“It wasn’t because of the dreadful…event, then?” said Effie, opening her eyes at him. There! There it was again, just a hint of a flush around the neck, or what one could see of the neck above the high collar and floppy tie - Mr. Gervais adopted something of a Bohemian style of dress, but really, thought Effie, he didn’t have the face for it. The proper Bohemian face should be hollow cheeked and not look as if it had been fed on best butter from birth. Mr. Gervais might keep his figure in trim with tennis and other physical exercises, but somehow his face exuded self-satisfaction and butter. The little, light brown moustache that appeared to have alighted on his upper lip somewhat in the manner of a questing moth, seemed almost in search of stray dabs of butter; his lower lip was - no, not greasy exactly, but certainly shiny, as if…and the phrase “butter wouldn't melt in his mouth”, was perfectly exemplified by those ingenuous pale blue eyes, soft light brown curls and indeterminate nose with, of course, the moth hovering just below it. Effie imagined the long, tightly curled tongue reaching out…
“Poor little Millie Budge, eh?” said Gervais, “I do feel so dreadfully sorry for her. By Jove, I can tell you, ladies, that if I catch up with that gardener chappie before the police do…well, I won’t be responsible for my actions, that’s all!”
Lady Weston looked as if she would like to applaud. Harriet felt slightly sick and Effie, Harriet was interested to see, was for some reason staring at Master Gervais’ moustache. She looked at it herself. Wispy, she thought. Too wispy even to help disguise his weak chin. She wondered what would happen if…she decided on action.
“We have heard that the young lady was with child. Did you know of that, Master Gervais?”
There was a very audible gasp from Lady Weston. The flush that Effie had noticed as coming and going around Gervais’ floppy Bohemian tie now made a bid for the wide open spaces of his cheeks and surged, unhindered by the Moth, to the giddy heights of his forehead. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising above the floppy tie and descending again.
“No!” he said, glancing quickly at his mother, apparently to check her reaction to his denial, and said again, with more confidence, “No, never knew a thing about it - that is, until m’Mother wrote…she wrote…” again a quick glance but Lady Weston was now looking decidedly stoney; not much help there. The flush deepened, in fact he looked rather as if he were being boiled, thought Effie. Lady Weston took a deep breath.
“I wrote telling the dear boy about the occurrence, of course, but I would not have dreamed of mentioning such sordid details; in fact I have to say I am rather surprised at you, Harriet dear.”
“Oh, Harry is always surprising people,” Effie interjected with a laugh. “I always say that dear Harry could have done anything if she tried. If she hadn’t been a female, of course,” she added.
“Yes, well, being a female, or - as I would prefer to say - a lady, Euphemia, I must say that I do not think it quite correct of Harriet to mention such things.”
“But the whole town is talking about it, dear Lady Weston!” said Effie.
“The whole town may be talking about it, but a true lady does not listen, and she certainly does not repeat what she hears.”
“Yes, well, that is all very fine, of course,” said Harriet briskly, “if one wants to float through life untouched and untouching, but Life has a habit of tapping one on the shoulder at times, and at those times I feel it is best to pay a little attention.” Lady Weston looked decidedly taken aback, but Harriet continued. “You knew Millie was with child, Lady Weston?” One could almost see the cogs turning in the second or two before Lady Weston spoke.
“Yes, I did know, that is, the police informed me, but…”
“Did you know before that? Was your housekeeper aware?” The cogs turned a little more. Effie looked on with pleased admiration, My, how Harriet has got her ladyship 'on the hop' she thought. For, to be sure, Mrs. Hodges ought to know all about the maids under her charge, so it would be a black mark against her if she didn’t know. And then if she knew, then she should have told Lady Weston, so she would know, and then she would have written to Master Gervais and he would know, and - oh, how all the little cards of hasty denial could come tumbling down! And then, of course, Lady Weston might also know if the information came in quite the opposite direction: from Millie to Master Gervais and thus to her ladyship. And who knows what can be proved and what cannot? Lady Weston certainly didn’t.
But her ladyship took refuge in what came naturally. She looked down her Roman nose at Harriet and pronounced, “I do not know why you are putting all these questions to me, Harriet. One would almost think that you believe yourself to be some sort of modern-day Portia, wasn’t it? Cross examining a witness. But I suppose you must have your little pound of flesh.” Exhibiting her literary knowledge put her ladyship into a better mood; she was of course unaware that she had got it all the wrong way round. “In fact,” she allowed, the feathers on her hat nodding along with her words, “I was aware that Millie Budge was with child. The stupid girl came to me with a tale that dear Gervais was the father. Of course, I was not likely to be taken in by such a story, particularly since I knew for a fact that she was having an illicit relationship with this gardener who has since disappeared.”
“Millie told you that Gervais was the father?” Effie was amazed at the temerity of Millie Budge, surely she must have felt very sure of Gervais’ support to say such a thing!
“Yes. I had her sent up to me because I had been informed that she had been seen walking clandestinely with one of the under gardeners. I told her she was dismissed. Then she said she was with child - I believe she thought that would cause me to change my mind.” Lady Weston's eyebrows registered her amazement at such a belief. “When I intimated that she was no longer an employee of the Manor and that therefore her condition was no concern of mine, she said - I will not repeat her language - that it should be my concern because my son was the father!
Really,” her ladyship gave a light laugh, “such a foolish attempt to pull the wool over my eyes! The girl had actually been seen in the arms of an under-gardener and yet she tried to make me believe that her illegitimate offspring was a child of Gervais’s! But then if the working classes were not so foolish they would not be the working classes, as I said to Dr. Ravilious when we were discussing Millie one time.”
“Quite,” said Harriet. “So you dismissed Millie and sent…suggested to Gervais that a little holiday in Le Touquet might be in order?”
“Yes, best to keep the dear boy well out of it, I thought. One never knows, with people of that sort, what they might do, and I didn’t want him around if this girl continued to try to make trouble.” Lady Weston smiled gently at her son, and then turned back to Harriet with a business-like manner. “But look here, Harriet, I have told you all this only because you badgered me and because we are, in some sort, cousins. However I expect you to keep quiet about it all, and don’t let Effie go gossiping about the town.”
Effie gasped. “Lady Weston!”
“No, no, Euphemia, I know you wouldn’t mean to, but you know you do let your tongue run away with you at times, and I only meant…well, well, just look at the time, come along, Gervais, or we shall be late for luncheon. We’ve wasted far too much of the morning as it is…No, no, it’s quite all right, Harriet, we can see ourselves out…no need to call up your Becky… the carriage is just at the end of the street, John Coachman knows where to wait…good day to you both!” Lady Weston surged from her chair, inclined her head in a stately manner and had sailed out of the door before the sisters had time for more than a faint "Going so soon, Lady Weston?" from Effie. Gervais tipped his hat to them and bowed himself out in his mother's wake.
They heard the front door shut.
“Goodness!” said Effie.
“Rather sudden,” said Harriet.
Becky put her head round the door. “Are you ready for a bit of luncheon now, M'ms? I’d put the eggs on for coddling before her l
adyship and her son arrived, so I just had to let them hard boil, but I’ve got some nice fresh rolls from Suttons, and Mrs. Sutton was taking out some little baked custards just as I got there, so I said I’d take a couple cos I know there’s nothing Miss Effie likes better, in't that right, Ma’am?”
“Oh, a baked custard, with just a little nutmeg on top - what a treat, Becky dear! How thoughtful you are.”
“That’s right, M’m, I’ll bring them up after your egg. I expect you’ll be wanting to talk over Lady Weston's visit. He’s a nice, friendly boy, in't he, Master Gervais?”
The two sisters looked at each other.
“Oh,” said Becky, “like that is it? Well I hopes you’ll tell me all about it after you’ve got it sorted out in your minds, like,” she said.
“I expect we will,” smiled Harriet.
“Now Harry,” Effie tried to look forbidding. “You know Lady Weston said we weren’t to talk…”
“Did she?” Becky’s sharp eyes glistened. “There is something to talk about, then?”
But Harriet only laughed. “Oh, Becky,” she said, “can you manage to get a message to Grace? Can you ask her to call in to see us again? On Sunday, if she can’t manage it earlier. Tell her we have news for her.”
Becky looked at her mistress’ smiling face and grinned back. “I’ll go this afternoon if you don’t need me for anything special.”
“I believe my sister and I will be concentrating on our work this afternoon,” said Harriet, nodding towards the pair of sewing baskets that flanked the geranium. “There are quite a few threads that need untangling. Including,” she said thoughtfully, looking at her sister, “why Lady Weston was discussing poor Millie with Dr. Ravilious.”
CHAPTER 9
A short chapter of thoughts while the kettle boils
Elwy sat cradling the antlers in Mr. Benjamin’s little cottage, one hand absently caressing the tines. Seems like the lad couldn’t put that blessed thing down, thought the potter. No doubt reminded him of the life he had left in the Forest of Dean. What must it be like to be a verderer? he wondered as he stood waiting for the kettle over the fire to come to the boil. Verderers sort of looked after the forest, he thought, and all the trees and animals in it. Must be a special sort of life; close to the ground, close to the roots of things, caring for the wild creatures and the things that grow. No matter how hard the life at times, he imagined it as deeply satisfying, and certainly Mr. Benjamin wouldn’t have given up his own life out here along the river bank for the cosiest cottage in town. He stared at the wisp of steam emerging from the spout of the kettle and temporised a little…well, in the spring and summer and autumn he wouldn’t give up his life anyway, although sometimes in the grip of winter the wild could be a right bitch. Not snow, snow was kind enough, but given a nasty frost and an even nastier wind right behind it and it would fair whistle along the river, like the river was some sort of highway for the wind. The wind got caught up iIn the woods, caught up in all the branches of the trees; they’d wave around, sure enough, aye, and break sometimes too and come crashing down, but for all that the wind was hindered, like, in the woods, but out along the river it just rushed along and woe betide any poor creature caught outside its snug hole. He himself was pretty snug, take it all in all; there was generally plenty of firewood from the forest to keep the fire going, but on windy nights it was sometimes more trouble than it was worth, with the wind forcing itself down the chimbley and pushing all the woodsmoke into the little room, filling the place with it and making a man’s eyes smart. No, on nights like those he would let the fire die down and tuck himself up in bed under both blankets and listen to the howling outside. There used to be wolves in England, so they say, and on the worst nights you would think there was a whole pack of them around the cottage. Mr. Benjamin’s eyes rested on the fire, burning calmly and brightly now, and his thoughts came back from images of winter and settled themselves on the young lad sitting hunched beside the fire, gently and ceaselessly stroking the tines of the antlers of a deer that wolves might have brought down…if wolves still existed in England, that is.
Elwy himself was thinking of Grace, had lost himself in a pleasant daydream of walking with her through the tracks of the forest, showing her its signs and hidden life: where the deer came down to drink, where the small creatures, the stoats and weasels, were normally to be seen, where the badgers’ setts were; the coppices of ash and birch. He could see her amongst the birches, as slender and pale, her russet hair like their leaves in autumn, her eyes like the spring sky when you looked up through their leaves. He sighed. How he wished he could go and talk to her, explain everything. Before all this…this mess - his callussed hand grasped the rough surface of the antler and held it tight - he never had the nerve to come right out and say what he wanted to say to her. He’d just relied on meeting her at times, accidentally-on-purpose, and walking with her a little way. What a waste, he thought. Although it is surprising how much can be said without words in meetings such as those. But now, he felt, he would ask her, first chance he got, to come with him, to trust in his willingness for hard work and a bit of luck, to give up her secure existence here…aye, and go off with him into the possible starvation of the unknown. Are you crazy? he demanded of himself. Is there any young girl who’d throw up a good safe job to go off with you? You must be mad, he jeered at himself. But for all that there was a part of him that said that Grace might very well just do that. And the other part replied, Yes, and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
The kettle came to the boil with a hissing as the steam rocked the lid and drops fell into the flames below. Mr. Benjamin swung it away from the fire on its bracket and picked up the brown-glazed teapot that had been warming by the hearth in his left hand and, taking up a folded cloth, lifted the kettle off its hook with his right hand and poured the bubbling stream onto the black leaves. He put the lid on the teapot and the kettle back onto the hook, refilled it from the jug of water that was always kept ready for that purpose. Then he wrapped the folded cloth around the teapot to keep it warm while the tea brewed. Elwy, knowing the routine, picked up the milk jug and went outside to fill it from the churn kept in a little wire-mesh enclosure on the north side of the cottage, where it was coolest. He stood for a while looking away into Prickets Wood and seeing in his mind’s eye on into the distance where the Manor stood defiantly barred and bolted against him, with his princess inside it. He sighed and took the milk back inside, blessing Mr. Benjamin for a warm hearth and a roof over his head. One day he would pay Mr. Benjamin back - if he wasn’t hung first.
“Did you bring the cheese, lad?” said Benjamin, and Elwy put the milk on the table and went back outside. “And the butter,” called Benjamin as he brought a jar of pickles to the table and started to saw slices off the round loaf. To be sure the lad’s mind weren’t on his stomach, these days, he thought. His body might be here right enough, but his mind was away over the woods to his girl up in some attic in the Manor.
Up in her attic, Grace was thinking of Elwy as concentratedly as he was thinking of her. Not as willingly, mind. She had done her best to drive him out of her thoughts, in that hate that is close kin to love, but the hate was never quite enough to let her contemplate with pleasure the idea of him being strung up for the murder of Millie Budge. Dr. Johnson insists that the prospect of being hanged in a fortnight concentrates the mind wonderfully; and to be sure, the prospect of Elwy being hanged on some not-too-distant morning concentrated Grace’s mind on the unavoidable realisation that, so far from hating him, a part of her would die with him. Not a pleasant thought, but we are told that all self-knowledge is good for us, so Grace could at least comfort herself - in principle - with the idea that she now knew her own heart.
And Grace couldn’t stop wondering what the Miss Fotheringays wanted to say to her.
Chapter 10
White ribbons with white lilac, and narcissus by the river’s edge
“Harry, dear, what do you think
of this?” Effie poked her head round the door of her sister’s bedroom.
Harriet, who was seated in front of the mirror, primping - really, there was no other word for it - at the greying curls that emerged from the front of her lace cap and wondering if they would ever turn the elegant snow white that she remembered dear Mama’s hair to have been at the last, looked at the reflection of Effie’s face in the mirror, at the eyes with their look of eager anticipation. She was wearing…what was she wearing? Harriet turned round on the padded stool and gazed at her sister, who came fully into the room and beamed at her.
“I thought I would wear it to church today, or do you think it too…too…not, of course, that we should be thinking of our dress on a Sunday, and at church too, although of course people always do, even the poorer folk generally have Sunday best, and I particularly noticed last week that Mrs. Becket was wearing new ribbons to her black sarsnet, well, that was actually what put the thought into my mind…not that I would have you think that I wasn’t listening to the discourse, because I was, of course, although rather long and I do think Mr. Arkenshaw should have had a care to the poor people’s dinner…but then he so rarely gets the opportunity to preach, being just a curate, that I suppose…I saw poor Mrs. Prestwick hurrying, almost running to the bakers, doubtless to rescue her joint…it is too hard on Mrs. Sutton, I think, such a quandary as she must have been in, whether to take folks’ bits of meat out of the oven and have them cooling, or keep them in to grow tough and dry…and never a chance to go to church herself, although perhaps she doesn’t really…and she could of course go to Evensong, nothing nicer as the days start drawing out, and the lilac in blossom…the tree in the churchyard, so beautiful, it really feels as if one were entering into heaven, to pass under the... although white lilac would perhaps be even more…which is what put me in mind of choosing white ribbons for my hat when I saw that Mrs. Becket had new ribbons to hers - what do you think?”
The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1) Page 8