My Lord Tremaine

by Oliver, Marina

  'I'll get it tomorrow,' he said. 'I've something which will prove far better than the miserable few coins they give us. Help me take in this straw, and find a cover. It'll do for a bed in the corner, and he'll be where you can tend him.'

  'Who? Gervaas, what have you there?'

  'Our fortune,' he replied. 'Stop arguing, and help me get him to bed, Freija, and I'll explain. I'm hungry. Is supper ready?'

  Grumbling all the time, but not daring to disobey, Freija did as she was bid. The stranger was breathing, but that was all. There was no sign of returning consciousness. She had no spare blankets, but covered him with a greatcoat Gervaas had brought back from the battlefield the previous day. She took some food to her son, who lay in the attic bedroom. Then she put two bowls on the table, spooned the rabbit stew into them, and broke off chunks from the loaf. She poured some of her own ale into tankards as Gervaas sat down on the bench while she sat opposite on a stool.

  'Well?' she asked.

  Gervaas broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the stew. When he had eaten it he belched, took a deep drink of ale, and smiled at her.

  'He wears a ring with some kind of cypher,' he said. 'He's a wealthy man. His family will pay well to have him restored to them. Meanwhile, until they pay up, he's a big strong fellow, and can help me with the harvest.'

  'Is he French?'

  'How can I know? He might be English, or even Prussian. Or one of us, a Fleming. He had no more clothes on his back than those breeches. No uniform, nothing to say who or what he is, except that ring. When he wakes he can tell us, and write to his family to ask them for money.'

  'That's like asking for a ransom! I don't like it! You'll be in trouble, Gervaas.'

  'If I'd left him he'd have been buried alive. This will be a reward. His family will be grateful, want to reward us. So we have to treat him well.'

  She continued to grumble and protest, but when the man on the makeshift bed began to groan she took a bowl of the stew across to him and tried to get him to eat. She managed to feed him a few spoonfuls, but he soon turned his head away, and appeared to go to sleep.

  'He had a nasty blow on the head,' Gervaas said, though he was beginning to feel worried. Would it have been better to find an officer and hand the man over to him? Then he'd have had no chance of a reward, he told himself. And no strong man to help with the harvest, since his son Andre had been injured by that runaway carriage as the damned aristos had fled before the advancing French army, and was still unable to work. He'd hope the fellow recovered soon, but if after all he died his body could easily be thrown into one of the many burial pits on the battlefield, and no one would be any the wiser.

  *

  It was two days before the unknown man came sufficiently to his senses to be able to understand what Gervaas and his wife said to him. He seemed none the worse for his ordeal, having no injuries apart from the blow to his head. He was soon able to rise from his bed, and dress himself in the long loose breeches and rough shirt that belonged to Gervaas's son. Freija had washed his own breeches, but had been unable to get rid of the blood stains. The boy, he'd been told, was unable to rise from his bed in the room above the kitchen.

  'He broke his leg, and that idiot Laurens who thinks he is a doctor set it badly. He cannot do more than shuffle round the room as yet,' Gervaas explained. 'I'm Gervaas Devos. What is your name?'

  Unfortunately, he appeared to have lost his memory. When they asked him his name and where he lived, he looked at them in dismay.

  'I – I don't know!' he said after a while. 'I can't recall a thing. How did I come here?'

  'He's French, he must be,' Gervaas said to his wife later, as they sat on a bench outside the cottage that same evening, 'though he has an odd accent.'

  'It's Parisian,' she said. 'He had to ask me to explain some words, which he'd have known if he came from near here.'

  'One of the Emperor's men?' Gervaas mused. 'I wonder if the English would pay more for him, as a prisoner, than his family?'

  'You can't sell him! It's not too bad to ask for a reward for saving him from the burial pits, but selling him to an enemy is not honest. The curé would say it is a sin.'

  'Well, we can wait in case his memory comes back. In the meantime he is fit enough to help turn the hay after I've scythed it. Later he can do other things, when his strength has returned.'

  Their guest was only too anxious to repay them for saving him from a living grave. When Gervaas told him how he had been about to push him into the pit, then realised he was still alive, he had shuddered, and vowed to reward him.

  'When I recover my memory, and find my family,' he said, frustrated.

  He looked at the ring, but it made no difference, it did not bring back any memories. He must hope that some time in the future he would remember who he was and where he came from.

  *

  Mr Craven met Elinor outside the shop where she had just left her latest batch of bread and pasties.

  'Great news, my dear! Come in and read The Times, it's all there! Our forces defeated that monster, and we are safe from him. This time they will ensure he does not escape!'

  Mrs Craven welcomed Elinor and insisted she had a cup of tea while she read the newspaper. Tea was now a luxury, they could not afford any at the cottage, and Elinor sipped it with deep appreciation.

  'Lord Tremaine will no doubt be home soon,' Mrs Craven said. 'Your sister will be pleased, and when she weds him you will be able to live with her at Tremaine Court.'

  'And find a beau of your own,' Mr Craven said, chuckling.

  Elinor smiled faintly. Before her father had died she had suspected the Reverend Porter, from a village ten miles away, was intending to make her an offer. He had visited the Parsonage frequently, and Papa had smiled on him. He was a widower with six young children all under the age of ten, forty years old, and growing stout. Living retired as they did, she had been well aware her chances of matrimony were small, but she had dreaded having to refuse him. Papa would have been so disappointed. She had been determined, though, whatever the annoyance it would have created, unable to face the prospect of living with him. Yet, and she smiled inwardly at her perversity, when Papa had died and his lack of money was revealed, and Reverend Porter had made just one visit of condolence, then swiftly married a widow from Exeter, she felt betrayed and rejected.

  Jane was delirious when Elinor told her the news.

  'Oh, thank heavens! We shall be able to live in comfort once more, and now I need not sew any more of these hateful nightcaps!'

  She went up to their bedroom and began to sort out her better gowns, which had been packed away in a trunk. When Elinor went to find her the bed was strewn with these, and the old gowns she had been wearing were on the floor.

  'I'll throw away those,' Jane said. 'You can't think how tired I am of them! These will do for the time being, and Edmund will buy me more, as many as I want!'

  'We still need to earn money,' Elinor warned. 'We don't know how long it may be before Edmund can sell out. Has his mother heard from him?'

  'No. Phyllis told Mattie his mother expects to receive a letter at any time, though I would expect him to write first to me!'

  Phyllis Eades was Lady Tremaine's personal maid, an incorrigible gossip, and a great friend of Mattie's. They learned all the news at the Court from her.

  'From all that was in the newspaper I suspect the soldiers have too much to do to think of writing more than a few words home. And probably the mails are in some confusion. Don't despair, we will no doubt hear soon.'

  She kept to herself the reflection that Edmund might have been killed or badly wounded. The casualties had been enormous, it was said.

  Jane, however, was in high spirits and discarded the nightcaps, turning instead to embroidering a new round gown she fashioned from muslin she bought in the village. She had, most unusually, walked into the village one day, and to Elinor's fury she had taken the money for it from Elinor's savings, and bought the most expensive musli
n available. She even bemoaned her inability to go into Plymouth where she could have found some silk.

  'How could you! We may need that money!'

  Jane laughed. 'Don't be silly. When Edmund is home we won't need any more. He will help us.'

  Elinor turned away. For the first time since Papa had died she wanted to weep, with both frustration and anger. Until now she had been strong, but it seemed that Jane was about to destroy all she had slaved for, and for what? One new gown when she already had quite enough and would soon, when Edmund came home, be able to purchase all she wanted. Grimly, Elinor picked up the plain sewing Jane had discarded and finished the nightcaps. One of them had to be sensible. Normally, after supper, she tried to spend half an hour with one of the few books they had kept. Reading had always been her delight, and though these books were old ones, mainly what her father had bought when he was at Oxford, they gave her some comfort, and she laughed when Jane, who never opened a book, called her a blue stocking.

  *

  Gervaas and Freija had discovered a new game. Their guest, though he quickly recovered his strength and was able to spend long hours turning the hay, had no return of his memory.

  'We need a name for you,' Freija said one evening as they sat at supper. 'Could it be Pierre? Or Gaston? Or Louis?'

  He shook his head. 'I do not answer to any of those!'

  Gervaas grinned at him.

  'Then we will go through all the names we can until you find your own.'

  For several nights they tried all the names they could think of, without any result.

  'Well, we must be able to call you something! From now on you will be Paul.'

  He was willing. Any name was preferable to being hailed as 'Here, you!' His inability to remember anything was as frustrating to him as it was to his hosts. At least, he knew, he was making life easier for them, not only in the fields. He had carried Andre down to the kitchen, to the bed he had first occupied, where it was easier for Freija to care for him, and made his own bed in the loft. Gervaas had somehow acquired an ancient horse blanket and he and Paul hung it to make a partition between the beds, to give them all a modicum of privacy.

  As they hung it Paul had a fleeting vision of a large panelled room and a four poster bed. He had never seen anything remotely like this since the battle, and he felt sure it was from the life he could not remember. Perhaps other recollections would come to him, and for the first time he felt truly certain he would, in time, recover his lost memory.

  Andre, being in the centre of the house, had become more cheerful. He was able to do some jobs for his mother, for he could now drag himself to the table. Gervaas, saying they would soon have to begin stacking firewood for the winter, gave him small pieces of wood which he whittled into kindling. He was able to read, and the curé, saying he had a good brain, had given him a French Bible and a book of stories about the saints. Paul had known, in some way, that he could read, and he spent some leisure hours with Andre.

  The boy, who was sixteen, would never be fit enough to do a full day's work in the fields. His broken leg had been so badly set it was shorter than the other, and still gave him considerable pain.

  'If he could do some accounts,' the curé said one day when he came to visit, 'he might be able to work as a clerk. He was always one of the most intelligent boys in the village, but they could not afford to send him to school. I taught him to read.'

  Paul belatedly realised he knew arithmetic, and began to teach Andre. How and where had he learned? Until recently his loss of memory had seemed a minor inconvenience which would soon be resolved when he was fit. Then, surely, his memory would return and he could find his way back to his family. He had a family, he was sure, but whether he was married or a father he did not know. Now, after so many weeks, he was wondering if he would ever know, and would be condemned to spend the rest of his life here with the Devos family. He was truly grateful for all they had done, and worked as hard as he could to repay them, but it would never be enough.

  *

  It was two weeks since Elinor had read of the great battle near Brussels, now being called the battle of Waterloo. On Sundays Jonah Carter always took them, along with his wife and two small sons, to the village church in a small waggon that was used about the estate. Elinor would have walked, she did the journey every day, but Jane refused, saying she did not have the strength, and Mattie could never have managed it, so they were grateful, even though Jane privately bemoaned the loss of their father's chaise, and complained at the indignity of having to travel in such a vehicle.

  She also complained that they were forced to sit in the body of the church, no longer having access to the Parsonage pew, where the new Rector's family now sat. Elinor smiled to herself, recalling the games they had played as children, safely hidden from the rest of the congregation. She recalled Edmund's father, who had often slept in the Court pew during the service, and occasionally emitted a loud snore. Lady Tremaine had been mortified when that happened, and as the Parsonage pew was just behind they had heard her hissing to him to wake up and pay attention.

  The Rector's family came in, and Elinor frowned. Why was his wife clad in a black gown? Had they suffered some bereavement? She had heard nothing the previous day when she had been in the village, but she had not seen Mr Craven, who always seemed to have the latest gossip.

  Then Lady Tremaine, escorted on either side by her maid Phyllis and a solicitous footman, walked slowly down the aisle and Elinor gasped. She was swathed in deepest black, including a hat with several black ostrich feathers, and a veil which hid her face. Had her sister, one of them, died? So far as Elinor knew she had three sisters who occasionally stayed at the Court. She would not, Elinor thought, wear such deep mourning for one of her brothers-in-law or any of their children.

  After she had been solicitously installed in her pew and the door closed the Rector stood in front of the congregation and Elinor began to have a horrid presentiment.

  'My brothers and sisters,' the Rector intoned, 'I have some grave news. Our deeply beloved brother Lord Tremaine has given his life for this country, at the recent battle. Let us pray – '

  His next words were lost as Jane screamed 'No! No!' and began to sob noisily. Then, as Elinor tried to hush her, she slid down to the floor in a deep faint.

  *

  CHAPTER 2

  They carried Jane to Mr Craven's house, where Mrs Craven and Mattie bustled round her with hartshorn and sal volatile, while Elinor moved aside with Mr Craven.

  'Did you know of this?' she asked softly.

  'Only that a soldier, an officer, I believe, visited Tremaine Court yesterday. My groom's brother works there,' he added, 'and saw the man when he rode in late in the evening. You know how gossip spreads. I wondered whether it could have been his lordship, for the man stayed the night.'

  'Presumably he brought the news. Poor Lady Tremaine.'

  'And your sister.'

  Elinor frowned. 'There will be no marriage now. I wonder if we will be permitted to remain at the lodge?'

  'Surely Lady Tremaine would not turn you out?'

  'We are there against her wishes. Jonah insisted he had the authority from Lord Tremaine to permit anyone he approved of to live there. But if she now says it is needed for an estate worker, what can we do?'

  He drew out a snuff box and took a pinch.

  'She is the dowager now,' he said slowly. 'Edmund was her only child. The estate as well as the title will go to his cousin. William, isn't it? It must be for him to say. So you are safe for a while, until matters are settled. It will give you time to look around for somewhere else. I will help if I can.'

  'You are very kind. We will have to find positions, as governesses or companions, or perhaps teachers at some school. I suppose, though, after the past few months I could be more suited to be a cook!'

  'But you did so well at school. You love books. You should apply to be a teacher.'

  Elinor thought wistfully of the few books they had kept, which s
he had so little time now to read.

  'I may have to do that.' It was a prospect which filled Elinor with dismay. 'I don't mind having to become a governess, but Jane will hate it! She was never bookish, and would only be able to teach small children. But she says she cannot endure them! She had little patience with any who came with visitors to the Parsonage.'

  'She will have to make the best of it. If I may say so, my dear,' he said, lowering his voice, 'she has depended on you far too much since your Papa died. And you have permitted it. You have, in a word, spoiled her!'

  Elinor shook her head in denial.

  'No, I don't believe I have. She was never strong, she could not manage the sort of work I do, and she has tried to contribute as much as she can with her sewing.'

  'Perhaps Lord Tremaine left your sister something in his will? They were to be married, after all, and but for his recall when Napoleon escaped would have been wed by now. Or William may feel obliged to help.'

  'We must wait and see.'

  'I don't like to criticise your Papa, Elinor, especially now he is dead, but she was always his favourite, and he tended to give way to her far too much.'

  She suspected he was correct, but to agree seemed like disparaging her father.

  'She was the eldest, wasn't it natural? And I always understood Mama almost died when she was born.'

  Mr Craven, seeing that Jane had recovered her senses and was weeping softly, lowered his voice and moved further away from the sopha where she lay.

  'I believe he encouraged his lordship to offer for her. She had been so used to riding all over the country with him, since they were children. He was only three years older, and there were few other children his mother thought suitable for him to associate with. Though I'm sure she never expected to have Jane as her daughter-in-law.'

  Elinor laughed. 'She was horrified and at first did her utmost to dissuade him. She even came to see Jane and told her she was unfit to marry a man of title, and especially to assume the title she herself held. I'm sure it was because of that she agreed for her son to go back to Brussels. Not that she could have stopped him. I think he always knew his own mind. And look what has come of it! If poor Edmund hadn't died I'd have been tempted to say it served her right.'