by Joan Aiken
Breakfast was a thoroughly uncomfortable meal. Sydney ate and drank with good appetite, the two Norrises maintained a hostile silence, Lady Ursula spoke only when necessary. Hatty escaped as soon as she could to her father’s business room where she had, yesterday, left a letter to Aunt Winchilsea unfinished. She felt she might as well complete it while waiting for the carriage from Underwood Priors.
Sydney soon afterwards joined her there and began inspecting Mr Ward’s papers.
‘So, Cousin Hatty, I understand that you are in disgrace all round,’ he remarked complacently, running his eye down a column of figures in an account book. ‘You were expelled, Mr Norris tells me, from Lombard Street for assisting Ned – the silly fellow – to hold secret trysts with Nancy Price. And now you are in more trouble on account of having passed three nights in Lord Camber’s cottage. So you are to be shipped off to Underwood Priors. Very convenient for one and all! You will be shut up there for the rest of your life, working like a slave, for next to no salary, until you succumb to illness and old age, like their last schoolma’am.’
‘But,’ said Hatty protestingly, ‘the girls are in their teens, surely? They will very soon be grown, and no longer need a governess?’
‘I doubt that very much, Cousin Hatty; I have heard queer rumours about the two youngest girls at the Priors – they are maniacs, or malefactors, or unteachable, or all three. I wish you joy of them. You may soon be sorry, very sorry indeed, that you did not accept my offer. There is still time to change your mind!’ Sydney said.
‘I thank you, Cousin, but my answer remains the same.’
A shabby carriage soon after drew up outside the house, and Hatty with relief went downstairs. She found Lady Ursula curtly instructing the driver; her luggage had already been loaded.
‘You may inform my mother, the Countess, that I shall come over to see her in due course. And pray give her this letter.’
Hatty took the letter, wondering why neither the Countess nor the Earl were to be expected at their son-in-law’s funeral. Perhaps they had not approved of the marriage?
Lady Ursula nodded brusquely and retired indoors; neither Agnes nor her husband had appeared to say goodbye.
Just before Hatty stepped into the carriage, a small boy came running along the driveway, clutching a letter in his grubby hand.
‘’Tis for Miss Hatty Ward,’ he panted, and thrust the crumpled missive at her.
‘Thank you, my love.’ Hatty gave him a threepenny piece.
‘Too much for the likes of him,’ said the driver, eyeing this transaction with disapproval. ‘A ha’penny would have been sufficient. Step in quick, now, miss, for I’m to call at Elstow End on the way back and pick up a load of tallow.’
And he whipped up his horses the moment Hatty was seated, and drove off at such a vigorous pace that the carriage rocked from side to side and there was no possibility of reading her letter; she tucked it into her reticule for later perusal.
The approach-road to Underwood Priors – after the tallow had been taken on board – was long, narrow and melancholy. The ill-kept rutted track made the driver at least abate his pace, but still the carriage was thrown from side to side by the bumps and puddles all along the way. The woods here were very badly maintained also, Hatty noticed; the trees had been allowed to grow tall and spindly, their half-dead boughs weighed down and netted over with trails of ivy, wild clematis, and mistletoe. A grove of acacia trees enclosed the house, crowding in to the very verge of the moss-covered carriage sweep; and these, too, were so heavily clustered over with mistletoe that they appeared to be still green, though it was midwinter. The bricks of the ancient mansion were dark with damp and veined over with moss, and the roof tiles were covered by lichen, so that the house, Hatty thought, resembled nothing man-made, but seemed like some natural growth, a fungus or a toadstool, which had sprung up from the damp ground.
Hatty shivered as she stepped from the carriage, noticing that the house lay in shadow, though the hour approached noon. She remembered Camber saying: ‘For three months in the winter they receive no sun, for they are at the foot of a north-facing slope. The monks who first built there set more value on the purity of the spring, and the watercress beds, than they did on winter sunshine.’
An elderly manservant emerged from the main entrance and received Hatty soberly. She handed him Lady Ursula’s missive to her mother, and was shown into a waiting-room at one side of the main hall. The hall itself was a damp, shadowy tunnel, with antlers sprouting all over the walls, leading to a shallow stairway. The waiting-room, barely lit by a tiny greenish window, was a dim and fireless little cell. Pulling out the note the boy had handed her, Hatty saw there would be no possibility of reading it here. She sat down on a straight-backed chair and resigned herself to wait. This is an uncommonly silent house, she thought. What a contrast to my arrival at Lord Camber’s cottage – or even to my father’s house, for that matter! There, all had been bustle and exclamation; here, not a sound could be heard. No voice, no step. But then she recalled the large, rambling nature of the building. The inhabitants may be two hundred yards distant, across a courtyard, in another wing.
Now, however, she thought she did hear cautious whispers outside the door. Another moment’s listening convinced her.
‘What shall we do?’ Hatty thought she heard, ‘what shall we do about the other?’
‘Throw her to the wolves!’
‘Glastonbury says—’
‘Hush!’
There was a rustle, and a scuffle, then silence again. Hatty was sorely tempted to step towards the half-closed door and snatch it open, but felt this would be derogatory to the dignity of her new role as governess. She waited for another seven minutes, amid renewed silence, then the manservant reappeared.
‘You are to walk this way, if you please, miss,’ he said, eyeing her with gloomy curiosity, and he preceded her up the flight of broad, shallow stairs at the rear end of the hall. The stairs curved around and arrived at an upper landing with cedar-panelled walls and a number of doors leading from it, all closed. Light came from a large but small-paned window over the stair, and from a few candle-sconces on the walls. The servant tapped on one of the doors and was admitted.
‘You may go, Glastonbury,’ said a harsh voice from within. ‘Young woman! Come in, walk across the room, and stand there, where I may see you.’
The servant bowed and retired. Hatty stepped to the designated spot, where she stood, interestedly observing her new employer, who lay reclined on a chaise-longue, wrapped and swathed around in a number of shawls. This room was quite well-lit by a number of wall candles and several lamps placed about on tables.
‘I am the Countess of Elstow,’ said that lady, ‘and you, I understand, are Miss Harriet Ward.’
Hatty curtseyed in silence.
The Countess, under her shawls, appeared to be a tall and massive woman. On her head she wore an imposing lace turban, wound with a dark-green velvet ribbon, fastened beneath the chin by muslin lappets, and topped by a magnificent, but dirty, emerald brooch. The turban was raised on the left-hand side to expose one of the lady’s ears. On a small table by the chaise-longue lay a silver ear-trumpet and a well-worn pack of cards.
This is Lady Ursula’s mother, remembered Hatty, and she studied the lady for signs of family likeness.
There were not many. Lady Elstow’s face was larger than her daughter’s flat one, and extremely high-coloured, especially over the cheekbones. Her nose was fleshy and prominent, her mouth a thin, straight line, almost lipless.
Her voice – the loud, toneless voice of somebody who has been deaf for many years – bore no trace of feeling in it as she said, ‘Your first duty as my daughters’ governess will be to get rid of your predecessor. Tell Miss Stornoway that she has to go, as soon as possible. You look like an active, capable young woman. See to that, at once, and then I will instruct you in your fur
ther duties.’
‘But, ma’am—’
‘Speak up, speak up when you address me! One thing you must understand immediately, Miss Ward, is that, so long as you are employed by me, you must neither argue, ask questions, nor raise difficulties. Just do as you are told. Ring the bell, now, for Glastonbury.’
Thoroughly startled, Hatty did so. The manservant reappeared with a celerity that suggested he had been only a short distance outside the closed door.
‘Take Miss Ward to Miss Stornoway,’ ordered the Countess. ‘Then bring Lady Barbara and Lady Drusilla here.’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
When they were safely out of earshot, and ascending another, narrower stair, Glastonbury said, ‘I’ll take you to the young ladies’ schoolroom first, miss, and then I’ll fetch Miss Stornoway.’
‘Glastonbury!’ Hatty stopped on the top step and turned to face him. ‘What did Lady Elstow mean, get rid of your predecessor? That was what she told me to do. Am I to dismiss her?’
‘I’m afraid, miss, she meant just what she said. You are to tell the young ladies’ previous instructress to go. Her Ladyship always gets somebody else to perform that kind of task.’
‘I am to tell the poor woman that she is dismissed?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘But where will she go?’
‘That is not for me to say, miss.’ But he looked very troubled.
‘But what about – what about her wages?’
‘I understand that her Ladyship considers that none are owing – due to Miss Stornoway’s incapacity during the last two months.’
‘Good God! – Does she have friends – family – somewhere within reach?’
‘No, miss. Miss Stornoway comes from Scotland. I understand she has no living connections.’
‘You mean – she may have to go to the workhouse?’
‘It is to be hoped, miss, that the lady has some savings.’ But Glastonbury’s anxious look remained. A bell pealed imperiously behind him, and he added in haste, ‘Excuse me, miss. I will leave you in here. The fire is not bad. I daresay Miss Stornoway will be along very soon. And I will carry you up a nuncheon, later, and see that your boxes are taken to your sleeping apartment. Excuse me—’ he said again, and was gone, leaving Hatty just inside the door of a large, bare, battered chamber which she had no difficulty in recognizing as the schoolroom. A deal table, cut, scarred and ink-stained, bore the signs of many years’ misuse; piles of tattered books lay on unpainted shelves; the keys of an unimposing pianoforte were brown with age, and a harp in a corner had several broken strings; some tattered maps and a few bad watercolours were pinned to the walls. It was easy to guess that no studies had been carried on in this room for a number of weeks. A small handful of fire burned in the grate. A large, but small-paned window looked out over a wide stable-yard.
At least, reflected Hatty, stepping nearer to the window, at least it is a little lighter in here; and at last she was able to pull out her note and read it: ‘My dear Miss Hatty,’ it said, in Lord Camber’s black, untidy, distinctive handwriting,
I have been considering your future, not, I must confess, without a good deal of anxiety. I know your wish to become a poet, and I think it is a valid one. But the pursuit of poetry requires, I am sure, a calm and trouble-free environment, and I cannot be satisfied in my own mind that this is what you will find in your father’s household – or in any employment as a teacher.
Should you at any time wish for a peaceful and solitary refuge, I therefore invite you to make use of the Thatched Grotto – from today it is yours to command, and I have left instructions with Godwit and the rest of the household to receive you (and of course any friends you may care to invite) whenever you like to find shelter there. Feel free to take advantage of this offer at any time! I shall like to think of you and your Muse under its roof. And my odd little household will be truly happy to welcome you back.
Yours very sincerely,
Camber.
Then there was a post-scriptum which, unfortunately, had come just where the paper folded and, on account of the fold, because the ink had run, and because some dirt from the hand of the boy who brought it had rubbed in, was almost wholly illegible. ‘To make all square I xxxxx xxxxx xxxx’ and some words that might have been ‘Turtle Doves’ ‘Thistledown’ ‘Tidal Waves’. . .
It was no use. Hatty could not decipher the last lines. But the rest of the message warmed her to such a degree of happiness that she stood clasping the paper against her heart, smiling out at the pigeons who pecked about on the cobbles, even, for a single instant, forgetting the horrible task that lay ahead of her.
A slight sound behind her was enough to break the spell. She turned, and saw a lady in the doorway supported on two sticks.
Miss Stornoway had once been tall, but was now so bowed, so bent over, so crumpled and twisted that she seemed like an aged, wind-contorted tree. Thin hands, knotted and gnarled with arthritis, clasped the handles of the sticks. Wispy grey hair, only half-controlled by a worn velvet ribbon, surmounted a pale face from which two greenish-brown eyes gazed fearfully at Hatty.
‘Miss Stornoway? I – I am Hatty Ward – I do not know how to begin – I do not know if anybody has said anything to you?’
Hatty felt desperately awkward and guilty; there was no possible means of sweetening what she was obliged to say. But to her surprised relief the thin, defeated creature before her accepted the situation with great dignity.
‘Och, my dear, ye need not be embarrassed. I am fully aware of what ye have been instructed to say. Ye need make no bones about it. I am tae take my marching orders. My only wee bit problem is – where shall I march to? That is the question! Where shall a poor useless discharged person take her auld body? And that, I may tell you, is a problem indeed!’
‘You have no money? No friends?’
‘Not a soul, not a shilling in this world, my dear. The wage, ye ket paid by her Ladyship is remarkably small – and every penny of that has been disbursed on warm clothes and a wee supply of extra nourishment, tae keep body and soul together.’
Miss Stornoway was, indeed, wrapped in a mass of thick garments and woollen shawls. Good heavens, thought Hatty, to what sort of a place have I come?
She said with great diffidence: ‘Miss Stornoway – I – I hope you will not be offended at this – but I have just received a kind of invitation – to stay in somebody’s cottage; I don’t know if – I daresay you may have heard of Lord Camber – the Duke’s son?’
‘Och, yes, Lord Camber’s name is not unknown – he will be the first cousin of my charges – my ex-charges, your future pupils, Miss Ward.’
‘Yes, that is it – it happens that I – I have become somewhat acquainted with Lord Camber – my uncle, in whose house I have been living, was his attorney – Lord Camber has now gone to America but he was so good as to write me this letter, inviting me to stay, to live in his cottage – perhaps you know where that is, not too far, I think, from here?’
Miss Stornoway nodded.
‘Och yes, I have heard tell of Lord Camber and his radical views and how he preferred to live in a simple manner, like the poor and needy. And he has offered you the use of his wee house in Wanmaulden Wood? That sounds exactly like his Lordship’s benevolence! But, my dear, would ye not wish to take advantage of the offer yourself?’
‘I am not sure about that,’ said Hatty, surprising herself. She clasped Lord Camber’s letter between her hands like a talisman. ‘I – I think not yet, not immediately. I think it might – it might be rather cowardly to run away from the world at my very first exposure to it.’
‘Hech, my lassie, I can see that ye have in ye the spirit of a crusader! (And I am afeared ye will need every morsel of it in dealing with Lady Drusilla and Lady Barbara.) But are ye certain that ye can make such use of Lord Camber’s offer, on behalf of a chance-met acquaintance
such as maself? It is most remarkably generous.’
‘No, that I am quite sure of,’ said Hatty roundly. ‘Lord Camber’s generosity extends to anybody in – in trouble. And his household – Mrs Daizley the housekeeper, Mr Godwit and his old grandmother – they are the kindest people imaginable. I am sure they will make you welcome.’
Despite these words, she did feel a slight qualm; was she making outrageously free with Lord Camber’s kind offer? Was she loading the three adults in the Thatched Grotto with a wholly unjustified responsibility? But then she felt she heard Camber’s voice saying, No, no, of course you must do it, my dear Miss Hatty! Indeed what else could you possibly do?
‘The only difficulty that I can see,’ she went on, ‘is how to transport you to the cottage.’
‘Och, as tae that – I’ve a notion –’ a wintry smile overspread Miss Stornoway’s harassed countenance – ‘I’ve a notion that Glastonbury may render me some assistance there . . . he’s no’ a bad soul, poor fellow; in the past I have written some letters for him relating to a cousin of his who was transported for poaching . . . I think he will contrive my removal.’
‘Oh, well, in that case . . . Can I help you with your packing, Miss Stornoway?’
‘Och, ye are a fine, kind lassie! But Hannah the housemaid will do that – she’s no sae dreich as some o’ the others. And ye had best get back to her Ladyship and your charges – now ye have performed the first difficult task!’ Again the wintry smile. ‘But a word of warning in your ear, my dear – these gairls are adversaries that ye will need all yer strength and all yer wits tae contend with! I can see that, fortunately, ye possess both strength and wit. And ye will require them both. I came tae the task too auld and infirm – they defeated me. But you are young – ye may prevail. Do not make the mistake of thinking Drusilla the weaker – of the two she has the more guile—’
A bell had been sounding impatiently while Miss Stornoway said this, and now Glastonbury appeared again.
‘Her Ladyship is asking for you, Miss Ward. Will you be so good as to come with me.’
