"Inside, all was light and warmth; outside, darkness and howling wind": Read Chapter 2 from "An Independent Heart"

Chapter 2

 

And seek elsewhere, in turning other books,

Which better may her labour satisfy.

Drayton, Idea

 

The curtained recess seemed suspended between in­side and outside. Inside, all was light and warmth; outside, darkness and howling wind. Claire let the curtain drop behind her. As her eyes adjusted, she was able to make out the street beyond the window, but when two figures emerged from the greyness, she wondered whether her eyes really had adjusted. Huddled in dark greatcoats, one with a stovepipe shako, the other wearing a foraging cap, they could have ridden straight out of the image that Lord Hawksfield’s speculations on the whereabouts of his son had conjured up in her mind, of a lone horse­man making his way through wild and wintry mountains.

Except that here were two horsemen. They had reined in to gaze up at the house, sleet melting into their greatcoats. With mounting curiosity, she watched them exchange a few words, then the fore­most of the two nudged his horse into a trot, and a moment later they had disappeared into the thick night. The cold glass panes rattled in the wind. Hugging her shawl around her shoulders, Claire ducked back through the heavy, musty curtains.

“If that was you, why did you not stop?” The portrait above the mantelpiece was unresponsive, however, unless that half-smile was an answer. Yet there was no saying whether Captain Sumners really looked like that; the lurking amusement might be no more than conventional, devised by the artist to illustrate the two brothers’ different roles, with the younger one a foil to the elder and heir. By all she had heard, the accident that had killed the Honourable Stephen Sumners had been the result of a very silly wager.

Even it if was only a device, it made an engaging contrast: the older brother in evening dress, dark and haughty, the younger resplendent in his Hussar uniform, each setting the other off in a way that belied their strong resemblance to each other and to his lordship. One of Lord Hawksfield’s griefs was that Captain Sumners had exchanged from the Hussars to the Riflemen. Meeting the captain’s painted glance, she said, “Perhaps you will be able to tell me why, one day.”

But she had come here to find something to read, not to commune with illusory figures. Claire turned her back on the portrait and gathered up her skirts to step across the carpet. It was badly in want of beating, although it seemed to have been swept not long ago: the brush had made a streaky pattern in its pile. The books were covered by a thin layer of dust, although the edges of the shelves must have been wiped quite recently; they were clean enough.

Claire stood on tiptoe to read the gold-tooled titles and lifted down an ancient folio of Drayton’s works. When she laid it on the table, its pages fell open at familiar lines, but as she leafed through it, she discovered poems new and unknown to her:

 

Love in a humour played the prodigal

And bade my Senses to a solemn feast . . .

 

She skimmed the next few lines, then read:

 

And at the banquet in his drunkenness

Slew his dear friend, my Independent Heart.

A gentle warning, friends, thus may you see

What ’tis to keep a drunkard company.

 

All the breath left her body. Deliberately, she inhaled, turned a few pages, and stepped back from the table. She had not thought such fanciful sonnets might come so close to home. This must be a more extensive edition than Grandmama’s.

Anyhow, it was too heavy and too valuable to bor­row. Claire moved on to a shelf with more modern pro­ductions. A well-worn copy of Marmion – just the thing. Besides, she had better make her choice and return to the drawing room before the last guests arrived.

Slipping inside, she stopped to get her bearings. A small family party, Lord Hawksfield had said, but there were at least twenty people assembled. All the same, it boded well for Robert that he and Nicola and she had been invited. Lord Hawksfield’s con­cept of family must be a generous one if he included his country neighbour’s son-in-law, daughter, and son-in-law’s sister in such a gathering – or was she better described as his neighbour’s daughter’s sis­ter-in-law, or his neighbour’s daughter’s husband’s sister?

His lordship’s own sister was playing hostess for him. Lady Boughton appeared to be moving casu­ally around the room, welcoming and chatting, but Claire recognized the ritual pattern and admired her skill. Seemingly without effort, she paired off the guests in the correct order of rank. There was something rather satisfying in watching the colour­ful symmetry alter and form before the light-green walls of the drawing room. Dressed in a violet velvet robe over a white satin slip, Lady Boughton looked very much in place. Now she approached Robert and Nicola, made a remark, and left them laughing.

“A good evening to you.” The deep, quiet voice belonged to a tall, large gentleman who must have been watching her ever since she entered the room. “Forgive my informality,” he said. “Do I have the honour of addressing Miss Lammond?” There was a tinge of irony in his voice, and indeed he was so much older than she, and – if he was who she thought he was – of so much higher rank that he could be as informal as he chose. “I’m Boughton,” he added.

“I thought you might be.” She curtsied. “How do you do, Lord Boughton?”

“Yes,” he replied somewhat obscurely, his gaze still upon her. “Dallington told me you had the dark hair, fair complexion, and light eyes of the Celt. But my son said nothing of that lovely, secret smile. Or of the light in those light eyes,” he added as she looked up at him in astonish­ment. “Now what were you smiling at, I wonder?”

She had been appreciating his lady’s style and skill as a hostess, but she could hardly tell him that. She swallowed. “I was reflecting upon kinship, my lord, and how limited our vocabulary is.”

“Ah.” He glanced meaningfully around the room. “In view of the importance we attach even to its re­moter forms, it is indeed striking that we have no words for them.” Turning over the book in her hand he added, “Walter Scott, eh? Homesick, Miss Lammond?”

She shook her head. “I still find it hard to believe that I am away at all,” she said. “And with my brother, and he grown up and married. But I miss my sisters.”

Lord Boughton had murmured a corrective “half-brother” as she spoke, but now he said, “Very proper.” His next remarks showed his knowledge of her family to extend well into its remoter reaches, too. After the first shock of surprise, Claire told herself that it was only natural. Lord Boughton must be acquainted with all her grander neighbours in Scotland; probably he was related to them. She suppressed a smile. If he had discussed Robert’s merits with them, that was an excellent sign.

“So you see, merit also comes into it,” Lord Boughton concluded, as if reading her thoughts. “But returning to kinship, we appear to be suffering from a certain lack in the younger gen­eration, judging by the harassed look of my lady.” He bowed slightly to his wife as she joined them.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to give him up,” she told him. And to Claire she added, “You have good cause to look anxious, Miss Lammond. Our silly son has excused himself for tonight, when I was counting on him to escort you to table.”

Again Lord Boughton bowed. “May I not have the honour – the very great pleasure?”

“Don’t be idiotic,” his lady snapped. “You know perfectly well –”

“Ah, I do.” He heaved a sigh. “Rank is a great burden, Miss Lammond.”

“My heart bleeds for you, Lord Boughton.”

His smile was curiously sweet and introspective. “You may laugh at me now, Miss Lammond, but you will learn soon enough.” Breaking in on Lady Boughton, who had been murmuring names and shaking her head, he said, ”No, my dear. Let your brother take Miss Lammond in.”

Her ladyship frowned. “But it will look so very particular!”

“All the better,” Lord Boughton replied firmly.

Things did bode well. Claire followed Lady Boughton to where Lord Hawksfield stood chatting to Robert and Nicola.

“Delighted,” his lordship said when informed of his duty, and judging by their smiles, Robert and Nicola were equally content. “You have found a book, Miss Lammond? I declare you know your way around those shelves better than I do.”

This might well be true. “Thank you, my lord. May I borrow this?” Claire displayed her find.

“That must be one of Captain Sumners’s.” Lord Hawksfield’s expression darkened when he added, half under his breath, “Always has his nose in a book, his head in the clouds.”

“My sister, in contrast, has both her feet firmly on the ground,” Robert said. “Despite her choice of reading material. Are you intending to corrupt my wife, Claire?”

His lordship recollected himself, beaming gen­ially once more. “And very pretty feet they are, too. Excuse me one moment; Lady Boughton is signal­ling to me.”

“That colour suits you.” Robert’s eyes twinkled; he was not referring to the pale azure of her gown. “You’re blushing to the very toes of those pretty feet of yours. Aren’t you pleased to be approved from literate head down to rosy heels?” His gaze narrowed suddenly. “What’s the matter?”

“Need you ask, Robert?” Nicola touched a cool hand against Claire’s heated cheek. “She’s embar­rassed! Claire is not used to this sort of badinage, are you, Claire? You must not mind his lordship; it is just his way. Though your feet are very pretty,” she added loyally.

“Thank you.” Claire slid her arm around Nicola’s waist. “From the only person present who has in fact seen my feet, that is indeed a tribute.”

“I’ve seen your feet,” Robert protested. “Red and dirty is what they were, but I presume they’ll have improved with age, like the rest of you.”

Claire shook her head at him. “With regard to cleanliness I have improved, that much is true. Nothing is the matter, really.” With a slight laugh she added, “I’ve had a vision.”

He grinned. “As hungry as that? Poor little country mouse. But it won’t be much longer before his lordship will guide those pretty feet of yours towards the dining room.”

After all these years, Robert still knew her better than anyone. If he turned her remark off as a joke, it was because he understood that she did not wish to say more.

And also because Nicola’s wide blue gaze was an invitation to tease. “Didn’t you know that Claire has the Sight, like the Highland witches you enjoy reading about?” Laughing at her, he continued, “But come, her prophecies will have to wait. Here is Lord Hawksfield to claim her, as I prophesied, and thankfully you are still bride enough for your hus­band to squire you to table.” He drew her hand under his elbow. As they moved off, he bent to hear some remark she was making. Their fair heads close together, they made a pretty picture.

“It ought to be my son taking you in to dinner, naturally,” Lord Hawksfield said. “I really cannot imagine where he is all this time. And now his cousin has absconded! This must give you a very odd notion of our family, but I promise you, Miss Lammond . . .”

It might have given her an odd notion of his lordship, if she had not thought him rather a selfish man as it was. His confidences were not a mark of esteem for her, but of the importance he attached to his own affairs, unable to conceive that they might not be of general interest – or that his son might not relish having them discussed so freely. At least her vision had dispelled the image of a solitary army captain struggling across the Pyrenees. For in contrast to his lordship, she was very well able to imagine where his son might be all this time.

But there had been two horsemen. “Please do not distress yourself, my lord,” she said spontaneously. “His batman will be with him. He may be nearer than you think.”

Taking his seat next to her, he bent his hand­some dark eyes upon her. “I am certain that if he knew with what charming solicitude he is awaited at home, he would have been here long ago.”

It was to be hoped that she would get used to his lordship’s way, or she would spend her time in Lon­don in one continuous blush. While his practised flattery did not seem to indicate any great concern over the thousand possible misadventures that could have overtaken Captain Sumners, it might just as well serve to conceal such concern. Perhaps she was doing Lord Hawksfield an injustice; per­haps he kept his deeper worries to himself. That he had tucked the portrait of his sons away in a room he never used was not necessarily a sign of callous­ness. “You must be very worried,” she said.

“Indeed I am,” his lordship agreed. “It makes things so awkward. But Justin always was a selfish, thoughtless boy.”

Perhaps not. “Now that Lord Wellington is advancing into France –”

“Yes, with the war as good as over, there is no longer any excuse for him to shirk his duties.”

He was referring to his son, of course, not to Lord Wellington. While he talked on, hugging his grievance between spoonfuls of rather tepid soup, Claire’s mind returned to the two horsemen. Had they been a vision, were they not Captain Sumners and his batman, they were a symbol of all the sol­diers who might soon be coming home. How many would return sound in body and soul? What would peace bring for them all? Snatches of conversation floated along the table, mingling with her own thoughts and Lord Hawksfield’s complaints. War formed the main topic – war and the weather. 

Neither of these could explain the roguish wink Nicola gave her across the table. The explanation came in an excited whisper when the ladies retired. “They say the Thames has frozen over.” With a rustle of silks and a waft of perfume, she drew close. “And I mean Robert to take us. Shouldn’t you adore to see it?”

Carlos de Haes, Pirineos franceses, ca. 1882. © Museo Nacional del Prado

Click here to see a small selection of views of the Pyrenees I put together for you at the Museo del Prado.

Enjoyed this? Want more? Read on in Chapter 3!

 Or why not browse around the blog entries relating to Chapter 2, and find out more about the historical background, or listen to the music collected in the Independent Heart soundtrack on YouTube?