by Joan Aiken
…And then next day…
“And then next day,” he went on, “you caught me kissing Dolly Randall in the dairy—oh, how angry you were! You told my mother about it—telltale tit!—and she gave me a great scold, and dismissed poor Dolly—all for a silly piece of boy’s nonsense.”
“Oh, and you cannot believe how bitterly sorry I was the very next day for that spiteful act of priggishness! I would have cut my tongue out not to have done it. But I was dreadfully unhappy just then: homesick, missing Mama so painfully, about to be sent back to Brussels—but still I should not have tattled on you and Dolly in that odious way.”
“And all the time,” said Benedict, “it was you that I wanted to kiss.”
He did so now, very lightly, on her parted lips, but even so it was enough to upset Ellen’s precarious equilibrium, and the two of them crashed down together in a flailing tangle of arms and legs and skates.
“I told you,” said Ellen, as they lay prone, but with her head gathered comfortably onto his shoulder, “I told you that it was hopeless! I shall never be a skater. The least thing oversets me.”
“No matter,” said Benedict, without making any attempt to get up. “We do very well as we are. Now I can scold you as much as I please and you cannot escape. Why did you give me such a shocking setdown that time when I invited you to Petworth Fair?”
“Because you had already asked Kitty and Dorothea Morningquest, and only seemed to invite me as an afterthought!”
“I was scared to death of you, Amazon that you are.”
“Why were you so teasing and unkind whenever we met? You would snap my head off at the least provocation!”
“What about you, pray? Good heaven, those freezing, withering looks you used to give me—like the east wind in person.”
“It was because I was so miserable. I longed to make peace—but never had the opportunity. I loved you so much—and it seemed so hopeless.”
“And do you think I did not? I began to fall into despair. I have got to forget that fiend of a girl, I told myself—go off—gamble-travel—enjoy the world. But I couldn’t forget you.”
“Despair? It was like living in the Arctic!”
“Benedict and Ellen!” scolded Vicky, skating staggeringly toward them, with a gardener’s boy in anxious pursuit. “What are you doing, lying there on the ice and snow? You must get up at once! You will catch cold!”
“No, we will not catch cold,” said Benedict, rising with caution onto one knee. “In fact we are so warm, Vicky, that we shall probably never catch cold again.” Climbing to his feet, he picked up his small half sister and tossed her into a pile of snow as she squealed with delighted laughter. Then, turning to assist Ellen, he exclaimed, “Good God, though, we shall probably run into no end of trouble when we marry! Do you suppose that we come within the forbidden degrees—am I permitted to marry my Mother’s Husband’s Daughter? Well, I intend to, whether permitted or not.”
“You may not marry your Stepmother,” said Ellen, after some consideration, “or your Mother’s Brother’s Wife—”
“That would be Aunt Essie. I have not the least intention of marrying her. It’s you I wish to marry.”
“But, Benedict—”
“What? Oh, are you going to allude to that Frenchman? I never for a single moment believed that story, even then, and I don’t now!”
“In that case, why did it make you so angry?”
“Because, you monstrous girl, you would go to such lengths to hurt me. When all I wanted was to protect you. Didn’t I travel to Brussels, just to break the news to you about your cat—?”
“Oh, what a wretch I was! But I will make up for it now.”
* * *
The bitter weather continued for another three weeks, and during that time it was thought ineligible for Ellen and her father to attempt the journey back to Sussex. Lord and Lady Radnor appeared at Matlock Chase for a night, gave Ellen friendly, absentminded welcome as their prospective sister-in-law, then hastened away to another of their houses in Dorset, which, though humbug country for hunting, was at least now free from snow.
“Hunting is all they think about,” said Benedict. “I used to wish that Easingwold would break his neck at a rasper so that I could be Earl, but now I am quite of a different opinion. Think of having to sit in the House of Lords and listen to all those old windbags!”
“Oh, fie, Benedict,” Aunt Essie said mildly.
“You are not interested in a political career, my dear boy?” Luke, now allowed downstairs in the evening, regarded Benedict wistfully. “But what nobler aim can there be than to represent your fellow man in our glorious legislative assembly?”
“I can represent him just as well in an embassy!”
“It is time you went upstairs to bed, Papa,” said Ellen gently. “See, here is Hathersage to help you.”
* * *
During the fourth week, the snow began to melt; roads and railways were said to be clear; and, after more telegrams, Benedict, Ellen, and Luke set off by train for Sussex. Vicky was to remain with her small half nieces at Matlock for another month, until the household at the Hermitage was running smoothly.
The journey passed without difficulty. Benedict had with him his man, Bakewell, an expert at procuring cabs, reserving compartments, buying tickets, and providing foot warmers and sandwiches. Ellen recalled her trip with Lady Morningquest from Brussels to Paris, and sighed, thinking of poor Louise and Raoul. But she could not be really despondent, leaning against the warmth and comfort of Benedict’s shoulder, observing with satisfaction how her father demonstrated more and more signs of reawakening intelligence. He read the newspaper in the train and commented on the shocking damage sustained by the Crystal Palace at Sydenham daring the late gales; upon the lucky officer who had bought a book for £50 during the French sack of Peking, for which the Emperor of China was now offering him £16,000; on the extraordinary notion of having a Female Artists’ Exhibition—where in the world could they possibly find enough Female Artists?—and on the necessity for the French Emperor removing French troops from Rome. Then he fell asleep and only woke when they were obliged to change trains at Pulborough for the last lap of the journey.
Gerard was waiting to meet them with the family coach at Petworth station. He hugged Ellen, affectionately saluted his father, and shook Benedict’s hand up and down a great many times. “I say, Benedict, what a tramp you have been! You make me feel a wretch for not having accompanied Ellen—but I daresay you made a far better hand at the rescue than I should have done.”
“It was just fortunate that I happened to be close at hand,” said Benedict. “Even if I had not been, I imagine your sister would have managed it on her own. She is a dauntless creature. But come, here we are standing in the rain and wind—let us get your father under his own roof.”
The drive was soon over; Sue and Agnes welcomed them joyfully at the Hermitage, and Benedict stayed to supper before going on to Petworth House (it had been arranged that he should stay there with his cousin George so as not to put an undue strain upon the slender resources of the Paget household. Ellen reflected that her father and Lord Leconfield must now make up their minds to forget that silly dispute over the Infant School).
“I must say, it is very agreeable to be at home again,” said Luke, looking fondly round his own dining room, after drinking a small postprandial glass of port. “But I think I will go upstairs now; Mattie will be waiting for me.”
“I will help you, Papa,” said Gerard, springing to his feet.
* * *
During the next couple of days there were many business matters to arrange. Money had to be withdrawn from the bank to meet the servants’ outstanding wages and other household expenses. Ellen went in and out of the house a great many times. At one point, crossing the town square, she came face to face with Mr. Wheelbird.
“Ah, Mr.
Wheelbird. What a lucky meeting! I was on the point of writing you a note. Would you be so kind as to come up and call on Papa, tomorrow afternoon?”
Now she noticed that the young lawyer had gone as white as a cheesecloth.
“M-m-m-miss Ellen? Are you—are you perfectly all right?”
“Why yes. Why should I not be? In fact I have never been better,” she said with a radiant smile.
“B-but we understood that you—and your father—had p-p-p-passed away in the blizzard! I had n-numerous telegrams from your sister Mrs. Bracegirdle—”
“Oh, well, yes, my sister may have been under that impression at first. But it was a false one.” Ellen reminded herself that she really must write to Kitty—but this did not seem to have a high priority among the hundred and one things that needed to be done.
“So, Mr. Wheelbird, will you please come round tomorrow? Papa has decided to change his testamentary dispositions—as I believe you very properly suggested he should consider doing, on the last occasion when you and I met. In fact he has already destroyed his will, and has made various notes for a new one, which he wishes you to put into legal order for him.”
If Mr. Wheelbird could have turned any paler, he would have done so; he stared at Ellen with his Adam’s apple working convulsively. In a hoarse voice he said, “A new will. Tomorrow afternoon. Y-yes, Miss Paget—” then turned and walked hastily away.
Ellen looked after him in vague bewilderment for a moment. Why should he be so startled? Mr. Paget was proposing to divide his property among Gerard, Eugenia, and herself. Kitty was to be struck out of the inheritance entirely, as a reprisal for her heartless usage of her father. Ellen felt that this was not entirely just, since Eugenia had also played a part in the business, had certainly condoned and encouraged the abduction and coercion; still, she probably would not have gone to such lengths as Kitty had done. However, Ellen did not feel called upon to attempt any intervention—which would, besides, be quite useless. Mr. Paget had quite made up his mind. Absently, she thought, Mr. Wheelbird ought to be pleased that Papa is changing his testamentary dispositions, I remember his giving me some warning about them—that day when he proposed to me. Gracious! What a long time ago that seems! And she was laughing to herself over the memory when, to her surprise, she heard her name being called in strangely familiar tones from the opposite side of the square.
“Callisto! Mon dieu, que tu es maigre!”
Thunderstruck, Ellen turned and saw Germaine de Rhetorée waving at her from the doorway of the Half Moon Inn.
The two girls ran to each other and embraced in the middle of the square.
“Germaine! But what in the world are you doing here, in Petworth—how long have you been here?”
“Since last night. I came because I was concerned about you—I thought I would come over and see for myself. And when I arrive—what do I find? That you have been on some mad quest, some quixotic errand, to rescue your papa from the harpy of a sister!”
“Who told you this?”
“Benedict Masham—I saw him riding by, not ten minutes since.”
“I would never have succeeded without his help,” Ellen said.
“Oh-ho! So there has been a rapprochement! Do I scent a romance?”
“How can I tell what you scent, you bloodhound?” said Ellen, smiling broadly with pleasure at this meeting with a friend she had thought never to see again. “But yes, it is true that Benedict and I are to be married.”
“Hélas! Poor Raoul! And so he has come all this way for nothing?”
“What? Good God, you do not mean to tell me that Raoul is here also?”
“Why, you do not think that I would travel to this barbarous island without an escort? I suggested to Raoul that he should come with me as my cavalier, he was happy to do so. He had long been meditating an approach to you, but lacked the courage to write and propose it. And now he is too late!”
Full of wonder at this utterly unexpected development, Ellen asked herself whether, if Raoul had written to her during those melancholy months last winter when all seemed so hopeless—if he had proposed then—would she have accepted him, just to escape, just to return to her beloved Paris?
“Where is Raoul now?” she asked, looking around.
“Oh, he is paying a call on Monsieur le Baron Leconfield, whose aunt is Raoul’s grandmother’s niece by marriage—or something of the kind; Raoul will always put family proprieties first. I was about to come and call on you—for he, full of diffidence, suggested that you and I should first have our reunion alone, so that I could plead his cause. En effet, there he comes now with the Honorable Benedict—I wonder they do not have their swords at each other’s throat!”
In fact there did, Ellen thought, seem to be some constraint about the two young men who strolled toward them in the cold February sun. Benedict’s former look of chill reserve had settled once more over his countenance, and Raoul appeared simply worried and apprehensive. He looked years older than when Ellen had seen him first: a sober, thoughtful man, the white stripe on his hair still in evidence. But when he set eyes on Ellen, his expression changed to pure affectionate compassion, as he exclaimed, “Oh, my friend! What you have been through! You look as frail as a snowflake. How you must have suffered!”
He kissed her hands, holding them tight and looking intently into her eyes.
“It is no use, Raoul,” said Germaine, brisk and cheerful. “You are too late, mon pauvre ami! Ellen and Benedict are to be married.”
Ellen’s eyes met those of Benedict; he raised his brows, giving her a slight, wry, questioning smile. She shook her head at him, smiling also.
“Then,” said Raoul with exquisite French gallantry, “you are the luckiest man in England, Monsieur Masham, and I congratulate you with all my heart—hélas, poor laggard that I am! What shall I do now?”
“Well, you cannot marry me,” said Germaine, firm but friendly. “One mistake of that nature is quite enough! But I will be your friend, your copain, and give you excellent advice, until you find the right person.” She took Raoul’s arm in a comradely manner. “Come along now, you must escort me to the bank, where I wish to change some money. You may return and call on Ellen later; just now I can see that she has business to transact.”
The business was with Benedict, who said simply, “Are you sure that you know your own mind, my love? Are you certain that you are not going to be pining after that French fellow?”
“Oh, Benedict, no! I am dearly attached to Raoul—but as a brother, not a lover. I have told you this already—”
“Poor fellow,” said Benedict, looking benevolently after his defeated rival.
* * *
Gerard had ridden Captain over to Lavant Down. He was planning to spend the night with Eustace and Eugenia, to give them the full tale of the rescue from Kitty. Eustace would be appalled, no doubt; what Eugenia’s reaction would be, Gerard could not imagine.
But his first business was with Matt Bilbo.
“Matt—you cannot be keeping Sim here any longer! It is too dangerous. I have heard that the police are looking for him in this part of the country. His mother still lives near Petworth—and it is known that you were his friend in prison—they are almost certain to come to your place sooner or later. Where is he now?”
“He be a-working down thurr in Chiddester.” Matt’s face was troubled. “Working for the church, he say, be a way to pay off the money he took from the poor box. ’Twas on’y five shilling. He be paying it back, penny by penny…”
“But he escaped from jail. And you will be in terrible trouble, Matt, if he is caught with you. When his foot was hurt, I can see you could not ask him to go, but now he is better—”
“Ah, poor Simmie! He’ve dyed his hair wi’ walnut,” Matt pointed out hopefully. “And none do know him hereabouts.”
“Except his mother.”
“He
wouldna go anigh her. She used him mortal hard when he wed—said she’d have namore to do with him, he’d get nor crust nor crib from her, never again till snow do fall in hell.”
“Is there nowhere else he could go?” Gerard felt it strange and hard that he should be arguing on the side of heartless, cruel common sense, against the calls of loyalty and love.
Matt raised eyes so guileless and full of light that he was even more abashed.
“Sim be such a poor skiddery fellow, Gerald; who’d look out for ’un if I cast ’un off? And he be main set on digging out that Doom Stone, for you an’ your dad; he be turble grieved, still, at what he done—”
“But it was a mistake! And it’s all over now, and she took no harm—”
“Ah, I know, but Sim do be dogged-set to make amends; an’ by his way o’ thinking, if he grub out the owd Doom Stone, that’ll be a jonnick way to do it. You’d not stand betwixt a man and his upsidement, Mus’ Gerald?”
Matt had never called him Mus’ before; the touch of formality cut Gerard to the quick; the shepherd seemed by it to be putting a distance between them.
“No, I’d not do that, of course! But when—if—it is found—if I can find the money for him to go overseas—?”
“Well!” said Matt, with his candid, happy smile. “When ’tis found, then let be how ’twill!”
* * *
Back at the Hermitage, Sue the housemaid was in fits of laughter.
“Oh, Miss Ellen, what do you think? My cousin Nancy just told me. Mr. Wheelbird and Mrs. Pike got married at Egdean Church last Saturday as ever was! And she a good twelve year older, if a day! And a head taller! Did you ever hear such a thing?”
“What? No! Mr. Wheelbird and Mrs. Pike? I can hardly believe it!”
Then Ellen recollected his horror—his pallor and dropped jaw—at the news that Luke Paget was still living and in his right mind; in a flash the whole picture presented itself to her.
“I mind how, whenever he came to the house, he used to make up to her a bit,” Sue said comfortably. “After her money, he was, I’ll be bound; well, they do say she’s a tidy bit put by, what she ’herited from the old Canon in Chiddester.”