Here was a well-made, barely used uniform of an infantry lieutenant, the coat a brilliant red with shiny brass buttons, epaulettes, and a stand-up collar. The regulation hat was a shako, a handsome cylindrical affair with a visor and jaunty plumes.
Did I dare?
It was too large for me, of course, even tho’ made for a boy of sixteen. However, if I carefully unpicked the seams, could I not take it in so it would fit? I decided that I could. I removed the white silk sash and several other insignia which too clearly indicated its provenance and began work. With a few hours’ work, I had a close-fitting scarlet coatee that handsomely set off my black muslin skirt. (A white skirt might have seemed to mimic the official uniform a little too closely.) True, it was unusual for a woman to wear a coat of such a brilliant hue, but no one could deny that it was striking.
The hat was likewise a triumph. Once stripped of its gold cording and metal badge of rank, and then swaddled with a filmy black scarf, it became a very fashionable ladies’ hat indeed. The feathers had been nibbled by moths, but a quick trim restored them. The only problem with the hat was that it was a bit large. I stuffed it with rags until it sat steady.
My attire for the outing now settled, I turned my attention to my second concern: my horse. She was an elderly mare who had to be coaxed up the smallest hill and suffered from severe vertigo on a rise of only a few feet. I dared not ride her near the cliffs. Once in recent months I had tried it; at first sight of the abyss she froze, her eyes grew large as saucers and in her terror she nearly plunged us both to our deaths. It would not do, not for her sake and not for mine.
The only way I could think of to obscure the fact that we could not afford a good ladies’ riding horse for Mama and me was to pretend that my mare had been purchased for me as being extremely gentle. Actually she had only been extremely cheap, though she was a dear, good creature, named Pegeen. I was able to afford her maintenance largely due to the kindness of Sir Quentin, who regularly directed his farrier to attend to her, and incidentally sent along several bales of feed.
“Can’t bear to see a horse badly shod,” was his explanation.
I loved to ride—it was my passion—but I would have to behave like a nervous little miss too frightened to be mounted on anything more spirited than a child’s hobby-horse.
This was injurious to my pride, but I decided that it was for the best, at least for the moment. I could—could I not?—appear to gradually become more adventurous on horseback, so that by the wedding I would be so much at ease that His Lordship could give me a strong-willed Arabian stallion for the groom’s gift to the bride. I closed my eyes and imagined myself galloping at a breakneck speed o’er hill and dale with the Baron at my side. However, if he was like most men, he would reserve the fiery stallion for himself and present me with a docile, younger version of Pegeen. Ah well, that was for the future.
I therefore decided that we would ride inland towards a group of megaliths arranged in a rough circle, known locally as “the Screaming Stones” because of the noise the wind made rushing between them. As standing stones went, they were not large or notable, but they were undeniably old, and might, by their extreme antiquity, provide a subject for reflection and conversation on the part of the more sensible members of the party and a certain amount of superstitious nonsense on the part of whichever of my stepsisters gained the right to accompany us.
Only one would be able to do so. My stepsisters had their own horse, shared between them. They would not on any account lend the animal so that Mama and I could ride together, or for any general purposes of the household, and would only allow it to be hitched to our chaise when they wished to be conveyed somewhere, such as on the night of the ball. Neither enjoyed riding much—the horse was for show and spent the vast majority of its life idle, eating its head off and growing stout—and so there was no reason to bear the expense of two when one was rarely used.
Once it occurred to Charity that she and Prudence would therefore not both be able to join the party, she proposed that we use the chaise.
“Then, you know, we could all go. It would be shocking to leave poor Mama Winthrop home,” she said. As the younger of the two Winthrop daughters, she would be the one obliged to give way to her elder sister.
I shook my head. I, too, thought it would be a shame to leave my mother at home. But taking the chaise was not to be thought of. “The roads are far too bad. You know quite well that the last few miles of the way are nothing more than a track fit only for walking or riding. Of course, if you wished to take the chaise, leave it at Allingham, and let Mama and me have the horses, while you and Prudence walked the rest of the way, it would certainly be very thoughtful and kind of y—”
“Certainly not!” “No, indeed!” cried Prudence and Charity.
Charity eyed me resentfully. At length she burst out, “I do not know why I should have to stay at home if Althea is to go. She is the youngest, after all. You ought to let me ride your horse, Althea. It’s only right.”
“Now, Charity,” interposed my mother hastily, “I am sorry for your disappointment, but you know I will be grateful to have your company.”
“She ought to stay at home. She is the youngest. I want her to lend me her horse.” And Charity almost, but did not quite, stamp her foot.
“Charity, dear,” said my mother, “Pegeen was purchased with funds from Althea’s father’s estate. He especially wished it—he even spoke of it on his deathbed—as Althea is so fond of riding. And you know that you have always been indifferent to the exercise. Pegeen is Althea’s horse. Indeed, I am told that she leaves almost nothing for the stable boy to do, so far as caring for the animal.”
“Perhaps, Charity,” chimed in Prudence, “while we are disporting ourselves on the moors, you could get on with counting our lace handkerchiefs and other items of dress, before we send them out to the laundress? You have such an exquisite eye for detail.”
Charity’s face turned red and seemed to swell.
I had remained silent, but now I had to speak. The proper thing for me to do would be to offer my horse to her and remain at home. But I could not bear it. Charity and Prudence were both dreadful horsewomen, quick with the whip and heedless of the horse’s comfort or safety. And the entire party had been a scheme of the Baron’s so that I could show him the countryside.
“Charity—” I began, but at this tense moment Greengages shuffled into the room. “Mr. Fredericks, madam.”
In strode Mr. Fredericks, the image of impatience. He nearly toppled poor Greengages onto the floor in his haste to enter, execute his business, and leave.
“Will two horses suffice, Mrs. Winthrop? If so, I will leave you. I’ve the devil of a lot of work to get through if I am to frivol away tomorrow chasing about after a collection of rocks in a circle. However, Boring insists that I attend.”
“Mr. Fredericks, how do you do?” said my bewildered mama. “Which horses do you mean, sir?”
“Why, the ones that you, and one of your daughters, I suppose”—he looked about at us as though uncertain of which sex we were—“are to ride on the morrow. I am told you have not enough horseflesh to ensure that everyone will be able to ride. Boring thought we ought to send a few over on loan.”
I could feel a flush of gratification rising to my cheeks. This was a marked attention, without mistake. He must have meant this to give me pleasure, and it was a thoughtful, generous gesture. True, I could have wished His Lordship had come to offer the horses himself instead of allowing his boorish friend to deliver them. However, perhaps he felt too self-conscious to appear in person.
I smiled and said nothing as my mother, with a swift glance at me, agreed that two horses would be adequate. Mr. Fredericks declined to sit down or accept refreshment and was gone, having been in the room for something less than five minutes.
“Never mind, Althea,” said Charity. “I had much, much rather ride the Baron’s horse than your poor old thing.”
Since I too had much, much r
ather she ride the Baron’s horse than my poor old thing, I said nothing but merely smiled.
8
THE DAY OF OUR trip to the Screaming Stones dawned early, as it does in June in northern England: at about half past the hour of four in the morning, in fact. No matter how near dawn came to the time that we had laid our heads down on our pillows the night before, Fido and Alexander felt that we ought to be up and active if the sun was over the horizon. There was no lying abed until noon, as I am told fine London ladies are in the habit of doing—at least, not for Mama and me, who must see to the details of our excursion.
It gave every promise of a lovely day, with not a cloud to be seen. In the midst of preparations I paused a moment by the stables to study the sky (the outlook was excellent, the groom who was readying the horses assured me). My gaze dropped to the castle with its mad, eccentric towers and buttresses, and beyond to the land where I lived. The groom, who was an intelligent, good sort of man, whose family had worked for mine for many generations, noticed my thoughtful look and said, smiling, “T’castle be a rare fine place, mistress.”
“Jock, it is,” I agreed. I knew that he and I felt much the same loyalty to Crooked Castle. “And it must be kept in the family. It must be preserved for Master Alexander.”
“Aye, mistress, that it must,” he said, and then began talking about provisions for the day.
I had begun to think of our journey as something more than a mere pleasure jaunt; rather, it resembled a military sortie in our campaign to keep the castle. I believed that Jock shared my view. If ever we were forced to abandon our home it would go hard not only on us, but on our tenants and servants as well. They knew it, and I knew that they were looking to me to protect their homes and livelihood with a good marriage. Beyond my immediate family, thirty-seven people (give or take a few babies) were anxiously waiting to see how I would dispose of my hand in matrimony.
I thought of the Baron’s handsome face and figure and felt that I could resign myself to doing my duty quite cheerfully if only I were given the chance to do so.
Mrs. Westing and Mrs. Fredericks had sent their regrets at not attending our little party, feeling that the expedition would require them to travel both for a longer time and over rougher roads than either was accustomed to on horseback. I was sorry for this, as I wished to be better acquainted with Lord Boring’s mother, and as my mother so enjoyed the conversation of Mrs. Fredericks. And besides, if Mrs. Fredericks had come to keep Mama company I should have had no compunction about leaving her alone from time to time in order to walk with his Lordship.
Our nuncheon was not to be anything grand. I had looked in the larder and found a great many shriveled parsnips and other, less identifiable roots left over from last fall. After I had boiled these for an hour or two and added some currants and sugar, I encased the result in pastry, baked it, and called it a pie. The vegetable garden yielded herbs enough for a green salad, with the addition of some wild sorrel and dandelion leaves. That would have to suffice. It was packed up in Jock’s saddlebags—Lord Boring had not forgotten to send over a pony for him so that he could wait upon us and see to the horses while we strolled about the countryside. I lingered to supervise the careful packing of two of those few bottles of wine that remained to us of what had once been a fine wine cellar, as well as a cool jug of barley water.
“I want to go! I want to go, too, ’Leetha!” Alexander burst out of the door, trotting on his little-boy legs as fast as he could, with Mama in pursuit. Fido, who was, as always, at my heels, began to bark and prance about the child, twisting in ridiculous, hysterical circles and adding to Alexander’s uproar.
I sighed. I had known that these two would be distraught if excluded from our party, but could not see how to include them. I said, “Mama, if you could see to it that Prudence and Charity are up, and that they are ready on time, I will take Alexander out to the garden where we can throw the ball for Fido.” If I could exhaust their busy little bodies prior to our departure, it might make it easier to consign them both to Annie’s care.
For at least an hour I played with them, running and throwing the ball until I felt that I, at least, would prefer to go back to my chamber and fall into an exhausted slumber rather than set out on an eight-mile ride over rough country. At the end of that time Mama appeared and signaled to me that we were nearly ready to depart. My companions shifted their shining eyes from my face to hers.
“I—I am coming,” I gasped. I hurried indoors and donned my “new” riding habit. Fido and Alexander, showing no sign of fatigue, followed me out to the stable yard where the others had assembled.
Lord Boring, the Marquis of Bumbershook and the inevitable Mr. Fredericks were present, already mounted, as were my mother and stepsisters. The latter two stared suspiciously at my habit, knowing my wardrobe every bit as well as I did.
“Where did that come from?” Charity demanded.
“What, this old thing?” I said, “Goodness, it’s been around forever.”
“It’s red,” said Prudence. “And that hat! It reminds me of a—”
“Are we all ready? Althea, do come along now,” interrupted my mother. A tiny smile told me that she had guessed the origin of my new garb. Jock stood holding his pony and my Pegeen in readiness for me to mount. Annie was there to see us off and take charge of boy and dog. When Alexander spotted his friend Mr. Fredericks, however, his face lit up. “Freddicks!” he cried, and trotted towards him, his arms held up to be lifted. “I want to come!” he demanded.
We gasped in dismay and Annie and I, the only adults present on foot who were not encumbered by horses, hurried towards him. Mr. Fredericks was mounted on a fine bay that danced with impatience to be gone, disliking the proximity of this small, unsteady human.
Mr. Fredericks laid a hand on the horse’s neck. “Be still,” he said, and the animal quieted and stood immobile. Then he leaned over and casually snatched my brother up with one hand by the scruff of his jacket. “So you want to come too, do you?” Alexander nodded, giggling at being manhandled. “Then you shall,” said Mr. Fredericks.
“Fredericks!” Lord Boring said.
“Yes?”
“The boy’s mother has some say in the matter.”
“Has she?” Mr. Fredericks considered this. “Well, perhaps she has. Is she—yes, there she is. Do you object, madam?”
If he had said this in a superior or dismissive tone of voice, I believe I should have rushed at him without heed for his powerful horse and snatched Alexander from him. But he did not. He spoke in a tone of apparently genuine enquiry.
“I—I hadn’t thought—but I suppose it would be all right—”
“Fredericks,” growled the Marquis. “The lady is distressed.”
“No . . . no,” my mother went on in a stronger voice, “Truly, Your Lordship, I would not object, if Mr. Fredericks keeps a tight hold of him, and does not . . . forget that the child is riding with him.”
Mr. Fredericks’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He seemed offended. “Forget? Forget that my good friend Alexander has claimed my care and protection? Certainly not.”
Oddly enough, for my mama was the most loving and careful mother in existence, this appeared to satisfy her. “Very well,” she said, “you shall come, Alexander. Mind you do not cause Mr. Fredericks a moment of annoyance. Althea? Are you ready?”
Bemused, I turned without a word. Jock was at hand with Pegeen, bent over to boost me into the saddle. I was mounted and ready to leave when another disturbance occurred. I became aware of something clinging to my ankle. Poor old Pegeen shied at the discovery that a small dog was attempting to claw itself up her flank onto my lap.
I heard a shout of laughter; Mr. Fredericks was amused at my plight. “You may as well bring him, you know. The boy and the dog will keep an eye on one another, and the dog will only follow you if you leave him behind.”
“I suppose you are right,” I admitted. I leant down and pulled Fido the rest of the way up, much relieving
Pegeen. “Lie down and be still,” I ordered the dog.
Conscious of having got their way against great odds, and wise enough to appreciate it, neither interloper did anything more than look about with wide, delighted eyes all the long eight miles from Crooked Castle to the Screaming Stones. I kept a sharp eye on Mr. Fredericks, but he was as good as his word and held fast to my brother, lowering his head to speak with him from time to time.
The day grew warmer. My hat, made of leather and felt and padded with rags, began to seem oppressively hot, and as the track grew rougher it tipped precariously from one side of my head to the other with increasing frequency. An unexpected sensation on the back of my neck made me realize that half the stuffing had slipped out and was fluttering in the wind behind me. I hastily pushed it back inside and crammed the chapeau down over my forehead. Fashionable or no, it was beginning to seem a great inconvenience. I wondered how soldiers could bear wearing the great, heavy things, in addition to all the other hardships of military life.
As we neared our goal, several intensely green patches surrounding what appeared to be small ponds became visible. I pointed them out to Lord Boring, who had shown an amiable tendency to ride alongside me the whole way, slowing his horse’s pace to match Pegeen’s.
“It looks like a good spot to water the horses,” he observed.
“That is what I feared you might think, my lord,” I replied. “And it is a dangerous idea, I am sorry to say. They are not shallow ponds but rather flooded mine shafts which drop off immediately to a depth of sixty or so feet. A thin mat of vegetation fringes the rim, giving the false impression of solid ground over what is really a subaquatic void. It is a shocking dereliction of responsibility on the part of the mine owners not to cover them. A stranger to the area such as yourself might allow his horse to wade in for a drink and quite likely neither horse nor man would ever be seen again. But few strangers venture here, and so I suppose they think their laxity justified.”
Keeping the Castle Page 7