Joan Wolf (2 page)

As Adrian was holding his horses for him, Sir Henry got down from the phaeton. “Jem!” the boy called, and a stableboy came running. “Take Sir Henry’s horses, will you?” Adrian asked, and then turned to look inquiringly at the man standing next to him.

The younger Lissett was a slim boy of ten with brown eyes, shining brown hair, and a tan that showed he had spent his summer vacation for the most part out of doors. He was dressed in well-worn riding breeches and his shirt sleeves were rolled up.

“Yes,” Sir Henry replied in his clipped, military voice. “They told me at the house that Miss Andover was down here.”

“She’s working Northern Light down in the paddock.” Adrian fell into step beside him as he walked past the stable block and headed toward the paddock area. Geoffrey, two years older than Adrian and more broadly built, was sitting on top of the paddock gate. Standing next to him was a towheaded stableboy. Both boys turned at the sound of Adrian’s voice.

“Jess has got him going like a lamb,” Geoffrey informed his brother. “He’s a beauty!” he added with enthusiasm. Then, a definite afterthought, “How do you do, sir.”

Henry nodded, and all four of them turned to look at the horse and rider in the paddock, but Jessica had seen them and called, “Geoff, that’s enough for today, I think. Take him back to the stable for me.”

The boy jumped with alacrity to do her bidding, and Jessica dismounted and came over to Sir Henry Belton, “He’s going to be a marvel,” she said easily. “Riding him is like sitting on a keg of dynamite.” Like her brothers she was dressed in boots and breeches and her hair fell in a thick braid down between her shoulders.

“I hate to see you working yourself like that,” Sir Henry said in his abrupt way.

A faint frown appeared between Jessica’s dark brows. She didn’t consider that he had any right at all to comment upon her welfare, but it had become her policy to be as pleasant to him as possible, and she returned a noncommittal answer.

“I am leaving tomorrow for Lancashire,” he said, “and before I go I should like an opportunity to speak to you privately.”

Her narrow nostrils quivered slightly, but she replied calmly enough. “Certainly. We’ll go up to the house if you like.”

“Thank you,” he said crisply, and the two of them turned up the path he had driven down only a short time earlier.

* * * *

Jessica was very quiet at dinner that evening. Dining at Winchcombe was a highly informal affair. Gathered around the table in the faded blue dining room were Jessica, Geoffrey, Adrian, and Miss Sarah Burnley, Jessica’s onetime governess, who now spent her time running the house, as Jessica was fully occupied by the stables.

Miss Burnley had been engaged by Mr. Christopher Andover seventeen years ago to instruct his daughter and had been at Winchcombe ever since. Her credentials as governess were somewhat limited, for she did not know Italian, painted very poorly, and had extremely strange ideas about geography. She had once solemnly assured Jessica that Tripoli was in the Southern Hemisphere. What she did have, however, was a beautiful speaking voice, and Mr. Andover, who prized good speech above all else, had engaged her on the strength of that.

She had been successful in training Jessica’s voice to reach her own high standards. She had also imparted to her young charge her profound enthusiasm for the plays of William Shakespeare. Many long winter afternoons had been spent in the schoolroom of Winchcombe reading aloud— “with
feeling,
Jessica dear”—from the plays of the great bard.

Now she looked at Jessica’s abstracted face and asked gently, “I hope Sir Henry did not bring bad news this afternoon, Jessica?”

“Not precisely,” said Jessica in the cool voice that told them all she did not want to discuss it.

“Perhaps he wants to buy Northern Light,” Adrian said around a mouthful of beef pie.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Adrian,” his sister said automatically. “He is not interested in Northern Light, and even if he were it would do him no good. Northern Light is not for sale.”

“Of course he isn’t!” Geoffrey put in indignantly. “Northern Light is the best two-year-old in the country. He is sure to win all the major races next year. Why, there isn’t enough money in the world to buy Northern Light!”

Jessica smiled at Geoffrey, then turned to Miss Burnley, who was saying, a pucker between her thin brows. “But Jessica, I didn’t know you were going to
race
horses. I thought you were just going to sell them.”

 “One must demonstrate the value of one’s horses, Burnie, before one can sell them,” Jessica replied, helping herself to some more beef pie. The physically active life she was leading always left her ravenously hungry by dinner time. “If Northern Light does as well as we hope,” she explained to the puzzled face of her governess, “he will command enormous fees when we retire him to stud. And the stud fees are what are going to pay our bills in the future.”

Miss Burnley put down her fork.
“ ‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!’“ she quoted thrillingly, and Geoffrey and Adrian exchanged long-suffering looks.
It was a quotation they were overfamiliar with.

“Now, Burnie, don’t get started on that fellow Kean again,” Geoffrey said hastily. “Ever since you and Jess saw him in Cheltenham last week you have been talking about nothing else.”

“And
your
conversation, my dear Geoffrey,” said Miss Burnley with gentle dignity, “is somewhat limited as well.”

Adrian grinned. “Burnie’s right, Geoff. All you ever talk about is horses.”

“If you boys had accompanied us to the performance of
Richard III
you would have found yourselves as much in awe as Jessica and I. Such power. Such feeling.”

Geoffrey opened his mouth to reply, then met his sister’s eyes. Resolutely he shut his lips and applied himself to his plate.    Serenely, Miss Burnley continued. “I understand from my cousin in London that Covent Garden stood half empty all last season. Mr. Kemble is, of course, a well-known actor, but if Covent Garden is to compete with Drury Lane the management will have to find an actor to rival Mr. Kean. And that,” she sighed nostalgically, “will be very difficult.”

Jessica was staring at her, an arrested look in her gray eyes. “How much money do you think Mr. Kean makes, Burnie?” she asked.

“I don’t know what his salary is, my dear, but I’m
sure he gets bonuses. He received several hundred pounds for that one performance in Cheltenham. I know that from Mr. Francis, the manager of the Cheltenham Theatre.”

“Oh,” said Jessica, frowning thoughtfully.

“Are you going to see that mare of Redgate’s tomorrow?” Geoffrey asked his sister after a suitable pause had assured him that the topic of Edmund Kean was concluded.

“No,” she returned. “I am going into Cheltenham to see Mr. Grassington.”

“May I come with you?” asked Adrian, who never missed an opportunity to visit Dr. Morrow, their physician. Adrian was fascinated by medicine.

“Of course,” his sister assured him.     Adrian, she knew, would be closeted with his idol for the morning and she would be free to consult privately with Mr. Grassington.

Geoffrey and Miss Burnley exchanged glances, but neither said anything further. They knew that look on Jessica’s face and knew that further questions would be pointless. If something were up they would have
to
wait until she chose to tell them.

* * * *

Mr. Grassington knew that look also. He asked her to sit down and gazed worriedly at the remote, austere face of the girl he held in such affection. “How can I help you, my dear?” he asked quietly.

She came directly to the point. “What are the terms of the mortgage on Winchcombe? Does it run for a specified period of time or can it be called in at any time?”

Mr. Grassington looked appalled. “You don’t mean Sir Henry has asked you for the money?”

Her mouth, which was peculiarly expressive, looked very firm. “What are the terms of the mortgage?” she asked again.

“Mr. Canning, Sir Edmund’s lawyer, drew it up,” he said. “He naturally wrote it in favor of the holder.”

“Do you mean he can call it in any time he chooses?”

“He must give you two months’ notice,” he replied, his mouth very dry. “Jessica, my dear, what has happened?”

There was no flicker of expression on her face. What she thought, what she felt, she had long since learned to keep to herself. Ever since her mother had died ten years ago she had stood on her own feet. She was aware of the sympathy on the old man’s face but instinctively she shied away from it. She could not afford it. It would weaken her. So she said now in a calm, self-possessed voice, “Sir Henry wants to marry me. If I do not agree to his extremely distasteful proposal, he intimates that he will foreclose on my mortgage.”

“He could not mean that, Jessica! Why, such behavior is, well, blackmail.”

Jessica’s lips twisted contemptuously. “He meant it. It is just the sort of thing a man of his stamp would resort to.”

Mr. Grassington nervously shuffled some papers on his desk. “I did not know that Sir Henry had ever been over to Winchcombe,” he said tentatively.

“He has been coming regularly this past month,” she replied. “I thought he was interested in the horses. It now appears he was interested in the whole property.”

“Or
the property’s owner,” put in Mr. Grassington meaningfully.

Jessica looked scornful. “Oh, he made me a ridiculous speech about how he had decided to marry me a year ago when first he met me at Melford Hall. It’s more likely that he decided then to acquire Winchcombe. It would set fewer people’s backs up if he did it by marrying me, but I am not going to oblige him.”

“Is it so difficult for you to believe that a man might want you for yourself?” the old lawyer asked gently.

Her dark brows rose.
“He has gone about demonstrating that in rather an odd fashion.”

“Yes. Sir Henry is a crude man, I fear. But, Jessica, I do not think his interest is Winchcombe.” He paused. “Do you possibly think you might consider marrying him?”

“No.”

“But to lose Winchcombe—and after you have worked so hard, my dear!” He looked in distress at her thin face—too thin, he thought. She was wearing herself out. The beautiful white and rose of her skin had turned a pale golden brown from the sun. He shook his head mournfully. “What else can you do?” he asked.

“If I marry Sir Henry I lose Winchcombe anyway,” said Jessica. “A married woman has little say over her own property. No, as I told you once before, I have no intention of making the same mistake my mother did. I will manage by myself.”

“But how?”

“I will pay Sir Henry the mortgage money.”

“I do not see how you can get it. If I had it I would give it to you, you must know that. But I do not have it.”

She smiled at him. “You are very kind, Mr. Grassington, and I thank you.” She rose, and the smile died away, to be replaced by a look so intense it seemed to burn through him. “I will get that money if it kills me,” she said in a taut, determined voice. “No one is going to take Winchcombe away from me.”

“Oh my dear,” he said helplessly.

“No one,” she repeated fiercely, and her eyes looked almost silver in her suddenly pale face. She turned on her heel and left the room with swift grace.

The old lawyer stared after her with worried eyes. When Jessica was angry she was capable of anything. And from the look on her face he knew that she was very angry indeed.

Chapter Three

Give money me; take friendship whoso list!

—
BARNABY
GOOGE

Three days later Jessica set out for London, accompanied by Miss Burnley. She paid a visit to Clarges Street, where she arranged to borrow money at a depressingly high interest rate from Mr. King, a well-known moneylender. The money from Mr. King she would use to pay off Sir Henry Belton. Unfortunately, the only collateral she had to offer Mr. King was a mortgage on Winchcombe. Jessica then spent a week at Stevens’ Hotel.  During that time, unknown to Miss Burnley, she paid another visit, this one to Mr. Harris, the manager of the Covent Garden Theatre.

Jessica had six months to pay back Mr. King, and she had every intention of doing so. After many hours of deep thought she had determined a course of action for herself. It was not an easy decision for her to make, but she did not have many options. Marry for money she would not do. The thought of putting herself into the power of some man for the rest of her life filled her with horror. She might as well sell herself, she thought.

Which had brought her to her second option. She knew the amount of money her stepfather had spent on women. It appeared, she thought grimly to herself, that there was a good chance of making money by selling oneself temporarily. If anyone two years ago had told her she would consider becoming some rich man’s mistress she would have stared incredulously. But in her present situation she didn’t see any other way out.

 The world would condemn such a course of action, she knew. But then she had no intention of letting her world know what she had done. And Jessica, who had highly ethical but unusual standards, found the idea less distasteful than swearing to love, honor, and obey someone she hated and despised.

Simply stated, she had two boys who had to be put through school, and a mortgage on her only means of income. If she lost Winchcombe there would be no Eton, no Cambridge, no future for her brothers.
Or
for Miss Burnley.
Or for her either if she steadfastly .refused to marry. She was not even qualified to be a governess. The only solution was to clear Winchcombe of debt and go back to raising horses.

 Before she and Miss Burnley left for London Jessica had made up her mind, and when her mind was made up an earthquake would not move her.

* * * *

In September Adrian and Geoffrey left for school. After they had left, Jessica received an urgent message from a distant cousin in Scotland. The cousin was very ill and wanted to see Jessica.

“I never heard of this Jean Cameron!” protested Miss Burnley.

“I have,” Jessica replied reassuringly. “My mother was Scottish, you know, even if she was born and raised in France. My grandfather fought at Culloden and consequently had to flee the country. He joined the French army and married another Scottish exile. My mother was their only child. This Jean Cameron is the daughter of my grandfather’s first cousin.   She is quite elderly now and apparently rather wealthy. She says something about making ‘restitution’ to my grandfather’s only grandchild for all he suffered for the ‘cause.’ “