Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  ‘It’s a Mr Harold Savill, miss.’

  When the maid had gone Blanche stood quite still for some moments. What did Harold Savill want with her? She had seen nothing of him since the day she had left Hallowford House sixteen months before – though on her rare trips to Trowbridge she had heard various reports about him – reports of his often being seen in the company of various doubtful women in the area, and of his spending less and less time at the mill. Blanche might have gained some real knowledge of him through the occasional letters she exchanged with Mrs Callow. The housekeeper, however, obviously guided by loyalty and awareness of her position, had never volunteered news of her new master and Blanche had not been interested enough to ask.

  Blanche made a final brief check on her appearance then left the room and went downstairs. On the hall table she saw Harold’s cap and gauntlets. She found him standing in the library. He had not taken off his coat. As she entered he gave her a small bow. She nodded in return.

  ‘Mr Savill …’

  ‘Hello, Blanche.’

  She did not ask him to sit. He studied her as she in turn studied him. He looked more dissolute than ever; his nose had taken on a purplish hue, his fleshy cheeks now covered with a mesh of broken veins. While she gazed in distaste at him he said:

  ‘I must say you’re looking well, Blanche.’

  ‘I am – thank you.’ She had no wish to do more than be polite. She was still wondering why he had come.

  ‘A letter came for you at the house,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Mrs Callow sent it on to you. I hope you received it all right.’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ She did not want to share any joy with him, but she could not stop herself from adding:

  ‘It was from my brother Ernest.’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘And he is – safe, I hope?’

  ‘Yes. I trust he is. I’m in touch with him quite regularly now.’

  There was a little silence, then she added, ‘I saw your motor car from my window. I couldn’t think who would be calling here in a motor car.’

  He nodded, pleased. ‘Ah, yes, the motor car. The transport of the future. You know, in London they even have motor-run omnibuses now.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  He smiled. ‘But that’s not why I’ve called to see you.’ Delving into one of his capacious pockets he drew out a roll of notes. ‘Marianne,’ he said, ‘she’s written to me from Sicily – asking me to see that you’re all right – financially.’ He held the money out to her. Blanche made no attempt to take it but instead stepped back half a pace.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Please.’ He flourished the notes slightly. ‘Take it.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘It’s not from me, Blanche. I told you – it’s from Marianne. I’m simply carrying out her wishes. I’m only her messenger. She’s going to make some legal financial arrangement with her lawyer, she says. In the meantime I promised I’d bring you this. Please, take it.’ When she still hesitated, he said, ‘It’s thirty pounds; it’s not a huge fortune.’

  After another moment of hesitation, she stepped forward and took the money from his hand. ‘Thank you.’ Then she added: ‘I’d better give you a receipt.’

  He waved the idea aside. ‘Don’t bother. It’s not necessary.’ Already he was moving past her towards the door. ‘I must go.’ His mouth twisted in irony as he added, ‘I don’t want to wear my welcome out.’

  Blanche followed him into the hall where she handed him his cap and gloves. Then she stood aside as he opened the door, let himself out and moved towards the front gate.

  After she had closed the door she heard the car’s engine throbbing into life and then the sound of the vehicle being driven away.

  Five minutes later Alfredo Pastore had arrived in a cab to take her to dinner, and after first joining George and Mrs Marsh in a toast to the new year he escorted Blanche from the house.

  Dinner at the hotel restaurant was a bright, festive affair, and Blanche enjoyed herself. They remained there till after midnight, on the first stroke of which they joined in the singing of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and then toasted one another in champagne. Afterwards, with the first bells of 1902 ringing over the town, they set off to walk back to Almond Street. Pastore was soon to leave for London and Sicily.

  ‘I shall miss you, Blanche,’ he said, turning to look at her as they walked.

  Looking up at him she saw the intense look in his eyes.

  ‘Will you miss me too?’ he said. ‘Just a little?’

  He had not spoken of, or even hinted at, any kind of special regard for her, and for a while she had naively told herself that his interest in her was as a result of knowing Edward Harrow. She had soon become aware of her naiveté, though, and had come to see him with new eyes.

  ‘Will you miss me, Blanche?’ he said again.

  ‘Yes – of course.’

  And yes, she would miss him, she said to herself. She would miss him for a while. He was a striking man, in his own way, and he had a warm, outgoing personality. And he was good company in these times when part of her mind was so concerned with anxieties over Gentry and Ernest. But for all that she liked him and enjoyed being with him, she could not return the affection he so clearly felt for her.

  They were walking beside a park, and his footsteps paused and halted in the cover of a tall yew tree. Taking her arm he drew her gently towards him.

  ‘Blanche …’ He was gazing down at her. ‘Listen to me …’

  She wanted to move on, but she had to stand there, his eyes burning into her own.

  ‘Blanche,’ he said, ‘by this time you must have gained some idea of how I feel for you.’

  ‘Alfredo …’

  ‘And you like me too, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes – of course I do.’

  ‘You must do – or you wouldn’t be here with me, walking with me on this cold night.’ He pulled up the velvet collar of her ulster a little more closely about her chin. ‘But I more than like you, Blanche. You must realize that by now.’ His breath vapoured in the air. After a little silence he said:

  ‘Blanche – I want to marry you.’

  She gazed at him in astonishment.

  ‘Will you?’ he said. ‘Will you marry me?’

  She had not been expecting such a question and she was quite unprepared. ‘Oh – Alfredo,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘I can’t – I can’t …’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘– Oh, Alfredo …’

  ‘I know it has come – very suddenly to you. But I mean it, Blanche. With all my heart.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps I’m being foolish where you’re concerned, but I can’t help it. I have to speak now because I have so little time. I must return to Palermo, you know that.’ He paused. ‘Marry me, Blanche. Marry me and come with me.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, Alfredo, I’m sorry. I can’t – can’t marry you.’

  ‘Don’t you feel anything for me?’

  ‘Of course. I like you very much.’

  ‘But you don’t love me,’ he said. Then he shrugged. ‘But that’s all right. I don’t expect everything at once. You could learn to love me in time, I know you could. Just give it a chance.’

  Wrapping his arms around her he drew her close to him, bent his head and kissed her. His kiss was firm, insistent. As he drew back his head a moment later he murmured. ‘I love you, Blanche. I never thought I could say that to any woman – after what happened with my wife, but …’ He gave a wondering little shake of his head. ‘From our very first meeting in London I was attracted to you. I never expected ever to see you again, but I did. Suddenly, there you were in the tearoom. It was – as if it was fate. We were meant to meet again, Blanche, I know we were.’ His ungloved hands lifted, gently touched her cheeks. ‘And now that I’ve found you I don’t want to let you go.’

  She did not answer. He said again:

  ‘Marry me, Blanche, please. Tell me you’ll marry me, and
let’s leave for Sicily together. We could get a special licence and be married at once. I’ll look after you. You’ll never have to work again. Living in Marsh’s dingy little house – you deserve better than that. And I can give you better. Come with me. You’ll love Sicily.’

  ‘Alfredo – I can’t marry you.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, believe me.’

  He gazed at her with his disappointment in his eyes, then he said: ‘Is there someone else?’

  How could she speak of Gentry? She shook her head.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said with a little nod of satisfaction, ‘there’s a chance for me. And I shan’t give up. I shall ask you again when I come back to England.’

  ‘– Please, I –’

  ‘There’s nothing you can say that will deter me, Blanche. I know you’ll love me in the end.’ His arms came around her again, drawing her to him. ‘You will be mine some day, I know that.’ He smiled. ‘And you might as well accept the idea too.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  When Marianne did not receive her monthly allowance for February at the anticipated time, she was not overly concerned, expecting it to arrive any day. When March came and she had still not received it – and now the March payment was also due – she wrote to her uncle to remind him of the situation. Three weeks went by, however, and there was no word from him. Puzzled at the silence she then wrote to Mrs Callow, asking whether her uncle was sick or whether there was some other reason to account for his silence. Mrs Callow replied to the effect that he had left the house towards the end of February, saying that he had to go away on business. She had heard nothing from him since that time, she added, though a great deal of post addressed to him had been delivered to the house.

  Growing a little uneasy, Marianne then wrote to Mr Baron, her father’s solicitor, asking him if he knew what was happening. Baron’s reply was extremely disquieting. He wrote that he had not handled the Savill legal affairs for some time, and that such matters were being handled by another firm, Dusop, Marlin and Sams. He was somewhat surprised, he said, that Mr Harold Savill had not mentioned the matter to her. However, he would make some discreet inquiries as to her uncle’s whereabouts, he added, and would communicate with her as soon as he was able to find some answers.

  The communications back and forth between Sicily and England took time and it was the end of May before she heard anything further on the matter. Judging by what he had been able to discern, Baron wrote, the situation appeared somewhat clouded. Certain things were clear, however, he added, among them being that no one seemed to have any idea where Harold Savill was at present, and also that there appeared to be a great deal of confusion over the Savill business affairs. He ended his letter by suggesting to Marianne that she return to England as quickly as possible, and that in the meantime, if she wished, he would assume responsibility for her legal affairs and do what he could to clarify the situation. Marianne replied that she would like him to do this, and that she would return at once.

  Saying nothing to Edward Harrow of her real concern, she merely told him that she wished to return to England to take charge of her affairs. He insisted that she take with her one of the maids to assist her on the journey. She agreed and immediately set about preparing for her return.

  The next day, en route to Calais, she bought a newspaper at one of the railway stations, and discovered that Britain’s war with the Boers was over.

  The Peace of Vereeniging, on 31 May, had put an end to the conflict. The Boers had accepted British sovereignty, in return being promised representative government and £3 million for restocking their denuded farms. The cost of the war had been high. The vanquished Boers had lost 4,000 killed in action against nearly 6,000 of the victorious British troops. Further swelling the numbers of Britons lost were some 16,000 who had died from disease.

  It was George Marsh who brought the news to Blanche and she wept with happiness. The fighting was over. From now on Gentry and Ernest would be safe.

  Soon afterwards she received a letter from Ernest saying that he expected soon to be sailing for England. To her great disappointment, however, he added that on disembarking he would go back to Yorkshire for a while where he had a good job waiting for him. ‘But you’ll hear from me again soon,’ he said, adding that he would write to her when he was settled, and then come south to see her.

  The day after receiving Ernest’s letter Blanche heard news of Gentry’s impending return.

  That Saturday, having taken Clara to the shop to meet her father, Blanche had got into conversation with one of his customers, a woman whose son, Blanche discovered to her secret joy, was in the same regiment as Gentry. And, she learned from the ecstatic woman, her son – along with the rest of his regiment – was due to sail for Bristol the following day on board the SS Maine.

  Blanche hugged the news to her. Gentry was coming back, and for a little while, before going on to Sicily, he would be in Bristol – so close, so close.

  Later, in the solitude of her room, with Jacko lying at her feet, she sat gazing, unseeing, out of the window. It was time now to face up to reality. The war had given her a brief respite from the knowledge of what must happen, but now it had to be faced. With Gentry’s marriage to Marianne postponed and his being so far away she, Blanche, had managed to avoid the truth of the situation, hardly looking further than his safe return. Now, though, the war was over, and she must live again in the real world. And in that real world she had to face the truth, and in that truth he had promised himself to Marianne.

  Over the following days the newspapers were full of news of the returning victorious troops, and of the movements of the transport ships. If victory had been hard won at least the war had ended and the survivors were returning – albeit many of them wounded, or sick with disease. And Blanche, though so deeply involved, felt left out in the cold. Ernest was going straight to his promised employment in Yorkshire, while Gentry – whose ship, the SS Maine, was expected at Bristol within days, and whose imminent arrival was even reported in the morning paper – would waste no time in returning to Sicily.

  And then, suddenly, in the schoolroom where she was teaching Clara, she found she could bear it no longer. She would go to Bristol. If she left today, now, she might be in time to meet Gentry’s ship. What would happen if she did she did not stop to imagine; she did not think beyond her decision, her determination to meet him, to see him again.

  Telling Clara to continue with her work alone for a few minutes, Blanche took the newspaper and went to see Mrs Marsh. Ernest’s ship, she told her, pointing to the relevant item in the paper, was due to dock at Bristol. She would like to go and meet him, she said.

  Mrs Marsh herself grew excited at the prospect. Of course Blanche must go to meet him, she said. ‘Do you know when his ship is due?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but it must be any time now. It could be today; it could be tomorrow.’

  ‘And you’re sure that your brother is on it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Blanche lied. ‘He wrote that he would be.’

  ‘And if the ship doesn’t come in today – what will you do?’

  Blanche shrugged. ‘I’ll find a hotel, and wait.’

  In just over half-an-hour Blanche, carrying a small, hurriedly-packed valise, set off from the house. At the corner of Almond Street she managed to get a cab and within twenty minutes of arriving at the station she was on a train bound for Bristol.

  As soon as she arrived in the city she took a cab to the docks where, amidst all the seeming confusion, she eventually found someone who could give her the information she sought. To her joy she found that she was not too late. The SS Maine was still a day out. It was estimated that it would berth sometime during the evening of the following day.

  Holding on to the good news, Blanche then set off to find lodgings for the night, eventually securing a room in a small hotel not too far from the docks. That done it only remained to find some way of passing the hours until the ship’s arrival.

  She was a
fraid to stray too far away and the next morning found her making her way back towards the quays, there to begin her waiting. As the day wore on she was joined by others who had arrived to welcome the returning soldiers. Shortly after one in the afternoon she reluctantly hurried off to a nearby hotel to get something to eat, but less than half-an-hour later she was back on the quay, rejoining the burgeoning crowd of watchers who stood looking out across the sea.

  And then at last, in the late afternoon, she saw on the horizon a little thread of smoke rising up. Eventually, as the ship drew nearer, she saw that it was the SS Maine.

  She watched, almost breathless, as the ship slowly hove into the port, as it docked and was secured, and as, eventually, after what seemed an age, the gangplank was lowered. She found herself caught up in a throng that surged like the sea itself, carrying her forward while people cheered and cried out, and somewhere behind her a brass band played. Her head lifted, her eyes ran back and forth over the faces of the uniformed men lined up at the rails who stood looking over at the throng below. She could see no sign of Gentry.

  The able-bodied soldiers had to wait for disembarkation, however. Down the gangplank stretchers were carried one after the other by bearers, some with female nurses in attendance. Blanche, trying to get close, but prevented from doing so by the crowd, was terrified in case Gentry was one of those borne on the stretchers and that he should be carried to one of the waiting ambulances without her knowledge.

  Then, eventually, the last of the sick and injured soldiers had been helped from the ship and after a short delay the first of the able soldiers came down the gangplank, his kit-bag carried on his shoulder. One by one they descended, and as each one appeared Blanche’s anxious eyes lighted upon his face, and she watched as each stranger passed by into the throng, many to be greeted there by anxious families and sweethearts.