The Wilding

by Maria McCann

  ‘Mind yourself – out of my way.’ She bustled round the bed, tweaking at the covers.

  ‘Father could go with me.’

  Mother straightened, pushed back her hair and stared at me. ‘You said you’d never have any more dealings with her! And now, you want to go. Don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose I do,’ I said, laughing.

  Aunt Harriet’s letter informed me that she was confined to bed. I was frankly curious as to how the virago bore up under her suffering, and whether she still terrorised all around her. Besides, it was plain that she had summoned me for something.

  What might that something be? I allowed myself to indulge a senseless hope that Tamar might be there, or near there, or might have taken possession of some part of the house – even that she might be installed once more in the cave. Any man who has been crossed in love (I will no longer shrink from the word) knows how these fancies rise up like steam and waft themselves about the brain.

  Naturally, I spoke only of Aunt Harriet.

  ‘Mother, how can she hurt me? She’s bedridden.’

  ‘She’s Harriet,’ Mother answered. ‘I can’t say worse of her than that.’

  *

  My father also opposed my going when we discussed the letter at supper-time. I gathered that Mother had talked with him beforehand, prompting him to accompany me to End House, but he was unmoving: he would not.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough of running back and forth over half the county?’ he demanded. ‘I thought our troubles might have taught you something.’

  I pointed out that this was no mad freak like my taking Tamar to the inn. Hateful as my aunt might be, there was no wickedness in paying her a visit.

  ‘There’s folly; and sometimes there’s not a hair between the two.’

  I said I was not proposing to sneak away by deceit.

  ‘But you’re defying me.’

  ‘I’ll be back in no time,’ I promised.

  ‘What, on foot!’

  My heart sank as I remembered that both horses, ours and Simon’s, were on loan to Samuel Beast, but I looked Father in the eye and said, ‘Two days.’

  ‘I can say more,’ he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. ‘Whatever she gets you into, you must get out of by yourself.’

  Harsh words, had I not known them to be prompted by love and fear. ‘I’ll come back in one piece,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

  * * *

  When I did leave for Tetton Green I rose in darkness, long before anyone else was stirring. This was not a deception – my parents would naturally guess where I was gone, and I had left them a note to dispel any doubt – but I wished to avoid last-minute pleadings from Mother. It did cross my mind, as I placed the note on the table, that Father might repent of his sternness, reclaim the horse and come after me; but this was not likely. Both my parents had maintained a more distant demeanour towards me during the past few days, as if accepting that though stubborn, I was still of age, and could no longer be guarded and guided like a boy.

  In a calm frame of mind, then, if not precisely a cheerful one, I filled up my pockets in the pantry and set out to walk to End House.

  *

  Between Spadboro and the next village lies a stretch of lane that cuts through a long, thin wood. The wood sprawls for some two miles and the lane is bordered, on either side, by shallow ditches whose purpose is long forgotten. Folk walking on moonless nights had been known to fall into these ditches, but the moon, though on the wane, gave sufficient light for me to pass safely between them. I walked briskly, not for fear (ours is a quiet stretch of country) but to keep myself warm.

  The sky was clear as fine old cider and the Plough hung sparkling in the sky directly before me. I have seldom time or inclination to gaze at the stars but on this occasion, deprived of company, I amused myself with a fancy that it had cut open this passage through the wood, expressly for me. Its brilliance and that of the other lights sprinkled over the heavens told me that once the sun was risen, we were set for a warm day. I marched along admiring the beauty of God’s creation until, happening to glance to my right, I saw something large and white move in the ditch and at once sink down again.

  Of the scalding terror of that moment, the best I can say is that I felt it, and hope never to feel it again. I strained to see the white thing, whatever it might be, with such intensity that dots swarmed before my eyes and I was good as blind – so the flesh betrays us at our time of need – and when my sight cleared, everything was as it had been. The movement did not come again, though I could perceive a small white edge that convinced me I was not mistaken. As I began to fear less, and think more, it came to me that the mysterious object might be a sheep fallen in and injured. But no: a sheep would have cried out by now, and this presence, whatever it was, made not a sound.

  I was long past any dread of Robin. My fear was that I had glimpsed a living soul crouching in the ditch, a man who would do away with me for my coat (just then a precious shield against the chill breeze) and my shoes. If, on the other hand, he had not noticed me, the chances were that he was drunk, and I might creep away if I allowed time for him to fall asleep.

  Standing stock-still, fearing that at any moment the white shape might rise again, was agony. At last, persuaded that any man intending to harm me d have done so by now, I crept forward to the ditch.

  It was indeed a man – and a woman, too – lying wrapped round in white cloth. This, then, was the source of my terror: a bed-sheet stolen from some line and spread over the pair while they slept. It was not hard to understand the rest. A tramping couple, weary and finding the ditch dry, had crawled into it out of the wind. What I had witnessed was some attempt to ease their limbs as they lay huddled together; that they were now sunk into sleep again, I was assured by a faint, buzzing snore. The woman’s face, upturned in the moonlight, was pinched and degraded. She wore no cap, and I thought how her hair must be full of dust and leaves and vermin. Of the man I could see only the swell of his back, and a part of his jaw and ear.

  It came to me that this might well stand for some episode from Joan’s story, or Tamar’s, and the thought filled me with sorrow. Was the woman the child of godly parents, ruined by the love of a masterless man? Or was she a Delilah who had brought low some village Samson once respected by his neighbours? Perhaps they had neither of them known a better life. My heart contracted with pity. I was not such a fool, however, as to fancy myself safe in their company, and I delicately moved off until there was a good distance between them and me. As I walked on, I carried with me the melancholy gleam of moonlight on that sheet of theirs, such a wretched shelter as to be scarcely worth the stealing. I wondered was it a bridal bed of sorts, and whether, one cold night, it would be their shroud.

  *

  And now the sky was streaked with light: cocks on distant farms began to greet the sun. The wood and the ground beneath me turned grey, then green. I was strolling over banks of grass and flowers that a few weeks before had been bare and slimy with mud, spring’s sweet carpet spread for me. The world, that had treated harshly those two in the ditch, seemed for once to be on my side and of my mind.

  I kept my spirits up by telling myself no evil could come of this visit. It had angered my father, but he could not forbid me to go and once I returned home unhurt, we would quickly make things up. Nor could anything I did harm Tamar and her mother, who would never lie cold again as long as they lived. They had, of course, ceased to draw an allowance from my father; they no longer needed his help. I am as selfish as most men, but not entirely so, and in this instance I can honestly say I was free of grudging jealousy; nay, I even took pleasure in the knowledge that the Seatons were heirs to End House. I pictured Tamar dozing by the fire and eating comfits, instead of washing foul linen, and Joan (if she lived that long) sleeping once more in her old bed. Or would she prefer to gaze up each morning at Harriet’s richly embroidered hangings? I wondered what the servants would make of them, and if they would go elsewhere or stay on under their new
mistresses. Geoffrey, for instance: surely he must go? He had sent Joan on her way too harshly, too many times – unless she retained him for the pleasure of giving him orders. With such fancies as these I shortened the way to Tetton Green.

  * * *

  Rose opened the door and stared in disbelief. Manners prompted her to a hasty curtsey, after which she remained, speechless, planted in the doorway.

  ‘Well, Rose, aren’t you going to let me in?’ I hinted. ‘I’m invited, after all.’

  This Rose seemed unable to comprehend. I supposed that after the scenes she had witnessed her slowness was quite natural, so I produced my aunt’s letter.

  ‘Who took this for her?’ Rose murmured. ‘Not Geoffrey! Not I!’

  ‘Hannah, then.’ Smiling, I watched her puzzle over it. Her eyes went straight to the signature, which was evidently all she could recognise, then looked back into mine. She handed me the letter, saying with more frankness than flattery, ‘Is it really an invitation, Sir? I never thought you’d show your face.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ I hemmed to indicate that I meant business, and made to enter the house. Rose stumbled to one side.

  ‘Oh, pardon me – pray enter, Sir, enter –’

  She was scarlet. Could this really be the same Rose who used to gossip with me in the kitchen? I wondered what had been said of me in my absence, if here was a servant shaken to pieces merely at finding me on the doorstep.

  ‘If you’ll wait here, Master Jon,’ said Rose, leading me to the chairs Father and I had occupied on our last memorable visit. As then, a splendid fire burned in the grate – End House was never very warm, even in May – and as I sat by the crackling logs, stretching my legs towards them, I recalled how I had helped Tamar to pilfer from the woodpile. Though only a few months past, it seemed distant as a childhood prank.

  My intention on the road had been to maintain a kind of chill dignity towards Aunt Harriet, neither shouting nor wrangling but making my disdain quite clear. I had even rehearsed some shrewd and telling speeches, if I could but find a way to introduce them into our talk. Now I was arrived, however, and soon to confront her, those marvels of eloquence I had composed on the road went flying up the chimney with the sparks.

  ‘If you please, Master Jon,’ said a soft voice, making me jump. Hannah Reele stood next to me. ‘Mrs Dymond is abed. She’ll receive you in her chamber.’

  We climbed the stairs in silence apart from the squeak of Hannah’s shoes on the polished wood. They continued to squeak and creak all the way along the corridor where I had searched for her on my last day in this house. Hannah knocked at the chamber door, opened it without waiting for a reply and led me to the bed, where the hangings were already pulled aside. I was in the presence of my aunt.

  I saw at once that her health was decayed. She was leaning back, propped upon cushions as if too weak to sit up without them. Though the blue eyes were as bead-like as ever, the cheeks they glared from were sunken in, and her skin, that had been tight and youthful, hung slack from her jaw. The finger of Disease had traced a line from each corner of her mouth down to her chin, and when I looked at those creases in the flesh I perceived, for the first time, a sisterly resemblance to Joan.

  The covers lay almost flat across the bed. It was hard to believe that they concealed a human body, let alone the imposing frame of Aunt Harriet. She had wasted, and wasted, until she was the ashes of the woman I had known I felt that if Hannah lifted her up in the bed, she would break and crumble into dust.

  She had told me of this in her letter. I was no saint; I was come there partly hoping to witness her pain, an ugly hope but excusable in one she had so nearly murdered. I had expected to exult and go on my way cruelly rejoicing that she was, at last, hamstrung and hobbled. In the event, I was quite unable to exult. What I felt was not glee, but unease: it was impossible to look on her and not feel Death gaining on me.

  All this passed through my mind while my aunt was still working her jaws and trying to pronounce my name. She managed ‘Jon’, but with difficulty, and I saw that her mouth moved only on one side.

  ‘You asked to see me,’ I said, in the tone of one who discharges an unpleasant duty.

  Aunt Harriet glanced towards Hannah Reele. ‘Your aunt wished for your company earlier,’ the maid explained, ‘but she wasn’t able to make herself understood until a fortnight ago.’

  Wished for my company!

  Aunt’s jaws, again labouring, brought forth the word, ‘Mathew.’

  ‘She thinks I’m my father,’ I whispered. Hannah shook her head, which I took to mean that Aunt Harriet was enquiring after him.

  ‘Father’s very well. He knows I’m here.’ Aunt seemed disappointed at that; doubtless she would have preferred to sow lies and deception between us. ‘Mother knows, too,’ I added for good measure.

  ‘They – pleased? Eh?’

  I supposed she meant, did they approve of my being there.

  ‘They wish my happiness, as always. Pray be brief in stating your business.’

  Hannah murmured, ‘To that end – brevity – and because it tires her, I’m to speak for Mrs Dymond. Should she wish to speak for herself, she’ll cough.’

  This my aunt confirmed with a jerky nod.

  Hannah then asked, ‘When are you to be married, Master Jon?’

  This was not at all what I had expected. Something in Aunt Harriet’s eager eyes warned me not to mention Poll Parfitt.

  ‘My parents wish to see me married but there are no plans as yet.’

  Hannah cleared her throat. ‘Your aunt means, when are you to marry Tamar Seaton?’

  Despite my resolve to remain dignified, I fired up at once. Was there no end to her insults? I said, ‘My aunt knows it to be impossible,’ and added, ‘This is the sort of talk that brought on the apoplexy.’

  Hannah glanced at Aunt Harriet, who nodded for herto go on.

  ‘You write to her, do you not? At her lodgings?’

  ‘I’d lose my time if I did,’ I said, speaking directly to Aunt Harriet. ‘Have you forgotten she can’t read?’

  ‘Couldn’t read,’ Hannah corrected me. ‘We hear she’s learning her letters.’

  I very much disliked her tone and said, ‘Lord! To see how people can rise in this world!’ to which Hannah, unabashed, replied, ‘I speak for my mistress. Do you know where Tamar Seaton is lodged?’

  ‘No.’

  Aunt’s stiff jaws ground out, ‘Mathew knows.’

  ‘Father may know, I don’t.’ I saw the ghost of a laugh form on her lips at my use of the word father and I hated her for it. ‘He wishes us to remain apart.’

  My aunt looked as if she had just turned up a guinea in the bedclothes. I understood it to mean that she took pleasure in my sufferings, and that spurred me to a revenge.

  ‘When are you to be married?’ I asked. ‘To Dr Green?’ My aunt breathed in sharply, her eyes a blue blaze, so that I felt all the satisfaction of a man who throws a stone and brings down a goose. ‘I can’t tell you where Tamar is,’ I said. ‘If you’ve no more to say, I’ll be on my way home.’

  My aunt coughed and beckoned me close. I approached warily; there was an aroused, predatory cast to her features and for an instant I wondered if she was strong enough, after all, to do me some hurt, but the sight of her poor wasted neck put paid to that notion. She was muttering now, repeating something over and over. I strained to understand and was finally able to make out the words: ‘Here – whisper.’

  Not without misgivings, I bent down to the bed. She gave off a sickly, dirty odour unlike anything I had smelt on her before. When her breath rustled in my ear I imagined miasmas, infections, plagues; it was as much as I could do not to shrink from her.

  ‘Chitton,’ she whispered. ‘Say it.’

  ‘Chitton.’ Was that the word? There was a place called Chitton, did she mean that?

  ‘Mrs Eliot. Say.’

  ‘Mrs Eliot?’

  Again that look, as if I had just presented her with a diamon
d ring. Perhaps her wits were going; if so, it was not my concern. I rose, ready to depart.

  ‘Is that all, Aunt Harriet?’

  My aunt’s mouth stretched in a noiseless laugh until her face seemed about to split open. She said, distinctly this time as if putting all her strength into the utterance: ‘Tamar. There.’

  ‘There – !’

  Too late, I saw it all: since our last visit here, she had understood her mistake. Once she had grasped that – far from being his darling scheme – my connection with Tamar caused my father pain, she had made it her business to hunt out where my sister was hidden. She had lands in more than one parish, connections, money to fee intelligencers; she had at length found out a place where two women were being sheltered and her choice revenge on ‘Mathew’ was to break the secret to me, the last person who should be told.

  She could not forgive my father. For what? For upholding the will, to be sure; but also for being ten times the man Robin was, and yet loving his erring brother despite all. Mathew Dymond’s natural goodness was a standing reproach to her, an open sore.

  ‘You needn’t think I’ll go,’ I said, though the words Mrs Eliot, Chitton were already branded on my memory. She had even thought to make me repeat them. There was no doubt about the look that was on her face now: it was a hot, stinging triumph. I bent down to her again and said softly, ‘One of these nights, while you’re lying here so snug and warm behind the bed hangings, a door will slide open to the other world. You’ll see, then, who’s waiting for you.’

  She managed to say, ‘My Robin.’

  ‘Oh, no! Your true love: the Gentleman.’

  ‘For shame,’ Hannah said in a curious flat voice that seemed secretly to agree with me.

  ‘He may come for you tonight. Sleep well,’ I added, going out of the room.

  22

  Advice to Live Happy