Valley of the Ravens

by Nancy Buckingham

I could see he was badly shaken, and to a small extent I felt sorry for the man. Nadine, for some reason, had fed his confidence to a point where he was convinced I would leap at his offer of marriage, that I was only waiting to be asked.

  “I am deeply sorry if I have in any way offended you, Mr. Smallbridge,” I said. “Believe me, that was not my intention. But I had no alternative than to make my position unmistakably clear to you.”

  He nodded slowly, his face averted. “Then there is nothing further to be said on the matter. Thank you for hearing me, Miss Haddow.”

  “Not at all,” I said politely.

  He gave me a formal bow, then walked from the room without glancing back. I waited for a few moments to give him time to get clear of the house before making my way upstairs to Nadine’s room.

  Thirza was there, too, and Nadine’s maid. I suppose I must have looked flushed and agitated, for they all three stared at me in surprise.

  “I should like a word with you if you please, Nadine,” I said.

  She nodded her head at the maid. “Leave us, Phelps.”

  When the girl had withdrawn, I began, “I think I should tell you at once that Mr. Smallbridge has asked me to marry him.”

  “Excellent.” Nadine clapped her hands in delight. “I am so very happy for you, my dear Sarah.”

  “Naturally, I refused him,” I continued in a level voice.

  Her lovely golden-green eyes widened in amazement. “You refused him. Oh, Sarah, how could you be so perverse? It would be a most suitable match for you. He is a young man who is clearly destined to rise rapidly in his profession. And he loves you devotedly.”

  “He does not. In fact, Mr. Smallbridge seems to have a low opinion of the importance of love in marriage.”

  Nadine pouted her lips. “It can certainly be overrated, Sarah.”

  “But you married for love, Nadine!”

  “You must agree,” she said slowly, after a pause, “that our two cases are rather different. I advise you to give this proposal very careful thought, Sarah. Can you hold out any hope that a better offer will come your way in the future?”

  “Nadine,” I broke in hotly, “if I marry, then it will be for love, not for convenience. And if I never fall in love, than I shall never marry.”

  “Brave words, Sarah. But you will not always be nineteen, remember. One day you may bitterly regret your impetuosity in refusing this offer.”

  “I think not.”

  For a minute we stared unyieldingly at one another, then Nadine suddenly smiled. “Of course, Mr. Smallbridge will ask you a second time.”

  “That is extremely unlikely,” I said, “for I made my position crystal clear to him.”

  “Nevertheless, he will ask you again in a day or so. And when he does, Sarah, do not be so foolish as to let your heart rule your head. Aunt Thirza agrees with every word I have said, don’t you, Aunt?”

  Thirza, I realized, had not so far contributed one word. She had been hovering behind Nadine’s sofa, looking on with an anxious expression. But in reply to Nadine’s question, she nodded her head vigorously.

  “My dear Sarah, I beg you to listen to what Nadine advises. It make good sense, you know.”

  My eyes stung with sudden tears, finding that Aunt Thirza was against me, too. I could not bear to remain here and be badgered like this. With a swirl of my skirts I went to the door, and forced a note of finality into my voice.

  “I have quite made up my mind, Nadine, and I must ask you to give no further encouragement to Mr. Smallbridge.”

  I went directly to my own room and stayed there, not attempting to join Nadine’s daily gathering, even though I knew that today she expected company.

  But I wasn’t to be left alone. Thirza sought me out.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Thirza,” I told her, “but I don’t feel up to making polite conversation at the moment. Please give my apologies to Dr. and Mrs. Bates.”

  “It isn’t that, Sarah. As a matter of fact I slipped away myself because I wanted a word with you.” She was breathing quickly, I noticed, and her face was rather flushed. “It’s about Mr. Smallbridge ...”

  “Oh no, for pity’s sake don’t bring that up again.”

  “But I must, my dear. I do most earnestly beg you to reconsider your decision.”

  “What harm am I doing here at Farracombe?” I burst out. “Why is Nadine so anxious to be rid of me?”

  Thirza’s eyes flew wide open, and I saw in them something that looked like fear.

  “You must not suggest such a thing, Sarah. It’s nothing like that! It is just—just that Nadine has your interests so much at heart.”

  “And having failed to persuade me herself, Aunt Thirza, she has sent you to have another try?”

  “No, no. You are wrong—quite utterly wrong. Please believe me, Sarah, I have not come to see you at Nadine’s behest. She does not even know I am here. I swear it.”

  I looked at her, and asked tersely, “Why should you be so concerned about my future?”

  “How could I not be concerned, Sarah?” she said, her face puckering. “You have no parents, and your guardian—we must face it—has neither the health nor the inclination to concern himself about your welfare. You call me ‘Aunt,’ and it pleases me to feel that you think of me as someone close to you. I worry about you so much.”

  She looked suddenly rather pathetic, as if she were the one needing help. I went and put my arms around her dumpy little body.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Thirza—truly I am. I didn’t mean to speak unkindly. But how could it benefit me to marry a man for whom I care nothing?”

  “But you do not dislike Mr. Smallbridge?”

  “Dislike is too strong a word, perhaps, but I cannot in all honesty say that I like him very much. To my mind his attitude is all wrong for a man of the church. He seems to think of nothing but self-advancement.”

  “He is ambitious, I grant you, but why not? My dear Sarah, if you married him and went off to Birmingham it would give you a completely new start in life. It is what you sorely need.”

  “It would also take me far away from Farracombe,” I pointed out.

  Again I saw that flicker of fear in her eyes.

  “What good do you think can come of your staying here?” she said. “A young girl who is on the threshold of her life. This is a dark and gloomy household—a house of invalids, and it is no place for you, my dear. You need to get away from here into the brightness of the outside world.”

  “But I intend to bring some light to Farracombe. There is too much darkness here—too many mysteries that need explaining.” I thought of Jerome that afternoon in his office, of Jerome taking me in his arms and telling me that I should go away from Farracombe. “If I were to leave here now, Aunt Thirza, I should be turning my back and running away.”

  “Better that,” she said in a whisper, “than—”

  “Than what?”

  She shook her head helplessly and didn’t answer. I noticed that her hands were trembling, confirming my suspicion that she had been drinking more than ever these last few days.

  “Sarah dear,” she continued after a moment, “is there nothing I can say to persuade you to change your mind?”

  “Nothing.”

  She stood there staring at me in a dazed sort of way, her eyes huge and dark. She looked ill.

  “Aunt Thirza,” I said pityingly, “I can see that you are worrying quite dreadfully about something. Won’t you tell me what it is?”

  She stepped back from me as if she had been stung, stumbling against the brass fender and clutching at the mantelshelf to steady herself.

  “What are you talking about, child? What could I possibly have to worry about? It—it is only my concern for you that brought me here.”

  “I believe there is something else,” I insisted.

  “No no, you are imagining things. I—I must leave you now. I told Nadine I would only be a few minutes.”

  She scurried across to the door, but with her hand
on the knob she paused and threw me a glance of agonized appeal.

  “I have tried, Sarah. I have done my best.”

  Then she was gone, and there was silence except for the quickening throb of my heart.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  The stocky figure plodding down the hill looked pleasantly familiar, unchanged during my five years’ absence from Farracombe—Will Lovelace, the postman of these parts. His red-weathered face, fringed with bushy gray side-whiskers, lit up with pleasure as he recognized me.

  “Why, ‘tis little Miss Sarah, growed up and looking just like y’sister. They told me as how ‘ee was back home, middear.”

  “Hello, Will. It’s good to see you again. And you look just the same.”

  “I keep well, middear. I still does me fifteen miles a day and more. Funny thing, I got a letter for ‘ee in me bag. Strange it was to be seeing the name Haddow writ down, after such a long time.”

  “A letter for me? How nice.”

  He rummaged in his leather pouch, and when he produced it I instantly recognized Alice Fincham’s beautifully precise copperplate handwriting.

  I chatted with Will for a minute or two more, then resumed my stroll. When I came to a dry, grassy bank, starred with harebells and wild thyme, I sat down and opened my letter.

  It was a lengthy epistle, but by no means rambling. There was nothing about it to suggest that Miss Fincham was in her dotage, as Nadine had hinted to me. Finchy expressed great pleasure at hearing from me after so long, and thanked me for the painted fan which I had sent her as a memento.

  I shall treasure it, my dear Sarah, as I treasure the thousand happy memories of the time I spent at Farracombe Court. I never anticipated that it would end so abruptly, but apparently my services were no longer required. Though I hasten to add that your second-cousin, Mr. Jerome Lefevre, was more than generous in the annuity he settled upon me. This adequately covers my needs, but I cannot endure to remain idle, so I spend my days giving extra tuition to the sons and daughters of various gentlefolk here in Bexhill-on-Sea. It is an interest for me, and between ourselves I find it useful to have an excuse to escape now and then from my well-intentioned but rather overbearing cousin.

  Your news of Farracombe was the very first I have received since leaving there. How tragic about Mrs. Jerome’s accident. And to hear that old Mr. Lefevre is so disabled now—though of course his arthritic condition was already making itself felt before I left. Neither had I learned of your poor mother’s death, and now your father too has passed away. Please accept my deepest sympathy, Sarah dear—I know how much you loved them both. And I most sincerely trust that you will find happiness once again now that you are back at Farracombe Court. If only you could hear from your sister, that would be such a comfort. But I suppose it cannot be expected after what happened. Such a tragedy.

  I turned to the final page.

  I had hoped to keep in touch with dear little Ginny, but alas it was not to be. When you were gone away, Sarah, and there were just the two of us, she and I seemed to become so very close. But although I wrote to her—three times in all—she did not reply. I daresay she was on to new excitements, and soon forgot old “Finchy,” and I do not blame the child. But if she remembers me at all, please give her my affectionate regards.

  I stopped reading, brushed by a curious sensation which I only slowly recognized as fear. I could not believe that Ginny would have been so unkind to her ex-governess as to ignore her letters completely.

  So what did it mean? Had someone persuaded Ginny not to write back to Finchy? I resolved to question her—but carefully, so that she was not aware of my purpose.

  * * * *

  After luncheon the weather turned wet and blustery, so there was no question of going riding. Instead, I suggested to Ginny that we might adjourn to the Long Gallery.

  “Remember how we used to go up there on rainy afternoons?” I said brightly. “I expect all the old toys and games are still in the cupboards. Do you ever play with them nowadays?”

  “Nadine says I’m too old for children’s games,” she muttered.

  I stifled my instinctive protest, and said with a little laugh, “Well, I don’t feel too old for a game of checkers or snap to pass the time agreeably on a wet day, and I daresay I never shall. Come on, Ginny, let’s go up and see what we can find.”

  She gave me an uncertain look. “I was going to see Nadine.”

  “Oh! Is she expecting you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, it won’t really matter if you don’t go, will it, Ginny? You and I hardly ever seem to get a chance to be just on our own together. You haven’t even been riding with me for several days.”

  She looked down at the floor in the sullen way she had developed. Almost like a mutinous toddler.

  “I—I haven’t felt like it.”

  “I shan’t try to force you to go riding if you don’t wish to. But do come upstairs with me now, or I shall be all on my own.”

  She still hung back, so I smiled encouragingly and held out my hand. “Come on, Ginny dear.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  What a grudging victory, I thought unhappily, as we climbed the upper stairs. A while ago, when I first returned to Farracombe, Ginny would have been only too eager to spend her time in my company. But for some reason I couldn’t fathom she had become tense and wary with me, forever on the defensive. I decided I must use the afternoon to improve my relationship with her while I still had the chance.

  The Long Gallery had a neglected air. On this dull, gloomy day the vaulted ceiling was lost in shadow, and gusts of wind flung raindrops against the leaded panes. As I led Ginny along to the cupboard where the toys and games were stored, the ancient floorboards creaked beneath our feet

  “I—I don’t like it up here,” said Ginny nervously. “I don’t want to play anything.”

  “All right then, we won’t. Let’s just sit and talk in one of the window alcoves. It will seem brighter and cozier there.”

  But the atmosphere was hardly conducive to the friendly chat I’d been hoping for. From up here we looked down upon the courtyard, awash with puddles spiked by the lashing rain. Opposite, the stable clock struck the hour ponderously.

  Injecting a note of bright confidence into my voice, I said, “We shall soon have to start planning our schoolroom timetable, Ginny. Shall we stick to the mornings, as you’ve been doing with Mr. Smallbridge, or would you prefer a change? It makes no difference to me.”

  She gave me a long, troubled look, fidgeting with her hands. I had a feeling that she was curiously divided within herself. As if one part of her remained eager for the time when we would do schoolwork together and another part of her dreaded the prospect

  “We’ll try to make lessons fun,” I said, “the way Finchy always did.” Then I added, “I wonder how she’s getting on these days? I often think of her, don’t you?”

  Ginny twisted a finger into her brown hair. “I don’t suppose she ever thinks of me.”

  “Whatever makes you say that? Finchy was very fond of you. She loved you.”

  “Then why didn’t she answer my letters?”

  I tried to hide my astonishment. “You—you wrote to her, Ginny? When was that?”

  “Soon after she went away from Farracombe. Finchy promised that she’d write to me and when I didn’t get a letter, I sent one to her. But she didn’t answer it. So I sent another one, and—and after that I realized she didn’t want us to go on being friends.”

  Ginny was very close to tears, and I slipped my arm around her waist.

  “I’m sure it was due to some sort of misunderstanding, dear. Did you tell anyone about writing to Finchy? Your father? Or Jerome? Or Nadine?”

  Ginny shook her head silently, and I felt a wave of pity for her. When her last remaining friend seemed to have deserted and forgotten her, the poor child had hugged her misery to herself. But someone had known about those letters she wrote to Miss Fincham—someone who w
as anxious to sever all contact between Ginny and her former governess.

  The mail at Farracombe, both incoming and outgoing, was always placed on a silver salver on the console table in the hall. So it would not be in the least difficult for anyone—-if they so wished—to intercept letters to and from Ginny. But who? And why?

  I said slowly, “Ginny, I feel certain there must have been some kind of misunderstanding. Perhaps your letters went astray in the post. Or it’s possible that you didn’t get her address quite right. Finchy was truly your friend, and friends do not desert one another. If you write to her again, I feel sure she will reply this time.”

  “Oh, Sarah, do you really think so?”

  This was more like the old Ginny, I thought with a surge of relief. The Ginny who was affectionate and trusting toward me.

  “I am convinced of it, dear. Let us fetch pen and ink and notepaper, and you shall write to Finchy this very minute. And tomorrow morning you and I will walk to meet Will Lovelace on his round, so that we make quite sure your letter is safely on its way.”

  Suddenly, Ginny stiffened. I saw that her attention had been diverted by something outside the window.

  “No, no, I won’t do it, Sarah,” she cried in a loud, jerky voice. “You can’t make me write to Finchy, and I won’t. Whatever you say, I won’t.”

  In amazement, I turned to look at what had caused her sudden outburst. A pair of ravens, their huge black wings outspread, were wheeling and soaring in the gusty wind. I caught my breath. What an unhappy chance that this should happen just when I seemed to be winning back Ginny’s confidence.

  “You mustn’t let the ravens upset you so much, dearest,” I said gently. “They’re only birds. I know they aren’t beautiful to look at, and their cry is horrid. But they can’t possibly do you any harm.”

  She sat there hunched and trembling, her terrified eyes following the ravens’ acrobatic display. Was she listening to me, I wondered.

  As we both watched, one of the ravens dived suddenly toward the stable clock tower. With wildly flapping wings, its talons reaching down, it made as if to perch there. Ginny gave a piercing shriek and sprang to her feet. In her desperation to get away, she stumbled and fell heavily to the floor.