by Joan Aiken
“Dr. Bendigo has died? Oh no—when?” A pang of pure grief transfixed Ellen; the world suddenly seemed a gray, dusty, impoverished place.
“Took sudden lars’ month; eighty-two, ’e were. A fine owd fellow; you ’on’t get ’em like that no more.”
Trying to master her grief, Ellen wondered if the driver could possibly have been right about Gerard. If it was he, she thought, either Father’s attitudes have changed amazingly or the boy is courting disaster. At the very least, a shocking scene is in store for him if Father finds out.
The tall church steeple came in sight as they breasted a slope.
“’E must be wearying for home, Mis’ Ellen,” said the driver.
Ellen automatically agreed, but she thought his words hardly described her feelings. Such a contradictory weight pressed on her heart that, perversely, she wished the road were twice as long, wished it would never end. The insidious tune of the men’s morris dance wound through her head; now it seemed wholly sad. The kind greeting of Ted Thatcher, who looked like Benedict, had stirred up yet again the memory of their miserable quarrel. And—supposing that had indeed been Gerard at the inn—had he recognized her and coldly, warily, chosen not to make himself known? Did he think she would betray him?
She thought of Raoul de la Ferté, alone in his huge mansion, and of Germaine disguised as a peasant somewhere in the French countryside. All that former life seemed to have exploded—like a seed-pod, she thought, half consciously noticing the downy filaments of willow herb floating over the road; probably I shall never see those people again. Time moves on and we move with it. There came to her a strange, fatalistic conception of the irreversibility of time; as the horse plodded up the gentle hill, its hooves seemed to rap out the words: Never more, Never more, Never again.
“Your dad found the Doom Stone yet?” inquired the driver chattily.
“Doom Stone? What in the world is that?”
“Why, they’re a-mending the Cathedral, over to Chiddester, and they found a ’dentical big slab of stone, called a Heaven Stone, that did by rights oughta be set up by the right-hand side of the main door. But the Bishop he say there did oughta be another stone—that be the Doom Stone—to goo on the left-hand side o’ the doorway. And your dad be main keen to have it found. Twelve mortal pound, he promise, to the man as’ll bring him a true tale of where it be.”
Ellen was amazed to hear that her father, usually so frugal with his cash, should have offered so large a sum for such an object. “Why is it not in the Cathedral now?” she asked.
“Ah, who can tell? Mebbe owd Mus’ Cromwell he took it away, in they bygone wars. Or thieves—there’ve been aplenty rapscallions since that church were builded. ’Ere we be at the Half Moon, missie. And no one to meet you, by the look of it.”
There was not, and Ellen, hurt, but by now unsurprised at the omission, paid a boy another sixpence to carry her bags up the hill to her father’s house.
The small town of Petworth did not seem to have changed in the slightest particular since she had last been there. The houses, mostly of soft old red brick, looked small, comfortable, trim, and rural, compared to the grandeur and squalor, the palaces and tenements of Paris. The cobbled square and narrow street smelt of hay and horse dung, and of the late roses and asters in little gardens half seen through arches and up alleys. There were few people about at this time of early evening; a couple of women with vaguely familiar faces glanced curiously at Ellen in her dark-blue Parisian dress.
The orchard in front of her father’s house was heavy with a handsome crop, not quite ready for picking. Ellen had a brief memory of sitting with Lady Morningquest in the train crossing the flat Flemish plain covered with orchards and poplars, wondering what Paris held in store for her. How full of hope I was, in spite of all, she thought.
Then Sue, the elderly housemaid, was opening the front door, and breaking into a wide smile of welcome.
“Miss Ellen! Well, I’ll be jiggered! No one said ye was a-coming! Daze it, ye’ll be as welcome as flowers in spring. Well, I am pleased to see ye!” And she gave Ellen an unaffected hug of joy, which was warmly reciprocated.
“But did Mr. Bracegirdle’s telegram not arrive?”
“Not as I knows on, Miss Ellen. Never mind; I’ll have your bed readied up in a trice. You dad’ll be dumbfounded with joy to see you, I reckon,” she added with less certainty.
“Where is he, Sue?”
“Such a hot afternoon, he’s out in the garden, him an’ that Mrs. Pike.” An expressive grimace indicated her opinion of the latter lady. She leaned close and whispered, “Things has gone badly since ye were here last. Lady Adelaide warn’t a mucher, but she were better nor her. Do you go out and make yourself known, now, I’ll take these up.”
Ellen walked into the well-loved garden. The house looked across a deep grassy valley, but from the downstairs windows, or on first walking out, a visitor would never have guessed this; a massive yew hedge, twenty feet high, enclosed the rose garden immediately next to the house. The hedge was so high and thick that the plot it bordered was like a room, warm and quiet and sweet-smelling. Ellen lingered to sniff a late lily and pick a sprig of rosemary; then, hearing voices, she went on through an arch in the yew hedge, to the path beyond, known by the family as the Valley Walk. This was a grassy ride, a hundred yards long, running between two summerhouses. The yew hedge bounded it on the garden side; on the other, a low stone wall permitted a wide view over the valley and the distant northern weald.
Ellen believed she would never tire of this prospect; seeing it now, she felt that a thirst, of which she had been almost unaware, was suddenly, aboundingly satisfied; she could have remained leaning on the wall and looking out for the rest of the afternoon.
But at the west end of the grass walk, in front of the larger summerhouse, she could see three people: a man in a top hat seated on a garden bench, absorbed in a book—her father; a little girl in straw hat and white dress sitting on the grass—that must be Vicky; and, with her back to the serene view, ensconced very upright on another seat, a handsomely dressed lady in voluminous satin brocade, with ringlets, embroidery frame, and elaborately ornamented cap—a rather sharp-featured lady who must be Mrs. Pike.
Eleven
Vicky Paget was an observant little creature. Neither of her parents had ever loved her; Luke took no interest in a fourth female child, and Lady Adelaide was far too dissatisfied with the outcome of her impulsive second marriage to expend much energy on its sole product.
Vicky had to make do, during her nearly six years, as best she could, with the random affections of servants, who, under Lady Adelaide’s fretful regime, came and went with unsettling frequency. In consequence, her nature, though it held the capacity for feeling, was wary, skeptical, and ready to retreat at the first rebuff. She made overtures to nobody, had no friends, and managed to contrive her own amusements out of very little. She did possess a knitted doll, presented to her when she was three by her aunt Blanche. This object, now somewhat worn and raveled, was her chief treasure. But since the advent of Mrs. Pike, Vicky, realizing with unchildlike shrewdness that the housekeeper, who had a very punitive nature, was likely to seize the doll as a hostage, kept her plaything concealed in an earthenware jar under the yew hedge. It was better to have a hidden toy than none.
Instead of games, Vicky therefore employed her powers of observation to the full, and had lately developed a passion for recording her visual discoveries on any scraps of paper she could beg from the servants, steal, or acquire by vigilant attention to wastebaskets. She hoarded morsels of crayon, charcoal, and pencil stubs. Although still unable to read, her constant practice had instilled in her a remarkable facility in portraiture; many a citizen of Petworth would have been startled if he had guessed with what accuracy the small, secretive-looking, dark-haired child who stared at him in the street was later able to record, not only his features and posture, but ev
en some passing expression or grimace, on a torn sugar bag or soiled piece of shelf paper.
This habit of watching had also made Vicky very attentive to behavior. Today, from early in the morning, she had been aware that Mrs. Pike was on the lookout, that something unusual must be liable to occur. Vicky’s vigilance had been especially aroused by the housekeeper’s unwonted amiability toward her. In the morning she had been allowed to help make quince jelly and lick the spoons. Then, midway through the afternoon, Mrs. Pike had smoothed and twisted the child’s dark ringlets and told her to bring a plate of biscuits while she herself carried a jug of lemonade to Mr. Paget, who sat reading on the little terrace by his garden room. It was such a hot afternoon! said the housekeeper; Vicky’s father must be in need of refreshment. At this, Vicky’s suspicions mounted sky-high. She was never, in normal circumstances, permitted to venture into her father’s presence. To be told that she might sit on the grass by her papa and eat a biscuit made her even more mistrustful. Mrs. Pike, meanwhile, established herself nearby with an air of condescension, as if graciously deigning to snatch a few moments from her pressing duties for social intercourse.
She looks as if she were sitting for her portrait, thought Vicky, nibbling a caraway biscuit very slowly; and her fingers itched to pull a torn scrap of paper from its hiding place in her waistband and record the housekeeper’s complacent yet expectant air as she sat sewing, from time to time casting a glance toward the yew arch.
As for Papa, after his initial air of vague wonder and irritation, he had immediately returned to his book, and ignored his unwanted companions. Vicky sat quiet as a leaf; she knew that any fidgeting would incur instant dismissal, and she wanted another biscuit; also she was curious to see what Mrs. Pike was up to.
At long last her patience was rewarded.
A voice from the yew arch said, inquiringly, “Papa?” and a young lady emerged, walked across the grassy ride to admire the view over the wall, then came, with a certain diffidence, toward the little group. Though not tall, she was, Vicky thought, very pretty. Her face was faintly familiar—like the portrait of Papa’s first Mrs. Paget in the dining room. Her dress would be far more interesting to draw than Mrs. Pike’s bulbous crinoline, since it had so much more shape: draperies and swathings, an overskirt looped smoothly across the front and drawn up to a gathering at the back of the waist, with two rows of buttons on the bodice and a frill at the throat; while her tiny round blue hat was ornamented with a cockade of the same blue. Her pale face wore a slight, questioning smile.
“Good God!” said Mr. Paget, lowering his book and staring over it.
He did not look at all pleased.
“Why—goodness gracious me!” exclaimed Mrs. Pike in artless astonishment. “Who can this be?” She addressed the young lady. “I cannot understand, miss, why the maid did not announce you. Pray, did nobody answer the door?”
Her tone rang false in Vicky’s ears; I don’t believe she’s really surprised, thought the child, watching the three faces.
The girl’s tone was absent as she replied, “Why yes, thank you; Sue let me in. She said you were in the garden. Were you not, then, expecting me, Papa? Did you not receive Mr. Bracegirdle’s telegram?”
“Telegram? Bracegirdle? Certainly not. Why the deuce should that fellow be sending me telegrams?”
“To tell you that I was coming.”
“Mrs. Pike? Was any telegram delivered, ma’am?”
“Dear me no, Mr. Paget,” said the housekeeper. “I should of course have informed you at once. Am I to understand that this is Miss Ellen? But what a charming surprise!”
She’s lying, thought Ellen instantly; she knew I was coming, and she wanted it to be a disagreeable surprise for Papa. Meeting Mrs. Pike’s cold china-blue eyes and hostile smile, she understood in a flash why Eugenia, Kitty, and Benedict had been so uncharacteristically unanimous in their dislike of the housekeeper.
“But I do not understand,” Luke Paget was grumbling. “Why should Bracegirdle send a telegram about you, Ellen? Why did you not send it yourself? One can never rely on young persons to do anything in a planned, rational manner, showing consideration for others; it is all flibbertigibbet, here one minute, there the next. Why—pray—are you not in Paris?”
“Did you not read in the papers about the poor Comtesse de la Ferté?” began Ellen, but at this juncture Vicky piped up.
“But a boy did come with a message, Papa!” She was not going to see Ellen unfairly blamed. Rashly, she went on, “Do you not remember, Mrs. Pike, you were looking at the pippins in the orchard when he came through the gate, and you took the paper from him?”
“What moonshine is this, child?” said the housekeeper, a spot of color on either cheek, and Mr. Paget rapped out, “Speak when you are spoken to, miss, not before!”
Vicky, scarlet and silenced, hung her head. But she had impulsively pulled a torn paper from her belt. Ellen gently took it from her and saw that it was, in fact, the text of the message that Bracegirdle had dispatched.
“Wicked, wicked little girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Pike. “So you took the message, and, I suppose, proposed to do some more of your eternal scribbles on the paper, and leave your poor papa in ignorance?”
“I didn’t! I did not! You tore it in half and threw it into the hall basket—I saw you—so I took it from there.”
Mrs. Pike cast up her eyes to heaven.
“I know somebody who needs a good dose of malt and brimstone to cure her of telling untruths and prying, poking underhand ways. I am sure your papa agrees?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Paget irritably. “It is very unladylike, Vicky, to go rummaging in wastepaper baskets. And if you took the paper from the boy and did not deliver it, that was exceedingly mischievous.”
“I didn’t! I didn’t!”
Vicky was removed, tearful and struggling, by the housekeeper, who appeared to have considerable strength. Ellen looked after the pair, deeply troubled. She had a strong impulse to exclaim, “I am certain that Vicky was telling the truth and that woman was lying!” but restrained it. To embark at once on overt warfare with Mrs. Pike would be rash tactics, though she felt distressed for the child; and it would be likely to antagonize her father. She had best keep quiet, until she had a stronger case.
Meanwhile she continued to answer Luke Paget’s impatient questions.
“But I fail to understand why you are come home. Why, if there was trouble in the house where you were employed—no, I never read news items about Paris—why did not Lady Morningquest find you another situation?”
“Oh, Papa! Poor Lady Morningquest was in great grief over the death of her niece—she was in no case to be finding me situations. Besides—do you begrudge me a brief holiday? I had hoped that—that you might be pleased to see me?” She refrained from saying since the death of my stepmother, which might annoy him further. Besides, there had been something alarmingly cozy—almost conjugal—about that garden scene with the jug of lemonade and Mrs. Pike’s embroidery tambour, which quite banished any image of Luke Paget as a lonely disconsolate widower.
All at once Ellen began to feel a certain sympathy for Eugenia and Kitty.
* * *
When Ellen went in to unpack and change her dress for dinner, she heard, as she climbed the stair, unmistakable sounds of sobs and retching. They came from the attic floor, where there were two small bedrooms.
Sue the housemaid, setting a jug of hot water on the washstand, listened to these with tight-pressed lips and a crease between her brows.
“That Pike,” she muttered. “Pike her name and Pike her nature. Always dosing the poor child with brimstone or castor oil, or Gregory’s powder, acos Master say it be his affair to slipper her if she’s bad, but dosing the child she can do any time, and say ’tis for her good.”
“Vicky sleeps up there?”
“Ah. Her in one attic, Mus’ Gerald in t’ot
her. Mrs. Pike, she have the big guest room. See to her own comfort, that one do.”
Having slipped on a dress of silver-gray tarlatan suitable for such a warm evening, Ellen stole up to the stuffy attic floor, carrying with her a bundle of fashion magazines which Kitty had purchased in Paris and packed into one of Ellen’s bags, where they had been forgotten. Kitty would be annoyed when she found she had lost her Paris modes, but they might be put to better use here. Ellen was sorry there had been no time to buy her small half sister a toy before leaving Paris, but perhaps the magazines might prove better than nothing.
Indeed, Vicky received them with rapture.
“Oh!” she breathed. “What beautiful ladies!”—studying the wasp-waisted giantesses with rosebud mouths and tiny extremities. Matter-of-factly, she added, “It seems almost a pity to draw on all these pages.”
“Is that what you wish to do?”
“Of course. May I not?” Vicky asked anxiously.
“Do just as you wish,” Ellen reassured her. The child’s face was pale, still streaked with tears; she hiccupped from time to time. Her expression strongly tempted Ellen to promise that in any future confrontation with Mrs. Pike she would take Vicky’s part; but she had best, she told herself, begin with discretion; such a promise might prove impossible to implement.
“Are you truly my sister Ellen?” Vicky was asking. “I don’t remember you very well.”
“You were only three when you saw me last, at Eugenia’s baby’s christening.”
“I think you were not so pretty then? You had a pink gown.”
“So I did.”
“It had a collar like this.” Vicky dragged a scrumpled page from under her pillow and drew a careful outline on it. Ellen noticed that the paper, an advertisement for Patent Soot Remover, was covered with drawings.
“Why, that is Papa!” she said, surprised. “And Mrs. Pike! These are very good, Vicky.”
“I can do better now,” said Vicky carelessly. “Those were done weeks ago. See, here is Sue—and Mr. Wheelbird—”
