“Excellent.” He had a trick of rubbing his hands together, rather as if washing them. “It is but five miles or so farther down the road. You cannot fail to find it. Tell the beadle Mr. Emsworth sent you.”
“Five miles!” she said. “Sir, I have not the strength to walk one. And the child is wet and exhausted. If you have no pity for me, have some for him. Surely there must be some woman in the village who would take us in on your recommendation?”
“And why, pray, should I recommend you? What do I know of you but that you have come here, forced your way into my house under a palpably assumed name and told me a lot of moonshine about losing your memory. No, no, my girl, you’ve picked the wrong man for your lures, and indeed”—his glance once more swept over her disheveled figure—“it is not such a kind of draggle-tailed female that will catch me, I can tell you. Now, march, if you please.”
She looked him up and down, then turned toward the door. “I would rather die in a ditch than stay to be so insulted.”
“Stay a moment.” It was a woman’s voice, mellow and musical.
Marianne paused on the threshold and looked back. An elderly lady in black had appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall which, she now realized, had stood open all the time.
“Mr. Emsworth, I hesitate to interfere in what is clearly your affair,” went on the stranger, advancing as she spoke with an air of unmistakable command, “but I wonder if you are well advised in what you are doing. I have listened to all of this young lady’s remarkable story, and I find myself very much inclined to believe her.” She turned now, directly, to Marianne. “You ask, my dear, if there is not some good woman in the parish who will take you in. Will I do?”
“Oh, ma’am,” began Marianne, and, simultaneously: “Mrs. Mauleverer, you do not know what you are doing,” said the vicar. “You will be murdered in your bed—or worse.”
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Mauleverer blandly, “at my age I cannot think of anything worse, but I do not think Miss Lamb likely to murder me in my bed, any more than I suspect her of improper designs on you, Mr. Emsworth. I hope I can tell a lady, however bizarre her appearance. Perhaps it would be better for you if you could do likewise. But enough of that. Come, my dear, you are exhausted; it is time to be going. Goodbye, Mr. Emsworth, we will finish our parish business some other day.” And she moved past the astonished vicar, with a stately little inclination of her head, and a great rustling of heavy silk and bombazine.
Marianne followed her down the path to the vicarage gate, too dazed by this rapid turn of events to do anything but obey. A coachman and groom appeared as if by magic and she found herself being helped solicitously into a commodious if somewhat old-fashioned carriage and covered with a heavy fur rug.
“Best hold the child, I think,” said her benefactress. “It is but five minutes’ drive, and the roads are rough.” She settled herself in the corner facing Marianne. “Well, here is something to break the monotony of a country winter,” she went on with obvious satisfaction. And then: “Poor Mr. Emsworth, I have been wanting to give him just such a setdown for years. It was all true, that romantic story of yours, was it not?”
“Perfectly,” said Marianne, amused, despite her exhaustion at this naive appeal. “I do not know how to thank you, ma’am.”
“Then do not try,” interrupted Mrs. Mauleverer. “Or at least not tonight. I can see that you are too tired to speak. You shall tell me the whole story in the morning, and we will put our heads together as to what is best for you to do. Who knows, perhaps you will have remembered by then?”
“Perhaps I shall.” With exquisite relief, Marianne let herself nod off into an uneasy doze, which was soon interrupted by the coach’s stopping.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Mauleverer gave a series of orders to her servants and Marianne found herself helped out of the coach and up a shelving flight of stone steps, to where big doors stood invitingly open on a blaze of light. She was aware of blessed warmth, of a babble of voices, of the child’s being taken from her ... Then she was drinking something warm and fierce ... being helped out of her clothes and into bed ... It was soft, warm, delicious ... Somewhere, a fire was flickering. For a moment, she fought off the advancing waves of sleep. “But who am I?” she murmured, then slept.
II
There were dreams ... dreams of flight, and terror, where always the unknown pursued, and, somehow, her feet could not touch the ground to run. Once she screamed, and woke herself, looked dazedly round an unfamiliar room, and slept again. Sometimes the cloud of sleep thinned, and she was dimly aware of light in the room, of voices and movement around her. She was hot ... someone, surely, was bathing her forehead; then again she was cold, shuddering in her sleep and dreaming of flight across polar wastes.
Gradually the terror lessened, her sleep grew easier, and at last she opened her eyes on sunlight in a strange room. Even opening them had seemed an effort and she lay, for a while, unmoving, taking in what she could see from her bed. It was a large room, high ceilinged with elegantly molded plaster-work there and around the chimneypiece. A cheerful fire in the hearth competed with the bright morning sunshine that picked out brilliant patches in the Turkish carpet. Heavy red curtains at the window, and exquisitely polished mahogany furniture contributed to the general atmosphere of prosperity and comfort. Her head moved a little, restlessly, on the pillow. “Where am I?”
She must have spoken aloud, for there was a starched rustling and the figure of a comfortable, plump-faced elderly maid came into view. “The Lord be praised,” she said. “She’s awake at last.” And she creaked over to a red rope bell-pull by the fireplace and gave it a firm tug. Then she returned to the bed. “Are you feeling better at last?” she asked.
“Much better, thank you.” And then, “Have I been ill?”
“Bless you, yes. Doctor despaired of you, I think, but the mistress never did. ‘She’s got to recover,’ says she, ‘to satisfy my curiosity.’ Mistress mostly always gets her way, you’ll find.” And then, to a child in cap and apron who put her head around the door, “Tell Mrs. Mauleverer that the young lady is awake at last.”
“Mrs. Mauleverer ... of course.” Memory came with the rush of lock gates opening, and then, just as suddenly, it seemed, they closed again, and the terror was back. She remembered the vicar’s brutality, and, back from there, the desperate struggle through the rain, the kind strangers in the coach (but one of them had stolen her purse), and beyond that, nothing. From what she did remember, a question instantly arose. “The child?” she asked. “Thomas?”
“Don’t you be worrying about him, miss,” said the woman cheerfully, “he’s right as rain. Him and Martha—that’s mistress’s maid—have taken a rare fancy to each other. Always did want children of her own, poor Martha did. No, you needn’t be fretting yourself about young Thomas, miss, unless he gets into any more mischief than he has done already. Ah ... here’s Mrs. Mauleverer now.” The room door had opened again and Marianne turned her head feebly on the pillow to get a better view of her rescuer.
“I am so glad to hear you are better.” Marianne who remembered the formidable setdown Mrs. Mauleverer had given to the vicar, was surprised to find her a tiny, fragile-looking elderly lady in beautifully tended black. Lines of fretfulness marred a delicately pink complexion, but disappeared when she smiled or spoke. “No, no, do not try to move,” she said now, as Marianne made a feeble effort to raise herself in bed. “You are very weak still and must not exert yourself.”
“I ... I do not know how to thank you,” Marianne began, but was swiftly interrupted. No one, she was soon to find, ever finished their own sentences when in Mrs. Mauleverer’s company.
“Do not think of trying,” she said, “or rather, think how amply you will repay me by unraveling all this romantic history of yours. But tell me”—she was close beside the bed now, looking down at Marianne, faded blue eyes asparkle with curiosity—“have you remembered?”
“Nothing more.” The terror was close
again.
Mrs. Mauleverer noticed the shadow on her face and hurried into speech: “We went over your clothes piece by piece, but there’s not a mark on them. Even your shoes are country made ... and the little boy the same. But his clothes are better than yours.”
“Yes.” Speaking was an effort. “I had noticed that too. I think I must be his nursemaid, or something of the kind ... you should not be troubling yourself with me, ma’am; this is not the place ... you are too kind...” Her voice trailed off.
The plump maidservant came forward anxiously. “I think she should rest now, ma’am, if you will excuse my saying so. And perhaps a little broth.”
“Yes, yes, of course, you are quite right, Gibbs.” Mrs. Mauleverer sounded faintly impatient, like a child from whom a new toy has been taken. Then, more kindly, she turned back to the bed: “You must rest, my dear, and get your strength back, then we will talk more of this. In the meantime, do not be troubling yourself; it will all turn out for the best, I am sure of it.”
“You are so kind.” Tears pricked behind Marianne’s eyes. How could she ever repay this benevolent, inquisitive old lady. Then a thought struck her. “My box,” she said, “there may be something in that.”
“Your box? But where is it?”
She was very tired now. “The coachman said ... leave it ... Three Feathers...”
“Admirable.” The old lady actually clapped her hands in her glee. “I will have it sent for at once. Depend upon it, there will be some clue to your identity there. I was sure that my talking to you would bring something back. Oh, very well, Gibbs,” impatiently, “no need to be making faces at me, I am going. Mind you rest well, my dear.”
“A very kind lady, Mrs. Mauleverer”—Gibbs closed the door behind her mistress with a certain finality—“but she likes her own way. But then, who doesn’t? It’s getting it that’s the trouble. Now, you rest easy, miss, like she told you, and don’t worry yourself about anything, while I go and fetch you some good nourishing broth. You’ve had next to nothing to eat, you know, for five days.”
“Five days? Has it really been so long?” But she was almost too tired to finish the question and drifted off, once more, into sleep, dreamless, this time, and infinitely refreshing.
When she awoke, Gibbs was beside her with the broth, which she fed to her, with infinite patience and gentleness, as if she had been a child. “You’re very good to me,” she said as the broth began to warm her.
“It’s a pleasure, miss. Too little to do is our trouble in this house, as you’ll see soon enough when you’re up and about, as, please God, you soon will be. Well, stands to reason, when you have a full staff of servants looking after one old lady, and her, bless her, a very easy mistress—mostly. I tell you, Martha’s a different creature now she’s got young Thomas to look out for, and Cook’s got her recipe books out, thinking up invalid dishes to tempt you, and I feel better myself for having you to nurse. It’s been a long winter, miss, and a dull one, and you’re as welcome as the signs of spring. The mistress was rare down the day before she brought you home, and Martha and I had been wondering whether we oughtn’t to write Mr. Mauleverer about it. Course, it’s all different when he’s home; you wouldn’t think it was the same house. Parties and jollifications then, and sixteen to dinner without notice, and Cook threatening to leave, and enjoying every minute of it. And mistress changing her dress three times a day, and bells ringing all over the house, and sitting down forty to dinner in the servants’ hall—the house is really alive then. But the master’s so busy with his politics since his friend Lord Grey became First Minister that he’s hardly ever home. Madam misses him sadly, I’m afraid. He didn’t even get home for Christmas this year; they were at it night and day, the mistress said—and the Bill likely to be the ruination of the country, she claims. If you ask me that’s why Mr. Mauleverer didn’t come home at Christmas—stands to reason he could have if he’d wanted to—but I reckon he was sick to death of all the argufying that went on when he was down in the autumn, and I can’t say I blame him. There”—she broke off and put the empty bowl down on a side table—“Cook will be pleased to hear you’ve drunk it all. Now try if you can’t sleep some more. Mistress is at her dinner now, and she always rests after that, but she’s bound to want to come and talk to you when she gets up. We had hard work, Martha and I, keeping her from waking you to ask you questions. She’s like a child when she s got her heart set on something, and this mystery of yours is as good as a three-volume novel to her.”
Settling obediently down among the soft pillows, Marianne could not help a wry little smile at the idea of her adventures providing a sort of real life Mystery of Udolpho for her kind hostess. But what a stroke of luck it was for her ... And then a new thought struck her: I have read a great deal, she told herself. Titles and the names of authors crowded into her mind: the Waverley novels, Miss Austen, Lord Byron’s poems ... If I am a nursery governess, how on earth did I find the time? And if I remember all of this, why can I not remember anything that matters?
But that way lay the terror. It was a relief when Mrs. Mauleverer came tapping at the door. “Are you awake, Miss Lamb? John is returned with your box and I am simply dying to have it opened. Are you strong enough, do you think, to sit up and watch while Martha unpacks it for you?” And then, without waiting for an answer: “I call you Miss Lamb, for lack of a better name, for I am sure it is not your real one.”
“No, indeed,” Marianne smiled. “I made it up on the spur of the moment for the vicar’s benefit. I had been thinking, you see, of Lady Caroline—” And then, with a sudden change of tone: “Oh, ma’am, why is it that I can remember all these absurdities, and yet nothing to the purpose?”
“It is most provoking, I quite agree,” said Mrs. Mauleverer. “But never fret yourself, when Dr. Barton comes tomorrow, I am sure he will be able to explain it all. And in the meantime, who knows? Perhaps the sight of your things will bring back your memory.”
The box was a heavy wooden one, plain, shabby, and, to Marianne’s bitter disappointment, without any name or label. There was no lock, and, at Mrs. Mauleverer’s command, the two footmen who had brought it untied the heavy cord around it before they withdrew.
“There.” Mrs. Mauleverer turned eagerly to Martha. “Now begin. Oh, very well Gibbs, you may stay.”
Martha was a thin, bright-eyed, middle-aging woman, rather birdlike in appearance, who treated her mistress, Marianne noticed, with much less respect than Gibbs did. She grumbled a good deal at being summoned away from the game she had been playing with Thomas, summing up Marianne, the while, with sharp, hostile eyes. Did she resent having to unpack for her? Or was it rather that she grudged her prior claim on Thomas about whom she spoke like a doting, dictatorial mamma?
Still grumbling, she flung open the box and revealed a top layer of child’s clothes. Brightening at once: “Oh, good. I have been compelled to borrow for the poor child from the lodge keeper’s little boy, and I can tell you his clothes are not at all the thing. This is much better.” She shook out a white frilled shirt and a pair of nankeen trousers. “Yes, indeed, these are very much more like it. One thing is certain, ma’am, and that is that Thomas is no charity child: you can tell just to look at him that he’s well born.” A quick glance for Marianne suggested that the same thing could hardly be said of her. Now she lifted out a plain brown stuff dress very like the one Marianne had been wearing when she arrived and laid it across a chair. It was badly crumpled, shabby and, Marianne thought, somehow pitiful. Hateful to have this strange and strangely hostile woman unpacking her things.
But Martha went on lifting more clothes out of the box: a brown woollen spencer, two severe-looking flannel petticoats and two equally uncompromising nightgowns; some drab worsted stockings, three caps and a pile of handkerchiefs. “Bah, these caps!” she sneered, trying one on, then picked up a handkerchief with a suddenly pulled expression: “The handkerchiefs are beautiful; quite out of keeping with the other things. Perhaps they
were a present...”
Mrs. Mauleverer interrupted her: “For pity’s sake stop chattering, Martha, and get on with it. There must be some personal things surely?”
“Well,” Martha went on doubtfully, “there is this.” She lifted out a shabby workbasket, and, at an eager exclamation from her, handed it to her mistress. But it proved to contain only the most basic necessities of housewifery: a few skeins of thread, needles, a pair of scissors, a heavy, old-fashioned thimble. A battered-looking leather writing case proved equally unrewarding. And the box was nearly empty. With an expression of weary superiority Martha took out a pair of heavy buckled shoes and two pairs of soft slippers. Then came a Bible with no name in it and a rather dilapidated volume of Shakespeare’s plays, equally without a clue as to its owner.
Mrs. Mauleverer gave an impatient sigh. “Really,” she said, “one might think you had gone out of your way to make sure there was no clue to your name.”
“Yes.” Martha gave Marianne another of her strange looks. “One really might. But have you noticed something else, ma’am? There is everything else that a nursemaid, or someone of that kind might need, but what about the child’s clothes? Where are his socks? His little drawers? His night things? One would think his clothes had been snatched up in haste and pushed on to the top of the box. Did you notice how badly they were packed?” She shook out a frilled shirt as she spoke. “While the other things were packed as exquisitely as if they had been silks and satins.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Mauleverer, “it is quite true. Now what can we deduce from that?” She looked eagerly at Marianne, as if expecting her to be inspired.
But it was Martha who answered. “It might mean that miss there has run away with her employer’s child on who knows what sudden impulse. Revenge, perhaps, for some slight? You will see, there will be a hue and cry out directly.” The black eyes snapped maliciously at Marianne.
Maulever Hall Page 3