The Tide Mill

by Richard Herley

  When Godric, in breach of every rule of propriety, had suggested leaving them alone, she had been seized by terror, heightened by her own folly in not having turned back when she had had the chance. Yet she had wanted Godric to go. She had wanted him to vanish. Ralf’s feeble objections, the way they were couched, had not helped. He must have seen how agitated she was. He must have been alerted by the nonsensical prattling of the questions she kept posing. But, as the minutes had passed and she had perceived the strength of his own agitation, as he had struggled to utter something or other which obviously was of the greatest importance to them both, she had yearned to take his hand and tell him that she was longing to hear whatever it was he was trying to say. Then his courage had failed him and, deflated, he had collapsed. He had looked so wretched that she had started talking nonsense again, about his sister, whom for some reason he had mentioned, and for whose acquaintance Eloise had long held a desire. But there on the dike, in the sunshine and heat, overlooking the mudflats and the harbour channel, Eloise had seen her only as a substitute for Ralf. Quite improperly, without an introduction, Eloise in her distraction had asked her, through him, to the Hall; and he, also improperly, had accepted on her behalf, and Eloise had found that she had undertaken to teach his sister to ride.

  When Godric, cheerily waving the plans, had reappeared, it was as though she had been drenched with freezing water. She had forgotten about her brother. In that golden interlude he had simply ceased to exist.

  It was then that she had understood. Godric had been testing them. That had been why he had invited her in the first place. His suspicions ran far deeper than she had imagined. He had always been too clever for her, too clever for anyone. “I wish you two could be friends.” Why else should he have he said it?

  So she had immediately withdrawn from Ralf, as she would have had to anyway. He, bewildered, had become so offhand that, by the time they had got back to the Hall, she had doubted everything, and now she did not know.

  She had spent last night in a tumult of uncertainty and remorse: for her weakness in consenting to the ride, and for her cruelty to Ralf, assuming he felt anything for her, which she no longer thought he could. She had been affected by the heat. It had duped her into believing her own longings were reciprocated. He and she had been talking at cross purposes. Her conviction had been a mirage, like the trembling air above the reeds, the fluid through which that slothful bird, barely visible, had made its way.

  At table last night, Godric had insisted on talking about the mill, and during it all she had endured the sharpness of his eyes: but that meant he was still not sure. Ralf had clearly told him nothing, and that in turn confirmed there was nothing to tell, for she had never known such a friendship as theirs.

  In the dawn she had thought more on her duty to her father, and had been ashamed to see that it had been his absence that had led to her delinquency. Drained by then of tears, she had resolved to put Ralf behind her: for this lifetime, at least.

  Why, then, had she been thinking of him ever since? Yesterday, surely, had not been a mirage. Just as Hubert knew the time, Ralf knew her.

  When the heavy oak boards of the west door resounded to a double knock, summoning Hubert from his stool, Eloise jumped with surprise. She had forgotten to keep her vigil at the window, and had sunk into a chair.

  Hubert tapped on the dayroom door.

  “Please, Miss. Mr and Miss Grigg.”

  “Did you say ‘Mr Grigg’?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Tell them I’ll be out directly.”

  Trying to compose herself, she heard Godric coming down the stairs and just managed to get into the hall before him.

  After the initial greetings, Ralf said, “Eloise, may I present my sister, Miss Imogen Grigg? Imogen, this is the Honourable Mademoiselle, Eloise de Maepe.”

  “How do you do,” Eloise said, at which Imogen curtsied. “Please, I’d rather you didn’t. And do call me ‘Eloise’. May I call you ‘Imogen’?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “We’re very formal today,” Godric said, in amusement: but at Ralf’s Eloise his eyes had searched her face.

  Ralf told Godric, “The ladies had not been introduced.”

  “Hullo there, Im. We’re old friends.”

  “Hullo, Godric.”

  “You’re looking well. The prettiest girl in Sussex. With one fair rival, of course,” he said, grinning at Ralf. The grin was but slightly returned.

  “Will you stay for refreshments, Ralf?” Eloise said, hoping – knowing – he would refuse.

  “Thank you, no. I’ve got to get back.”

  “What are you up to now?” Godric said.

  “We’re still investigating the wheel.”

  “You can’t work all the time. What about a walk later? The deerhounds need a run.”

  Eloise could barely stand it. Her distress and fatigue were about to overwhelm her. She felt faint, as if she would swoon: but swoon she never would.

  Godric was returning to the Abbey tomorrow, and would not be here again till the end of July, and then only for a few days. Without him, there was no reason why she should have to see Ralf at all, except at church.

  As if they had been alerted by Godric’s words, dogs had begun to bark in the kennels and there was the sound of activity in the stable yard.

  “Papa,” Godric said.

  “I really must be going,” Ralf said.

  “No – stay. I want him to know about the new drive.”

  “You tell him. I’m sure he’s got better things to do than talk to me.”

  Godric would not be gainsaid. A few minutes later, they were all four seated outdoors, overlooking the garden, waiting for her father and mother to take off their travelling clothes and wash. The pantry maid brought a tray of lemon-water and biscuits and placed it on the table.

  “Don’t stand, my children,” her father said, emerging from the house, her mother just behind.

  “Do you know Ralf’s sister, Papa?” Godric said, when they were sitting again.

  “Imogen? That is your name?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Imogen said. “How do you do, my lord. How do you do, my lady,” she added, in response to a regal nod from Eloise’s mother.

  “Charming,” said her father. “You have a charming sister, Ralf.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  While the drinks were being poured Eloise looked away, between the stone dolphins guarding the shallow flight of steps down to the lawn. Jays were screeching in the churchyard limes. “Dear God,” she thought. “Let this be over soon.” Why was Godric acting like this? Ralf was sitting one place away, divided from her by him. She said to her father, “Did you have a good journey?”

  “Tolerably so. We stayed at the Spread Eagle, and lunched today at Northam.”

  “Is all well at court?” she said, to divide herself yet further from Ralf.

  Her mother said, “You may go, Elisabeth.”

  The maid took her leave.

  “Yes, Eloise. All is well. The King and Queen are in good spirits. However, Lord de Braux has broken his ankle.”

  “O dear,” Godric said. “Do we mind?”

  Her father smiled. “Now now, Godric.”

  Eloise saw that Imogen was not hiding her astonishment, and liked her for it. They were indeed talking about the King, who once had dandled Godric on his knee; and about Queen Eleanor who, at Gloucester, had given Eloise on her sixth birthday a ribbon doll which, in its case, was still upstairs.

  “There’s a new design for the gears,” Godric informed his father, once he had broached the subject of the mill. “Ralf can tell you better than I.”

  With a self assurance that surprised her, Ralf explained to her father what she already knew, that the original plan for the cogwheels had been superseded.

  “The new design should be easier to build. It’ll be more reliable, too, and more efficient. The improved efficiency means we can get away with a smaller pen.”
/>   “Excellent, excellent!”

  As Ralf spoke, talking about pinions and gear-ratios, Eloise was able to look at him without fear. In this company she saw the man he would become: for he was not yet a man, any more than she was a woman, despite the trade in child brides of which she was a part. He would be strong, competent, loving. There was nothing of Robert Ingram about him, nothing flimsy. Someone would be getting him as a husband. Someone lucky. Eloise hoped she would deserve him.

  “Ralf gave me the old plans,” Godric said. “I’m going to take them to Leckbourne.”

  “What for?”

  “I do have one or two friends there, Papa.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t show them to anybody just yet. Especially in the Church.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “No. Just do as I say. In fact, give me the plans.”

  Ralf was watching this exchange.

  “I’m sorry, Godric. I’m tired. I didn’t mean to snap. But don’t take them out of the house. We may be facing opposition. There’s no point in making their job easier.”

  “You mean the Diocese?” Godric said.

  “I realize you have divided loyalties.”

  “I am loyal only to you, Father.”

  Imogen was looking lost, poor girl. Eloise would extricate her as soon as she could.

  Ralf said, “My lord, I have told Father Pickard about the mill. He asked me.”

  “When?”

  “A month ago. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “That’s all right, Ralf. He was bound to hear.” He put his cup down. “How much longer will the tender take?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “I want it finished as soon as possible. The mill has now become urgent. There are bound to be difficulties with the construction. If we delay too long, there’s no point building it at all. What are we today? June the twenty-first. Tell your father I won’t sign a contract beyond the end of July. Lammas Day. That’s the limit.”

  “I’ll tell him, my lord, but we’re having problems with the wheel.”

  “Solve them.”

  “We would like to visit some other mills. We have no excuse to do so. He wondered if you might give him a warrant.”

  “Saying what?”

  “The manor is thinking of changing its milling arrangements, and you have authorized him to investigate. No need for an untruth.”

  With a glance at Eloise’s mother, her father smiled. “I like the way his mind works. Or was it your idea, Ralf? Don’t answer. You’ll have the warrant tonight. Better than that, you can have Mr Caffyn. He’ll go with you, wherever you want. Just don’t waste any time.”

  “Thank you very much, my lord. Mr Parfett won’t work without a contract. He didn’t even want to recommend the water consumption. Anyway, we want to use him as little as possible.”

  “Parfett’s the engineer,” he told Eloise’s mother. He turned back to Ralf. “Use him as much as you have to. Don’t stint on fees.” He gave a relenting smile. “But what need do we have of a Parfett? We have our own. Have you thought of pursuing that line of work? After the mill, I mean.”

  “I want to work with my father, sir, in the city.”

  “Engineering, Ralf. That’s where the money is today. Roads, bridges, castles. Siege engines. Ships.”

  “I wouldn’t mind building ships.”

  “Civil or military?”

  “Civil, I suppose.”

  “Are you sure? I could give you some pointers to the Navy. Do you know how much gold is pouring into Portsmouth at this moment? There’s a veritable frenzy of building. Fortifications, warehouses, docks, the town, everything needful for the fleet. Two new warships this month alone. It’s the country’s defence. The French —”

  Her mother interrupted. “For goodness’ sake, my liege, please don’t start on that.” She said to Eloise, “I’ve had two weeks of the French and their plans, and that’s quite enough for anybody. Loathsome foreigners. Who the devil do they think they are?”

  The party broke up. While Eloise’s brother and parents went into the house, Ralf disappeared from her sight, along the shingle walk; and she, despairing, accompanied his sister to the stable yard and the ever-patient Hennet.

  5

  The summer that year brought to the manor a spell of good growing-weather, which, especially now that her father had confided in her, Eloise was glad to see, for his sake if not her own. It seemed to rain mostly at night. The long days merged with one another; the ears of wheat and barley hardened and turned from green to brown; and over the marshes, at sunset, impending autumn was betrayed as early as the middle of July by lines of gulls following the beach to their roost at the end of the Point.

  For Eloise the evenings were not a good time, alone with her aunts or parents, or in the company of their guests, but the nights were worse.

  Mornings were best, or afternoons, whenever Imogen came. Eloise had been taken by surprise. Even before the first riding-lesson had ended, she had found Imogen far more level-headed than she herself had been, eighteen months earlier. She was almost grown-up; and completely irresistible. Eloise did not know what she liked about her most: her irreverent views, her open and affectionate nature, her capacity for listening, or the way a whole afternoon would disappear in her company. Like her riding skill, their friendship graduated from walk to trot, to canter, to gallop, and Eloise soon moderated her admiration of Ralf’s solicitude for his sister. Who could not love her?

  Their talks comprehended every subject but the one which consumed the summer nights, and even that was eased by Imogen’s daytime presence. Eloise regretted that she had not heeded her intuition and made a friend of her long before.

  But Eloise, who had never had a friend, would not have known how to do that. Ralf had brought her Imogen. Before that day, her companions had been mere acquaintances, daughters of freemen and nobles. In two of the five families of tenants in the manor, and in the families of the senior retainers, there were girls with whom she got on quite well; their social station did not disqualify them, but the serfs were out of bounds.

  Ralf and Imogen were the grandchildren of serfs. They lived in a tied cottage. Even though their father was a freeman, and a respected one, his indebtedness and waged work had severely reduced his status, which was why, Eloise knew, some of those around her – especially Aunt Matilde – had disapproved of Godric’s friendship with Ralf.

  Now that Master Grigg had left Rushton his status had markedly risen, and even Aunt Matilde had smiled on Imogen, drawn her into conversation, and afterwards pronounced her delightful.

  Imogen resembled Ralf in the regularity of her features and in the set and colour of her eyes. She was his feminine counterpart, her hair finer in texture and a paler blonde, her mouth less determined, her voice soft, her walk graceful; and whereas his hands were sturdy and practical, hers were slender and gentle. To look upon her, to hear her speaking artlessly of Ralf, gave Eloise pain which was also pleasure, complicated still further by the symmetry between this friendship and that of their brothers.

  When out with Aunt Mildred or Aunt Béatrice – Aunt Matilde did not much care for riding – they might easily cover twenty miles. Eloise revisited her favourite places, seeing them anew, through Imogen’s eyes. They ascended the sheep-walks on the downs and overlooked the grey sweep of the sea and the coastal plain of farmland and marsh. They rode through silent forests, along paths among towering bracken or across sunlit glades where the trees had been felled. She showed Imogen the cascades at Finmere Abbey and the hypnotically turning wheel of its mill. They visited Eyton, Fulches, Angmer, Ashentoft, and the yew-woods at Houghton; in woods of beech or ash they passed the camps of turners and charcoal-burners, and once, deep in the oaks, well back from the way, a hermitage, whose wild-haired occupant they saw nearby, trying to hide behind a tree.

  On days without an aunt, Eloise and Imogen were confined to the manor. Although she had lived in Mape for eight years, Imogen knew hardly any o
f it besides the village, the marshes and the staith. Eloise explained how pannage worked, how and why the pigs were moved around in the woods, and they visited the curing-house where the bacon and gammon were made and the pork salted and packed in barrels for sale or for the winter. The swineherd let Imogen cuddle his favoured runt, a tiny piglet with a ribbon for a collar, and Eloise too wished that she could carry it home for a pet.

  She was able to show Imogen other places in the village: the dairy, the bakery and the threshing barn, the church tower, and the chambers and offices at the Hall. Imogen got to know the garden and grounds, the maze, the physic garden, the nook, the espaliered pear-trees, the asparagus beds, and the rows of chrysanthemums and sweetpeas, for cut-flowers to put in the house or church.

  Increasingly, as today, when Ralf had need of Hennet, they did not bother with the horses at all. Imogen had been amused by the way the groundsmen kept the lawn trimmed, confining two sheep in a hurdle, compelling them to eat grass when they would rather have eaten anything else, especially flowers. This morning the cycle had started again: the hurdle had been moved up to the edge of the rose-beds, just under the terrace with its dolphin steps.

  The lawn ended forty yards from the house, at the fishpond, with a shrubbery behind. The pond was in the shape of a horseshoe, enclosing a stone bench. They peered here and there into the clear, dark water, searching among the lily-pads for a glimpse of a fish, or even a frog or newt, but saw only a water-beetle, clinging upside-down to a bubble of air.

  Imogen now examined the sundial, which stood on a plinth before the bench.

  “It’s nearly in the middle,” she said. “Noon. Can that be right?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Eloise. Remembering what her grandmother had told her, she said, “Do you know the legend about sundials?”

  She explained how St Augustine of Canterbury, the bringer of Christianity to the English and namesake of the more famous St Augustine of Hippo, was said to have learned of his own predestination and grace. In a Roman garden, passing a sundial, he had noticed that the shadow cast by the gnomon had not been obscured by his own. Even though he had stood where he ought to have blocked the sun, even though his own shadow had fallen across the dial, the gnomon’s had continued to creep between the hours. Augustine, marvelling, had also been afraid; then God had spoken to him and told him his destiny. Since that time, a transparent shadow had always been taken as a sign of sainthood.