A Night in Cold Harbour

by Margaret Kennedy

  ‘But where in the world did your father hear of all this? I thought it had only been the potters.’

  ‘Venetia says that he has been writing to that friend of his, Eccles, a curate down in Lancashire, and has learnt some particulars about the children working there which disturb him dreadfully. She claims that he grows very extravagant, and gives money away right and left.’

  ‘She’d grudge his giving a flannel petticoat to an old woman. We all know what Venetia thinks he should do with his money.’

  ‘Yet I suppose I had better go, though I can’t for the life of me see why Jenny should not engage a knife boy. Venetia hints at some scandal too shocking to be disclosed.’

  ‘You can’t believe a word Venetia says. Depend upon it, her real reason for summoning you is something very different.’

  ‘At least I can talk to Jenny. She has some sense.’

  ‘Not much, or she’d stand up for herself, for our sakes as much as her own. Who will suffer most, if Venetia gets everything and Jenny is left without a penny? We shall, for then we shall have to keep her.’

  ‘If it ever comes to that she can take a good deal off your shoulders with the children.’

  ‘I’d sooner hire a governess. To have Jenny at every meal! She looks so dismal, poor thing. A governess dines upstairs.’

  ‘If Venetia were to marry well Jenny might go to her.’

  ‘Venetia will be in luck if she marries at all. She’s no favourite with the men.’

  ‘Come now, my love! Such a very handsome girl …’

  ‘When we were there at Christmas I noticed that she sat down a good deal of the time at the Freemans’ ball. Men, when they see her, press for an introduction, but they seldom dance with her more than once.’

  ‘Is that really so? How very strange!’

  ‘Not strange at all. No matter how handsome a woman is you men are frightened of her unless you can persuade yourselves that she’s good-natured. Your father is the only person in the world who believes that Venetia is good-natured. I daresay we shall see her sitting down at dances twenty years hence, whilst everyone wonders that she did not marry.’

  Eliza was against his going, since she was quite sure that Venetia would turn out to be the only gainer by it. But he had begun to feel uneasy and set off next day for Stretton Courtenay, hoping to talk things over with Jenny. In this he was disappointed. Jenny was in bed with a violent cold; she had had it for some time and could not throw it off. He went to see her once but she was so hoarse and languid, so totally unfit for conversation, that he did not stay long.

  So far as he could see, there was nothing very much amiss in the Parsonage. His father was a good deal altered, subdued and thoughtful. He spent much of his time reading his Bible with anxious and earnest attention, as though he had never studied it before. When Charles mentioned the letter to the newspaper he waved the matter aside:

  ‘Say no more of it. Nothing has come of it. No notice was taken by the public. I was a fool to expect it. I must take some other course, for which I hope to find Divine guidance.’

  ‘Ah yes! I hear you have been to Summerfield.’

  ‘It was not his guidance that I mean. There’s nothing Divine about that fellow.’

  This pre-occupation with the Bible was, perhaps, a little disturbing. In the matter of Economy Charles thought that Bishop Summerfield would be the safer guide. It would be a bad thing for bankers if rich men should take seriously to thoughts of camels and needles’ eyes.

  On the other hand the establishment over the stables won his approval. Jenny should never have been burdened with the care of Tibbie and only Venetia would grudge the hire of some person to undertake it. The scheme appeared to prosper. He visited the stables and thought that he had never seen his old nurse so cheerful and contented. She declared that she wanted for nothing. She was, of course, a good deal less clean and neat than she had been at the Parsonage and it struck him that she might be decidedly tipsy, but to this he preferred to turn a blind eye.

  There remained the mysterious little knife-and-boot-boy. He questioned Venetia and whistled when the facts came out.

  ‘But the Brandons? They don’t allow it?’

  ‘Oh no. They’ve never taken the slightest notice of the rumour.’

  ‘I should have thought that our engaging the child would suggest that we think nothing of it, either. How do they all go on at the Priors, now that Brandon has come back?’

  She hesitated and then said:

  ‘Not very well, I fear. We … we’ve seen a good deal of him. And a situation has arisen … I’m anxious to consult you. My father is so … I need somebody to advise me.’

  Ah! he thought, now we are coming to it. Eliza is always right, where other women are concerned.

  ‘Mr. Brandon asked me to marry him,’ she said, ‘on the evening when my father was taken ill, coming home from Cranton’s.’

  ‘What? Romilly Brandon?’

  ‘There’s only one Mr. Brandon,’ she said, smiling. ‘I told him that he must speak to my father, and he said that he would do so immediately. He waited, hoping to see Papa that evening. But then they brought him home so ill. Nothing could be done or said, either then or two days later, when Mr. Brandon called again. Papa was still too ill to attend to him. So that nothing was settled. And … since then … I’ve heard nothing from him. He’s never come again.’

  Thought better of it, concluded Charles. I don’t wonder.

  ‘If he’d got Papa’s consent, should you have accepted him?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Venetia, a little impatiently.

  It had been a foolish question to ask. She would jump at it, nor could anybody blame her for doing so. The match would be an excellent thing for everybody, since the Stretton living would assuredly, in such an event, go to Stephen whenever their father should die or retire. Stephen’s future was at the moment unpromising. He held a poor living and had little prospect of finding a better one. Venetia might have got her brother down to secure Brandon for her, but the man was worth securing from the family point of view.

  ‘I hardly know what to think,’ she said. ‘He may have changed his mind. Or there may be some misunderstanding. I’m sure his sisters would prevent it if they could. I’ve wondered whether I ought to consult my father, but I feel your opinion counts for more, just now.’

  ‘Should you like me to have a word with Brandon?’

  ‘I think that I … that we all … have a right to know how matters stand.’

  ‘Certainly. I’ll deal with it. I ought, in any case, to call. If he means to abide by his offer I’ll see that any misunderstanding is cleared up. If he has changed his mind, nothing, I suppose, can be done about it. The less said in that case the better. You’ve been wonderfully prudent, Venetia. Nobody need know.’

  For all that, he thought, as he set off on his errand, Brandon was not going to get out of it very easily. Venetia might be a liar but she would not have invented this story; she must have got Brandon to commit himself.

  Romilly was immediately aware, when his visitor was shown into the library, that an interval of respite was over. This formidable banker was going to make his mind up for him. They measured one another warily whilst exchanging enquiries as to the health and prosperity of all the Brandons and all the Newbolts. They had not met for many years. As boys they had been pretty friendly, although Romilly had secretly resented Charles’ faculty for getting his own way, and Charles had secretly despised Romilly’s chronic indecision.

  Do I deny that I made her an offer? wondered Romilly. I’m not sure that’s true, and I don’t care to tell lies. Do I tell him I’ve changed my mind? Have I? He looks confoundedly sure of himself. I shall cut a very poor figure unless I take the initiative.

  ‘You’ve come, I hope,’ he said, smiling, ‘to tell me what I am to do about Venetia? I expect you’ve heard all about it from her. But your father’s illness … I’ve had no opportunity of speaking to him. When I called on him to do so he was o
bviously unable to attend to me, and she told me that I had better wait.’

  ‘He’s perfectly recovered now,’ said Charles drily.

  ‘Is he indeed? We’d heard reports …’

  ‘Very much exaggerated. There’s no reason at all why you shouldn’t speak to him now.’

  He forbore to express any opinion of the match. He knew, and Romilly knew that he knew, enough to invalidate the usual civilities. This long delay could only mean one thing; the fellow had intended to slip out of it but lacked the assurance to say so.

  ‘It might be better,’ he added, ‘if you speak to him whilst I am still at the Parsonage. Then, if by any chance he proves unable to attend to things, I can act for him.’

  ‘Ah yes. How long shall you be there?’

  ‘I shall remain as long as my family has need of me, but I shall be glad to get off as soon as I can, for I’m a busy man.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘If you have no other engagement today, come back with me and see him now.’

  Ten minutes saw them walking back across the park. Charles felt an irritation which he recognised as familiar. He had often, in the old days, forced Romilly to some course of action and then experienced, not triumph, but the impatience of one who has shot a sitting bird.

  ‘How is your elder sister?’ asked Romilly suddenly. ‘I think I heard that she has a very bad cold.’

  ‘Yes. It still seems to be unusually severe.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Venetia thinks she is beginning to throw it off.’

  ‘She’s had it for some time, surely?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how long. It was still very heavy when I came.’

  Romilly sighed and said no more. Charles began to be a little sorry for him. To be obliged to marry Venetia would be a misfortune for any man, although Brandon had only himself to thank for his situation. He might already have begun to guess what she was, and had better be marched to the altar before he guessed any more.

  He ushered the condemned man into his father’s study. Dr. Newbolt looked up impatiently from his Bible but smiled when he recognised Romilly.

  ‘I’m very glad to see you,’ he exclaimed. ‘I fancy you’ve not been here since you advised me to go to Summerfield. As it turned out I might have spared myself the trouble. He’s a very ignorant fellow, you know. He don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s all for this Economy. Since then I’ve written to my friend Eccles, down in Lancashire. It seems they suffer shockingly from Economy in the north….’

  Charles retired and went to find Venetia. She was on the stairs, talking to the maid Kitty, who carried an untouched breakfast tray. It seemed that Jenny could not be roused to eat anything.

  ‘Much better let her sleep,’ said Venetia.

  ‘If you’d just go up and look at her, Miss …’

  ‘Later. When she wakes.’

  Venetia waved Kitty away and turned to Charles with a questioning look.

  ‘You’ve not seen Jenny today then?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘No. I’ll go later. Well? I see you brought …’

  ‘You don’t spend much time with her, do you?’

  ‘My dear Charles! Kitty waits on her hand and foot and would tell me directly if she wanted anything. But this isn’t exactly a moment when I’d wish to catch Jenny’s cold.’

  He saw her point. A lady with a bad cold has a poor chance of fixing a reluctant suitor.

  He took her into the garden and gave her an account of his interview with Romilly, making no attempt to spare her feelings.

  ‘I think he’d have been off if I hadn’t brought him to the point. And if I were you, Venetia, I’d exert myself to keep on the right side of the Brandon ladies. You can do so if you wish. I’ve never known you fail to secure anything you wanted. It won’t be comfortable for you, you know, living with all of them up there, if they dislike you. It’s not as if Brandon himself is particularly … manageable.’

  She assured him tranquilly that all difficulties of that sort could be smoothed over. The Brandon ladies might prefer to live elsewhere.

  ‘I’m very much obliged to you, Charles. You shan’t find me ungrateful. And there’s just one more favour that I have to ask — quite a small one. Then your exertions on my behalf will be over. When he leaves my father I shall go back with him to the Priors. We should tell Mrs. Brandon and the girls immediately. Could you be so very good as to call for me, half an hour later? I’m sorry you should have to walk across the park twice in one day, but it will leave us time to call on the Arbuthnots, on our way home.’

  And to ensure that the whole village knows the news before sunset, he thought. Brandon will find himself at the altar before he knows what o’clock it is.

  ‘How many of his sisters are there now?’ he asked.

  ‘Only Ellen and Amabel. Charlotte has gone home and taken Bet with her. Why … here he is! They’ve not been long about it!’

  Romilly was coming from the house. Charles made off hastily, wondering what Eliza would say to all this when she heard of it. He was not quite sure what she would think.

  ‘I’m the happiest of men,’ announced Romilly, joining Venetia. ‘Your father did not pay me very much attention, he had so much to say about the Bishop. But I have his leave to address you. What a determined fellow Charles is!’

  ‘It was time something was settled. If you had wanted to be off you could have gone away. You could have gone to some races and stayed there till the danger was over.’

  ‘There are no convenient races. Except Cheltenham. And that don’t begin till tomorrow. What are your commands for me?’

  ‘To take me to the Priors. We must tell your mother at once. If we don’t, Charles will take more steps. He’s hiding in the raspberry canes, in case I should cry for help.’

  ‘Just as you please. I’m sorry Charlotte has gone.’

  ‘It must be the first time in your life you ever wished her here. But I’m sorry too. We should enjoy telling her, I think.’

  That would have been a pleasure they could share. His spirits rose a little as they set out for the Priors. Her freedom from cant and humbug was a great point in her favour. She did not demand that he should play the lover. He owed her nothing save a wedding ring and might, with a clear conscience, do as he liked. In order to make that point perfectly plain he decided that he would, on the morrow, go to the Cheltenham races, and stay there as long as it suited him. He must begin as he meant to go on. If he stuck to that he might do very well. She was amusing. She made him laugh a good deal on the walk with a description of the gin palace now flourishing over the Parsonage stables.

  She’s probably as good a wife as I deserve, he thought.

  They found his mother and Ellen writing letters. The old lady received their news with tearful agitation, kissed them, sobbed, and declared that she had always seen how it would be. Ellen wished them joy but could not entirely conceal her dismay and surprise.

  ‘You come just in time,’ said Mrs. Brandon, after a pause. ‘We are writing to Mr. Latymer, Romilly. May we tell him?’

  ‘Writing to Latymer! How does that come about?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve engaged to write to him regularly, poor young man. He misses letters from home so much. It was Ellen’s scheme, and a very clever one, don’t you think? May we tell him? He’ll be so much interested.’

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am. Everybody is now going to be told. Where are Amabel and Miss Wilson, and Flinders and George …?’

  ‘We can trust your mother to tell them,’ said Venetia. ‘But, for a formal announcement, shouldn’t we wait until you get back from Cheltenham.’

  Everyone looked startled.

  ‘He goes to the races tomorrow,’ she explained, rising and making ready for departure. ‘I expect he’ll neglect us for ever so long. I should be quite sunk in my spirits if you had not been so kind.’

  Having kissed them both she tripped off.

  ‘I never said that I was going to Cheltenham,’ he protested
as soon as they were out of the house.

  ‘No. But you made up your mind to go, on the way here. I saw it in your face. Pray go, if it will make you easy.’

  ‘Ah well … you keep a broomstick in the vestry.’

  ‘You may hand me to it now. It’s coming over the bridge to take me home.’

  She pointed to Charles who was, upon her instructions, coming to take her away.

  Mrs. Brandon and Ellen were meanwhile each giving her own version of the news to Latymer. Mrs. Brandon wrote of Venetia’s beauty, her cleverness, and dwelt much upon the value of old acquaintance. Ellen wrote:

  ‘What can I tell you that Mama has not told you already? Only this: I wish that I could learn prudence. Pray forget what I said formerly about a person that is now to be my sister. I mean to forget it all quite. You scolded me then, for talking too much, and you are justified.

  ‘Now that Charlotte is gone Miss Wilson is at leisure to attend to our education. We are continually at lessons. Here is something very important which I learnt before breakfast this morning. It will be of the greatest support to me, I am sure, on my journey through this Vale. If anybody asks me how the ancient Romans made their ink I shall be able to reply immediately: Gum! Gall! Lampblack and sometimes a dash of alum!’

  7

  SHE COULD HAVE climbed out of the deep pit into which she had fallen if only she had been able to breathe. They had tied a scarf over her mouth and nose which she could not tear off. Sometimes she knew that there was no scarf; she was losing the power to breathe. Even so, she sometimes got her head and shoulders over the top of the pit, which was lined with spruce boughs. Then she saw Xamdu, its cool waterfalls, its twisted rocks, its mild, pensive people. But at last she slipped right down to the darkness at the bottom, where it was icy cold, not burning hot any more.