She faced me again, her smile of delight transforming her face. ‘Ah! You have read Northanger Abbey! But remember that Catherine had to give up being a tomboy to become a heroine!’
‘If I ever had a daughter I would like her to be both. But now I have to do my duty and confront Harry, do I not? Mrs Faulkner, I would welcome your views on what the young man has to say. May I hope to join you in a cup of tea when I have eaten what I expect is a magnificent shepherd’s pie?’
‘You would be welcome.’
Mrs Kenton greeted me as if I were an angel from heaven. Silas likewise, rosy with ale and exercise, shook my hand with fervour, and ready to talk through the match. When at last he understood that I was there for a less pleasurable conversation, he melted into the shadows but did not quit the garden. Harry, who had been silent and watchful throughout Silas’s chatter, did not refer to the match, and, arms folded, waited for me to begin.
‘I think we have the same aim, Kenton,’ I began. ‘We both want to see Maggie’s seducer brought to book. When you and she parted company, did she indicate who might have replaced you in her affections?’
‘It was that … It was that Mrs Faulkner who stopped me walking out with her, that’s who.’ He was about to spit, but clearly thought better of it. He looked at me almost appraisingly. ‘Sorry, gaffer.’
‘It is not to me that you should apologize, but to Mrs Faulkner, who was in fact so concerned for the girl’s welfare that it was she who set in train the search for her. There must be no more disrespectful behaviour towards Mrs Faulkner, Kenton, understand that. And understand what the consequences would be if you do ever behave in any way and at any time without absolute politeness.’
He nodded, but did not otherwise acknowledge what I had said. Indeed, his next words might have seemed like a justification of his resentment. ‘I loved Maggie. She was as loyal and true to me as I was – still am – to her. And I treated her like one of them china cups, delicate-like, so she was still a true maid, believe me.’
‘I do, man – of course I do. But it seems she did … like … someone else. Why else should she leave the safety of the House and—’
‘Maybe because the House wasn’t safe!’ he shouted, turning on his heel and striding off into the dusk.
Mrs Kenton materialized. ‘Mr Rowsley, sir – he’s not in his right mind just now. He’s a good, gentle man, mostly.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ I assured her, not quite truthfully, and not failing to notice the word at the end of her sentence. ‘And I truly hope he continues to behave himself.’ Then I smiled. ‘Now, Mrs Kenton – how’s the latest addition to your family? Flourishing, I hope?’
‘He’s doing very well, sir. Sir, we were hoping, Silas and me, that you might sponsor him at his christening. And that you might let him be called Matthew, sir.’
‘I would be honoured, Mrs Kenton, both by the choice of name and by the chance to be a godparent – so long as one of my duties is to help his father teach him how to handle bat and ball.’ I would also make sure I opened a Post Office savings account for him, the contents of which he could not reach till he was of age.
She curtsied again. ‘Like those you had sent for the others, sir? That was so kind, so generous.’ When I waved away her thanks, she continued, ‘Look – you can see where they’ve been playing …’
I delayed my supper by no longer than it took to sluice myself down under the pump in my yard. Evening clothes would clearly be out of place, but, just as Mrs Faulkner had looked neat as a pin, so I chose a good summer suit – a wise decision because Mrs Arden had had the table laid in the Room, where she was sitting opposite our hostess, with a glass of port to hand. For me was a tankard of ale, a clear nod to my afternoon of sport. Sensing, however, that another rodomontade about my prowess would cause either pain or amusement, I told them that I was to become a godparent.
There was no doubting the look that passed between them.
Mrs Arden openly chuckled. ‘Well, Mr Rowsley, I know you are a good Christian man with a true Biblical name …’
I blushed. ‘Do you spy a trace of veniality? I tried to suppress the notion, I do admit.’
‘And it is kind of you that you did,’ Mrs Arden concluded quickly. ‘They are a good, hard-working couple.’
‘And Harry?’ I asked dryly.
‘He once threatened to kill me,’ Mrs Faulkner said with apparent calm.
‘He …! Do you want me to dismiss him?’ I was far from calm. ‘I rebuked him firmly tonight when all he did was speak of you with anger, but such a threat is truly unpardonable.’
‘It was a while ago. It’s clear he still hasn’t forgiven me for what he perceives as my part in his broken romance, but he is polite enough when our paths cross.’
‘So I should hope! But you didn’t answer my question, so I will put it another way – would you feel safer if he were not on the estate?’ She wandered around it freely – protecting her would be well-nigh impossible.
‘If you had asked me that six months ago I might have said yes. But recently I have felt able to resume my unaccompanied walks without feeling any fear.’
Mrs Arden put down her glass with unwonted firmness and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Remember, my dear, that some say that revenge is a dish best eaten cold.’
VI
Shall I start with one of the children’s books? I would get into trouble if I touched without asking first. What about that sampler on the wall? It is in strange lumpy letters, but there are a few words, in the middle, at least.
Thou, Lord, seest me
I know Thou. Yes, and Lord. Seest takes longer. Then me.
For a while I am afraid. But then I remember that God forgives, which Nurse rarely does. I shall have to find a way of working out the rest of the letters, which just seem a jumble of C’s and X’s. An I. No, I can make no sense of it. But I mustn’t bite my nails, or Nurse will paint them with something she says will make me ill.
SEVEN
‘A whore and a harlot, a Jezebel ripe to be whipped at the cart’s tail!’
Theophilus Pounceman’s lips were wet with passion. His spittle probably reached the front row of pews. His venom certainly reached right to the back, where the House servants were huddled. I heard sobs and sniffles. I felt a rising tide of anger, a desire to knock the conceited and unforgiving sneer from the face of the man in the pulpit. If only I could shepherd the servants away, as I would from an angry bull in a field. But to do so in the middle of the sermon would cause an uproar, possibly one which could see me dismissed from my post and losing what I truly believed was my opportunity to good, however little it might seem. My fellow servants – and I – had to wait till the interminable service ground to an end, each minute the longer for the fury growing in me.
But now Pounceman wore a sanctimonious smile, as he shook the hands of the richer members of his congregation, no doubt trying to conceal his vexation that his lordship and her ladyship were not there to applaud what he had said. Mrs Arden and Mrs Faulkner did not, of course, merit a personal word, and I deduced from the expression on their faces that neither would have welcomed it. But I was of course a man with power, if not a title, and with an oily smile he proffered his hand.
I stared him down. ‘We will speak of this at the vicarage in exactly ten minutes,’ I said quietly, but he looked so shocked I might indeed have swung – as I wanted – at his chin. I wished the encounter had not had an audience. I thought I heard a couple of outraged gasps at my temerity.
‘You are a man of the cloth and I a layman, with, you will no doubt observe, no legal authority over you. But let me make this clear, Pounceman, I will not have my staff spoken about like that. If you have a complaint about one of them, you take it to Mrs Arden, Mrs Faulkner, Mr Bowman or even myself. You will claim you wished to put the fear of God into the other girls – but let me make it plain, it takes a man to get a girl with child, and, whatever his rank, he should bear at least equal blame, since he is certainly
not going to be the one enduring the tribulations of pregnancy and the hazards of childbirth.’ I leant over him as he sat at his desk. In his place I might have stood to match my interlocutor, inch for inch, but he stayed in his chair. I could not work out whether he was daring me to strike him or so arrogant that he simply assumed I was making a terrible mistake. And had he – I could not be sure – reacted when I mentioned rank?
‘Your passion is misguided, sir.’ He lent back, as if he was addressing a schoolboy. ‘This woman is a vile sinner—’
‘Are we not all sinners? Did not Our Lord Himself come to earth to save us all? Women as well as men? And did he not tell those determined to stone to death the woman taken in adultery that only a person without sin might cast the first stone?’ With an effort I restrained myself from pointing an accusing finger at him, as if he were a felon in the dock.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘You are well versed in the New Testament, sir.’
He made it sound like an accusation. But, controlling my temper, I gave a guileless smile. ‘My father is an archdeacon, sir.’ I wish it could have been an exit line.
‘There are all too many appointments of lax individuals in the hierarchy. Kissing goes by favour, they say,’ he added waspishly.
If he was referring to my father’s titled family he would get no rise from me. I waited in silence, often, I found, the best weapon.
Predictably, he found it necessary to speak first – and bluster. ‘As you yourself admit, sir, you have no place here. So—’
‘My dear Pounceman, I think you will find I have every right to be here – his lordship, your patron, has bestowed a very generous benefice upon you, has he not? And your moves and manners will always be of interest to him,’ I added with a slight smile. Blackmail? Possibly. ‘Now, let me think – you will take Evensong this afternoon, will you not?’
‘Of course!’
‘Good. Now, we need no more sermons like that to disturb the tenor of our dealings,’ I said gently. ‘So I imagine this afternoon’s will feature a good woman.’
‘But—!’
‘I’m sure with your superior knowledge you will find an unsung heroine, in the Old or the New Testament. A good woman. That’s what your sermon will be about. And now I will bid you good day.’
The encounter left me feeling angry with myself for being reduced by his snide allusion to scoring cheap points. But I was even angrier with him, particularly as I did not feel I should tell anyone about the encounter. Yet Mrs Arden and Mrs Faulkner, who had even predicted the term he used to describe a child I was beginning to see as a victim, deserved to know I supported them. The answer surely lay with Esau, who would be my unquestioning mentor as I took him for a long ride.
As his name implied, he was hairy, with a prolific mane and an extraordinarily long tail; he was clearly unhappy when it was cropped or plaited. Apart from that, he had comparatively little personality for a horse, preferring simply to make his way along whichever way I directed him. This time it was along the lanes, dusty in the sun, heading out of the main gate and turning to the south. I kept him at little more than a walking pace, trying to think of nothing in particular but knowing, in my heart, how ashamed I was of my petty exchange with Pounceman. Somehow I would have felt cleaner if I had broken his jaw for him. And yet – why did he receive me in his study, seated at his desk? I too had a study and a desk, but would always receive guests in my sitting room, where we could sit in civilized comfort, assisted perhaps by a glass of sherry or Madeira. We could still have exchanged stern words, of course – even got angry. So why did I so object to that desk?
I followed the road on its south-eastern route. The Royal Oak was firmly closed, in accordance with Marty’s beliefs, no doubt, but I must make sure I spoke to him as soon as I could. At last I was out of his lordship’s territory, but I was still able to greet people I had met at market and indeed at yesterday’s match. After an hour, however, I was both thirsty and hungry, and would have turned back but for the sight of a weather-beaten old woman sitting on a bench outside an alehouse, which was so small and dilapidated as hardly to warrant the name. I dismounted, doffing my hat as I led Esau into the shade. I bade her share a jug of ale with me, and find me a hunk of bread and cheese. Both were excellent.
It seemed she often sat there, watching the world go by, sometimes serving gentry, she said, adding, ‘Such as you, master.’
‘I suppose,’ I said slowly, appalled that I had been so un-enterprising in my search for young Maggie, ‘you didn’t see a pretty young woman and her sweetheart go this way last week?’
‘Sees a lot of them.’ She sucked on her clay pipe. ‘But not necessarily last week.’
I was about to slip her a shilling in the hope it would restore her memory when she spoke again.
‘Be you sure the maid was with her sweetheart?’ she asked. ‘For I did see a pretty young wench wend her way past here midweek. Plump as a partridge and pretty as a picture. Gave me the sweetest smile.’ She sucked again. ‘Asking for the Wolverhampton road she was. But I’ll tell ’ee this for nothing, she weren’t a maid, not to my way of thinking. Maybe it’s only an old woman like me would notice how her stays were straining. And smile she might, but she’d been a-weeping, you mark my words.’
I described Maggie as best I could, sick to the stomach as the old woman nodded at each adjective. Hoping she was agreeing merely to please me, I threw in a few more words – a rich gown, perhaps. I earned no more than a scathing snort. ‘In service, I’ll be bound. Stupid wenches – why don’t they use their heads and their pennyroyal? Bless her, I could have helped if she hadn’t been so far gone.’
‘And she was on foot?’ I asked stupidly, too horrified at the implications of what she was saying to ask anything more to the point.
‘She weren’t on no fine horse, were she, master?’ She looked at me shrewdly, laying a gnarled hand gently on my wrist. ‘Sometimes a girl’s a bit late, master, now and again. Ain’t no harm in making her regular again. But kill a babe, never, so God’s my witness,’ she added with a piety I almost found convincing. ‘I love delivering a babe,’ she added. ‘I do the layings out round here too. Your corpse needs a tender wash and I’m the gentlest round here – you ask folk about Mother Blount.’
‘I will, Mrs Blount.’ I found my anger at what I had construed to be infanticide had subsided. ‘That was good ale and better cheese.’ I got to my feet.
‘Hey!’ She grabbed my cuff. ‘’Tisn’t you who’s her fancy man, is it?’
‘No. I wish I knew who it is, Mother Blount, because I would make him pay, believe me.’
She looked me in the eye. ‘Aye, master, I believe you. Now, don’t ’ee forget. The Wolverhampton road.’
As if doing her bidding rather than following my own inclin-ation I set out southwards till I reached the next alehouse. This was decidedly superior to the first, boasting a servant to take Esau and a cleanly dressed landlord nodding politely in greeting.
He responded equally politely to my questions, but echoed Mother Blount’s words – he’d seen no fine young couple, just a girl inclined to be stout and a bit weepy about the face. Seeing the mixed emotions on my face, he summoned his pot-boy and the cook: no, they had seen no one else, not this past week or more.
Thanking them for their help with some coins I had to trust the landlord to distribute, I mounted Esau again, turning him back home. It was too late to seek more possible sightings of poor Maggie today. In fact, if I didn’t urge Esau into a bit more pace than he liked, I would miss Mr Pounceman’s sermon, one in which after all I had a particular interest. Fewer servants would be in attendance: some would be engaged in preparing the evening meal and as to the others Mrs Faulkner was generous in allowing free time. She had declared that unless the Family were in the congregation, she regarded the second service as optional. I wished I could. But I had set myself a task and must follow it through. Now which woman would he choose? Would he pick a woman, like Miriam, who had started well b
ut ended badly? I hoped he had more sense. Perhaps the Canaanite woman, who had answered Jesus back and achieved the miracle she needed? Naomi? But that might be seen as a young woman tempting a man, albeit a story with a happy ending – no, I did not expect that. The Queen of Sheba and her hairy legs? I must wait and see.
VII
Nurse doesn’t know what the letters mean either! I make sure she catches me cleaning the frame.
‘That sampler? That be one his lordship’s cousin worked. You can see her blood on it – never very handy with her needle, Miss Honoria! But those letters in a funny order – no, I never could make sense of them either, so don’t worry your head about them.’ She actually smiled at me. ‘You’re a good girl and working well. Some would say you’re wasted tucked away up here and you’d do better for yourself working where folk that matter can see you.’
‘Please, Nurse, I like it here!’ I cover my mouth with my hands. That’s answering back! ‘Sorry, Nurse.’
She laughs. Nurse laughs! ‘Bless my soul, Hatty, you’re a funny one. Tell you what, I’ll ask Mamselle what those letters mean.’ She nods a smile, but raises a finger. ‘Just make sure you don’t get above yourself, miss.’
EIGHT
Mrs Arden was the sole representative of the household when I entered the church, not taking my usual place but slipping in beside her. I wished, as I knelt in a private preparatory prayer, that I might nudge her – or even wink – to show her I had planned something, but clearly neither was appropriate in God’s house. If only I had had time to prepare her – but here was Pounceman, sweeping in with his usual flourish and we all rose to our feet respectfully. Without doubt he registered the drastically reduced House contingent and my presence – though I kept my expression bland and, I hoped, unreadable.
I was pleased to note that his usual rich resonant tenor was squeakier than usual as he led the sung part of the service. I also thought I saw him busy with his pencil during the two Bible readings, neither of which referred to women – so he would have had to work hard to accede to my request.
The Wages of Sin Page 6
