by Jane Jakeman
Well, I have fixed upon my course with regard to him, at any rate. I shall adopt him. He has no one else in the world except for us, after the deaths of his mother and father in that charnel-house at the farm. The least I could do was to bring him to Malfine and undertake his care and education. I shall not abandon that resolve. He goes away to school, to get a gentleman’s education, and spends the holidays here at Malfine. I believe that this plan meets with Elisabeth’s agreement, for boarding school is undoubtedly good for him, as it is not for many children. There he has small companions to amuse him and perhaps bring some smiles to that quiet and obedient face. He is too old for a governess now, and I think he will be happier away from this district, where the shadow of his parents’ deaths must still hang over him.
But what are we to do, then, Elisabeth the former governess to young Edmund, now no longer needed by her charge, and I, her quixotic rescuer?
On that particular evening I knew it would please me greatly if, for her own sake, she would try to achieve a reconciliation with her family in Bristol. Elisabeth’s disastrous marriage to Richard de Carme, of which they so disapproved, was over — her husbands death freed her from it, and her parents might welcome her back as a widow — such a description is the small coin of respectability that eases all transactions in society.
As for my affairs, did not Dr. Sandys recommend that I should undertake a journey for my healths sake? He said that my wounds have healed marvellous well, but he would like to see me spared the rigours of an English winter and I therefore arranged to set out on my travels, which would doubtless brighten up my spirits from the grievous state of lack-lustre which Elisabeth’s absence would cause!
So we reasoned our lives apart, but we two are bound together by a passion which, for all our intelligence and wit, we cannot, and would not, talk away.
“In the spring,” I told her, “I shall return, and if we are of the same mind as now, and find our passions unchanged, we could take up our lives here again, although there is nothing simple between you and me! What difficult creatures we are! We cannot flee away into the night like the lovers on St. Agnes’ Eve; we live in the world, we have ties and duties to consider.” Yes, I preached this, I who shut myself away like a hermit, and shun human society. I thought of her, my Elisabeth: I would not demand that she shared my isolation. She would want friends, the natural companionship of her relations. And I — even I, feel from to time the pull of old ties that still bind me to the world beyond Malfine.
Yes, I wrote to her, as I had promised. I made a tardy correspondent, I fear, for some of my letters were sent through the deserts in the care of some rough Bedouin hand, and crossed many seas and entered many harbours before they came to her. But never did I forget to write. Whenever we were separated, no matter what befell me, as long as there was some strength remaining in my hand, I endeavoured to scrawl a few lines to her.
*
How came I to go to Egypt? This is a tale which I would rather have ignored from the outset. If I had refused to meddle in the matter of the Westmorland estate, why then our lives might have attained that hermetic peace and tranquillity which is my goal.
Ah, but the girl! It is only that she is of the same blood, that she has the same look, that very devilish turn of the head, that pale face and dark-red hair, of my dear friend. I see him again, that vanished companion, when I look into her face. All that I owed to my own youth, to our friendship, the bonds of memory and affection — these told me that I must intervene in what befell her — and having once waded in the shallows, so as to speak, I found a deep and muddy river, in whose treacherous currents many innocent creatures would perish if I drew back.
The truth is that I owed a debt, to life, to my young self, and that debt was reclaimed of me, though my physical strength was recovering fast, for Sandys is well enough for a country quack. He studied at Edinburgh, and the Scots breed good doctors. At least he does no great harm, to his patients, unlike those fashionable London leeches who fairly blow their patients apart with clysters or contrive to kill them off with blood-letting. He is a serious-minded fellow, busy and skinny, with wispy brown hair and a quick grey eye that takes in a good deal more than he will let on.
Sandys, as I say, visits none of the indignities of fashionable medicine upon us — for I count myself among his patients, since he tended the wounds I had got in Crete, the sabre-slashes on my face and body. It would be truer to say that Sandys took over the management of my scars, rather than the care of my wounds; Belos, my manservant, had cared for me first, bringing me home on a stretcher to die, as it was thought. But I lived, to confound them, so Sandys had little to do but cluck when he took over my care.
In fact, I told neither Belos nor the good doctor that I had a third physician: the gypsy woman whose caravan was camped in my grounds. The scar on my leg was healing, yet it troubled me greatly, burning and itching, and she brought me a salve, very odd-smelling, which straightaway cooled the inflammation. I did not ask of her the compounds which had gone into her receipt; I know that the Romanies have some remedies which they inherited from the Arab physicians who have passed their skills down for centuries. At any rate, after a few days, my scar seemed to be less angry, and it began to heal into a thin line, so I suppose the witch had something efficacious in her noxious unguent, but I did not care to mention this preparation to Belos or Sandys, for fear of being mercilessly harangued into the path of medical righteousness.
But to return to Sandys: I will set down here the gist of a conversation which turned out to have a bearing on a far more important matter.
“Damn it, Sandys,” said I on this occasion, pulling my shirt back on, when he had come to inspect the progress of his patient. “My wounds are healed! Can you not see that, man!”
“I still fear for your lordship if we have a hard winter,” says he, in that prudent Scottish voice. “You were much weakened by fever, as well as by the wounds, so your man tells me!”
“Ah, Belos is an old maid! I’m as fit as a fiddle, Sandys!”
“Not quite, if I may contradict your lordship. I would like to see you taking care this winter to keep out of draughts and chills.”
“Keep out of draughts!” said I. “Why, Sandys, you sound like a old beldame muttering beside the fire! But I tell you what, Sandys, and this will please you mightily, I have a notion to travel. I long to go East again, and cannot settle here at Malfine amongst the turnip-heads and clod-hoppers.”
“I agree that English country-dwellers are not always the most stimulating company,” says he, “but I most earnestly desire you not to jump from the frying-pan into the fire!”
“A cautious metaphor, but not well-chosen, Sandys, since I propose to leave a cold climate, not one that might be alluded to as a frying-pan! But into the fire, yes, for I long to feel desert heat again; perhaps it is because my mother was Greek that I have a taste for hot climes. I would travel again, and to the Levant. What think you?”
“If you would not be too precipitate, my lord, I would encourage you in this enterprise. Be sure to take plenty of warm clothing, for I understand that nights in those climates can be cold indeed.”
And so he went on to give more such tedious advice, till I was near bursting out at the ears. I was to be in the East before either of us might have predicted and without time to follow most of Sandys’ instructions, but in one respect he did advise me well, and there I was somewhat surprised. He had heard of the way of preventing the smallpox contagion, which was first practised in this country by the good Doctor Edward Jenner.
“He was, like myself, if I may compare with such a distinguished practitioner, a country doctor. He observed that the milk-maids who contracted cowpox did not fall victim to the dread disease of the smallpox, and so he concluded that a greater disease may be averted by the infliction of a lesser — the principle of inoculation.”
“Aye, I know of it, for I have read upon the subject and heard of it from medical men in London, but I did not thin
k it was practised in this part of the world.”
“The country people do not trust these new ways. But I am having a small laboratory built on to our house, and there I hope to keep up with my scientific studies.”
“And you intend to practise the art of butchery on our innocent rustics?”
“Your lordship pleases to be merry.”
“Yes, by hell and tommy, I must be quite recovered!”
I strode out into the hall, while Sandys turned for a moment to collect up his instruments. At this juncture Belos entered holding a sheet of paper.
He, too, would doubtless cluck away at me. I decided to take the initiative.
“And what is that letter you have in your hand, Belos? If it is addressed to me, you may save me the trouble of perusing it. Read it for me, will you? Oh, I perceive you have already undertaken that duty without my instruction, so you can merely tell me the gist.”
“It is a request for assistance in a local matter, my lord.”
“Well, send five guineas to missionaries or aged grandams or whatever good cause one of our neighbours may be soliciting for — and keep that smile off your features! The charitable ladies in these parts may solicit wherever they wish provided they make no intrusion into my peace and quiet.”
“As your lordship pleases.”
“Yes, my lordship does please, so there’s an end on it.”
“But it was not a charitable matter that engaged my attention in this communication. At least, as I understand it, the young lady is in no urgent need of financial assistance.”
“Young lady?”
“Yes, my lord. Miss Lilian Westmorland, of Westmorland Park.”
“The house about ten miles hence, off the turnpike road? I remember poor Westmorland died long ago. He was my friend once — we were boys together, you know. But I had not seen him for many years — I believe there was some scandal about him, though not, of course, approaching anything like the scandal I have caused in these parts. Dame Rumour will never stop clacking her tongue, and I am frequently tempted to live up — or rather, down — to what she says about me. But to go back to Westmorland — did he not drown in the river after some drunken jape?”
“Yes, my lord, that is the family. The child — ”
“Must have grown into a woman. Westmorland’s death occurred before I departed for Greece and I have seen nothing of her since my return.”
“Yes, and the girl is now seventeen, and left an orphan by the recent death of her mother.”
“Well, that is sad indeed, but what am I to do about it? I should cut a sorry figure as a stepmother.”
“You would indeed, my lord. And I do not believe your financial assistance is required — not, at least, with any urgency. Westmorland Park is a very considerable estate, and its revenues would in all probability be quite sufficient for Miss Lilian’s maintenance, even after the depredations caused by the unwholesome activities of her late father. No, it seems there has been a riding accident at the Park, and they beg you to send Dr. Sandys over to attend Miss Lilian, as soon as he has finished waiting upon your lordship.”
“What, has the girl met with some ill chance?”
“It seems her horse threw her, and she has lost consciousness, my lord. There is no physician except for Dr. Sandys within an hour’s ride from Westmorland Park.”
“Well, dammit, Belos, it grieves me to show a neighbourly decency amidst these rustic surroundings, but I suppose I’ve no choice in the matter. Sandys has finished his advice on my convalescence, in any case. Here, help me with my shirt. The sawbones is still here, packing away his instruments, having pronounced me hale and hearty — at least, as hale as any man who was unseamed through the middle by a Turkish cutlass and left for dead might ever hope to be. Very well, I’ll tell Sandys he’s wanted at the Park. I’ll take my obligations that far — but mind, no appeals for widows and orphans!”
“Yes, my lord. And while we are on the subject of charity, may I ask whether we are to continue to give sustenance to those gypsies who are encamped in the grounds?”
“Yes, send them something out from the kitchens, will you? They won’t be here much longer — they’ll be moving south soon. They’re like the swallows — when the cold weather comes, they’re off to warmer climes. I’ve a good mind to do the same, since Sandys has given me a clean bill of health — a few months in some sultry climate would just suit me now. Oh, by the way, Belos, I heard they had some fine horseflesh in the stables at Westmorland Park. How did the accident happen?”
“The messenger who brought the letter told me it occurred as the young lady was riding along the path through the woods in the grounds.”
“The horse suffered no harm, I trust?”
“The horse had to be destroyed, my lord. A fine mare, as I understand, though I know nothing of horseflesh myself.”
“Destroyed, eh? Now, did it really, Belos? Did it really?”
*
I had not thought of Sam Westmorland these fifteen years or more. He was the son of our neighbours at Westmorland Park; he and I had played together, had run wild together, and, we thought, should grow up together. Yet he died alone.
I had shut Sam out of my mind these many years. Now I recalled him, the dark-red hair, the face always laughing, always thinking of some new adventure or absurdity. We were twins in that, we two, urging one another on with dares and bets.
When Sam had married, he was in his eighteenth year and I in my seventeenth. I had thought our friendship should end then, at least that part of it where we caroused and jested and ran after women. But, I suppose about a year after the wedding, he rode over to see a new dog I had got at Malfine, and before we knew it, why there we were, drinking a bumper in the cellars, another on the steps, riding through the grounds, betting on who could leap the hazel fence, on who would be first to run headlong, breakneck from the top of Wayland’s Mound! I can hear his voice yet, calling out “I dare you! I dare you!” in some absurd challenge or other, as we raced wildly towards some new danger or other, embracing fear as we embraced life itself.
I do not remember which of us bet on who would be first at the river, but I do recall which of us conceived the insane notion of swimming to the weir.
I did. How painful it once was to remember this, how difficult to forget, and how hard now, after close on eighteen years, to recall it!
Sam died, of course. That is why I now record our foolish long-forgotten dares, for this death also forms a part of the story that follows. I did not expect to think of it again, and yet I find myself now recalling, moment by moment, those last minutes of his life.
Sam was a strong swimmer, but he was trapped by some malign underwater weeds, and his body was knifing out of the water and then falling back like a gaffed fish as he struggled. The brown weeds were tangled round his breast, at the last moment I saw him alive, being myself swept over the weir and unable to reach him. His cries mingled distantly with the roar of the water as I was borne away, to be washed up against the further bank, and crawl to safety at the bend below the weir.
I heard two months later that his widow was delivered of a girl-child. There were rumours that young Westmorland was running up debts that might have ruined the estate, had he lived — apparently, his marriage had not altered his way of life. So prudent voices said that the heir might be lost but the estate was saved. I said that I was too grief-stricken — I was really, as I understand now, too ashamed of my part in his death — to ever call at Westmorland Park again. And in any case, very soon after I left for Greece.
The story that I now heard from Belos, of the riding accident suffered by Sam Westmorland’s daughter, revived my memories. Possibly, just possibly, I should take an interest in the child of my dead boyhood friend. She now, perhaps, had no one left in this world to advise her, and though I suspected that I, a radical spirit in my youth and a hermit in my mature years, would make a most unsuitable guardian, still I could offer her some protection.
But her im
mediate need was for medical attention.
“Do you go to Westmorland, now, Sandys,” said I. “I have no more need of you — go and mend the child’s head with vinegar and brown paper, or whatever the latest sawbones fashion would have.”
I might perhaps myself ride over the next day, or the next after that, and take a look at Sam Westmorland’s daughter.
*
That night I slept uneasily, and woke to find my candle had guttered down, and my pillows were scattered in disarray.
Suddenly there was a sharp sound, as of hard rain or hail driving at my window. Yet it was a calm enough night; a few minutes later, when the sound came again, I rose, pulled a dressing-robe about me, and crossed the room. There is a balcony outside my bedroom window, which overlooks the great lawn at the back of Malfine.
There were two figures on the lawn, one in the act of picking up a small handful of earth or twigs, which had presumably been the source of the sound that had roused me.
The moonlight gleamed on unkempt locks tied up in ribbons, on draggled skirts, their flounces sewn with coins and bits of glistening metal and pale shiny bone.
“Raia, raia!”
That is the title “lord” they have given me in thanks for a service I have performed them, and I had rather be called by their gypsy peerage than have a dozen fat knights of the realm bowing and scraping to me, for I have earned my Romany lordship, whereas I am Lord Ambrose Malfine of Malfine solely because my wily old devil of grandfather became exceeding rich and lent some money to a greedy prince.
The voices mouthed their whispers from below the balcony, floating up from the dark world outside the room. “The grasni, lord, the grasni! Balansers ... balansers ...”
I could partly understand their Romany language, having acquired some of it in my travels abroad, and long been interested in that strange and secretive tongue — for they do not care, as a rule, to let outsiders learn to understand their conversation. I knew enough to tell that what the gypsies were saying had something to do with a mare. And money. Balansers are guineas.