by E A Dineley
‘But I find him very considerate.’
‘You sit down to meals with him?’
‘No, certainly not, only breakfast, the day he arrived.’
‘All the same, it must make you extraordinarily uncomfortable. What I can’t understand is why you don’t flee to your sister until such time as your lawyers have come to their senses. Surely your sister would welcome you? You should pack and go this minute. He can’t be a gentleman who subjects a woman to such deep humiliation in her own house.’
‘But it’s his house.’
‘So it may be,’ Mr Conway said, irritated, ‘but that’s not the point. Why don’t you go?’
Mrs Arthur thought about this. Of course Mr Conway was right, for it was exactly what she should do, yet she didn’t do it. He didn’t realise, and she didn’t choose to tell him, how short of ready money she was. Louisa would lend it to her but she preferred not to ask.
‘For all we know, this Captain Allington will assault you,’ Mr Conway said. ‘The reputation of soldiers, where woman are concerned . . . Think what happened after the siege of Badajoz in the wars in Spain. Three days of rape and pillage. I expect he was there.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! That was the troops, not the officers.’
‘Why didn’t the officers stop them? Answer me that! Because in their hearts they condoned it.’
‘I am quite sure that’s not true. I don’t believe you know anything about it and nor do I. I have perfect faith in Captain Allington not assaulting me.’
‘And upon what ground is your faith based?’
Mrs Arthur, who had no idea upon what ground her faith was based, said, ‘It is anyway nothing to do with you. I am not a child to be cross-examined.’ Mr Conway was suddenly contrite. He said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. We are, my brother and I, so very, very concerned. Out of anxiety, your conduct may become irrational and we really can’t tell what Captain Allington might do. He is a gambler, the thing you hold in abhorrence above all else. He just wants you to stay here to look after the house and servants. He will never be able to keep himself from London and the gaming tables. A little place like this will soon bore him to distraction.’
‘I know you mean well. I expect you see it as simple, but in fact it’s difficult to leave. What should I do about Phil? Nobody is going to be as kind to me as you and your brother, charging so little. I’ll see you another day, perhaps when I hear something from the bank or the lawyer.’
Mr Conway, unable out of politeness to do anything but go, saw himself out. Mrs Arthur leaned on the window. In panic, she thought, What if there never is any money? Her children must go to Westcott Park and she would have to find work as a companion or even a governess. There was, however, money, for she had never made use of it. The little greyhound pressed dolefully against her skirts.
Later that day, Mrs Arthur took Emmy out for a walk. The trees down the avenue were in their full autumn glory. It was overcast, the sky heavy and grey. Emmy ran about picking up leaves and exclaiming at their different colours.
Captain Allington was just leaving the lodge as they reached it. Mrs Arthur could not help wondering if he did not find life dull without the stimulus of the gaming tables, just as Stewart Conway had said. Surely he would tire of Castle Orchard, but she supposed there was novelty in it yet. He started to walk beside her.
‘I’m sorry Mr Conway called, but they’re accustomed to it, he and the rector,’ she said.
‘But you may receive visitors if you wish.’
‘I have very few. I had the impression you weren’t pleased to see Mr Conway.’
‘Was I too abrupt?’
‘I expect he thought so, but it was his own fault.’
‘I can’t say I took to him, but if he gives you good advice, I certainly won’t object to his coming. I expect he tells you to leave.’
‘He does.’
‘And where does he think you should go?’
‘To my sister at Westcott Park.’
‘But you don’t?’
‘I’m sure they would be kind to me.’
‘Perhaps you don’t know them well, that you would feel uncomfortable, you and the children.’
‘I would feel very uncomfortable. I ought to be in mourning. They would expect all of that. I don’t, as yet, know my situation. On the other hand, I oughtn’t to be beholden to you, I oughtn’t to be here.’
‘But I’ve deprived you of your home. Ought I not to feel something about that?’
‘It would have gone, sooner or later – if not to you, to somebody else. Was I prepared, in my mind? Perhaps one never is quite prepared. If you are married to a man who is married to the gaming tables—’ Mrs Arthur broke off, remembering the means by which Castle Orchard had changed hands. She then said, ‘You have been very kind and considerate, Captain Allington.’
‘But,’ he replied quietly, ‘you have to disapprove of me.’
‘I disapprove of gambling in any form. How could I not?’
Allington made no reply. She wondered if he would attempt to defend himself or make excuses but they walked back up the avenue in silence, beyond Emmy’s prattling. They parted at the front door.
Indoors, in the hall, Mrs Arthur found Pride, who paid no respect to servants’ quarters or backstairs, merely taking the shortest route. He was peering out of the window at Allington’s back view and said, with satisfaction, ‘Captain has his boat cloak on. I think it’s coming on to rain. I shouldn’t like him caught in it.’
‘Would it affect his health?’ Mrs Arthur asked him, seeing him standing there with a cooking pot under his arm.
‘It’s just if he should get the ague, then he would be ill. The bad head is nothing to the ague. Well, the boat cloak, it’s a sad old thing but it still keeps out the weather. Good thick stuff, that, and a baize lining. Belonged to Captain Jameson what was my master’s messmate afore he died, that was at the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo that was, a terrible slaughtery place, poor young gentleman. Master was fond of Captain Jameson. He put his head in his arms and cried. When they come to auction Captain Jameson’s stuff, which never does seem a pleasant thing, his shirts and the like, what seem warm off him, but they always does it, master bids for Captain Jameson’s boat cloak.’
‘Did you like campaigning?’
‘No, I didn’t. Worst soldier in the world, master said, but I’m useful enough in other ways. Terrible wet in Spain or terrible hot, like you burns your fingers on your buttons. Master said you fretted at our living down the lodge. Don’t you worry, it’s a palace, seeing the places we’ve been in, pigsties, lice – them foreigners are filthy. Best thing master had was that old boat cloak, what he could wrap himself up in, of Captain Jameson’s, poor gentleman, with half his ribs blown off his backbone and he alive for two days with it. Funny old life, campaigning, ’taint fit to tell much of it.’
Pride came to a pause here, realising he was telling it to Mrs Arthur.
Mrs Arthur, mesmerised, said, ‘But why ever did you enlist?’
‘It was the drink. My pa was a tailor and I was apprenticed under him. I broke his heart, so my ma says. He said I was only fit to be a soldier, riff-raff, so when the recruiting officer came by, I joined up, got a dab of cash, spent it the usual way, an’ by the time I was herded up to put me red coat on, and learn the drill, I didn’t have nothing but the clothes on me back and a sore head. Trouble is, soldiering ain’t sobering. I got into a deal o’ trouble through drink. Well, I’d joined a line regiment, part o’ what they call the Light Division, an’ before I saw any sense I were packed down tight in a transport, sick as a dog, an’ the wind contrary. Lisbon, that’s where they rolled me out, and a nasty, dirty place it is. My ma brought me up clean an’ respectable. She would’ve thought it a bit of a waste if she could’ve seen me then. The Light Division ain’t no place for the likes of me, I soon saw that, what is the worst soldier in the world, what never could understand the honour of the regiment, all that darting about up at the front
– skirmishing, they calls it – dancing with death all the long day. I were so nervous like, I’d never get the ramrod right down the muzzle, an’ the damn old thing, the firelock, wouldn’t go more than half off. My master wasn’t promoted Captain then, but he were in charge of the company, the Captain bein’ off sick much of the time. He never were a restful body – like a hare, like a deer, like a cat, stretched tight for action. Later, it were all the more distressing when he were destroyed, broken to bits. It’s a hard life though, marching and marching, blistering hot over them rocks and mountains or else plunging about in the mud. Think of the knapsack, three pints o’ water in the canteen, sixty round of ball, mess tin, clothes, shoes, brushes, pipe clay, bread, beef what had to last three days, firelock, bayonet, an’ once we was issued with tents, you had the tent pegs too an’ the kettle to carry when ’twas your turn. Forty to fifty pounds were a terrible burden on a hot day with thirty miles in front of you. ’Cause many got the fever something dreadful from laying out in the dew, an’ the tents was meant to save us from that. No, I never was no good as a soldier. ’Tis bad for the others if you’re in a funk – catching, like – an’ I reckon all them officers hoped I’d get a bullet smack between the eyes double quick. When I became Captain Allington’s servant it took me out the firing line. I’d mind the baggage, the mule and what-have-you. ’Twas a privilege I never did earn, but I were a good servant an’ I laid off the drink for fear o’ losing the place. I soon learned to make the best o’ that beef an’ such, when we had it. All they little flavourings, rosemary and thyme, just grow out on the rocks for the picking. Master would take his rod and get some fish an’ he always spared a fish for me. Now the Spanish make a good-for-nothing fish hook, clumsy thing. Master was always a-begging in his letters home for English tackle. Sometimes there weren’t nothing, rations finished, commissariat dropped off the face of the earth, an’ I boils a bit o’ flour in the goat’s milk.’
Pride, grudgingly, came to a halt. He then said, ‘I like to do the tailoring now, though I never sewed no gowns, ’twas all gentlemen’s stuff. My pa taught me well. He might be a little bit proud of me ’cause I’m a gentleman’s gentleman.’ He laughed, for he knew he was not a gentleman’s gentleman, not like Mr Emill, who had vanished on his master’s death. ‘Still, he never was pleased with me, my pa, yet I can turn my hand to anything if I puts my mind to it. Master says that, but he also says I talk too much an’ so I do.’
They had been standing side by side at the window. Mrs Arthur, aware that Pride was as an open door on Captain Allington’s life and more than half-thinking she should not be listening to him, said, ‘Pride, those sieges, like the one at Badejos – what makes the soldiers go so mad?’
Pride looked away from her, awkward and uneasy, but he said, ‘If a siege is long an’ bloody, when the soldiers do get through the breaches, they go mad an’ they don’t spare nobody nor nothing. They say five thousand men was piled up dead an’ then the plunder started. They’ll murder any officer what tries to stop them.’
‘Was Captain Allington at Badejos?’
‘Yes, ma’am. He had a company of Portuguese caçadores. Begging your pardon, ma’am, you don’t know what you’ll do when the streets is running with blood an’ there’s Spanish wine in every cellar.’
Allington walked on to the Philosopher’s Tower. He inspected the brickwork and peered up at the roof, but he was pensive and abstracted. Eventually he pushed open the door and went inside and up the stairs. In the drawer of the little table he found the bit of paper where Phil had written Philip Osipher and other bits of nonsense, in strange, wobbly writing. Allington moved the chair to the window so he was overlooking the remains of the castle and a bend of the river. Was the subject of gambling of sufficient import for the Philosopher’s Tower? To him it was, though perhaps it was more a question of morals than philosophy. How could he expect Mrs Arthur not to judge him and certainly condemn him? He could have defended himself; he could have said, ‘I am no Johnny Arthur. The risks I take are minimal – I took no gamble.’ He could have said all those things, but he had not done so because the underlying lack of principle in his obtainment of Castle Orchard was the same as if he had won the whole thing on the throw of a dice. He could not, with any honesty, regret it, except for the way it coloured him in the eyes of Mrs Arthur: this he did regret. If he had never won a penny, he would be living at St Jude, dependent on the generosity of his stepbrother, as the poor, incapacitated relation. A half-pay officer did not receive sufficient money on which to live, let alone marry and lead an independent life.
He turned his attention to the view. He could see Phil amongst the ruins of the castle, alone, shrugged up in his jacket. He got up abruptly, went down the stairs and back outdoors.
When he reached Phil, he said, ‘You are cold.’
Phil somehow interpreted this as a rebuke, that he ought not to be cold. He said, hanging his head, ‘I have my jacket on,’ as if having taken the necessary precautions against the inclemency of the weather, he could accrue no further blame. He then thought of a circumstance he connected with his jacket and added, ‘But it was made by my mother from her cloak and she hasn’t another.’
‘If you ran about you would get warm,’ Allington said.
Phil considered this. He then replied, ‘You can’t run about by yourself, because you don’t know why you are running.’
‘Throw pebbles in the river and see how far they go.’
‘I don’t like the river, I don’t like the river at all. Now I want treasure, I don’t like the stones, I don’t like to turn them over.’
‘The river is one thing – it could do you a mischief – but stones are another.’
Phil’s eyes were round with horror. He said, ‘Vipers, scorpions under every stone. One nip an’ they do yer business.’
Allington frowned. He said, ‘Where do you get this rubbish?’
Phil, further alarmed at having unwittingly caused Allington to frown, said, ‘Jackson in the boot room.’
‘If I were you, I shouldn’t believe everything he says. A scorpion would never stand the climate here, and as for vipers, they are asleep in the winter. What is it you tell me, you are looking for treasure?’
Phil detected a softening in Allington’s tone. He said, ‘If I could just find a little treasure I would give it to my mother. I shouldn’t want it for myself, except my boots are too small and when my mother asked me, I lied because of there being no money at Michaelmas. Now, the castle must be the place to bury treasure and if I could have turned the stones over, or some of the smaller ones, I might have found some but I remembered about the scorpions and the vipers.’
‘What a dilemma,’ Allington said.
He started to push the stones about, which were quite large, with his boot, and then bent down and rolled over a few more. ‘No scorpions, no vipers. Now get along and look under each stone, even these I’ve moved already because you must make a thorough search.’
Phil set about doing as he was told, heaving at the stones until he was pink and hot.
Allington returned towards the house. He could see the Conway boys coming in the other direction. They were very warlike, he observed, a tin trumpet and a flag on the end of a stick. He wondered, idly, which belonged to the rector and which to his brother. He had not warmed to Mr Conway; he thought him too intimate with Mrs Arthur, which, he supposed, was none of his business. Children he never minded.
Robert Conway, leading his little brothers and his even smaller cousins, saw Captain Allington. He knew it was Captain Allington, for it could have been no one else. He noted the slight limp, but the upright, soldierly bearing. In his mind’s eye he endowed him with the uniform of the 95th and every virtue a soldier could possess, of courage and sacrifice. Had he not been at Waterloo? In a second he found the childish chatter of Stevey, Frankie and the twins unbearable. He thought of making them all run home, but changed his mind. Enraptured, he gazed on the retreating form of Captain Allington until he
disappeared under the arch to the stable block.
It was apparent, Allington thought, that the Arthurs had once kept a great many horses. Carriage horses, hunters, covert hacks, hacks for ladies, had all been reduced to nothing – nothing but one fat old pony of no known use, who might or might not have been used to pull a little cart full of babies and toddlers. Mrs Arthur could have no means of escape from Castle Orchard. The spacious coachhouse was empty except for the britchka. She could not, he thought, go even as far as Salisbury, let alone visit a neighbour, had there been such a thing as a neighbour in the remote vicinity of Castle Orchard. His own grey and his two hunters barely redressed the balance, but Dan was busy minding them, gratified to be in charge of so much space. Allington found him in the harness room, which he had swept and tidied. This too was empty, bar the saddles and bridles of his own horses, except for a side-saddle, which Dan had got down and was at that moment examining.
After a few moments the groom raised his sharp blue eyes to Allington’s face. Though he had been unable to hear his master enter the room, he had sensed his presence. He put the side-saddle over his arm and strode off with it in the direction of the looseboxes, occasionally glancing back to see that Allington was following him. It was usually easier to do what Dan expected of you than to go through the rigmarole of trying to explain you wanted to do something else, but Dan was intelligent, he could understand most things. Now he placed the side-saddle on the long-tailed grey, peeking down the arch of it to see how well it fitted. Allington looked himself. It was a good fit.
Phil ran as fast as he could towards the house, clutching his treasure to his breast. When he got to the carriage sweep he saw the Conway boys, Robert, Stevey, Frankie and the twins, Jacky and James, standing round the sundial. At the sight of Phil they stepped forward smartly and Stevey, who had a toy trumpet, blew a sort of squeak from its rusted interior and Frankie shook out a flag made from an old piece of blue silk sewed to a willow wand.