Darkwater

by Dorothy Eden

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ shouted Marcus.

  ‘Does dispensable mean not being here?’

  ‘In a way it does.’ Uncle Edgar’s voice was growing more testy. ‘Where’s your nursemaid? Where are the servants?’

  Nolly stood quite still.

  ‘Then isn’t it your duty to keep Cousin Fanny?’

  ‘It is my duty to keep your Cousin Fanny until she is twenty-one years old, which means she is of age, and free to do as she pleases. If she chooses to go away I will have no legal right to stop her. Now, miss, will you leave me in peace?’

  ‘Who is going away?’ came George’s voice from the stairs.

  Nolly and Marcus had treated George warily, not understanding his alternating hearty friendliness, and moodiness. But now Nolly darted to him.

  ‘Cousin Fanny!’

  ‘Never!’ said George.

  He suddenly seemed very tall, and Nolly shrank back, although he wasn’t looking at her but at his father with that look of frowning frightening anger. His blue eyes burned.

  ‘Well, God bless my soul,’ Uncle Edgar muttered in assumed helplessness. ‘I am good-humoured enough to indulge this child in her interminable questions and like all women she immediately jumps to the wrong conclusion. No one is going away, as far as I know, anyway. I was merely explaining the legal situation, which I am sure, my boy, you understand already. If you don’t, I’ve no doubt your grandmother will explain it to you. So would you mind having the good manners to look at me with some respect. I am your father, I would remind you, not your enemy.’

  The tense little situation was broken up by the ladies, Aunt Louisa, Amelia, and Fanny, coming down the stairs in their light summer dresses and wide straw garden hats with fluttering ribbons.

  The scene had been like the day, gloomy with thunder threatening. But now the sun had come out again, and it was very hot and bright.

  ‘George,’ said Aunt Louisa, ‘your grandmother is waiting for you to help her downstairs. See that she brings an extra shawl. I don’t trust the weather. It’s too warm. Well, children, what are you waiting for? Why don’t we go down to the lake? Our guests will find us there. Fanny, see that Olivia and Marcus look after little Charles and Amanda Grey. They’re old enough to begin understanding their social responsibilities. We don’t want any tears or tantrums.’

  ‘I can’t keep it, of course,’ Fanny said in a low voice, later.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Adam Marsh. His voice was hard. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s much too valuable. And besides, why—’

  She had known the opportunity to speak privately to Adam would only last a moment. Already Amelia was at their side at the lake’s edge saying vivaciously, ‘Has Fanny explained the list of things to be found on the treasure hunt? Some of them are awfully difficult. Twelve varieties of wild flowers, a lady’s handkerchief—you should have no difficulty with that one, I am sure, Mr Marsh—a windfall apple, a toadstool, a bird’s feather. And what else, Fanny?’

  Fanny laughed. ‘It is mainly for the children, Mr Marsh.’

  ‘But everyone must join in,’ Amelia insisted. ‘And I shall need help because I confess I scarcely know two varieties of wild flowers. I shall prick my fingers or get caught up in a hedge.’ She contrived to make the picture of herself caught in a hedge a beguiling one. Adam laughed.

  ‘I shall be glad to assist you, Miss Amelia. And to whom do we bring our offerings?’

  ‘To Fanny, of course.’ Amelia looked from one to the other of them. She sensed something and said impatiently, ‘It’s only a game, of course. You’re not actually making her a gift.’

  No, it couldn’t have been a gift, any more than Uncle Edgar’s giving her the sapphire pendant had been a gift. Yet she persisted in believing that the little camel was a wholly impulsive offering, with no underlying intention. Even in the dark water of the lake her face looked up at her rosily. She was happy. She knew that happiness was the most fragile of all emotions yet while it was there she never imagined it departing.

  When the game began she watched without a pang Adam accompany Amelia. She was beginning to know her strength, yes and her power. Lady Arabella had been right. Power lay behind a calm and secret face.

  In spite of having been told they must look after the Grey children, Nolly and Marcus stubbornly ran off hand in hand, Nolly’s white dress and wide-brimmed straw hat blown on to the back of her neck, and Marcus’s fair head flickering behind the rushes on the far side of the lake. Robert Hadlow, now that Amelia had gone, was left to rather sulkily escort his sister, and Uncle Edgar, declaring sportingly that he could at least pluck a feather from the peacock’s tail, sauntered off in a leisurely manner. George refused to play the childish game, unless Fanny joined him. Lady Arabella could surely be trusted with gathering the trophies and announcing the winner.

  But George’s method of playing would be to attempt to put his arm round her waist the moment they were out of sight. Fanny refused pleasantly.

  ‘No, George dear. If you want to please me, help Charles and Amanda. They don’t understand where to look for things.’

  George looked at the shy and gaping children with the greatest distaste.

  ‘There’s a prize,’ said Fanny softly.

  ‘By jove, is there!’ George’s voice had the anticipation of a small boy. But his eyes were on Fanny’s lips. He looked as if he meant to demand another sort of prize.

  Fanny sighed, and then forgot the perpetual worry of George as she observed the way Aunt Louisa and Miss Martha Marsh were getting on so amicably. For some reason this seemed to amuse Lady Arabella, or something amused her, for she sat a little distance away in her wheelchair, smiling to herself, her idle fingers resting on her work basket and her hopelessly tangled wools.

  The close airless heat had increased. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Black clouds loomed, then parted and exposed the sun’s blazing heat, only to gather again after a few minutes, threatening imminent thunder. Bird cries were sudden and sharp, the lake was a black mirror, the dipping dragonflies making stitches across its gleaming surface.

  ‘You were taking a risk, Fanny,’ Lady Arabella observed. ‘Sending everybody out with a heavy shower about to descend. Amelia, I’ve no doubt, will enjoy it. She can huddle under a tree with Mr Marsh.’ Her eyes were sly. ‘Had you that in mind, Fanny? But what about the children? If it thunders they’ll be frightened.’

  ‘Charles and Amanda have George,’ said Fanny calmly. ‘And Nolly and Marcus aren’t in the least afraid of thunder. Indeed, Nolly enjoys it.’

  This was true, for the last storm there had been had filled Nolly with a delighted excitement that kept her at the windows on tiptoe, wanting to dance every time the thunder rolled.

  ‘But I hope they’ll take cover if it begins to rain,’ she added, and as she spoke the first drop fell.

  It was isolated, but the clouds had converged overhead, and the first broken roll of thunder sounded.

  Aunt Louisa sprang up, exclaiming in vexation.

  ‘Now isn’t this just like our English weather! Having lived in London, Miss Marsh, I expect you haven’t had the experience we have of ruined picnics. That’s no doubt why my husband’s ancestor had this pavilion built.’

  ‘And which Davenport was that?’ Miss Marsh asked politely.

  ‘Well, now—I’m not exactly sure. My husband acquired the property from a cousin. He knows its history better than I do.’

  ‘Perhaps Fanny knows,’ Miss Marsh suggested, her long gentle face turned towards Fanny.

  Fanny, who had never been encouraged to feel that Darkwater was any part of her lineage, was startled that she should be addressed.

  ‘I believe it was the father of the previous owner, John Davenport,’ she answered. ‘He would have been my great-great-uncle and I expect Uncle Edgar’s great-uncle. That would be right, Aunt Louisa?’

  ‘My family,’ said Aunt Louisa in her most lofty tones, ‘were more inclined to follow the Greek and Italian style of ar
chitecture. We had a lot of statuary, and a folly, of course. Ah dear, there’s the thunder again. And which children are those?’

  She was peering across the strangely darkening landscape. Fanny followed her look, and saw the children running on the edge of the copse, Nolly’s white dress glimmering, and Marcus following some yards behind.

  ‘They must have all their trophies,’ declared Miss Marsh. ‘They’re hurrying.’

  This was true, for Nolly, her long starched skirts billowing out behind her, was literally flying out of the copse, with Marcus stumbling valiantly behind her.

  It was Marcus’s sobs that reached their ears. Nolly wouldn’t wait for him. She wasn’t usually unkind like that. Taller and light on her feet, she had outstripped him and he was bawling.

  Fanny went towards them, calling, ‘Wait for Marcus, Nolly. There no need to hurry like that. No one else has come back yet.’

  She realised at once that her words hadn’t reached Nolly, that even if the child had paused to hear, she was in no condition to take anything in. As she came within reach, Fanny saw that she was half-crazed with fear.

  At last she flung herself into Fanny’s arms, panting and trembling. In spite of the violence of her exertions her face was colourless, her eyes absolutely black.

  ‘Nolly! Nolly, what is it?’

  She had lost her hat somewhere. Her hair was tumbled and damp with sweat. Some wild flowers, hopelessly crushed, were held forgotten in her clenched hands.

  ‘Nolly darling, what frightened you?’

  The other ladies were gathering round. It was Miss Marsh who went to Marcus’s rescue, picking up the hot noisily sobbing little boy.

  ‘N-Nolly wouldn’t wait!’ he accused. ‘She ran away from m-me.’

  ‘The thunder’s frightened them both,’ said Aunt Louisa practically. ‘They shouldn’t have gone into the wood. It probably got very dark in there. Get them calm, for goodness sake, Fanny, before the others come back.’

  Nolly’s grip round Fanny was unbreakable. The child obviously couldn’t stop trembling.

  Perhaps it had been the thunder. Safely indoors watching a majestic sky was one thing, but in a gloomy wood it was another. Perhaps a startled bird had flown in their faces.

  ‘You’re safe now, darling. Tell me what it was.’

  Nolly’s face, pressed into Fanny’s breast, didn’t move.

  ‘Marcus, what happened in the wood? Can you tell us?’

  Marcus’s sobs had died to hiccups. His drowned blue eyes held nothing but reproach.

  ‘Nolly ran away. And I fell over a stick, and she said “Quick!” and she wouldn’t wait for me.’

  ‘Perhaps there was a wild pig,’ said Lady Arabella. Her eyes gleamed pleasurably. ‘Was there a great old boar snorting and snarling, Marcus? Or did your sister think the thunder was one? I expect that’s the explanation, you know. She thought the thunder was an animal. And perhaps it is, or perhaps a herd of huge animals, bigger than elephants, growling and stamping about in the clouds.’

  ‘Please, Great-aunt Arabella!’ Fanny begged.

  ‘Oh, Nolly isn’t afraid of that. She likes my stories. Come on my lap, child, and I’ll find you a sugar plum.’

  The others were drifting back with their spoils. Uncle Edgar stood over Fanny demanding to know what had happened, and listening intently. He was perspiring, Fanny noticed. He was too heavily built for exertion in the heat. Adam listened intently, too. Amelia said that the thunder had scared the wits out of her.

  ‘Didn’t it, Mr Marsh? You saw how terrified I was.’

  George came back, his two small companions, the Grey children, trailing a long way behind him as if he had deliberately lost them. Everyone declared that he or she had not been in the copse and seen Nolly and Marcus.

  ‘They shouldn’t have been allowed to go in there alone,’ said Uncle Edgar. ‘They could have got lost, apart from being torn on brambles. It’s too wild. I intend to get it cleared up one day. They probably did meet a wild pig.’

  The rain was about to descend in volumes. Aunt Louisa sensibly decreed that they should all hurry indoors, and the servants would gather up the chairs and the picnic things.

  There was a great scurry to get to the house before the rain began. The thunder reverberated again, and a flash of lightning sent Marcus scurrying for Fanny’s other hand.

  The lake was as black as ebony when they left it. The willows were just beginning to sigh in the rising wind. With a sound of eerie gaiety, the windbells began to chime. For no reason at all, Fanny was vividly remembering Ching Mei’s death.

  Nolly had to be put to bed. She would neither talk nor eat. Her white face was a little alarming. Fanny stayed with her, so didn’t know how the party ended, although Dora reported that Master Marcus had behaved nicely, and blown out the candles on his cake quite cleverly.

  The thunderstorm was over in a very short time. Afterwards everything dripped in a brilliant yellow light. The lifting of the gloom seemed to lesson Nolly’s fear, or else she was naturally recovering from some shock she had had. She sat up and was persuaded to drink a little warm milk. At last it looked as if she would be persuaded to speak. Only by talking about what had happened, Fanny realised, would the nightmare leave the child.

  ‘What was it, little pet? Did it grow too dark? Did you see a wild pig?’

  ‘No,’ said Nolly. ‘I saw a black bird.’

  Birds—the child’s phobia. The dead starling tumbling down the chimney. The empty cage in Lady Arabella’s room. Amelia’s white fur hat that had made Nolly scream.

  One might have realised it had been a bird, perhaps a blackbird or starling fluttering out of a bush. But that wouldn’t have sent Nolly into such an ecstasy of terror. Fanny sensed more to the mystery. She probed gently.

  ‘Nolly darling—was it the white bird you saw? You know, it would have been a pigeon, or even a white owl who thought it was night time with the dark clouds.’

  ‘No, it was black,’ Nolly’s voice was shrill. ‘It was black, black, black!’

  ‘But you wouldn’t be frightened by a harmless little blackbird. You often see them in the garden.’

  Nolly’s fists beat at her.

  ‘You are stupid, Cousin Fanny! Uncle Edgar says you are stupid! It wasn’t a little blackbird. It was big, big like this!—’ She stretched out her arms dramatically.

  ‘And where was this bird? In a tree?’

  ‘No, it was on the ground. Marcus didn’t see it. I told him to run. We both ran. I tore my dress.’

  Suddenly she had flung herself into Fanny’s arms, trembling and saying in her high shrill voice, ‘You are so stupid! You have to keep saying it was white when it was black.’

  Once, in the dark, she had gone out to look for Ching Mei. Now it was only twilight, the half-light. Dawn and dusk, Lady Arabella used to say, were the times when frightening things happened, when nothing was quite real.

  Fanny wasn’t afraid now, only tense and just vaguely apprehensive. She was sure she would discover the thing that had frightened Nolly, a dead hawk perhaps, or even something that wasn’t a bird at all. What was echoing in her mind was Nolly’s insistence that she was stupid because Uncle Edgar had said so. Nolly’s hysteria had given the remark a significance out of all proportion, and now, in the gloom of the copse with its tangle of bracken and brambles, it came back to haunt Fanny. Why was she so stupid? What was it she hadn’t seen? That black was white, or white was black?

  Now she was allowing her fancies to take possession of her just as Nolly’s had. She must concentrate on what she had come to do, pick her way, her skirts held up, down the vague track which Nolly and Marcus had followed.

  The bracken shook with raindrops. The heat had been swept away with the storm, and the air was full of a damp chill, as if autumn were truly here. The young birches shivered audibly in the dying wind. A blackbird, a real vociferous blackbird, plummetted out of a bush and flew scolding into the dusk. Fanny stopped at a glimmer of white on the ground. It
was an uprooted toadstool, obviously dropped by Nolly in her flight. So she was on the right track.

  The strange thing was that as she stopped there was the faintest crackling of bracken which ceased almost at once, as if someone else had stopped, too.

  She must have imagined it. She stood very still, listening. There was no sound but the shiver of the beeches. The half-light gave very little perspective. Surely nothing moved behind that broad tree trunk!

  She gave herself a little shake, telling herself that if she were going to be afraid she should have sent someone else to find out what had startled Nolly; George, or Uncle Edgar, or Adam, or one of the gardeners. It was foolish to think that they might not have eyes to recognise what would frighten a sensitive child, or perhaps they would not tell the truth about what they found.

  Was there anything to find? The children could not have gone very far through the tangle of bracken and moss-grown logs. There was a strong smell of damp rotting leaves and earth. Had she noticed that before? But of course she had. The bracken seemed to have been trampled down a great deal as if indeed a wild pig, or some animal had crashed through here.

  A twig snapped behind her. She was instantly motionless, petrified. Her own footstep hadn’t snapped that twig. She turned her head, listening. Her thumping heart deafened her. It seemed to have grown very dark.

  Who was following her?

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called softly. ‘Is it you, George?’

  There wasn’t the faintest sound.

  ‘George, I’m not an enemy to be stalked.’

  But supposing she were to stumble on to something she shouldn’t see, just as Nolly had…Just as, perhaps, Ching Mei had… Fanny is so stupid…The white bird is a black one… There is no escaped prisoner tonight…

  Was that someone breathing? Or just the whisper of the beech leaves? It was so dark, she couldn’t see. The tree trunks were men. She had to go back, but somebody, something, barred her way.