It had frozen overnight and the ground was good and hard. Jem suggested going over the hills on the little tracks to Petersfield, and we took a chance that the roads would not be soft and the going difficult. We were right to gamble. The frost had made the mud firm, and we were rewarded for our daring by a drive through the sweetest countryside in England: the Hampshire-Sussex border. Best in Sussex, of course.
The beech hedges around the larger houses had kept their leaves and were bay-coloured or violet. The grass beneath them was white with frost, and until the sun melted it, every little twig which leaned over the road from the bordering trees was a little stick of ice: white perfection. The streams were not flooding but were small and pretty under the stone bridges of the roads; and it was warm enough for the children to play out on the village greens. This was the wider landscape in which my home was set, and I knew from the size of the streams, from the ice in the shadows and from the set of the wind how things would be at home. The land would be dry, crunchy with frost, but not frozen hard. The Fenny would be full but not flooded, and there would be little corners of the common and little hollows on the downs where it would still be warm enough to sit and put your face up to the winter sunshine.
We dropped down the steep hill into Midhurst, the brakes hard on and the wheels slipping, Jem whispering curses on the driving box. Then we rattled through the little town; the inns leaned in so far that the whip in the stock tapped on the walls as we went past. It was market day and the streets were full of people; the stalls were unpacked and wares were being sold in the square. I glanced at the price of wheat and saw it low – a sure sign of good stocks still with the merchants, and the likelihood of getting through the rest of the winter. There was the usual crowd of labourers looking for work, and some of the faces were pinched and pale with hunger. In one corner of the square there was a group of beggars, in filthy rags, blue with cold. Lying face down by some steps was a working man, dead drunk. I could see the holes in his boots as the carriage drove past.
Then we were clear of the village and trotting up the steep hill on the road towards Chichester. I felt my heart beating a little faster and I leaned forward in my seat and looked out of the window as if I could absorb through the very skin of my face all of Wideacre which I had missed for so long. The singing in my head was like a tolling bell calling me home, and the carriage could not go fast enough for me as we swept around the left-hand bend down the track towards Acre. It was only a short distance, and now I was in no hurry, for the trees on one side of the road were Wideacre trees, and the fields on the other side were Wideacre fields; and I was home.
Uncle John smiled at me. ‘You look like someone who has run a race and come in first,’ he said. ‘Anyone would think you have been pulling the carriage yourself, you look so relieved to be here.’
‘I am,’ I said with feeling. ‘It is so good to be home.’
We swirled in at the lodge gates and I bent forward and waved to the Hodgett children who were leaping at the roadside, then we pulled up outside the Dower House, and I caught my breath in my joy at my home-coming.
‘Now,’ said Uncle John, ‘I have a surprise and a half for you, Celia! See how hard we bachelors have worked to tidy the house for your return!’
Mama gasped. There was indeed a transformation. Ever since Uncle John had brought his fortune home, she had been buying little things to make the house more comfortable for us all. But Uncle John had worked a miracle. The old furniture of the house, which had been ours on permanent loan from Havering Hall, was all gone, and the little scraps of rugs which had been an attempt to make the house less echoey and cold had been thrown away. In their place were gleaming new rugs of fresh wool, and standing on them were beautifully crafted pieces of deep-brown teak and mahogany furniture.
‘It’s an enchantment!’ Mama exclaimed. Uncle John flung open the door to the parlour and showed us the room remade, the walls a clear, pale blue, the cornice newly plastered and gleaming white. A deep white carpet was spread on the shining floorboards and a brand-new round table and four chairs were standing against the wall. Mama’s favourite chair was in its usual place, but unrecognizable; it had been re-covered with a pale-blue velvet which matched the other chair seats, the window-seat covers and curtains.
‘Do you like it?’ Uncle John demanded, his eyes on Mama’s awestruck face. ‘It was the devil’s own job deciding on the colours. We nearly lost our nerve altogether and thought of writing to you to ask. But I wanted you to have a surprise.’
Mama was speechless. She could only nod.
‘But see the library!’ Uncle John said, as enthusiastic as a boy, and swept her from the room. All my childhood the library had stood empty. We had no volumes to fill the shelves, only the few reading primers and children’s books and Mama’s novels from the Chichester Book Society.
Now all that was changed. The walls glowed with the red of tooled morocco leather. There was a new great polished table in the centre of the room and a heavy chair behind it. A pair of easy chairs was on either side of the fireplace and matching little tables were within easy reach.
‘This is my room,’ Uncle John said with pride. ‘But you may look at my books if you knock before entering and stay very quiet while you are in here.’
‘I shall do my poor best,’ Mama said faintly. ‘But, John, you must have spent a fortune! And all this while Julia and I have been buying dress after dress in Bath, and renting lodgings, and giving parties, and I don’t know what else!’
‘I knew it was a mistake to let you go alone,’ Uncle John said gloomily, and then, seeing that Mama was genuinely concerned, he gave her a quick hug and said cheerfully, ‘My dear, there is plenty of money, and even if there was only a competence, you should still have a house in the town and one in the country.’
Mama smiled and sat on one of the new chairs.
‘Enough of this!’ Uncle John said. ‘I prescribe a warm bed for this invalid and a rest until dinner, which you shall have served in your room. Upstairs with you.’
‘I’ll come with you, Mama,’ I said. ‘But then I will take the children down to Acre.’
‘Of course!’ Uncle John said. ‘You will be wanting to change into another gown, I dare say. You may have been in that one for – oh! all morning!’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said solemnly. ‘And tomorrow I shall have to order some more. This one is going out of fashion even as I stand here!’
Uncle John laughed, and then I saw my mama into her bed, where she looked glad enough to be, and went up to my room, up to the room of my girlhood and childhood where I had hidden when Richard had been angry with me and where I had dreamed my dreams and wept when I feared I was going mad.
It looked out over the back garden, over the paddock and orchard, towards the common with the high horizon of the downs beyond. The twilight was falling and the sun had gone, leaving only strip upon strip of rose, jasmine and violet clouds to show the west. An icy-cold star was low in the sky, sparkling like a snow-flake.
I swung the window open and leaned my elbows on the sill to look out. The downs were as dense as the wool of a black lamb against the shadowy sky. I could dimly see the streak of white which was the chalk on the forehead of Acre hill, pointing down to the village. The air was scentless and cold. I could feel the night-time frost coming. In the distance an early owl hooted twice.
If ever I should have felt Beatrice, it would have been then. I waited in utter stillness and silence for her coming. I waited, getting chilled in my new sleek gown, and I dared her to come. I breathed a half-silent sigh and waited for the shiver that meant she was passing near me, or for the hum in my mind which meant she was coming, or for the slide into unreasoning mindless joy which meant I had become her.
Nothing.
Nothing happened.
No shiver shook me, no humming sounded in me, no daydream overtook me. I was not ridden by hobgoblins. I was at peace. Alone, gazing at Beatrice’s sky over Beatrice’s land and lit by a sm
all sliver of a rising moon, I was at peace with myself and with the ghost of her. She did not come for me wilfully. I was not haunted by an unquiet spirit. I heard her voice when I needed it. I had her strength when I could not manage alone. She was there to help me. I closed the window and turned for the door.
Bath had not done the job they had hoped: Mama had wanted me to become wholly her daughter; Uncle John had wanted me to be cured of my Lacey traits; and Richard had wanted me to be an indoor girl, off the land. They had all thought that I was haunted, possessed.
Bath had not cured me of that. Bath had taught me that it was no illness, that Beatrice’s voice in my head was a gift not a terror, that I could live on Beatrice’s land and be proud to be her heir, be determined to avoid her mistakes and be here to set things right. And Bath had taught me that I was a young girl of courage and looks who could give and receive love as an equal. I had set aside my foreboding about James on the journey and told my mama that I loved him and would marry him. And she and Uncle John had been pleased and proud. There was nothing to stand in the way of my happiness. There was no reason for me to fear.
I took Ralph’s little wooden owl from my reticule and put it on my bedside table. Ralph’s owl, Beatrice’s owl, my owl. I would keep it by my bed, this symbol from Beatrice and Ralph, which was also mine.
I glanced around my room to ensure it was impeccably neat, and then I slipped down the stairs, taking the little steps enforced by my slim-cut skirt.
The children were in the kitchen finishing bowls of tea and plates of bread and butter.
‘They’re ready for you in Acre,’ Airs Gough told them as I came into the kitchen. ‘They’ve a cottage opposite the church, beside the vicarage, ready for you.’
Their faces were bright around the table.
‘Would you like to leave now?’ I asked.
Their stools clattered on the stone-flagged floor as they pushed them back.
‘Thank you for the tea, ma’am,’ said Rosie Dench to Mrs Gough with an eye on the others. Nat and Jimmy knuckled their foreheads for thanks, and snatched up their caps and backed out of the kitchen as if they were not sorry to leave. They followed me out of the front door as I pulled on a cape, and out into the carriage.
‘This is the drive to the old Wideacre Hall,’ I said. ‘You may remember it. Here are the lodge gates. To the right the lane goes to the London and Chichester Road, but we turn left for Acre.’
They gazed wide-eyed out of the windows at the newly turned fields, hard with frost now, and the spindly sticks of fruit trees.
‘And this is Acre,’ I said. ‘On your left there, Rosie, that’s the Dench cottage, which you will remember…’ Then there was a sudden crash of noise, a great drum-roll and skirl of mad pipes; it sounded like a thousand Highlanders were coming.
‘What on earth…’ I started.
The carriage stopped with a jolt and Ralph’s bright beaming face was at the window opening the door.
‘Welcome!’ he said. ‘Welcome home, children, and welcome, Julia, for bringing them.’
The children tumbled out before the steps were down, and Ralph put out a hand to help me jump after them. All of Acre village had turned out to greet the children, and there was a great bonfire stacked for lighting on the village green, with a trestle-table laid with food near by. There were two pipers, their cheeks blown out like clowns, to pipe the children home, and Matthew Merry was giving them the beat on a drum.
‘Ralph!’ I said, laughing but near to tears. ‘Oh, Ralph! I feel as if I have been away all my life as well!’
Before the eyes of all of Acre Ralph pulled me towards him, put his arms around me and hugged the breath out of me, saying very softly in my ear, ‘Julia Lacey, you are a darling girl and I am gladder to see you than I had thought possible.’
‘Mr Megson! Miss Lacey!’ came a voice over the noise of the pipes and the drum, and Ralph let me go, without the least hurry, and Dr Pearce stood before us. ‘Really, Miss Lacey,’ he said reprovingly. But then he could not help but smile too. ‘Oh, Julia! This is very well done!’ he said, and he took both my hands in his and drew me to him for a kiss on both cheeks.
I looked past him at the village people welcoming their children. Rosie was surrounded by Clary and all the Dench family. The little ones were especially fascinated, fingering the new dress and cloak of their half-sister; and Clary’s pale mother was there, the baby on her hip, hugging Rosie and crying to have her safe home again.
The Brewer family was hugging Nat and exclaiming at the dark stripes still marking his skin. Only little Jimmy was alone. He had been a pauper in the village, one of the first taken. Ralph left my side and put an arm around his shoulder.
‘I’m Ralph Megson,’ I heard him say gently. ‘I badly need a young lad to work with me. A quick lad, one that’s no fool. D’you think we’d suit?’
Oh, aye,’ Jimmy said, beaming up at Ralph’s face. Oh, aye, Mr Megson, sir. I’m the very lad for you, sir.’
Ralph nodded, and clapped the boy gently on the shoulder. ‘Let’s eat!’ he called out loud.
The pipes and drum stopped as short as if they had been silenced by a curtain falling, and Matthew cast aside his drum and came over to me.
‘W-W-Well done, Julia!’ he said, and he hugged me and kissed me until Ted Tyacke appeared from nowhere and swept me into his arms in a great hug which knocked my bonnet sideways.
Everyone moved towards the table and seated themselves on stools and looked expectantly towards Dr Pearce’s gate. Clary came out carrying a flaming torch and beckoned to Jimmy Dart.
‘Light the bonfire,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’ve no kin here now, but every one of us is your family. We built this for you, for the three of you, to welcome you home to a warm fire and good food. May Acre always be warm and hospitable to the three of you.’
Jimmy stepped forward, his sharp little face serious, and took the torch carefully from Clary and walked towards the great heap of wood. It was coated with pitch, and at the touch of the flames it flared up with a great whoosh so that Jimmy jumped back and flung the torch on to it.
Clary turned to me and put a hand around my waist. ‘Safe home?’ she asked.
Our walk together in the moonlit garden when I had been so afraid of leaving Wideacre and yet too afraid to stay seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘Safe home,’ I confirmed. ‘Is all well with you, Clary?’
Her smile was the contented smile of a woman who is well loved and who knows it. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down, and tell me all about Bath.’
And in the gathering dusk of a cold winter light we made merry on the village green of Acre. They celebrated because they had their children home. And I celebrated because I was safe home myself, because I was loved by a good man, because I was loved by a whole village of people and because I was a Lacey on her land again.
My mama was not fully well for two more weeks, and the weather was cold and hard until the middle of March, so she was well content to stay indoors beside a warm fire.
I was well content too, for although I rode out in all the daylight hours and came home chilled to the bone and very often wet through, I had the joy of seeing the colour come back to her cheeks, and for myself there was the delight at being back on my land.
Even my lingering anxiety about my parting with James was removed early in the month when I came home to find Uncle John and Mama toasting crumpets at the parlour fire and smiling at some secret.
‘Don’t tease her,’ Mama said after I had demanded to know the joke. ‘Tell her about your visitor today.’
Oh, yes,’ Uncle John said. He smiled at my interested expression and went over to the parlour window and stood behind Mama’s chair in the window embrasure. ‘Guess who came to see me today?’
‘The Mayor of London!’ I said promptly.
‘No,’ Uncle John said. ‘More important.’
‘Thomas Paine,’ I said.
‘No,’ Uncle John said. ‘But just
as radical.’
‘Someone I know?’ I asked.
‘Someone you know well,’ he said. ‘An intimate acquaintance.’
I flushed a little and I could hear my heart thudding. ‘Anyone from Bath?’ I asked as casually as I could.
‘Yes,’ Uncle John said.
‘Was it Marianne Fortescue?’ I asked with a weak attempt at deception.
‘Pshaw!’ said Uncle John. ‘Don’t be missish, Julia.’
‘Was it James?’ I asked.
Mama laughed and clapped her hands.
‘Yes,’ Uncle John said. ‘He came in his curricle and pair and he would not stay for dinner. He was running an errand for his papa in London; and for some reason he did not explain to me, the quickest way to London from Bristol is now via Chichester.’
I was hot up to my ears. ‘What did he say?’ I asked. ‘How did he look? Why did you not send for me? Did he see much of Wideacre? Did he say if he liked it?’
Uncle John struck the answers off his fingers. ‘One: he said that he wanted to marry you and that he loves you and that he wants the legal business for the marriage to start at once. Two: he looked well enough to me.’
‘He looked sorry that you were not here,’ Mama said. ‘He really loves you, Julia.’
I nodded and dropped my eyes down to look at my hands in my lap.
‘Three,’ Uncle John said pedantically: ‘I did not send for you because he could stop for only an hour, and no one had the least clue where you might be. Four: he saw a little of Wideacre because he drove me into Acre. He met Ralph Megson and saw the village. He asked after the children from Bath, but they were all out working, except Rosie Dench, and she fell on his neck and blessed him as her saviour. And five, and one of the most interesting things, I think: he told me that if you were serious about developing the profit-sharing scheme, he was prepared to put his money into it, and that if the two of you were to be married, that he would want to have his country home on Wideacre.’
‘Oh,’ I said blankly.