The Favoured Child

  He was a man of about forty years of age, his hair black, but greying at the temples, cropped short with just a little plait at the back like sailors wear. He looked like a sailor – no, truly, he looked like a pirate. His skin was as brown as a gypsy’s, and the pale lines around his eyes suggested he had been watching in bright sunlight for many years.

  His clothes were plain but well made in brown homespun; and his linen was as fine as a gentleman’s, with a very plain low cravat at his throat. He stood on the cart, legs planted firmly astride, and he was like a maypole with people dancing around him.

  I had a humming in my head sweet and clear and getting louder all the time. I could not take my eyes from him.

  ‘Good God,’ said Richard beside me. We stood still, in an Acre we had never known. A buzzing purposeful community, busy as a hive, joyful as a May Day fair.

  The new manager stretched out a hand to one of the men on the ground and hauled him up on to the cart beside him to help hand down the food he had bought in Midhurst. As he moved, I saw for the first time why he was standing astride so still. He was a cripple. He had virtually no legs. They had been cut off at the knees and his breeches were cut short and tucked into two wooden legs. Now I understood why his shoulders were so broad and his chest so strong. He had spent many years supporting himself with crutches to keep himself steady on the unsafe peg-legs. As soon as I saw his awkwardness with the legs and the way he staggered when the cart moved, I could hear nothing in my head but the singing noise, and see nothing but him. Nothing but him at all. I forgot all my speculation about who he was and what he meant to Wideacre and I said in a voice of utter pity, and I said aloud, which was worse, Oh, Ralph!’

  He spun around at my voice, his face suddenly white under the tan colour of his skin. He stared and stared at me and, as his eyes met mine, I heard the sweet singing grow louder until the noise of Acre and even Richard’s sharp voice quite blotted out and I was in the dream itself, and I was Beatrice in waking life. Beatrice was coming and coming with every note of the singing and with every hazy moment until the crowd between us melted away and I could see nothing and know nothing, not even Richard. All I saw was Ralph, and I saw him with Beatrice’s loving, beloved eyes.

  Oh, Ralph,’ I said again, in her voice which was now my voice.

  An odd, almost rueful smile was on his face as he looked at me and heard me speak his name like an old familiar lover. He grasped the side of the cart and got down nimbly, well accustomed to the clumsiness of his wooden legs. Someone handed him his crutches and he tucked one under each arm and came towards me. The crowd made way for him as if he were a Stuart prince back from exile over the water; and they watched the two of us as if we were making magic in some secret ritual.

  He was pale around his black eyes, and his nostrils were flared as if he were smelling the air for smoke. He looked wary. He looked at me as if I were his destiny and he had to screw up his courage to come through the crowd and face me.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said, staring and staring at my face under the unfashionable bonnet overshadowed by the hood.

  His voice broke the spell for me, and I was suddenly aware of the bright curious glances of the crowd, and Richard, scandalized, at my side.

  ‘I am Julia Lacey, Miss Julia Lacey,’ I said. The words were commonplace, my voice was my own, a schoolgirl’s voice, prim. It was not the languorous passionate voice which had said, ‘Oh, Ralph!’ to him on greeting. He dipped his head as he recognized the change in my tone.

  ‘A Lacey?’ he said, apparently trying to recollect something.

  ‘I am the daughter of the late Sir Harry Lacey of Wideacre Hall,’ I said formally. ‘This is my cousin, Richard MacAndrew.’

  Mr Megson nodded, having placed us in his mind. ‘Harry’s daughter,’ he said and looked at me, half incredulous. ‘Who would have thought that pudding could have bred so fair? But you’re a Lacey, right enough. And as like…’ he broke off before he said a name. I knew he was thinking of Beatrice, and I was aware that he had the discretion to leave his sentence unfinished.

  He turned instead to Richard. ‘So you’re Beatrice’s lad,’ he said. I felt Richard stiffen and I put a gentle hand on his sleeve. I could feel the warmth of his arm through the cloth and he seemed to me too hot. I did not want Richard in a temper. I did not want him to fly up into the boughs with Mr Megson. No one knew better than Richard how to charm with one smile. But he could also turn a potential friend into an enemy with one of his challenges. Richard was a proud boy, irked by our poverty and ready to fight for his honour. I admired that bright pride in him, but I felt anxious, just this once, that he might try to demand respect from Ralph Megson. Mr Megson did not seem to me to be a man who would be easily rebuked.

  ‘Richard,’ I said softly. ‘This is Mr Megson. Uncle John’s new manager, you know.’

  Richard nodded. ‘I am Dr MacAndrew’s son,’ he said to Ralph. ‘Your employer is my papa.’

  One dark eyebrow was cocked at once at Richard’s tone. Ralph nodded. ‘You don’t take after the Laceys,’ he said. ‘They’re mostly fair.’

  Richard said nothing. I could tell he was taking Ralph’s measure. ‘How do you know the Laceys?’ Richard demanded abruptly. ‘And how come you’re so feted in Acre?’

  Ralph smiled, but did not seem to think Richard’s question worth answering. ‘You’ll excuse me,’ he said politely. ‘I’ve a dinner to prepare.’ And he turned his back on us as if Richard were of no importance at all, and took a helping hand to haul himself back on the cart. He took a tray of fine white bread rolls from the man on the cart and handed them to the carter’s wife with a gentle word to her. ‘Mind that, Margaret,’ he said and his voice was kind. ‘It’s heavy.’

  Richard gave a quick exclamation and pushed past one of the Green sons and jumped up on the cart. ‘Now, see here, fellow,’ he said, his voice a furious whisper. Few people could have heard him, but no one could have missed the tension on the cart. All the activity up and down the lane stopped at once and all the faces turned to look. Richard had moved too fast for me to stop him and I could not call him back.

  ‘See here,’ he said furiously. ‘This is my land, and my village, and if you try and come between me and the land you’ll be sorry. I’m the heir to Wideacre and I shall be the squire here when I’m of age. When I ask a question from one of my workers, I expect an answer. I expect an answer and I expect a handle to my name. Is that clear, Megson?’

  Ralph had not stopped working, and he swung around with a sack of oatmeal in his arms. He buffeted into Richard and the blow pushed Richard backwards off the cart to sprawl on the ground. I started forward, but Sonny Green stayed me with an arm barring my way. Ralph swung himself down off the cart and grabbed Richard’s elbow and pulled him to his feet like a child. Richard’s face was scarlet with rage, and he stammered with temper and could get no words out.

  ‘Eh, I’m sorry, lad,’ Ralph said carelessly. ‘I didn’t know you were up on the cart behind me.’ He kept Richard’s hand and pulled him a little closer so that he spoke for his ears alone. ‘You may be the heir,’ he said softly, ‘but you’ll never be squire until you can be loved in Acre. And you’ll make no way here until you show respect.’

  Richard was blank with an expression I could not read. I ducked under Sonny Green’s arm to get to him.

  ‘Richard, let’s go,’ I said urgently, but he did not hear me. His inky-blue eyes were fixed on Ralph Megson’s face with a hot intensity.

  ‘You insulted me!’ he exclaimed.

  Ralph’s face was dark for an instant, but then it cleared. ‘Nay, lad,’ he said kindly. ‘You got what was coming to you. You’re fratched now, but think it over, you’ll see you were in the wrong.’ He turned his back on Richard as if the heir to Wideacre were nothing more than an impertinent schoolboy, and he reached his hands up to the men on the cart for them to haul him up again.

  Richard started forward and I grabbed his arm and held him back. He was incoherent w
ith anger. ‘I will kill him…’ he started.

  ‘Richard, everyone is looking at you!’ I hissed.

  It worked.

  Richard shook me off, but he did not rush at the cart. He looked around at the bright curious faces and he took a deep breath, then he took my arm in a protective gesture and nodded dismissively at Ralph’s back, and at the crowd around the cart. We swept through them like a play-acting king and queen in a travelling theatre; and they parted to let us through. Richard looked straight before him, blinded by his rage, but I glanced to left and to right with a half-smile of apology.

  I saw Clary Dench openly grin at me, and I realized how ridiculous we seemed. If I had been less wary of Richard and his anger, I should have laughed out loud. We proceeded like dukes in ermine until the bend in the road hid us and Richard dropped my hand at once.

  I expected him to rage, but he was quiet. ‘Richard, I am sure he meant no harm…’ I started.

  Richard’s look at me was icy. ‘He threw me in the road!’ he said softly. ‘I’ll never forget that.’

  ‘He just bumped you by accident,’ I said. ‘And he got down at once to help you up.’

  Richard looked at me blackly, and he turned for home at a fast pace. I followed in his wake at a trot.

  ‘He did say sorry,’ I offered. Richard hardly heard me.

  ‘He insulted me,’ I heard him say in an undertone. ‘He’ll be sorry.’

  ‘He is Uncle John’s new manager,’ I said warningly. ‘Uncle John needs him to run Wideacre. If he is the right man for the job, then we all need him to run Wideacre for us. We saw today that he can make Acre work as one, and he might be the only man who can save Wideacre.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Richard. ‘This is more important than any manager for the estate. He insulted me before all of Acre. He should be punished.’

  I pulled up short at that. ‘Nothing is more important than Wideacre,’ I said. ‘There is nothing more important than getting Acre working.’

  Richard paused in his long strides to stand still and look at me. The mist swirled around us so that we were as ghostly as the trees leaning over our heads. I shivered from the cold and the damp. Richard’s eyes had a radiance about them.

  ‘He insulted me,’ Richard said. ‘He insulted me before all Acre. I won’t stand for that. He must apologize to me for that. He has challenged me, and I must win.’

  ‘Richard,’ I said uneasily, ‘it was not as bad as that! It was not as serious as that!’

  ‘It is a matter of honour. You would not understand that, for you are a girl. But my papa and I know that it is vital that the gentry retain their control over the mob. I shall tell him at once.’

  While I hesitated, thinking about whether Acre was a ‘mob’, thinking about whether Mr Megson was part of a ‘mob’, Richard turned for the lights of home, banged open the front gate and bounded up the four steps to the garden path. The door was open and he pushed it and was gone. I followed more slowly. I had done all I could to prevent him telling Uncle John, and had earned a scolding for my pains. I gritted my teeth on a spurt of temper. I trusted my judgement with the people of Acre. I trusted my judgement with Mr Megson. I did not think Richard had been insulted. I thought he was behaving like a fool. I thought he had acted like a fool. And I did not see that his precious honour was concerned in the least.

  But then I checked myself. My grandmama had warned me, my mama had shown me: the duty of a proper woman is to keep her own counsel. And there are many things which men understand and women do not. If Richard thought his honour was involved, it was not my part to challenge him and argue with him. I paused for a few moments in the chill mist and breathed the damp air deeply until my own temper was still again. If I wanted to be a proper lady of Quality – and I did – then I would have to curb my independent judgement. If I wanted to be a true wife to Richard – and I wanted that more than anything in the world – then I would have to learn to support his thoughts and actions whatever my private opinions.

  While I stood hesitating at the garden gate, I realized my hand was cold. I had dropped my left glove in Acre. My hand had been tucked under Richard’s arm and warmed by his grip and I had not noticed when I had lost it. They were my only pair of gloves – tan leather – once belonging to one of Mama’s stepsisters and scarcely worn. Lady Havering had found them and given them to me, and I dared not lose one. I turned on my heel and started the weary walk back to Acre.

  I had trudged less than a few yards when I heard a call behind me and my heart leaped, for I thought it might be Richard. But instead, there was Uncle John. He had thrown a riding coat over his shoulders and the great capes swung as he strode down the drive after me. I stopped to wait for him.

  ‘I have to go back to Acre. I dropped my glove,’ I explained.

  ‘I’m going to Acre too,’ he said. ‘Richard tells me he had some words with Mr Megson.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said shortly.

  ‘Were you there?’ Uncle John asked, surprised. ‘It sounded like some sort of brawl. What were you doing amid it all, Julia?’

  ‘It was nothing,’ I said. Uncle John seemed to have quite misunderstood Richard. Richard could not have said that there was a brawl, when all there had been was a few sharp words from him and an accident which hurt no one. ‘Richard asked Mr Megson a question, and Mr Megson didn’t answer. Richard jumped up on the cart and then Mr Megson bumped into him with a sack of meal. Richard fell off the cart and Mr Megson helped him up. That was all.’

  John paused and looked at me. ‘Is this right, Julia?’ he asked. ‘Was that really all there was to it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I was holding to my decision to keep my private thoughts to myself. ‘Mr Megson was a bit disrespectful, and Richard was upset. But it was nothing serious.’

  John was visibly relieved. ‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ he said. ‘Young Richard made me think that I had hired a prizefighting Jacobin. Ralph Megson is the very man for me, but I should have no place for him on the estate if he could not be civil.’

  ‘He is not uncivil,’ I said, thinking of his gentle voice to Margaret Carter. ‘He and Richard misunderstood each other. That was all.’

  John nodded. ‘Well, now I’ve come this far I’ll walk on with you,’ he said agreeably. ‘I gave Mr Megson some money on account to alleviate some of the worst hardship in the village at once. I told him to assess people’s needs and spend it carefully. Is he doing some kind of food distribution?’

  I could not help myself. I laughed out loud. ‘No!’ I said. ‘They’re having a party.’

  We rounded the bend and John could see the table nearly ready for dinner and the people bringing stools and round logs of wood from the cottages to serve as chairs.

  Then I froze, because the Dench cottage door opened and a man came out. He was upon us before I could give a warning cry. He did not even see us. He had a great saucepan of boiling soup in his hands and his eyes were on the steaming liquid and not where he was going.

  It was the outlaw John Dench. It was Clary’s uncle, the wounder of Richard’s horse Scheherazade, the Havering groom who had trusted me to ride her. I knew him the second I saw him. But I did not know what to do.

  ‘Look out, man!’ Uncle John said abruptly, and Dench stopped and looked up from the saucepan in sudden surprise.

  He recognized me at once and he took in the fine quality of Uncle John’s clothes and knew he was before the gentry. He shot a look from right to left as if thinking of dropping the saucepan, soup and all, and making a run for it, a dash to the common before the hue and cry was raised. But then he looked at us again and saw that I was alone with Uncle John. His eyes were that of a hunted animal and the colour drained from his face so that he looked grey and dirty.

  ‘Who are you?’ Uncle John demanded.

  Uncle John had heard the story of Scheherazade, in Mama’s letters, and from his son. He would remember the name of the guilty man, would demand his arrest and take him to Chichest
er for trial at the next quarter sessions. Dench’s eyes flew to my face, and the whole street was silent; every man, woman and child in Acre seemed to be holding their breaths and waiting for the answer. Dench opened his mouth to speak, but he said nothing.

  ‘This is Dan Tayler,’ I said. My voice was as clear as a bell, confident. ‘Dan used to live here, but he now works on an estate at…at…at…Petersfield.’

  Clary was suddenly at his side and she gave her uncle a little push. ‘They’re waiting for the soup,’ she said. She gave me an unsmiling straight glance.

  ‘And this is Clary Dench,’ I said unwavering. ‘And this is Sonny Green, and Mr and Mrs Miller Green, and Ned Smith with Henry, Jilly, and that is Little ‘Un. This is Matthew Merry, and over there is his grandmother, Mrs Merry, and beside her is Mrs Tyacke, and that is her son, Ted. That is Peter the cobbler and his wife, Sairey, and those are their twins. You know George the carter, and those are his girls, Jane and Emily.’

  I named them all. Uncle John nodded and smiled and the women curtsied to him and the men pulled their forelocks. Many of the names were familiar to him, but he smiled at the people who had come to Acre in recent years, or young men who had been little children when he left.

  I glanced around. Dench had disappeared.

  Ralph came forward. ‘Would you like to share the dinner, Dr MacAndrew?’ he asked politely. ‘You and Miss Lacey would be most welcome.’

  ‘We’ll not interrupt you,’ Uncle John said equally civil. ‘We came only for Miss Julia’s glove. She dropped it somewhere here.’

  One of the little Dench children darted under the table and came out with the glove like a trophy, and brought it to me. ‘Thank you, Sally,’ I said smiling.

  John nodded to Ralph. ‘I see you’re settling in,’ he said. ‘I knew you would be glad to be home, but I never guessed you would be greeted as a returning hero.’