The House of Allerbrook

by Valerie Anand

  “What’s happened, Syb?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you.” Sybil scraped up the last of the stew, swallowed it and gave a scared glance toward Harry.

  “Reckon ’ee’d best make a try at it,” Harry said unsympathetically.

  “I…I mean…oh, I can’t, I don’t know how to…oh, Ralph Palmer was so kind and I was grateful and…”

  “Go on,” said Harry ominously.

  “I think,” said Sybil, beginning to cry, “I think I…shall have a baby next spring. It’s Ralph’s. He doesn’t know. I was going to tell him, but before I could get round to it…He’s just come back from Kent. It must have happened just before he went away. His wife caught us. She said she’d tell his father. He’s frightened of his father. He let her…he let me be just flung out.”

  “Men!” remarked Letty vindictively, rearranging the shawl more cosily around Sybil’s shoulders.

  “I walked up the combe,” Sybil said. “It was so windy and there was a hailstorm and I’ve nowhere to go but here. I can’t get to Stonecrop even if they’d have me—it’s too far and I feel so ill…let me stay. Jane, please, let me stay!”

  “I’m not sayin’ throw her out into the storm,” Harry said reasonably when he and Jane were alone in their chamber and Peggy was putting Sybil to bed, by Harry’s orders, in the servants’ wing. “She’m a maidservant nowadays and that’s all. And no better than she ought to be, servant or not,” Harry had said. Now he looked uncompromisingly at Jane and added, “What I’m sayin’ is that she can’t stop here. That’s final.”

  Jane sat down on the edge of the bed. This was going to be one of the hardest things she had ever had to do. She was tired. She had put Tobias to bed as usual before the adults’ supper, but the wind had disturbed him and it had been difficult to get him to sleep. Then she’d had to look after Sybil and now she must cope with Harry.

  The silent oath she had taken after Francis’s funeral must be kept. One look at Sybil’s desperate face this evening and she knew that her sister was among those who needed her protection. No matter how angry Harry was, no matter how frightened she was herself, she must defy him.

  “I am sorry, Harry. Perhaps we can make other arrangements later, but for the time being, she must stop here. She looks ill to me.”

  “No more than she deserves.”

  “Harry, please!”

  Night had fallen now and the room was lit only by candles, but they were enough to tell her that his face had suffused.

  “Let me remind ’ee once again, maid, that we stood at church door together and ’ee promised to obey me.”

  “I know. But I can’t. It’s as simple as that. I said we’ll try to think of plans for her later, but not until the baby’s born.”

  “Baby! This is the second time, b’ain’t it? She’s nothing but a lightskirt, that sister of yours.”

  “Perhaps. But she’s still my sister. Harry, please don’t be so angry. Please be kind.” She was wheedling and it felt shameful, but it just might work and that was all that mattered.

  “I say she goes. Tomorrow or the next day, when she’s better. I grant you she looks sick after trudging up the combe, but she’ll get over that and then she goes and ’ee’ll accept that. I’ve been patient and I’ve some respect for a sister’s feelings or I’d not be listenin’ to ’ee the way I am. But I’ll not…”

  There were racing footsteps and a vigorous knocking at the door. “Come in!” Jane called, more relieved than anything to be interrupted.

  The relief didn’t last long. Peggy threw open the door and rushed in. “Better come, mistress. It’s Mistress Sybil. She’m bleedin’ and m’am, she’m past three months and I’ve seen a few like this and it’s not good, it’s not good at all.”

  “What was it? Girl or boy? Could you tell?” Sybil’s voice was no more than a whisper and her face against the pillow was frighteningly white. The wind shook the shutters and found its way through, making candle flames stream and shadows dance, as though ghostly presences had gathered to watch the drama on the bed. Peggy, frantically working with wadded cloths, her hands and apron stained red, caught Jane’s eye and shook her head fractionally.

  “We couldn’t tell. I don’t think we looked.”

  “Poor little thing,” said Sybil. “Jane…go and see Stephen, at the Lanyons’, when you can. Make sure he’s all right. He’ll have to know.”

  “Know what?” said Jane with false heartiness. “He needn’t know about this. You’ll be able to visit him yourself soon. I’ll take you. If you’re afraid they won’t let you see him, I promise I’ll make them.”

  “Jane, sweeting. Don’t be silly,” said Sybil. Tears oozed from the corners of her eyes. Jane wiped them away with a napkin.

  “Just a few hours ago,” Sybil muttered, “I was with Ralph. I was going to tell him. I was scared but I trusted him to look after me, to think what to do. I was putting it off, but I’d have told him before we parted. Then when Dorothy came, I couldn’t say it…I didn’t dare…I didn’t know what she might do…. I loved him, Jane. Only a few hours ago…”

  She moved restlessly, turning her head from side to side, and then moved again, more violently this time. It was like a small convulsion. She whimpered. Peggy swore and snatched up a fresh cloth. The room filled with a sweet, metallic stench.

  “You’re all right!” Jane gripped Sybil’s chilly hands in her own strong, warm ones. “I’m here. I’ve got hold of you. Don’t be afraid.”

  Peggy, now muttering prayers under her breath, was striving to staunch the crimson flow. Presently, however, she stood back and looked despairingly at Jane. Against the pillow, Sybil’s pale face was still, and she was silent.

  “I think,” said Jane wretchedly, “that I have lost my sister.”

  “Well, yes, the Palmers ought to be told, and her boy,” Harry said grudgingly. Once again he had reddened with annoyance. “But since thee can write, I say put it all in letters and send Tim with ’un.”

  Jane felt not merely tired, but drained. She and Peggy had tidied that dreadful room as best they could and washed Sybil and laid her gently in clean linen and she had had a few hours’ sleep, but not enough. She took a long breath and started again.

  “Harry, I am sorry it displeases you, but Ralph’s a cousin and I feel I must myself tell Ralph and Dorothy what has happened. And I must, myself, see Stephen. Sybil asked me to.”

  “It does displease me, maid, but I can see ’ee’s obstinate.”

  As if you aren’t, Jane thought savagely.

  “All right. Take Ginger. And take Dr. Spenlove with you. That fat cob of his—what does he call it? Podge? If you push on, you’ll get some weight off Podge and the two of you can get to the Lanyons and back in a day and take in Clicket Hall on the way. The wind’s dropped. Weather’s not bad this mornin’.”

  He was angry, but he was trying to be good-humoured. Harry could be generous as well as obstinate. She had to admit that.

  At Clicket Hall they found Ralph and Dorothy in the throes of preparing to leave for Bideford the following day. It was a disagreeable interview.

  Ralph was visibly shaken, while Dorothy exuded self-righteous satisfaction, until Jane was provoked into saying, “I think Sybil miscarried because of the shock of being cast out, into that wild gale, and getting soaked with rain and hail and having to stumble the long mile up the combe to beg us for help, not knowing if we’d give it. She was exhausted and frightened when she reached Allerbrook.”

  It was an accusation. Dorothy knew it and paled with anger. Spenlove said quietly, “We will see she’s laid decently to rest. It might be best if neither of you were present. Good day.”

  “That was dreadful,” Jane said as they rode away.

  “I know. Well, it’s over now,” Spenlove said. “We must make haste. We’ve a long ride ahead.”

  The sky was still overcast but the day was dry. They made good time, and it was not yet noon when they rode down through the steep, wooded valley to L
ynmouth at the foot of the cliffs.

  “There’s the house,” Jane said, pointing. “I hope they’re not all in Bristol. Idwal lives in Bristol now, but I think Owen only goes there just for business. Francis always kept in touch with Owen and that’s how I know. Katherine generally stays in Lynmouth, I think.”

  “Stephen has well-to-do guardians,” Dr. Spenlove said.

  “Sybil seemed worried about him, though. She shouldn’t have left him behind like that, but…” Suddenly Jane was overcome. She reined Ginger in and stopped to wipe her eyes. “I had a brother and a sister and now they’re both dead. I can’t believe it. I know Sybil was feckless, but she was my sister just the same.”

  “Well,” said Spenlove, adopting a brisk tone in order to stem the tears, “here we are, to ask after your nephew, as Sybil wished. You’re doing something for her.”

  They were welcomed with courtesy. A groom took their horses, and Perkins, who had apparently been promoted to the post of butler, showed them into the parlour and said the mistress was at home and he would fetch her. “Master Owen’s in Bristol today.”

  The parlour was pleasant, its oak table and settles smelling of beeswax, its cushions colourful evidence of skilled and tasteful embroidery. Stylized ships, dolphins and fish were the principal motifs. Refreshments would be brought, Perkins said, and if they would be seated, he’d call Mistress Katherine.

  He hurried away through an inner door, closing it after him. Jane and Spenlove sat down. The windows looked out on a street which just now was quiet, except for the eternal calls of the gulls, and the atmosphere should have been peaceful, but it was not. There was an undercurrent of trouble in the house. After a moment Jane rose and went to the inner door, which she knew led to the dining room. She opened it. There was a stair at the far end and the disquiet now resolved itself into noises from above. Somewhere upstairs, a small child was crying, not to say bellowing, and by the sound of it was hammering frantically on a door.

  “Dr. Spenlove!” Jane said. “Listen!”

  “That’s Stephen.” Katherine Lanyon came through the dining chamber from another door. “Disturbances from that quarter are common, alas. Has no one brought you any wine or saffron cakes? What are they about in the kitchen? Ah, Madge, there you are.” A maid had just hurried in behind her, carrying a tray. “Good,” Katherine said. “Let’s all sit down and Madge, please close that door behind you. We wish to talk and not be troubled by that child’s din.”

  “But what’s wrong with him?” Jane asked. “If that’s Stephen, it’s him we’ve actually come to see.”

  She had always thought of Katherine as elegant and gracious, a suitable wife for Owen. But now it struck her that Katherine’s grey eyes, though well-shaped and deep in colour, were also chilly.

  “We have bad news,” Spenlove said. “We need to see Stephen because although he is very young, there is something he must be told—and so must you. Let me explain.”

  He did so, taking on the task as he had done at Clicket Hall. Katherine listened, pouring wine and handing saffron cakes all the while. “I see,” she said at the end. “So Sybil is dead and in a very unhappy way. I can’t say I’m surprised, though naturally I am sorry to hear that such a tragedy has overtaken a family member, and Owen will feel the same. Stephen will just be told that his mother has fallen ill and died. You can rely on us not to burden him with the appalling truth.”

  “I’m sure we can,” said Spenlove, “but we would like to see the child for ourselves. Mistress Hudd feels she owes it to her sister to do so.”

  “He is locked in his room until nightfall. He is six now, old enough to learn his letters, and we arranged for him to share a tutor with another child in Lynmouth. He goes daily to the other child’s home. But today, not for the first time, he slipped away early and we found him down on the quay, listening to travellers’ tales from an old sailor he’s made friends with there. He is an impossible child!” said Katherine with energy and visible dislike. “Somehow or other we mean to bring him up properly, but he doesn’t make it easy.”

  “I still want to see him. Now,” said Jane firmly.

  “He was told that the door would not be unfastened, and that he would have nothing to eat, though I have provided water, until supper.”

  “Yes, but you weren’t expecting us to call, were you?” said Spenlove. “And we wish to break the sad news to him ourselves.”

  “I feel I must,” said Jane. “And we can’t wait till suppertime. I promised to be home by then.”

  Katherine looked at them. They waited. A silent battle of wills took place. Recognizing that they meant to be heeded, she inclined her head politely, rose to her feet and said, “Wait here.”

  It was some time before she reappeared. When she did so, leading Stephen by the hand, his hair looked as though it had been hastily combed and his face just as hastily wiped. Not thoroughly enough, however, to remove all traces of tears, and his knuckles were grazed, probably the result of pounding on the door.

  He had a hollowed little face, which looked somehow older than six. He regarded the strangers with a mixture of fear and something like anger. He almost seemed to be trying to stare them out. He had Sybil’s colouring, more or less, since his eyes were brown, though he wasn’t ash-fair as she had been. His hair was midway between gold and brown.

  Jane held out a hand to him. “Stephen, sweeting, I’m your aunt Jane, your mother’s sister. We…we have something to tell you.”

  “Give him to me,” said Spenlove and Katherine, releasing the boy’s hand, picked him up bodily and handed him to the chaplain, who took him on his knee and settled him firmly. “He’s tall for his age,” he observed. “Now, Stephen, my dear lad, our news is sad, but it is something you must know. It’s to do with your mother.”

  Stephen said, “She went off and left me. She left me here. I hate it here. I hate them.” He scowled at Katherine. “And I hate my mother for not taking me with her. Why didn’t she come with you? Is she dead?”

  Spenlove looked staggered by this unpleasant and weirdly mature outburst, but recovered himself. “Yes, Stephen, I am sorry to tell you that she is. She became ill and died. She is in God’s hands now. But if she had got better, she’d have come to visit you. She hadn’t forgotten you and she did love you. You must believe that.”

  “All right. I have to believe what I’m told,” said Stephen. “They’re always saying so. I want to get down.”

  He began to struggle. Spenlove let him go and he went to stand in front of Jane. “You’re my aunt. You’ve never come to see me before.”

  “No, Stephen. I have so much work to do at home and a little boy of my own to look after. But because of your mother’s death—she came to me when she was ill—I decided I must come here and…and tell you myself.”

  “Oh.” His small face was mutinous but behind the mutiny she saw an intense misery, and impulsively she slid to her knees and reached out to give him a hug. The feel of his body through his loose clothing gave her such a shock that she almost let go of him again. She did not, however, but held him close and said to Katherine, “He seems very thin. Why is that? Does he not eat well?”

  “They don’t let me eat!” Stephen yelled suddenly, tearing himself free. “I’m hungry!” He threw himself down on the floor and began to batter it with his small fists. “I’m…always…hungry!”

  “What is this?” Jane demanded angrily of Katherine. “What does he mean?”

  “He means,” said Katherine, apparently not at all disconcerted, “that when he misbehaves, he has to miss meals. We don’t beat him for his badness, though many people would. We consider him too young for that. But when he does things he should not, such as trying to avoid his lessons, or prying into things—our merchandise or our personal belongings—or running about with a gang of other boys, playing ball as if they were crazy and even breaking windows, then he must go without food, or be given only bread and water for a while to teach him manners. He is a difficult child. If he’
d been my child and Owen’s,” said Katherine with bitterness, “he would never have had such a wicked temperament. He must get it from Sybil and whoever his father was—one of your brother’s tenants, I believe. I doubt we’ll ever root it out of him.”

  “But he’s…look at him!” Stephen’s breeches came only halfway down his calves and his frenzy had made them slide upward. His legs, thus revealed, were sticklike. Spenlove picked the crying, kicking little boy up again and pushed up one of his sleeves. His arm was as thin as his legs. The hollows under his cheekbones were now explained.

  “This child,” said Spenlove, “is half-starved.”

  Jane stood up decisively. “He’s clearly a trouble to you, Katherine. Don’t worry—he won’t trouble you again. I’m taking him back to Allerbrook.”

  “I’ll not have it!” Harry shouted, standing in the middle of the hall, his furious face suffused as Jane had never seen it before: crimson tinged with orange. “Outside of enough, this be! From the moment I married ’ee, ’ee’s tried to come the lady over me. Now ’ee’ve gone too far!”

  Spenlove had carried Stephen into the hall and was standing behind Jane, holding the boy in his arms. Stephen was peering at Harry with an expression on his small face that was half scowl and half fright. “One moment, Master Hudd,” Spenlove began. “I don’t think…”

  “You don’t think! You take that brat out of my sight and get about thy godly business, chaplain! I tell ’ee—”

  “Master Hudd!” said Spenlove, loudly enough to stop Harry in midsentence. “Peggy, come here!”

  Peggy, as usual in times of domestic crisis, was hovering nearby. She came over to them and Spenlove handed Stephen to her. “Take him out of the hall. Look after him. This is Stephen, Mistress Sybil’s son.”

  “Give him a warm-water wash and something to eat, whatever you’re making for supper,” Jane added.