Watch the Wall, My Darling

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘Thank you, Cousin.” Bending her head in stately acknowledgment, she could not help finding him faintly ridiculous. But then, it was not his fault that she was so much the taller. It was rather as if a mere gunboat should try and carry on a flirtation with a man-of-war.

  She smiled a little at the idea of herself as a man-of-war, and Mrs. Tretteign saw and, inevitably, misinterpreted the smile. “A most delightful young man, is he not? Such a contrast to my poor Ross! Such polish, such address, such savoir faire. I knew you could not fail but find him charming.”

  “I find him entertaining, certainly.” Christina was too wise to take up the cudgels, as she would have liked, on Ross’s behalf. But why did his mother underestimate him so?

  Mrs. Tretteign’s grumbling voice went on, “And Ross would not even take the trouble to change into full dress, though he knows how his grandfather feels about these new”—a coy look—“inexpressibles, I believe they call them.”

  “We call them pantaloons in America.”

  “My dear, that puts me in mind of something I had been intending to say to you. Of course your feeling for your father is an admirable thing, and quite what one would expect, but is it really necessary to drag America into the conversation quite so often as you do? I was really afraid your grandfather would have a spasm when you took poor Richard up so sharply.”

  “Were you, Aunt? Now is not that a strange thing? I thought he was pleased. Grandfather and I understand each other quite well these days, you know.”

  “Do you?” A sharp calculating glance. “I confess I was amazed when he did not make more of an issue of your insisting on calling yourself Tretton.”

  “It happens to be my name.”

  “Fiddlestick. If you had the slightest wish to oblige us—and most particularly your grandfather—you would not have been so obstinate.”

  “But why should I wish to oblige you, Aunt?”

  “Why? Give me patience! Have we not taken you in, housed you, fed you, clothed you?”

  “Grandfather has, it’s quite true. And in return I am running his house for him better, he says, than it’s been done for years.”

  “I see how it is.” Her aunt had recourse to a lacy pocket handkerchief. “I might have known that sooner or later you would be giving yourself airs because of running the house—and in a most improper way, too. My maid tells me you were in the kitchen half the afternoon, advising the cook about sauces. Most unsuitable!”

  “But the sauces were delicious, were they not? Come, Aunt, let us not quarrel. Perhaps my way of doing things is a little odd by English standards, but try to bear with me, and remember that I am an American, though I will try not to harp on it, as you ask. And as for you, think what an ornament you are to the household, which is more than I can ever be, a mile high like this, and built to match. Where would I get as a swooning miss in a drawing room? My line must be usefulness, and I intend to stick to it. Do you look after the refinements of life and I will see to it that the machine keeps going.”

  “Well, if you put it like that …” Mollified. “And if you will not mind my giving you a little hint now and then—”

  “I shall like it above all things. Good gracious, can this be the gentlemen already?”

  Old Mr. Tretteign entered the room first. “Tea?” he barked in answer to his daughter-in-law’s anxious question. “No, I do not wish to take tea, and nor, I should think, do these gentlemen after the inroads they have been making on my port. I shall have my second glass later, in my room, when this is all over. You may offer the rest of the party tea then, if you still wish to.” He had settled himself, while he spoke, in a huge armchair close to the fire. “Now, sit down where I can see you. Why the devil aren’t there more lights? No, don’t ring, Richard, aren’t you capable of lighting a few candles yourselves? Not you, Christina, you must learn that English young ladies stay still and let themselves be waited on. And don’t hide yourself in that corner either, come here and sit by me. That’s better.” She had pulled a low chair up close to his while her aunt settled herself with a petulant swish of skirts on the sofa. Mr. Foxton had withdrawn to a discreet corner where he sat watching the rest of the party with an expression at once anxious and disapproving. Now Richard and Ross finished lighting the remaining branches of candles and came forward to take their places in the circle around the fire.

  “Well now, we’re all here.” Old Mr. Tretteign was sitting up very straight in the big chair, surveying them in turn with his dark-circled eyes. “All the family—such as it is. And with the exception, of course, of your mother and sister, Christina.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “‘Yes, sir,’” he mimicked her. “So far as I am concerned, they left the family when they returned to France—they can stay out of it. Is that understood?”

  “You make yourself very clear.” She had no intention of arguing the point with him.

  “I intend to. Mr. Foxton is here in case there should be any legal point you—any one of you—wishes cleared up. He knows my intention and has protested against it as much as he dares. He admits, however, that there is nothing to stop me doing as I wish. Right, Foxton?”

  “Right, sir, but I must protest—”

  “No, you must not. You have had your opportunity for argument. Now it is my turn. So, first, you will confirm, I know, that since the breaking of the entail, there is nothing to prevent me leaving my property as I wish.”

  “Nothing but your own good sense, Mr. Tretteign. You know how I felt about the breaking of the entail.”

  “That will do, Foxton. The matter of the entail was a longstanding agreement, which, I will say for him, Ross chose to honor. And was rewarded for his co-operation by the purchase of his commission. Have you anything to say, Ross?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. So, here I am, eighty-nine, in full possession of my faculties, and ready to dispose of my estate. Such as it is. You, Ross, have suspected for some time, I think, that we are not so rich as we were. It’s true. I’m not going to apologize, or explain. Why should I? I’m entitled to do what I like with my own. If I’ve been unlucky in my investments—well, there it is. There’s no reason why I should be accountable to you—to any of you. You, Ross, and you, Richard, have had your schooling at my hands. You, Mrs. Tretteign, have had your jointure regularly paid, and houseroom here as well. Have you anything to say at this point?”

  Ross looked up. “What about Christina, sir?”

  “I owe her nothing. Her father chose to abandon his home, and, worse still, his country. He could have starved in the streets before I helped him.… Don’t interrupt me, girl. What’s past, is past. It’s the future we are thinking of tonight. And you, Ross, hold your tongue. From now on, I’ll have no more interruptions. This is not a pleasant task for me … I want it over. As I have told you, I consider myself in no way accountable to any of you, but, in order that you may understand what I intend to do, I must explain the position in which I find myself. You will be quiet, all of you, and listen. First of all there is the Abbey—or the Grange, if you prefer it. It has been in the family since Henry VIII gave it us. Its title is free and clear as it has always been. I intend that it shall remain so. You, Ross, have tried to persuade me to sell some of the outlying part of the estate in order to feed the rest. I won’t have it, do you understand?”

  “So I have found.”

  “Nor yet will I have it said that I did not provide properly for my descendents. So—in addition to the estate, I have sufficient capital to take care of your jointure, Mrs. Tretteign, so long as may be necessary, and to produce, in addition, an income of a thousand pounds a year. This is what we are living on, and why I am not exactly lavish in the articles of wax candles and tea. When I die, I propose that the income shall be divided equally between Ross and Richard.… Quiet, Ross, I am coming to Christina. She gets everything else … the Abbey, the shingle, the marsh, the sheep—on two conditions. First, that she keep her aunt here as long as she wishes to stay
. Second, that she marry either you, Ross, or Richard.” A lifted hand compelled silence. “No, I’ll not be interrupted! And, if it’s Richard, he’s to change his name to Tretteign. At least, thus, the name continues.” He stopped, surveying them broodingly from the depths of his chair.

  “But it’s absurd,” said Ross.

  “Fantastic,” said Richard.

  “I won’t,” said Christina.

  “Quite so.” He was unexpectedly patient. “That’s what Foxton said—at first. So let me explain a little further. And do, I beg, remember that I have absolute control of it all. And—I flatter myself that I have provided for everything. If, when my will is proved, you, Christina, are not married either to Richard or to Ross, Mrs. Tretteign’s income remains the same, the rest is divided between the three of you, and the Abbey goes to the Patriotic Fund. Think what an admirable army camp it would make, Ross. Imagine the convenience for Mr. Pitt, Richard. I don’t know exactly how any of you will contrive to live, but that will be your own affair. I only hope, for all your sakes, that Christina can be prevailed upon to marry one of you.”

  “Sir, it’s not fair,” said Richard.

  “Fair? Who said anything about fairness? And, if you mean, as I suppose, that Ross has had first chance at the lady—well, surely you—Bond Street beau that you are—can afford to give him that slight advantage.” He had pulled himself to his feet as he spoke. “Now—I’m exhausted. I’ve made up my mind. The will is to be drawn up tomorrow … signed, sealed and witnessed. Mr. Foxton takes it back to London with him. So, if you want time to make up your mind, girl, you had best take care of me. Ring for my man, Ross, I’ll not have any of you helping me upstairs and arguing all the way. Trouble out of any one of you, and it goes to the Patriotic Fund at once. Is that understood? Then, good night … and pleasant dreams.”

  “It’s monstrous.” Christina had jumped to her feet and spoke the moment the door closed behind her grandfather. “Can he do it, Mr. Foxton?”

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Tretton—”

  “Fantastic,” said Richard. And then, “Now I see why he told me to plan to stay as long as I could. Cousin Christina, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then don’t say it,” said Ross.

  “But, what about me?” wailed Mrs. Tretteign.

  “I’m going to bed,” said Christina.

  “At eight o’clock?” Ross laughed. “Well, I can’t say I blame you, Chris. At least it puts off our proposals till the morning, eh, Richard?”

  “How can you speak of it so lightly, Ross. Cousin Christina, how can I find words to convey my feelings for you, placed in a position of such delicacy—such—”

  “In the morning,” interrupted Ross. “Here is your candle, Chris.”

  “Thank you.” She could only hope that its wavering flame did not reveal treacherous tears in her eyes. “Good night.” She was safe away.

  Chapter Five

  Resisting the temptation to storm in and tell her grandfather what she thought of him, Christina hurried to the asylum of her bedroom and threw herself into its one armchair. Useless to go to bed—she was far too angry to sleep.

  Plan after furious plan chased through her head, to be rejected one after the other. Comic, in a way, to think how the old man had unwittingly outgeneraled her. But—she did not find it funny. Inevitably, her thoughts came back to Ross. “At least it puts off our proposals till the morning.” He had meant it, too. Intolerable.… She shivered, not entirely from cold, though the fire had burned low on her hearth. The house was quiet; her candle was flickering in its socket; it must be very late indeed. “Till the morning.” Ross’s mocking voice. Mocking her, or himself, or both of them? She jumped to her feet. She would need her wits about her in the morning, if she was to refuse two proposals, and keep her secret.

  Her candle was almost out now and she lit the two on her dressing table from it. Old Mr. Tretteign would be appalled at such an extravagance. The idea pleased her for a moment, and then, irritated with herself, she moved away to push her window open behind the heavy curtains. Wind caught it and almost wrested it from her hands before she made the bar fast on its nail. As she did so, she thought she heard movement below. Was that a groan, or merely the wind worrying around the corners of the house? Holding the window steadily now, she pushed it farther open and leaned out to peer down into darkness.

  As she did so, a whisper came up to her, just audible in a temporary lull of the wind. “Chris? Thank God! It’s me—Ross. Can you come down to the side entrance—quickly? And quietly? Bring some rags … anything … an old sheet.” And again the groaning, unmistakable now.

  “You’re hurt?”

  “No—not me. Quickly, Chris. And—wake no one.”

  “I’m coming.” She had no thought but to obey him. A shawl around her shoulders; basilicum powder from the chest in the hall; a clean but threadbare sheet from the linen cupboard; and she was hurrying down the side stairs, the candle flickering in her hand. The big bolt was shot to in the side door and she had to put down the bundle she was carrying to unfasten it. To her relief, it moved easily, as if it had been recently oiled, and the door, too, swung open silently.

  “Bless you, Chris.” Ross stooped, so that the head of the man he carried would clear the low door. “Watch there’s no blood, will you? And—light me to the cloisters.”

  “The cloisters! But—he’s hurt” Like him, she spoke in the lowest possible whisper as she closed the door silently behind him.

  “It can’t be helped. Quietly, now.” They were passing the steep stairway that led to the servants’ quarters. The man he carried hung limp over his shoulder and Christina thought he must be unconscious. An ominous dark patch had spread on one sleeve of his light-colored greatcoat and, once, as Ross moved him to get under the low door into the stable yard, she saw something dark splash on the doorstep.

  “Ross!” She put down the candle and bent to scrub at it with a corner of the sheet, and as she did so the candle blew out.

  “Never mind. I know my way. Keep close behind me.” He was edging along the side of the yard toward the entrance of the chapel. In the archway, he paused. “The keys,” he said. “On my chain. Can you?”

  Her hands shook as she felt inside his heavy coat, found the keys and fumbled them off the chain. “There.”

  “Keep near me—and, quickly. I don’t know how long we’ve got.”

  The chapel was an even blacker dark than the night outside, and she was glad to keep close behind him. A brief pause, as he found the lock of the door on the farther side, and they were in the cloisters, where a sickle moon gave just a hint of light, after the pitch blackness of the chapel.

  “This way.” He turned to the left, to edge his way carefully along the side wall. “We can talk now.” His voice, pitched normally, sounded oddly loud.

  Equally strange, she found, for a moment, that she had nothing to say.

  “We left no traces?” He had reached the first corner of the cloister and was using the other key on one of the doors he had told her led nowhere.

  “I don’t think so.” She followed him through the doorway.

  “Good. Feel above the door, will you? You’ll find a tinder-box and candle.”

  Her hands felt cold stone, dust, and then the box. It seemed to take her a very long time to get the candle alight, but he stood, silently, in the darkness, his breathing, rather quick from the burden he had carried, the only sound.

  “There.” At last the little flame grew in her hands and the room came to shadowy life around them. It was small, square, windowless, deep in dust and furnished with a cot, chair and table.

  While Christina moved forward to put down the candle, Ross eased the man he carried down onto the bed. Standing again. “I’ll have to leave you with him,” he said. “You’re not afraid?”

  “Should I be?”

  “He’ll be more so, if he comes to, which I doubt. He’s French. You speak it of course. Tell him he’s with friends. Bandage his
wound if you know how, keep him quiet. He’s bled a great deal. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  “When will that be?”

  “How can I tell?” Impatiently. “We are bound to have … visitors. God knows how soon. They’ll want higher authority before they come here—it depends on many things. I must be there to receive them … they would hardly disturb you in bed.”

  “You expect a search?” Was she mad to be helping him?

  “Yes, of course. No time to explain. If you hear us coming, put the light out and keep him quiet, at all costs. And I mean at all costs. And—trust me, Chris?”

  “I suppose I must. There’s blood on your coat. Best leave it here. And—look in the back entrance, there was blood there. I may not have got rid of it all.”

  “Thank you. You’ll need this to cover him.” He dropped his heavy coat on the chair. “I’ll have to lock you in. Do you mind?”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Chris. And … thank you.” He closed the door gently behind him and she heard the key turn in the lock as she bent over the wounded man. He was very pale, and the dark patch of blood on his right shoulder had spread alarmingly. She went back to the door, where she had dropped her bundle, brought it to the table, found the sharp pair of scissors she had wrapped in the sheet and began the awkward job of getting his clothes away from the wound. Her hand shook less now that she was alone and busy, and she took time to think it was lucky for this unknown Frenchman that she was a barbarian of an American girl who had been taught, among other things, how to dress a wound. Inevitably, this made her think of her father—there had been no helping him—but she set her teeth and went on with her work.

  At last she straightened up and looked down at him. It was not, after all, so bad as she had feared from the effusion of blood. A clean bullet wound, she thought, and the ball not lodged. He had been lucky. At the thought, his eyes flickered open and he peered up at her in the half dark. “Where am I? What has happened?”