by Joan Aiken
It seemed late in the day to set out, but Ned explained, that we would spend a night with his aunt, who lived in a village the other side of Truro; that would give us a good start on the morrow, and then, by the night of that day we would be able to reach Exeter, where he had a cousin who would give us a bed. Then, if all went well, we should arrive in Bath by the evening of the second day. I asked how far it was to Bath and he said, about a hundred and forty miles; the English reckon in miles rather than leagues.
Dusk soon fell as we rumbled along, and I, being weary and heartsick from all our adventures, and the loss of Sam, fell into a kind of doze, curled up in the wagon among the barrels of fish, under a piece of sack which Ned kindly provided. Indeed so tired was I that I was sleeping when we passed through Truro, and so missed seeing the town where Sam lay confined. This filled me with shame when I discovered what I had done.
I remember little of that night. We halted at a small place, called, I think, St. Morion, only two or three houses, which seemed to be situated in a wilderness. I helped Ned feed and stable his horses in a stone barn; then we went into his aunts house, which was very tiny, with stone walls and stone floors, and a fire of earth coal burning in an iron grate; we were given some broth of mutton and turnips by the aunt, an old, old, white-haired woman who was bent double by rheumatism; and then I asked if I might lie down to sleep, since I could hardly keep my eyes from closing, and was led up a little narrow flight of wooden stairs to a room no bigger than a dog kennel, where I flung myself down on a mattress so damp that it reminded me of my bed in Villaverde.
I had meant to expostulate with God on Sam's fete and beg for His help, but sleep carried me instantly into forgetfulness, and I knew nothing more until next morning, when I found Ned snoring beside me as I woke to a hollow feeling of loneliness, sorrow, and guilt.
The aunt gave us breakfast long before dawn, of eggs and hot yellow bread spiced with saffron; I offered to pay from the three small coins I had remaining, but both the old lady and Ned said no to that; and he added that he brought her so many goods free of cartage on his journeys back and forth that she was glad to give free room and board to him and his companions.
That day the weather was better, the snow beginning to melt away, and, by noon, a pale sun shone forth. Oh, the land across which we traveled was most strange—in all my journey across Spain I had seen nothing like it! A pale brown moorland stretched on all sides of us, with hardly a house to be seen, but only small sharp hillocks, each rising to a point of rock, and many fords, where little brown brawling streams ran across the road. There were no men or beasts abroad, and Ned told me that the people of these parts make their living by working underground, in the tin mines.
I did my best to divert Ned with songs and tales of Spain, as payment for my ride, but, though kindly, he was a slow-witted fellow, and required to have everything repeated to him two or three times over before he could understand it, so that I found the day long, and most tiring and tedious; many and many a time my heart was pierced with longing for poor Sam, laid by the leg in Truro jail, and I wondered what was happening to him.
We traveled on until long after dark, and came to Exeter around midnight, so I saw little of the town, which seemed to be large, but very dirty and evil-smelling, with numerous narrow lanes and much mud. Ned told me, though, that Exeter's chief trade is with Spain and there are many Spaniards living there, which gave me kindlier feelings toward the place.
As before, we spent the night in a small house, which, since Ned's cousin was a tanner, smelled most vilely of tanning leather. However, he received us kindly, and, like the aunt at St. Morion, fed us free of charge. Again we were away long before dawn, riding through a bitter storm of rain and sleet, wrapped in sacks to keep ourselves warm.
By midday we had reached the town of Taunton, a very pretty city with thatched houses and many little gardens, now brown and wintry. Then, after passing through some well-cultivated farmland, we came to a long dreary region of marshes covered for miles by grazing sheep, whose cries reminded me sadly of the plain round Villaverde.
Another long day went slowly by as the horses toiled along muddy roads at a pace just faster than a man could walk. At last Ned was obliged to acknowledge that we should not reach Bath that night; accordingly we stayed at a small and dirty inn which stood in a village called Chew. As we arrived in the dark and left in the dark, I have no recollection of the place beyond the civility of the landlord who—since I had no money left, having spent it on food during the day—agreed to take my Spanish knife in exchange for a night on a straw mattress and a plate of porridge—a strange dish of crushed oats and water, such as would be given to animals in Spain!
Next morning, as daylight came, we reached a hilltop from which we had a prospect of Bath. I thought it a most noble-looking town. It is built in a valley, around a hot spring, and is not yet a hundred years old, having been built by a man called John Wood so that people might live there and receive benefit from the mineral waters. Ned told me this, though what was in the waters he could not say.
When I saw those handsome houses, some of them snow-white, some already blackened by smoke, all arranged with such orderliness in rows and squares and curved crescents, my heart beat fast indeed, and I said to myself: "My father walked those same streets! Perhaps he often stood where I am now and saw this sight!"
Ned asked me where I would wish to be set down, as he was bound for the main market, which lies in the center of the city. I told him the Rose and Ring-Dove Inn, and it was well that he had asked me beforehand, for this inn, he told me, lay outside the city, on the Bristol road, by a bridge that crosses the Avon River. He presently set me down there, having kindly gone somewhat out of his way to do so.
In reply to my heartfelt thanks for all his kindness, he said, "Arr, lad, 'twas a pleasure to carry ee, 'twere like an eddication! I never laffed so much as at they songs o' yourn (once you had telled me the meanings), an I'll carry ee again, an' gladly, any time as ee've a fancy to fare back to Falmouth! I come by every week—ask for me at Oliver's stall i' the market of a Friday marning!"
And so he cracked his long whip and rumbled on his way, while I walked with a fast-beating heart into the Rose and Ring-Dove Inn.
This was a handsome building, large as a convent. It was timbered somewhat after the style of the houses in Llanes, and a beautiful sign, hanging in front, showed a red rose and a white dove, set against a green background. Behind the inn, pleasure gardens ran down to the swift-flowing river, but there was little pleasure in them now: they looked most dismal with sodden grass and pinched brown roses hanging from the trellises.
In front, a graveled yard was full of coaches, large and small.
I ventured into the main entrance hall, and hesitated there, feeling foolish and scared enough; here I stood, in my damp, salt-stained clothes, without a penny in my pocket, my only belongings a bundle of papers, a piece of black plume, and a few brass buttons—why should I expect anybody to welcome me? And how should I set about making inquiries?
It took me a long time to pluck up my courage; for, thought I miserably, once I have made inquiry here, if no one is able to give me any information, then I am at a stand indeed! I have come all the way from Villaverde to this spot—at what a cost—supposing I find here no clue, no means of going on, then I am undone. And so is Sam.
So, trembling inwardly, I loitered in the main hall of the inn and looked about me. The point where I stood was like a busy crossroads—doors were all the time opening and shutting, bells were ringing, waiters were scurrying back and forth, carrying trays with coffee and rolls (for it was yet early); boot boys darted by with clean pairs of boots, barbers' boys with hot water and razors, and the barbers themselves with bags of powder; washerwomen stumped past with bundles of clean linen, horns blew outside the door, and messengers pushed through with bags of letters.
In all this busy commotion no one seemed to regard me, and yet, somehow, I felt myself an object of scrutiny.
Turning my head, I noticed an oldish man, dressed in black, sitting on a bench, who seemed to observe me very fixedly and attentively. This disturbed me, for his black dress reminded me of the alguacil in Oviedo, so, all of a rush, I accosted a pretty chambermaid as she skipped by, and asked her if she knew any person by the name of Brooke, who lived in this inn, or somewhere not far away.
Giving me one brief disdainful glance, she snapped out, "Never heard of 'em in me life—nobody o' that name here!" and ran on her way.
Now I was utterly discouraged, not daring to make inquiry of anybody else, lest the haughty chambermaid should pass by again and overhear me; I Was about to wander back into the rain-washed inn yard, had not the elderly man at that moment risen from his seat and walked over to me. I saw him come with apprehension; yet his aspect did not seem threatening. Indeed as he approached me, his face seemed to hold a look of cautious hope.
He said to me—his voice was most gentle and polite: "I beg your pardon, my young sir—I am a little hard of hearing; I believe you were inquiring for Brooke?"
"Yes, sir!"
Now my heart bounded up. Seeing him close to, I felt sure that he was not an alguacil. Perhaps he was related to me! His face was lined and thoughtful, with a look of kindness and intelligence; he carried a flat black hat in his hand, and wore a clean white band round his neck.
"Might I inquire your name?" the gentleman next asked me courteously.
"Yes, sir, it is Brooke, Felix Brooke. I am come from Villaverde, in Spain, to inquire for the family of my father, Captain Felix Brooke. Can you perhaps—?"
But before I could finish, the gentleman had both my hands in his, and, exclaiming, "Oh, my dear, dear boy!" he was shaking them up and down as if he could never leave go of me.
"The moment I set eyes on you," he was saying, "the moment I saw you I felt sure you must be your father's son! You have such a look of him! Oh, I am so rejoiced that you came here! I was so afraid that you would not!"
"But, sir—were you then expecting me?" I asked, very much surprised. Wherever I went, it seemed, people knew beforehand that I was coming!
"Yes, yes!" he said. "We have—I have been hoping to see you these three weeks past—oh, but filled with such apprehensions as to what perils you might be encountering—offering up so many prayers for your safety—thanks be to God who has brought you safely here!"
He let go one of my hands and wiped a tear from his eye, saying, "Forgive me! You look so like your father—it brings him back, so, to see you!"
Quite bewildered by this speedy and unexpected change in my fortunes, I hardly knew what to say, but giving me no time, he exclaimed, "You are cold and hungry, I daresay—you are very likely half starved! Come—come quickly, my dear boy, come with me—" and he half dragged me from the hallway down a passage to a stable yard at the back of the inn, where he called loudly, "James, James, I have him, I have him James, where are you? James! Set-to the horses at once!"
A little brown man shot out of the stables, did a kind of caper of delight, then disappeared, to return leading two chestnut horses harnessed to a glossy four wheeled wooden carriage with glass windows in front and at the sides.
"Here we are, here we are!" said my elderly companion, and bustled me to the carriage. "See, see, James, I have him—is he not the Master Felix of twenty years ago? To the very life?" And to me, "This is James Merriwether, who taught your father to ride his first pony."
"And rarely he shaped at it—he rode like a gypsy," said the little man, thrusting out a gnarled brown hand. "And I'll warrant you'll be the same, my young master, for you've a horseman's upright back and flat thigh—or my name's not Jem Merriwether!" And he, too, shook my hand up and down as if he could not bear to stop.
Then I was almost lifted into the carriage—which, I learned later, was called a chaise—Merriwether took his place on the box, and the black-clad man climbed in beside me.
We started off at a rapid trot, taking the road away from Bath, and bowled along by the river, which here wound beside a great flat meadow full of brown cattle, below a wintry wooded hillside.
"Sir," I said, "please, explain to me, for I am wholly puzzled—were you expecting me to come to that inn?"
"Indeed we were, my boy, and had been for weeks past! But then, the day before yesterday, we had intelligence by post from the Customs Officer at Falmouth that a boy named Felix Brooke had been saved from a wreck, so our expectations—I may say our hopes— had become more immediate!"
"But who did the—Sir, may I please know whom I have the honor of addressing?"
Being quite ignorant of whom he might be, I used the politest Spanish mode of address, and my companion broke into laughter.
"Indeed you may, my dear boy," said he in a friendly tone. "But there is no honor in the case! My name is Thomas Burden—the Reverend Thomas Burden; for many years I was your dear father's tutor, and I am also your grandfather's chaplain."
Another grandfather! I thought. And then—like Father Tomás—but what a difference!
"Then, Señor Burden—if my grandfather does not live at the Rose and Ring-Dove—how did word reach you?"
"Why, your grandfather has been advertising for you—or at least, his man of business, Mr. ffanshawe, has—he had left word at all the Channel ports—"
"But why has he been advertising now?"
I was even more puzzled than before. Why should this English grandfather begin to advertise for me after twelve years? Or had he been doing so all through my life?
But how did he even know of my existence?
"Why advertise now?" said Mr. Burden. "Why, because we had a letter from your Spanish grandfather, the Conde de Cabezada—a most dignified, proper letter, I may say—explaining that you had left your Spanish home, and he had reason to believe you were coming here."
"But how did he know where to write?" I was more and more amazed. "He could not have received my letter yet. He did not even know that I had an English family. I did not know it myself, for sure!"
"Ah, I am no hand at telling a tale!" exclaimed Mr. Burden apologetically. "I have it all topsy-turvy! He knew, of course, because when your great-aunt Isadora died—"
"What?" I gasped. "She is dead?
I do not precisely know why, but this news came as a most mortal shock to me—I turned cold from head to foot, the very marrow seemed, to drain from my bones. That she, who had wished and caused me such harm, should suddenly be gone—disappeared into the shadows—how can I explain what I felt at hearing this? It was not fear, but a kind of dark sadness. I had hated her so fiercely; now she was gone; what avail to hate her any more?
"Are you ill, my boy?" inquired Mr. Burden anxiously. "You have gone very pale."
"No—no, thank you, señor; I am not ill; only the shock—it is so strange.—How did my great-aunt die?"
"It seems there were some prisoners lodged in your grandfather's house at Villaverde, on their way to trial—"
I nodded, having known of this from Señor Smith's letter.
"And your great-aunt went up to visit them—it was thought, with charitable intentions of giving them counsel or religious instruction; but she caught a malignant fever from one of them, and died of it within a week."
Another cold shiver went through me as I thought of that scrawny, wiry old body stretched out on a bed of sickness, tossing in fever; Great-aunt Isadora had always been so vigorous and strong, she had never known a day's ailment.... I felt as if the fever had entered my own bones.
"On her deathbed," said Mr. Burden, "she made a confession that greatly shocked your grandfather the Conde. It seemed that she had always hated your mother, and hated you equally, from the moment of your birth. So, when, three years ago, I wrote to your grandfather—"
"You wrote to him three years ago?" I exclaimed in amazement.
"I should go back earlier in the story; I am making a sorry tangle of it," Mr. Burden lamented. "Four years ago there came into my hands a letter from your father—"
&nb
sp; "From my father? Four years ago?"
Hope flashed up in me like a comet; then sank again as Mr. Burden said sadly, "It was written before he died; ah, poor fellow, he was so injured in the wars that he could hardly scrawl, and the address was so ill-writ that the letter wandered half over England before it reached us. And then we could not read it! Will you believe me, Felix, when I tell you that it took me a year's patient labor to decipher his writing? And even then I do not believe I could have done it if I had not been a student of strange scripts, Coptic, Sanskrit, Arabic, and others."
"Indeed I will believe you, Señor Burden," I said with heartfelt truth. "For I have myself some papers in his writing, and the only words I could decipher, from start to finish, were the ones naming the Rose and Ring-Dove Inn, by which means I was able to come here."
Then, filled with joy, I cried out, "If you can read my father's writing, Señor Burden, can you help me ta understand these papers?" And I pulled out the little packet in its waterproof wrapping.
"It will be my happiness to help you," said Mr. Burden, receiving the packet from me with gentle hands. "Ah, I see you have your father's book also—he was so fond of that book! He would have it with him always—he thought it one of the shrewdest and best-writ tales he had ever come across, and often said he wished he might meet the lady who wrote it—"
"But then," I puzzled, going back to his tale, which still seemed all snarled up like a tangle of worsted, "what happened after you read my father's letter? What did it say?"
"Why, it told of his marriage, and your birth, and your mother's death, and your poor father said that he feared he himself had not long to live. And he gave the name and address of your grandfather in Spain. So then we wrote at once to the Conde de Cabezada, asking for news as to what had happened to your father, and about yourself, and saying that, if the Conde agreed, you should be sent over here to receive an English education.—But it seems that your great-aunt Isadora managed to intercept this letter, so that the Conde never knew of its arrival. They found it among her belongings after her death.—And your great-aunt Isadora wrote a false letter here, saying that you had died of a fever. Your English grandfather was much grieved at this intelligence, and wrote no more. Your great-aunt Isadora must, I fear, have been a very wicked woman," said Mr. Burden in a tone of moderate condemnation.