by Joan Aiken
“A matter of twenty mile and more. Heigh ho, they don’t breed foxes like that any more.”
“Oh, the poor fox!” exclaimed Nish incautiously. “Imagine dying like that—in the sea, so many miles from home.” She turned pale and her eyes filled with tears at the thought.
Tot also had gone white and was swallowing hard, looking down at his plate.
“Hold your tongue, miss!” thundered their father. “And be off to bed with the pair of you.”
They were happy to escape.
Lady Winship, Alvey, and Parthie likewise beat an early retreat to the drawing-room, but Alvey, as she left, glanced doubtfully back at Major Fenway, who had courteously risen to his feet as the ladies left the table. He gave her a reassuring smile, and turned to sit down again as Amble placed a couple of decanters by his master.
Alvey heard the Major say, “I believe you have a troop of volunteer cavalry hereabouts, sir, do you not? How many do they number?”
“Oh, aye, the Coquetdale Rangers; aye, aye, they are a decent body of men enough, and none so badly mounted or equipped. Before my disability I used to have command of ‘em, but that’s all gone by, now; in any case, since Boney’s laid by the leg, they are not required any more and I believe the troop has been disbanded; though, faith, considering what we hear of riots and rick-burning in the South, the presence of such a body of men in the district is no bad thing . . .”
The ladies sat long and late in the drawing-room, not a little apprehensive, expecting to hear shouts, thumps, or crashes; but the steady murmur of voices from the dining-room went on and on, never raising its pitch; when Lady Winship finally rang for Amble and the tea-tray, she said to him. “Will the gentlemen be coming soon, do you think, Amble?” and he replied, “Not for a while, I’m thinking, my lady; Sir Aydon just called for another bottle—but he’s no’ fretted nor moithered; the Major talks so quiet and canny it’s a pleasure to listen to him.”
The ladies drank their tea in silence, and Parthie presently took herself away, yawning, to bed. A considerable time later, Major Fenway walked silently into the drawing-room.
“I know it is disgracefully late now to ask your indulgence, ma’am,” he said, “but if there is one thing in the world that I long for it is a cup of tea.”
He appeared sober, cheerful, and quite relaxed.
“Is my husband—is he not coming in?” asked Lady Winship, nervously handing the Major his cup.
“He finds himself somewhat sleepy—so much talk of hunting! Amble is helping him to bed. I may say,” disclosed the Major, after taking his tea at a gulp and returning the cup to the tray, “that I have succeeded in my errand; I have persuaded him to accompany me to Edinburgh tomorrow and submit himself to the ministrations of Mr Harle.”
“What?”
“You have?” burst out of the ladies simultaneously. The Major favoured them with a benevolent smile.
“I have: Amble will bear witness. But—just in case Sir Aydon changes his mind during the night—or, waking, forgets his decision—I intend to set out very early tomorrow; to be precise, at about half-past four. Amble entirely concurs with me in this decision; and I am glad to say he will accompany his master on the journey, and remain in Edinburgh to take care of him while Sir Aydon is undergoing the treatment.”
“Oh,” faintly replied Lady Winship. “How very—yes, that is an excellent plan; Amble is so attached to his master; that will—but, are you sure, Major Fenway? Are you quite sure that you are not mistaken?”
“Perfectly sure,” he said, smiling. “You must give me credit for a very persuasive tongue. Now—if you will excuse me—since I have to make such an early start—”
“Yes—yes—of course. Well! I must say, I was never so surprised in my life!”
“Are you telling the truth?” murmured Alvey to Fenway as she accompanied him into the hall, on the pretence of lighting bedroom candles. “Is there nothing underhand about this sudden reversal?”
“As Amble is my witness!” he replied virtuously, “all I did was ply him with some excellent claret I had brought with me, and encourage him to talk of horsemanship. By the end of the evening he was so anxious to get back into the saddle that a trip to Edinburgh seemed as nothing if it would achieve that object; I believe he would gladly have accompanied me to Land’s End.—Still, as I said, I intend to whistle him off early, while he is still drowsy—just in case of any afterthoughts or backsliding.”
“Ah. What was in the claret?”
“Now there I see the writer’s imagination at work—always detecting subtle schemes and evil designs! Good night, and pleasant slumbers—”
Taking his candle, he ran lightly up the stairs.
Alvey had intended to rise in time to see the travellers depart, but overslept and missed them; she came down at five to find the Major’s carriage gone, and Stridge thoughtfully tidying away a few breakfast dishes.
“Amble ganned off wi’ th’maister,” he told Alvey.
“And Sir Aydon was still quite willing to go? He was not—had not—changed his mind?”
They did not actually tie him up and bundle him into the carriage? was what she would have liked to ask.
Stridge grinned, the scar crinkling his smooth young cheek.
“He seemed a bit dazed-like, I’d say, miss, but he took a cup o’ coffee and went off very biddably; yon Major Fenway has a wonderful soothing manner o’ talking. He’d be a grand chap wi’ the horses if he warn’t a gentleman an’ a doctor!”
Alvey ate a little breakfast and, as soon as it became light, went for a stroll in the silent frosty pine-grove, as neither Lady Winship nor the children were down yet.
The air tingled with cold, no sounds of birds could be heard save the cluck of a pheasant. How far will the coach have gone by now? wondered Alvey, what time will they reach Edinburgh, what in the world will James and his father have to say to one another? But perhaps they will not meet, perhaps Guy will take Sir Aydon direct to the house of this Phineas Harle.
When had she begun to think of the Major as Guy? perhaps when she learned that he shared her secret. He is a strange man, thought Alvey; I suppose talking to people, persuading them of his trustworthiness, extracting their secrets from them, is his preferred occupation; rather a questionable one! Though very probably he believes that he does it for their good. I wonder, though, if that is really the case?
Yet she had to admit that she herself felt wonderfully eased, solaced, almost light-hearted after divulging the story of her parents to this interested and intelligent listener. That couple had been locked inside her for so long; it was a great comfort just to be able to speak of them to a third party, a dispassionate third party. Cousin Hepzie had been far from dispassionate, she had been so violently prejudiced against Herr Muller and his community that only regret and distress ensued after any talk with her on the matter. If Mr Thropton had been a different kind of person, mused Alvey, I could have talked to him; but unfortunately his comments would be totally unhelpful, and, furthermore, I suspect that he is not a reliable confidant. I would not be surprised if he spread gossip; I would never trust him with a secret.
Turning homewards—for by now the children must be up—she was not a little surprised to see Mr Thropton himself, as if conjured from the ground by her thought, marching down at a hasty, blundering pace through the pine-grove; she was approaching the entrance from a different angle, and they met beside the Lion pool, fringed, now, with icicles that dangled from the ferns and from the lion’s head itself.
What in the wide world brings the Rector out so early? wondered Alvey as she wished him a civil good-morning.
He seemed decidedly put about by the meeting.
“Ah—good morning Miss—er—that is—I wonder to see you out so early! I am come because—I understood—that is—word reached me that—er—Mr James Winship’s friend Major Fenway intends to try
to persuade Sir Aydon—”
“Oh, how very kind of you,” said Alvey. “You came to add your voice to the general chorus of persuasion. That was the act of a good neighbour, Mr Thropton.”
She was amused to see that he found himself greatly embarrassed in her presence.
“No—that is—well—I did not think it in the smallest degree likely that Sir Aydon would allow himself to be persuaded—but it was being said, in the village, that Major Fenway intended setting off this morning again quite early—and there was a matter on which I greatly wished to speak to Sir Aydon—”
“Oh, how very unfortunate,” said Alvey sympathetically. “I am afraid you have missed him, Mr Thropton. Major Fenway was anxious to reach Edinburgh quite early in the day, so they set off long before daylight.”
“You mean—they are gone? Sir Aydon as well? He has left Birkland?”
Mr Thropton was really dumbfounded at this news.
“Yes, that is the case, I fear.”
If Mr Thropton were not a clergyman, he would obviously have let out a heartfelt oath. His eyes bulged, his florid complexion turned a duskier red.
“Absolutely gone?”
Alvey nodded. He held, she observed, a folded paper in his hand. It had a vaguely familiar appearance.
“When,” Mr Thropton asked, collecting himself with a visible effort, “when do you expect Sir Aydon back again?”
“That is rather a matter for conjecture. Major Fenway told me that Mr Harle will, if he can, perform the operation at once—within the next couple of days; but that, of course, is not the lengthy part of the business. As you are probably aware, it is the recovery that takes time, since my father is now in his sixties, his bones will not mend so quickly; it may be a matter of several months, perhaps—”
Mr Thropton directed at Alvey a look of extreme dislike, almost hatred.
“Miss—I do not know your real name—let me inform you without delay that I am apprised of the disgraceful—the utterly disgraceful circumstance—that you are an impostor—a deceiver—that you have no more right to refer to Sir Aydon as your father than—than—” He fumbled for words.
“Than that lion’s head, shall we say?” suggested Alvey. “Was that what you came to tell Sir Aydon? Then I cannot help thinking that it was very fortunate that he had left before you arrived. Such a piece of information, received just before undergoing a difficult and painful operation, would almost certainly have impaired his chances of a speedy recovery.”
She smiled at the Rector and thought, What will he do now? Will he demand to see Lady Winship? Or would she not serve his purpose? Of course, he must have had the information from Parthie—I am sure she has had her suspicions for some time past—
Now suddenly Alvey realized why the paper in his hand looked familiar. It was the missing letter from Louisa. She extended her own hand, gently twitching it from his grasp before he could put it in his pocket.
“Ah, this is my property, I believe? Yes, Louisa’s letter. She seems very happy in her chosen avocation. But I wonder how you came by this private letter, Mr Thropton?”
He made a snatch to reclaim it, and the paper tore in half, both pieces falling into the Lion pool.
“Dear me, what a pity. Now the ink is all washed off. But there was no address upon it, only Port Elizabeth, so I could not have written back to her. This pool is supposed to have certain magical properties, is it not? I do hope they will not adversely affect Louisa’s chances of success in the missionary field. The children think this pool belongs to Mithras. You are an expert on Mithraic lore, I believe, Mr Thropton? Was it you who told them about it?”
It is rather unkind to tease him, she thought. But then, he certainly came here with no good intentions regarding me. What were his intentions? What did he hope to achieve by his disclosure? Or was it prompted solely by love of the truth?
“Would you wish to go in and see Lady Winship? I am afraid she will not be leaving her chamber for some time yet; we were up quite late last night—”
“No, no,” he muttered. “That would serve no useful purpose.”
“I believe you are right. I rather doubt if she would be equal to such a disclosure, or know how to deal with it.”
What would Lady Winship do? Alvey wondered. Faint again? Refuse to believe the story? Temporize and say the whole issue must await the return of Sir Aydon?
Perhaps all three.
“It is too bad that your evidence is destroyed,” she sympathized.
Mr Thropton said crossly, “That is by no means the only—that is to say, Parthenope tells me she has seen notes, memoranda written by you—of such a nature as to show, most conclusively, that you are not what you say—”
Oh, the little toad, thought Alvey. I did think somebody had been rummaging in my writing-table drawer. Well, listeners never hear good. She will have read some fairly severe dissections of her own character.
“Well, Mr Thropton: you must of course do just as you think best. At the present time I will bid you good morning, for I find it chilly out here and the children will be waiting for me.”
And, giving him a formal smile, she turned indoors.
A pale face behind the library window had been watching their colloquy; as soon as Alvey walked into the hall Parthie came hurrying out of the library, robed very fine, in a Sunday dress instead of a weekday one, with her hair dressed high in a Grecian knot, and the hem of her skirt let down to hide her unsightly ankles.
“Was not that Mr Thropton I saw you talking to outside just now? Why did he not come in? Where has he gone?”
“When he learned that Sir Aydon had left four hours ago, he said his visit would serve no purpose. It was Sir Aydon he wished to see. So I fancy he has gone home again.”
“Gone? My father is gone?” Parthie was as staggered by the news as the Rector had been.
“Yes, I suppose they may be almost halfway to Edinburgh by now. It seems Mr Thropton had some letter that he wished to show your father. But unfortunately it fell into the Lion pool—very annoying for the poor man—so he has changed his mind,” said Alvey with an expressionless face and voice.
Parthie turned bright pink, bit her lip, hesitated a moment, then ran up the stairs. The distant slam of a door could be heard as she retired to her room.
Nish and Tot were with their grandmother. Alvey had encouraged them to spend a portion of their mornings and evenings in this room, the time that was customarily given over to reading, or painting, or working by themselves. The voices of the children, and their activities in the room, would, Alvey hoped, in time stir the old lady into some kind of awareness, or interest. While one child read aloud, or recited, the other sat on the bed, carefully rubbing and manipulating the old, cold hands, warming and chafing them.
“So she’ll remember it is us,” said Nish, “even if she can’t see us.”
For the piercing, short-sighted eyes, though they were open, seemed to stare at nothing.
Duddy, who entirely approved this arrangement, had persuaded Stridge and Surtees to fetch a work-table from one of the pantries, on which the children could spread out their books and drawing materials. And Tot had had another good idea. He suggested bringing in a variety of interesting objects for the old lady to look at—“to give her something out of the common to think on.”
“We don’t know that she thinks,” said Nish.
“Well, to look at, any road.”
One of the upstairs rooms had, in the previous century, been turned into a kind of minor museum by a bygone Winship lady with a much-travelled husband and time on her hands; from this chilly, dusty, and little-visited place the children fetched various treasures: a model of a bridge, made from cork, a narwhal’s tusk, an enormous bees’ nest from Brazil, fortunately divested of its bees, a gorgeous silk hanging showing Indian gods and goddesses in lively attitudes, and a large stuffed prickly
monster from Borneo.
Duddy was a good deal less enthusiastic about these imports. “They’re no’ hygienic,” she said. “And they take a deal of dusting.”
“You can’t dust the prickly monster. And I’m sure Grandma likes looking at them.”
After a few days of this regime, the old lady’s room began to resemble a Souk.
“Ye’ll have tae stop them bringing in any more objects, Miss Emmy. Say a word. They’ll mind you.”
“Very well, Duddy. But I do think, don’t you, that Grandmother looks a little better for their company? And they take great pains with her.”
“Aye, they’re good childer,” agreed Duddy; and her grim face approached as near as it ever came to a smile these days.
“You don’t think we should fetch back Dr Cunningham from Newcastle?”
“Na, na, the farther he’s awa’ the better she’ll fare. I don’t howd wi’ all that bleedin’ and purgin’; ‘tis flat against nature. Major Fenway said we were dae’in the very best for her when he looked in—”
“It seems very quiet in the house without Papa,” said Nish, gently working over her grandmother’s fingers, bending and straightening them, kneading them as if they were bread dough. “I do wonder how long he will be gone?”
“Emmy said Major Fenway thought it might take two months at least for his legs to mend.”
“Poor Papa; it is hard that he has to go through all that pain again.”
“Well,” said Tot, “at least this time he has a better chance. In a way it serves him right for letting that old bone-setter from High Haugh mend his legs the other time; if he had had the sense to send for a proper surgeon, think what a lot of trouble would have been saved.”
