Nicola Cornick: Wayward Widow

Juliana took the path through the reed bed that bordered the river. Here the water flowed sluggishly in a series of bends as it approached the village of Ashby Tallant, and there was a big pool by the willow trees where the ducks preened and the fish sunbathed in the shallows. Juliana pushed the willow curtain aside and slipped into the golden darkness.

Somebody was already there. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Juliana saw a boy scramble hastily to his feet, rubbing the palms of his hands on his breeches. He was tall and gangling, with straw-coloured hair and a face pitted with the cruel spots of adolescence. Juliana stopped dead and stared at him. He looked like a farmer’s son, or perhaps a blacksmith’s boy. For all that he was the taller of the two, she still looked down her nose at him.

‘Who are you?’ She spoke with the cut-glass condescension she had heard in Beatrix’s voice when she addressed the servants, and she expected it to have the same effect.

However, the boy—or perhaps he could more accurately be described as a young man since he must be at least fifteen years old—merely grinned at her tone. Juliana noticed that he had very white, even teeth. He sketched a clumsy bow that looked incongruous with his grass-stained shirt and ancient breeches.

‘Martin Davencourt, at your service, ma’am. And you are—?’

‘Lady Juliana Tallant of Ashby Tallant,’ Juliana said.

The boy smiled again. He had a most engaging smile. It made two deep creases appear in his cheeks. It drew attention away from the disfiguring spots and made Juliana think of the brightness of sunlight on water.

‘The lady of the manor herself!’ he said. He gestured to a jumble of stones, the remnants of an old mill, which were scattered in the long grass. ‘Will you take a seat with me, my lady?’

It was only when Juliana looked down at the grass that she saw the book lying there, its pages riffled by the slight breeze. There were diagrams and pictures, and beside it lay some paper and a pencil, where Martin Davencourt had evidently made sketches of his own. Bits of wood, string and nails were scattered in the long grass between the stones.

Juliana stared. She had evidently been embarrassingly wide of the mark when assessing his social status and now she felt at a disadvantage.

‘You are not from the village!’ she said accusingly.

Martin Davencourt’s eyes widened. They were beautiful eyes, Juliana thought, greeny-blue, with thick dark lashes.

‘Did I say that I was? I am staying at Ashby Hall. Sir Henry Lees is my godfather.’

Juliana came forward slowly. ‘Why are you not at school?’

Martin smiled apologetically. ‘I have been ill, I am afraid. I go back at the end of the summer.’

‘To Eton?’

‘Harrow.’

Juliana sat down in the grass and picked up one of the oddly shaped pieces of wood, turning it over in her fingers.

‘I am trying to build a fortification,’ Martin said, ‘but I cannot get the angle of the wall quite correct. Mathematics is not my strong point—’

Juliana yawned. ‘Lud, mathematics! My brother Joss was the same as you, always playing with his toy soldiers or building battlements. It quite bores me to death!’

Martin squatted beside her. ‘What sort of games do you enjoy then, Lady Juliana?’

‘I am too old to play games,’ Juliana said scornfully. ‘I am fourteen years of age. I shall be going to Town in a few years to catch myself a husband.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Martin said, his eyes twinkling. ‘All the same, it seems melancholy not to play any games. How do you spend your time?’

‘Oh, in dancing and playing the piano, and needlework and…’ Juliana’s voice faded. It sounded quite paltry when she listed it like that. ‘There is only me, you see,’ she added quietly, ‘so I must amuse myself.’

‘In playing truant by the river when the sun is shining?’

Juliana smiled. ‘Sometimes.’

She stayed for the rest of the afternoon, sitting in the grass whilst Martin struggled to fit together the pieces of wood to form a drawbridge, with frequent recourse to the book and a certain amount of mild swearing under his breath. When the sun dipped behind the trees she bade him farewell, but Martin barely looked up from his calculations and Juliana smiled as she walked home, imagining him sitting in the willow tent until darkness fell and he missed his supper.

To her surprise, he was there the next afternoon, and the next. They met on most fine afternoons throughout the following fortnight. Martin would have some peculiar military model that he was working on, or he would bring a book to read—philosophy or poetry or literature. Juliana would prattle and he would answer in monosyllables, barely raising his head from the pages. Sometimes she chided him for his lack of attention to her, but mainly they were both content. Juliana chattered and Martin studied quietly, and it suited them both.

It was on a late August afternoon, with the first hint of autumn in the air, that Juliana threw herself down in the grass and moodily complained that it was foolish for her to go up to London to catch a husband, for no one would ever want to marry her, never ever. She was ugly and unaccomplished and all her gowns were too short for her. No matter that it was another two years before she would be able to visit the capital. Matters would get worse rather than better.

Martin, who was idly sketching two ducks that were flirting in the shallow pool, agreed solemnly that her dresses would be much shorter in two years’ time if she carried on growing. Juliana threw one of his books at him. He fielded it deftly and put it aside, picking up his pencil again.

‘Martin…’ Juliana said.

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you think me pretty?’

‘Yes.’ Martin did not look up. A lock of fair hair fell across his forehead. His brows were dark and strongly marked, and they were drawn together a little in concentration.

‘But I have freckles.’

‘You do. They are pretty, too.’

‘Papa says that I will never get a husband because I am a hoyden.’ Juliana plucked at the blades of grass, head bent. ‘Papa says that I am wild just like my mama and that I will come to a bad end. I do not remember my mama,’ she added a little sadly, ‘but I am sure she cannot be as bad as everyone says.’

The pencil stilled in Martin’s hand. Looking up, Juliana saw a flash of what looked like anger on his face.

‘Your papa should not say such things to you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Was he the one who told you that you are ugly and unaccomplished?’

‘I expect that he is right,’ Juliana said.

Martin said something very rude and to the point that fortunately Juliana did not understand. There was a silence, whilst they looked at each other for a long moment, then Martin said, ‘If you are still in want of a husband when you are thirty years of age I shall be glad to marry you myself.’ His voice was husky and there was shyness in his eyes.

Juliana stared, then she burst out laughing. ‘You? Oh, Martin!’

Martin turned away and picked up his book of philosophy. Juliana watched as a wave of colour started up his neck and engulfed his face to the roots of his hair. He did not look at her again, concentrating fiercely on the book.

‘Thirty is a very great age,’ Juliana said, calming down. ‘I dare say that I shall have been married for years and years by then.’

‘Very likely,’ Martin said, still without looking up.

A slightly awkward silence fell. Juliana fidgeted with the hem of her dress and looked at Martin from under her lashes. He seemed engrossed in his book, even though she could swear that he had read the same page time and time again.

‘It was a very handsome offer,’ she said, putting a tentative hand out to touch the back of his. His skin felt warm and smooth beneath her fingers. Still he did not look at her, but he did not shake her off either.