The Homecoming

Book 24: Morland Dynasty

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Freed from her miserable marriage by widowhood, Henrietta is at last able to marry her beloved Jerome Compton, but his divorced state means that they have to make their home away from Yorkshire. Settling in London Henrietta finds she takes to urban life with great enjoyment, as does her daughter Lizzie. Soon their home is full of visitors from the best of the city's artistic and scientific circles, and she also makes contact with her cousin Lady Venetia - now a qualified doctor and married at long last to 'Beauty' Haselmere. Venetia's marriage has redeemed her reputation and they find themselves guests at Sandringham and Hatfield. Healthy children are born to both women and it seems as though the comfortable tenor of their lives will never be disturbed again, but clouds are gathering on the horizon and when the deluge comes one of them is forced out of society. Yet it proves more of a homecoming than an exile. Another absorbing piece of English history, deftly told with a rich and colourful background.

Release date: August 25, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 528

Sample

When Henrietta stepped joyfully into the arms of her one true love in the churchyard of St Mary’s, Bishop Winthorpe, it was
like the ending of a fairy story. It ought to have been followed by nothing but those magical words, ‘and they lived happily
ever after’. But life – and love – are rarely disposed to be so tidy.


Her husband, Edgar Fortescue, rector of St Mary’s, had been dead twenty months on that September day in 1885 when Jerome Compton
suddenly reappeared in her life. Jerome was everything a story-book prince ought to be: handsome, dashing and independently
wealthy. Nominally he shared a small house in the village with his sister Mary, but he had always enjoyed a gypsy life, travelling
widely abroad, migrating between friends’ houses while in England, and returning to Mary when other forms of amusement failed
him.


For years Henrietta – trying hard to be a good wife to an elderly, unaffectionate and increasingly reclusive husband – had
seen Jerome come and go in Bishop Winthorpe, unannounced and mysteriously, a figure of romance. She ought not to have fallen
in love with him, but the spark was undeniably there between them. Perhaps if they had both made an effort it might have been
quenched; but from the beginning he had shown her preference, sought her out, and she had allowed herself to enjoy his company.
At all events, their love had grown. At last he had tried to persuade her to leave her husband and come away with him, and
when she refused he had left her in a fury and gone travelling to try and forget her. The next thing she had heard was that he was married.


So she had given up all hope of seeing him again. But now her husband was dead and, by some magic, some alchemy, Jerome had
suddenly appeared from nowhere and claimed her love; his own, he swore, unaltered by the years.


In the days afterwards they talked and talked, trying to make up for years of drought. They walked for miles along the lanes
and through the fields, for she was living with her sister and brother-in-law, and there was no privacy for them indoors.
It was fortunate that the September weather was exceptionally fine; but perhaps they were due some small piece of good luck.


‘It was very wrong of you to pursue me when I was a married woman,’ she chided him once.

‘I didn’t really mean anything by it at first,’ Jerome confessed. ‘I was simply amusing myself by paying you attention – though
of course it is a monument to my good taste that it was you I singled out to flirt with! But I was served out in the end:
I fell in love with you. And you remained virtuous, so there was no harm done.’


‘I didn’t give in to you, if that’s what you mean,’ she said. ‘But harm was done, all the same. I loved you, and that was wrong. And I was unfaithful to my husband in my heart, if not in the flesh.’


‘Well, it came out all right in the end,’ he said, too happy to regret anything.

But had it? The years of being separated from each other had taken a toll; and their ‘happy ending’ had a complication. Henrietta
was a widow, her period of mourning was well over, and only an unreasonable person would take offence at her marrying again.
But Jerome’s wife was still living.


‘Julia and I are divorced,’ Jerome said – more than once, whenever they reached this sticking-point. ‘You know that. I can
show you the papers if you like. And Julia wanted it as much as I did. She’s perfectly happy with the situation. Don’t you
believe me?’


‘Yes, I believe you,’ Henrietta said. But it didn’t make any difference, as he knew very well. Julia was still living, and
in the eyes of the Church still his wife. Jerome was a divorcé, and that was just a fact. No amount of talking or good will
on anyone’s part could make it otherwise.


‘But you’ve said you will marry me,’ he urged.

‘Yes, I will,’ she said, and her clear level look defied him to deny the difficulties.

He did see them, of course. As a divorcé he could only marry in a register office, by a civil ceremony. For himself, he didn’t
care a bean: marriage, in his view, was a civil contract, and like any civil contract could be entered into and terminated
according to the law.


As to the spiritual aspect, he felt he was quite capable of answering to God for his own actions; and God, he believed, would
take a flexible view of things. After all, God knew his heart, which was more than could be said for any cleric.


But he knew that Henrietta, brought up differently, didn’t feel that way; and nor did society at large. She would marry him,
and bravely defy the Church; but a large part of the world they had to live in would regard them as living in sin, and therefore
beyond the pale. He did not want his beloved to be the object of snubs, cold looks or reproaches. He would do all he could
to protect her from them; he could not, of course, protect her from the reproaches of her own conscience.


During those long walks, in between lovers’ talk, they discussed the practical aspects of their situation.

‘I don’t even know where the register office is,’ Henrietta confessed.

‘There isn’t only one,’ he said, amused at her innocence. ‘They have them in all the large towns, and there are several in
London.’


‘London?’ Something seemed to strike her.

‘Yes, love?’

‘Perhaps it would be better if we were to do it there, where no-one knows us.’

‘Ah, you’re ashamed of me!’

‘No! You know I – oh, don’t tease!’

‘Well, if not ashamed, what, then?’

‘It isn’t only ourselves we have to consider. There’s our families. If there’s whispering about us, if we’re cut, it will
come back on Perry and Regina. We can’t jeopardise their position, and their children’s futures.’


He looked at her quizzically. ‘In that case, no matter where we get married, we can’t live in Bishop Winthorpe. Nor in York,
since your brother lives there.’


‘I don’t see how we can.’

‘Then what do you say to living in London?’

She eyed him askance. Something in his look made her suspect she had been manoeuvred to this point. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never
thought about it.’


‘Then think about it now. Think about the advantages: complete anonymity, a new start, a chance for you to make new friends
– interesting friends. All the music and theatre and galleries and museums – there’s so much I long to show you! And we can
always rent a house in the country for a few weeks in summer if you begin to pine for the pleasures bucolic.’


His eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and she loved him so much just then she’d have agreed to anything. She did feel constrained,
however, to point out that in the past his ultimate ambition had always been to buy an estate. His father had never had time
to buy land, and Jerome had inherited his fortune in cash.


‘Perhaps I shall, one day,’ Jerome said. ‘But at the moment I don’t think I could settle down to a life of country idleness.
I want to be doing, to be using my wits. I have a tremendous fancy to have a crack at stockbroking.’


She was completely nonplussed. ‘You’ve never mentioned it before.’

‘Well, the thing is,’ Jerome said casually, as if he had not been leading up to this all the time, ‘there’s a good friend
of mine who has a friend who’s a stockbroker, who wants a partner. My friend’s written to me suggesting I go in with him.’


‘Isn’t it awfully risky?’ she asked. ‘You hear of people losing all their money on the Exchange.’

‘Oh, not these days – not if you know what you’re doing. On the contrary, I shall increase my fortune several-fold. And to be perfectly frank, my love, my fortune is not what it was.
It’s enough to keep a bachelor in reasonable idleness, but to keep a wife as well, and perhaps children—’


‘Children,’ she said, feeling hot and cold all over.

He looked amused. ‘It has been known to happen. As a married man I shall need an establishment, and I’m afraid the Compton
rhino won’t sustain that. But stockbrokers can make princely sums in very short order. In a few years I shall be rich enough
to buy a splendid pile where we can lounge in luxury for the rest of our days.’


‘But will you like it?’ she pursued. He had not been used to work.

‘Living right at the heart of things, pitting my wits against the bears and bulls? What an adventure! Better than Africa –
don’t you see, love?’


His mind was made up, she could see that much. ‘Will I like London? I’ve never even been to Leeds.’

‘Oh, you’ll love it,’ he said. ‘You’re too intelligent to be shut away in the country with inferior minds. I have a fancy
to see you do the hostess to artists and musicians and the great men of politics. You’d be so good at it.’


A little thrill of excitement ran through her. ‘I expect the shops are wonderful,’ she said. ‘They say you can buy anything
in London.’


‘Anything at all! The riches of the whole world pour into it daily. You’ll have a wonderful time.’

She smiled at his boyish boasting. ‘Shall we get married in London too?’

‘Yes, I think so, and then no-one will be upset. I’ll have to find a suitable house and furnish it. I’ve very little to bring
down from here – one or two pieces I’m fond of, and a few pictures.’


‘And I, of course, have nothing,’ Henrietta said dolefully.

‘It will be fun to start afresh,’ Jerome said quickly. ‘Like a young bride, with everything new.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose it will be rather an adventure. When shall we do it?’

‘As soon as possible. I want to be done with this foolery and have my wife to myself. And we’ve nothing to wait for.’


‘Except that first we have to talk to people.’

‘Ah, yes. A number of painful interviews lies ahead of us. But,’ he added, ‘perhaps they’ll be more understanding than we
expect.’


Henrietta’s once large family of siblings was now reduced to two. There was Regina, the sister with whom she lived, who was
married to the squire of Bishop Winthorpe, Sir Peregrine Parke; and there was her brother Edward, a bachelor who lived in
York.


Their older brother, George, the head of the family, had died a few months ago. On his death it had been discovered that he
had mired his estate so deep in debt that even the family seat, Morland Place, would have to be sold to satisfy the creditors.
There was nothing for Edward – Teddy as he was known – to inherit; but he had his own independent fortune, partly in property,
shops and commercial ventures in York, and partly in three cotton mills and some houses in Manchester. While the agricultural
slump had brought landowners and farmers into dire straits, and business in general was suffering a downturn, manufacturing
had been enjoying solid progress. Teddy was comfortably off – the more so since he had no wife and children to eat up his
money.


‘London, eh?’ he said, when Henrietta had told him everything. He lapsed into silence. Knowing he was not particularly fleet
of thought she waited patiently, looking round the room in which they sat. Teddy had inherited Makepeace House from their
father, who in turn had inherited it, rather shamefacedly, from a wealthy widow who had been his mistress in his youth. At
one time Teddy had been meaning to sell it and live permanently at his club, but he had somehow not got around to it, which
was typical of him. He had also not got around to redecorating, and as Papa had never lived here, the drawing-room, like everything
else in the house, was exactly as Mrs Makepeace had left it, the perfectly preserved fossil of the taste of the 1820s.


There was a light film of dust over everything, some faded and crumbling dried flowers in the grate, and no sound to be heard
but the solemn, heavy ticking of a clock somewhere out of sight. The autumn sun oozed in through the window but penetrated
no more than a few feet, so that they sat in a gloom which seemed to her to smell slightly of damp. Teddy had servants, but
as he never entertained at home and there was no mistress of the house, they did little to make the place comfortable.


Henrietta felt there was something terribly lonely about Teddy’s life, though he appeared to be content with it. She studied
his face and could not imagine what he was thinking. He was impenetrable to her. He seemed much older than her, a portly,
well-dressed clubman with an air of brandy and cigars about him. He might almost have been a genial but rarely visited uncle.


‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I don’t know but what you’re right. It’s probably for the best, though it’s a shame you should have
to go so far away. But people will talk, and it would make things unpleasant for everyone. He means to do the right thing by you?’ he added anxiously.


‘Of course. I’ve told you, we’ll be married, only—’ She hesitated, and Teddy ended the sentence for her.

‘In a register office. Hmm. Well, I can’t say I like it, Hen, but you know your own mind. No-one can say you’ve had an easy
row to hoe. And times change. These things are not so outré as they were even ten years ago. And I dare say people in London won’t mind it as much as they do here. Still, if I were
you, I’d keep mum about it anyway, when you get there. Just in case. No sense stirring up trouble.’


‘Of course,’ Henrietta said. She felt obscurely hurt. Perhaps she had hoped her new love would prompt more rejoicing than
this. He hadn’t even congratulated her, or wished her happy.


‘I suppose Compton’s pretty well-to-do?’ Teddy said next.

‘He lives like a gentleman. But I have no way of knowing what his fortune is.’

‘No, of course not. You wouldn’t. I see that. Wouldn’t do at all to ask. Not but what …’ He paused again, thinking. ‘Look here,’ he said, coming to a decision, ‘I’d better have a word
with him. Here, or at the club, perhaps. A little talk. Man to man.’


She almost smiled. ‘Interview him?’

‘Make sure he’s all right and so forth. Well, I’m sure he is,’ Teddy said hastily, in case she was offended, ‘but all the
same, someone ought just to have a bit of a chat with him. You’re a grown woman, of course, but after all I am your brother.
Head of the family, too, so it’s up to me to see he’s got your best interests at heart.’


Now she did smile. ‘Thank you, Teddy. You’re very kind.’

He looked shy at her praise. ‘Don’t want him thinking no-one cares. Very fond of you, Hen.’

‘I know. I love you, too.’

‘Not many of us left now,’ he said, and cleared his throat to hide his emotion. ‘And, you know, I always liked him. I’m sure
you’ll be very happy together. Much more the sort of fellow I’d have liked to see you marry than old – well, well, water under
the bridge now.’ He coughed again, and stood up. ‘Glass of sherry? Don’t have to rush away, do you?’


The tray and decanter were in the room, so he didn’t have to ring. Henrietta was sure there was dust on the glass he handed
her.


‘So tell me about your life,’ she said. ‘What have you been up to lately?’

‘Oh, this and that, you know,’ he said vaguely. ‘Hither and yon. Keeping busy.’

It seemed to be the best she would get from him. She asked the question uppermost in her mind. ‘What’s happening at Morland
Place?’


‘Nothing at all.’ He caught her eye and read her dissatisfaction with this answer. ‘Really nothing. Between the bank and the
lawyers, it’ll be months before anything’s decided. Two slowest moving things in the world, a bank and a lawyer.’


‘You would be the first to know?’

‘Oh, yes. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure and let you know as soon as I hear anything. There’s no money left, I can tell you that already. The question is, will Morland Place have to
be sold as well?’


‘I hate to think of strangers living there,’ Henrietta said.

Teddy agreed. ‘There’ve been Morlands at Morland Place for five hundred years. I’d almost sooner it burned down.’

Henrietta shivered suddenly as cold air seemed to brush across the back of her neck. ‘How is it with Alice?’ she asked.

‘Oh, she’s still there, taking care of things.’ Alice Bone had been a housemaid at Morland Place. She had also, in the last
days of his madness and misery, been George Morland’s mistress.


‘But she must be near her time,’ Henrietta said anxiously, feeling Teddy wasn’t taking the matter seriously enough.

‘Near her time?’

‘The baby is due in October, isn’t it? And babies can come early, you know.’

Teddy felt out of his depth. These were not matters for a bachelor. ‘She’s got the old woman with her. And a message can be
sent to the Waltons. Mrs Walton will come and help out, I dare say.’


‘But, Ted, Alice must be taken care of. And she won’t be able to housekeep after the baby’s born.’

‘Oh, we’ll see about that when the time comes. I’ll see she’s all right.’

‘But you haven’t made any plans, have you? You hadn’t thought about it until I raised the question.’

He frowned. ‘I expect she’ll go back to her father’s house to have the child.’

‘Her parents might be sticky about it,’ Henrietta warned. ‘Sometimes fathers won’t have anything to do with a daughter who’s
a fallen woman.’


‘I’ll square it all right. I dare say he’ll take her back if enough money’s offered.’

‘But what if—’

‘Now, Hen, I’ve told you I’ll take care of her, and I will. You have my word. I’ll go out to Morland Place today and talk things over with her. Or – wait. Can’t go today. Fellow I have to see at the club. But I’ll go tomorrow, you can bank
on it.’


Henrietta had to be satisfied with that. ‘You’ll let me know what happens? To her and to Morland Place? You won’t – forget
me, when I’m in London?’


‘Of course I won’t. And, look, whatever anyone else feels about it, you’ll always be welcome here, any time you want to visit.’

‘Thank you, Teddy.’

He regarded her solemnly for a long moment. Little Hen, his shy little sister – a grown woman now, but still looking very
young to him, with her soft brown hair and hazel eyes and little pointed face. About to embark on married life at last – almost
as if for the first time, because somehow old Fortescue had never seemed like a husband, more like a crusty old grandpa she
had been obliged to housekeep for.


And after all her years of servitude with the rector, it looked as though the old miser was going to leave her with nothing.
Though the probate hadn’t gone through yet, it was known that the agricultural slump had severely damaged his fortune; and
of what was left, he had bequeathed so much in memorials to his old colleges that it didn’t look as if there would be anything
for Henrietta. Even her wedding china and linen had been sold off.


Teddy’s conscience prickled him. He supposed Compton was pretty well to live; and a registrar marriage was legal all right,
so Compton would have to take care of Hen. But still she was his sister, and a Morland, and she ought not to be a pauper bride.


‘Look here,’ he said, ‘when the time comes – when you marry the fellow – I shall give you something.’

She was taken by surprise. ‘What do you say?’

‘A cash sum for you to invest,’ he explained. ‘When Papa died he didn’t leave anything to you girls. Don’t know whether you
knew it at the time, but he left it up to Georgie to take care of that. Well, Georgie didn’t. Maybe he wanted to but Alfreda
wouldn’t let him. I don’t know. Don’t want to speak ill of the dead.’ He waved all that away with his hand. ‘Well, it seems it’s up to me now.’


Henrietta said slowly, ‘I don’t think anyone could expect it of you.’

‘I expect it of myself,’ Teddy said. ‘Anyway, that’s what I mean to do. A girl getting married ought to have a little something
of her own. Mind, it’ll be your money, for your own use. Put it in the Funds, and it’ll provide you with pin-money, so you
ain’t dependent on him for every groat.’


‘You’re a kind, good person, Teddy. Thank you,’ Henrietta said.

When she smiled, Teddy reflected, she wasn’t at all bad-looking. Quite pretty, in fact. Compton was a lucky man.

When she rose to leave, Teddy didn’t ring for the servant, but saw her out himself, all the way to the street door. When she
looked back at the corner, he was still standing there on his own steps, dwarfed by the high, shadowed house, and she thought
of the undusted drawing-room and the heavy silence within, and felt bad about leaving him there all alone. Absurdly, she wished
she could take him with her.


Sir Peregrine Parke was an indolent, good-natured man, who had been an idle and expensive youth. He had come into his fortune
and title early, and had indulged his new freedom by marrying the rector’s wife’s pretty little sister. Regina was an orphan
with no dowry, and no education either, but she was as sweet-natured as Perry himself, and adored him. He had no older relatives
to find fault with his choice, but if there had been any, he could have argued that she was of good stock: the Morlands of
Morland Place were one of the oldest families in the Riding.


But having married, as it were, frivolously, the realities of his position suddenly came home to him. He was squire of Bishop
Winthorpe, and a great many people’s lives were dependent on him in one way or another. He was a husband and, very soon afterwards,
a father: he now had six children, and another was on the way. He was, in addition, responsible for his younger unmarried
sisters, Amy and Patsy; and since Fortescue’s death he had taken Henrietta and her thirteen-year-old daughter Elizabeth into his household.
Good-natured and indolent he might be, but he was no stranger to responsibility, and his moral education had been sound. He
thought as he should on most subjects.


So he looked grave when Henrietta told him she and Jerome Compton were in love, and graver still when she said they meant
to marry. ‘I was afraid something like this was brewing. I didn’t want to think it, but when you went all those walks with
him—’


‘How did you know I was with him?’ Henrietta asked in surprise.

He seemed to find the question fatuous. ‘A village is a small place,’ he said. He shook his head and sighed. ‘I wish you hadn’t
done it. It’s not the thing at all, you know, especially with you being the rector’s wife.’


‘The late rector’s widow,’ she corrected impatiently. ‘Surely my husband has been dead long enough?’

‘Hardly more than a year. There has been talk, you know.’

‘Perry, that’s absurd. How long must a woman wait before making another attachment?’

‘I don’t pretend to agree with it myself, but a lot of the older sort of folk think a woman should never marry again, especially
when she’s been married to a man of the cloth.’ He raised a hand slightly, anticipating her protest. ‘I said I don’t agree
with it, but you have a position in the village to keep up. You must see there’s bound to be talk. Jerome arrives back in
the country and the next minute you’re thick as thieves with him. It looks hasty. It looks heartless. And with Mary still
away …’ He hesitated a moment before adding, ‘Some people are saying that you visit him in the cottage.’


Henrietta grew angry. ‘How dare they? It’s a lie!’

‘Oh, I’m sure it is. I’m just telling you what they say.’

‘And even if it were true, why should I not visit him? I’m a grown woman.’

‘You know perfectly well why. You can’t do just as you please in this world,’ Perry said. ‘Especially when you live in a small village. And the more so, given that you’re living in the squire’s house. Come on, you must see that. Your conscience
is your own affair, but you must think of us – or if not of me, of Regina and the children, and poor little Lizzie.’


Henrietta took a breath. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Perry, and I’m sorry if anything I’ve done has upset you. But I assure
you Jerome and I have done nothing wrong.’


He looked awkward. ‘Oh, Lord, I know you haven’t. Anyway, you don’t have to answer to me. It’s just that—’


‘It’s just that as long as I live here there will be talk,’ she supplied. ‘So we must marry and move away.’

Perry stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and walked a few steps up and down the room, trying to assemble the right
words. ‘Look here, Henrietta, you’re my sister-inlaw and I’m damned fond of you. I don’t like to see you getting into a pickle.
Jerome’s a fine chap and I like him awfully. Damnit, he’s my cousin. And I know you two’ve always had a soft spot for each
other. But he’s a married man! Can’t you see the trouble you’ll be making for yourselves?’


All the arguments, for and against, were lined up in Henrietta’s head, but suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to recite them
again.


‘Perry, I love you dearly, but I’m going to marry Jerome and you can’t talk me out of it, so please don’t try. Just tell me
what you want us to do so as not to cause you trouble.’


He was silent, looking disturbed and unhappy. She went on, ‘We thought we would marry in London, where we’re not known; and
Jerome wants us to live there afterwards. The question is, can I stay here until then, or will it embarrass you? May I leave
Lizzie with you until we’re settled? And may we visit you afterwards, or will we be banished for ever from your sight?’


Perry frowned. ‘It’s a serious matter, you know.’

‘Do you really think I don’t realise that?’

‘You might sound as though you did, then,’ he said crossly. ‘I can’t give you answers this minute. I shall have to think. And talk to Jerome. Thank heaven the girls are abroad with Mary! At least they’ll be spared the worst of this. I’ll
give you my decision in a day or two, but in the mean time, please try to be discreet. And for heaven’s sake, stop rambling
the countryside with Jerome. If you want to talk to him, talk to him here. There’s no reason he shouldn’t visit this house,
and it will give the gossipmongers less to chew on. You can see him alone in one of the downstairs rooms if you must. The
servants will probably talk about that, but if it’s under my roof at least everyone will know there’s nothing worse going
on.’ His frown intensified. ‘Unless, of course, they think I condone it. Oh, Lord, what a mess this is! A man in my position,
giving countenance to adultery!’


She began to see it more clearly from his point of view, and was sorry for the trouble she was giving; but felt constrained,
even so, to protest, ‘It’s not adultery. He is divorced.’


‘The Church doesn’t recognise divorce,’ Perry snapped. ‘I’m the squire; I have to take the Church position. And you’re the
rector’s wife!’


For ever and ever, amen, she thought. No more myself, but his. She could say that about Jerome gladly, with a full heart;
but the world said it of her about Mr Fortescue. He owned her still, even from beyond the grave.


Henrietta’s conversation with her sister went much more easily.

‘Dear Hen, I’m so glad for you. You love him, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do. I have for a long time, but I thought it was hopeless.’

‘Well, I suppose it was,’ Regina said. They were in the morning-room, engaged in the inevitable sewing – ‘parlour work’, as
it was called – and Regina had her feet up on a footstool. She was in the early stages of pregnancy, but there had been one
or two worries and she had been ordered to be careful. ‘I’ve always liked him, though he frightens me a bit. He looks so dark
and – pirate-ish, and he smiles at the wrong things. I never know what he’s thinking. I expect he thinks me an awful fool. But I’m sure you and he will be very happy together.’


‘I think we will,’ Henrietta