Maulever Hall

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Miss Lamb?” A puzzled frown drew the black eyebrows together.

  “Why, yes. She is too modest, I believe, to speak up for herself, but she has had her eye, this age, on that bay mare that eats her head off in your stables.”

  “The bay mare, Sadie?” He sounded more puzzled than ever, and darted a quick characteristically irritable glance at Marianne.

  “Yes. She has decided she is a horsewoman and wishes to show us her form. I am sure you can have no objection?”

  “Of course not, if Miss Lamb wishes to ride. Indeed, I cannot think why we have not thought of it sooner. But not on the bay mare, Miss Lamb.” At last he was speaking to her directly. “She is no mount for a lady.”

  “And I am no lady,” said Marianne, irrationally furious at having her request thus anticipated.

  He laughed. “I’ll not argue that point with you, but if you will meet me in the stables tomorrow morning I will see if I cannot find something fit for you to ride.”

  “Jim Barnes says the mare needs exercising,” she said mutinously.

  “I daresay he does, but that does not mean you shall be allowed to risk your life on her until I have seen you on something safer.” His tone was final and he turned the subject to a lively discussion with Lady Heverdon of their plans for the next day, his first, as he said, of freedom since she had been his guest. She proposed at once that they should ride over and call on her friend the Countess, but when he countered with a suggestion that he should take her for a promised ride around the boundaries of his estates, she agreed with a pretty waiving of her own plan: “We will survey every bush and every briar, pat all the children on the heads and comfort all the poverty-stricken old women. Only that I am sure there is no poverty on your estates.”

  “I am very much afraid that there is, and indeed I am grateful to you for agreeing so readily to my plan for tomorrow, since there are, in fact, some houses my bailiff wishes me to look at. It is not only that the tenants do not pay their rent. He tells me that they live absolutely like pigs and are destroying the property, but I cannot find it in my conscience to turn them out without visiting them first myself.”

  “Quite right,” she said approvingly, “but nor must you endure such sad tenants. Lord Heverdon was always strictness itself in questions of rent; he found it was the only way that would answer. Give those sort of people an inch, and they will take an ell, and not respect you for it either.”

  “Very true, and yet I rather hate to turn some of these people out. The Martins particularly have been here since time out of mind, and, what binds me to them still more, he served in my regiment at Waterloo. And a fine soldier he was, too; I cannot understand why he has been so unlucky since. Boxall has found him quite unemployable, and he is reduced, I believe, to breaking stones on the road.”

  Marianne, who had been listening eagerly, could no longer keep silent: “Yes,” she interrupted, “and for two and sixpence a week! Do you wonder if he gets something behind with his rent? And have you ever asked Boxall why he found him unemployable, Mr. Mauleverer?”

  “Why, no. I do not propose to keep a bailiff, and bark myself. But what are you insinuating, Miss Lamb?”

  His tone was very far from encouraging, but Marianne did not care. The Martin children were the star pupils of her little class and had shyly taken her home to the clean-scrubbed, penuriously poor little house where she had met and respected their haggard parents. It had taken some time before the full story of their misfortunes had come out, but she knew it now, and had been waiting for an opportunity to tell it to Mauleverer. This was not a good one, she knew, but she could not let them be evicted without a word. “You know very little about village affairs,” she said now, “if you do not know that Martin and his wife were betrothed before he went for a soldier—at your suggestion, I believe.”

  “Yes.” His voice was dry. “Does that make me responsible for whatever hobble he makes of his later life?”

  “Well—I suppose that is a matter for your conscience. What I suspect you do not know is what happened when he finally returned—and, you know, it is not as easy for a private soldier to extricate himself from the Army when the crisis is past as it is for the gentry. He did not get home for several years, having served in the Army of Occupation in Paris. He wrote, however, faithfully to his Jenny, in care of the Hall, since she was working here at the time and that seemed the best way of reaching her. He was mistaken. She had none of his letters. I do not know that Boxall suppressed them; but I do know that he wooed her vigorously himself, suggesting that Martin must be dead, since there was no word from him. She had at last agreed to an engagement when Martin walked into the village one morning. He had been discharged at last on grounds of disability; a wound he got at Waterloo had never healed properly and when men were no longer urgently needed he was let go with some pitiful sum as compensation for all he had suffered for his country. Jenny proved faithful—but perhaps it would have been better for them both if she had not. She broke her engagement to Boxall and married Martin on the spot ... and Boxall has found him ‘unemployable’ ever since.”

  Mauleverer’s face was dark with anger. “You are accusing my bailiff of dishonesty, Miss Lamb.”

  “Not exactly. Or, at least, not in regard to you. I think him an admirable man at his job—and where his private feelings are not concerned. But I do not think him a sound judge in the case of the Martins, who, by the way, are my friends. Their children are the most promising in my little class. Given a chance, they might do anything, but what will happen to them if you turn their father out of his cottage? There is no other house in the village—and you know that no other village will have him, circumstanced as he is. It will mean the workhouse, and the death of hope. Only give them a year’s grace and I promise you the oldest boy will be earning enough to pay their rent: he has a perfect genius for figures, if only he had the time to study, but he works in the fields so long as it is daylight, and his sisters, too, when they can find work. You never saw a more hard-working or a more devoted family.” She paused, amazed at her own temerity. “I ... I am sorry. I have talked too much. But I do beg, Mr. Mauleverer, that you will see the Martins and judge for yourself before you evict them merely on Boxall’s recommendation.”

  “You are a good friend, Miss Lamb, and I promise I will do so.” His voice was kinder now, but Lady Heverdon broke in impatiently. “Only remember, Miss Lamb, that Mr. Mauleverer merely promises to judge for himself. He cannot be keeping all the ragtag and bobtail of the parish merely because they have ‘promising children.’ A landlord has a duty to himself and to his own, nor do I believe it a good thing, on the whole, to pamper the poor.”

  “Do you call two and sixpence a week pampering?” Marianne could not help the exclamation, but was relieved when it was lost in the little rustle caused by Mrs. Mauleverer’s rising to remove to the drawing room. Once settled in her favorite armchair, she began to cross-examine Marianne about the fate of the Martins—“I remember her well; one of the best girls I ever had in the house. Are they really so wretched?”

  “I am afraid so.” It was incredible to Marianne that her patroness should not have known, but then she had always been amazed at the little interest Mrs. Mauleverer took in village affairs. She was going to tell her a little more about the Martins, in the hopes of getting Mrs. Martin work as a seamstress at the Hall, when Lady Heverdon broke in: “Oh, Miss Lamb, a truce to your Martins, I beg you. I hope I am as hearty a philanthropist as the next person, but really to have one draggle-tailed family providing the topic of conversation for all of dinner, and then afterward too, is more than enough. Favor us, instead, with some of your delicious music, I beg you.”

  So Marianne was firmly fixed at the piano when Mauleverer joined them and she spent the evening as she had so many others, providing background music for the running flirtation carrying on between host and guest. Mrs. Mauleverer slumbered peacefully in her chair; Marianne passed from Haydn to Beethoven to Auber, and Mauleverer and L
ady Heverdon, heads close together on the sofa, talked and laughed as if they were alone in the room. It was a relief when Mrs. Mauleverer nodded at last into wakefulness, announced that she was worn out with the exertions of the day and thus gave the cue for everyone to retire.

  Marianne was up betimes next morning and found, to her satisfaction, that the riding habit, now altered, aired and pressed looked better than she had dared to hope. She found Mauleverer already in the breakfast room, drinking green tea and reading the latest report of the Corn Committee. “You have a good day for your riding lesson.” His smile always made one forget the disfiguring scar.

  “Yes—but I do not expect it to be a lesson. I am positive that I can ride.” She helped herself to scrambled eggs and took her usual place at the end of the table.

  “Memory is a curious thing. You still have no clue as to who you are?”

  “Not the slightest.” There was extraordinary comfort in this admission, on his part, that at last he had accepted her loss of memory as genuine. “And yet I do remember so many things—like being able to ride, and play the piano...”

  “Yes—but stranger even than that is the fact that no enquiries have been made for you or the child. I know you did not wish us to advertise on your behalf—though I begin to wonder whether I did right in agreeing to the omission—but surely your friends must be looking for you?”

  “Perhaps I have no friends.”

  He smiled again. “It seems unlikely. But one thing did occur to me: Suppose that, all the time, you are French.”

  “French?”

  “Why, yes. I know you speak it as well as English. And your name—Marianne—could as well be French as English. Had you not thought of that?”

  “No, I confess I had not. You mean I am a refugee—a member of one of the families that left with Charles X last summer?”

  “Exactly. It would explain much that is baffling about your position ... particularly the irrational terror from which you say you suffer. Last year’s July revolution in France was not, it is true, to be compared for frightfulness with the scenes that were enacted there at the end of the last century, but it must have carried, just the same, its burden of terror, just because of those earlier horrors. I am more and more convinced that this is the answer. How shall you like to find yourself French, mademoiselle?”

  “I do not know ... It is true, it seems a logical explanation ... and equally true that I do, sometimes, find myself actually thinking in French, as if I had at least grown up talking both languages—but, no, it does not seem right somehow.”

  He rose. “Well, no need to look so anxious. If you have truly lost all your friends for good, at least you have found new ones and just as eager, I hope, to serve you. As for this idea of yours that if you ride about the district like a heroine in a romance, someone will rise from under a hedge, crying, ‘Thrice welcome, long lost daughter,’ frankly, I do not set much store by it. But I am sure the riding will do you good. We have kept you, I fear, somewhat selfishly mewed up here looking after our affairs.” An angry retort to his remark about the romantic heroine had sprung to her lips, but she suppressed it with an effort. Of course he thought her ridiculous, but this was no moment to be irritating him. She preceded him, in somewhat chilly silence, to the stable yard, where, to her surprise, three horses were awaiting them, two with sidesaddles. One of these was the neat little gray that Lady Heverdon had brought with her, the other the big bay mare with the dubious reputation.

  Mauleverer, too, looked surprised. “What is this?” he asked Jim Barnes, the groom. “I gave no orders about the bay.”

  “No, sir, but Lady Heverdon sent word to say that she will ride too.”

  And indeed at this moment Lady Heverdon herself made her appearance, resplendent in a dark crimson habit that contrived, somehow, to suggest a hussar’s uniform without any departure from feminine good taste. She hurried toward them: “Thank goodness, I am not too late. I would not have missed this for anything. Who knows, perhaps memory will come back, Miss Lamb, when once you are mounted?”

  “I do not see why it should.” Everything was going wrong this morning. She moved toward the big bay mare, but Lady Heverdon was ahead of her. “No, no, you must ride my gentle Zephyr. Do you not remember what Mr. Mauleverer said last night? I am not come to interfere in the lesson; merely to act as audience, and, perhaps, to give the poor neglected bay some exercise.”

  “On the contrary,” interposed Mauleverer, “you are not to ride her either. Do you think I intend to let you break your neck?”

  An awkward little three-cornered discussion ended in the two ladies taking turns to trot demurely up and down the drive on Zephyr. It was maddening to Marianne, who had allowed herself visions of an invigorating canter over the moors with Mauleverer, but at least she proved to her own satisfaction, and his, that she could indeed ride. “Very well,” he said at last. “I am satisfied, Miss Lamb. I only wish we could mount you at once, but I will make enquiries for a lady’s horse—we should certainly have another one.”

  She protested, but, for the moment, fruitlessly. She had learned by now that a certain set to his jaw made further argument a waste of time. Besides, Lady Heverdon was reminding him of his promise to ride the bounds of the estate with her. “What a pity that Miss Lamb cannot accompany us.”

  Marianne watched them ride out of the yard side by side, then turned to the groom. “Well, Jim,” she asked, “what do you think?”

  The groom grinned at her. “I know what you’re thinking well enough, miss,” he said, “but I tell you it’s as much as my job’s worth to let you.” The bay mare was still saddled and was being walked about the yard by a boy, tossing her head restlessly as she went. Marianne moved over to stroke her nose. “She’s dying for it, Jim, and so am I. Just once down the drive and back; they are safe out of sight by now.”

  “And if you break your neck?”

  “I shan’t, and you know it. Why on earth should Mr. Mauleverer be getting another lady’s horse when poor old Sadie is eating her heart out for work? Come on, Jim, have a heart.”

  He grumbled—and yielded. After all, it had been his idea in the first place: “There’s not a bit of vice in her, miss,” he confided as he put her up. “It’s only that she scared Mrs. Mauleverer once or twice, when, if I may say so, madam was a bit past it. She don’t deserve her reputation, truly she don’t, and if I’ve told the master so once, I’ve told him a dozen times. But give a horse a bad name...”

  “I know.” Marianne smiled down at the groom and was off. It was, as a matter of fact, a sufficiently exciting ride, since the mare was restive and she was out of practice, but they returned, at last, the best of friends.

  “And now what?” asked Jim, as he helped her dismount.

  Marianne knew exactly what he meant. It was all very well to have defied Mauleverer once, but how was she to break it to him that she had done so? “Leave it to me, Jim,” she said, with a confidence she was very far from feeling.

  “I should rather think I will, miss,” he said.

  It had all taken a good deal longer than she had expected, and by the time she had caught up with her usual household tasks, she was, inevitably, a little late for her lesson in the village, and found her class of children awaiting her anxiously in their little improvised schoolroom. “Us thought you was never coming, miss,” the eldest Martin girl came forward to greet her. “On account of the mist.”

  “Mist? What do you mean, Sarah?”

  “She’m coming down from the moor, miss. You’d best start home early tonight; her comes fast when she comes.” And indeed as the class rose to recite their catechism Marianne noticed that the light was beginning to fail in the little room. She did not like to scamp the lesson, which was, she knew, the great treat of the week for many of these poverty-stricken children, but remembered that some of them had even further to walk home than she had. She therefore dismissed the class after half an hour, promising to make up the time next day if the fog had lifted.


  “Best let me see you home, miss,” said the Martin boy, but she refused.

  “I can see my way well enough, still, but by the time you came to walk home, you might well be benighted.” She hurried her farewells and started along the well-known footpath. The mist was already thick in patches, particularly along the little stream that ran through the village, but when she reached the long meadow she found it almost clear and walked briskly across it, rather enjoying the mysterious effect of the gray curtain that now completely concealed the rise of the moors. Noises were muffled too; sheep in the far meadow sounded melancholy and miles away and she had already lost any trace of the village. If the blacksmith was still at work down at the forge she could not hear him, nor yet the other village noises that usually sounded clearly to here, the barking of dogs and shouts of children. The home wood, when she reached it, looked strange and almost sinister in the half light and she found herself, for a moment, oddly reluctant to climb the stile that led into it. But, pausing for a moment before she jumped down into the wood, she looked back and saw that the mist seemed to be following her across the meadow. She had best not linger.

  It was lucky she had taken this path so often, for it was almost dark in the wood, and she had to rely largely on her nimble feet and her memory to guide her. She hurried along, aware of the chill dampness in the air, and wondering whether Mauleverer and Lady Heverdon were returned from their ride yet. They would have but a dismal time of it, if not, and she was ashamed to find herself wondering whether Lady Heverdon might not be irritated into betraying the sharp side of her temper which, so far, she had contrived to keep hidden from her devoted host. She might be short-tempered with her maid and curt with Marianne: she was invariably all smiles for Mauleverer. It was a mean thought, and seemed to bring its own judgment with it. Marianne’s attention wandered, for an instant, from the dimly seen path before her; she caught her foot on a root, tripped and half fell. At the same instant, a shot rang out, appallingly near, and something whistled above her head. She gave a cry of mixed anger and fright—for it had been a very narrow escape indeed—and stood, for a moment, recovering from the shock and listening for the sportsman’s horrified apologies. Dead silence. The rustlings of birds and small animals had died away; mist water dripped eerily among the trees. And then, another rustling.