“You were with Wellington’s Army?”
“I fought under Wellington for many years.”
Wivina gave a little sigh.
“He sounds so wonderful and now that he has beaten Napoleon he is the greatest hero of our time.”
“That is true and you have no idea how fortunate you are to be living in England and not to have your country devastated like much of France.”
Wivina did not speak and Lord Cheriton went on,
“No one here seems to realise that behind the sacrifices and the romance of war lie the dreary landscapes of decay of dead horses and shattered houses, of Churches converted into stables and hospitals.”
He went on as if speaking to himself:
“The sick and wounded lie on heaps of straw in the village streets or drag their mangled limbs along the highways. Filthy inns are filled with troops, doors and window frames are torn from almost every house, and furniture is burnt or smashed.”
Wivina gave a little cry.
“I have indeed thought of it! I have understood what our men have suffered, while we have done so little – so very little in return.”
“That is why I am asking you to help me now.”
He realised he was being unfair to the girl, but he knew it was essential to get a foothold in Larkswell and where better, seeing what he had just overheard, than Larks Hall itself?
He saw the indecision in Wivina’s face, the conflict in her mind and he knew once again from the twisting of her fingers that she was extremely agitated.
“I don’t – know what to – say,” she faltered.
There were uneven footsteps in the hall and the door was flung open.
“I say, Wivina, there’s a magnificent horse outside!”
A boy came into the room and the way he was dragging one leg told Lord Cheriton that this was Richard.
He was a handsome lad but too thin, the skin stretched taut over his jaw line and, while he was tidily dressed, his clothes were almost threadbare.
When he saw that his sister was not alone, he looked surprised, then came forward eagerly.
“Is that your horse, sir?”
“It is,” Lord Cheriton answered. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Bradleigh – Captain Bradleigh.”
“You are a soldier?”
“I was.”
“And your horse was with you in France?”
“He is an old campaigner.”
“Oh, I say! You must tell me all about it. Did you hear that, Wivina? Captain Bradleigh was in France! He can tell us about the victory. We never learn the details about anything in this dead-and-alive hole!”
There was an eagerness and an excitement in the young voice which told Lord Cheriton that this was the ally he needed to support him.
“I was just telling your sister,” he said, “that it would be cruelty to take Samson any farther today, so I was asking if she could find us somewhere where we could sleep for the night.”
He smiled as he added to Wivina,
“I am quite prepared to share a stall with Samson and it will certainly not be for the first time.”
“But, of course, you can stay here,” Richard said quickly. “And perhaps you will tell me about the fighting in France. Were you by any chance at the Battle of Toulouse?”
“I was,” Lord Cheriton replied, “and I hope never again to see such terrible casualties.”
“But we won!”
“We won,” Lord Cheriton conceded, “at the cost of nearly five thousand men.”
“All war is horrifying! Terrifying!” Wivina sighed in a low voice.
“Other things can be terrifying too,” Richard replied, “but with no glory attached to them.”
Lord Cheriton saw Wivina give her brother a warning glance and then as if to cover his words she said quickly,
“I am sure, Captain Bradleigh, we can find you some accommodation for tonight, and Pender, the old groom of whom I have already spoken, will be very thrilled to look after your horse.”
“I will take him to the stables myself,” Richard said.
He half-turned towards the door, then hesitated.
“I suppose, sir, you would not let me ride him?”
“He is too tired, I think, to make any objection,” Lord Cheriton replied, “and he is, as it happens, a very amenable horse.”
“Then I will ride him round to the stables,” Richard said almost breathlessly. “Thank you, sir, thank you!”
Dragging his leg but moving quite quickly, he went from the room and they heard him crossing the hall.
“Richard loves horses,” Wivina said, “but he never has a chance of riding one unless some local farmer is kind enough to lend him a mount.”
She smiled a little wryly as she said,
“They are usually pretty rough, not the type of animal one would ride for pleasure.”
Lord Cheriton had an idea that the farmers’ horses were usually too busily employed collecting smuggled goods from the boats which came into the creek, but aloud he said,
“As you are kind enough to offer me your hospitality for the night, will you permit me to collect my servant?”
“I had forgotten him,” Wivina said, “and, of course, you will want to ride to the village.”
“As a matter of fact I would rather walk,” Lord Cheriton answered. “We have been in the saddle all day and it will do me good to stretch my legs.”
“You will find The Dog and Duck quite easily,” Wivina said. “It’s only a short distance beyond the drive.”
“I noticed that when I arrived,” Lord Cheriton replied, “and please, Miss Compton, don’t put yourself out unduly over me. I assure you I am used to roughing it.”
“There is no reason for a friend of Lord Cheriton’s to be uncomfortable.”
“Then may I thank you for taking me in.”
He knew as he looked at her that she had invited him reluctantly and against her instinct, but she had been pressured into it both by him and by her brother, feeling helpless and at the same time afraid.
Picking up his hat from where he had laid it on a chair just inside the salon, Lord Cheriton walked across the hall and looking up at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls gave them a wry smile.
He felt as if after he had tried to abandon them, they had defeated him, or was it just one slight girl who had defied his orders?
As he walked on down the drive, Lord Cheriton asked himself if it was possible that prayer, as she believed, could really have swept away the atmosphere of evil his father had created in the house.
He doubted if anything could erase the cruelty and tyranny that had impregnated the whole house.
He told himself that the scars from what he had suffered would remain with him all his life, that the hatred he had felt for the man who had tortured him had made him what he was and nothing would change that.
He was well aware that he was thought of as hard and unbending and that the men whom he commanded were afraid of him, even though because he had regard for their lives in battle they respected him.
But they did not look to him for sympathy or understanding in their personal problems, and they knew that if they disobeyed his orders they could expect no mercy. His ruthlessness towards the enemy was the theme of many of the stories that were told and retold about him.
In battle he had always seemed to anticipate what the French would do and was prepared for any move that had been intended to surprise him and his troops.
And yet now, Lord Cheriton thought with some amusement, the expected had been the unexpected and nothing he had thought to find at Larks Hall had materialised.
Instead he found himself confounded and not a little intrigued by Wivina, her brother, and, of course, a man called Farlow.
He found Nickolls sitting on a wooden seat outside The Dog and Duck with a pewter pot of ale in his hand and an expression which told Lord Cheriton that he had been unsuccessful.
He rose at his master’s approach and
, as Lord Cheriton sat down beside him, he said in a low voice:
“No use, sir. They won’t have us here and tight as clams they be.”
“I expected that.”
“There’s something going on, sir, that’s obvious! But they ain’t telling and I asked no questions.”
“Quite right,” Lord Cheriton approved. “Stay here. I will get myself a tankard of ale.”
He walked into the inn, which had a low ceiling supported by heavy ships’ beams and a large fireplace where in the winter it was possible to sit inside the chimney beside the blazing logs.
The Landlord, polishing some tankards behind the bar, looked up at Lord Cheriton’s entrance and there was undoubtedly a wary expression on his face.
“Good afternoon, landlord”
“Good afternoon – sir”
The reply was reluctant.
“A pint of your best ale,” Lord Cheriton said, placing half a guinea down on the counter, “and I will pay for what my man has already consumed.”
“Your man, sir?”
There was curiosity in the question.
“Previously my soldier-servant,” Lord Cheriton said affably. “I dare say that he has told you we are looking for somewhere to settle. Do you know of any small farms to buy or rent round here?”
The landlord shook his head too hastily for it not to look suspicious.
“’Fraid not, Sir. Nothing like that here. You’d best go further afield.”
“You surprise me,” Lord Cheriton said. “There were a lot of farmers fighting in France who will never come back, and many poor devils too crippled to carry on.”
“Nothing round here!”
Lord Cheriton sipped the ale that was put in front of him.
“Excellent!” he said. “The more I see of Larkswell the more I like it!”
“’Tis a very small place, sir.”
“So I gather, but who are the big landlords? Perhaps I could find a farm on their land.”
There was no reply.
As if with an effort at concentration, Lord Cheriton said slowly:
“Now someone did mention a name to me. What was it? Fowler? No, Farlow! Is there not someone called Farlow round here?”
“There is. A Mr. Jeffrey Farlow, sir. He’s got a large house, but little land.”
“That seems strange,” Lord Cheriton remarked. “Most people if they want a large house want land as well.”
There was no reply as the landlord seemed suddenly intent on sorting out the bottles at the back of the bar.
“What does Mr. Farlow do?” Lord Cheriton questioned.
Looking only at the back of the man’s head, he was sure that he shivered.
“No idea, sir, no idea at all,” he answered quickly.
Lord Cheriton put down his half empty mug of ale and picked up his change.
“Thank you very much, landlord. I am delighted to avail myself of your hospitality.”
The man turned round.
“If you’re thinking of staying here, sir, we can’t put you up! There ain’t a comer in the whole inn where we can accommodate anyone.”
“Strange,” Lord Cheriton remarked. “It looks quite large from the outside.”
“Deceptive, sir, very deceptive. You’d be surprised how few bedrooms we’ve got.”
“I would,” Lord Cheriton replied, “but as it happens I am staying at Larks Hall.”
He saw the man’s eyes widen and his mouth fall open as he walked out of the inn to join Nickolls outside.
They walked back to Larks Hall, Nickolls leading his horse, and as they walked he asked Nickolls what he had noticed.
“They’re frightened, sir,” he said. “When I went into The Dog and Duck there were several men there, usual village types, sitting round drinking, but when they saw me they all scuttled away as if they’d been told to do so.”
“And the landlord?”
“He couldn’t wait to be rid of me, told me there was no accommodation, and would have pushed me out through the door right away if I hadn’t insisted on having a drink.”
It all fitted in with what the Prime Minister had told him, Lord Cheriton thought, the fear that the gangs evoked in the local people, even though they benefitted from the smuggled cargoes.
He was quite certain that the innkeeper would be able to buy his brandy and his gin, which the smugglers called “geneva,” at a cheap price, and the whole village would pay little or nothing for their tea.
At the same time the smugglers would impose a reign of terror that made every man frightened to open his mouth.
Lord Cheriton had learnt before he left London that it was common in Kent and Sussex for farmers within ten miles of the sea to find one morning pinned to their stable door a request, for so many horses to be left ready bridled, their stable doors unlocked, the following night.
“No farmer would dare refuse,” the Surveyor General of Customs had informed him.
“He would be threatened?” Lord Cheriton had asked.
“He would find his stacks or his crops or barns, burnt to the ground and his herd slaughtered.”
The Surveyor General’s face was serious as he added,
“That type of pressure is regarded by the smugglers only as the first mild reproach. Any man who refused would have his life to lose as well.”
They reached Larks Hall and met Richard coming back from the direction of the stables.
“Pender and I have rubbed down your horse, sir,” he said to Lord Cheriton. “Oh, you have another!”
“This one is ridden by my servant, Nickolls,” Lord Cheriton explained. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to show him the way to the stables.”
“Yes, of course,” Richard said.
He went to the side of the horse to pat it and, as he did so, Lord Cheriton had an idea.
“I wonder if you would help me?”
“What can I do?” Richard asked.
“Do you think you could get hold of a couple of chickens or a turkey?”
The boy looked surprised and Lord Cheriton explained,
“It is embarrassing for Nickolls and me to billet ourselves on your sister without warning, and as the landlord at the inn was so positive he could do nothing for us, I did not like to ask him.”
“I can get you what you want if you can pay for it,” Richard said. “There is a farm next door. It used to be the Home Farm which belonged to Larks Hall and the farmer is rather a friend of mine.”
Lord Cheriton drew two sovereigns from his waistcoat pocket.
“Suppose you buy what you can,” he said, “and plenty of eggs and cream if they can spare it.”
He put the sovereigns into Richard’s hand, and the boy looked at them in astonishment.
“I shall not need to spend all that money.”
“I would like you to spend it all,” Lord Cheriton said firmly. “It would have cost Nickolls and me quite as much as that to spend the night in one of the big inns on the Portsmouth Road, where they ask exorbitant sums for a meal.”
“Do they really?” Richard enquired. “I have often wondered what they were like inside.”
“If you have any illusions about British inns and British food, you will be disappointed,” Lord Cheriton said.
He knew Richard was not listening, but staring almost in awed wonder at the sovereigns in his hand.
“I could buy an awful lot of books with this,” he said reflectively.
“I have tried many things in my life,” Lord Cheriton replied, “but have never yet tried to eat a book! Go and purchase my dinner for me, and it had better be a good one!”
“It will be!” Richard answered. “May I ride this horse there?”
“I suppose so,” Lord Cheriton replied, “and Nickolls will go with you. Mind you let him carry the eggs.”
He was smiling as he walked alone towards The Hall.
He entered, wondering if he dared call out for Wivina as Jeffrey Farlow had done.
But she must have heard
him enter, for he looked up and saw her leaning over the banisters at the top of the stairs.
“I have a room ready for you.”
“Shall I come up and see it?” Lord Cheriton asked.
“If you would like to.”
“Richard has gone to collect my dinner for me and he should not be long.”
“What do you mean by that?” Wivina asked, as he came up the stairs towards her.
“He says there is a farm next door and I have sent him there to buy chickens, eggs, and cream.”
“There was no need for you to do that.”
“There is every reason,” Lord Cheriton answered. “I assure you that one of the Duke of Wellington’s most unbreakable rules was that the Army should pay for everything they took from the Portuguese and the Spanish.”
He smiled and before Wivina could speak he added,
“And very surprised they were after the appalling behaviour of the French.”
“I am not Spanish or Portuguese,” Wivina replied. “It might not be to your liking, but we could have found you something to eat.”
“I think you must allow me to do things my own way,” Lord Cheriton said.
He had reached the top of the staircase and now he was standing beside her. She glanced up at him and he knew without being told that she was thinking that he would always get his own way.
“Now, please show me my room,” he said to prevent further argument.
She went ahead of him down the wide passage off which he remembered were the State rooms.
He himself had always slept on the second floor, where the nurseries had been situated when he was a child.
When Wivina stopped and put her hand out to open a door, it was with the greatest difficulty that Lord Cheriton prevented himself from crying out that it was the one room he would not enter, the one room in which in no circumstances he would sleep.
Then the years of self-control stifled the words on his lips and he followed her into the room which had been his father’s.
For a moment he felt as though the walls swam in front of his eyes.
He could hear his father’s voice rising, storming at him for some petty or imaginary offence until he worked himself into such a frenzy that the only way he could relieve his feelings was to thrash his son almost insensible.
For a moment Lord Cheriton held his breath, waiting for the past to envelop him with all the resentment and searing agony that had haunted him for years after leaving home.
Love and the Loathsome Leopard Page 4