by Joan Aiken
‘It is an unhealthy spot,’ Hatty agreed, shivering.
‘You mind for yourself, now, miss! I’ve heard tales of them – ’ he threw a glance at Barbara, who was mounting her mare. ‘Don’t let them put upon ye, or put ye down, Miss Hatty; but come back to us here any time – we’d be proud and glad to have ye.’
‘Oh, thank you, dear Mr Godwit. I will remember that. I promise. But Lord Camber said in his letter that he was very glad I was teaching his cousins and hoped I would stay with them.’
‘Lord Camber lays out notions of conduct that’s sometimes too high for ordinary flesh and blood,’ Godwit surprised her by saying.
‘I’m sure, Godwit, he’d never ask anyone to do something he would not undertake himself.’
‘Nay, that is true, for certain, but his Lordship is nearer to being a holy angel than most of the rest of us sinners. ’Tis easy enough for him. But it may not be so for us. The proof of the pudding,’ said Godwit thoughtfully, ‘the proof of the pudding ‘ull be how those folk all get on together in Amity Valley. For I reckon the rules of that place is all laid down according to his Lordship’s notions.’
‘I thought it had been decided between him and his friends.’
‘Most o’ the deciding was done by his Lordship, I reckon.’
Godwit did not smile; but his tone conveyed his view of the matter.
Hatty said thoughtfully, ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
Barbara had mounted by now. ‘Do make haste, Miss Ward,’ she called impatiently.
Dickon threw Hatty up on to her horse and she hurried after Barbara, who was already making off at a fast trot.
‘Why in the world, Miss Ward,’ demanded Barbara as Hatty drew alongside, ‘why in the world did you take it upon yourself to send that wretched woman to lodge with those people? I had no idea that you had done such a thing.’
‘Well,’ said Hatty mildly, ‘she had to lodge somewhere. And she had nowhere else to go. And no resources.’
‘But who gave you leave to make such use of Harry Camber’s house?’
‘Why, he did himself.’
‘He did? Very strange, indeed.’
‘Living there seems to have had a wholly beneficial effect upon Miss Stornoway,’ Hatty pointed out.
Barbara made no reply to this, but pressed her lips together and spurred on at an even faster pace. The mare, displeased at such cavalier treatment, tossed her head and swerved sideways along by some thickset low-growing hazel bushes, which slightly grazed Barbara’s cheek and forehead. She cried out angrily and slashed at the mare with her whip. Fortunately Harris, the old groom, had seen what occurred and came hurrying up level with her in order to grasp the bridle and bring the mare to a halt.
‘Nay, never use Firebird like that, my Lady, she ‘on’t stand for it,’ he admonished. ‘Leave her go her own pace, she’ll be mild as the moon, but chivvy her, she’ll act umbrageous! Lucky it is ye bain’t much hurt – ‘tis only a scratch.’
‘It is bleeding,’ said Barbara angrily. ‘It is very painful! I shall not ride this bad-tempered beast any more. She had better be sold.’
Harris shook his head.
‘There bain’t many mounts left in the stable now, my Lady. Better ye think again about that. Maybe ye’d better change mounts, now, with Miss Ward.’
Hatty declared that she was very willing to make the exchange, and inquired with solicitude after Barbara’s graze, which she could see was in fact of a very trifling nature; but Barbara exclaimed that she did not wish to ride on that slow old pig, matters had better rest as they were. She rode the rest of the way home frowning with discontent.
‘I have some tincture of witch-hazel, Lady Barbara,’ Hatty said as they dismounted. ‘It is very efficacious for scratches and small wounds. I will bring it to your bedroom directly.’ She did not mention that the witch-hazel had been given to her by Mrs Daizley.
Barbara acknowledged the offer by no more than a nod, and strode off to her chamber, where Hatty followed soon after with the little flask and some pieces of old clean cloth.
‘You will find this very soothing,’ she said after she had knocked and been invited brusquely to enter. ‘Here – let me apply it for you.’
Barbara, sitting on her bed, submitted in silence and without thanks to this ministration. As Hatty completed the small operation and looked about her for somewhere to dispose of the soiled scraps of cloth, she saw, to her shocked astonishment, lying upon Barbara’s bureau, her own mother’s little linen bag holding needles and pins and embroidered with tiny squirrels.
‘Oh!’ she cried out irrepressibly. ‘There it is! My mother’s bag! I wondered where it could possibly have got to – I looked for it everywhere and asked Bone—’
In fact she had wondered if the maid had taken it, and mourned it as stolen, for she knew very well that she had never taken it out of her room. Not wishing to accuse the maids, she had grieved for its loss in silence.
Now Barbara stared at her in what seemed haughty incomprehension. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Ward! That bag is mine. It is mine and always has been. My grandmother gave it to me.’
Hatty refrained from pointing out that her own initials, H.W., were embroidered among the squirrels. For all she knew, Lady Barbara’s grandmother might have been named Helen Wisbech.
She made some monosyllabic, non-committal noise in reply. She could not even bring herself to add, ‘Perhaps there is some mistake,’ since she knew the bag was hers. But there would be no profit, none, in bringing matters to an issue. Better let the bag go.
‘You should lie down for a while, Lady Barbara,’ she said quietly.
‘The bag is mine!’ asserted Barbara, swinging her booted feet up on to the counterpane.
‘No doubt,’ answered Hatty.
She turned to leave the room.
As Barbara flung herself on to the bed a small object had rolled from her pocket and fell to the floor with a thump. Hatty picked it up without comment and placed it on the bureau beside the embroidered needle bag. It was one of Miss Stornoway’s sea-shell monsters, adorned with black velvet ribbon and spangles.
XIV
Hatty greatly regretted that, during the visit to the Thatched Grotto, there had been no opportunity for herself and Miss Stornoway to hold a brief private conversation about the Fowldes sisters. She felt that lady, now, it seemed restored to health and good spirits, might have some valuable advice and comments to offer on the temperaments of her two difficult ex-charges. At first Hatty had been inclined to think Drusilla the more peculiar and unteachable of the pair, but she was now coming to revise that judgement. She could comprehend that there was no way in which the younger child might ever receive a normal education, but she had the capacity to be docile and tractable, and, in her own way, lovable. The bond of music with Hatty was a very strong one and, under its influence small doses of information might be administered and good habits inculcated. But Barbara, taller and more physically robust, almost old enough to be considered grown up – and certainly adjudging herself sufficiently mature to be accorded adult status – Barbara was a much more difficult proposition. By now Hatty had discovered that there lay a deep substratum of jealousy in her nature: so long as she was accorded first preference, and given as much as she required and expected in the way of praise, acclaim, respect, friendship and consideration, all went well enough; but let her receive ever so little less than what she felt to be her due, and a balefully sullen black temper was aroused which took days, sometimes weeks, to abate. Friendly relationships between other parties she could not tolerate; with every person she must always come first. Hatty wondered very much what the terms had been between Barbara and the elder sisters who were now married: had she been fond of them? had she missed them when they left home? did she envy their escape into the great world? Hatty often wished that it were possible to discuss Barbara’s character with her
mother. Did Lady Elstow, for instance, know of her daughter’s propensity for stealing other people’s belongings? Was that why it was so firmly accepted that this daughter, like her younger sister, stood no possible chance of matrimony, but must always remain at home, at Underwood Priors? Was this awkward characteristic talked about, discussed, among the elders of the family? Was that – perhaps – why Lord Camber had urged his cousin Ursula to remain at home always to look after her younger sisters? (Supposing that to have been a true story; it did seem to contradict Aunt Polly’s alternative version of the engagement to Lord Francis Fordingbridge and the fatal voyage to India.)
Oh, Aunt Polly, how I wish that you were here and that I could have a comfortable coze with you!
But all letters to Aunt Polly went unanswered. And any such discussion with Lady Elstow was quite out of the question. Lady Elstow kept her bed all morning, and her chamber until the dinner hour; she discouraged visits to her room and if her opinion was sought on any problem relating to her daughters, merely said, ‘You must wait until his Lordship comes to Underwood and ask him about that.’
Drusilla’s teeth protruded, a defect which, in part, led to her speech difficulty; Hatty thought that a dentist might be able to advise on this matter but when it was suggested to the Countess she shrugged and said, ‘Her father must decide. Pray do not trouble me about such trifling affairs.’
But the Earl’s visit had now been postponed again until September.
‘May I write to him about it, ma’am?’
‘Good heavens, no! Wait until he is here. Now leave me. I am excessively fatigued today. Ring the bell for Glastonbury.’
Encountering Glastonbury in the hall on the day following her visit to the Thatched Grotto, Hatty had paused to felicitate them both on Miss Stornoway’s unexampled improvement in health and spirits. ‘If you had not arranged her removal, Glastonbury, I do not know how she could have survived. You would not recognize her now for the same person.’
Glastonbury, as she had rather expected, was no stranger to the news of Miss Stornoway’s recovery. ‘It was a good piece of work, that, miss, for sure. Maybe the lady will be able to find another post now.’
‘You think she will wish to leave Lord Camber’s house?’
‘Well, miss, there’s talk about Lady Ursula.’
‘Lady Ursula?’
‘Yes, miss. There’s talk she might remove herself and go to the Grotto. There’s talk that Lord Camber gave her leave to do so.’
‘Good heavens! Where is Lady Ursula now? Not still at Bythorn?’
As might have been predicted, the gossip of the countryside was well up to date regarding the movements of the gentry.
‘Lady Ursula went up to London, Miss Hatty, when your cousin Mr Sydney Ward took over occupation of Bythorn Lodge. Lady Ursula went to stay with her sister Lady Mary Finster, who had hired a house in Berkeley Square. But the house was only hired until July and now Lady Mary is gone down to Kirkudbright again and Lady Ursula did not wish to travel all that way – or ‘tis possible that Lady Mary did not wish to have her any longer,’ Glastonbury added in an expressionless tone. ‘Anyhow, Lady Ursula is now residing with Lady Bertram and Sir Thomas at Mansfield Park.’
‘Is she indeed? Well, I hope that she remains there a long time. My sister Maria Bertram is very good-natured.’
‘No doubt, miss.’ Glastonbury’s face suggested that he felt even Lady Bertram’s good nature might not be unlimited. And Hatty added thoughtfully, ‘It is true, my sister Agnes is now at the Mansfield parsonage. She and Lady Ursula were used to be great friends. But they are two of a kind,’ she added, half to herself. ‘They might not always agree.’
Her thoughts moved anxiously to the happy household at the Thatched Grotto. Had Lord Camber bestowed on Lady Ursula the same carte blanche as he had to Hatty, to go and stay there whenever she wished? Hatty felt a moment’s indignation. As Godwit had said, ‘Lord Camber lays out notions of conduct that are sometimes too holy for the rest of us.’ Did he really think that his household would be happy to accommodate Lady Ursula? Besides – supposing Hatty herself had already been there? What then? Or was that – Hatty thought next – was that what he had intended? To oblige his cousin and Hatty to make friends? This idea needed some careful thought.
‘Glastonbury,’ she said, ‘do you have any definite intelligence as to Lord Elstow’s return home?’
‘No, miss.’ And Glastonbury added cautiously, ‘I believe it depends mostly on His Majesty’s state of health.’
‘His Majesty?’
‘Yes, miss. Apparently His Majesty has run mad, and was recently seen conversing with a tree in Windsor Great Park, addressing it as the King of Prussia. There is talk of confining him to a special establishment, and the Prince of Wales would then become Regent.’
‘Good heavens, Glastonbury.’
‘In that case, you see, miss, his Grace being a great friend of Mr Fox – and Mr Fox being a great friend of His Royal Highness – and Mr Fox being asked to form a government—’
Such an eventuality would be very favourable towards restoring the Earl’s fallen fortunes, Hatty perceived at once.
She asked impulsively, ‘Has it ever been suggested that Lady Barbara should go and stay with Lady Mary or Lady Anne?’
Glastonbury’s flat, impassive face became even more mask-like. He said, ‘No, miss. It has not.’
Feeling that she had been guilty of backstairs gossip, Hatty went off to the schoolroom, where Barbara greeted her with a glare. But how, Hatty wondered, other than by backstairs gossip, is one to acquire information in this house?
May gave way to June. Hatty’s rides with Barbara were discontinued. On the day following the visit to Lord Camber’s cottage, arriving as usual at the stable, Hatty was told by Harris that Lady Barbara had given orders for the mare to be sold; Lady Barbara would ride alone with the groom in future and Miss Ward’s company would not be required.
Discomposed but not greatly surprised, Hatty replaced the rides with Barbara by walks with Drusilla. The child was delicate and liable to catch cold very easily; during the winter and early spring months it had not been thought advisable by Winship, the elderly nurse who had had charge of all the Fowldes girls, that she should set foot out of doors, at all. But now the weather was mild, croquet in the garden or gentle walking exercise might be permitted. Drusilla indeed throve visibly under this regime. Her cheeks had a better colour, she slept longer at night, her tiny appetite increased and, Hatty thought, so did her intelligence and memory span. She could now learn short passages by heart, especially if these were accompanied by music; and so their strolls were enlivened, as they walked along, by singing games: multiplication tables, rules of grammar and historical dates all chanted to the tunes of nursery rhymes, or ballads, or the airs that Drusilla made up herself as they walked. Of these she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply, and Hatty often thought that they were not just a child’s jingles but real melodies with shape and structure such as would have done credit to an adult composer. These the child could always recall when required, and Hatty wondered, over and over, at the strange anomaly that her memory for facts and words and pictures should be so faulty and inexact, her memory for music so precise and absolute.
Unfortunately Hatty’s growing rapport with Drusilla had a maleficent effect upon the temper of the latter’s elder sister. Barbara’s solitary rides, also, seemed to feed her gloom and jealousy, as if she spent them entirely in angry, repetitive rumination; she would return from them sunk into a black mood, speaking to nobody and replying in snappish monosyllables if addressed. Even Lady Elstow, who was generally wrapped in a cloud of her own abstraction, noticed her elder daughter’s silence and surliness.
‘Hey-day, Miss Ward! What have you done to Lady Barbara, to throw her into the sullens? You are supposed to be enlivening her, not casting her into a permanent huff. To be faced with black
scowls at dinner is what I have no patience with, and not what I pay you a salary for, let me tell you.’
‘Perhaps this might be a suitable occasion to remind your Ladyship that you have not paid me any salary as yet,’ Hatty pointed out in the mild but clear and carrying voice which, by a process of trial and error, she had discovered was best calculated to penetrate the Countess’s deafness.
This remark surprised a reluctant snort of laughter from Barbara as she sat morosely chopping her roast mutton into small portions and pushing them around her plate.
Lady Elstow chose not to hear, which was her invariable tactic for dealing with domestic difficulties. She said: ‘Well, you girls will need to improve your manners next week – I want no sour looks and ill-natured silences when du Vallon joins us. In himself he is of small account, but I do not wish him returning to London and telling all your father’s acquaintance that Elstow has a pair of ill-conditioned lumpish daughters who are unfit for polite company.’
Drusilla’s face lit up. ‘Is he coming? Mr Abbey? Oh, I like him, I like him!’
And even across Barbara’s lowering, down-turned visage, a gleam of interest could be observed.
‘Though I daresay we shan’t get much of his company,’ she muttered. ‘Mama will occupy all his attention as she did before.’ These words were uttered in a tone too low to be caught by the Countess. Hatty frowned at the girl, who made a grimace of disdain, pushing up her lips. To distract the Countess’s attention from this ill-bred behaviour, Hatty asked, ‘Who is M du Vallon, ma’am?’
‘Oh, he is a penniless young scapegrace who is nevertheless perfectly well-connected – his family disowned him some seven or eight years ago. He is a relative of our cousin the Duc de Pierrefonds de Bracieux; he came to England to make his way and Mr Fox has befriended him.’ Lady Elstow was incapable of telling a connected narrative.