Brides of Aberdar

by Christianna Brand

  Madame’s interpretation of the doctor’s orders was much what one might have expected. The bed was duly moved, since he would be able to check up on it, so that the patient might lie and look out of the window—on to that bleak hillside rising up immediately opposite, with its bare winter trees; lie and wonder, perhaps, whether or not he would ever again see the woodlands clothed in green. And the curtains at the windows were replaced by the lighter ones of summer, but the casements remained open for the duration of the doctor’s visits, and then were tight closed again. As to the nice bright young lady who was to bring the children for cheering visits, who else, in the eyes of Tante Louise, but Bethan, plain, simple Bethan with her kind, round face, devoid of the smallest sign of superior intellect.

  Nor, as to reading aloud, was that anything that Blodwen could be expected to accomplish, since she could hardly do more than write her name. Tante Louise must take it upon herself. Her first efforts to read, in English, a novelette chosen by herself, unfortunately brought on a severe headache and the patient must ask her to desist; hereafter he endured with closed eyes, readings in her mother-tongue, so that she might soon presume him asleep and thankfully slip away.

  Indeed, the whole invalid scene was beyond words ennuyante to her and she intruded there as little as possible; but with Edouard so ill, and helpless to defend himself against scheming wiles, she was not risking any sick-bed marriages, that was certain! It had passed through her mind that she herself was after all only very distantly related and that to secure the well-being of his children by giving her the authority of a closer relationship, he just possibly might… But in the very moment of its inception, the idea had been dismissed. He could bear her presence as part of his household, only for the children’s sake. She was plain, to his standards un-cultured, to his tastes unattractive, and was moreover his senior by almost twenty years. No chance whatsoever of her ever by marriage becoming the true mistress of Aberdar Manor. Madame was a realist.

  But if she could not—then at least no one else should do so.

  At Christmas, Mees must of course import one of the decorated trees that the Prince Consort had introduced into England from his Germanic origins. Tante Louise was disgusted. ‘All on the carpets dirt and leaves, what great pot is this that you have for holding this foolish tree? Do you think I shall permit this in my salon…?’

  ‘We could have it in any other room, Madame, of course. But the little girls—’

  ‘We shall have it not at all. Tell Tomos to have taken away this stupid thing.’

  ‘But, Madame, I’ve promised, they’re so excited—’

  ‘Then it is all the fault of you. You have had no permission, Mees.’

  ‘They’ve told their father all about it, Madam, and he hasn’t objected.’

  ‘They have spoken no word of it to me.’

  They know a good deal better than to do that, thought Miss to herself, with perhaps a small quiver of guilt in consciousness of her own lack of encouragement in that direction.

  ‘N’importe quel—tout ça, je n’accepte pas. I forbid.’

  ‘Madame, their father—’

  Madame’s brow grew very black. ‘Mademoiselle—Mees Tettaireman—puis-je vous demander, s’il vous plaît—who is or is not mistress in this house? And therefore what I say—is that not the end of it?’

  ‘Except when the master says otherwise, perhaps?’ said Miss Tettaireman with suitably downcast eyes; and executed a little bob curtsey and almost fell over her feet making as swift get-away.

  ‘Well, there’s silly you are, Miss!’ said Tomos, encountered—curiously enough—just outside the door. ‘Why not just set up your precious tree in the servants’ hall?’

  She had seen him several times—always strictly in the presence of Tante Louise—but it was a shock to recognise how weak the Squire had grown, still thinner and more pale, assisted down the broad stairs by Tomos and Hil, carefully lowered into a deep chair in the Hall. But he had made an effort, obviously, for the sake of the little girls, sporting a robe d’intérieur of many-coloured silk over the narrow trousers, tapering to the ankle, and a matching satin cravat. He wore his greying hair rather long, but with only a short side-whisker, never beard or moustache. His eyes lit up with rare pleasure when he saw the radiant faces of all about him and the children gazing rapturously at the glittering tree.

  Tante Louise had considered that white pinafores, hand-tucked and embroidered, were sufficient presents for two little girls, with a ribboned box for each of sugared almonds, especially sent over from Paris. Miss, however, had had quite other ideas and had galvanised the increasingly friendly staff into a frenzy of shaping and stitching and carving and colouring and baking and cake-ing; the glittering white snow outside was rivalled by the sparkle of frosting and candlelight on the seven-foot tree, with its twin fairy dolls, all a-twinkle with wings and wands at the very tip-top—(‘Oh, Tetty, I want the one with the golden dress!’ ‘No, no, I want the one with the golden dress! Christine can have the silver one…’)

  The staff stood round beaming, hands clasped before ‘best’ starched white aprons, or behind uniform coats. Tante Louise had shown her disapproval of the whole exaggerated piece of nonsense, by wearing her dullest black moiré; Miss Tetterman, however, was in her grey silk with the little lace collar and a sepia brown velvet bow at her throat. (Anyone else, thought Madame, would have worn a grey ribbon to match the silk, or plain black; one had always to allow it to Mees that she had a clever head when it came to dress—the brown toned charmingly with the pale grey, and exactly matched the colour of her eyes and hair.) ‘Oh, Papa, Tetty’s wearing her best dress, do you like her dress, Papa? It’s her best grey silk… Tante Louise, do you like Tetty’s lovely silk dress?’

  ‘Have you no ornaments, Mademoiselle, that you wear none on this great occasion? No brooch, perhaps, no ring?’

  She did not know that Sir Edward’s eyes were turned towards her, watching her face, that, seeing the faint flush that mounted there, he turned them abruptly away and looked down at his hands; that Hil also was keenly watching her. She said, steadying herself, ‘I think that you are the last person, Madame, to wish the governess to deck herself in jewellery. Even if she had any.’

  ‘And have you not?’

  ‘None that I would wear this afternoon, Madame, at any rate.’

  ‘Not even the pretty little cadeau which you recently received? A chain, I believe, with a small pendant in gold and turquoises—the flower you call in English forget-not-me?’

  Now she flushed like a rose. ‘Madame is not particular as to how she obtains her information, I think.’

  ‘Not when one must watch the proper conduct of one who has in her care innocent children.’

  The little girls, ever perceptive, had caught the chill in the two voices, and were upset by it. Hil took a hand of each. ‘I think your dear Tetty has no need of any thing extra, has she?’ he said, looking down at them, smiling. ‘Just her pretty dress and her pretty ribbon bow—’

  ‘And her sweet, pretty face,’ said Menna, the cook, deliberately. ‘And her sweet, pretty smile.’

  She could afford to be generous—Menna. She was beautiful. In her middle forties now, she must be, for she had worked at Aberdar almost thirty years but her face was the purest oval, dark hair drawn down into a low bun at the back with the scrap of white muslin and lace on top, an apology for the regulation cap. On the tall side, her figure was extraordinarily graceful, softly and warmly rounded, her skin a uniform creamy white as though she were carved in soft ivory.

  Everyone turned to look at her now, with a smile of gratitude. The children flew to clasp her round her waist, gazing up at her lovingly: ‘Oh, Menna, you’re pretty too!’

  ‘Nobody calls me pretty,’ said Tomos, teasing them. He suggested: ‘Why doesn’t Menna give us a bit of a song then?—and we’ll all join in.’ He added, ‘If you’re willing, sir?’

  The little girls were enraptured. ‘Oh, yes, Menna, yes Menna! The on
e about the swan. The one about Bronwen. Bronwen means white, in Welsh,’ they confided to Tetty in their artless way. ‘The song is about a swan called Bronwen, “the snowy-breasted swan”.’

  ‘Sing Ar hyd y nos, Menna,’ suggested Hil. ‘Everyone knows that, everyone can join in.’

  ‘He’s shy because he made up the one about the swan. No, no, Menna, sing about the white swan! We all know that too.’

  The lovely golden voice, pouring out, untaught, untrained, yet sweet and true as a bird’s: ‘Bronwen, y cariad—Bronwen, my loved one, my snowy-breasted swan…’ The fine tenors and sopranos joining in in harmony, footmen, house-boy, nurserymaid, tweeny-maid, stable-hands, farm-folk, ringing the big room, all shyness and awkwardness shed in the lifting-up of hearts in the natural, everyday joy of their singing. Tante Louise, sitting stiff and resentful in her chair beside the Squire, stared round at them all in amazement: Miss Tetterman with tears in her eyes.

  If, at the end, either expected an outburst of applause, they were disappointed. These were the Welsh, people who sang as naturally as they talked or breathed. It was their gift, unacknowledged as anything out of the ordinary; common to all. It was perfectly accepted that the two little girls should hardly wait for the last dying fall, to run forward to the tree. ‘Can we all have our presents now?’

  Miss Tetterman had made tactful preparations. Hil and Tomos lifted each a child to a pre-arranged package. Having had no competition, the embroidered pinafores were accepted with suitable delight, at once tied over the tiered crinolines held out by half a dozen starched petticoats, and the lace-edged pantalettes. They ran round offering sugared almonds, with little sketchy bob curtseys to the staff, all now sitting rather stiffly on benches against the white panelled walls. Tante Louise was horrified at so rapid a dispensation of the precious French dainties. ‘Et, de plus—faut-il, mon cher, faire les révérences aux domestiques? Quant à moi, ce n’est pas du tout comme il faut!’

  ‘It is perfectly proper,’ said the Squire, also in French, ‘that young children should show respect for their elders—’

  ‘Mais, ce ne sont que les domestiques.’

  ‘—servants or anyone else. They offer the children their love and kindness and the children love them in return…Or perhaps,’ he said, smiling a little, ‘it is the other way about. They’re so confiding and sweet… After all, Louise, are they not?’

  ‘They are well enough,’ said Tante Louise, shrugging. In the depths of her cold heart, there was always a stirring of unease that these children should so have intruded themselves with their small melting-points of love. ‘Mais, enfin—c’est très ennuyant! Tous les bonbons—ils sont finis! J’avais beaucoup de difficulté les obtenir. On peut donner à ces sauvages—one may give anything to these savages, what do they know? Des “bull’s eye” would do them as well or much better. Cà me rend furieuse.’

  And indeed all the almonds were gone. ‘Now, Tetty, what? Now, Tetty, what?’

  ‘Lots more presents, my loves, for everyone. And look what comes next! From your dear papa!’

  Riding habits—positively their own riding habits with little shining boots, and caps with a jaunty feather. They were enraptured. But it was all so exciting. ‘What next? What next?’

  From herself, tiny gold lockets, each centred with a semiprecious stone, a turquoise for Christine, a coral for Lyn. ‘Now we shall need no pink and blue ribbons to tell you apart…’

  More cutting down of packages, more raptures, more handings-round. Hil moved unobtrusively to her side. ‘You are going to have trouble when you get to the top of the tree.’

  She stood with him in an angle of the walls, a little apart from the throng. ‘Oh, Hil, yes! What a fool I was to dress the dolls differently!’

  ‘You never learn, do you?’ said Hill. She glanced up to see if he were not half-teasing her, but he looked cold and angry. ‘By that time, they’ll be tired, even Christine won’t be easy to persuade, the old witch will back up her favourite and for that matter so will everyone else, including yourself—how can you all be so blind? And the whole thing will end in disaster, the Squire will be distressed—’

  ‘And all through my fault,’ she admitted, wretchedly. ‘All because I didn’t think.’

  ‘Much worse than that,’ he said, almost savagely. ‘It’s because you did think; thought only beneath your conscious thought, perhaps, but thought. Because the truth is that you wanted there to be a choice. Recognise it or not, you wanted there to be a struggle, you wanted your pet to win, you wanted to give in to Lyneth and have her love you the more for it. Why worry about Christine—win or lose, she will love you just the same with all her generous little heart; but the other one—she will love you, yes, but she’ll love you that much more if you give her what she wants.’

  The children danced about the tree, were lifted up, reedy arms extended to take down the wrapped gifts from the upper branches; hung over the recipients, eagerly watching the unwrapping and exclaiming and exchange of thanks. The little dogs hopped about their feet with small, shrill yappings. ‘Oh, the dogs, the dogs! Haven’t we got any presents for the dogs?’

  But Tetty had thought of everything. There were sugar-biscuits tied up in tiny separate packets and a bone for each, wrapped in silver paper. ‘At least,’ she said resentfully to Hil, ‘you can’t accuse me of favouritism among the dogs.’

  ‘You are angry with me?’ he said.

  ‘You are angry with me. And to speak out fairly, I don’t know that you have any right to be. Is it for you to upbraid the governess for her conduct towards her charges?’

  ‘You mean from my menial position as a servant here?’

  ‘You say that to be cruel. I know very well that you are not a servant here.’

  ‘You have been listening to the Squire,’ he said with a small self-deprecating shrug.

  ‘I’ve been listening to you, Hil. And looking at you. And thinking about your name: thinking about you.’

  ‘Well, then, I can only hope,’ he said grimly, ‘that you have not also been talking about me.’

  She turned away her head and now all the light and movement about her was blurred with tears. ‘As if I would! As if I’d do anything to—to betray you, to betray the Squire! I’ve made mistakes, perhaps; perhaps you’re right to warn me about the children. But I love them both, I love—I love this whole place, I love the Squire and I love all the people. You know nothing about me, Hil, nothing about my background and my origins, you know nothing about the inner me, about what’s in my—in my heart. But this is all my world now, I’d do nothing to betray it, nothing to betray any of you—’

  He looked down at her and now in his face there was something that seemed to her heightened emotions, to be a sort of terrible pity. ‘Why do you look at me, Hil, like that?’

  ‘I… Well, I have some—gift,’ he said. ‘If it is a gift and not a curse. At any rate I—know things. And I know that one day, in the far future, you will betray us. In spite of all these fine sentiments, not even knowing perhaps that you are doing so—one day you will betray us; you will destroy us all.’

  Cold fingers, icy fingers, brushing against her cheek.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE SPRING CAME, HERALDED by the tiny blue blossoms of the squill, crouched close to the burgeoning earth, and the snowdrops followed, and crocuses, purple, yellow and white, studded the grassy terraces; and the fruit trees were speckled with their small, pale buds, shining against the dark branches; the great mulberry dormant still, purple against the long golden tresses of the willow trees, drooping over the rushing stream. And with the thin sunshine, the Squire crept down from his room and would sit for a little while in his library and, from the closed window, watch the children bowling their hoops up and down the gravelled drive, Lyneth as ever the clever, the skilful one; or playing hopscotch on a pitch scratched out for them on the flagstones by Hil, or skittering by on their ponies with Miss Tettyman in ever watchful attendance, the small dogs dancing out of the way of th
e polished hooves. But if now and again the young-old face lighted up with a smile, it too soon grew sad again. He sent for doctors, for lawyers, for financial advisers. He sent for Hil.

  Hil came in with his small quick nod of the head that had nothing in it of servility, only much of a sort of affectionate respect. The Squire half-struggled up from his chair and relapsed back into it. ‘James! Thank you for coming.’

  He closed the door behind him, carefully. ‘Better settle for Hil, Squire, once and for all. That way, you’ll never drop into error.’

  ‘Everyone knows, James; everyone must recognise the colour of your Hilbourne hair; everyone knows our father’s conquests of the village girls.’ He mused: ‘He was unhappy. What Squire of Aberdar has ever been otherwise?’

  ‘No one blames him…’

  ‘No, no: my mother always ailing, a recluse. And God knows, he paid for his sins in the end. I, at any rate, am ever grateful to him for having given me a brother.’

  Hil went to the small table set out with decanter and glasses. ‘Shall I pour out some wine to help us through the coming ordeal? For an ordeal, alas, most of our discussions nowadays must be.’

  ‘As usual, it’s about the fate of the children, James.’ The thin hand lifted the glass of wine almost as though the weight of it were too much. ‘We both face what’s to come. But the children—’

  ‘You know that I’ll never desert them. I love them as if they were my own.’

  ‘At my death, our cousins, Henry and John, would be jointly their guardians.’

  ‘John is childless. What if he were to wish to take them into his home? Is that what you fear?’

  He almost cried out: ‘Never! It must never be! The children must never be taken from Aberdar. I had but to think of it—and you see what has been the result. The house will keep them here. There is some strange force…’

  ‘We’ve long recognised it, brother, you and I—who are of the Hilbourne blood.’ He suggested: ‘You had thought of building a house elsewhere on the estate—?’