by Jack
Fortunately, at that point her guardian’s valet hastened in carrying his master’s evening robe, a voluminous affair of carmine velvet edged with ermine, which he helped him put on. The earl slumped back into the chair, swallowing more wine.
‘Now I return to my own domicile,’ he said, ‘only to find my heir engaged in an intimate dinner with my ward. What am I to think, eh? Perhaps you have been sweet-talking her, eh Fleetwood? Trying to worm your way into her affections? Well, I shall have none of that nonsense, do you understand?’
To her horror, Mazarine saw Hawkmoor turn pale with wrath. He glanced briefly in her direction and his glance intimated silently, ‘For your sake, I will leash my anger — but only for your sake.’
‘Good night, Mistress Blythe,’ he said. Without another word he spun about and strode from the room, his gait studied, perfectly even and precise, regardless of the price in pain.
* * * *
CHAPTER TWO
When those we love have ceased to tread the earth
And, winged, flown beyond our mortal ken,
Then wither poetry, music and mirth,
And only love can bring them back again.
Hawkmoor kept his distance from his sire whenever possible. He and Mazarine formed a tacit agreement to limit their meetings to times when the master of Kelmscott was elsewhere. Ever since he had discovered them dining together, the earl had made it clear that he strongly disapproved of their forming an attachment, and derisively voiced his scorn of such a possibility at every opportunity. When Hawkmoor was out of earshot he would disparage the young man to Mazarine. She began by defending him, but ceased as soon as she understood that this merely provoked her guardian to outbursts of greater vehemence.
Nevertheless, by dint of quick thinking and the earl’s intemperance, they did manage to steal moments together in the presence of none but Mazarine’s lady’s-maid. The earl had a habit of late-night carousing with such of the local land-owners as shared his fondness for inebriation. On mornings when he lay late abed, inconvenienced by over-indulgence on the previous night, Hawkmoor and Mazarine enjoyed hours to themselves. On one such morning they sauntered arm-in-arm through the walled herb garden.
‘Tell me of your home in the distant north.’ Hawkmoor suggested, idly toying with a plucked stem of tarragon.
‘Why, you yourself, sir, have travelled through lands as far-flung as any!’ the young woman replied, laughing.
‘Aye that is true, but I have never visited Reveswall, so tell me, pray!’
‘Well, it is a fair land, though anyone who travels along a country road at dusk might spy slanting eyes, emerald or topaz, watching furtively from the hedges and winking out as quickly as they appeared; or hear the sound of laughing and sobbing, or shrill voices talking gibberish, or high-pitched singing, or the faint strains of music played on bagpipes, thin reed whistles or fiddles.’
‘Ah, yes. Such phenomena are observed everywhere in Erith. Go on!’ Hawkmoor prompted, observing his dinner companion’s enthusiasm with evident pleasure. ‘What was one of the oddest things you ever saw?’
‘Once, when walking home along a familiar path through the meadows at evening, my father and I spied a thing like a donkey’s head with a smooth velvet hide, hanging on a gate. We knew not what to make of it. Cautiously my father approached this peculiar incarnation, but suddenly it turned around, snapped at his outstretched hand and disappeared! I cried out, startled, and asked my Papa what it was.
‘“I believe,” he said, clearly somewhat rattled though unhurt, “it was something called a Shock.”
‘“What do Shocks do?” I enquired.
‘“As far as I am aware, they merely hang on gates,” said Papa. “They are seldom seen. Little is known of them.’”
‘I have never heard of such a creature,’ said Hawkmoor, shaking his head. ‘There are strange things in Erith more numerous than can be catalogued by humankind.’ They talked on, drifting from subject to subject, and eventually he said, ‘Next week I must interview applicants for the position of scrivener and book-keeper to my father. He has demanded this of me, insisting that it is my duty to perform such tasks for him.’
‘Scrivener? Does he not already employ a scrivener?’
‘No. He has always looked after his own accounts — which is why his finances have fallen into a chaotic state.’
‘That is hardly imaginable!’
‘To all appearances my sire is wealthy, Mistress Blythe, but he is not as well off as in years past. He has a growing number of creditors, for he spends considerable amounts of money on a variety of pleasures whenever he goes to town.’ The young man twirled the sprig of tarragon in his fingers.
‘Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, my Lord, but why should you be the one to find him a scrivener?’
‘No forgiveness required, Mistress Blythe. My sire will not bother himself with sifting through the applicants. He has faith in my judgement of men, at least, for it was I who engaged the services of Tom Glover, the truest of men, the most honest and capable manager for my own estate. Southdale Farm thrives under his direction.’
‘How many have applied for the scrivener’s position?’
‘Six-and-twenty.’
‘Then you will indeed be kept busy! I daresay you have a hundred matters to attend to at Southdale, yet you will be forced to remain here, interviewing book-keepers. Perhaps you will find it tedious.’
Hawkmoor’s gaze met hers in the sunlight, and she saw her face reflected in his dark eyes. So handsome was he that it was thrilling to look upon him.
‘I can no longer find it tedious in this house, Mistress Blythe.’ And in case she had overlooked the message he added, ‘Not since you arrived.’
Stars were stabbing ice-white fractures into the dusky heavens beyond the glass roof. Mazarine found herself at a loss for words. Hawkmoor had quite unexpectedly bestowed on her a compliment, which was uncharacteristic of him — his manner was usually quite reserved. She tried to cover her delighted confusion by bending down to examine a patch of blue-flowered rosemary. What could he mean by it? Surely she was ascribing too much significance to his words — after all, she was no beauty, and he, achingly beautiful, was a kind of lodestone attracting all the eligible young ladies of the district.
Straightening up, she regained her composure and the two of them began to conjure ways to make tedious interviews with book-keepers interesting; inventing scenarios that became more and more farfetched, until at length each comment, no matter how trite, set off another peal of laughter.
* * * *
In the second week of Gaothmis, Hawkmoor kept his promise to his sire. Ensconcing himself in his book-lined study, he interviewed the two dozen applicants for the position of scrivener.
On another morning when the earl was still snoring abed, Mazarine and Hawkmoor were taking the air in the shrubbery, their elbows linked. As usual they were accompanied by Mazarine’s lady’s-maid Odalys, who trailed after them, deliberately shuffling her feet through the fallen Autumn leaves to make them rustle, for she liked the sound. Lost in some reverie, she was humming an ancient tune called ‘Bogles in the Hedges’.
‘I wish that your coming-of-age would befall tomorrow, Mistress Blythe,’ said Hawkmoor as they strolled. At unguarded moments like this, he allowed himself to limp; it eased the torment of wrenched and poisoned sinews that had healed awry.
‘I too!’ Mazarine replied. ‘The third of Sovrachmis is but six months away, yet it feels like six years. I am more than ready to assume responsibility for my life and my fortune on my twenty-first birthday.’
‘I can hardly wait for that day,’ said Hawkmoor
‘Why?’ Mazarine asked nonchalantly, feeling her pulse accelerate.
‘Oh the bogles in the hedges,’ tunelessly sang Odalys at their backs, ‘the drowners in the sedges, the warners in the mountains and the asrai in the fountains ...’
Mazarine could not help laughing at her maid’s rendition, and Hawkmoor joined
in, both trying to smother their hilarity so as not to cause offence.
‘I do believe she learned that lamentable ditty from Thrimby,’ said Mazarine.
‘Ah, the matchless Thrimby!’ said Hawkmoor, with a smile of such marvellous comeliness that it thrilled his companion to her very fingertips. Amongst the brilliantly coloured foliage of the crimson glory vine that crept upon a stone wall, a blackbird began to sing. By then the companions had lost the thread of their conversation.
‘I must leave you soon,’ Hawkmoor went on, gazing thoughtfully down at Mazarine — for he was a good deal taller than her, being two inches more than six feet in height. ‘I can see the day’s first applicant approaching along the driveway.’
Mazarine had witnessed some of the comings and goings of the hopefuls. Unexpectedly she now beheld, walking around the side to the servants’ entrance, a young man with a scholarly air, whose face and form she knew well. ‘Wakefield!’ she cried. Releasing her escort’s arm she ran up to the newcomer, through the fading glory of the golden abelias whose cast-off leaves were strewn upon the footpaths like handfuls of shining coins. ‘Master Squires! What a wonderful surprise!’
The new arrival stopped in his tracks and regarded Mazarine with astonishment. ‘Mistress Blythe!’
A comely young man in the sober dress of a clerk — dyed in shades of dark blue and slate — and a soft grey cap with a rolled woollen brim, the applicant turned out to be an old friend of Mazarine’s, her companion of early years when she and her parents had lived in the north. Overjoyed to see him, the young woman took his arm with artless eagerness, enquiring as to the health of his parents who, he assured her, were quite well and still dwelling in their old abode.
‘Fleetwood, where are you?’ Mazarine cried, turning back with shining face. ‘This is a childhood friend of mine, Master Wakefield Squires! I have not seen him these six or seven Winters, since he left Reveswall to travel the world. Master Squires, pray allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Lord Fleetwood.’
Hawkmoor had caught up with them. He stood gravely regarding the newcomer, who bowed. ‘At your service, sir,’ he said, to which Hawkmoor responded with a murmured courtesy. Mazarine was about to launch into a happy exploration of the events in their lives since last they parted, when she recalled the object of her old friend’s visit.
‘I daresay I had better leave you to conduct your business,’ she said, ‘but afterwards, Master Squires, will you oblige me by taking refreshment in the front drawing-room?’
‘I would be honoured, Mistress Blythe.’
‘Splendid! I will have Odalys conduct you there at the conclusion of your interview. Fleetwood, will you join us?’
Hawkmoor shook his head. ‘Five other appointments await me this morning,’ he replied. ‘Besides, I am certain you two have many reminiscences to mull over, and my presence would only be an intrusion. Delighted to meet you, Master Squires — shall we proceed indoors?’
Wakefield stood aside to allow Mazarine and her cousin to enter at the side door, before bring up the rear with Odalys. Above their heads, unnoticed, a scowling face peered down at them from a second storey window.
* * * *
Over the next few days Mazarine was unable to secure more than a few brief moments alone with Hawkmoor, for as usual the earl created obstacles to their companionship at every turn, and besides, the young man was fully occupied with numerous tasks. After an intensive week of interlocution Hawkmoor narrowed, down the list of applicants to three young gentlemen, one of whom was Wakefield Squires.
Late one night at the end of the week Hawkmoor was leaning on his elbows at the desk in his study. The window in front of him gave onto a view of the ornamental lake. In its depths on nets of constellations hung the moon’s reflection, like a giant platter of polished pewter. The rest of the household was abed — all save one.
A pattering, as of mice’s feet, roused the young man from his brooding. ‘Thrimby, is that you?’
The servant moved into a shaft of starlight. Though he was a small fellow, and wizened as though ancient in years, he carried cleaning implements on his shoulder as if they weighed nothing, and moved nimbly, like a youth. Hawkmoor had no notion of his age. Thrimby had been at Kelmscott ever since he could remember, quietly busy at his nocturnal chores, always wearing his ragged clothing and his worn-out slippers. His old nursemaid had warned her charge never to offer the servant new garments. ‘For,’ she had cautioned, ‘if you do, he will go away and never come back.’
‘Why?’ the child Hawkmoor had wanted to know.
‘Because he is a brownie, though some refuse to acknowledge the fact. Brownies depart forever if you thank them or give them clothing. If Kelmscott Hall were to lose its brownie it would be much the worse for the family.’
His old nurse was always right, so he had heeded her advice.
‘What can I give him to show gratitude?’ he had asked.
‘A bowl of fresh, creamy milk each day, a hunch of soft bread. Sometimes a handful of herbs. That is all. Oh, and domestic wights such as brownies approve of mortal folk who are tidy and hardworking. They despise slovenliness and loathe being spied on. Therefore be diligent and allow him his privacy, I dread to think what would happen if we were to lose him!’
She had died of old age in her dreams, his nurse, and been buried in the local graveyard, having been the closest approximation to a mother he had ever known. His father’s next two wives had not been permitted to show interest in the lad; they had to put forth their charms exclusively for the earl.
‘Aye ‘tis Thrimby ‘ere, young master,’ said a voice like the swivelling of rusted hinges. ‘Ye be sleepless, eh?’
‘I am.’
‘Pinin’, no doubt.’
‘Pining? What makes you say so?’
‘Blind Freddy could see it.’
‘Well, and small wonder if I am.’
‘She returns your affections,’ said Thrimby, whisking a few token motes of dust off the top of a pile of books with a bouquet of plumy feathers.
Presently Hawkmoor replied, ‘Your comments are of a very personal nature, Thrimby.’
‘And why should they not be? I’ve knowed ye since ye was a little ‘un, young master. I know all that goes on in this ‘ouse, and I tell ye, she returns your affections, is owt wrong wiv that?’ Screwing up his odd little face the servant squinted at the young man.
‘Nothing is wrong with it,’ said Hawkmoor, shrugging.
‘Wot’s wrong wiv you then?’ Thrimby lifted a corner of the hearthrug and swept furiously under it with a straw besom.
“Tis true, I am heavy of heart. I flattered myself that she would accept my offer of marriage once she turned twenty-one,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘Now I am not so certain of the future.’
‘Don’t let the old master stand in yer way!’
“Tis not him.’Tis Squires.’
‘Wot, that bookish young gentleman? I can’t see it, meself.’
‘She dotes on him, Thrimby. She has invited him to take elevenses with her twice this week. That makes three meetings in the space of seven days.’
Vigorously rubbing a brass lamp with a polishing rag, Thrimby said, ‘In that case, send ‘im packin’ young sir. ‘Tis your call. A master never need explain to those who serve in ‘is domain, for he may ‘ire and fire at whim and nobody can gainsay ‘im. And if a servant fails to please by causing damage or unease, ‘e’ll find ‘imself outside the door among the starving and the poor.’
He subjoined, rhyme-less, ‘But you don’t ‘ave to ‘ire ‘im in the first place!’
‘Very good!’ said Hawkmoor in a brief flash of admiration for the spontaneous jingle. ‘It is indeed my “call”, as you put it,’ he continued. ‘I wish only for Miss Blythe’s happiness, and so I shall do what I believe is best.’
Thrimby stared at the young man for a long moment, sighed profoundly, scratched his head and resumed his housework.
* * * *
Hawkmoor recommended to
his sire that Wakefield Squires be hired.
Whereupon that young scholar was grilled by Chief Steward Ripley, regarding his ability to keep his employer’s affairs to himself, and his willingness to sign an Agreement of Secrecy whose stipulations, Ripley assured him, would be pursued vigorously, were the signatory ever to break his word. This brawny thug gave the young man to understand that he meant ‘vigorously’ in a very physical sense, in consequence of which Master Squires had second thoughts about taking on the position, and said so, causing the earl to step in, saying he was satisfied that only a gentleman who took the contract seriously would consider throwing away such a lucrative and highly sought-after situation, and this was precisely the kind of employee he had been looking for, and Ripley must be excused for his exaggerations because we are all civilised creatures, and Lord Rivenhall would never countenance ruffianly behaviour from his staff.
