Authors: Martine Bailey
I sensed I had wounded him in turn, for Peter rose, put his hat on, and bowed with frigid politeness. ‘Very well, Grace. If that is what you wish. Write, if you change your mind. But, one day soon, you will wish you had come away with me.’ He walked away, and I listened mournfully until his footsteps faded into the silence.
I sat a while longer and pondered his words, wondering if I had behaved like an idiot. I would have at least ended all this uncertainty if I had left at Peter’s side. For some reason the motto on the tower’s sundial entered my head, ‘The rod is iron, the motion is shadow’. Time is unstoppable, I thought. The spinning sun, the chasing shadow; both will never cease. But what of us mortals beneath the dial – are not all our days numbered?
On Christmas Eve I woke early to a sun-filled room. Michael and I had agreed a truce of sorts, based upon his wish to celebrate Christmas. Being raised a dissenter, I had never before observed the keeping of Yuletide. My father had delivered great rants against the popery and superstition of Christmas; there had been no celebrations permitted at Palatine House. Though at school I had sung carols and exchanged Christmas greetings, this would be my first true Christmas.
Peg and I had hung branches of evergreens and holly above the great entrance door, and all about the dining room and parlour. I searched out my gift to Michael: a diamond shirt-buckle I had bought in York. I looked for my husband, but he was already out, so I breakfasted alone; warmed by the bright winter’s sunshine streaming in through the windows. On such a morning I could not sit inside. Without a word to anyone I took the gig to the village, enjoying the pearl-blue sky, streaked with luminous bands of clouds. I was rewarded at the postmaster’s office by two letters, one from Anne and the second from Peter. Reluctant to hurry back to the Hall, I decided to be bold. The George had a wainscoted newspaper room where I fancied a lady might venture alone. Once inside, I found only a couple of old gentlemen puffing tobacco smoke behind their newspapers. With some pleasure, I found a bright window seat and opened my post.
Anne’s letter was stamped from Santa Cruz, Tenerife, and was brighter and more cheerful than I could have hoped. Now accustomed to the rolling of the ship, she was feeling healthful and happy. She and Jacob had taken walks in the sun, and pressed many tropical flowers, some beautiful specimens of which she enclosed. The pumpkins and fresh meat on the island had improved her appetite, and she was content, though apprehensive of the next long period at sea. She wrote that the ship’s next port would be Rio de Janeiro, and then, ‘to catch the fast trade winds to the southern hemisphere’, they would sail back across the Atlantic to Cape Town. So Peg had been telling the truth when she described the erratic route she had taken. Naturally she had told the truth, I rebuked myself; she had taken the voyage as a convict. Nevertheless, it rattled me. If I were now to accept all she told me as true, I must never trust Michael again.
In this divided state I turned to Peter’s letter. It was a friendly rebuke for my refusing his invitation, and a last attempt to persuade me to join him. I reached for my writing box key, kept always in my paint box, hidden beneath the block of Crimson Lake. As I called to the inn servant to fetch me fresh ink and a pot of tea, I found myself wiping my fingers. The key – did it carry a sticky film? When had I last touched it? Three days earlier I had used the key to inspect my depleting accounts, and immediately hid it again. I inspected the paint box closely and saw no other signs of disturbance. I even smelled the key, but the lingering pungency of linseed covered any unfamiliar substance.
The servant returned with my order and I forgot my moment of disquietude. ‘Yule cakes, missus,’ she said. ‘It being Christmas Eve.’ It was with a certain independent relish that I sipped my tea and ate those spiced delicacies for the first time. I wrote a hasty note to Peter, telling him that I had changed my mind and would indeed join him at the New Year, if he could assure me that his parents would be present. I had come to a decision: I would confide in the Croxons. I had to tell someone of my grave worries about Michael, the excessive strain on his mind, and my knowledge of his connection with our neighbour, Miss Claybourn. Privately, I also determined to consult Mr Tully about the terms of my marriage settlement, and whether Michael owed me a living if we separated. My trivial exercise of independence in coming to the George had settled it. I would keep Michael company at Christmas, as I had promised, but after that I would please myself. Satisfied, I wished Peter and his parents greetings for the season and laid my pen to rest.
Looking up from my writing, my attention was drawn to a prosperous-looking couple conversing nearby. They were both dressed in exceeding high fashion for Earlby but it was their warmth of manner towards each other that impressed me. As they shared a little quip, the gentleman set a swift kiss on his wife’s cheek and she returned a private smile.
Once the gentleman had left, it was inevitable that the lady and I should notice each other. With a nod and a pleasant smile, she said, ‘How do you do? I am Mrs Barthwaite of Monkroyd.’
‘Mrs Croxon of Delafosse,’ I said, standing to shake her hand. ‘I am delighted to meet you.’
At the sound of my name Mrs Barthwaite’s round and gentle eyes fixed on me in fascination. ‘You are Michael’s wife? How pleased I am to see you up and about at last. We are well met, indeed.’
I was a little wrong-footed by this, but said lightly, ‘Oh, I am generally up and about.’
‘Mr Barthwaite and Mr Croxon generally hunt together. I am afraid your husband is guilty of keeping you all to himself. Michael told us you were unwell. These husbands, they will mollycoddle us, won’t they, dear? Now I see what good health you are blessed with, you must join us at Monkroyd. We ladies meet, you understand, while the gentlemen hunt. We bring our workboxes, but it is all sham. Mostly we have a little gossip and a few games of cards and break into my husband’s wines. It is pleasant enough in these dark days. Would you care to join us at Monkroyd, dear?’
It was foolish of me, but as she conversed in such a spirit of friendship, I blinked and faltered. ‘Why, I should love to,’ I said at last. ‘When do you next meet?’
‘I believe it is the tenth of January. I shall send you a note. Only I must reproach you, Mrs Croxon, for we ladies have sent you our cards in the past; we presumed you didn’t care for company?’
‘I have been ill.’
‘There you are then. Mr Croxon was no doubt behaving as a new husband will. Make hay, my dear, while it lasts. Let him spoil you. He has told us all about the improvements he has made for you. Mr Delahunty, he reports, did a good, though expensive job. I should very much like to see your new apartments, my dear.’
‘I should like to show them,’ I replied, ignoring the slight both to my own pocket and expertise. Just then, an irksome thought struck me. ‘The ladies who meet at Monkroyd. Might I know them?’
She reeled off a list of names: Lady this, Mrs that – no one I had heard of.
‘Not Miss Claybourn?’
‘Miss Claybourn of Riverslea? She used to come along, some time ago. But she has rather – fallen by the wayside, didn’t you know?’
I nodded as if I did know, though in fact her words chilled me. I had once heard a sermon that used the very same parable to speak of a certain class of unfortunate women.
Mr Barthwaite just then knocked at the window, making comical signals that all was ready outside. We stood, and my new acquaintance said, ‘You must call me Nell, all my friends do.’ I invited her to call me Grace, and we shook hands very jovially and wished each other a Merry Christmas. She even smiled at my mud-spattered redingote and said, ‘Now that is a sensible costume for this weather. We must dine at the Queades today; hence all this rigmarole.’
I returned home in far brighter spirits than I had set off, eager to tell Michael of our mutual friends. As I trotted the pony back up the drive, a silver crescent of a moon hung low above the black filigree of trees. Already the afternoon light was fading, and a pink streak burned low on the horizon. Now winter was entrenched, the Hall was stripped bare of leaves, the canopy no more than a spidery network of branches. Below that lay the naked walls of my home, cracked and scabrous. My last thoughts before I reached the house were that my letter to Peter still lay unposted in my pocket, and that before Nell Barthwaite came visiting we must make some repairs to the facade of Delafosse Hall.
*
Running me to earth upstairs, Peg asked, ‘Where have you been, mistress?’
‘Out,’ I said shortly.
‘I have been worried about you; that is all. And I’m ready to serve the dinner downstairs.’
‘And what of my husband? He disappeared this morning. Has he turned up yet?’
‘I heard him in the dining room. I’ve been up to my eyes. So where do you suppose he got to?’
‘I truly have no idea. Here, would you tie the back of this gown?’
‘What, your best white taffeta?’
‘When else am I to wear this finery, if not at Christmas?’
As Peg helped me into the tight sleeves and fastened the broad black belt with a cameo, I could not stop myself from chattering of my encounter at the George. ‘The Barthwaites are most agreeable, Peg. And I did enjoy my spell of independence. I even sampled the George’s Yule cake, which was most delicious. I believe I have made a great step forward.’
I caught a glimpse of her scowling in the pier glass. ‘Oh, Peg – don’t feel slighted. Your baking is far better than the George’s.’
She returned a pinch-lipped smile.
‘Fetch my jewel case, would you?’
As she presented it, she said, ‘So Mr Croxon has been putting it about that you have been ill all this time. Is that not strange?’
‘It is. But just for one day, I want to forget about all this subterfuge. Michael and I have agreed to try to enjoy Christmas together.’
‘I see.’ She nodded, looking down. ‘Well, I must tend to the dinner. I don’t want all that fine food spoiling. I recollect now, Mr Croxon is making a bowl of punch for you to raise a toast.’
‘A moment, Peg. I’ll wear my cameo bracelet. It is time I wore my wedding gifts.’ I held out my wrist, but I thought her mightily preoccupied, for instead of the cameo she unclasped my everyday agate bracelet.
‘Not that one. Dear me, the heat has overcome you.’
Once the bracelet was in place, I said, ‘Go then, I shall be down in a moment.’ I forgave her any pertness, for she was that proverbial symbol of hard labour: a cook at Christmas. Inspecting myself in the pier glass, I was not too disheartened; the tight-waisted gowns I had bought in York suited me far better than the trousseau the Croxons had bought for my wedding. But I felt bone-cold that day, especially after my spell in the smoky fug of the George. I pulled on a quilted petticoat beneath my gauzy gown, and slipped on my velvet pelisse with the gold braiding. Over it all I draped my cashmere shawl, thinking I was not quite as elegant as Mrs Barthwaite – but then, perhaps she did not suffer as I did from the stone cold of the Hall.
In the dining room, Michael had spread out all the makings of a celebration punch: lemons, brandy, nutmeg, rum and tea. Still feeling cheery, I wished him a Merry Christmas. He nodded, but was preoccupied with his spoons and measures.
‘Where were you this morning?’ I asked, summoning my pleasantest smile. Seeing him, I had a sudden, forceful premonition that he had spent the morning with his lover, enjoying a Christmas tête-à-tête. My suspicion was reinforced by Nell Barthwaite’s opinion, still echoing in my ears, of Miss Claybourn’s having ‘fallen by the wayside’.
‘I went for an early ride. It was a glorious morning.’
Clumsily, he dropped the knife with which he was paring a lemon. It was quite a mess he was making along the sideboard. Or was it my new ebullience that seemed to drain Michael of his composure? I told him of the George, my letter from Anne, and my happy meeting with the Barthwaites. The import of Peter’s letter, on the other hand, I would postpone until the punch bowl was well drained.
‘Oh, that gossip Nell Barthwaite. Don’t waste your time on her.’
‘I believe I will,’ I said firmly. ‘I am tired of my own company.’
He continued to draw out his preparations for our Christmas toast, so I looked about the room. All my hard work had come to fruition that day: the new fireplace housed a mighty Yule log that warmed the room, casting reflections across the crystal and silver. I admired the forest green of the brocaded furniture, and the holly gathered in red ribbons hung about the walls. I decided that whatever temper Michael might be in, I would not let him spoil our first Christmas.
The new damask cloth was spread with a fine repast: Peg’s own Yule cakes looked even daintier than those I had already sampled. A great wheel of cheese had pride of place, beside magnificent pies of game and fruit. On a great round platter was a salamagundy salad as fresh as a bouquet of flowers; concentric rings of every delight: eggs, chicken, ham, beetroot, anchovies, and orange.