by Joan Aiken
Kitty was away at a charity bazaar in Tunstall. Ellen had already ventured out, two or three times, into the gardens of Maple Grove and the outskirts of the village; her departure from the house excited no remark.
The Crown was a large, respectable-looking hostelry with an arched entrance for carriages and a number of people coming and going; evidently it was used as a place of call for manufacturers, and Ellen was able to slip into the coffee room without anyone asking her business or particularly observing her. Once there, she looked anxiously around her. A tall, elegantly dressed form removed itself from the seat nearest the fire and came toward her.
“My dear Ellen! May I ask what all this is about? I am come, as you see, in answer to your summons, but—” Then he looked more closely at her and exclaimed, “Good God, Ellie! What is the matter with you? You look like a ghost!”
“Oh, Benedict! I am so thankful that you have come! It is all so dreadful! But”—she glanced about—“we can’t talk here.”
“No, I have reserved a private parlor. And you look as if you would be the better for some coffee. Come this way.”
Comfortably established by a brisk fire in an upstairs room, Ellen poured out her story. She was careful to keep her language and tone as moderate, calm, and objective as possible; she did not want Benedict to think that she was indulging in hysterical exaggeration, fancy, or melodrama; and she was infinitely relieved to see, as she proceeded, that his expression grew more and more appalled.
“Benedict, if Papa is left there much longer, I think he will die! Or he will go truly mad, and then they will consign him to Bedlam. And he is not mad; I am positive of that. Poor old man! He is wholly confused and wandering—and no wonder, after such treatment. But I am certain that, once restored to his own home, he will regain his usual sense.”
“I always did think Kitty hard as nails,” muttered Benedict. His brows knit, he rubbed his forehead, then asked, “Who has the key to your father’s room?”
“Sam’s man Consett. He keeps it in his pocket. And he is devoted to my brother-in-law.”
“No man’s devotion extends beyond a certain point,” said Benedict drily. “Try him with fifty pounds, Ellie; if that fails, raise it to a hundred.”
“A hundred?”
“You wish to rescue your father—well? Now let’s think. He will need clothes. I can bring a suit of my brother’s from Matlock—he is a big fellow, they will do well enough. You say Bracegirdle is out all day—what about Kitty?”
“She too is out a great deal. But when—when could you come?”
Ellen’s voice trembled. She could hardly believe, even now, that Benedict was really going to help. Angry at her own weakness, she shook the tears from her eyes.
“Tomorrow at this time. How would that be?”
“That would be capital. I heard Kitty say that on Friday afternoon she was to attend a meeting of the Overseas Mission Society at Cheadle. She—she occupies herself a great deal with charity.”
“Charity!” Benedict muttered something which Ellen thought it best not to hear. “Wait here a moment, Ellie; indulge yourself in another cup of coffee while I go on an errand.”
He was absent for ten minutes, while Ellen sat in a state of such relief and exhaustion that it felt like vertigo; to have found someone prepared to share her burden was an alleviation she had hardly dared expect. It was almost a surprise to see Benedict come back through the door.
“There!” He slapped down an envelope full of dirty bank notes on the table. “I have discovered there are some advantages to being an earl’s brother; your credit is excellent within a twenty-five-mile radius of his seat! Try this on your Cerberus and I am fairly certain it will succeed.”
“If not?”
“If not, then we shall be obliged to call in the law; but I am sure you, and your father too, would wish to avoid that if possible.”
Ellen’s spirits sank at the suggestion. She said falteringly, “Benedict, the next problem that has been occupying me is, where can we take him? For he is too frail to undertake the whole journey to Sussex, and—”
“Nothing simpler. We take him to Matlock Chase. Easingwold wouldn’t have the least objection, but he is not there at present; he stays at Melton for the hunting. Aunt Essie is there; she’s a kind old soul with her head in the clouds, nothing surprises her. And it is only two hours’ drive from here; that won’t harm your father.”
“Oh, Benedict! I h-hardly kn-know what to s-say—”
“Come, now, Ellie!” he said kindly. “This is no time to break down. You have to go back and recruit your strength for tomorrow; show an innocent face to that atrocious pair, and set to work on the manservant. But not too soon!”
She stood up obediently, and he wrapped her mantle closely round her. “That’s the dandy. Now—one last point—is there a side entrance to the house?”
“Yes: to the left, past the shrubbery.”
“Can one take a carriage along?”
“Yes, it is where coals are delivered.”
“Excellent; I will be there at this time tomorrow. Till then—keep your heart up!”
He clasped her hands briefly and was gone.
Sixteen
Even when they were in the coach, Ellen could hardly believe that they were safe. She kept looking anxiously out of the window until Benedict, laughing, said, “Don’t worry, Ellie! After all, if Bracegirdle did come home unexpectedly early, and start in pursuit, he would assume that you had taken the road south to Lichfield; or, more probably, gone into Stoke to catch a train.”
“Yes, that is true,” agreed Ellen, relieved.
“It commences to snow,” Benedict said, glancing out at the hillier country through which they were now passing. “What a piece of good fortune that it did not start any earlier! A heavy fall was the one thing that might have prevented our plan.”
Luke, all this time, had been sitting with a dazed, vacant expression on his face, which, though she would hardly admit it to herself, deeply troubled his daughter. He had submitted quietly, without utterance, to being dressed, wrapped up warmly, and escorted downstairs to the carriage. But even since the day she arrived at Maple Grove he seemed to have deteriorated. What—she now had leisure to think—what if the Bracegirdles and their doctor had been right about his mental state? What if by now he were too far gone to recover—too disturbed, too confused?
“Don’t distress yourself,” said Benedict quietly, guessing at her anxieties. “This must all seem to him like a wild dream. It may take days—weeks—before he is himself again.”
By the time they had reached Matlock Chase the snowstorm had grown to a blizzard; the horses could only just battle against it.
“This weather will be a stopper on my brother’s hunting,” said Benedict, carefully, with the help of a couple of footmen, assisting Luke to climb out of the carriage. “I suspect, Ellie, that you may have to resign yourself to several days’—if not weeks’—incarceration here. I only hope Matlock may not prove as much of a prison as Maple Grove!”
“It is a little larger!” Matlock was an immense house, thrown up by Vanbrugh for the third earl. Just the same, the thought of not being able to leave—of being uninvited guests for so long—was very disagreeable. Ellen went on doubtfully, unhappily, “Benedict, I am sorry for this. Indeed I had not expected—I do not wish to be a burden on you—or disarrange your plans—or—or those of Charlotte Morningquest.”
“Charlotte Morningquest?” He sounded astonished. “How does she come into the business?”
“I thought you might have invited her to stay here?”
“Over my dead body!” said Benedict. “There are limits beyond which I will not endure to be bored.”
They walked into a huge hall, decorated with gray-and-white parti-colored marble statues in niches, and a great many weapons. An elderly servant with a benevolent face
came forward to welcome them.
“Now this is Hathersage, who will be taking care of your father, and I assure you if Hathersage looks after anybody they are guaranteed recovery from anything up to bubonic plague; he has seen me through whooping cough, scarlatina, and a broken thigh, and I was a difficult patient, was I not, Hathersage?”
“Tolerable difficult, Master Benedict,” said Hathersage, smiling. “Don’t you fret, now, miss, well soon have the old gentleman on the mend. Just you come this way, sir, and the young lady can come up and sit with you, soon’s you’re between the sheets.”
“Meantime, you come with me,” said Benedict. “There is somebody else who has been on tenterhooks ever since I told her this morning that you would be arriving.”
In fact they did not have to go anywhere; Vicky appeared, hurling herself down a vast staircase, crying, “Ellen, Ellen! I am so happy to see you! Is not this a splendid palace?”
“Vicky! I was just about to ask Benedict if it might be possible to visit you at school!”
“I did that last week,” said Benedict. “Your sister Kitty was so obliging as to inform me of the action she had seen fit to take; not out of consideration! She felt it proper to tell me so that I might contribute toward the school fees. Being one who likes to be sure that I am getting value for my money, I went to inspect the place, found Vicky miserably unhappy and learning nothing, so took her away and brought her here, where she can tyrannize it over Easingwold’s brats—who are much younger, of course—and share the attentions of their Miss Flyte.”
“Oh, Benedict! And are you enjoying yourself here, Vicky?”
“Tolerably,” replied Vicky with her usual caution. “But I shall prefer it when we can go home to the Hermitage. I am very glad to see you, Ellen. Oh, but your poor hair! What happened to it? And you are so thin! Have you been very sick? Did you nearly die?”
“No, no; and I am quite better now, and my hair will soon grow again and I shall be as fat as a pig. Have you drawn many pictures here?”
“Hundreds! And we have been skating in the park—Benedict taught me. I will show you—if only it will stop snowing.”
But it did not stop snowing for three days and nights. Most of that time Ellen spent at her father’s bedside, talking to him, listening to him, feeding him, coaxing him slowly back to lucidity and reason. He took a chill from the journey, and, for a time, she feared that her impulsive action might prove his death. At times she was in despair. But, little by little, recognition returned to his eyes and intelligibility to his utterance. The Earl of Radnor’s personal dentist attended on him to measure and construct a new set of false teeth, and this addition greatly improved both his appearance and his diction, once he got into the way of wearing them, which did, however, take a little time.
Ellen herself suffered something of a relapse after the mental, physical, and emotional strain of the days at Maple Grove; she felt desperately tired for several days following the arrival at Matlock Chase.
She could not avoid a good deal of speculation as to the Bracegirdle’s’ reactions when they discovered that Mr. Paget and his daughter were missing. None of the servants save Consett had witnessed the departure, for it had been managed at a time when they were belowstairs having their dinner; and Consett, wholly won over by the hundred pounds, had said he intended to break the lock, so that it would not be thought he had any hand in the escape. Kitty and her husband might well think that the fugitives had perished somewhere in the blizzard. How would they act then?
As soon as it was feasible to do so, Ellen sent a reassuring telegram to Gerard, and followed it with a detailed letter. After a week she received a note from him in reply:
“Have had no end of kick-up from Kitty and Samuel, who seemed to think I should know where you and Papa had got to: telegrams every hour for a day or so. I replied that I had no notion where you were. Now they have quieted down. I daresay Kitty may be ashamed of making the matter public. Very sorry to hear P. was in such poor health, hope he is on the way to mending now. Tell him another portion of slab uncovered in Chi. Cath. undercroft; mason fairly certain it is the Doom Stone. Hope to see you soon. G.”
“I have had a letter from Gerard, Papa,” said Ellen. “He tells me that the masons working in Chichester Cathedral really believe they have found the Doom Stone, in a small crypt-like chamber under the nave.”
“The Doom Stone?” Luke spoke slowly and ponderingly. “Ah yes—I remember. They found a Paradise Stone—did they not? And there should be two. There should always be two. Black and white. Up and down. Good and evil. Man and wife.”
“In and out,” said Ellen, smiling, pleased to play this game with him and exercise his rusty wits. “Brother and sister. Here and there. You and I.”
“Ah. But you, Ellen, are two—are you not? You are brother and sister both. For you had a twin—little Luke, who died.”
“Why—so I did,” said Ellen, utterly astonished at this unexpected evidence of memory and recognition. “My poor little brother. That is why the people in Petworth say that I am a healer.”
“A healer. Yes, of course. They used to come to the door—did they not? And somebody—some person—did not care for them to do so. She said we would be having our poultry stolen.”
“That was Mrs. Pike,” said Ellen softly.
“Pike? I do not recollect the name. But Mattie—Mattie always lets the people come.”
“Does she, Papa?”
“Invariably! Ask her yourself! She was here but a moment ago. She brought me”—he looked about—“she brought me those flowers.” He pointed to a little glass full of snowdrops that Ellen had brought from the conservatory. “She is nearly always with me now.”
“I am glad of that, Papa,” Ellen said steadily.
“Poor Mattie. I did her great wrong.” Luke’s hollow eyes moved round and rested on his daughter. “I used her as I might an armchair—a desk. As if—as if she were there only for my convenience. I seldom talked with her, or asked her opinion. And yet she was a person—a spirit! One human being should not use another so.”
“Never mind, Papa. You would not have done it if you had considered more. You know better now—it seems we never stop growing. And Mattie would not hold it against you.”
“No, she has forgiven me. She tells me so,” said Luke contentedly. “She tells me so every day.”
* * *
At last the snow stopped, and Benedict announced that it was time Ellen had an airing.
Ever since Mr. Paget’s rescue, a certain cautious confidence had replaced the cold formality which had for so long characterized the relations between Ellen and Benedict. It is hardly possible to participate in such an enterprise without, to some degree and almost involuntarily, relaxing one’s defenses against the partner who has assisted in the adventure. Ellen’s gratitude to Benedict for his promptitude in action, efficiency, and subsequent tactful solicitude made her feel it incumbent upon her to infuse into her expressions of proper obligation a degree of warmth and friendship which he seemed quite disposed to reciprocate. In fact the pair were getting on very comfortably.
Each day Benedict made kind inquiries as to Mr. Paget’s progress and, when the patient became equal to company, was prepared to help entertain him in any way that might be acceptable. Much conversation was still fatiguing to Luke, but Benedict played spillikins with him, and read aloud Shakespeare’s plays, from which Luke seemed to derive considerable pleasure, especially Timon and King Lear. He then asked for the poetry of Cowper, explaining somewhat wistfully that this poet was “Mattie’s favorite.” Fortunately Lady Dovedale, Benedict’s aunt Essie, a kindly vague soul, proved to be greatly addicted to Cowper and to possess his complete works; she was prepared to read them aloud ad infinitum.
“Very good,” said Benedict. “Hathersage is in the next room; your father is in excellent hands; you have not been out of doors since you arri
ved here, and your cheeks are the color of whey. I am going to teach you to skate; put on your pelisse.”
A dozen gardeners had been set to work, sweeping the snow off the frozen lake.
“The ice looks dreadfully hard,” said Ellen dubiously, eyeing the dark-gray surface, on which Vicky and Radnor’s two little daughters, aged six and four, were already tumbling about with Miss Flyte, screaming with laughter and falling flat more often than they stood upright.
“Don’t think about that. These are my great-aunt Georgiana’s skates—I think they will fit you very well. Now take my hand—trust me—just think that you are a bird, skimming along.”
Never had Ellen felt herself so helpless. Her feet slipped away from her in what felt like an infinite number of opposing directions simultaneously; her weight never seemed to be where it would help, but always pulling her disastrously out of balance.
“I feel like a sack—a lump!” she gasped. “It is hopeless, Benedict—quite hopeless! I shall never, never learn.”
“No, no, it will come. That’s the way—push forward, not back. It is more like dancing than walking.”
Unsteadily, they glided off down the lake, toward distant dark woods and a snowy hillside.
“The last time I danced with you,” said Benedict, “was at Kitty’s wedding. Do you remember?”
Did she not! Vividly the occasion returned to Ellen. After dancing with her four times, he had taken her down into the Valley Walk, and told her that she looked like a wild hyacinth. They had walked to and fro, to and fro…
“Very good!” said Benedict. “Now you are quite getting the feel of it. I knew that you would be a quick learner—such a clever girl as you are!” He spoke teasingly, as usual, but there was affection in his tone.
They were a long way from the others now, going faster and faster. The air that rushed past was like breath of diamonds.
