by Jane Jakeman
“Yes, well, this animal will be sold off. Mr. Overbury has his own carriage horses, of course, but this is just a common pony, kept for the groom, and the groom has ...”
“Has been dismissed. Yes, I had heard.”
The pock-marked features produced a laugh. “My lord, you are perfectly in the right of it! News does travel fast in the country! I dare say this pony will be destroyed as well — its too old to fetch much, I should say, though I know nothing about horses.”
I peered round the yard. Casterman stood before me with a faintly challenging air, as if attempting to block my gaze. I had the strong impression he wanted me out of there.
“You know, I’ve taken a fancy to this creature,” said I, perversely, stroking the nose of the placid horse. “D’you think Mr. Overbury would consider an offer?”
“Why sir, you may try him on the subject if you wish, though why you wish to trouble yourself with such a useless old pony I could not say. There surely cannot be many more miles left in him!”
“He’s slow, but he’ll be steady,” I answered, again patting the nose of the subject of the conversation, who tried to butt my arm in an unendearing way.
“Then if you seriously wish to make an offer, come into the house and speak to Mr. Overbury on the subject now. The sooner the disposition is made the better, surely.”
The sooner we can get rid of you, is what I think he meant. We walked across the cobbles in the direction of the house.
*
Mr. Micah Overbury was standing in a room hung about with ornaments, baubles, and filigree, a taste, I conjectured, not entirely in accordance with his own. “Now I dare say that’s a valuable vase ...” he was saying to a young personage seated in an armchair, wrapped up tightly in a great shawl.
The young personage turned her face in my direction. I stood still with surprise.
Yet, no real cause for amazement, merely that the child was so like the father! Yes, that was the same dark-red colour hair, the lively eye, the visage of Sam Westmorland, my friend, the long-dead companion of my youth. For a moment or two I was startled, so close the imprint which the vanished parent had left upon the child resembled the remembrances in my brain. Yet this was a delicate, feminine, version, with a fragility that Sam Westmorland had never possessed, and the pale face of an invalid, to boot.
“Ambrose Malfine, at your service.”
I bowed over her hand. “I had the honour of knowing your father, Miss Westmorland and if there is any service I can perform for you, you have but to command me.”
I turned to Micah Overbury, who did not look as though he would appreciate fancy conversation. Casterman bowed towards Miss Lilian, murmured something about urgent affairs to attend to, and left the room. I decided a direct approach would be the most successful with Overbury. He did not look open to any sociable subtleties — and there was something I wanted.
“Sir, I will come straight to the point. There is a dappled pony in your stables — the sole remaining occupant thereof — and I have taken a fancy to it. The truth is, my manservant needs a reliable animal to carry him around my estate, and your man of affairs, Casterman, tells me that you may be willing to dispose of the beast. Would twenty guineas be an acceptable offer?”
Twenty guineas was an outrageously good price for the pony, but I had my own reasons for wishing to close the deal quickly. I could see that this most handsome tender was an unexpected pleasure for Mr. Overbury, who could not avoid smiling, try as he might. He had probably not hoped to get anything but the price of the grey pony’s hide from the knacker, and twenty guineas was in truth far too much, but I did not wish to argue upon the subject and Overbury was not suspicious. People who love money seldom are when offered an excess of it. That is how so many otherwise clever men come to be cheated. Still, meanness may be a virtue in a man entrusted with the guardianship of an orphans estate.
I had not misjudged Overbury.
“Twenty guineas? Why, we can close upon that, I think!”
“Oh, Lord Ambrose, thank you!”
This was Lilian Westmorland. “I will be so pleased if Dobbie goes to Malfine! You know, we have had him for years and years, and I would not have wanted him to go to strangers ... or worse. I have already lost my splendid mare after the accident.”
“Lord Ambrose does not wish to hear your tales of woe, niece! Lord Ambrose, will you make the arrangements? I’d like to dispose of the horse as soon as possible. I am making arrangements for my niece to travel abroad for her health.”
“Yes, Lord Ambrose,” added Lilian. “My uncle has been advised that the atmosphere of Egypt would be most beneficial for my health — but I confess, I do not wish to leave the Park!”
“Egypt!” I exclaimed. “Why, the climate of Egypt is indeed recommended by many medical men, and besides, it is a most wondrous country — full of marvels! I believe it is quite the fashion for travellers to bring back some antiquity or other from the land of the Pyramids and the Sphinx. And you will get an opportunity to travel to that ancient world! I congratulate you upon your good fortune, Miss Lilian!”
She would have replied, I believe, but Micah intervened. He broke in, “Yes, niece, now see how I care for your welfare — Egypt is an excellent plan, and besides, I believe that many expenses that must be incurred in this country would be met at a much lesser charge in those parts!”
This, as I knew, was quite true, and if there was actually little remaining in the Westmorland coffers, then indeed it might be a wise move to shut up part of the house and send its young occupant to a good climate where she might live at little expense. Micah seemed unprepossessing, but he would have a shrewd grasp of his niece’s finances and perhaps he genuinely had her welfare at heart — her financial welfare, at any rate.
Micah went on, “In any case, I have business with merchandise shipped from the Middle East, and Casterman can deal with my affairs when you reach Cairo. I can kill two birds with one stone, you might say, and my ambition is truly to get your inheritance in good heart, as well as to keep a check on my own business matters.”
If that were so, I reflected, the Westmorland estate would surely benefit from the Overbury hand in control, for my poor friend Sam had frittered away as much as he could in a short life, and his widow, by all reports, had been a woman with luxurious tastes. The girl would not, of course, wish to be parted from her home, but such a journey would provide mental stimulation as well as physical relief from the anticipated rigours of winter. Micah might be an unattractive personality, one who would be quite inimical to my own temperament, but I should not judge him too harshly on that account. If he was careful with the Westmorland money it would be so much the better for Miss Westmorland when she came of age.
Micah was now saying briskly, “Come, Lord Ambrose, let’s to business with the horse,” and I had little choice but to follow him to the door.
“Perhaps I should take another look at him,” said I, playing my fish to make sure he had swallowed the bait.
“Now, a bargain’s a bargain, is it not?”
He was well and truly hooked.
“I fear I am a creature of whim, Mr. Overbury!” said I. “I’ll take another look at the horse now!”
I had my own reasons for wishing to return to the stables.
Micah Overbury’s hesitation was amusing. Clearly, he was torn: if I took the horse now, then the deal was closed and I owed him ten times what the old pony was truly worth. But he would have to rely on me to be true to my word and send over the guineas.
Either he let me have my way now, or he risked that I might lose my fancy altogether.
He made up his mind.
“Take a second look at the beast, then! Aye, do so!”
He led me through the back door and to the stables.
“Lets be done with it! The sooner I have dealt with everything here, the sooner we can get it all closed up!”
I walked along the row of stables with Overbury behind.
We halted beside the grey pony’
s stall. “I’ll have to have a bridle with him,” said I. “I have my own mount tethered near the woods, so I’ll ride back and send my man over in a day or two to fetch this fellow. Anything will do, Mr. Overbury — did I not see a length of rope or twine or some such in the neighbouring stall ... why no, I am mistaken!”
Overbury said, “I care not what you take him with, my lord! Will this not serve?”
He indicated an old bridle hanging nearby, which I lifted down. There was a worn saddle, too. “Will you throw these in for another guinea, Overbury?” I asked.
The man looked overjoyed. Here was a guinea in his hand for a bit of old harness worth a few shillings at most! He plainly took me for an extravagant fool.
I strolled along, tried the bridle on the grey, and led him out for a turn, in the yard, his big feet clattering on the cobbles. “I like him!” I exclaimed. “Let’s get the horse back in the stall and I’ll send my man Belos for him.” I left saddle and bridle hanging up.
Micah walked back to the house and the door slammed as he entered it, calling out over his shoulder, “You’ll send the guineas over, then, Lord Ambrose?” as he turned on the step, and I raised a hand in acknowledgement.
I would ride on my Arab mare Zaraband; I could not lead the grey with me, for we would make but slow progress. Zaraband would kick up her heels crossly at being slowed down to the pace of this equine Chelsea Pensioner. Belos could go over to Westmorland Park with the twenty guineas — no, twenty-one — and ride the grey horse back. The exercise would do both of them good.
*
On the way back to Malfine, I purposed to call in at Lute House, the residence of Dr. and Mrs. Sandys, which stood only a mile or two from the grounds of Westmorland Park.
They had been living there only a short time, for Murdoch Sandys had not been long in the district. Upon qualifying at Edinburgh he had, I understood, practised in one of the poorest districts of that city. I have the impression that he might be there yet, but Mrs. Sandys desired to have their children brought up in more health-giving circumstances; when her elderly aunt left Lute House to them in her will, it seemed like a God-given opportunity to move to a balmier and healthier clime and furthermore the house was surrounded by sufficient grounds for Sandys to have a laboratory for his scientific investigations built on to the back.
Nevertheless, this removal from Edinburgh to Somerset did not seem to mean any diminution of Sandys’ professional labours: he does not spare himself in his dedication to medicine, and, between attending on the country people and pursuing his own scientific labours, he sometimes appears quite exhausted. “Do you write it up for me, my lord!” he exclaimed, when I recently asked him to make his own record of events to set with these papers. “For I confess, I am often so weary of an evening that I fall asleep there in the parlour while Florence is pouring my tea! I should make a
bad fist of any memoir I might engage to write, for I am dog-tired after my rounds! Do you think, by the way, that there is any chance of persuading the country people not to swaddle their babies up tight after the old tradition — their small limbs get no fresh air or exercise whatsoever?”
“Nay,” I answered, “you must not apply to me for information concerning nurslings, but this I will tell you, that you will not get them to change their ways — it is the nature of the English to do as their ancestors have done from generation unto generation, no matter how plainly foolish the tradition — why, if there was a custom hereabouts to leap into a pit of blazing pitch on Lammas Day, they would all go a-leaping with cries of joy into the conflagration. What is Lammas Day, by the by?”
“Lord Ambrose, I am no more of an expert in these traditions than are you yourself!” says Sandys. “In any event, I must beg to cry off the task of recording the medical events surrounding the Egyptian Coffin. If you need assistance, Florence will help you, I am sure, for she often acts as my amanuensis, and I keep nothing from her. You may apply to her for any details you need for your narrative.”
We had enjoyed many such lively conversations when he attended me at Malfine. I liked his talk more than his healing powers, for there is little enough philosophy amid the turnips, and Sandys is a reflective man, ready enough to relish a discussion of the ideas of Locke or Hume, with whom he is well acquainted. And I found him well informed about science and, wishing to be kept abreast of new discoveries, I offered Murdoch Sandys my highest accolade, the run of my library, the only part of this great house which is properly maintained, as is my pleasure. Wealth is to be valued for what the possessor of it is excused from doing, as much as for what he may do with his riches, for a poor tenant must struggle to keep his roof in repair, yet if I chose to let mine fall in, why there is no overweening landlord who can say me nay. My inner self alone can dictate my deeds.
I found as my wounds healed that I was becoming human in my convalescence, for I found myself wishing for a conversationalist, yet one who was no prating gossip nor portsodden boor such as dot the landscape hereabouts. There were only four persons living in Malfine, rattling round like so many peas in an enormous empty pod; the household consisted of myself, little Edmund Crawshay, Miss Elisabeth Anstruther, and my manservant, the aforesaid Belos. There was a groom who resided over the stables and a woman from the village who came in to do the cooking, also, but they did not sleep in the house. So I talked often and enough with Sandys, but there is nothing that tells one so much about a man as seeing him beside his own hearth, in the bosom of his family, which I had never yet done, for one may learn as much by observing how a person is treated by those closest to him as by questioning him openly — indeed, a great deal more sometimes, when the person concerned is shrewd and quick to know that their mind is being searched by another.
On that particular day when I rode from Westmorland Park to Lute House, Zaraband whinnied in an excitable fashion, wanting to gallop full out and protesting at being trotted sedately up the drive of Lute House, and thus no doubt alerting the occupants of our arrival well in advance.
Mrs. Sandys was evidently fond of roses, for late-flowering damasks bloomed in the flower-beds.
I tethered Zaraband, who immediately, and just as the front door swung open, stretched out her excessively long glossy Arab neck and began to munch on a soft-pink bloom.
A pretty face peeped enquiringly out of the doorway, the blue eyes wide open with curiosity.
“Madam, Lord Ambrose Malfine at your service. I must beg to apologise for Zaraband! I am afraid she is dreadfully indulged, and this is the result — she is ruining the most delightful display of roses in England! Why, you must have an exquisite taste to grow these old damask varieties — may I compliment you upon your natural eye for beauty?”
I could see that the lady who had opened the door to me herself, not waiting for a servant, was attempting to take in all the details of my appearance, and I conjectured that she was asking herself whether this polite stranger (albeit he was dark-visaged with a long white scar running down the side of his cheek) and the flower-munching horse were indeed those staples of local legend, the hermit of Malfine and his demonic steed.
Politeness took over and won the battle with curiosity in the breast of Florence Sandys. And, try as she might to be proprietorially stern about the roses, she somehow curtseyed, invited me into the parlour, sat me down, hissed to a young person named Emmie to bring one of the best cups, and poured China tea in a thin smoky stream while her spouse, on the other side of the tea-table, woke unobtrusively from a nap.
“Ah, madam, what a charming house!”
“Yes, my lord, we are very fortunate, but I wish Murdoch would not drive himself too hard, for I fear he is too hardworking already — there are not enough hours in the day for him, I declare!”
“This is a social call, I assure you,” said I, hastily, in view of this heavy hint that they were to be undisturbed. “I desired to ask about the condition of Miss Lilian Westmorland, who is the daughter of an old friend of mine. I understand her uncle purposes to take
her to Egypt — do you really think her health will stand up to such an enterprise, Dr. Sandys?”
“I have not been taken into Mr. Overbury’s confidence,” said Sandys, “but I judge it would do Miss Lilian good to spend the winter in a warm, dry climate. To tell you the truth, I am somewhat perturbed by her condition. Having to keep her strapped up and partly immobilised so that the fractures will heal has prevented her from taking exercise and from properly expanding her lungs — and besides, her appetite seems very poor. She is not recovering as she should! I wish she had half of your powers of recuperation, Lord Ambrose!"
“But it was not merely physically that poor Miss Lilian was suffering. She was, it seems, uncommonly distressed because her mare had to be shot after the accident," said I.
“She can’t seem to understand why," said Murdoch Sandys. “I told her it was best the poor beast should be put out of its suffering and that no one could hold her uncle to blame. But all she said was that I did not see Selene myself — but the girl was feverish, it must be acknowledged, and not entirely lucid. In any case, I shall be attending her no longer."
It was obviously with mixed feelings that he then recounted his latest visit to Westmorland Park.
“Mr. Overbury received me," he said, “and told me my services would no longer be required. He said that he thought his niece should travel abroad for her health, and that it had been determined that Egypt had the best climate to aid her recovery."
Murdoch Sandys went on to say that he was quite pleased by this news, as far as the welfare of his patient went, for he had no doubt but that a change of scene and a warm winter would do the girl a power of good. But he was somewhat aggrieved, as I could see from the way he banged one of Mrs. Sandys’ best teacups into its saucer, by the arbitrary suddenness of the decision.
Murdoch looked weary, I thought; his hair was rumpled, his cravat awry.
“You work hard, Sandys, it is very true. I dare say all your time is taken up by your patients."
Poor Murdoch ran his hand over his face, as if to wipe away his weariness with the gesture. “It is true that I had ambitions, yes, as Florence could tell you. Could you not, my dear? But my aspirations lay elsewhere altogether — when I was studying at Edinburgh I had hoped perhaps to become a specialist in epidemic diseases — so much work was being done in that field! Think of the work of Dr. Jenner of Berkeley, for example — and he was a mere country doctor such as myself, when all was said and done.”