Flood: FIFTEEN
"Jane sat by the window, the needlework idle in her hands. Time heals, the vicar had said, but it hadn’t yet healed. She doubted it ever would.';'
Emma Cookson continues her wonderfully engaging story of romance and revenge set in the 19th Century.
The omens had never been good, with mama and papa dying so soon. She remembered her mother as a lady of delicate health and retiring nature who had never wanted to cause a fuss. Even in death she had not caused a fuss. When she had taken to her bed, Jane and George had been allowed into her room twice a day: once to say good morning and again to say goodnight. Their mother had smiled and waved genteelly and it had seemed a natural progression for her to move from bed to coffin without a fuss.
Their father's death had been more traumatic. He had been crushed by a wagon outside their home and carried into the house on a door. A surgeon had dashed upstairs and cook had boiled countless pots of water, all to no avail.
The loss of their parents had been bearable because Jane and George had each other and, in adversity, they had bonded together. Life even got better, for a while. At home, it had been regulated. But their uncle had no idea about the proper upbringing of children and they had enjoyed a life of greater freedom at the hall.
As she grew older, Jane had had her own governess, but there had still been time to share adventures with George and make unlikely friendships with Robert and Zachariah. She smiled sadly, for they had all loved her.
Dear Zachariah, ever faithful and true, who had gazed at her more with adoration than love, simply grateful to be in her presence, for what boy of his class could ever dream of enjoying her company on those walks and picnics.
Robert, of course, had been utterly smitten and she had enjoyed flirting to make him blush. Perhaps, if circumstances had been different, there might have been a future for the two of them. She still had the letter he sent before he went away, declaring his love and his intention to return wealthy enough to ask for her hand in marriage, or die trying.
Rain had swept the hills the day he left. He had sat astride his horse in the storm and stared at the hall and she had watched him from this window, a brave and foolish boy. He had waved, turned the horse and ridden up the hill towards the turnpike to Manchester.
His departure had marked the passing of her adolescence. She had been a young woman fully aware of the limitations of her future. She and George had lost their uncle, the warm alliance of Mrs Dyce, and their childhood. They had been alone again.
Even Harry had been absent for long periods, attending to business in London, although she had been aware of his interest in her during the times he returned to the hall. There had been opportunities to change her prospects; she had distant and titled relatives in Sussex. But George, like their late mother, had been of delicate health, and she had preferred not to leave him.
Jane had continued to help her brother with his collection of butterflies and frog spawn and botanical research and they had tried to create their own world to keep reality at bay. They had failed and George had drowned and she would have followed him but for Harry. He had offered his hand and insisted she accept and they had been married. And on the very day they had, Robert had returned.
His timing had hurt and mocked her and had angered Harry and she had watched her husband control his anger with a totality that was frightening.
Harry presented a cool and disdainful facade to the world but she sensed, in his presence, and saw, in his eyes, that his emotions were fierce. She wondered how long he would control his patience with her, for much of her time was spent in memories. The only reality was the grave of her brother in St David's churchyard.
Jane gazed at the moors and remembered the picnics and more. That was the path George would have taken the night he took his last walk to Lump Top and there was the hill upon which Robert Dyce had sat astride his horse in a storm four years ago.
She gasped and the needlework dropped to the floor. Robert Dyce sat there again, astride a horse, in sunlight, gazing purposefully at the house. She closed her eyes and considered, just for one moment, what might have been. When she opened them he was no longer on the hillside. Her hand went to her mouth, for he had put spurs to his mount and was riding towards the hall.
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