by Joan Aiken
She was soon to discover. Taking advantage of a loud staccato Italian sonata, which Meg rattled off on the piano-forte to relieve her impatience while the males finished their wine, Isa came to sit beside Alvey, and said, in a low voice,
“Well, it seems that all our conjectures were at fault. James has entirely denied any connection with the unfortunate Annie, and refuses to have her child fathered upon him.”
“Isa! Do, pray, moderate your voice!” Startled at such rashness, Alvey glanced about the room; but it was true that both older ladies were at a considerable distance, occupied in a low-toned dialogue; while Parthie dangled around Meg and the piano, turning Meg’s pages and demanding a favourite air.
Isa was angry and perturbed. “Poor James! It is dreadfully hard on him. And he with only one leg, and so thin and pulled-down as he looks. If that kind-hearted Major Fenway had not looked after him so solicitously, I am very sure he would not have survived. And then to come home and have false accusations flung at him—And it seems that, also, poor James had been betrothed to the Major’s sister, but felt obliged to release her from the engagement because of his disability—”
“The Major’s sister? And she let him go? She can hardly have loved him!”
“No; that was what I thought. Anyone who could part from James for such a reason must have a heart of flint.”
“He is better off without her,” stated Alvey.
“Yes; perhaps; but only consider his position at present. Oh, Alvey, he is so very miserable! He came to my room and told me all about it.”
Much to her own surprise and embarrassed annoyance, Alvey felt a distinct jealous pang. But was the jealousy owing to Isa or to James? How absurd, how shameful, to feel aggrieved and left out, because of a brother’s natural wish to confide in a favourite sister. You are a great fool, Alvey told herself; a fool and an ill-natured wretch. How can you entertain such greedy, unkind feeling towards Isa—friendly, helpful Isa—and a man whom you have only just met, with whom you have exchanged no more than half a dozen words? It is childish—humiliating—silly—and disgusting.
“What was her name—the Major’s sister?”
“Meta—Lady Meta Fenway—the Major is a younger son of Lord Farne. And, having thrown over our poor James, she has now allied herself with the Marquess of Alderney.”
“It all sounds very grand,” said Alvey shakily. “I don’t doubt that James will by and by come to be much relieved that she gave him the go-by. Such a connection would present many problems, surely?”
“Oh yes. The Fenways are decidedly above our touch.—Though the Major does not behave as if he felt so; do you not find him a very pleasant, easy person to talk to?”
“We have spoken very little. He has a good deal of self-assurance. But very gentlemanlike, I grant you.”
“He has been so good to James—escorted him all the way from Ghent, looked after him on the journey, like a brother, James says.” Isa’s eyes shone, her plain face was quite transfigured. “I wish I could be certain that Papa and Mamma had thanked him as they ought—their minds are so taken up with this affair of Annie’s baby—”
“They were so determined on James being the scapegoat,” Alvey said slowly. “They must be enraged with him for refusing to accept the role. I suppose now they are sorry that he ever came home to disprove that supposition. If he had remained at a distance, the affair would have remained inconclusive.”
“Poor James. It is all sad and horrible. And I do not see how it will all end.”
The gentlemen now entered the drawing-room, John Chibburn striding ahead, eager to be reunited with his love, James and his friend walking slowly and conversing quietly, Sir Aydon in the rear, frowning and silent.
No, thought Alvey, I cannot imagine either how it will all end. She sighed, watching as Isa moved to welcome her brother and find him a comfortable seat. Real life is so untidy and sad, compared with my dear cheerful story. People’s actions are performed for obscure reasons, they reject the roles offered them, they behave out of character. Here is this James, refusing to be set down as a rake and libertine, commanding instead one’s helpless pity, looking like a bewildered, broken-hearted boy—
Major Fenway made his way to Alvey and sat down beside her, in the place that Isa had vacated.
“You are interested in the rivers of England?” he inquired, taking up the volume that lay beside her.
“No, not in the least.”
“You are not a bookish lady, I infer?”
You quite mistake me! the affronted Alvey would have exclaimed, but he continued without waiting for her to speak.
“You prefer the study of human nature, I conclude; and you are very wise, since it is presented here before us in such lavish and diverse plenty. Now I want you to tell me about some of your family, for I have it on your brother’s authority that you are an extremely clever and well-informed young lady. I am told by James that you had intended to devote yourself to missionary work but have been thwarted in that aim by parental authority. I must commiserate with you—” he did not sound in the least commiserating—”but let us hope the ban may be of merely temporary duration. In the meantime it is a piece of good fortune for me; I am sure that your sagacity can furnish me with the answers to many questions about your interesting relations.”
These words were uttered with such smooth rapidity of locution that Alvey found it impossible to decide whether he intended to mock her. His face and the clear eyes engaging hers were simple, open, and inquiring, apparently eager for any facts she might vouchsafe.
Alvey replied with caution.
“I will tell you what I can, sir, though—since I have only recently returned from a four-year absence at school—I may claim to be less well informed about this group than almost anybody else you might have chosen. You should rather apply to my sister Isa.”
“And so I have done,” he promptly replied, “but she is at present applying much-needed solace to your brother, and furthermore I find that your sister Isa takes less interest in humans than she does in geological formations; whereas you, she tells me, are a shrewd student of society and its peculiarities.”
Oh she does, does she? Alvey thought; but only said, “Well, ask me what you will, sir, and if I do not know the answer I will tell you directly.”
“Good. First, then, about your father. I observe in him a strong resemblance to his son James. He seems to me a good and simple man who finds great difficulty in dealing with any situation at all out of the ordinary. Would you agree?”
“Why—why, yes! Well-intentioned, he is, certainly—I think he finds it hard to reach a decision about any but humdrum affairs—though I am sure he sincerely intends to do right—”
“Just so. Would you say this tendency had been exacerbated by his hunting mishap—that, when he was a whole, strong man he found his life less complicated, saw his way plainer before him?”
Now Alvey found herself in a dilemma. How could she pretend to information about what Sir Aydon was like before she knew him? But, recalling various remarks that Isa had let fall she deliberated and replied,
“I do not think he has ever found it either easy or agreeable to take any but the simplest decisions. Before his accident he devoted the largest possible amount of his time to military affairs—and then to hunting—”
“As an escape from his personal anxieties?”
“Well I suppose,” said Alvey thoughtfully, “that was how it fell out. And yet when problems did come his way, I do not believe he avoided them. The estate—the tenants in the village—the household—these responsibilities are not evaded, and he is a respected master and landlord; more than respected. He commands the devotion of his tenants and servants.”
“Ah! Does he—”
“Furthermore,” Alvey went on firmly—it was her turn to hold the floor, she decided—“he is, at present, I am fairly certain,
in considerable pain at all times. I have noticed his face when he thought himself unobserved—his expression is not that of a well man. I am sure that he suffers far more than he would be prepared to admit.”
And receives remarkably little sympathy or assistance from his wife, she might have added, but checked herself.
Fenway nodded thoughtfully.
“It is plain to see that whoever had the job of setting his bones after that fall—”
“It was a local apothecary and surgeon named Tarset, who died earlier this year of drink.”
Alvey had discovered this fact with some relief; since the aforementioned Tarset had brought Louisa into the world and tended her through various childish ailments such as mumps and chickenpox, he would have been a hazardous and awkward neighbour.
“I doubt if he was much loss to the district. It’s plain that he made a shocking botched job of your father’s legs. I am not surprised that Sir Aydon is in constant pain.”
“Oh, that is dreadful. You mean it could—ought to have been done better?”
“I certainly do. These country bone-setters—no better than carpenters—”
The Major drummed with his fingers on The Rivers of England, directing a frowning stare at his host who sat, for once, peacefully absorbed in the perusal of a bundle of London newspapers the young men had brought with them.
Alvey said, “What else did you wish to ask me, Major Fenway?”
“Ah yes. I am interested in your young brother—he was not at supper, by the bye?”
“No. In general he and the sister nearest with him in age do eat with us, but as there was company—”
“The boy—Thomas is his name?”
“Yes, but known as Tot.”
“He is of an epileptic habit?”
“Now, how did you guess that?” said Alvey, startled. “Or did James tell you?”
“No, I am not sure that James is aware of it. But I am right?”
“I am not sure that anybody is aware of it. And I have been wondering very much what I ought to do—”
Alvey had in fact discovered the case herself only that day when excitement brought on by the return of his admired elder brother had induced one of Tot’s convulsive attacks. She had found him in the pele tower room, being competently ministered to by Nish and had become aware of the almost fanatical pains which the pair took to prevent the rest of the family realizing the nature of Tot’s disability.
“They are so terrified of being forbidden to lead the lives they prefer, going out on the moors for hours on end—also the poor boy is in mortal dread of being derided, stigmatized as being lunatic or feeble-minded, and perhaps dosed with laudanum or some similar medicine. He told me of the parson’s child, the incumbent before this one, a poor little creature much subject to fits, who was dosed daily with opium until her brain was quite dulled and she died under the treatment. They begged me not to tell Sir Aydon. And I promised I would not at least until I had reflected on the matter. As it is, Sir Aydon rather despises the boy for his frailty and backwardness—and, if he were to be told—”
“You doubt if he would take any useful action?”
“Well—yes. Also, at present, his mind is so troubled that I would hesitate to distress him further—”
“You are perfectly right. It would serve no practical purpose.”
“But how in the world did you guess about the boy?”
“Oh, there is a look about the eyes, the skin, the manner of response. It was only a conjecture. I wonder if there have been other examples in the family—it can be hereditary—”
Alvey had heard of none. “My grandmother would be the one to ask,” she said, rather doubtfully. “But what should be done about the poor child?”
“He may outgrow the disability. On the whole, at present, I would advise leaving well alone. See that he eats well—meat, good brown bread, fresh vegetables, fruit—rests well—and, in general, leads a sensible, well-conducted life. You yourself teach those children, I understand?”
“Yes; and besides that, they learn Latin and Greek from the Rector.”
“Is the boy intelligent? Does he work well at his books?”
“He had been rather slow and backward for his age—but I attribute that principally to the bad teaching of an elderly governess who has recently departed. Both children had been rendered apathetic, learned very little from her, and were convinced that lessons must be boring. But I must confess that I have been quite astonished at their rapid growth of interest and alertness—”
He looks less acute and inquisitorial when he smiles, Alvey now decided of the Major.
“When the boy is due to go off to school will be the time to think more deeply about the problem,” he said. “I wonder if his mother is entirely unaware of it?”
His eye dwelt speculatively on Lady Winship who had risen to her feet and was glancing about in her usual vague way for scissors, workbag, and thimble: articles only brought into use when company prevented her retreat into glasshouses or garden.
Not at all wishful to attempt an analysis of the workings of Lady Winship’s mind, Alvey stood up.
“I will bid you goodnight, Major Fenway. I hope my answers have been of some use to you.”
“Indeed they have. My motives are not simply inquisitiveness, I would have you know, Miss Louisa; rather, I hope, by extending my knowledge of his father and brother, to increase my ability to be of service to James.”
“Poor James,” said Alvey, thinking of the Major’s sister. “He does look so wretched. But, now that his leg is in a way to heal—”
“I imagine you are aware that he has other problems beside that.”
Not a little disconcerted at the Major’s apparent ability to read her thoughts, Alvey left him and walked upstairs with Isa, who said, “I saw how absorbed you were in talk with Major Fenway. Is he not a clever, well-informed man?”
“Rather too inquisitive,” said Alvey.
“Oh, I do not at all agree. I think he must be an excellent friend for James.”
Chapter IX.
The remaining days before Meg’s wedding passed quietly. Meg occupied herself in packing her clothes and belongings, Isa in visiting various well-loved locations that she would not see again for many months. The longer of these expeditions were performed on old Phantom, a discarded hunter of Sir Aydon’s, too stiff and sober to have been thought worth selling; on the shorter excursions Alvey, and sometimes Nish and Tot, accompanied her. But much of Alvey’s time at present was occupied in helping and taking counsel with Mrs Slaley about arrangements for the wedding breakfast; for, as that lady said, “Missus is so moithered and put-about these days, there’s naught useful to be had from her,” while the old lady was closeted for many hours together with James, evidently giving him good advice or comfort. So Alvey, who had never imagined herself engaged in such occupations, became involved in the making of a plum cake containing six pounds of currants, twenty eggs, a quart of brandy, and three pounds of butter; she learned the mysteries of “quaking puddings” the plucking and trussing of teal, wild duck, turkey, pigeon, and green-goose, and the skinning of hares. The pigeons were made into a vast pie, the hares were jugged. Tot and Nish sometimes came and hung about the kitchens, big-eyed, as delicacies such as Caroline Snowballs and Lemon Sponge were concocted. “Gan awa’ wi ye, hinnies, there’s no place for children here,” said Mrs Slaley, but she sweetened the edict with handfuls of hunting nuts. Alvey, remembering her mother and Cousin Elspie, wished they could have seen this big, warm, dazzling kitchen with its cheer and plenty. There was to be a breakfast for the gentry, after the wedding ceremony, and a feast for the villagers, held in the Rectory barn. Mrs Slaley and her staff were in charge of both events, and there was much to-and-fro with hampers and wagon-loads of napery and benches between Hall and village.
“‘Deed an’ ye’ve a heid on you
r shoulders, Miss Emmy,” said Mrs Slaley. “I knaw Miss Meg and Miss Isa’s got ither things to concern them, but ye’d think Miss Parthie’d lend a hand now-and-now. Not she! She’s nae more use than a broken striddle.”
Parthie, it was evident, had taken a huge fancy to Major Fenway, and placed herself in his vicinity at every possible opportunity. He was extremely patient and kind with her—far kinder than she deserved, Alvey privately considered; allowed her to show him over the house and grounds, listened with apparent interest to her long, self-laudatory monologues.
James took little part in the family activities and was seldom to be seen. Sometimes he watched his friend knock a ball about in the billiard-room; he listened to Meg if she chose to play and sing, or spent hours with Isa, poring over her drawings and sketches. “That’s Haughton Mains, is it not?” “Yes; and this is Green Law, and that’s Thrang Stones.” “I wonder when I shall get up there again?” mused James wistfully, and Isa said, “Oh, you will be riding again very soon. You could try old Phantom. He has such an easy pace,” but Alvey saw her press her hands together with a convulsive gesture. Once or twice, to Alvey’s surprise and pleasure, James made his way on from the old lady’s chamber up to the pele tower room, where he expressed astonishment at the number of new books and increased extent of the children’s activities.
“We had nothing like this in the days of Miss Waskerley,” he remarked with a faint smile.
“Look! brother James, look at our journals! Emmy has given us a proper book each to keep them in, and we may draw pictures or do anything we like, but she says we must write at least ten lines every day. Emmy is writing a book of her own, too, a story, but we may not see it until it is finished. And Nish is writing a story about King Arthur and Emmy helps her.”
“These are capital. I like Tot’s picture of a trout. And when will sister Emmy’s book be finished?” James inquired politely.
