by Joan Aiken
‘Isabel!’ Lady Ursula said, over and over. ‘Don’t go away, Isabel. Never go away again! Stay near me.’
She was very much milder and more gentle in manner than she had been before the mysterious attack. When possible, she liked to hold Hatty’s hand, and would lie, sometimes for an hour or more, trustfully, smiling at her, occasionally saying, ‘It is so good to have you with me, Isabel. So good. You mean far more to me than anybody in my own family.’
‘I am not Isabel, you know,’ Hatty said. ‘I am Hatty.’
‘Yes, Isabel,’ Lady Ursula said.
‘Here is a letter from your father, Lord Elstow,’ Hatty said one day. ‘Shall I read it aloud?’ Lady Ursula closed her eyes, as if she did not care, one way or the other.
Lord Elstow wrote urging Ursula to return to Underwood Priors as soon as she was back on her feet. ‘Your Mother is sadly weakened by all the smoke she breathed in, and little Drusilla not in much better case. I would wish soon to return to town, but can hardly do so until there is some responsible body to keep an eye on all here. It is therefore your duty, Ursula, to come here as soon as you are able.’
‘Should I go, Isabel?’ asked Ursula.
‘No, not until you are fully recovered,’ said Hatty. ‘And not then, unless you wish to. Let your father look after his own house.’
‘Yes, Isabel. Unless you would come with me?’
‘No. That I will not do,’ said Hatty, who, these days, was heavy-eyed and pale. She lay awake at night, worrying about Lord Camber, imagining him lost in pathless wilderness, savaged by bears, captured by ferocious Indians. She had a superstitious belief that, only by staying in his house, under his roof, could she ensure his possible return. Which seemed a remote, forlorn chance.
She found the task of sitting by Lady Ursula’s sick-bed heart-breakingly sad and tedious. The invalid would talk for hours on end about her clothes, listing bygone wardrobes in minute particulars; or she would recount in merciless, laborious detail portions of conversations held years past with individuals generally alluded to as ‘the man’ or ‘the woman’. ‘So I said to the man, my good man, I said, if you think I am prepared to accept these shoddy goods you offer you are wrong, very wrong indeed. Some of us, I said, some of us in this world were not born yesterday. Oh, said he, but you must remember the high price of raw materials. Oh indeed, said I, and what do you call raw materials . . .’
In these encounters, Lady Ursula always seemed to have come off best.
What a harrowingly dull life she has led, Hatty thought, in pity. She should have married Camber, I can see that. Life with him would have been the best choice for her.
The invalid would permit no other member of the household to sit with her. She would have only Hatty, and sometimes wept piteously if the latter remained away too long; or what was thought to be too long; her estimate of time was not reliable.
‘Will she ever want to get up, do you suppose? Should we bring her downstairs?’ Hatty said to Mrs Daizley.
‘That one? Not until she choose to come of her own self. And you can’t deny it’s by far more peaceful when she’s above stairs. Not but what it is hard on you, Miss Hatty, having to spend so much time with her. Lucky it is, she sleeps as much as she do.’
During these long interludes of slumber Hatty gave Dickon his lessons, wrote poems, and was learning cookery from Mrs Daizley.
‘For it’s odds that some day you will wish for a rest, or want to go on an outing. And at the present time I cannot even cook a cow-heel, let alone make curry or fry a bit of tripe.’
One day, when they were discussing wine-making, Mrs Daizley said, ‘Did you not once tell me that your auntie had left you a receipt book in her Will, that your cousin brought you?’
‘So she did! Sydney brought it, not long before I left Underwood, and I was so distracted, at that time, that I packed it away among my things and forgot all about it. I never even unwrapped it.’
Hatty fetched it from her room. It was a small volume, carefully bound up in brown paper to preserve it from grease and staining. Its title, found inside, was The Art of Simple Cookery by a Lady. Tucked in among the pages were about a dozen loose scraps of paper with recipes written on them in Aunt Polly’s scrambling hand: Mrs Ashworth’s Quince Jelly. A very good Orange pudding. A receipt for Solid Custard from Mrs Sawbridge. To pickle Mellons. Miss Thornhill’s Green Gooseberry Wine.
‘Here is the recipe for walnut-leaf wine. But it says “Pick the leaves in May”. We must wait until next year. Why – good heavens! Here is a note in Lord Camber’s writing!’
‘Fancy that, now. Did he send your auntie a recipe, then?’
‘No . . . it seems to be a letter. Aunt Polly must have tucked it into the book. I remember that was a habit she had, with letters she wished to keep – she would put them in books—’
Hatty moved to the window and read Lord Camber’s letter to her aunt while Mrs Daizley went on placidly kneading her dough.
My dear Mrs Ward:
I was greatly grieved to hear that you had been laid low on a bed of sickness. I do hope that by this time you are restored to complete health and are as usual being the pillar of your household. I am writing to consult you in regard to my feelings for little Miss Hatty whom you must regard in some sort as your adopted daughter. It may not have escaped your observant eye that, over the last months, I have come to feel a strong admiration and tenderness for the young lady and I would, if circumstances were otherwise, wish to apply to her father for her hand in marriage. Circumstanc’d as I am, however, this at present cannot be; nor would I wish to lay any kind of constraint upon Miss Hatty who is, in any case, at present far too young to consider matrimony. Do you think the age gap between us is too great a barrier? Supposing that I should come back in five years or so, from my American venture, and find her still unattach’d? I should be eternally grateful for your views on this matter.
I suppose I am writing to you, dear Mrs Ward, partly because I know that you are very fond of Hatty and it is such a gratification for me to be able to express my feelings of admiration and attachment to a sympathetic ear! I know that the child still feels in some degree an intruder in your house (not your fault, Mrs Ward, but that of other persons in the household) and I have heard her express a longing for ‘a little house of her own’ so I propose making over my cottage to her in the hope that she may there be able to pursue her literary career (in which I believe). I intend sending her the Title Deeds. I hope this will be a benefit and not a burden to her. I shall be looking forward to hearing your opinion on these matters in due course, dear Mrs Ward.
Your sincere friend,
H. C.
Hatty sat down abruptly at the little table on which Lady Ursula had been in the habit of eating her meals.
He loves me! thought Hatty. Lord Camber loves me! Oh, how can life hold so much happiness . . . ? But where is he? Shall I ever see him again? Will he ever come back? Oh, why could he not have said those things to me? Then I should have had all this time with that knowledge to uphold me . . .
‘Are you all right, dearie?’ said Mrs Daizley. ‘You look a bit queerlike.’
‘I shall be all right in a minute.’
Did Aunt Polly ever answer this letter? If so, what did she say? Did she leave the letter in the book for me to find? Or did she forget about it when she was so ill? Will these questions ever be answered?
‘Isabel! Isabel!’ came a plaintive cry from upstairs.
XXIII
Mrs Godwit had risen from her bed with alacrity as soon as Lady Ursula was struck down, and resumed her place in the household. Also – now that Lady Ursula was in a milder, more approachable humour – the older woman was now sometimes acceptable to her, for short periods, as a companion. Mrs Godwit had been in service, years ago, at Underwood Priors and could remember the visits of Miss Isabel Wisbech, and how friendly the two cousins had b
een.
‘She had a nonsensical, humorous way with her, Miss Isabel did in those days. Dear me! How she used to make you laugh, my Lady. Laugh! Times were you’d nigh split your sides. And Lord Francis – he was another one for a joke.’
‘What was he like, Lord Francis Fordingbridge?’ asked Hatty, who was dusting the bedroom while Mrs Godwit helped Lady Ursula with her hair, which was long, grey and lifeless and reached nearly down to her knees.
‘Yes, it’s true, Lord Francis used to make me laugh,’ Lady Ursula said reminiscently, leaning forward to let Mrs Godwit get at the back of her head. ‘He was such a light-hearted boy! He delighted in teasing and riddles. Of course he was in love with Harry, really. All the young men were in those days. It is queer how Harry always managed to command such devotion. And now there is nothing left of him . . . Nothing in this world . . .’
She sounds almost glad of it, thought Hatty in amazement. Almost as if she were relieved to be free of him – him and his troublesome conscience. ‘We don’t know for sure that anything bad has happened to him,’ she said stubbornly. ‘He may just be in some very remote place with no means of communication.’
Mrs Daizley called up the stairs.
‘Miss Hatty! There’s a young fellow to see ye. Says as how he’s your cousin.’
‘Ned!’ exclaimed Hatty joyfully, and ran down.
But it was Sydney, plump and spruce; plumper and sprucer than ever. His face assumed an expression of total disapproval as he caught sight of Hatty, who had tied up her hair in a duster, and was wearing one of Mrs Daizley’s sacking aprons over her muslin dress.
‘My dear Cousin Harriet! I was told that you were here, but hardly thought it could be so. What can have possessed you to leave Underwood Priors? There, at least, it could be said that you were residing at a respectable address – but here! What are you doing here?’
‘Just at the moment,’ she said, ‘taking care of Lady Ursula, who suffered some kind of seizure when she heard a piece of troubling news about Lord Camber. However I am happy to say she appears to be making a slow but steady recovery.’
‘That evil woman – why should you take care of her?’
‘Oh, evil? I doubt she is that! I thought you were used to admire her, Cousin Sydney? Just at the moment, in her present state, I feel much pity for her. She seems a sad, lost creature.’
‘Do you know,’ declared Sydney, ‘that she stole the title-deeds of this house? Stole them!’
‘No, did she do that? But how do you know such a thing?’ said Hatty, showing much less surprise than Sydney had hoped for.
‘Before his departure for America, Lord Camber wrote me a brief note, expressing his intention of bestowing the deeds on you. (A most injudicious step),’ added Sydney irritably. ‘But I was not able on that occasion to voice my disapproval or endeavour to dissuade him from his foolish intention because he had already taken his departure by the time his letter reached me. The deeds which previously had been deposited at Foale’s Bank in Bythorn were to be despatched to you by messenger. But they never reached you – did they?’
‘No. They did not. I suppose I had already left for Underwood when they were delivered at Bythorn Lodge.’
Hatty considered with wonder what a different course her life might have taken if she had known of Camber’s gift at the time he bestowed it; instead of accepting the position at Underwood she would have returned directly to the Grotto; would that have been better? Then I would never have met du Vallon, she thought – or Barbara or Drusilla – or Miss Stornoway. She would never have come to this place. Lord Camber must have thought it strange and uncivil of me not to have thanked him for his gift. He did write asking . . .
‘Why did you not tell me this before?’ she asked.
Sydney chose not to answer that question. He said, ‘Lady Ursula took possession of the deeds when the messenger delivered them at the Lodge; she never passed them on to you.’
‘No . . . she never did . . .’
‘She is evil!’ Sydney repeated.
‘Well – I suppose taking the deeds was an act of sudden impulse. If anybody asked her, she could say that she was holding them for me. Evil?’ said Hatty doubtfully. What would Lord Camber think? she wondered. She went on, half to herself, ‘Her usage of poor Miss Stornoway was certainly very bad. But I believe that her nature has been much altered since her illness. She seems so much easier and gentler now. For instance, she has never once complained, whereas before she did so continually. If a person’s nature changes, can one blame them for acts performed before?’
‘She is milder, I daresay, because she is not yet fully recovered. Wait until she is quite mended and you will soon see a different face! But Hatty, it is not right that you should stay here.’
‘Why? And where else should I go?’
‘Hatty! As I have said before, why do you not marry me and come back home – to your true home at Bythorn Lodge? That would be such a good – such a right solution to all your problems!’
‘But living here is an even better solution to my problems, Cousin Sydney! Especially if I am the owner of the house. And – I have told you before – we should not suit. Not at all. I can only tell you again.’
They had left the house and were walking to and fro on the patch of grass in front. Hatty wished that Godwit would come back from his errand in Bythorn, or Mrs Daizley from picking blackberries in the wood. She wished this interview would end.
‘We have had this conversation so often, Cousin Sydney. I am sorry. I cannot love you. How many times do I have to tell you that?’
‘How old are you now, Hatty?’ he surprised her by asking.
‘Nineteen, cousin. Old enough to know my own mind.’
‘Not at all!’ he said sharply. ‘Nineteen is by far too young to run off by yourself and live in this ramshackle way in the woods. There is already talk about you – about the sudden way in which you quitted Underwood just before that havey-cavey Frenchman eloped to France with Barbara Fowldes. (Paris! The Fowldes will be lucky if they ever see her again. Think of it! A member of the British aristocracy! The French will probably hang her from a lamp post.)’
‘Oh, surely not? Du Vallon told me he has influential friends in the radical movement. More likely they will both become members of the Legislative Assembly.’
‘I very much doubt that,’ he said sourly. ‘And, Cousin, as I said, I am sorry to have to tell you this, but unpleasant talk is percolating about the countryside – to the effect that the Frenchman had – had taken advantage of you while you were both at the Priors; and that, tiring of you, he asked Lord Elstow for his daughter’s hand, and that being refused, he abducted her.’
‘Well, the story is not true,’ said Hatty, ‘except the bit about asking Lord Elstow for Barbara’s hand.’ Then she wished she had not spoken, for Sydney at once looked very acute and demanded, ‘How do you know that?’
‘Never mind how I know.’
‘Hatty – Hatty! Pray, pray consider my proposal. So much depends on it! More, much more than you suppose!’
‘What can you mean?’ she said wonderingly.
At this critical moment Lady Ursula came downstairs. This in itself was an event of considerable moment, since she had previously negatived any suggestion of leaving her couch. But now, here she was, a somewhat formidable figure in a long, trailing book-muslin bedgown, chambray gauze shift, Paisley shawl, and heavily be-ribboned French net nightcap, standing in the open door at the front of the house, between the pillars.
‘Isabel!’ she said plaintively. ‘Why did you leave me for so long?’
‘She takes me for my mother,’ whispered Hatty.
Quickly she ran forward and clasped the lady’s arm.
‘Lady Ursula, it was very rash of you to come down the stairs alone. Why did you not ask Mrs Godwit to help you?’
‘Ursie! Why will you not
call me Ursie?’
Then her gaze fell on Sydney, and she said crossly, ‘There is that tiresome young lawyer’s clerk who insisted on escorting me back from church. Tell him to go away. He has been pestering me for ever about some documents. Tell him that I am not in the mood to answer his questions just now. Or ever.’
‘Why did you take the deeds of this house, Lady Ursula? Did you not know that was a felony?’ demanded Sydney. ‘Where are they?’ Taking things, thought Hatty, is just a hereditary habit in the Fowldes family, perhaps. Perhaps they do not even know that it is wrong. It is a droit de famille. They also have the capacity to make one feel guilty just for being the owner of something they want for themselves.
‘You need concern yourself in the matter no longer,’ Lady Ursula told Sydney loftily. ‘For Isabel has recently returned to me, and so she and I will be able to share the deeds.’
Sydney looked helplessly at Hatty, who raised her brows and said, ‘I think that just now the matter is of no particular importance. Let us hope that Lord Camber will soon come home.’ Oh, let us hope so! ‘Then he can sort matters out for himself.’
‘There is much reason to suppose that he will never come home. Or so I hear. But, cousin, those deeds must be found and put in a place of safety.’
‘Well, I will try to do so. I believe they are in Lady Ursula’s room. Ah, here come Godwit and Mrs Daizley. You had better take your leave, Cousin Sydney. You are tiring Lady Ursula.’
‘I shall come back!’ he said furiously. ‘Very soon!’
It was only after his departure that Hatty thought: Good gracious! He never once mentioned his father’s marriage to Burnaby! But perhaps he cannot bring himself to do so. It must have made him very angry . . .
Lady Ursula’s humour changed for the worse after Sydney Ward’s visit; he seemed to have recalled her mind in a sharper degree to her present circumstances. Her manner grew harsher, she became tetchy and irritable. The matter of the title-deeds had not been raised again. Hatty, indeed, returning some clean laundry to Lady Ursula’s closet, had discovered the deeds, wrapped up in a Norwich shawl; they are as safe there as anywhere, she decided; let them remain there for the present. She did, however, send a note to her cousin Sydney at Bythorn assuring him of this fact.
