A Change of Heir

by Michael Innes

  The girl lay in a flurry of snow and a glory of golden hair. His first impulse was to look away from her, quite dazzled – so it was from the fur hat which had tumbled from her head that he first realised she was no country wench. Nor do country wenches dress in anoraks above – or, below, in slacks tailored with an inspiration to make the head swim. And they don’t, for that matter, lie around in a tangle of skis.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness!’ The girl got this out with a gasp, so that he realised like a stab of pain that she was in pain herself. He knelt down beside her. But, as he did so, his glance went to the ski-tracks on the slope above.

  ‘You ought to have the kind that flick off when you tumble,’ he said. ‘They’re much the best for beginners.’ He spoke almost roughly – which made it surprising that he had simply gathered the girl in his arms. ‘And it was stupid, anyway. The snow’s all wrong.’

  ‘That’s what Daddy said. But I did so want to practise. I’m going to Switzerland next week. It’s terribly kind of you to help me.’ The girl moved in Gadberry’s grasp, but it wasn’t precisely a movement of disengagement. ‘I’m afraid my ankle hurts rather. Had I better try to stand up?’

  ‘We must get the skis off first. Which ankle is it?’

  ‘It’s…it’s the left. Always been a bit wobbly since my pony did a roll on it… ow!’

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry. I’ll be terribly careful.’ To his horror, Gadberry found that he had been fumbling at one of the skis while still unable to take his gaze from the girl’s face. She was the most radiantly beautiful person he had ever seen.

  ‘Isn’t it sickening?’ the girl said. ‘What if I can’t go? To Switzerland, I mean. Of course, I’ve only been home for a week. But life’s so boring here. I say – do you mind my asking? Are you by any chance Mr Comberford?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ So strangely are we formed that Gadberry gave this reply without the slightest consciousness of duplicity. In this situation, somehow, he was Nicholas Comberford. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Evadne. Evadne Fortescue.’

  Although Gadberry had lately judging both Alethea and Anthea to be absurd and affected names, he now had no such impression about Evadne. It was a lovely name in itself. And the cadence it formed with ‘Fortescue’ was exquisite.

  ‘There’s a tremendous girl in an Elizabethan play called Evadne,’ he said. ‘I once–’ Oddly enough, although now again Nicholas Comberford, he was about to say ‘I once acted in it’. But he checked himself in time. ‘I once knew another Evadne,’ he said. ‘But she wasn’t remotely as beautiful as you are.’

  Although still in evident pain, Miss Fortescue laughed. She also blushed – or at least Gadberry persuaded himself that she did so. And now she did draw away.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But don’t be absurd, all the same, Mr Comberford. And now I must manage to get home. It’s not very far. I’m sure I can hobble.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, of course. In fact, I’m on my way to call on your father now.’

  ‘How very odd!’

  ‘Odd?’ Gadberry was puzzled.

  ‘The coincidence, I mean. That you should be coming to see Daddy, and that I should take a tumble like this, pretty well straight in your path.’

  ‘Well, yes – I suppose so.’ Gadberry had got the skis off, and was now laying them down on the snow. ‘We’ll have to abandon these for the time being. Now then’ – and he stooped over Evadne Fortescue – ‘here goes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m going to carry you, of course. It’s no distance.’

  ‘But you can’t possibly! I’m frightfully heavy. In fact I’m most disgustingly fat.’ Miss Fortescue paused. ‘You’ll see,’ she added.

  ‘There!’ Gadberry had swung her up into his arms. As he had expected, she was neither too heavy nor too light. At every point, so to speak, there was precisely as much of her as there ought to be. Not that he made this calculation in any carnal spirit. On the contrary, a kind of blazing innocence surrounded his instantaneous and utterly fateful relationship with this divinity. He suddenly remembered the childish episode of that morning, when he had hugged, kissed and playfully smacked the little housemaid. He laughed aloud at its complete absurdity.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ The ravishing Evadne, although nestled in his arms, spoke suspiciously. ‘I suppose you think I’ve been an absolute idiot…ow!’ She had winced and exclaimed as Gadberry took a first cautious forward step. ‘It does rather hurt. I expect it will have to be set, or something.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll put it right in no time. And I’ll try to go frightfully carefully.’

  ‘Can you really manage? You must be terribly strong.’

  Gadberry laughed again. His face was very close to Evadne’s. And his muscles were, in fact, in very good trim. He was naturally quite a stalwart as well as a personable young man, and a country life had been adding agreeably to these graces. Really and truly, he wasn’t a bad match for Evadne Fortescue. He felt very happy. So, presumably, did Evadne, for she now let her head drop on his shoulder with a gentle sigh. She might almost have been passing into a mild swoon.

  ‘I’m terribly lucky to have found you,’ she murmured. ‘It’s been like meeting a knight-errant. You know? Sir Galahad, or somebody like that.’

  Sir Galahad Gadberry. . . With infinite care – because his head was swimming a little – Gadberry lifted his precious burden over the dyke. Then he bore her triumphantly through the thickly falling snow.

  19

  The Misses Shilbottle – Hon. Alethea and Hon. Anthea – were very nice girls. Perhaps it would have been more logical to say that they were a very nice girl, since one was quite as indistinguishable from the other as the diabolical Miss Bostock had averred. Breadth of pelvis was perhaps their most striking feature; if you were simply concerned to embark on steady breeding in a no-trouble way then a Shilbottle would be a tiptop buy. In addition to large, frank, wholesome bodies they had large, frank, wholesome laughs. They talked about hunting (to Mrs Minton’s disapproval) and hunt balls, about beagles, about harriers, about point-to-points, about the pursuit of otters, about the shooting of pheasants, partridges and grouse, about the extricating of trout, salmon and other fishes from the flood. Some centuries ago – Gadberry reflected – they would have talked about bear-baiting or badger-baiting or cock-fighting in the same jolly way. They weren’t Gadberry’s idea of a bedfellow any more than the tweedy and bony Lord and Lady Arthur were his idea of parents-in-law. But he was delighted with them, all the same. The plain fact that they were resolved to have a shot at the heir of Bruton, and severally to accept triumph and defeat in a sporting family spirit – with perhaps, he dimly felt, a flyer staked on the result: this didn’t disconcert him in the least. Indeed, he was quite prepared to adore them, since all women ought to be adored. And he hadn’t, needless to say, the slightest difficulty in dividing his favours equally and courteously between them, any more than he had difficulty in listening respectfully to their father, or offering their mother the sort of deference proper to an American heiress who has married a marquis’ younger son.

  Mrs Minton – who hadn’t, of course, a glimmer that her supposititious great-nephew was deliriously and transformingly in love – evinced high gratification at the success of her luncheon party. Miss Bostock – although her eyes did occasionally narrow consideringly on the spectacle – couldn’t have anything to complain of. Boulter poured wine at his young master’s direction, and murmured confidentially into his young master’s ear, and passed trifle (for it was trifle again) very much as if it were already the wedding cake. It was, Gadberry judged, a happy, happy party all round.

  For the time being, in fact, Sir Galahad was on top. Gadberry’s strength was as the strength of ten because his heart was pure. An honourable and elevating passion had taken entire command of him. Everything else would sort itself out.

  He ought, of course, to have been abashed. Alethea and Anthea were girls of practical insti
nct and realistic mind. But he could see that they weren’t mercenary in anything that could be called a corrupt way. The proposed transaction (as it might be called) had a basis in the implicit assumption that he was himself out of the right stable. He could be trusted without inquiry to measure up to the required reliabilities and decencies and loyalties. Once that was clear, you went ahead in a sensible, open and (for that matter) simply animal way. It wasn’t a very exalted code, but it was a perfectly healthy one. And it was how Shilbottles produced Shilbottles, generation by generation. Yes, he ought to be abashed that, as well as being raised immeasurably above it by reason of his new and ennobling passion, he was also depressed a damnably long way below it through the shocking wickedness of his being at Bruton at all. But at present nothing of all this existed at all notably in Gadberry’s head. He was fathom-deep in the euphoria – which is also the cruel madness – of love.

  He hadn’t as yet at all taken in the extent of the revolution in his own feelings and attitudes. For example, he had walked back to the Abbey from the Fortescues’ house without its once having come clearly into his head that this was a route he had determined never to take again. Since to leave Bruton was now unthinkable, he just didn’t think about it at all. Or at least he had dropped the problem into cold storage after giving it no more than the briefest reappraisal in his mind. Miss Bostock – and she was really rather an absurd and melodramatic character – was the nub of the matter so far as any actual urgency went. And even supposing that she was veritably Lady Macbeth to the life (or death) it was still not to be supposed that she was planning to act with anything like the breathtaking speed with which events had moved in that castle at Inverness. Mrs Minton’s new will, together with whatever related documents were involved, had of course been signed by this time. But it could hardly be Miss Bostock’s intention, within hours or even days of this, to lure her employer into (say) a little bird watching from the top of the Abbey tower and then briskly tumble her over the edge. That would be to give altogether too rum an appearance to the whole affair. A substantial breathing space, therefore, there must necessarily be.

  Meantime, Gadberry had better things to think about. He had, that is to say, Evadne Fortescue to think about – and so much was he keyed up by the amazing events of the morning that he found himself able to engage in this intoxicating pursuit almost uninterruptedly even while he was being, to all appearances, perfectly attentive to Mrs Minton’s guests.

  One small cloud did hang over his contemplations. He had from the first regarded Aunt Prudence’s agent, Captain Fortescue, as a very decent sort of chap. But this had been a matter of business relations and casual social encounters. Now, he had seen Fortescue for the first time in his paternal character, and he wasn’t at all sure that the man was adequate in the role. Or at least, although he might have been an adequate parent in a general way, it didn’t seem at all certain that he was adequate to being the parent of Evadne.

  The Fortescue household, he had found, consisted only of Evadne, a younger brother whom he had judged insufficiently appreciative of the privilege of owning such a sister, and Captain Fortescue himself. Fortescue, it seemed, was a widower of many years standing. In such a position it must be quite a job bringing up a daughter, and perhaps one would come to feel the necessity of guarding against too much fondness. Perhaps this was why Fortescue had appeared a little cool towards his darling child when Gadberry had marched into the house and planted her with infinite gentleness on the drawing-room sofa. He had even – come to think of it – appeared embarrassed, and had been in more of a hurry to find Gadberry a drink than to determine the extent of his daughter’s injury. When Gadberry had insisted on ringing up Dr Pollock at once, Fortescue had rather oddly temporised. And Evadne herself, indeed, had followed his lead, although she was obviously in the most awful pain. Was she – Gadberry wondered – bullied by her father? His blood ran first cold, and then hot, at the thought. But at least Pollock had finally been summoned – although Gadberry had been surprised to hear Fortescue tell him that he needn’t hurry over before lunch.

  The recollection of this seeming callousness was a little disturbing Gadberry now. Fortunately he was able to assure himself that it was, at the most, only one side of the picture. Perhaps Fortescue, as an old military man, believed in stiff upper lips and so forth when it came to minor injuries. Certainly he was an admiring parent. Gadberry had seen enough to be in no doubt about that. It was precisely a kind of reluctant admiration that Fortescue could several times be observed as directing upon his daughter. Again, when Gadberry had taken his leave, Fortescue had accompanied him silently some way down his drive. Several times he had appeared prompted to speak, but he had not in fact got round to doing so. Something like embarrassment had again overtaken him. Probably he had been wanting to tell Gadberry what a marvellous girl Evadne was, and then shyness had prevented him. Finally he had shaken hands, still in silence, and with a look which, deprived of its context, one might have taken for an odd sort of compunction. But that didn’t make sense. He must have realised the instantaneous and powerful nature of the passion which this young man had conceived for his adorable daughter, and been in fact commiserating with Gadberry on having to leave his beloved, even for a short space of time, in discomfort and even pain.

  Thus did Gadberry meditate, even while listening attentively to Shirley Shilbottle – otherwise Lady Arthur – while she entered with some particularity into the history of her family. For generations its ladies appeared to have made quite a thing of conferring their hands and fortunes upon titled persons all over Europe. It seemed a harmless and indeed benevolent form of dedication, and Gadberry made all the appropriate responses. But he was really wondering, of course, about when he could next see Evadne. It would be perfectly proper to call at the Fortescues again that afternoon, but only perhaps to make polite inquiries about the sufferer at the door. He had discovered in himself, in her, in their relationship, a rare – and at first perhaps a fragile – thing. It was like a bud that he must now devote his whole energy to coaxing into flower. Apart from this, nothing else mattered. Undeniably, of course, there were awkwardnesses. Equally undeniably, some of them were in that moral sphere in which it was so hard not to feel a certain perplexity. But, somehow or other, it would all straighten itself out. Mrs Minton, for instance, couldn’t but acknowledge the transcendent worth of Evadne Fortescue as soon as it was brought within her purview. She might well be so enchanted by his capture of such a prize (when he did capture it) that she would be very willing to overlook the slightly irregular manner in which he had become her heir – supposing the worst came to the worst and she ever had to know about it.

  Gadberry, sunk in his madness, took the Shilbottle girls on a little after-luncheon conducted tour of Bruton. He continued to apportion his attention scrupulously between them. His thoughts were far away. But he was aware that they were both, poor dears, deciding that Yes, he’d do.

  20

  When Gadberry came down to breakfast next morning he found to his relief that Miss Bostock had finished her meal and departed. As Mrs Minton invariably breakfasted in her own room this meant that Gadberry was able to begin the day delightfully with one sole companion. Needless to say, this wasn’t the parlourmaid. It was the divine image of Evadne herself. He planted this invisible presence firmly before him on the other side of the table, and communed with it rapturously while eating everything he could lay his hands on.

  So absorbed was he in this agreeable reverie that it was some time before he noticed that the parlourmaid wasn’t there anyway. He was being waited on by Boulter in person. This was unusual. Presently, however, he decided that it was also satisfactory in itself. He had a wholesome longing to communicate to some other living creature at least some shadow of his bliss. The parlourmaid wouldn’t here have been a practical proposition. But with Boulter a little familiar conversation was entirely in order. If only very cautiously, he could skirt the sole topic which alone lay close to his heart
.

  ‘I liked those Shilbottle girls very much,’ he began. ‘They struck me as good sorts.’

  ‘Precisely so, sir. I am in agreement with you. Although, indeed, “decent fellows” is the expression that would spring to my own lips. There is something a little masculine, to my mind, about that vigorously outdoor type.’

  ‘That’s perfectly true.’ Over his raised coffee cup, Gadberry glanced at Boulter in surprise. It had occurred to him before that there was something rather deep about Boulter. Perhaps – he thought, with a twinge of uneasiness amid his new-found joy – something a little too deep. Still, he seemed a sensible man. ‘But Mrs Minton has a high opinion of them,’ he went on. ‘Of both of them. Or, one might say, of either equally.’

  ‘Quite so, sir. I am aware that the mistress has her plans.’

  ‘She damned well has.’ Caution ought to have shut Gadberry up at this point. So should propriety, since offering to Boulter such an expression about his employer was to put him in a false position. But it was very evident that Boulter could look after himself. ‘Of course,’ Gadberry went on, ‘one has to admit it’s a rational notion. Healthy girls who would produce healthy kids. Adjoining estates. A considerable fortune. Same class of society, and all that stuff. But a chap ought to be allowed his own say in a matter of that sort, if you ask me.’