We had a picnic with us, but I hoped the inn might have come into better times and would be able to offer us a decent meal. I doubted there would be comfortable rooms on offer so had decided to spend the night at Chineborough, where we would be sure to find decent lodging.
‘We will stop at the Rumfustian Inn,’ I told Christophe as we left Bristol. ‘And I will enter in the hope that it may not be as run-down as when I lived there. If I decide it is safe enough you may alight too. I would dearly like to take you in and have a drink with you in my old home.’
Christophe looked pleased. ‘And will you take me to the river you told me about?’ he said. ‘The one where your friend used to swim and fish?’
I laughed. ‘I will.’
I thought of the people from my past I would like to see. Surely some would still live in Dario? I felt sure Charlie, if he lived, must have taken over his father’s forge. I wondered if he was married and had children. He would be astonished at my changed circumstances. Here I was, a wealthy man with a well-grown son, travelling in a coach. How different from the scrawny boy I had been. Would he even recognise me, or me him?
Most of all I hoped my dear foster mother, Jane, might still live, though she would be very old by now. I had never known her age, but she and her husband, William, had ever seemed ancient to me. If either of them lived, I longed to see them. More, if they lived in poverty, as was likely after my father’s death, I would offer them relief from their woes. If they would let me, I would set them up in a small cottage somewhere, with a pension to see them comfortably to the end of their days. I wished I had thought of it before and made enquiries when I first came into my fortune, but England seemed a vanished land to me then, with no reason to consider the past. I would be a happy man if I could make amends. I would, of course, visit my father’s grave and spend some time alone, before allowing my son to pay his respects to his grandfather.
As we drew closer to Dario, I began to recognise the landscape. Just outside the village had been a huge old oak tree struck by lightning many years before. To my joy it was still there, lacking all its branches now, taken no doubt for fuel, but the trunk remained, standing like a sentinel guarding the entrance to my home.
‘See that!’ I said. ‘We are almost there!’
And then I was bewildered. For after driving down the old main street that I remembered so well we reached the end of the village without passing the Rumfustian Inn. I called to the coachman to stop.
‘Where is it?’ asked Christophe, peering out of the window.
‘I think we have missed it,’ I said. ‘There has been some new building done and that has confused me. When I lived here it was the last building at this end of Dario. When I was learning to ride, my father took me up and down this part of the road. Further on is the track to the deserted church and round another bend is eventually the first glimpse of the sea.’
I opened the carriage door and got out. If I walked instead of rode, the past would surely come back to me.
‘I will come with you, Father.’
‘No. Stay …’ One look at the boy’s face, and I reconsidered. ‘Very well.’
There could be no harm in it. I closed the door of the coach and told the coachman to wait.
‘Come, Christophe. Let us see if your poor old father can remember where he lived as a child.’
My son laughed and took my hand. Together we began to walk. We had travelled beyond the village and had a little way to saunter before we reached the first building. I didn’t recognise it. It was faced with fine ashlar in the modern style with a good wall to either side. Through a small gate in the wall I could see an attractive formal garden planted with low hedges and gravel paths. I was surprised that anyone of quality would want to build such a fine house next to an inn, but then I realised that the Rumfustian no longer existed. It must have been knocked down after my father’s murder and the land sold to the man who had built this house.
I followed the wall until it joined the house. Beyond the dwelling ran another wall, a brother to the first, but with a much larger gate, big enough for a carriage to pass through. Was this where the Rumfustian Inn had been? I could not tell, for all trace of it had vanished.
‘It is not here,’ I said to my son, looking down at him and feeling suddenly bereft. ‘I fear it does not exist any more.’
‘Why not?’ said Christophe.
‘Because … because it was old … and …’ I was making my way to the second wall as I spoke but stopped suddenly at a door in the centre of the building. ‘I think I remember this …’ I put my hand on the old door. It was studded with ancient nails, banded with iron, and looked a little out of place, framed as it was by a pair of fine stone pillars while above the lintel was a steep, triangular pediment. ‘Not the stonework, Christophe, but this door … I am almost certain …’ I stood back and gazed at the front of the house. As I looked I could see the Rumfustian Inn, lying disguised within the fabric of this new building. The uneven thatched roof had gone, as had the small windows either side of the door. The inn had been fronted with dressed stone and was balanced with large windows and a new roof. It was nearly swallowed up, but still it existed, like the ghost of an almost forgotten memory.
‘Well,’ I said to my son, feeling somewhat winded. ‘It seems we cannot avail ourselves of the Rumfustian’s hospitality, but … here it is.’
‘This is it?’
‘The central part is it, yes, though it has been much altered and added to.’
My son squeezed my hand. ‘Never mind, Father. It is a very fine house.’
‘It is indeed. A very fine house.’ I shook away all fond thoughts of eating a meal in the inn and thought of my son. It mattered little to him if the inn existed or not. At least I had come and seen it. I should return to the coach and guide our coachman to the river, where we could spread a cloth and have our picnic. It was a fine day for dining out of doors. But even as I turned my back and we retraced our steps I could still on the skin of my palm feel the door I had touched. The nails, the warmth of the wood – they struck such a memory in me that I could almost believe I was a child again.
We reached the river with some difficulty. I had forgotten how narrow the track to it was, with many overhanging trees. I am sure it had never been made with fine London coaches in mind. However, we got there without mishap, set out our picnic by the river and had an enjoyable hour or so in the good country air. Christophe tried to catch a trout the way my friend Charlie had been accustomed to, by lying on the bank with his arm in the water and lulling the fish into a dream by tickling its belly. When young, I could never bear the cold water for long enough. Charlie had the trick of it, but I never did, and I fear my son needed a better teacher than I.
After we had eaten, our servant packed away the basket. We were ready to visit the church, but I wanted first to make enquiries about Jane and William. ‘We will visit the forge before we carry on,’ I said. ‘It is nearby. Whether or not my childhood friend owns it, someone might know what became of my father’s servants.’
Soon I could hear a hammering start up and shortly afterwards I saw the familiar building. This at least was as I remembered it. I found a smile hanging about my mouth. What a shock Charlie would have, if he were here!
I knew him almost right away. He had not changed, except to mature and grow taller. I would have recognised his way of standing anywhere. It was a stance that his father had before him, a way of holding himself before taking the next blow at the anvil.
‘Charlie!’
I had the advantage of him. He was dressed as I remembered while I was very much changed. ‘Charlie! It is your old friend Abel.’
He took a hurried step towards me and then stopped. He laid the hammer down with exaggerated care and watched me approach. It wasn’t until we had almost reached him that he truly recognised me. ‘Abel? Is it really you?’ A grin I so well remembered stole across his face. ‘How is it possible? And’ – he waved his dirty arm at my fine c
lothes – ‘and you looking so well-set-up.’
‘I am a little surprised myself,’ I said. ‘And yet here I am with my son, despite many years ago having been sold, a captive, and sent out of my own country. It is well for the Johnsons that I am not bitter.’ I saw his face. ‘What is it?’
‘So, the Johnsons were indeed responsible?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well then, you got your revenge.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were rooted out after you were lost. Every last one of them. Men, women and children. Mostly hanged, some of the young ones were sent to the Americas.’
It was the last thing I had expected. ‘Because of my capture?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘No one knew what had happened to you. My father told me you had most likely fallen over the cliff.’
I stared at him and shivered. It felt as if a shadow had passed over my tomb.
‘The whole village searched, to no effect.’ Charlie looked at me as if he still had trouble believing I truly lived. ‘It is astonishing to see you … and so well! But tell me. What of your father? He must be so happy to know you are alive.’
The world slid from me and then froze. ‘My father?’
‘Yes.’
‘My father is dead, Charlie.’
Charlie looked puzzled. ‘Of course he’s not. At least, he was alive yesterday. Though he is frail, and I hear his heart is weak, but …’
My own heart trembled and then beat wildly in my breast as if it would escape and fly up into the air. I felt weak and strong at the same time. I feared I might faint and yet desired to run.
‘Where does he live?’
Charlie looked even more puzzled. ‘Where he has ever been, of course.’ Then his face lightened. ‘At the old Rumfustian, but the inn is no more. It is named Rumfustian House. Your father is a wealthy man and has extended the place. You probably …’
I left him without a word. I had no words in me. I abandoned my son to the care of my old friend and ran. It was not far, but far enough for me to fear I might be too late. Good living had slowed me, and I was no longer the boy who had run this path several times a week. By the time I reached the place I was quite out of breath. However, I knocked at once on the old door, and impatient to be answered I went then to the double gates, meaning to get in that way. As I struggled with the latch an old man came out of the door towards me, shaking his head.
‘Do not be so impatient, sir. You must give me a little time to answer your knock.’
He was bent with age and frail. I was about to announce myself and embrace him when I realised that this was not my father.
‘William?’
The old man nodded. ‘I am he. Can I help you?’
‘William, it is me, Abel. I am alive, and I hear my father also lives. Please tell me it is true!’ My voice was trembling, so I wasn’t sure if I made sense, but William understood.
‘Abel? Alive? But is it really you?’
He came up close and stared me in the face. William had always been a cautious fellow and steady. He would not want to take an imposter to his master. I stood his scrutiny willingly, seeing within his watery eyes and lined face the honest servant I had known so well.
At length he nodded. ‘I would not have believed it possible,’ he mumbled, his voice shaking with emotion. The colour had quite left his cheeks. I wondered if he might faint and made ready to catch him, but he did not. ‘It is true! Oh, sir! You remind me much of your father when first I knew him. Come in, sir, and welcome. I believe your father is in the garden.’
In through the door I saw the great fireplace I remembered so well. Instead of the wooden surround, it now had carved stone pillars and an under-mantel decorated with leaves and flowers. The room served as a kind of hall with doors off it to the newer parts of the house. I wanted to explore but felt constrained. I was a visitor here, which was a strange, unsettling feeling.
William led me to the passage that went to the kitchen. He took me into the small parlour and put his hand on my arm. ‘Wait if you would while I call Jane. Your father is not well, and she will know best how to tell him with the least shock.’
I did as I was bid. To know the three people I had most loved were still in this world was such a joy to me! There was a chair, but I could not sit, nor stay still. I could scarcely breathe.
After a few minutes, Jane entered, much lined in the face and with a walk that favoured one of her hips. She, too, was breathless, and anxious as well as happy. I could not restrain myself and gave her a heartfelt embrace. There were tears in both our eyes when we had done.
‘Your father is weak, sir,’ she said when we had recovered ourselves. ‘I fear for his heart when he knows you are here. It will be a shock to him after all these years, but he will be happy, so very happy to see you well and prosperous.’
‘I will go quietly to him,’ I said. ‘I should tell you I am a surgeon and understand something of weak hearts. If I tell him softly and am there to prove it, he may, I hope, take it calmly.’
Jane nodded. ‘I think that a good plan. For if I tell him and then you approach there will be a few seconds when he is not sure. The anxiety would not be good for him.’ Her eyes filled with tears again and she laid her old hand on my sleeve. ‘A surgeon! Pray God your father is well enough to hear your story. Of course, he will wish to, as do I.’
I took her hand. Without another word she led me back into the hall and on into a new room. It led to another, which in turn opened into a room that looked out onto the garden. A door was standing ajar in the balmy afternoon air. William was standing outside, gazing at me as if I was a thing of wonder. At some way distant was a rose arbour.
‘He has been sitting there a while,’ said Jane pointing at the still figure in the arbour. ‘Among his roses. It is his favourite place, where I feel sure he often thinks of you.’
IN ARTICULO MORTIS
33
Abel stood at the door, his heart overflowing. He could hear a horse on the road, trotting smartly on, before it stopped amid curses and then galloped away, but he heeded it not. The world turned, men and beasts lived their destiny, boys too, but for him, at this moment, life stood still. Out on the road, Fortuna had brought James Bramble to ride past Rumfustian House, upon his most recent purchase, a fine, pale stallion he had bought from a dealer he knew in Constantinople. He didn’t usually ride in this direction. There was an easier road from Chineborough to his isolated house on the moor, but he wanted to test his horse’s stamina on the steep road. He was quietly pleased. Having allowed the animal to walk for a little while he urged it on at a fast trot through the village of Dario. It was only about a mile on the now level road until the crossroads. There he would take the track that wound through the heather to his house. He was thinking of the young idiot to whom he would sell this horse. The wealthy fool would not be able to manage it, and yet he wanted to race him at Bibury. James Bramble foresaw an amusing accident to the empty skull of the wealthy young man.
He continued to think of the future. He schooled himself never to think of the past, because past mistakes were never his fault. He did not choose to remember Ahmed’s beautiful, dark body, spilling its carmine life at the thrust of his jealous knife. But there was the potential for death here. He should have been paying more attention.
Seemingly from nowhere, two young boys sprinted out of a gap between two houses. They were already halfway across the road when time seemed to stand still for Abel in the garden. The horse saw them first and had but a moment to react. The boys saw the horse. One stopped dead; the other could not decide whether to sprint harder or go back. He split a second with wavering, making it inevitable that horse and boy would collide.
James Bramble was still an excellent horseman, but he was now nearly sixty years old and his reactions were the slowest of all. The horse half reared, trying to turn from the boy, his hind hooves milling the grit of the road. The boy slammed into the horse’s side and was spun a
way by his speed, combined with the turning of the horse. James Bramble lost his stirrups but leant over his horse’s neck and did not fall.
The boy rolled over in the dust and lay still, finding it hard to believe that he was not dead. He got up and wondered ruefully how he would explain the holes in his stockings and the dust on his breeches and shirt. His knee was bleeding where it had made contact with a sharp stone. His head ached where it had collided with the rider’s knee. His companion joined him and made an effort to dust him down. Then they shrugged, knowing there was nothing to be done, and scampered on their way.
The horse’s haunches powered him on. Thoroughly alarmed, he bolted, in spite of James’s efforts to control him. James Bramble’s thighs were not as strong as they used to be, nor were his knees. His feet could not find his stirrups, although his good hand was still holding his reins and his metal hand was firmly clamped to them. The horse was running as if he was already in a race, as if he had not climbed the steep hill out of Chineborough, as if he did not have five more miles to travel across the moor. James Bramble was now entirely in the present. He was thinking of how he must not fall, must not fall, must not fall.
ABEL MORGAN
34
Before going to my father, I stood, somehow, now the moment had come, reluctant to disturb his peace. My father! Never had I thought for one instant that this would happen, except after death. I was conscious of Jane and William, standing back to give me privacy for my reunion, but unable to leave for care of their master. I took a breath and went to him.
My shoes crunching on the gravel path announced my coming, but he didn’t turn to see who approached. Indeed, he was mostly hidden from my sight, sitting as he was within the arbour and with his profile towards me. I moved quietly to stand before him. I could see him well, but he had the sun in his face. He was resting his head on a scarlet cushion against the back of the arbour and his eyes were closed. A stick was propped against the seat and a few creamy rose petals lay carelessly on his lap. He was so much older than I remembered him, old and pale, and the skin on his hands where they lay amongst the petals was wrinkled and flecked with brown.
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 30
