Mary Nichols - The Hemingford Scandal

Harry turned to Jane and smiled. He had a boyish smile that spread from his mouth to his eyes and crinkled the skin at either side. It seemed to encompass everyone about him. No one could be completely immune to it, certainly not Jane Hemingford, who had once loved him. ‘Do not be hard on her, Jane, she loves us both and she cannot see that what she is asking is out of the question. I will try to reason with her and perhaps, when you return, she will be more her old self and accept that you must tread your own path. As I must mine.’

Jane did not answer, but watched him ride away through a mist of tears. She did not know why she was crying. Was it for a lost love, for a friendship broken or simply that she had been more frightened by that headlong gallop than she was ready to admit?

She set off for Norfolk the next day, determined to put Harry and Anne and all such distractions behind her and enjoy the visit; slowly, as the miles passed, she felt calmer. She sat beside her aunt with Lucy facing them, Aunt Lane’s hatbox and jewellery case on the seat beside the maid and the boot filled with trunks and portmanteaux. Jane wondered why they needed so much baggage for a two-week stay, but her aunt insisted they must be prepared for every eventuality.

‘Mr Allworthy will no doubt wish to take you out and about and introduce you to his neighbours,’ she had said. ‘He might hold a ball or a formal dinner party or arrange a picnic and then there is riding and walking and carriage rides. We must always be appropriately dressed.’ It sounded as if her aunt expected them to be paraded for everyone’s inspection, and her heart sank.

Mr Allworthy had arranged the post horses when he passed that way the week before and everything worked smoothly. They rattled through Woodford and then took Epping Forest at a gallop for fear of highwaymen, before slowing down to enter Sawbridgeworth, where they stopped for a meal. After that, they passed through Bishop’s Stortford and Great Chesterford and in the early evening arrived in Cambridge, where Mr Allworthy had arranged for them to stay overnight at the Blue Boar.

Once north of Ely and its majestic cathedral, which Jane insisted on stopping to visit, they found themselves travelling through a countryside so flat, there was nothing to see for miles but fields and dykes, interspersed with isolated farms. Above them and all round them was a huge sky, dark blue fading to a pale grey haze on the horizon, through which the morning sun tried to penetrate. After their next change of horses at Downham, they left the fens behind and were soon in a countryside that pleased Jane more. The sun came out and bathed the country in warmth.

Here were gentle hills, small woods and farms whose fields were surrounded by hedgerows and everywhere workers were bringing in the hay, loading it on to haywains. The hedgerows were festooned with wisps of it, which had been caught up as the carts passed along the narrow roads. Twenty minutes later they came to a tiny village, and just beyond that the gates of Coprise Manor. The journey was over and Jane sat forward to catch her first glimpse of the house.

Built of red brick and surrounded by a narrow moat, it was squat and square, with a round tower in each corner. Its mullioned windows gleamed in the sun. There were formal gardens on two sides, a wood on a third and a great lake on the fourth that fed the moat. The coach rattled over the bridge and into a courtyard where Donald stood to greet them, wearing a brown riding coat and leather breeches tucked into riding boots. He was hatless.

He hurried to open the coach door and let down the step before Hoskins could do so, and extended his hand to Mrs Lane. ‘Welcome, ladies, welcome.’

Aunt Lane stepped down, followed by Jane. Both stood looking about them. The courtyard was in the centre of the building, surrounded on four sides by the walls of the house. The main door, a vast oak affair that looked as though it might withstand a battering ram, faced the bridge over which they had entered; here were half a dozen servants standing in line. Their host offered each lady an arm and led them forward and proceeded to name all the servants and their duties. It made Jane think of a bride being introduced to her new domain and realised with dismay that was how Donald meant her to feel.

‘You must be hungry,’ he said as they entered the hall, which had a wide carved staircase right in front of them and a corridor leading off on either side. ‘Martha will show you up to your rooms and help your maid unpack. There is hot water and everything you need to refresh yourselves, but if there is anything I have failed to provide, please tell me so and I will remedy the deficiency at once. It is my dearest wish that you should feel at home.’ He handed them over to his housekeeper, who conducted them up the stairs to the rooms that had been allotted to them. ‘When you are ready, we will have dinner.’

‘He is determined to please,’ Aunt Lane said, when they were alone in Jane’s room. It was furnished with heavy oak furniture, including a four-poster bed. The sheets and bed coverings were new and everywhere gleamed with polish. ‘I cannot fault the arrangements.’

They dined in country style. Aunt Lane had no criticism of his table or his manners, and afterwards Donald showed them all over the house, which was more ancient than Jane had expected. All its furniture was old and heavy, but it perfectly suited the house and everywhere gleamed with polish. ‘My father bought the property with a wind-fall he had from dealings on the ’Change,’ he told them. ‘And the furniture came with it.’

‘I had thought it was the old family home,’ Aunt Lane said. ‘You are related to Viscount Denderfield, are you not?’

He seemed a little disconcerted by the question, but quickly recovered. ‘The relationship is a distant one,’ he said. ‘As I understand it, a hundred and seventy years ago the family became divided, two brothers fought on different sides in the war between king and parliament and neither branch has acknowledged the other since. My father always hoped for a reconciliation, but it was not to be—’ He broke off, noticing that Jane had set her foot on the stairs to the tower. ‘Miss Hemingford, I beg you not to go up there, it is unsafe. If you would like to see the view, I will conduct you there myself, but shall we leave it until tomorrow? It is growing dusk now and you will not be able to see much.’

This was obviously sensible and they returned to the drawing room on the ground floor and settled down to conversation over the tea cups, during which they discussed how he planned to entertain them in the following two weeks. At ten o’clock more refreshment was brought in and soon after that they retired to bed. ‘Country hours,’ her aunt commented as they made their way, candles in hand, to their rooms. ‘I think I shall read in my room; if I go to bed now, I shall be awake at dawn.’

That suited Jane, who had asked if she might borrow a mount and ride out before breakfast.

She was awake at six and downstairs clad in her new habit by seven. Donald was waiting for her, dressed for riding. ‘Good morning, my dear. Did you sleep well?’

‘Like a log,’ she said, not quite truthfully because she had had a lot to think about and the silence after London was as disturbing as the noise of night-time traffic passing along Duke Street, but the country air had won in the end. ‘I am looking forward to my ride.’

He led her to a stable block, almost as pristine as the house, where two horses were already saddled for them. Five minutes later they were trotting across the bridge. If it occurred to Jane that she ought to have had a chaperon, she dismissed it. They were in the country and in the country there was no danger, either from ruffians or from the man who rode beside her.