The House of Hardie (22 page)

‘But which
is
the best part?' asked Lucy. ‘You see, I know nothing.'

As she had hoped, her companions were anxious to ply her with information drawn from their previous experience of travelling east. They would end the meal knowing little more about her than when she first appeared.

When dinner came to an end, Lucy's chair was drawn back for her by Mr Elliott, the magistrate: a serious man in his late thirties, who had spoken little more than Gordon during the meal. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Captain Hunter advancing confidently towards her, and turned quickly in the other direction. Gordon Hardie moved just as fast, and reached her first.

‘There's to be a concert by the stewards' band in half an hour, Miss Young,' he told her. ‘Would you care for a brief promenade before that?'

‘Thank you.' As he offered his arm, Lucy rested her fingers lightly upon it. That, at least, was all she intended to do. But in the weeks since their last meeting – the meeting at which he had asked her to marry him, and had kissed her – her love for him had been fired like one of those cylinders of steam which at this moment were
propelling the
Parramatta
forward. In her case, there was no valve to let the steam escape, and seeing her beloved again had brought her almost to the point of explosion. She had only barely managed to control herself throughout the lengthy meal, and now could do so no longer. Her hand gripped his arm with an intensity which must have been painful, but every other muscle seemed to be in spasm, preventing any movement.

It seemed that Gordon understood. He put his arm round her waist as though to steer her politely towards a door and propelled her out of the saloon and towards a secluded corner of the open deck. Other passengers were walking slowly up and down, but at this early stage in the voyage, when they were all strangers to each other, only their four tablemates were likely to be interested in the intensity with which these two gazed at each other.

Lucy was unable to speak. She had made her gesture and burned all her bridges behind her: she had no more courage left. It was for Gordon now to take her into his arms and assure her of all his delight and love. Her body trembled as she waited for his embrace.

‘I don't understand,' Gordon said. ‘Did you not receive my letter?'

Even before he finished speaking, Gordon knew that he had made a mistake. Lucy's blue eyes, moist with emotion until that moment, narrowed and became distant. He should have talked of love, not of letters; he should have embraced her and covered her face with kisses. There could be no doubt at all that she had run away from home in order to be with him. She had risked everything he had told her not to risk – and it could only be for love. She must have expected him to be joyful, and instead he had asked for an explanation. What a fool he was!

He stepped forward towards her, his arms opening wide, ready to hold her close. But she stepped back, and there was a coolness in her voice as she answered the question in which he was no longer interested.

‘Why yes,' she said. ‘My grandfather allowed just one of your letters – if you wrote more than one – to reach me; after he had read and approved it. I hoped you would have guessed why you hadn't heard from me. But then, how could you be expected to realize that I could be treated in such a way, when I didn't suspect it myself?'

‘It seemed to me that there was a message to be learned from your silence, whether it was deliberate on your part or enforced – that the wishes of your guardians were bound to prevail. How could someone who is only eighteen years old, with no experience of the world –'

‘You should have given me credit for more determination,' cried Lucy with spirit. But it seemed that she was no longer hurt, for the sparkle was returning to her eyes.
‘And it's only Miss Lucy Yates, I must tell you, who is a child of eighteen. Miss Lucy Young has announced herself as being twenty-one years old. I booked my passage under another name because I'm told that the
Parramatta
will call at Marseilles: some passengers to the East take the train across Europe to join the ship there, rather than experience the storms of the Bay of Biscay. Although I don't expect it, it's just possible that Archie may be despatched by that route to find me and take me back. But he would look for a Miss Yates – or he might enquire about you. So it would need to be clear that you are travelling alone and have developed no particular friendship with any other passenger.'

Gordon laughed. ‘You mean that for the next few days I must behave coldly to you – the only man on board who doesn't realize his luck in sharing a table with such a beauty! Would your brother really go to such extremes? I'm truly sorry to have been the cause of a rift between yourself and your guardians.'

Lucy shrugged her shoulders. ‘If there had been more time, my grandfather would have given in to my pleading. His only objection was on the grounds of my age – although he was also hoping that I might have a triumph in my London Season next year. I found Archie's objection more difficult to understand. I hardly expected him to care much about whom I should marry. But when he heard your name –'

‘It's not to be hoped that he should care to have me for a brother-in-law,' Gordon admitted. ‘At our last meeting – my visit to Castlemere – we had a difference of opinion. A violent difference of opinion. Since he was the one who knocked me down, it hardly seems reasonable that he should also be the one unable to forgive. But then, his behaviour has not been reasonable in any respect.'

‘He knocked you down!' Lucy's eyes showed that she was recalling the scene. ‘That time when your hand was cut? I noticed that your feelings were overwrought, but I thought … I didn't realize that you were angry.' She shivered as the ship changed course slightly, allowing the wind to penetrate their seclusion. ‘Shall we walk a little? Or look for a sheltered place on the other side?' She led the way without waiting for him to answer or to offer his arm. ‘What was the cause of your difference of opinion?'

‘I'd just learned that your brother had made advances to my sister, giving her the impression that he had marriage ultimately in mind. Luckily, she was not too greatly misled – or so I believe. But the letter in which he later made it clear that there could be no possibility of an alliance between his family and mine was hurtful to her, to say the least.'

‘So you wondered how he might feel if his own sister was to be hurt in the same way? A little tit-for-tat. How fortunate it must have seemed that an occasion presented itself so quickly.'

‘Lucy, you can't believe –'

‘Lucy?' The tone of her voice made it clear that if she had ever given him permission to address her so, she was withdrawing it now.

‘Miss Yates … Miss Young … Lucy, you can't believe that your brother's behaviour has anything in common with mine. I told you in my letter how much I loved you, how much I shall always love you. It was for your own sake entirely that –'

‘Was it?' asked Lucy. ‘It seems to me that I've been quite as foolish as my grandfather thought. You never wanted to travel with a companion. It was unforgivably forward of me to suggest that I might accompany you. Whether it was politeness which prevented you from
rejecting the suggestion, or a wish for revenge which encouraged you to accept it, hardly seems of much importance.'

‘I was in love with you,' said Gordon. ‘I still am. I underestimated your courage, perhaps. But how can you believe that I feel anything but delight –?'

‘I wasn't sure of that when I saw you this evening.'

‘You must allow that I was surprised. And when you announced yourself under another name … You yourself have said that it would be unwise of me to pay too much attention to you at once.' They were still walking, close together but not touching except when the rolling of the ship caused one or other of them to stagger a little. But he was conscious of a lessening of her stiffness. She was ready, surely, to forgive his unforgivable reaction and to agree to what she had always wanted. ‘I'll accept your instructions to remain reserved until we've left Marseilles. But after that, dearest Lucy, we must get married at once. Let me kiss you, my darling.' He could hear that the band had started to play. All the other passengers, grasping at every amusement on offer, would be back in the saloon by now to listen to the concert.

‘I think it would be better,' said Lucy, ‘if we were in a manner of speaking to start again from the beginning. As though we were
really
strangers today, and learning to know each other gradually as the voyage progresses, without any feeling of obligation on either side. So that if it seems to you, when you think about it, that I could only be an impediment to you on your travels, you will only need to keep silent and not to excuse yourself.'

‘It's impossible to imagine such a thing,' Gordon protested. ‘And your situation is such that anything but marriage is unthinkable. On a long sea voyage people accept unusual behaviour. No one may raise an eyebrow
when you travel alone aboard ship, but it would be a very different matter if you were to arrive unescorted in Shanghai.'

‘So you're prepared to marry me to save me from the consequences of my own rashness! You're too kind, Mr Hardie. Do you think I could spend the rest of my life knowing that I've burdened you with an unwanted wife? I doubt whether I shall have any trouble in providing myself with an escort whenever one is needed. I think marriage too important to be accepted as a form of politeness.'

Gordon was at a loss to understand how he had managed to put himself in the wrong for the second time that evening. Lucy must love him, or she would never have taken the huge risk of leaving home. And surely she must know in her heart that he loved her. It was true he felt a certain ambivalence about taking her as his companion on a dangerous expedition, and some of this feeling might have penetrated her consciousness. But he had made an honourable offer of protection, and she must realize that she had no real choice but to accept it.

Perhaps for the first time, he made an effort to understand her. It was not only her courage that he had undervalued, but her pride. For all her lack of a title, she was an aristocrat. Her disobedience to the marquess's wishes would rob her of any material legacy, but in her very cradle she had been heir to a centuries-old dignity and self-esteem. Because she was only eighteen, she might not yet feel secure in it, but that would make it all the more important for her to feel herself respected. Cursing his own insensitivity, Gordon took her by the hand and held her back for a moment.

‘Lucy,' he said.

‘Miss Young,' she reminded him. ‘It seems to me, Mr
Hardie, that in this situation – of a group of people confined within a small space – it will not be easy to keep any secret. It would be unwise to think that we can step out of our roles even for a moment and expect to be unobserved.'

‘But before we begin, may I not be assured that your feelings for me are unchanged?'

‘I would have thought that my actions might speak for my feelings. It was not I, after all, who ended our engagement. But I accept that it has been ended, and that I have no claim on you of any kind. I notice that the concert has begun. But if you'll excuse me, I think I would prefer to retire early. The day has been a long one, and tiring. Goodnight, Mr Hardie.'

She was gone before Gordon had time to stop her. He was left with the irritating realization that he had completely mishandled what should have been a joyful and passionate encounter. And now he would have to play her game. He saw the sense of it, at least for a few days, but hoped that Lucy in turn would then admit that there was no point in continuing the pretence. Because after all – although it had been tactless of him to phrase it so baldly – she could certainly not be left to look after herself. He was in honour bound to marry her now.

As the newest member of staff at Cheltenham Ladies' College, Midge Hardie could not expect to be given a working day off for anything less than a death in the family; so she had not been able to wave her brother goodbye when he sailed away on the
Parramatta
. Her first free weekend came two days after he had left. She prided herself on her energy as a rule, so was surprised to arrive home feeling exhausted. Making a great effort to keep awake throughout Saturday evening, she described her pupils and duties with her usual liveliness; but afterwards sank into sleep with the feeling that she would never want to leave her bed again.

She had asked that no one should wake her in the morning, but the clocks and church bells of Oxford did not obey such instructions. One after another they called her to service or marked the passing of another quarter-hour. Midge lay on in bed. At first she was still heavy with sleep and tiredness. Then her drowsiness became pleasant, a luxury to be indulged. By ten o'clock she was wide awake, and sufficiently relaxed to ask herself why such a short term of employment should have caused her to feel so tired.

She put the same question to Will Witney when, an hour later, she at last went downstairs. Will sprang to his feet as she opened the door.

‘Your parents have gone off to church,' he said. ‘From what you told them about the number of times you have to attend school chapel, they reckoned your soul wouldn't
come to much harm if you gave one Sunday a miss. Breakfast has been cleared, but shall I ring for some coffee for you?'

‘Thank you.' Midge was interested to find that she had become a visitor in her own home, with Will acting as her host. But she made no comment on this and instead crossed to the window and looked out. To judge by the strength of the shadows, the Indian summer which had begun a week ago was not yet fading. ‘I'll have it out in the garden – make the most of the sunshine before winter comes.'