by Norah Lofts
‘I wish to speak to your master.’ A natural enough mistake, faced by a field worker, bare-chested, sweaty and with hayseeds in his hair. The mistake did not ruffle Henry; the man’s manner did. Damn it all, he thought, even to a servant he should have said Good morning. Some of Sybilla’s teaching had taken root.
With an edge to his voice, Henry said, ‘Good morning. My name is Henry Tallboys.’ He opened the door and, holding it, allowed his visitor to enter; indicated a seat on the shabbycushioned settle.
The Commissioner found himself at a disadvantage. He was not a man to whom an apology came easily. He took refuge in an extra pomposity.
The search for, the disposition of all these submerged heirs and heiresses, had fallen into departments. Heirs to estates large, moderate, small; boys who bore titles, those who did not. And heiresses, sub-divided according to fortune and rank.
This Commissioner dealt with girls consigned to convents. Henry listened, incredulous, to the arrangements that had been made, in a distant place, for Joanna. Clevely! And he to keep her stock and pay what he had formerly done to Master Turnbull to the nunnery.
Boiling rage must be mastered. He mastered his and said simply, ‘I shall never agree to such an iniquitous arrangement.’
The Commissioner, hostile and in a strong position, said, ‘Master Tallboys, you cannot contest a decision made by the King’s Commissioners. It is in perfect order. Perhaps you would like to look…’ He produced from his pouch some papers.
God damn me, Henry thought; I can’t read!
‘I have no need to look. I know the facts. The girl was left without parent or guardian. So now she falls into the King’s hands. And he deputes people like you! Did you ever take a look at Clevely?’
‘I have not yet had the opportunity. I think one of my fellow colleagues inspected it and other places deemed suitable.’
Suitable! Years ago his father had considered it unsuitable for dim-witted Margaret; more recently Mistress Captoft had considered it unsuitable for herself. Henry had never seen it. But quite apart from Clevely’s suitability, what about Joanna? Less suited to life in a nunnery than even Mistress Captoft had been. Young, lovable, loving: so active, so eager for life and for freedom.
‘I will not allow it.’
‘It is not for you to allow or to prevent.’
‘Oh! They want the dowry, don’t they? Sooner than have this happen I’ll slit the throat of every beast she owns and leave the carcasses to rot!’
Plainly a violent, unreasonable and ignorant fellow.
‘To do that would be to incur severe penalties, Master Tallboys. This demoiselle is now officially a ward of the King and her property is tantamount to Crown property. To damage or destroy it would be perilously near an act of treason.’
That shot went home. The big man emitted a sound curiously like a groan and, on his unpadded bench, slumped a little.
In summer, especially in a hot summer, most of those able to do so left London, where the plague-threat increased, and retired to their country properties. The King himself went on Progress, sometimes visiting his own outlying manors, more often staying with favoured subjects who paid dearly for the honour; enormous feasts and costly entertainments being essential. The Bishop of Bywater did not expect to meet Lord Shefton in London during a hot June. Ordinarily he would not have been there himself, he would have been at Moyidan, cool and shady. From this pleasant place he had not been expelled. No such forthright term as confiscation or sequestration had been used; no admonition administered. He was a cleric and so were most of the Commissioners. Dog did not eat dog; and amongst men of education a mere hint was enough. The Bishop had simply withdrawn.
He knew that unless he absented himself from London entirely he must, inevitably, encounter Lord Shefton sooner or later. He hoped later, when that bit of what looked like negligence on his part—but was actually quite understandable ignorance—might be forgotten. Yet here, on a June evening, in the grounds of a mutual friend, a pleasant garden running down from the Strand to the river, they met. His Grace of Bywater had always liked to speak of the Earl of Shefton as his friend; but between them the links had been tenuous and that letter of congratulation had been sycophantic in intent, the watering of a tender but frail plant. In effect, it must have seemed a blunder, too. Or a bit of the perfidy so common in sophisticated circles.
Had Lord Shefton ignored him completely, or merely recognised his existence with a distant nod, the Bishop would not have been surprised, would indeed have been slightly relieved. But Lord Shefton came and greeted him with the utmost affability; far more friendly than he had ever been. The Bishop had no inkling—and neither had anyone else—that this reorganisation, this search for illegal wards, this readjustment of property rights, had been instigated by one man with one trivial, spiteful aim.
Lord Shefton was far too cunning a man to have shown any interest in the operation which his casual words had launched. He saw the machine lurch into action and knew that sooner or later the last tiny grain would be ground. The mill of officialdom, like the mills of God, ground slowly but they ground exceedingly small. In this case they had ground more swiftly than usual; otherwise His Grace of Bywater would not be here; he’d be at Moyidan. Moyidan was a word which had never once crossed Lord Shefton’s lips.
The lime trees were in flower and the roses breathed out their evening fragrance. It was one of those rare evenings when supper could be served out of doors. An evening for confidences. Their host had provided excellent food and wine and presently the mood was mellow enough to embolden His Grace to speak of and to explain the awkward little incident and his own mis-timed letter. He mentioned the name Henry Tallboys, the man who had so grossly deceived him.
It was the first time that Lord Shefton had heard of Henry. His pride and vanity, as well as his well-bred desire to put Lady Grey at ease, had forbade his asking: Who is the man? His identity did not matter; a betrothal was a betrothal and must be accepted; the whole affair made to seem of no importance whatsoever. His Lordship’s rage had centred upon the Bishop of Bywater whose negligence had brought the embarrassment about.
‘I assure you, Your Grace has no need to apologise. A mere tentative approach on my part. Taken perhaps a trifle too seriously by Lady Grey.’
To this amiable, understanding friend—yes, friend, now!—the Bishop could say things which convention prevented his saying to a fellow cleric. He told the whole story of Moyidan, how he had saved it from wreck, cherished it, enjoyed it and then been edged out. By this time dusk had fallen and servants were bringing candles which burned steady in the still, sultry air. They did not, however, give enough light for the Bishop to see that Lord Shefton’s intent expression was tinged with gloating.
His Lordship had made light of his loss, so in the end His Grace felt obliged to make light of his, saying, with just the right touch of irony, ‘Imagine my delight when I learned from a friend, one of the original Commissioners, that this same Henry Tallboys had been chosen as custodian of Moyidan and guardian by delegation to its heir. With a salary of two hundred pounds a year—and of course, whatever he can squeeze.’
The realisation that all the steps taken to punish the apparent culprit had simply resulted in the enrichment of the real one was too much. The red rage ran up, reddening the scrawny throat, swelling the shrivelled face; it could only go so far: stopped short by the bony skull it checked and exploded.
Heat-stroke, they said. Old men—and although nobody knew Lord Shefton’s exact age, he was certainly old—were unduly susceptible to extremes of heat and cold. Somebody sped off to the west to inform Maude; somebody rode in another direction to inform his heir. Maude had been trained not to reveal her real feelings but to cry for almost nothing, so nobody, even those nearest to her, knew how joyful she was behind the tears. Free, not just for a short time but for life; free, rich and independent, about to embark upon the youth which had been stolen from her.
*
When the latest
Commissioner left, Henry did not sit down with his head in his hands as he had when facing up to Peter Wingfield’s revelation. That had been a shock, a thing to be accepted or rejected, a thing about which he could do nothing. This was also a shock but it concerned, as the other did not, the outer world; and demanded, not deferred but immediate action. Meantime the hay must be cut. Swinging his scythe in the easy, seemingly effortless rhythm which Walter had brought to all such work, Henry asked himself: What sort of a world is it where a girl like Joanna could be married off to an old, old man with no teeth? Or shoved away into Clevely which, years ago, Sir Godfrey had declared unfit to house pigs? The answer rang loud and clear; it was a damned rotten world. One that could only be fought by somebody armed with its own damned rotten weapons—the chief of which was money, which he had never had but could have now. And not only money but some kind of prestige.
Slashing away at the last hay, as though felling enemies, Henry indulged in self-pity, an ignoble, despicable emotion as he well knew. Both the people who had influenced his youth, his mother and Walter, the ex-archer, had decried it, in differing words but with the same meaning. Sybilla had said, apropos of some crisis he had now forgotten: ‘If I allowed myself to be sorry for myself it would be merely to admit myself mistaken. What I chose, I must bear.’
Walter had said, ‘Once you put on that Pity me look, somebody’ll kick you in the teeth. Try again, say to yourself and the rest, Catch me,’ Both right, both wrong, because their lives were so limited; and both were speaking of material things. Sybilla would not pity herself because the hardships which came her way were the result of her choosing to marry a poor knight. Walter really meant that it was no good blaming the wind or the weather or bad luck, you must be resolute and try again.
But now Henry was sorry for himself because he had had no choice in bringing about the frightful situation in which he found himself and no amount of being resolute and trying again would help him out of it. He’d done nothing except blunder on, doing his best from day to day. And here he was, faced with a most hideous decision; at least, not a decision, since there was only one way out. And what a way!
Joanna came and stood on the bank. As he worked towards it she said, ‘Dinner is ready when you are, Henry.’
‘I’m ready.’ He looked at her and then away, quickly. He’d heard men in the market laughing about the way their womenfolk had carried on about sending an animal, practically a pet, to market. He knew how those women felt.
Joanna had no need to ask had the man brought bad news; she knew he had; and Henry’s face showed it. He could not look pale because he was so sun-tanned but the lack of colour under the tan gave him a dirty, sallow hue; and all the lines of worry and pain were back in his face, deeper than ever. She was surprised and relieved when he said, eating hastily and without enjoyment, ‘I have to go to Moyidan this afternoon.’
Richard—he now objected to Dick as much as he had once objected to Little Richard—gave his uncle an alert look. Through all the vicissitudes of the years since his grandmother’s death he had clung, as to a tenet of faith, to the belief that Moyidan was his and to the hope that, despite everything, he would one day come into his own.
‘Is it about me?’
‘In the main,’ Henry said curtly. He got up, tipped the pot of hot water, which always stood by the verge of a well-managed hearth, into a jug and went up to wash and change into his church-going, market-going clothes. The sight of them always reminded him of the young squire on whom they had hung so loosely that evening. And some of the self-pity drained away as he realised that he was partially to blame. For putting things off; for being blind.
One of Sybilla’s stories, which he had always thought so inferior to Walter’s, skimmed back into his mind…
Once upon a time, long ago and in a place far away, there was a Prince who, before he could inherit his dead father’s throne, must fight a lion, single-handed. He’d shirked the contest and gone out into the world to seek his fortune. And at every turn, whenever an opportunity offered, there was the same obstacle; first he must face a lion, single-handed. In the end he had thought to himself that he might as well go home and face his own lion which, in the end, proved to be a tame, toothless old beast who’d licked his hand!
It was a story with a moral, as most of Sybilla’s were, which was why Henry had so much preferred Walter’s which never began with: Once upon a time, but with: One time when I was in France, or the Low Countries…Stories which made far more appeal to a boy who had never seen a lion. Or a prince. Now, donning his decent homespun, Henry saw the point of what he had dismissed as a fairy tale. Sooner or later the lion must be faced and he should have done it, back in the winter, when an innocent young man had pointed out where and what the lion was. If he’d faced up to it then, perhaps consulted Master Turnbull, this particular situation could possibly have been avoided.
The Commissioner who dealt with heirs was taking his ease in the great hall of Moyidan Castle which, with its high roof, thick walls and small windows, was by far the coolest place on a hot afternoon. He sat in a cushioned chair, with his feet on a stool, and beside him on the table stood a great bowl of strawberries and a small one of powdered sugar. Sugar, at £15 a pound, was a luxury but a Government official was entitled to some comfort. On account of the heat he wore a loose robe and slippers.
‘Why, Master Tallboys,’ he said as Henry was shown in, ‘I did not expect you. Until tomorrow, in the cool of the evening. You did say that, did you not?’
‘Yes. But something else cropped up and I thought it better to get this over and done with. I am prepared to take the post—but not for two hundred pounds a year. Three. Is that agreeable to you?’
The Commissioner was empowered to offer more than that, particularly when an estate was difficult, encumbered by old women with inalienable rights, some of a highly complicated nature.
He said, quietly but with incision, ‘It is not what is agreeable to me; it is what is acceptable to the Commission. Three hundred pounds would raise no quibble.’
‘That is settled, then. I have another condition. I want everything checked, every quarter, by a man I know to be honest. Master Turnbull, the lawyer in Baildon.’
‘A wise precaution,’ the Commissioner said. And most unusual! So far—and however regarded, by value and size or alphabetically, Moyidan was low on his list—he had not met with this suggestion before, an independent accountant.
‘And now,’ Henry said, ‘I would like to look around and take a reckoning. Two copies.’
Safely back in London this Commissioner was to say wryly: Dealing with an honest man bears hard on the feet!
In the down-bearing heat of the scorching afternoon Henry, the Commissioner and two copying clerks tramped miles, peering into stinking sties, byres, stables. Sheep on the open runs were less odorous and they took longer to count and, in places where the grass had been eaten away, their sharp little hooves kicked up dust. A very trying afternoon. There was, Henry noticed, a singular dearth of young stock; but that was because, since his Aunt Emma’s death, this place had not been in the hands of a practical person. First his brother Richard, intent upon grandeur; then the Bishop of Bywater, using it more or less as a pantry; eating, no doubt, sucking pigs, calf meat, lamb; things no real farmer would ever look upon as food. Only the rich, the careless, the idiots, gobbled down what represented the future.
‘Given ordinary seasons and ordinary luck, I can improve on this,’ Henry said grimly. ‘And not for the sake of my share. In fact, in view of the scarcity of young stuff, my share had better be limited for the first year.’
They were approaching the Castle again and, on the permanent bridge that had replaced the drawbridge, Henry paused for a moment, remembering the day, in another life, when he had ridden here with Tana, obeying a very human wish to impress. That was the kind of memory which he had ruthlessly suppressed all these years.
Only half-humorously, the Commissioner said, ‘Do you propose
to count the duck on the moat?’
As though against his will, Henry half smiled.
‘No. They can wait. I was wondering if you could tell me something. Nothing to do with Moyidan.’
‘Whatever I can. But sitting down. And over a glass of cool wine.’
Sitting down, and with a glass of wine so cool that it misted in his hot hand, Henry told, with his usual brevity, of the other Commissioner’s visit and what it concerned, ending with the question; ‘Is it true that the girl can be forced into Clevely? Against her wish? Against mine?’
‘I am not involved in the disposition of heiresses, Master Tallboys. But I know the general principles. Any female with property and lacking a natural guardian—that is a father or husband—becomes a ward of the King. Things have been lax of late and the King has been robbed of his rights; but things are tightening up. That is why I am here now. And why my colleague called upon you. Yes, it is true, the King has absolute power in such matters. He could give the girl—and her dower—to any man he selected as a husband for her; either as a present or in return for a… a consideration. He can choose her dwelling place, the style in which she lives. Not, of course, personally; through deputies.’
‘Nobody else has any say in the matter? No other relative?’
‘I think not, No. Brothers, cousins, uncles would merely confuse the issue.’
‘Betrothed?’
‘That is somewhat different. In the eyes of the Church and, indeed, in the eyes of the law a betrothal—properly witnessed of course—amounts to a marriage. No man in his right sense would make a bid… hum, hum… offer his hand in such a case. And I very much doubt whether any convent would accept such a young person, except on a very temporary basis as a parlour lodger, as the word goes. And reputable houses are becoming wary of such; with their pet dogs and their lovers, they have done much to bring calumny upon the genuinely religious.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Henry said. It was just as he had thought, as he had worked it out in his own ignorant mind. Only the one way.
