The Girl from Paris

by Joan Aiken

  “Would that be Mrs. Emily Pike, now, that went over for to do for Mr. Paget in Perrorth?” she murmured ingratiatingly.

  “Why yes,” said Ellen. “Is she a friend of yours? Do you wish to send her a message?”

  “Ah, you see, dearie, I used to be cook for poor old Canon Fothergill and Miss Phoebe. But tell me, love, is it true what they say—that Emily’s to marry Mester Paget? Is it really true?”

  Startled, Ellen glanced at the pharmacist. But he was out of earshot at the other end of the shop, by a rampart of brass-handled mahogany drawers, spooning powder from a black japanned canister.

  Ellen said, “Is that what people say? That Mrs. Pike is going to marry my father?”

  “Lord-a-mercy!” The little woman gasped with fright. “You be Mus’ Paget’s daughter? I took ye for one o’ the maids, wi’ your gown so skimpy-like; otherwise I’d never ha’ said what I did, missie. Don’t ye take no notice, now!” And, quick as a lizard, she scuttled from the shop.

  Very thoughtfully indeed, Ellen completed her tale of purchases, and then made her way in the direction of St. Mary’s Hospital. Something furtive and scared in the little woman’s manner had rekindled all her doubts. It was all very well to say to Eugenia, “Why should not Papa marry Mrs. Pike if he is fond of her?”—but what if there were really something underhand, discreditable, about Mrs. Pike?

  St. Mary’s Hospital, a twelfth-century foundation, lay hardly five minutes’ walk from the Butter Cross, close to the center of the town. From outside it was like a combination of a church and a tithe barn; a long, splendidly tiled red roof sloped up almost from the ground. Inside the resemblance to a church increased, for there was a nave and an east window of five lights, and an altar; but the space on either side of the nave had been partitioned off into eight tiny self-contained dwellings, each with its own front door. In these lived eight old ladies of attested respectability, devout habit, and straitened means; the only other qualifications for acceptance being that they must have been born within the parish of Chichester.

  “May I see Miss Fothergill?” inquired Ellen of the matron, who greeted her civilly in the porch.

  “I’ll just make sure she’s fit to see ye, miss; after morning chapel some of the old ’uns goes back to bed. What name shall I say?”

  “Miss Ellen Paget; my mother, Mrs. Matilda Paget, used to be a friend of Miss Fothergill.”

  In a moment the matron returned. “Please to step this way, miss. It’s the third door on the decani side. Maybe I oughter warn you,” she added in a lower tone, “the poor old lady is apt to wander in her wits. She never was right sharp, and she’s seventy-eight—her uncle the old Canon was just a few days short of a hundred when he passed away—she mistakes folks for those she knowed when she was young, so don’t mind her, miss.”

  Ellen tapped on the door and was summoned by a quavering “Come!”

  She had never been in one of the St. Mary’s Hospital dwellings, and was charmed by its nest-like compactness. There was a tiny kitchen, a parlor, and a bedroom, all scrupulously clean, miraculously so, considering the abundance of objects—china, glass, miniatures, pincushions, framed watercolors, evidently all the old lady’s personal treasures—which clustered on every surface. There was a little grate, in which burned a frugal fire, and two small chintz-covered nursing chairs, on one of which sat Miss Fothergill, erect and expectant in tobacco-brown silk.

  “Matilda!” she whispered. “Oh, Mattie dear, they told me you were dead! Even Lady Blanche said so. They told me I must never hope to see you more. Oh, I am so delighted that they were mistaken!”

  “No, dear Miss Fothergill,” said Ellen gently. “I am afraid they were not mistaken. I am not Matilda but Ellen—do you remember Matilda’s youngest daughter?”

  “Nonsense, my dear, you are quite out. Ellen is only a little thing—I have often given her bits of orange peel to feed to Sir Walter there.”

  A hoarse voice made Ellen start. It issued from a cage by the window, and remarked, “Polly wants a comfit! A little bit of peel for Sir Walter, if you please!”

  “Your parrot! I had quite forgotten him. But truly, Miss Fothergill, I am Ellen Paget, grown up. I have been residing in France since Mama died.”

  A tear crept down the old lady’s cheek. “Then it was true, after all? Poor Mattie did die? I might have known she would come to see me otherwise—if the Shark didn’t prevent her.” An anxious, melancholy expression overspread her face; she glanced sidelong and said, “They do not let her in here—thank goodness!—but I fear she may be able to hear what we say.”

  “To whom do you refer, dear Miss Fothergill?”

  The old lady extended a trembling hand. Ellen took it carefully and Miss Fothergill drew her close.

  “Uncle William is going to leave her all his money! I fear I shall be quite destitute. The house goes with his office, you know. I am in such distress about the future!”

  “But, dearest Miss Fothergill—here you are, snugly established in St. Mary’s—I am sure you need not have the least anxiety.”

  “Are you sure, my love? Is this where we are? But then—where is she?”

  “Do you refer to Mrs. Pike, ma’am?”

  “Hush! Not so loud.” Miss Fothergill glanced about apprehensively. “She said her son would come and lock me in the summerhouse—but there is a hard frost! I should never last through the night. Her son is a criminal…”

  The old lady was so agitated and tremulous that Ellen did not like to pursue the subject any further—though by now her suspicions were rampant. She talked, instead, about her mother, and the embroidery she had taught Miss Fothergill.

  “Drawn-thread-work, was it not? And crewel-work?”

  “Dear me, yes! I have many examples of your dear mother’s worsted-work with me. See, here! And here!” In a moment the old lady was happily opening drawers and boxes, her fears quite forgotten. Ellen stayed with her another ten minutes, then, hearing the Cathedral bell chime the quarter, took her leave, promising to come back.

  Driving to Valdoe Court with Eustace, she asked if he had ever heard any gossip about Mrs. Pike’s dealings with her previous employers. He rubbed his high, balding brow, thought for a while, and said at last, “I do recall that the old Canon bequeathed a substantial sum to his housekeeper in his will. Ay, that’s right, there was some talk about it, since he left his niece quite poorly provided for. I had forgotten it was the Pike woman. But nothing improper was imputed—the Canon was in his nineties, after all. Folk assumed he had grown so old that he hardly knew what money he had. The niece, being somewhat simple, was not considered in a position to contest; and, fortunately, a place was found for her in St. Mary’s—though they had lived elsewhere, she had been born in Chichester; so nobody felt called upon to pursue the matter. After all, people often do leave large sums to faithful housekeepers.”

  “Have you ever heard a son of Mrs. Pike’s mentioned?”

  “Why no,” said Eustace, after more thought. “I cannot say I have. But Mrs. Pike is not a native of the town, you know; she was already in the employ of the Canon when he came here from Winchester.”

  Ellen was puzzled at the thought of trying to pursue inquiries in a town so far distant as Winchester. But Eustace said he knew an attorney there, and would ask him.

  Eugenia, fretfully darning tablecloths in the morning room at Valdoe, listened with sharp interest to the story about Miss Fothergill, and exclaimed, “There! What did I say? There is something bad about that woman, and she will terrorize Papa as she did the Canon and his niece. Now do you see that it is a good thing we brought you back?”

  “You could have gone to see Miss Fothergill yourself, any time these five months,” Ellen pointed out.

  “How can I leave the house, with so much on my hands? It is all very well for you to go jauntering about, Ellen,” complained Eugenia, and went on hastily, “You must
on no account leave Papa alone with her!”

  “But the Canon and his niece were aged, simple people. Papa is far from being that!”

  “The Bishop thinks he is astray in his wits—because of all this to-do he makes about the Doom Stone. And he behaved most foolishly about that wretched shepherd.”

  “Ay,” said Eustace, “that was an ill-judged business. It was very wrong of Paget to make Noakes turn off his shepherd, simply because Gerard had made friends with the man. People round here had a deal to say about that, I can tell you.”

  “Make Noakes turn off his shepherd?” Ellen was bewildered. “What can you be referring to? Noakes the farmer in Duncton? Papa’s tenant?”

  “Ay; it seems your young brother had made great friends with his shepherd, one Matthew Bilbo. Paget had several times remonstrated with Gerard about what he considered a most unsuitable association, and in the end, last month, losing patience, he told Noakes to dismiss the man.”

  “But how monstrously unjust!” exclaimed Ellen. “No wonder Gerard has been going about so silent and furious-looking these last few weeks. He must feel dreadfully to blame—if Papa had warned him and said what he would do. But the poor shepherd—what became of him? Is it known?”

  Eugenia pursed her lips disapprovingly. Eustace said in a deprecating tone, “Well—in point of fact—felt sorry for the poor fellow—excellent man at his work—no harm in him at all—so I took him on here. My Southdowns are increasing handsomely and I can find work for a second man—there’s an old tumbledown hut on Lavant Down I told him he could have. But I would be obliged, Ellen, if you’d not mention this to Mr. Paget.”

  “No wonder we never have a penny,” sniffed Eugenia to her darning needle. “But needless to say I am not consulted.”

  “That was very kind in you,” said Ellen warmly to her brother-in-law. “But why was Papa so against the man? Simply because he was a shepherd?”

  “No, the story goes further back. Bilbo is in his fifties, and has been in prison for nigh on twenty years. Your father was one of the Justices who originally sentenced him.”

  “What was his offense?”

  “Poaching. I was away at college then, but I looked up the case. Bilbo was not caught in the act, but an information was laid against him, and a poached hare was found in his house.”

  “So the sentence may have been undeserved?”

  “It seems highly possible. Bilbo is a gentle, inoffensive, most law-abiding man. He stated on oath that he had not taken the hare. And many people came forward to speak highly of his character.”

  “So now it will be said that Papa, having sentenced him unjustly, is hounding him even more unjustly.”

  “I fear so,” said Eustace.

  * * *

  Ellen rode back to Petworth on the public coach with much to occupy her mind. I have to brace myself to speak to Papa, she thought. Not to warn him about Mrs. Pike. I have no shadow of right to do that at present, no definite accusation to make; it would seem mere malice, and would do more harm than good. But it is my plain duty to say what I think about this wretched shepherd; and to tell Papa that he is going quite the wrong way about his management of Gerard.

  She was sure that Luke never gave the least thought about how his actions might appear to others. He was hardly aware of the outside world. He had never asked Ellen about her life in Paris, or displayed any interest in the la Ferté tragedy; he seemed wrapped in a cocoon of his own weaving. Gerard was his only link with the present or the future.

  And Mrs. Pike, of course.

  At this moment Ellen absently glanced from the coach window. They were slowly climbing the long gentle ascent to Petworth. A clump of trees stood to the left of the road, by a track that led to Frog Hole Farm. Ellen, from her high seat by the window, had a view over the hedge, and could see two women talking in the little spinney. One, a thin young woman in black, looked to be a stranger, but the other—surely?—was Mrs. Pike herself. Her stance, her carefully tended gray ringlets, a glimpse of lavender color were unmistakable, despite the old brown mantle. She was handing the young woman a small basket—she seemed vexed, shook her head repeatedly, then walked rapidly away from the copse. Crossing the turnpike behind the coach—and now Ellen was sure it was Mrs. Pike—she took a diagonal across a stubble field which would bring her out in Petworth, not far from the Hermitage.

  At dinner, Ellen did not mention this occurrence. But Mrs. Pike herself brought up the matter.

  “Mrs. Standen, at Hoadley’s, told me there were excellent young ducklings to be had at Frog Hole Farm,” she announced. “So I went there—but it was a Banbury story, there were no ducklings, and I had my walk for nothing.”

  Nobody seemed very interested, but Ellen civilly commiserated with the housekeeper on her fruitless errand.

  Perhaps the short absence in Chichester had sharpened Ellen’s perception, or the relationship between the other two had advanced a step during her visit to Valdoe; at all events Luke’s behavior toward the housekeeper did strike his daughter quite forcibly that evening. There seemed a kind of awareness—glances were exchanged—or rather, Luke glanced, Mrs. Pike wore a demurely complacent air; he went out of his way, uncharacteristically, to address various trifling remarks to her; he asked her questions, he sometimes contrived to touch her hand or sleeve as she passed him his cup. He did, Ellen was obliged to admit, bear the appearance of a man in the first stages of infatuation.

  What a disastrous time to embark on an attempt to undermine his authority!

  “Papa,” she said quietly, after the meal, when Gerard had gone off. “I should like to speak to you, if it is convenient, about—about a matter that is troubling me.”

  Reluctantly Luke turned his eyes in their deep sockets away from Mrs. Pike, and fixed them on his daughter. Notwithstanding his aura of sexual excitement, he seemed to Ellen a sad and lonely figure; in her mind’s eye she saw him as a great eroded monolithic image in the desert, long since abandoned by the tribe that had once paid homage—if indeed homage had ever been paid. No, she thought; Mama did truly love him. I must remember that.

  “Now?” said Luke irritably. “You wish to speak to me now?”

  “Yes, if you please. Or at any other time that suits you.”

  He glanced about in a beleaguered manner. They were in the overfurnished parlor. Vicky had long since been dispatched to bed. Mrs. Pike, by the tea tray, was stitching away at her eternal embroidery. A woman of tact and grace would at this point, Ellen reflected, have gathered her things together and made some pretext to leave; not so Mrs. Pike. Her needle snicked in and out of the canvas, her eyes moved, with equal speed, from Luke to Ellen and back.

  “Oh—very well,” Luke grunted. “What is it you wish to say?”

  “May I not be private with you? Perhaps we should go to your business room?”

  At this plain hint Mrs. Pike rather huffily folded her work and said, “If I am in the way, I shall of course take myself off!”

  “No, Emilia, no, ma’am; why should you disturb yourself?” Luke demanded. “Anything my daughter has to say may be said in your presence.”

  Emilia! thought Ellen. Aloud she said doggedly, “I would rather be private, if it is all the same to you, Papa.”

  “Well, it is not all the same, miss. I don’t choose to move, and I don’t choose that Mrs. Pike shall be forced out of the parlor. Say what you have to say and have done with it.”

  “Very well; if that is your wish. It is about this affair of the shepherd—Matthew Bilbo.”

  “And what the devil business is that of yours, miss?” growled Luke, surprised and not at all pleased. “I suppose Eugenia and that fool Eustace Valdoe have been bleating on about it?”

  Ellen had armed herself against this attack. She said, “You know what a number of people come to me if they are sick. Many have mentioned it to me.”

  She had, in f
act, taken pains, after her return, to call on a number of such people and had led the talk round to the affair. She went on, “People in Petworth are distressed about it, Papa. They do not like it. They say that Bilbo’s original sentence was almost certainly undeserved, but could have been sheer misfortune. His dismissal now, though, they feel to be deliberate, vindictive hounding of a defenseless man. And,” added Ellen warmly, forgetting that she had intended to model her manner of the cool, dégagé air of Louise de la Ferté, “I think so too! I think it was a very mean act, Papa, to make Noakes dismiss the man, and does you no credit at all. It has alienated Gerard from you—so in that respect it was a calamitous mistake.”

  “For shame, miss!” exclaimed Mrs. Pike. “What a way to speak to your father!”

  Luke remained silent. He was utterly astounded. Ellen continued, “For Gerard’s sake, Papa—but even more for your own, to reestablish yourself in people’s minds as a just man—you should tell Noakes to give the shepherd his job again. You could tell him that a mistake had been made. As it is, people are saying terribly hard things about you—that you cannot control your own son, and are venting your spite and vexation on the inoffensive cause of the trouble.”

  “Oh! That I should live to hear such things said.” Mrs. Pike turned up her eyes.

  Ellen went on, steadfastly ignoring the housekeeper, “Papa—think how Mama would have felt about it. She could not endure injustice. She would have said—”

  “Quiet!” thundered Luke, finding his voice at last. He glared at Ellen, his face working with wrath and other, more complicated emotions. He looked so extremely angry that Ellen, quite surprised at her own lack of fear, thought: Perhaps Mama is speaking through me. And indeed the strong resemblance that she bore to her mother just then, both in expression and in attitude, did much to confuse Luke. He said hoarsely, “How dare you speak so?”