by Mira Stables
It was, in essence, a legal repetition of her grandfather’s final threat. She was forbidden to communicate with him, either in person or by letter, until she had fulfilled the conditions of which, said Mr Willets, his client had assured him that she was fully cognisant.
If it had not been staring at her in black and white, Fleur would not have believed it. To be sure, she had spoken hastily — yes, she would admit it — even rudely, but it had been in defence of her husband. And Grandpapa had never been one to care overmuch for hard words. Not realising the intensity of his obsession with that unborn great-grandchild, she could not understand why, this time, he was harbouring so bitter a grievance.
She was not very old. Hard on the heels of shock and dismay came resentment. She closed her mind to the knowledge that she was in part to blame for the breach between them, hardened her heart, and determined to show Grandpapa how little she cared for his intransigent attitude.
She found that she did care, a good deal more than she had expected. It was not that she was attached to Grandpapa. He had never invited affection or sought to win it. But High Barrows was still home. At Blayden she had no duties, no responsibilities; indeed, with Marcus gone, no place. She had grown fond of Deborah, but the girl’s sickly habit had naturally inclined her towards quiet indoor pursuits, whereas Fleur’s vigorous health demanded more active occupation. She put in a good deal of time with her horses, grooming, exercising, schooling. She unpacked, arranged and re-arranged all the belongings that Grandpapa had sent over from High Barrows. Some of the items she had almost forgotten — a sampler with sadly crooked stitches that she had made when she was seven; the coral and bells given to her in babyhood by her long-dead Papa. Grandpapa had certainly made a clean sweep, she thought ruefully!
To add to her feeling of rootlessness, she had so far received only two letters from her husband. The first was written soon after his arrival in London, telling her that, for the present, she should write to him at his lodging in the Albany. He went on to describe the queer state of affairs in Town — a few devoted patriots wholly engaged in preparations for war, but most of society enjoying the pleasures of the season as though they had not a care in the world. He signed himself her affectionate husband, but there was no other suggestion of personal feeling in the letter. She told herself that he was very busy with more urgent matters; that gentlemen did not care for writing letters and were not good at expressing their softer emotions. She read and re-read the precious missive until she had its few brief sentences by heart. Finally, with much pen nibbling and a sadly wasteful rejection of half-written pages, she wrote her reply. Because she had her pride, she would not write to him of her loneliness. The letters were simple factual accounts of the small happenings of her daily life, such letters as she might well have written to her mother. But writing seemed to bring him closer, so as soon as one letter was safely dispatched she would begin upon the next, and as the days went by with no answer to her regular screeds, she blamed her disappointment on bad roads or dishonest mail carriers.
The second letter arrived at the end of May. It was longer than the first and opened very pleasantly. He had been out of Town for a while, delayed longer than he had expected, and had found several letters from his wife awaiting his return. He thanked her for them and said how comfortable it was to have the news of home. He was thankful that she and Deborah were safe in peaceful Blayden. Here, in Town, tension was rising. For his part he was perfectly confident of the final outcome of the conflict, but there was a good deal of doubt and anxiety, even in well-informed circles, because of the inexperience of many of the allied troops. She would understand that everyone must give what help they could, and it had been suggested to him that his fluent French, together with a smattering of Flemish and German, would be useful to those who were trying to pull a very polyglot army into some kind of shape. There was no cause for alarm. He was not enlisting and would take good care to keep clear of the fighting when it began, but he was leaving for Brussels almost at once. He would do his best to write to her, but since the mail services were in chaos because of the demands of military traffic she was not to fret if the letters did not get through. He sent an affectionate message to Deborah and trusted that the two of them were keeping out of mischief during his absence.
He had, of course, protested his safety and his excessive caution too much. It was entirely out of character with all that she knew of him. Not the most indifferent of wives could keep from worrying under these circumstances, and Fleur was miserably uneasy. Since communications with High Barrows had ceased she had spent three intolerable days without news and had then arranged with Reeves to have a newspaper brought up to the house each day. But there was little information to be gained from its columns, which seemed to be largely devoted to social gossip. So far as she could see, Brussels had become the new centre of society. London must be deserted, for everyone was going to Belgium to see the sights and to indulge in reviews and riding parties, cricket matches and balls, and, no doubt, delightful flirtations. The one letter that she received from her husband during this period certainly supported this view. He mentioned several of these festive occasions, presumably with the idea of setting her mind at rest as to his personal safety. But he also said that she had been much in his mind of late since he had been staying in the neighbourhood of Fleurus. Not that the place lived up to its charming name, its dominant feature being a brickworks, but nevertheless the name had set him to recalling their first meeting and how he had called her a ‘flower of France’.
Not a very loverlike epistle, one would say. But it was the best she had had of him and she savoured it to the full, extracting every scrap of comfort from the meagre phrases. She was a little puzzled as to what he could be doing in Fleurus. It was not the first time that she had heard of the place. Maman, who had grown up in the border country, had also told her about the town that had a name so like hers. She had even mentioned the brickworks, which had a tower, remembered Fleur, that could be seen from miles around. But she had thought Fleurus was in France. Certainly it was a long way from Brussels. She went down to the library and spent an hour seeking for any book or map that might mention it, but there was nothing. Not that it was important, of course, but knowing just where it was would make her feel closer to Marcus.
Before she had time to wear this third missive to shreds or to find out any more details about the town of Fleurus, every thought of it was quite driven from her head by the receipt of shocking news from High Barrows. It was Mr Pennington’s habit to deal with his correspondence and read his newspapers in the library before partaking of his dinner, which he still took, following the custom of his youth, at three o’clock in the afternoon. Since he was a hearty trencherman, his household was a little surprised when he did not emerge from his seclusion in good time for this repast, but such had been his temper of late that no one dared to disturb him to draw his attention to the time.
Consequently it was close upon six before a trembling footman, the lowest in the domestic hierarchy who could not delegate the perilous task to anyone else, was sent in to attend to the library fire and to discover the body of his master slumped over the writing table. A physician, summoned in frantic haste, pronounced upon examination that his patient had suffered a severe apoplectic seizure. He would let him some blood and apply a blister to his head to draw out the poisons from the brain, but, he shook his head gravely, the prognosis was not hopeful. It was a pity that he had not been summoned sooner. He proceeded to instruct the frightened servants as to his needs and wishes.
Robert Pennington died that night — spared the tortures of the prescribed treatment, which was more mercy than had been granted to his miserable monarch. The news of his death was brought to his grand-daughter next morning, together with an urgent request from Mr Willets that she should return immediately to High Barrows.
Chapter Nine
“FIFTEEN pounds a year?” Fleur looked dazed, pinched and plain in her mourning.
&nbs
p; Mr Willets gave the deferential little bob of his head that would have been a bow had he been standing. “That is the figure, ma’am. I was to inform you that this was the amount, together with board and lodging, that he paid his house-keeper, and that your husband could supply the board and lodging. Also that, if you wished to better your position, you knew how to set about it.” He sighed his relief for the ending of his unpleasant duty and became again a human being, kindly and concerned for the girl he had known from childhood. “Believe me, Miss Fleur, I did my utmost to persuade him. I told him that it was unjust. How could you — how could any woman — be certain that she would be blessed with children?”
Even in her stunned disbelief, Fleur found that mildly funny. Mrs Willets, at least, was numbered among the elect. At the last count the Willets progeny had numbered eight, and another ‘blessing’ was imminent.
“He would not listen to reason,” sighed the unhappy little man. “You know what he was like, Miss Fleur, when he took a notion.”
Fleur did. It was hard to believe that all that fierce determination had been stilled, laid to rest in quiet earth only yesterday.
“If he had lived I am convinced that he would have revoked this iniquitous disposition,” continued Mr Willets earnestly. “I had already persuaded him to agree that the capital should devolve upon you on your thirty-fifth birthday, if at that date you were without issue.”
“Thirty-five,” said Fleur thoughtfully. She was seventeen and a half. A whole lifetime away. Had he arrived at that figure by simple multiplication? Or had he reckoned that by then she would be past child bearing? In any case, it was of academic interest only. Save for bequests to servants and the fifteen pounds a year to his grand-daughter, the bulk of his fortune was left in trust for his first-born great-grandson, provided that the names Robert Pennington were bestowed upon the infant at his baptism. There was provision for the upkeep of High Barrows and for the retention of the services of Mr Willets. All other income from the trust was at the free use and discretion of the parents of the said infant until he attained his twenty-fifth birthday, when it would pass into his own control. Robert Pennington had certainly had the last word!
Poor Mr Willets! She spared a thought from her own problems for the poor little man’s obvious misery. He was still fidgeting with his papers, his burden not yet fully discharged. What more could there be?
“There is just one other matter, ma’am,” he said, suddenly remembering her changed status. “These letters.” He brought out a bundle of letters, many of them of some age, though one or two looked fresh and clean. And now he was looking anywhere but straight at her. “In the course of my duties I went through the contents of Mr Pennington’s safe cabinet. I found these. Upon glancing through them — as I was obliged to do,” he explained in deep embarrassment, “I found that they had been written by Mrs Alexander Pennington — your mother. I felt it only right that you should be informed of their existence and their contents. If, when you have read them, you would care to consult me as to your possible actions, I shall be very happy to advise you to the best of my ability.”
Fleur did her best to say all that was polite and appreciative, but her eyes were all for the letters, her heart hungry for news, at last, of Maman. News which, by the appearance of the bundle, had been accumulating for some years.
She carried them up to her own room and chose one at random. It had been written three years ago and it was a touching appeal for news of a beloved daughter. Enclosed within it and unopened was a note addressed to herself.
By the time that she had read it, tears were rolling down Fleur’s cheeks, though whether they were for sorrow or for happiness she could scarcely have said. Perhaps they were just the melting of the icy barrier of distrust that had grown up when she felt herself deserted. For the note breathed affection and tender concern in every syllable. Hastily she searched through the other letters. In all but two there was a similar unopened note. She read them all, slowly, thoughtfully, rejoicing for herself yet grieving for poor darling Maman, who, happy as she was in her second marriage, still yearned for news of the little daughter whom she loved so dearly.
At last she put the notes aside and briefly scanned the letters that had been addressed to Grandpapa. They all followed much the same pattern save for the two most recent, and it seemed unlikely that they had received any reply. But one letter, some six months old, was an appeal for financial help. The ache of tears in the girl’s throat became almost unbearable as she read the pathetic attempt at dignity that scarcely veiled a desperate need. Her husband, said Maman, had broken his wrist and had been unable to work for several weeks. Care was still needed if he was to regain the full use of the injured member so essential to a musician. Would Mr Pennington consider making them a small temporary loan against the security of the house in Hans Town?
As Fleur unfolded the last letter of the bundle a fifty-pound bill dropped out and fluttered almost unheeded to the floor. The letter was brief. Maman was returning the money he had sent. Under no circumstances would she agree to his suggestion that she should resign her rights as her daughter’s natural guardian. Despite their long separation, which she had accepted solely for Fleur’s benefit, the child was most dear to her. Indeed, as soon as circumstances permitted, she proposed to journey north to see for herself that all was well with the girl.
Fleur had a tremulous little smile for that brave bit of gasconade. Darling Maman! Who was undoubtedly shabby and probably hungry, and who certainly had no money for coach fares!
But it was no smiling matter. The letter was dated for the twenty-fourth of January and there had been nothing since. A hasty count suggested that the letters had been coming roughly every three months, so the silence was a long one, and, in the circumstances, worrying. She must write at once and tell Maman what had happened to the letters and assure her of her love. And also to tell her of Grandpapa’s death. Maman did not read English very easily and might well miss the announcement in the papers.
Once started, it was difficult to stop. She had covered several pages when she suddenly realised that she had not yet told Maman that she was married. It would really be very much easier to go and see her and explain everything in person. The idea was an attractive one, but the thought of fifteen pounds a year put it out of court. Perhaps Marcus would take her to visit Maman when she joined him in London. With a sharp little sigh she wondered how much longer she would have to wait before he sent for her.
There had been no time, since Grandpapa’s sudden death, for following the war news in the papers. Vaguely she had heard that fighting had begun and that the allied armies had met with a sharp reverse at a place called Ligny. Mr Willets had told her that there had been some very gloomy faces over that among the gentlemen who had attended Grandpapa’s funeral. Perhaps it would all be over soon and Marcus could come home.
She put her letter aside for a while and went to sit with Deborah, stooping as she left the room to pick up the forgotten fifty-pound bill and tuck it back into the envelope from which it had fallen and thinking as she did so that it was very unlike Grandpapa to have overlooked it.
She found Deborah poring over the paper, her face flushed and excited. As Fleur came in she cried out eagerly, “My love, I was just about to send Betty to find you. There has been a great battle. Napoleon has been beaten and the French armies are in retreat. I don’t understand it very well, but the paper says it is a great victory for the Duke of Wellington.” She smiled up at Fleur happily. “Now Marcus can come home and we may all be happy and comfortable once more.”
In their delight and relief at the splendid news, neither girl gave a thought to the tragic cost of that victory, but it was different when day by day the newspapers printed their stories of heroism and tragedy. The Duke’s own despatch, speaking of the army’s immense losses, abated their first joy. Foolishly they had imagined that, in a battle, the losses of the winning side would be comparatively few. The casualty lists horrified them, even in their igno
rance of the awful sufferings of the wounded and the appallingly high death rate in the hastily improvised hospitals.
And still there was no word from Marcus. Fleur was restless and uneasy, but not yet deeply anxious. Common sense told her that he could not immediately desert his post, whatever it was, just because the battle was won. There must be, in homely domestic terms, a great deal of tidying up to be done. As for delays in the arrival of letters, that, too, was only to be expected. So she endured with reasonable fortitude, bewailing the interminable waiting no more than three or four times a day to Deborah, who, in any case, was of like mind.
Until the day when, in one of the accounts of battle, her eye caught the familiar name Fleurus. Startled, she read on, and learned for the first time that the place had been in the very thick of the fighting. Why, Napoleon himself had used the tower of the brickfield as an observation post during the battle of Ligny and had passed the following night in the town! All this she read with whitening cheeks, only half comprehending because somewhere inside her a voice was saying, ‘But Marcus was there — in Fleurus. And it’s not only soldiers who get hurt or killed when there’s fighting. Other people can get wounded too. Marcus! No. Please, God, no! Not Marcus!’
But while a frantic child stammered her incoherent prayer for her husband’s safety, the decisiveness and organising ability inherent in Robert Pennington’s grandchild, nourished by close association with him, sprang to action. She rang for Betty, and by the time that the girl came in was ready with a string of calm orders that seemed to form themselves in her mind without her own volition.
“Have Tompson saddle up Brutus and ride over to High Barrows. He is to ask Mr Willets to wait upon me here this afternoon on a matter of grave urgency. Then he is to go on to Penrith and book two seats on the London Mail. Tomorrow’s, if they have vacancies. Do you wish to go with me to London, Betty? If you do not, I will take Emily. It will not be a very comfortable journey since we are not travelling post.”