Season of Light (17 page)

‘It might go in your favour, the fact that you are expecting a baby.’

‘How’s that, then?’ The woman’s head was on one side and she watched Asa as a snake might a mouse.

‘You only took what belonged to you and your husband,’ Asa said at last. ‘All that’s needed is an explanation. Could you tell me, perhaps, the circumstances of your husband’s death? Was he dead when you …?’

‘What would you like me to say? That I tied my husband by the neck to a branch so that I could steal his scissors and whatnot? That I told him I was leaving so he hanged himself for sorrow?’

‘The truth,’ whispered Asa.

‘Ah, the truth. When it’s my word against nobody’s, nobody is bound to win.’

‘Mrs Dacre, you do know that you are likely to be accused of murdering your husband if you were a witness to his hanging. Are you aware how seriously such a crime is regarded? You have to prove that you had already left the house when he died.’

‘What proof could I give of that?’

‘Did anyone see you leave?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Why did you abandon him?’

‘You tell me why I should have stayed. I left so that the dolt might have a life, not lose it. It was me they hated, not him. They can stand weakness in a man but they can’t stand strength in a woman, or rather a woman who has been strong but who has overstepped the mark. Why were they beating their drums that day so that the cottage shook and a pan clattered off the hook above the hearth? Because of me. Who would give him work, the way he crept about the village with a cuckold’s horn stuck to his brow? Ah no, we’d have had to up sticks, the pair of us, and start again in another village. By Christ, I swear I would have killed him with my own bare hands if I’d stayed to watch his fingers shake as they fumbled with the packing, his bony feet stumbling in the lanes, those moping eyes begging for work.’

‘Why did you marry him, Mrs Dacre, if you felt like that?’

‘I liked the skill in him. I had been brought up among men who could crack open a turnip with an axe or pull lines of potatoes from a field but who had no skill to speak of. I saw Dacre in his window, when he came to our village and had a nice little room of his own rented off the rector. I saw his straight back and his crossed legs and the way his hand flew across his work. He would purse his lips like this. I wanted the neatness and niceness of him. I didn’t know his hands would go limp when they weren’t cutting cloth and his lips would be cold and wet when they weren’t gripping pins. He drove me mad.’

‘And the child?’

‘You know.
You
know.’ Of all things, Mrs Dacre’s seeping eyes seemed to be filled with pity for Asa. Her face had a peculiar nakedness, stripped of the soft flesh that disguises thought. ‘God help you, Miss Ardleigh. You came here today because your conscience wouldn’t let you stay away. Who delivered the clothes up to the manor when my husband had finished them, and who did she happen to meet in the stable-yard one morning? What went on under the beech tree in the garden when you had ridden out of the village in your little trap? He looked upon me with those lonely eyes of his and laid down his coat like the gentleman he is, never caring that on the other side of the wall my willow-man was stooped over the placket on a pair of the rector’s breeches. Ask your pa why he was so long coming home at nights, being as how he’d tie his horse to a post in the woods, and who he was with up there on the edge of the Downs.’

‘Why did you let him?’ Asa whispered.

This Mrs Dacre found so funny that she pushed her toes against the table legs, swung her chair on to its back legs and roared. ‘I let him, did I? Well, I suppose I did. I’d never conceived a child so I thought I was safe. We was both a bit chill, a bit alone. I liked the energy in your pa. I didn’t want money from him, if that’s what you’re thinking. I knew there’d be none of that.’

Asa thought of all the years at Ardleigh when she and her father had passed each other on the stairs with barely a word; the evenings she’d sat over her books and letters in the parlour, dreaming of Didier while her father lounged in the dining room with his port. If she’d been less preoccupied, might she have spared them all from this? ‘Tell me what happened the night of the charivari, Mrs Dacre. It may save your life. I could speak up for you in court. My father, as you know, is a justice …’

‘Nothing happened except that Dacre was huddled against the door with his arms round his knees. He couldn’t understand why the village hated us so. His snivelling tormented me until I told him whose child I was carrying and how the village thought I had brought shame on it by what I had done. I told him it was punishing me – and him, my doltish husband – for letting it happen. Then in the night, while he slept, I got up and packed a bag.’

‘But you took his tools. How was he to make a living?’

‘I had to have something, Miss Ardleigh, for the child. I was going to sell them.’

‘And will you tell the court this at your trial?’

Mrs Dacre shrugged. Her hand was on the side of her belly and Asa thought of baby Kate at Morton Hall with her lace-trimmed nightgowns and gossamer-fine shawls. ‘I will do my best for you, Mrs Dacre.’

‘Will you, now? That I would like to see.’ The woman stared, full of defiance and contempt as Asa left a heap of coins on the table.

Madame was at the cathedral promptly at two, as arranged. They exchanged a word or two of greeting but otherwise Asa was too distracted to speak and Madame sat in the trap stiffly, her face hidden beneath the brim of her hat. The groom whistled and peered round from time to time to see what was wrong.

At last Madame de Rusigneux murmured: ‘You seem very low in spirits, Mademoiselle Ardleigh.’

‘As anyone would be, I’m sure, after visiting the tailor’s wife.’

Madame sighed. ‘To visit any prison causes grave distress. It is a reminder that even we who seem to be free are behind bars.’

‘Madame?’

‘In Chichester I heard news from France. Our General Dumouriez has defected to the Austrians. He has become an émigré, like me, and to be an émigré is to be a prisoner; since we will be killed if we return.’

‘Dumouriez has defected? What a blow that must be to the French army. He was a great general, I believe.’

‘Yet he has abandoned his men. The consequences will be very terrible. I fear for my country. Dumouriez’s friends, the Gironde, will be tainted with his treason. The likes of Marat and those who killed my brother are without scruple. They will say that anybody who used to associate with Dumouriez is France’s enemy; they will be blamed for all the ills that have befallen France. Blood will flow, mark my words. When things go wrong, everyone wants a scapegoat …’

The sun came out, scenting the air with spring growth. ‘Will no one in this life ever face up to their responsibilities?’ cried Asa as they drove through the village. ‘Must we always find someone else to blame?’

Her father’s horse was being rubbed down in the stable-yard. Fired up by her conversation with Madame, Asa leapt from the trap. In the kitchen, which was unusually crowded with a village girl at the sink, another at the spit, Mrs Dean called out: ‘Miss Ardleigh, thank the Lord you’re home, I need a word.’

Asa didn’t pause. Without bothering to take off her hat she stood in the hall and yelled: ‘Father.’ No reply, so she flung open the door of his business room, which was chaotic with guns, boots and papers, then the dining room.

She ran upstairs. ‘I must speak to you. Where are you?’ She pounded on his bedroom door until she heard his voice from below.

Madame de Rusigneux was outside the parlour, pulling off her gloves. Inside stood the squire, still in his boots, and a visitor, Mr Shackleford, who was wearing beneath his riding clothes a waistcoat of some ridiculous, feminine pink. His face was alight with pleasure as he greeted Asa with a sweeping bow.

She barely nodded. ‘I must speak to you alone, Father.’

There was a startled hush: even the squire knew that his daughter had been monstrously rude. Madame swept forward full of smiles and offered Shackleford her hand. ‘Mr Shackleford, what a very great joy it is to see you again. We are just back from Chichester.’ Her pronunciation gave the name a quaint susurration –
Shishester
. ‘We are very tired so you must excuse our appearance. I hope you have been made comfortable and offered tea.’

‘The housekeeper very nobly assured me that she could even provide me with dinner. But perhaps you were not …’

‘I’ve just this moment come in myself,’ said the squire, rubbing his palms together and undoing the buttons of his riding coat. His hands, with their blunt fingertips and grimy nails, made Asa shudder.

‘You received my letter, sir? Telling you that I had business in Brighton with a former trading partner of my father’s, and that I would call at Ardleigh on my way?’ asked Shackleford.

‘Letter?’ The squire contorted his face into a blend of contrition and bafflement. He might have received a letter, was the implication, and omitted to mention it, but they were all to forgive a bumbling old man for his incompetence.

‘If you had no notice that I would call,’ said Shackleford, ‘I shall not dream of imposing any further. Please excuse me.’

‘But we insist,’ said Madame. ‘Miss Ardleigh and I would enjoy your company at dinner. Mrs Dean, I believe, already has the meal under way. Will you stay the night?’

‘Ah no, as I said, I have friends on the coast.’

With Madame’s arm linked firmly through her own, Asa had no choice but to be led up to the bedroom. ‘What will you wear for the dinner?’ Madame asked.

‘I won’t change my clothes. I never do,’ Asa retorted.

‘You have mud on your skirts. Your boots are dirty. You must brush your hair.’

‘Madame …’

Madame’s thin forefinger was raised. ‘You will do exactly as I say. It is my duty to ensure that you treat this guest, as all others, with courtesy.’

Between them the housekeeper, the companion and the guest conspired to redeem the evening. The dining parlour was snug in the candlelight, Madame’s dark eyes glittered, and Mrs Dean surpassed herself with her roast fowls and venison pie.

‘So what do you think of our Ardleigh Manor, Mr Shackleford?’ asked the squire. ‘Or should I say
your
manor, since you stand to inherit.’

‘It feels to me like a home. It has delightful touches, those tapestry cushions, lovely old rugs, flowers.’

‘And there are three villages, a couple of hundred acres, seven farms. Pity you won’t be here in the morning, I could have ridden about with you.’

‘Another time, perhaps. I am still vexed that you had no idea I was coming, Miss Ardleigh. What must you think of me?’

For the first time she met his honey-brown eyes. ‘We are only just back from Morton Hall,’ she said, a little more kindly, ‘otherwise we would have been better prepared.’

‘How are your sister and her child?’

Asa could not help but speak fondly of her baby niece, and the squire, who had ridden over to Morton Hall on Easter Sunday, extolled the exceptional virtues of his grandsons. Madame said little but kept a watchful eye, smiling and nodding as if to prop up the conversation, and signalling to the maids when the dishes were to be cleared.

‘You must be wondering about the purpose of my visit,’ said Shackleford, ‘although it goes without saying that having rediscovered my new relation I would wish to see her again. And Madame de Rusigneux, of course. Fact is, my mother and I wish to invite you to Compton Wyatt. Mr and Mrs Warren have agreed to visit at the beginning of May when the weather will be finer and we can perhaps explore the estate and picnic, and I thought you might come too, Miss Ardleigh, and Madame de Rusigneux, and you, sir. I wrote to the Mortons but they have replied that it is too early for Mrs Morton to stay away from the house, with the baby so young.’

Surely, thought Asa, my behaviour at Morton Hall should have been enough to crush his hopes. Has he no sensitivity at all, that he pursues me in such a fashion? Meanwhile her father, who never, under any circumstances, sat about with elderly ladies, looked appalled. Once more, Madame saved the day. ‘May I accept the invitation on behalf of myself and Mademoiselle Ardleigh. Of course, I cannot speak for Monsieur …’

‘Doubt I’d be free,’ said the squire.

‘Nor I,’ Asa said.

‘Ah, Mademoiselle Ardleigh,’ interrupted Madame, ‘you are thinking of your housekeeping. But there are two of us now, mademoiselle, to manage affairs, so I’m sure all will be restored to order by May.’

A honey and plum tart was brought and the meal continued. Asa thought: If Didier’s reply comes quickly I shall be spared a visit to Compton Wyatt. When she again paid attention to the conversation, Madame, most uncharacteristically, had introduced the subject of France. ‘You have been in London, Monsieur Shackleford. Perhaps you have heard, then, about our General Dumouriez?’

‘Absolutely. Talk of the town. Everyone’s very excited. Some say there’ll be an end to the war because the French army won’t hold together. I have my doubts. Rather suspect the revolutionary government will take an even harder line. They’ve already arrested Orléans.’

‘Orléans?’ exclaimed Asa. ‘But he was a great supporter of the Revolution. Don’t you remember, when we were in Paris …?’

She should not have referred to their shared time in France – Shackleford’s eyes shone with affection. ‘Orléans was a friend of Dumouriez. The whole lot will fall now, like a pack of cards.’

‘The whole lot?’

‘The Gironde. Those who oppose the Montagne, or hardliners, the likes of Marat, Danton, Robespierre and your old friend Paulin, Miss Ardleigh. These men are in the ascendant. The rest will be crushed.’

‘I don’t understand,’ cried Asa, ‘why are these terrible things happening in France? It should not have been like this. Why do people hate each other so much?’

Shackleford leaned a little closer. ‘We always hate what we fear. The leaders of the Revolution are terrified that if there is weakness within, there’ll be an attempt by foreign powers to intervene and restore the monarch.’

‘That’ll be tough even for the French,’ said the squire, ‘given that they’ve lopped off Louis’s head.’