Lady Catherine's Necklace

by Joan Aiken

  ‘You know, then, that my mother has been abducted?’ Anne did not seem particularly surprised. ‘I suppose the gossip is all over the village.’

  ‘Ralph Delaval told me.’

  Anne frowned. So did Maria, who said, ‘What business was it of his? He had better have remained silent. It was not his affair.’

  ‘I think,’ said Young Tom, absently swallowing some more soup, ‘he comes here driven by conscience. He feels such guilt and horror over – over Tom’s death.’

  ‘And so he ought,’ said Anne sharply. ‘Whatever he says to the contrary, it was he who put into Mamma’s head the notion of pulling down this cottage.’

  ‘Nothing can atone for that,’ agreed Maria sadly.

  Ambrose looked attentively at the two girls.

  ‘You are both very young,’ he said. ‘When we are young we think a great deal about revenge and atonement and one act cancelling out another. But life is not like that. One act will never cancel another. All we can do is to go on, taking the past with us, using it, if you like, as a fertilizer for the future. You, Miss Anne, with your delight in gardening – you should understand that.’

  ‘People who do wrong ought to be punished,’ said Anne firmly.

  ‘Then which of us would escape?’

  Maria said, ‘Mr Mynges—’

  ‘Tom, Tom!’

  ‘Tom, then. When are you going to start painting again? What you have said applies to yourself. You are punishing yourself by not painting.’

  There was a tap on the door, and Ralph Delaval put his head round it.

  ‘Do I intrude?’

  He was pale and grave, and appeared daunted at the sight of the girls, but Ambrose said:

  ‘No, no, come in, come in. The young laides are scolding me for my idleness.’

  ‘Then I will come and sing the praises of inactivity and sloth. But please do not let me drive you away—’ as the ladies rose to go.

  ‘I promised my uncle I would help him sort some papers,’ said Anne.

  ‘I promised to take my niece and nephew for a walk,’ said Maria.

  When they were away from the cottage:

  ‘Why does Delaval go there so much? said Anne.

  ‘Without any doubt, it is because he feels remorse over Mr Finglow’s death. And I collect – he had some hand in your mother’s abduction, which has somehow gone amiss.’

  ‘How in the world do you know that?’ Anne stopped and stared at the other girl in astonishment.

  ‘I overheard a conversation.’

  Maria told Anne what had occurred in the church.

  ‘Then, after that, Colonel FitzWilliam came up the stairs and found me. I was unutterably shocked, as you can imagine. It has completely altered my opinion of him. And so I told him. How could he help to perpetrate such a plot! Not only he, but Lord Luke and the Delavals were involved. It is the most monstrous thing!’

  ‘Well, I can understand my uncle,’ said Anne, pondering. ‘He has always been of a strange, whimsical, eccentric turn of mind. And he and my mother have always quarrelled. I think she did something dreadful to him when they were small. And I dare say he would consider it just a prank—’

  ‘A prank!’

  ‘I wonder what he is searching for? Some treasure, which he hopes to find in the attic before my mother returns?’

  ‘But in the meantime, what has become of her?’

  ‘I wonder how the Delavals came to be embroiled in the business?’

  Maria said: ‘Something she once told me suggested that she has formed a strong attachment to Colonel FitzWilliam. She met him in Derbyshire at the house of Mr Bingley. And any excuse would serve so that she might see him again.’

  ‘She is welcome to him,’ said Anne flatly.

  ‘Ah, but Miss Anne, you forget – she has not got fifty thousand pounds!’

  In the distance they saw Miss Delaval being propelled across the pleasure gardens by Colonel FitzWilliam. Miss Delaval waved her handkerchief, and the colonel bowed.

  Both girls waved back coldly.

  * * *

  Joss had brought down from the attic a heavy, squarish object, rather larger than a portmanteau, swathed in layer upon layer of felt blankets and tied around and around with innumerable cords. Both cords and blankets were stiff and greasy with encrusted dirt.

  Lord Luke was beside himself with excitement. It was evident that the size and shape of this latest discovery filled him with the most eager expectation.

  ‘The cords must be cut,’ he said. ‘But with great care, I beg!’

  Joss produced a pruning knife, razor-sharp.

  ‘It is like undoing a mummy,’ said Anne. ‘Let us hope there is not a curse attached to it.’

  After carefully slicing through the cords, Joss unwrapped the overlapping stratifications of felt, dislodging from between them clouds of evil-smelling dust and rattling showers of dirt.

  ‘Bats’ droppings, likely!’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Ugh!’ said Anne. ‘Uncle Luke, if this is your treasure, I only hope it is going to be worth all the nastiness!’

  ‘Oh, it is, it is!’ cried Lord Luke in rapture. ‘It’s is my lost desk!’

  And indeed, what was revealed, as the last wrapping greasily unfolded itself, was a small writing-desk, about thirty-six inches square and a foot in depth, made of polished oak. Swathed so tightly in so many layers of felt, the wood had retained its polish and pale colour. Lord Luke ran his hands over it lovingly; he almost embraced it, then felt for a secret latch on the underside, which caused the lid to rise up. Inside were revealed pigeon-holes, drawers, a pen tray, but also, and evidently of far more importance to the owner, a mass of pages, tightly crammed in, smothered with tiny grey writing and drawings.

  ‘My lost land!’ cried Lord Luke in ecstasy. ‘My lost land of Lassarto!’

  ‘Lassarto, Uncle Luke? What in the world is that?’

  ‘Oh, when I was a boy – between ten and fourteen – I imagined this land, its name was Lassarto. I wrote about it all the time, poems, stories – your mother at that time used to listen, she was as fond, as enthusiastic about it as I was. Hours we used to spend, making up adventures for the Duke of Lassarto…’

  With delicate care he selected one of the papers and read:

  ‘Black were the clouds above the roof

  Where Ombla’s chapel guards the pass

  ’Neath wicked skies the holy shrine

  Contends against the satanic force

  And ever in the eerie hush

  Fair Lydia bows her innocent head

  But will her prayer prevail? Alas!

  They lift aloft the accursed wine

  But will fair Lydia touch the glass?

  And will her fingers break the bread?’

  ‘Good heavens, Uncle Luke!’ said Anne. ‘Did you write that?’

  ‘Yes, when I was ten. By the time I had reached fourteen, my verses were far better than that. Just wait till I show you – till I find one…’

  He began delving with trembling but meticulous fingers among the mass of papers, muttering to himself:

  ‘But then I was sent off to Eton – oh, that nearly killed me! Then on the grand tour, and then with my uncle Torvil to Bombay … And when I got back, Hunsford Castle was nothing but a pile of dust, and sister Catherine wed to her Sir Lewis, and swearing up hill and down dale that all the castle furnishing had been burned, discarded, given to the gypsies … Here, listen to this:

  ‘Oh, hearken when by Nyla’s bower

  The lovesick Indian maid

  Beguiles the melancholy hour

  With ditties softly played—’

  ‘I think I like the ten-year-old verses better,’ said Anne, ‘but oh, Uncle, good heavens, what hours of labour you put into it! I am not surprised that you wanted to retrieve it. I am very happy for you. Now you have got all you wanted, have you not?’

  Anne’s eyes met those of Joss, who was thoughtfully and methodically folding up the sheets of filthy felt and w
inding up the tangles of grimy rope.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ muttered Lord Luke, lovingly delving among his dusty manuscripts. ‘Yes, yes. Joss, you shall have ten gold guineas.’

  Anne said, ‘Now had you not better apply your energies to rescuing my mother and bringing her home?’

  ‘But I do not know where she is!’ said Lord Luke.

  Letter from Mrs Charlotte Palmer to Miss Maria Lucas

  My dear Miss Lucas,

  I’m as sorry to write you these sad tidings as you can’t think, but truth must be told there’s no way round it, and it’s an ill bird that don’t sing its song without roundaboutation, so to put it plainly, my dear mother Mrs Amelia Jennings is no more.

  She succumbed to a catalepsy after celebrating our little Frederick’s second birthday last week, which day we marked by a trip along the river and a dinner at Maidenhead, at which dear Mamma was so injudicious as to partake of fried cowheel and onion on top of a suet pudding. In two days she was no more, as I said, despite cupping and blistering and glistering. I thank Providence her sufferings were not of long duration, for they were dreadful. She lost the use of her right side, and it was a sad sight to see her who had used always to be so cheerful and fond of a good laugh and a well-served dish rendered so mute and mumchance. We shall miss her jokey ways inexpressibly and for years to come.

  She spoke many times of you, dear Miss Maria, while she still had the use of her faculties, and told us often how she enjoyed your letters, which seemed, she often said, to display all the beauties of Kent before her. In token of her goodwill towards you she had sent for her lawyer last month and had him set down that she bequeathed you fifty thousand pounds in her will. (Don’t think dear Miss Lucas, that you are depriving Lady Middleton, my sister, and me, for Mamma had seen us amply provided for – our papa had left her very well established – and besides, our husbands are both comfortably placed. So we are pleased for you to have the money. At least I am. Lady Middleton bears the loss with Christian fortitude.)

  Mamma has left me and Mr Palmer the house in Berkeley Street, so if you wish to stop with us on your return to Hertfordshire, only say the word and we shall be rejoiced to accommodate you. We shall be in town for some months yet, settling Mamma’s affairs, and glad to have you with us at any time, to stay as long as you like.

  Your sincere friend and well-wisher,

  Charlotte Palmer

  XI

  Trevose Farm made a most acceptable change from the cabin between the two waterfalls. It was a large, rambling but solid edifice, situated in a dip on the headland above the port of Brinmouth. The town, far below, was hidden by the hill, but Lady Catherine, from her bedroom window, had a view of the sea, a blue, shimmering triangle, and liked it very well.

  ‘If only I could contrive such a view of the sea from Rosings!’ she sighed.

  ‘How far off is it, ma’am?’

  She was obliged to admit that the distance from Rosings to the sea was over thirty miles.

  The farm was prosperous enough to employ about half a dozen people, who went placidly about their work and paid little heed to the two lodgers. Mrs Green the farmer’s wife was willing to help Lady Catherine take a most welcome bath in a wooden tub of hot water, and pegged out her sable cloak to dry on a washing-line.

  ‘Mid as well dry ’un afore brishing ’un with a besom brush, then that’ll come up handsome,’ she declared.

  ‘Thank you, my good woman! I cannot pay you until I have written to my home for money,’ Lady Catherine explained. ‘All my cash was in a purse in the carriage which was lost.’

  Mrs Green brushed this aside.

  ‘Niver fret for that, m’dear – ’tes all one to us whether ’tes now or now-day month. You bide your time and don’t ’ee trouble yourself.’

  So Lady Catherine enjoyed the comfort of her big, peaceful bedroom – which had whitewashed walls and hardly any furniture, but was warmed by a driftwood fire – without anxiety, and spent much time there in the window seat, looking out at her segment of sea.

  She had suggested to Trelawny that she might proffer her diamond ear-bobs to the Green family as a collateral, but he was strongly opposed to this notion.

  ‘What the plague use would diamonds be to these people? You would only saddle them with the problem of how to dispose of the stones – and that they certainly could not do in Brinmouth as it is now desolate, destroyed. What folk there need is wood, bread and bricks, not diamonds. Good God, ma’am, what in the world possessed ye to travel abroad with that load of useless gewgaws? No doubt you consider yourself lucky that they were sewn into your muff.’

  ‘I always travel with them,’ said Lady Catherine placidly. ‘And also, you see, I did not wholly trust that young man who is staying in my house. Your nephew, you say he is? Well, as you must already know, he is a decidedly ramshackle character. His zeal in promoting my plan to take this trip to the West Country seemed somewhat odd to me at the time – I wondered then if it could be my diamonds he was after. So I left the false ones behind, those I always keep for second-class occasions. Naturally, then, I had no inkling of this preposterous plot hatched between him and my brother and my nephew FitzWilliam – prank, forsooth! Well, they shall all feel the consequences in my will.’

  Trelawny had told Lady Catherine how he was offered payment in a letter from Lord Luke to meet the coach in Brinmouth and transfer its drugged passenger to the Greens’ farm, where she would be kept incommunicado for a week or so. But the scheme had fallen disastrously apart, with the accident to the coach and the death of Hoskins. What became of the coachman was unknown. He had presumably recovered consciousness at some point, and staggered on down into Brinmouth, where he may well have been swept away in the flood in which many others perished.

  ‘Speaking of wills,’ said Trelawny, who had walked down into the shattered town to see if there was a newspaper to be had and to visit his friend the doctor, ‘talking of wills, ma’am, I must tell ye that your purposed visit to your sister the Duchess of Anglesea will be a waste of time – that is, if ye were still reckoning to make it? The duchess died five days ago, Dr Lantyan told me. I grieve to have to bring you this news.’

  ‘Adelaide was not my sister, only my sister-in-law,’ Lady Catherine calmly explained. ‘Married to my brother James. He won’t greatly grieve at her loss, I dare say. He is off in Spain, losing one regiment after another, by all accounts. And Adelaide, a most difficult, cantankerous woman, had chosen to immure herself down at Great Morran. Well, I only hope that she has not made a shockingly injudicious will. The prime object of my visit was, if possible, to prevent such an outcome. She had an immense fortune settled on her by her own father – I trust she has not left it all to a home for superannuated female harpists.’

  ‘No, not that. I was going to tell ye: her attorney told Lantyan that she has left a large portion of her fortune to a nephew, Granville FitzWilliam.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lady Catherine very thoughtfully, ‘has she, indeed? I fear that will materially reduce my daughter Anne’s chance of getting married. Without the inducement of a fortune, there will be little hope of persuading FitzWilliam – good-natured and obliging though he is – to take the wretched girl. Nor am I sure that I would wish him to. This disgraceful affair has materially lowered him in my estimation. Does your friend the doctor have any information as to when the funeral will be held, and where?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. It will be at the duke’s principal home in Somerset, Zoyland Abbey, in ten days or so, when he has returned from the peninsula.’

  ‘Then,’ said Lady Catherine, sighing, ‘I had best bestir myself, now that you and I are both on the mend, and write home for some money and clothes suitable for the obsequies. Heigh-ho! It has been so pleasant staying here, free from care; I have enjoyed my conversations with you, my good friend. How disconcerted they will be, at home, to know that I am still in the land of the living. And you, how glad you will be to resume your peaceful solitary existence of meditation and recollecti
on.’

  ‘Not entirely, ma’am. I too have valued our exchanges. When, if ever, I bring out my volume of recollections and recaptured verses, I should like, if you have no objection, to take the liberty of dedicating it to you.’

  ‘Certainly. I shall be gratified – honoured, indeed.’ Surreptitiously, Lady Catherine touched her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Letter from Lady Catherine de Bourgh to Miss Pronkum

  Trevose Farm, Brinton, Cornwall

  My good Pronkum,

  My present direction is this farm, which lies due south of the port of Brinmouth. Pray bring me clothes suitable for a funeral (my black satin, the jet-trimmed turban, the black mantilla, etc.), besides one or two walking costumes and two or three evening gowns. Also a hundred pounds in ready cash. Do not attempt to pass through Brinmouth town, which has suffered severely from flooding, but take the back roads from Truro. I shall be attending the Duchess of Anglesea’s funeral at Zoyland some time next week. You may inform Lord Luke and Col. Fitz-William that I have met Mr Delaval’s uncle, Mr Trelawny. After the funeral I shall return to Kent.

  Catherine de Bourgh

  Maria was playing to herself on the organ of Hunsford church. More and more often, latterly, she had availed herself of this solitary distraction. The atmosphere at the parsonage, these days, was anxious and fretful; and at Wormwood End she was almost always liable to encounter Mr Delaval. ‘I do not greatly care for Mr D.,’ she had written to Mrs Jennings, and she had not since then found any particular reason to alter that opinion. ‘Oh, dear, dear Mrs Jennings, how very much I miss you,’ thought Maria, playing a mournful air by Gluck. ‘Writing to you seemed to clarify my thoughts.’ And the prevailing mood up at Rosings House was strange indeed. Still no news of Lady Catherine; the colonel plainly deeply worried; Lord Luke utterly absorbed in some documents he had discovered with the help of Joss and Anne de Bourgh. Anne herself, who had hitherto appeared to despise her uncle and hold him at a very low estimate, had now completely changed her attitude and seemed to regard Lord Luke with a kind of amused affectionate awe, ‘As one might,’ thought Maria, ‘regard a sparrow that suddenly began to chirp out the sonnets of Shakespeare.’