by Joan Aiken
All the way along the road she was filled with hopeful fantasies about her book. And it was a glorious spring day, besides: round white clouds drifted high in a brilliantly clear sky, the distant hills were streaked with lilac and lavender; masses of primroses, washed by last night’s rain, sparkled along the roadside.
Arrived in Hexham, Alvey left her horse, as was the family custom, at the Black Bull, then set off on foot to the quieter White Horse, which was situated by the market gatehouse. There she asked for “Mrs Armstrong” as the note had instructed, and was led upstairs by a waiter.
Really, thought Alvey, this is exactly like one of those Minerva Press romances that Parthie had hoarded. Shall I be abducted and never return to tell my tale at Birkland? Will my drowned corpse be found floating face down in the Tyne?
Half amused, half nervous, she tapped on a door, and entered when a voice inside called, “Come in!” A heavily veiled lady was seated at the window, looking out into the market place.
“Well, ma’am,” said Alvey, “I am here, as you see, in speedy answer to your summons: in what way can I serve you—good God—Louisa!”
For the lady had put back her veil and displayed Louisa’s well-known features.
“Louisa! I thought you were on the other side of the world! What in Heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“Did you not get my letter?” said Louisa—so much in her old, rather fault-finding tone that Alvey was instantly transported back to the gatehouse room of the Abbey School.
“Letter? No, the last letter I had was dispatched from Port Elizabeth and said that your voyage was proceeding prosperously. I am—I am quite thunderstruck to find you back in England. What happened? Did the missionary life lose its appeal?”
Alvey spoke almost at random. The whole universe seemed to be wheeling round her in a most disorderly and unbalancing manner.
“No, certainly not!” said Louisa sharply. “It was just that—well, if you did not receive my letter I see that I shall have to explain.”
“Indeed you will!”
“Lieutenant Dunnifage asked me to become his wife. And we were married at Madagascar, Captain Middlemass officiating.”
“Oh, were you, indeed,” said Alvey slowly. “Now I begin to understand.”
“So then—so then we thought it best to return home—by boat from Port Dauphin to Djibouti and Suez, and by land to Port Said, and by boat again from there. My husband,” Louisa said proudly, “Lieutenant Dunnifage has so many nautical acquaintances that our journey was achieved in the most expeditious manner; it took us no more than ten weeks from the day of our marriage.”
“Well I am very happy to hear that, but I am still more than a little surprised at the suddenness of your decision to return home. Has Lieutenant—has your husband, then, no interest in the missionary life?”
“Oh yes he has indeed—a very great interest,” said Louisa quickly, “Only he—we—thought firstly it would be as well to claim my dowry from Papa—”
“Ah—”
“—Which it might perhaps be better to do in person than—than by correspondence from such a long distance when things might be misunderstood—”
“Yes; I imagine you are right about that.”
Two thousand deducted from Parthie’s portion for eloping, thought Alvey; will the penalty be the same for Louisa? Or larger, as she went farther afield?
“And then, my husband, Lieutenant Dunnifage—” Louisa glanced fondly at her ring hand, which was covered by a discreet grey kid glove—“my husband pointed out that a missionary life can be lived just as well in this country, if not better; why should we labour to convert the heathen in dirty feckless lands overseas when there are so many of our own labouring classes in need of counsel and direction? In fact my husband has always cherished plans to create and direct a mission for sailors in Liverpool, which is his city of birth—and I am, of course, very happy to fall in with his wishes, which concur so perfectly with my own—”
“Of course they do. I quite see that.”
Except that Liverpool hardly seems the same as the hot sun and palm trees of Serampore, thought Alvey; she had heard descriptions of Liverpool from Amble, who had a cousin there, and thought it sounded a gloomy city; but very likely Louisa paid scant heed to her surroundings. I daresay she will never notice the difference.
“So,” Louisa continued, “we thought it would be best to give you prior notice before I returned home; to give you sufficient time, you know, to remove yourself from Birkland. For it would be most singular and embarrassing—and might give rise to all kinds of talk and scandal in the countryside—if we were both to be there at the same time. That would never do! So we are staying here, quietly, for a day or two, as Mr and Mrs Armstrong—just until you have left—”
“Until I have left,” repeated Alvey, rather blankly.
“Well,” said Louisa, a note of impatience now finding its way into her voice. “You always did intend to do so—did you not? I most clearly recall how many times you stipulated that your residence at Birkland should be for a period only. You were most emphatic on that point! You cannot deny it. Have you not, then, completed your work on—whatever it was, the piece of writing upon which you proposed to embark—?”
“Oh yes. I have. I completed a novel.”
“Well: there you are, then. You can have no wish, no need, to remain at Birkland any longer.”
“But—”
Alvey was silent. Her mind felt curiously blank. To Louisa, she could see, the matter seemed quite simple. Louisa, all too plainly, had not been changed in the slightest degree by her experience of the wider world, or her venture into matrimony with Lieutenant Dunnifage. She was still the self-absorbed, humourless creature of Abbey School days, with but one idea in her head, plunging directly towards her own objective, quite regardless of any other person’s interests.
And what could Alvey produce as an argument against her scheme? Yes, I know, I remember, I did stipulate that there should be no binding commitment, that I should be free to leave Birkland at the end of a year. And it is true that I have completed my book. But human affairs cannot always be marshalled so simply into a neat, businesslike pattern, like the pieces in a game of chequers: you return, I depart. I go, you replace me. And the family at Birkland can have no reason to observe any difference. What about your husband? Where does he fit into the pattern? Am I to take him over, in exchange?
She smiled a little, at the thought.
“Why do you smile?” said Louisa sharply.
“Nothing. A foolish thought I had.”
How explain to Louisa that, outweighing all careful plans and calculations, a place and its inhabitants could take such a grasp on one’s heart as to shift the whole balance of responsibility, and make the idea of suddenly going off and abandoning them seem too painful and heartless to contemplate?
Do I, do they, have no say in the matter?
Louisa had altered considerably, in outward aspect, Alvey noticed, since she left the Abbey School, where her apparel had always been of a Quakerish plainness and austerity. Now her clothes and general appearance were decidedly smart, even stylish; somebody, the Tothills, or more likely Lieutenant Dunnifage, had been encouraging her to make the best of her handsome looks. She wore a silk dress, a gold chain, her hair was carefully arranged in ringlets. She contrived to make Alvey feel countrified and dowdy; and it was evident that this burnished exterior had helped augment her already abundant self-confidence.
With a deliberate air, she examined the watch hanging from her waist-band. “Well? How soon can you make ready to quit Birkland?”
“But Louisa—this suggestion is quite preposterous! Have you not thought about it at all? How can we simply change over, like—like a pair of puppets?”
“I see no difficulty. Not the slightest. What can you mean? We changed places before; therefore we can ch
ange again. No one, it seems, remarked on the original substitution. So why should they now?”
Because I am a better actress than you, and put my intelligence into the role. Because—
Alvey said, “But that was so different. You had been away from home for a long period—”
And furthermore, she was about to add, the substitution was remarked—by Tot and Nish, by Parthie, by several other people, I strongly suspect—but at this moment the door was flung open, and, loudly exclaiming, “Well, well? Is it all arranged? Have you settled the matter between you?” a booted and great-coated young man made his brisk way into the chamber. Alvey had a vague recollection of seeing him downstairs: he was a rather soapy-complexioned individual, with shiny cheeks, fair whiskers, dun-coloured hair, and eyes the colour of weak tea. Louisa surveyed him with all the pride of possession.
“This,” she said to Alvey, “is my husband. This is Lieutenant Dunnifage. It was he who wrote you the note to Birkland. So that,” she added, with complacence at her husband’s skill as a conspirator, “people should not recognize my handwriting and be surprised.”
“I am happy to meet you, sir,” said Alvey, thinking how very far this was from being the case.
“Good g-gad, ma’am, the l—likeness really is quite s—stunning ain’t it?” He had a slight stammer. “S—saw you downstairs, c—could hardly credit—evidence of m’own eyes! M—might be twins, the pair of you.” Louisa frowned. Her husband encircled her waist with his arm, and playfully slapped her thigh. “Well, my love? D—do you have it all fixed up between you?”—eyeing Alvey jocosely. “In with A. and out with B., eh? Eh? One shoulder of mutton drives another d—down, ha, ha! Well, you can scarcely complain, m’am, you have had b—board and residence, free and p—plentiful, for any number of months, have you n—not?”
“I am not complaining, sir.”
“But, Mr Dunnifage,” said Louisa discontentedly, “Miss Clement is raising difficulties. She seems positively not to wish to take her departure.”
“What, ma’am? Why, how can this be? Sure, you c—can’t be so ungrateful!”
“I am not ungrateful,” said Alvey, stung. “It is not ingratitude. But, do you not understand? The family, the household, have become accustomed to me. Indeed—during Sir Aydon’s absence, while he was undergoing an operation on his legs—they came even, in some sort, to depend on me—”
“Oh, was there something amiss with Papa? But he is better now, you say? And surely my mother was there—”
“That is another problem—”
“But, in any case, it is entirely nonsensical to suggest that they could have depended on you—that is ridiculous, you know—”
“Coming it a bit too strong, wh—what?” said Lieutenant Dunnifage.
“After all, you are quite an outsider! What can you know of Birkland affairs?”
“Fine old place,” said the Lieutenant, nodding his head. “Heard—great deal about it—”
“Well, I—”
“Besides,” Louisa went on swiftly, “you say that Papa is back at home? So there can be no need for any further offices on your part. The rest of the family, I suppose, are in good health?”
“Excuse me, Miss Winship—Mrs Dunnifage—” in response to a look of displeasure on Louisa’s countenance—“but do you propose to make your appearance at Birkland as if—as if you had never been away since leaving school? You propose merely to step in and take my place—pretend to be me, in other words?”
“Pretend to be you?” The look of displeasure on Louisa’s face deepened to positive ill-will. “How in the world could I do that? Or why should I? You are the intruder, I am the rightful in—incumbent. Naturally the household must, by degrees, come to understand that a change has been effected; but, since I am the true Louisa, whereas you were merely an outsider, a deceiver, an interloper—”
“Quite, quite. Quite! Shocking, hole-and-corner sort of business,” muttered Lieutenant Dunnifage.
“That exchange,” continued Louisa, firmly ignoring her husband, “must, self-evidently, be accepted by the whole household as a change for the better. You will be gone from Birkland, I shall be established, and family affairs will be in their proper train once more.”
“But how can they—”
“For my part,” added Lieutenant Dunnifage, “I f—find it hard to c—comprehend, ma’am—always have done—deuced hard—how a simple, god-fearing, right-thinking young 1—lady—such as m’wife here—could have allowed herself to be b—bamboozled and embroiled in s—such a m—murky, chancy kind of subterfuge—said so, over and over, when I first heard of the b—business, didn’t I, Loo, my love?”
“Oh!” gasped Alvey, really outraged. “When it was entirely her own—”
“Fell out very handsomely for you, ma’am, I can s—see that part of the affair. Yes, yes—for you it was a honey-fall, no q—question! And I d—daresay you thought to be snugly established at B—Birkland for the rest of your n—natural term, what?”
“I certainly did not!” snapped Alvey, doing her best to forget and obliterate the many times she had secretly, guiltily imagined such an outcome. “And, sir, I must inform you that you are totally mistaken! The scheme was conceived, planned, and worked out in every particular by your wife—it required many, many weeks of persuasion—begging, pleading—on her part before I would agree to be party to it.”
“Oh, ho! Naturally you would say so, now! But I have heard quite a different tale from her; and I well know which tale to believe. So, I don’t doubt, will Sir Aydon!”
Louisa remained silent. But, observing her expression of smug, impervious self-satisfaction and rectitude, Alvey could understand how she might easily have convinced Dunnifage that the idea for the deception had not been hers, but had come from Alvey, and that Louisa had been a reluctant, conscience-stricken party to the scheme, only falling in with it because it liberated her to follow her vocation. Perhaps she had even convinced herself, also?
“Next time I take part in any conspiracy,” said Alvey bitterly, “I can see that I must make certain to have my partner’s agreement in writing, signed and sealed—”
“What can you mean, Miss Clement?”
“Oh, never mind it! It is all too disgusting and sordid!”
“Indeed, I quite agree with you, ma’am! And what S—Sir Aydon will say, when he hears the tale, I s—shudder to contemplate. If I were you, young I—lady, I should take care to be well away from B—Birkland before he discovers what a v—viper he has been nurturing.”
“You are seriously suggesting,” said Alvey, regarding the couple with wonder, “that if I do not agree to leave, Louisa, you intend to present yourself to Sir Aydon as a poor, abused innocent, whose place had been taken behind her back by an impostor—while she herself just happened to have taken a berth on a ship bound for the Indies—is that what you will say? What about that letter you wrote to your Papa, promising future obedience?”
“You wrote that!” pounced Louisa triumphantly. “You cannot say that you did not!”
“Very true. So I did. And well I am being punished, now, for my part in the business,” Alvey sighed.
“P—punished? Good g—gad, ma’am, your punishment has not even c—commenced, yet! Only wait until it all comes out. There must be a s—substantial jail sentence for such impersonation—be sure of that!”
“Oh, don’t disturb yourselves,” said Alvey tiredly. “I will fall in with your proposals—if only in order to terminate this vulgar, humiliating wrangle.”
“I should th—think so, indeed. Vulgar and disgusting it certainly is!” pronounced the Lieutenant.
Louisa frowned at her husband. Alvey perceived that the history of the deception was a somewhat sore and sensitive area in their conjugal felicity. Despite his satisfaction at having acquired a wife with a handsome portion waiting to be claimed and also (Alvey guessed) on
e several rungs above him in the social ladder, Lieutenant Dunnifage was honestly scandalized at the means she had taken to escape from her home, and neither of the pair could be comfortable until that escapade, and Louisa’s inconvenient partner and accomplice in it, were satisfactorily disposed of, buried, forgotten, and out of mind.
“So what was your intention?” Alvey inquired of Louisa. “When did you wish me to remove myself from Birkland?”
“Oh. Well, I presume that you will require a night to pack up your belongings? Then, I suggest, you return here tomorrow. How did you come here, by the by? In the carriage?”
“No, I rode here on horseback.”
A slight crease appeared between Louisa’s brows at this, but she reflected and finally said, “Well, it is no matter. I daresay that would cause less remark. So: you will return here tomorrow. Then what will you do? You most certainly cannot remain in Hexham.”
“No indeed,” Alvey agreed drily. “Mr Allgood and the Beaumonts would think it decidedly odd if I were to take up residence in rooms here—”
“You had best take a coach to Newcastle. There used to be one in the afternoon—”
“At half-past three,” said Alvey absently. She had sometimes observed its departure. And, she thought, perhaps one of the servants can tell me of a small inn, or somebody with apartments to let in Newcastle.
Louisa continued with her plans.
“Then I will ride your horse back to Birkland. After a few days, three or four perhaps, when I have sufficiently established myself with the family, Mr Dunnifage will join me—”
It must be very singular to have no imagination at all, thought Alvey, regarding Louisa with fascination as she outlined this scheme. Convenient, too, in many ways. How did Louisa propose to account for her acquaintance with the Lieutenant? When did she intend to reveal the fact of their marriage? Immediately? Or after a period of time had elapsed?
“So. That is all agreed. You will return at this hour tomorrow?”
“Yes; I can see that is the only thing to do. Birkland Hall would certainly not be large enough to accommodate both of us.”
