Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

" I should be a family of note in the area," Jack remarked as they neared Hunstanton Park, encased in its woodlands and centuries of acknowledged power. "The Burnhams, I mean. Styleman is a reverend and the son of a gentleman, and his mother was the daughter of a baronet, but we are barons, even if the title is young."

"Have they been in the area long?"

Leda steered Pontus through the line of stately oaks and beeches, the ground a purple-gold carpet of comfrey and celandine. She'd lost the easy companion who had shown her the ways of brick making and gave her a glimpse into his ambitions, his heart. Beside her sat the baron in truth, upright, polished, distant. Negotiating his place in the world, picking out who was above him, and who below.

"The first L'Estrange sailed over with William the Conqueror," Jack said. "The family gained lands here, and here they have been ever since. The sixth baronet left no issue, so the estate passed to his sister, who married a Styleman.

"But L'Estrange was an upstart to the Burnhams, established here in Saxon times," Jack added. "There's a tale that L'Estrange claimed lands as far out into the Wash as a knight could ride at low tide, then shoot an arrow. One day a Burnham challenged that he could shoot an arrow further. He did, and won the land where Holme Hall now stands."

"The families have been friends?"

"My uncle kept few friends," Jack said, the words clipped with disapproval. "And his sisters even fewer."

"You have written to your Aunt Dinah? What does she think of my stay in your household?"

"She is happily lodged with a friend in Middlesex, and not inclined to think ill of your presence." He set his lips, that mouth that lent a hint of softness to his face, and which Leda spent too much time noticing. "In fact, in her last, she said she agreed with our Aunt Plume and I require a mother, not a nurse, for Muriel."

"I have a mother." The cry rose from behind them. "Had. I don't need nor wish another."

Leda took her eyes off the road long enough to assure herself that Muriel was in a fury. Jack turned to placate her. "Mere?—"

"I won't." She curled her hands into fists. The bloom Leda had added to her hat shook with the force of rage. "I don't want it. Her or anyone. You can't just buy a new mum at market."

"Mere, I know. I never meant?—"

"You did. You did. You wanted her gone from the start, because you didn't like her. And now you have things just the way you want them, don't you?"

"Muriel Marie. I never wished for you to be motherless."

She traded him a challenging glare. "And I didn't either. But here we are."

Leda swallowed a laugh that might very well become a sob. She herself said that all the time: "And here we are." Muriel was borrowing Leda's sayings without being conscious of it. Her heart pulled apart for Jack, for the look on his face as his daughter defied him. Muriel would not approve no matter what he chose.

But she also couldn't ignore the warning that the girl's words tapped into her shoulder blades. You wanted her gone .

"My word," Leda said, slicing through the tension, "what a great lot of bricks went into the building of this house. Only look at this gate and wall."

Jack turned and, with an effort, brought himself to the conversation. Ever the gentleman, even when he had a dagger in his heart. Leda wanted to place her hand on his cheek, rub those tired lines from his brow. But she hadn't the right, and Muriel was watching.

A wife would have the right, even if Muriel were watching.

She pushed the thought away and flicked Pontus through the archway. The pillars on either side followed an Italianate design at odds with the medieval symmetry of the great house and the crenellations marching along the roof. The tracery of the family coat of arms, with its swirls and vines, stood out as much for its delicacy as for its lighter color.

"Now that gatehouse looks like Bath stone to me," Leda said lightly, "while the walls are much older." A straight dirt lane arrowed through a lawn studded with ornamental trees, some in delirious blossom. A wall not much higher than a man filed around the garden, the crenellations mimicking those of the house. To the east stood the stable block, a long low wall of small square windows with a thatched roof.

"That archway is the work of Thomas Thorpe, master mason, in the style of Inigo Jones," Jack said. "The wall of the house is coursed carrstone, at least a century old. Pieces of the Hall, they say, date to the time of the third Edward."

"Late medieval, then," Leda guessed, trying to remember her history lessons and the reign of the English kings. Her mother had engaged a governess for the girls for precisely this reason: so they could engage in conversation with a man, and have a chance to enchant him.

Jack twisted on the seat, and his shoulder brushed hers. Leda did her best not to thrill to the contact, and most certainly not to let a blush show on her face, like some debutante riding out with a favored suitor.

"The middle portion of the hall, that's the gatehouse. At least three centuries old, judging from the style. Native carrstone, that's why it's red. The wings, Jacobean era. Built early in the last century, I'd say. That checkerboard pattern, gray and white, that comes from clunch, a kind of limestone, and knapped flint. Very common building materials around here."

Leda watched him grow animated, forgetting the checks and challenges of earlier. She wished she could cup her hands around his fire and shield him from the world while he burned. He cast such a light.

She let Pontus fall to a walk, giving Jack time to look around. Neighs and whickers came from the stable block, the estate horses sensing an intruder; human voices sounded in response. "You must have grand plans for Holme Hall, with all this building knowledge."

The light dimmed. "It would take money to enlarge. Hamon le Strange had enough to buy a baronetcy for himself and his sons. Cost around four hundred pounds, so they say."

"And how did the Burnhams achieve their elevation?"

He peered down a lane of trees, straight as a plane, to the blank wall beyond of undressed brick.

"By acquiring wealth through shipping interests in King's Lynn, first, then aspiring to the rank of gentleman upon it, and standing members of Parliament. Queen Anne made a favorite of Judith, my great-grandfather's wife, but only noblewomen could be attendants in the Queen's bedchamber. So she looked about for an available title and made Judith's husband Brancaster. My worthy progenitor hopped from the House of Commons to the House of Lords, the family set up a house in London, and the two women were thick as thieves until the Queen's death."

"Clever Judith," Leda murmured.

"If only her grandson had been so. The second Brancaster lived well on the favors his mother had earned the family, managed to prove he was not a Jacobite, and so kept his wealth and position. But my uncle, having been born to it, had no mathematical sense. He apparently believed that his income was an inexhaustible stream that would not cease no matter how much he drew from it. His sisters depended on his support, even after they married, and their families continue to assume that the income from my farms exists only to fund their pleasures and wants.

"For that I blame my grandmother, whose father had been a maltster, and whose first husband the vicar had been a Nonconformist, and whose chief accomplishment was adhering to the standards of beauty of her time. But to see her, you'd have thought she'd been born wrapped in purple, and the title invented solely so she could marry the man who held it."

"I venture to guess that your pleasures and wants go unregarded," Leda said.

He faced her, and the sun picked out silver highlights in his eyes. His neckcloth had become disarranged, and Leda kept a firm grip on the ribbons so her hand would not stray and be tempted to tidy him.

"Yes." A single word, but she heard so much behind it: dormant longings reawakened, dreams once extinguished stirring to life. Just like hers.

He had wants, and he could name them. She sensed, she knew , that some of those wants were attached to her. Just as the tendrils growing inside her reached for him.

"Look." Muriel pressed between them, an arm held out. "Swans. On the moat."

Two enormous white birds floated down the canal as if they were clouds come to life, their feathery hulks leaving barely a ripple in their wake. A mated pair.

"I intend to name my doll Judith," Muriel announced.

"No longer Nanette?"

At that name, both her companions stilled, as if they'd fallen under the gaze of a witch. Pontus clopped across the bridge spanning the moat, each step of his shoes a blow on the flint cobbles. A square shadow pulled over them, trailing cold over Leda's shoulders, as they went through the gatehouse. Then they were in the courtyard beyond, where a pale sun lifted above the rim of stone chimneys and trees, and a servant came forward to take the horse.

Jack swung Muriel out of the cart, and as soon as her feet hit the ground, the girl shied as if she could not stand his touch. Jack's face was like a whip had fallen across his skin, and Leda spoke before she could debate the wisdom of pushing in. She was a child, true, and a hurt child. But she could not go lashing about at the world and expect it to remain a safe place for her. She must learn that lesson swift and early.

"Miss Burham, we are here to discuss if Mrs. Styleman knows of any prospects for a governess for you, therefore I expect you shall be on your best behavior," Leda said in her crispest tone. "I expect civility in your answers when you are addressed. If you have a quarrel with your father, you will save it for discussion at home, in private. Here, you will be a good guest, and a good guest makes themselves pleasant and cordial to their hosts, on whose hospitality they are intruding."

Muriel's eyes widened, her surprise evident at being chastened. "But he?—"

"Is your father, and deserves to be addressed respectfully. As ladies, we must learn how to express our strong feelings in ways conducive to achieving our aims, while also showing consideration for those around us."

Muriel snapped her mouth shut and hugged her doll to her chest. Leda saw the girl's struggle, torn between mutiny, purely on principle, and awe at being handed a secret to the mystifying world of womanhood.

But she would not give Leda the pleasure of having the last world. Her little chin tightened in that manner so like her father's.

"He put you in her room," she said. "But he hasn't told you anything, has he?"

Jack hadn't told her much of anything, about himself, about his family, about his wife. The reminder stabbed at Leda's confidence as she settled in for a coze with her hostess.

"That little Muriel is a cunning baggage," Mrs. Styleman announced the moment that Jack, on the pretext of taking Muriel to see the swans, left them alone in the small parlor.

Hunstanton Hall, from what Leda had seen, was a great sweep of polished woodwork and painted plaster, built on medieval lines lacking the classical symmetry Leda was accustomed to seeing in Bath. Its mistress was just as imposing. She was a matron of at least five decades, wearing a heavily embroidered brocade open robe that was years out of fashion, and piles of scarves, shawls, and a lace cap to ward off the cold of the room, where there was no fire. The tea was fast cooling, the footman having trundled from the faraway kitchens to deliver it, and Leda drank from the remaining warmth.

"I believe Muriel to be no slyer than any other girl of nine," Leda said, remembering the small bits of cunning she herself had been capable of that age when it came to nicking Mrs. Chubb's brandy snaps from the kitchen or inventing reasons she hadn't come in from out of doors when her mother called.

"Dear Brancaster. He doesn't know the first thing how to take her in hand, of course. And her mother! What could one expect of a child, with such an example before her?"

Despite herself, Leda sat forward. She was no stranger to gossip. People seemed inclined to confide in her; she was not sure why. Perhaps her sincere desire to help, to fix problems, provide clarity on vexing matters that entangled the heart and clouded the thinking.

But this interest was not motivated by a charitable instinct toward Jack. She wanted desperately to know what had drawn him to Anne-Marie. And what had ruined him completely when he lost her.

"But then, I oughtn't carry tales, ought I?" Mrs. Styleman raised her teacup to her lips. The Delft blue reflected on her chin, giving her a faintly wolfish look.

Leda sat back, trying not to let her vexation show.

Mary Styleman was the kind of woman Leda might herself have become if marriage had made her more solid, and not mad. Lacking children to amuse her, Mrs. Styleman had surrounded herself with fine things. The parlor was done up in floridly rococo design, heavy with cream and gold, vines and twirls and sunbursts filling every pane of the walls and ceiling, so that the eye had nowhere to rest. A pair of enormous urns reared from the mantelpiece. Above it reposed a dark oil painting of a man and woman standing in a park, he watching her with a satisfied expression, she, in a smart scarlet riding habit and jaunty hat, patting the neck of an expensive bay mare.

"Henry commissioned that for our marriage," Mary remarked, studying the painting as well. "A man can come across so jaunty , can he not? When he is young and fresh and strong of limb, and he sets asides portions from two of his favorite estates just for you, and looks at you as if you are the most clever, the most lovely thing in all the world."

Leda sipped her tea and found herself unable to swallow. Jack had regarded her with exactly that expression as they stood by the pits and his kiln and clay, and he showed her how to make bricks.

"I imagine that is how Lord Brancaster won Miss Waddelow," Leda said, setting all shame out the window.

"The stranger thing is that he chose her," said Mrs. Styleman, "given her past and all."

Leda swayed forward, unable to stop herself. She knew that to invite confidences, she must set down some crumbs of her own. "I met the most curious girl in Snettisham, living with the Waddelows in Hope House. Nora, I believe she is called."

"Ellinore." Her hostess nodded. "That'll be Anne-Marie's child, the one as she had with the gypsy."

Leda swallowed her tea, struggling valiantly not to choke on it. "Anne-Marie was married before Ja—before Brancaster?"

"Oh, there was no blessing upon that union, mind you me. Missus Waddelow, great as she'd wish to rise, put it about that they adopted an orphan, saved the mite from being sent to the house of industry over in Gressenhall. But we all know who comes along Peddars Way, don't we? And how many moons turn about between the getting of a babe and the birthing of it."

"But Ja—Brancaster did not take the girl into their home?"

Mrs. Styleman tilted her head, looking at Leda from beneath lowered brows. "What lord wants a canary in his nest? Especially if he's some rust to scrub off the family name, after the last one dragged it about. Everyone told him to pick a girl who was true, so he could be sure that his heir was a Burnham. But she had a pair of fine eyes, hadn't she, and that wisp-o'-the-will way about her. It was rather romantic, I suppose, like one of those tragedies in the books. He thought he could refine her with his love, and she…" She shrugged, creasing the expensive lace tucked about her bosom.

"Left him," Leda said, thinking it wise to remain delicate.

Mrs. Styleman lifted her brows. "Threw herself at every man within reach of Holme Hall, is what I heard. And then ended herself when no one else would carry her off, and she had to lie in the bed she'd made."

Leda remained quiet as Jack drove them home. He wondered what Mrs. Styleman had said to her. She watched, her lovely head tilted, as a harrier skimmed its way along the placid River Hun, which spouted deep in Hunstanton Park and meandered its way north to the town of Holme-next-the-Sea. She looked and nodded when he pointed out the old wooden lighthouse, cutting the air with unmistakable authority, a landmark for customs officials and smugglers alike.

"I spoke with the lodge keeper at Hunstanton Park," Jack said. "He's a heap of stone from the old deer keeper's house that he'll give me for my kiln. It'll save me a great deal of time, and I'll be able to fire my first set of bricks as soon as the mortar dries."

"How lovely," Leda said.

"Clever Judith," Muriel, in the back, crooned to her doll. "Sweet, clever Judith. I'll give you a swan to lead on a silver chain and more ribbons than you have hair."

Jack paused Pontus next to the ruined chapel that stood at the edge of the sea. The footprint of a nave and chancel stood outlined in stone among the green lawn, grazed short by sheep, his sheep. Sweet violet and chickweed bloomed along a section of a brick wall that erupted proud and alone from the ground, a cluster of clunch and white chalk, its bricks undressed flint and carrstone and whatever the medieval builders had turned up on the beach. An arched doorway led to nothing but empty air, as if the world beyond lay hidden to human eyes.

Leda roused as he held up his arms to help her down. Her weight in his hands was so solid, so real, the firm plump of her hips, the nip of her waist, her ribs a smooth line within her stays. His head swirled as she gained her feet, and he had to flex his fingers to loosen her, let her go. Her eyes were on the ruin, not him.

"That's a witch's doorway," she said. "A fairy portal. You'll step through that and disappear."

"This is ground consecrated to Edmund the Martyr," Jack said, a touch indignant. He turned to Muriel, noodling her doll along the stepstone of rocks left exposed in the ancient wall. "He landed here to be crowned King of East Anglia in 855, a proper Anglo-Saxon king, was Edmund. Fought with King Alfred of Wessex against the great heathen armies of the Norsemen. Of course, they captured and executed him when he wouldn't renounce his faith. His remains are in Bury St. Edmunds, both his body and the head the infidels parted from him, which his followers found through the help of a talking wolf."

Muriel looked up. "A talking wolf?"

Jack nodded. "Fluent in Latin, no less, who called hic, hic when Edmund's subjects came looking for him, if the life of St. Dunstan is to be believed."

"Wolves in Norfolk." Muriel appeared skeptical. "With the hiccups."

" Hic means this, or here," Leda said absently. "As in hic jacet , here lies. Hic jacet rosa mundi, the rose of the world. Hic jacet Arturus, rex quondamn, rexque futurus, Arthur, king once and king to be. Hic jacet so-and-so, beloved of someone else."

" Hic jacet my mother, beloved of me," Muriel said.

Jack flailed. He wanted to ask Leda how she knew Latin, or at least bits of it. He wanted to know everything. He wanted those violet eyes turned toward him again, with that look of delight she'd worn when she worked beside him shaping clay into his brick molds, sharing his work, his life. That look of admiration that made him feel ten feet tall and strong as a bear.

"Of course you know the tale of Arthur, but Norfolk too has a sleeping king who will rise again," Jack said. "King Gurgunt, son of Belinus, who ruled Britain long before the Romans came. Gurgunt founded Norwich and built the castle to keep an eye on the pesky Danes, whom he invaded and subdued after they refused to render him tribute. Geoffrey of Monmouth said he was buried in Caerleon, because Geoffrey of Monmouth knew nothing of the world outside Wales. But Gurgunt came here and took his seat in his robes and crown on his great throne in a mound beneath Norwich Castle. He fell asleep there surrounded by his jewels and gold and all his treasure, and he will wake again when Britain has need of him and come to her defense."

Muriel regarded him with great calculation. "And how do you know this?"

"I grew up in Norwich, pet. Do you want to hear of the Wild Boy of Bridewell Alley?"

"No, I don't wish to hear of boys, wild or otherwise." Muriel shook her head.

Leda stood as still as the lighthouse, face turned toward the west, where a frill of green shrubbery edged the blue sky, a faint darker blue line the only sign of the heaving, restless sea. The breeze threaded her dark curls. A redshank shot past her, flashing its white rump and bright legs, trailing a high, flute-like call as it dove over the edge and disappeared.

"It's as if the earth simply falls away," Leda said.

"These are the cliffs where my mother fell," said Muriel.

There was little to say after that, and they drove in silence the short way to the hall, Pontus picking his way through the sheep lanes lined with comfrey and cow parsley. The sky darkened, as if someone had let down a shade. Mrs. Styleman was responsible, of course. She would have filled Leda's head with all the tales, of how he was the mad baron, how he was cruel to Anne-Marie.

And Leda, sensible as she was, wouldn't know what to believe, for what did she know of Jack, really? What had he allowed her to see, other than a man who had failed as a husband and father, as a landowner and a mason, failed in every part of being a gentleman or a lord of the realm?

He was nothing but a man who had woken to the needs of his body, to longings that he dared not name or frame a thought around, to the feverish wish to press his lips against hers and wrap her softness around him and lose himself in her body, sinking into her as if he could be carried away by the sea, enveloped, transformed, made new by her touch.

Holme Hall stood with its mouth tight shut and its eyes lidded, the windows a dull silver against the clouding afternoon, safe behind its curtain walls. Jack wondered if the brick and stone of his home would stand as long as had that one piece of wall from St. Edmund's Chapel, five centuries old. How odd that the doorway had proved the strongest part, the curved passage through which worshippers came to draw strength from the saint before returning to their worlds without.

A woman stood at the cliff's edge, in a posture just as Leda had assumed. Black tresses seethed between her straw hat, and the wind sucked her skirts against her legs, slender and strong. Behind him, Muriel hissed in her breath and lurched forward.

"Mother!" she screamed. Before Jack could stop her, or pause to make her hear reason, Muriel had cast herself from the cart like a leaping deer and was running toward the still figure. "Mama! "

Jack rubbed his eyes. The woman turned. For a moment the face was Anne-Marie's, the same pale, dark-lashed eyes, the same restless twitch of her hands. Then the face changed.

"That is Nora, the girl from the market," Leda said. "She lives in Snettisham, with the Waddelows."

"Yes," Jack said.

Leda turned to him, finally, and it was as if her face were overlaid on the face of another woman who had so often turned to him with questions, with unspoken longings, with a need in her gaze that he couldn't identify and could never fulfill.

"And you knew that she is Anne-Marie's daughter, her first daughter?"

Jack watched another form moving up the beach, several feet below. A metallic gleam winked from the pack on his back, from the threads of gray in his ink-black hair.

"I always wondered," he said.