The Forest

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Fanny’s curiosity as to the whereabouts of Mr Martell was to be satisfied early the following week by a letter from Louisa.

  It informed her that as Mr Martell was expected at the Burrards’ in a few days, she and Edward had decided not to come to see her in Bath.

  Indeed, Fanny, I’m sure you will be glad to hear that Mr Martell is to go to London afterwards and has proposed that Edward and I should travel with him. Great as the delights of Bath must be, I’m sure they cannot compare with London, so I fear we shall not be seeing you and Mrs Grockleton there.

  That was it. Louisa had forgotten to enquire after her health or even to seem sorry at their not meeting. There was something else, too, about the letter. At first Fanny could not quite put her finger on what it was, but gradually, as she pondered it, she saw the intention clearly enough. A note of triumph: her cousin was telling her plainly that she had done better. A coldness: behind the brief, throwaway regret at not seeing her, Louisa was really saying that she had more exciting things to do and she didn’t care if Fanny knew it.

  So, Fanny thought grimly, my cousin and close friend doesn’t love me. Apart from her father and Aunt Adelaide, did anyone? Mr Gilpin, perhaps, but it was his duty to love. Maybe there was little to love about her anyway. And the sense of her worthlessness and the pointlessness of all things overwhelmed her, so that life itself seemed like a great, grey winter wave breaking and then receding upon an empty shore.

  The incident that took place at the end of February in the fashionable spa city of Bath was, you might think, an almost trivial event. Yet it was not seen in that way at the time. Within days there was hardly a person in the whole of Bath, despite the fact that practically no one knew the unfortunate young lady in question, who had not taken sides. The matter was of such curiosity because it was so hard to explain. Theories abounded. It cannot be said that all this talk, none of it even known to the unfortunate young lady, did anyone much harm or good. Except, that is, for the impoverished major who had danced and talked with her at the Assembly Rooms. For on the strength of this intimate knowledge of the subject, he was soon much in demand, invited to dine in houses where he’d never been asked before, with his chances of finding a rich widow enhanced considerably.

  Fanny Albion, meanwhile, was in gaol.

  ‘Mrs Pride must come with me.’ Aunt Adelaide was firm and, in such circumstances, even old Francis could hardly argue; but he did somewhat plaintively enquire who was going to look after him. ‘You are going to stay with the Gilpins,’ his sister told him.

  Mr Gilpin had wanted to go to Fanny himself but Adelaide had persuaded him that he could be more help in looking after her brother. ‘I could have no peace of mind leaving him without Mrs Pride,’ she told him and so the old man was conveyed down to the vicarage, with which he pronounced himself well enough pleased. Mr Gilpin, meanwhile, contented himself with a letter.

  My dear child,

  How or why this strange business has arisen I can scarcely guess. Nor can I imagine that you could ever perform any act of malice or dishonesty. I am praying for you and ask you to remember – more than that, to know that you are in God’s hands. Trust Him, and know that the Truth shall make you free.

  To Adelaide he said only: ‘Get a good lawyer.’

  So the intrepid old lady and Mrs Pride set off together to make the seventy-mile journey to Bath. On the turnpike roads, with changes of horses, they could arrive there upon the second day.

  It was a source of fury to Mrs Grockleton that Fanny should be held in prison at all, but all that good lady’s efforts had been in vain. For some reason – perhaps it was something he had eaten, or merely the fact that the trial judge was to arrive shortly – the magistrate had ordered that Fanny was to be held in the city gaol. Not even Mrs Grockleton’s threat to have the Customs men inspect his house had moved him.

  Insofar as was possible, the small prison where she was held had been made comfortable for her. She had her own cell, food, everything she could need. She was treated with politeness as those set to guard her had no wish to displease the generous and slightly frightening Mrs Grockleton, who was constantly visiting. Mr Grockleton, meanwhile, had already secured the services of Bath’s leading law firm to defend her and the head of the firm himself had been to see Fanny three times.

  Surely, therefore, it should not be long before this regrettable matter was cleared up and Fanny set at liberty. It should be so. Yet, on each of the three occasions, the distinguished legal gentleman had come away shaking his head. ‘I cannot obtain a statement from her,’ he confessed.

  So that finally Mr Grockleton was moved to suggest to his wife what had been in his mind for some time. ‘Supposing she did it,’ he said.

  The outrage with which this was received did that stout lady credit. ‘If you ever say such a thing again, Mr Grockleton, I shall box your ears.’

  So Mr Grockleton said no more. But he wondered, all the same.

  The shop was not a large emporium, but a busy one: buttons and bows, ribbons, every kind of fine lace. You might find ladies, dressmakers, all sorts of people in there, buying the small oddments without which, in Bath, life would be almost meaningless.

  It had been a slow, dull day and the afternoon was already losing light, as though someone were drawing down the blinds, when Fanny Albion had started to move towards the door. She had been in the shop for some time, drifting listlessly round the tables, inspecting pieces of silk and other fashionable fripperies. She had no real desire to buy anything and had only come in there because she lacked the energy, or the will, to walk up the hill towards her lodgings. Her mind had been full of melancholy reflections. During her wanderings the bag on her arm had come open. After spending about twenty minutes in this way, she had lingered, in an abstracted way, for several minutes by a round table on which were displayed a large number of pieces of fine lace, some of which she had picked up. Then, calmly closing her handbag, she had moved towards the door.

  The shop assistant who had been watching her had run out to apprehend her the moment she was through the door. This girl had been joined by the manager of the shop only seconds later. They had made her open the bag, in which – this was not in doubt – lay a neatly folded piece of lace, value ten shillings. Passers-by were called to witness. Fanny was taken back inside the shop. The beadle was summoned.

  In all this it was noticed that Fanny seemed dazed and said nothing.

  ‘But my dear child, what can you possibly mean?’

  Despite her long journey, Aunt Adelaide had insisted upon being taken to see Fanny as soon as they came to the Grockletons’ house. Now, looking very frail in these strange surroundings, but with a steely determination, the gallant old lady gazed at her niece with a piercing look.

  But even that did no good as Fanny sat there and slowly shook her head, while her aunt and Mrs Pride looked on.

  ‘What can you possibly mean, child?’ Adelaide’s long, arduous effort at self-control had stretched her nerves, now, almost to breaking point, so that her question rose in exasperation until it was almost a scream. ‘What can you mean, you don’t know whether you did it or not?’

  The dinner at the Burrards’ was a fine affair. The Tottons were all there and Mr Martell, who had just arrived that afternoon; also Mr Arthur West, who by now was known to the Burrards and always a useful addition at any dinner.

  The first remove had just been served and the company was investigating the venison, duck, rabbit stew, fish pie and other dishes supplied when Mr Martell, having taken his first taste of the first-rate claret, politely enquired of Louisa: ‘What news of your cousin Miss Albion?’

  As the table fell silent and Louisa blushed red, it was Sir Harry himself at the end of the table who very sensibly interposed: ‘If you wish to help yourself and Fanny Albion, you must be prepared with a better answer than a blush, Louisa. For I must tell you plainly, the whole Forest is talking about her and the news is already in London.’ He turned to Martell. ‘That poor yo
ung lady, Sir, has been accused of stealing a piece of lace from a shop in Bath. It’s the most absurd and unconscionable thing imaginable. She is being held in the common gaol and will be tried, I believe, very soon. As the business cannot be anything but a misunderstanding she will, of course, be acquitted. Her aunt, despite her age, has gone to her. She is a most courageous old lady. Her father is with Mr Gilpin.’ He fixed his eyes upon Louisa. ‘Everyone at this table, Louisa, and all our acquaintance unite in defending Fanny Albion and we shall welcome her back soon.’ He said it sternly.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Mr Totton firmly.

  ‘I wish’, remarked Mr Martell, with a deep frown, ‘that I could offer my services in some way. I know an excellent lawyer in Bath.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately I fear I may have offended her in some way.’

  The Tottons and the Burrards glanced at each other questioningly and Mr Totton remarked that he had never heard this was so. Mr Arthur West leaned forward helpfully. ‘I believe, if you will permit me, Sir, that I can tell you why that is. You will recall the picture of your great-grandfather you came to see at Hale?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘To whom, Sir, you bear so striking a resemblance. Perhaps you were not aware that old Mr Albion and his sister Adelaide are the grandchildren of Alice Lisle and, in their eyes, you are a Penruddock.’

  The effect of this information upon the table was dramatic. Burrard and the Tottons stared at him in amazement.

  ‘You are a Penruddock?’ There were so many other significant items of information about Martell – his two estates, his education, his good looks, his interest in the Church and in politics – that the question of his late mother’s family had somehow never come up.

  ‘The Martells and Penruddocks have married each other for centuries. My mother was a Penruddock,’ he said with pride. ‘I had not realized the connection of the Albions with Alice Lisle, but surely Colonel Penruddock was only arresting a known troublemaker, and the business is long forgotten now.’

  ‘Not in the Forest.’ Sir Harry shook his head. ‘The Albions, at least, would regard you with horror.’

  ‘I see.’ Martell fell silent. He remembered, now, Fanny’s questioning him at Mrs Grockleton’s ball and her sudden coldness.

  ‘Old Miss Albion, in particular,’ Mr Totton explained, ‘feels passionately about the subject. Her mother brought her up, so to speak, in Alice Lisle’s shadow. Alice was born Alice Albion, you see, and Albion House was her true home.’

  Martell nodded slowly. The vision he had had of Fanny the first time he had come to that dark old house came back to him with vividness. His impression had not been wrong, then. She was, indeed, a tragic figure, trapped with those two old people in a house full of memories and ghostly shadows. But this information also meant something else: he had been correct, almost certainly, in thinking she cared for him. It was the discovery that he was a Penruddock that had caused her to avoid him and push him away.

  It is the shadow of Alice Lisle that stands between us, he thought. Curse her. The thing was ungodly. And now, thinking of her terrible situation, a wave of pity swept over him. How must she feel, facing such an ordeal, almost alone? ‘I am deeply sorry to hear of her predicament,’ he said quietly and the dinner continued with no further mention of such a painful subject.

  When the ladies retired, leaving the men to their port, he did venture to bring up the subject with Burrard and Totton.

  ‘It’s a strange business,’ Burrard informed him. ‘Gilpin and I, without interfering, have tried to get information. The shop in question, having accused her, is unwilling to back down. The magistrate insisted she be held. But worst of all is the state of mind of Fanny herself.’ And he explained, briefly, how Gilpin had persuaded the Grockletons to take Fanny to Bath. ‘She had fallen, during the winter, into a very melancholic state. Alas, it seems the visit to Bath, as yet, has effected no cure. She is utterly lethargic and says nothing to help her cause. And, even for people of our sort, Martell, theft is theft. I will not conceal from you that, privately, I fear for her. The case is grave.’

  Theft: the penalties for theft in eighteenth-century England were harsh indeed. Sentences of death or transportation were frequent. The value of the goods stolen seldom interested the courts much: it was the moral character of the criminal and the attack upon property that concerned them. Theft, of the kind of which Fanny was accused, was theft pure and simple, and even gentlefolk could be severely punished for such an offence. After all, it provided an example to society at large that the law was absolute.

  ‘Do we know why she should have fallen into melancholy when she did?’ Martell ventured to ask.

  ‘No.’ It was Edward Totton who answered now. ‘I think it was after Mrs Grockleton’s ball that she seemed to become withdrawn. I suppose her father’s making a spectacle of himself may have caused her, however unjustifiably, embarrassment. Louisa and I are at fault, I believe. We didn’t realize; we should have done much more for her at that time. But we didn’t and I feel rather ashamed.’

  Just after the ball. Her melancholy, thought Martell, might also have another cause. Yet what the devil, he wondered, as they went to join the ladies, could he do about it? It was hardly to be imagined that the family would have failed to obtain good legal counsel. His involvement could not possibly be welcome.

  Only one phrase from all this conversation kept recurring, nagging at his mind: ‘She is utterly lethargic and says nothing to help her cause.’ She must be persuaded to help her cause. The case was far too serious to be left to chance. She must help herself in every way she could.

  The gentlemen and ladies were making up two tables of cards, but Martell was not in the mood for play just then and nor, it seemed, was Louisa; so they moved away to a sofa and began to talk.

  There was no doubt, Martell considered, that Louisa was a very pretty and amusing young woman. He liked her; enjoyed her company. He had even, once or twice, thought of more. A Totton might not have been quite his style, but within a broad range he could marry whom he pleased. Perhaps the shock of the news about Fanny had added a tenderness to his mood, but he looked at Louisa now with affection. ‘I must confess’, he told her, ‘that I am very distressed about Miss Albion.’

  ‘We all are,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I only wonder if there is not something I can do. Perhaps,’ he continued, thinking aloud, ‘if Edward were to go to see her, I could accompany him.’

  A little cloud crossed Louisa’s face. ‘I had not known you wished to involve yourself with Fanny,’ she remarked softly. ‘I am not sure she wants even Edward’s company at present.’

  ‘Perhaps. And yet’ – he shook his head – ‘I suspect it is precisely company – I truly mean affection – that she needs.’

  ‘I see.’ It scarcely required the female instinct, with which Louisa was well endowed, to see in which direction Martell’s feelings might be tending. ‘It is not easy to be sure’, Louisa said carefully, ‘exactly how matters lie. For that reason, perhaps, we are cautious.’

  ‘Your meaning? It cannot surely be that Miss Albion is guilty of this crime.’

  ‘No, Mr Martell.’ She paused. ‘Yet even so, we cannot at this distance know anything for certain. There may be something …’

  He gazed at her, half astonished, half curious. Louisa was no fool. She was trying to hint something. But what?

  ‘I will tell you something, Mr Martell, if you will promise never to repeat it.’

  ‘Very well.’ He considered. ‘I will not.’

  ‘There is a circumstance of which my cousin may not herself be aware. You know, I think, that my father and her mother were brother and sister.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But they were not. She was his half-sister. And her mother … well, my grandfather’s second wife came from a different station of society. She was a Miss Seagull. The family are of the lowest kind: sailors, innkeepers, smugglers. And further back …’ She made a little grimace. ‘It’s better
not to ask.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So that is why, perhaps, we wonder … we cannot be sure …’ She gave him a sad little smile and he stared at her.

  For he saw – he saw it quite clearly – that she was not herself even aware of the incalculable malice behind what she had just told him. ‘It is good of you to confide in me, Miss Totton,’ he said quietly and made up his mind, that very instant, that he would go straight to Bath, at dawn the very next morning.

  Adelaide shook her head. She had been in Bath for over a week, without success. At moments she had been so near the end of her tether that she had almost decided she could bear it no more and that she would return home. But she had been guarding the temple of her family for so long now, tenaciously holding on for her mother, her brother and her niece, that she could scarcely have let go had she wanted to. She was so locked, clamped, riveted to the house of Albion that she couldn’t have given up on Fanny if she’d tried.

  This did not mean, however, that she was hopeful of success. ‘You’ll be like Alice,’ she cried bitterly. ‘She wouldn’t defend herself: falling asleep in front of that judge; never protesting. Are you going to let them murder you too? Are there to be no more Albions?’

  But Fanny said nothing.

  ‘Can you’ – the old lady turned wearily to Mrs Pride – ‘say anything to persuade her?’

  For a week, now, Mrs Pride had conveyed Aunt Adelaide to and fro, had listened quietly to all that passed in the Grockleton household and brought, as far as possible, a sense of comfort by her presence. She had also observed Fanny and drawn her own conclusions. So now, although she spoke gently, the Forest woman was firm.

  ‘I’ve known you all your life, Miss Fanny,’ she said. ‘I’ve watched over you. You were always bold and sensible. But they’re hunting you now.’ She looked straight into Fanny’s eyes. ‘You’ve got to save yourself. That’s all there is to it, really. Just save yourself or there won’t be anything left.’