'Perhaps, now he has poor Edmund's estates, he will forget her,' Jane suggested. 'If, that is, he has no sentimental attachment to her.'
'I heard that his sister, Amelia, was once betrothed to a clergyman, but for some reason it was broken off,' Phyllis said. 'My lady believes he jilted her, but she doesn't know why.'
'Gossip!' Elinor said. 'I think we should all wait and meet them before we begin to speculate. It won't be long before they are here.'
'Is Lady Tremaine having the usual party for the estate workers this year?' Jane asked.
'No, she says that after Edmund's death it would not be appropriate. It's my belief she doesn't want to bother. The new Viscount can organise one if he wishes, she says.'
Over the next few days Elinor had to stifle her irritation at the many times each day Jane speculated on what the new Viscount was like. Her only interest in him was the question of their occupancy of the lodge, and she redoubled her efforts to apply for a position as governess. That, she had decided, would be preferable to becoming a companion to a demanding old lady. Her lack of experience, and of references, however, told against her, and all she received were polite rejections.
She was walking back from the village, having taken there her baking and a load of late apples, when a travelling coach overtook her just before the main gates of the Court. She caught a glimpse of a pale face peering out of the window, surmounted by a turban in a violent shade of puce. This, she decided, must be the new owner's mother. She took a deep breath. Soon they would know what was to happen to them. Then she had to pull the donkey to the side as a curricle, driven somewhat erratically, went past. She was too preoccupied rescuing one of the panniers which had slipped to take note of the driver, but she glanced up in time to see a grinning groom sitting on the rumble seat. Soon they would know their fate.
*
It was a month after Christmas, and Paul was beginning to wonder if he would ever be able to leave the farm. Everyone was very kind and considerate, but there were a few tensions. Marga had clearly not accepted his rejection of her, and was constant in her attentions. This made Andre, much as he tried to conceal it, jealous. Paul had once overheard him talking to his father, bemoaning the fact that no girl would welcome a cripple for husband, and he felt desperately sorry for the young boy. When the curé came to say a friend of his was prepared to take Andre on as a clerk, in nearby Nivelles, Andre left, saying he would be better away from his memories of when he could work fully on the farm. Better away from Marga, he really meant, Paul thought. Apart from her determined pursuit of himself, she could not fully conceal her distaste for Andre's clumsiness as he hobbled about.
One sunny day Paul, with the mule, was carrying a load of dead branches back to the farm when two men on horseback came trotting towards him. They were stylishly dressed in leather breeches, top boots, and heavy many-caped overcoats that were spread over the rumps of their horses. These, Paul noted with appreciation, were sturdy thoroughbreds such as he had not seen since the battle. They were unknown in this part of the country. He had a faint notion he had once ridden such horses, but the vision, if vision it was and not just a feeling of envy, was effectively banished when the older of the men addressed him.
'You, there, where do we meet the road to Brussels?' he hailed, in heavily accented French, so that Paul had to concentrate to understand him, and was slow to reply.
'Oh, lord, have we met the village idiot?' his younger companion drawled, in English. 'Do come on, don't waste time on the fool. This lane must meet the main road soon, but it's confoundedly like those wretched sunken lanes in Devon.'
'If you continue for five minutes, the track joins the main road. Turn left, and it will take you right past the battlefield, then on towards Brussels,' Paul said.
It was a few moments, combined with the astonished stares of the horsemen, before Paul realised he had instinctively spoken in English in response to them.
'You – are you English?' the older one asked. 'What the devil are you doing in this benighted place, looking like a damned peasant when you speak like an educated fellow?'
Paul stared at him, then slowly shook his head and turned away, tugging the mule after him. He did not wish to talk to them, they were strangers. Besides, there was so much crowding into his head he could not think clearly.
He did not want to see Gervaas or Freija yet either, until he was feeling able to cope with questions. First he needed to sort things out in his own mind. He found a fallen log, tethered the mule, and tried to organise the many thoughts jumbled in his head.
There were two things he was now sure of. He was English, and he came from Devon. This, he recalled, was a county in the south west of the country. But to his frustration his memories were fragmented. He did not know his name, or the town where he had a home. He could recall some of the battle, and knew he had been in the cavalry. He had also, he was sure, been in Spain. If he could find his way to England he might discover who he was, and now some of his memory had returned, he could hope there would be more recollections in the future.
Gervaas would be glad in some ways to have him leave. At least, he thought with a grin, he had provided the family with enough chopped firewood for two winters. Now he had to make his plans, find out the best way to return to England. Ought he to approach one of the embassies, in Paris or Brussels, or should he try to reach England by himself? That was a question for tomorrow. Meanwhile, he had to take these logs to the farm.
*
CHAPTER 3
The new inhabitants of Tremaine Court were first seen in public at church on the following Sunday. As they walked down the aisle to their pew at the front, escorted by the Rector, the villagers craned to see, and there was a subdued murmuring as they commented.
Lord Tremaine was tall and thin, like his cousin, but far less handsome. His eyes were set close together and his lips were thin and pursed as if in disapproval. He had a prominent brow and a decided, rather pointed chin. He wore a black long-tailed coat, grey skin-tight pantaloons, highly polished hessians and a sober grey waistcoat, but his cravat was a gleaming white and tied in an intricate fashion. Elinor wondered what it was called. She knew the fashionable gentlemen had a dozen or more methods of arranging their neckwear, each with its own name, sometimes called after the man who had invented the style. A large emerald pin nestled in the folds, and a flamboyant emerald ring was displayed on William's finger. She frowned. She had understood that when one was dressed in mourning, and his sombre clothes suggested the new Viscount was so dressed, only plain or diamond jewellery was acceptable. As he turned to enter the pew she saw he was also sporting two jewelled fobs on a scarlet ribbon, and he pulled the fob watch from the pocket and glanced at it, then back to the Rector who was walking with his mother and sister. An ornate quizzing glass hung on a black ribbon about his neck, and as he walked down the aisle he raised it to look at the altar. He seemed to her somewhat of a dandy.
The ladies, even more surprisingly, were in the greys and lilacs of half mourning. She tried to believe this was normal. It was over six months since Edmund had been killed at Waterloo, after all, and they were not his closest relatives. Perhaps this was acceptable. The older woman, William's mother, was an exceedingly tall, thin lady, who overtopped the Reverend Leamore by several inches. She was wearing lilac and there were a few grey curls peeping from beneath her hat. This was not at all the sort of hat Elinor thought suitable for either her age or her mourning. It was lilac too, a large poke bonnet that hid her face from sight, trimmed with purple ribbons and two upstanding purple ostrich feathers that made her look even taller. The sister was much shorter than her mother, plump, and her hat was a simple bonnet in grey, with darker grey ribbons and a scattering of purple flowers. Her gown was of grey and lilac stripes, and emphasised her figure. She had a round face with fat, rosy cheeks that reminded Elinor of a milkmaid, but she kept her eyes cast down, and her lips pressed close together. Both wore necklaces of coloured stones, the elder emeralds like
her son, the younger rubies that clashed horridly with her purple flowers and the lilac of her dress.
Lady Tremaine, however, following them down the aisle, was still in the deepest black, with a large turban, though she had discarded her veil and Elinor saw her frown, and pointedly ignore glancing at any of the congregation. It must be humiliating for her to be relegated to the rear of the small procession, and Elinor wondered that the new Lord Tremaine had not escorted her. It would, she considered, have been considerate of him.
'He's not as handsome as Edmund,' Jane whispered to Elinor. 'And both his mother and sister looks odious frights!'
Elinor nodded. What would they do regarding the lodge? That concerned her far more than their looks, and she could not determine from these brief glimpses what their natures were. Perhaps it was natural that they looked somewhat grim and reserved on this, their first exposure to the eyes of the villagers, but it did not look encouraging.
After the service the Rector escorted Lord Tremaine and his family to the back of the church, where they stood in the porch to greet the villagers as they left. The Cravens and the other village notables left first, as was their custom, and were presented to the newcomers. Jane and Elinor, as the daughters of the previous Rector, took their places next, before the farmers and cottagers. Lord Tremaine looked bored, Elinor thought, but as his glance turned towards them there was a hot gleam in his eyes. These were a pale grey, and contrasted oddly with his slightly aquiline face and thin lips. The Reverend Leamore murmured their names, but to Elinor's surprise did not mention their father. Jane glanced at him, waiting expectantly, but when he indicated they should move on, she turned to William and smiled.
'Our Papa was formerly Rector here, my lord,' she said. 'Welcome to the village. We hope you will be happy at the Court.'
'I am sure of that,' he said, and smiled, but his smile did not reach his eyes.
Jane gave him a wistful smile and moved on to curtsey to his mother and sister. Lady Tremaine had stepped outside and was talking to Mrs Craven, then, with a glance back, went to the waiting chaise. Elinor half expected her to give the coachman orders to take her home, but she climbed into the chaise and sat, waiting.
'Oh dear,' Jane said softly. 'My lady is not pleased.'
'He should have escorted her,' Elinor said. 'And surely he ought not to have been sporting coloured jewels?'
'The ladies were, even though their gowns were appropriate. But that hat! Those feathers! I was almost in whoops! It made her look even taller.'
'They did not look very amiable,' Elinor said. 'I cannot see that woman permitting us to remain at the lodge. We must seek positions at once.'
Jane nodded, but she did not speak. During the drive home in Jonah's cart she did not join in the speculation about the new family at the Court. Jonah, beyond mentioning that he had, naturally, had speech with his new lordship, refused to give an opinion regarding him or his intentions.
'It's early days,' he said. 'The man has a lot to consider.'
'And a good deal to learn,' Elinor said when they were back at home. 'I cannot recall he ever visited the Court before. Papa once said he and Lady Tremaine were not on good terms, but he did not explain.'
'If that is so she will have no say in evicting us, as she has always wished to do. I expect she will soon remove to the Dower House.'
'It still behoves us to find positions.'
*
'Go to one of the embassies, in Brussels or Paris,' the curé advised.
When Paul had revealed his partial recovery of memory Gervaas had insisted on asking for his help.
'He's the only educated man in the village, he'll tell us what's best to do,' he'd said.
'Unless there is someone there who might recognise me, it would serve no purpose,' Paul said. 'I can't recall my name, or exactly where I lived. What could they do?'
'They might help,' Gervaas said. 'You might recover more memories by the time you reached there.'
'And I might not. Plus I would be days further away from England. I think the best plan would be for me to travel to Devon, where I am more likely to find someone who knows me, or who can tell me what the engraving on this ring of mine means.'
After a good deal of argument the others finally agreed with him. Gervaas looked embarrassed.
'I have given you no wages while you have worked for me,' he said slowly.
'That's not a problem, you've fed and clothed me as well as saving my life,' Paul said swiftly.
'But to pay for a passage to England you need money. I have a little.'
'Which you need yourself, Gervaas. I'll walk to the coast. I can find work on the way, as I am in no haste. And I can work my passage on a boat. I do recall that there are smuggling boats crossing to England.'
'You must not become a smuggler!' Freija was aghast.
'I could not earn sufficient to pay for passage on one of the regular packets, and they would not, I think, take me near where I wish to be. I believe there are many smuggling boats visiting Cornwall and Devon.'
This led to further argument and eventually Paul agreed to accept a small sum for emergencies, and a new pair of boots which the curé pressed upon him, saying it was payment for his goodness in teaching Andre which had led to his being able to obtain a clerical post.
He turned to thank the curé.
'I can recall some of the coast opposite England. Where ought I to go?'
'I find myself aiding smugglers,' the curé said, laughing. They were in the kitchen, and he began to set out on the table small potatoes Freija had been about to prepare for their next meal.
'Here is Nivelles. You must go through Mons and Cambrai, then Amiens,' he explained. 'Next is Rouen, where you can cross the Seine. You have a choice then, to head for Caen and Cherbourg, or go further south to Brittany and St Malo. But Cherbourg is, I judge, closer to the English coast. It is also close to Guernsey, and you might find a boat there.'
'How far is it?'
'You could walk there in twenty days, but if you have to stop to find work it will take longer. And the British have an army garrisoned in many of these towns. Perhaps you will find someone there who knows you.'
Paul found himself rejecting the notion.
'It would be dangerous unless I found someone who knew me well and could identify me. A man with no name, no history, suddenly appearing? They would be suspicious. I would be detained, and might not be able to continue my journey.'
'Then you will have to be very careful to avoid the army.'
'You may be sure I will. So it will take me twenty days? And more for when I am working. At the earliest I can reach the coast by the end of February. Perhaps the end of March would be more realistic. I am in no haste, and by then sailing might be smoother.' He shuddered. 'One thing I did not wish to recall was the sea crossing.'
That, he suddenly realised, was a new memory.
'I have never seen the sea, but they tell me it makes people ill,' Gervaas said, laughing.
'It is worse than the jolting of your mule!'
He set off two days later. The parting was difficult, for he had become fond of the family which had saved him and helped him back to strength. Marga, when she heard of his intention, wept gustily, and begged to go with him, but Freija took her sternly to task.
'Don't be a fool, girl! You'd delay him, and be an extra problem. And how could you work on a smuggler's boat?'
'I can work, I am strong! I will wear boys' clothing!'
Freija laughed and sketched in the air a crude outline of Marga's buxom figure. She spoke bluntly to the girl.
'He does not want you. And he might be married, in England. What would you do then?'
Gervaas rather hesitantly asked him, if he discovered it was ever possible, to visit them.
'For we have grown fond of you, as of a son.'
Paul promised. 'And I will write when I have news. The curé can read a letter to you.'
He resisted the urge to look back, and was soon amongst the
trees, out of sight of the cottage. Sad though he was to leave them, for they had been good to him, he could not resist a lifting of his heart as he thought to the future, when he might, at last, discover who he was, and whether he had a family in England.
*
At the end of January Mattie became ill. She suffered from a cough that refused to respond to any of the remedies Elinor tried, and was so weak that after one attempt to dress and come downstairs she reluctantly agreed to remain in bed. Elinor, needing the money Mattie's laundering had brought in, rose early and managed to fit in this before she went to the village with her produce. There was not so much now, just her bread and pies and some winter vegetables. She had intended making tarts with the stored apples, but had no time, so she took the apples instead. They fetched less than if they had been pies, but every penny was necessary.
'I'll look after Mattie, and I can do the ironing while you are baking,' Jane offered.
'That would help, and you always could iron better than anyone else.'
'It's slightly more interesting than those endless nightcaps.'
Elinor laughed. 'You must have fitted out everyone for miles around. Perhaps we could do something else? Smocks for small children would not take a long time, and we could charge more than for the nightcaps.'
'It would not take much longer to do them for adults,' Jane said. 'It would cost more for the material, to begin with, but why don't we try a couple?'
Elinor was only too thankful that Jane was willing to continue with her sewing. She could do some in the evenings, to help, but after doing the laundry, especially when the weather was inclement and she had to find space to dry it indoors, she needed to do some of her baking after supper. Jane was happy to make the smocks, but she did not complete them as fast as Elinor had hoped.
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