In Prior's Wood

by G. M. Malliet

  Jane further could not believe her luck when Lord Duxter had offered her this job the year before. While large swathes of the archives had been lost with the havoc of the Dissolution, a few monks with a sense of history had managed to spirit away some of the more important books and papers from the priory library onto the shelves at King’s College, Cambridge. With the purchase of the property, a wily Lord Duxter had managed to have some of the archives returned to their rightful place. They were in total disarray, dusty, torn in places and with pages missing and leather bindings collapsing. Still, for a bookworm such as Jane, it was heaven to be allowed to sort through them, taking reverential, white-glove care turning the pages. She had long regarded the printed word as the salvation of mankind—mankind itself being so often lacking, in so many ways.

  She looked up now to a labeled shelf and realized she’d need the library ladder to reach her objective, which was the set of ledgers dating back to the time of the foundation of the priory. She pushed the ladder over and scrambled up with alacrity. One thing they never taught you in getting a degree in information systems was that you’d better not have a fear of heights. Also, that wearing short skirts and heels was at all times a bad idea. Jane could just reach the ledger, easing it out of true with its fellows with infinite care.

  She was small of stature, if possessed of a jockey’s strength from hoisting about boxes of books and papers, and just into her thirties, a fact that had passed unacknowledged by her stepdaughter. Netta had said she supposed it was good that the girl wasn’t a hypocrite, although Jane didn’t see what was good about rudeness. Today, as most days, she wore a gray suit several sizes too large for her; she’d just dropped nearly a stone in weight on a new slimming regimen and hadn’t had her clothes taken in.

  She knew she was no great beauty with her sharp nose and sharper eyes, well hidden though they were behind glasses, but along with these strong features she was strong willed. She knew better than to judge a book by its cover and felt others would be wise to do likewise. She’d once had a library patron who chose books based on their titles alone, and would complain bitterly when Sister Carrie, for example, turned out not to be a book about a nun, and a book called Demon Summer turned out not to be about devil worship. Jane, with a low tolerance for this kind of thinking, had campaigned unsuccessfully to keep the man out of the place on the days she worked there.

  Having descended from the ladder without mishap, Jane held the heavy volume against her hip as she burrowed into the drawer of an enormous wooden desk in search of the magnifying glass she kept there. She couldn’t find it at first and wondered if Carville had borrowed it. He was always “borrowing” things and forgetting to return them.

  Ah, there it was. The next half hour passed quickly as she carefully turned page after page, trying to make out the minute handwriting.

  After a while her mind wandered and she began pacing the familiar stacks, coming to a halt before the old library clock. As she wound it, she thought of her husband, anticipating his arrival. Memories cascaded through her mind as all of her thinking centered on him: Colin will be home soon—it seems an age. It seems like yesterday! Everything must be perfect for him. I’ll make a list of his favorite foods before I do the shopping. It’s a long flight from Riyadh—well over six hours. And then the drive from Heathrow. He’ll be famished.

  These busy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of soft footfall at the double doors. It was Awena Owen—well, Jane supposed, Awena Tudor was her name now. Married to the dishy vicar over the way in Nether Monkslip. Awena was always dressed as if for a festival—bright, embroidered long dresses with trumpet sleeves, often gathered just below the bust by bejeweled sashes. She should start her own fashion line. Jane suspected it would be as big a hit as her cooking books, which had turned into a bit of a foodie empire. Some people had a golden touch, and Awena was one of them.

  “Hello, Awena.” The two women hugged briefly. They’d been working together several weeks as Jane helped Awena locate some of the written recipes from the priory archives, as well as records of crops and harvests in the area. Jane enjoyed Awena’s company: There were people you could unburden yourself to and never have the unburdening come back to haunt you. With Awena it was like that. You could be sure what was said in confidence would never be repeated. For someone like Jane, self-contained and used to self-censorship, having such a confidant came as a novelty and a welcome relief. But she had little she was willing to confide for the moment. Her anxiety about Colin’s return was probably self-evident.

  Indeed, nearly the first thing Awena said was, “I would bet you’re getting anxious to see your husband again. However sad the circumstances that bring him back.”

  “I know. Something about an ill wind that blows no one good. Netta’s death was such a shock, even though she was elderly; she always seemed like she might soldier on forever, you know?”

  Awena nodded. “She was tough. The only time I saw a crack in her composure was when Leo died.”

  “And even then … I think the stiff-upper-lip business is overrated, personally.”

  “She was lucky to have you. Were you with her at the last?”

  “No, I wasn’t, and that’s going to haunt me. She was alone in her bedroom and she may have been in some distress, according to Dr. Winship, but she never called out. I never heard a sound all night. In the morning, I found her.”

  Awena thought Bruce Winship probably should have spared the family knowing that, but she knew the doctor prided himself on clinical detachment. It probably never occurred to him he was being less than tactful, or helpful. She said, “Thank goodness Poppy wasn’t the one to find her.”

  “Yes! I had the same thought. Poppy has suffered quite a lot in her sixteen years. This would have been the last straw. She slept through it all, too. Well, to be honest—I don’t think she was there, Awena.”

  “Not in the house? Why? Wherever would she have been?”

  “With that kid Stanley she hangs about with. Stanley Zither. She thinks I don’t know but I do. I’ve tried talking with her but at that age … besides, I’m just the stepmother.” She made a mock grimace. “I know nothing useful.”

  Awena smiled. “How wonderful it is to know everything at the age of sixteen. I did, too. It’s amazing how much I’ve forgotten now.”

  “Too dumb to live, people over thirty, Poppy might say. ‘But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience?’ Charlotte Brontë was right. Anyway, I do miss Netta sometimes. I find myself turning to see if she wants more coffee or something and of course she’s not there. She wasn’t easy, but I liked her. Admired her, in some ways. For one thing, she’d never let anyone get above themselves, and that’s a good quality.” She sighed, turning to reshelve one of the books Awena was returning. “She used to call me her ‘little toad.’ She meant it affectionately.”

  “It doesn’t sound all that affectionate,” said Awena doubtfully.

  “You had to know her sense of humor. She and I understood each other well. But yes, as you say, having Colin back for however long will be wonderful. I am going to try to persuade him to stay. This Saudi thing isn’t working. The money is nice, but even so. We’ll figure something out. Money really isn’t everything.”

  “There’s a rumor going round that he was almost killed in Saudi.”

  Jane nodded earnestly. “A runaway truck nearly ran him down. Or off the road, or something. He thinks it was a kidnapping attempt.”

  “It’s like something out of a film. They’ve been talking about it over at the Cavalier. How dreadful.”

  “I keep thinking of that Rupert Brooke poem. You know: ‘If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field, that is forever England.’”

  “From ‘The Soldier.’ Yes, I suppose,” said Awena, again doubtfully. It wasn’t as if Colin were taking mortar fire or something. But he lived in a place that was perhaps the world’s oddest mix of luxury and deprivation, as far from hi
s upbringing in England as could be imagined. Away from his wife and daughter, there was no question he was making a sacrifice of a sort for the good of his family. At least, Awena hoped it was to their good.

  “Brooke was only twenty-seven when he died,” said Jane. “I find that immeasurably sad, don’t you? At least Colin would have made it into his thirties—still too young. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, I did start to wonder. If it wasn’t a kidnapping, what was it? Could someone have it in for him? Could Poppy be next? Could I?”

  “Oh, surely not.”

  Easier for you to say than others, thought Jane. Probably nothing will ever touch you. You with your home and your hearth and your fluffy-headed baby and your dashing husband. Some women have all the luck.

  Awena looked at her friend. The standing wooden clock in the corner struck the hour, recalling her to the need to get moving soon.

  Why was it Jane Eyre always came to mind when she was with Jane Frost? It was more than that they were both Janes. There was what she imagined was a physical similarity, as well. This Jane couldn’t have weighed much more than seven stone, and while her green eyes—her best feature—blazed with intelligence, they were large and froglike in her small face, and set perhaps a fraction of an inch too wide. Awena wished Netta hadn’t had that awful name for her—her little toad—because with the slightly bulbous eyes, magnified behind glasses, the description caught too well. “Plain and little” was Jane Eyre and so was Jane Frost, but Awena thought they also shared that spark of wit, of intelligence. And something more. That iron will and determination. Jane Eyre had been willing to risk it all rather than compromise. Awena thought the Jane before her now was cut from the same cloth.

  With, perhaps, more than a trace of the romantic.

  “I have the nature of a hermit,” Jane had once told Awena. “What I love is to be surrounded by books, and to be sunk into a good story that makes me forget the world outside. I almost prefer books to human beings.”

  “I suppose we all feel that way sometimes. Books can provide a much-needed escape from life.”

  “From people,” said Jane. “Books are infinitely more satisfying than people. And books—at least books have a beginning and an end. People seem to go on forever.”

  Chapter 9

  JUDGMENT

  “Such a shame about Netta,” said Elka Garth, pushing her hair back from her forehead with one hand, being careful not to anoint herself with flour. She wore a newly washed and starched apron she was trying to keep clean, even if past experience had shown that by the end of the day it would be smeared with chocolate and raspberry preserves.

  “Yes, but not unexpected, is it?” Suzanna Winship asked, peering over her stylish reading glasses. She’d taken over her usual corner table in the Cavalier, facing into the busy room. From there she had a good view of new arrivals and could best take advantage of the room’s acoustics. There was tacit understanding and acceptance that this was Suzanna’s table. Since the dozen or so tables sprinkled about the Cavalier were covered in gingham cloth and each held a small vase of fresh posies, it rather marred the CEO effect for which Suzanna may have been striving, but nothing could dim her steely gaze. The village was hers to command, at least insofar as the business of the Women’s Institute was concerned. Miss Pitchford held the fort in all other village matters.

  “My brother says he’s surprised she hung on as long as she did,” she added. Suzanna’s brother was the village’s doctor; Suzanna, as has been said, its unofficial ruler. She had won the title fair and square by seizing the reins of the Women’s Institute a few years previous when the then incumbent was dispatched in an untimely manner. Whether she held on to the power fair and square was open to debate, but since no one else wanted the job, protesting voices remained still. “Colin before he left told Bruce his grandmother was sometimes acting confused, forgetting to take her doses of medicine and so on.”

  Elka nodded sagely, lips pursed as she concentrated on her task. She was dusting icing sugar over the pastries on a tray she was preparing to set out for the morning crowd at the Cavalier. She’d been thinking how much Netta, come autumn, used to love the tarts, made fresh from apples plucked from Elka’s orchard not ten yards away.

  Little Tom Hooser, the son of Max’s housekeeper, walked in. Not tall enough for his head to reach the top of the counter, he stood waving a pound coin in the air until he captured her attention, then pointed at one of the chocolate-drizzled pastries in the display cabinet. The child never seemed to be in school; today he apparently had once again slipped the surly bonds of his elder sister, Tildy Ann. Elka refused the coin and sent him off with the pastry.

  “I wonder how Jane is coping,” Suzanna said. “And Poppy. I suppose Colin is on his way home now?”

  “Yes, and hasn’t Lord Duxter been marvelously helpful about all that? He stepped up and made all the arrangements. You don’t just leave Saudi Arabia whenever you feel like it, you know. And wasn’t he generous, too, offering a car and driver and whatever else was needed to help with the arrangements for Netta.”

  “I thought the men in Saudi could do whatever they bloody well pleased, whenever they pleased,” said Suzanna. She opened up her purse to find a lipstick and mirror to begin touching up her makeup. It was a good thing, too, she noted. Her chin was dotted with sugar and jam from the blueberry tart she’d just devoured. Pushing her wavy blond hair behind her ears, she added, “Just not the women.”

  “Oh, no, no. Exit visas are strictly controlled no matter who or what you are. I gather Lord Duxter had to cut some red tape to get Colin home quickly.”

  “But it was for his grandmother!” put in an outraged Miss Pitchford, setting down her pen and crossword to sip her tea. As usual she had taken the table nearest the window overlooking the High, where she could keep an eye on village comings and goings. If she and Suzanna could only learn to cooperate and share information, they could rule the world, but such collaboration was not in their natures. “For a family emergency, surely, officials would understand, even there…”

  Elka shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Urgent family business, whatever. And to attend a funeral, perhaps it is felt that there is no rush.”

  “They wouldn’t feel that way if it was their grandmother,” Suzanna pointed out.

  “I’m sure you’re right. It’s a different world from ours over there.”

  “I guess that’s why Jane didn’t want to go with him.”

  “Too right,” said Elka. “But I know she did try her best to come to grips with the idea. She did a lot of reading up, and joined a few chat groups online with women who had lived there. She thought she could manage. But in the end she said there was just no way: Colin would have to carry on on his own. And of course his employer would see that he had regular vacations so they could see each other. Jane simply put her foot down for once and I don’t think Colin wanted to press her. He agreed it was no life for the wives over there, even in the compounds, where they try to make it as much like home as they can for the workers.”

  “And then Colin had that near-miss accident,” said Miss Pitchford.

  “When the car tried to run him and a colleague off the road? Yes, Colin told Jane that nearly had him putting in his resignation on the spot. Frightened him silly, it did. A cybersecurity expert might well be a target for kidnapping in those parts. Or blackmail. Extortion. All manner of mischief.”

  “Have you seen Poppy lately?” Suzanna asked. “How is she holding up?”

  “All right, I think. She hasn’t been in here since Netta … you know. I don’t know that she was that close to her. Still, it’s her great-grandmother. It’s hard to say how children that age will react. I don’t imagine it feels very real to Poppy. She’s a dreamer to begin with, I’ve always felt.”

  “Are she and Jane getting along, do you think?” This was Miss Pitchford, who suspected they were not, but wanted her suspicions confirmed. She prided herself—wrongly, at times—on the accuracy of the gos
sip she spread. Not exactly a question of giving value for money but something along those lines.

  “I think they get along all right,” said Elka, searching in a drawer beneath the counter for string to tie up a box of biscuits she’d be delivering by bicycle later. “Better than most stepdaughters and stepmothers get along. Poppy’s own mother was … well, troubled they say. Jane tells me she disowned Poppy before she died. They’d had some quarrel and words were said that could not be unsaid. The next day, the mother was dead. That will mess with your mind, won’t it, when you’re only just a child?”

  “I didn’t know Lord Duxter got so involved in the arrangements for retrieving Colin from the Saudis,” said Suzanna, snapping shut her compact mirror. “What’s it to him, anyway?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Elka. “I think he’s just trying to be helpful. It seems to be in his nature, doesn’t it? I mean, it was he who found the job for Colin in the first place. He pulled strings with an old friend. One of these gentlemen’s club things that go on.”

  “He’s said to be very well connected, Lord Duxter.” This from Miss Pitchford, whose awed reverence for all things having to do with the nobility was widely known and routinely parodied by Suzanna, who now rolled her eyes behind the older woman’s back.

  “He’s a hard-headed businessman,” Suzanna scoffed. “That type does nothing without good reason.”

  Elka looked doubtful. “I suppose he must always consider the bottom line first. Anyway, I understand that in starting the writers’ retreat he took advice from Lord Feathersham, and certainly that was wise of him,” she said. “It was Lord Feathersham who turned Barnstable Hall into a destination for young families on holiday, with a petting zoo as the showcase. Otherwise he’d have had to sell up and get out as so many owners of these stately old piles have had to do. Weddings and anniversary parties also keep him afloat, and now he runs the place as a five-star bed-and-breakfast.”