by Mira Stables
Nor was she very successful. It was easy enough to prevent Harriet from going of her own accord to polish furniture or tidy up generally, but when Mr Warhurst sent for her there was nothing that Mrs Bedford could do except conceal her growing disapproval.
He sent for the girl after breakfast one wet day and greeted her with a teasing remark about tidying up all his papers and so making herself indispensable, since it was now much quicker to send for her than to look for things himself. Harriet blushed with pleasure, and Mr Warhurst, noting with amusement how easy it was to please her, was suddenly aware of a slight sense of shock. The child was growing up under his eyes. When he remembered the pallid pathetic scrap that he had pulled out of the river, he was amazed at the change. And while he could feel nothing but satisfaction in the obvious glow of health and well-being, he was uneasy on another count. To house a forlorn child was one thing. To shelter an attractive young woman – and for the first time, studying her with a newly-percipient eye, he acknowledged the attraction – was quite another. To keep her with him was manifestly impossible, for her sake as well as for his own.
He pulled himself together and told Harriet which papers he wanted, and she went immediately to one of the chests in the window while he considered this new complication. He had been foolish, he thought, not to realise that it would happen. Children did not stay children for ever, and Mrs Bedford had been quite right. Harriet would have to go. It was fortunate that he had realised it before any harm was done. He sighed faintly, already realising how much he would miss her.
At this point in his reflections he was interrupted by an urgent knocking on the postern door. Someone was in the devil of a hurry, he thought, and sharply bade the visitor enter. The door was pushed open violently and young Peter Pettiford stumbled into the room, breathing hard as though he had run far and fast.
“Sir!” he gasped. “Had to come. No one else to turn to. It’s Jem.”
It was not difficult to guess what must have happened, and when the boy had recovered his breath a little the tale was much what Simon had expected. Jem had been surprised during a poaching expedition. Of all the neighbouring estates he had chosen to favour Pendeniston Place with his attentions – and the colonel, a bitter and unrelenting foe of all poachers. Jem had not only been seen but recognised, because he had heard one of the keepers cry out that it was young Coburn, and just let the lad wait until he got his hands on him. Jem, naturally, had not waited. But although he had managed to give the keepers the slip, the case was desperate. He had not dared to go home and had hidden in the woods all night, making his way to the bailiff’s house at first light and summoning Peter by throwing up stones at his window.
“Where is he now?”
“In your potting shed, Sir,” said the boy rather shamefaced. “I daresn’t let him bide at home. When they don’t find him at the farm they’ll come looking for him at our place.”
“But they won’t expect me to be hand in glove with the young rascal,” suggested Simon grimly.
Irony was wasted on Peter. “No, Sir,” he agreed simply. “That’s why I thought your potting shed was the safest place. Mr Beresford is working on the long border, so he’s not likely to go in, and if so be as he did chance to see Jem I don’t think he’d give him away, him having done a bit of poaching himself in his time.”
“And what do you expect me to do for your friend?” asked Simon curiously. “It’s no use asking me to beg him off. It would take a miracle to soften the colonel’s heart.”
“No Sir. But I thought if you could help him to get away.” He broke off awkwardly, hesitated for a few minutes, and then went on, driven by his friend’s urgent need, his eyes anywhere but on Simon’s face. “You have helped others, Sir. And Jem’s father is one of your tenants.”
“So just because I have been fool enough to help one or two reckless young idiots to escape the consequences of their follies, I am to be blackmailed into lending my support to one who has already had fair warning, from me as well as from his father. And where is he to go? Young Hobbs went to his uncle in Wales, and Stapley went to the Americas. Jem is what? Fifteen? Too young to be shipped overseas. Has he any suitable relatives?”
Peter shook his head vigorously. Harriet, listening to the exchange from her vantage point in the window, guessed that he thought the matter as good as settled.
“What he wants to do, Sir, is to run away to sea,” he explained confidently. “His dad would never hear of it before, but he’ll have to, now, won’t he? Or see Jem prisoned and maybe even transported.”
“Well of all the hell-born brats!” exclaimed Simon, half-admiringly. “I begin to think the whole escapade is just a scheme to oblige Coburn to yield to the boy’s demands.”
“No Sir, it wasn’t, truly,” assured Peter. “He didn’t mean to be caught, but since he was, don’t you think it’s the best thing to be done?”
Privately, Simon did, but he explained patiently that it wasn’t just as easy and straight-forward as Peter made it sound. “Even if we could smuggle him away to safety – and I daresay that could be managed – every sea captain is not an honest, warm-hearted hero. The boy deserves a sound thrashing, and if he were my son he would get it, but he cannot be allowed to fall into bad hands. That could be worse than prison. No, I had best see Coburn and talk it over with him. I only hope I don’t fall foul of the colonel’s keepers bent on the same errand. Meanwhile, tell that stubborn young idiot to keep himself well hid, and then keep away from him. Nothing is more likely to arouse suspicion than the sight of you visiting the potting shed about every ten minutes. Yes, I daresay you will be anxious. You deserve to be, dragging us all into such a crazy start. Be off with you now. I’ll do what I can.”
Peter mumbled some sort of fervent thanks, and went. Simon turned to Harriet, whom the boy, in his anxiety, had never even noticed. “You heard all that?” he queried soberly. “No need to ask you not to mention it to anyone. The fewer people to know of such affairs, the safer one is. It is a little alarming that young Peter knew of my earlier dealings. I must endeavour to be more discreet in future.”
He fell silent, working out how he could best approach Jem’s unfortunate father in the most natural way. Some question of repairs to farm buildings, he supposed. That would give them an opportunity for private talk while they carried out an inspection.
Harriet was deeply anxious. She had been bred to cherish a healthy respect for the law of the land. It was sometimes harsh, but it had to be obeyed. It was obvious that on this occasion Mr Warhurst intended to circumvent the forces of the law and snatch away its legitimate prey. That must be dangerous for Mr Warhurst. She had scant sympathy for Jem, who, after all, had hurled the boot that toppled her precious Mandy into the river. She did not wish him any particular harm but she was a good deal more concerned for his would-be rescuer. At the thought of Mr Warhurst’s position if he should be discovered, she felt positively sick. With a newly acquired air of maturity she said soberly, “Must you go yourself, Sir?”
Simon came out of his abstraction to grin at her indulgently.
“Indeed I must. Did you not understand that the greatest discretion is necessary? No harm will come to me, child, so take off that anxious frown. I am simply going to consult one of my tenants about repairs to his pigstyes, as is my proper duty. I can safely promise you that no officer of the law is like to lie hid in that particular vicinity in order to listen to our consultations.”
She tried once more. “Is there not something that I can do to help?”
He hesitated. It was risky. But so anxious she seemed that she would obviously be better with something to do. “If you could smuggle some food to the prisoner in the potting shed,” he suggested. “Mrs Bedford will give you something suitable – you may confide in her, of course. But be watchful and wary. If your first attempt is unsuccessful, do not make another. Young Jem will just have to go hungry, though I daresay he is devilish sharp-set by now. I doubt if he’s eaten since yesterday.”
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Harriet thought it served him right, but she turned obediently to her allotted task, partly reconciled to the situation since she was to be given a small part in it. Simon went to change into riding clothes.
The plan eventually decided upon was simple enough, and after due consultation with the parties concerned it was put into operation on the following day and went without a hitch. It began with Beresford, Mr Warhurst’s head gardener, making an early trip to the Coburn farm for a load of dung. Somehow a bundle of clothing and a purseful of guineas made their way back with the dung. Farmer Coburn had thankfully accepted Simon’s offer to help his lad out of the reach of the law but stoutly refused financial assistance, and regretted only that, since there could be nothing in the nature of a touching farewell, he would be unable to express his views on the boy’s behaviour, which he would dearly have liked to do.
A carrier’s cart called at Furzedown during the forenoon with some rolls of carpet for the bailiff’s house – and left with an illegal but well concealed passenger, travelling in the general direction of Reading. The passenger was quietly deposited at a prosperous farm on the outskirts of Basingstoke, whence he passed from hand to hand among a well-disposed (but severely censorious) farming community until he reached Reading, where he took the Bristol coach, the journey having taken the better part of three days. In Bristol he met, by previous appointment, a Mr Hurst, who had received a Power of Attorney from his father to place him as apprentice to a reputable shipmaster. Jem, with all his dreams coming true, was not only a sturdy healthy lad, well fitted to strenuous undertakings, but a newly-agreeable one; an important factor in making a success of a sea-going career, as his temporary guardian did not fail to point out to him. The business was concluded to the satisfaction of all parties, and ‘Mr Hurst’ was able to make his thankful way home to Furzedown once more.
The whole incident had consumed barely a week, but it marked a change in the relationship between Simon and Harriet. He had noted her developing maturity. She had behaved sensibly and helpfully during the crisis. She had shown that she could hold her tongue – though she did not spare Simon her views on the folly of involving himself with ‘no-goods and ne’er-do-wells’. If he had not been in partial agreement with her, he might have been tempted to ask her into which category she came. Since he knew that her diatribe was prompted solely by concern for his safety, he abided his scolding meekly – and even in doing so furnished yet another proof that Harriet was growing up.
Chapter Eight
Mrs Pauncefoot came to spend a week at Furzedown at the end of November, upon receipt of an urgent appeal from her brother. She was a merry-faced, easy-going creature, very different from the fashionable matron of Harriet’s forebodings. Her clothes were very smart indeed, but they were put on in such a haphazard fashion that she usually looked as if she had dressed all by guess. She was aware of it, strove to conquer the fault – so reprehensible in a political hostess – and finally admitted defeat, pleading to her dresser that between her husband’s complicated social manoeuvres, which must be handled with feather-light delicacy, the vociferous demands of her clamorous brood and the calls of her numerous charities, she really had no time to fuss about her own appearance.
That long-suffering soul, Featherby, who adored her mistress despite the shame that she frequently brought upon her, had accompanied her lady to Furzedown and was happy to accept the services of Alice to help her unpack Mrs Pauncefoot’s gowns, while the lady herself enjoyed a comfortable coze in the housekeeper’s room. Mrs Bedford had been her own dear nurse and was reckoned a firm friend and ally, so the confidences that came slowly at first and then tumbled out in a tempestuous flood, were accorded their due measure of attention.
Despite her occasional outer disarray, Mrs Pauncefoot had a clear-thinking mind. She loved her brother Simon dearly, and it was her sincere hope that some day he would find in marriage the kind of happiness that she knew herself. She had tried not to bear a grudge against Fiona for shattering his youthful illusions, but she had grieved for the wasted years that followed – for so she saw them. It was more than time that Simon thought about settling himself in the world, but would this problem child that he wished to discuss with her be a help or a hindrance? She seemed to have broken through the barriers of indifference that he had erected against the feminine world, and that, at least, must be counted a gain. Further judgement she would defer until she had made Miss Pendeniston’s acquaintance.
This did not prove easy. Despite her youthful seeming, Harriet had a good deal of reserve. The relationship was further embarrassed by the knowledge that the visitor was a potential employer. Her natural friendliness was curbed by the fear of appearing familiar. She spoke as little as possible and confided not at all. Mrs Pauncefoot thought her pleasant mannered but dull, and secretly rather wondered at her brother’s continued interest in such a spiritless little thing. Simon’s disposition must be more charitable than she had supposed.
Harriet sparkled into something approaching animation when Mrs Pauncefoot admired Mandy. She confessed ruefully that the pug had developed one or two mischievous tricks since she had come to Furzedown. She had an insatiable appetite for handkerchiefs which she filched from their owners’ pockets and tore up. Harriet was currently engaged on hemming some new ones for Mr Warhurst to make good the pup’s depredations. And they had not been able to cure her of pawing at doors to be let in or out, a right which she exercised imperiously to the detriment of the paintwork. To add insult to injury her patience was short, so that when you hurried to open the desired door she was quite likely to have vanished and to be making application elsewhere.
It was about the longest speech that Mrs Pauncefoot had heard from Harriet. The stiff, guarded look on the controlled little face had relaxed. In this mood, the dull child was positively pretty, decided Mrs Pauncefoot, and countered with one or two stories of the much-loved mongrel that reigned in the nursery of her London home.
She had another opportunity to assess Harriet’s quality when she paid an unexpected visit to the book-room next morning. In honour of her visit the Saloon had been brought into use and she and her brother sat there in the evenings. Harriet took pains to be busy elsewhere, feeling that she must not encroach on the license already granted her, and Simon, who had hoped to see his sister forward her acquaintance with his protégée during these informal interludes, realised for the first time the anomalous position that the girl occupied in his household. Neither guest nor servant, neither child nor adult, it must at times be very awkward for her, as it was, at the moment, for him. He could not exactly summon her to present herself in the Saloon in the same easy way in which he sent for her to the book-room.
This morning, his sister breakfasting in bed, he had indeed sent for Harriet, and when Louisa made her belated appearance the pair of them were engrossed in discussion of one of Harriet’s favourite sketches. Simon was making brief notes as the words poured eagerly from the girl’s lips, putting in the odd question as she paused to sort out her ideas, an indulgent smile softening his mouth. Harriet did not even sense the interruption. She held the sketch at arm’s length, and from time to time her eyes lifted to Simon’s face. Mrs Pauncefoot, unnoticed by either of the intent pair, saw the depth of adoration lambent in the girl’s eyes and, for a moment, actually shrank from a suddenly perilous situation. Mrs Bedford’s fears were all too well founded. Harriet Pendeniston was fathoms deep in love with her brother. She might not even be aware of it. He certainly was not. But to the mature and experienced woman there could be no mistaking that look. To her credit, be it said, that her heart ached for the child, and that at that moment she made up her mind to do her best for her.
Nothing of this showed in her manner as she strolled into the room, bade the startled occupants good morning, and made one or two laughing remarks about her own idleness.
“But I do lead a very busy life in Town,” she excused herself, “and the Hampshire air always makes me feel sleepy for the first
two or three days. It is so peaceful and quiet, too, after the clamour of Town streets. You must not scold me too severely, especially as I am anxious to make a good impression on Miss Pendeniston in the hope of persuading her to come and help me with half a dozen different problems in Arlington Street.”
Swift colour flooded Harriet’s cheeks, and her hands flew up to her breast in an involuntary gesture of excitement. Yet at the same time she was aware of an underlying sense of desolation. Mrs Pauncefoot’s visit had been planned with this very end in view. Mrs Bedford had made no bones about it. The best solution to all Harriet’s problems, since obviously she could not stay at Furzedown for ever. If only ‘Miss Louisa’ should take a liking to her and offer her employment, she would be fortunate indeed. Now here was the golden opportunity dropping into her lap, and all that she could think of was that she would have to leave her secure haven and face the world again.
Pride came to her aid – pride and the self control learned during the years of harsh discipline. With a very good assumption of gratification she said, “Do you really think that I could be useful, ma’am?”
“I am very sure of it,” nodded Mrs Pauncefoot kindly. “My family is very awkwardly arranged,” she explained, making it abundantly clear with every syllable she uttered that she thought her family was as near perfect as made no difference. “I began badly by producing a girl-child instead of the expected heir, and to make amends for this lapse I had two sons within a twelve-month.” She smiled reminiscently. “Quite a handful they were, but they are now at school so the thought need not depress you unduly. But then, when everyone, including me, had decided that my family was complete, I presented my husband with twins, boy and girl, now six years old. And they, if you decide to come to me, will be very much your concern, as will my daughter Dorothea. I am fortunate in having a governess and a nurse who are absolutely to be relied upon, but both are past middle age. This would not matter so much if I were able to spend more of my time with the children, but that is not possible. The introduction of someone who is young enough to play with the twins and be a friend and companion to Dorothea, seems to me highly desirable. But how to find such a person? Because obviously, in such close contact with my children, I need a person of breeding and principle. If I had possessed an indigent niece or cousin, that is the kind of girl who might have served. Which is plain speaking, my dear, I am aware, but I was never one to hide my teeth. I have no such relative, but I think that you, if you would, could very well fill the position that I have in mind. My brother tells me that you write a good clear hand and are extremely methodical, so that you could also assist me with my charitable work – well – I do not wish to appear over-eager, but I would like to have your decision as soon as possible, and if it is favourable I shall carry you off without more ado.”