White Water

by Pamela Oldfield

  Before she left she dined with the prioress in the Guest Room and, at Maria’s request, Katharine was invited to join them. Three others shared the meal — one of the young novices and an anxious mother and father who were paying her a first visit. They ate a well-cooked meal of fish soup followed by a brace of baked pheasant — a gift from the visiting parents. Meat was allowed in the Guest Room. The rest of the nuns who dined in the frater were eating mullet and cucumber. Maria joined in the conversation while her thoughts wandered. In this same room she had entertained Ruth Cummins and they had eaten baked heron. And later Hugo had come to see her and they stood together in this very room. Dame Elinor had chosen to wait outside, allowing them a few precious moments alone together. She could see Hugo still in brown and gold, the sleeves of his doublet slashed with red, his brown eyes intense under the dark hair. He had begged her to leave Arnsville and return to Heron. Hannah was ailing and the children needed Maria. He needed her! Somehow she had refused, unable to live with him while Hannah was his wife.

  After the meal she walked with Katharine a while longer. She saw the old orchard where she had met Matt by moonlight; saw her tiny bare room with its high window where she had worked so hard at her studies; and the long, lofty dorter where they all slept. Aye, she would be patient, she told herself again. Arnsville would wait for her.

  *

  From deep under the ground came an excited barking which Nat translated for Lorna’s benefit.

  ‘Fox!’ he said. ‘I reckon we’ll have that old devil before long.’ He bent forward and, head on one side, listened carefully to the sounds of conflict. Trapped underground, the fox was snarling and snapping at his small attacker. Brin would be braced firm, toes dug well into the sandy floor of the fox’s earth, hurling defiance and waiting his chance to pounce. The fox, aware of his desperate position, would fight like one possessed.

  ‘Smell that fox!’ cried Nat. ‘A real old dog fox!’

  Lorna declined the offer, with a toss of her head and an expression of disgust. She was annoyed at Nat Gully. She had walked miles in search of him to regale him with all the exciting events of the past week and she had finally found him near Ladyford digging out a fox — ‘the fox that most likely killed all those poor hens,’ he told her.

  His spade lay beside the enlarged entrance hole and a small mound of newly turned earth lay close by. But the fox had gone deeper still and Brin had gone in to flush him out. Nat’s attention was directed to the dog’s efforts and Lorna felt, rightly, that her news was not receiving the appreciation it deserved.

  ‘The twins are so bonny,’ she exclaimed. ‘One with hair and one without. And one bawls lustily and the other is silent. And Felicity — ’

  ‘Hush up! There’s summat wrong down there.’

  She pursed her lips and stared at him balefully, but he was lying flat out on the grass, his ear to the ground. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘’Tis hard to say. I heard Brin yelp.’

  ‘The fox! Mayhap ’tis biting him. Oh Brin! Brin!’

  ‘Hush up, I tell you. I can’t hear for your noise.’ He listened, cursing softly, and then leapt up and began to dig again. He seemed to have forgotten her existence.

  ‘Then I shan’t tell you about Felicity and Allan’s wedding or which day ’twill be — or that Mama is going away to be a nun and Felicity will care for me — or that a letter is come from Oliver and he is coming home shortly — and Allan is to reopen the mine.’ She glanced at his recumbent form then crouched beside him.

  ‘I shan’t tell you, I say,’ she insisted.

  ‘And hush up, I say! ’Tis damned quiet down there. I don’t like it at all.’ He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, ‘Brin!’

  There was an ominous silence.

  ‘Mayhap they are both dead,’ whispered Lorna.

  He shouted again and the same silence followed. Nat scrambled into a kneeling position, his face thoughtful, his eyes never leaving the darkness through which either Brin or the fox should appear. Suddenly, without moving, they heard a scuffling and the rear end of the dog came slowly into view. The hind legs were well dug in to the soil and the dog moved backwards with slow jerky movements.

  ‘Damn me if he hasn’t got the fox!’ cried Nat. ‘He’s pulling it out. Here, Brin boy! Come, boy!’

  Encouraged by the sound of Nat’s voice, the terrier redoubled his efforts. As his short tail came within reach, Nat reached down and grasped it with his right hand and pulled hard. The dog emerged with the fox, which had fastened its teeth into Brin’s snout. Lorna screamed. The fox still hung from the dog’s snout as Nat scrambled to his feet, momentarily at a loss how to deal with the situation. Then he shouted to Lorna to hand him the large stone which stood on the folded net to one side of the earth. As she reached for it, Nat snatched at the fox’s brush with his left hand and for a second the two animals swung between his two hands like a living rope. Lorna handed him the rock and with one movement he released the dog, allowing it to swing down. Still the fox refused to loosen his hold on the dog and, with an oath, Nat smashed the rock against the fox’s skull with a sickening thud. Lorna screamed again, her hands over her face. The fox shuddered, its jaws slackened and the terrier fell to the ground, yelping with pain. Nat struck the fox again. The red-brown body jerked convulsively and was still. He held it up, grinning. ‘A big old dog fox,’ he said. ‘You can open your eyes now. ’Tis all over.’

  ‘And poor Brin!’

  ‘Aye. We must get him home and I’ll make him a salve for his poor old nose. Here, boy. Come and show us.’

  The terrier crept forward, the small tail wagging.

  ‘You were a brave dog,’ Lorna told him, ‘but you will soon be well again.’ Nat inspected the wound, patted the dog and smiled. ‘He’ll survive.’ Then he plunged his arm down the fox’s earth again and drew it out.

  ‘Ah, I thought so,’ he said. ‘See here, Lorna, I reckon’m the fox that killed the Ladyford hens. Once they go for feathers there’s no stopping them.’ He held out a handful of earth in which a few brown feathers were visible. ‘You tell them I’ve got the culprit and he’s well and truly dead and I’ll be up in a day or two with the brush for my reward.’

  ‘I will.’

  She stood up. While Brin waited, Nat collected up his net and stick and slung the limp body of the fox over his shoulder.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we’ll walk back towards Heron and you shall tell me all that news again. Will you do that?’

  Lorna needed no second asking. She gave a little skip, took a deep breath and began all over again.

  *

  Maria knew, before she arrived back at Heron, that Felicity and the twins would be there. She had learned from Lucas of the dramatic change of plans and her anger at the news equalled his dismay. She had made careful plans and now they had all been rendered worthless. Felicity had no right to put forward such a plan, she protested. And Allan had no right to act upon it without consulting her first. Lucas was astonished by her reaction and Dorothy’s own hostility towards Maria faded when she saw that the latter’s concern was genuine. Nothing would convince Maria that Martin’s mistress was the right woman to wed Martin’s brother. She could foresee distant problems over the inheritance if Allan adopted the twins. She was sorry for Lucas and told him, quite sincerely, that she believed him to be a far more suitable husband for Felicity. But what, as Dorothy repeatedly asked, could be done about it? Maria assured them of her best endeavours and promised to do anything she could to put matters right on her return. Lucas was still in love with Felicity and would take her back if she would come.

  Maria had her doubts but she would try to persuade Felicity and Allan that they were making a mistake.

  She rode home in a moody silence and for the first time in his life Matt was heartily glad to see Heron and be rid of her company. She found the household in a delightful uproar which did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. She had slept badly on the journey home and was in no mood for Minnie
’s starry eyes or the sight of Ellie cradling the twins, one on each arm.

  Without further ado, Maria sent for Allan and her interview with him was short and, on Maria’s side, sharp. She demanded that Felicity go back to Lucas and Allan for his part refused to allow it. He remained calm and reasonable and explained that in his view it was a better solution to the problem. He was sorry for Lucas but he pointed out that Felicity had never given Lucas a firm answer — too much had been taken for granted. Now Felicity had made her choice and he was happy to endorse it. He asked her forgiveness for their haste and for not consulting her first. She did not give it and the discussion ended abruptly.

  Maria then talked to Felicity who was unhappy to find Maria so hostile to their plans but she, too, remained reasonably calm. Her arguments were the same as Allan’s. She believed that what she had suggested was best for the twins.

  ‘And do you pretend to love Allan?’ Maria demanded.

  ‘I do not pretend it, no, but I believe I can learn to love him. Did Eloise love him?’ Maria, taken aback, hesitated and Felicity went on. ‘I believe I shall love him more than Eloise would ever have done. I accept him as he is, with no money and few prospects. Eloise wanted him for what she would gain. I shall be forever in Allan’s debt for ensuring my children’s future and I shall do my utmost to repay him. He shall have my head, and my heart and my body, I shall make him happy, Maria. Nothing will make me change my mind. I shall wed Allan on the twentieth of November. I should dearly like your approval and your blessing — it would mean a great deal to both of us. But we shall wed with or without it, Maria. Oh do forgive us. Allan is so happy. I have never seen him so alive and confident. He feels that at last he has made a good decision; that he has broken the mould of his past disasters and can make a success of the rest of his life. Don’t you see, Maria, the change in him?’

  Maria had seen it but she made no comment.

  ‘He has lost that haunted look,’ Felicity went on. ‘He is rid of the Gillises. He is rid of the guilt of Martin’s death. Rid of Eloise’s ghost. Oh Maria, when you see him with the twins — he loves them, you see. Already he loves them! Be angry with me, if you must, but I beg you not to cast a gloom over his new-found joy. We acted hastily. I don’t wonder you are angry. You had made generous plans for us. But give us this chance, Maria. If you oppose him, and this fails, I believe he is truly a lost man.’

  Maria was touched by the impassioned plea and suddenly her anger left her. She looked at Felicity with a new and grudging respect. Perhaps the girl was right. And perhaps her anger was partly pique at having the matter so neatly taken out of her hands. She tried to be honest with herself. Would she ever have found a suitable girl for Allan? She still blamed herself for hurrying him into a betrothal with Eloise. No, she thought, Eloise had been their mistake; hers and Hugo’s. Was she likely to make a more successful choice next time? She no longer had Hugo to advise her. It might all be for the best, who could tell? She sighed. She was tired and she did not want to strive any more. Hugo had gone. Allan was the new master of Heron. Felicity was to be his wife. Marriage was not easy. It was fraught with difficulties and disappointments. She could not envy them their future. She pulled herself up abruptly. This will not do, she told herself. Be honest with yourself. You are tired and confused. You are lonely and you long for Arnsville. This is your chance also. Let them have their way and you can leave Heron in younger, maybe wiser, hands. You have lost this fight, Maria. Face the fact and surrender gracefully. By giving them their chance of happiness you do the same for yourself. She sighed again. Felicity waited. Then Maria thought of Hugo and the joy they had given each other. Allan and Felicity believed they had the chance of just such a joy. They were clutching at the chance with both hands. Did she have the right to deny them their chance? She took Felicity’s hands and put them to her lips.

  ‘Only love him,’ she said, ‘and you have my blessing.’

  *

  The wedding was a very quiet affair for several reasons. The family was still mourning Martin and Hugo. The relationship with the tinners was still uneasy, although negotiations were going on between management and men to reopen at least one drift. There was no money to spare for a lavish wedding and the presence of Martin’s sons was causing plenty of gossip among their neighbours. The family were all invited but Adam Jarman was suffering from a badly infected leg, the result of a dog bite, so he land Abby were unable to attend. Beatrice and her husband accepted with alacrity. Piers came home from school. It went without saying that all at Ladyford would be there.

  The only guest to be invited came at Lorna’s insistence and that was Nat Gully who stood to one side self conscious in his shabby clothes but with a scrubbed and shining face.

  The little group gathered at the church porch for the exchange of vows and rings. Felicity wore a simple dress of pale rose taffeta with Maria’s pearl head-dress. Allan was in dark blue. Maria still wore black but most of the visitor were soberly dressed with black ribbons on their arms.

  Nat Gully watched Lorna standing demurely beside the bride and grinned at the transformation. She looked almost ladylike until, catching his eye, she winked conspiratorially and he knew she was the same tomboy she had ever been. Harum scarum Lorna, he thought. Whom would she marry? And Piers, twelve years old and so solemn. A few more years and he would be a man. The vicar was gabbling through the service as though time was money, his grey head bobbing occasionally to emphasize a word. Allan looked happier than he had ever been and Nat though him well suited to this calm grey-eyed girl, Felicity whatever had happened between her and Martin. And Nat knew it all — told him by Lorna in strictest secrecy — a confidence he would honour.

  He had no friends or relations so who was he to tell it to he thought a trifle ruefully. Not that it was a secret Everywhere he went folk asked him about the truth of this matter and he shook his head and pretended ignorance.

  There were no little ’uns at the church, he noticed. The wet nurses from the village had been hired to give an eye to them all under one roof at Heron. Nina’s two and Beatrice’s youngster and the twins … The bridegroom kissed the bride and they moved into the church for the breaking of bread and sipping of wine. Nat thought it all highly entertaining and watched from a safe distance. If he had a family it was this one, he mused. And he liked them Even poor dumb Nina. He thought of her quick darting hands and mobile face and the expressive dark eyes. She didn’t need speech, that one. And such a smile. It fair dazzled a man! And Oliver was due back from sea, so Lorna had said. A nice family, the Benets. They had paid him handsomely for the fox and would make use of his services again, no doubt. Ah, now they were passing the holy wine or whatever it might be. And breaking up the bride cake. Soon be done and they could all go back to Heron and enjoy the food. Nat was looking forward to that. He hoped Brin was behaving himself, tied up at the church gate. There was no sound from the little dog. He had been rather subdued since the fox bite and Nat hoped he was properly cured. The salve was a good one, but dogs had been known to die of the bite of a fox — as though the dratted fox liked to have the last word!

  Funny things, families, he thought, as he watched the bride and groom kiss and the congratulations begin. Loving each other one minute, hating each other the next. All these smiles and tears and all for what? You’re born and you wed and you give birth and you die in your bed if you’re lucky. So many mouths to feed and souls to fret over. He was glad he was single. He’d have no wife but he could fend for himself. He’d have no little ’uns but they were no great loss. Love you and leave you, that’s what children did. No, this pantomime was not for him.

  He grinned. Ah, now they making a move. He slipped out and collected Brin and was away up the hill before the rest of them had quitted the churchyard. He didn’t intend to bump his way up to Heron in a creaky old wagon while he’d two good legs could do the journey quicker! He cut across the fields and through the coppice and by the time the rest of the wedding party approached he was ens
conced in a corner with Brin beside him. He had a mug of cider in one hand and a chicken leg in the other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Maggie woke up the next morning with a sore head and sick stomach. She lay in bed a while, tossing and turning in great discomfort and misery until she was finally forced to get up. Outside, the October sky was heavy with cloud and a wind sent the leaves scudding against the house like a whispering voice. She shivered, stretched and scratched. She was stiff and sluggish and depressed. The bowl of cold water was uninviting and she dipped in the edge of the towel and wiped her face briefly, letting the cold cloth rest for a moment against her forehead. It gave her no relief so she wiped her face dry and went quietly downstairs to the kitchen where her clothes lay beside the dying embers of the fire. Snatching up the bellows she blew some life into what remained of the fire, added a handful of wood chips and blew again. The flame grew until the chips glowed and when they caught alight she added a few larger twigs and lastly a log. While the fire increased, she half filled the smallest kettle and hung it over the flames and then poured herself half a mug of wine. A pinch of grated nutmeg and another of cinnamon and a generous spoonful of sugar completed the concoction. When the kettle boiled she would top it up with hot water. It might not cure her headache but it would warm her body and relax her stiff limbs.

  Oh Maggie, she told herself, you are nigh on fifty. What can you expect? By the comforting warmth of the fire, she pulled on her clothes and then sat beside it, eyes closed. Some of her misery left her. Forty-nine was not so old. There were footsteps and then Melissa joined her. She had dressed upstairs.

  ‘I heard you come downstairs,’ she confessed, ‘and knew you would make up the fire. You look pale. No, don’t rouse yourself. I’ll make myself a mug of hot lemon. What are you drinking?’ She sniffed the proffered mug and laughed. ‘At this hour? You must have the constitution of an ox! But it went well yesterday, didn’t it? Felicity looked beautiful.’