“Never fear,” Marianne laughed rather ruefully. “I think you have me on your hands for good.”
“Selfishly, I hope so. Well, if you must go, you must. He was obstinate too. If he had not been, I might be a grandmother today.” And then, lapsing into her usual style. “Best make haste. Farmer Thorne never waits; not even for me.”
And indeed when Marianne had picked her way down the muddy lane to the farm she found the cart about to start. “So you’ve come.” Thorne moved over to make room for her on the hard seat beside him. “I thought you’d have more sense.” He spoke in the broad Devon that Marianne found so difficult to understand, but she knew him for a blessedly taciturn man, merely said, “Yes, I’ve come,” and climbed up and settled herself beside him.
That was the sum total of their conversation. From time to time Farmer Thorne addressed a remark of encouragement or warning to his steadily plodding horse. Otherwise he sat in stolid silence while the rain poured in little rivers from the brim of his hat, and Marianne’s cloak became slowly saturated with it. At last he halted the horse and turned to Marianne. “Here you are,” he said. “I can’t take you any nearer, not without I go out of my way.”
It was almost an apology and she took it in the spirit in which it was meant: “Of course not.”
“You walk through there.” Farmer Thorne indicated a foot-path with his whip. “It won’t take more than an hour or so. You’ll get wet.”
Marianne laughed. “I am wet. Thank you, Mr. Thorne.” Her spirits were rising mercurially just at the nearness of Maulever Hall.
He detained her for a minute. “But how’ll you get back?”
“Oh, they’ll send me, I expect.”
“Pity they didn’t send for you in that case.” He spoke to his reluctant horse and they moved slowly forward down the lane.
Marianne, on the other hand, climbed lightly over the stile he had indicated and started oil along the short cut over the hill. She had never come this way before, but knew well enough where it would bring her out on the main driveway of the house. She was stiff with cold, though still comparatively dry inside the heavy cloak, but the exercise soon warmed her and she walked swiftly on, her hopes soaring still faster ahead of her. In vain she tried to steady her racing imagination. She had come simply because Mauleverer was not here. There was not the slightest hope of seeing him. But at least, answered hope, she would have news of him, know at last how he had taken her disappearance, understand, perhaps, what lay behind his renewed association with Lady Heverdon.
Hope was incorrigible, and at last she gave way to it, and let herself dream, as she walked, of a happy encounter with Mauleverer, all their difficulties smoothed away; her marriage no marriage; his arms around her once more. The few miles of her walk seemed nothing and she was amazed when she emerged, quite suddenly, on the carriage drive a little below the house. She stopped for a moment. Hope had painted in other colors. When she had dreamed of the Hall, it had lain as she had so often seen it, in sunshine, the gray stone softened and the red roofs mellowed by the play of cloud shadow from above. The reality was quite different. Steady November rain made a curtain between her and the low, rambling front of the house. Heavy November cloud cast its shadow over everything. The house looked blind ... dead. In a moment, she realized why. The shutters were closed over the windows of all the principal apartments. She had never seen Maulever Hall like this before. What could be the matter? Was Mrs. Mauleverer ill? Or even dead? No smoke rose from the family’s end of the house; only, from the kitchen quarters, a thin gray column spoke of life continuing. She hurried forward, angry with herself because the idea of Mrs. Mauleverer’s illness had instantly suggested the possibility that her son might have come to bear her company.
The closer she got, the more forbidding the house looked, and she found herself hesitating, at last, in the drive. It seemed, all of a sudden, presumptuous to go up to the great, closed front door and ring a peal on the bell. Should she not go round to a side entrance and announce herself more discreetly? She dismissed the idea as soon as it had been formed; she had nearly been the mistress of this house; she would never behave like less than an honored guest. And yet, ringing a rather timid peal on the bell, she felt herself the most wretched of intruders and suddenly, passionately wished that she had taken Mrs. Bundy’s delicately implied advice and stayed away. This was not her place. She should not be here.
But the door was opened slowly, almost, it seemed, reluctantly. James, the under footman, stood there in his shirtsleeves and stared as at a ghost. “Miss Lamb,” he said at last. “Well, I’ll be jiggered.”
“Good day, James.” She stepped past him into the hall, noting as she did so the dust sheets that covered everything. The big chandelier that hung high above the stairwell was hidden in a cotton bag; the red Turkish carpet on the stairs was covered by a piece of drugget. This was not how she had imagined her homecoming. Home? Bitter word. She turned to face the man, who was still muttering his amazement to himself. “Where is your mistress, James? I am come to see her.”
“Then you’ve had your journey for your pains, miss. The mistress is in London with”—he hesitated for a moment, an intolerably knowing look on his face—“with Mr. Mauleverer.”
“In London!”
“Yes, miss.” His face was wooden now. “Reckon Martha can tell you the rights of it, best of anyone. Miss Martha, I should say, since she was left in charge here.” His tone was scornful as he turned away. “I’ll tell her you’re here, miss.”
Marianne had meant to ask him to take her wet cloak and get it at least partially dried for her, but surprise at what he had told her had combined with something oddly repellent in his manner to make her forget. He had never been a favorite of hers, but had certainly never before treated her with such scant courtesy. Aware of chill, she took an impatient turn about the hall, glancing as she went into the open doors of the familiar rooms, all strange and forbidding now, in their shroud of dust sheets. Mauleverer had taken his mother to London with him, and, stranger still, had left Martha behind. Both bits of information were equally baffling. Mrs. Mauleverer exposed to the temptations of London—and without Martha to look after her: What could it mean? She had stopped at the foot of the stairs and was gazing with misty eyes in at the doorway of Mauleverer’s study when a peal of childish laughter made her look up. As she did so, something cold, damp, and repulsive fell on her face, blinding her for a moment. At first, imagining horrors, she thought she would be sick, then she saw that it was only a floorcloth, damp and filthy from some housemaid’s bucket. Another peal of laughter, this time from farther down the upstairs hall, told her—if she had not known it already—that she had Thomas to thank for the foul welcome. Horrible child. She shuddered and angrily told her conscience that she had been right to leave him behind. Imagine such carryings-on at Mrs. Bundy’s.
Martha came rustling down the front stairs, something she would never have done in the past. And—she was a Martha transformed by black bombazine and a jingling bunch of household keys. No wonder she was known as “Miss Martha” now. She greeted Marianne coolly, as an equal and without either surprise or pleasure. “Mrs. Mauleverer will be sorry to have missed you.”
“I am sorry not to find her here. How long is she to be in London?”
“So far as I know, for good. There was no talk of a return when they left. Mr. Mauleverer has much to keep him in town.” Her tone made it clear that she was not speaking only of politics.
“And his mother stays with him?”
“Yes, they have taken a house.” She volunteered no further explanation, and Marianne could not bring herself to question her. Impossible to ask this patently hostile woman the thousand questions she had intended to put to Mrs. Mauleverer. She faced the bitter truth that her journey had been for nothing. Even if she could bring herself to ask, Martha would never tell her the things she really wanted to know—how Mauleverer had taken her disappearance, how he had seemed, what he had said ...
Martha was looking at her with faintly insolent enquiry: “You are come, I take it, for your things? Mr. Mauleverer had them packed up for you and said you must have them if you should happen to come.”
Could that have been all he had said? Impossible to ask. And out of the question, of course, to take them. In her bitter disappointment at Mrs. Mauleverer’s absence, she was only now realizing another problem with which it faced her. She had taken it for granted that she would be sent back in the carriage, at least so far as she would take it; now she would have to make her own way. “No,” she said, “I came merely for news of the family. I will send for my things another time.” They were still standing in the cold hall, since Martha had made no move to ask her in, or even suggest she take off her wet things. For a moment, she thought, angrily, of insisting on some semblance of civility, but after all what was the use? Much better to take her leave at once and face her wretchedness alone.
Martha’s thoughts must have been moving along similar lines. “I am sorry not to seem more hospitable,” she said. “The fact of the matter is that I am up to my eyes in business, since the whole task of tidying and cleaning the house has been left to me, and, between ourselves, we expect a happy announcement daily. I must have everything in apple-pie order. But you are cold and wet.” She pretended to notice it for the first time. “There is a good fire in the servant’s hall, I am sure. You had best go there and dry yourself and I will have them give you a cup of tea.” She reached grandly for the bell pull, but Marianne intervened.
“No, thank you,” she said coldly. “I have come a long way, and must not linger. Only, when you write Mrs. Mauleverer, tell her I was sorry not to find her.”
“Of course.” The bright black eyes said, more clearly than words, that she would do no such thing.
Totally routed, Marianne turned and made for the big front door. Martha made no move to summon a footman to see her out, but merely stood, at the foot of the stairs, gazing at her, with the same faintly supercilious smile that had played over her face throughout the interview.
“Goodbye, Martha.” With an effort she kept her voice cool and courteous as she pulled the heavy door open.
“Goodbye, Miss Lamb.” The emphasis on her name mocked her as she pulled the door to behind her.
It was raining harder than ever and she stood for a moment in the shelter of the portico, wondering what to do next. Almost, for a moment, she wished she had swallowed her pride and accepted Martha’s offer of shelter, even in the servants’ hall. Her friend the cook would have made her welcome, she knew, and, more important still, might have given her some of the information she yearned for. But the tone of Martha’s offer had made acceptance impossible. Martha had not intended her to stay. Why had she never realized before how completely the woman was her enemy? And what had happened that she was here, lording it at the Hall, instead of in London at her mistress’s side? But this was no time to be standing dreaming. She was miles from home and seemed to have no means of getting there. Her eyes wandered drearily across the rain-drenched park and lit on the lodge cottage at the far end of the drive. Jim Barnes, the groom, lived there; his wife had always been a friend of hers. She moved out into the rain and walked slowly down the drive. The idea of friendly shelter at last made her acutely aware of how cold and wretched she was, and it was an enormous relief when she saw the red light of a fire glowing in the cottage window.
“Miss Lamb!” The warmth of Mrs. Barnes’s greeting brought sudden tears to Marianne’s eyes. “Well, this is a surprise—but you’re drowned. Come in by the fire this instant and let me get those wet things off you before anything else. Have you been to the Hall?”
“Yes, I am just come from there.”
“And got but a chilly welcome, I’ll be bound. Jim says that Martha’s neither to hold nor to bind now she’s mistress there. He’ll be right glad to see you, Jim will. We’ve often worried about you, he and I, since you went off that day. Lord, miss, how I do chatter, but it’s so good to see you.” She had been busy helping Marianne out of the drenched cloak as she talked, and now stooped to feel her skirts. “Soaking too! Miss, it’s a terrible liberty, but let me fetch you something of mine. You’ll catch your death else. Jim won’t be back for his tea for hours; you can get dried out by the fire and changed again before he comes.”
Marianne accepted the offer gratefully and was soon settled in front of the roaring fire, while her clothes steamed nearby and Mrs. Barnes plied her with cups of tea and questions. She had meant to say nothing of where she was living, even to Mrs. Mauleverer, but Mrs. Barnes’s interest was so obviously sympathetic that she felt bound to tell her, in general terms, about her new life.
“Well, I’m glad you’re happy,” said the old woman at last, but with a doubtful look that belied her words, “but it was a great blow to us, miss, just the same, your going off like that. I suppose you acted for the best, but I never want to see the master look like that again, I can tell you. He was over here, you know, before we’d finished breakfast, to ask if Jim knew where you were ... And his face; there was death in it, miss. You might have left him some word, something to soften the blow ... For a blow it was, and to the heart, if you ask me. We’d all thought, if you’ll excuse my saying so, that you’d be the new mistress, and dearly welcome you’d have been. And then to go off like that, without a word—well, I suppose you knew what you were doing.”
“Without a word?” Marianne had listened in amazement. “What can you mean? I left a note for Mr. Mauleverer, explaining everything.”
“He never had it, miss. He was like a madman all morning, questioning everyone, but of course no one knew anything, except the stable boy. Jim said when he gave the master your brooch, and the message—just your love, like that, he thought he’d faint clean away. He’s never spoken of you since, miss, not to anyone, so far as I know.”
Jim, when he came home for his tea, confirmed this. “No, he didn’t exactly give orders that you wasn’t to be spoken of, miss, but he might just as well have.” And then, in answer to her eager question: “Martha? I never heard that she’d said anything about your having a visitor that morning. I heard her talking about your going often enough in the servants’ hall, when she thought fit to honor us with her presence there. Her idea always was that you’d remembered who you were, all of a sudden, not liked it much, and gone off for very shame. Cook always argued with her, and so did Gibbs and I, but the rest of them ... well, you know how it is, miss: things were a lot easier in the servants’ hall before you took over the housekeeping. Many’s the quarter of tea or sugar that I’ve seen slipped out unbeknownst ... They’d got to think they had the right to it, see, so of course they didn’t like your meddling overmuch. And when we all thought you were to be the mistress—well, there were some that were pleased, and some, if you’ll excuse it, that weren’t.”
“Martha!” Marianne had been half-listening to what he said, while her thoughts raced ahead of him. “Of course. She saw me write the note; she must have guessed where I would put it, and destroyed it. No wonder she was not best pleased to see me.”
Jim Barnes laughed. “I’ll warrant she wasn’t. She’s in her glory now, running things here. You must be the last person she wants to see. And that was a funny business too,” he added thoughtfully. “I’d never have thought to see the day mistress would part with her—all in all she used to be to her before you came. But the night before they left for London there was a great carry-on up at the Hall, Cook told me, with the master raging and the mistress in tears, and Martha packing her things one moment and unpacking them again the next ... And the long and the short of it was that Gibbs went to town with the mistress and Martha stayed here to make life a misery to the staff at the Hall. But what it was all about, miss, I haven’t the faintest, and nor has Cook, nor any of the others, save Martha herself, and she’s always been one to keep her own council. You’ll be writing the master now, won’t you, miss, and making it all right with him?”
&n
bsp; Marianne shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.” It was all inconceivably worse than she had imagined it could be. But what could she do now? She rose, suddenly longing to be home discussing it all with Mrs. Bundy. “Jim, I have a favor to ask of you. I thought Mrs. Mauleverer would send me home in the carriage; I cannot possibly walk it. Will you lend me Sadie, ride part of the way with me, and bring her back?”
He rose at once. “With all the pleasure in life, miss. We’ve missed you, Sadie and I. But—” He paused unhappily and then went on in a rush: “Will you mind, miss, if I bring the horses round to the park gates? I’d as lief that cat Martha didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Of course. Indeed, I would prefer it, Jim.”
“Then I’ll go and fetch them. But—won’t you ride the other—the one Mr. Mauleverer bought for you? She’s a honey, miss, and you’ve never even been up on her.”
“No, no.” The idea was somehow unbearable. “I thought she would have been sold long since.”
Again he looked uncomfortable. “The talk in the Hall is that she’s being saved for Lady Heverdon.” And then, impulsively: “Oh, miss, write to the master, do, and explain.”
“I’ll think about it.” If only she could. But if the first letter had been difficult, this one seemed impossible. And, besides, what was the use? Nothing could alter the fact that she was married. Perhaps she should be grateful, for Mauleverer’s sake, to Martha for making the break even cleaner than she had intended. No wonder he had been dancing attendance on Lady Heverdon again when he must have thought that she had jilted him even more shamelessly than that other girl, so long ago. The thought was intolerably painful and it was a relief to be busy changing back into her own clothes.
The rain had stopped at last, but it was a cold, gray evening and she and Jim rode fast and silently for as far as she would let him take her. She did not intend that even this good friend should know where she was living now, although, in answer to an anxious question, she assured him that she was with kind friends. She parted from him at last near Pennington Cross, which would mean another four miles of rough walking for her, but refused his suggestion that she take Sadie. “Master would want it, miss, I know.”
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