by Mira Stables
SIMON’S WAIF
Mira Stables
© Mira Stables 1980
Mira Stables has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1980 by Robert Hale Limited.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
He had hoped for a couple of hours on the river with his rod, but the day was too bright. The fish would not be stirring. And by the time the evening rise began it would be dinner time, and Mrs Bedford would be distressed if he allowed her carefully planned meal to spoil.
Alert to her master’s every movement, Meg got up from her place in front of the book-room fire and came to rest a supplicating head on his knee. The pen flung down indicated that he was weary of his endless preoccupation with matters beyond her ken. Now was the moment to persuade him out of doors. She lifted melting brown eyes to his and crooned softly in her throat.
Simon Warhurst grinned. Meg disapproved of fishing expeditions. They were a shocking waste of time for a well-trained pointer bitch, but she would always accompany him out of doors, where countless tantalising odours set her nostrils a-quiver, even if she was not permitted to follow her natural bent. It was better than lying at ease in the comfortable book-room.
“Your turn this time, old girl,” he told her cheerfully. “Too sunny for fishing, but just the thing for a gentle stroll, which you, at least, will infinitely prefer,” and he tousled the lean intelligent head with an affectionate hand.
When she was working, Meg was the most obedient game dog that Simon had ever owned. When on pleasure bent she had a will of her own, and was sometimes permitted to indulge this to the extent of deciding the route they should follow. Today she chose to take the winding path that edged the riverside woods. Once or twice she strayed into the woods themselves, to be sternly recalled, for that was a rough terrain, descending steeply to the river and treacherous with exposed tree roots, and Simon had no desire to break an ankle. Apart from these brief reminders of discipline they strolled along companionably enough, Meg usually ranging a few paces ahead, occasionally loitering to identify a particularly appealing scent. She was half a dozen yards ahead when she stiffened suddenly into characteristic pose, nose, spine and tail beautifully aligned, one forepaw half-raised.
Game afoot, thought Simon, more amused than excited, and came quietly up to the eager bitch to see what manner of game had so intrigued her.
From this point in the path a shallow gully ran down to the river, worn by a tiny spring, respectable in time of heavy rain but no more than a trickle in the August drought. It gave Simon a view clear down to the water’s edge, and what he saw there brought a half-smile to his lips. For a respectable law-abiding land-owner, that was a reprehensible attitude, for the lads who were lying face down on the river-bank with their arms immersed in the water were undoubtedly poaching – poaching his fish, too. Shocking conduct. Only Simon, despite his thirty years and sober habits, had not wholly forgotten certain lawless escapades of his own youth. He even conceded that they had chosen the place well – save for the lack of concealment from above. Broken water on the edge of a deep pool. Just the place for a wily trout to be lurking in these conditions. But a sneaking sympathy and a degree of respect must not be permitted to interfere with the enforcement of law and order. He had no desire to apprehend the culprits, both of whom he had in any case recognised, but if they were not checked in their nefarious careers they might cross the path of some land-owner less tolerant than he, and find themselves in serious trouble. The penalties for poaching were severe. A boy’s mischief could lead to a stiff jail sentence.
He had just decided that a sharp hail from above would probably be sufficient to startle them into running off, when the scene changed with unexpected rapidity. A small dog appeared, scrambling over the rocks that bordered the river, and making its way towards the intent poachers. A third lad, a stranger to him, came behind it. Thereafter, events happened so swiftly that there was no time to call a warning. The dog must have spotted the stolen catch lying in the shelter of the bank, for it suddenly emerged into plain view with a sizable fish in its jaws. Its depredations were fiercely resented by the original thieves, both of whom sprang to their feet and set off in pursuit. Simon saw one of them snatch up a heavy boot which they had been using as a fish trap and hurl it at the absconding pup. It caught the little creature on the side of the head and toppled it, fish and all, into the river. Possibly it was stunned, for it did not seem to be swimming. The strange lad, presumably the pup’s owner, made no attempt to wreak vengeance on the aggressor. He stumbled down to the water’s edge and dived in clumsily after his pet. Suddenly the peaceful riverside was taut with incipient tragedy. The stream was deep and fast flowing, and it was immediately obvious that the newcomer was no swimmer. Forgetful of all caution, Simon hurled himself down the gully to the point where two frightened sinners actually welcomed his arrival, since neither of them knew what to do.
“Pull my boots off,” he snapped as he reached them, and struggled out of his coat as they did so. A glance showed that the lad in the water had somehow managed to get hold of the pup, but it was also clear that his strength was about done. He was paddling feebly with one arm, losing headway rapidly as the current swept him into deeper water. A long shallow dive took Simon out into midstream where the river would carry him down to the boy. A few powerful strokes and he was able to grasp the light limp body before it submerged completely, but the tug of the stream was fierce, and it was as much as he could manage to get his inanimate burden to shore some fifty yards lower down. He was glad enough of the help of the two lads who had kept pace with him along the bank and now waded in waist deep to help him out. Their timely aid inclined him more kindly towards them.
“Get up to the house, Jem,” he directed, as soon as he had caught his breath. “Tell Mrs Bedford there’s been an accident, and to make a bedchamber ready, with a fire and hot bricks. You’d best get home, Peter, and out of those sopping breeches before your father sees you and starts making awkward enquiries. I’ll see to the lad. Either of you know him?”
Both boys shook their heads. “Never seen him before, nor the pup neither, which is a queer-looking little beast and not one as you’d forget,” volunteered Peter, with a jerk of his head towards the small furry body which was being diligently licked by a concerned Meg.
“And Meg’s the one of us with the most sense,” grunted Simon, turning his own charge face down on the turf and beginning to squeeze his rib cage with firm rhythmic movements. “Be off, the pair of you. I’ll deal with you later.”
His patient did not seem to have swallowed a great deal of water, but despite Simon’s steady labours he showed no sign of returning consciousness. Simon began to grow a little anxious. The boy had not been in the water for very long, and there was no sign of any other injury such as a blow on the head to account for his state. An attempt to take his pulse at the wrist proved abortive. Either the pulse was too feeble to be detected or Simon’s own exertions had rendered him too breathless to find it. Impatiently he wrenched open the boy’s coat to feel for a heartbeat, and made a discovery. The boy was a girl.
It really made no
difference, except that perhaps it accounted for her prolonged unconsciousness. Girls were sickly creatures and likely to be prostrated by circumstances that a hardy lad would take in his stride. Still, conceded Simon reluctantly, as he renewed his labours, the wench had shown courage, even if of a foolish, hot-headed kind, hurling herself into the river to the rescue of her pet, and she the feeblest of swimmers. He glanced across at Meg. She appeared to have been more successful than he. The pup was beginning to move under her ministering tongue, and to emit odd snorting noises, even though the movements were no more than involuntary twitches. His own patient remained inert, save for the slight rise and fall of her breast that showed her to be still breathing. There was no more to be done here, he decided. A warm bed and the services of a physician were called for. In the meanwhile, he briefly abandoned his disheartening task, cursed the kindly impulse that had caused him to dismiss young Peter, and stumbled a painful fifty yards upstream to retrieve his discarded coat and boots. The boots he pulled on thankfully and the coat he wrapped about the unfortunate child. As he did so a panting figure appeared beside him.
“Sir, I’m as sorry as I could be. I’ve changed me britches, and me father knows nothing of it, just like you said. I thought you might need some help, Sir. I’m not trying to sweeten you. I know I did wrong – and it was me that led Jem into it – and I’m not trying to escape being punished. I had to come back myself. I daren’t send anybody else for fear of me father getting to know. But honest, Sir, we never dreamed of anything like this. Just a bit of an adventure, and me more to blame than Jem.”
Despite his concern for the girl, Simon could not forbear a hidden grin. As he had reckoned, young Peter was good sound stuff. Since he was the only son of Simon’s bailiff, this was satisfactory. Simon had recently suspected that the boy was kept too close to his books. In such circumstances the present outbreak was understandable. He would have a word with Pettiford, but such routine matters must give way to present urgency.
“Very good,” he said equably. “You can help by carrying that wretched pup up to the house. No doubt its owner sets some store by it.”
He did not know quite why he baulked at mentioning the fact that the owner was a girl. Obviously it would have to come out, but he had successfully steered clear of the female sex ever since his disillusionment over Fiona, and although one could scarcely count this miserable bit of flotsam as female – he reckoned she was little more than a child – still the idea was distasteful.
With Simon carrying the unconscious girl, thankful that her breathing seemed to be steadier and deeper, and Peter coping with a rapidly reviving pup, already wriggling against the restraint of his arms, the little procession made its way to Furzedown, Meg trotting anxiously alongside, to Peter’s no small inconvenience, since her maternal instincts prompted her to leap up at him from time to time to assure herself that her protégée was still in good frame.
Mrs Bedford welcomed them as though the master was in the habit of bringing home half-drowned guests at frequent intervals. Peter was dismissed to the kitchen with instructions to ask one of the maids for a rough towel so that the pup should not sully her clean floor, and then to find it a box before the fire. Simon was directed to lay his burden on the day-bed, which had been covered with a blanket.
“If you’ll strip off his wet clothes, I’ll give him a good rub down before we put him into bed,” she added, and Simon was obliged to explain that the seeming boy was a girl.
“Well I never,” pronounced Mrs Bedford, quite unperturbed. “Then p’raps you’ll send for Alice, Sir, and ask her to bring me one of the nightgowns out of the parish box, for anything of mine would go round her three times.”
That was something of an exaggeration, but certainly Mrs Bedford’s comfortable figure was a striking testimonial to her own good cooking. She handed Simon his coat, adjuring him to be sure to give it to Featherby to be dried and pressed, and stooped to remove the girl’s shoes and stockings. Simon decided that it was no place for him, but as he reached the door he heard Mrs Bedford say in a puzzled voice, “A stranger, young Jem said, but I’d swear I’ve seen that face before. Can’t just put a name to it, but it’ll come to me. Have you sent for the doctor, Sir?”
Simon said that he would attend to it, and made good his escape. Downstairs he found two very nervous culprits awaiting him. He was not really in the mood to deal adequately with their sins and doubted if the tongue lashing that he produced on the evils of poaching would have much effect. Certainly young Jem looked sullen rather than penitent. Simon rather thought that a good thrashing might have been more effective in his case, but since Peter claimed to have been the ringleader it was hardly appropriate. He added a sharp reminder that he would not be so lenient if he discovered further evidence of raids on his property, whether it be fish or game, and surmised from Peter’s guilty expression that something of the sort had been in mind. That done, he sent Peter with a message to the doctor and went to change his wet clothes before dinner.
The doctor was an old friend, and having examined his patient and instructed Mrs Bedford as to her care was very willing to accept Simon’s invitation to take pot-luck with him. Over the meal – which included fresh-caught trout, delivered at the kitchen door by two subdued boys as a thank offering for being let off so lightly – John Fearing expressed concern for the sick girl.
“Don’t want to alarm you unduly,” he grunted, carving himself a portion of roast goose, “but there’s something amiss with that child. The ducking’s nothing. That water wasn’t cold enough to harm anyone, and by your own account you had her out of it quick enough, but she looks to me as though she’s been half-starved over a long time, and for one cause or another she’s in a high fever. I don’t want to bleed her. She could do with blood putting in rather than letting, if one could only devise a way of doing it. Certainly when the fever abates she will need a nourishing diet to build up her strength.”
These heretical medical opinions were Greek to Simon. He listened respectfully and awaited further enlightenment.
“Best try and find out who she is,” advised the doctor. “Otherwise you may find yourself responsible for her welfare for several weeks.”
Simon shrugged. “It won’t concern me greatly. Mrs Bedford will take charge. And there’s nothing she likes better than someone to cosset and care for.”
The doctor laughed. “I expect you’re right,” he agreed, “but be careful. Don’t forget that if you save a person’s life that person becomes your responsibility. And I suppose you might be said to have saved the wench’s life. I doubt if Peter and Jem would have been so successful. It would serve you right, double-dyed misogynist that you are, to be saddled with a sickly girl child. Anyway she’s in good hands with Mrs B. I left her fussing like a hen with one precious chick. I’ll call in tomorrow and take another look at her – the girl I mean.”
They went on to talk of other subjects, one of them the misdemeanours of Peter and Jem. Simon felt that he had summed up Peter’s problem reasonably well, and John agreed, but Jem was a different proposition. The second son of a farmer – one of Simon’s tenants – his sole ambition was to go to sea. He hated farm life, with what, to him, was its endless drudgery, and now it seemed as though his resentment was leading him into dangerous mischief. They discussed the possibility of persuading Farmer Coburn to allow the boy to follow his chosen career. It was not promising. Labour was valuable on a farm, and Jem was a sturdy lad. His father would not willingly part with him.
Next day found the invalid in sad case. She had recovered consciousness while the women were preparing her for bed, but had seemed too weak to talk, though able to help them in their ministrations by lifting her hands or her head as requested before dropping into an uneasy slumber. This morning, however, her fever had mounted to a point at which she was delirious, tossing and turning and moaning in her discomfort, refusing to swallow the nourishing broth with which Mrs Bedford plied her, though she drank cold water thirstily. The ho
usekeeper admitted that she would be glad when the doctor put in his promised appearance.
This was not long delayed, and careful examination revealed the cause of the girl’s malaise. “Why bless me!” exclaimed Doctor Fearing. “The child’s got the measles. Well now at least we know where we are. But for all that she’s a very sick girl, ma’am, and will need careful nursing. As I said to Mr Warhurst last night, it’s my belief that she’s half-starved and has little strength to fight a severe infection. A good deal will depend on her constitution. Have you discovered anything about her? Her name, or where she came from?”
Mrs Bedford shook her head but mentioned her notion that she had seen the girl somewhere before. “No doubt there’ll be enquiries after her,” she concluded comfortably. “Maybe she’s run away from school and that’s why she’s so thin. They don’t feed them properly in those places. Leastways Mr Simon always used to say so when he was a nipperkin. Though how she came by a suit of boy’s clothes has me in a bit of a puzzle.”
“And to cut off her hair she must have been pretty desperate,” said the doctor thoughtfully. “Pretty hair, too.”
Mrs Bedford agreed and stroked back the ragged wisps that clung to the girl’s flushed forehead. They were a soft golden brown in colour and would probably gleam chestnut in sunlight, but they had been hacked short by a ruthless hand. Like the doctor she wondered what dire necessity had driven their owner to such mutilation.
“She’ll feel better once the rash comes out properly,” she said knowledgeably, and the doctor nodded.
“I’ll take another look at her tomorrow. Meanwhile, don’t tease her with solid food. Milk, if she will take it, or tea. And as much water or lemonade as she cares to drink.”
Mrs Bedford escorted him to the door, expressing her gratitude for his support in dignified fashion. Then she returned to the bed, straightening the tumbled covers and tucking the girl’s restless hands under the sheets with gentle fingers.
