That this was an elopement seemed obvious. Not only the haste and secrecy of this back-door exit from the Park grounds convinced me, but the fact that Mr. Fredericks was carrying a bulging satchel, no doubt filled with clothing and other oddments thought necessary for their flight.
Well!
As the stile Mr. Fredericks and Miss Vincy were negotiating led to a path in full view of the one on which I stood, I hastily retreated to a little wood some hundred feet away where I would not be seen. I picked Fido up in my arms and slipped behind a massive old oak to watch them as they passed.
I could not hear what they said to one another, beyond that the lady asked several anxious questions, which were answered by the gentleman in a reassuring tone. She was agitated, while he was soothing.
Perhaps you think it wrong that I should spy on them in this way, but I was not equal to pursuing any other course at the moment. At the sight of these two stealing off together, I felt as though I had been kicked in the midsection by a draft horse. I clutched my dog so tightly that he whined and looked up at me. I kissed his forehead in apology and loosened my grip, bracing myself against the possibility that I might scream or fall upon the ground.
It would have been quite reasonable to have felt a great deal of curiosity at this method of beginning a new life together—why should Mr. Fredericks not have applied to his old friend Mr. Vincy for permission to marry his daughter in the usual way?—but any interest I might have felt in this question was swamped by another, different sensation.
I was furious.
The pain and anger that had swept across me at Lord Boring’s defection were as nothing compared with my feelings now. For months I had plotted and schemed to marry the Baron. And for months Mr. Fredericks had annoyed and exasperated me beyond measure. Even in recent weeks when I had come almost to like the man, I had had no feelings for him beyond friendship. Nor had he given any indication of an interest in me. I had wanted him to marry Miss Vincy, for heaven’s sake!
So why, since the Baron was to marry Charity and Mr. Fredericks apparently to marry Miss Vincy, was I far more upset by the latter than the former?
Lord Boring was a shallow, weak man, no better than a cut-out paper doll. A few sighs, a tear or two, and I had done with grieving for his loss. But Mr. Fredericks . . .
I once had believed his Lordship to be all that was noble, cultivated, and worthy and Mr. Fredericks to be an ignorant, ill-mannered, pestilent boor. My opinions were now reversed. It was Mr. Fredericks who was the man of culture and character, not the Baron.
And I also realized that I no longer wished him to marry Miss Vincy. In fact, I wished she would remove her hand from his arm. At once. I stared after the runaway couple with narrowed eyes and heaving breast. How could they? Without even discussing it with me?
In order not to have to dwell upon the irrationality of my mental and emotional state, I put Fido down and began to follow them. This was not easy to do unobserved, as the path they took led over a treeless field which was inhabited by a flock of sheep. I supposed that they were taking this less conspicuous route to the village of Lesser Hoo, where they might engage a coach to take them to York or perhaps even Gretna Green in Scotland, so they could be married immediately. I went after them, but kept to the woods along the edge of the field, to avoid being detected. This entailed a great deal of stumbling over logs, twisting my ankle as I stepped on loose rocks that shifted under my weight, and being slapped across the face by tree branches. My muffled squeaks of irritation and pain so unnerved Fido that he barked in alarm.
“Oh, hush!” I ducked behind a tree as the others turned their heads in our direction.
Interested by the small commotion in one corner of their pasture, the flock of sheep began to drift towards us, like a large, barely sentient cloud. Fido regarded them with attention. He was a miniature spaniel, a breed more noted for hunting birds than herding sheep, but ever since the day at the Screaming Stones he had developed a keen interest in this woolly minded species. Quite obviously he thought they would be great fun to chase.
“No! No! Don’t you dare!”
The sheep drifted closer. Several of them baaed. Fido quivered all over.
“No!”
The wind shifted in our direction. Fido evidently got the scent of the flock full in his nostrils, for without another glance in my direction he burst from cover and flung himself upon the sheep, barking joyfully. The sheep reacted with exaggerated alarm, as though a pack of wolves, muzzles wet with lamb’s blood, had erupted from the wood; first they bunched up and ran as a group, then they scattered all over the field. Fido was everywhere, running and barking, hysterical with excitement.
Fido had none of the training of a sheep dog, but he could run very, very fast. He ran rings around those sheep, bunching them down into an ever smaller milling, baaing knot of animals.
And in the center of the knot stood Mr. Fredericks and Miss Vincy. There could not have been a more effective method of getting their attention had I been laboring for the past twenty minutes with no other end in view.
Mr. Fredericks made himself heard over the clamor of barking and baaing and the thud of sheep hooves: “Miss Crawley, you might as well cease skulking behind that tree. We know that Fido’s presence implies yours. Come out and show yourself.”
I ought to have made an appearance, apologized, called my dog and gone away. However, at that moment Miss Vincy cried out in a tone of great distress, “Oh please, Miss Crawley—Althea—come with us if you will, but do not delay us, I beg of you! Every moment is a torment.”
“Miss Vincy, what is it?” I asked, emerging from the wood and wading through a river of agitated sheep in order to reach her. “You are ill. You must sit down and rest a moment.”
“No! I must go on.” She turned and, pushing sheep out of her path, continued to make her way across the field.
I was perplexed, to put it mildly. If this was an elopement, it was a queer one, with a third party invited along for the journey.
“Oh, you’ll never be happy until you find out what is stirring, Miss Crawley, so you might as well come too,” said Mr. Fredericks. “You may even be able to be of some service to your friend.”
With this I had to be content. I hastened my steps to catch Miss Vincy up and, putting my arm around her waist, helped her over the rough ground. So pale was she, and so wild and fearful were her eyes, that it would have been a cruelty to question her further. I held my peace, resolving to get it out of Mr. Fredericks at the first opportunity.
In a few moments we reached our destination: a small workman’s cottage with a few outbuildings nearby. What we could want in such a humble dwelling was a mystery to me, but I was not long left in suspense. Miss Vincy burst through the door without knocking and plunged into the darkened interior.
“Has he come? What does he say?” she demanded of a respectable-looking elderly woman who advanced to meet us.
“He’s here. Hush, my dear, and we’ll know all about it in a moment,” responded the woman, an utter stranger to me, though I would have thought I knew by sight every human soul in the district for miles around. Her eyes flicked up to mine. She dropped a curtsey and continued in a low tone, “Pardon my boldness in saying so, Miss Crawley, but I am glad you’ve come. My poor dear needs a friend right now.”
Bewildered, I followed Miss Vincy into an inner chamber. Our local doctor, Haxhamptonshire, was bending over a tumbled and disordered bed. The figure in the bed was small, that of a young child. As Dr. Haxhamptonshire moved the candle, examining the flushed face and limbs of his patient, I saw it was a little boy, younger even than Alexander.
Miss Vincy sank to her knees by the bed. “Well, Doctor?” she asked in an urgent whisper, “What is it?”
“Ah, Mrs. Annuncio, I see,” the doctor said, addressing Miss Vincy. “It is an infection of the lungs. Listen,” he said, as the child drew breath. Even I, hesitating in the doorway some ten feet from the bed, could hear a rasping, rattling soun
d.
“Will he live?” she murmured.
“It’s too soon to say. I have given orders to your nurse to give him this syrup, and these powders dissolved in a little warm wine every two hours. You say he has been ailing for the past three days?”
Miss Vincy nodded. “We thought it nothing worse than a cold at first, but he fell into a fever, and I have been so frightened . . .”
“Well, I’ve seen many worse than this recover—we can only watch and wait.”
I had had some experience at nursing, and so as the doctor prepared to leave, I prepared to settle in. Whoever this child was, whoever “Mrs. Annuncio” might be, it was clear that my friend needed me. I instructed Mr. Fredericks to return and tell my mama that I was occupied in helping to nurse a neighbor’s child. She would, of course, wish to know which neighbor, so I told him to tell her it was Mrs. Bowden’s grandson, come to visit from Scarborough. I added that the doctor believed the disease to be of an infectious nature so I thought it best not to come home until the crisis was over. Old Mrs. Bowden lived quite seven miles away over the moorland, and I doubted Mama would feel the need to hurry over, offering assistance.
As to the rest, I left it to Mr. Fredericks to cope, and I had no doubt that he would.
The little boy was restless and feverish. I set to work bathing his hot forehead with vinegar and water, soothing him as well as I could. The nurse, who, I suspected by her manner, had once been Miss Vincy’s own nurse, assisted me ably in my efforts, and after a few hours thus spent, she retired to provide us with a tray of bread and cheese, and the patient with the medicines prescribed by the doctor.
Miss Vincy proved to be inexperienced with children. Her powerful attachment to the boy was the principal difficulty; she fretted and fussed with his bed clothing, smoothed his hair and altogether kept him in a state of perturbation and wakefulness, until I ordered her to cease and desist.
Instead I required her to empty out the satchel she had brought with her, the one I had believed had been packed in anticipation of her flight with Mr. Fredericks. It contained a clean blanket, a stuffed doll for the boy, some common medications, including some paregoric, and a copy of Delphine, by Madame de Staël.
“He likes to hear me read aloud,” she explained, “no matter what the subject is, so I am accustomed to reading him whatever I happen to be perusing at the moment.” I eyed the book with considerable interest, having never been able to get my hands on a copy of a work by the scandalous Frenchwoman before. I rather doubted that a feverish little boy of two years would be able to appreciate her shocking and reprehensible (or so our vicar assures me) meditations on the position of Woman in Society. However, I would be interested to hear them, dreadful though they might be, and they could not corrupt the child, since the novel appeared to be written in Madame’s native language. It also would keep Miss Vincy occupied, so—
“Pray read it to us,” I said. “It will send him to sleep.”
In elegant and perfectly accented French, Miss Vincy began to read aloud. My imperfect understanding of that language, as well as the events reported upon by Madame de Staël, ensured my rapt attention. As for Miss Vincy, this tale of a gifted woman who had the courage to defy social conventions seemed to hold special meaning for her. And as I had foretold, the melodious syllables had the effect of putting our patient into a profound sleep, which boded well for his future.
And so the long day passed into night.
Miss Vincy’s voice grew ragged, then faltered. I sent her nurse for some tea and took the opportunity of slipping a drop of the paregoric, which has a soporific effect, into her cup. Soon she slept beside the little boy, his hot hand clasped in hers. I could not help but note that the child’s hair color was similar to hers, and identical to the small tress in her locket—it was his hair she kissed and carried, not the Baron’s.
She had not yet told me the child’s identity, or his relationship to her, but I had no need to ask, or to pester Mr. Fredericks for information. I knew.
17
MR. FREDERICKS RETURNED EARLY the next morning to enquire after the health of the child, and we were able to give a fairly good account of his night. Leon, for that was his name, lay exhausted and white on the bed, but his huge black eyes were open and aware and the coughing that had racked his small frame was stilled. His cheek was cool (tho’ I knew from experience that his fever might rise again, later in the day). He addressed Miss Vincy as “Mama,” settling the nature of their relationship beyond a doubt.
His name was a matter of interest to Mr. Fredericks as well. As he accompanied me on a stroll around the farmyard so that I might stretch my cramped limbs, he explained that my stepsister Prudence wished to know what Mrs. Bowden’s grandson was called, so that in the event of the boy’s death she could create a mourning picture with an affecting verse in his honor.
“She thinks of depicting a tomb and a weeping willow,” he said, his face expressionless, “with perhaps a bird flying above to symbolize young Leon’s soul escaping into eternity. She hopes you will be able to secure a lock of his hair to incorporate into the composition.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank goodness they believe us to be seven miles distant, or she would be here this moment with her sketch paper and crayons, ready to begin memorializing the boy into the grave. I really believe Miss Vincy—” I hesitated and then continued, “I call her that, you know, because she has not told me to call her by any other name—would do her grave bodily injury if she even mentioned the possibility that he might die.”
Mr. Fredericks smiled. “I imagine you are right. From all I know of her, I am certain that she is a devoted mother.”
I was silent for a moment, thinking. Mr. Fredericks had known enough to bring Miss Vincy to the farmhouse, known that she had a special interest in the child housed therein. Yet he had had to ask the child’s name, and had to speculate on her behavior as a parent. Frustrated almost to the fever pitch by convention and good manners, which forbade me to put a few direct questions to him, or to her, I walked a little faster. As I paced I plucked a stalk of flowering weed that brushed against my skirt and began stripping it of its little flowerets, one by one.
I could see nothing of Mr. Fredericks in the little boy’s face or form, I realized, and was aware of an intense relief at that knowledge. I could not have borne it if he had been that child’s father. However, he had known her for a number of years, no doubt stretching back well before the birth of this child. Had he guessed? Or had he known before? He’d spoken admiringly of her likely devotion to a child. Did that mean he admired her in a warmer sense? What was the nature of their relationship? I turned to look at him.
He had been watching me, with an amused glint in his eye. He paused and picked another flower head and presented it to me with a bow.
“I see you have done with disassembling that unfortunate blossom, Miss Crawley. Allow me to supply you with another.”
I looked down at my hands. Indeed the tiny flowers were all gone and the stalk torn into green strips and discarded. My hands were sticky with sap.
“Oh, ugh! No, I thank you. My hands—”
He gave a positive shout of laughter. “If you could see your face, Miss Crawley! How it maddens you not to know! And yet you cannot ask. Here,” he added, “use my handkerchief.” He handed me a slip of linen, which I inspected suspiciously. True enough, it was covered in ink and other, less identifiable stains. I wiped my fingers on it nonetheless. When I had done he reached for it, but I folded it and put it into my reticule.
“I shall have it laundered and then return it,” I said. “I’ve no doubt it will be a novel experience for the handkerchief.”
“Oh, a paltry blow, I fear. Come, come, Miss Crawley, you can do better than that! You wish to know all that I know about our mutual friend and the child residing in this place. Very well, I shall tell you all I can.” He stopped.
“Yes?”
“I know nothing. I cannot tell you even one thing more than you
already know.”
“Oh!” I turned my back on him and began to walk away. My feelings towards him may have changed, but one thing that had not changed was his ability to stir my ire.
“Temper, Miss Crawley, temper! This display of pique ill suits your station in life, and I have that on the best of authorities. Why, last night,” he said, lengthening his stride to catch up to me, “when I informed Mrs. Vincy that her daughter found it necessary to remain at the bedside of some cottager’s child, she so forgot herself as to make several inelegant remarks. My dear aunt and mother had all they could do to restrain her. They informed her that a lady never loses her temper. And they would know,” he added, looking thoughtful. “I believe my uncle, the former baron, and my uncle Westing often gave them cause for annoyance.”
I slowed my steps. “Really?” I said, diverted by this unexpected insight into the emotional life of a baronial family. I had no difficulty in believing that the late baron had been a trial to his relatives, tho’ I’d never met Mr. Westing. But I had always wondered—what had life been like for the Fredericks family, living, as I had been given to understand they did, in a room above a shop? “Then . . . did your father never vex Mrs. Fredericks?”
“Frequently. But it was a love match, you know, and went on being one until the day he died. That was the first time I saw my mother really annoyed with him. ‘I gave up everything for his sake,’ said she, ‘and now he goes off and leaves me!’”
I blushed at my temerity in asking, while repressing a guilty urge to laugh at the image of Mrs. Fredericks scolding her husband for his thoughtlessness in dying. “I am sorry. I ought not to have asked such a . . . such an intrusive question. It must have been a dreadful time for your mother, and for you, being left alone and . . . and perhaps not very well off, at your father’s death.”
Keeping the Castle Page 14
