the true situation clear. Mr Hardie could either cast his only son off in disgust or else let him return eventually to his place in The House of Hardie. There was no real choice.

So by April 1887, although Mrs Hardie was still attempting to dissuade her son from a journey which seemed fraught with danger, her husband had sufficiently conceded defeat to make a practical suggestion.

‘We could bring Will here from London,' he said, as they discussed the future over Sunday afternoon tea. ‘He knows the selling side of the business as well as anyone, and it would be a promotion for him. He's no family to hold him back, now that his mother's dead – and he could lodge with us, couldn't he, my dear, until he finds somewhere that suits him in Oxford?'

‘Just remind me, which one is Will?' Mrs Hardie rarely visited London and was not as familiar with the staff there as with those who worked in Oxford.

‘Will Witney, my dear. The boy who fell into the cellar.'

Ten years earlier, Mr Hardie had told his family the story of a guttersnipe's dramatic entry into The House of Hardie. Not so much running as propelling himself like a bullet along the pavement of Pall Mall, the twelve-year-old had failed to notice the trapdoor which was just being opened. The Hardie cellars extended under the street, and barrels brought by the cartload were delivered via the opening. Will might easily have been killed by his fall.

‘Oh yes,' recalled Mrs Hardie. ‘Does he still limp?'

‘He always will, I'm afraid. That was the main reason why we felt an obligation to offer him work. As an errand-boy, the only talent he had to offer until then was speed. Naturally, he lost his job – and it was all due to our cellarman's negligence.'

‘Shouldn't he have been at school?' asked Mrs Hardie.

‘I expect so. He'd been playing truant for years in order to support his mother. Not exactly promising material, you might have thought when we took him on. Illiterate, innumerate, shabby, and none too clean.'

‘And yet you're going to put him in charge at Oxford?'

Gordon laughed, guessing that his mother was alarmed by such a picture of her proposed lodger. ‘That was all ten years ago, Mother.' Will had proved to have a natural intelligence, unspoiled by any interference from schoolteachers. He was a boy who had never been bored by lessons, because he so rarely attended them. As soon as he saw the point of learning something, he had picked it up at the speed of greased lightning. ‘Father sent him off to night school at the firm's expense.'

‘Never known a boy learn to read so fast,' said Mr Hardie. ‘Remarkable! Whenever Will saw a chance of promotion, he made sure that he was qualified to apply for it. By the time he was seventeen he could keep a ledger in a copperplate hand – and draw up accounts and keep a balance. Before he was twenty-one, he'd learned to understand business letters in both French and German, and to write straightforward answers. What's more, he started taking an interest in the goods he was selling. It's not often that I have the chance to educate a completely unspoiled palate. He's almost as good a judge of wine as Gordon is, though he doesn't find it as easy to put his opinions into words.'

‘I suspect that he simply marks everything out of ten,' suggested Gordon, grinning. ‘He's a good fellow though.'