by Joan Smith
“How fare the elephant and tiger?” I asked.
“You are very interested in wild animals, are you not, Miss Barwick? He speaks of sending them to Exeter Exchange, for there is no denying they are a nuisance. At least he said he would offer them to the Prince of Wales while he is in London.”
‘‘In London? We heard nothing of that!” Nora exclaimed.
“Why yes, he left a few days ago, just after he proposed to Emily. We are very dull without him. He is hiring a house for next season, you know,” she said, looking to see how Emily reacted to this future treat. “So you will come and see us soon?”
“Yes, we’ll come,” I said. I was as curious as anyone else would be to get a first-hand look at the freak show, and preferred to do it while Gamble was away.
Chapter Twelve
With so many souvenirs from India in evidence at the Hall, folks were beginning to refer to it jokingly as Calcutta Hall, or any other Oriental-sounding name they could invent. I was itching to get up to see it for myself, and intended going the very next day. What must happen but Nora came down with a bout of influenza. Not another soul in the whole neighbourhood was so afflicted, and not another soul affected my own life so much as Nora. Naturally I could not dart up to the Hall and leave her unattended but for the servants. A week passed before we were able to go. It was probably the longest week of my life. Word was out about Nora’s illness, keeping callers away in droves. Nor could I be sure of any warm welcome in the village, so I stayed home, with not even Edward for company in the evenings.
The trip to the Hall was therefore a particular treat for me, when the great day came. Already the exterior of the place showed the improving hand of Gamble. The meadow had been cleared, windows glistened in the sun—some order had been reestablished. The greater change had taken place inside. Someone—I suspect Hennie Crawford of the deed—had taken the household management into hand. Surfaces once invisible for dust and debris now gleamed, the sheen of mahogany undimmed by opaque windows. The gray tatters had been stripped away to be replaced by lengths of sea-green brocade, valanced across the top. White sheer underhangings created a feeling of softness at the mullioned windows. I yearned to try this extravagant trick at home. Underfoot, new carpets stretched, the nap on them unmarred by more than a week’s traffic. The blackish-green silver had been polished till it winked in the sun.
So far so good; all commendable improvements. But cluttered in amongst the English silver and mahogany traces of India obtruded, causing a jarring note to the whole. An ugly gray tub in a corner that held periodicals, for instance, turned out to be made from an elephant’s foot, monstrous toenails still intact.
A truly bizarre metal piece with what strangely resembled a snake attached to it was described as “Cousin John’s hookah.” This oddity was for smoking, but smoking of no type ever seen in England. There was water involved, and even perfume, I think Hennie said. Inlaid tables too small for anything but holding the bits of carved ivory and brass bibelots were stuck at random about the room’s edge. Bright, not to say garish, throws littered many a sofa and table. They were pieces of Indian weaving. One might have added some interest to the room. The seven I counted in a cursory tally were definitely too much. One rather expected to see customers roaming through this bazaar.
Hennie looked to us for approval. “I am planning to surprise Cousin John when he returns,” she told us. I began to wonder if this was why we had been asked up, to admire her handiwork. There is no denying an artist wants a few claps after finishing a project. Nora’s first move when she ties the last knot in her netting is to shake the piece out for my admiration, then she bundles it up to take to show off to her cronies in the village. The sparkle in Hennie’s eye and the fatuous smile on her lips told me she was vastly impressed with her own ability, and now wished to hear it praised.
“Lovely. Charming. So original—quite unique,” I said, my eyes running from corner to corner, discovering another curiosity at every turn.
“This is certainly an improvement from the last time we were here,” Nora said, with real feeling. This opinion I could second with no qualms. Nearly anything was preferable to the incredible filth and confusion of the last visit.
Then the parade began. Lord Simian led it. Emily’s monkey came swinging in to greet us, hanging by one paw from the top of the door frame. He was outfitted in a green velvet jacket and yellow trousers, looking like a little miniature footman for our tinker’s wagon. The imp had better manners than some of the inhabitants of the place. He came to shake our hands at least. I don’t suppose he meant any harm when he subsequently tipped over a vase of flowers, and in any case, it was only water he spilt on the carpet. One would think it were ink at least to see Hennie splutter. Emily got a hand on the animal, holding him on her lap like a baby while she stroked his head. Lord Simian liked this attention very much and showed his appreciation by smiling up at her at frequent intervals in the most comical way. Hennie hollered for a servant to come and clean up the mess. Not one, not two, but three white-clad Indians pattered in, every one of them incapable of comprehending English. She pointed, she gesticulated, she shouted louder and louder, and finally ran to get a cloth to mop up the spill herself. With her face red from frustration and exertion she explained, “I am trying to teach them English. They perform very well when John is here. It is this crew that cleaned the windows for us. They are really very good workers, if only they understood what is wanted.”
“That does make it difficult,” I sympathized.
“Would you like to see the elephant and tiger, as you are always talking about them, Chloe?” Emily asked.
“I would like it very much.”
Lord Simian appeared to speak English better than the servants, or at least to understand it. He hopped up and grabbed me by the hand, to lead me directly to the menagerie. Gamble had had a ring erected back of the stables, where the tiger and elephant wandered—not together, but as I got closer I could see there was a high fence between them. What a great deal of trouble and expense he had gone to, fetching these wild beasts all the way home from India, only to lock them up in a little pen. What an impulsive, extravagant streak he had in him.
You are familiar with the stench of stables and pig sties. Multiply it by a factor of two or three and you will have some approximation of what assailed our nostrils. The poor tiger paced, desolate and alone, in his pen. The elephant was infinitely bored. He brightened a little when Lord Simian hopped aloft his head, but it was only a lagging ride the poor monkey enjoyed. There were more of the white-clad (closer to gray, due to their duties) servants about, carrying water and ensuring that the beasts did not escape. One trembled to think the damage that tiger would do to a flock of sheep, when a skunk can make such inroads. This whole project struck me as an exercise in futility, but I had never seen either a tiger or an elephant before, and was interested to watch them a moment. I made no demur when Nora suggested, after a quick glance, that we return indoors.
Hennie was awaiting us. She had prepared a tea that closely resembled a banquet, till one got closer to the intriguing platters to find they contained sweets of sticky, gooey, totally inedible stuff concocted by the Indian servants. The bread and butter were unexceptionable. When we had eaten not our fill, but what was edible on the table, Hennie turned to Emily. “Why do you not run up to your papa, my dear?” she asked. Some scheming light in her eye warned me this was an excuse to be rid of the girl. I waited in eager anticipation to hear what she would say.
“Sweet child,” she said, smiling after her “A lovely, well-dispositioned girl, but no manager. You would not credit, Mrs. Whitmore, the state of the Hall when I arrived. I fear little Emily will never be a manager, or a worker.” She nodded sagely on this phrase.
“You are to be congratulated,” Nora said.
“One is always happy to lend a hand. Poor Emily—so inadequate to run a house. Even a small household,” she added, meaning an Ambledown-sized household, you see. She was tellin
g us what a poor wife she would make Edward.
“So much worse for a large household,” I pointed out, in a tone similar to her own.
“Very true. She never could manage Carnforth Hall alone,” she agreed at once, to my initial astonishment, till I took in “alone.” Poor Emily, she had no chance of being alone. Hennie meant to stick like glue, but I did not wish her to see how quickly I read her mind.
“I cannot think that even half a hundred servants who speak no English will be of much help.”
“I am a widow—I would be able to come to her without too much inconvenience. I live alone, but for my servants.”
There would be no coming to her; the woman had no intention of ever leaving. She wanted a luxurious, free home, to be virtually mistress of Carnforth Hall, and meant to obtain her goal by marrying Emily to John Gamble. Lady Irene would be no use to her. She would take the reins in hand herself. Those green curtains in the room we sat in told that clearly enough.
“Mr. Gamble has made his offer. We must wait now and see whether Emily decides to have him,” I said, in a tone that told her I was terminating this topic.
She pressed her point no further, but went on to tell us of a hitherto unrevealed streak of wastefulness in Emily, which eventually worked round to her lack of dowry. Nothing was omitted to show us how totally ineligible she was for Edward yet so perfectly suited for Gamble, who appeared to like wastefulness very well, if I understood the woman aright.
I had had enough, and as Nora had run out of wool, she expressed no interest in lingering. When we arose to go, Hennie suggested we go above to say good day to Lord Carnforth. This sounded a perilous enough notion to me, but when we got there he was more or less sober. He was in a foul mood, however, so that we did no more than say good day, compliment him on his improved health, and leave.
There was no sign at all of Emily. I should think she was hiding in her room to make Hennie think she was visiting her papa. We returned below before Hennie expected us. She was not waiting for us. A brown-skinned female servant was there, dusting furiously at the bannister with a feather duster. Repeated requests to her to call Mrs. Crawford did no good, no matter how loudly we asked her. She left but did not bring our hostess.
While we stood wondering how we were to get home without causing offence and without waiting an hour, there was a sound of a new arrival outside. Mrs. Crawford was drawn to the hallway by the noise, which proved to be caused by Jack, returned from London. I was mortified to be caught snooping around his house during his absence, for that was precisely my reason for being there. I had not thought he could have got to London and back so fast.
He greeted us very cordially, but his first interest was to ask for Emily. She had either heard his approach or figured she had visited long enough with her papa to satisfy Hennie, for she came down the stairs just then. I was bristling with curiosity to see how the two greeted each other, but with so lively an audience they did no more than exchange a kiss on the check. He then invited us to have a glass of wine with him.
“We have just had tea,” I answered.
“Stay a minute,” he said, and took my arm to lead me back into the saloon. Emily was a step ahead of us. He never took his eyes off her till we got to the doorway. There he stopped and looked around from object to object with a startled face, showing any pleasure only at his new draperies.
“You have been busy, Hennie,” he said, in a strange voice. Seeing that she was smiling in anticipation of congratulations, he added, “It looks lovely. Lovely.” The last word sounded lost.
We all trouped back in and sat down, Nora and myself feeling the letdown, the anti-climactic sensation of returning to a place you wished to leave. “Did you have any luck, John?” Hennie asked with no preamble to indicate what she referred to.
“Excellent luck. Things promise to go smoothly.”
I imagine my curiosity was sticking out all over me. Mr. Gamble took pity on it and explained his business. “When a gentleman comes back from India, you know, ladies, his first item of business is to get himself elected to the Board of Directors of the East India Company, to have a say in affairs there.”
“I did not refer to that John,” Hennie began. A silent, rebuking glare from Gamble quieted her very effectively, kindling my curiosity to a raging flame.
“You refer to the menagerie,” he said, obviously substituting another item for that to which she referred. “You will be happy to hear, Hennie, that Prinney was delighted with the offer of our beasts. He has been wanting a new elephant, since his has become so sluggish he does not remove the visitors’ hats with his customary relish. Of course, the female tiger was brought home at the request of the manager of the menagerie, in hopes of breeding her with their male.”
We had a glass of wine, then Gamble arose and began to pace the room, snatching unhappy peeks at all Hennie’s artistic endeavours. “My legs want stretching after sitting in the carriage for hours,” he said. “Ladies, would you like to come out and see the animals we were just speaking of?”
“We have had the pleasure,” I answered, drawing out my handkerchief and putting it delicately to my nose. The aroma of the menagerie lingered in its fold. I quickly put it away again.
“Have you seen the pavilion?” he asked.
“No, we forgot it!” I exclaimed. It was one of my main interests, but Hennie’s plottings had driven it from my mind.
“Would you like to see it?” he asked.
“Very much!”
“It’s getting late,” Nora pointed out. As indeed it was, but there was no rush to get home to an empty house.
“It won’t take a minute,” Gamble assured her.
It was settled that Nora, still feeling a little weak, would stay with Hennie, while Emily, Gamble, and myself go to have a quick look at the pavilion.
The pavilion came into view as soon as we entered the park. Its ogee arches were topped off with a dome, not unlike the Prince Regent’s Brighton pavilion. It sat at the crest of a hill, looking totally out of place in this rough, mountainous terrain.
“It does not suit the landscape at all,” he admitted at once, “but it suits me. Reminds me of India. My servants adore it, which forms a benevolent excuse for indulging my own bad taste.”
“Oh Cousin, it is not bad taste! It is beautiful, like a fairy castle!” Emily declared, her eyes shining. Her flittering attention soon turned to Lord Simian, who made an eager fourth on our outing, except that he was either tired or spoiled. He held out his arms to be carried. The indulgent girl picked him up. As we got closer to our goal it became obvious the pavilion was far from finished. Only the framework was erected, with many men working still on the walls. About half a dozen Indians were amongst the workers. Gamble spoke to them in their own language. One was in charge of construction.
“Kari is an excellent fellow,” he said when he rejoined us. “Very talented.”
“He won’t get many commissions in England, will he?” I asked, thinking it was a pity to waste his talents.
“This is a hobby with him. He is a linguist, a specialist in Indian literature. He will be employed with the museum in London, where they have an excellent Indian department. I arranged it during my visit to London. His family will go with him.”
“I would love to go to London,” Emily sighed.
“Unfortunately a gentleman cannot take a single lady with him on such a trip. Now if she were his wife, of course, not even such a high stickler as Miss Barwick would object. Would you, Miss Barwick?” he asked, turning to spare a fleeting glance to me.
“No, not even such a dragon as I could find fault with that course.”
Emily’s interest was soon diverted by the antics of Lord Simian. I could only wonder at Gamble’s attachment to this child, so different from him in interest, in age, in temperament.
“When does that wandering brother of yours return?” he asked, when it was clear Emily was paying no heed to him.
“Any day now. Perhaps tomorrow.”<
br />
“I suppose you wonder at my offering for Emily before his return. I tried to wait, but he took too demmed long. Well, he does not own her anyway, as far as that goes.”
“You don’t have to justify your action to me.” Emily chased off a few yards after her monkey, making a little private conversation possible.
“I suppose it might seem odd to some, as she is so young. But I didn’t see any lady half so pretty in London,” he said, mooning after her with his eyes. I felt an urge to take him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.
“You were looking, were you?” is all I said.
He gave a bright, quizzical little look. “A bachelor is always looking, ma’am. Like a spinster in that respect, I should think. When he has been stuck off in the tropics for nearly half his life, with no English women but antidotes, the looking is very pleasurable indeed. I revel in all these peaches-and-cream complexions, blonde curls. Many’s the night I lay awake in the heat dreaming of cool English breezes and cool English ladies.”
“The ladies’ coolness does not discourage you then?”
“Not in the least. I dote on it.”
“I am happy the ladies came up to your expectations. The heat of this particular summer we feel is nearly tropical.”
“I am happy with both. What’s Wingdale up to?” he asked suddenly, changing the subject.
“I have not seen him. My aunt has been ill, and I haven’t been out much.”
“I thought you looked a little peaky. I was afraid Tom was causing you more headaches,” he laughed, then went pacing off to help Emily retrieve the monkey from a tree. The animal rode on his shoulder, while Emily weighted down his other arm. I did not observe much coolness in her manner, but perhaps, like the weather, he was accustomed to more warmth from females.