The Victory (84 page)

James was stunned anew by the depth of her hatred, by the
black venom that gushed out of her The anger left him.
Takers, I didn't kill her! You don't know what you're talking
about. It wasn't my fault,' he cried.

She came another step forward, and Fanny screamed, and
then a voice from the top of the stairs broke through the
tension below.

Takers! That's enough! Go back to your room.’

She turned her head a little, but did not unfix her eyes
from James's. 'Nay, master,' she said, 'I've not finished.'

‘
Yes, you have,' Hobsbawn said, and his voice had the old
ring of authority. 'I'll deal with this. Go to your room at
once, and stay there until I send for you.’

She went, gliding reluctantly and by inches across the
marble squares of the hall, and disappeared into the shadows
from which she had emerged. James lifted a grateful face to
Hobsbawn, feeling behind him to detach Fanny from his coat.

‘
Thank you, sir,' he said. 'I'm afraid that poor woman's
grief has unbalanced her.'

‘She's not herself,' Hobsbawn said abruptly. 'Come up.’

James mounted the stairs, holding Fanny's hand, and came face to face at last with his father-in-law. Hobsbawn seemed
in some curious way to have shrunk, for though his body was
as massive, he seemed not to fit it. His face was haggard, and
he moved painfully, like a very old man, but his eyes were
steady as they regarded James, without either welcome or
hostility, and James felt that the power was still in him, and
that it was for him to receive or reject, not for James to give,
comfort.

‘
Well,' Hobsbawn said at last. 'You've come, then. You'd
best come in to the drawing-room. Bowles, bring something
up. Wine or something.’

James followed the old man into the room. Because the blinds were half way down, it was gloomy, and there was
already an air of dusty neglect about it. Hobsbawn sat down
in a chair beside the unlit fire, and James sat down on the
sopha opposite him, placing Fanny beside him. One good
thing about Dakers's outburst was that it had so frightened
Fanny that she was on her very best behaviour, and sat quite
still where she was put, with her hands in her lap, her eyes
large as she surveyed the dim room and the dour old man
before her.

‘
Well, then,' Hobsbawn said at last, 'what have you to say
for yourself?’

It was not a welcoming sentence, but then James had hardly
expected welcome. 'I am come, sir, to pay my condolences,' he
said. 'I received a letter — a bitter, accusing letter — from
that poor woman, purporting to represent your feelings too. I
couldn't believe that that was true; but whether it was or
not, I could not neglect to come at such a time.'

‘Could you not?' Hobsbawn asked in a flat voice.

‘She was my wife,' James said quietly.

‘
Aye, but you never loved her!' Hobsbawn cried resentfully. James turned his hands over in a little helpless gesture. 'Sir,
that was not in the bargain.’

Hobsbawn was silent a long while, the struggle evident in
his face. 'Nay, you're right. It wasn't. But all the same, you
didn't expect me to forgive you for the way you treated her,
just for the making of one visit did you?'

‘
No, sir. I didn't think you would like me more because 1
paid this visit; but you would have liked me less if I failed to
pay it.’

Another silence; and then Hobsbawn raised his head a little
and looked directly into James's eyes. 'I like plain speaking,'
he said. 'And you're right. I don't like you, and I can't forgive
you, but you did the proper thing by coming, and it must
have taken some courage on your part. And you brought the
little lass, too.' His eyes moved to Fanny. 'Come here, child,'
he said.

James felt her reluctance rooting itself into the seat of the
sopha, and he had to push her very firmly to make her go
over and stand before her grandfather. The old man surveyed
her gravely, looking, James guessed, for some likeness to
Mary Ann. Presumably, he found it, for at last he smiled a
little, and said, 'Well, then Fanny, what have you to say for
yourself? Do you know who I am?'

‘Yes, Grandpapa,' she said in subdued tones.

‘
I've seen nothing of you, since your little brother was
born. You're grown quite a young lady. How old are you?'

‘
I'm nearly eleven, Grandpapa,' Fanny said, and even her
present uneasiness could not keep the pride out of her voice. Hobsbawn's grim old face softened a little.

‘
Nearly eleven? Aye, your birthday's in October, I remem
ber that well enough. Well, if you are a good girl, I shall give
you a sovereign before you go, to buy ribbons for your birth
day.' Fanny beamed. This was more familiar territory.
Hobsbawn reached out and fingered the black material of
Fanny's gown, and she flinched only a very little. 'I suppose
you dislike very much to wear black, don't you?' he asked
neutrally.

Five minutes ago, Fanny might have been caught by the
question, but the promise of the sovereign had given her back
her wits, and she tilted her head a little in a disarming gesture
James knew very well. 'I shouldn't like to wear any other
colour just now, Grandpapa,' she said sweetly, 'for mama and
my little brother are dead.’

James held his breath for a moment, and released it in a
soundless sigh as Hobsbawn reached up a heavy paw and
patted Fanny's cheek affectionately, which Fanny endured
very well.

‘
Aye, you're a good little puss, I see that,' he said, 'and
you've a look of your mother about you after all, when you
smile. She could always wind me round her finger. Well, you
and I must be friends, Fanny, for I've no-one left in the world
but you. One day you shall come and stay with me, but not
now. You mustn't stay long now, with the plague about.
Manchester isn't a healthy place for little folk to be.'

‘
I'm not afraid, Grandpapa,' Fanny said promptly. 'I'm
never ill.'

‘
Aye, aye, well,' Hobsbawn said, visibly impressed. 'We
won't take the risk, any road. But before you go home, we'll
go and visit your mother's grave. You'd like that, wouldn't
you, puss?’

It didn't sound enjoyable at all, but Fanny was 'still revell
ing in her new conquest, and said, 'Oh yes, Grandpapa,' as if
it were the greatest treat in the world.

*

There was nothing yet to mark the graves, just two poor
mounds of earth side by side, one long and one short. The
sight of them subdued even Fanny, who had begun to grow
regrettably uppish again, and there was something so pathetic
about the smaller one, that she lifted a pale face to her father for reassurance and there was a hint of uncontrived moisture
in the wide eyes.

‘
I haven't done anything yet about headstones,' Hobsbawn
said. 'I haven't had the heart for it. But they shall have the
best that money can buy, you may depend upon it. Her
mother is buried just over there, and I've my own place kept
for me, beside her. She was a good woman, and I never
wanted another, though I could have married again, a dozen
times, if I'd wanted. If I'd known how this would end, maybe
I would have. I thought I'd leave everything to Mary Ann,
and to her sons.' He sighed, and his face looked colourless in
the dusk. 'It's a hard thing to work all your life to build
up your fortune, and have no-one to leave it to at the end.’

At that moment, by some miracle, Fanny did not say
anything, only slipped her hand into her grandfather's. James
could not tell if it were a spontaneous gesture or not, but
Hobsbawn started, and then looked down at her, and some
of the pain left his face. James was glad. It did not matter to
him whether Hobsbawn changed his will in Fanny's favour or
not; he was honestly indifferent to the Hobsbawn fortune; but
he saw that Fanny had brought her grandfather comfort, and
that removed a great deal of his sense of guilt and unease.
The visit had answered better than he hoped; he had done his
duty, and the way was thus left clear for him to follow his
heart, and secure his future to Héloïse.

*

A fine day with a pleasant breeze had taken Héloïse and her
family up to Sutton Bank for a kite-flying expedition. A hired
carriage took Flon, Marie and the children, together with the
enormous picnic basket carefully packed by Monsieur
Barnard, while Héloïse and her suitor drove in the phaeton,
with Kithra making a smiling, panting, and to the Duc,
unwelcome third between them.

It was a perfect day, and a perfect place, for kites. The blue
sky, touched here and there with purely decorative wisps of
white cloud, veined with a light but steady breeze, seemed to
reach down almost to touch the green top of the sheer cliff.
From the foot of it the land undulated gently away, patch-
worked into green and golden fields and dense, full-leafed
woods, sprinkled with grazing animals, buttoned down here
and there with a snug, slate-roofed farm and its cluster of
outbuildings.

Héloïse could have stood for hours just gazing across the
unique landscape, so different from anything she had ever
known in France. England was so complete, she thought,
everything one could want all drawn close around one,
nothing wasted, nothing out of reach. She wondered for a
moment whether she ought to feel guilty about loving it so
much; but then, she thought, as she had often told other
people, I am only
half
French. The rest of my blood is
Yorkshire blood. I ought to feel at home here.

The Duc, standing beside her, for once was not in accord
with her thoughts. 'It is pretty,' he sighed, 'but it is not
France.’

Héloïse drew in a breath of clean air. 'It is more than
pretty,' she said. 'I was just contemplating what it is about
England that is so different, and I think it is a kind of magic.
From here, everything looks so tiny and neat, but it is only
pretending to be small. As soon as you come to any place,
poof! the magic begins, and it grows bigger and bigger around
you even as you look.'