by Mira Stables
The Earl sighed. “I had hoped that if we got him away from here to some remote spot like Coldstone where he could watch his beloved wild things to his heart’s content, he might quieten down. Dr Hartwell is for ever hinting that he should be put under restraint, but the thought of it is horrible. He’s gently bred and educated, John, indeed a brilliant scholar I was told. And then a head wound in battle, and his mind is gone beyond repair. No living relatives—or none who would claim and care for him. At least with me he has a measure of freedom. Does he still take pleasure in watching the wild creatures?”
“Oh, aye,” nodded John. “There’s an old badger’s holt up in the woods above the quarry. He’s up there night after night watching the varmints. Then he’ll sleep the morning away, like as not. I’ve kept my eye on him as best I could, but short of locking him in, which you particularly forbade, there’s no watching him all the time. He can slip away as soft as a shadow for all his size.”
“Poor John! I ask too much of you, I know. Shall I send your brother and young Ned over to Coldstone in your place? I’d be very willing to keep you with me for, strangely enough, I’ve missed you. It seems one can grow so accustomed to being bullied and over-ruled at every hand’s turn that one positively feels the lack of it.”
John reddened a little at the affectionate note in the Earl’s voice, and grinned at the teasing. “This is no time for your funning, Sir,” he said severely. “Of course I’m going back to Coldstone. Truth to tell I didn’t above half like leaving him, but he was sound asleep, having been out most of the night, and I asked the lads at the quarry to look out for him. I’ll be off back now. But, Sir, if there should be sickness and trouble here, you’d let me come back then, wouldn’t you?”
“But of course!” said the Earl solemnly. “I should send for you at once. I am well aware that I could not possibly manage for myself, and naturally no consideration for your health and safety would prevent me from summoning you to my assistance.”
“And it had better not,” retorted his retainer grimly. “I’m not saying anything against poor Mr Garrett—indeed I’m heart sorry for him, but if there’s bad sickness here in the village, then my place is here with you, and that’s where I’m going to be, orders or no orders.”
“As you say, you insubordinate old villain,” submitted the Earl meekly. “But don’t I wish I had you back in the army again! Only time in my life that you ever took notice of my orders! See that you get a meal before you start back. And understand that Garrett is my responsibility. If he makes trouble, you are not to be blamed. To be keeping watch over a man of unbalanced mind who is quite unpredictable in his moods and movements is a heavy task. Indeed only a fool like John Hanson would be willing to undertake it. No, don’t argue,” as John opened his mouth to protest, “I know very well it is asking too much of you. But I do ask it, for I can think of no other man who would do it one half so well. Only, if he should give you the slip, you’re not to go fretting yourself to flinders, for it will not be your fault. Now, be off with you. And remember—a good meal and a fresh nag,” and with a valedictory slap on the tall groom’s shoulder he went off to the library to consider what precautions would need to be taken in the event of an outbreak of smallpox.
Country people were notoriously suspicious of new-fangled notions and slow to adopt them, so few, if any, of the villagers would have been vaccinated, but he could probably reckon that more than half of the adult population would already have had the disease. They were safe enough. The worst danger was to the children, and little use trying to persuade them to accept vaccination now. All he could do was decide on a suitable building to which sufferers could be carried—always supposing that their relatives would consent—and ensure that a sufficient supply of palliasses and blankets and all the other impedimenta of a fever hospital should be available in case of need. He started to make lists, with a passing thought that John’s advice would have been invaluable, for John, less fortunate than his master, had spent one or two spells in army hospitals. Mentally he reviewed the other members of his vast household. Only his ward gave him cause for anxiety. Had she been vaccinated? Dare he make direct enquiry? He shook his head. That quick mind of hers would jump to the obvious conclusion at the least hint. He must not put the burden of fear upon those young shoulders, but guard her as best he could from any risk of infection. The other inmates of Anderley had meekly accepted vaccination upon entering his employment. It was reckoned to be just part of the master’s eccentricity, and Lady Hester herself had set the example. Despite that hideous obstacle of compulsory vaccination, there was still considerable competition for places at Anderley. Should the need arise, there would be no lack of nursing orderlies either. And Hester could be trusted to deal admirably with the domestic side of the business. A first-rate Quartermaster General was lost when Hester was born a woman, he reflected.
He pushed the lists aside, then, on second thoughts, pressed the spring that opened a secret compartment in the desk and laid them away in greater safety. He would drive down to the village and try if indirect enquiry would elicit any information about the dead pedlar.
The evidence was inconclusive, though on the whole favourable. None of the children were playing with such toys as John had described, and when he ventured on oblique enquiry, suggesting casually that if a pedlar should chance to come to the village the maids at Anderley would doubtless be glad of the opportunity to buy a few fripperies, he met only a shake of the head and a voluble outpouring of regret that no such interesting visitor had been seen for an age. But since it then transpired that the speaker had recently been away from home at her sister’s lying-in, he could not take solid comfort from this, and dare not repeat the enquiry, since assuredly the good ladies would subsequently compare notes on what he had said, and it would certainly puzzle them to know what the Earl had been wanting so urgently with a pedlar man.
He said all that was proper about the interesting family event, thankful that, since the sister did not reside upon the Anderley estate, he would neither be asked to stand sponsor nor hear that the infant was to be endowed with his Christian name, and turned towards home, his mind a little relieved of its burden of anxiety. Perhaps the pedlar had, after all, been heading towards Anderley when his illness struck him down. Thankfully he turned his thoughts to less solemn matters.
The possibility of a match between his ward and his nephew appeared to be receding. That was wasteful but not tragic. The girl had the makings of a good châtelaine and would have lent ballast to young Timothy, who stood sorely in need of it. Anderley could use a girl of that calibre, whereas his nephew’s latest inamorata appeared to be purely ornamental. That she certainly was, but whether there was either intelligence or character behind the lovely face was yet to be seen. She had not, apparently, attracted young Ecclesfield. And Ecclesfield was sound as a roast and could pick out a well-bred ’un with the best; as witness his immediate liking for Elizabeth. For some time now the Earl had been permitting himself in private the luxury of calling his ward by her beautiful given name. He could not help feeling a glow of satisfaction, even of pride, that Ecclesfield should have taken so strong a fancy to her. It was a just tribute to her quality. A pity that the lad was not ten years older, or—it was out in the open at last—that he himself was not ten years younger. He frowned, remembering some careless words that his sister Maria had once spoken about the strong possibility of his marrying in his dotage. Well—he was not in his dotage yet. Some would say that thirty-five was the prime of life. But it was far too old to wed with twenty-three, especially a twenty-three so young and inexperienced as Elizabeth Kirkley’s, even if his overbearing ways had not caused the girl to take him in dislike at their very first meeting. Of late, it was true, there had been signs of softening in her attitude, and when they had danced together the Earl would have been prepared to vow that she liked him very well. But with the whimsical folly of a sensible man already far deeper in love than he knew, he decided that, as they could sc
arcely spend the rest of their lives dancing together, he had best put temptation aside. But neither would he squander valuable time in searching the ranks of his acquaintance for a match for Elizabeth. There was no call for undue haste. It would be another six months before she could be presented. Time enough then, he decided light-heartedly, to set about the business in earnest.
He was whistling cheerfully as he re-entered his house, affronting the staid Harrison, who considered such behaviour quite unsuited to the consequence of an Earl, and his mellow mood was not even dissipated by the knowledge that he had made little progress in his enquiries, nor by Hester’s mournful recital of the catalogue of Timothy’s sins. Timothy, it appeared, had crowned a morning of reckless indiscretion by insisting that he must escort Miss Bentley back to her Aunt’s house. Who knew, he said stoutly, what dangers she might not meet between Anderley and Abbey House? Lady Hester, enquiring bitterly if there was any latent madness in the Elsford family, found her brother quite undisturbed. If Timothy must run mad, he said lazily, better here than in Town. And if he was so besotted about his Primrose, he had best marry her and be done with it.
Such flippancy did nothing to soothe his sister. “Primrose!” she snorted. “A modest flower, or so the poets would have us believe. This one should have been called Peony—flaunting herself abroad like a travelling raree show, with a gentleman escort needed for a journey of three miles in broad daylight!” And was sadly discomposed when her brother only laughed, and quite refused to speak seriously to his nephew about his rash and foolish behaviour.
Chapter Twelve
Elizabeth supposed that one was bound to find life a little flat and depressing after the excitement of the party, but it was distinctly lowering to find that the mood was so long-lived. It was only to be expected that she should miss her monopoly of Timothy’s cheerful company, but she had rather shyly hoped that, after the distinguishing attention that her guardian had bestowed upon her at the party, she might have been vouchsafed a little more of his society. She still regarded him with some doubt and puzzlement, but he was interesting, even exciting, and when he wished he could be kind. There was no denying that her initial resentment was fading fast in face of his charm.
But instead of an improvement in their relations there came a slight setback when the Earl issued orders that she was not to ride into the village. He gave no reason for this limitation of her freedom, and since he had very unfairly obtained her promise of obedience by asking first if she would be willing to oblige him in a small matter, she was unable to show her opinion of such arbitrary treatment by open defiance.
She still spent a good deal of her time with Mr Elsford, but it was quite amazing how often they chanced to meet Miss Bentley whenever they went abroad, whether riding with a groom in attendance or walking with one of her several Considine cousins. Elizabeth was inclined to like Miss Bentley, who seemed to be a sweet-natured girl of a gentle and confiding disposition, but a three-cornered riding party was certainly an awkward one. Since Miss Bentley, though well taught, was a timid horsewoman, it generally resolved itself into two sections, one pair riding sedately along the smoother paths while the third member, watched at first anxiously and then in growing admiration by Miss Bentley’s groom, skirmished gaily around them, trying out one or other of her guardian’s horses over fences and hedges that would have daunted most females. As for the Considine girls, they were a spiritless set, much overborne by their dragon of a mother, and concerned only to play propriety to their pretty cousin. Indeed the only satisfactory and intelligent company to be found on these excursions was that supplied by the horses, thought Elizabeth with a rueful chuckle.
Indoors, Lady Hester seemed unusually preoccupied with domestic matters. The whole household was kept in a bustle over a monumental assembling and checking of stores from blankets to pudding basins. Elizabeth, surveying the operation with puzzled respect, had never dreamed that such very humdrum affairs formed part of the duties of the mistress of a great household. Miss Trenchard’s orderly mind rejoiced in the proceedings, and she was promptly enrolled as Lady Hester’s lieutenant, busying herself with detailed lists and careful notes of deficiencies to be made good.
When the pair of them did occasionally emerge from this orgy of domesticism, it was to bemoan the folly of Mr Elsford in making such a cake of himself in his pursuit of Miss Bentley, which was the talk of the neighbourhood, or to deplore the absence of the Earl just when he was most needed. What a gentleman could have to contribute to the study of blankets and basins was beyond Elizabeth’s imagining, but when she put the question into words her remark created an oddly embarrassed little silence. The two ladies looked at each other guiltily, and Lady Hester hastily murmured something about her brother’s army experience having made him more knowledgeable about matters of organisation than most country gentlemen.
The Earl himself was rarely at home. Once Elizabeth met him in the hall as he returned from some protracted expedition. It was probably only a trick of the light, but he looked harassed and weary so that she forgot for the moment that she was at outs with him and would have stopped to ask if aught was amiss, but he brushed past her with no more than a smile and a courteous greeting and disappeared into the library.
It was not long before the prevailing air of unease affected her spirits. She grew increasingly certain that something was being kept from her, and that the something was of a calamitous nature. The conspiracy of silence seemed to exclude only herself and Mr Elsford, for that young gentleman showed no signs of stress other than those natural in a young man of mercurial temperament head over heels in love. Resentment rose within her. If trouble was threatening—vaguely she guessed at some form of rioting such as had been all too common in recent years—then she was not a child to be kept in the dark. She should be allowed to take her share of the burden of anxiety.
It was in this mood that she set off to visit Lucy. She had not ridden up the lonely valley for more than three weeks. Lucy would enjoy hearing about the party and the dresses that the ladies had worn. She might also be able to shed some light on this mysterious cloud that was hanging over Anderley.
She rode at any easy pace, for the day was hot and humid, the sky heavy with the threat of coming storm. Once or twice she looked up at the lowering clouds. Heaven knew the rain was desperately needed, but there was no point in her getting a soaking. She judged that the storm would hold off for two or three hours yet, time enough to be safely home before it broke.
The woods were unusually silent today. There was no current of air to stir the dry leaves, and all the small creatures of the wild seemed to have hidden themselves away. She must be growing foolishly fanciful, she decided, for the stillness struck her as ominous, a brooding waiting for disaster to strike. Impatient with her own nervous fancies, she shook her head as in fierce denial and urged the mare to a gentle trot.
From custom she now rode round to the back of the cottage to see if Lucy and the child were in the garden, but today there was no one there. Someone must be at home though, for there was a pale feather of smoke drifting from the chimney and the door was standing wide open as though the very house were gasping for air. Elizabeth turned the mare loose in the little paddock and walked up the garden path to the front door with a smile for memories thus evoked. There was no immediate answer to her knock. Then she heard the sound of hurrying footsteps coming down the steep stair, and Lucy appeared in the open doorway. But what a changed Lucy! From her haggard face and the bruise-like marks below her eyes she might not have slept for a week. Her hair was unkempt, her body limp and heavy with weariness and her dress spattered and crumpled as though she had lived and slept in it for days.
Recognition of her visitor seemed to galvanise her into fresh life. Her eyes brightened eagerly and she clutched at Elizabeth’s hands.
“Oh! Miss Elizabeth! Did his lordship send you? God bless him for the good thought! You will help me to make her better, won’t you? She doesn’t even know me now. Just lies th
ere muttering and moaning and turning her poor little head from side to side.”
As the words poured out she was unconsciously tugging at Elizabeth’s hands as though to urge her to come at once to the sick child, and Elizabeth, her heart full of pity for the poor distraught creature, followed her willingly enough.
Children, she knew, could run a fever from many simple causes; could appear very ill indeed and yet be almost recovered next day. Devoutly she hoped that this might be the case with Mally. But one glance at the little girl dispelled any hope of such a comfortable issue. Here was something far more serious than a simple childish ailment.
“How long has she been like this?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level and not unduly concerned.
Lucy looked at her vaguely. “Three days—four days—I think. She said her head hurt her, and her back. She’s been very sick, too. I thought perhaps she’d eaten poison berries, though I’ve watched her so carefully. She will get better, won’t she, Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth stooped over the half-conscious child and smoothed the tangled hair away from the hot forehead, noticing pitifully the cracked lips and the weary restless turning of the little head. Lucy was gazing at her desperately, hopefully, begging for a reassurance that she dare not give.
“If you warmed some water we could bathe her face and limbs,” she said gently. “That would cool her a little, and she might sleep. And perhaps a drink—” She hesitated. It was unlikely that a cottage store-room would have lemons. “Perhaps camomile tea, or blackcurrant,” she suggested, and as Lucy hurried away, thankful to be given something to do, turned back to the bed and began to straighten the tumbled covers. There was something hard under the sheet. She turned it back to reveal a jointed wooden monkey on strings which could be pulled to make it move in a stiff little dance. Some favourite toy, no doubt, that Lucy had given to the child for comfort. She laid it on the chest of drawers, for Mally would not miss it now, and sat down in the chair beside the bed where Lucy had been keeping her anxious vigil. The child flung out one arm, and Elizabeth took the hot little hand in hers to tuck it back under the bedclothes. As she did so, she noticed the heavy rash of hard spots on the tiny wrist. Her eyes dilated. She had seen spots like that before. This was no case of eating poison berries. Mally had smallpox.