Mrs Craven had ordered tea to be brought, and at that moment called to Elinor and her husband to join them.
'We'll send you home in our chaise when Jane is feeling more the thing, Elinor,' she said. 'It will be better for you than in that open waggon Jonah Carter uses. And you must let us know if there is anything we can do for you.'
Elinor smiled her thanks, and hoped Jane would soon pull herself together. She wanted to be out of the village before the service ended, knowing that both curiosity and commiserations would be painful for Jane. Her hopes were in vain. Jane's lamentations continued unabated, and eventually Mrs Craven said she would put the girl to bed.
'But I will send you and Mattie home, and no doubt you will be coming into the village as usual tomorrow. If she is better we'll send her home then.'
She and Mattie were just about to climb into the chaise when the church doors opened and Lady Tremaine emerged, escorted solicitously by the Rector. She glanced at Elinor, then turned her back and loudly demanded to know where her own carriage was.
'I appreciate your condolences, Rector. Only a mother can know what sorrow is at losing a son. I deplore any excess of sensibility from others who have no such reason, and no control.'
Elinor gritted her teeth. She longed to tell the old witch how all Jane's hopes had been destroyed. Instead, she thrust Mattie up the steps and climbed into the chaise after her. She had more important things to think about than a malevolent old woman.
*
Paul was stacking the hay under a lean-to when someone touched his arm. He swung round, startled, and found Marga, the daughter of Gervaas' neighbour, with her milk pail, smiling at him.
She brought milk every day. Her father owned a cow, and they supplied several neighbours. She spoke to Paul whenever she came, sometimes walking some distance into the fields if he was working there. Fifteen years old, she had long flaxen hair in a thick plait, pale blue eyes set in a round face, and rosy cheeks. It was obvious she was attracted to him, and Paul was seriously embarrassed by her attentions, especially as Andre, now able to hobble outside and sit on the bench under the window, was clearly jealous.
Paul considered her a child, a pretty one, but still a child. He realised he had no idea of his own age, but knew he was much too old for Marga. How to evade her without giving offence was a problem he had not solved. He had tried to talk to Andre, explaining how he was not attracted to the girl, but that itself offended the boy who was so enamoured he felt every man ought to be in love with her.
'She doesn't want me, now I'm crippled,' he said, the bitterness in his voice obvious.
Paul could offer little encouragement. Marga had made her feelings only too plain, shying away from Andre and looking at his damaged leg without concealing her revulsion.
'You'll always have a limp,' Paul said, 'but you can get about quite well now. Soon you'll be able to help your father with the easy tasks.'
'And then you'll leave us.'
'I cannot stay here for the rest of my life, Andre.'
'Where will you go? Paris?'
Paul sighed. 'I do not know,' he said slowly. 'I don't know where I came from. I am grateful to your parents for giving me shelter, but once you are able to help more I will be in the way. The farm cannot support us all.'
'But now you have taught me how to deal with figures, I could be a clerk. Perhaps I could go to Brussels. Then you could stay here.'
Paul smiled but shook his head. Already he was finding the monotony of life on this small farm difficult to endure. He was well aware it was largely due to the restlessness of not knowing who he was, but he must, surely, regain his memory soon. He set his mind to thinking about what he might do to prompt this recovery.
*
Elinor had just returned from the village, where everyone had been talking about Lord Tremaine's death, when Phyllis came to the cottage. She and Mattie were close friends, and Phyllis contrived to call at the cottage most days, when her mistress was resting. Today, she said with a sniff, Lady Tremaine had refused to rise from her bed.
'She was all ready to go and show herself in church yesterday,' Phyllis said. 'Now she's expecting the county to call with condolences, and says she must recruit her strength.'
'Has the soldier who brought the news gone?' Elinor asked.
'He left early yesterday morning. She wanted him to go to church with her, but he had more sense.'
'What did he say?' Jane asked. The Cravens had sent Jane home the previous evening, explaining she wished to be with her sister.
She had wanted to remain in bed herself, until Elinor had lost her temper and told her neither she nor Mattie had time to keep running up and down stairs with possets and invalid food to tempt her appetite.
'Even if we could afford beef broth and chicken wings and wine,' she added. 'We need to earn even more now, and save more, since we cannot be sure we'll be allowed to stay here. You had best try and decide on becoming a companion.'
Ignoring Jane's tears she had packed the donkey's panniers with the loaves she had baked on the previous day, all she had had time for after Mr Craven's coachman had driven them home. Luckily there were some early vegetables and she took those as well. Tomorrow she would pick some raspberries and make more tartlets. If only she had the means to make preserves, they would be far more profitable, but she was thankful for the range and the bread oven, which not many cottages had.
Phyllis had brought a bottle of wine, and Mattie fetched the glasses. Elinor savoured it. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed wine.
'The soldier told us they discovered his lordship's body only because he was clutching his pocket book, and in it was a letter he'd begun to write. There were people going over the battlefield, stripping the dead soldiers of their clothes, and thieving whatever else they could. Many of them could not be identified, and were just being thrown into common graves.'
'A letter? To me?' Jane asked, showing the first animation since she had heard the news.
Phyllis looked embarrassed and glanced across at Elinor.
'It was only half a page, to his mother,' she said eventually.
'You can't expect a soldier, in the middle of a battle, to be writing letters,' Elinor said. 'From what I read in The Times they had been fighting for days.'
'The letter had his mother's name, that was the only way he could be identified,' Phyllis explained.
Elinor shuddered. Although she had read the reports of the battle in The Times she found it hard to imagine what the scene would have been like. Thousands of men had been involved, but it was not known how many had perished. She had heard of women searching the ground for their loved ones. It was a scene she could not imagine, the dead and wounded, men and horses, littering what had once been fields of growing corn for as far as one could see. Most of the dead, she suspected, would never be identified, and only when they failed to return home or to their regiments would it be assumed they had died. They had been fortunate to have Edmund's death confirmed. This was better, she decided, than suffering months of suspense and never knowing for certain what had happened to him.
Phyllis said she had better go back to her mistress.
'She will have to move to the Dower House when the new Viscount comes,' she said. 'She won't be at all pleased about that. She's complained often enough that it's small and the rooms are poky, but she did nothing about it when she had the opportunity. I suspect she thought she would always be able to live at the Court, even when his lordship married.'
*
'I want to go and see the place where you found me,' Paul said one evening in August. 'It might bring back some memories.'
He was aware that with winter approaching he might become a burden on the family. There would not be enough work to keep all three of them occupied, especially now Andre was getting better and more able to move around.
Gervaas nodded slowly.
'We can go tomorrow. There is nothing that needs to be done that cannot wait.'
'How f
ar is it?'
'An hour's walk to La Belle Alliance. That was where the Emperor had his headquarters.'
Paul nodded. He'd been told how the Emperor Napoleon had been banished to the small island of Elba, and had escaped and formed another army which had been defeated by the British and Prussian troops, but he felt nothing, no connection with either side. The occasional memory of past events came to him, but they were more odd thoughts than structured knowledge. And as they were usually historical events of long ago, things he had presumably learned in school, they were of no help in bringing back memories of his own life. Their only value was in suggesting he had attended a school.
They set off early the following morning. Freija had been dubious, saying she could not imagine how seeing the battlefield would help Paul's memory, but she shrugged and gave them some bread and cheese, and some early apples.
'That's the inn, La Belle Alliance,' Gervaas said, halting as it came into view. 'Hougoumont is over there to the left. There was a deal of fighting there, and you can see the damage to the buildings. I was burying bodies about midway between the two. Near the end, when they knew it was lost, most of the French fled and were chased by the English cavalry. There were both French and English bodies, and horses, over most of the fields. Does it bring back any memories?'
Paul began to shake his head, then paused.
'I can imagine a horse beneath me,' he said slowly.
'Both cavalry forces were involved here, so that does not tell you which army you belonged to. I've heard a good deal about the battle in the past two months. Even the Prussians were here, though they came late. They rode up behind the inn, so a good many of them could have been here.'
Paul looked across the rolling ground. It had been planted with rye, he'd been told, but there had been a good deal of rain, and after the soldiers had trampled it, bivouacked, and fought over the ground it had been left a sea of mud. Two months later a few brave shoots of grass were visible. By next year the farmers could, Paul thought, replant their fields. It did not, however, restore any memories.
They went to the farm at Hougoumont, and Gervaas, sounding as proud as if he had been personally responsible, explained how the British had been defending it all day against ferocious attacks.
'The French broke down the gate at one point, but it was forced shut again. The chateau and other buildings were set on fire, and many were killed. But it held out to the end.'
'You sound as though you wanted the French defeated,' Paul said as they walked towards the ruined buildings.
'I just want to be left to get on with my own life. I'm neither French nor English. Saving your pardon if you're French, Napoleon may have done some good things, but his passion to rule everywhere did us no favours.'
Paul surveyed the broken-down walls, the huge battered gate, the fire-blackened ruins, but he had no memories. If his body had been found outside it seemed probable he had not been at the chateau. It stirred no recollection.
Eventually they went home. Paul was despondent, but Freija shrugged, and said she believed memory could return as suddenly and inexplicably as it had been lost. Paul could only pray she was right.
*
Elinor sold everything she could from the garden during the autumn. She filled the donkey's panniers every day with the bread, pies and tartlets she baked, and added the vegetables and fruit in season from old Ted's garden and orchard. Jane, listless after the news of Edmund's death, had to be bullied to continue with her sewing.
'We need every penny!' Elinor scolded. 'Lady Tremaine wants us out of here, but until the new Lord Tremaine comes to live at the Court we are safe. We may need money afterwards if we have to rent somewhere to live.'
'Surely he won't turn us out.'
'He will if his aunt has any say in the matter. Jonah says she complains about us every time he sees her.'
'She's an old witch! It was the only disadvantage there would have been, if I'd married Edmund, having to live with her. She would never have moved to the Dower House.'
'She may have to,' Elinor said, with some satisfaction. 'Jonah says Lord Tremaine's mother and sister will be coming with him, and they are neither of them likely to endure her ladyship's pretensions. I suppose his brother will come too during Oxford vacations.'
'What have you heard?'
'I understand they have a house near Bude, but it is a small one. William was left only a modest competence, and his mother had no fortune. Her father was a farmer.'
'So no doubt she was considered just as unsuitable as I was to be wed to a Tremaine!'
'Mayhap she was, but Jonah knows her, and says she behaves as though she were the daughter of a duke! I cannot see her and Edmund's mother living in harmony. Lady Tremaine – I suppose we should refer to her as the dowager now – likes to have everything her own way.'
'We can't leave here! I know it is inconvenient, and small, but it's much better than lodgings in Plymouth would be! We'd only be able to afford one room, in a back slum, most like!'
'Unless we obtain positions as governesses or companions. Mr Craven keeps all the newspapers for me, and there are advertisements there. I mean to start sending more applications as soon as there is less to do in the garden.'
'Something will happen.'
'I hope so, but what do you expect?'
Jane shook her head.
'I don't know, but after so much ill fortune we must have a change soon. It's all very well for you to talk of us obtaining positions, but what shall we do with Mattie? She's too old to take another job, and we could not expect an employer to let us take her with us.'
Elinor noticed, with some relief, that Jane now seemed reconciled to applying for a position.
'Mrs Craven has offered to give Mattie a home if we can no longer do so,' she said, and Jane looked at her in astonishment.
'Why should she do that? It would make more sense for her to offer us homes, since at least we could be useful to her!'
Elinor suppressed a sigh. Jane was unrealistic.
'We can only wait and hope we may be permitted to stay here.'
*
When there was no longer much work to be done in the fields, Paul occupied himself cutting firewood. Gervaas had permission to take dead trees from the nearby forest, and Paul often went with the mule to find dead branches and cut down dead trees.
'The wood pile has never been so high,' Freija commented approvingly. 'Gervaas always managed to find something else to do until we were down to the last basket load!'
Paul laughed. 'Perhaps it has to do with my frustration, not knowing who I am or where I come from. I can chop at the trees to vent my anger.'
Freija looked thoughtful.
'Marga's father is getting old,' she said slowly. 'He has no son to take over his farm, and it is a profitable one. Marga is a good girl, she will make a very good wife to a farmer. And she likes you. She finds many excuses to come here these days.'
Instinctively Paul shook his head.
'She's too young for me.'
'Ten years, perhaps? You are not much older than five and twenty.'
'You have all been very kind to a nameless man, but what if my memory returned when I – if I – married her? I may even be married already!'
'Do you feel married?'
'How can one tell? But it would be a risk. Besides, I would wish to go back to my home, see my family.'
'I suppose you would. And you are, I think, an educated man. Your speech is how I believe Parisians talk. You have taught Andre so much, too. Do you think Marga, a simple peasant girl, would be unsuitable if you found you came from a wealthier family?'
'I do not wish to commit myself in any way.'
'Gervaas always believed that ring you wear is a family ring. What are they called? A signet ring?'
'I believe so. But it stirs no memories. The initials might be my own, but they do not help my memory!'
Freija said no more, but she must have said something to Marga or her parents. On the follo
wing day, as Paul was setting off into the forest to collect more dead wood, Marga came to walk alongside him.
'I thought you liked me,' she said. 'You are always so polite and friendly, much more than the village boys. My father has a good farm, we are the only farm in the village which owns a cow as well as oxen to pull the plough.'
Paul stopped walking and took her hands in his. This was difficult, and not what he was accustomed to, he thought, and then wondered where that notion had come from.
'Marga, had Freija been talking to you?'
She nodded, swallowing down tears.
'Then you must know that a marriage is impossible. I might already be married. And if I have a home somewhere, whether it is in France or England, or even Prussia, I would wish to go back if my memory returns.'
'It may never return! Gervaas cannot afford to keep you for ever! My father has a good farm, and – and – I love you!'
She dragged her hands away from his, turned and ran back along the track. Paul sighed. He had tried to be kind, but apart from the difficulties he had tried to explain, she did not attract him in the way he thought a girl should before he contemplated marriage. He had a fleeting vision of a tall, slender, dark girl, but it was soon gone, and he could not decide whether it was someone he had seen around the village, or a girl from his past life. However, these faint images seemed to be getting more frequent, and he could only hope they were precursors of a full return of his memory.
*
A few days before Christmas Phyllis came to the lodge in great excitement.
'His lordship, the new one, is arriving just before the New Year,' she said. 'My lady is all of a twitter, she knows her reign is almost over.'
'I wonder what the new family will be like?' Jane said, and there was a distant look in her eyes.
'I know his lordship is thirty years of age, older than Edmund, and his sister six and twenty. Neither of them are married, not even betrothed, though my lady said she thought William was eager to wed a girl from Exeter, an heiress, though her money comes from trade. And George, his brother who is at Oxford, is twenty.'
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