Page 150 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

Angus thought of Rachel trying to get to Scotland – gentle, helpless Rachel, with a carpet bag and a few shillings, becoming stranded somewhere because she hadn’t enough for the full journey, left without the means to get to him or to contact him. It was enough to make him shudder.

He wrote back: ‘If you think there is any danger that you will be sent abroad, if they even start to talk about it, tell me at once and I will come and fetch you. Promise me you won’t try to run away on your own.’

Rachel happily promised, and into her mind came the image of Angus, like Young Lochinvar, riding up on a white horse, sweeping her onto the saddle before him, and galloping away. Even if it didn’t happen precisely like that, it was quite satisfactory, and freed her mind from worry so that she could enjoy the Christmas season. Kitty, glad not to be pregnant for once, was full of energy and was planning lots of entertainments at Ashmore, and there was hunting, and parties at other houses, including a grand ball at Ashridge Park, Lord Shacklock’s seat. He was bound to invite people down from London, and there would be a chance for her to wear one of her expensive London ball gowns.

But she also enjoyed less exalted Christmas activities, like gilding walnuts to hang on the tree, and making paper chains with Arabella and Arthur. Miss Kettel showed them how to fold paper into a multiple thickness, then cut it in a certain way, so that when you unfolded it, it made a chain of angels holding hands. It was pleasant to sit by the fire with the children, in a plain dress and with her hair down, and do simple, childish things, and not have to worry how she looked or what anyone was thinking of her. The dogs came, flopped, and snored; Miss Kettel told them all stories; Alice sat nearby and drew the group. Then Kitty would come down with the babies, and Louis would run wild with excitement, while Alexander goggled at the shining tree, and reached out a starfish hand for one of the swinging ornaments. And Uncle Sebastian would play the piano – wheeled in from the state drawing-room to the great hall for the season – and they would all sing.

Having a horse had made all the difference to Nina’s life. She hunted twice a week, which used up more than two days, because the day after a hunt was spent in a happy languor of mental and physical tiredness. Mrs Anstruther had not appeared, being apparently detained with the sick relative, and in her absence Bobby had not found the courage to hunt astride, so there had been no friction for Nina, no danger that she would be cajoled into doing something that would upset Mr Cowling.

On non-hunting days she usually rode with Bobby, on one of her horses if Jewel was resting. Sometimes Clemmie joined them, and the three of them rambled far afield. Mr Cowling liked to see her happily and innocently occupied, and was even talking about buying her a second horse, after Aubrey Wharfedale had described to him the disappointment when a person’s only horse went lame and couldn’t be hunted.

And when she wasn’t riding, she often went out walking with Trump, having all the energy of nineteen to use up. Evenings were occupied with entertaining or being entertained. Mr Cowling loved to play bridge, and Nina was sharp enough to make a useful partner, though she could never quite feel the passion for it that some obviously felt. There were dinners, too, and musical soirées; and when nothing else had been arranged, she could always walk up to Welland Hall, with Mr Cowling or alone, and join in a family dinner, and games.

She was occupied; she was mostly happy. But there were still times when she paused, and looked at herself and wondered, Is this all there is? What would happen when the hunting season ended? Ordinary riding was a pleasure, but hunting stretched every nerve and muscle and fibre to the limit, and left you drowsy and relaxed all the next day. Taking that out of the equation would leave a void to be filled – with what?

When she allowed herself to think beyond the moment, she was uneasy. She felt cut adrift from life, as if everyone else had found the thing that made it all make sense, while she hadn’t an idea where to look for it. Bobby was happy – there was no doubting that her life fulfilled her. Clemmie – though it was less easy to be sure, because she didn’t give much away – Clemmie seemed happy. All the women she met at all the parties they attended seemed happy. And, after all, what else was there? When you were a girl, you prepared yourself for marriage, you worked towards it, longed for it. And once you had it, that was supposed to satisfy you for the rest of your life. No-one ever told the unmarried girl what happened afterwards. You journeyed to the place called Marriage, and there the story ended. Close the book.

But there you still were, wondering what to do with yourself.

She woke early on Christmas morning and lay in her warm bed staring into the darkness and thinking all these things. Can this life go on? Just like this, year after year? She had a huge desire to run away – but run away where, to what? Running away from, rather than to, could only end badly. She was comfortable, safe, cherished where she was. It was a lot to give up. But she felt as though a cloud was forming, one of those low purple bars on the horizon that portends a storm. Could this life go on? She had felt the ground tremble under her.

She must have fallen asleep again, because she was woken by the mouselike sounds of the maid lighting her fire, little rustlings and scratchings. Christmas Day. Apart from church, she would be alone with Mr Cowling all day. He was the provider of all this comfort, her downy bed, the fire in the grate, the servant to light it, the horse in the stable – even the little dog, who took the opportunity to dash in when the housemaid went out and jump up on the bed to greet her with the passion of a night’s absence. So she would do her best to make today pleasant for Mr Cowling. It was ridiculous to be discontented, and downright naughty to be ungrateful.

She wore one of his favourite dresses, a dusky rose barathea, long-sleeved, high-necked, with a ruched bodice and a trimming of coarse cream lace on the neckband, bodice and sleeves. With it she wore the pink kid shoes with the jet bead decoration that he’d had hand-made for her. She would lift her skirt just enough as she walked so that he could see them, and it would please him.

Tina did her hair, she put on pearl earrings, picked up the parcel she had left wrapped and ready by the door, and went down.

He was there already, waiting by the drawing-room fire for her, so that they could go in to breakfast together. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, greeting her with a kiss, looking her over keenly. ‘I like that gown. I’m glad you wore it, because here is your present. Open it!’

He seemed tense with pleasurable anticipation. From the size and shape she guessed it was jewellery. It was what he liked best to buy her. He watched her, hungry for her reaction, as she removed the paper and opened the box. It was a hair ornament of glittering pink stones.

‘You see?’ he said gleefully. ‘Something made you wear a pink gown today! It was meant to be.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘What are they?’

‘Pink diamonds. Normally I wouldn’t buy them, because they’re not as good as white or blue, or even yellow. But these are such a good colour, and of exceptional clarity and brilliance, I couldn’t pass them up. And you look so pretty in pink.’

‘I’ve never seen pink ones before. How lovely! And how kind you are.’

‘Nonsense, not kind at all. Let me pin it on for you. There now. Oh, very handsome! Those diamonds must be feeling very proud, being worn by a lovely woman like you.’

She laughed, because she knew he wanted her to, and then said, ‘It makes my present to you seem very dull, I’m afraid. Here – with my love. Merry Christmas, Joseph.’

He unwrapped the parcel, being careful not to tear the paper, and coiling up the string from thrifty habit. It was a book, very recently published: The Theory of Business Enterprise by Thorstein Veblen. It was about the clash between the two great impulses, of business and of industry – which Nina had not realised were different things. According to the author, business was the making of profit, and industry was the making of goods, and the two things were in conflict with each other. All this she knew because Decius had told her about the book and what it concerned, and had said that Mr Cowling would love to have a copy.

She looked anxiously now at his face as he turned a page or two. ‘I hope it isn’t a disappointment. I was thinking of a cigarette case, but then someone said you’d been longing to read this—’

He looked up, smiling. ‘Let me guess: someone whose name begins with a D? I happened to mention to him . . . Oh, my! Disappointed? I couldn’t be more pleased! A cigarette case wouldn’t have been as – personal as this. This is something you’ve really thought about. Thank you, my darling.’

She laughed with relief. ‘I’m glad it’s you who has to read it, and not me.’

‘Oh, Nina,’ he said, and between the first word and the second his voice went from elation to sadness. He put the book down and took both her hands in his.

She wanted to say, Please don’t. Don’t say anything about disappointment. Not now.

But he did. He said, ‘I know this isn’t what you expected from getting married. You were fresh to life, full of hope and ideas . . . Lord knows, I never expected you to say yes in the first place. But I thought I had the – the wherewithal to make you happy. I meant you to be, you know. And I’ve failed you.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’