‘I see,’ Nanny said slowly. ‘Now I’m sorry to ask you this, but if this is the way things happened then Nanny’s going to have to ask you to tell her what the bad word was exactly that Mr Swift used. In front of Edward. And you. So you just whisper to Nanny the bad word Mr Swift said and Nanny will take care of things.’
Portia took a deep breath while Nanny Tradescant bent down and pulled aside the bun of grey hair in front of one rather large red ear which she then put close to Portia’s lips. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Nanny’s waiting.’
‘I can’t,’ Portia said.
‘You must,’ Nanny assured her. ‘Otherwise Nanny won’t be able to do anything about Mr Swift, will she? So you just tell Nanny what he said, and Nanny’ll give you as many biscuits as you can eat. Come along.’
‘Bloody,’ Portia whispered. ‘Mr Swift ran out of the garden with his arms straight up in the air crying, “Oh – bloody gardeners!”’
There was a terrible silence, so terrible that Portia expected to find Nanny dead on her feet when she turned round.
‘Nanny?’ she said, seeing the expression in Nanny’s eyes. ‘Nanny, are you all right?’
But the old nurse was still very much alive and looking round at Portia with her mouth now shaped in a small open O.
‘You are sure that is what Mr Swift said?’ she croaked. ‘You are quite sure that is the word he used as he ran from the garden? In front of children?’
‘Yes,’ Portia replied, now more than a little afraid that she might have gone too far, to judge from the expression on her old nurse’s heavily whiskered face. ‘But is it really that bad? Because I once heard Mr Plumb use it about old Blackboy as well. The old horse that pulls the dog cart.’
‘It is one thing to say it about a horse, young lady,’ Nanny said, taking a deep breath in and out to help speed the recovery of her senses. ‘But it is quite another thing to say it in company. Even if that company consists merely of servants. But in front of children!’
‘But why is it so bad, Nanny? I mean, if you cut yourself and see blood—’
‘That is not what it means, child,’ Nanny said, cutting her short. ‘All I may tell you is that it is most certainly not a word to use in front of anybody decent, let alone in front of innocent children.’
As Nanny straightened herself up Portia was suddenly frightened that events were now being taken out of her hands for ever, particularly since Nanny Tradescant was now puffing out her mighty bosom and announcing that there was not a moment to waste.
‘What are you going to do, Nanny?’ Portia asked anxiously, following her nurse over to the bedroom door. ‘If it’s that bad, might you have to speak to Aunt Tattie?’
‘The way I see it is that talking to your aunt on such matters is generally about as useful as giving an umbrella to a fish,’ Nanny retorted. ‘Even so, something must be done. In the meantime, first we have to get Edward out of here.’ She rapped smartly on the bedroom door. ‘Edward?’ she called. ‘Edward, will you kindly open this door at once!’
As both Edward and Portia knew, when Nanny Tradescant decided to thunder further resistance was pointless. Sure enough, within seconds the door opened. But what emerged was not the Edward who had locked himself in there in the first place.
‘Edward – what have you done?’ Nanny cried.
‘Yes, Edward, what have you done?’ echoed Portia.
They could both see quite clearly what he’d done, as indeed they could see Evie’s sewing scissors lying among all the cut golden curls around the miscreant’s bedroom chest.
‘I didn’t want to be a moth,’ Edward said, frowning hard. ‘And I don’t want to be in the play. So I cut off my hair.’
‘This is the final straw, thank you very much!’ Nanny said, turning towards Portia. ‘Now perhaps your aunt will understand that Edward is a boy. And he doesn’t want to be gadding about in dancing pumps.’
‘No I don’t,’ Edward agreed fiercely. ‘I want to do what other boys do! I don’t want to be a moonbeam or a moth!’
‘Then neither shall you, my little man,’ Nanny said, stroking what was left of his hair. ‘You just leave all this to Nanny. Nanny Tradescant will see an end to all this nonsense, don’t you worry now. Nanny Tradescant will soon put paid to all this.’
Portia went to bed a much happier girl that night despite having had to tell a lie, because she was quite sure that once Nanny had got rid of Mr Swift and Miss Collins everything would go back to normal.
As a result, for once she fell asleep almost immediately.
While the children slept Nanny planned her campaign. First she must confront Miss Tattie, and at once. In fact so convinced was she that this was the best course of action that as soon as she had tucked the children up she went downstairs and was about to knock on the half-open drawing-room door when she spied Miss Tattie in deep conversation with Mr Swift, who was sitting, it seemed to her old nurse, far too close to his employer on the sofa. Not only that but he had her hand in his.
As if she had stumbled on a scene of the greatest intimacy ever, Nanny stumbled back upstairs to the nursery floor. It was perfectly obvious to her now why there would indeed be little point in bringing the matter to Miss Tattie’s attention. Yet Nanny Tradescant knew to whom she now owed her greatest loyalty: not to her former charge but to the children in her present care, so therefore to her mind there was absolutely no way she could any longer tolerate the abhorrent and dangerously erratic behaviour of the foul-mouthed Mr Swift, who under the guise of being a beauty lover had entered the household at Bannerwick obviously with a much darker intent.
Something had to be done immediately, and although the move Nanny Tradescant had in mind involved a form of domestic treason, she could see no other solution open to her. There was only one person to whom she knew she could turn for help. So after she had brewed herself a strong pot of tea the old woman sat herself down at the nursery table to write a letter which would change the lives of everyone at Bannerwick for evermore.
BETRAYED
It was not to be left in the post box in the hall where Nanny imagined there were spies. Portia’s express orders were to carry the letter to the post box at the crossroads some hundred yards from the main gates and to ensure that it was put there unseen and unobserved by anyone familiar. It was all very exciting and even though Portia had no exact idea of the letter’s contents, seeing it was addressed to The Lady Medlar, Shepton Hall, Shepton by Melford, Northamptonshire, she knew it must be of great import and had to involve the recent and highly dramatic events.
Portia had had to be woken early so that she and Evie could be out to the post and back unnoticed before it was time for Miss Collins to come and collect Portia for her lessons. Yet as she was about to post the long white envelope in the box while Evie stood guard to make sure no-one was watching them, Portia found herself hesitating. It was as if she knew that once the letter slid out of sight into the iron mouth that was waiting for it, her life might change for ever.
‘What’s up, Miss Portia?’ Evie said, backing quickly away from the post box. ‘Not a snake down there, is it?’
‘No, Evie,’ Portia said patiently, knowing how much her nursemaid dreaded encountering even the smallest of spiders. ‘No, it’s just that I’m not sure that I should post this, that’s all.’
‘It’s not really up to you, Miss Portia. Us was to keep watch and you was to post ’im, them’s was Nanny’s strict instructions.’
‘I know, Evie, it’s just that—’
‘Oh go on quick!’ Evie spun round and stared back down the road. ‘Quick now, ’cos us can hear a pony an’ trap coming, us thinks!’ At this she snatched the letter from Portia and threw it into the box, before grabbing at Portia’s arm and hurrying her back to the gates.
Sure enough, no sooner were they out of sight, walking back hidden by the trees and hedges that bordered the drive, than a pony and trap rattled by driven by Plumb, the family’s coachman, with a dishevelled Uncle Lampard propped up
asleep in the back.
‘See what us mean?’ Evie hissed, as the two girls watched the trap pass them at a smart lick. ‘That was a narrow squeak, weren’t it?’
‘Not really. After all, Evie, Uncle Lampard was fast asleep so he would hardly have seen us.’
‘Asleep?’ Evie said, giggling behind Portia as they began to make their way round to the back door. ‘Wish as us could be put to sleep like that.’
‘What on earth do you mean, Evie?’
‘Nothing, Miss Portia. Just as there’s sleep and there’s sleep, if you get my meaning. Some people as takes things to make ’um sleep and some as sleeps when they ’as things taken. If you see what us means.’
‘No I don’t, Evie,’ Portia said crisply, carefully stepping over a very large puddle. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see what you mean at all.’
‘Very well, Miss Portia, but lawks, if you don’t mind us sayin’ so you is a funny sort, really,’ Evie giggled, following her young mistress down into the basement of the house, before mounting up the back stairs. ‘But wouldn’t you say as ’tis an odd old time to be a-comin’ home like? Seein’ ‘ow you and us has just got up, an’ early too.’
Hearing the maid giggling behind her, it occurred to Portia that nowadays there were a great many things which she did not understand. And when all was said and done Evie was really rather right, because it was an odd time for Uncle Lampard to be returning to Bannerwick. But by the time they got back upstairs Portia forgot all about it as she found herself having to deal with a highly distraught Aunt Tattie.
It seemed that while she and Evie had been hurrying out to the post Aunt Tattie had for some reason paid an early call to the nursery floor where she had discovered the damage Edward had inflicted on his hair with Evie’s sewing scissors.
‘It will grow, Miss Tattie,’ Nanny was assuring poor Aunt Tattie, who was standing at the nursery window with both hands full of the golden curls that Nanny had somewhat ghoulishly refused to throw away. ‘Hair grows again in no time, it always does. In fact the more you cut it—’
‘Yes, yes!’ Aunt Tattie interrupted impatiently, which was not at all like her. ‘But nothing short of a heavenly miracle will make it grow again in time for the play!’
‘I think Mr Swift’s play is silly and I’m not going to be in it,’ Edward announced, picking up his wooden sword and defiantly tucking it in his belt. ‘And I’m going to wear my sword.’
‘A wig!’ Aunt Tattie suddenly announced from her other world by the window. ‘We will make you a wig, Edward dearest! It’s very simple, we used to make wigs. Nanny, do you remember?’
‘I don’t want to wear a wig, Aunt Tattie,’ Edward said from the doorway. ‘And I don’t want to be in the play!’
‘We unravel string, and then we cut it into lengths, dip it into dye, and curl it on old broom handles,’ Aunt Tattie continued, ignoring her nephew’s remonstrance. ‘It certainly looks very effective from a distance, dearest, so you mustn’t feel shy. Now off you go for your lessons and we’ll say no more about it. And not only that, but I promise you that you will not have to wear the lace costume we were having made specially for you. In its place I shall have you one run up in the very plainest of yellow wools. A yellow moth, most suitable for a boy, a mustard seed moth.’
Since it was also time for her lessons Portia followed Edward downstairs. Neither of them spoke because they were both unhappy, Edward because it seemed that whatever he did he could not get out of being in the play, and Portia because she had a growing feeling of impending doom that she simply could not shake off. It was all to do with the letter, she told herself. She knew she should not have posted it, but she had no idea why. All she knew was that the moment it had disappeared into the box something bad was going to happen as a result. Unease lay between Portia and the future, an unease based on knowing that she had acted for the wrong reasons. What she had hoped for was the dismissal of Mr Swift because he was making her brother miserable and Aunt Tattie look silly, but somehow she knew that this wasn’t all that might actually happen, that something far more dreadful lay in wait for them all now that the help of Aunt Augustine had obviously been summoned.
After over a week had passed Portia began to hope that the whole affair would blow over, that Aunt Augustine was away and the letter and its contents had failed to reach her, or even if it had that her aunt had ignored it as not being of much interest. Her old nurse received few enough letters as it was so when one did appear its advent was loudly trumpeted by the recipient before long and meaningless excerpts were read aloud over the breakfast table. There was no possible way a letter from Lady Medlar would have arrived on the nursery floor unnoticed. To be on the safe side Portia started to monitor the delivery of the post, making sure she was always at hand to greet the postman or standing by to save Mr Louis the trouble of sorting through the day’s mail. So when nearly ten days had elapsed and there was still no word from Shepton Hall, Portia’s fears lessened and she began to concentrate instead on the final rehearsal for Mr Swift’s play, the world première of which was now only two days off.
So when the fates did decide to lend a hand their victims were all entirely unprepared for their interference, which arrived in the shape of Lady Medlar just as the final dress rehearsal of A Pastoral Enchantment With Some Musick by Mr Nathaniel Swift was taking place.
No-one was about the place but the hall boy when Lady Medlar’s carriage drew up and her coachman pulled down the steps for her to alight. Of all the normal occupants of the house only Sir Lampard was present, but he had long ago hidden himself away in the depths of his study to sleep off lunch.
Not that Lady Medlar would have bothered with Sir Lampard even if she had known where he was. She despised her sister’s brother-in-law, whom she privately called ‘Sir Lampoon’, and besides she was far too upset over the contents of Nanny Tradescant’s letter to bother with anyone but the main contenders in what she saw as a matter of the greatest urgency, namely the saving of her young nephew from the influence of perverts and perhaps even worse.
What she saw when she rounded the laurel bushes and came upon the scene in the rose garden could hardly have done anything to allay her worries, for her arrival coincided precisely with that moment in the rehearsal of the play when Mr Swift as Brother Sun, dressed only in a pair of bright yellow tights and a lady’s blouse with elaborately puffed sleeves, was embracing the hosed and bloomered Miss Collins in her role as Sister Moon to denote the point in the drama which depicted A Full Eclipse. To signal this moment of the total interception of the light of the sun by the passage of the moon between it and the earth Mr Swift had directed himself as the Sun tenderly to embrace Miss Collins as Moon and for the moonbeams as played by Portia and the now string-wigged Edward to run around them with their hands over their eyes to signify darkness.
‘Aaahhhh!’ Lady Medlar cried on rounding the hedge, making a sound comparable only to the sudden ripping of a linen sheet. ‘Aaaahhhh!’
At the second rendering of this noise the protagonists at last jumped apart, making their so far innocent activity appear less so. At the same time Aunt Tattie, acting as prompter, fell out of her hiding place in the largest of the old rose bushes directly behind Lady Medlar, her own dramatic appearance precipitated by the shock of realizing exactly who their visitor was.
‘Augustine!’ she cried, ducking to avoid a branch which threatened to tear at her as it swished back into place. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The same may very well be asked of all of you, Tatiana,’ Lady Medlar retorted, ‘it may indeed. What pray is all this? Some sort of bacchanalian fredaine?’
Aunt Tattie breathed in, unnaturally hard.
‘We are doing a play, Augustine, a verse play. This is all part of the children’s education.’
‘That is precisely what I feared,’ Lady Medlar agreed, her gaze sweeping the rose garden and its occupants in a way that only an avenging angel could match. ‘It is high time we talked, Tatiana. Follow m
e, please, if you will.’
This last command was said in a way that was guaranteed to make all from gun dogs to husbands respond immediately. Aunt Tattie was sufficiently daunted to hand Portia her prompt book and follow her visitor back to the house, already twisting her string of amber beads ever more tightly round and round her throat.
The scene that took place in the library between the two ladies, Nanny Tradescant and Sir Lampard who had been roused from his post-prandial slumber was, as Aunt Tattie later sorrowfully described it to Portia, a triumph for the philistines.
Lady Medlar stood firm, resolute and unshakeably moral. It was obvious to her if not to Tatiana that the play they were engaged in was a piece of blatant depravity, and that the perpetrators were quite simply taking Tatiana for a ride, an immoral and base ride, but she being a spinster and so other-worldly could not see what was happening beneath her very nose. It seemed that Lady Medlar and Nanny had always suspected the Arts and Crafts movement of bringing in its wake people and events of which no person of any decency could possibly approve. As far as she was concerned Lampard and Tatiana could follow their own form of modish mayhem if they pleased, but for herself she would not and could not possibly stand by and allow her poor dead sister’s children to be deprived of a healthy attitude to life.
While their future was being decided, the cast of A Pastoral Enchantment With Some Musick by Mr Nathaniel Swift stopped rehearsing and dispersed around the gardens in the immediate vicinity of the house, Miss Collins to lie on her stomach by the lily pond splashing her long thin hands idly in its calm dark waters, Mr Swift, hands clasped tightly behind his back and face to the skies above, to mooch in large circles around the cedar of Lebanon which dominated the lawn, while Portia and Edward edged their way as near as they dared to the house, ending up kneeling behind a manicured box hedge to one side of the drawing-room window.
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