“Do you think my rod is damaged?” he asked anxiously as they were shepherded up the back stairs to the floor where Bertram’s suite was. “Uncle Eustace only gave it to me yesterday.”
“Eustace?” Bertram repeated. “Eustace gave you the fishing rod?”
Mr. Lydden’s voice sounded so different that Victor hesitated on the stair and started to turn and look at him, but Bertram urged him on up, and Victor thought he had better explain. “Yes, you see Mother had told him about Sir Arthur giving me permission to fish near the pool, and he said he had this old rod. It didn’t look old to me, but he said he hadn’t used it in years and I could have it for my own. It is mine. I didn’t take it without permission.”
“It’s true, Mr. Lydden,” Daphne put in. “Uncle Eustace did give Victor the rod.”
“I believe you,” Bertram said, his voice still oddly preoccupied. “I never doubted that you were telling the truth, Victor.”
“Then you think I’ve spoiled it?” Victor asked, his voice shaking a little.
Bertram laughed. “No, of course not. Don’t worry about the fishing rod. Fishing rods are made to get wet, you know. I will look at it, though, and make sure it has come to no harm.” As he opened a door and urged them through into a small, private sitting room, he added, “Sorry if it seemed I wasn’t paying attention. I just thought of something I had forgotten to do, but it can wait until later. Now, you wait here just a minute, Daphne, while I get something for your brother to wear and find a brush for your clothes.”
Daphne was a little surprised when Mr. Lydden really did come back in just about a minute from the inner room to which he had taken Victor, and she was very gratified both by his kindness in gently brushing her clean and by the close attention he gave to the tale of her adventures. He wanted to know every little detail, right from the beginning, and although he tsked gently and said smilingly that she should not have followed her brother, he admitted that it was mostly Hilda’s fault for lecturing her. And he asked very kindly if she had been much frightened at seeing her brother pushed into the river.
“I didn’t see it. I was still in the woods when I heard the splash. By the time I got to the river, Vic was sloshing around toward the bank. First I thought he fell in, but he looked terrible, so then I thought maybe he had got sick.”
The door to the inner room opened just then and Victor came out, wrapped in a sumptuous dressing gown that was considerably too large for him. Daphne giggled, and Victor, after an initial scowl, laughed too.
“You look very grand,” Bertram said. “I hope you are warm now. Daphne has been telling me that she wasn’t with you when you went into the river. Are you sure you were pushed, Victor?”
“I didn’t jump into the water for fun,” Victor answered angrily. “I heard this crackling in the bushes, but I thought it was Daphne, so I didn’t pay any attention, and then someone hit me on the back, hard.”
“Did you see anyone?” Bertram asked.
Victor shook his head. He wished Mr. Lydden would stop asking questions. Remembering what had happened made him feel cold and shivery again.
“I see. Where were you when this happened?”
“Upriver of the pool, under that old fir tree.”
“Good Lord, didn’t Arthur warn you the branches of that tree are forever coming down? Usually they don’t do any harm, but I was once hit on the head and nearly stunned.” Bertram hesitated and then went on slowly, as if the first few sentences he had spoken had nothing to do with what he was now saying. “I hate to tell your mother about you having been pushed into the river. She was very worried by that stupid shooting accident.”
“But that had nothing to do with me!” Victor exclaimed in surprise. “That was only an accident.”
“I know it had nothing to do with you,” Bertram agreed, “but it happened in the woods—and now this.” He fell silent, watching the realization come into Victor’s face that this second almost-fatal adventure might cost him his freedom.
Victor was, indeed, as worried as Bertram hoped he would be. He had been afraid his mother might forbid his playing in the woods after the shooting. If he told her that he had been deliberately pushed into the river, she would certainly put the woods, the river, and probably everything but the front lawn out of bounds. Victor’s unpleasant train of thought was broken by Mr. Lydden’s voice.
“Hmmm. Is there any chance you could have been knocked into the water by a falling branch? You know, the noise in the brush might have been caused by a gust of wind, and that could easily have brought down one of the big dead branches. If you were right at the edge of the roots and bent forward a bit to watch your cast hit—”
“But he was held down in the water,” Daphne said.
Her voice wavered between question and statement. When she had seen Victor, white-faced with terror, she had had no doubts about the tale he told her. Now, safe in Mr. Lydden’s sitting room and supported by his comforting adult presence, she began to wonder whether Victor had really been pushed. It seemed so unlikely. Could he have embroidered a slip caused by a blow from a tree branch into an attempt to drown him to prevent her from laughing at him?
Victor turned his head to look at her, his face puzzled. “I was held down,” he said. “But you might be right even so, sir,” he went on slowly, then described how he had been caught under a root for a moment when he went under the water to pick up his rod. “If I had gone deeper under the roots, it might have felt like hands holding me down. I-I was a little frightened.”
“If you were only a little frightened, Victor, you are a great deal braver than I,” Bertram said, smiling. “I probably would have drowned from being too afraid to worm my way out.”
Daphne thought Mr. Lydden’s eyes looked strange in spite of the smile, and then she looked away because she suspected they were full of tears. Men did not cry, but Mr. Lydden was different from most men. He looked a lot like Father, but he was even kinder and more gentle. His voice was softer and his hands so delicate and quick as he listened to her and picked burrs from her dress and straightened the tangles in her hair—which her father would never have bothered to do.
Victor smiled back at Bertram. Mr. Lydden’s praise had eased a faint feeling that he had been very foolish in jumping to the conclusion that someone had actually tried to drown him. The more he thought about being hit by a branch and caught under the roots of the tree, the warmer and safer Victor felt. He had been frightened when he was in the water, of course, but he had been mostly occupied with his struggle to get free. It was after he had come up into the air and put together the hands holding him down and the fact that it could not have been Daphne teasing him that he had become really terror stricken. The idea that someone had deliberately tried to drown him was so unendurable that after he had stated it to Daphne, he had put it out of his mind. Now, although he felt slightly embarrassed, he wished he could hug Mr. Lydden as he had sometimes hugged his father.
“So I guess that’s what happened,” Victor said, with a self-conscious laugh. “I got banged into the water by a tree branch and caught under the roots. Well, I’m glad no one’s trying to kill me.”
“I’m glad too,” Daphne put in. “I told you you were crazy when you said someone tried to drown you, Vic.”
“Now, don’t tease your brother, Daphne,” Bertram said. “He is a very brave and very sensible young man.”
Victor swelled with pride at being called a young man in addition to being told he was brave and sensible, but he did not lose sight of another advantage in his experience having been a simple accident. “Then I guess there’s no real reason to tell Mother about it,” he remarked with elaborate casualness. “It would only worry her, and I won’t fish there anymore. There are plenty of other places.”
Bertram laughed. “I don’t think we can go as far as that. Your coat isn’t going to dry too soon, and the rest of your clothes are too covered with mud to escape needing explanation.” He laughed again
at Victor’s expression. “You think your mama will forbid you to go fishing or out into the woods, but I believe I have an answer to the problem. Part of the trouble is that you don’t know these woods. Suppose I suggest that you go about with a companion who does know them?”
“We have Mrs. Franklin,” Victor said doubtfully.
“She is a fine woman,” Bertram stated, “but not very fit for running about in the woods. What you need is a young fellow interested in the same things you are—”
“Oh, no,” Daphne cried and then covered her lips with a hand.
“Now what—” Bertram began.
“She thinks that if I have a friend, I won’t let her come with us,” Victor explained. “Don’t be silly, Daph. I won’t desert you, I promise.”
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t, Victor,” Bertram said, “and I will tell Dick Price—who is the fellow I have in mind—that he is to show you things that will interest Daphne as much as you. I am sure he knows where the birds nest, and where there are baby rabbits, and if I know Dick, a fox den.”
Both children exclaimed with pleasure, and Bertram left them to discuss the idea while he ran down to break to Abigail the news that her son had met disaster again. He did not find her or Sir Arthur in his office and was only just in time to hail them as they strolled across the lawn in the general direction of the path to Rutupiae Hall. Since, in the exigencies of convincing the children that Victor’s experience had been an accident, he had forgotten to put on another coat, Arthur ran toward him asking what was wrong, and Abigail, with eyes like saucers and a death-white pallor, waited, unable to move at all.
“Nothing is wrong,” Bertram called, permitting Arthur to stop and draw a deep breath and Abigail to release the breath she had been holding.
“Or, at least,” Bertram went on with a smile when they were all close enough to speak in normal tones, “no harm has been done. I’m sorry to have startled you by forgetting my coat, but Victor was wearing it, and it is very wet.”
Now Abigail smiled. “That Victor! You are right, Arthur—and you too, Bertram. That devil must go to school. If it is not one batch of trouble he is mixing, it is another.”
“He is a very nice boy,” Bertram said, “and this time quite innocent of intending to make trouble.”
“He is always innocent of intending to make trouble,” Abigail said, and then smiled wryly, thinking of the toad, and added, “Well, not always,” which made both men laugh. “What happened this time?” she asked.
Bertram explained about the falling branch and Victor’s subsequent immersion, mentioning, but barely, that the boy had had a fright by being caught against one of the submerged roots for a moment. Abigail shook her head and sighed, but it was clear she was not really distressed by the incident. She was accustomed to Victor getting into and out of trouble with natural obstacles like rivers and hills. Arthur stood staring at his secretary for a while and then lowered his eyes to his boots, which he seemed to be examining with great distaste.
“I’m glad you aren’t too angry or worried,” Bertram said as he finished the tale. “I suppose he has had similar experiences in America, but I must confess that I am just a little troubled. It seems to me that Victor must have gone with a group when he had adventures in New York, whereas here he was quite alone.”
“Oh, dear, you mean he didn’t take Daphne? That was foolish. I must speak to him about that. If he were to twist an ankle or fall out of a tree, we might not be able to find him. You are right, Bertram, of course. He must not go about all alone.”
“But I don’t think Daphne is enough,” Bertram said. “If he had been really tangled under those roots, I’m not sure she could have got him loose in time, and she isn’t any more familiar with this area than he is. If she had to leave him to fetch help, she might get lost herself or become confused about where she had left her brother.”
“But I can’t forbid him to leave the house.” Abigail uttered an exasperated sigh.
“I didn’t mean Victor should be forbidden to explore,” Bertram explained. “He really must get to know the countryside. I was just about to suggest that he be accompanied by someone knowledgeable enough and strong enough to keep him out of trouble.”
Abigail frowned with indecision. “That sounds good, but if the person is uncongenial or too cautious, I’m afraid Victor might—”
Bertram laughed. “I thought of that. No, I think Victor will like this lad, and he has sisters, one just about Daphne’s age, so he knows what girls like. Arthur, I thought Dick Price might be just the person to keep an eye on Victor and Daphne.”
Arthur had ended his inspection of his boots and looked up at Bertram when he suggested a guide and companion for Victor. Now his eyes were very thoughtful as he said, “I agree. I should have thought of that myself. Dick is only about fifteen years old himself and won’t keep telling Victor that this or that is dangerous. On the other hand, he’s a solid, reliable boy, my head gamekeeper’s son, and knows the woods better than he knows his own face. He’s a good-natured boy, too. I don’t think he’d set Victor against letting Daphne tag along with them.”
“Your head gamekeeper’s son,” Abigail repeated, frowning thoughtfully. “Dick Price…”
“Is there something you don’t like about the idea?” Bertram asked. “I doubt the boy will presume on his relationship with Victor later—”
“What?” Abigail asked, and then shook her head and laughed. “You mean being American-raised, Victor might not know the difference between gentleman and servant? Don’t underestimate Victor. I hope he will not become a snob, but he appreciates the fact that he is an earl. No, I was thinking about this Dick Price. The name was familiar. Isn’t Price the man who married Mrs. Franklin’s daughter? That would make Dick her grandson.”
“Yes,” Arthur replied, and smiled. “You won’t have to worry about Dick’s behavior. He adores his grandma, and is terrified of her, too. I’ll explain to Dick. Would you want him to walk over every morning, or—?”
“I’d prefer, if his parents didn’t mind, that he live at Rutupiae,” Abigail replied. “Do you think he would be uncomfortable if I asked him to stay with the menservants at the Hall? If so, I suppose I could ask one of the gardeners to take him in.”
“Let his grandmother decide,” Bertram suggested. “And I think you had better come and speak to your children before they imagine that you plan to murder them.”
They walked back to the house together but separated at the door. Arthur went into the library and rang for Waggoner. He directed the butler to send one man to summon Dick Price and another to obtain clean, dry clothing for Victor from Mrs. Franklin. Bertram led Abigail to his apartment, found another coat to wear, and then went off. She was surprised when the children did not recount what had happened over and over at great and boring length, but realized that they must have worked off their first excitement and enthusiasm on poor Bertram. She had liked him from the first, despite his silly mannerisms, and she liked him even better now.
In fact, Daphne and Victor seemed more interested in their prospective companion and spent most of the time until Victor’s clean clothes arrived in planning what they would do and where they would go, only occasionally turning to their mother for approval. This she gave without really having listened, relying on Arthur’s confidence that Dick would put a halt on any adventure that might be too dangerous.
What Abigail was really thinking about, with some chagrin, was that Bertram had interrupted Arthur and her before they had really decided what to do. Actually, now that she thought back on it, she realized that Arthur must have deliberately avoided any further discussion of their relationship after they left Bertram’s office. Abigail nodded absently to a question from Daphne, as she wondered why Arthur had cleverly led her into a discussion of estate management rather than continuing his wooing.
There were as many answers to that question as she had moods, of course. Back at Rutupiae that evening, Abigail
was feeling bored by Hilda’s uninterrupted monologue of complaints. Eustace had unexpectedly gone off to visit friends, and his mother seemed to take his decision as a personal insult. Abigail did not blame Eustace for not telling Hilda his plans in advance, since she would certainly have nagged at him incessantly about them, but she wished he had given her a hint so that she could have made some excuse to skip dinner herself. In her depression, Abigail almost came to the conclusion that Arthur had made up his mind she was too much trouble and had been trying politely to back out.
By morning, however, Abigail’s spirits had risen, and she was convinced that Arthur was simply trying to find a “romantic” answer to their problem. She now wished sincerely she had not raised any stupid objections, and she waited eagerly for a note or visit so that she could tell Arthur she would rather have him than romance. The note when it did come was a dreadful disappointment. Arthur wrote that he had sent a letter to his and Francis’ old housemaster at Westminster and was reasonably sure a place would be found for Victor at the end of the long vacation. Meanwhile, Bertram was making arrangements for the vicar to judge the boy’s competence and tutor him if any weak spots were found in his background. Daphne would be welcome to attend with her brother if Abigail wished. He apologized for writing rather than coming to speak to her, but he had business to see to that day.
Abigail buried herself in estate and household accounts that morning and then was tempted out to accompany her children to gather wild strawberries in a hidden valley Dick knew of. Actually, she enjoyed herself so much and was so tired by the exercise—for it was a long walk there and back, and gathering berries is not easy work—that she had her dinner on a tray, went to bed and slept. In the morning she told herself firmly that there were other men in the world. The fact that she was beginning to make sense of how the estate ran gave her much satisfaction, and the next day the riding clothes Abigail had ordered arrived.
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