Castle Barebane

by Joan Aiken

  “I understand that you wrote to her ladyship at Nice, giving it as your opinion that, while the Hansen children are residing at Ardnacarrig, they require some person in the capacity of a nursery governess, and requesting her to provide one.”

  He sounded, Val thought, as if the request had been for the children to be supplied with a resident witch doctor.

  “I did write to her, yes. In my opinion it is not a suitable arrangement for the children to be here in sole charge of Elspie Cross. Firstly, she is too old; secondly, she is too short-tempered and set in her ways.”

  Mr. M’Intyre helped himself to a pinch of snuff from a worn tortoise-shell box. “Imphm. Ye took a good deal upon yourself, in my opinion. I conclude, by the by, that ye have no news about your brother and Mrs. Hansen, ma’am? As to the possibility of their return, or their whereabouts?”

  “No I have not,” said Val bluntly. “And I am beginning to fear—I’m beginning to be very much afraid—that they must have died, or suffered from some accident. It is now nearly two months that they have been gone. Of course I have said nothing to the children of such a possibility. But I cannot believe that my sister-in-law would not have been in touch long before this, if she had been able to.”

  “Ay. Imphm. So Lady Stroma understood. Now, I am to instruct you, Miss Montgomery, that, in the event of their parents’ death, Lady Stroma is the children’s legal guardian. This was a provision of Mrs. Hansen’s marriage contract.”

  “I had guessed as much,” Val agreed.

  “Furthermore,” Mr. M’Intyre pursued, “Lady Stroma wishes you to be fully aware that, even should the parents be presumed dead, the children stand to inherit nothing from them, nothing at all.”

  “That does not surprise me either,” Val said.

  “No?” Mr. M’lntyre’s tone was as dry as the oatcakes on the plate. “And yet, to some, it might seem surprising that, during six years of married life, this young couple have managed to dissipate a fortune of some seventy-five thousand pounds.”

  “Seventy-five thousand?” gasped Val. “I’d no idea that my sister-in-law had half as much!”

  “Indeed?” His glance expressed disbelief. “Your brother did very well for himself, ma’am, when he married Miss Christian Kinleven. However—had is the correct word. I am Miss Christian’s attorney too and I can tell you that every penny of that money is spent. The children have nothing coming to them from their mother—not a penny. Lady Stroma wished me to make this very plain to you. If your concern for them is motivated by—ah—expectations of pecuniary advantage, Lady Stroma wishes you to understand that such hopes would be delusive.”

  Now, for the first time, Val understood what he was getting at, and she was very angry indeed.

  Lady Stroma thought that she was a fortune hunter, a vulgar opportunist, who intended to stay around her young relatives in hopes of profit.

  Without stopping to reflect that, considering the character of Nils, this point of view was hardly unreasonable, she said haughtily, “Please inform Lady Stroma that she is wholly mistaken in my motives if she thinks I expect any pecuniary reward from—from doing my duty by the children. I am sufficiently able to earn my own living and have no expectations whatever—either from Lady Stroma, or in regard to Pieter and Jannie. I am simply concerned for their welfare. The younger child is—is delicate and backward, needs special care. In my opinion Elspie—though well-meaning enough in her way—is not a suitable person. She is old, and she is hasty-tempered.”

  “A—a—” he raised a hand. “Just one moment, Miss Montgomery. I had not finished. Lady Stroma merely wished to be sure that you are thoroughly conversant with the position. As I said, Mrs. Hansen’s own fortune is all spent. I understand that your brother had a decided propensity for gambling. And Lady Stroma wished me to express to you her attitude towards Mr. Hansen. She neither likes him nor approves of him in any way. If he is dead, she is prepared to do her duty by her wards, support them, and leave them a competence, at their majority. I need hardly say that this sum will be most carefully tied up, so that self-seeking persons will not be able to benefit from it. But if their father is alive, why then Lady Stroma is not prepared to do anything for them—anything whatsoever. Is that quite plain?”

  “Very plain, Mr. M’Intyre,” Val said, stifling a strong inclination to make a furious retort and sweep from the room. “Neither I nor my brother need hope to lay our hands on any portion of Lady Stroma’s fortune.” Her glance moved ironically round the warped woodwork and tattered leather upholstery; she missed a curious expression on the lawyer’s face. “Perhaps,” she went on, “I might take this opportunity of expressing my sense of obligation to Lady Stroma for permitting me to spend a few weeks in her house, rent free? As you may be aware, I had intended only to deposit the children and then return to Edinburgh.”

  “So I had understood, yes.” His tone conveyed both considerable doubt that this had indeed been her intention, and his view that matters would have been much better had she carried it out.

  “But—finding absolutely no proper provision for the poor little creatures here—I was obliged to remain and make myself responsible for them, until some suitable person should be engaged.”

  “Very disinterested of you, Miss Montgomery,” the lawyer said, in a particularly enraging tone. “Now, I am instructed by Lady Stroma to inform you that she is prepared to undertake no added outlay on behalf of the children until there is definite information as to the parents’ whereabouts. The children may remain here—but she will not incur the further expense of a governess. She feels that she has done her part in providing them with a home. Lady Stroma”—his glance also swept round the dismal room—“Lady Stroma has never been an—imphm—an extravagant spender—even on travel—and she has unhappy associations with her childhood at Ardnacarrig. She is not prepared to disburse more than the minimum amount required for the upkeep of this establishment.”

  “So I have observed.”

  “If you, Miss Montgomery, care to remain here and undertake the children’s education, for the time being, Lady Stroma will, however, be prepared to provide your board and accommodation.”

  “Very obliging of her,” said Val, whose nostrils were white with temper. “I’m sure you will agree, Mr. M’Intyre, that a handsome offer such as that can’t be accepted without due consideration. I will write to you and let you know my decision.”

  “Very well,” he said, rising. “I think we must let the matter rest there, at present, then. I may say that my opinion did not coincide with her ladyship’s.”

  Val did not inquire as to where the difference lay. She said coolly, moving toward the door, “It seems a pity that Lady Stroma allows such a handsome property to fall into such a state of neglect.”

  He burst out, becoming suddenly human and indignant. “Over and over again I have made representations to her ladyship about it! But to no avail. The fact is that the estate is entailed which—as you may know—means that it cannot be sold or realised on. And for that reason the old—lady refuses to spend a penny on keeping it in good heart. She has only a life interest, you see; thereafter it passes to a different branch of the family. What condition it will be in by the time the next heir inherits, heaven only knows!” Resuming his official manner and casting a sharp glance at Val, he added, “In case you had been harbouring any misapprehensions on that score, Miss Montgomery, I should perhaps point out that the next heir will not be Mrs. Hansen’s son. The entail was in the male line.”

  “I had harboured no such apprehension,” Val rejoined shortly.

  Ignoring her, Mr. M’Intyre continued, “Therefore in the regrettable—but possible, since she is only mortal like the rest of us—contingency of her ladyship’s death, the estate would at once pass into other hands, and there could be no assurance of the children’s continued residence here. Nor of your own.”

  “Thank you,” said Val. “You
have made the whole position abundantly clear.” Acting more from an impulse to annoy than from any real wish for information, she added, “I suppose the next heir—if Lady Stroma should meet with some misfortune—is in a position to take possession immediately?”

  A constrained—a somewhat harassed expression passed once more over Mr. M’Intyre’s face. He replied carefully, “Not immediately, no. In fact we are not just certain as to the whereabouts of the next heir at present.”

  “Oh? How troublesome for you. But let us hope that Lady Stroma is spared for many years yet, and that he turns up in the meantime. By the way, Mr. M’Intyre, speaking of residence at Ardnacarrig, is it true that, by the terms of Lady Stroma’s father’s will, Elspie Cross can only reside here so long as she remains unmarried?”

  “Ah—yes, that is so.”

  “Even for this family—and this country—that seems unusually barbaric?” Val remarked hotly.

  He shrugged. “It may seem so, yes. Lady Stroma’s father was a man of strong and eccentric character. The provision, of course, was made some fifty years ago, by my predecessor: I should have endeavoured to dissuade him from making such an arrangement.”

  “Can I offer you any luncheon, Mr. M’Intyre? I mean of course, do you think that Lady Stroma would wish you to be offered a repast?”

  “I thank you, no, ma’am; it grows late; I must be getting back as fast as I can,” he replied and took his leave.

  Val would very much have liked to discuss this conversation with David Ramsay, but she found that he had paid only a short visit today and had departed long ago. He had, however, left her a parcel and a note: “Dear Val: My mother so much enjoyed your visit yesterday that she hopes you can come again on Friday? Do; it will please us both immensely. I found this parcel for you at the Wolf’s Hope mail office; knowing that Tom Postie won’t come your way again until Thursday I brought it over. Yours, David R.”

  The parcel was heavy and appeared to contain books. It came from Edinburgh. Suddenly oblivious of the annoying interview with the lawyer, Val tore off the wrapping paper and discovered some folded newspapers and half a dozen volumes—new, glossy, enticing, several of them titles that she had heard discussed and wished to read. There was also a short note in crabbed writing.

  “My dear Miss Montgomery, Since I have not heard of your return to Edinburgh I conclude that you still remain at Ardnacarrig and trust that you are finding its air salubrious. However in case you are running short of reading matter (congenial reading matter, I mean; I do not refer to those forty thousand sermons in Louisa’s library) I take the liberty of enclosing a few publications, among which I hope that you will find something to interest you. Should you wish to review them for the next issue of Selkirk’s Magazine I shall be happy to remunerate you at our usual rates and in that case, please let me have your copy by the last day of the month! You have not yet kept your promise to write and tell me of Helen Ramsay. I very much hope that you have met by now, and I shall value your report on her. Please write soon. I recall our evening in Edinburgh with great pleasure. M.C. Post Scriptum. It is possible that I may need to visit your neighborhood in order to inspect my property; in this case I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you.”

  Val’s heart soared, then sank, then soared again, as she read this missive. She could see so plainly the real motive behind it. He wanted news of Helen. But still, how kind he was. He had sent her work, and congenial work too. She would expend all her talent in writing the reviews for him. And she would send him, too, a couple of the other pieces that she had written in the long silent evenings after the children had gone to bed. How glad she was that she had already visited Helen Ramsay and could write to him immediately.

  She walked swiftly outside to check, before commencing, that the children were within range, and innocuously employed. They were making little gardens, with stones and sticks, dead leaves, and moss, by the carriage drive. Reassured, she turned back toward the house and encountered Elspie crossing the yard with a brow of thunder. Ignoring this portent, Val asked blithely, “Well, Elspie, how did it go? Did he propose?”

  At that, Elspie’s indignation burst forth.

  “I’ll thank ye, Mistress Montgomery, tae mind your own affairs! What Mungo Bucklaw says to me is private betwixt oor-selves. It is tae be kenn’t by naebody else.”

  “Of course—of course it’s private,” Val agreed with swift contrition. “All I meant was, are you going to marry him?”

  “And what for do ye wish tae ken that? And how can I be marrying him, when it wad mean being cast oot frae my ain hame?”

  “But surely,” Val said, “Mungo would provide you with a home? Wouldn’t you sooner be with him?”

  “It’s no’ the same as the place where ye’ve drawn ilka breath of your life,” Elspie said. “Forbye,” she added, “gin I left Ardnacarrig, wha’d bide here tae care for the bairns?”

  “Don’t worry about that! I could stay on till somebody else was found,” said Val, thinking of Tibbie, but not certain that this was a diplomatic time to mention her. She was right. Elspie turned on her with wrath.

  “Ye could stay? Ye ignorant, feckless, harum-scarum, doited body? Ye think ye wad be able to manage here by yer lane?”

  “Yes, why not?” Val was rather amazed at this broadside. “I’ve carefully watched how you do things. I’m sure I could feed the poultry and skim the milk and make the butter. It only takes a little intelligence.”

  I wonder what Lady Stroma would say to such an arrangement, she thought with an internal grin.

  But Elspie’s outrage at this suggestion passed all bounds.

  “Ye think so? Why—ye’re nae mair use than a gecking corbie or a flyting sea maw! It’s aye talk, talk’ But ye canna clean an ashet decently, nor singe a gigot; ye canna lay a knife straicht on the table, nor wash linen white; ye leave the cogie greasy and the carcakes burning on the girdle; och, the hours I hae spent setting to richts a’ the things ye hae done wrong! An’ forbye, thinkin’ yerself so high and michty, wi’ yer proud airs, aye telling how yon thing or the ither should be done! Whiles I’ve fair gnashit my teeth at the eeritation o’t, an’ the awful hirdum-dirdum that ye leave ahint ye wherever ye gae. Is it ony wonder that I’m temptit tae give the bairns a skelp, whiles? Last nicht ye took yesterday’s cream frae the bowie—for what, i’ the name o’ goodness, what for could ye no’ take what was a’ ready i’ the coup? An’ ye left the chappin a’ clarty—an’ ye took the morn’s oatcake tae the library that I had no’ but just baked—what for could ye no’ have ta’en the snaps I had set oot ready for the doctor? Ye canna even make a decent bowl of parritch! I’ve nae mair patience wi’ ye and yer whim-whams. An’ to top all, I heard ye tellin’ the lawyer body that ye conseeder me ower auld an’ snell tae hae charge o’ the bairns! Aweel, let me tell ye, Mistress Montgomery, that I consider ye nae better than a silly tawpie, an’ if ye were a kitchen lassie I’d turn ye awa’!”

  With which parting salvo, Elsie stomped off into the dairy, leaving Val aghast, utterly astonished.

  For the last week or so she had honestly believed that she and the old woman were getting on rather well; she had congratulated herself on how skilfully she was managing to fall in with Elspie’s ways, while at the same time tactfully instilling a few useful precepts on how to organise the work of the house in a more rational and labour-saving manner. She had suggested, for instance, keeping all the dishes that were in daily use on one shelf, instead of distributed through a series of huge, inaccessible cupboards. She had poured all the meat drippings into one pot, and had cleaned out the half dozen dubious little individual pots previously in use. She had fetched a basket of apples into the kitchen, so that they were not obliged to make a long journey to a distant freezing outhouse every time an apple was wanted. She had offered to do some of the cooking—confident in a long and thorough tuition from old Chloe.

  And this was her
reward!

  Certainly, it was very unfortunate that Elspie had heard herself being described as too old and bad-tempered to look after the children. Val knew that she must apologise for this and try to make amends. But how had it come about? With all her faults of obstinacy and irritability, Elspie was honest as bread, and no eavesdropper. Then Val recollected that the upper gallery of the library was reached by a door from the head of the stairs, which generally stood open; it was not impossible that Elspie, passing by on some household errand, could have caught her own name spoken. Val’s heart sank. What else might the old woman have overheard?

  To settle her spirits before the apology, Val sat down in the library and wrote a warm letter of thanks to Sir Marcus. She described her day at Wolf’s Hope, and added, “I do not wonder that you love and admire Mrs. Ramsay. She is the most remarkable person I have ever met in my whole life. I know that she very much wishes to see you; I hope you will be able to come this way soon.” Val also detailed her daily routine at Ardnacarrig, related her conversation with the lawyer, and concluded, “I did not say this to Mr. M’Intyre but since he has left I have decided that, unless some better solution soon presents itself, I believe I must remain at Ardnacarrig for the present.”

  The decision had made itself while she was writing.

  She did not mention Mungo Bucklaw’s arrival. That, after all, was Elspie’s affair. She did warmly praise David Ramsay for his kindness and help with Jannie. And she mentioned the presence of the tinklers, but not the face at the window; she was now inclined to berate herself for the foolish fears of a city dweller over that and feel that she should not have been so alarmed by the incident. She must have imagined the resemblance to the man in London.

  And she finished by saying that, of course, should Sir Marcus find it necessary to visit the district, she would be pleased to see him.