“And always there was boys.”
After the child had been led away to bed, James thought of the evening with satisfaction. “Nice robust little thing. Nothing namby-pamby about her. She had been interested. No wonder. It was a fine history worth being interested in. He would see a bit more of her. Clever little thing. Quick too! ‘Always there was boys.’” He stretched out his legs to the blaze. “Always there was boys.” Pray God he would not be the Torrys to break the line.
Chapter VII
THOMAS FELTON ordered Selina away. He went to her about it before tackling James.
“You know, my dear, time we had you out again.” He saw how incompetent Selina felt to face life once more, and made soothing noises such as would please his mare. “James won’t want his wife on a sofa much longer. How about you getting away?”
Selina was appalled at the thought of the effort, but she asked meekly:
“Where?”
He did not miss the courage behind the half-hearted inflection.
“That’s just what I’ve come to find out. You see we must get you fit so that you can take anything by the end of the summer. You’re not the sort to be hanging about at the back of the field. Where’d you fancy?”
Where’d she fancy! That needed no thought. Home.
Selina had seen comparatively little of her mother since her marriage. They seemed to have drifted apart, not in affection, but in understanding. Mrs. Ellison’s health had been such that she had spent a lot of her time going from Spa to Spa, and had little over for visiting. This was in its way an advantage; her visits to the Manor were happy enough on the surface, but underneath they left both women feeling that in some way they had been a disappointment. Mrs. Ellison was always looking for her little Selina who had played with Margaret, and failing to find her in the dignified mistress of a large house. Selina was pleased with herself as a chatelaine, and humiliated by her mother’s ecstatic: “There you are, still a child at heart. What a baby you still look, no older than when you played with your dollies.” Apart from these minor frictions there was, when Selina was in health, such a close happiness between herself and James that everyone, even those nearest to them, felt outsiders. Mrs. Ellison had intended to come to her daughter for this birth, but Selina had stopped her. Her family, particularly her mother, were quite incapable of seeing why the Torrys were so anxious for a boy. Naturally every woman wanted a son, but whether one came or not was in the hands of Heaven and it was pointless to worry dear little Selina about it. Selina was terrified that if her mother did come and the worst should happen and she should produce another girl, a solecism would be committed: “Well, dear James, does it matter much? Little girls are so sweet aren’t they?” or something equally appalling.
Yet now. Where’d you fancy? Where but with her mother, playing at being a child again. She pictured her old untouched schoolroom. Her dolls and toys still on her shelves. She saw herself lying on a sofa under the window. She thought of the view. The square garden; the lilac would be out. The profusion of flowers at the Manor she had never learnt to love as she loved the smutty London blossoms. She saw herself leaning out to put crumbs on the window-ledge for the overfed London pigeons. She could imagine the soft swish of her mother’s silken skirts as she drew up a chair beside her, and could hear her voice: “Well, my darling, and what could we fancy to-day?” She could see the uncles coming in with their gifts of flowers. Her father would press her to take plenty of port wine. She could see and hear all that would happen and knew the one thing that would never happen. Encouragement to get over anything by the end of the summer.
It is difficult to be strong-minded when you are feeling flabby. It would have been easier, Selina thought, if her feet were on the floor instead of on the sofa. All the same she succeeded.
“I’d better go to the sea. It’s the quickest way to get well, isn’t it? Perhaps Brighton.”
Naturally Louisa had to go to Brighton too, since she depended on her mother for her meals. If Louisa moved so did Nurse. Nurse was torn. Of course Brighton was pleasant, and would be bright after being in the country. Against this, it meant leaving Caroline. She was honestly proud of the child. Gone were her naughty ways. Her unladylike manner of romping. Her carelessness with her clothes. That dirty habit of sitting on the floor. She was, too, growing in grace. She said her prayers regularly. Sat like a mouse in church. Learnt her collect, and could as well, say a lot of nice moral verses. Then, to top everything, no child Nurse had handled had shown such a proper fear of the vengeance of God. The little Smithsons, dear good children though they were, had never been a patch on Caroline when it came to fear. They had never been so completely under her thumb as was this child. Nurse had no choice, to Brighton she had to go. If she had been allowed to decide for herself she would have had no hesitation. How could a few weeks’ sunshine, and perhaps pleasure, compensate for the loss of that soul which she had gripped not only for herself, but for God.
If Nurse had been a fly on the wall of the servants’ hall and overheard what Hannah had to say, she would have made a desperate effort to have taken Caroline with them. Nurse, in order that no item of the child’s routine should be upset, had written out a careful, if misspelt, account of how her days were to be spent.
“Rise at 7 o’clock,” Hannah read, imitating Nurse’s voice to the amusement of the other maids. “My prayer to be said immediately on rising, kneeling by the bed, followed by the other devotions as Miss Caroline knows, and do not let her speak Monday’s for Friday’s without she has a whipping.” “A whipping indeed!” Hannah looked expressively round. “As if God would not be as pleased with Friday’s prayers as Monday’s. Kneeling by the bed with the carpet scratching her poor little knees. She shall kneel up on her bed same as I always done to my mother, and she shall say her prayers against my shoulder, with my arm round her, as is right and proper.”
Prudence Sykes was to share the burden of Caroline with Hannah. She was to stay to luncheon and for two hours after. “The two hours can be well employed, Miss Sykes,” Nurse said. “Neither Miss Caroline’s music nor her needlework is such as one would expect from a little lady of her age, and I’m sure it would be a great pleasure to her dear mama if she could read her a chapter from the Gospels on her return. Miss Caroline is five. When I was with Mr. and Mrs. Smithson, Master Robert gave them great pleasure by reading a chapter from the Gospel of St. John on his fourth birthday.”
Prudence, who saw no point in causing unnecessary argument, agreed amicably. Actually she had no intention of teaching the child anything in the afternoons. She thought Nurse’s absence a grand opportunity to see if there was a real child under the little doll she taught.
Rose, who would have been glad to get rid of Agnes for a while, suggested that she should run the house in Selina’s absence. Selina, however, knew just what that would mean. Sulky servants complaining of interference. The cottagers furtive from being pried upon. The furniture so re-arranged that the house was barely recognisable. Worst of all, James’s life so run for his comfort that he would be incapable of believing that anything was amiss. Selina’s wishes would not have been likely to have had great effect since she was too weak for argument, especially with Rose by letter, but the thought of Agnes loose in her house sent up her temperature. Thomas Felton was sent for and, discovering nothing new wrong with her body, jumped to the idea that something was on her mind. In a casual chat he learnt from her of the possibility that Agnes was coming. Selina was too loyal to the Torrys’ family to suggest that to her this was a catastrophe, but her flushed face and the nervous tangling of her fingers spoke for themselves.
Thomas had, of course, met Agnes. He had mentally classed her with any bitch on heat. He had thought her a busybody in the Naomi affair. Naomi had come with a tear-stained face and sobbed out her story. “And what was she doing round the potting-shed? Maybe she’d a fancy for Bates herself.” Thomas had naturally put Naomi in h
er place for speaking so of the gentry. Privately though, he had thought that whether Agnes fancied Bates or not, Bates or his equivalent was just what she needed. He supposed she must be something of a fool. Naomi’s morals might be a bit loose, but no one could question her ability to make a child happy. However, since the harm was done, he had a talk with young Bates and suggested it was time he had a wife and pointed out that there was five pounds for him on the day of the wedding. The marriage was a success, but he had never ceased to regret that Naomi was out of the Torrys’ nursery. He disliked the look of the new nurse and told the village she seemed to him to need a red ribbon round her tail. On hearing now that Agnes was cropping up again to make a nuisance of herself he went to James.
“You know,” he said, “mares need special handling. Treated right, they’ll go like smoke, treated wrong they jib at the first fence, small blame to ’em. That wife of yours doesn’t want Miss Torrys stopping here while she’s away. The thought of it is keeping her back.”
James looked surprised. That his sister Agnes was an admirable girl had been firmly implanted in him by his mother. He had, too, noted what friends she had become with Selina. They seemed always to have their heads together.
“What’s the trouble?”
Thomas shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows? You know how it is with women.” He patted James on the shoulder. “Take my advice, if you must have anybody, have old Mrs. Ellison. We’re sending Mrs. Torrys to Brighton to get her back into harness. Don’t want anything to stand in the way of that.”
James certainly did not want anything to stand in the way of that. He did not care tuppence if Agnes came to the house or not. The idea had been suggested by his mother and he had accepted it without thinking—sisters came when wives were away. The idea of Mrs. Ellison he did not take to. She bored him a bit with her chatter of rheumatism and the London shops, and her smelling-salts and palpitations. He said he saw no reason why for six weeks they could not manage by themselves.
James, Prudence and Caroline stood on the steps and watched the start to Brighton. Selina as white as a sheet, but very elegant in a new mantle and a crownless bonnet of black lace, trimmed with pink roses. They had put several pillows in the landau and it looked as if without their support she would never reach the station. Nurse sat beside her, holding a very starched Louisa. Mary, the parlour-maid, who looked after Selina, drove behind in the wagonette with the luggage. She was clutching Selina’s jewel-case.
They waved as the horses moved off. James sent a prayer after the landau that the air of Brighton might work a miracle. Prudence, looking at the back of Nurse, felt that with her departure a cloud rolled off the house. Hannah gaily shook a duster from a bedroom window, and behind it put out her tongue at Nurse’s back.
“Sour old bitch. Let’s hope she drops off the pier and drowns.”
Caroline felt no relief at the departure of Nurse. Nurse going only meant that God would be more in evidence than ever. There would be no one now to beat her. The slightest sin and she would be thrown into everlasting fire. Nurse made this very clear before she started.
“And don’t you think, Miss Caroline, that because I’m not with you that I shan’t know how you’re behaving. God’ll tell me. He’s a just God, but He has to punish children same as I do if they sin.”
Caroline had, too, no real belief that Nurse was going away. She had seen the packing. Seen the struggle to get the last of the things into the bath. Heard the talk of Brighton where that same sea lived that was in her shell. Mama perhaps was going and Louisa, but not Nurse. Only an empty nursery could prove that Nurse was gone.
It was by degrees that she felt the relief of Nurse’s absence.
There was laughing at lessons. Miss Sykes did not seem to think that wrong, and she was the rector’s daughter and should know. There were splendid afternoons digging in her garden or rambling walks looking for flowers. When Miss Sykes was gone there was Hannah to say tea was ready.
“Come along, pet. Come to your tea. I’ve a lovely cake for you.”
With her mother away James usually had her after tea. They looked at the family tree and she heard more stories of her ancestors. Most of James’s talk was above her head, but she did glean some idea of “those other little children” who had lived in the Manor before her.
All this was peaceful and happy, but there were black scaring times in between. Miss Sykes might think an ill-learnt lesson of no importance but would Nurse? Would God? Hannah might laugh at mud on a dress or a torn petticoat, but what was God thinking? Caroline’s fears were not as concrete as that. They were just a terror that came on her unawares. When the fear was with her, her face was set. Her lips tight. Her eyes scared. It was difficult to make her speak.
Prudence worried over her. One day she spoke to Hannah. It was in the afternoon. Caroline was digging in her garden.
“Don’t you think, Hannah, Miss Caroline is too quiet? That she seems afraid sometimes?” Hannah nodded.
“I do indeed, Miss But if you knew what I knew as to what went on in the nursery you wouldn’t wonder. She was a different child when Naomi was here.”
“Naomi!” Prudence looked puzzled never having heard of her.
“Naomi was with her since she was born. She married Bates, the under-gardener.”
“That’s why she left.” Prudence was not asking a question, merely stating what she supposed to be a fact. Hannah did not contradict her. Obviously a nicely brought up young lady like Miss Sykes could not understand the reasons for Naomi’s departure.
“She was a rare one with children; is still, for that matter.” Hannah smiled reminiscently. “When she was here I’d take up the dinner or the tea and there’d be Miss Caroline singing away at her games, or playing some nursery affair jogging on Naomi’s knee. Always smiling, Miss Caroline was. Happy little thing I thought her.”
Prudence looked wonderingly at Caroline’s back. “How she has changed. I hardly ever see her smile.”
“No. She changed the day Nurse came. I know children need correcting at times, but Miss Caroline’s a good little thing, she hasn’t needed half the beatings she’s had.”
“Beatings!” Prudence looked startled. “What would anyone find to beat that baby for?”
Hannah pursed up her lips.
“If you were Nurse you wouldn’t need a reason.”
Prudence dug the toe of her buttoned boot into the grass.
“But Hannah, Nurse is away. Neither you nor I ever scold her. Why does she still look as she does?”
Hannah shook her head.
“I couldn’t say Miss. It has me beat. I was only saying so in ‘the Hall’ this morning.”
Prudence smiled up at her.
“Hannah, let’s try and make her happy before Nurse comes back. Shall we?”
“Indeed Miss, and I wish we could. And we’re not the only ones to wish it, there has been a lot of talk.”
Caroline’s fear did grow less, as Nurse grew more shadowy. Hannah and Miss Sykes often spoke of her coming back, but that now seemed as unlikely as once her going to Brighton had been. God naturally was still there, but without Nurse to egg Him on He seemed in a kind mood. At least there were no punishments. She began to feel easier about Him. His eye might be always on her, but at least it was on her silently. He did not keep up a continual flow of: “Walk like a little lady Miss Caroline.” “Do as I say at once, Miss Caroline, or I’ll give you what for.”
The weather improved and Pettigrew gave her a box of begonias to bed out. They looked very cheerful when the first flowers opened. Caroline would run out and look at them after her lessons. One day while running she tripped and fell. She was wearing a frock of brown alpaca, and since the day was warm, no coat but just an apron over it tied in a bow behind. She fell on her face. In getting up she caught the hem of her frock on her boot and there was a rent. She stared a
t it horrified. Surely God could not forgive this time. Prudence was surprised at her tears, for the lawn was soft.
“You must not cry Caroline. I don’t believe you are hurt a bit. Come along, be a brave girl. I’ll put a pin in your skirt and we must tell Hannah about it when she comes out.” She brushed the mud off the child’s apron and the knees of her stockings, pinned up the hem and told her to go and dig in her garden.
Caroline moved off obediently. Prudence had no chance to see the look on her face. It was a curious expression, partly relief, yet a little furtive. As she stooped over her garden, she looked up cautiously. Overhead a lark was singing, the sky was blue. There was no look of wrath to come. She dug a little hole to plant a pansy that Pettigrew had put out for her. The sun fell warm upon her back. Miss Sykes had not been angry. God was not being angry. She dug another little hole and a new sound was added to the lark’s song. It was the tuneless noise of her humming.
At tea a few days later, she was led on to chatter about her garden. Hannah, delighted to get her to talk, paid no attention to what was going on and after filling her mug, put the milk too near her hand, so without seeing it the child knocked it over. Hannah got up and fetched a cloth.
“Dearie me,” she said mopping, “that was silly Hannah’s fault, hearing of your pansy—”
She stopped, startled by the look on Caroline’s face.
She seemed to have shrunk to half her size. She was screwed back in her chair, and her right arm was defensively raised to ward off a blow.
“Miss Caroline, dear,” Hannah knelt down beside her and gave her a kiss. “What’s the matter child? It wasn’t your fault the milk overturned. It was silly old Hannah’s.”
Little by little as tea went on Caroline relaxed, and by the end of the meal she was talking and laughing.
Things like this stayed in Caroline’s mind. She began to cease to look for vengeance from above and to thaw in the warmth and kindness around. She thought less about God every day. She did not exactly put Him out of her mind, but He went into the back of it. Then one night there was a thunderstorm. She woke with a start to see lightning flash across the wall. She sat up, crazed with terror. So He had come. God was going to punish her at last. Here were the fires of Hell into which she was to be thrown. There was another violent flash of lightning, with a crash of thunder simultaneously. Hannah snored on quite undisturbed. Caroline’s hands were damp, her hair stuck to her forehead. She was rigid with fright. Then at a thud, flash and crash she remembered why vengeance had come. She had not said her evening prayers. Hannah had been called away just as she was about to begin. She had told Caroline to lie down and she would be back in a moment. She must have been asleep by the time she returned. Prayers had lost some of their severity since Nurse had been away. Kneeling up by Hannah was a very different feeling to kneeling on the floor. Then, too, Hannah was not fond of long prayers. She never tried to remember if any had been left out. God must have been getting more and more angry. The frizzlings and burnings and demons with pitchforks described by Nurse with such intensity were here at last. The thunder rolled. Lightning played round the room. Caroline screamed till her throat was sore.
Caroline England Page 6
