by Joan Aiken
“I miss him. It is queer, I thought I should be glad when he went, for he is always cross nowadays, but I am not glad. I feel safer when he is in the house.”
“Safer? What danger is there to be afraid of, little spooney?” said her brother with scorn.
“Well, there must be some danger. There is the person who threw the stone that hit Parthie; and did the damage to Mamma’s garden.”
“That is old Amos Herdman for sure; and I do not suppose he will do anything more. Smashing up the garden would be revenge enough. Anyway, I am not at all afraid of him.”
“I am,” said Nish with a shiver.
“You are only a girl.”
“I wonder if Mamma will ever make another garden. We could help her, perhaps.”
“She will not be able to start till next April,” Tot observed. “Look, it is snowing quite hard.”
“If the roads are blocked, Papa will not be able to come back, even when his legs are mended. Winter is a hateful time, when we can’t go up the Hungry Water.”
“Still—this winter will be better than last.”
Nish nodded. Then she exclaimed, “Oh, Tot! Only see! Grandmamma is looking at you!”
Indubitably, the old lady’s eyes had turned in his direction.
“Come closer,” whispered Nish. “Come by the bed. Take her other hand.”
He did so, holding it between both of his, and said, “Can you see me, Grandma?”
The eyes in their hollows rested on his; shut; opened again.
“I’m sure she sees me,” he said. “Grandma: can you blink twice if you hear what I am saying?”
A pause; then two slow blinks.
“She does hear! She understands!” cried Nish joyfully, and kissed the paper-white cheek. “Soon you’ll be talking to us again, Grandma, won’t you?”
“And scolding us,” said Tot.
The eyes blinked again, and a cheek muscle twitched.
“Should I fetch Duddy, do you think, or Emmy?” Tot asked his sister.
“No, no, they’ll be here by and by. Granny doesn’t want a lot of noise or fuss, or to be hurried. Do you, Grandma? Why don’t you show her some things, Tot? Slowly; so she can have a good look at them.”
So, one after the other, he fetched to the bedside and exhibited the cork bridge, the narwhal’s horn, the wooden carvings from Bohemia, the Greek pot, and the prickly monster. The eyes accepted and studied them. The cheek muscle twitched again, more noticeably, at the prickly monster.
“In a week’s time you’ll be talking, Granny,” said Nish. “Now listen and I’ll sing you a song.”
She sang:
“Are ye going to Whittingham Fair
Parsley sage rosemary and thyme?
Remember me to one who’s there
For once he was a true love of mine.”
“You always sing that song,” said Tot.
“Of course. It’s because of Annie,” said Nish.
It was agony to drag herself away from Lord Love, now that the climax of his story was so near, the shape of it all spread out before her; Alvey felt an absolute contradiction of impulses, she wanted to write and write and write, scribbling, skipping, condensing, abbreviating, because the exhilaration and joy of shooting down the last breakneck slope was so very intense; on the other hand she did not know how she was going to bear the parting from her loved characters, and she could see this severance approaching with fearful speed, Still, she thought, I’ll at least have the pleasure of working through it again, making a fair copy, and improving as I go; in a way, that will be almost the best part, for then the worry of creation, and the pain, will be over, it will be just embellishment and improvement.
Firmly, she clapped her pages together, folded them inside a sheet of blotting-paper, and locked them into the work-table drawer, sliding the little brass key into the reticule she wore at her belt; nobody but Parthie, she felt sure, would pry into the drawer, and there remained nothing there now of a suspect nature, but she could not endure the idea of Parthie being the first person to read her story, turning the pages with her fat, clumsy fingers and ploughing uncomprehendingly through the delicate witticisms.
Since Sir Aydon left Birkland, Parthie had fallen almost completely silent; she occupied herself with needlework in her own room or in the sewing-room, making clothes for herself; practised on the pianoforte with commendable diligence; and looked at Alvey with a stony glare when their glances happened to meet. Long may such a state of affairs continue, thought Alvey, and went up to the pele tower to give the children a Latin lesson.
Mr Thropton had sent word by a garden-boy that he had a severe cold and must discontinue their instruction for the present.
Arrived in the pele room Alvey found to her dismay that Tot was laid out on the floor, on a folded blanket, with his sister carefully loosening his collar and turning his head to one side.
“Oh dear—has he had one of his turns? I am so very sorry. Is there anything else to be done for him?”
“It is rather cold up here; he would be better for another blanket to cover him.”
“I’ll fetch one.”
When Alvey returned and the boy had been warmly wrapped, she said, “What brought that on, do you know?”
“Oh yes,” said Nish matter-of-factly. “It was Grandma. She suddenly looked at us and knew us.”
“Gracious me! Are you sure? That is wonderful news.”
“Yes, quite sure.” Nish told the story. “And Tot was so pleased and excited that he could feel one of his fits coming on. But luckily Duddy was there by that time. So we came up here—”
“Poor boy, he feels things so keenly. It is too bad—”
She looked down at the small thin shape outlined under the blanket, only a tuft of black hair visible at one end.
“He will do well enough now,” said Nish practically. “We may as well leave him alone. Shall we go back to Granny? Shall I tell you my new story?”
Three days later, Mrs Winship suddenly spoke. Alvey and the children were there at the time. Tot was reciting a list of Latin prepositions, Nish drawing a picture to show her grandmother, while Alvey gently massaged the old lady’s arms, neck and shoulders.
“A, ab, absque, coram, de,
Palam, clam—”
“Cum,” prompted Nish from the table.
“Cum, ex, and e—”
Alvey was permeated with an extraordinary, and completely novel sensation. She felt hollow, estranged, almost light-headed. She had finished her book. What in the world shall I ever do now? she kept asking herself. The book had occupied less than a tenth of her real time, but the idea, the presence of it had been with her so continually, for so long, that she felt unbalanced, as if she had lost a leg. Now I have some conception of how poor James— Resolutely she thrust the thought of James away. I am certainly not going to moon and pine for James just because I have lost Wicked Lord Love. James is not for me. I must just find some other way to employ my mind.
And just at present there was no lack of opportunity.
Nish completed her painting and came to hold it out before Mrs Winship.
“You see, Grandmother, it’s a—”
“Myrtlewood,” pronounced the old lady suddenly. “Matchwood. Snow apples.”
They all gaped at her, thunderstruck.
“Stubby. Tender. Disguise.”
“Yes, Grandma! Say some more words! Say lots of words!”
“Briar. Mourn. Goat.”
The door opened, and Lady Winship came in. She held an open letter.
“Children I have good news for you. Major Fenway writes to say that your Papa has gone through the operation, and, so far as can be ascertained at this time, it has been successful; his bones are correctly set, and they are straight again.”
“Can he walk?” asked Tot, but Ni
sh cried, “Mamma, Granny has spoken! She has said words!”
“She has?”
“Glass. Paper. Wheel. Cascade.”
“Good heaven. Does she understand us?” said Lady Winship doubtfully. She approached the bedside, letter in hand. “Ma’am, I am happy to inform you that Aydon—that your son’s legs have been re-set, in Edinburgh, and he is going on as well as can be expected.”
The eyes widened. There was a reflective pause. Then: “Ed—”
“No, ma’am, Aydon. Your son Aydon.”
“Ed—”
“Edinburgh!” cried Nish. “Edinburgh, Granny!”
“Ed—in—burgh.”
Duddy, entering the room at that moment, dropped the basin of warm water she carried. Tears poured unchecked down her weathered cheeks.
“Oh, ma’am,” she whispered. “Oh, ma’am!”
“Can Papa walk?” persisted Tot.
“No, no, of course he will not be allowed to try, even, for many weeks yet.—Oh, I must write to Aydon directly, to tell him this news about his mother. He will be so very happy—” Lady Winship paused and thought for a moment. Then she said to Alvey in an altered tone, “Or, no, perhaps it would be best if you wrote to your father about it.”
“Of course I will, ma’am, if you wish me to,” said Alvey, rather puzzled.
Some peaceful weeks followed. Little Katie cut a tooth. More snow fell. Over Christmas, however, there came a thaw for several days. Alvey struggled into Hexham with an immense list of household commissions. Invited to accompany her and assist, Parthie refused, curtly. Well, thought Alvey, I have done my best; if she does not wish to help, or enjoy herself, bother her! And she dismissed Parthie from her mind. She bought leather boots for the three children, who had all grown a great deal in the last months, salt fish, lemons, raisins, nutmegs, thread, cloth, embroidery silks, black pepper, and Java rice. She also carried her clean-copied manuscript to Mr Allgood, who promised to read it at once and advise her as to its potential saleability.
“I would be very much obliged, sir, if you would dispatch it to your cousin without delay,” said Alvey firmly, “while the roads are temporarily clear and the mails in transit; for, once the roads become blocked again, I suppose it might be many weeks before the parcel could be sent.”
“Ah, you are like all young writers,” said Mr Allgood, smiling, in what Alvey could not help considering a patronizing and superior manner. “Anxious for your work to be seen and appreciated as soon as possible. Well, well, I shall convey it on its way as soon as may be, do not fear—”
He glanced down indulgently at the first page, and his eyes widened; he read a few more lines, and his expression changed completely. Looking up at Alvey with a great deal more respect, he added, “It shall go off today, I promise. And that is a great piece of self-sacrifice on my part, for I shall not have time to read it through, and I should dearly like to! Is there any news, Miss Winship, of your sisters?”
“Yes, sir, Meg and Isa are settled in Bath for a month. Meg finds Bath a delightful town.”
“And Miss Isa?”
“Well,” said Alvey cheerfully, “as you probably know, she hates all cities, and finds Bath a repulsively noisy, dark, and confining town. Also, she says, it rains there every day. But she is bound to admit that the houses are handsome and the libraries excellent. So, for the moment, I think she is resigned to her situation.”
“I wonder if she will ever come back to us. Or if she will encounter some eligible young gentleman in Bath—”
All of a sudden, Mr Allgood looked very wistful.
By New Year’s Day—which was celebrated in Birkland village with a bonfire and barrels of blazing tar—the old lady was speaking slow, careful sentences.
Her memory had come back, and Nish was encouraging her to knit on large wooden needles.
“Why do you visit your grandmother so seldom now?” Alvey asked Parthie. “I am sure she would be very glad to see you more.”
“Does she ask for me?”
“She never asks for anybody. She likes to see everybody. The more different faces, the better she is pleased. And you used to be her favourite.”
“That is so no longer,” said Parthie sourly. “Nish and Tot are her little angels now. They can do no wrong.”
Yes, because they were there, helping her when she needed it, Alvey thought, but did not say.
When she herself was in the room with old Grizel, much of their time was spent in a kind of roll-call of the family.
“Let me see, now, Meg and Isa, where are they?”
“In Bath, Grandmother, until the end of February.”
“And James? Following his studies in Edinburgh?”
“Yes, and his friend Major Fenway writes that he is working exceedingly hard and has made an excellent impression on his professors. And that is all thanks to your help.”
And his grandmother would be very happy to receive a letter from James, Alvey had written to Major Fenway—but letters to and from Edinburgh were scanty and much delayed, nothing had been heard from James as yet.
“And Aydon—he, too, is in Edinburgh?”
“Yes, until his legs are sufficiently mended to allow him to travel. But Guy—Major Fenway says that he is making steady progress.”
Then there were the servants to be enumerated.
“Ellen? Mrs Slaley? Grace, Janet, Stridge, Surtees, Blackett, Carey?”
“They are all well, Grandmamma, and send their best respects.”
“That is well. I must make a list of all these people in case I forget any. Remind me to do that—And Archie? And Annie Herdman? And wee Geordie?”
“Annie died, Grandmother—do you not remember?” Alvey said gently. “Poor little Geordie was found in the Lion pool, drowned. And Annie—”
“Ah yes. I do remember. Was it not Charlotte who drowned wee Geordie? Did not somebody tell me that?”
Alvey felt her mouth go dry, her blood turn icy chill. She swallowed and said, “Oh, no, Grandmother. No, never. Nobody could have told you such a thing.”
“In the Lion pool,” said old Grizel dreamily. “That was where Duddy found Charlotte’s ring.”
“Never say such a thing! It can’t be true. You must have dreamed it.”
“Perhaps . . . And what about Parthie? Where is she?”
“I am here, Grandma,” said Parthie’s voice from behind Alvey, who turned round sharply. How long had the girl been standing there? Her face was quite expressionless. She moved forward and politely kissed the old lady’s cheek.
Chapter XIV.
Alvey contrived to waylay Parthie on her emergence from the old lady’s room after a half-hour’s visit.
“You know that it would be terribly wrong to repeat or pass on anything that your grandmother has said to you—in her confused, rambling state?”
“Why in the world should I wish to do so?” said Parthie coldly. “Excuse me—sister.” And she walked away to her own room.
Alvey was obliged to be content with this unsatisfactory reply. If only she does not go talking to Mr Thropton! Furthermore, she reflected, what I said is not true; the old lady is far from confused. She does not ramble. She is slow, but she is clear.
Detachedly Alvey wondered, as the days went by, why Parthie did not go to Lady Winship with the story of her own imposture; and then she supplied herself with the answer: it is because Parthie suspects, probably with reason, that her mother would take very little notice, if any. She would not care, one way or the other. Lady Winship is certainly in a very peculiar frame of mind; can that suggestion of the old woman’s possibly be true? God help her if it is. But I find it hard—I find it almost impossible—to balance such a suggestion with what I know of the woman that I have wheeled back and forth so many times.—And yet, I do know with what callous lack of consideration she behaved to Annie Herd
man, making her shut the child in the stableroom; that I know to be true. And what about the ring? We have only Duddy’s word that she found it in the pool where the child was drowned; but then, what would she, or Mrs Winship, have to gain from such a fabrication? Could anybody else have seen it in the pool? How long did it lie there? But, in any case, the ring is returned now. And they need not have done that. And now nothing can be proved about it, one way or the other.
Oh, how can I tell what to believe?
Having no invented romance of her own to engage her thoughts, Alvey’s mind was now horribly vulnerable to such speculation and brooding. And it was not helped by a letter from Guy Fenway which presently arrived, rather soiled and battered, having been passed from hand to hand along the way.
Although the roads were, at present, impassible to mail-coaches, a few intrepid travellers did still manage to make their way on foot or on horseback. These were for the most part horse-copers, tinkers, clock-menders, “gaun folk” as the servants called such itinerant waygoers with their packs and pack-mules. In the winter months they were always welcome at the Hall for the news and merchandise they brought—gipsies with crockery or baskets, old men with birch brooms, pedlars with threadpapers and scissors and herbal remedies. Mr Allgood had promised that, if he received any news about Alvey’s book from his cousin, he would, in default of the proper mails, find some such means of transmitting it to Birkland Hall. An old lady called Mug Lizzie brought the letter from Guy Fenway and was well fee’d for her trouble. But there was no word from Mr Allgood.
“Sir Aydon goes on well now,” Guy wrote, “and has walked a few steps. His progress is slow but definite. And one most positive feature of this is that he can now walk entirely without pain, although the legs are still weak. He himself is quite amazed at this. He was, at first, slow to mend, and spent several days in a state of delirium during which he required continual attention, for he was liable to throw himself out of his bed and do incalculable damage unless constantly supervised and restrained. Fortunately that period was of short duration. But while it lasted either James or Mr Harle or I myself sat with him continually. During one of these periods he talked to me at great length in a rambling, distraught, incoherent manner; I do not feel it would be right to reveal the precise nature of his communications; but I can tell you that he appears to be harbouring some terrible suspicions against his wife. I feel—I trust—I profoundly hope that these are unfounded. I do not think he has divulged them to her. But she may well have guessed what is in his mind. He has kept these ideas to himself and brooded over them until they entirely occupied his thoughts, and have wholly eroded the relationship between husband and wife; and, I am sure, also contributed to his own low state of mental and bodily health. It is urgently necessary that some means be found of dispelling these suspicions . . .”