Brides of Aberdar

by Christianna Brand

  At home at the Manor, Edward Hilbourne’s own rooms had been left with their splendid oak panelling and solid carved tables and chairs; but most of the rest had been transformed by Tante Louise into a sort of mock-Georgian, much painted and plastered, with bright wall-papers and hangings and the sort of furniture with which he was confronted now. Charmingly pretty, certainly, but so spindly and uncomfortable! And yet it was to this… Well, it was for his children’s sake and he must persevere. He sat upright, thin, pale, faded, a very wraith of a man in his sober grey suit, old-fashioned frock coat over the narrow grey trousers and pearly waistcoat, in contrast with his cousins’ bright, jolly checks and plaids. ‘Well, Edward, you look like a wisp of smoke these days, as if any puff of wind could blow you where it would. So what wind blows you here?’

  ‘You will think it a very strange one,’ said Edward. ‘And now that I’ve come, I recognise that it blows in vain.’ He looked round the lovely room with its high ceiling, so much in contrast to those low, heavy rooms at home. ‘I was wondering, John, if you would consider exchanging estates with me.’

  ‘Exchange estates?’

  ‘It’s a fair enough offer. My lands are far wider than yours and more yielding.’

  ‘Then why—?’

  ‘Our cousin—whatever she is, some vague relative to all of us—enfin, Madame Devalle, she doesn’t like the Manor, it’s too old for her and too—’

  ‘—gloomy?’

  ‘Well, gloomy. But it needn’t be gloomy, that’s only because—’

  ‘It has been a sad house for you, Edward, we understand that.’

  ‘And for the children. I’d prefer something for them more light and airy, a situation like this up on top of a hill—’

  ‘Unfortunately, I—and I think Maria—prefer it too.’

  ‘I’ve said already,’ said his cousin, ‘that now I am here I realise it was only a dream.’

  John rose and poured sherry into elegant small glasses. ‘I’m sorry, my dear fellow, not to accommodate you. I daresay… But Maria would never consider it.’

  ‘That was the reason I asked for her to remain at home for my visit; I knew she would have to be consulted. But I see now that it was all unthinkable. I have just been foolish. In one’s solitude,’ said Edward Hilbourne, ‘and with many—anxieties—one loses a little of one’s sense of reality. Think no more of it.’

  Henry lay back in his chair, wriggling a little as the fine carved back cut across his heavy shoulders. ‘But just a little longer let us think of it. Your Belgian Madame, Edward, objects to your house? Is she so dear to you, cousin, that you sacrifice all to her?’

  ‘She’s not dear to me at all,’ said the Squire, with his wan half-smile. ‘But infinitely precious. We have this excellent governess now, perfection with the children. I daren’t lose her. But she’s a young woman, she can’t remain in the place without some sort of chaperone; and who else shall I get to act the dragon but Louise Devalle?’

  ‘No one, certainly, could look the part more,’ said John, laughing.

  ‘So I must cling to her. And of course, as I said, there are other reasons too. The little girls—’

  ‘If all you want is a change of house,’ said Henry, breaking in with it impatiently, ‘then what about mine?’

  ‘Good old Henry!’ said John. ‘Ever an eye to the main chance! Edward’s property is greater than mine, but ten times greater than yours.’

  ‘It’s Edward who wants the change,’ said Henry. To his cousin, he suggested: ‘It’s an old house, and not so airy-fairy as this shell of John’s. But it stands high up—’

  ‘No, no!’ said Sir Edward, almost violently. ‘Not that! That wouldn’t do.’

  ‘—and harbours no ghosts, I promise you.’

  Edward Hilbourne went the ashen grey that Miss Tetterman had observed on that day, now many months ago, when first she had come to Aberdar Manor. ‘Ghosts! What do you mean?’

  ‘Good heavens, my dear man, only a joke! Being an old abbey, or built from the stones of the abbey, de-consecrated by our villainous, but ever to be blest beneficiary, Great Harry, it has a reputation. But none of us has ever seen a haunting, not of any kind.’ He said curiously, ‘What ails you, man? Are you ill?’

  ‘He is not ill and you are a fool,’ said John. ‘Come, Edward, your anxieties and—imaginings—are your own business. But meanwhile, what do you say to Henry’s proposition? It sounds not impracticable?’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Edward, head bent, hands between his knees, bowed forward. ‘It wouldn’t answer.’

  ‘If one, why not the other? It’s a magnificent old place.’

  ‘I wouldn’t… Madame Devalle, she wouldn’t like that house either.’

  Henry, in his rather brutal way, consigned Madame Devalle to perdition. John said, more gently: ‘This is all something more important than your dragon, Edward, isn’t it? Come—we are your friends…’

  ‘It was a mere suggestion,’ said Henry. ‘Nothing final to it. But in fact the Abbey is too large for me, the estate barely covers the cost of running it. And I have heavy expenses, a wife with sufficiently extravagant tastes—I say nothing against that, she must keep her carriage and be dressed accordingly, a woman in our situation must compete with her equals, and especially in her clothes and jewels, her furs and so on. And then five children, three boys to educate—’

  Edward Hilbourne lifted his head sharply. He said again: ‘It won’t do.’

  ‘We could come to some arrangement about money—’

  ‘It won’t do,’ he repeated—quite savagely now; and cried out, almost explosively for so grey and quiet a man, ‘Good God, am I to remove my children from the place, only to bring other children there?’

  ‘If John and Maria—’

  ‘John and Maria have no children; and, as I understand it, John—forgive me!—are like to have none?’

  ‘Your children have sad memories,’ said John, gently. ‘There would be none there for other children: none for Henry’s boy, Arthur, and the younger ones. There would be no past for them, at Aberdar.’

  ‘There would be a future,’ said Edward Hilbourne and made a sign, again almost violently, as though forcing the whole subject aside. ‘Let it all be forgotten. I regret that I came.’

  ‘It’s forgotten, then, my dear fellow. I’m only sorry we can neither of us help you. Come, let’s have the ladies in and ask them for a cup of tea…’

  The ladies, in fact, were not far to find, their coiffures still a little ruffled by close contact with the sitting-room door. Sweet-tempered and kindly, they had been much disturbed by the fruits of their eavesdropping and now set themselves to temper the evident pain of this strange, incomprehensible man.

  He rose at last to depart, feeling a little as though pretty grooms had brought a rough mountain pony in out from the rain and, with brush and curry-comb, tenderly smoothed him down. He felt that he owed them some explanation of this visit and request for their presence and at last, haltingly, offered a word or two. ‘I’m afraid that I troubled you to no purpose. I wanted to discuss my—my present situation at the Manor, and thought that a—a little conference might somehow help me…’

  ‘You feel that your Belgian Dragon is hardly a confidante?’

  ‘It was to some extent about my Belgian Dragon,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Edward dares not lose her,’ said John, ‘or he must face scandal on account of the children’s governess. But, also, Madame does not care for Aberdar Manor. Poor Edward’s at a loss how to reconcile his necessary dragon with her lair.’

  ‘He’d better build her another one,’ said Catherine, lightly, ‘and settle her in that.’

  Sir Edward stared back at her blankly. In all these years of agony, so simple a solution had never even occurred to him—seemed never to have occurred to all those of his forebears who, generation after generation, had suffered as he had done. He stammered: ‘Build another house? Keep it all, keep everything I’ve known and loved all my life—sim
ply take the children from the Manor itself, somewhere else on the estate, simply build another house…!’

  But why should his hostess look at him suddenly so strangely?—and ask him, anxiously: ‘Do you feel it cold, Edward? Shall we build up the fire?’

  CHAPTER 6

  TOMOS STOOD IN THE doorway, literally trembling with the shock of it. ‘I’m sorry, sir! I’m sorry, sir! I don’t know what happened. The door seemed to just—just be too heavy for my hand.’ He lent a strong forearm to help the Squire to his feet. ‘It hasn’t hurt you, sir? You’re not injured, sir? Your head—?’

  ‘A mere glancing blow, Tomos. The door slammed back and caught me on the forehead. It wasn’t your fault. Just help me over to the fire; I feel suddenly very cold and—a trifle unsteady.’ Collapsing into a chair, holding out his hands to the blaze, he repeated in his own kind way, but yet as though half-bemused: ‘No fault of yours. The door… It’s a very heavy old door…’

  ‘It seemed like I couldn’t hold it, sir. I feel right bad about it.’ The man pulled himself together. ‘Shall I call The Wall—shall I call Madam, sir? A glass of brandy, Squire, let me bring you a glass of brandy?’

  ‘Find Miss Tettyman, Tomos, and ask her to come. Not Madam, not for the moment. Then, yes, a half-glass of brandy.’ He put his hand to his head. ‘No cut, no blood. Just an ache, that’s all.’

  She came flying down the broad oak staircase to him, knelt at his side. ‘Tomos says… Are you hurt? Are you ill?’

  ‘The hurt is nothing,’ he said. ‘The illness—I think that is mortal.’

  For a moment she was frightened, but she supposed him hardly conscious of what he was saying. The man came with brandy. ‘Oh, Tomos, I think not—I know that it’s usual, but I think that for a—a blow on the head…’

  Tomos glanced at the scarred cheek and looked swiftly away. ‘I daresay you know best, Miss. Whatever you say.’

  ‘Perhaps a hot drink, hot and sweet—ask Cook: the Squire seems so cold. And a rug, fetch a rug first, Tomos, and then, Tomos, send Bethan up to the nurseries—or perhaps Cook would go herself, they mustn’t be frightened and Menna’s so good with them. Go quickly, never mind the rugs after all, I’ll get the rugs.’ She ran off on her light feet, crinoline swaying, and came back with carriage furs from the cloakroom that led off from the hall. ‘Let me put these around you, sir; hug them close to you, you’re shivering…’

  Tante Louise came swaying down the stairs in her fine flounced gown, with all her urgency yet picking her careful way. ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, Edouard? Tu as froid? On dit que tu es tombé—’

  ‘I tripped in the doorway, Louise. It’s nothing. Soyez tranquille; un petit choc, pas plus que ça. Mademoiselle m’a—’

  ‘Et bien—Mademoiselle! What do you here, Mees? It is not business of la gouvernante—’

  ‘I heard that Sir Edward was hurt, Madame, and happened to be first on the scene. I’ve sent Tomos for a hot drink—’

  ‘Cognac, il faut du cognac—’ She snatched up the glass on the table at his side. ‘Pourquoi—?’ He waved a limply dismissive hand. ‘Mais si, mon cher, j’insiste—’

  ‘I believe, Madame—I’ve been taught that for a blow on the head, it is best not to give spirits.’

  ‘You! What do you know about it? I think I am the one to know what is good. Come, Edouard; le cognac!’

  He shook his weary head, lips closed against it. ‘Comment? Do you take notice of this stupid girl? What does she know? Come, drink!’

  ‘Louise, leave me alone!’

  ‘Madame, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’ She put one hand to the scar; it was the first time she had ever openly referred to it. ‘Do you think I have not had experience? It is wrong to make him take brandy. I won’t let him. I’m not going to allow it.’ And as Madame Devalle, in a rage of indignation still tried to manoeuvre the glass to his lips, she took it from her hand, tipped the untouched spirit back into its decanter and carrying both, walked away to the dining-room. Tomos appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray.

  Tante Louise, pretending only outraged dignity, was in fact sick and terrified at heart. This little nobody taking over from her, giving orders, accepted by all as to be obeyed! She will come here, she thought, she will be mistress here: have I not expected it from the first? Lady Hilbourne!—his wife, mother to the children. That poor Anne, she thought, she might have been touched in the head, but is this scarred Thing to take her place, is she to take precedence in all things over me…?

  She sat close up to the Squire, taking his limp hand in her own, pouring out her rapid French. ‘Be persuaded by me, mon cher. What experience has she had, this young woman? You are too easy with her, Edouard, you question nothing. Be a little warned by me, she is capable enough, oh, bien sûr, in many ways excellent, but what do we know of her after all? What is her background?—she calls herself “at home” in that famous Greatoaks Park but suddenly she is shown the door—the reference not from the wife but from the gentleman of the house, and letters coming to her from him, and gifts….’ He turned his head wearily from side to side, seemed hardly to hear her, made no reply. She grew more urgent, lifted her voice. ‘You do not know all, you do not know the gifts that come; only the other day a box, enamelled with forget-me-nots and a message entwined with the flowers, “Toujours”. And inside the lid, those letters again, the initials of this Sir Charles Arden of Greatoaks: C.B.A. Did she hope to be Lady Arden there one day? Does she now hope…?’ She dared not quite put it into words. ‘I say only—écoutes-moi, Edouard, I advise you, you are weak and ill, she is playing the charming nurse, I say only to you, take good care…’

  In the dining-room doorway, the slender brown figure had stood all this time, quiet and still. Now she came forward and, totally ignoring the juddering woman, knelt down again at his side. ‘Will you go upstairs now? Are you well enough? Tomos and Rodric will help you up to your bed.’

  He looked at her vaguely; she was frightened by the blankness in his eyes. Tomos had stood waiting, unable to understand a word, and now said, ‘Yes, Miss. I’ll fetch Rod.’ She suggested with perfect calm to Madame Devalle as though nothing had happened: ‘It will be best, Madame, if he should be taken to his room?’

  ‘I shall arrange all,’ said Madame, loftily. As swiftly as it had arisen, the storm of anxiety had blown itself out and she was able to recognise how unwise it had been to make reference to the possibility of marriage, to put such an idea into his head. Thank heaven, he had seemed hardly to take it all in; and, above all, thank heaven that Mees did not understand French!

  The little girls lay curled together in the big white-hung four-poster bed. ‘Did you feel the hands today, Lyn?’

  ‘When we went into Papa’s room. Weren’t they cold?’

  ‘Papa’s whole room was cold. Tante Louise said it was because Tetty made Hannah open the window—’

  ‘Tetty’s always saying about fresh air!’

  ‘—but it wasn’t. Even standing close to the fire it was cold.’

  ‘If Papa’s ill, won’t he be able to take us away to another house, Christine?’

  ‘Do we want to go away from here?’

  ‘I think Papa believes that if we go to another house we won’t feel the cold hands.’

  ‘Papa doesn’t know about the hands.’

  ‘I think he might, but he doesn’t say he does. Hil knows. Would you like to go away from the house, Christine?’

  ‘I don’t think the house would let us,’ said Christine.

  Any struggle as to the over-all care of the patient must be fruitless. The governess was despatched back to her own duties and a strong young woman called Blodwen, used to nursing, brought in under the dominance of Tante Louise. But news filtered through from Blodwen to the servants’ hall and was retailed to Miss in due course. The Squire seemed not to rally, remaining very pale and weak and speaking hardly at all. As to the actual nature of the malady, the visiting doctors seemed curiously vague, prescribing only as
much good, simple food as the patient could be induced to eat, rest in bed, and to the huge indignation of Madame Devalle, fresh air. And: ‘These windows already are small enough, Madam; have the hangings removed, throw open the casements during the day; have the bed moved to that side of the room. As soon as he is strong enough, we will arrange for short drives for him about the countryside. And as much mental stimulation as possible. Have the young lady bring in the children twice a day at least, to chatter to him; if he can’t read, arrange for her to read to him, something of interest to him, but light and agreeable…’ To his colleagues in the neighbouring town he confided: ‘Not that I have much hope of any of it. What with the shock of his wife’s death—’

  ‘And of her life, even more,’ said Dr Meredith, who had been Anne’s medical attendant in the last years.

  ‘A mental affliction. Poor man, I daresay it was difficult to live with.’

  ‘Very difficult indeed,’ said the other, whose lips on the subject had been sealed at the end by a ‘mourning gift’ so generous as to amount to a bribe.

  ‘—well, the shock either way; it has left him with little stamina to resist such an incident as a blow on the head from the swinging-back of a heavy oak door.’ He mused: ‘Very strange. I’ve been in and out of that door over many years, never known it to swing. At any angle, it would just stand open. You don’t think by any possible chance the servant—?’

  ‘What, Tomos? He’s a bit of a boyo, as they say in deepest Wales, but the Squire’s a good master, Meredith, what could the man gain by such an act? They do say that Sir Edward had thoughts of moving from the house?’

  ‘It would hardly avail Tomos to attack him on that account?’

  ‘Well, no—he would doubtless take his servants with him. In a way,’ said the doctor, musing, ‘one would rather wish a move for them. There is something very strange about the old house.’

  ‘I’ve noted it myself,’ said Dr Horder. He suggested: ‘Something almost—haunting.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t use that word for it,’ said Dr Meredith, mindful of his undertakings.