by Maria McCann
‘That’s all you’ve brought?’
‘Yes, Aunt.’
‘Does Mathew expect me to clothe you?’
‘I’ve everything I need.’
‘You’ve no call for a manservant, certainly,’ she said, as if I had asked for one. ‘Come down when you’re ready, won’t you?’
I nodded. What else did she think I might do? Aunt Harriet moved away out of the room, her rich dress brushing the floorboards, and I was at last able to look round unobserved.
The windows of my room were set deep into the wall. Neither overlooked the front of the house, but the side window faced the lane where it disappeared into the wood. By opening the casement and leaning out, I could glimpse a corner of the Hall, on the other side of the way. Even for a large village like Tetton Green, it was an imposing building. I believe it was left to the village, for some charitable purpose, by a rich penitent; it had been used at one time by craftsmen who set up stalls within (hence its odd name) and had even served, during the Civil War, as a billet for the King’s army. Since then, the family had seized back what they felt was theirs, as sometimes happens, and now nobody lived in it – indeed, nobody went in there save the descendants of the man who had given it away.
I went to the other window and found myself above the back of the house, with a stable door visible to one side, some other outbuilding on the left and a well in the middle of a cobbled yard. Above and beyond, the trees of Tetton Wood flung their tops to and fro; a whitebeam glittered as its leaves spun on the breeze. Perhaps I had so disgraced myself with my paltr baggage that Aunt Harriet preferred to keep me round the back, out of sight of passers-by.
I would not say as yet that I disliked my aunt, but I was not far off it. Whenever I had thought about her at Spadboro (which was not often) I had dimly pictured her as reserved and perhaps a little proud, nothing worse. Now, in her house and in her sole company, I was inclined to draw uncharitable comparisons between her and Mother, who made our home decent, though simple, and who bustled merrily about her work. Aunt Harriet progressed along the passages and looked as if she would not deign to peel herself an apple, let alone drag a baby out of a howling woman. Though there must be servants about the place, she had let me carry up and unpack my own bag. My mother would never have been so neglectful, even of an uninvited guest; if need be, she would have carried up the bags herself.
Sighing, I rested my gaze on the furthest trees. From a distance their whipping back and forth in the wind resembled a carefree dance and I wished I could be out there with them. I was already regretting the impulse that had brought me here. Was it likely that I should discover secrets hidden from my aunt, who had shared this house with Robin for so many years? A childish notion! Perhaps I should be content to press the apples and go home. My parents would be surprised to hear where I had been, but nothing worse would come of it.
It was while thinking this that I noticed a coil of smoke rising from the wood. I had not seen it previously because it had been scattered and broken; but now, as the wind died down and the dancing trees were momentarily stilled, a fragile blue trail rose against their mingled green and gold.
‘Charcoal-burners,’ I said to myself, ‘or tinkers,’ but thought no more of it because just then a servant came into view in the courtyard below. She let a bucket down into the well, reeled it in again, and bore it off into the house. I was struck by the ease with which she handled this bucket, which was large and appeared full to the brim; though unable to see her face, I judged her to be young and toughened by constant labour.
There must be others who had known my uncle. That servant girl, for instance, and the boy who had come to Spadboro. I had not yet turned over all the stones.
It was time to return to Aunt Harriet. I combed my hair and beat the dust off my garments; then, clearing my throat though there was nothing in it, I descended the stairs.
* * *
‘Aunt, may I please have some paper to write to my father?’
As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realised this was a mistake. Aunt Harriet had been speaking of her youth and her own father’s pride in her cleverness; for the first time since I arrived, her face had grown soft. Now it took on the beaky, suspicious expression that had originally greeted me.
‘You’re to make a report on me, is that it?’
My intention was in fact to let my parents know where I was. I almost said so, but swallowed the words just in time.
‘A report on myself, rather. I was a little unwell when I left home.’
‘Then I’m surprised they let you travel.’
‘I can be stubborn.’ I smiled, saying this, to show that I was a modest man and my stubbornness of a mild and pliable sort. ‘And they thought you’d be pleased to see me – you might be lonely without my uncle –’
She snorted with laughter. ‘Tell them I’m not lonely enough. I’ve had to repel a siege here – women coming round sighing and smirking – as if I don’t know what they want!’
‘What do they want?’
‘For me to write their children into my will, of course. They think to feast off my carcass.’
I flushed. There was no way for me to clear myself; no matter what I did, it would still look as if I was about the same business. I said, ‘There’ll be no report on you, Aunt, how can you think so? You shall read the letter before you hand it to the servant.’
I had thought, as any one would, that this would soothe her, but her mouth pinched itself into a cold, judging smile.
‘My servants take no letters,’ she said, scrutinising my face to see how I received this news. ‘A man from the inn comes to the house. I pay him to do so, and’ – she seemed almost gloating, as if she had thwarted some design of mine – ‘he takes nothing except from my hands.’
‘Then you shall give it to him,’ I said, with a lightness I did not feel.
‘You’ll give no letters to servants while you are here,’ she added. ‘They are forbidden to receive them.’
Say nothing of this to my wife.
I nodded submissively, concealing my excitement. How had Robin contrived to write to my father? And where was the boy who had brought his message? There was no sign of him about the place. Perhaps he had never been in my aunt’s employment at all. Perhaps someone else, some household Judas willing to defy her, had passed the letter to him.
‘I’ll give you paper after dinner,’ she said.
I was so taken up with the new possibilities opening before me that I am afraid I thanked her ungraciously.
‘In the meantime,’ she went on, ‘let me show you the crop. You can tell me how long it will take.’
*
There was indeed a splendid apple harvest already gathered in, though the latest and best-drinking fruits still clung to the trees. I stood and marvelled at the gleaming heaps within the cider-house. My aunt’s orchard supplied her with a greater variety than was usual, some kinds so small and hard that, next to their larger brothers and sisters, they hardly seemed apples at all.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘you&rsqu;re blessed in your orchard. But why isn’t your cider-making started yet?’
‘The screw seized up. Binnie’s been trying to loosen it.’
‘We can use mine,’ I said, delighted at this good fortune.
‘How long, then?’ she asked. It was the question I had been trying to sidestep since I arrived, but faced with the crop I could no longer avoid it.
‘It depends,’ I said, ‘if you want all these pressed together, or if you want some mixtures – a sweet cider, a bittersweet –’
‘Is that better?’
‘Much better.’ And would take longer, since there would be repeated sortings, loadings and unloadings. I added cunningly, ‘That’s how the big houses have it done.’
My aunt was not too ambitious to pause and consider. ‘But would it answer here? Our crop is smaller than theirs.’
‘In size, yes,’ I admitted. ‘But the fruit is as good. Why should you not have
as good a cider?’
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You can start tomorrow.’ She spoke grudgingly, as if granting a favour, but I could tell nonetheless that she was pleased with me and perhaps even a little impressed at my knowledge. I was pleased with myself: after a number of false casts I had at last found a way to wind in Aunt Harriet. My bait was the very oldest, and still the best: Pride.
* * *
My Dear Father and Mother,
Pray do not worry on my account since I find myself well and strong enough for any amount of work. Aunt Harriet, who greets you cordially, is also well, though sadly grieved by my uncle’s death.
There is an excellent crop of early apples here and my aunt’s press has been broken by ignorant handling. I am therefore pressing them for her, the various sorts separately; my stay must be some days before all is done.
Should any ask after me, tell them I will be with them in good time and none will be neglected.
Your most loving son
Jonathan Dymond
‘Hardly eloquent,’ my aunt grunted, reading this. We were sitting at breakfast, the day after my arrival; I felt vigorous, restored by a good night’s sleep during which I did not once see the ghostly figure of Robin Dymond beckoning from the road.
I smiled to myself, being well satisfied with the letter, which had cost me some pain to compose. Seemingly simple, it was a masterpiece (I thought) of cunning: it conveyed everything I needed my parents to know and gave the impression that they had approved my visit, yet there was nothing my aunt could interpret as sying.
A maid brought in rolls warm from the oven. At the scent of them the spit rose in my mouth; I reached for one and ate eagerly.
My aunt stared at me. ‘Don’t gulp hot bread like that, you’ll get a bellyache! Didn’t your mother teach you?’
‘We don’t have anything like these at home.’
‘What do you have for breakfast, then?’
‘Stale bread, fried up.’
My aunt was pacified.
‘You must understand letter-writing very well, Aunt.’ I already knew, from her talk at dinner the day before, that her education was among her favourite topics. ‘Did my grandfather teach you?’
‘My father was a learned man,’ she said as if this was news to me. ‘My grandfather couldn’t keep him at home, but he had him schooled and sent to the university, and found him a place as tutor to Sir John Roseholm when Sir John was a boy. It lasted until the Roseholm family moved to France; my father was unwilling to leave England, so that was the end of that. He then went to tutor the sons of a rich merchant and was most handsomely paid. They wanted him for his blood, but he was also –’
‘For his blood?’
‘My father was the natural son of a gentleman. That’s why he couldn’t be kept at home,’ she explained as if to an idiot.
‘My parents never spoke of it,’ I said lamely.
‘Oh – well –’ she dismissed them with a wave; they were not of noble blood. She had at last told me something new, and interesting in its way; I could now trace her pride back to its roots.
‘Yes, my father taught me,’ she went on, returning to my question. ‘He wished for a son to breed up and send to some nobleman’s house where he too could have an opening in life, but it wasn’t to be, so he taught me instead. He said I had as much mother-wit as any boy.’
‘Did he teach you everything?’ I asked. ‘Latin, Greek?’
‘A little. Mostly he gave me learning suited to a woman.’
I wondered whether she ever used this learning; as far as I had been able to see during the short time I had been in the house, she did nothing herself but left it all to the servants. Perhaps she meant music and French rather than the household arts.
My aunt was still engaged in the contemplation of her own glories. ‘He called me his little Amazon, said I was born to be a lad, and had I been, I’d have beaten most of them from the field. Whereas my sister –’
She stopped.
I had never heard of this sister before. ‘Wasn’t she as clever as you, Aunt?’
‘She was a foolish, pitiful creature.’ Aunt Harriet frowned as if to end the talk, but my curiosity was aroused.
‘Was she? What did she do?’
‘She died,’ my aunt answered, as if that were proof of her sister’s folly. My thoughtless question must have distressed her, for she rose from table.
‘Forgive me,’ I murmured, but too late; without further ado she left the room. I dared not follow and sat, angry with myself, drumming my fingers.
After a while I looked up to see the maid standing awkwardly opposite me, as if unsure how to proceed. Concluding that she was a new servant, as yet unpractised, I gestured to her to take the things away.
I had not, before this, paid the girl much attention – she had been nothing but a curtseying form behind a dish of rolls – but now, as she gathered up plates in the crook of her arm, I was able to study her. She was nothing like our maid at home. Alice was a stout, familiar creature whose solid presence gave promise of comfort. This girl was wiry and so straight in her bearing you might think her entire body was in stays. Her sleeves were rolled up to reveal tight, hard forearms ending in well-shaped but not particularly gentle hands. I had heard a ballad about a youth who dressed as a woman and went into service in order to kill the mistress of the house, and I now glanced nervously at the maid’s bodice. My glance dispelled any such wild notions: though thin, she filled out the front of her gown as females are supposed to. This was certainly a girl – the servant, I guessed, who had shown herself so vigorous as she heaved the bucket from the well.
She was altogether an extraordinary sight. Her expression was bitter in the extreme, but not, I thought, from any immediate displeasure at me or my doings. Rather, her features appeared to be grown that way from constant hardship and disappointment, and yet for all this she was not ugly. The straggles of hair trailing from her cap were amber-coloured; she had the wedge face and lucent eyes of a fox. That is about as far as I go in poetry; if I have still not made myself plain I will say bluntly that she was not beautiful, but she held the eye longer than many women who are, partly because of this striking physical presence but also because there was something terrible about her, as if, like the beast she resembled, she recognised no kinship with ordinary Christians.
‘You may clear away,’ I said. She obeyed me at once; I was glad to see her so prompt to my command.
* * *
The next day I took cartloads of apples to the stone cider mill, and then (having promised Dunne that Bully should not be put to this drudgery) I went with my aunt’s permission to her stable and chose a patient old horse to drive it. Once the mill was in action I unloaded my press, piece by piece, and fitted it together next to the old one, a fine construction and well worth the mending, but just now standing dusty. From time to time I left the shed to scrape down the mill and throw in fresh apples. The more I ran about, the happier I was; my spirits were always high when I was making cider, and the work was of a kind that hurried my body but left my mind at liy to think.
Now that I did think, it struck me that I had slid from not liking Aunt Harriet into suspecting her of wrongdoing. Yet the sense of Uncle Robin’s letter seemed quite to the contrary: whatever his wickedness might be, he had feared her discovery of it. This was a lesson to me. My feelings about my aunt had clouded my judgement, and I should be more careful in future.
I was crossing the yard as I made this resolve. Happening to glance up, I saw a casement open and the maid’s face visible within. She disappeared at once, and the window was pulled to.
This strange young woman: what was she doing in my aunt’s house? Why would Aunt Harriet, with her passion for deference and decorum, employ such a creature?
Perhaps, I thought, they shared some secret – but there I was again, suspecting my aunt when Robin’s letter gave me no cause, and of what? What could I suspect her of, but procuring or hastening his death? Put thus, the ver
y notion was laughable. I again reminded myself: my purpose was to discover the crime Robin had wished to expiate – to ease his ghost, and my father’s anguish, by carrying out the instructions he had not time to give.
I went back to the shed and continued to feed the mill, but had not been there long before I looked up to see the maid standing in the doorway. She curtseyed to me but remained, seemingly at her ease.
‘Pray make yourself at home.’ I spoke coldly, but she seemed not to notice and nodded as if to accept my invitation.
‘Where’s Binnie, then – sick?’ Her voice had a rough edge surprising in so young a woman, like the hoarseness of one that lives outdoors.
‘Sir,’ I hinted, and was about to add that she had no business to address me, when she repeated, ‘Sir. Is he sick, Sir?’
‘I’ve nothing to do with Binnie.’
‘Oh. I thought you were his man.’
Surely she could not mean to be so impertinent? I studied her face but could detect no conscious insolence. I said, ‘Does your mistress have Binnie’s man to supper and to sleep in the house?’
She frowned. ‘No-ooo. Only he came for the apples last year. Who are you then, Sir, if you’re not with Binnie?’
‘I’m Mrs Dymond’s nephew.’
This made a great impression, I could see: she hung in the door, chewing on her knuckles as if she had heard something incomprehensible. At last she said, ‘Whose son are you – her sister’s?’
I was not used to being questioned by servants, nor to maids who referred to their mistresses as ‘her’. I said, ‘Mrs Dymond is not a blood relation of mine. Haven’t you any work to do?’
‘So whose son are you?’
I began to think that the girl was ;s ot right’, and that her shining eyes betokened some disorder of the mind. If so, there was nothing to be gained by rebuke, so I said more mildly than before, ‘Mr Robin Dymond was my father’s brother.’
‘You’re Mr Mathew’s son,’ she said slowly.