by Carola Dunn
“Y-yes, sir,” stammered the unfortunate curate, and scurried from the room.
Mr. Fairfax, feeling very much Lord Alton, leant back against his pillows and hoped that Miss Godric had not heard the altercation. He did not want her worried. What he had told Mr. Pettigrew was quite true. He not only had no though of seducing Alice, but had even given up trying to flirt with her. His most artful compliments drew only a blank gaze, and he had begun to wonder if she was not merely feather-headed but actually half-witted. The possibility in no way interfered with his enjoyment of the sight of her. A man confined for weeks to a small room was entitled to some pleasures other than the intellectual.
Only the thought that the constant rain must have curtailed his activities to some extent in any event had made three weeks in bed endurable. Now that the sun was shining and he could once again count the cows on the slopes opposite his window, he was seized with restlessness. The prospect of being carried downstairs to a couch in the drawing room was irresistible, but Dr. Price had insisted on another week of immobility.
For the first time since his arrival in Henley, he wondered if he ought to let someone know where he was. Three weeks was longer than any of his previous unannounced disappearances, and he did not want his staff sending the Bow Street Runners after him. He pondered on the best way to notify them without giving away his alias and was glad he had at least used his own name.
Briefly, he considered admitting to his rank but quickly dismissed the idea. He did not analyse his reasons. In fact, he was afraid that the Godrics’ attitude toward him would change inexorably, that their delightfully open friendship would become the sort of toad-eating he so often met with. He had never before felt any real distaste for such sycophantic behaviour; it was too commonplace. Now the possibility was so distressing that he would not even examine it.
He decided to write to his lawyer, who could inform his two households of his safety. Mr. Barnabas Rugby, of Rugby, Rugby, Jones, and Rugby, Solicitors, in the City of London, was an old friend of Lord Alton. He had been with him at Harrow, and they had gone on together to Balliol. Upon his accession to the title, David Fairfax had put his business unreservedly into Mr. Rugby’s hands to the displeasure of Messrs. Hancock, Fitch, and Bradbury, who had handled the affairs of the earls of Alton for generations and made a good thing of it.
The present earl was composing a discreet letter in his head when there was a knock on his door and a shamefaced Jamie entered.
“Sir,” he began, “I must apologise for Mr. Pettigrew’s conduct. Alice swears she gave him no cause to think . . . to think . . .”
“And where were you when I needed protection?” demanded Mr. Fairfax, a twinkle in his eye.
Jamie flushed. “I thought you would not wish me to interfere,” he muttered hurriedly, gazing at his shoes. Then he looked up. “No, that is not true. I . . . I could not face the scene, so I avoided it, in the most cowardly way. I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Pray do not. You are not a coward, James, and I would not have you think it. Grown men of proven courage have been known to sneak away from scenes fraught with less embarrassment. I remember all too clearly the day I went to visit my current . . . ahem, a lady of whom I was fond. Her butler admitted me and advised me that she was in the salon at the rear of the house. I paused outside the door to flick some dust from my sleeve and heard within the voices of the lady and of a gentleman from whom I won a great deal of money the previous day. She was consoling him for his losses and offering to sell a necklace I had given her to pay his debts. Believe me, Jamie, instead of confronting her with her perfidy, I not only cravenly crept away, but I never could face the cheating jade again.”
“Have you had many mistresses, sir?” enquired Jamie with shy curiosity.
“Dash it, I did not mean to broach such a subject with you. My tongue grows as careless as Geoff’s! Your sister will be accusing me of corrupting your morals.”
“I’ll not tell her. But have you, sir?”
“Well, if you insist,” sighed Mr. Fairfax, “yes, I have. I’ve no intention of adding Alice to their number, I assure you.”
“I never thought such a thing. That fool Pettigrew . . .”
“Fools are not worth wasting words over. Jamie, would you be so good as to bring me pen, ink, paper, and sealing wax? I must write a letter.”
“Of course. Thank you, sir. I wish you were my father.” Jamie turned bright red and fled.
Before Mr. Fairfax could recover from this astounding assertion, Robbie arrived with writing materials.
“Jamie said to bring you these,” he announced. “And Susan has made her first-ever éclairs, and she says would you like one. I had three and they’re good.” A mixture of cream and chocolate lingering on his chin lent support to his words.
“Thank you, Robbie. You may tell Susan that I should love an éclair with my tea. If there are any left.”
“I’ll make sure she saves you one. Who are you writing to?”
“A friend of mine,” answered Mr. Fairfax, amused at the forthright question. “I decided I had better ask him to send me some clothes so that your grandfather may have his nightshirts back.”
“Oh, he has plenty. What’s your friend’s name? Is he a sailor?’’
“His name is Mr. Barnabas Rugby, and I am afraid he is a lawyer.”
“Does he wear a wig, like everyone used in the olden days? Hester says lawyers still wear them. Does he know any highwaymen? If I wasn’t going to be a sailor, I should like to be a highwayman.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Barney neither wears a wig nor hobnobs with gentlemen of the road.”
“Poor man, it must be very dull,” commiserated Robbie.
“It is not what I should choose,” admitted his lordship. “How fortunate that people differ in their choice of occupation, or I daresay we should have nothing but highwaymen.”
“Then they would have no one to rob. What do you do, sir?”
“Well, I—er—you might say I support a large staff, among other things. Now off you go, Rob, or I shan’t get this letter written.”
Robbie departed, perfectly satisfied with a vision in which Mr. Fairfax stood beside Atlas, one holding up the world, the other a vast piece of wood. Frightfully boring, he thought, but there was no knowing what grown-ups would take it into their heads to do, and he had said he did other things, too.
Mr. Fairfax was left mentally kicking himself. Today he seemed unable to enter into a conversation that did not lead onto treacherous ground. He resolved to take excessive care with his letter to Barney.
Chapter 5
Mr. Fairfax's clothes arrived, in a cheap and unrevealing valise, by carrier the following Saturday. An accompanying note cursed him for a secretive wretch and promised to preserve him from his anxious servants. His letter had arrived barely in time to prevent a search being organised.
Mr. Fairfax would now be able to appear below stairs decently clad. Dr. Price had set the great day for Monday and he was looking forward with all his heart to seeing something other than the four walls of Jamie’s tiny room and the cows on the hillside. After much discussion it was decided, at his earnest plea, that he was sufficiently one of the family to be carried into the back room, a comfortable, shabby apartment where the Godrics spent most of their time. The front room, furnished with the best pieces saved from the sale of Hilltop Manor, was generally reserved for visitors of rank.
Sunday dawned bright and fair, and by mid-morning a heat haze danced over the hills, as so often happens in early September. The midday roast was already in the oven, and Hester, hot and harried, decided to go to evensong with the boys. She sent Alice and Susan to the morning service, largely to get Susan out of the kitchen.
After church, Alice was detained in conversation by Mr. Pettigrew, who had recovered his normal stolid demeanour. Susan noticed a small crowd by the lych-gate and wandered over to see what was going on.
A pale young woman in a tattered dress lea
ned wearily against the churchyard fence, clasping a wailing infant. The vociferous group around her were arguing.
“The poor creatur’ better go on the parish,” proposed one kindly soul.
“We got no room for other folks’s beggars,” complained another.
“‘Sright. Send her on her way.”
“And no wedding band on her finger, see?”
“Tell her to move on, Mr. Smart. We don’t need the likes o’ she.”
“She don’t look well,” pointed out Mr. Smart, the beadle, a small, thin, worried man. “Would’n’ want her dying on the road now, would yer? Seems ter me we better take the pore thing to the workhouse.”
Susan waited for no more. Racing back to Alice, she plucked at her sleeve to get her attention.
“Alice, Alice, there’s a poor woman out there with a baby, and she’s ill. We must take her home with us.”
“Oh, Susan, do you really think . . .” Alice looked at the noisy crowd and blenched.
“Quite unnecessary, Miss Susan,” interjected the curate. “You need not bother your head about her. I shall see that she is taken to the workhouse.”
“Allie, you cannot let them take her there!” Susan was almost in tears. “Remember what happened to Nan Becket when old John died? She was quite young, and she died too, after just a few weeks in that place. It is our Christian duty to take her in. You know Hester would.”
“But I cannot . . .”
“And the little baby, Allie! You could not be so cruel!”
Alice made up her mind. Gathering courage she did not know she possessed, she marched toward the lych-gate, followed by a protesting Mr. Pettigrew and an encouraging Susan.
The crowd parted before her. The Godrics were generally looked up to in the town, though there were those who thought they held themselves too high, “considering.” They hushed each other to hear what Miss Alice would say.
The girl had sunk to a crouch, her head resting against the railing. She looked to be no older than Alice herself, terribly thin with huge eyes in a white, pinched face where traces of prettiness lingered like the last light in the evening sky.
“She’s coming home with us,” announced Alice in a voice that startled her with its loudness and firmness. She bent over the mother and child and asked anxiously, “Can you walk? It is not far. I shall carry the baby, and Susan will go ahead to tell the others. What is your name?”
“Grace,” murmured the young woman.
“Come, Grace, let me help you rise.”
A dozen willing hands reached out to assist, now that the problem was no longer theirs. Alice thanked them all and asked Mr. Pettigrew to give his arm to her protégée. which he did with a bad grace. He continued to mutter remonstrances as they walked past the White Hart and the Catherine Wheel and turned into Bell Street. Alice was happy to see James and Geoffrey running in their direction before they had gone far. Mr. Pettigrew gave up his post with pleasure and hurried away.
“What is going on, Allie?” demanded Jamie as he and his brother lent their support to the stranger’s wavering steps. “Susan was practically unintelligible, but we gathered we were needed in a hurry.”
“She said Pettigrew was an odious beast. We thought we’d have to rescue you from him,” added Geoff disappointedly.
Her need for resolution past, Alice wanted to sit down and burst into tears. With the baby in her arms, she could not do so, so she pulled herself together again and gave her brothers a fairly coherent account of what had happened. They were full of admiration.
In a very few minutes, Hester found herself with another invalid on her hands. With a whispered word of gratitude, the unknown girl collapsed into restless slumber. Geoff was sent for Dr. Price.
The old Welshman was gloomy.
“She’ll not live long, look you. Starvation, exhaustion, exposure, and she not much past her confinement and feeding a babby to boot. Indeed to goodness, it’s amazed I am the wee one is so healthy. This poor soul will take all the care you can give, Miss Hester, and then some. I fear ‘twill be in vain.”
While Hester and Dr. Price discussed how best to help the sick girl, Alice and Susan were clucking and cooing over the baby, and the boys had gone to tell Mr. Fairfax about it.
“Does your sister never turn anyone away?” he enquired.
“Oh no, sir,” answered Jamie. “Hester has the greatest horror of people who weep and pray over the evils of the world but will do nothing to remedy them. I suppose she has influenced us all, for Alice is generally very timid, and I am surprised she dared to face the crowd.”
“Alice did not help when I brought home the bird with the broken wing,” pointed out Robbie. “She screamed and ran away. Hester put a splint on it and helped feed it till it was better. She didn’t help catch insects for it,” he added in a reflective tone.
His elders laughed.
“That would be too much to expect,” declared Mr. Fairfax. “Well, I hope this Grace is not too ill to care for her baby. It seems to me that Miss Godric has more than enough to do already.”
“I think she is very sick,” said Geoffrey dubiously. “She could hardly walk, and she’s thin as a stick. Alice and Susan have taken over the baby, though.”
“You should hear them talking nonsense to it.” Robbie’s voice was full of scorn. “‘Who’s an itsy cuddly dinkum pudding plum?’” he demonstrated in a squeak. “How’s the poor thing ever going to learn to talk?”
“Alice carried on that way to you when you were a baby,” Jamie informed him, “and you talk altogether too much.”
At that moment Hester came in, looking grave.
“I thought I should find you all here,” she said, smiling with an effort. “Your room has become the centre of the house, Mr. Fairfax.”
“How is the young woman?” he asked.
“Grace is very ill. Dr. Price holds out little hope for her. I must sit with her, so I have asked Susan to prepare dinner, as Ivy is not here today. I am sure you will all help her as much as possible, my dears, and that Mr. Fairfax will excuse any shortcomings. Alice is taking care of the baby. Geoff, she wants you to tear up an old sheet for her. I’ll find one for you. Off you go now, all of you.”
They boys went out, their faces solemn. Robbie’s piercing whisper could be heard from the landing.
“Jamie! Does that mean she’d going to die?”
Mr. Fairfax looked at Hester’s expression and said softly: “I can only offer you my sympathy, Miss Godric. If you can think of any way in which I might assist . . .”
“No, no. I daresay it is grossly unfair of me, but I cannot feel kindly toward the male sex just at present. Excuse me, Mr. Fairfax.”
Even as he swallowed the affront, he recognised a certain justice in her feelings. He himself had never corrupted innocence, but was that true morality or simply a matter of taste? Certainly many of his fellows felt no qualms about it, though most, he thought, would look after any by-blows and their mothers. Sighing, he gave her the right and hoped fervently that the advent of Grace would not permanently turn her against him.
Hester returned to Grace’s bedside. The girl was awake, and she begged feverishly for her baby.
“He shall come in for a few minutes,” Hester soothed, “but Dr. Price advised that you should not feed him. Alice has given him some goat’s milk, which he seems to like very well.”
Alice brought little John in, gurgling happily in her arms. He was a bonny child. It seemed that all the mother’s meagre nourishment had gone straight to him. She was unable to hold him for long, and she wept when she had to give him up, starting Alice weeping in sympathy.
“You shall see him whenever you wish,” promised Hester. “Now you must try to eat a little and regain your strength.”
“I’ll take good care of him,” assured Alice through her tears.
Grace swallowed scarce a mouthful of broth and then fell asleep again. Hester sat beside her all afternoon. Dr. Price dropped in later on, and between them he
and Hester persuaded their patient to drink a glass of barley water and sip a little more broth. She seemed more alert and again asked for her baby. However, the doctor was not sanguine.
“Sleep and food she needs, look you,” he explained to Hester outside the chamber, “but she is too weak already to eat properly. I’d not want to raise your hopes, my dear.”
Throughout the long night, Hester kept vigil, seeing little change. When Ivy arrived in the morning, already fully apprized by gossip of the Godrics’ latest turn, she took over for a few hours so that Hester could catch some sleep on the sofa in the front parlour. Ivy was not at all averse to watching by a prospective deathbed, but she woke Hester after only a couple of hours.
“Her’s awake, Miss Hester,” she announced. “Wants ter talk to yer. Pore soul, ‘minds me o’ me auntie’s husband’s son-in-law by his first. Got lost on the moors, down in Devon they lived, and when they found him he weren’t nothing but a skellington. Thin as a rake and too feeble to eat. Din’t last but three days, he din’t. A rolling stone gathers no moss,” she added, to Hester’s sleepy bewilderment.
Rubbing her eyes, Hester dragged herself upstairs, where Grace anxiously awaited her.
“Miss Godric,” she started in a weak but determined voice, “you have been so good to me that I want to tell you everything.”
“Hush, my dear. Do not waste your strength. It is not necessary.
“Please, listen to me!” the girl pleaded. “I am dying, I know it, and I must tell someone.”
“I can call the vicar,” Hester suggested. “Mr. Smythe is a dear old man.”
“No! I’ll have nothing to do with the Church!” was the firm and bitter response. “Only listen, and you will understand.”
Grace was growing agitated, so Hester gave in and sat down to hear the story she had much rather have avoided.
“My father is a parson,” Grace began, “at Lavenham, in Suffolk, where I grew up. My brother also took the cloth and was given a parish in Somerset. Would that he had stayed closer to home!