‘Ships to intercept the goods at sea? They’d have to be swift, and well armed.’
‘And well manned, Sir, too.’
‘You’d use naval captains?’
‘No, Sir. Retired smugglers.’
‘Brigands in royal service?’
‘By all means. It always worked before. Sir Francis Drake and his like in the days of good Queen Bess, Sir, were all pirates.’
‘Mr Grockleton, fie,’ cried his wife. ‘What are you saying?’
‘No more than the truth,’ he replied drily. ‘You will all forgive me, now,’ he observed, getting up, ‘if I go to change,’ and with a bow he was gone.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Grockleton, obviously disappointed by her husband. ‘What will you think of us, Mr Martell?’
Rather than answer, Martell calmly observed that he understood her academy had enjoyed a growing success.
‘Why indeed, Mr Martell, I truly think it has. Tell Mr Martell, Louisa, about our little academy.’
So turning her large eyes in his direction, Louisa gave some account of the art classes and the other scholastic attainments of the academy in a way that neither made light of them nor took them too seriously.
‘In particular,’ Mrs Grockleton added, ‘I myself instruct the girls in French. I make them read the finest authors, too, I assure you. Last year we read …’ Her mind failed to supply the name.
‘Racine?’ offered Louisa.
‘Racine, to be sure, Racine it was,’ and she beamed at her erstwhile pupil for her cleverness. ‘You speak French perfectly, no doubt, Mr Martell?’
It was at this moment that Martell decided he’d really had enough of Mrs Grockleton. He looked at her blankly for a moment.
‘Vous parlez français, Mr Martell? You speak French?’
‘I, Madam? Not a word.’
‘Well, you greatly astonish me. In polite society … Did Edward not say you spoke with the count?’
‘Indeed, Madam. But not in French. We spoke in Latin.’
‘Latin?’
‘Certainly. You teach the young ladies to speak Latin I am sure.’
‘Why no, Mr Martell, I do not.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. In the politest circles … The horrors of the Revolution, Mrs Grockleton, have given many an aversion to the language. In my opinion it will soon be Latin, and Latin alone, that is spoken in the courts of Europe. As it was formerly,’ he added with a scholarly air.
‘Well.’ Mrs Grockleton, for once, looked flummoxed. ‘I had not supposed …’ she began. And then, gradually, a light dawned in her broad face. She raised a finger. ‘Methinks, Mr Martell,’ she said with a knowing smile, ‘methinks you are teasing me.’
‘I, Madam?’
‘Methinks.’ There was just a hint of warning in her eyes now, enough to make even the aristocrat realize that her academy was not built without some ruthless cunning on her part. ‘Methinks that I am mocked.’
Unless he wanted enemies in Lymington it was time to bail out fast. ‘I confess’, he said with a smile, ‘that I speak some French, but not enough, I suspect, Madam, to impress you; so I hardly like to admit it. As for my jest about Latin.’ He looked at her seriously now. ‘After the horrors we have just seen in Paris, I do indeed wonder if French will continue as the chosen language of society.’
This seemed to pass. Mrs Grockleton made noises about the fate of the French aristocracy that almost made it sound as though she were one of them. It was agreed that the sooner the gallant count and his loyal troops in Lymington could return to France and restore order the better.
From here on, Mrs Grockleton was back in her element. The necessity for a new theatre, new Assembly Rooms and very likely new citizens were all warmly agreed to, so that she felt no hesitation in announcing, as they were about to leave: ‘I am intending to give a ball in the Assembly Rooms before long. I do hope, Mr Martell, that you will not disappoint us by refusing your company.’
And given all that had passed, Martell found it difficult not to respond that, if he were anywhere in the vicinity he would be delighted to attend – a form of words that normally would have committed him to nothing, were it not for the fact that he had a curious, uncomfortable feeling that, somehow, she would contrive things so that he was there.
‘Well,’ whispered Edward, as soon as they were out in the street, ‘what did you think of her?’
‘Give me “The Claw” any day,’ murmured Martell.
No further mention had been made of Fanny Albion, nor was it at dinner that evening.
The next day in the morning they took the carriage to call upon Mr Gilpin, who received them in the Boldre vicarage very cordially. They found him in his library, amusing himself by giving mathematical problems to a curly-haired boy from his parish school who, he informed them, was named Nathaniel Furzey.
The vicar was happy to show Martell his library, which had some fine volumes in it, and to let them see some of the recent sketches he had done of New Forest scenes.
‘From time to time I have a small auction of them,’ he explained to Martell, ‘and men like Sir Harry Burrard pay foolish prices for them because they know the money goes to endow the school and some other charities with which I concern myself. The life of a clergyman’ – he gave Martell a sidelong look – ‘is quite rewarding.’
There was no question that Mr Gilpin’s vicarage, which was three storeys tall and capacious, was a very handsome residence for any gentleman, and from the gardens behind he could display an admirable view across to the Isle of Wight. The breeze of the day before had remained about the same, but banks of grey clouds were starting to pass over the Solent water now which, with their silver linings, gave the scene an atmospheric heaviness, a contrast of shafts of light and areas of darkness that was certainly picturesque. It was as they were surveying this natural picture that Martell happened to ask after Fanny.
‘She is at Albion House now,’ Gilpin remarked. ‘Which reminds me’, he added thoughtfully, ‘that I have something to tell her. But that can wait.’ He looked at Edward. ‘Were you intending to call on her?’
Edward, after only a second’s hesitation, said that they were uncertain whether she would wish it at present.
Gilpin sighed. ‘I should think she must be lonely now,’ he remarked. Then, calling the curly-haired boy to him: ‘Nathaniel, you know the way to Albion House. Run up there and enquire, from me, whether Miss Albion will receive Mr Martell and her cousins.’
Some refreshments were brought and, answering numerous questions put to him about the area, he entertained them very well for something more than half an hour, when young Nathaniel returned.
‘I am to say yes, Sir,’ he reported.
It was not quite what he had expected. He could not say exactly why: perhaps it was the closeness of the trees as they turned in at the gate from the lane; or possibly it was the advancing grey clouds which, just as they had come down from old Boldre church, passed with their shining edges overhead, drawing behind them a shadow. All Martell knew was that, as the carriage approached the corner of the narrow drive, the sky above was sunless, and he felt strangely dull and ill at ease.
Then they turned the corner and came in sight of Albion House.
It was only the light, he told himself; it was only the grey glow pressing through the clouds that made the house so sombre. How old it seemed with its bare gables; how closely the green circle around it was hemmed in by the trees. Its brick skin was dark as a bloodstain. Its wrinkled roof told of the old Tudor skeleton of timbers within. The windows stared out so blankly that you might have supposed the place was empty and dwelt in now only by the spirits who would remain there year by year as the house fell slowly into ruin, until it crumbled away so that even their habitation was gone.
They came to the entrance. A tall woman was standing at the door. ‘Mrs Pride, the housekeeper,’ said Edward quietly. There was, Martell thought, a guarded, anxious look in her eyes.
The last few days had not
been easy for Fanny. Her father had been very poorly. Several times he had been petulant; once, which was unusual, he had even had a fit of temper. She had sat with him most of the time in his room the day before and today, although he had taken some tea and some broth, and a glass of claret, it seemed unlikely that he would leave the big wing chair beside his bed where he was sitting, wrapped in a shawl.
So it had come as a shock to her when Mrs Pride had come to tell her, half an hour ago, that the young Tottons and Mr Martell were about to call.
‘But we are not in a state to receive them,’ she cried. ‘As for Father … Oh, Mrs Pride, you should have asked me first. You should not have told them to come.’ But once Mrs Pride had apologized and said she supposed Miss Albion would have wished it, there was nothing to be done. ‘We shall have to make the best of it,’ she said.
Yet to her great surprise, when she went to tell her father about the unwanted visit and promised to send them all away as soon as she decently could, old Mr Albion seemed to make a miraculous recovery. Although somewhat querulous, he insisted that she bring him a looking-glass and a clean cravat, scissors, hairbrush, pomade. In no time he had everybody running in every direction so that it was all Fanny could do to slip away and make a few small preparations in her own appearance.
She was standing on the staircase looking down into the hall as they came through the door with the grey daylight behind them. Edward entered first, then Louisa and Mr Martell just behind her. They paused for a moment before they noticed her. Edward looked around and, just before the big door was closed behind them, Louisa half turned to Mr Martell to say something and she saw her lightly touch his arm.
How pale she looked in the shadows of the staircase, Martell thought, as Fanny advanced towards them. In her long dress she seemed like some ghostly figure in a drama from antiquity. He saw at once the signs of strain in her face.
She led them quietly into the old panelled parlour, apologized for the fact that she was not better prepared to greet them, and asked politely after his health and his family. There seemed to be a slight constraint in her manner as she did so, however, and Martell wondered if perhaps she would have preferred it if he had not come.
However, they made polite conversation; Louisa gave a lively account of their tea with Mrs Grockleton, which brought a smile, if a rather weak one, to her face. And when Louisa produced a perfect imitation of Mr Grockleton pouring the vase of water over himself and then replacing the flowers, Fanny too joined in their laughter.
‘You could go on the stage, Miss Totton,’ Martell declared with an amused shake of the head and a warm glance in her direction. ‘Your cousin, Miss Albion,’ he observed, ‘is a most amusing companion.’
‘I am delighted you have discovered it,’ said Fanny, but she looked tired.
The light-hearted conversation came to a sudden end, however, with the entrance into the room of old Mr Albion. With one hand he leaned on a silver-topped stick; the other arm was supported by Mrs Pride. His silk breeches and waistcoat and cravat were in perfect order; his snow-white hair was neatly brushed; his several days’ growth of beard was not shaved but trimmed close. His eyes, old though they might be, were the most startling blue that Martell had ever seen. His coat hung loosely; he was thin and frail; but as he moved slowly across the room to an upright chair, he seemed to have discovered an almost fierce old dignity with which to meet his guests.
As is often done when a very aged person is in a room, people took turns to come and speak to him. Martell, as the visitor, went first. After the usual compliments, which were well enough received, he remarked that they had all enjoyed his daughter’s company in Oxford that spring. It was hard to be sure, but this seemed to please the old man less. Martell then remarked that he was come recently from Dorset and was planning to proceed to Kent, since this sort of geographical information usually opened up a conversational response of some kind.
‘Dorset?’ Mr Albion enquired, then looked thoughtful. ‘I’m afraid’, he confessed regretfully, ‘I never liked it much.’
‘Too many long hills, Sir?’ Martell offered.
‘I never leave here now.’
‘I understand you travelled to America,’ Martell attempted, still in hope.
The old blue eyes looked up at him sharply. ‘Yes. That’s right.’ Mr Albion now appeared to be considering something and Martell supposed he might be about to make some reflection upon the subject. But after a few moments it seemed that if he had been going to, he had thought better of it, for his eyes wandered to Louisa instead and, raising his silver-topped stick he pointed to her. ‘Very pretty, isn’t she?’
‘Indeed, Sir.’
Mr Albion seemed rather to have lost interest in Martell now for he pointed at Louisa again. ‘You’re looking very pretty today,’ he addressed her.
She bobbed a curtsy and, smiling, took this as a cue to come to his side, where she knelt down very charmingly by his arm.
‘Are you comfortable down there?’ the old man asked.
‘I’m always comfortable’, she said, ‘when I come to talk to you.’
It being plain that the old man had no further use for his company, Martell withdrew while Fanny went to make sure there was nothing her father needed.
‘I feel sorry for Miss Albion,’ he murmured to Edward. ‘Where did you intend we should go tomorrow?’
‘To Beaulieu, if the weather’s fine,’ said Edward.
‘Could we not ask your cousin to accompany us?’ Martell suggested. ‘It must be grim for her being in this house with her father all the time.’
Edward agreed and thought the plan a good one. ‘I shall do my best,’ he promised.
After this, Fanny returned and Martell had the opportunity to talk to her for several minutes. She seemed to recover her former cheerfulness somewhat and they enjoyed a little of the pleasant conversational intimacy they had experienced at Oxford, but as well as appearing rather older, there was, he thought, a hint of sadness, even tragedy in her person, now that he saw her in the setting of her home. She must get away from here, he decided. Someone must save her from this. But he could quite see that such an escape would not be easy. Perhaps the visit to Beaulieu might raise her spirits. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Edward approaching the old man. Young Totton’s affable manner, he supposed, would do the trick nicely.
‘I think, Sir,’ Edward addressed Mr Albion with a charming smile, ‘that Louisa and I shall beg you, if the weather is fine, to let us steal our cousin Fanny from you for an hour or two tomorrow.’
‘Oh?’ Mr Albion looked up quite sharply. ‘What for?’
‘We mean to visit Beaulieu.’
For a second, not even that, a tiny shadow might have appeared on Louisa’s face, but in an instant it was gone. ‘Oh, yes!’ she cried. ‘Do let Fanny join us. We shall not, I’m sure,’ she declared, ‘be gone for more than half the day.’ And she gave Mr Albion a smile that really should have melted him, had he not looked away.
‘Beaulieu?’ They might have announced an intention to travel up to Scotland. ‘Beaulieu? That’s a long way.’
No one quite liked to point out that it was scarcely more than four miles from where they were, but Edward, to his credit and with a pleasant laugh, remarked: ‘Scarcely further than we have come to see you today. We’ll be there and back in no time.’
Mr Albion looked doubtful. ‘With my sister away and in my state of health …’ He shook his head, frowning. ‘There’s no one else to take care of matters …’
‘You have Mrs Pride, Sir,’ said Edward.
But this interference in his domestic arrangements did not suit Mr Albion at all. ‘Mrs Pride has nothing to do with it,’ he snapped.
‘I think’, Fanny interposed gently, not wanting to see her father upset, ‘that it would be better, Edward, if I remained here.’
‘There,’ Mr Albion said crossly, yet with a triumphant gleam in his eye. ‘She doesn’t even want to go.’
This was so ou
trageous that Martell, who was not used to being crossed himself, could scarcely remain in passive silence. ‘You will permit me to observe, Sir,’ he said quietly but firmly, ‘that a brief excursion might benefit Miss Albion.’
Had this intervention done any good? For a second or two, as Mr Albion sat, his head momentarily sunk down in his cravat, in total silence, it was impossible to tell. But then, suddenly, it became all too clear. The old man’s head shot up on its stalk so that he suddenly looked like an enraged old turkey. The neck might be withered but the startling blue eyes were blazing. ‘And you will permit me to observe, Sir,’ he shouted, ‘that my daughter’s health is none of your concern. I am not aware, Sir, that the arrangement of this house has passed into your hands. To the best of my knowledge, Sir’ – and now he raised his silver-topped stick and drove it down into the floor with all his force, to accentuate each word – ‘I – am – still – master – of – this – house!’
‘I had no doubt of it, Sir,’ answered Martell, flushing, ‘and I had no wish to offend you, Sir, but merely …’
Mr Albion, however, was no longer of a mind to listen. He was white with rage. ‘You do offend me. And you will oblige me, Sir’ – he spat out the words with venom – ‘if you make your observations in some other place. You will oblige me, Sir’ – he seemed to be struggling to rise from his chair now, grasping the arm with one hand and the stick with the other – ‘if you will leave this house!’ This last word was almost a shriek as, unable to get up, he fell back into the chair and began a gasping cough.
Fanny, now white herself and obviously fearing her father was about to have an apoplexy, gave Martell an imploring look and, with some hesitation – in case Mr Albion really was having a fit and Fanny in need of assistance – he backed into the hall, followed by Edward and Louisa. Mrs Pride, by now, had already miraculously appeared and, having inspected her employer, signalled to the visitors that it was safe to retire.
Once outside, Edward shook his head with some amusement. ‘Not a great success, I fear, as a visit.’
‘No.’ Martell was still too surprised to say much. ‘That is the first time’, he remarked wryly, ‘that I have ever been thrown out of someone’s house. But I fear for poor Miss Albion.’
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