Keeping the Castle

by Patrice Kindl

  Prudence bridled. “I do not find him so,” she said. “Mr. Fredericks is a fine-looking man.”

  I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. Prudence was building hopes of attracting him as a suitor, after all. Tho’ only the son of a shop clerk, he was the grandson of a baron, and that atoned for a great deal. I suppose she felt that the money she would bring to the marriage would be matched by the whiff of nobility, and the right to visit Gudgeon Park on familiar terms. How she would bring herself to forgive Mr. Fredericks’s mother for her rash mésalliance I did not know. In any case, as he had not so much as glanced in her direction, I did not think much of her chances.

  “When he smiles, he is very attractive,” agreed my mother. “It was good-natured of him to mend Alexander’s toy.”

  “He broke it,” I observed.

  “Ah, but not one in a hundred men would have spent the greater part of an hour, and the whole of their visit, on such a fiddling little job with a small child’s toy. Now, if he were trying to win the esteem of the child’s sister, perhaps yes, but . . .” She trailed off, eyeing me doubtfully. Even my mama, partial as she was, could not convince herself that Mr. Fredericks was in love with me, or indeed had noticed my existence, other than as the new owner of a puppy in which he had interested himself. “Truly, Althea,” she went on, “I do not think his heart is bad, only his manner.”

  “His manner is quite enough to condemn him in my eyes,” I said. “How he could speak of wasting the rest of the afternoon in our company! And to leave without a proper good-bye to you, Mama! I find him quite insufferable.”

  “You would change your mind soon enough if you believed him a man of property,” said Prudence. “If he were a rich man, you’d be only too happy to set your cap at him.”

  “I do not deny,” I said after a moment’s reflection, “that I consider it my duty to marry a man of substance to ensure that little Alexander shall inherit this property in due course, and, furthermore, to ensure that my mother and even my stepsisters will always have a home to call their own in the event that they do not marry. But I find that I do have standards, below which I am unwilling to sink. I swear to you that nothing, nothing! could tempt me to marry Mr. Fredericks, even had he all the wealth of the Indies in his pocket.”

  And I swept out of the room, the dog Fido trotting close behind.

  “How pleasant it is,” said the Marquis of Bumbershook, “to recline at one’s ease in a castle garden in June, while nearby four lovely ladies sit and sew a fine seam.”

  Having completed his business in York, the Marquis had returned and ridden over from Gudgeon Park one afternoon to sit with us as we sewed in the central bailey, which is open to the sky and possesses the remains of a rose garden now coming into bloom.

  Prudence and Charity were far too overawed by his eminence to say much to him, leaving us in a blissful silence wherein rational discourse was possible. Rather to my surprise, my mother was uncharacteristically silent as well, tho’ His Lordship was as affable and approachable as our good neighbor Sir Quentin. The Marquis and I therefore bore the burden of keeping the talk flowing, but this was no hardship. He seemed to be enjoying the pale sunlight and the brave roses that had, against all odds, struggled out of the thin, chalky soil and flaunted themselves against the stones of the bailey keep.

  He had brought a small, cowhide-covered ball for the dog Fido. After some initial suspicion, Fido had grasped the purpose of this item and they began a game of toss and fetch. That is, His Lordship tossed, and Fido restored the ball to him after much racing about and hysterical barking.

  I later learned that it was a “golf” ball, stitched and stuffed with feathers for the game of the same name, at which the Marquis was an adept. Had I known how expensive the ball was, I should never have allowed Fido to sink his little teeth into it. However, by the time I did learn the ball’s value, it was too late. He became addicted to the diversion and expected a game of ball every night after dinner for at least half an hour. However, I digress.

  Since His Lordship the Marquis was lately come from London, I pressed him for details about the new fashions, books, and plays of the capital. When he spoke of new publications my mother at last lifted her eyes from her work and began to join in. Soon they were engaged in conversation and I was pleased to note, and to observe my mother note, how his every word and expression marked him out as a man of intelligence and cultivation. One would expect polished manners and an extensive knowledge of the world from a man in his position in life, but he was better than that: he was possessed of a superior mind and a liberal nature.

  I will not attempt to disguise the fact that I found Lord Boring to be an attractive man, not only in his purse but in his person. But it would not do to be too hasty; here was yet another man who was more than worthy of my consideration.

  True, he was a widower more than twenty-five years my senior, and a head shorter than I. But I believed him to admire me, and I liked him very much. No, the concern was that he was far, far too grand for me; mine was an ancient and honorable lineage, but the Marquis was a celebrated member of the ton, on terms of easy familiarity with the Prince Regent’s residence at Carlton House and with the most distinguished houses of Europe. If he did remarry (and thousands of young ladies and their mamas must have exerted themselves to the utmost to achieve this goal, but had in the end been forced to admit defeat), it would be expected that he would choose a woman from one of the great families of England, not an impoverished young girl from the back of beyond in a dilapidated castle by the edge of the North Sea.

  How foolish I was to even think of him as anything but a pleasant acquaintance!

  And yet . . .

  And yet I will admit to another side of the story. He was the last of his line—his wife and young child had died some years ago and he had no close relatives to resent his choice. He was free to marry as he pleased. Therefore, perhaps it was not entirely foolish, I thought as I watched him smiling contentedly around at our little family party.

  Ah well, I told myself, it was early days yet.

  Life in little Lesser Hoo had become much more interesting of late.

  7

  RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, AND yet more rain. On the day after we sat in the sunlit garden with the Marquis, black clouds rolled in off the sea bringing a driving downpour. It rained and blew and then rained some more, for five nights and days. No one came to call. The plans that the Baron and I had made to organize a riding party had perforce to be put off until the weather improved. The ladies of Crooked Castle sat indoors for days in near darkness as wind and water beat against the castle walls, and Fido and Alexander chafed at their involuntary imprisonment. One morning when we awoke we found a small stream of water trickling down the hallway in the eastern wing where Mama and I slept.

  We looked at each other and sighed. There could now be no doubt that there was a hole in the roof. I had spoken to the stone mason, and he had told me that a good slate roof such as ours could last for a long time. The damp spots I showed him might be due to a few missing slates, the repair of which would take an hour or two, no more. On the other hand, the entire framework beneath the slates might be rotten, calling for a time-consuming and, above all, expensive undertaking to replace it. In any case, we could not afford even the least costly repair.

  “Do not fret yourself, Mama,” I said. “I will see to it.”

  “But the money—”

  “I will see to it.”

  “Prudence and Charity would never—”

  I smiled, and Mama fell silent.

  We knew better than to ask Prudence and Charity to contribute any money towards the upkeep of this, their only home, though they could readily have afforded it. (I knew this for a fact, as I had taken care to read their last financial statement from London.) We had attempted to shame them into it before, with dismal results. A common saying in our part of the world is, “Eat all, drink all, and pay nowt”—in other words, we are not known for foolish generosity—and my stepsis
ters are true daughters of Yorkshire. Their position was that they were certain to marry some day, and it would be wrong to deny their future husbands and children even the smallest portion of the fortunes that had been left to them.

  “Perhaps we may be blessed with large families, Stepmama,” Charity explained. “Then only think how we would regret squandering money that might have made provision for younger sons, or for daughters without the means or desire to marry. No, I am sorry, but it is not to be thought of.”

  However, Mama knew that I had contrived to get money out of them before for some important repair or to augment our meager food budget. She did not always approve of the means I used, but had to admit that it was only fair that they pay some small part of their maintenance. Of course, every time I managed to squeeze a few coins out of them, we paid for it by having to listen to endless remarks about how lucky my mother was to have such open-handed, free-spending stepdaughters in her household.

  I would be glad enough to agree with such sentiments if it meant that the roof over our heads would remain whole.

  Their bedroom was on the leeward side of the castle, away from the wind and rain blowing in off the sea, which meant it was dry and secure and they were not affected by the leaky roof. It was necessary to arrange matters so that they would be affected, or they would never stir themselves in the matter.

  It took me some hours searching in the least-inhabited rooms of the castle, as well as in several outbuildings where grain and foodstuffs were stored, to find what I required. I had to lock Fido into the pantry, and I feared that his howls and scratching at the woodwork would give away my plan, but it did not; my stepsisters were making a great noise on the old pianoforte and did not hear. Gently transporting my finds on cushions or old burlap sacks, I made several trips to the bedrooms in the same wing of the building where Prudence and Charity slept, with special attention to their chamber. Once I was satisfied with the west wing, I made certain arrangements to a bedroom on the eastern side.

  Then I sat back and awaited developments.

  At nightfall we retired to our several rooms and soon darkness and silence reigned over the castle. I lay awake with my door open, listening. I did not have long to wait. Shriek upon shriek split the night. I arose, pulled on a robe and lit my candle. Fido leapt to the floor and accompanied me. My mother, much perturbed by the disturbance, cried out to me as I passed her room, “Oh Althea, what dreadful thing can have happened?”

  “I do not know. Remain in your room and I will ascertain what the trouble is. I do believe . . . why, yes, I believe the cries came from the west wing, where Prudence and Charity are.”

  Not content to wait to hear what was causing the uproar, which was increasing in volume every moment that passed, my mother insisted on following me down the hall. As we came closer and the screams grew louder and more strident, the servants began to appear in the hallways, rubbing their eyes and yawning. I noted with interest that Greengages’s nightshirt was of a virulent green color, patterned with pink flowers. Could it have belonged to his deceased wife?

  I found myself murmuring a paraphrase of some lines from Shakespeare, in tribute to this awe-inspiring din:

  Methought I heard a voice cry “Sleep no more!

  The Misses Winthrop do murder sleep,” the innocent sleep,

  Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.

  We paused in the doorway of Prudence and Charity’s bedroom, the servitors peeping over our shoulders.

  “Charity, what are you doing? Prudence, it is Althea. Pray do not strike me with that broom.”

  “Mice! Hordes of them!” Charity paused in beating at the floor and walls with a pillow in order to answer me. Fido began barking and then pounced at a small moving shape.

  Prudence said, “Our pillows are infested with their nests! They creep between our sheets and swarm over the floor and up the draperies!”

  “How remarkable!” I said. “I wonder why there should be such a sudden infestation. Fido, please be quiet. At any rate, you had best shift to another room to finish out the night. Perhaps . . . let me think . . . ah! This room at the end of the corridor—not too close to your old room, but in the same wing—I believe it has a large and relatively comfortable bed. May I assist you in moving?”

  “No . . . no, we can manage, Althea,” said Prudence. “Please go away, all of you.”

  “Are you certain?” I enquired. “I could bring your bedclothes, for instance. The bed coverings in the new room are sure to be cold and clammy.”

  “Ugh, no!” cried Charity. “I never want to so much as look at those bedclothes again. Disgusting!”

  “But perhaps Annie could bring you a bedwarmer? No? Very well, if you are sure.” Mama, Fido and I escorted them to their new domicile and, once they had inspected the bed for evidence of rodents and found none, we said goodnight and left them.

  I did not lie down again. I feared it might take somewhat longer this time, and I preferred not to doze off. The nest of mice was under the wardrobe, in this room.

  At least an hour must have passed before the screams began anew. This time they more resembled wails than squeals; my stepsisters were grown tired and petulant.

  “More vermin?” I asked at the doorway to their new room.

  “They are everywhere! All the rooms are teeming with them!”

  “Not quite,” I said. “Mama and I have not been bothered in the east wing.”

  Prudence turned a suspicious gaze on me. “Oh? Not at all? That seems strange.”

  Charity, alerted by the tone of her sister’s voice, looked around at that, and they both regarded me with narrowed eyes and scowling faces.

  “Indeed, it seems odd to me also,” I said. “I cannot think of an explanation—but wait! Perhaps I have it. Have you been eating, or storing, any food in your room?” Their hostile stares faltered, and they darted glances at one another out of the corners of their eyes.

  “Oh, but what am I saying?” I went on, shaking my head at my own foolishness. “If you had bought any sweets or cakes or anything of that nature, you would have taken them to the kitchen, so that they could be served up to the entire household, rather than hiding them away. Forgive me for making such a suggestion. No, it must remain a mystery, I fear. However, there is a furnished room in our wing where you can sleep. Please allow me to show you.”

  They followed me in sulky silence to the preordained chamber in the east wing.

  This time Fido and I climbed into bed and closed our eyes in well-deserved slumber. We slept so heavily that we almost missed the third disruption of the night when a fresh squall blew in across the sea from Norway and, lying as they were on a bed positioned under the worst of the leak in the roof, they began to feel the rain dripping onto their heads. I believe I may have heard a scream or two, but I did not bother to rouse myself. Rather, I snuggled down in my bed, with a satisfied smile on my face and a sense of accomplishment in my heart.

  It required several days of continued rain and marauding rodents before Prudence and Charity capitulated. When a fine cashmere shawl belonging to Prudence that had been left in their original bedchamber was found with holes chewed along the hem (I rather fancy that our maid, Annie, who had been encouraged to exaggerate the mouse problem, may have been involved), they demanded that something be done. Faced with our undeniable poverty, they had no option save to pay for that something themselves.

  With much tsk-tsk-ing and fretful remarks about how we (my mother and I and, no doubt, my small brother and Fido as well) had allowed the castle to become so dilapidated that we had to rely on our too-trusting and too-easily-imposed-upon relations to keep it from falling into ruin, my stepsisters authorized the repairs and the extermination.

  However, at last the rain was gone. The sun was come again, and so was the mason, to fix the roof this time. Happily, the repairs required proved to be minor rather than major. Also, a boy with a ferret was employed to clear out the infestation of mice. (I assisted in this latter t
ask by removing the nests and their occupants to an unoccupied outbuilding.)

  Mama was of course pleased, though surprised. “I can understand that they would wish to repair the roof, since they are now obliged to sleep in the leakiest bedroom, but it is a remarkable coincidence—” She looked at me and then down at her knitting, hiding a smile as she did so. “Never mind. Do not tell me. It is best I do not know.”

  Dutiful and loving daughter that I am, I honored her request, and changed the subject.

  Now the rains were over, Lord Boring came calling again, renewing his suggestion that we get up a riding party. I was delighted at the prospect, save for one or two minor matters. The Baron would know by now that my dowry was small and our income only just equal to our maintenance, but I did not wish him to know how very tightly our purse was drawn.

  Firstly, my riding habit was in tatters. And, while I was reasonably handy with my needle, ladies’ riding habits were, like gentlemen’s clothing, cut and sewn by skilled tailors. The expense of a professionally tailored riding jacket, let alone a smart hat to match, was not to be thought of. I began picking through our store of old linens and outgrown clothing, looking for something I could turn into a respectable piece of ladies’ attire.

  At last I came upon several suits of my father’s, now very outdated in appearance. I was meditating upon the possibility of adapting them for Alexander’s use someday, when an idea, full-formed, darted into my brain.

  I have said that ladies’ riding coats and jackets were traditionally tailored; they also were decidedly masculine in appearance, so that only a long skirt and sidesaddle posture gave away the sex of the rider from a distance. Even the hats of fashionable ladies on horseback were inspired by military style.

  When he was only sixteen my father had purchased a lieutenancy in the infantry in hopes of restoring his family fortune. These hopes ended at my grandfather’s death, when my father was called home to manage the estate.