by Joan Aiken
Sighing, Maria shuffled her music together and prepared to return to the parsonage.
In the church porch she found Colonel FitzWilliam.
She had intended to pass him by with a cool and brief ‘Good morning’, but he detained her.
‘Miss Lucas – Miss Maria—’
His tone was humble, almost supplicating.
‘What is it, Colonel FitzWilliam?’
It was not in the nature of Maria Lucas to be unkind. The gentleness of her voice could be interpreted as solicitude and goodwill, and Colonel FitzWilliam did so interpret it. He said:
‘Miss Lucas, my dearest Maria – for dearest you must always be to me, despite all the wrong and tragic events that have fallen in our way – during these last weeks I have come to understand more and more clearly how sorely I need you. I have come to believe that I cannot do without you. Deep and bitter conviction makes me tell you this. I know that I have not the shadow of a right to claim your goodwill, but my need for you overrides my duty to others, my awareness of the wrong I have done to others. I am not a bad man, Miss Maria, I believe I have it in me to be a good one, if you were by my side. If you would only accept and guide me, I believe it would lead to great happiness for both of us. We – we should not have very much to live on, but now, I believe, that is of little importance.’
He looked at her beseechingly.
Maria took a long, deep breath. Then she said:
‘Colonel FitzWilliam, you truly astound me. What of your duty to Miss Anne de Bourgh? Are you not promised to her?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said impatiently, ‘but that is only a packthread tie, the merest breath would break it. I will not malign my cousin Anne at this time, but I believe she has plans of her own which do not include me.’
‘This puzzles and shocks me more than a little, Colonel, for I have not been able to help observing that, though betrothed to your cousin, you have been paying what seemed unmistakable attentions to another lady, Miss Delaval.’
He flushed and said shortly, ‘You must also have observed that Miss Delaval is the sort of woman who expects as her right those little attentions, encouragements and services which mean nothing to both parties, but are merely the regular material of social dealing. Anybody who reads more than that into my relation with Miss Delaval makes a grievous mistake.’
‘I think you make a mistake there, Colonel FitzWilliam. I think the lady has read a great deal more into your connection with her than you admit; I think what you call the regular material of social dealing may have led to harm and mischief. As—’ Maria stopped and swallowed.
Colonel FitzWilliam broke in.
‘No, no, there I am sure you are wrong. I am sure, I – I hope so. Miss Delaval is a well-bred, accomplished, easy-spoken lady who has been about the world and does not – does not wear her heart on her sleeve. I am sure you are wrong,’ he repeated eagerly.
‘But that is not the end of what I have to say, Colonel,’ Maria doggedly continued.
‘Remember last summer!’ he pleaded.
‘I do remember it.’ Involuntarily Maria laid a hand upon her heart as if to quiet a sudden pang. ‘I did love you then. I do not deny it. But – we grow, and we change, Colonel. I have grown, I think. And I have changed. I looked up to you last summer; I did not know you as well then as I know you now. Events have taken place – strange, dreadful things have happened. They may have changed you. They have certainly changed me. I fear I do not feel towards you now as I did then. I – I have different plans. I—’
She swallowed, thinking of Mrs Jennings’s legacy, about which she had told nobody. What would the colonel say if he knew of that? Would he back away in horror, believing that she took him for a fortune-hunter? She could almost have laughed, looking up at his melancholy, hangdog, craggy face.
‘I am sorry,’ she said flatly. ‘But there is no future for us together, Colonel FitzWilliam. And I think there is no more to be said on this subject. So – I bid you goodbye!’
She turned, and almost ran across the churchyard.
Did I do right, Mrs Jennings? ‘Now don’t,’ Mrs Jennings had urged her, ‘don’t you go into Kent thinking you’ve got to find a husband there. I want you so to have a husband, as you can’t think, but it’s not got to be just any husband, mind! Both my girls have got decent, good men they can rely on, and that’s what I want for you, my dearie! So don’t you take the first that offers, if he don’t suit, but come you back and stay a month or two with me in London and look about you, and first and foremost, don’t be in a hurry! There’s plenty fish in the sea. Besides which, there’s more things in a girl’s life than husbands. There’s your music, for instance. Remember a husband is not the be-all and end-all.’
Which is certainly true, thought Maria, considering her sister Charlotte, who had her children, her house, her garden, her poultry – and Mr Collins.
Her recollection of Mr Collins was perhaps prompted by the sight of Mr Collins himself, red-faced and panting, hastening at a highly incautious pace along the lane that skirted Rosings Park between the mansion and the parsonage.
‘News, great news!’ he shouted as soon as he saw Maria. ‘Most prodigious, most excellent news! Lady Catherine has been heard from at last! And she will soon be on her way home!’
* * *
Anne had persuaded her Uncle Luke out into the little fountain courtyard, where he was pacing to and fro, reciting his ‘Ode to Orpheus’:
‘When Orpheus plays upon his lyre
Seated beside his snowy fire
Where the clear, pear-shaped flames arise
To meet the dark and starry skies
And frosty sparkles deck the trees
And all the tumbling torrents freeze,
A troop of skipping colonels dance
With many a neat and sprightly prance
Kicking the snow in misty flurry
Each thinking of his dish of curry
Bald heads and glistening eyebrows white
On each moustache a stalactite…’
‘Oh, Uncle Luke, I do love it. It is so preposterous! What made you think of these things?’
‘They just tumbled out, my dear. Like the torrents. Of course, everybody I showed them to told me they were sad stuff. Even your dear mother was quite captivated by them at first, but then after I was sent off to Eton – I went to school very late, you know, because I was of a delicate constitution, my old trouble, you know – Catherine and I became, as it were, separated. She learned to despise my Lassarto “plays” as we called them; she condemned them as childish rubbish.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘There was a shocking scene … For me, that was a grievous wound. I felt betrayed; but also I lost confidence in my own imaginings. It is a terrible thing to despise yourself,’ Lord Luke said thoughtfully. ‘I did that for many years. And then, up there in Wensleydale, I do not know how or why – perhaps it was the conversation of young Delaval, whom I met at Bingley’s house—’
‘Delaval?’ Anne’s voice was full of disgust and astonishment.
‘Oh, I know, my dear. He is a sadly flibbertigibbet young fellow, there’s no denying that. But then, so am I! But he has a lively mind, a lively, exploring, questing mind, especially when he has taken a glass or two – I dare say he has never put forth his whole intelligence, displayed his real wit to you.’
‘Indeed he has not! He considers me a boring little dowd.’
‘Ah, pity, pity … He is a man for other men, it seems, not for females. Well, as I said, up there at Wensleydale I began to hanker more and more for my lost writings. I felt – foolish as it may seem to you – that if only I could be reunited with them, it might, as it were, open that vein again, touch off the hidden spring, make me a new start. I knew Catherine would never allow me access to them – supposing she even knew where they were, if they were even there. No: my only recourse was to go about my scheme by stealth. And only see how successful that has proved!’
He beamed at Anne triumphantly.
&nbs
p; She had not the heart to point out that his successful scheme had resulted in considerable harm to other people. Besides, she was thinking of herself.
She said, ‘Yes, you were hardly treated, Uncle. As Mamma treats most people. But at least you were allowed an education. But I – I have had nothing at all. Nothing! My mother considered that I was not worth the trouble and expense. All I acquired were polite manners and a straight back.’
‘Education?’ he said wonderingly. ‘You want an education?’
‘Even Maria Lucas knows more than I do. She can speak French and play the piano. But the whole world of books and learning is closed to me.’
‘Take care, my dear! Nobody loves a femme savante. But I dare say once you are married, supposing that you have an accommodating husband, you may perhaps be able to explore that world to some degree; learn French perhaps, read a few books. (It is true, there are not many books at Rosings.) Your father, dear fellow, was more of an outdoor man, as I recall, fond of birds and flowers and horses.’
‘Oh, what was he like?’ she cried inquisitively.
‘Sweet-natured. Not as clever or strong-minded as your mother. He was ductile – easily led. She married him when he was very young – hooked him,’ said Lord Luke with the ghost of a chuckle. ‘He was very rich, of course. Old Sir Laurence de Bourgh had made a fortune from the manufacture of some garment. It was not referred to.’ Another chuckle. ‘No, my dear, ’tis true: if you want an education, you will certainly not find it at Rosings.’
He wandered over to the fountain, declaiming:
‘It was upon a starlit, witching land
Far, far beyond the creamy ocean’s rim…’
At this moment a blood-flecked, muddy, dishevelled dog cantered, limping, into the walled enclosure. Unhesitatingly, though with a visible effort, it jumped up into the lowest basin of the fountain, and proceeded to roll and splash and lave itself, gulping thirstily at the same time from the descending spouts of water.
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Lord Luke starting backwards, decidedly put out, as he had been vigorously splashed. ‘Where in heaven’s name did that beast come from? Be off, sir! I do not care for dogs – never have done so.’
But Anne cried, ‘Pluto! Dear Pluto! It is Pluto!’
She ran forward and flung her arms round the soaking, flithy animal. ‘Oh, I am so happy to see you! Oh, just wait till I tell Joss!’
Lord Luke wandered away, shaking his head, murmuring: ‘She wants an education. Now, why? What good has all that education ever done me?’
* * *
Priscilla Delaval said to her brother: ‘We had best be away from here before Lady Catherine comes home. She seems, oddly enough, to have established the most cordial and favourable relations with our Uncle Ben – by who knows what singular process! But it seems inevitable that the whole silly scheme has been disclosed to her, and our part in it; we cannot expect to be persona grata at Rosings.’
Miss Delaval looked unwontedly low-spirited, almost haggard. Her mouth, normally curved into a half-smile, was turned down at the corners; a frown creased her brow, and her bright dark eyes held a hard expression. No dimples were to be seen.
Ralph said: ‘Have the carriage by all means, my dear. It has been mended these three weeks and more. But I remain here. I must chance Lady Catherine’s wrath.’
‘You remain?’ She was astonished. ‘At Rosings? But why? What can be your object? There can be no chance of the diamonds now. Uncle Ben more or less intimated that Lady Catherine had suspicions of us – that was why she took them with her. What can you possibly mean to do?’
‘I do not remain at Rosings. I plan to remove to Wormwood End.’
‘Wormwood End?’
‘Ambrose Mynges has invited me to take up residence with him in the cottage.’ Priscilla was speechless for many minutes, and could only stare at her brother in utter dismay and chagrin. Then she said:
‘You must be mad. What will people say?’
‘What they say will not affect me in the least,’ he answered calmly.
‘But – do you like Mynges?’
‘Yes,’ he replied shortly.
‘What will you do with yourself?’
‘Persuade him to start painting again. Take over the cooking. Advise a few of the local gentry about their parks.’
‘But what about me? What shall I do?’
‘Whatever you please.’ He was not very interested. ‘Marry FitzWilliam, if you have any sense.’
‘But we know he is in Dun territory. And, even if he were not, he makes it plain—’
She stopped and bit her lip.
Ralph said, ‘That is not so. Sneyd writes to me that FitzWilliam’s aunt, the duchess, has just died leaving Fitz a fortune which will make him as rich as Croesus. Sneyd always knows this kind of thing before the rest of the world. Fitz may not even know this himself yet; but, take my word, it is so. You have only to put out your hand and draw him in.’
She said, ‘That is by no means so easy as you seem to think.’
But a look of determination began to grow in her dark eyes.
XII
Anne and Maria were taking the children, Lucy and Sam, for a walk by the rushing stream where once Anne had seen the cat Alice apparently marooned on a rock.
‘If they fall in you must promise to rescue them,’ said Anne, ‘for I can’t swim.’
‘Luckily,’ said Maria, ‘having four brothers, I swim like a fish. We used to go off on secret bathing expeditions in the Mimram River. My mother never knew!’ She laughed, remembering. ‘I used to swim in my shift. And once I was caught in reeds and nearly drowned. My brother Henry rescued me just in time, and they had to beat the water out of me.’
‘How lucky you are, to have brothers. Darcy and FitzWilliam did not visit often enough for us to do things like that.’
‘Tell a story, Miss Anne!’ beseeched the children, when they had been inducted through the cave under the waterfall with many shrieks and giggles. ‘Tell one of your stories! Tell about the cat Alice, and how she flew across the water on a magic carpet.’
‘No, I will tell an even more exciting story about the dog Pluto. Once, the Wicked Queen said he must be drowned.’
‘Why? Why? Why must he be drowned?’
‘Because the Queen said he left messes on the clean grass. But that was not true.’
‘Who had left the messes?’
‘A badger, who came at night.’
‘We know about badgers,’ said Sam. ‘We hear them grunting at night outside our window.’
‘So poor Pluto was to be drowned. The Wicked Queen told two men called Muddle and Verity to tie a stone round his neck and throw him in the lake.’
‘We know Muddle and Verity! They bring baskets of turnips and parsnips to the back door, and Mrs Denny gives them a glass of beer.’
‘Muddle and Verity took the dog Pluto. But they were kind men and so they did not drown him. They knew he was a very clever dog.’
‘Why? Why was he clever?’
‘Before he belonged to Joss, he belonged to a pickpocket.’
‘What is a pickpocket?’
‘A wicked person who steals money out of other people’s pockets. There are no pickpockets in Hunsford. But this was in London, where there are many people and many pickpockets. The one who owned Pluto was a boy called Prigfambles. He was very clever at slipping things out of pockets, and his dog Pluto was clever too. If there was a watch, or a gold guinea in a man’s pocket, Pluto would sniff it out, and he would point with his nose to that pocket, and then Prigfambles would snatch it out, quick as lightning.’
‘What happened to Prigfambles? Did he go to prison?’
‘No, he got taken up by the Press Gang.’
‘What’s the Press Gang?’
‘They take boys and men who are walking near the sea, and make them go on board ships to become sailors in the navy and fight for their country. So Prigfambles was taken for a sailor. And poor Pluto was very sad.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Joss found him and looked after him. So he loved Joss very much.’
‘Did Joss ever pick any pockets?’
‘Certainly not! All Joss wanted was to be a gardener.’
‘What happened when Muddle and Verity took Pluto?’
‘They had to go to Rochester to get some plants for the Wicked Queen that had been sent over from Holland. So they reckoned that, as Rochester was a long way off, if they took Pluto there in the gig, he would never find his way home but would probably look after himself well enough.’
‘By picking pockets?’
‘Perhaps! Or just by picking up scraps of food. So they took him to Rochester and left him there.’
‘What did Pluto do?’
‘He didn’t stop one minute in Rochester, but looked about him and started on the long walk home.’
‘How long?’
‘Thirty miles. And he had to swim across rivers and climb hills and go across turnpike roads and – and fields with bulls in them, and go by farms where there might be farmers with guns and guard dogs who would try to fight him. So it took poor Pluto a long, long time to get back to Hunsford. Days and days and days.’
‘What did he do when he got back?’
‘You tell me!’
‘He jumped right in the fountain and had a good wash!’ chorused the children.
‘Right! And then Joss came and gave Pluto a big dinner of rabbit stew and he slept for eight hours.’
‘That is a good story. Now tell one of your Uncle Luke’s stories about the Duke of Lassarto.’
‘Once upon a time,’ Anne began, ‘the duke was riding on a horse all made of cloud.’
‘Black cloud or white?’
‘Black cloud, all black. It had eyes that were stars and reins made of rainbow. And its tail stretched right across the sky…’
‘Go on, go on!’
* * *
It rained as hard on the day of Lady Catherine’s return as it had on the day of her departure for Great Morran.
When the coach drew up on the gravel sweep, Frinton was waiting to throw open the house doors, while Muddle and Verity, Smirke and the boy Joss were assembled on the steps with umbrellas, to shield their mistress and Pronkum from the rain and to carry in the baggage. The dog Pluto, who, since his return, refused to be parted from Joss by more than ten yards, concealed himself under the coach as soon as it rolled to a halt.
