The adulteress (21 page)

"Well, Hassock can make good use of it," said Jean-Louis.

"And," I added, "he has already been given permission to have it."

"Oh, but Dickon has promised it to Burrows."

"Mother," I said, "Dickon has no right to promise anything. Just because he has been allowed to have a little insight into the way the estate is run he thinks it belongs to him. It's yours, and Jean-Louis and James manage it. How can they do that successfully if this . . . boy comes in and tells them what to do."

"Don't let him hear you call him a boy," said my mother.

"What else is he? Please be sensible. I know how you dote on him but . . ."

She looked as though she were going to burst into tears. I

think she sensed some reproach in my words implying that she cared for this son of the man she had once loved more than for her own daughter.

I went to her quickly and put my arm about her. "Mother dear, you do see that Jean-Louis and James must have a free hand. I know the estate is yours . . . but you know little of it. You can't undermine the manager's standing with the tenants, otherwise there would be chaos. And just because this pampered boy suddenly takes an interest and thinks he can have his own way you cannot give in to him. I think we should probably lose James if you did."

"We can't afford to lose James," said Jean-Louis. "I need him now."

He looked sad and I felt fresh anger against Dickon for creating this absurd situation.

My mother looked apologetically at us both and said: "It was so wonderful to see him . . . enthusiastic . . . and caring about it all."

"It doesn't mean he can run it, mother," I said. "You can't seriously be thinking of letting him have his own way."

She hesitated and I cried out: "You are. Then I think you had better hand over the management to Dickon. James will resign and so perhaps will Jean-Louis."

"Zipporah. How can you say that? You and Jean-Louis are my own . . . my daughter and my son. . . ."

"But you will still have Dickon, you know," I said angrily. For I realized now that I hated Dickon, and because my hatred was tinged with a certain emotion—not exactly fear but uneasiness—I was unusually vehement.

My mother was at heart a very sensible woman and it was only when her emotions were deeply involved that she would behave without good sense.

She saw in that moment the absurdity of the situation and must have realized that she was jeopardizing the love of her own daughter for the sake of Sabrina's son.

She said quietly: "Of course ... of course. . . . Jean-Louis and James know best. Poor Dickon, he will be very disappointed. It is such a pity that this should have happened just when he is getting so excited about the place."

We had won the battle. Hassock would continue preparing the land. Burrows would have to accept that and realize that Dickon was not in a position to make promises which he had no power to keep.

It was the next day that Dickon came over when we were at the table. I guessed that he had just heard of the decision, for I could imagine my mother's putting off telling him for as long as she could.

He came in glaring at us. His glance was cold but I could see the anger seething beneath it.

"So," he said looking at James, "you have been to Lady Clavering."

"James did not," I said. "Jean-Louis and I saw her."

"And you have persuaded her to go against me."

"It's not against you, Dickon," said Jean-Louis. "It's a matter of what we consider best for the estate."

"What! That strip of land! It's been idle for years and years! What effect does that have on the estate?"

"Hassock asked for it," said Jean-Louis, "and James and I decided he should have it. That could not be rescinded."

"Why not? Burrows has just as much right."

"We decided that Hassock should have it. He asked for it first, Burrows did not," said Jean-Louis.

"Hassock! Yes, of course!" Dickon was glaring at James. "You have a special fancy for Hassock . . . the girl. . . ."

James stood up and said: "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you can't refuse dear little Hetty anything, can you, and if she says papa wants that bit of land, papa has to have it."

"Hetty Hassock has nothing to do with this," said James. "Please do not bring her into it."

"It seems to me she is there . . . say what you will. I've eyes in my head, you know. I don't go around blind."

Jean-Louis said sternly: "You must behave properly in this house, Dickon, or I shall ask you to leave."

Dickon bowed ironically: "I do not exactly yearn to stay," he said. "But let me tell you this, James Fenton, I shall not forget this insult."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dickon," I burst out. "You haven't been insulted. You've probably been sympathetic to Burrows but he doesn't expect a boy like you to make important decisions on the estate."

His glance swept over me fleetingly. He looked for a few seconds at James and that look of cold implacable hatred in his eyes made me very uneasy.

He turned and went.

Jean-Louis shook his head. "That boy should be sent away to school," he said.

After the haymaking Lottie's nanny developed a bad cold which turned to bronchitis. We missed her very much because she was an extremely efficient young woman. I did not like to leave Lottie to the servants and took over the care of her myself.

It was James who suggested that I should have some temporary help. I soon understood why.

"Hetty Hassock would like to come over and give you a hand with Lottie," he said. "I think you would find her very useful."

I was amused because I knew now that James was interested in Hetty. Jean-Louis and I had discussed the matter often. We were both very fond of James; he was no ordinary agent for not only did he take a keen interest in the estate, the management of which he did extremely well, but he was an amusing companion; meal times were enlivened by his conversation; moreover, I had noticed that he took over, most unobtrusively, much of the work which he thought would tire Jean-Louis.

Hetty came and I did find her a delightful young woman and during the time she stayed with me I learned quite a lot about her. She was not one to give her confidences easily, being somewhat introspective, I imagined, but in due course we became good friends.

She told me it had not been easy to adjust to life at the farm, coming to it, as she had, when she was grown up.

"Of course," she explained, "I used to pay visits during the summer. I always enjoyed the haymaking and the Harvest Home, but I did find I had little in common with my brothers and sisters."

I understood why. Tom Hassock was quite a good farmer but he had a large family to feed. It was for this reason that his wife's sister had taken Hetty and brought her up, educating her and giving her a different life from that of her brothers and sisters.

"Aunt Emily had married well," Hetty told me, "a tradesman with a mercer's business in Cheapside, and they had lived over the shop." She and her husband had been childless and for this reason soon after Hetty was born they had asked if they could take the burden of a new child off the already

pressed Hassocks and bring her up as their own. The farmer and his wife had seen this as a good opportunity for the daughter which must not be missed. So at the age of two Hetty had gone to London.

She had gone to a school in London and had been fed and clothed in a manner which by the Hassock family was considered affluent.

"It became a little upsetting going home sometimes," she said. "I had so much more than they had. It didn't seem fair. They were always so proud of me, though. Particularly my father. He used to say: 'Hetty is the lady in the family.' '

"Well, that should have made you proud. You mustn't feel ashamed because you were the fortunate one and made use of your good fortune," I said.

"Oh, I don't. But sometimes I think they expect too much of me. When my aunt died I stayed on with my uncle; but after he died his nephew took over the business . . . and he had a wife and four children. There was no room for me so I came home."

"I see. So now you have to adjust to being a farmer's daughter."

"It's difficult. I'm really glad to get away from home for a while."

"Oh, you'll settle down," I said. "And you might marry."

She flushed slightly and lowered her gaze.

Of course she would, I thought. It was obvious that James felt very seriously about her.

The summer had almost gone and autumn was in the air. It was a good harvest that year and everyone was delighted. Preparations for harvest festival went on with great enthusiasm. The church was decorated with all the products of the earth from cabbages to dahlias and chrysanthemums. But the great occasion was in fact the Harvest Home, which would be celebrated on the Saturday before the church festival.

It had been the custom on the estate that the celebration should take place at Clavering Hall, so that all the farmers and the families who lived on the estate could celebrate together. There was a great deal of bustle at the Hall and Dickon threw himself wholeheartedly into the preparations and I think that my mother and Sabrina were especially interested because of Dickon's excitement.

The trouble over the strip of land had not done anything to diminish his interest and he was still riding round with Jean-

Louis or James Fenton and going to the estates office to learn about inside management.

James was very pleased about it and made it clear that he had not liked what had to be done one little bit. Dickon shrugged it aside and I thought that he had forgotten all about it.

He himself concocted the brew in the great punch bowl and the cooks were busy for a long time preparing the feast. No one talked of anything but Harvest Home; every farm had its corn dollies, which were hung up to decorate the hall and bring good luck besides the sheaves of wheat. The fruit, vegetables and great cob loafs would be distributed throughout the district when it was all over.

Fiddlers had been engaged and if the weather was bad there would be dancing in the great hall; if not it would be out of doors—which everyone was hoping for.

Great tables were set up and filled with refreshments. It was going to be one of the best Harvest Homes ever to have been known, said my mother to Sabrina; and they exchanged smiles. It was of course because Dickon had taken part in it.

Lottie's nanny had now recovered but I said she must take things easily for a while as she must be considerably weakened and Hetty should stay with us until she was really strong. As neither of them had any objection, this was arranged.

Two days before the Harvest Home, a message came for James. His cousin, the one who had visited us, wrote that his father was dangerously ill and he wanted to see James before he died.

"You must go, James," said Jean-Louis. "You'd never forgive yourself if you didn't. We'll manage the Harvest Home without you. We have enough helpers. Besides it's more or less settled, and with the harvest in this is the best time for you to take a break."

So James left the day before the Harvest Home.

It was a great occasion with much merry making. The weather was good enough for people to be out of doors so the young ones danced on the lawns and the older ones sat inside and did full justice to the punch and pies and good food which the kitchens had provided.

Dickon had more or less placed himself in charge. He was rather pleased, I think, that James had been called away. I

saw my mother and Sabrina watching him admiringly. He looked incredibly handsome, being affable to everyone and dancing the folk dances with such gusto and grace that he was admired by all.

He made sure to dance with most of the farmers' wives, which was a duty James—since Jean-Louis could not—would have performed had he been there.

At ten o'clock Jean-Louis spoke to them and thanked them for the year's good work and then we all sang together Harvest hymn.

It was moving and particularly so perhaps because this year there was so much to be thankful for.

After that Jean-Louis and I went home.

"A most successful Home," he said. "One of the best I remember. A pity James couldn't have been there to see it— because so much is due to his good management."

"Dickon enjoyed it," I said.

"Yes, he seems to have got over that bit of trouble. Learnt his lesson, I daresay."

"I hope so," I said.

The days seemed to fly by. It was the end of October with the days drawing in and the threat of winter in the autumnal mists. James had been away for three weeks. His uncle had died and he had stayed for the funeral. Hetty was still with us, although nanny had recovered now. I had thought she might resent having another woman in the nursery but she liked Hetty; they got on well together and as they both adored Lottie they were happy.

I was pleased because I had grown more and more fond of Hetty and I did know that she was happier with us than she had been on her father's farm.

I noticed gradually that she was rather preoccupied and she began to lose some of her healthy color. I had the idea that something was troubling her. I asked on one occasion whether there was anything wrong and was told emphatically—perhaps too emphatically—that all was well.

But there was something, I knew. Sometimes I would see a blank look in her eyes as though she were trying to make some plan. I thought I detected a certain desperation.

There was a dignity about Hetty which made it impossible to intrude and to ask for confidences which she was not pre-

pared to give. I fancied that she tried to avoid me, and I became seriously worried and decided that I would keep a sharp eye on her.

I considered speaking about her to James, but I thought she might resent that very much. I wondered if something had gone wrong between them. I did mention it to Jean-Louis.

"Some lovers' tiff, I should imagine," he said. "It's always wise to keep out of that sort of thing."

"I suppose I must, but I am worried about her."

So I was watchful—and how thankful I was to be that this was so.

It was November ... a warm damp day with the mist hanging in patches. I was looking from my window when I saw Hetty leave the house. Whether it was some premonition, perhaps the air of dejection and dogged determination that I seemed to sense, I did not know. But what I did know was that I had to follow her. I had to see where she was going.

I put on a cloak and ran out. I was just in time to see her disappearing round a bend in the lane.

I guessed now that she was going to the river.

To the river! On such a day! For what purpose? Perhaps for a walk. It could only be that.

I kept a good distance between us because I knew that she must not be aware of me. I had to find out where she was going. Perhaps she was meeting James. If so I would discreetly disappear and leave them together. But why should she walk so far to see James when she could see him in the house or near it.

Now I could smell the river and I heard the faint murmur of the water as it lapped the bank.

I watched her. And then suddenly I knew. She let her cloak drop from her shoulder and started to walk toward the water.

"Hetty!" I screamed. "Hetty!"

She stopped and looked round.

I ran to her. I seized her arm and looked into her face. It was white and her eyes were large pools of despair.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

She stammered: "It's all right. I was only looking at the river."

"No, Hetty, not that. You were doing something. You must tell me. You must let me help."

"There is no way out," she said simply, "but this. Let me

go-

"You mean . . . you were going to walk out into the river .. . and not come back!"

'Tve thought a lot about it," she answered. "It is hard to do . . . but I can do it. . . ."

"What is it, Hetty? You can tell me. There must be a way out of your trouble. We'll find it. I promise you. You mustn't talk like this. It's wrong . . . it's foolish . . . nothing is so bad that something can't be done about it."

"Nothing can be done about this. I can't face them, Mistress Zipporah. This is the way. I've thought and thought and can see no other."

"Sit down. Tell me all about it."

"I'm wicked," she said. "You could never understand how wicked."