The Weeping Ash

by Joan Aiken

  “No, of course not, Thomas—but she seems quiet enough now—”

  “Naturally she is. I have just told you why. She is under necessary opiates. Now, pray leave us!”

  At this moment it became apparent to both of them that their conversation was audible, in some degree, to a couple of persons walking below on the valley path. Fanny turned pale. For the pair in question were Mrs. Wyndham, looking more ravishing than ever in a diaphanous dress of gauzy pink and gray mull, and the gentleman who had witnessed the carriage accident, Major Henriques. Observing Thomas, the quick-witted Liz Wyndham inclined her head (adorned with a delicious chip-straw hat) giving no more than a tiny half smile; but Major Henriques doffed his elegant hat and swept Fanny a polite bow.

  “Your servant, ma’am! Servant, sir!”

  “I am not aware of having the honor of your acquaintance, sir,” said Thomas glacially, and, to Fanny, in a terrible voice, “Frances—withdraw!”

  Fanny could only obey, and returned on trembling legs to the house.

  When Thomas came in, which he did much later, he sent for Fanny and said at once, “Frances, I wish to know how you came to be acquainted with those people.”

  “I met them while with Mrs. Socket, sir.”

  “Very well. Then there are to be no more visits to the Rectory. If I had any idea—but it is to be expected, if one must live in a town like Petworth, where those who ought to be models to the lower orders display nothing but outrageous vice and infamy!”

  Fanny inferred that he was speaking of Lord Egremont.

  He said, “Go to your chamber. I will attend you there presently.”

  Dry-mouthed with fright, Fanny obeyed him; but she had to wait for several hours before he appeared. She wondered if he intended to beat her; he had threatened to once or twice previously, but her pregnancy had deterred him. Surely he would hardly dare do so now, while she was still under the care of Dr. Chilgrove?

  At length he came. To Fanny’s dismay, Nurse Baggot followed him, holding a bundle, of material over her arm. She shut the door behind her.

  “Remove your garments, Frances,” Thomas said.

  She looked from one to the other of them in terror. The scene was all too reminiscent of her first arrival in the house—but surely Thomas could not intend anything of the sort that had happened then—not in the presence of that woman?—and while she was still so weak? Dr. Chilgrove had told her most categorically that she must not become pregnant again—

  Her thoughts tumbled one over another in horrified confusion.

  “Make haste and do what I bid you! Strip off your garments,” Thomas ordered again curtly, and, as Fanny clasped her hands in mute protest, he turned to the nurse. “Lily—get her clothes off her back!”

  Mrs. Baggot darted a rather disagreeable glance at Thomas but proceeded briskly enough to undo the fastenings of Fanny’s gown and petticoat.

  Thomas said coldly, “Since I have for some time, Frances, been aware that I am unable to trust you out of my sight, I have devised this corset for you. I had not purposed obliging you to wear it for another sennight, until you were out of the doctor’s care, but finding you so forward and disobedient, there is nothing for it but to bring it into use at once.”

  Dumb, astounded with horror, Fanny found herself being fastened into a stiff calico corselet which was laced with extreme tightness up the back and tied in a knot, by Mrs. Baggot’s strong fingers, between her shoulder blades, where she could not possibly reach it herself. A thick strap of canvas webbing was drawn between her thighs, pulled up behind her back, and fastened under a leather belt, to which it was locked by some kind of clasp that she could not see, as it was in the middle of her back.

  “There!” said Thomas. “You may wear your gowns and petticoats over the top of that. Mrs. Baggot will lace you up each morning—I shall undo you when I come to bed at night. In this way I need be under no anxieties regarding your behavior. Your friend Dr. Chilgrove has forbidden another pregnancy for fifteen months; this garment, I trust, will ensure that his veto is not contravened. Your fine acquaintance up at Petworth House may go on in whatever licentious way they choose—the women—I will not call them ladies—cohabiting with grooms, stableboys, or any males they chance to encounter—I do not choose that my wife shall behave with a like freedom.”

  Fanny gazed at him, totally speechless.

  He turned to leave the room, Mrs. Baggot following. The latter had remained silent throughout the scene but now darted one cold, triumphant look at Fanny, who could only gasp, as Thomas opened the door:

  “Sir! How can you! It is inhuman! How, in this garment, may I contrive to—” Obey the calls of nature, she wished to say, but delicacy and shame prevented her. Thomas, however, turning in the doorway, replied coolly, understanding her:

  “You should have thought of that before your provocation obliged me to take such a step. You will have to rise betimes in the morning. I trust this may teach you, Frances, that I am not to be defied. When I am convinced that you have fully learned this lesson—when you are able to assure me of your humble and dutiful intention to be a loyal and faithful wife—then I may permit you to leave off this remedial garment, which, in the meantime, I trust will be a constant reminder to you of your past faults.”

  The door clicked to behind him, and Fanny sank trembling onto the bed. The canvas web cut into her legs; the belt and tight laces nearly choked her. Dr. Chilgrove will never allow this, was her first stunned reaction, but her second was that the doctor, kindly and well intentioned though he was, really had no means of preventing it. Thomas had a perfect right to tie up his wife in a strait jacket, did he so wish; many husbands subdued their wives by even harsher means. Indeed it was not the harshness, which by now she was long accustomed to, but the humiliation that now caused tears of anguish to roll down her cheeks.

  It was a considerable time before she could summon up the resolution to walk with stiff and clumsy steps downstairs. The canvas webbing cut painfully into her thighs at every step, the calico corselet pressed so severely on her still enlarged and tender breasts that she was obliged to hold herself ramrod upright as she moved along. Indeed, though she did not realize it, the penitential garment gave her a new sedate and touching dignity.

  Since it now wanted but a very few minutes to dinnertime, Fanny walked slowly into the parlor to wait for the gong; although very doubtful whether her distress and the fearfully constricting stays would allow her to swallow any food, she did not wish to give Thomas the satisfaction of seeing her completely subdued or crushed. Aware of a rebarbative atmosphere in the parlor, where Thomas was reading the daily paper, while little Patty teased the cat, and Bet darned a pair of stockings, Fanny quietly took her seat in a rocking chair.

  Thomas suddenly flung down his paper with an inarticulate exclamation of disgust.

  “Tcha! It passes all bounds!”

  “What does, Papa?” demanded little Patty, who had lately been promoted to eat dinner with the rest of the family, since none of the servants was prepared to carry her food up two flights of stairs.

  Addressing himself to nobody in particular, Thomas went on:

  “That Mr. Pitt—that the first minister of England—a man whom I have been used to esteem as a model of superior sense—should become involved in a duel—it is beyond comprehension!”

  “A duel, Pa? Whom did he fight?” Even Bet, who rarely occupied herself with public affairs, was interested in this.

  “Where did the affair take place?” Fanny softly inquired.

  “Upon Wimbledon Common! Upon my word, I do not know what outrage we shall be hearing of next! Pitt was obliged to fight some rogue of an Irishman named Tierney, who had the insolence to challenge him in the very House of Commons itself! And, furthermore, there has been an abominable uprising in Ireland—close on thirty thousand armed ruffians are laying waste the country around Wexford. If
the French should land in Britain now, we should, I daresay, be quite at their mercy!” He glared at his womenfolk as if all this were their fault. “The army hardly numbers more than thirty thousand men, all told, and most of them must have been sent to Ireland to put down the revolt.”

  Although these were distressful tidings, Fanny could not help being relieved that Thomas had something other than her own shortcomings to occupy his mind.

  “Do you truly think that the French will invade us, Papa?” Bet inquired presently, over the boiled chicken, the roasted bullock’s heart, and the mutton-and-apple pie. “Mrs. Dawtry says a French scientist named Monsieur Monge has constructed an armored raft two thousand feet long, capable of carrying a whole army across the sea! It is propelled by windmills and guarded by hundreds of cannon. Boney and all his men could be here by next week!”

  She looked as if she quite relished the prospect.

  “Fiddle-dee-dee, girl,” said Thomas disagreeably. “Such notions are nothing but moonshine. Why, a raft of such dimensions would weigh upward of fifty thousand tons. Pray, how could it be constructed? Where is there a forest large enough to supply timber for such a vessel? Still, it is by no means impossible that the French may land,” he added gloomily enough.

  “La!” exclaimed Bet, her eyes sparkling at the thought. “Imagine the Frogs marching into Petworth in their shakos? I should die laughing—would not you, Stepmama?”

  Fanny shook her head without reply. Thomas cast a sour look at her and requested Bet to keep her mouth shut if she had nothing to offer but stupidities; but it was evident that he, too, was occupied by unpleasant apprehensions as to the likelihood of a French invasion.

  That Thomas was not the only person to entertain such forebodings was evidenced by a note that arrived after dinner, brought by one of the Petworth House footmen.

  Thomas digested its contents in silence:

  “Lord Egremont presents his compliments to Captain Paget, and requests the pleasure of his company at a Meeting to discuss the formation of a Petworth Volunteer Corps which Ld. Egremont proposes to finance. Ld. Egremont ventures to hope that Capt. Paget will do him the Honor of captaining the troop, and requests his suggestions as to uniform, equipment, service pay, types of belts, cartouche boxes, firelocks, haversacks, canteens, pistols, swords, etc. The time suggested for the Meeting is Wednesday, May 30, at noon, if convenient to Capt. Paget.”

  “Humph,” remarked Thomas, not wholly displeased, after reading this missive from the third earl. “Well—at least that shows some sense! I don’t like the man—can’t stand his Whig affectations and his rakehell friends—but he certainly displays a proper feeling and respect—very proper—in applying to me during such an emergency. Mind, I have my hands full as it is, with my impress duties—he might remember that—but still, I daresay I am the best-qualified person to take over the command of such a troop.” And it will show those local tow-row rogues a thing or two, he added inwardly, for Thomas received very little respect in the town, partly because of his unpopular calling, partly owing to his miserly ways.

  “What does Lord Egremont write to you about, Pa?” demanded Bet, agog with curiosity. Thomas explained, his pride and gratification at the invitation growing, as he reread it. “‘A nuncheon will be provided,’ it says—as if I cared for that. Still, I daresay other gentlemen may have rid in from some distance. Ha! Here is a postcriptum.

  “Lady Mountague of Cowdray is convening a meeting of local ladies in Petworth House at the same time, regarding measures to be taken in the event of an Invasion—such as establishment of field hospitals, evacuation of women and children from the battle area, etc., etc. The attendance of your wife and grown daughters is respectfully solicited for this purpose.”

  Thomas knitted his brow very doubtfully over this last, but Bet was already exclaiming, “What, we are bidden to Petworth House also? Oh, famous—is it not, Stepmama? We shall see all the nobs—Lady Mountague! Just fancy! I daresay the Duchess of Richmond may be there also, it is not far to Goodwood House.”

  “Quiet, miss!” said her father. “I have not yet said that you may go.”

  “But for such a purpose, Pa? It would be patriotic. Do you not wish to go, Stepmama?”

  Fanny said quietly that she was not sure of feeling strong enough. Constricted in what, by now, felt like a suit of chain mail, she really did not see how she could enjoy or play any active part in such a function. It was therefore to her intense astonishment that Thomas, after long meditation, said finally:

  “Well, I think you had best go, Frances. I know Lady Mountague to be a very excellent and distinguished personage—of the highest respectability—she might, should she take a liking to you, prove a most useful patron and neighbor. She lives at Cowdray Park, only seven or eight miles off; her acquaintance could do you nothing but good.—Yes; you had better go. Bet must accompany you.”

  And as Bet, amazed and delighted at this unlooked-for indulgence, began clapping her hands for joy, Thomas added in his most quelling manner:

  “Mind, no dressing up too fine for this affair, now. It is not a party, nor an assembly. Neatness and propriety will be all that is required.”

  Eight

  The first few hours after the escape from Ziatur were passed in somewhat unprofitable recriminations between Colonel Cameron and Miss Musson.

  “Stealing that baby, ma’am, was probably the most arrant piece of folly you have committed in your entire existence. Indeed I do not scruple to assert that it was downright suicidal! Before, we might have had some tolerable hope of leaving the country without pursuit and the threat of vengeance; now there is virtually none. How came you to be so muttonheaded?”

  “My dear Rob”—Miss Musson glanced placidly at the exasperated colonel as if he were a sixteen-year-old schoolboy—“you are not about to teach me my Christian duty, I hope? Where there was an opportunity to save life, I must seize it—particularly in the case of this little innocent.” She looked fondly at the dark downy head of the sleeping baby. “I might say that it was an equal piece of foolhardiness on your part to steal an elephant from the royal stable—”

  “Not this one,” Cameron replied grimly.

  “How in the world did you manage to purloin the beast, sir, without its mahout?” Cal put in at this point. “As a rule these fellows stick to their beasts as if they were their children.”

  The stolen elephant was being guided, with his customary efficiency and calm, by Cameron’s Therbah servant. He glanced around now, from his position on her head, to remark:

  “We stop, I think, tomorrow, to buy goat, yes, sahib?”

  “I was able to purloin the elephant because its mahout was dead,” Cameron answered Cal shortly, ignoring the Therbah’s suggestion. “He had been strangled by Mihal’s personal order.”

  “But why?” demanded Scylla, astonished. “Mihal is a monster, we all know that—but why should he require to have a mahout strangled?”

  “Because this is the beast—her name is Parvati—that killed his father.”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Musson in affright. “Then, is the animal safe? Will it not run amok with us?”

  “Have no fear, ma’am; that death was no accident. The elephant was made drunk on palm toddy, I imagine.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Scylla. “And that was why the mahout must be killed.”

  “Just so. To prevent any possibility of his confession. This beast was regarded by all the stablemen as unlucky; it would probably have been slaughtered too, if I had not appeared with a large bribe; so very likely its absence would not have been considered important, my dear Miss Amanda, but for your little essay in child snatching.”

  Ignoring this shaft, Miss Musson imperturbably replied, “Your Therbah is right, Rob; we must stop somewhere tomorrow and purchase a milch goat.”

  “A milch goat!” The colonel flung up his hands to heaven. “And I
suppose we must also purchase swaddling bands—gowns—gripe water—doubtless shawls and a rush basket—our course will be as noticeable as if we were traveling in a royal progress! Your having saddled us with this little encumbrance materially changes our prospects, ma’am. We must on no account now think of attempting the Khaiber Pass. It would be sheer madness to leave the country by such an obvious route. Mihal’s assassins will follow us farther than that, I can assure you.”

  “What route must we take, then?” calmly inquired Miss Musson. “I am sure that you will know what is best to be done, my dear Rob.”

  He pondered. “We had best travel into Kafiristan by river. That is our most likely means of slipping away unobserved. Not the Kabul River—that is too close—but farther north, the Kunar. We must go through the Lowacal Pass north of Arnawai, then over the Weran, and then turn south, down through Kafiristan, toward Jellalabad.”

  “There! You see! I knew that you would have a capital plan for us,” Miss Musson said.

  “It is not a capital plan, ma’am!” he said wrathfully. “From Peshawur to Jellalabad is barely ninety miles. What would have taken us not more than three or four days on mule- or camelback now becomes a journey of more than three times the length, and through dangerous country—we must travel at least seventy miles to the north, then west through mountainous regions, then south again. I had proposed to dispose of the elephant in Peshawur and purchase camels there, but now I am doubtful if we dare do that. I think we had best avoid all large towns entirely until we are well out of India.”

  “I am sure you are very right, my dear Rob.”

  Scylla could not help quietly laughing; Miss Musson, having decided on a course of action that meant abandoning all her previous occupations, her whole way of life, and confiding herself to the colonel’s care, had done so in her usual thoroughgoing manner, she appeared serenely certain of his ability to undertake this charge.

  “You will have to climb some exceedingly high mountains!” he said irascibly.