But before Judith could reply, she became aware of her father’s stern, silent figure in the doorway.
Invisible fingers of doom reached out to envelop her.
“Judith,” he said without raising his voice—it was his pulpit voice, “you will come into my study, if you please.”
Obviously they had heard something from Harewood.
“I have just come from London, Papa,” she said. “Grandmama’s jewels have all been recovered. It was Horace Effingham who stole them with the sole purpose of incriminating Branwell and me. But he has been caught and has confessed. There were more witnesses than just Bran and me, the Duke of Bewcastle among them. I daresay all will be explained to Grandmama and Uncle George within the next few days.”
“Oh, Jude.” Cassandra was weeping in earnest now. “I knew it. I did, I did. I never doubted you for a moment.”
Mama came elbowing past Papa then and rushed down the path to catch Judith up in a mighty hug. “I was in the kitchen,” she cried. “Girls, why did you not call me? Judith, my love. And Branwell has been cleared too? That boy is a trouble to poor Papa, but he could never be a thief any more than you could.
You came on the coach?” She smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen from beneath Judith’s bonnet. “You look dead on your feet, child. Come and have some breakfast and I will tuck you into your bed.”
For once Papa was overpowered by his women. He stood frowning and troubled, but he made no other attempt to take Judith aside to chastise her in any way for what he had heard from Harewood. And no one, Judith realized, commented on her mention of the Duke of Bewcastle. After she had been led off to the kitchen, she did not see her father again until after noon. She had not lain down as she had been pressed to do but had spent the morning with her mother and sisters in the sitting room. While they had all been busy sewing, she had written two letters—one to the Duke of Bewcastle and one to Lord Rannulf. She owed them both a deep debt of gratitude, yet she had rushed away from Bedwyn House without a word to either of them. She had just finished the long and difficult task when her father came into the room, the habitual frown on his face, an open letter in his hand.
“I have just received this from Horace Effingham,” he said. “It bears out what you told me this morning, Judith. It is a complete confession, not only of the theft and the attempt to incriminate you and Branwell, but also of his motive. He tried to force his attentions on you at Harewood, Judith, and you very properly repelled them. His scheme was an attempt to avenge himself on you. According to his letter, he has also written to my mother and to Sir George.”
Judith closed her eyes. She knew they had all believed her this morning—even Papa. But what a relief it was to be fully exonerated. Horace would never have written such a letter of his own volition, of course, especially the humiliating part about her rejecting his advances and his wanting revenge. He had been forced into writing it—by Lord Rannulf. Had it really all happened just yesterday? It seemed an age ago.
Rannulf had done it all for her sake.
“Your name is cleared, Judith,” Papa said. “But why would Horace Effingham have believed that you might welcome his improper advances? And where is your cap today?”
It was the old story. Men looked on her with lust, and Papa blamed her. The only difference was that she now knew she was not ugly.
I can truly say that I have never ever seen any woman whose beauty comes even close to matching yours .
She tried to bring back the sound of his voice as he spoke the words to her out at the pool behind Harewood.
“I do not want to wear one any longer, Papa,” she said.
Surprisingly he did not reprimand her or order her to her room to put one on. Instead he held up another letter, still sealed.
“This came for you yesterday,” he said. “It is from your grandmother.”
Her stomach churned. She did not want to read it. Grandmama had believed she was the thief. She would still have believed it when she wrote the letter. Judith got to her feet anyway and took it from her father’s hand. But suddenly she could not bear to be indoors, surrounded by all the comfortable normality of family life. Nothing was normal. Nothing ever would be again.
“I’ll read it in the garden,” she said.
She did not stop to fetch her bonnet. She went out through the back door and saw that all her mother’s summer flowers were blooming in a riot of color. But she could not enjoy the beauty. Soon Bran well was going to have to apply to Papa again to help him out of his difficulties. And even if she could blank her mind to that, Judith could think of very little to buoy her spirits.
She had not even turned to take a final look at him.
The garden was too suffocatingly close to the house. She looked longingly at the rolling hills beyond the back fence, long her refuge when she had wanted to be alone. The hills, where she had roamed and sat and read during her girlhood, and where she had acted, proclaiming other identities aloud to the listening hills. She opened the gate and strode upward, stopping only when she came to a familiar large, flat stone two-thirds the way to the top of the closest hill. From it she could see the valley and the village below and the hedgerows of the surrounding farms. She sat there for perhaps half an hour before pulling her grandmother’s letter out of her pocket.
It was a tearful one even though there was no physical sign of the tears. For one weak hour, she had written to Judith, she had believed the damning evidence. She had grown to love her granddaughter during two weeks more dearly than she had loved anyone since Judith’s grandpapa died, and she would have forgiven her, but she had believed. But only for one hour. She had lived through a wretched night of remorse and had gone as soon as she felt she decently could to Judith’s room to beg her pardon—on her old knees if necessary. But Judith had gone. She was not sure she would ever be able to forgive herself for doubting even for that hour. Could Judith forgive her?
Judith could not. She crumpled the letter in one hand and stared away from the valley with tear-filled eyes. She could not.
But then she remembered how she had suspected Branwell—for a great deal longer than an hour.
Indeed, she had not been quite certain of his innocence until the proof was finally offered to her. In what way was she different from Grandmama, who had not even had proof of her innocence when she wrote this letter?
Would she allow Horace that final victory of having caused lasting bitterness between Judith and the old lady who had become as dear to her in two weeks as any of her family members in the rectory below?
“Grandmama,” she whispered, holding the letter against her lips. “Oh, Grandmama.”
She sat there for a long while after smoothing out the letter, folding it carefully, and putting it back in the pocket of her dress, her knees drawn up, her arms clasped about them, gazing across the hills rather than down, basking in the heat of the sun and the coolness of the breeze, turning her unhappiness inside out and looking squarely at it.
She had a family who loved her. Soon life was going to become more and more difficult for them. But they were a family, and Papa would still have his living. They would surely not be quite, quite destitute.
How selfish of her to be afraid of being poor. Thousands of poor people survived and lived lives of dignity and worth. She had a grandmother who loved her perhaps more than she loved anyone else in this world. How blessed to be so loved! She could not have the man she loved, it was true, but thousands could not. Heartache was not a death sentence. She was twenty-two years old. She was still young. She would never marry—she could not now even if some decent man was ever willing to take her without any dowry. But life without marriage did not mean life without all meaning or life without all happiness.