"That day," Mr. Partridge Junior explained weightily, "we received a letter from your grandmother's half brother's son."
"Aves-vous la plume de la grand'mere de ma tante?" I murmured and stifled a giggle as Mr. Partridge stared at me indignantly.
"This gentleman, Mr. John Wolfson by name, has kindly offered to take charge of you young ladies. We have naturally made inquiries about him, and all our sources report him to be a gentleman of means and of position. He is also the sole remaining man of the family, so it is with great relief that we have accepted his offer."
"But"-Ada put her lace-trimmed handkerchief to her lips-"I do not know this gentleman. Harriet, have you ever heard of him?"
"Certainly, dearest, and so have you. Don't you remember Grandmother's famous, boring genealogical chart? Mr. Wolfson must be the son of Grandmother's young brother. Her father, you recall, married twice. But we have had no contact with that branch of the family for years-"
"An unfortunate circumstance," Junior interrupted. "Mr. Wolfson explained that his father and your grandmother had not spoken for years-the result of some foolish childhood squabble. But his position is irreproachable."
"Is he a-a kind man?"
If I had asked that question, Junior would have pronounced it the irrelevant absurdity which it undoubtedly was. Kind? What concern was that of ours, who would only be dependent on this man for paternal affection and care? But since Ada had asked it, and looked appealingly at Junior with her wet blue eyes, he tried to smile. He was not very good at it.
"My dear Miss Ada, who would not be kind to one so charming and . . . ?" The impertinent puppy caught my eye and had the grace to blush and cough. He finished his business in a great hurry after that. We are to leave for Yorkshire within the week. It seems like a short time, but, as Junior pointed out, what have we to wait for? It also seems very far away. But since Mr. Wolfson lives in Yorkshire, and Mr. Wolfson is henceforth our lord and master . . .
Grandmother would say that is irreverent. I daresay she would be right.
My boldness does not deceive even me. I will write it very small: I am afraid. Afraid of the future, afraid of this Mr. Wolfson. Perhaps my forebodings are bred of the twilight that darkens this gloomy, starkly furnished room. I am a superstitious Italian peasant at heart. Grandmother always said so. And she was always right.
April 14
I have been shockingly remiss with my poor diary, but I have not had a moment for more than a week. Even this moment will not last long; behind me in the big bed Ada still sleeps, her tumbled curls spilling out from under her nightcap, but when she awakes, she will want all my attention. She is torn between excitement at travel and strange new sights, and childish terror as she remembers the unknown future, now pressing close upon us.
It is so early that the housemaid has not rekindled the dying fire, and the room is bitter cold; my breath forms a pale cloud and my fingers are so stiff that I must stop and rub them before dipping the pen to take more ink.
The view from the window also slows my pen. We are high over the rooftops here, in this respectable inn; but above the gables and chimneys I can see the twin spires of the noble minster-the heart of York, which is in turn the heart and capital of the North. It is an English church and an English city, but it looks so strange to me; when I reflect on our surroundings and their distance from London, I can scarcely believe my senses. Four hundred miles north and two months back into winter; it was spring when we left, but here a blanket of snow carpets streets, rooftops, and spires. To the north lie the heaped stones of a structure older by centuries even than the walls of hoary York Minster-the stones of Hadrian's Wall, built by an emperor of Rome to guard young Britain against the wild barbarians. To the east, not far distant, lies the sea; to the west, mile on mile of rolling moorland, broken only by rude hamlets and isolated farmhouses, and the crumbing ruins of abbey and castle. Only the south seems warm and familiar.
Ada stirs. I must hasten, recording events rather than "foolish Italian fancies."
We left London on Thursday in a flurry of haste, rail and tearful farewells from the cook and housemaids. The first day of our journey Ada wept-no, that word is to strong; she seeps at the eyes like dew. When she is in these moods, she is, uncharacteristically, silent and subdued, so I spent the time reflecting on Mr. John Wolfson.
I had told Ada that I knew of him, but the mere fact c his existence was all I knew. Rack my brain as I might, could not remember Grandmother's ever mentioning him but I did have a vague impression that there had been some disagreement between the two branches of her father' family. That in itself would have been nothing against Mr. Wolfson; anyone who disagreed with Grandmother was automatically an ally of mine.
Even in the confusion of those last days in London found time for some quiet inquiries concerning Mr. Wolf son, and my efforts were rewarded by-of all things-a guidebook to Yorkshire. Apparently Mr. Wolfson is, as Junior claimed, a man of property in those parts and hi; home, Abbey Manor, is one of the most elegant mansions in the North Riding. According to the book, the mansion is built near the ruins of one of the abbeys destroyed b> Henry VIII; in fact, it is built of the abbey, the stones having been looted to supply building material. There was an engraving of the abbey ruins in the guidebook, and they looked very picturesque, with sprays of ivy twining over the tumbled stones. In some places the walls still stand, and the stone traceries of the empty windows made a lovely shape against the sky.
But I see my fancy is leading me astray again. What is most important, to Ada and me, is the hint of our new guardian's character given by one chance sentence in that helpful book. We will be more fortunate than most touring parties; we will be allowed to view the old abbey. Mr. Wolfson, it seems, does not allow visitors on his property, rich includes the ruins! Even the engraving was taken from a distance.
The author of the book was quite bitter about Mr. John Wolfson; but, contrary as I am, I am inclined to sympathize with his unkindness to amateur antiquarians. If I owned such ruins, I would be inclined to keep them to myself, so that I could wander the roofless cloisters and stone-floored cells in peace-meditating perhaps on the vanity of fine architecture and the transitory nature of even monkish aspirations. Or merely enjoying my ownership of something other people covet!
It seems certain, though, that Mr. Wolfson is not a man of yielding character. I have a picture of him in my mind: vinegary, peppery old gentleman with white whiskers and hair, who rushes at invading parties of travelers brandishing his cane. Yet I know this can't be right; if Mr. Wolfson is the son of grandmother's younger brother, he must be younger than my own father would be. Well, I shall soon know the truth. We leave for Abbey Manor this morning. Mr. Wolfson's carriage is already here; the landed informed us, when we arrived last night, that we would be prepared for an early departure. The manor is a long day's journey from York, far to the northwest. Only sixteen more hours before we know . . .
I may as well be frank. My efforts to sympathize with Mr. Wolfson are feeble subterfuge. I dislike him already, without ever having seen him; I will dislike him, whether le is white-haired and peppery or handsome and bland. He s our guardian-our guard. That is enough to turn me against him, or any other man.
Later
The date should really be April 15-it is long past midnight-but I cannot sleep without recording the impressions of this most eventful day. Let me say it at once: My apprehensions were groundless.
I sit now in a tastefully furnished chamber, equipped with all modern comforts. Heavy velvet portieres are drawn against the chill of the northern wind, and a fire burns on the hearth under a handsome marble mantelpiece. The bed which awaits me is new, and it is piled with quilts; the table on which I write has pen and ink and even a folder of writing paper. Bed, chamber, fire, all are my own. Ada's room, which is as comfortably and elegantly equipped, adjoins this one. The door which connects them was just cut last week, and it is open now, for fear Ada should be nervous in a strange house. She sleep
s so peacefully that no such apprehension concerns me; but how thoughtful was this idea of Mr. Wolfson's!
Yet no more thoughtful than all the other arrangements he has made for our pleasure and comfort.
We left York early this morning, by the Aldersgate; I craned my neck out of the coach window, braving the biting air, to get a last view of the ancient city walls, with the great spires of the minster towering above them. The sky was a pale clear blue, foretelling sunny weather; but it was so cold that I shiver now at the memory of it. We kept our heads well inside the coach for the rest of the journey. Not that there was much to see; it is a pleasant, rolling country which may look pastorally beautiful in springtime- not at all the bleak moorland of my fancy. But now a heavy coating of snow reflects the sun and makes the eyes rater; the bare trees and shrubs look dismal and deserted, he area is certainly remote. We passed through several villages, but all of them were small. The houses, of gray tone, seemed to have shut their window-eyes and huddled themselves inside their thick walls against the cold.
As evening drew on, the sky was obscured by clouds. tow all was gray-earth, sky, houses, and fields-except or a lurid reddish glow in the west. Ada, who had been chattering brightly, fell silent. I sensed her mood; it was like my own. Some nervousness was understandable, in our situation, but I was aware of an odd despondency, almost fear. Nothing justified such a feeling. The coach was a splendid vehicle, upholstered in blue plush and supplied with cushions, wraps, and foot warmers; the horses were a pair of matched grays; the coachman wore a dignified but expensive livery. Certainly our new guardian was a man of means and taste. Yet it seemed to me that the crimson of the sunset clouds gradually took on the vague but menacing shape of a great animal and that we were racing toward its outstretched claws at breakneck speed.
I write this only to show how foolish such flights of fancy can be. No doubt Grandmother was right about my peasant Italian imagination! Darkness had fallen long before we reached the house-a darkness the likes of which my town-bred eyes had never seen. When I looked out the windows, it was as if I had been struck blind. Not a light, not a shape was to be seen, except for the glow of the carriage lamps. How the coachman kept the road is a mystery, but I suppose he knows the route by heart.
The first lights we saw proved to be those of the gatehouse, and very pleasant those yellow-red squares of windows did appear. We were expected; as soon as the carriage rolled up to the iron gates, a man darted out of the house and flung them wide. We did not pause but drove on through the gates onto a graveled drive which seemed to stretch on forever into the darkness. It was several minutes more before the lights of the manor came into view; it is some distance from the gates and completely screened from sight by a large plantation of firs.
The vehicle crossed a wide carriage sweep and drew up before a flight of steps. The coachman opened the door and extended his arm; Ada took it and stepped out. As I followed her, the door of the manor opened, emitting a flood of yellow light, and the figure of a man could be seen outlined against the glow. Ada clutched my arm; I could feel her shivering.
But the great encounter was yet to come. The figure in the doorway emerged, holding a lamp, and I realized it was that of a servant. We followed him up the stairs into a brightly lighted hall. Its warmth was a pleasant shock after the chill wind outside; I had only a dim impression of velvet hangings and great mirrors before the manservant was asking for our wraps.
His voice, as well as his manner, had told me that he was London-bred. A tall man of middle age, he had the stiff dignity of the well-trained servant. His impassive features did not alter when he looked at us, but I thought I noted a subtle change in his attitude as he received first my plain black cloak and then Grandmother's magnificent sable cloak which Ada was wearing. Neither of us had thought twice about her right to wear it; she loves furs, and she and Grandmother were almost of a height. Now I realized, with more amusement than chagrin, that the cloak was a symbol-and a very accurate one.
"My name is William, miss," said the servant, addressing Ada. "Mr. Wolfson is waiting for you in the library. Will you follow me, please?"
As we started off along the corridor, Ada's hand crept into mine, and I was glad to take it. I am not easily humbled, but as I followed that dignified specimen of manhood to a meeting with another male, who would henceforth dictate my comings and goings, I felt as small as Ada-a new sensation and not a particularly pleasant one. My heart was beating more quickly than usual as William opened a door and bowed us into the room.
I had wondered why our guardian had not met us at the door and hoped it was not a demonstration of his feelings for his new wards. But then I realized that he might be old or ill, and in my mind I placed the white-whiskered gentleman of my earlier fancy on a couch by the fire, with a shawl covering his limbs.
There was a great oak desk piled with papers and a man sitting behind it.
His hair was not white; it was a silver gilt that blazed like a helmet where the light struck it. A long moustache drooped over his lips, but he was beardless. Eyelashes and brows were of the same fair shade but thick; instead of looking hairless, as so many blond men do, his eyes seemed to be framed in gold. And the eyes themselves were so extraordinary that one hardly noticed their frames-a deep, brilliant blue, clear but oddly cold, like water that has frozen and yet retained its ability to mirror the sky. He might, at first glance, have claimed almost any age. The shoulders and arms were those of a man of vigorous youth, and there seemed to be no lines in his face.
Then he smiled, and the extraordinary ice-blue eyes lost their chill. They fascinated me so that I hardly noticed the shape of his lips, except to sense that there was something unusual about his mouth.
"Ada and Harriet," he said, stretching out his hands. We advanced shyly to take them, one in each of ours. "Forgive me for not rising," he went on, "but, as you see, it is my misfortune rather than my lack of courtesy which forbids me the pleasure."
Still holding our hands, he emerged-there is no other word for it-from behind the desk; it was a weird sight to see the unmoving head and torso glide sideways, without rising. But when he was away from the shelter of the desk, I understood. Part of my imaginary picture had been accurate. Mr. Wolfson was seated in a wheelchair, and-yes!-a lap robe covered him from the waist down.
Yet it was impossible to connect the frail invalid of my fancy with this broad-shouldered, vigorous man, even when, as I saw him closer, I realized that the gold of his hair was faded to gray and that his face was seamed with the fine lines of physical suffering.
"Sit down," he said, relinquishing our hands and waving us toward a velvet settee. "I know you must be cold and weary. A light supper and then bed, eh? Perhaps you will sit with me while you sup; I am anxious to know you and to make you feel at home."
The words were kind in themselves, but the tone, the extraordinary charm and warmth of his voice, made tears come to my eyes. We did as he directed, and soon the heat of the roaring fire, fatigue, and sheer relief made me sink into a dreamy haze. I remember only one other thing about this evening, but it woke me like a dash of cold water. We were sipping a glass of wine-against the chill, Mr. Wolfson said-when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move in the shadows behind the desk. I paused, with my glass at my lips. Somehow the shifting shadows were all wrong. The movement could not have been made by a man; it was located at waist level, as if something crept on hands and knees behind the desk.
Mr. Wolfson saw my look of apprehension.
"I have forgotten to introduce you to two important members of the household," he said with a smile. Extending one hand, he snapped the fingers. From the shadows emerged the creature he had summoned.
The glass fell from my fingers and shattered on the hearth. The creature was a dog-but such a dog! Its head was on a level with Mr. Wolfson's breast when it came, obediently, to stand beside his chair. Its coat was grayish and short; the long bushy tail and elongated nose were those of a wolf, and as it lapped at hi
s fingers, in a horrid parody of doggish affection, I saw the long white fangs am wetly in the firelight.
"My dear child!" Mr. Wolfson turned a look of concern upon me. "I am sorry. Are you so afraid of dogs?"
I could only shake my head dumbly and shrink back into my chair. A second dog had followed the first. It was somewhat darker in color, but the same immense size. With its mate it flanked the man in the invalid chair like animals on a coat of arms.
Ada leaned forward, holding out one clenched fist to the nearer dog's muzzle.
"Harriet has been terrified of dogs since she was bitten a child. I protect her from dogs; she protects me from all else."
"Indeed?" Mr. Wolfson considered us in turn. "And a air of charming protectors you are. I am afraid, my dear Ada, that Fenris will not respond to your overtures. She and Loki are perfectly harmless, but they have not been trained to be pets."
The dog had turned its head to sniff at Ada's hand, but nee it had made this gesture it turned back again without giving any demonstration of interest or normal canine affection.
Sons of the Wolf Page 2