As James and the other Mayne males converged on their ancestral home, Emily toyed with the idea of refusing to bring the children for the traditional goose and plum pudding dinner. But Matt would have been crushed by such a decision and so would Emily's father. At least Papa did not demand Emily's presence on Boxing Day.
The huge dinner party on Christmas evening was every bit as appalling as Emily foresaw. Christmas was the one day of the year at which all the grandchildren except infants in arms dined with their elders. As a rule Emily found the sight of so many scrubbed nieces and nephews diverting. This year she kept seeing the event through the eyes of a frightened three-year-old abandoned in the midst of gabbling strangers.
All the while Emily exchanged chitchat with her sisters-in-law, admired their offspring, explained for the hundredth time why she had taken in someone else's brats, nodded and smiled and sampled the overrich viands, she knew the child who shrank beside her was utterly desolate. Emily kept Amy's cold little hand in her own and wished time would fly.
The child ate nothing and said nothing. On Emily's right Matt wriggled and giggled. The noise level rose and fell as course followed course. At last, as abruptly and inexplicably as an eclipse, the candles were snuffed. Into the appalling darkness a livened footman, his face lit from beneath and distorted with his efforts, bore in the flaming pudding.
It was too much for Amy. She began to sob, softly at first, then wildly, hysterically. There was nothing for it but to beat a quick retreat.
"Stay by your Aunt Jane," Emily hissed at Matt as she rose with the rigid, wailing child in her arms. Matt nodded, wide-eyed. Everyone was staring, Sir Henry balefully. Emily fled.
That night, alone in her darkened bedchamber, Emily almost made up her mind to write Captain Falk that she could not keep his daughter. It had taken nearly an hour to calm the little girl, and she instantly withdrew once more into her shell of silence. But what would become of Amy if Emily did not keep her?
From Peggy McGrath's casual remarks Emily had begun to draw a picture of the perils attendant on following the army. She envisaged Amy captured with the baggage, as might have happened that very year had Captain Falk not providentially been wounded in the siege of Burgos and compelled to leave his duties before the army made its disastrous retreat into Portugal. No. Even in settled, comfortable circumstances, life was a fragile thing--as Emily's own daughter showed, dead at two of the same fever that had killed Edward Foster.
Resolutely Emily beat back the tide of melancholy that recollection always brought. No. She would not abandon Amy. But what she would do to reach the child Emily could not think. It was well past midnight before she climbed, shivering, into her now cold bed. She cried a little, but that did no good. Finally she fell into a restless sleep.
5
As a rule the children took their breakfast in the nursery, but Emily had always made Boxing Day breakfast a feast, and Matt expected to find his gifts by his special place in the breakfast room. She did not like to disappoint him. Indeed she meant to reassure him of his importance to her now that the other children claimed so much of her attention. Amy had certainly claimed her attention on Christmas Day. Accordingly Emily rose early. Feeling somewhat the worse for wear, she donned her prettiest grey morning gown and tiptoed in to wake Matt.
She had a very good private chat with him. He had found a sixpence in his portion of pudding and he told her of that and of trouncing his cousins at spillikins, and he didn't dawdle overmuch at his dressing either. When he was scrubbed and looking fair and fresh in his best nankeens and the new navy jacket with gilt buttons, Emily peeked in on Peggy and her charges.
The wet nurse was suckling Tommy. Amy lay on her trundle, thumb in mouth. She wouldn't look at Emily.
"What's wrong with her?" Matt demanded, scornful.
"Hush, Matt. Will you dress her and bring the two of them down directly, Peggy?"
"I will that." Peggy glanced at Amy. "Her ladyship woke twice in the night, missus. Bad dreams."
"Did you make her a glass of hot milk?"
"Yes, but she wouldn't take it. She don't like milk, missus."
"Oh dear, I forgot. I'm sorry, Peggy." Emily went to the trundle and touched Amy's hair. Amy held her breath. "Pobrecita," Emily murmured. "Dolce niña."
"Er, it's dulce, missus."
"Dulce," Emily repeated wearily. "Bring them down when they're ready, please, Peggy. Matt and I have something to do first."
Ordinarily Emily delighted in her son's pleasure as he played the lord of the manor. Now she watched almost absentmindedly as he gave the grinning groom, Phillida, and Mrs. Harry their customary vails. He made a small neat speech thanking them for their faithful service. When they applauded his efforts he beamed and looked up at Emily for approval. Abruptly, she knelt and gave him a bear hug. He was a quick, confident little chap. She really did not deserve such a paragon.
"You were splendiferous," she whispered and he giggled at the wonderful new word, and Mrs. Harry and Phillida made much of him. The groom, eager to be off home for the day, shuffled his feet. Presently Phillida and Mrs. Harry, who had taken Christmas with their families, began to bustle about, anxious to serve the breakfast, so Emily and Matt took leave of them.
"Will there be presents?" Matt asked, jumping along at her side.
"Just a lump of coal," Emily teased.
"Oh, Mama."
Emily relented. "Yes. I think so. One or two."
Matt gave a joyous leap. "Dozens!"
"Well, not quite so many. Will you help me, Matt? Amy's papa sent gifts from Portugal."
Matt made a face.
"There's one for you, too," Emily said gently.
"Oh."
"Here." She unlocked the china cabinet in the dining room. "This little one is for Tommy. Carry it in to the breakfast room for me, please."
Matt bore the small box in very carefully and set it by the place Emily indicated. He looked at the four set places, covertly comparing the small piles of gifts by each plate to see which was biggest. "Where do I sit?"
"Where you always sit. Tommy is beside you. Here."
"What does that say? Mat-thew," he spelt out, screwing up his face at the unfamiliar black letters. "Ha!"
Emily set the larger parcel marked Amy by the other place. "Did you look by the curtains?"
Matt turned, eyes wide as saucers. A rocking horse as tall as he was and handsomely accoutred stood by the window.
He emitted a shrill whistle. "For me?"
"For the nursery," Emily said firmly, but Matt was already beside the horse, inspecting its equipage with satisfied grunts. He would have to be brought to share. At the moment, with Amy passive and silent, that was not a problem. Emily watched her son mount his charger, and sighed.
Phillida served the meal, for once dropping nothing. Matt kept pinching his packages. Occasionally he had to be reminded to swallow. Peggy McGrath held the bright-eyed Thomas on her lap and ate heartily. She was totally unembarrassed to be eating with the family, Emily saw with relief. From time to time the nurse popped a choice morsel into Tommy's rosebud mouth, all the while commenting with hyperbolic Hibernian approval on the table, the setting, the food, and the beauty of the children.
Amy sat beside Emily, who induced the girl to down a bit of toast and several spoonsful of porridge. Amy looked pretty in her best wool gown. Brown became her, but Emily vowed to make the child some less utilitarian garments. Although, she thought, that would be beside the point if Amy were to spend the rest of her early years in a brown study.
"Can't we open them now, Mama?" Matt had reached the limit of his patience.
Emily said, resigned, "'May we not.' Yes, Matt. But one at a time, and starting with Peggy."
"Me!" Peggy looked delighted and scandalised. "Faith, missus, there's no need for it."
"It's the custom," Emily said gently. "Go ahead, Peggy. The first is from Matt."
Peggy's presents were perhaps a trifle predictable. There were a small net pur
se with a gold guinea--the lord of the manor's gift--a length of soft wool from Emily for a new gown, and a lace cap with a blue ribbon through it, which was also from Emily in lieu of something from the Falk children. Tommy chewed on the purse, Peggy exclaimed, Matt looked pleased with himself and not too impatient. Amy stared.
At least she was staring at something, and not just into thin air. Emily opened her own trinkets. Matt had constructed a handsome penwiper, Phillida a reticule covered with any number of glued periwinkle shells, and Mrs. Harry had sewed a set of fine lawn handkerchiefs, which, as she was a notable needlewoman, were a handsome gift. Emily rather thought she liked the penwiper best.
"My turn?" Matt, dancing with impatience.
"Yes, very well. You're next oldest."
He ripped through his gifts like a gale, silver paper flying, and did not seem at all discommoded to find among them a box of lead soldiers--from Emily--and a box of wooden soldiers--Captain Falk. Indeed, when he had approved his other gifts, Matt set the soldiers up all around his place. It seemed likely that the wooden ones would be overborne by the leaden ones.
"Thank your papa," Matt said politely to Amy.
Papa. Amy did not speak but Emily could have sworn her lips moved.
Emily picked up the largish, oblong parcel from Lisbon. She took a deep breath and plunged. "This is for you." She set the packet beside Amy's left hand. "From your papa, Amy. De su papa. Tell her, Peggy, please."
Peggy obliged with a short burst of Spanish.
Amy's eyes widened and she touched the package gingerly.
"Shall I help you open it, darling?" Emily tore open the paper without any delicacy at all. The parcel was stoutly wrapped. Emily fumbled the last tie loose and lifted the lid. A handsome bisque doll dressed in the Spanish style reposed in the box, a note pinned to the gown. Emily puzzled the message out. A Amy. Feliz Navidad. La señora se llama 'Doña Inez.' Papa. And in English, Someone for Amy to talk to. Carefully, her fingers trembling, Emily removed the doll and put it in the little girl's lap.
"De papa," Amy whispered.
"Yes, darling. I mean, sí. De papa. Para tí. Peggy, tell her that the doll is called Doña Inez and that it is to keep Amy company." Emily gave up the paraphrase and quoted, "Someone to talk to."
Peggy looked game but baffled, and tried a few sentences.
"De papa," Amy said aloud. She asked a question, hands clutched on the doll, eyes bright.
Peggy burst into laughter.
"What is it?"
"She wants to know if it's a saint, missus."
"No. My word!" Emily was too intent on the small secular miracle occurring to be diverted into theology. "Tell her a friend, una amiga. Tell her Doña Inez can understand her."
"Doña Inez?" Amy finally caught at the name through Emily's clumsy pronunciation. "Oh, claro! Claro!" And she began to jabber away to the doll as if she had never heard of silence.
Peggy beamed. "Will ye listen to that?"
"Very happily." Emily leaned back in her chair, limp as an old dishclout with relief. "Whew. What is she saying?"
"I can't follow her when she goes along at that clip, missus. Something about his honour and a carriage and a big ball of fire."
The plum pudding. The blasted plum pudding. "I wish I knew why she stopped talking."
Peggy jiggled Tommy and removed a napkin ring from his mouth. "Have ye thought that mebbe she didn't understand why the captain went off?"
Emily said, "Yes, of course I thought of that, but he did explain."
"He told her he had to go away. I've turned it over in me mind, missus. When Doña Isabel died Amy didn't understand, and they all kept telling her her mama had gone away to God. She didn't know muerte. Could it be that, d'ye think?"
Emily stared at Peggy's good-natured face with consternation. "I ought to have thought of it. She was afraid to let her father out of her sight. How clever of you, Peggy."
Peggy flushed. "Whisht, missus, haven't I known Amy since she was born? She's a deep one."
"Doña Inez," Amy said happily and stuffed a half eaten piece of toast into her mouth. Crumbs fell on the doll's gown. She brushed them off fastidiously, then looked from Emily to Peggy. A long question, uttered through the remains of the toast, rattled out.
Peggy answered her, smiling.
"What now? Who is Doña Inez?"
"Nobody, then. It's only a story his honour was always spinning for her. They was making it up together as they went along, see."
Emily did see. "I wonder if he would write a bit of it down for her from time to time?"
"I dunno, missus," Peggy said doubtfully. "They always talked Spanish and he'd have to put it in English for you, wouldn't he? I ain't a scholar."
"Well, I'll write him at once in any case. And Peggy, in future I shall rely on you to tell me what's on Amy's mind."
"I ought to told you yesterday straight off when it come to me. The thing is I wasn't sure of meself," Peggy said frankly. "Ye're a kind lady, missus, but 'twas such a mad notion ye might've laughed at me."
"Oh, Peggy."
Peggy flushed but stuck by her guns. "Sure and I know I ain't a proper nursemaid for a house like this. I do me best and I'm willing to learn, but it's hard sometimes when I'm homesick for the ould divil in Portugal."
"Do you want to go back?" Emily asked gently. "You may stay here as long as you choose, but I don't like to be keeping a wife from her husband."
Peggy's face cleared. "Whisht, missus, if I went back McGrath'd kill me for sure." It transpired that her husband was ambitious to open a publick house in Cork on their joint savings. Peggy would have elaborated on this scheme, which seemed to have her allegiance, but at that point Tommy was found to be chewing through his gift from his papa. When he had been given the coral the packet contained for proper, approved chewing, Amy was discovered halfway to the rocking horse, determined to give Doña Inez a little outing. Matt protested, Amy gave him glare for glare, and everyone waxed very merry.
6
When Sir Henry arrived that afternoon Emily felt almost equal to dealing with him. He huffed a bit. Emily explained. As he was a sentimental man at heart and thoroughly approved daughters who were attached to their fathers, he was soon thinking of Amy as a prodigy of sensibility, a miniature heroine tragically abandoned by her callous parent. As this fiction was clearly preferable to his looking upon Amy as a damnable nuisance, Emily did not correct it.
Sir Henry insisted upon being shown up to the nursery, where he regaled Matt by finding sugarplums in the boy's hair, performed the same enchantment for the wide-eyed Amy, and concluded his visit with Captain Falk's daughter on his knee. He even bestowed a pat on Tommy's petticoats, though it was clear to Emily that the baby's foreign looks still rankled. Tommy, unmoved by Sir Henry's opinions, chewed on his coral and drooled.
That evening Emily wrote Captain Falk a full account of Amy's ordeal. Within the month she received the first installment of the phantastical adventures of Doña Inez. The story was penned in a neat, almost clerklike hand, together with a civil greeting for Miss Mayne, which delighted Aunt Fan, and an equally civil thank you to Emily for writing, which from its very restraint caused Emily to feel shame that she had not sent him a report of his children sooner. She vowed to write once a month.
It was baffling to step into the saga of Doña Inez in medias res, and, of course, the problem of telling the tale through Peggy McGrath complicated the narration. Emily took to reading the stories through at least once in English after the labourious translation process, and it proved a good way to teach Amy English sentences. The child picked up English vocabulary as a magnet does pins. By the end of the next year Peggy's offices were more ceremonial than necessary. Amy received the stories with uncomplicated delight, and indeed, they were delightful, if a trifle odd.
Doña Inez was a very young Spanish lady who lived in the Sierra Morena with a group of bandit cousins. She rode astride in a black habit with cherry-coloured ribbons and she fell into a
ll kinds of perils from which she always escaped, triumphant, through the courage of her spirited pony, Eustachio, and her own boundless ingenuity.
Everywhere Doña Inez went, however, she was accompanied by a dogged, bewildered, middle-aged duenna, Doña Barbara by name. Doña Barbara rode an anonymous mule, wrung her hands a great deal, and always, no matter how dire the straits to which she and the heroine were reduced, found upon her person the means of making a nice cup of chocolate.
It was not long before Emily caught Matt eavesdropping on these phantasies. Each episode, of course, had to be repeated several times a week with embellishments until the new installment arrived. Emily invited her son to listen.
"It's girls' stuff." He looked down his snub nose. "Silly."
Emily did not wish to encourage him in toploftiness. "Very well, Matt. Go away."
He went.
She soon caught him at it again, however. "Captain Falk writ the story," she ventured, cautious. "He is a soldier. I shall tell him you said his story was silly."
"Mama!"
"Well, perhaps I won't if you'll listen politely instead of sulking."
So Matt sat at the big nursery table with Amy and Peggy and Emily whenever Captain Falk's letters arrived, and he and Amy were soon playing at Doña Inez and the Bandits for hours in the nursery, and later, as the weather improved, in the stables. Matt played all the bandits at once.
In an early letter to Portugal Emily ventured to hint that the inclusion of at least one male character by name would be wholly acceptable to her son. That was how Doña Inez acquired a cousin, Don Julio, who appeared from time to time in an heroick light. It was Doña Inez's story, however. Even Matt accepted that.
As for herself, Emily grew very fond of the duenna, Doña Barbara. Fellow feeling, no doubt. She finally expressed her preference to Captain Falk. He obliged with a crisp little episode featuring Doña Barbara as a baffled heroine which had Emily in stitches. Amy and Matt regarded this departure from the plot line with amazed scorn. Middle-aged duennas were not supposed to be heroines, it seemed, so Emily wrote her employer that he had best return to old ways. She thanked him, however.
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