Deception

by Joan Aiken

  Up in the schoolroom she trimmed their pens, ruled their lines, and set them to work. Both children rather enjoyed copying, and applied themselves with goodwill, Tot only breaking off to say, “Who will tell my mother about the garden?”

  “I expect your father will do that.”

  They continued working peacefully, but Alvey’s thoughts could not be peaceful. The image of the ravaged garden was still before her eyes. Who could have done it? The same person who had thrown the stone at the wedding party? And how could the wrongdoer be discovered?—Or, Alvey wondered, would it be best if the perpetrator were not discovered? An uneasy suspicion flitted across her mind, but was hastily banished—no, no, the idea was impossible!—But suppose the family were to be the target for more disturbing acts of malice?

  “I must leave you for a while,” she said to the children. “I have several other tasks—letters to write, and I promised to help Mrs Slaley put away the silver. But I will come back later and read you about the Princes in the Tower.”

  The value of horrific episodes in the past, she thought, is that they distract us from our own terrors.

  Then, for the first time, she recalled Louisa’s letter, which she had left tucked among the children’s copybooks. She sorted through the pile, but the letter was not there.

  “Have you seen a letter—on rather sea-stained, crumpled paper?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Could I have left it on the breakfast table?”

  Alvey ran downstairs. But the table had been cleared and polished; and Amble, when asked, disclaimed any knowledge of the letter. So did the maid Janet, now engaged in sweeping the room and putting it to rights.

  Alvey revisited the pele room for a second and more careful search among the children’s books but with no more success; the letter was not to be found.

  Duddy entered the schoolroom while Alvey was still engaged in a fruitless search.

  “Missus ‘ud like a word wi’ ye, Miss Emmy.”

  Missus in Duddy’s case referred to the old lady, so Alvey followed the maid through the door from the spiral stair. Old Mrs Winship was still in bed, propped against pillows, bundled up in her Cashmere shawl. She peered at Alvey over her thick spectacles.

  “What’s this I hear about Charlotte’s garden? I sent for James, I sent for Aydon, but they are out of doors; or they don’t come, they don’t heed me. I am of no account in this house any more. Go away, Duddy, go away, and see if you cannot make one of them come.”

  It must be hard, Alvey thought, when you grow old, to feel the threads of command slackening and slipping from your hands. Especially when you have been used to govern. Sometime, she thought, I must ask the old lady about her past; about her youth, and the years when she was in command of this house. She must have many stories to tell. But not just at this time.

  Mrs Winship did not look at all well today; her ghostly pallor was even more pronounced than usual, and a slight tremor was visible in her head and hands. The wedding breakfast must have been a fearful ordeal for her too, though she had seemed to enjoy it more than her son and his wife.

  As Alvey described the wreckage in the garden, old Grizel listened with pursed lips, her glasses in her hand, her eyes fixed myopically on vacancy.

  “Somebody hates my daughter-in-law,” she remarked, in a matter-of-fact tone, at the end of the account.

  She is like Tot and Nish, Alvey thought. Straight to the heart of the affair; no needless exclamations.

  “Who do you think could have done it, ma’am?”

  Old Grizel did not answer that question. She murmured to herself, “This will be a bad blow to Charlotte. When you possess nothing but a garden—and that is taken from you—you are singularly ill-equipped to sustain the misfortune. Other people mean nothing to you; so you can receive no comfort from them.”

  “Does nobody in this house mean anything to her, grandmother?”

  Mrs Winship put the glasses back on her nose and then peered at Alvey over the top of them. Still she did not reply.

  “Where is Parthie?” she presently demanded querulously.

  “I think it possible that she has returned to bed. She is in low spirits, with her black eye and bruised cheek; she complained of a headache.”

  Or, Alvey thought, it was possible that Parthie was dogging the footsteps of Major Fenway.

  The old lady echoed her thought.

  “Dangling round that friend of James’s, more like. A clever, well-conducted man. Pity he’s such an ugly, unimpressive stick of a fellow.—No, I’ll not rise from my bed today. Find me the Crabbe poems, girl, and the spermaceti and the hazel oil and my little ivory mirror and my Bible. Oh, and the letters from your poor aunt Elinor in Bath—I wish to reread them.”

  Occupied on these errands, Alvey wondered if there would be any purpose in asking old Mrs Winship if she had seen the letter from Louise. Could Parthie have removed it from the breakfast table? She had been the only person in the room when Alvey left it—apart from Amble. Or had one of the servants merely assumed it to be waste paper and thrown it on the fire?

  “I don’t seem to be able to find the Crabbe poems, grandmother. Did you take them downstairs? Nor can I lay my hand on the spermaceti oil.”

  “Have you looked in all the drawers, child?”

  “Every one. And I have searched in all the other places I can think of.”

  There were not so many possible repositories in the bare room.

  “I do not know how it is,” said the old lady fretfully, “but I seem to lose more and more articles every day. And when I make lists of where I put things, then I lose the lists. I think God does not mean me to have possessions. He is reminding me that it is high time I set out on my last journey, and there are no porters and no boxes for travellers on that road . . . You had better put a linseed poultice on Parthie’s face; that will reduce the inflammation. And send Aydon to me if you see him; and James.”

  Thus dismissed, Alvey went about her other duties. Parthie was discovered back in her room, wrapped in shawls and self-pity. When Alvey knocked and entered she hastily thrust some object under her pile of pillows, and then threw herself back against them with a martyred sigh and a die-away expression. Offered a linseed poultice she resentfully declined it, saying that the wound was well enough under Tushie’s court plaster.

  “How about the chipped tooth? Does it pain you very greatly? I suppose you should see a dentist—is there one in Hexham?”

  “Oh, no! It is not—I do not wish that at all.”

  “Then can I do anything else for you? Fetch you a warm drink? Read to you?”

  “Read to me? I thank you, no!” With a theatrical sob, Parthie slid farther down the pillows, muttering, “Nobody in the house cares whether I live or die, and you offer to read to me!”

  “Well,” Alvey said reasonably, “there are several people here in worse case than you, after all. Poor James with his leg, and your grandmother gravely overtired, and your mother having sustained such a dreadful calamity—how is she, by the bye?”

  “Mamma? Oh, she fainted.” Parthie imparted this news without the least sympathy in her tone. “When my father informed her that her garden had been destroyed she fell into such a deep faint that Major Fenway gave orders for her to be carried to bed and her stay-laces cut. He is with her now, administering soothing draughts; has been this hour.”

  “Oh, my gracious! Poor Lady—poor Mamma.” Wisely deciding to take no notice of a glance full of malice and animosity from Parthie’s pale eyes, Alvey reflected, And that is why you have taken to your bed, my girl, and are lying here in hopes of a similar medical visit from the Major.

  “Well I will send up Tushie by and by with a nuncheon for you,” she said kindly, and went out closing the door.

  Now I suppose I ought to go along to Lady Winship’s room and offer my services, she thought, with som
e reluctance.

  So exiguous was the bond between Lady Winship and her grown daughters that neither Meg nor Isa ever thought of setting foot in their mother’s bed-chamber, and Alvey was not even certain of its exact whereabouts, though she knew that it lay among the suite of rooms that ran along the east front of the house, above the drawing-room. Hesitating outside the row of doors, she was relieved to see the maid Ellen emerge from one of them.

  “How is she—how is my mother? May I go in to her?”

  “Reckon she’s still in a swound, Miss Emmy. Reet nasty one it was, wi’ convulsions an’ all. The Major’s given her a dram—he’s a-watching over her yet, in yonder—” she nodded to the door from which she had appeared. “He said as how there’s naught more to be done for her noo. Ye can gan in, miss, if ye will—ye can do no harm, that’s for sure.”

  “Where is Sir Aydon?”

  “Took hisself off to his library, the poor maister did. Mebbe mester James is with him.”

  Encouraged by this qualified permission, Alvey entered the bedroom, walking on tiptoe.

  Major Fenway, sitting on the bed, rose and laid a finger to his lips, then drew Alvey over to the window, which commanded a wholly uninteresting prospect over the shrubbery that lay beside the front carriage sweep. How strange, thought Alvey, that of all the possible rooms in this house with extensive views from their windows, the mistress of it should occupy a chamber with no view at all.

  It was true that the room was large and handsome, amply furnished and richly decorated. Perhaps it had always been the master-bedroom and Lady Winship was given no choice in the matter. Doors on either side led to dressing-rooms or powdering-closets.

  “How is she?” murmured Alvey. “Is there any way in which I can be of use?”

  “No, I thank you,” he returned in the same tone, but with a very kind look. “It is an exceedingly bad faint; it seems to me highly possible that the boy, Thomas, may have inherited his epileptic proclivity from his mother’s side of the family; I do not expect that she will come out of it for several hours yet. I think I had best be at hand when she does—I have some little experience with this kind of collapse. But there is no occasion for you to remain also; I am sure you have many duties that call you—”

  “Principally keeping those poor children occupied—”

  “If you can likewise find some distraction for your brother James it would be a good deed,” Fenway said softly. “He is in dreadfully low spirits.”

  “I am not certain that he will accept distraction at my hand. But I will do my best.”

  Alvey smiled at the Major, threw a quick, nervous glance at the great bed, where Lady Winship’s massive body lay totally inert, motionless, like a carved figure on a tomb. It was strange and rather frightening to see that usually high-coloured face so pale and grey, to see the large vague staring eyes now closed and lightless. Fenway must be right, she decided. This seemed no ordinary faint.

  Casting one more quick, inquisitive scrutiny round the room, Alvey silently withdrew.

  It was rather tantalizing, she thought with a touch of self-pity, that, just when she was made free of a room all to herself, in which she might sit writing all day long without interruption—just when she had acquired this unheard-of luxury—so very many misfortunes and distractions supervened to prevent her making full use of her privilege. And she had such a quantity of new escapades in mind for Lord Love! But there was Mrs Slaley waiting for the silver to be counted—and she had promised to read about the Princes in the Tower to the children—and now Major Fenway had saddled her with the additional responsibility of James—besides which, the thought of Sir Aydon, forlorn and solitary in his library, lay like a shadow at the back of her mind—

  Bracing herself, Alvey ran briskly down the stairs.

  Chapter X.

  “GO AWAY, child,” said Mrs Winship irritably to Parthie. “You look a sight! I don’t desire to have you about me until you are more pleasing to the eye.”

  “But, Grandmamma, I want to tell you something—”

  “Not now, miss! I have been told by far too many things already this day—I do not wish to hear any more scandal or disaster. Be off with you—go and pester Major Fenway—I daresay he will be prepared to listen to you with more complaisance.”

  Scarlet-cheeked, Parthie closed her grandmother’s door with something of a slam. For it was no use going in search of the Major, she knew full well; he was still with Lady Winship.

  “What shall you do, sir, about searching for the villain who did the damage to my stepmother’s garden?” James was saying, downstairs in the library.

  “Oh? Ha, humph. Precious little that can be done, I fancy. Why, what d’ye expect me to do? Summon the Bow Street Runners? No, no, there’s not a deal that can be effected—only supply poor Charlotte with the funds to put the place to rights again; I don’t see my way to do anything more than that—”

  “But, sir: surely you wish to bring the fellow to book?”

  Sir Aydon’s face closed up—like an oyster, Alvey would have thought, if she had been there to note down the simile.

  “That would only be to prolong the whole scandal; I am persuaded it is the last thing madam would wish. Of course,” he mentioned as an afterthought, “naturally I shall consult her wishes when she is—when she is more herself. We are fortunate in having your friend Fenway here at this juncture. Not that I consider such medical activities lie within the province of a gentleman—hmn, ha!—damned peculiar sort of propensity—comes from a decent family too, can’t understand it—lucky you ain’t by way of having such tastes—still it certainly falls well for us in the present circumstances—”

  “Sir—”

  “—Which brings me to another matter, my boy. When do the leeches and bloodletters consider that you may be ready to rejoin your regiment?—Not that we ain’t happy to see you here for a spell, of course,” he added hurriedly, “but I daresay you won’t be wishing to kick your heels at home a day longer than you need, ha, hm?”

  “Well, sir, in respect of that, I—”

  Luckily, or unluckily for James, at this moment Mr Thropton was announced.

  The Rector bustled in, all concern and commiseration.

  “—Seeing not one of the family present at matins—being apprized, later this morning, of the new and shocking occurrence that has afflicted you—felt it my duty to come in person—”

  He hopes to be invited to dinner and take a share of the cold pigeon pie, thought James sourly, though he was aware in himself of a certain guilty and shamed relief at the Rector’s arrival.

  “Ha! Mr Thropton. Good morning; you find us at sixes and sevens, I fear—”

  And we wish you at the devil, Sir Aydon’s expression said, so plainly that Amble, still hovering, murmured, “Would you wish me to send for Miss Louisa, Sir Aydon?”

  “Do so, Amble, will you? I cannot remain with you just at present, Mr Thropton, I fear; I have to discover how my poor wife goes on; quite prostrated, you know, utterly cut up by this last catastrophe. By the bye, Amble, could you tell the servants to look sharp for Lady Winship’s ring—noticed, when she was laid out on her bed, that it was missing from her finger. Knocked off when she fainted, perhaps; she’ll be sorry to come to and find it missing.”

  Amble murmured a promise that the ring should be sought; though he ventured to think that the ring had been missing before today; he could not recollect seeing it on my lady’s finger of late.

  Sir Aydon hurried off to escape from Mr Thropton, going upstairs, not to his wife’s bedchamber but to the dressing-room adjacent, which he had occupied, on and off, since his hunting accident.

  Alvey, descending the stairs, heard Mr Thropton’s unctuous tones issuing from the library and hesitated—but she also heard the voice of James, sharp with strain and reserve.

  “—Excessively hard on my parents: my father s
till not himself—the child’s death—”

  James is doing his best to make it plain, thought Alvey, that he himself has no personal interest in the matter of the child’s death.

  Amble intercepted her and whispered in her ear, “Sir Aydon asked, Miss Emmy, as how you’d entertain the reverend gentleman, for he finds himself a touch overset—”

  Their eyes met with perfect comprehension. Alvey nodded resignedly.

  “Bring a bottle of Madeira to the library, Amble.”

  “Oh, and Miss Emmy, have you seen Madam’s ring anywhere—her signet ring?”

  Alvey had not; she could not even recollect seeing a signet on Lady Winship’s finger. What a lot of things seem to be lost in this house, she thought; that is certainly one disadvantage of living in a mansion. Nothing could be lost for long in Cousin Hepzie’s house . . .

  “Ah, what do I see! The lovely Miss Louisa! But how truly distressed I was, dear Miss Louisa, to see none of you at Divine Service—”

  Oh, good God, thought Alvey, what a scandalous thing. It is Sunday, of course!

  She said smoothly, “I am sure you will comprehend how it was, Mr Thropton. My mother and grandmother so fatigued by the events of yesterday—my father too, indeed—and then this new horrifying outrage—But I had proposed coming down, later, to the Rectory, to thank you for your most important part in yesterday’s ceremony.”

  And thank goodness I don’t have to do that now, she thought, disengaging her hand from his clammy clasp. Past his shoulder she noticed James’s expression of strain lifted by a faint relief at her arrival; he gave her a look of gratitude and her heart rose, absurdly.

  Amble brought the wine and poured it, while Mr Thropton continued to discourse about the wedding, which, he flattered himself, had gone off in the most elegant possible style—due to the eminence of the family, and the superiority of their connections, and the dignity and respectability of the congregation, the charming looks of the bride—Here he waited for one of his auditors to compliment him on the eloquence of his sermon but as neither of them did so he himself mentioned a very touching tribute paid to it “by my old friend Lady Edmondbyers”—and the pleasing air of naturalness contributed by the youthful attendants. He means when Tot tripped over Meg’s train, thought Alvey, plying Mr Thropton with Madeira. From the wedding he went on to talk about his Roman excavations—“I flatter myself that you would not be uninterested in them, Mr Winship—I believe I am right in saying that you pursued the study of history at the university? Any time that you care to come and inspect them I shall be greatly honoured—Miss Louisa knows that she is always a welcome guest—” and, from the excavations he somehow managed to lead the conversation back to the subject of Annie Herdman’s baby.