Derby Day

by D. J. Taylor

  There came a day when, such was the volume of chatter about this Lincolnshire Pegasus, that Miss Ellington determined to see him for herself, borrowed a pair of pattens that lay on the block by the kitchen door and set off across the stone yard to the stables. She did not quite know what she expected to see there, being unable to tell a thoroughbred from a carthorse, but Tiberius, she thought, was decidedly slim: a lithe black horse that stood all alone in the corner of the stables, would not be petted and stamped his feet very violently if anyone came near. She remarked to Jem Claypole, the stable boy who stood nearby, that he seemed a very nervous animal, and this Jem confirmed: ‘It’s twice he have run away wi’ the maister, for all a whip were taken to him.’ And then just as she was about to return to the house, finding the smell of the beasts, and other things, not to her taste, a curious thing happened. A small, dark-faced man stuck his head in at the door and, seeing them there, hastily withdrew it, but not before the boy made an angry gesture at his retreating figure and indeed seized up a pitchfork that stood against the rail and would, she thought, have actually assaulted the man had he come nearer. ‘Who is that, that you should wish to take a pitchfork to him?’ she enquired, whereupon he said that it was John Wilkinson, who had been dismissed by the master but would keep a-coming back and a-spying on the house, and maister had given instructions for him to be druv away.

  All of which confirmed Miss Ellington’s opinion that Scroop was a remarkable place, and its inhabitants yet more remarkable still. She asked Mrs Castell once – remembering the pleasant recreations of Warwickshire – if the servants ever went anywhere, and the housekeeper said that once a year, on the May holiday, Mr Curbishley hired a wagonette and drove them to Lincoln for the fair. In the dark evenings Dora and Hester played spillikins together, while Mrs Castell read at Foxe’s Book of Martyrs with a very dreadful expression. There was talk of ghosts and spectres, of a path in the woods where not even Mr Davenant would go in broad daylight and a parlourmaid that drowned herself for love and stalks the lower field, beseeching the Gypsy who betrayed her; talk, too, of the master and how he was a broken man and would not bear the shame of being sold up, and of there no longer being Davenants in a place where Davenants had always been.

  Patchwork of ivy and scrollwork of fern!

  And so the days passed, with such an undifferentiated regularity that the smallest trifle took on a momentous significance, a letter to Hester from her cousin in Leicestershire became a great event and a walk in the woods or the fields beyond a grand excursion. As for Evie, the poor child was very backward in her little intellects, stared blindly at the words printed on the page before her and was quite deficient in sensibility. Thinking to amuse her on their first day in the schoolroom Miss Ellington took down an almanac which she had found on the library shelf showing ladies and gentlemen in costumes of olden time – a knight tilting at the quintain, Queen Elizabeth and her courtiers at Tilbury Dock – but from this she shrank, saying that they frightened her. Miss Ellington asked her what there was that did not frighten her, and that she liked, and she said the cat, and a ride in a carriage, and her papa. And yet she was an affectionate thing, would smile and chatter if you did not tax her, and gave great longing looks out of the window into lands that none could see save she herself. Miss Ellington had her story from Mrs Castell, which was that she was born early, being then so inconsiderable a scrap that she must be kept in cotton wool in her father’s cigar box and fed milk through a straw.

  And this, Miss Ellington found, was the limit of their life there in Lincolnshire. Mr Davenant sat in his study or took his dogs out a-coursing; Tiberius stamped in his stable; Dora and Hester went whispering by on the stairs; the wind murmured in the reed-beds; the cut logs mouldered by the barn.

  *

  Mr Glenister’s visits were as regular as the rain. Mr Glenister who, with his bailiff and his estate and his £2,000, was, as Mrs Castell put it, ‘as neat a catch as ever a young woman put out a hook for’. The difficulty, alas, was that there was not a single spinster lady in the parish, excepting the rector’s sister, Miss Trafford, who could not be less than sixty-five years of age, and Miss Trimmington of Scroop Parva, who never left her bed on account of some deformity of the spine. For herself, Miss Ellington thought Mr Glenister, who was certainly tall and nice-looking, somewhat supercilious, for when they first met he made an allusion to one of Mr Browning’s poems and seemed surprised that she recognised it, and said that she was no doubt a great bluestocking.

  There was another singular thing about Mr Glenister, Miss Ellington discovered, and that was his affection for Evie. The interest was reciprocated, for she ran towards him whenever she saw him, and altogether delighted in the things he told her, though Miss Ellington doubted that she understood the half. They were sitting in the schoolroom one morning, with the cat between them and a slate on which Evie had scratched a few hieroglyphics of her own devising cast aside on the carpet, when, having come into the room and let fall a few pleasantries, he looked very fondly at Evie, who had now turned her attention to the cat, and said:

  ‘She is a dear good girl, is she not?’

  Miss Ellington said what she truthfully believed, that she thought she had a most affectionate nature, whereupon he smiled very courteously and continued: ‘And yet it seems to me, Miss Ellington, that there are times when you are sharp with her. I make no criticism of you, you understand, for I know the poor girl would try a saint’s patience, but it pains me to see it.’

  This was so nearly the truth that Miss Ellington did not like to dispute it, but said merely that she should do her best not to be vexed, &c., her cheeks crimson all the while, whereupon he smiled and said that she should have to find someone else to bluestocking, for it could not be poor Evie.

  ‘Who is this Mr Happerton of whom everyone talks?’ she asked, the next time that she saw him.

  ‘Mr Happerton?’ he said – they were sitting in the schoolroom again, with the cat prowling between them and Evie teasing it with a ball of darning wool. ‘Who has been talking of Mr Happerton?’

  ‘Not I, for one,’ she said, thinking that he was vexed by the question. ‘But Dora and Hester have spoken of him, and Mrs Castell supposes that he will be coming soon.’

  ‘There never was a secret to be kept in a country house,’ Mr Glenister said, more amused now than irked. ‘Mr Happerton is a gentleman with whom you will very shortly have some acquaintance. Indeed, it would not surprise me if he were here within the week.’

  ‘But who is he?’ Miss Ellington wondered. ‘And why should he come to Scroop? Has Mr Davenant sold his estate?’

  ‘Not that,’ Mr Glenister said. ‘Rather, he has sold Tiberius.’

  ‘Tiberius!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘The very same,’ Mr Glenister went on. ‘Mr Happerton has bought him, but he has no property of his own and, so far as I understand, wishes to have the horse kept here until some better prospect offers itself.’

  ‘Will that not be …’ – she hesitated to find the correct word – ‘inconvenient for Mr Davenant?’

  ‘It will be more than inconvenient,’ Mr Glenister said, who had a trick of smiling in a very quizzical way. ‘I should say that it will eat into his soul. It is not that he cares so very much about horses, simply that to lose it would be like having his wood grubbed up. But Evie’ – raising his voice – ‘you must not persecute that cat. It has done you no harm, and its ears are its own, surely?’

  And so it became known in the house that Mr Davenant had sold Tiberius, his pride and joy, and that Mr Happerton, whom nobody knew anything of, and as Dora said could not in the nature of things be a gentleman, would be coming to claim him.

  *

  Scroop possessed a cat, to which Evie was violently attached. Indeed it was sometimes thought that she preferred Pusskin – this was the animal’s name – to any of the human company she saw around her. But this is by the by. It was a clear April morning, not much more than a day or so after Miss Ellington’s conve
rsation with Mr Glenister, and they had not been long at the breakfast table, when it was discovered that Pusskin was not in the house. Generally this would not have excited any remark, for Pusskin came and went, was devious in his ways and promiscuous in his associations, but by the luncheon hour, when he had still not returned, a search was instituted, the barns looked into, the dairy investigated to see if he had not been locked in among the cream-pots, &c. Still there was no sign, and Evie, who had been assured that all would be well, grew quite disconsolate and would have blundered through every room in the house had she not been prevented. So the afternoon progressed and, being for a short while at liberty, Miss Ellington decided to take a walk in the gardens, not absolutely in search of their absent friend, but with the thought that she might, as she went, look out for him, call his name and so forth.

  It was a bright, sunny afternoon – the first such, Miss Ellington thought, since she came there – and having reached the limit of the garden, it was a small matter to press on into the wood. Here, she knew, Mr Davenant kept his gibbet, with all the vermin of the estate hung up by their forelegs, but such was the promise of the day that she thought: I could bear even this. Imagine her horror, then, when, approaching the block, she found strung up on it nothing less than the body of Pusskin, stone dead, with a great nail driven through his neck into the wood beneath. So startled was Miss Ellington by the sight that she gave a cry of terror and ran back into the kitchen and, such was the pitch of her sobbing, could tell no one what had happened until Mrs Castell made her plunge her face into a tub of water and drink a glass of cherry brandy.

  Subsequently – the whole house by now being in uproar – an investigation was made. Mr Davenant himself went down to the gibbet and retrieved the body of Pusskin, whom he interred beneath the hawthorn tree, but as to how he had come there and who had played this cruel trick, there was no clue. The keeper knew nothing, said that he had left the rail almost bare the previous night with nothing on it but a pair of polecats, and Mr Davenant swore that any man in his employ who could be proved to have done it would be instantly dismissed, which could not be, as the stable lads valued Pusskin as a mouser, and Mr Curbishley said that he liked nothing more than a sight of a fine, proud cat. And so they had another puzzle to add to the mystery of Mr Happerton, and how he had come by Tiberius, and who could tell which should be the more readily solved?

  *

  ‘And who lives here, I wonder,’ Mr Happerton remarked as the carriage swung along the road from Scroop at great peril to its springs. ‘Bluebeard and his wives?’

  ‘Don’t seem much of a shop,’ Captain Raff observed – he was sulking because Mr Happerton had declined to stop at Lincoln for lunch. ‘Doosid lot of timber all over the place.’

  ‘All gone to seed, too,’ Mr Happerton observed. ‘Five years since it was cut down, I’ll be bound. And see how that field next to the fence posts is taking the water. A man who took an interest in the place would have the thing drained.’ The carriage was in sight of the disreputable caryatid and a cloud of rooks went swarming up into the dull grey sky. ‘Now, who is there to open the door?’ Mr Happerton mused. ‘No butler these days, I daresay. Well, we shall have to make do with Mrs Castell.’

  ‘Mrs Who?’ Captain Raff wondered, as that lady appeared on the step with a white-faced maid behind her.

  ‘Housekeeper,’ Mr Happerton remarked, who seemed remarkably well informed about Scroop and its retainers. ‘Been here since the old king died. Thirty pounds a year and that kind of thing. How do, Mrs Castell? No, I didn’t come in Jorkins’ cart. Don’t know Jorkins. Found a carriage from the livery stable more convenient. Tell the boy – if there’s a boy – to put it up somewhere, would you, and I’ll just step down. Mr Davenant here? No? Well, tell him I look forward to waiting upon him, would you?’

  And with Captain Raff to support him, and Mrs Castell casting anxious glances at the carriage – which was not quite a barouche but something very similar to it, the like of which had not been seen in that part of Lincolnshire for half a dozen years – and the rooks soaring into the leaden sky, Mr Happerton jumped down and took his first steps – very confident steps they were too – into Scroop Hall.

  *

  It was generally agreed that Mr Happerton came to Scroop as if he meant business. As well as Captain Raff he brought with him a carpet bag, apparently cut from the same cloth, as both were left to kick their heels in the hall while Mr Happerton went on a tour of the premises. Mr Davenant saw him come from the study window, where he sat with the bills on his desk, heard the loud voice in which he addressed Mrs Castell and ground his teeth in shame. He heard Mrs Castell ask ‘Would the gentlemun take a glass of wine?’ and Mr Happerton remark that no, dammy, a cup of tea would do for him, and somehow the shame was redoubled and the bills stared up at Mr Davenant from the desk like little white lozenge-stones in a graveyard.

  It was also generally agreed that no one at Scroop had met anyone like Mr Happerton before. He was what is known as a fashionable sporting gentleman, which is to say that he wore a pair of top-boots, and a cutaway coat, and a white stock, and was decorated with more pins and brooches, all of them in some way describing the shape of a horse, or a bridle, or a pair of spurs, than would generally ornament a pincushion. Certainly, they never had anything like him in Warwickshire. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, thrusting kind of man, rather red in the face, lately married – there was apparently a Mrs Happerton left behind at her father’s house in Belgravia – and very inquisitive. Jem, who accompanied him on his tour, said that he looked into everything, peered into the bins where the bran was stored, inspected the whips and the curry-combs, asked Mr Curbishley what he thought about a dozen things, all in the space of five minutes, while Captain Raff walked about in the yard, asked where the dairy was and was later observed to put his thumb in the cream.

  Curiously enough, when they convened later that evening in the servants’ hall, with the door shut and the gentlemen drinking port in the dining room, they agreed that, of the two, it was Captain Raff that they did not like – ‘a nasty, sneaking kind of a body’ Mrs Castell said, and Hester wondered that he could not find somebody to brush his coat for him. As for Mr Happerton, although they were startled by his dress and his demeanour – for he was somewhat loud as well as talking incessantly of horses – they thought that he meant no harm. He had heard something of Evie, too, talked to her and asked her how she did, and this, too, was noted and approved of.

  And yet Miss Ellington acknowledged that it was Mr Davenant that she wondered at most, who roamed about the place like a ghost, who sat very miserably at dinner while Mr Happerton made his little jokes and Captain Raff cracked filberts into a saucer, and who closeted himself very comfortlessly in his study to hear whatever it was that Mr Happerton had to say to him. There was a particular morning when Mr Happerton saddled up Tiberius, and with Captain Raff following on an old cob, cantered off across the wolds to ‘put the horse through his paces’, as he said, and the look on Mr Davenant’s face as this little cavalcade set off along the drive was one of simple torture.

  And so Mr Happerton’s stay continued, to the satisfaction of nearly everyone. He went to church on Sunday morning and sang the hymns and the responses very loudly. He won great approbation by stopping an old woman in the lane, as she laboured back from the village bake-house with her dinner in a pail, taking the dinner home for her and presenting her with a shilling into the bargain. He looked at all the tenants’ cottages, admired their design and admitted the cheapness of their rents. Captain Raff meanwhile lounged in the shrubbery smoking cigars and looked as if he were very bored.

  ‘Mr Happerton seems a very agreeable man,’ Miss Ellington remarked to Mr Glenister as they sat one afternoon in the schoolroom, where he had come to see Evie.

  ‘Agreeable? Eh – oh yes. Very agreeable, I don’t doubt,’ Mr Glenister said, with a rather peculiar look on his face, as if he thought her impertinent for saying as much.

  ‘Captai
n Raff, I think, is perhaps less so.’

  ‘Captain Raff!’ Mr Glenister laughed, as if she had said something amusing. ‘Do you know, I have asked Captain Raff half a dozen times what regiment it was that he sold out of and never got an answer? Here Evie, let us untangle this wool and see if it cannot be put to good use.’

  ‘It is very hard for Mr Davenant,’ Miss Ellington said.

  ‘Very hard. Here, miss – you will never unwind that knot by pulling it so. But there is some mystery about Mr Happerton, I think.’

  ‘A mystery? What kind of a mystery?’

  But Mr Glenister would not say any more, continued to unwind the ball of wool with Evie, whose absorption in her work was very droll to see, and presently rode away to his dinner.

  There was one more incident from Mr Happerton’s stay at Scroop which Miss Ellington noted, for it seemed to her almost as curious as Mr Glenister’s conversation in the schoolroom. There came an evening – perhaps it was on the day before Mr Happerton’s departure – when Evie disappeared. This was a not uncommon event, and by no means alarming, as she did not leave the house and was generally found hiding in the dairy or beneath one of the beds. On this occasion – it was about seven o’clock and growing dark – she was in neither of these places, and, growing vexed, Miss Ellington stepped into each of the lower rooms of the house in turn, calling her name, sweeping up curtains and peering behind doors.