by Joan Aiken
“But Father—I am not going to rejoin my regiment.”
“What?”
“I am not going to rejoin my regiment.”
“I hope that my ears deceive me,” said Sir Aydon, after drawing an immensely long breath.
“No sir; they do not.”
“I trust this is some sick, crazy fancy . . . no? Why—what in the world has come over you?” Sir Aydon’s voice was rising in dangerous jerks.
“I—”
“Do you think you are the only soldier who has ever lost a leg?”
“I know I am not that,” said James, whiter still. “Why—on that field—along by that hedge where Picton’s Fifth routed d’Erlon’s corps—you could see arms and legs lying about like—like branches after a gale. The—the bodies were piled six feet high . . .” He gave a violent shudder; so did Alvey. Guy Fenway, she noticed, had set himself more squarely in his chair, like a person who expects an earthquake.
“I wish to hear no more of this,” said Sir Aydon. “Hateful—abominable—distempered rubbish! But I can see how it is. You are still sick—feverish—not back in full health yet. I shall be happy to ignore—forget what you have said. It is very fortunate that your mother is not present.”
“Lady Winship is my stepmother,” said James, pale and pinched about the nostrils.
“I meant Maria,” surprisingly shouted Sir Aydon. “She came of a line of fighters.”
James drew a sharp furious breath and stood up, holding the arm of his chair.
Sir Aydon went on, “Good Gad, sir, your grandfather served under Clive—he fought in the Battle of Plassey—your great-uncle Charles was at Malplaquet—I myself know what it is to be wounded—I still carry shrapnel from the French guns at Willemstadt—and a bayonet scar from the assault at Linselles—”
“That was mediaeval warfare,” said James scornfully. “Fists and daggers!”
“Bayonets, sir, bayonets! As gallant a charge as you could ever hope to see. Those men of the shires were heroes, sir, heroes! And, in the siege of Dunkirk—”
“Where the Duke of York had to retire! He was nothing but a young fop—an amateur—up against a professional. Carnot knew more about warfare than the Duke could ever—”
“Be silent, sir!” thundered Sir Aydon, now thoroughly incensed.
“Wait. You are going the wrong way about it,” said Major Fenway quietly to his friend. “There is no point in exacerbating your father.”
But James, now as enraged as his parent, shouted,—
“What do you know about modern warfare? You left the army in ‘94—they were still using bows and arrows then! What do you know about the effects of a bombardment of cannon? Do you realize—have you ever thought—what the losses were at Brussels? Thirty-thousand men killed—ours and theirs. Have you ever seen thirty thousand men lying smashed to pieces against the hedge? Or wounded—maimed and dying? The roads were so choked with them—groaning and bleeding and crying—on the ground, or on carts—that we had to walk—we had to go at a walking pace all those twelve long miles into Brussels—at first Guy wheeled me in a hand-barrow he found, until we were lucky enough to come up with a transport wagon. If Guy had not seen me—I should not be here now—and I wish I were not!—I should be lying among that heap of men by the hedge—”
He stared ahead of him as if he saw it still.
“You utterly disgust me,” said his father. “But once you are back with your regiment I shall endeavour to erase this conversation from my mind—I shall do my possible to forget it—”
“Then you will have to wait a precious long time. I am not going back to my regiment. In fact I have already sold out—”
“What did I hear you say?”
“I have sold out,” repeated James. “I am never going back. I have no fancy for blowing men to pieces and mangling them to bloody pulp. I intend rather to try and mend them. In that shambles after the battle there was one surgeon for every five hundred men—for all I know to the contrary, one to every thousand. I am going to follow Guy’s example and pursue a medical training; then at least I shall be some use in the world, instead of being fit only for butchers’ work.”
“Medical training? Did I understand you?”
“Yes, sir, you hear me. I am sorry if it does not suit your standards of how a gentleman should occupy himself. But I am quite resolved. My mind is made up.”
Alvey could have clapped her hands. James still looked white, sick, and shattered, but his eyes blazed with a light that had not been in them since he had come to Birkland. Sir Aydon, on the other hand, looked as if he had fallen over a cliff and were still falling. Alvey wondered with detachment if he would have a stroke; his eyes bulged, his face was the dark colour of burgundy wine.
“Then,” he said hoarsely, “not a penny of my money do you receive from now on for this—this piece of outrageous foolery—not a penny, not a penny—”
“Don’t put yourself about, sir, I shall not ask you for a penny—”
“You can starve, for all the help you’ll get from me—you shall be cut off—”
Here, greatly startling everybody, old Mrs Winship spoke up.
“No, he will not starve, Aydon, so pray do not be so Gothick. There is no need for all this melodrama! I have told the boy I intend to let him have money for his needs; so let that be an end of the matter. I do not consider his plans to be outrageous foolery; quite the converse. I only wish that anybody else in this family owned to such a practical ambition.”
Sir Aydon swung round and stared at his mother, mouth agape.
“You have announced your intention of financing him, ma’am?”
He looks like the lame Vulcan about to swing his hammer, thought Alvey.
In front of Sir Aydon the old woman seemed to shrink and shrivel in size, like a dead leaf in a blazing bonfire.
“Yes, I do, Aydon! Don’t glower at me like that—don’t—”
Her mouth hung ajar, she slipped and sagged sideways in her chair; she would have fallen to the floor had not Major Fenway leapt forward and caught her.
“We must get her to bed; I fear she may have suffered a stroke,” he said.
“Now see what you have done, sir,” said Sir Aydon to his son.
Chapter XI.
“It distresses me to go off like this, leaving you with the cares of such a stricken household falling chiefly on your shoulders,” said Guy Fenway to Alvey, early next morning.
They were standing in the chamber of old Mrs Winship, who lay mute, unmoving in the bed; her eyes were open, but whether she saw her visitors, who could say? In any case, Alvey remembered, without her spectacles on her nose, it was probable that any object beyond the range of four feet was nothing but a blur.
“You are very kind to feel anxiety for me,” Alvey told the Major. “But I don’t doubt I shall manage. The servants here are wonderfully experienced, helpful, and kind.” Really, she thought, it is James who ought to be feeling brotherly solicitude for me. But he, not surprisingly, was so engulfed with relief at having finally delivered his ultimatum to his father, mingled with horror at its consequences to his grandmother, that he had no attention left to spare for other members of the household.
“Do you think she will recover?” Alvey looked down at the bloodless old face on the pillow, at the small blotched hands resting idly on the patchwork quilt which, long ago, for weeks and months on end, they had busily stitched together.
Guy surprised her by answering, “Yes; I think she has a good chance of recovery. I have examined her carefully, she has a remarkably strong constitution. Her heart is sound. I know she has been under excessive strain these last few days. James had of course informed her of his intentions and enlisted her sympathy. And then, wretched fellow, he kept postponing the announcement, until the last possible opportunity—”
“He is like his—my fath
er in that,” Alvey said. “Sir Aydon never will come to a decision or take any action until he is positively pushed into it by circumstances.”
“Just so.” The Major gave her a keen, scrutinizing look.
“What can we do for my grandmother?”
“Keep her nourished. Light food, broths, eggnogs, brandy. Rub her, warm her, keep her limbs moving. Encourage any signs of intelligence or activity. If she begins to speak, give her plenty of practice. The mental and motor faculties are like a machine, that requires oiling and use to keep in working order.”
“And my mother?”
He shrugged. “Another strong constitution. If she can survive Dr Cunningham’s treatment, she must be an Amazon. But I think she will do well enough.”
“She is very strong,” Alvey said thoughtfully. “The result of all those hours each day spent in the open air, working in her flower-garden . . . poor thing.”
Major Fenway walked across to Mrs Winship’s window and stood looking out, drumming his fingers on the sill. He seemed to be staring across the carriage sweep towards the Lion pool, but there was a perplexed, inward-looking expression on his face. Alvey joined him at the window and he gave her another of his intent, measuring glances.
“I think your mother will be up and about again, to some degree, in a week or so. Then, she is going to need as much sympathy and companionship as you are able to give her.”
“Indeed?” Alvey was no little daunted by this suggestion. Rubbing the old lady’s hands and encouraging her to resume the faculty of speech would be a labour of affection and interest; but there would be little recompense, she feared, in cultivating Lady Winship’s arid company. “Mamma has never seemed to take pleasure in my companionship,” she said doubtfully.
“Could your sister Isa perhaps be persuaded to forgo her travels and return home?” Guy suggested.
“Isa? Oh, no, I do not think that would be right or fair. This may probably be the only time she will ever escape from home.” Alvey was surprised to discover how strongly she felt on this point; Isa, she knew, would agree to come home like a bird, might be only too glad of the chance to do so; yet she should not be encouraged to sacrifice her one glimpse of the outside world. At the end of a year I shall be gone, who knows where? Alvey thought. I have the whole world at my disposal. No, no, Isa must have her journey, must make the most of it.
She said, “We shall manage well enough. I can enlist the help of Nish and Tot in the care of their grandmother; they are good children; if their interest is engaged they will devote a great deal of energy and ingenuity to the project. And as for La—for my mother; well, of course I promise to do all I can.”
“Your own work will suffer?” Another probing look. “Your sister Isa told me that you are engaged in writing a book.”
Oh did she, indeed, thought Alvey. And who gave Sister Isa leave to tell that? She said: “My book is in good train at the moment; I see my way clear to the end, and, in the meantime, it makes a very enjoyable diversion to go back to it after dealing with household matters.”
“Ah! That accounts for your air of—”
“Air of—”
“Of—of having other resources to draw upon. You are fortunate!”
“Oh yes. I am. I know I am.” Alvey went on thoughtfully, “If only Sir Ay—if only my father could be brought to involve himself more in his family’s affairs. His state of mind is very bad at present—low, despondent, irritable—the least thing aggravates him, and lately, poor man, he has had no small troubles to contend with. This last declaration by my brother—of course, James was quite right to take his decision, naturally I applaud his courage and good sense, but it has been and will be a terrible blow to his father; a shame, a mortification, a grief; especially just at this time; I hardly know how he is going to sustain it.”
“I have been thinking very much about that matter,” Major Fenway surprised her by saying. “In fact I have at the back of my mind a plan with regard to Sir Aydon. But it is so wild—so mad, I believe you might consider it—that I will not speak of it more explicitly at present, not until I have at least some slight hope, some expectation of its achievement.”
“Good God, sir! What can you possibly have in mind?”
All manner of implausible notions chased each other through Alvey’s head; but none of them accorded with what she knew either of Sir Aydon or of the Major. “I fear that Sir Aydon rather dislikes you,” she mentioned diffidently. “I doubt—after last night—whether he would with complaisance accept any suggestion from you regarding his future manner of life.”
Fenway laughed. “I doubt so too! He cannot wait to see the back of me—and that is a salutary reminder that I must hurry James with his packing and set forward.”
Duddy came into the room with a stone hot-water-bottle which she carefully placed at her mistress’s feet.
“That is right,” said Guy. “Keep her well warmed at all times. But I know you will. I can see you tend her far more skilfully than I ever could.”
Duddy gave him a wintry smile. “Eh, lad, niver fash thisen buttering me oop.”
“I won’t.” He smiled back at her. “You do it for love. That is the difference.” Turning to Alvey he said, “One last thing. When I was out yesterday with the children—we were up on a part of the moor called, I believe, Gilcastle Fell—we encountered an old shepherd who seemed very ill-disposed to them—indeed to your whole family. He shouted a lot of abuse. I myself found his language almost impenetrable I confess; but they understood what he said well enough, they told me he was uttering various vague threats—”
“Who can it have been?” said Alvey, disquieted, but Duddy exclaimed—,
“Eh, that’ll be owd Herdman, sartin sure! Gurt owd critter with a white beard?”
“That’s the man. Yes, Herdman, that was the name. I think Sir Aydon should be warned about him, I fancy he will bear watching.”
“Can it have been he who was responsible for the garden?—But no,” Alvey recollected, “he was supposed to have been away from the neighbourhood at that time. But perhaps a friend of his—”
“He has nivvor a friend,” said Duddy. “He’s a bitter, sullen owd weasel. That’s why he bides oop i’ the hut on the fells wi’ his sheep all summer long, for none in the village can abide him.”
And that was why Annie couldn’t leave her baby at home, Alvey thought. Lady Winship certainly made a bad mistake when she commanded his daughter and grandson into the household. But I suppose somebody who spends all her days in a garden cannot be expected to have a very shrewd judgment of human nature.
Major Fenway’s carriage drew up down below on the sweep, the horses led by Archie.
“Good heavens, here it is half-past seven already, and I have been boring on at you, Miss Winship, as if—as if I were your reverend Thropton. Forgive me! I have no right to lay duties on you—and no need, I am sure; I—I have a great esteem for your abilities. Allow me to bid you farewell.”
Before the impassive eyes of Mrs Winship and the neutral ones of Duddy the Major took Alvey’s hand, pressed it, and raised it momentarily to his lips.
—“Oh, but I will come down with you and say goodbye to James,” said Alvey quickly.
Nish and Tot, and even little Betsey, were out on the sweep, hopping around and getting in the way as Amble and Stridge the footman carried out the young gentlemen’s bags.
“Goodbye, goodbye, Major Fenway, goodbye, brother James,” they chorused sadly. Nish and Tot in particular had a profound admiration for their grown-up brother, increased to hero-worship by the flinching gallantry with which he jerked himself about on his newly acquired wooden leg.
“You had best travel inside the chaise, old fellow,” said Fenway.
“Gammon! I’m coming on the box with you.”
The Major shook his head, but did not dispute the matter any further.
; “Goodbye, James,” said Alvey. “I—I wish you the very best of luck with your studies.”
“Oh, halloo, Louisa—are you up at this hour? Goodbye, then,” said James, and just brushed her cheek with his. “I—I say—you will keep me posted as to how they all go on, will you not?”
“Of course I will, if you send me your direction.”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, and with Amble’s help was assisted on to the box. The well-rested team started off briskly up the hill.
“He’s a champion whip, that Major Fenway,” commented Amble, as Alvey turned indoors. At the library window she thought she saw a face, quickly withdrawn. Sir Aydon had not emerged to say goodbye to the young men. Nor had Parthie. But, unlike Sir Aydon, she appeared later in the dining-room and consumed a large breakfast. Alvey took this opportunity to pass on to her Major Fenway’s injunctions regarding old Mrs Winship.
“We must be with her a great deal, and encourage her faculties as much as possible.”
“Why?” said Parthie sulkily. “What is the value of that?”
“Why, to bring her back to a normal way of living, of course. I should think you would be anxious to do that, as you are so fond of her.”
“It seems a great waste of time, if she is only to be like a baby from now on, drooling and stupid. That’s what Ellen says is likely to happen. So why take the trouble?”
“Major Fenway thinks there is an excellent chance of her making a good recovery,” said Alvey, rather astonished. But Parthie did not seem at all rejoiced at this forecast. She hung her head over her plate and muttered something about James and money.
“You begrudge the allowance your grandmother is making to James, while he learns how to be a doctor? That is not very generous.”
“It is because she thinks there may not be enough left for Grandmamma to leave Parthie in her will,” said Nish dispassionately. Parthie scowled at her younger sister.
“In any case, you are in no position to make comments or lay down rules for our behaviour,” Parthie said to Alvey with spiteful temerity.
