Watch the Wall, My Darling

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Taquin! How do you say it? Tease? Is he not a sad tease, our Cousin Ross.” Once again this was impartially for Richard and Christina. And then, “But won’t you come too, Tina? There’s so much to talk about. Just think, I know Cousin Ross better than I do you. He says you’re a formidable housekeeper and make them all mind you.”

  Christina laughed. “That’s just why I don’t think I’d better come too. I’ve a million things to see to just now. Besides, Mamma’s been with Grandfather for quite half an hour.”

  “Getting round him, too, I’ll be bound. Trust Mamma. Well, come then, Ross. Where’s this ghost you promise me? Cousin Richard, had you not best come too, to help protect me? I’m terrified of ghosts! Or will your coat stand the rain? I’m sure it is raining. It has been ever since we landed. Ross cares nothing for his clothes, I know. Mamma was quite shocked when we first met. She will think you very much more the thing, Cousin Richard. And I will teach you to kiss hands properly, since Ross here won’t learn. In exchange, you shall tell me all about London society, of which Ross seems to have the most Gothic ideas. I’m sure you’ve been to Almack’s, Cousin Richard?”

  “Of course I have. And of course I shall join you in your tour of the house. Ross is as likely as not to forget all about you in some confabulation with his groom.”

  “Do you think so? I wonder …” She smiled up at Ross, sparkling, teasing, enchantingly sure of her power. It was no wonder, thought Chris, that both men looked as if they could eat her. There was something irresistible about her happy confidence in her own charms. Now she had put a hand into each of theirs, with a child’s gay impatience. “Come on then—I long to meet your ghost. Will he appear for me, do you think?”

  “He’ll be a brute if he doesn’t,” said Ross.

  But she had drawn back with a little squeak of dismay. “Good God, where are you taking me? Will I be safe, Tina?”

  “I’m sure you will.” So protected, she might have added, as Ross and Richard followed Sophie into the dark lobby, and she heard them vying with each other for the privilege of adjusting her pattens. It seemed a long time since Ross had done the same thing for her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christina paused for a moment outside her study door. The party of exploration had still not returned and it was—maddeningly—impossible not to keep following it in her mind. Once, while she was talking to the cook, she had heard Sophie’s high, delighted laughter in the stable yard outside, and then her voice. “Oh, Cousin Ross, you are so naughtee …”

  Ross? Naughty? She had caught Cook’s speculative eye fixed upon her, and left the kitchen abruptly. Now she plunged, as for sanctuary, into her study. Inevitably, during his absence, she had taken over Ross’s duties about the estate. It was easy to make herself very busy bringing the accounts up to date.

  At last her mother put her head around the door. “Ah there you are, my love.” Her accent was more marked than Sophie’s. “Betty said I would probably find you here. A pleasant enough child, that one, but knows nothing about dress—it’s no wonder …”

  Christina managed a laugh. “I look such a frump? Are you going to take me in hand, Mamma? Don’t you despair, just at the size of me?”

  “Not a bit of it.” She closed the door behind her and settled comfortably in the one easy chair. “I find you striking, Christina—your face has formed itself much better than I expected. As for your height—it’s a misfortune, of course, but perhaps not so bad as it might be. I find your grandfather charming.” It was clear that she expected Christina to see the connection.

  “You’ve had a long talk.”

  “Yes. He’s lonely, poor old man. He plans to come down to dinner, by the way. He told me to tell you.”

  “Good gracious! What did you do to him, Mamma?”

  “Just let him talk. He seems to have made a sad botch of your affairs, chérie, with the best intentions in the world.”

  “Oh. He told you about that, did he?”

  “Of course. I only wish M. Ross had thought fit to do so. It’s awkward.” And then, with the smile that could not fail to charm. “I am paying you the compliment, love, of speaking to you frankly as woman to woman.”

  “Yes.” Christina managed to smile back. “I’m grateful. But … it is awkward, is it not?”

  “Men!” Her mother said succinctly. “Well, to be fair—and it must be your greatest comfort, Christina—they are both perfectly convinced—your grandfather and that great stupid Ross—that you agreed to the engagement only from your strong sense of duty.” She laughed. “At least I know you better than that. Sense of duty indeed! Mon Dieu, how hard I tried to persuade you that it was your duty to come home to France with me.” And then, quick to recognize Christina’s reaction. “But we’ll not talk of that. Not yet, not now. We’ve more urgent matters to consider. Your poor Ross is head over ears. Well”—fair-mindedly—“my little Sophie’s a charming child. Something, I imagine, quite outside his experience.”

  “Yes.” Christina was amazed, and grateful, to find herself discussing it so calmly. “Ross thinks he can persuade Grandfather to consent to an engagement between them.”

  “He’s told you so?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Quite so. He’s wrong of course. Besides, it’s absurd. A folly. Sophie wouldn’t have him. And quite right too. It wouldn’t last three months. Oh—she’s enjoying it, of course—who wouldn’t? Eh bien, I was afraid I would find myself deadly bored here, but I can see I was quite mistaken. You are to put yourself in my hands, chérie—no, wait a moment, there’s something that needs saying. You were angry with me, were you not, when I left? You thought I’d betrayed you both, Christopher and you?”

  “Yes.” At least there would be no pretenses between them.

  “Do you understand it better now? I had a life too, do you see? And a duty, I felt, to you and Sophie. Poor Christopher—he was always trying to prove something to himself. And yet he sent you back here in the end?”

  “Yes.” Christina had thought of this too.

  “Well, there you are.” For her, this settled it. “Tell me about Lieutenant Trevis.”

  “Trevis? There’s nothing to tell.”

  “No? Your Grandfather seemed to think he showed devotion—well, over and above the line of duty.”

  “My aunt’s a terrible gossip.”

  “But I notice you don’t deny it. Well, let’s hope—”

  Christina laughed. “That he proves more faithful than Ross? Mother—”

  “No, don’t say it.” Her mother raised a plump, gracefully protesting hand. “Don’t say any of it. You’ll only be sorry, later. Discussing things hardens them, makes them more real than they need to be. We’re not going to talk about any of this again. Besides, we’ve got a great deal else to think of. Money, to begin with. You’ve not even asked whether I succeeded in what I went to France for.”

  “I thought it none of my business.”

  “Oh dear.” An expressive, Gallic shrug. “Do you find money a dirty subject, too, like my poor Christopher? Well, I’m sorry, chérie, but we’ve got to discuss it just the same. I will say for your grandfather, he doesn’t suffer in that way. It was the first thing he wanted to know. We got on famously once he knew I did not mean to be a charge on him.”

  “You mean, you did …?”

  “Of course. Oh, I see. Ross told you otherwise. Well”—she laughed—“I thought he had enough on his mind without knowing what I was smuggling. Yes—I got most of it out of France with me. It’s nothing tremendous, mind you, but enough to keep me in reasonable comfort—and provide a dot for Sophie. I hope your father’s done the same for you. That was our understanding, you know, when I left. His to you, mine to Sophie. But by the looks of you I’m afraid his can’t have been much. Is that miserable gown the best you have?”

  “I’m afraid so—but you mustn’t blame Father. You see, he made me promise—oh dear, how difficult it is—”

  “One more of his c
rackbrained notions? That poor Christopher. I loved him dearly, you know.” And, oddly, Christina realized it was true.

  “So did I,” she said.

  “And you stayed with him. I know. And made him some absurd quixotic promise, on his deathbed, that is not to be revealed to a soul? Right?”

  “Yes, that’s about it. But only for six months.” Pleading now, for her father rather than herself, “Six months here, as a trial, he said, in my old clothes, dependent …” Her voice dwindled away. It had seemed reasonable enough, in the snowbound cabin, with his lifeblood staining the sheets. Now, under her mother’s sparkling intelligent eye, it was another matter.

  “A trial of you—or of your grandfather? No, no … no need to answer that one. He intended it, of course, as a test of your grandfather, and equally, of course, you’re the one it’s hard on. He left the money—there’s a little, I know, your grandfather told me—tied up, I suppose, so you’d be dependent on the family. Lunatic, my poor Christopher, but like him.” She said it with such obvious affection that Christina’s protest was mild.

  “Not tied up,” she said. “He just made me promise.

  “Precisely. And being the girl you are, you’d keep it, even though it means being as good as invisible in those drab alpacas of yours. And all the time earning double money, as even your grandfather has the grace to admit, as housekeeper and bailiff. Do you ride as well as ever?”

  “I suppose so.” Surprised. “But there’s no sidesaddle. And no horse, for the matter of that.”

  “No, but there’s going to be. I’ve settled it with the old man. I’m to outfit you. And we’ll have no argument about it either. And he’s to provide horses for you and Sophie.”

  “Sophie? But she hates riding.”

  “Quite so. And does it very badly. It’s time she improved, if she’s to set up as an English young lady.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “No. I said we’d have no argument. I am your mother after all, and I think, in effect, we understand each other. Now, tell me, is there anything to stop us going to Hastings tomorrow?”

  “Hastings? Not if Grandfather lets us use the carriage—and if you don’t mind a rough journey. Ross says the roads are terrible. But why?”

  “Christina, don’t pretend to be more stupid than you are. Because it’s the nearest place where we can buy suitable materials, of course. I do not propose to have one plain and one fancy daughter for a moment longer than I can help. Just think what a monster I must seem to the world at large.”

  “But there is no world here, Mother. We see no one.”

  “That’s another thing I’m going to change. And, pour commencer, we are going to make a party of dinner tonight. That red velvet in your closet looks as if it came from quite a different stable from the rest of your clothes. You’ll wear that, and I shall do your hair.”

  Christina had never known the Dark House to seem so gay. After considering the possibilities of dining in the Great Hall, her mother had vetoed it, as being Gothic beyond belief. “We’d freeze to death, and your grandfather would probably catch pneumonia.” Instead, they had the last leaf put into the family dining table, a huge fire built up in the hearth and a screen placed around the head of the table, where old Mr. Tretteign would sit, to shield him from draughts. Candlesticks from all over the house held a supply of wax candles that made even Christina raise her eyebrows. “I’ll pay for them,” said Mrs. Tretton, “if necessary.” She was busy contriving a centerpiece for the table out of shells Christina had collected on her walks along the beach. “Now—a touch of color.” She stood back to survey her handiwork. “I know. I saw some colored glass balls somewhere, goodness knows what they are.”

  “Net floats,” said Christina. “I’ll get them.”

  Satisfied at last with what her neat fingers had made, Mrs. Tretton turned to Christina. “And now for you.”

  Christina smiled. “You’ll find me less easy material.”

  “Nonsense. Your bones are admirable—and your figure, too, if you would only do it justice. But that alpaca …” She shooed Betty and her curling tongs away and arranged Christina’s hair in a series of loose waves. “Mme. Récamier had her hair so, the last time I saw her.” She paused to note the effect in the glass. “Yes, leave ringlets for the pretty little girls. This is your style.”

  Christina managed a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mamma. You’re right, of course.” But what’s the use, said her voice.

  Her mother gave her a little shake. “Courage, chérie, it’s never so bad as you think.”

  “No?” But the gong was ringing. They hurried downstairs in time to greet old Mr. Tretteign as he came down, very shakily, on Ross’s arm. Christina, seeing him for the first time away from the warm chrysalis of his rooms, was shocked at the change his illness had made in him, and doubly grateful for the precautions she and her mother had taken.

  Safely settled in the big-armed chair at the head of the table, he looked about him. “Well,” with surprised approval, “the old place looks almost civilized.” Christina, who knew him well by this time, thought she saw a comment on the extravagant number of candles trembling on his lips, but, if so, he suppressed it. “So you’re Sophie.” The rest of them had not yet taken their places, and Sophie was standing, somewhat shyly, for once, between Richard and Ross. “Come here, child, and let’s have a look at you.” And then, as she came forward and dropped him a graceful curtsy. “Well, we’ve got one beauty in the family at least. I didn’t know Christopher had it in him. You are to be congratulated, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Tretton. “But I consider that I have two beautiful daughters. Even if Christina does take after my husband’s side of the family.”

  He laughed, the harsh, grating laugh they heard so rarely. “Touché! And, tonight, I’ll concede your point. You look actually handsome, Christina. I wonder why.” A sharp glance from under the shaggy brows told her he wanted to think it was because she was happy at Ross’s return. How could he be so blind, with Ross still just a pace behind Sophie, his eyes for her alone? Still—merciful if he continued so.

  “My mother has taken me in hand, sir.” And much good it would do her, Christina thought bitterly, as they took their places around the table. Since the party consisted of seven people, she and her mother had decided to seat them three a side, with old Mr. Tretteign at the head of the table. Inevitably, since Mrs. Tretton and Sophie, as newcomers, sat on his right and left, Christina and her Aunt Tretteign were at the bottom of the table, with an empty place below them. True, Christina had Ross on her other side, but, after carefully holding her chair for her to sit down, he had leaned instantly across the table to hear what Richard was saying to Sophie. He was questioning her about life in Paris under the new empire and of course the whole table listened to what she had to say. She had actually seen Napoleon on several occasions, but, disappointingly, seemed to remember little about him except the ornate uniforms he liked to wear when holding court. His wife, Josephine, was another matter. “She’s beautiful”—Sophie gave her highest praise—“in a lazy sort of way. And dresses superbly. Last time I saw her, she had on a gown of silver tissue, embroidered all over with tiny eagles … you never saw anything like it.”

  “But her character?” asked Ross. “What is she like? Has she any influence over her husband?”

  “Character?” Sophie sounded as if the word was too hard for her. “Ask Mamma about that. She certainly helped us, didn’t she Mamma?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Tretton took over smoothly, as if from long practice. “She can influence her husband, I think, on points he thinks not of the first importance. Otherwise—no. No one can. That’s his strength.”

  “It might be his weakness, too,” said Ross.

  “You’re right of course. But he’s an extraordinary man. He really believes, I think, in his destiny—and more important still, can convince other people of it”

  “Not everyone, it seems.”

  “No. That poor
Moreau …” And then, as if she felt she had neglected him too long, she turned to old Mr. Tretteign. “You must remember some of the great British figures, sir. Christopher used to say what a good friend you were of the first Pitt, the Earl of Chatham. Do tell me what he was like.”

  “Ah—he was a man. Young Billy’s only a shadow of him, whatever you may say, Ross.”

  “I have said nothing, sir.”

  “No need to, with that villainous disapproving face. But never mind, I’ll take wine with you, boy, and tell you I’m glad to see you home, whatever mischief you may have been up to.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ross smiled as he lifted his glass.

  Inevitably, the talk turned to the chances of invasion, and even Sophie stopped cross-examining Richard about women’s fashions in London to let out a little squeak of dismay when Ross explained that it all depended on Napoleon’s getting control of the Channel—“Even for so much as a day.”

  “But he won’t, will he?”

  “Not if Nelson has any say in the matter.”

  Listening, Christina remembered the news he had brought —that Villeneuve was out of Toulon. Suppose he should elude Nelson—or even, by some terrible chance, defeat him?

  But Sophie was speaking again. “We must get those horses, Mamma, quickly. Suppose they landed right here, in the bay, there wouldn’t be room for us all in the carriage.”

  “We wouldn’t all be going.” Did Ross’s voice hold less than its usual adoration? “Richard and I would stay to fight.”

  “But where? Everyone says there’s no defending the marsh.”

  “Everyone may, but we marshmen know better. Oh, it would be guerrilla fighting, I know, but that’s what the French soldier is least able to counter. They’ve found that already over and over again.”

  “Well,” she pouted. “I think it a very depressing subject for our welcome home party, Cousin Ross. Richard, tell me all about the London theater. Is the boy they call the Young Roscius the prodigy they say? Just think, he is younger than I am!”