by Sara Seale
If it was a deliberate challenge, Simmy rushed unthinkingly to meet it.
"You do not see her as I do," she said. "Even Mrs. Chantry does not understand that the child she knows is quite different from the child I have to deal with. Those nights of bad dreams, the hysterical outbursts, the moods that are kept only for me because in the schoolroom there is no one else to see or hear. School is for normal children, not ones such as Fay."
Miranda sat very still, watching Adam's face, which, expressionless until the end of Simmy's outburst, suddenly froze into icy hardness.
"I have had little evidence that Fay is not normal for some time," he said quietly.
The governess looked frightened.
"But you've always said yourself—" she began.
"I should like to think we were both mistaken in some of the things that have been said—or suggested," Adam interrupted suavely. "Perhaps it hasn't occurred to either of us that if you are the person most treated to these scenes that might point to the fact that it would possibly be better if the child was not left so exclusively in your charge."
The slow, difficult color mounted under Miss Simms's sallow skin, and for a dismayed moment Miranda thought the governess was going to cry.
"Are you trying to tell me that you want me to go?" she asked.
"Of course not, Simmy. I was only suggesting that more freedom from the schoolroom might be a good thing now that the child is older. It's time you took a holiday, you know. I'm afraid I'm apt to forget how long you've been here without a break. Think about a couple of weeks of being away, will you, Simmy? Mrs. Chantry can look after Fay while you're gone."
Simmy veiled her eyes.
"It would not do for me to go for so long," she said colorlessly. "A night or two, perhaps, but that can wait. Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to do."
The room seemed very quiet after she had gone. Miranda, her eyes on her empty coffee cup, waited for Adam to speak.
"Well?" she said as the silence grew.
Adam's face was expressionless.
"Well, it's evident she needs a holiday," he observed. "But whether you or I or anyone else will persuade her to go is another matter. Come along, my dear, the room's getting cold."
Yes, thought Miranda, as he stood aside to allow her to pass, tomorrow, wet or fine, she must visit Nanny.
The morning was dry but overcast. Mist hung about the moor, already white and thick in the hollows, as the little country bus carried Miranda along the winding road that crossed ten miles of Dartmoor.
It seemed a long way, but at last Miranda was set down at the crossroads and the way to the farm was pointed out to her before the bus drove on and she was alone. The farm, when she reached it, looked as lonely and shuttered as Wintersbride, and for a moment she was afraid. Would Nanny talk after all these years, or was she perhaps as gray and secret as the house, resentful of strangers like so many country people?
Miranda walked down the rough, stony path to the open yard gate, and met a man coming from the barn carrying a pail of milk in each hand.
"Could I see Miss Coker?" she asked.
The man set down his milk pails and looked at her suspiciously.
"Her won't go out to oblige, and so I tells 'em all," he said discouragingly. "Her's got a home now and no need to mind other folk's children and break her heart over 'em, too."
"I did not want to see her on business," Miranda said, smiling at him placatingly. "I do very much want to see her, but it is just a friendly call."
"Ar! Happen you'm one of her nurslings, eh?" he replied with an unexpected grin. "They do come time to time, but they forget as they grow up, her always says. Come round to the back, miss, reckon we'll find 'ee in the kitchen."
She followed him across the yard to the back of the house, and he pushed open a door, shouting, "Sis—here's a visitor for 'ee! Who did you say you was, m'dear?"
"I'm Mrs. Chantry," said Miranda shyly.
As the door was suddenly flung wide from within, a woman's voice exclaimed, "Oh, my dear soul!"
Miranda stood on the threshold and sensed herself being watched by two pairs of eyes. She could not see the woman who had spoken for she stood back in the shadows, but the man said on a harsh note, "Chantry!" and made as if to close the door in her face.
" 'Tes all right, Tom," the woman said in her soft west-country voice. "For a moment I thought—but of course you'm the new lady over to Wintersbride. Come in and let us see you, m'dear."
Miranda came slowly into the low-ceilinged kitchen. She stood before Nanny, of whom she had thought so long and so much, and her disquiet vanished. Ellen Coker was a round, pink little woman with frizzy gray hair and bright, kindly eyes that looked, too, as if they could be stern if need be. Her cheeks were puckered, though she was not really old, but the skin was soft and as rosy as an apple.
"Oh, my! You'm nothing but a little girl!" she exclaimed, her eyes opening wide with surprise. "I did hear tell the new Mrs. Chantry was a surprise to the neighborhood, but you— well, whatever was the master thinking of!"
Miranda smiled a little forlornly.
"I'm afraid my youth has been a great disadvantage all round," she said, and Ellen Coker's eyes softened.
"Never you think it, m'dear," she said. "We all grow old quick enough, and though I won't deny you gave me a turn, that's only because Wintersbride is no fit place for young folks, in my opinion. But what am I thinking of, keeping you standing in the draft, ma'am! Come you in and sit by the fire and I'll find 'ee a pastie and a cup of tea. Go along about your work, Tom. The young lady and I'll want to talk private."
The man hesitated. Wintersbride was clearly a name that did not please him, but after another nod from his sister he went out and closed the door.
"Now," said Nanny, "take off your coat or you won't notice the comfort of it when you go out again, and give me some news of my little Miss Fay. Did she send her love to her old Nanny or has she been taught to forget me?"
Miranda sat down on a low stool by the big open range.
"No one knew I was coming," she said gently. "But I am sure that Fay would wish to send her love. She speaks of you still."
"Well," said Nanny, when they were settled over the fire with their cups of tea, "you didn't come all the way across the moor by bus to talk nonsense to Nanny Coker, did you, m'dear? What made you come to see me? Not her, I'll be bound! She'd have stopped you some ways had she known."
"Miss Simms? Why should she stop me?"
But Nanny only smiled. The first move was not going to come from her.
Miranda sipped her tea. There was so much to say and no beginning and no end, and Nanny, if she knew why Miranda had come, might simply think her prying. Her eye fell on a tall bottle with a label standing on the dresser.
"So you still make cowslip wine," she said.
Nanny's eyes regarded her gravely.
"Is that what you'm come about?" she asked sternly. "To gossip over an old scandal?"
Miranda put down her cup and saucer and clasped her thin hands round her knees, leaning forward into the circle of firelight.
"No," she said, "I have come to ask for the truth as I think only you can tell it."
For a moment the rosy face twisted in a grimace of distaste.
"Won't the master have told you that?" she said.
"He has told me what he believes is the truth, but it is Simmy's version, not his. Nanny—" Miranda lifted her face like a pleading child "—I am not curious about the past—until the other day I knew nothing—but I love Fay and I have seen very clearly now what that woman is trying to do. If you will not help me I can never make my husband understand."
Nanny reached for one of her brother's socks and began to complete a half-finished darn.
"You can see the truth when others cannot?" she murmured.
"Yes, because I have not got both feet buried in the past," Miranda replied sturdily. Ellen Coker smiled, then her eyes were grave again as she asked if Mir
anda knew why she had been dismissed.
"Yes, but, Nanny, do you not see that is not important now?" Miranda said. "What is important is the part Miss Simms played, for do you not see that it was all deliberate? Until she thought she would have to leave Wintersbride she said nothing. Why should she say nothing of something so serious for a whole year? It is to me proof that she is lying."
"She said nothing, m'dear, because it was she who had been found out before ever the master heard a different tale," said Nanny a little grimly.
"What do you mean? That it was really she who gave in to Mrs. Chantry's failing and you found her out?"
"Yes, m'dear, that's right. I'd had my suspicions for a brave little while and one day I caught her red-handed. It was only two days before the poor mistress died and afterward she got me to promise I would say nothing as she would be leaving the place. Well, I agreed, for the knowledge could do the master no good now. Well, she stayed on and on until I myself gave the master a hint that there was no work for her now at Wintersbride and she was upsetting the servants giving orders as if she was mistress there. Then quick as knife she turns the tables on me. She discovers one of my old cowslip wine bottles and declares it smells of gin, which it does. I can't deny, you see, taking those bottles in to the mistress from time to time, for the servants have seen me."
"But did you not deny it was anything stronger?" asked Miranda.
Nanny paused in her darning and her eyes were a little bitter.
"Yes, I denied it," she said slowly. "But to tell you the truth, Mrs. Chantry, ma'am, I was too much hurt to put up much of a fight. It wasn't until long afterward that I understood that the strain the master had been under had caused him to act as he never would have done had he been in his right senses, though, mind you, if I had known that Miss Simms was going to stop on and take my place with Miss Fay, I'd have put up a proper show. Ah, well, it's all past and done with and now that you know the truth, I don't see how it can help you."
"It will at least help me if, should I ask you, you will agree to tell this story again to my husband," Miranda said. "Did you accuse Simmy when she accused you?"
The darning needle flashed in the firelight as Nanny wove it neatly in and out of the wool.
"No," she said without looking up. "What was the use? It would have looked as if I was just an ignorant countrywoman trying to shift the blame onto someone else. It doesn't matter now."
Miranda was suddenly kneeling on the floor beside her chair.
"But, Nanny, it matters what happens to Fay—it matters that her father's affection should be kept from her and that he should believe what is not true about her. Nanny—Fay was a normal little girl all the time you looked after her, was she not?"
"My little Miss Fay? Whatever makes you ask a thing like that?"
"Because her father imagines her to be—different from other children. Was she—affectionate toward him?"
"Yes, indeed, when he had the time to spare for her. Of course when Mrs. Chantry was bad I had to take her away for a time, but afterward—well, I reckoned the poor gentleman was getting the love and comfort the other one denied him. But why do you ask these things, m'dear? I hear from Emily Yeo once in a while and she tells me my little girl is well and growing very bonny."
"Mrs. Yeo would not wish to make trouble. Her position with Miss Simms is, no doubt, difficult," said Miranda. "Listen, Nanny, while I tell you what I think is happening and see if you do not agree we must find some way of opening my husband's eyes."
"You'm right, m'dear. Things aren't as they should be from what you tell me: Children do, of course, have funny notions, turning against those they love and the like, but there's always a reason and it never lasts. What will you do, now?"
"I do not know," Miranda replied, trying to think clearly. "But I think Simmy is getting careless. After last night she will begin to fear for her position because at last Adam is not so sure of her. She may make a mistake—I do not know. But if the time does come, I must have your promise, Nanny, that you will come forward with the true story, for the child's sake—and perhaps for mine, for she has harmed me, too."
"I promise," said Nanny, and suddenly Miranda found she was weeping against that crisps starched apron while Nanny's arms went around her.
"There, m'dear, you'm better for tears like all unhappy children. There's too much on your shoulders and that's the truth. Can't you go to your husband, child, when you want to weep? Is he too busy or too hard to understand?"
"He does not love me," said Miranda.
"Well, that's as maybe, but he didn't love that other one, you know. Don't 'ee let that poor soul stand between you. You'm what he needs now the rest is forgotten—you and some young ones to make up for all he's missed."
No wonder Fay had loved Nanny Coker, Miranda thought, drying her eyes, and no wonder Simmy had feared her.
"Nanny," she said, beginning to put on her coat and scarf, "if it became possible—and we asked you very humbly— would you come back to Wintersbride?"
"Yes, m'dear, I'd come," said Ellen Coker. "And when you have babies of your own, perhaps old Nanny will be wanted again. Now we mustn't stop here chittering or you'll miss the bus. My, the mist's coming in thick! I'll walk with you to the crossroads to see you don't get lost."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The bus was slow returning, for the visibility was poor. Miranda sat watching the swirling fog that hid all but the nearest landmarks and wondered how she could best use her knowledge. Adam, she knew, was beginning to consider the governess in a new light, but it was not enough to offer Nanny's evidence after so long and it might only annoy him that she had taken it upon herself to discuss his affairs with a servant whom he had once dismissed. But Simmy must go—of that Miranda was convinced—for the child's sake and for Adam's and even perhaps for her own, for the woman would make mischief whenever she could.
When she reached the gates of Wintersbride she was surprised to see Adam coming down the driveway to meet her.
"Is that you, Miranda?" he called at once, and his voice sounded sharp and anxious.
"My dear child!" he said when he had reached her. "Never go away from the house on a day like this without saying where you're going."
"I'm sorry," she said. "But of course I did not think you would be home."
"That's beside the point. If anything should happen no one would know where to find you."
Her imagination, already overstimulated by the events of the morning, made her misunderstand him.
"Has anything happened?" she asked, fear in her voice.
The harshness left his face and he looked down at her with a puzzled expression.
"No, of course," he said. "I meant if anything happened to you. Don't do it again, will you?"
"Very well. Why are you home, Adam?"
"Canceled appointments. You don't sound very pleased. Have I broken up some secret assignation?"
He spoke teasingly, aware of the unusual tension in her thin little face. But on seeing the startled look she gave him he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"I'm not serious, you know," he said. "Where have you been?"
"To see Nanny," she replied a little defiantly, but he only looked puzzled.
"Do you mean Nanny Coker, who used to be here?" he asked. "But I'd no idea she was anywhere in the district."
"But, Adam, did you not know she was living with her brother at Sowton Farm across the moor?"
He looked surprised.
"I knew, of course, there was a brother—I believe all the Cokers were born at Sowton—but I imagined Nanny was in another job somewhere."
"She's been there for five years," said Miranda slowly. "She writes to Mrs. Yeo regularly. Simmy must have known."
He gave her a quick glance.
"Well, I suppose there's no reason why she should have told me if she did know. How was Nanny looking? Sometimes, you know, I have the feeling I may have misjudged her a little. I don't think she would have deliberat
ely betrayed a trust."
"You did misjudge her," said Miranda.
The whole matter became suddenly vitally urgent, and all thoughts of the wisest course to take left her as she looked up into his dark, faintly troubled face. "You should go and see Nanny. Adam, I beg you to go and see her and hear from her what she has told me. You have been blind all these years, for you should have listened to Nanny and not to that other."
For a moment he was strangely moved. There was a truth in Miranda that could not be denied.
"Well, we can't stand out here in the damp discussing past history," he said. "Come back to the library fire."
They walked in silence to the house. Adam had left the front door open and as she entered the hall ahead of him Miranda heard voices coming from the library.
"So you come down here to read forbidden books, do you?" the governess was saying. "I've told you before, Fay, dear, that the sort of school you will be sent to, if you are so foolish as to ask to go, is not at all like the schools in these trashy stories. You don't want to go away to school, do you, dear? You'll tell your father that you'll always want to stay at Wintersbride with Simmy?"
Adam, with a quick frown, was already on his way to the open door of the library, but Miranda put a hand on his arm.
"Wait," she whispered.
"I do want to go to school," Fay was saying. "I would have other children to play with and Miranda says I could bring friends home for holidays. I've never had a friend, Simmy, except Miranda."
"She is not your friend, dear," Simmy said clearly. "She wants to get rid of you like your father does. She doesn't care for you, Fay, any more than your father did."
Adam made an involuntary movement but Miranda held him back. Simmy's voice went on and on. "Do you know the sort of school they are planning to send you to? It's called a reform school and looks like Princetown Prison, as I told you once before. You wouldn't want to go to a place like that, would you? I can save you, you know, as long as you always make it plain you want me to stay at Wintersbride."
"I don't believe you!" Fay was frightened but not quite defeated. "Why should they want to send me to a horrid place like that?"