‘Tell me,’ she smiled.
‘Because nine centuries ago a Norman king made it a game preserve, and by the luck of history woodlands have remained in their natural state, bogs have not been drained. Ecology is history.’
He looked at her triumphantly.
‘Except of course that if man had never come along, the Forest would be in its truly perfect state.’
‘No such thing. Man is part of the natural equation along with the rest of God’s creatures. Think about it. Why is the Forest biomass poor at ground level? Because the ponies and deer eat it up. Yet strangely enough, that leads to a diversity of species. Are you going to take them away? They were probably there before man came to the area. There’s no such thing as a perfect system. Only a system in balance. And even that balance is in flux. Left to themselves, animal populations, woodlands, all natural systems die and regenerate at a varying pace. Whenever you try to impose a static order on nature, it doesn’t work. The entire system changes anyway. There used to be four Needles at the end of the Isle of Wight. Now there are three. The sea washed one away in the eighteenth century. Anyway, the entire landscape has entirely changed since the Ice Age ended, and that was only ten thousand years ago. Less, in fact.
‘An oak tree lives in a four-hundred-year time-frame. Human time-frames are always too short. So we get it wrong, and we don’t really understand the natural processes half the time.’
‘So what’s your rule for the Forest?’
‘Look for a balance. But know that nature will find a better one.’ He looked straight into her eyes. ‘I think that’s how to live, really. Don’t you?’
Dottie Pride was silent for a while.
‘Will you be at Beaulieu on Sunday?’ she asked.
She really didn’t want to go to tea with Mrs Totton. It was Friday. The last five days had given her so much to think about that the only thing she wanted to do now was to go over her notes and make her plans. She had devoted the morning to this and made good progress. She had a strong opening, but something was missing. She couldn’t quite pin it down – that magic ingredient that, in her own mind, she called the story. With Dottie it always came at the end of the process and so far it had always happened in time. Just. It had to happen by Saturday.
She really didn’t want to go to tea with Mrs Totton at all.
Mrs Totton lived in a charming whitewashed cottage with a walled garden and a small orchard behind. The cottage was set in the lush little valley near the point where the river was crossed by Boldre Bridge.
‘And I thought, as it’s a nice day, we might walk over the bridge and up to Boldre church,’ she announced, as she met Dottie at the door.
The church on its wooded knoll was a friendly building. Its dark, wooded setting did not seem eerie, but it did, Dottie thought, feel very old. There were several plaques recording members of old Forest families on the walls, and one in particular caught her attention.
It was to Frances Martell, born Albion, of Albion Park; and most unusually, it also recorded her devoted housekeeper and faithful friend – those were the words – Jane Pride.
‘Albion Park. It’s the name of the hotel where I’m staying,’ Dottie remarked.
‘It’s also the house where I was born,’ her hostess told her. ‘I was an Albion before I married Richard Totton.’ She smiled. ‘A lot of the larger Forest houses are hotels now. On the way back she suggested, ‘if you like, I’ll tell you the story of Fanny Albion. She was tried in Bath for stealing a piece of lace.’
There was another guest for tea. A pleasant woman in her fifties called Imogen Furzey who Mrs Totton introduced as ‘a cousin of mine’. Dottie correctly guessed that in Mrs Totton’s world a cousin might be someone removed by many generations, but she did not enquire into the details. ‘She’s an artist, so I thought you’d like to meet her,’ Mrs Totton said confidently, in the manner of those who assume that anyone involved with the media must belong in the company of artists of some kind.
Imogen Furzey was a painter. ‘It runs in the family,’ she explained. ‘My father was a sculptor. And his grandfather was quite a well-known New Forest artist named Minimus Furzey.’
Dottie decided she liked Imogen Furzey. She dressed eccentrically, but with a simple elegance. The smock she was wearing had evidently been designed by herself. So, probably, had the silver bracelet she wore. Around her neck, on a silver chain that matched the bracelet, there hung a curious, dark little crucifix. ‘An heirloom,’ she said, when Dottie remarked on it. ‘I think it must be extremely old, but I don’t know where it comes from.’
The tea was delightful. It even turned out to be useful. Both Mrs Totton and Imogen Furzey were able to tell her an enormous amount about the Forest, and seemed happy to do so.
‘The only thing we both wonder,’ Mrs Totton remarked, as they ended tea, ‘is whether with a name like Pride you aren’t connected to the Forest yourself.’
Dottie told them of her conversation with Peter Pride on the same subject and its inconclusive outcome. ‘There was a Dorothy Pride who left for London, and a Dorothy Pride in London. But whether they are one and the same, there’s no means of knowing.’
Mrs Totton was looking thoughtful at this.
‘Years ago, when we were selling Albion Park, my brother and I went through old Colonel Albion’s papers. It’s a long time ago, but I think there was something about a Pride girl who had run away to London amongst them.’ She glanced at Dottie. ‘Would it interest you to have a look?’
Dottie hesitated. She ought to go back to her work. On the other hand …
‘If it’s not too much trouble …’
‘No it’s quite easy.’ She smiled. ‘That is, if all these papers are where I think they are. Imogen dear, it’s too heavy for me, but in the store room you will see one of the boxes is labelled “Colonel Albion”. Perhaps the two of you could bring it here.’
The store room of Mrs Totton’s cottage turned out to be a carefully contrived solution to the problem so many people of her kind faced when they moved from a large country house into a small one: what to do with the mass of family papers, pictures and other records of the past which will not fit into a cottage? Her solution had been to build on a large store room. On the walls, frowning down, were the large family pictures that would have overwhelmed the rooms in the cottage. Arranged neatly by her late brother, on racks, were some twenty trunks, each labelled, containing the papers and mementoes of this or that ancestor. There were racks of swords, old cane fishing rods, whips and riding crops, and several cupboards of uniforms, riding coats, lace dresses and other finery all duly mothballed. It was a family treasure house. They found the leather trunk easily enough and managed to drag it along the passage into the sitting room. They opened it.
The Colonel had hated writing letters, but he had made a copy of almost every one so that his record not only of incoming, but also of outgoing correspondence, was almost complete. For a man who hated paperwork it was a commendable achievement. The letters were arranged not chronologically but by subject, each batch placed either in an envelope or wrapped in a piece of covering paper and neatly labelled in the Colonel’s firm hand.
They went through them all, looking for anything labelled ‘Pride’. There was nothing.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Totton, ‘I’m sorry. I must have remembered it wrong.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Dottie. ‘It was kind of you to think of it.’
They started to put the letters away.
‘Look,’ said Imogen, and held up a packet. It was labelled: ‘Furzey, Minimus,’ under which the Colonel had drawn a short, angry line. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
There were a number of letters, mostly brief. But one was much longer. It began, curtly: ‘Sir, It may interest you to know that the agent I employed some two years ago has recently furnished me with a reply.’
‘Whatever can this be about?’ Imogen wondered aloud. She scanned the letter further, and then
said: ‘Oh.’ She read a little more. ‘Dottie,’ she said, taking her arm. ‘I think I’ve found her.’
The Pride girl is found. She is alive and well. For that we may thank God, I suppose. She is living, in sin, with a person said to be an artist, of no moral repute. A person, I dare say, therefore, very like yourself.
She has been offered an inducement to return to her parents, or at least to let them know that she is alive. This she utterly refuses to do, whether because she has sunk and accustomed herself to a life of sin, or whether out of shame I do not know. In the circumstances I think it best to say nothing to her parents.
You may come to reflect upon the fact, Sir, that it is you and you alone who is responsible for the ruin of Dorothy Pride.
I say you may care to reflect: I should rather say that you might care to reflect, if I did not know that it is not in your character to draw any moral conclusions under any circumstances.
I can only conclude by assuring you that I, for my part, have learned with each passing year to feel for your character an ever-increasing revulsion and disgust.
‘I think that must be your great-grandmother, Dottie.’
‘It has to be. Living with an artist.’
‘And my great-grandfather … I’m sorry.’
‘Well, we’ve found her,’ said Mrs Totton. ‘It was a long time ago. But welcome home, Dottie, anyway. At least we can say that.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘My dears, it’s quite time for a drink.’
But Dottie excused herself. She needed the evening to work. She thanked them both and prepared to go.
‘Would you like a hand to put the papers back in the store room?’ she asked.
‘No. I think I may look at some of them myself this evening,’ said Mrs Totton. ‘Perhaps,’ she smiled, ‘we shall see you here in the Forest more in the future?’
‘Perhaps.’
Her evening’s work went well. The mass of material she had gathered was beginning to separate out, then fit itself together in new shapes. That was usually the prelude to getting her story.
It was strange about her great-grandmother and Minimus Furzey. She had little doubt that she had found Dorothy and, therefore, her own roots. Once or twice she nearly picked up the telephone to tell Peter Pride, but she forced herself not to. She could tell him on Sunday, if he turned up.
He was her cousin – a very distant one, of course.
Mrs Totton sat alone that evening in a state of contentment. It had been a good day. She liked the Pride girl. As for discovering her family, that had been a gift from above. To be connected with the Forest, in Mrs Totton’s eyes, was the greatest gift you could hope for.
She read a book for a little while, dozed for perhaps half an hour, and then, putting a chair beside the trunk on the floor, idly went through some more of old Colonel Albion’s letters. Many were routine matters connected with the estate; some concerned the disputes of the verderers with the Office of Woods. After the Furzey letters, none of them seemed very exciting. Perhaps she was not in the mood.
She was just about to put the bundles back and close the lid when a slim envelope detached itself from the rest. It seemed to be a single item with no accompanying correspondence. On it, in the Colonel’s hand, was written a single word: ‘Mother?’
Curious now, she picked up the envelope and opened it. There was only one sheet of paper inside, closely written on both sides, in a fine, rather academic hand, certainly not Colonel Albion’s.
‘My dearest wife,’ it began, ‘each of us has secrets and now there is something which I, too, have to confess.’
Yet if it was a confession, it was a strange one. It seemed that the writer’s wife, whom he clearly loved, had been having nightmares, calling out things in the night. And from this he had learned that she was guilty, or believed herself to be, of a great crime. Others, it seemed, had suffered transportation, even death. But she had got off free.
Because she had lied. Guilt, remorse, deep in the night, was visiting her in dreams. She was obviously in an agony which she could share with no one, not even her husband. Awake, no word was spoken. The nightmares, it would appear, came then departed for months at a time, then came again.
So what had her husband to confess? Firstly that he had, as it were, eavesdropped upon these confidences. He was still apparently undecided about whether to speak to her or not. Then came an urgent section. He knew her too well, he said, to have any doubt about her goodness. As a wife, a mother, mistress of their estates, there was not an evil thought or intention in her soul.
Had she really stolen that piece of lace, he asked, or was it possible that she herself had come to imagine it? He did not know. The crime itself, even if it were so, should never merit the punishments given; and she herself, by her goodness, had long ago earned forgiveness.
Perhaps, my dearest Fanny, I shall be able to persuade you of these things. Perhaps these terrible dreams will end. But I wish, in any case to leave you this letter to read, after I am gone.
For I, too, have an equal confession to make to you. When I came to you in Bath and implored you to save yourself and told you I knew you were not guilty of this crime, my beloved wife, I lied. I did not know. But I desired above all that you should be my wife, guilty or innocent. And even now, though I do not for one instant believe you are bound for anywhere but Our Father’s Heavenly Kingdom, I tell you truly that were you to be consigned to the fires of Hell, I should follow you there, even to the bottomless pit, and do so gladly a thousand times.
Your loving husband, Wyndham.
‘Well,’ murmured Mrs Totton. ‘Well.’
Dottie Pride awoke before dawn. It had come. She could feel it. She was going to get her story today.
She could not sleep any more. She got up and pulled on some clothes and, proceeding down the dimly lit stairs of Albion Park, made her way out through the big front door. The gravel drive scrunched under her feet. Faintly embarrassed at the thought of waking the other guests, she walked along the grass verge until she reached the gate.
It was quite chilly, but she didn’t care. For no particular reason of which she was aware, she wandered up the lane and into Oakley. The village was asleep. Not a soul was stirring yet. She came to the green where the cricket pitch was already fenced off. She could just make that out in the gloom.
Oakley. If she was a Pride, she suddenly realized, she must have come home. She walked across the wet, dewy grass to the edge of the heath. Her shoes would be sopping. She didn’t care. She took a deep breath, scenting peat and heather. She shivered for a moment.
The grey-black spring night still lay like a blanket over the sky. It was quiet, as if the whole New Forest was waiting for something to happen in the silence before the dawn. She stared out across Beaulieu Heath.
And then, suddenly, a skylark started singing in the dark.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Also by Edward Ruthurfurd
Preface
Acknowledgements
Maps
The Rufus Stone
The Hunt
Beaulieu
Lymington
The Armada Tree
Alice
Albion Park
Pride of the Forest
The Forest
The Forest Page 88