by Joan Aiken
‘Oh, you are besotted with that wretched man!’ he exclaimed furiously.
‘To what wretched man are you referring?’ Hatty’s tone was chilly.
‘That Camber! “One can only knock and wait!” He has caused infinite trouble in this family and doubtless will cause more when he returns from his ill-conceived excursion. No wonder that Barbara has such a dislike of him. He turned her sister Ursula into a prematurely aged, sour, self-absorbed shrew and will probably do the same to you!’
‘I am going back to the house, Monsieur. This conversation is unprofitable, and has lasted quite long enough.’
Hatty rose at six in the morning, after three hours of restless slumber. She knew that a butcher’s cart called at Underwood before breakfast and then went on to Bythorn, taking in Wanmaulden Cross on its route.
She had left a letter for Lady Elstow, enclosing one month’s unearned salary. She knew there was no point in attempting to speak to the Countess who would lie in a drugged slumber for many hours to come. She left a note explaining that she could not any longer tolerate her position in a house where her private possessions were subject to rifling and misuse and she herself to malevolence and gross insult. She bore no ill-will to Lady Elstow personally and apologized for the abruptness of her departure, but she felt that Barbara had by now become too advanced in years to profit from the company of a governess, and Drusilla, alas, though a sweet and friendly child, not capable of making further educational progress. Hatty gave as her direction her cousin Sydney’s address at Bythorn Lodge (in case of any letters for her arriving subsequent to her departure) and concluded with her respectful regards and polite wishes.
She wondered, as she thumbed down the sealing-wax, whether Lady Elstow would even read through the letter.
Hatty had made her intentions known to Glastonbury on the previous evening, and he himself carried out her bags and gave instructions to the driver of the cart.
‘We’ll be right sorry to lose ye, miss; as far as a person can, ye’ve kept the young ladies in good order; better by far than that other poor lady. Lady Barbara’s neither to hold nor to bind; we often ask ourselves what black misadventure will come her way, in days to come. Well, miss, we all wish ye well. Take a thought for us sometimes. And stand no undueness from that Lady Ursula.’
He raised his hand in greeting and the cart jogged on its way.
What in the world had he meant by his parting remark? Hatty wondered.
XXI
It was a most disagreeable shock to Hatty, on arriving at the Thatched Grotto, to find Lady Ursula installed there.
It was a close and sultry morning; last night’s threatened storm had never come to pass. Lady Ursula was sitting outside the house in a basket chair (one from Lord Camber’s attic study, Hatty recognized), sharply instructing Godwit in the correct procedure for planting leeks.
The Thatched Grotto did not boast a flower garden, but the grass close to the house was kept short, and there were vegetable-plots, bordered by pinks, marigolds and geraniums planted by Mrs Daizley.
‘You should cut the tops back by at least a quarter of an inch, and the roots by half. No, no, do not plant them as close as that, you stupid man—!’
Both Lady Ursula and Godwit looked up simultaneously at the sound of Hatty’s approach. Godwit had an air of mild harassment which did not diminish when he saw Hatty. He had been kneeling upon an old piece of straw mat; now he rose slowly to his feet and brushed his earthy hands together.
Lady Ursula lifted the lorgnette which hung round her neck on a velvet ribbon and stared at Hatty through it. She learned that trick from her mother, Hatty thought; Lady Elstow makes just the same gesture with her ear-trumpet. I suppose it is a means of keeping people at arm’s length.
‘Harriet! What in the world are you doing here? Have you taken leave of absence from your duties?’
Her tone did not suggest that this was an estimable thing to do.
‘No,’ said Hatty. ‘I have left Underwood Priors.’
‘Left? You have left Underwood Priors?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been dismissed from your post?’
‘No, Cousin Ursula. I left of my own accord. I could not continue there any longer.’
‘And may I ask why not?’
Hatty felt as if she were enmeshed in a horrible dream. The previous night she had slept little and very uneasily; painful thoughts followed and pounced and repeatedly woke her each time she sank into exhausted slumber; a miserable sense of failure kept scalding and stinging her into wakefulness; and the knowledge that she must rise very early kept her from real repose. The ride in the butcher’s cart from Underwood to Wanmaulden Cross had been penitentially slow and jolting; during the two hours it lasted she had ample time to recapitulate, again and again, the scene in the Pavilion, and her last conversation with the Abbé. Was I unfair to Barbara? Hatty asked herself, over and over. She is a jealous, spiteful girl, but what chance has she had to be otherwise? Brought up in such dismal surroundings, with so little variety of company – one parent hardly ever at home, the other sunk in drugged apathy . . . Should I have, could I have taken more pains, found other means to rouse her interest, befriend her, improve her spirits?
I wish I could have had Lord Camber’s advice!
When she had left the butcher’s cart, depositing her bags at the Woodpecker Inn, and set off to walk through the woods, Hatty’s own spirits had lifted immeasurably. At least now she was able to exert herself, and the path reminded her of the previous time when she had walked that way with Godwit, through the snow, wholly unaware of the happiness that lay ahead. The thought of the little house that awaited her in its clearing at the end of the path, and its simple, friendly inhabitants, wonderfully warmed and cheered her. They will not blame me for turning to them, she thought; indeed they invited me to come back again, that day when I called with Barbara; they made it quite plain that I would be welcome, that they were always happy to see me. It will be like coming home. Better than coming home.
After making her way through the woods at a quick pace, sped on by such thoughts, it was a strange and chilling rebuff for Hatty to arrive and find Lady Ursula established in her basket chair, giving orders to Godwit, as if she had always been mistress of the house. Hatty glanced at Godwit, hoping for guidance from him, but his expression remained studiously blank.
‘Was it your intention to stay here? In this house? Was that what you proposed?’ said Lady Ursula.
‘Yes! It was.’ Hatty drew her capacities together. It was ridiculous to be afraid of this pale, gaunt woman. What threat could she possibly offer? ‘It is my intention to stay here. Lord Camber has given me permission to do so. I have his invitation. Mr Godwit knows that is so.’
‘Yes, ma’am; I do,’ said Godwit. ‘Lord Camber left word that the young lady might come to reside here at any time she chose.’
‘Well, I may remind you that I am the owner of this house now,’ said Lady Ursula. ‘I have the title-deeds, which Lord Camber relinquished into my care for the duration of his sojourn in the Americas. And it does not suit my convenience in the very least that you should come trespassing here. Not in the very least. Firstly, how can you maintain yourself?’
‘Oh, I can do that for a year without any difficulty,’ said Hatty with confidence. ‘I have a year’s wages saved . . . And—’ she broke off and went on firmly, ‘I do not think, ma’am, that Lord Camber would be pleased if he should hear that I had been denied the hospitality of his house. I shall write to him directly and explain the matter to him, for he has repeated his kind offer several times. Mr Godwit knows this.’
‘Yes, my Lady, that I do,’ said Godwit again.
‘Oh.’ Lady Ursula paused; reflected. ‘Well – I may say that it is in the highest degree inconvenient that you should come here at this juncture. I do not know how you are to be accommodated.’
‘I reckon Mrs Daizley will see to that, ma’am,’ said Godwit, his brow lightening a trifle. ‘Did you leave your bags at the inn, Miss Hatty?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll send the boy for them.’
Hatty was greatly relieved to hear Godwit allude to other members of the household; there had been such a dead silence about the place that she had begun to fear – in a mindless, superstitious terror – that the other inhabitants had all fled, or been driven away.
‘I can sleep in a closet, anywhere,’ she said gladly, remembering that, in fact, there were several small empty rooms under the thatch.
She walked briskly indoors, to be greeted with a throttling hug by Mrs Daizley. Lady Ursula had remained out of doors in her basket chair.
‘Oh, Miss Hatty! Miss Hatty, dear! We’ve fell on hard times, we have indeed! But now you have come it will be better.’
‘How long has she been here?’ Hatty asked in an undertone.
‘Nigh on six months, miss. We did think Mr Godwit should send ye a note, when she first come – but he’s no great hand at the letter-writing as ye know – and we thought as how That One would likely send word, once she’d settled here, to let her ma, Lady Elstow, know she was so close to the Priors – but there’s no denying they are a right queer family, the Fowldes, they don’t seem to take much heed of each other . . . Mr Godwit, he reckons she was obliged to come here because her own sisters wouldn’t take her in, after Sir Thomas sent her packing from Mansfield Park.’
‘Oh, did he so?’
‘That’s what they say about the country, miss.’
Hatty, looking round the kitchen, noticed some changes. A small table had been introduced and set by the window.
‘At first, miss,’ Mrs Daizley whispered, ‘That One wanted to have all her meals carried up to her in her bedchamber. But Godwit said we was not paid to do that, we was not her servants. So, in the end, she allowed she’d eat her dinner at that table there. I do take her breakfast up to her chamber, though, for by so doing she stays upstairs half the morning and that gives us some peace and quiet.’
‘She brought her cat with her, I see.’
‘Yes, she did! And the nasty, ill-conditioned brute drove poor Tib out of doors into the wood and we haven’t seen a whisker of him since.’ Mrs Daizley wiped her eyes. ‘Oh, Miss Hatty, it has been hard. Little did his Lordship know what he’d laid on us. But you are a sight for sore eyes, Miss Hatty, that you are; maybe we shall all come about now. Maybe you’ll sweeten the lady.’
‘Where is Mrs Godwit?’
‘Took to her bed, missy, when That One came, and she hasn’t left it since.’
‘Oh dear me . . .’
Mrs Daizley resumed her occupation of shelling peas, and Hatty helped her, and thought, as she did so, how frighteningly fast a household’s peace and harmony could be shattered by the insertion of one unconformable element. This happy community, which before had positively hummed with kindliness and cooperation, was now silent, nervous, oppressed and low-spirited. When dinner-time came, and Lady Ursula ate her meal by the window, Hatty chose to sit with the others at the large kitchen table, assuming that Lady Ursula would not wish for her company. No comment was made on this by anybody. The meal was taken in silence.
Later in the evening, after Lady Ursula had retired, Hatty contrived to beckon Godwit away from the house, well out of earshot, in order to ask about Lady Ursula’s arrival.
‘Well, Miss Hatty, it was last autumn, just afore the weather turned wet, that she turned up here; she had paid two fellows from Bythorn to drive her nigh all the way in a little governess cart. Pity she wouldn’t ha’ waited a few weeks longer! The ground was still hard as a bone then. After the rains began she’d never ha’ made it. And she showed me the title-deeds that she had come by, all parchment and lawyers’ writing and a big seal, which was, as you may imagine, pretty fair Greek to me, as can read regular lettering but no more; but Miss Stornoway gave it as her opinion that it was all fair and square. And she was an educated lady as should know; and – more than that – there was a note writ from his Lordship to Lady Ursula which said, “Dear Cousin if you are ever in need of a place to stay, you know you may always rest your head at the Thatched Grotto. I do not doubt that little Miss Hatty, if she is there at the time, will make you welcome.” So that was fair and square too, for we knew he’d told you that you was welcome whenever you chose to step this way and we’d always be happy to give you house-room.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Hatty. ‘Lord Camber is very generous.’
If she thought that sometimes generosity was better diluted with discretion, she kept the thought to herself. ‘So Lady Ursula just moved in, last autumn?’
‘She did that, miss. Well – she was fair put out to find Miss Stornoway already living with us, so snug and friendly; I’m sorry to tell ye, miss, that from that day on she made the poor lady’s life a burden.’
‘How? Doing what?’
‘Dropping hints: as how she – Miss S – hadn’t a personal invite from Lord Camber’s own self, but was asked only at second-hand, as it were; and how, being as this was the case, the sooner Miss S found new quarters, the better it would be.’
‘Oh, good heavens,’ Hatty said. ‘Do you think – do you think that Lady Ursula drove poor Miss Stornoway to – to make away with herself? Do you think that?’
‘No, I do not, Miss Hatty,’ Godwit said sternly. They were walking along a woodland path, in a mild mixture of dusk and moonlight; he saw that Hatty was trembling; he took her arm and held it in a firm clasp. ‘No, I don’t think that, miss, dear, and nor must you either. What I do think is that Lady Ursula so nagged and badgered the poor lady, always at her, that she started off with the intention to walk all the way to Underwood, wishing to see you and ask for your help or counsel. But she was getting on in years, and none too steady on her pins, and she slipped on the path’s sliddery edge and tumbled down the slope. That’s what I reckon happened.’
‘So Lady Ursula did really drive her to her end.’
‘Well – that is what it adds up to. And,’ said Godwit, ‘she will have to answer for that at the final reckoning. We’d best turn back now, miss, dear. It grows late. And you must be mortal tired.’
During the next few days Hatty felt mildly surprised that Lady Ursula did not interrogate her and comment on the circumstances which had caused her to quit her post at Underwood Priors. The matter was not alluded to at all. Lady Ursula, in fact, spoke very little. When she did, it was mostly to complain about the food, or the hardness of her bed, or the inadequacy of the services that were performed for her. This she did in a haughty but joking manner as if it were only a matter of oversight that everything done for her did not reach a standard of complete perfection. Hatty thought it singular that Ursula did not at any time inquire after her own mother, father or sisters at the Priors; she seemed to have expunged them from her mind, and to be existing in a vague, cloudy world of her own.
‘Does she still have the title-deeds of the house in her keeping?’ Hatty asked Godwit.
‘She must have, Miss Hatty, for she’s never left the place since she come here, nor sent anything away by the post. She must have them up in her chamber. No, she does not use Master Harry’s study. I often ask myself what possessed Master Harry to entrust the deeds to her – ‘twas a most ill-judged piece of work, to my way of thinking – but there! I daresay he had a lot on his mind at the last, before he went off. But those title-deeds she has got, certain sure.’
Perhaps, Hatty thought, Lord Camber made a last gesture, hoping, somehow, to re-cement their friendship – perhaps that was what he had in his mind. Had that gesture resulted in this curious state of cloudy vagueness which now enwrapped Lady Ursula and kept her at arm’s-length from everyone around her?
The only character she addressed freely was her cat, to whom she poured out a continual s
tring of endearments in a high, artificial fluting voice – these were of a most sentimental and sugary nature, entirely at odds from the lady’s usual vinegared and astringent style. They embarrassed Hatty when she heard them – they seemed so incongruous – and the cat took no notice of them at all.
‘Tweedlums! Tweedlepussy!’ she would twitter in a high, piercing voice, and the cat would slink away with ears laid back and tail carried low, pointedly ignoring her.
‘Reckon he knows his own mind,’ Godwit would mutter. ‘Can’t say as I blame him.’
‘Was a, was a chucklepussums, then!’ But Chucklepussums took no notice. Hatty began to wonder, for the first time, whether Lady Ursula could be slightly astray in her wits; with what pertained to most daily affairs she seemed sensible enough, and well in control of anything that concerned her; but there was, all the time, this queer remoteness, as if daily affairs were hardly of importance to her. Had her rootless, homeless state, moving on from one unfriendly domicile to another, driven her over some mental precipice?
One day Godwit, who had ridden in to Bythorn on the cob to perform various domestic errands, returned with a budget of startling news. He had brought a newspaper with him, and displayed it to the household.
‘First-off, there’s the devil to pay over there in France! For those Frenchies have risen up, it seems, in Paris – it appears they didn’t like their King fetching in foreign troops to keep order in the city – so a mighty crowd all banded together and went to beat down the door of that big prison they have – the Bastille, ‘tis called – broke in the door and let out all the prisoners.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Hatty. She remembered du Vallon’s confident prediction: ‘The change will take place at any moment now.’
It seemed that he had been right in his information.
‘But that’s not all,’ went on Godwit. ‘Not all by any means. For that Frenchy fellow they’ve had at Underwood these last nine months, the one that’s been making a list of all the books in the library there – he’s took and skipped – shown a clean pair of heels – gone back to France by all accounts – and, not only that, but he’ve took Lady Barbara with him!’