Page 25

Chapter 24

Jack’s wide blue eyes stared into Cormac’s. ‘School?’ he said in a soft voice.

Next to Cormac, Bridget put out a gentle hand to touch their son’s arm. ‘Only if you are open to the idea, my lamb. We wouldn’t send you away against your will.’

They had decided beforehand upon Cormac’s study as the appropriate venue for this serious conversation, but Cormac now wondered whether it placed too much weight on Jack’s answer. Although they were gathered in a loose circle in the centre of the room as opposed to addressing the matter across the desk, perhaps the boy would have felt more at ease in a less formal setting. His gaze flicked nervously between them.

‘Where?’ he asked.

Cormac cleared his throat. ‘Mr Humphrey recommended a school in Scotland,’ he said, watching Jack carefully for his reaction.

Jack swallowed, the subtle protrusion of his undeveloped Adam’s apple barely making a ripple beneath his skin. ‘When would I start there?’

‘This September may be a possibility if they have the capacity to offer you a place,’ Bridget said, ‘but we have not yet made any enquiry. Nothing is settled, and nor does it need to be if it’s not the right course to follow.’

He chewed on his lower lip as he contemplated this. Slowly, he swivelled away from them and walked towards the window, skirting the large desk with an air of deference. As he peered out the window, Cormac and Bridget shared an apprehensive look. What was going through their boy’s mind?

At length, he pivoted back to them. ‘I think I want to go,’ he said, his tone low but resolute.

Bridget blinked. ‘You do?’

Cormac detected the hint of dismay in her words and realised that she had hoped Jack would reject this proposal.

Jack nodded. His head turned once again towards the window. ‘I think I need to go,’ he said, so softly that Cormac wasn’t sure if he had meant them to hear it.

Something inside Cormac twisted with both grief and pride at his son’s maturity. ‘Well then,’ he said, concealing his emotion beneath a veneer of pragmatism, ‘in that case, we’ll proceed with our enquiries.’

What followed after that was a series of letters: Mr Humphrey wrote to the headmaster of Balfour School to recommend Jack as a pupil, and Mr Cameron’s response came with confirmation that a place could be made available for the next academic year, whereupon Cormac himself wrote to Mr Cameron requesting a visit to the school before they came to any decision.

While this was being arranged, he and Bridget debated the merits and drawbacks of persisting with the divorce and arrived at the conclusion that, as Patrick had intimated, the risk to Jack would likely be minimal if the school he attended was situated in far-flung Scotland. As for their other children, Gus would remain sheltered under their protection at Bewley Hall, but Emily would be particularly vulnerable to the negative effects of the scandal, given her art academy’s location within England and its upper-class environment.

She happened to make her second trip back from Yorkshire while they were in the midst of their deliberations, so they took her aside to speak with her about it, divulging the prospect of the public statement that Bridget would be obliged to make.

‘The repercussions might be even worse than we expected, gooseberry,’ Bridget said morosely. ‘We anticipate much contempt towards ourselves, of course, but it would also leave you quite exposed to gossip and derision, and we could not bear to be the cause of such pain for you. Thus, we believe you ought to have a say in this decision as well.’

‘You must go ahead with it,’ Emily replied at once. ‘Of course you must.’

‘But the impact it could have—’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘You have lived twenty long years under Garrett’s thumb. Seize this chance to set yourself free. There is not a single doubt in my mind that this is what you should do.’

She reached out to clasp their hands and Cormac grasped hers tightly in return, more grateful for her selflessness than he could articulate.

The next day, Patrick departed for London to convey their consent to Garrett that he could continue with his application for the divorce.

Although Patrick and Emily had been civil in each other’s presence, her mood noticeably lifted after his departure. She only stayed for another two days, but when she left she was positively glowing. Cormac had absolutely no wish to think about the activities she and Rory had pursued behind the door of their suite to endow her with that glow, and yet he nevertheless hoped that the result would bring her the maternal happiness she craved.

In the meantime, he finalised the arrangements for his trip to Scotland. He would travel alone – there was no need for Bridget to undertake the lengthy journey too, not when she had just initiated plans for a new charity event involving a lecture by an eminent Anglo-Irish reverend. While it might be beneficial for Jack to get a sense of the school firsthand, on the whole it would be best to leave him behind on this occasion so that Cormac could engage in a frank discussion with Mr Cameron. He saw no point in building up Jack’s hopes if the school turned out to be unsuitable.

On a mild day in the middle of March, he started out from Bewley Hall before the sun rose and endured a gruelling day’s travel, taking the train from Bedford to London, where he switched to a railway line that carried him northwards, changing again just before the Scottish border to ride the Caledonian Railway as far as the station at Carstairs. Exhaustion set in hours before he reached his destination, his muscles aching from sitting for so long and his head throbbing from the constant clatter of the wheels on the tracks. This punishing ordeal would not encourage monthly trips like the ones Emily made from Yorkshire – even her journeys, though a little shorter, were hardly simple. Jack would probably only be able to come home between terms. At least gossip would also struggle to travel such a distance.

When Cormac disembarked from the final train at the Carstairs railway station late that night, a chilly wind buffeted him on the platform and he realised with a shiver that spring had yet to arrive this far north. Walking stiff-limbed along the village’s main street, he located The Glenside Inn, which Mr Humphrey had recommended for his overnight stay, and took a room. Although he was worn out, his mind wouldn’t rest and he tossed for the night, brooding over his impending interview with Mr Cameron the following day. The bed felt too big without Bridget beside him, and he found himself missing his nightly custom of tugging the bedcovers back from her side.

The next morning, the innkeeper offered the services of a local driver to take him up to the school in a gig, but Cormac opted instead to hire a horse. Though the day was cold, the wisps of clouds that scudded across the sky were too insubstantial to carry the threat of rain, and he yearned for the freedom of riding after the previous day’s confinement.

On the winding road up to the school, he beheld the rugged landscape around him, patches of gorse dotting craggy fields which gave way to undulating hills in the distance. The trees on either side of the road were scarcely beginning to bud, winter clinging on here as long as it could. As he neared the school grounds, he observed signs of more careful stewardship: neatly trimmed hedges, stone walls, and a fenced pitch that appeared to be designated for sports, though its surface was somewhat uneven.

He passed through a set of open iron gates and followed a short avenue up to the school, which seemed to rise naturally out of the land in front of him, its architecture dignified but understated. As he approached the building, he noticed several boys crossing the grounds, their dark jackets and caps lending them a uniform appearance, although a closer look revealed varying levels of wear and repair. They wore sturdy boots, and on their chests they sported badges emblazoned with what he presumed was Balfour School’s crest.

He dismounted next to a modest stables set apart from the main building and led his horse inside, securing it in an empty stall with a bucket of water. There was no one about, so he brushed down its coat himself before making his way back outside. Suppressing his nervousness, he strode up to the school’s entrance, where he informed a porter that he had an appointment with the headmaster. Not long after that, he found himself seated in Mr Cameron’s office, ready to discuss Jack’s future.

The headmaster sat behind his desk, his greying hair neatly combed, his cheeks clean-shaven, and his eyes boring into Cormac’s with a scrutinising intelligence. He consulted a page in front of him.

‘Your son’s name is Jack McGovern?’ he said, his Scottish accent much thicker than Mr Humphrey’s.

‘Yes,’ Cormac said. ‘And his mother’s name is Lady Courcey. You may not have heard of our family yet, but chances are you will before long.’

He saw no reason to prevaricate on the matter. If this was going to be an insurmountable issue for the school, then it would be better to find out now and have done with it.

‘Aye, the forthcoming divorce,’ said Mr Cameron, indicating the page on his desk. ‘Humphrey divulged it in his recommendation letter. Do you deem it to be a barrier to your son’s enrolment at Balfour?’

‘I think it’s a fair assumption. We’re concerned that he’d face prejudice, in spite of the school’s distance from the scandal. Word has a way of spreading, whether through the other pupils or via the tutors. We don’t want to expose him to such discrimination. We know what these institutions can be like.’

There was a pause as the headmaster regarded him with quiet appraisal. ‘Did you attend one yourself?’

‘No,’ Cormac said, his tone brittle. ‘I rose to my position later in life. And that, by the by, is another strike against Jack’s name. His father is lower class by birth.’

Mr Cameron rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. ‘Not to mention, his parents are as yet unmarried, therefore we must also add illegitimacy to the laddie’s list of shortcomings.’

Cormac willed himself not to redden with shame. ‘Indeed. So if you feel it would be best to end our interview now, I’ll spare us both the time and take my leave.’

He had known this would be a mistake. It was only a pity he’d had to travel so far to confirm it; he was already dreading the arduous journey back.

Mr Cameron tapped his finger meditatively on Mr Humphrey’s letter. ‘“These institutions”,’ he murmured. ‘Tell me, what comes to mind when you think of such places?’

Cormac wanted to be blunt, but he tried to choose his words carefully. ‘One hears troubling things. Harsh discipline that crosses the line into excessive cruelty. A culture where younger boys are made to suffer at the hands of the older ones. Punishments meted out if they write home and disclose the extent of their abuse.’ He grimaced. ‘Perhaps the rumours are an exaggeration of the reality, but they are still disturbing, even if only a fraction of them are true.’

Mr Cameron leaned back in his chair. ‘And you fear Balfour School perpetrates these practices,’ he stated evenly. He cocked his head to the side. ‘Do you not trust Humphrey’s recommendation?’

‘He spoke very highly of the school,’ Cormac admitted. ‘But I wondered if he was somewhat overstating it due to his natural optimism. He has a tendency to see the best in people and places, occasionally more than they deserve.’

Mr Cameron chuckled. ‘Aye, that’s true. The man is optimistic to an immoderate degree. Nevertheless, it pleases me to say that in this case he has not embellished the truth. Balfour School is not typical of its kind. I know because I attended it as a laddie myself, and taught Latin here for fifteen years before attaining the title of headmaster.’

‘In what ways does it differ?’ Cormac asked, holding the man’s gaze and daring him to provide his rationale.

‘The ones that matter,’ Mr Cameron replied, unruffled. ‘Our ethos is that every boy with the intellect to excel deserves the opportunity to do so, regardless of his background. No one will bat an eye at Jack’s illegitimacy, because nearly every pupil in this school carries some supposed defect of his own. We teach bastards, orphans, wards, impoverished boys who can only attend on scholarship, youngsters who have disgraced their families and been packed off in shame. Some of our pupils come from Scottish nobility, or even from upper-class families south of the border, but very few have any right to lord it over their peers. And neither is that a culture we will tolerate, unlike certain other schools which shall remain nameless in this conversation.’

His tone remained mild, but Cormac caught the disapproving curl at the corner of his lip.

‘Balfour is no paradise,’ the headmaster continued, ‘but it is a place where the pupils are judged by their abilities, not by their families’ titles or wealth.’ He spread his hands. ‘I, myself, am the third of my noble father’s four by-blows. I wouldn’t have prospered with such a blemished pedigree, had I not been allowed to thrive on my own merit.’

Cormac blinked as his error of judgement became plain to him.

Mr Cameron arched an eyebrow. ‘Has anyone ever presumed to know your character before they’ve even met you?’

The answer came to Cormac without hesitation. ‘Yes.’

‘And have you ever been guilty of the same?’

‘I think, perhaps, today,’ he said with a rueful smile.

‘We shall overlook it,’ Mr Cameron said wryly. ‘Now that you have conducted your assessment of Balfour’s suitability as a school, shall I conduct my assessment of Jack’s suitability as a pupil?’

For the first time, Cormac felt a flicker of anxiety at the prospect that Jack might not secure a place at what he now recognised as a most commendable institution.

‘Let’s see,’ Mr Cameron said. ‘Mixed lineage, yes. Scandal in the family, indeed. How about studious? Well-mannered? Cooperative?’

‘All of the above,’ Cormac said, unable to hide his pride.

‘How does he fare in social situations?’

‘He can be a little shy,’ Cormac conceded. ‘Especially when he’s in the company of stronger personalities. It’s Mr Humphrey’s hope that Balfour School might encourage him to overcome that trait and flourish beyond it.’

‘Aye, I think we could be of assistance in that area. But Jack would have to play his part and make an effort to engage with the other pupils. We can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.’

Cormac recalled Jack standing at the window of his study, and the soft words he had spoken. ‘I believe he’s ready for that challenge.’

‘Then we would be very glad to welcome him here.’

‘You would?’ Cormac said, relieved.

‘Most assuredly. Humphrey already had me convinced, for he recommended the laddie very highly. Still, I understand that this appointment was necessary for you to take our measure too.’

Although Mr Cameron had every right to be reproachful, there was an amused twinkle in his eye. Without any further ado, their discussion shifted to the practicalities of accommodation, meals, uniform and fees, as though Cormac’s earlier preconceptions had never entered the room. At the conclusion of it all, he gave the headmaster a solid handshake and departed from the office with the distinct awareness that he had just relearned a lesson he had somehow forgotten.

Buoyed by this encouraging meeting, he no longer felt so daunted by the lengthy return journey to Bedfordshire that lay ahead of him. As he rode back to Carstairs to spend one more night at The Glenside Inn, he decided that, since he was already this far north, he would make a detour to Yorkshire to visit Emily.

He and Rory had both accompanied her to Harrogate before the start of her first term at Blake-Fletchley, so he knew exactly where to go when he reached the town the next evening, having taken two trains and a short carriage ride to get there. He made his way to the art academy, where he found its halls rapidly emptying as the students finished their classes for the day. He wasn’t sure how he would locate Emily, but then he spotted a young woman in a brown bonnet dodging out of the way of a group of laughing young men who didn’t even acknowledge her as they strode by.

Cormac approached her, tipping his hat politely. ‘Pardon me, miss,’ he said, ‘but would I be correct in assuming that you are Miss Jane Lyndon?’

The young woman stared, taken aback. ‘I am. Do I know you, sir?’

‘We haven’t been introduced,’ he said, offering her a reassuring smile. ‘But I believe we have a mutual acquaintance—Emily Carey. I’m her father, Cormac McGovern.’

Recognition flickered in Jane’s eyes, and her posture relaxed slightly. ‘Ah, yes. Emily’s spoken of you.’

‘She’s spoken of you too,’ he said amiably. ‘I was wondering if you might know where I could find her?’

‘Well, that’s a very good question,’ Jane said. ‘She never showed up for our classes today, leaving me to argue alone with Mr Parrish over his exclusion of females from a lecture about techniques in military paintings.’

‘She never showed up?’ he repeated. ‘Did she send a note to explain her absence?’

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Jane replied with a shrug, her peevish expression suggesting that she had not won the argument with her drawing master.

With a prickle of alarm, Cormac took his leave and hurried from the academy in the direction of Bilton. Though there was no doubt a reasonable explanation, his paternal instincts still stirred with concern.

The previous month’s snow had melted away, enabling him to march quickly from the busy streets of Harrogate into the more peaceful environs of Bilton. Dusk had fallen by the time he reached the Fieldings’ home and light shone from its front window as he pushed open the garden gate.

When Louise Shelby answered the door in response to his knock, she stood there gaping at him for five whole seconds before she said faintly, ‘Are you a clairvoyant, Mr McGovern?’

‘Why do you say that?’ he asked, his unease mounting to panic. ‘Where is Emily? Has something happened to her?’

‘She’s here,’ Louise said, stepping back to let him enter the hallway. ‘And she hasn’t come to harm. But she is in exceedingly poor spirits, and she said not one hour ago that all she wanted was to go home to her family.’

Louise led him swiftly down the hall. As they passed the open door to the parlour, he caught sight of the curly-headed Philippa peeping out at him. Louise stopped at a door at the end of the hall and knocked on it before opening it gently.

‘Emily, pet?’ she said. ‘Your father’s here.’

A muffled gasp came from within as Louise ushered Cormac into the tiny room. He found his precious treasure hastening to sit up on her narrow bed, wiping her palms over her wet, puffy cheeks.

‘Oh, Papa!’ she exclaimed, her voice thick with tears. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

There would be time enough to explain that later. He crossed the room in two strides and sank onto the bed beside her, grasping her hands and studying her stricken face. The glow she had exuded when she last left Bewley Hall was utterly gone.

‘What has upset you, a stór ?’ he murmured. ‘Tell me, and I will do everything in my power to put it to rights.’

His first guess was that some devil at the art academy had treated her in an abominable way, and he was prepared to stalk back there right away and thrash the living daylights out of whoever had hurt his little girl. But she shook her head sadly.

‘There’s nothing you can do.’ Her lower lip trembled. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do. I think it’s just not meant to be, no matter how much I might wish it otherwise.’

Her voice broke. Comprehending the source of her grief, he gathered her into his arms and rocked her – no longer a child, but forever his child, and yet she might never rock a child of her own.

‘Do you want me to bring you home?’ he said tenderly. ‘To your mother? To Rory?’

She responded with a grateful sob.