Deception

by Joan Aiken

“Not until some considerable time after the wedding.” Alvey smiled too, wondering a little what James’s notion of her literary labours might be. She did not enlighten him.

  Some protective impulse urged her to quit the room, leaving James alone with his younger siblings. She thought their devoted company must be good for him. It was plain that something weighed deeply on his mind. He was restless and preoccupied, wandered about his home, inside and out, with a wistful yearning expression as if bidding goodbye to it.

  “James loves this place as I do,” Isa said to Alvey, who was helping her to pack. “I think men have a harder time of it than women do. They must leave their homes and go out into the world—”

  “No, Isa! You do not place a whole heap of sketching-books on top of a gauze dress! Here, let me do it.—But why must a man go out into the world? Why cannot James stay at home and help your father take care of the estate?”

  “Well,” Isa said vaguely, “the Winships have always been soldiers. It is a family tradition going back for centuries.—You will write to me, Alvey, will you not? And tell me how all goes on at home?”

  “Of course I will, goose! Provided you send me your direction well in advance. I wonder when we shall next hear from Louisa?”

  “Oh,” said Isa, with one of her flashes of cynicism, “it is odds that she is so deeply engaged in her new existence she will not find time to write again.”

  The simple wedding ceremony was soon over. Mr Thropton officiated, at his most unctuous; his fish-mouth opened and shut like a trout snapping at flies, Alvey thought, as he droned his way through the homily. Meg looked remarkably pleased with herself in her wedding finery, John Chibburn stiff, uncomfortable, and rather sober. The elder Winships maintained an unbroken gravity which hardly accorded with the nature of the occasion.

  In the churchyard, after the ceremony, there was much standing about, handshaking, kissing, and greeting of neighbours and guests from more distant parts; this was because, if they were to catch the tide at Newcastle, the married pair could not return to Birkland Hall for their own wedding breakfast, but must set off on their journey without delay. A room in the Rectory had been prepared for the bride to remove her wedding gown, helped by her sisters. Parthie and Nish were there, even little Betsey, so there was no chance for last-minute admonitions.

  “I—I do hope all goes well with you, Emmy dear,” said Isa at the carriage step, looking suddenly stricken at the prospect of the months that lay ahead. “Take—pray take care of Mamma and Papa. And of James too!”

  Assisted by John, she vanished inside. Meg, all smiles, was fluttering her handkerchief at the window, as the crowd pressed close and a few handfuls of rice and late rose petals were flung.

  The coachman cracked his whip and the eager horses broke into a canter.

  At that moment a raucous shout was heard, and a stone, hurled from the back of the crowd, missed the carriage, apparently its intended target, and struck Parthie in the face. There were shrieks, oaths, and a general commotion. No one had seen who threw the stone; it had been discharged from the bushes above the churchyard. Guests and spectators ran about vainly, exclaiming and shouting; as for Parthie herself, she stood half-dazed, sobbing hysterically, with a cut and bleeding cheek and a great smear of earth down her white velvet dress, until Major Fenway took command of the situation and had her carried into the Rectory. The bridal equipage had long gone, its occupants quite unaware of anything amiss.

  The rest of the crowd dispersed slowly, chattering feverishly in the aftermath of amazement and shock, the gentry to the Hall, the villagers to the barn.

  “Who could a took and done such an orra thing?”

  “Perfectly scandalous—outrageous—disgraceful. The perpetrator should be flogged!”

  “Who could have done it? Some poacher, perhaps, who bears a grudge against Sir Aydon,” the gentry said to one another. “What a regrettable mishap to take place at the poor girl’s wedding.”

  Alvey reflected, as she worked hard at being civil to several dozens of guests, that, in fact, Meg, as usual, had succeeded in avoiding the unpleasantness; it was her unfortunate younger sister who, with a chipped tooth and what promised to be a notable black eye, was missing the party and being ministered to with hartshorn and spirits of ammonia.

  How furious Parthie will be, poor child, at missing a treat she has looked forward to for months, thought Alvey, trying to remember which was Lady Edmondbyers, which Brigadier Henshawe, and which Colonel Esper-shields. “Thank you, ma’am, yes indeed I am very happy to be back at Birkland. Yes, it was a most shocking occurrence—some boy, perhaps, who had been beaten for trespass. How do you do, Colonel, no, I have quite given up the wish to be a missionary in India—Mamma and Papa were not at all in favour of the idea—”

  Glancing at Sir Aydon and Lady Winship, both surrounded by guests, she wondered how they found the stamina to meet the demands made on them by the occasion. Both looked startled and distressed; Sir Aydon kept rubbing his forehead; his wife’s cheeks were a dark, mottled red.

  Alvey felt a deep sympathy, too, for James, subject to the same ordeal, doggedly parrying the same remarks, answering the same questions. He was even paler than usual, a jerking muscle in his cheek betrayed his tribulation and fatigue. Yet at least, poor devil, thought Alvey, he elicits everybody’s sympathy for his leg; and at least he knows these people.

  “Ah, Louisa my dear! How pleasant to see you back at home. You must come over to Robinsrock very soon, before winter settles in—”

  “Why, thank you, that is very kind, but I do not believe I can leave Mamma and Papa just at present. Having just lost both Meg and Isa, you see—”

  Who are these people?

  “Ah yes, just so. Well—as soon as you can—” A kind nod, and thank Heaven they had moved on.

  Or, worse still: “Well, Louisa! Do you remember us?”

  “I fear, dear ma’am, you must hold me excused—such a long absence—”

  “Tut, do you not recall how you used to come to Simonburn as a child and play with our Polly—who sends all kinds of messages—but within a week of her lying-in—”

  Mercifully, many of the guests had come long distances, some from right across the county, and the early autumn darkfall dictated early departures. By slow degrees they all took their leave. At last only Mr Thropton was left, lamenting over Parthie’s injuries.

  “The poor, poor child! I was never so shocked. Who, Sir Aydon, who do you think it can possibly have been?”

  “Oh, how can I tell?” Sir Aydon, like his wife, looked wearied to death. “It is of no great consequence, I daresay. Some disaffected tinker or besom maker—is the girl being properly tended?”

  “Yes, sir, she has been put to bed with a soothing draught, and the maid Tushie is with her.”

  Major Fenway had overseen the transfer of Parthie from the Rectory to the Hall.

  “We are much indebted to you, Major.”

  Plainly Mr Thropton would have liked to linger and discuss the incident at length, but Major Fenway managed to get rid of the Rector by exerting his authority as a medical man and saying firmly that Sir Aydon appeared shockingly fatigued and should retire to rest. With evident deep gratitude his host obeyed this recommendation and took himself off. Mr Thropton reluctantly said his farewells, but bowing extremely low over Alvey’s hand added that he looked forward to seeing her in church the following morning. Then at last he departed. Lady Winship had slipped away long before. Tot and Nish had collected a bundle of broken meats and done likewise, probably to the moor. “Mind you take your good clothes off before you go anywhere!” Alvey called after them, and they gave her hasty, preoccupied nods.

  All of a sudden Alvey found herself in the big empty room, among dirty plates, champagne glasses, and discarded napkins, alone with James and the Major.

  “Well. Thank the Lord that’s over,” said James. “Anothe
r fifteen minutes and I’d have foundered.”

  “What? And you with another six sisters to marry off? How can you be so poor-spirited?”

  “Six? Can it really be six? Well, no one is likely ever to take Parthie off Father’s hands.”

  “I had better go and see how the poor child is doing,” exclaimed Alvey, recalled to a sense of her continuing duties.

  “You need not trouble yourself. She is sound asleep. Don’t run away and leave us,” Major Fenway urged her. “Let me help you to some champagne. You took none all afternoon—not a single drop. I have been keeping an eye on you, you see.”

  “Thank you, you are very kind. No, I did not dare to take any wine; I needed to keep my wits about me.” With a wan smile, Alvey received the glass and sipped.

  “You had better eat something with that,” James roused himself out of his stupor of melancholy and fatigue to say, “or, so tired as you look, it will go straight to your head.”

  “Will it? I have never drunk champagne before.”

  “Good god, yes, you have. On any number of occasions. Do you not remember Cousin Patrick’s coming-of-age celebrations?”

  “Oh—oh yes. Yes, of course.” Alvey felt the Major’s amused eyes on her. He must think me a hen-witted fool, she thought, as he handed her a plate of ham and turkey.

  Amble and a couple of the maids came in and began quietly clearing away the used plates and glasses. Stridge the footman made up the fire.

  “Well, Miss Emmy; I reckon that passed off as it should,” Amble said to Alvey. “Not above seven glasses broke, and over three dozen of master’s best champagne left. Mrs Slaley’s cake got ate up to the last crumb.”

  “That was my cake, Amble, not Mrs Slaley’s,” Alvey told him. “But will you please tell her that the hare patties were quite excellent, and so was the pigeon pie. I heard many of the guests remarking on them, and Lady Edmondbyers asked me for the recipe, which I promised to send her. I shall be coming to congratulate Mrs Slaley on everything myself by and by, but just now I find myself a little tired.”

  “I should just about think so, Miss Emmy, seeing you was on your feet since six this morning. I’ll tell her, right enow.”

  Alvey sank down on a sopha, listening without paying too much heed while, in a pleasant, desultory fashion, the two young men talked over the occasion. How agreeable this is, she thought drowsily. If I had had brothers, I suppose this is what life might have been like. If I had had brothers . . .

  Almost asleep, she became aware that Major Fenway was playing the piano; not in Meg’s self-conscious tinkling style, but with mastery and power. She opened her eyes and watched James’s fair, incisive profile outlined against the faint glow of the dying fire.

  What a pity it is, thought Alvey regretfully, that I made Wicked Lord Love into a dark, saturnine hero. A fair aquiline man is so much more interesting and distinguished!

  But it is too late to change now.

  Suddenly becoming aware of the lateness of the hour she rose, rather uncertainly, to her feet, bade a friendly goodnight to the two young men and made her sleepy way upstairs to the bedroom which from now on would be all her own undisputed territory.

  The house next morning seemed strangely hushed after the bustle and excitement of the wedding. And we are a smaller household, thought Alvey, brushing her hair. Not that Meg and Isa were obtrusive house-mates . . . But what a luxury to be able to rise in silence, to be free to think her own thoughts as she fastened her laces and put on her collar, without the constraint of a second presence in the room.

  Before going downstairs she walked along to visit Parthie in the room the latter shared with little Betsey. Parthie, surprisingly, was not seizing the chance to remain in bed and be looked after, but was already up, in a dressing gown, submitting to the ministrations of Tushie, the smaller children’s nurse, who had removed yesterday’s bandage and was carefully placing a court plaster on her cheek.

  “How do you feel?” Alvey asked. “It was shockingly bad luck that you were obliged to miss the wedding breakfast; but I think you might have found it very dull; most of the guests seemed to be in their sixties.”

  Parthie shot her a resentful, disbelieving glance and said that she felt atrociously stiff and sore, and her head ached abominably. “But Major Fenway promised me a draught and said that I would notice the pain less if I busied myself about my usual employments.”

  Aha, thought Alvey, there is the reason for this unexpectedly stoic behaviour.

  She soon discovered, from the broken eggshells and hambones in the breakfast parlour, that the two young men had already eaten and gone out. Alvey made a rapid breakfast herself, for a multiplicity of tasks lay ahead of her, tidying-up operations and saying the proper things to the servants, the children’s lessons, and a number of letters that she had promised to write for Meg. “As you are such a writer,” Meg had said lightly, leaving her the list.

  “How is Lady Winship this morning?” she asked Amble.

  “Her ladyship keeps abed this morning. She is worn to a bone. But Sir Aydon is coming down this minute.”

  Sir Aydon entered and consumed his porridge in his accustomed morose silence. But Alvey was not disturbed by that; in fact she was engrossed in perusal of a letter from Mr Allgood at the Hexham circulating library, which had arrived along with a parcel of books.

  “I send these things by hand,” wrote Mr Allgood, “for Whin Bob the clockmender informed me that he will pass Birkland today and I know him to be a reliable messenger. I am happy to inform you that the handwriting copy-books ordered by you have come in; and I also enclose another communication from your correspondent in the tropics. Knowing that matters relating to your sister’s wedding may prevent your visiting Hexham in the near future I thought it best . . .”

  Another letter from Louisa was in the packet.

  What a pity Meg and Isa missed it by so short a time, reflected Alvey, cutting open the sea-stained paper. However she was soon bound to admit that Louisa’s second letter, dated from Cape Town, was hardly more exciting than her first had been. Many of the details were the same—the sobriety and godliness of Mr and Mrs Tothill, the respectability of Captain Middlemass, the obligingness of the crew. Then there were animadversions on the beauty of Cape Town—where, unfortunately, they had not been able to pause above a day and a half because of favouring winds. There were allusions to the virtue and helpfulness of some of the officers, especially of a Lt Dunnifage, and the convenience of the ship’s accommodations; though it began, confessed Louisa, to be a little confining, housed in such a small vessel week after week. She would be glad when their destination was in sight. She hoped her parents were in continuing health and was their affct. sister Louisa Winship.

  Parthie entered the room with a wan and suffering air, and cast a disappointed glance at the evidence of the young men’s departure.

  “Oh, it hurts so dreadfully to chew,” she sighed, taking a large bite of bread-and-butter.

  “Fiddlestick, girl!” growled Sir Aydon. “Folk get worse injuries every day in the hunting field and never give them a thought. Eat your breakfast and don’t mope.”

  “Papa is right,” agreed Alvey. “Food will do you good.” And she handed Parthie a cup of coffee, giving her a commiserating smile, which was received stonily. Plainly, Parthie considered that she had been awarded utterly unfair treatment by fate.

  At this moment James and Major Fenway re-entered the breakfast parlour looking extremely perturbed.

  “Sir,” said James, “I fear we bring you a piece of most disquieting news.”

  “Eh? Ha? Well? What is it?”

  “My stepmother’s garden has been—has been damaged in a very unpleasant way—”

  “Laid waste,” said the Major more bluntly.

  “Plants pulled up, cut down, savaged—”

  “What is this you tell me?”

&nbs
p; “I think you had better come and see for yourself, sir.”

  “Amble! Fetch me my great-coat!”

  The three men went out. Alvey followed them, wishing to see for herself.

  In Lady Winship’s enclosed garden the scene was as James had described it. Plants had been torn up, shrubs hacked to pieces, rocks and stones tossed from their beds and used to smash glass cloches protecting delicate growths; the whole charming dell had been mutilated and ravaged in, as James said, a very unpleasant manner. Not just senseless vandalism but real hate seemed to have been expressed by the kind of damage performed.

  “Good Gad!” said Sir Aydon, aghast, gazing about him at the devastation. “This is malice—barbarism. Charlotte must on no account see this—it might kill her.”

  Carey the gardener was there, gloomily inspecting the wreckage. He and Sir Aydon conferred together in low tones.

  “Have you any idea who might have committed such an act of mayhem?” Fenway said to James. “I thought your father was so popular, so greatly respected in the countryside?”

  “So I would have said—this is something quite untoward. I have never seen anything like it. My wretched stepmother—this garden is her whole raison d’être—”

  Tot and Nish had arrived with solemn faces and stared around them, awestruck.

  “This took somebody a long time to do,” said Tot.

  Alvey had had the same thought. Some person must have been in the garden, hacking, slashing, and smashing, with undiminishing malevolence, for a number of hours. The idea was both unpleasant and frightening.

  “It is unfortunate the garden is situated so far from the house.”

  “That is why Mamma likes it; because she is safe from being bothered.”

  Nish began to cry, gazing at a clump of saxifrage that had been kicked and stamped to pieces.

  “It is like a murder!” she sobbed.

  “Come indoors, children,” said Alvey concernedly. “We can do nothing here.”

  She led the children back into the house. “Come, I have some new copybooks for you, we may as well go up to the pele tower room and you can do an exercise from them. That will settle you, and give you an occupation for your thoughts.”