The Weeping Ash

by Joan Aiken

  Fanny wondered if this was a tactful ploy to get Thomas to herself in order to mention his other daughter and her desire for reconciliation to him. She did not immediately accompany the party to the yew walk, but remained behind to pick up her recumbent son from the blanket where he lay peacefully dribbling milk and gazing at the golden leaves overhead. “Poor boy!” she said to him softly. “Poor fat backward boy! I fear you are as great a zany as your mama!” The baby smiled at her agreeably, and she felt a surge of affection for him—just at that moment he began to seem like a real person, and not merely an extension of Thomas.

  Then, to her alarm, Fanny heard raised angry voices coming from the direction of the garden house. “Quick, Jemima, take the baby,” she hastily said. “You had best carry him indoors now; the sun is losing its heat,” and she hurried across the garden and along the yew walk to the little building.

  Here she could hardly credit the scene that met her eyes.

  By the door of the gazebo were grouped Lady Mountague, Bet and Patty (who were saucer-eyed and openmouthed), and Mrs. Baggot, in a considerable state of deshabille. Thomas, who seemed almost beside himself with rage, was leaning over the valley wall, directing a tirade of shouted insults, curses, and obscenities at somebody down below.

  “Who is it? What has happened?” Fanny demanded in fright, and little Patty exclaimed, “Oh, Mama, there was a man in Papa’s garden house, and he was doing something dreadful to Mrs. Baggot—”

  “Silence, miss!” said Lady Mountague sharply. “This is no affair of yours. Be off, you and your sister!”

  Red-faced, Patty and Bet obeyed, the latter, however, having first directed one look at Fanny and one glance toward the nurse which spoke volumes.

  “Now, sir,” continued Lady Mountague to Thomas in the same tone of brisk authority, “stop that ranting and bawling, I beg! Pray remember that there are ladies present! You might more sensibly occupy yourself by directing some servants to pick up that unfortunate man—who appears to have broken his leg. Tell them to carry him to Petworth House. It is Major Henriques, who frequently visits Egremont.”

  Thus sharply pulled up, Thomas started uncertainly back toward the house, took a step or two, then turned to direct a look of concentrated malignity toward Mrs. Baggot and to hiss at her:

  “Doxy! Fussock! Get out of my house—I never wish to see you again.”

  “Well!” that lady resentfully observed, pushing back a tangled raven ringlet. “There’s a nice thing! And me with a month’s wages owing!”

  “I will see that the money is brought to your chamber,” said Fanny swiftly. “Now, pray do as my husband says.”

  Mrs. Baggot began to walk away, casting indignant glances toward Thomas, who was shouting for Jem. She bawled after him, “I had rather lay with him than with you, I can tell you that!” adding a remark of such lewdity that Fanny could hardly believe her ears and was thankful that Patty and Bet had left the scene.

  A loud series of groans now coming from below the wall, Fanny allowed herself one cautious glance over it and perceived Major Henriques prone below the garden-room window, which stood open. A broken ivy branch dangling down the wall gave some clue as to the cause of his mishap. He must have climbed up into the garden room—there he must have encountered Mrs. Baggot—by design or by accident? Had it been an assignation? The nurse had known that Thomas was going to be out on business that day, was not expected to return—

  “My dear,” said Lady Mountague calmly, “if you do not object to take my arm, I should like to stroll once up and down this delightful walk, and then I believe I had best be on my way; you must be fatigued from making all those preserves; and I fancy that I have discomposed your household enough for one day!” she added with a droll sideways look. “Child, I am an outspoken, intrusive old woman, and I am now about to give you some advice which you may take or reject as you choose. I collect that your husband is in a passion because his mistress has been discovered in double-dealing.”

  Fanny gasped slightly at hearing the situation, which she had been endeavoring to disguise to herself for so long, thus flatly brought out into the light of day; but there was something astringently bracing about it too, like the slap of a cold, salt wave.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am afraid that is the case.”

  “Well, child, you are perfectly in the right to pay off that harpy; the last thing one wants is such a trollop about the house—a real bird of ill omen! But, having done that, I advise you to say no more about the matter! A wise wife turns a blind eye to such follies. If I had not done so,” said Lady Mountague cheerfully, “I should be lying drowned in the Rhine now, along with my husband—instead of whichever barque of frailty he had with him at the time—and I had far rather be here, lecturing you!”

  “Indeed, ma’am, I am very grateful for your advice, and I will try not to refine too much upon this incident,” Fanny sighed. Then she burst out, “Sometimes I fear Thomas hates me—and after this, I am afraid that matters will be even worse.”

  “Hates you? Why should he do that, pray? You run his household to admiration—you have given him an heir—”

  “Oh, Lady Mountague—do you really think the baby is backward in his progress? Do you think—do you think he might be abnormal? I am so afraid that Thomas will say—” She checked herself, then added, trembling, “He will be sure to blame me.”

  “Blame my runaway tongue, rather,” said her ladyship. “I am only sorry that I put such a notion into his head. And I daresay it is all moonshine, you know—infants vary prodigiously from one to another.”

  Fanny longed to confide in this redoubtable adviser the story of Miss Fox and the letter—but she could not, no, she could not reveal suspicions that sounded so wild, so lurid, so bizarre. Lady Mountague would take her for a nervous simpleton, someone whose head had been turned, probably by the perusal of too many Gothick romances.

  “What we must hope,” said Lady Mountague briskly, turning toward the house, “is, either that the French soon invade these shores, which would keep your husband occupied and out of mischief—or that he will very shortly find for himself a charming new mistress who will put him back in a good temper.—Hey-dey,” she added, leveling her lorgnette, “you are expecting more company? Whom have we here?”

  A dusty hired post chaise had pulled up by the side of the house. Out of it now descended a slender young lady attired with ravishing simplicity in a muslin traveling dress of slate blue adorned with nifties and ribbons of white and darker blue. An absurdly pretty little matching hat was tilted forward at a provocative angle on her fair curly head—in spite of which protection it could not be denied that her complexion was decidedly tanned. Huge trusting gray eyes, a small upturned nose, and a soft, arched mouth made the visitor, Fanny thought, quite the prettiest girl she had ever seen in the whole of her life. Despite this enchanting appearance, the stranger appeared remarkably hesitant, not to say diffident; approaching them over the grass, she glanced from the younger lady to the older and then, fixing her eyes again on those of Fanny, she inquired with cautious politeness:

  “Forgive me, ma’am, for this unheralded intrusion—but—but—but are you my cousin Juliana Paget? I do hope that you are! I am your cousin from India—I am Scylla Paget.”

  Seventeen

  The first view that Thomas had of his cousin Scylla Paget was late in the evening. After the disagreeable encounter with Mrs. Baggot and Henriques, he had not returned to bid farewell to Lady Mountague—let the old beldame go back without that civility and make the best of it, he thought furiously—if she had not ridden over unannounced and unexpected in that rude and inconsiderate way, none of this trouble need have happened. He had gone off to inspect his mill, where, as so frequently on these visits of surveillance, he found matters all astray.

  Dark had fallen, therefore, before Thomas returned to the Hermitage. He had, contrary to custom, stopped in Byworth at the Bla
ck Horse Inn to eat a piece of pie and drink a glass of small beer, thus fortified, he planned to wait until his womenfolk were in bed before entering the house, so that he need not meet them until next day.

  However, greatly to his dismay, he saw, as Jem ran out to take his horse, that there were lights burning still in the house.

  Beset by dismal forebodings, he flung open the front door and strode in. But, seeing lights and hearing perfectly cheerful voices coming from the parlor, he walked into that room and stopped short in amazement.

  He heard Fanny’s soft “Here is Thomas, at last!” but his eyes were all for the girl who rose from her chair by the blazing hearth and walked to greet him, smiling up into his face with unaffected friendliness.

  “Good evening, Cousin Thomas! I have to ask your forgiveness for this unannounced intrusion—the more humbly so as I gather that I am the second uninvited guest to descend upon your house today! I am Scylla Paget, you know—but just arrived in this country from India—”

  “Good God, ma’am—Miss Scylla”—for once Thomas was startled out of his usual cold unconcern—“we were under the apprehension that you were about twelve years old—not a beautiful young lady—”

  Laughter rippled among the females in the room—Bet, who should have been in bed by now, was there too. Thomas saw with disapprobation the glances of undisguised warm admiration that Fanny bestowed upon Scylla and the friendly smiles exchanged between the pair. Obviously they were already upon terms of great cordiality, and this Thomas mistrusted; he never cared for alliances among other members of his household. However his cousin Scylla seemed so spontaneously amiable, so naturally prepared to like her new relations, that he did his best to unbend; and, indeed, surprised Fanny by the liveliness of his questions and the apparent eagerness of his welcome.

  “And where is your brother?” he presently inquired, rather hoping that the latter might have been drowned at sea, but Scylla explained that Cal was obliged to remain at Portsmouth to give evidence at a naval inquiry.

  “He will come to pay his respects here as soon as he can; and, if he may, to pass a week or two of convalescence under your roof, for he is suffering from a troublesome wound in his leg. Then we plan to take a trip to London—perhaps we may persuade our cousins to accompany us? And, when his leg is fully recovered, I believe Cal wishes to return to sea; he has found the life of a sailor much to his taste—which, I must acknowledge, amazes me, for he was used to be the laziest creature imaginable!”

  Thomas was greatly relieved to hear this program, since he did not in the least wish to have his cousin Cal quartered on him. His cousin Scylla, however, was quite another matter.

  “I hope you will make this house your home, Cousin, for as long as you feel inclined. I am sure we shall be much diverted by the tale of your adventures in foreign parts.”

  “Oh, for that, you had best wait until Cal is here. He makes a far better hand at descriptions. I paused only to purchase a couple of dresses, in order that I might pass myself off with some credit among your acquaintance, and not cause you to blush for your beggarly connection from overseas.”

  “No one would do so, indeed,” remarked Thomas, studying her simple yet elegant evening gown of pale yellow crape.

  “Well, it might have been otherwise,” divulged Scylla. “For I traveled all the way from Baghdad in the dress of an Afghani hill woman, and would be wearing it yet, had not my brother come in for a share of some prize money due from two French merchant vessels that were captured on our way from the Mediterranean.—But I fear that I am keeping you all from your beds—also I believe I can hear my baby crying; poor angel, he cannot yet accustom himself to the English diet; and I am, indeed, somewhat fatigued myself; so, if you will pardon me, I will seek my couch.”

  She left the room with a friendly smiling nod all around, so swiftly that she did not observe Thomas’s stunned expression at her penultimate sentence.

  “Baby?” articulated Thomas in accents of such shock and revulsion that Fanny was hard put to it not to smile, as she thriftily removed a half-burned log from the fire and checked to see that the shutters were all fastened. Blowing out the candles, she said calmly:

  “Why, yes, it seems that our cousins have performed a service for the Maharajah of the state where they resided, in bringing to England the ruler’s youngest child, who is destined to receive his education at Eton College and become a lawyer. A dear little fellow, but rather too young for Eton as yet!”

  She picked up a candlestick and moved to the door.

  “And what is to become of him in the meantime?” inquired Thomas suspiciously, following his wife up the stairs. “I trust we are not expected to house him here?”

  “No, no; Cousin Scylla plans to take him to London, to his uncle.”

  “I am glad to hear that.”

  Fanny was a little unnerved to find Thomas entering their bedroom, which he had not done for some time. Quietly she dismissed Tess, who had been waiting to help undo her corselet, and allowed Thomas to do so instead; he performed the task automatically, as if he had not observed that there had been any interim, and Fanny, likewise, accordingly did her best to behave as if nothing unusual were occurring, and to control the slight shrinking she felt as his hands touched her shoulders and waist. To cover this awkwardness she continued to talk of Cousin Scylla, of how Scylla’s brother had served as a junior officer aboard the captured French warship, but that his real interest lay in writing poetry.

  “Poetry!” growled Thomas, pulling on his nightshirt. “Good God, what sort of a frippery fellow can he be? I hope he does not remain in this house above a week or so.”

  Fanny did not voice her ardent disagreement with this hope, or her interest in the prospect of meeting Scylla’s brother. She was trying to remember something else that had been said about poetry that day—what could it have been? No, she could not recall; too much had happened. Thank God, that horrible woman was gone at last; thank God, she had flown away—like a bird of ill omen—before this bright new migrant had alighted among them.

  “Er—Frances—” said Thomas, rolling into the middle of the bed and wrapping the covers around his shoulders. He was not looking in Fanny’s direction. “Frances—that unfortunate scene earlier today—that malicious, lying slut—I trust she is gone, by the by?”

  “Yes, husband.”

  “Of course there was not a word of truth in her accusations—they were merely spiteful attempts to—”

  “Of course.”

  Fanny expected that he would make some comment on their new cousin’s bewitching prettiness and charm. He was silent on this head but said thoughtfully:

  “I wonder what their fortune consists of; I believe that my cousin Juliana made some provision for them, Throgmorton said as much; very unnecessarily generous of her! Very likely they had already inherited property on their mother’s side. Our cousin seems perfectly ladylike and well bred; she has evidently not been brought up in vulgar or indigent circumstances.”

  “No indeed!”

  Fanny quietly slipped into bed, maintaining a position as near the edge of the mattress as she could contrive to, without actually rolling off. She waited in nervous expectation for Thomas to turn toward her; the first six-month period of connubial interdiction set by Dr. Chilgrove had terminated without remark from Thomas; but she could hardly expect, now that Mrs. Baggot was gone, that he would continue to forebear from claiming his marital rights.

  However on this occasion he went straight to sleep.

  * * *

  Scylla, at the other end of the house, did not find sleep so easy to achieve. Little Chet whimpered unhappily in his dreams, and she was tempted to take him into her own bed but reflected that all too soon, now, he must be separated from her entirely; harsh though it seemed, she must begin loosening the tie, accustoming both of them to the severance. My life is nothing but partings, she thought misera
bly. Next, Cal would be gone from her as well. And by what—by whom—would he be replaced?

  She began to speculate about her cousins. It had been a considerable shock to learn that Cousin Juliana, after making all these benevolent provisions, had departed incontinently to the coast of South America. Scylla could not avoid a feeling of decided letdown and disappointment, though it was true that Fanny had been as warmly welcoming as any friendless stranger could wish. Fanny was a darling, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to live with her on terms of sisterly affection; but what of her stepdaughters? What of her husband? It must be admitted that they were by no means so prepossessing; Patty a pert, spiteful-looking little minx, Bet uncouth, nervously self-assertive, and, Scylla thought, imbued with feelings of jealousy toward her pretty stepmother; and Thomas? Scylla had to acknowledge to herself that she had taken her cousin Thomas in strong dislike during the first five minutes of meeting him. Since he was her host, it devolved upon Scylla to be friendly and civil to him, and she had taken some pains to be so. But there was something about him—a sourness, a lack of openness, an indication of angry, bitter feelings very close below the surface, that dismayed Scylla greatly. Worse—but here she hoped that she deceived herself—it seemed to her that she detected in his eye an expression that had become horribly familiar in that of Captain Phillimore—a look of concupiscence mixed with dislike, greed and lechery mixed with calculation; the aspect of a man who sees within his reach a fruit that is both tempting and disgusting, delicious but degrading. Surely I must be mistaken? Scylla thought, moving restlessly in her cold, narrow bed. I must have imagined that calculating, acquisitive look. Or is it that all men, like Captain Phillimore—she shuddered at the memory—inevitably assume that travel defiles a woman; that, having crossed Asia and ridden on a camel, I have thereby forfeited all right to respect and may be regarded as unchaste, any man’s natural prey? Were the signs of her two experiences, both unsought, but so different—were they, then, as visible in her face and bearing as the look in Thomas’s eye had seemed to suggest?