The Weeping Ash

by Joan Aiken

  “I—I do not believe it!” she stammered naively. Could lively, laughing Liz have betrayed her in such a way—have so misread her character? “It cannot be the truth.”

  “Psha, my dear, you are almost too much of an innocent to walk this earth! Come, come, you bewitching little Puritan, give me a kiss—do—what is all this coil about?”

  And he was again attempting to slide his arm about her waist. Fanny gave a slight scream—tried to struggle, pulling away from Henriques—and found herself suddenly face to face with a young man in a gardener’s apron who was walking quickly down the path, carrying in his arms a bundle of bows, arrows, and targets.

  “What is the trouble, ma’am? Can I help you?” exclaimed this individual.

  Major Henriques let out a heartfelt oath under his breath.

  “It is nothing,” he said hastily. “The lady thought she saw a snake—but she was mistaken! See, ma’am—there is nothing to be frightened of, nothing at all!” he added with an irritable laugh, and he said to the gardener, “These delicate fine ladies are wont to think they see bogeys in every bush!”

  “Yes, sir,” said the young man stolidly. He did not move away but addressed Fanny. “May I help you back to the house, ma’am?”

  “Oh, thank you, Talgarth—indeed I am perfectly well—or shall be in a moment—I came out to look for Mrs. Wyndham—”

  “She is just coming down from the Grecian Pavilion, ma’am; there, you may see her dress among the trees.”

  And indeed next moment Liz appeared coming down the hill, also carrying bows and arrows. She called:

  “Set the targets up outside the drawing-room windows, Talgarth—” And then, her eyes falling on the white-cheeked Fanny and the scowling Henriques, she exclaimed:

  “Why, what is the matter, my angel? Are you not well?”

  “No—that is—I came to find you—to tell you that I must return home—”

  Fanny could not bear to meet the eyes of Liz Wyndham. The thought of the latter’s duplicity—surely the startled concern in her voice must be pure histrionics—the situation was not to be borne! Pulling herself together with a strong effort, Fanny said in a low voice:

  “I should be so much obliged, ma’am, if you could send a servant to ask my husband if he is ready to return home, and—and if he is not, inform him that I find myself rather tired and under the necessity of taking my leave.”

  “I will tell him myself,” said Liz. Handing her burden to the gardener, she tucked her arm through Fanny’s and led her solicitously indoors. Major Henriques had already removed himself from the scene; Talgarth, after another concerned glance at Fanny, carried off the archery equipment.

  “What is the matter, my dear friend?” Liz asked quietly as they walked along at a slow pace. “Was that man making himself objectionable?”

  “You knew—you knew that he would,” Fanny burst out. Then they passed in through the French windows and she could say no more, for there were several people about. Quietly detaching her arm from that of Liz, she moved to a chair and sat on it, feeling sick and giddy. Liz stood staring at her for a moment with a doubtful, troubled expression, then said simply:

  “I will deliver your message,” and went off to the library.

  After a few moments she returned, looking even graver, and reported:

  “I am afraid that Captain Paget is not ready to leave yet. When I said that I would have you sent home in one of our carriages he gave his permission.” She suppressed Thomas’s angry rider, “What, making a damned nuisance of herself again, is she?” and ordered a servant to see that a conveyance was brought around. Fanny thanked her and apologized for the trouble she was giving.

  “Not the least trouble, my dear child. But I wish I knew what was in your mind—why do you look at me so strangely?” she added in a low voice.

  Fanny could not reply. There were too many people within earshot—she shook her head miserably. How, in any case, could she explain that she felt betrayed, outraged? Liz might not even understand what she meant. Next moment the servant returned to announce that the carriage waited. Fanny, observing that Bet was outside on the grass, laughing and excited among the archery contestants, murmured her thanks again and took her leave, saying that she would not attempt to drag off her stepdaughter, who could return later with Thomas. The last impression she carried away with her was quick, warm pressure of Liz’s hand on hers and the words whispered in her ear:

  “I shall not rest until I get to the bottom of this. Doubtless it was some mischief of that toad, Henriques!”

  Fanny was immensely glad of the short carriage ride to quiet her unhappy and troubled spirits. The open carriage—the calm pace of the horses along the cobbled street—the cool air blowing against her smarting eyes and throbbing brow—all these things were helping to calm and soothe her mind. While they crossed the town square and passed the town hall she looked about her, trying to distract her thoughts with outside matters. A sizeable crowd was gathered in front of one of the larger alehouses, the Half Moon, laughing, talking and jostling. She wondered what occupied them.

  Suddenly, as the carriage drew near to the group, Fanny heard a terrible, a truly ear-piercing scream, which came from its center. The crowd broke apart as a young man burst out from its midst and ran wildly across the open space. Next moment all the bystanders were after him. Fanny gazed at him aghast as he raced toward the carriage; he was white-faced, thin, wild-eyed, bare to the waist. His dash for escape was hopeless; somebody thrust out a foot and tripped him; a moment later two burly fellows in leather jackets had seized him. Fanny saw with horror that these were members of her husband’s impress gang—a tough, callous pair called Noakes and Tanner, who had elected to follow Thomas to Petworth from Gosport.

  Meanwhile the carriage driver had been obliged to draw his horses to a halt, since the crowd had blocked the road. “Make way, make way there!” he called authoritatively, and the people, recognizing him and Lord Egremont’s equipage, began to move aside, touching their hats and forelocks. The press-gangers garnered around their prisoner once more; Fanny saw a man scoop a dipperful of something out of a heavy leather bucket and pour the contents over the captive’s arm; then a second time; she saw steam rising from the ladle; and twice more came that appalling scream.

  “Oh! What in mercy’s name are they doing to that poor man?” she demanded of the footman who stood behind her.

  “’Tis the press gang, ma’am,” he replied flatly.

  “I know that.” Fanny could not avoid a dreadful feeling of guilt for her own connection with the gang, through Thomas; she felt it must show in her face. “But what were they doing to him?” she repeated.

  “Likely he’ll have been shamming epileptic, ma’am. If you’re a ’leptic, see, you may claim freedom from impress. So the gangers, what they do is hold a fellow’s arm in a flame, or, like now, pour on boiling tallow. If he do truly suffer from fits, ’tis reckoned as how that’ll bring one of ’em on; if not, then he’s a healthy man, and fit for naval service.”

  And indeed at this moment Fanny heard the stentorian voice of Noakes roaring out what was evidently a ritual sentence:

  “He’ll do, alow and aloft! Throw him in the cart!” And the wretched prisoner was dragged, trembling and crying, to a tumbril that stood outside the Half Moon Inn.

  As the carriage passed by the cart, Fanny saw that the man knelt beseechingly, extending his manacled hands, while the half dozen other captives looked at him with vague dislike and apathy; she heard him cry: “If I am taken, who will look after my poor mother?”

  “They doesn’t take loonies and ’leptics and suchlike for sailors, ye see, ma’am,” the footman continued instructively as the carriage rolled on, “’case they tumbles down out o’ the rigging or sets fire to the ship; so chaps’ll get up to all manner of tricks, acting crazy, feigning sickness, scraping their skin sore with copper coins,
rubbing their legs with cow itch or sting nettles to bring on scabs, burning theirselves with oil of vitriol even, and making out ’tis the pox; why, I even heard of a man chopping off his own thumb and finger with an ax, so’s to ’scape the press.”

  “I see,” Fanny said faintly. She thought of Thomas’s missing thumb and finger—for a wild moment wondered if he could possibly have mutilated himself in such a manner; but then remembered that he had in fact been to sea, that the injury had been received in a naval engagement; no wonder he and his men had little sympathy with those who pretended disabilities in order to avoid serving their country. She must try to think of it in a proper spirit. Of course there had to be a navy—ships, sailors—in order to defend the country from Buonaparte, men must be taken to serve at sea; nevertheless, all she could really think of was that man’s face of desperation; his terrible cry still rang in her ears.

  The distance from Petworth House to the Hermitage was a very short one, and in three more minutes the conveyance had drawn up at her front door.

  Little Patty, hearing the sound of wheels, came flying out in curiosity.

  “La! Stepmama, why do you come home in a coach? And where are Bet and Papa?”

  Patty had gone into a sulk for three days on learning that she was not to make one of the party to Petworth House. Her feelings of ill-use were very strong, and now, as Fanny explained why she had returned before the others, they broke out once more.

  “It is too bad! Why could not I go? I daresay there were other children my age. I should have liked to see the pretty ladies’ dresses and the nice things to eat! Why should Bet be allowed to play with bows and arrows when I am not?”

  The afternoon had become thunderously close and hot; having changed her dress, Fanny walked outdoors again. Longing for a breeze, she made her way down to the yew-tree walk, closely accompanied by Patty with demands for more details about the party at Petworth House and information regarding the possible visit to Cowdray. Fanny supplied these as best she could, but in a somewhat disjointed manner; her thoughts were distressfully occupied by the encounter with Major Henriques. Was it conceivable that Liz could have arranged the visit to Petworth House to promote the schemes of such a man? Could the relationship of Liz herself with Henriques be such as he had hinted? What, after all, did she really know about Liz Wyndham, save that she lived with a man to whom she was not married and had borne him three children? Very likely she would think of the affair merely as a harmless flirtation, nothing but a frolic. But then, previously, she had expressed what sounded like contempt for Henriques, said that he was a rake—that did not sound like close friendship, surely? Or could these derogatory comments have been made in order to disguise her own interest in him? Or out of pique because he had slighted her?

  How can I think such hateful and disgusting things about someone who has befriended me? thought Fanny, and pressed her palms against her burning cheeks. But if she turned her mind from Liz Wyndham, it was only to remember Major Henriques and his mocking smile, or to hear again the horrible scream of the man in the square as they poured the boiling tallow onto his arm. How can Thomas permit such practices? she thought. Surely there must be other ways in which to discover whether a man has epilepsy or not?

  Fanny glanced over the wall into the meadows below. A storm was brewing: the high-piled purplish clouds, reflecting the light of the setting sun, threw a strange glow into the valley, making the grass shine emerald green, the young-leaved hedges flow like shining ribbons; birds were singing with wild fervor, as if to try and avert the bad weather. Another kind of whistling caught her ear—a sweet human tune, lilting and irresistible, one that she had never heard before, yet its gaiety reminded her of the tunes that she invented for her own pleasure.

  Patty tugged at her hand.

  “Come, Stepmama! Why are you standing and staring so, down into the valley? Papa does not like you to do so!” And then, standing on tiptoe herself so as to see over the wall, “Who is that man walking down by the brook? Why do you look after him?”

  “He is one of Lord Egremont’s gardeners,” Fanny said absently.

  “Oh, a gardener.” Patty’s tone dismissed the whole tribe. Nevertheless she added, “Where is he going?”

  “I daresay to visit his father, who lives in a little house in the woods, up on the other side of the valley.”

  “How do you know? You have never been there? I believe that is just a story! Who told you?” Patty demanded suspiciously.

  Fanny thought how strange it was that she had never been into those woods, which looked so close.

  “See, there is Tess coming from the house; I believe she wants me. Let us go back.”

  Tess hurried toward them, looking anxious.

  “Mrs. Strudwick sent me for ye, ma’am; owd Missus Paget tumbled herself out o’ bed, and Mrs. Baggot is out, and we fear the poor owd lady may be poorly; we’ve put her back in bed but she’s unaccountable mazed, and Mrs. Strudwick wondered should we send for the doctor, she give her head a proper dunt on the corner of the chest.”

  “Oh, good God!” exclaimed Fanny. “How very unfortunate that Nurse Baggot should be out when such a thing occurs.”

  Tess looked as if she felt this to be nothing surprising. Indeed Nurse Baggot spent less and less time with her patient.

  “Are you quite well, Tess?” Fanny asked, noticing that the little maid, walking a respectful pace behind her mistress, appeared rather more distressed and troubled than the news about the old lady seemed to warrant. Tears swam in her eyes, and her cheeks, under their freckles, were even paler than normally.

  “Oh, ma’am!” The child gulped. “’Tis my cousin Tom Rapley, ma’am—he’ve been taken up by the press gang—the butcher’s boy just told me when he brought the beef—and how is my aunt Rapley ever going to manage now, for she be a widow woman, and bedridden these five years! Couldn’t ye say a word to Master, ma’am, and tell him how ’tis? Maybe he’d let poor Tom go, if he knew all?”

  She gazed at Fanny pleadingly but without real hope; and Fanny gazed as hopelessly back.

  “My word carries no weight with the master, my poor child; I will try my best, but I am afraid I already know what the answer will be.”

  Tess nodded, suppressing a sob; she had expected as much.

  “But tell me where your aunt Rapley lives,” said Fanny.

  “In Bywimbles, ma’am, next and nigh to the church.”

  “I will write a note to Mrs. Socket about her,” Fanny said. “I am sure she will see that your aunt is looked after—that somebody comes in to do for her and run errands.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Tess, sniffing. She still looked very stricken. Fanny wondered with pity if she had a more than cousinly attachment to the boy who had been taken; the sound of his scream came again, unbidden, into her mind.

  “Perhaps your aunt might find somebody to lodge with her and help her in the house instead of paying rent,” Fanny suggested.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tess agreed dully. “I daresay that’s what she better do.”

  * * *

  Arrived in the old lady’s room, Fanny could see immediately that her mother-in-law was in a fair way to be really ill. She was feverish, wild-eyed, continually threw herself about in the bed, and muttered unintelligibly; her lips were dry and caked and her head was very hot.

  “It’s as much as I can do to keep her in the bed, ma’am,” said Mrs. Strudwick, “and me with dinner to prepare and all; what Master will say I do not know—and as for that hussy that calls herself a nurse—”

  “Pray send Jem for Dr. Chilgrove directly, Mrs. Strudwick,” Fanny ordered her. “I will sit with Mrs. Paget until Nurse Baggot returns, so you may go back to your work.”

  Mrs. Strudwick departed in haste.

  Left alone with the old lady, Fanny attempted to soothe her by stroking her temples and bathing them and her wrists with rose
mary water. By degrees this had a beneficial effect, and presently Mrs. Paget ceased her restless frantic movements from side to side of the bed and lay still, staring at Fanny with wide, unrecognizing eyes.

  “He died in jail!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I was not there!”

  “I know,” Fanny said in a tone of sympathy, “and I am very sorry for it.”

  “I do not know where his grave is, even. Thomas would never speak of it. I could not put flowers on my own boy’s grave. Thomas is wicked—a heartless, unnatural brother.”

  “Try not to think about it,” Fanny said gently.

  The old lady gave her a cunning look.

  “You won’t tell him I said so? You won’t do that, dearie? He is angry as it is. I fooled him finely.”

  “I am sure you did not, ma’am.”

  “He thought I had more money,” the old woman said in sly triumph. Her eyes slid secretively past Fanny. “He will be angry, though, when he learns the whole. We must conceal it while we can. That one might tell him, though—you can’t trust her.” She seized Fanny’s wrist in a clawlike grip and whispered harshly, “Hand in glove! Hand in glove!”

  “Hush, hush, ma’am. You are overexciting yourself.”

  Ten minutes later Dr. Chilgrove arrived. He immediately diagnosed the old lady’s disorder as a putrid fever similar to some other cases which he had been treating in the town. He shook in his head over her prospects but said that with careful nursing she might come through.

  “Only tell me what she needs,” said Fanny.

  Dr. Chilgrove looked at her doubtfully.

  “You are only just out of your own bed, ma’am. I fear it will be too much for you, my dear.”

  “What I cannot do, Nurse Baggot will, I am sure,” Fanny said with a confidence she did not wholly feel. Dr. Chilgrove appeared to feel even less confidence in this aid but administered some drops to the old lady, wrote out a regimen, and promised to send a further supply of medicine by his boy. He was taking his leave when voices outside announced the return of Thomas and Bet.