Distant Voices Read online

  The thought made her even more cross. She had never allowed any of the young men who had found their way to the Rectory door in Hancombe to arouse their hopes when they had come calling upon her and now it was too late to change her mind. She was old. She was destined to look after her father for the rest of his life. She was on the shelf. She was twenty-nine years old.

  ‘… don’t you think so, Miss Hayward?’

  With a start she realised Charles Dawson had been speaking to her as he escorted her away from the swing and back towards the party. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and, oh yes, he was good-looking. As he looked down at her she realised she had been staring at him.

  ‘Don’t you think so?’ he repeated.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said,’ she murmured.

  She caught the expression of impatience, quickly hidden, which crossed his face before she looked away.

  ‘I said, that I fear there may be a storm later,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes indeed, the air is heavy.’ Now he would think her deaf as well as rude and stupid!

  As they emerged through the gap in the hedge she noticed several pairs of eyes speculatively upon them. Her father’s were not amongst them, she saw at once with relief, and suddenly she was overcome by an irresistible urge to laugh. Here she was, dishevelled, her hair down and her gown awry, appearing in the company of the most eligible man there, and quite unchaperoned!

  As if reading her thoughts Charles Dawson stepped away from her rather too hastily. ‘May I suggest, Miss Hayward, that you retire to the house to tidy yourself,’ he said curtly, and with a bow he left her. For a moment she stood where she was, aware that she was still being watched closely, then slowly and demurely she began to walk across the grass.

  Somehow she managed to reach the ladies’ withdrawing room in the palace and there she managed to redo her hair and replace her bonnet. Outwardly she was docile and smiling. Inwardly, her moment of amusement gone, she was seething with resentment and anger. Of all the pompous, sarcastic men why did it have to be Charles Dawson who had followed her? He would tell his father what he had caught her doing and no doubt they would smile about it together over the port that evening, and then the bishop would tell her father! And her father would not find it amusing. He would be very, very angry. Oh, the humiliation of it all!

  Leaving the shelter of the palace at last she ventured back onto the lawn and, in spite of herself, she found herself looking for Charles. She saw him at once, talking to a group of elderly ladies, and to her chagrin he looked up and caught her eye. For a moment she felt his gaze sweep up and down her body, as if checking her appearance, then infinitesimally he smiled.

  Anger erupted in her once more and riding home beside her father in the carriage later she could feel her resentment still seething. But to her relief it appeared that nothing had been said to him about her escapade for he was in high good humour as they trotted through the leafy lanes back to Hancombe, nestling in its fold of the Downs.

  ‘Tomorrow, Caroline, you and I shall visit the cottage up the Neck,’ he was saying, sure as always of her obedience and her time. ‘I should like to take baskets of food to Widow Moffat and the Eldron family. Poor things, it is two years since Sam worked …’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Caroline, are you listening to me?’

  Guiltily Caroline turned to him. Her gaze had been fixed on the crest of the Downs where the golden haze of the afternoon had settled in a shimmering blur on the woods.

  ‘Of course, Papa. I shall prepare the baskets myself.’

  The shadows were running up the valleys between the hills, turning the green of the fields to soft purple beneath the haze. She could smell the rich drift of honeysuckle and roses from the hedgerows on either side of the lane. There was a beauty and a poignancy in the air which soothed her and at the same time unsettled her strangely.

  She longed to be alone, away from her father’s strident demands, but it was hours before she was able to escape to the privacy of her bedroom. With relief she closed the door at last behind the maid, Polly, and, drawing her loose wrapper over her nightgown she went to the window and leaned out, staring down at the dusk-shadowed garden. She still felt tense and unsettled; lonely.

  It was very hot; the coming darkness was bringing no relief from the heat. If anything it was hotter now. Her mind turned back to the party and the cool freedom of the swing. If Charles Dawson hadn’t found her she could have remained there all afternoon, with the breeze combing its untidy fingers through her hair. Unbidden, a picture of her host’s son floated before her eyes; his tall, stern features, the arrogant smile, the quirked eyebrow when he saw that she had lost her shoe. Almost she had thought he was laughing at her, but then she realised that he must have despised her for being such a hoyden. His own white shirt and silk cravat had been immaculate; not a hair of his head nor his beard was out of place. No doubt he had never sat on a swing in his life.

  Slopping some water from the ewer into the flowered basin on her washstand she bathed her face and neck. Then she lay down on the bed. There was no point in thinking about Charles Dawson; no point in thinking about men at all. Lighting her bedside candle she picked up a book and allowed it to fall open.

  It was several weeks now since her sister, with a finger to her lips, and a stern warning not to tell their father, had given her the leather-covered volume of Lord Byron’s works and from the day she had first opened it it had become her most treasured possession. Her favourite poem was To Caroline.

  ‘Thinkst thou I saw thy beauteous eyes …’

  She shivered as she read the impassioned words, words she knew by heart she had repeated them so often in the lonely darkness of her room. If only they had been addressed to her.

  ‘Caroline!’

  The abruptness with which her door flew open startled her so much she dropped the book. It slid to the floor with a crash. Her father, still fully dressed, stood silhouetted in the doorway, the candles on the table in the passage behind him streaming in the sudden draught. ‘Caroline, where are my drops? I’ve been calling you!’ His voice, usually so strong, dropped to a whine.

  Caroline got up wearily, her feet bare on the cool boards. ‘They are in your dressing room, Papa.’

  ‘What were you reading?’ His voice rapidly regaining its strength, her father approached the bed and, stooping, picked up her book, staring in curiosity at the gold letters on the spine.

  Slowly the colour drained from his face. He held the book out towards her and shook it. ‘Where did you get this … this obscenity?’ he hissed. His voice was tight with anger.

  Caroline had gone white. ‘Please give it back, Papa. It is mine –’

  ‘No!’ He was beside himself with fury. ‘This goes on the fire where it belongs. I don’t believe – I cannot believe that you knew what you were reading! That a daughter of mine should dream of opening such a book –’

  ‘Papa –’

  ‘Enough!’ His voice was strident, his need for medicine forgotten.

  Caroline clenched her fists. ‘Papa, I am a grown woman, old enough to decide what to read for myself.’

  ‘No woman under any circumstances should be permitted to read anything that … that monster of depravity has written, Caroline.’ He turned away. ‘I would never have allowed your mother to do so, and I shall not allow you to do so, either.’ At the door he stopped and looked over his shoulder. ‘We shall talk of this again tomorrow,’ he said ominously, and he closed the door.

  For several moments Caroline stood still. Fury and indignation vied with sorrow for her beloved book and fear of what her father would do to punish her, grown woman or not. For a moment she blinked back humiliating tears, then galvanised into action by the same streak of rebellion that had driven her to seek refuge from the party earlier she began once more to get dressed.

  How dare he!

  He dared because he was her father and he knew best.

  But he didn’t know best! He had never read Lord Byron’s
work, of that she could be almost certain. He, like so many others, was reacting to the unnamed scandals to which her sister with a whisper had hinted. Terrible scandals. What they were she could not guess. And she did not care. Nothing anyone said about him made his poetry less beautiful. Caroline felt the heat of the night caress her languid body as she eased her wrap more loosely around her shoulders. The air had became almost unbearably humid. She pinned her long hair back off her neck in a heavy looped knot and still barefoot, let herself silently out of the room.

  The Rectory was in darkness. She padded down the broad staircase and hesitated for a moment at the bottom outside her father’s study door. All was silent within and she could see no light beneath it. He must have gone to bed. Turning she pushed through the door which led to the kitchens at the back of the house. The fire in the range was not damped down as it should have been. It was burning brightly. Peering in she could make out the blackened edge of the binding of her book in the heart of the coals. He had been as good as his word. With a sob she slammed the range door shut.

  The key to the garden door was missing from its hook. For several seconds she stared at the empty place in the long line of keys, then again she rattled the door. It was locked fast.

  With a sob of anger and frustration she turned and made her way to the front hall. The Rectory was completely silent save for the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Cautiously she opened the door into the vestibule and putting her hand on the front door knob she turned it. That door too was locked. She was trapped in the dark, silent house.

  Back in her room it was hours before she slept.

  At breakfast her father was quick to tell her her fate. He had obviously spent at least part of the night thinking of a suitable punishment for his errant daughter.

  ‘You have behaved like an irresponsible child, Caroline.’ He put his hand to his forehead dramatically. ‘Yet I cannot believe you knew what you were doing. If I did …’ he paused, shaking his head sadly, ‘I don’t know what punishment would be sufficient, but as it is, I put your sin down to ignorance rather than the intention of knowingly reading such … such filth. Each evening from now on, child, you will read and then learn a passage from the Bible which I shall mark for you, to cleanse and purify your mind.’

  Spooning some devilled kidneys onto his plate as he spoke he never looked at her face, never saw the anger and indignation in her eyes. Already he had moved on, to talk of their parish visits, of the Sunday school picnic she was to organise, and of the garden party the day before. It never crossed his mind that she might defy him.

  Still seething with anger, she was putting on her bonnet, ready for the first of those parish visits when Charles Dawson was shown unexpectedly into the morning room.

  ‘Mr Hayward. Miss Hayward. Forgive me. I see that you are about to go out!’

  Caroline felt her mouth go dry. So this was it. He was going to tell her father himself about her unladylike behaviour at the party and that would seal her fate. Her father would be convinced of her utter depravity! She felt Charles’s eyes on her, and defiantly she raised her own to meet them.

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality yesterday,’ she murmured. ‘My father and I enjoyed our visit to the palace so much.’

  ‘Did you indeed, Miss Hayward?’ His tone was lightly mocking. ‘I’m so pleased. It would have been so easy for one such as yourself to become bored.’

  ‘Indeed not …’ Caroline replied, flustered, but already her father was interrupting.

  ‘Oh come, sir, my daughter enjoyed every moment of it, as I did. I have of course already written to your mother to thank her for her hospitality – Charles.’ He hesitated slightly before using the younger man’s first name. ‘Her parties are renowned throughout the county, you know.’

  ‘Indeed they are.’ Charles bowed and Caroline caught the slightest quirk of his eyebrow. ‘I shall however tell her that you enjoyed yourselves. Particularly you, Miss Hayward. I am sure she will ask you again.’

  Was he deliberately taunting her? Trying to keep her intense embarrassment hidden, Caroline glanced at him angrily from beneath her lashes, but his face was bland as he turned back to her father.

  ‘Forgive me calling so early, Mr Hayward, but I had to be in the area on business and I felt I must call in to say good morning.’ He smiled. ‘It did worry me that Miss Hayward did not seem to be herself yesterday.’

  Both men looked at Caroline.

  Her father frowned. ‘She seemed all right to me.’

  Caroline clenched her fists. ‘Of course I was all right, Papa. I can’t think what Mr Dawson means.’

  He was enjoying himself hugely. She was sure of it now.

  ‘You looked pale, Miss Hayward. Several people remarked upon it,’ he went on solicitously.

  ‘Did they indeed. How kind of them to comment.’ She could feel herself growing more cross and agitated by the second. ‘If so, it must have been because of the heat.’

  ‘Indeed it must.’ He bowed assent with a smile. ‘And it is going to be hot again today. Already the hills are covered in heat haze. I suspect that storm is not too far away.’ He smiled again. ‘However, I must not delay you any longer.’ He turned towards the door and snapped his fingers at Polly who was waiting in the hall. As she brought him his hat and cane he turned back and held out his hand to Caroline.

  ‘Miss Hayward.’ He bowed slightly over her fingers. ‘How nice to see you again, Mr Hayward.’ Then he had taken his hat from Polly and with another bow he had gone.

  George looked after him with a frown. ‘Charming young man. Such style. And showing such concern to come and ask after your health.’ He sighed. ‘A pity you could not have married someone like him, my girl, while you had the chance.’ He shook his head. ‘A great pity. And now it is too late. You won’t marry now, I don’t suppose.’ Unaware of the cruelty of his remark he reached for his own hat.

  ‘I have not looked for anyone to marry, Papa, since Mama died,’ Caroline put in softly. ‘It is my duty to look after you.’

  ‘Quite so.’ The rector picked up his gloves, either not hearing or deliberately ignoring the wistfulness of her tone. ‘Young Dawson is likely to marry Marianne Rixby, I hear.’

  Caroline was occupied with tying the ribbons of her bonnet, facing the mirror in the hall. For a moment she saw her face reflected in the glass – clearly showing still the traces of angry colour. As she watched the colour faded. Then she saw Polly’s eyes were fixed on her face too. Bleakly she smiled. ‘Shall we go out, Papa? Polly has already put the baskets in the trap.’

  It was a long day and she was exhausted when they returned home. Her father had lost no opportunity of lecturing her about her reading habits and reproaching her about the potential husbands she had apparently thrown away through her selfishness and her arrogance. As the afternoon grew more and more hot and uncomfortable she found herself biting her lip in an effort not to scream. Desperately she wanted to get away.

  The haze was pearly now over the Downs. The lanes shimmered with heat and the pony’s coat was black with sweat beneath the harness as they drove slowly back towards the Rectory. She was dreading the evening. They had guests for dinner, amongst them Archdeacon Joseph Rixby and his wife and daughter, and she would be expected to play the radiant hostess yet again. There would be no escape.

  Her room was cool as she changed into a green silk gown and looped her dark hair gracefully around her pale face. She longed to send a message to her father that she had a headache and could not come down to dinner, but her sense of duty prevailed as usual. She must be there as hostess to his guests. She must ignore his jibes and his sudden spite and be gracious to them.

  Wearily she went downstairs into the drawing room. With relief she saw that the double doors into the garden stood open and the fragrance of the night drifted into the room. Calmly she greeted their guests at her father’s side, looking with more than usual interest at Marianne Rixby as the girl arrived, beautiful and sylph-like
in a gown of white lace at her parents’ side. So this was the woman Charles Dawson had chosen to marry. She raised her eyes to Marianne’s, forcing herself to smile a welcome as she took the girl’s hand and was astonished to find herself greeted with a look of undisguised venom.

  She took a step back. Behind them Polly was moving around the room with a tray of glasses, and already the Rixbys had drifted off with her father to talk by the window. ‘I saw you yesterday,’ Marianne hissed at her. Her mouth was fixed in a narrow smile. ‘What were you doing with Charles?’

  ‘Doing?’ Caroline frowned uncomfortably. ‘I wasn’t doing anything.’

  ‘No? Coming out of the shrubbery, with your hair down and your dress all disordered?’ Marianne’s eyes spat fire. ‘Did you think no one would notice?’

  ‘I … I had been feeling unwell,’ Caroline stammered, aware that her father’s gaze was fixed on her suddenly from across the room. ‘Mr Dawson … Charles … was kind enough to lend me his arm, that was all.’

  ‘All?’ Marianne’s whisper turned into a small shriek. ‘And how, pray, did your hair come down?’

  ‘I had been sitting on the swing,’ Caroline replied wearily. ‘I thought the cool air might help my head.’

  ‘And did it?’ The other girl’s voice was full of malice.

  ‘A little.’ Caroline’s composure was returning. ‘Your fiancé is a compassionate man, Marianne. He saw my distress and offered to help me, that is all.’

  ‘Not her fiancé, Caroline, not yet.’ Sarah Rixby’s ears had picked up the end of the conversation and she sailed over to her daughter’s side. ‘Though we are expecting dear Charles to speak to her father at any moment, are we not, my darling?’ From the rector’s elbow the archdeacon inclined his head towards his wife and went on with his conversation. ‘Dear Marianne,’ Sarah continued, ‘it will be such an excellent match, do you not think?’