by E A Dineley
Captain Allington had given Mrs Arthur his arm and they had walked the short distance up to the house. They were silent. She thought everything that he could say had been said. In the hall he had lit her a candle and told her he had a little more work to do, a letter to write, and that it was his intention to lay out all the documents pertaining to herself on the table in the morning room. He wished her good night, his manner now formal, even brisk, as if he was glad to part with her.
Upstairs, slowly preparing for bed, she again contemplated what sort of house she could find, how she would educate Phil. And intermingled with these practicalities were the images with which Allington, and also Pride, had filled her head – the little boy with his mother, soldiers in the Peninsula, brutality and gallantry, boat cloaks, colour and want, gaping wounds and hideous pain, struggling horses, fleas and dirt and fever . . . but Allington’s account of Waterloo overrode them all.
She then thought about Captain Allington’s mother. Had she not been alone with her child, worried and struggling to make ends meet, fretting over the future of her little boy? She had known, oh how briefly, enduring love. She had done the mundane, the sensible thing, sacrificing the memory of it to secure the future of her son. There, Mrs Arthur surmised, they parted company. She herself had nothing to sacrifice but pain and bewilderment, a confused sense of longing and of emptiness.
When she finally slept, her dreams were filled with those letters fluttering about the battlefield, lying in the mud (and, she knew, though he had not said so, the gore), those letters epitomising the abrupt severing of the loved from the beloved.
She woke rather early, unrefreshed, and lay in bed trying to dispel the images that had beset her mind. Captain Allington had said he would lay out her papers in the morning room. She may as well dress and at least learn her true state, hers and Emmy’s and Phil’s. Did not their whole future depend on those papers? He had constantly reassured her, yet she would remain in ignorance until she saw it all for herself. It would be another hour before the household stirred. She dressed, scooped up her little old dog, half-asleep in her basket, and went downstairs. She opened the front door and put Meg outside. It was a beautiful day.
Closing the door again, she crossed the hall and went inside the morning room. There were indeed a few papers on the table. Dominating the room was a portrait of a soldier that had not been there before, on the wall facing the windows. It was large, on a dark ground, and striking. The young man, in the uniform of an officer in the dark blue of a Light Dragoon, stared out of his own picture with indignant impatience. The artist had captured the peculiar fiery intelligence that emanated from his face, little more than a boy’s. How old had he been then? She thought twentytwo or -three, with no white in the hair that covered the wound to his head. This was how he had been, how she might have remembered him, had he not altered. Yes, he had altered, but she could still see his present self with perfect clarity within the image. Why had he chosen to hang it there? Was he finally laying his proper claim to Castle Orchard?
She turned to the papers on the table. They were very few, considering the time that had been taken by the various lawyers to produce them. There was a letter addressed to herself in Captain Allington’s own hand. Beside it was the pouch in which she had placed her necklace when she had given it to him to sell for her. It was still there, so what of the hundred pounds? Bracing herself, she now opened the letter, unable to anticipate its contents to the slightest degree.
Dear Mrs Arthur,
Your late husband often used to say he would be hanged. His words came back to me that day you told me your signature was required to release the money provided by your father. Forgery is a capital offence, so I do wonder that he risked it. I suppose risk is what he liked, though it certainly tormented him. Jonas and Co, in a fit of the sulks, had chucked all the Arthur papers, several hundred years of them, into a huge tin trunk. It took many a threat of a legal nature to get them to unearth the necessary documents and then to trace the witness. There was only one to trace, for the other, Sir John Parkes, is dead. Arthur’s own French valet was the second, and he, having absconded with the remains of his late master’s wardrobe, was unanxious to be traced. When run to earth, he agreed to having witnessed Arthur sign the document. He was only bound to witness what Arthur wrote, a signature, albeit not his own.
Of course Jonas should have been suspicious, but he pointed out that you had signed away one legacy already. There is really no redress. The money is gone. I have therefore put the deeds of Castle Orchard back into your name. You will find them there on the table. I leave behind my portrait but I will send for the rest of my belongings at some more convenient time
Your most obedient servant,
R. Allington
Mrs Arthur’s first reaction was one of disbelief. How could he possibly suppose she would allow him to make such a sacrifice? He might have acquired Castle Orchard in an unorthodox manner, but it was his, and she knew he loved it, the place where he might come to rest. Had he told her that? No, but she knew it. Where was he now? Not, she also knew, asleep in the lodge. As if shaking herself awake from a dream, she hastily crossed the hall and went outside. Meg was waiting for her, trembling on the doorstep. She scooped her up and half-ran across the lawn to the stable. A cursory inspection confirmed that the britchka was gone.
But Dan was in the yard, methodically strapping the long-tailed grey. She thought, He never said what were his plans for Dan, and would Dan know them?
Dan turned round to look at her. It was pure chance that he did so. When Mrs Arthur considered the blank wall that was Dan, she thought it like the final trick that fate could play on her. Dan, if he knew, could tell her nothing.
He pulled his hat off and surveyed her quizzically. He had sharp, bright eyes, like a robin, and he did indeed cock his head and observe her every move as she stood helpless before him. He dropped the wisp from his hand, patted the grey on the rump and walked off towards the harness room. He then stopped and looked back at her. She could see she was to follow him.
In the harness room he was hurried. He made a little soft whistling noise between his teeth, the only sound he ever made. He sat up at a three-legged stool and pulled open a drawer. It was filled with bits of paper covered with all the strange little drawings and ingenious hieroglyphics Allington so patiently executed in order to communicate with his servant.
Dan produced a piece of paper and a pencil. She thought, If I can think how to ask him where his master is, he wouldn’t think it proper to answer. Had not Allington left deliberately? She looked at Dan with despairing eyes.
He thrust the pencil further in her direction, she thought irritated by her slowness to respond. He then took the paper back, folded it in two and wrote carefully and very slowly, yet neatly, on the outside,
Capt. R. Allington.
He then gave it back to her and she realised he would take a message. She clutched the pencil tightly, as if her life depended on it, and then she thought her life did depend on it – and she had no idea what to say.
Dan reached for another pencil and started, impatiently, to draw pictures of clocks.
She wrote, Please don’t leave me.
Dan took it and put it in his pocket. He reached down a saddle and bridle.
Meg whined and scratched with a feeble paw at her skirt. She walked away across the yard. In a moment Dan passed her on the grey. If she wanted to call him back, he wouldn’t hear. She considered the things she ought to have written to Captain Allington, had she been able to tell Dan to wait. But she had spoken the truth. It was an acknowledgement of what she felt – all she felt. There had been no time to dress it up or arrange it. In that one short phrase she had risked as much as Johnny when he had settled to play his last game of chess.
As she came face to face with the rambling old house, she felt no sense of possession, only the deeper conviction that Castle Orchard belonged to Captain Allington, whatever the deeds might say.
Indoor
s, she asked Annie to give the children breakfast. She said she would go and lie down because she had a headache. There was a letter from Louisa to read and also one from her mother-in-law, but how could she concentrate? She opened the latter first, though in a desultory manner, for such a letter was a rarity. The old lady’s handwriting had deteriorated since her stroke. The address was written in another hand, she assumed that of the paid companion, Miss Blakeway.
Dear Caroline,
I wish to speak to Johnny on the subject of my will, but he never could be bothered with correspondence. He is too lively and writing letters doesn’t amuse him. I dare say he comes to Castle Orchard from time to time so you must see if you can influence him towards paying me a visit.
Miss Blakeway is a little mad now, but for old times’ sake, I try to look after her. She will say Johnny died in an accident but I would have heard about it, had it been so. The creature does go on and on, but I humour her.
Now get yourself some fresh gowns for the summer, something utterly fashionable and absurd. It is no good expecting Johnny to be an attentive husband if you are not up to the mode. No man likes to see his wife in what was new two seasons previous. It is that sort of thing that drives them to take mistresses, though sometimes I wished Johnny’s father had taken a mistress as it would have turned his mind away from what he considered my extravagances. Now Johnny is extravagant and talked of going to Paris, the naughty creature . . .’
The letter dribbled to a halt mid-sentence and the old lady had then signed it. Mrs Arthur shook her head in bewilderment. It was curious to be receiving such a letter just now. Ought she to write back, stating the truth about the death of Jonathan Arthur? Certainly not.
Louisa’s letter ran thus:
My dearest Caro,
I suppose Captain Allington has not returned yet. John is very anxious on the subject of your affairs and is inclined to be hurt you don’t confide in him. I have told him I know you will come just the minute Captain Allington returns from Cornwall and I have written the same to my mother.
Now, Caro, I don’t want you to be offended with me but you must know it really will look strange if you stay at Castle Orchard after Captain Allington returns. My mother said things most unpleasant which I know aren’t true, concerning yourself and Captain Allington. I know you are good and innocent and go to church like you always have, despite that wicked Johnny I wish you had never married.
I believe it is shyness and the uncertainty of your affairs that has kept you away from us until now. That is what John’s father says, and I think I have been insensitive in pressing you so hard.
Your ever loving and affectionate sister,
Louisa Westcott
Dan returned not that day but the next. He nodded and smiled at Mrs Arthur, but she thought he looked disturbed. He brought no message with him, but if Captain Allington had anything further to say he could have used the Royal Mail like anybody else. Dan came round to the front door the day after that with Allington’s grey and the side-saddle as if nothing had altered, expecting Mrs Arthur to take her ride. She thought, while Dan was employed, Captain Allington still had control of her life, for Dan could never be redirected nor did he ever show the slightest inclination to be redirected. His continued presence remained unexplained.
While out riding they met the agent doing his rounds. He doffed his hat and remarked that Captain Allington had told him to refer to her, but everything had been left in such order and every possibility allowed for, he could think of nothing to ask her. He then said he thought the climate of Italy satisfactory for the Captain’s health but he ought not to stay once it became too hot.
Mrs Arthur, after making a few polite rejoinders, rode on. The weather was beautiful.
Annie complained of the abruptness of the master’s departure. Phil and Emmy asked where he was. Mrs Arthur said nothing or pleaded ignorance. How could she tell them she had no idea whether he would ever come back? She saw to Emmy’s lessons and took her for long, slow walks, dawdling at the pace of the child. Emmy filled her pinafore with wild flowers. Time was no object. They went without hats even when the sun was hot. Emmy took off her shoes and stockings and did exactly as she pleased. Meg was garlanded with daisy chains.
Mr Stewart Conway visited Mrs Arthur one evening, after Phil had gone to bed.
He said, ‘I can never get to see you. I understand Captain Allington is away. This abrupt coming and going, it’s very inconsiderate. I suppose it’s what soldiers are accustomed to. Annie tells me there is a splendid portrait of him hung in the morning room. She is quite in love with it. It’s the uniform. What dandies these soldiers are.’
‘What will you do, Mr Conway, if Jacky and James should wish to be soldiers?’
‘I never suggested it was not an honourable profession, merely that too much is made of it.’
‘But suppose Bonaparte had invaded England?’
‘I am sure we would have been glad of all the protection the Army could give us. I believe I would have volunteered myself. However, I think the likelihood of it exaggerated.’
‘Why did he build all those boats, if that were the case?’
‘Well, I dare say it was his intention, but it is not what I came to discuss. You are again in charge of Castle Orchard. It is a great convenience to Captain Allington. Is it not time to put a stop to it? Trying as you are, teasing a fellow with questions and answers, it is my most earnest wish to look after you.’
Mrs Arthur thought, If I married him, Castle Orchard would pass from myself to the Conways, and this he doesn’t know. Why, as a married woman, could she not hold property for herself? It was the law. If she stood at the altar and married Stewart Conway, at that very moment he would become the owner of Castle Orchard, the house, its farms, its villages, the bends of the river, its meadows, its ruin and its Philosopher’s Tower. As it was, she had no need to marry him.
He said, ‘Last time I spoke to you we were interrupted. You told me your affairs were now in order, but I think you were yet in ignorance of them. I told you, or I intended to tell you. . .’
Mr Conway was lost for words. Mrs Arthur looked at him gently but there was no encouragement in her face.
She said, ‘I think it much better you should tell me nothing. My affairs are at last in order and my income sufficient for my needs and those of my children.’
‘So I am not required?’ he said.
‘I have been grateful for your friendship.’
‘Friendship is not of what we talk,’ he said.
‘No, but I don’t want to talk of anything else, at least, not at the minute.’
‘But you will move away?’
Mrs Arthur wished she knew what she would do. Would Captain Allington agree to take Castle Orchard back? It seemed unlikely. She was sure there must be other women better qualified to make Mr Conway happy. He now took her hesitation and confusion in answering as a refusal to confide in him. After fruitless further discussion he went away in a dudgeon.
Mrs Arthur, after he had gone, wondered if he would court her for the rest of their lives and whether he would feel her refusal to marry him some denial not only of his natural right to be in possession of herself but of Castle Orchard too.
She could yet write to Captain Allington and send the letter via Lord Tregorn. Sooner or later His Lordship must know the whereabouts of his stepbrother. Had he gone to Italy as the agent had suggested? She started several letters but finished none.
The weather broke. The glorious, warm May sunshine was replaced by mist and drizzle. Phil bobbed his way across the meadow to school under a huge umbrella which swayed above him. When the wind blew, he and it tussled together like some little ensign with the regimental colours.
Mrs Arthur stepped out of the front door for the purpose of ascertaining the weather. Coming up the drive at a smart trot were a pair of bay horses and a landau with the hood drawn up. Puzzled, she hastily withdrew into the house. Who could possibly call on her now? After a moment’s th
ought, she decided it must be her brother-inlaw, though the vehicle had not looked like his. The man on the box had been wearing a greatcoat so had he been dressed in the Westcott Park livery, she would not have seen it.
She went into the drawing room to await events. What did she have on? Not one of her fresh-made gowns with which even John could not find fault, but John, under all circumstances, was dependable. He might find it difficult to approve someone so unwise as to have married Johnny Arthur, but she could tell him the truth. Captain Allington had given her back Castle Orchard and she was loath to take it. He would point out to her that she had to take it, having no other means of support, which was true. He would say it was Phil’s inheritance. Phil’s inheritance had been forfeited by his father. He might also think out some compromise. He would help her for the sake of Louisa.
She went to the window and sat down to wait, folding her hands in her lap to compose herself. Annie would show John in at any moment now. After a while her mind wandered. What a curious life was hers and how alone she was.
Eventually it occurred to her she had heard no voice, neither Annie’s nor John’s, no slam of the front door. She got up and returned to the hall. It was empty. She looked out on to the carriage sweep. There were no bay horses, no landau. Had she imagined it all? Was she going mad? She then saw a figure coming slowly up the drive, from the direction of the lodge, a cooking pot under one arm. It was Pride.
Mrs Arthur reached for her shawl and stood out by the sundial, waiting.
As soon as he came up to her, he said, ‘Cook will be after telling me off, we do everything so unexpected, and I’ve been in a deal of trouble lately.’
‘Oh, Pride, I didn’t recognise the landau.’
‘He changed it. A gentleman in the yard at the White Hart was admiring the britchka. Master said, “I’ll change it for your landau if you’ll agree to it this minute.” Said he was going to be a family man and the landau was more appropriate.’