by Joan Aiken
“Charlotte—your Mother has no patience with preserving correspondence. Indeed I sometimes think she scarcely reads through such letters as she does receive,” observed Mrs Winship tartly. “Ever since she married your father, it has fallen to me to maintain the links with other branches of the family.”
Alvey remembered that it was always from her grandmother or her sisters that Louisa received news of home, never from her father or mother.
“Humph; those are from Cousin Matfen in London; those from your aunt Mary in Rome, those from your aunt Caroline in Shropshire—those were your poor aunt Elinor in Bath—these are from James; yes,” she muttered, “I fear there will be a sad brew of trouble and discord when he is here, you must do all that is in your power to prevent it. But now, let me see, that reminds me—” With her twiglike, blotched fingers the old lady had untied the packet of Louisa’s letters and was now glancing nearsightedly through the earlier ones, recognizable as such by the faded ink and more childish handwriting. She picked through the bundle once or twice in irritable puzzlement, then looked up, not at Alvey but past her, thinking hard, then said in tones of severe displeasure, “It is not here. The one I am looking for is not here.”
“Which one is that, ma’am?”
Recollecting herself, the old woman glanced keenly at Alvey.
“No matter. You had best go up to those young ones and force a bit of knowledge into their heads. Ring the bell for Duddy.”
And to the maid who arrived in prompt response to this summons she said, “Duddy, find Miss Parthie and send her to me directly.”
Alvey read aloud to Tot and Nish the ballad of Christie’s Will.
“Christie’s Will was our ancestor, had you thought of that?” Tot interrupted her to say. “Grandmamma told me so. He was her great-great-grandfather.”
“Great, great, great, great,” corrected Nish.
“Oh, what does it matter? Go on, Emmy.”
“‘He thought the warlocks o’ the rosy cross
Had fanged him i’ their nets sae fast—’”
“Who were the warlocks of the rosy cross, Emmy?”
“Oh, the warlocks? They were a set of German wizards called Rosicrucians.” Alvey smiled a little, as she recalled her erudite father supplying her with this piece of knowledge, in what seemed another life, another century.
Grace knocked and said, “Sir Aydon asks will ye gan down, Miss Lou, hinny; he’s wi’ Mr Thropton in the library.”
The children made faces of disgust.
“Never mind,” said Alvey. “I’ll finish reading the poem later. Or you can read it to Nish, Tot. And True Thomas that comes next. And then write a story about a spider; one of those that live in holes in the riverbank. Then you can go out . . . Why do you pull a horrible face when Mr Thropton is mentioned?”
“You’ll see soon enough.” Nish was always more ready to speak than her brother. “He wasn’t here when Lou—when you were here before. It was old Mr Newbury—I can just remember him. He used to give us peppermint sweeties after morning service on Sunday. Mr Thropton is hateful. He teaches us Greek Delectus—”
“—and Latin declensions. He’s horrible,” said Tot with feeling.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Alvey, and left them devouring Walter Scott.
Her first sight of Mr Thropton inclined her immediately to the children’s point of view. The Rector was a tall, full-fleshed man in his early forties, with a balding brow, sparse reddish hair, several chins, and large protruding colourless eyes. Although plainly a gentleman he had an unfortunate manner, florid, consequential, yet ingratiating.
“Aha! Miss Louisa in person!” he said, rubbing his hands. “I have heard so many stories of the learned Miss Louisa that I am overjoyed to have my curiosity gratified at last.”
He looks me over, thought Alvey indignantly, as if I were a tasty dish that he is inclined to sample.
Sir Aydon, meanwhile, sat plunged in glum abstraction, paying next to no heed to his clerical visitor.
Apparently having been informed of Louisa’s religious proclivities, Mr Thropton at once, to Alvey’s alarm and dismay, began outlining a comprehensive programme of parish activities for her: sick visiting, the organization of some ritual known as the Poor Basket, responsibility for a Sunday School, a Dame school, and arrangements for annual scholars’ outings.
Her first self-protective impulse, which was to decline all these duties in toto, pleading that, between the instruction of Nish and Tot, and work on her own book, there would be no time to spare, she reluctantly abandoned. This was not the moment to let fall in front of the unhappy Sir Aydon the news that she had embarked on a literary career. It would not do. He had enough already to distress him. In the meantime she countered every proposal with the calm answer that such plans must remain in abeyance until after Meg’s wedding; she could give no undertakings at present; her time and labours were entirely at her sister’s disposal.
Disappointed on this, Mr Thropton made a comeback on another front.
“I have been told of Miss Louisa’s erudition as a historian,” he said archly, twinkling his eyes at her in what Alvey considered a most repulsive manner. “Word has come back of her excursions in the kingdom of Clio, of her wide explorations in that beauteous realm. I shall be delighted, Miss Louisa, more than delighted, to make you free of my own small share of lore, and the volumes in my modest library—which, though limited in extent, is, I flatter myself, choice in quality—quite choice! I have been at some pains to collect around me the utterances of mighty minds, the noble outpourings of the world’s foremost thinkers.”
And he turned a somewhat disparaging eye upon Sir Aydon’s library which contained, it was true, a fair number of ancient and mildewy volumes amassed by earlier generations of Winships, but remarkably few books collected by the present occupant, beyond various works on game preservation and a few county histories. Alvey had already surveyed it with considerable gloom, when its owner was occupied about the stables, and had come to the conclusion that some other means must be found of procuring for herself a supply of current literature. But certainly not through Mr Thropton.
She made a polite but noncommittal reply, then excused herself on the pretext that she must return to supervise the children’s studies.
Mr Thropton beamed approval but detained her, taking hold of her arm.
“A moment more, Miss Louisa—a moment of your precious time.” His voice on the adjective contrived to be both caressing and disbelieving. “Preciousss!” He drew the word out lingeringly, giving her what was evidently intended to be a winning smile. “I believe you may not have been informed of another enterprise of my own which—I am persuaded—must be of great and kindred interest—”
“Oh?” coldly responded Alvey, doing her best to extricate her arm from his damp clasp—but he only held it the tighter.
“I am—as you may not have been told—an amateur, an enthusiast of archaeology. One of my principal joys at being transferred to this interesting region was because of its abounding wealth in treasures of the past. My own garden—my very own plot—boasts, I have discovered, what bids fair to be one of the most important finds of recent times—a complete Mithraic temple, lying only two or three feet below the parsonage cabbage-bed. Concealed there for two thousand years! Is not that remarkable?”
“Yes,” Alvey could not help agreeing. “It is indeed.” And she made another unsuccessful attempt to release her arm from his hold.
“So, my dear Miss Louisa, it is my hope that you—a fellow enthusiast, a fellow scholar—may, within the very near future, be persuaded to take your walk in the direction of the Rectory—no great distance—and inspect my discoveries?”
Alvey made a vague rejoinder in which the phrases “so kind—time not her own to command just at present—perhaps later, after the wedding—” were intended to postpone this visit into
the distant future. Despite the real curiosity aroused in her by his description of the Mithraic temple, she found herself disliking Mr Thropton more and more, and was resolved to have as few dealings with him as might be managed.
“Ah, but—!” Mr Thropton at last released his grip in order to wag a finger at her; much relieved Alvey surreptitiously flexed her biceps, wishing that she could rub the damp spot with a handkerchief—“but my very dear Miss Louisa, I must constrain you to find a moment before the wedding—for your poor father here finds himself at this present quite unable to reach a conclusion about the trifling matter of the child’s headstone. So I am going to ask you, Miss Louisa, to accompany the children when they come for their lesson tomorrow, and bring me at that time your papa’s decision.”
Alvey glanced at Sir Aydon, to gauge his response to this proposal, which, she guessed, formed what Mr Thropton hoped would be a subtle species of pressure to oblige him to make up his mind. But Sir Aydon would require more powerful pressure than that, Alvey thought, feeling sorry for him. He appeared deeply sunk in lethargy and gloom; had taken little, if any, heed of the talk between the other two, but sat withdrawn and brooding, with his abstracted gaze roving through the windows which commanded the gravel sweep, the pine-clad hill, and the ferny pool where the small tragedy had taken place.
Mr Thropton shook his head in reproval.
“Now, my dear sir, we must pull ourselves together, we must indeed! A useless repining is no part of the Almighty’s plan for us—you know that! I will bid you goodbye now, my dear sir, but shall hope that my words have not fallen on stony ground—”
Making no reply to this, Sir Aydon pulled the bell for Amble, who appeared at once.
“Amble, show Mr Thropton out. And send Borthwick to me with the papers relating to Shapely Dene.”
Snubbed, Mr Thropton bowed himself out of the library, but paused in the hall to adjure Alvey: “Now, Miss Louisa, I am depending on you to bring your father out of this dangerous melancholy—which, as you know, is a deadly sin. But I truly believe that, once the matter of the child’s memorial has been settled and put behind him, his thoughts may take an onward turn. So—remember! I am relying on you.”
With a last arch look, a last twinkle, he passed out through the main door and strode off. Alvey stared after him with a grain of unwilling respect. Repulsive as he might appear, shrewd he certainly was. His perception could not be denied.
Meg poked her head cautiously out of the breakfast room.
“Has that old horror taken his departure? Ugh! Thank Heaven, once I am married, I need see him no more; mercifully the Chibburns at Tinnis have a very decent, gentlemanlike parson, only in his thirties, who hunts, and has a very fair cellar too, John says. But is not Mr Thropton exactly like a toad?”
“Or a lizard?” Alvey suggested. “Those eyes, with their thick lower lids?”
“Or a crocodile! Some horrid reptile, anyway. He requires me to go to him for a short instructive talk before the wedding, about the responsibilities of matrimony. Ugh! Mind you come with me, Al—Emmy! I know Isa will not; she detests him. And I will not go alone. I dread the thought of such a talk. Perhaps John Chibburn will not allow it!” She giggled, but added more seriously, “You’ll find you have to keep him at arm’s length, Emmy. As soon as he arrived he began approaches to me and, finding I was bespoke, he immediately started making up to Isa; but she made it plain that she would have none of him. So now I daresay he has settled it that you shall be the one. The most shocking impertinence! Any other man than Papa would send him about his business, if he had any notion what was in the wind. But Papa cares not a straw what becomes of us or whom we marry; it would be all one to him if I took John Chibburn or Borthwick the bailiff.”
And she ran up the stairs.
The following day, therefore, Alvey, despite her reluctance, found herself obliged to pay a call at Birkland Parsonage. Sir Aydon had finally been brought to agree that the words “Geordie, son of Annie Herdman” should be engraved on the tiny headstone. This message was to be taken, and Meg was insistent that she be chaperoned throughout the rector’s counsellings on matrimonial behaviour. The two girls, therefore, set out midway through the morning of a tinglingly cold clear autumn day, with spangled cobwebs draped over every twig and leaf.
“Just imagine! In two weeks’ time I shall be in Brighton,” said Meg, leading the way at a brisk pace along a steep, narrow, pine-needle-carpeted path which slanted up from the carriage-sweep, through the grove, and on upwards over a heather-covered shoulder of hill.
“This is the short-cut to the village. By road, it is full two miles; this way, barely three-quarters of a mile. But in winter, of course, it is not always passable. The wind blows the snow up over this hillside.”
Meg chattered freely as they walked, giving the life histories of the villagers, foretelling the delights of her wedding trip to Brighton. Alvey was silent, absorbing with deep pleasure the expanding view down the valley of the Hungry Water, hummocks of distant lavender hills, and uneven stone-walled pastures closer at hand, running up the valley sides.
The village, really no more than a hamlet, was half a dozen grey stone cottages, snuggled into a fold of the hill where it met the valley floor, sheltered by ash and sycamore trees. The vicarage, a larger and newer building, stood separated from the rest among its own orchards and paddocks.
“That is where Mr Thropton discovered the Roman ruins.” Meg indicated an area of cleared ground, where rectangular excavations and low brick partitions could be seen. “He is forever boring on about Roman customs and the cult of Mithras. Papa thinks it a most ungentlemanly occupation.”
“Clergymen have to do something with their time?” suggested Alvey. “The care of such a small parish cannot employ much of that?”
“Mr Newman used to hunt three days a week. Papa thought the better of him for it.—Now, Alvey—Emmy: mind you do not leave me alone with that man for a single minute,” urged Meg, pulling the bell-cord as they stood in the latticed porch.
Alvey made the promise, and was able to keep it, for, since the parsonage boasted quite spacious rooms, it was possible for her to establish herself at a far end of the drawing-room while at the other end the rector administered his homily on conjugal duty. She heard snatches of the conversation: the Rector putting his questions with unctuous deliberation, and Meg’s replies coming very short, curt, and bored.
“Now, my dear Miss Meg, you know that marriage is not designed to satisfy man’s carnal lusts, but for the procreation of children and to avoid carnal urges; do you understand what that means?”
“Having eight brothers and sisters, sir, I should hope I do.”
“Well, well; and you understand what is meant when the Gospel instructs us that a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh?”
“Yes, it means cohabiting,” snapped Meg. The Rector looked a little crestfallen, as if he had hoped to explain this point in more detail.
“And you know that Saint Paul, in the Epistle to the Ephesians, ordains: ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands,’ and Saint Peter tells you, ‘Ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands, and let them behold your chaste conversation coupled with fear.’ You know what the saints mean by telling you to submit to your husbands?”
“Of course I do,” said Meg crossly. “But anyone who expects me to fear John Chibburn is a fool.”
The Rector looked displeased, and launched into a long lecture about adorning and plaiting the hair and the wearing of gold and putting on of apparel, in the midst of which Meg yawned very visibly. Mr Thropton appeared discouraged, and cut short his homily; Alvey received the impression that it would have lasted considerably longer without the constraint of her own presence. Then the young ladies were offered a glass of wine and a biscuit, which they declined politely; then Meg said that they were instructed to fetch
home the younger children from their Latin studies, since they were required for a fitting of their bridal costumes.
Mr Thropton shook his head indulgently.
“My dear young ladies, how will these children ever learn their Delectus and their irregular verbs, if they are to be removed from their lessons at every household whim?”
“My wedding is hardly a household whim,” said Meg, but she made the retort under her breath, and the children were fetched from the dining-room. They came with great alacrity. To them, it was plainly of small moment if the Delectus and the irregular verbs remained unlearned for the rest of their lives, and Alvey could not help but wonder, considering the poor state of their general education, what manner of use Mr Thropton’s instruction could possibly be to them.
The Rector escorted the party as far as his excavations, and, pausing there, told them more than they wished to know about Roman religious customs. One of the men at work on the digging touched his forelock, and said,—
“Beg pardon, yor Riverince, but we fund this—rackoned ye wud wish ti oppen it yersen—” and handed Mr Thropton a dirt-encrusted object which might have been a small metal box or casket. The Rector stopped his lecture in mid-sentence. He seemed to have forgotten what he was about to say.
“Well; we shall look forward to seeing you at the ceremony on Saturday, then, sir,” suggested Meg, as he seemed to have become quite unmindful of his visitors.
“Yes, yes, Miss Winship,” he replied absently. “Seven o’clock sharp at the church. That is—ahem, pardon me—ten o’clock.”
“Goodbye, sir, and thank you for your kind instruction,” said Meg prettily, but she might have saved her breath; Mr Thropton’s eyes were all for the casket, and he hardly spared a glance for the departing guests.
They lingered for fifteen minutes in the village, so that Alvey could be greeted by old Mrs Colville, old Mrs Thew, Mrs Beall, Mr and Mrs Gill, Mr Ruddock, Mr Gibson, and Mrs Leadbitter—who all told her how she had grown, how bonny she had become, and how they would have known her anywhere.
