A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  The restoration of Easton Hall was Ellis's folly. It would be his downfall, negating at a stroke all his hard work on the rest of the estate. So said his neighbours, his relations and most of his friends.

  But Ellis ignored them. He called in the very best architects, he consulted the finest craftsmen, he summoned specialists from as far away as London to assess, estimate and advise.

  All these experts said the same thing. The old Hall would cost twice as much to repair as to tear down and replace.

  ‘Build a new house,’ said the most famous architect in England, who had been called in at enormous expense and now gave his august verdict. ‘One of brick and stone, not timber, lath and plaster. Sir, I could build you such a house — ’

  ‘I don't want a new house,’ said Ellis firmly. ‘I want this one. Will you restore it for me?’

  * * * *

  Alex Lowell had long thought his friend a little eccentric. Now he realised Ellis was completely mad. Shaking his powdered head over the latest stack of bills, he laughed in disbelief. ‘Good God,’ he muttered. ‘You're insane.’

  Lalage agreed. She hated the Hall. Its poky little rooms, full of nooks and angles and awkward corners, were ugly, smelly and dark. They could never be otherwise, for their tiny leaded windows admitted the minimal amount of light and fresh air. The place was equally hideous outside. Those outlandish half–timberings were so out of fashion! As for the roof — it was so full of wells and gullies that it was bound to leak. Rain and melt water simply collected in pools, to stagnate and seep into the fabric, eroding and rotting it away.

  That roof, indeed, was a landscape complete in itself. As children, Lalage and Ellis had often clambered out of their bedroom windows, to play among its many hospitable gullies. To lie on mossy tiles warmed by the summer sunshine, to read or, more adventurously, to play hide and seek between the numerous tall chimney stacks.

  As a child, Lalage had loved her home. As an adult, she loathed the place. The house had no elegance. No style. Just like its owner, in fact.

  Seeing her brother had money to throw away and determined to drag him into the eighteenth century somehow, Lalage now suggested the landscaping and enclosing of the small park which surrounded the house. She'd watched with bored indifference as Ellis refurbished the Hall. But she became enthusiasm personified when he allowed her to lay out some plans for the park.

  For a fortnight, she and Alex walked about the grounds. Tape and stick in hand, she measured, calculated, considered her options. She consulted the best pattern books of the day, and in due course she presented Ellis with a detailed design.

  ‘I didn't know you could draw.’ Looking at his sister's plans, Ellis smiled his approval. He was impressed. ‘What's it all going to cost?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, really. Well — say three thousand pounds.’ Lalage took him outside. They stood on the gravel sweep. ‘From here,’ she told him, ‘you must have a prospect. Rolling lawns, leading the eye to the beauties beyond.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Verdant groves, of ash and beech. A temple to Flora. Clumps of silver birch.’

  ‘Which don't exist.’

  ‘Which you will plant and build.’ Lalage touched his sleeve. ‘Over to the east, where it's hilly anyway, we'll have some rocks and conifers. To make it truly picturesque. Nearer the house, we'll plant ornamental trees. You'll need some statuary, too. Just a little, to set everything off. Along the drive, we must have an avenue. Of limes. Or maybe sycamores. We'll — ’

  ‘I don't care for sycamores.’

  ‘Oh, Ellis!’ Interrupted in full flood, Lalage stamped on his foot. ‘Oaks, then. Elms. Chestnuts. Whatever you want! Come up to the roof now.’

  From the roof, they could see for miles. ‘Over there,’ continued Lalage, ‘in the valley, we might have a small lake. We could dam the stream, and maybe build a waterfall. If we cut down those nasty little coppices, we could — ’

  ‘Wait, Lally. Please wait!’ Ellis laughed. ‘I'm not prepared to flood, or to fell. We can't dam the stream, it supplies the village. We must definitely keep the timber. Those nasty little coppices, as you call them, must stay.’

  Lalage frowned. ‘You must clear some of the woodland on the west side,’ she said. ‘It obscures the house. Not that the place is worth looking at — but we won't go into that. You must have some deer.’

  ‘Is that the fashion?’

  ‘Yes, it is. So have the walls repaired, and order some new park gates.’

  ‘To keep the deer in?’

  ‘To keep the poachers out!’

  ‘Very well.’ Ellis smiled. ‘We'll do as you suggest. We'll have a small artificial lake, fed from springs rather than the stream. We'll have an avenue and a prospect. We'll have deer, and some splendid new gates.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Lalage smiled too. Next month, she would get to work on her brother's personal appearance. That would be a challenge, even for her.

  Ellis's indifference to the way he looked was a constant source of irritation to Lalage. But she could always comfort herself by gazing at her husband. Today, he looked perfectly beautiful, for he was wearing his favourite yellows and blues. His hair was newly curled, and his hands – whitened daily with paste of almonds — were smooth and clean. Alex Lowell was indeed a gentleman. Her husband always looked like a civilised man.

  At dinner, Lalage ate little. For dessert, she merely toyed with a piece of dried fruit. Husband! Yes, that was the next thing. It was high time Ellis got married. But, on the other hand...

  Conflicting emotions warring inside her, Lalage frowned. Of course Ellis must marry, but who would be a suitable bride? Someone young, strong and stupid, she supposed. Someone docile and obedient, who would warm her brother's bed and bear his children, but otherwise keep out of the way.

  But then Lalage had an idea. She smiled to herself. That might be it. The perfect solution. But would Alex and Ellis co–operate? Perhaps. She must think it all through. Then decide what steps to take.

  As it happened, Ellis was thinking about marriage too. He was nearly thirty. At long last he had a home of his own, a beautiful house fit to offer any wife, and he also enjoyed an income sufficent to maintain one. He had to have children. Legitimate male heirs were an absolute necessity. Who else should inherit the estate?

  There were a dozen young women in the near neighbourhood alone who would have been delighted to become Mrs Squire Darrow. But, turning them over in his mind, Ellis could not imagine himself married to any single one. Thinking of Magdalen Lewin, of Sophie Carlisle, of Harriet Jarrold, he winced. Could he bear the constant company of a woman of quality? Of a creature who thought of nothing but her ailments and her gowns? Who'd been been educated to consider nothing else?

  When he felt the need, Ellis visited a friend. A lady's dressmaker living in Warwick, she'd been widowed early in life and had a small daughter to support. He found her physically desirable, admired her independence — but found her conversation tedious in the extreme. For her part, she accepted his money and no doubt laughed at him behind his back.

  Alex and Lalage were his real friends. With them, Ellis was perfectly relaxed. Perfectly at ease. Where could he possibly find a woman who would make him as happy as they did?

  * * * *

  ‘Ellis, my dear,’ began Lalage one evening, after all three of them had enjoyed a good dinner and drunk rather too much red wine, ‘poor darling Ellis, you look so miserable. So very sad.’

  ‘Do I?’ Ellis yawned. ‘I'm not sad. I'm thinking.’

  ‘Are you?’ Lalage looked soulful. ‘What about?’

  ‘Don't ask.’ Alex grinned. ‘All he ever thinks about is the estate. Or this old barn. His mind runs on woodworm, winter wheat or dry rot. Ellis Darrow never wastes his time on daydreams. Or hankers after a whore.’

  ‘Don't be so coarse,’ said Lalage. But then she sniggered, and covered her face.

  Lolling next to Alex on the wide drawing room sofa, Ellis grinned too. Now he looked
at his little sister, who was sitting on his lap, her skirts spread out across her husband's knees. ‘That's a pretty gown,’ he observed. ‘A pity your dressmaker made it rather too small.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The neckline is too low. The bodice is far too tight. In fact, it's obscene.’

  ‘It's the fashion.’ Lalage pouted. ‘Not that you'd know anything about that.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Ellis rubbed his eyes. ‘I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed.’

  ‘Don't go yet.’ Lalage pushed his hands away from his face. She hugged him round the neck. ‘Don't go up there in the dark, to be all by yourself.’

  ‘What makes you think I'll be alone?’ Ellis stroked his sister's hair which, unpowdered today, lay in thick, black coils on her shoulders. ‘I might ask Simmons to find me a companion. To send up a kitchen maid to warm my bed.’

  ‘You wouldn't do that.’ Lalage grimaced. ‘The tenants wonder at you. They say that in addition to looking like a parson, you actually behave like one.’

  ‘At least they don't fear for their daughters. They know there'll be no bastards of mine starving in the workhouse, or littering the estate.’

  ‘Yet you should have a son.’ Lalage held him close. Now, she remembered how it had been when they were children. How she'd loved Ellis more than anyone in the world. How he had loved her.

  Now, she'd make him love her again. Love her more. She glanced at her husband, and saw he was asleep. ‘I'm going to take Alex to bed now,’ she murmured. ‘Why don't you come with us?’

  ‘Come with you?’ Ellis stared. ‘Lally, what exactly do you mean?’

  ‘What I said.’ Tipsily, Lalage grinned. ‘When we were children, I often slept with you. When Alex came to stay, the three of us lay down together.’

  ‘We're not children now,’ Ellis said.

  ‘No, we're not.’ Creamily, Lalage smiled. ‘So much the better.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, Ellis!’ Lalage kissed his ear. ‘They do it in France,’ she whispered. ‘Brothers and sisters together. Very wicked, I know — but it must be such fun!’

  ‘Alex?’ Ellis nudged his friend in the ribs. ‘Can't you control this creature?’

  ‘Eh?’ Alex woke with a start. ‘What's she doing?’

  ‘She's just invited me to sleep with her.’

  ‘Really?’ Alex grinned. ‘Can I come, too?’

  ‘There.’ Lalage beamed. ‘It's all settled. Shall we go?’

  ‘Good God.’ Ellis pushed Lalage away. ‘Alex, take her. You can entertain one another.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Devilment flashing from his pale blue eyes, Alex grabbed Lalage's wrists. ‘If she's been naughty, we should teach her a lesson.’

  ‘Shall we?’ Ellis's eyes sparkled. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Get her slippers off first. Pinch her toes.’

  ‘No!’ Squirming out of her husband's grasp, Lalage held down her skirts. ‘Ellis, don't you dare. Alex, stop him! Oh, it's not fair, two against one!’

  ‘You started it.’ Ellis caught her round the waist, and held her. ‘Now we'll show you the error of your ways.’

  But Lalage was no passive victim. She fought, she clawed, she scratched. Kicking and biting, she punched her husband and her nails tore long, red pathways down the backs of Ellis's hands.

  Soon, the three of them were rolling on the floor, a tangled, writhing mass on the Turkey carpet. Ellis's shirt was ripped from neckband to waist. Alex's beautiful waistcoat was smeared with soot from the fireplace, into which his wife had kicked him. It would probably never come clean.

  Alex and Ellis were finally disabled by laughter. But now, half in and half out of her gown, her hair a mess of elf–locks and her slippers, which she had used as weapons, on opposite sides of the room, Lalage was half mad with fury. Sitting astride Ellis, she thumped him hard. She slapped his face and boxed his ears. Too convulsed to defend himself, he writhed and groaned but could not push her away.

  Lalage glared down at him. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Do you give in? Will you do as I said?’

  ‘Oh, take her away!’ Choking and gasping, Ellis finally managed to shove his sister aside. ‘Alex, for God's sake! Take the little baggage upstairs. She's desperate!’

  Now pretty desperate himself, Alex did so. Jerking his wife to her feet, he dragged her out of the room. He did not notice the glitter in her dark eyes as she was hauled, ignominiously defeated, up to her marital bed. As she scratched down another black mark against him.

  Somewhat breathless but otherwise unmoved, Ellis got up. He brushed himself down and flopped into a chair. Overhead, he could hear his sister's shrill squawks. These were answered by Alex's soothing murmurs. Ellis shook his head. What Lalage needed was a good hiding. Alex ought to give her one, some day.

  Ellis found himself thinking about women. But it was a soft, sweet, blue–eyed beauty which he saw in his mind's eye now. He thought of light eyes. Pink–and–white skin. Flaxen hair. A nicely–rounded figure, curvaceous but not at all fat.

  Rebecca Searle. His hand had somehow found a pencil. He had scribbled the name on the newspaper by his side.

  Five minutes later, he went to bed. He was not lonely for a woman, not at all. But he had a sense, never experienced before, of being incomplete.

  * * * *

  Alex made his investments in the East India Company. Soon, he was able to boast that he'd already received several handsome dividends, and expected to receive many more.

  ‘Good for you.’ Ellis shrugged, then smiled. ‘Look, Alex, I have work to do. So if you — ’

  ‘You don't wish to reconsider your refusal to invest? After all, the estate is yours now. You have plenty of collateral security. So don't you think you might strike out?’

  ‘No, I don't.’ Ellis shook his head. ‘I have all this year's income accounted for. I haven't a penny to spare. But even if I had — ’

  ‘You wouldn't invest in the stock market. Ellis, you're a timid fellow.’

  ‘Am I?’ Ellis pulled a loose thread from his cuff, grimacing as a hole appeared in the cheap worsted cloth. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  * * * *

  ‘To whom do you write?’ Bored as usual, Lalage was leaning over her brother's shoulder, reading he scribbled.

  ‘I write to Miss Searle. As you can see.’ Looking up at her, Ellis pinched his sister's cheek. ‘Lally, what an inquisitive little creature you are.’

  ‘I take an interest in you, that's all.’ Crossly, Lalage chewed her lower lip. ‘So what are you ordering this time?’ she demanded. ‘Gridirons? Ornamental balustrades? A new kitchen range?’

  ‘Do we need one?’ Suddenly interested in what Lalage had to say, Ellis looked up again. ‘Well? Do we?’

  ‘I don't know!’ Lalage glared at him. ‘As if I ever go anywhere near the kitchens! Why don't you ask the cook?’

  ‘I shall.’ To Lalage's amazement, Ellis got up, strode out of the room, and soon she heard the heels of his shoes ringing on the stone slabs of the passage which led to the servants’ wing.

  Yawning, she turned back towards her husband. ‘Alex,’ she said, ‘do you know what?’

  Alex laid his book aside. ‘What?’

  ‘I should so like a pet.’ Going over to Alex's chair, Lalage dropped to her knees beside him. Sweetly, she smiled. ‘I long and long for a pet!’

  ‘Do you?’ Indulgently, Alex stroked her hair. ‘What sort of pet?’ he asked. ‘A monkey? A kitten? A parakeet?’

  ‘A monkey.’ Lalage grinned. ‘A dear little coal–black, curly–headed monkey! Oh darling, Lady Dashforth has a beauty. He's so pretty. So sweet. He brings her chocolate, he waits at table, he warms her bed — ’

  ‘Oh. That sort of monkey.’ Remembering Lady Dashforth had recently acquired her own negro servant, a child of ten or eleven who had evidently been purchased from a Bristol merchant, Alex grimaced. ‘They're very expensive, you know,’ he said. ‘Also, they grow up. A pretty boy of ten soon becomes a great, lubberly blac
k devil. Capable of all kinds of mischief and deceit.’

  ‘Darling, I'd sell him long before he became a nuisance.’ Lalage giggled. ‘They say Lady Dashforth's boy is rather more than a bedwarmer. Her maid told my Betty — ’

  ‘I don't wish to know anything about that.’ Alex shuddered. ‘Lally, are you set on this?’

  ‘Yes. As it happens, I am.’ Now, Lalage pouted. ‘So I suppose you'll forbid it. Just to upset me, of course. As you did when you refused to go into the House of Commons.’

  ‘Lally, my darling, I merely asked — ’

  ‘Oh Alex, say you'll buy me a monkey!’ Still on her knees, her hands clasped before her, Lalage opened her beautiful eyes wide. ‘I should so love my own little slave.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘More than anything else in the world.’ Taking Alex's hand, Lalage kissed it. ‘Look,’ she wheedled, ‘a child of seven, ready trained and broken, taught to fear the lash, may be had for a mere fifty guineas. Darling, I have the name of the trader — ’

  ‘Mr Harbord, isn't it?’

  ‘Yes, that's right.’ Lalage stroked Alex's fingers. ‘I am positively assured that, should the child supplied not suit, he may easily be exchanged. If he is recalcitrant, he may be returned to the merchant, who will soon whip him into a better frame of mind. Alex, this gentleman would be so pleased — no, he would be honoured to serve you.’

  ‘Oh, very well. Very well.’ Alex ruffled Lalage's hair. ‘But darling, please be circumspect. Choose a prettier one than Lady Dashforth's, do.’

  ‘Prettier?’

  ‘Copper, rather than jet.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Very well.’ Kneeling up, Lalage kissed Alex on the mouth. ‘I'll buy the prettiest little boy you ever saw. Then, when he's twelve or so, I'll sell him again. This particular merchant is always ready to buy back. He sends the creatures on to the West Indies, you see.’

  * * * *

  Over the next few months, Easton Hall provided Searle's manufactory with enough orders to keep at least a third of the workforce permanently occupied. Searle's men re–leaded scores of windows, replaced hundreds of yards of guttering and drainpipes, and made dozens of ornamental planters, together with the cast–iron basin of a garden fountain to stand in front of the house.