A Night in Cold Harbour

by Margaret Kennedy

  ‘Good evening!’ said a voice at his elbow. ‘It’s a long time since we’ve seen the old house look so lively.’

  ‘Dr. Newbolt! Ah … Good evening.’

  ‘I’ve come to bring my daughter home. It’s too late for her to be walking alone across the park.’

  ‘Is she there?’

  ‘She ran up to see Amabel. Ah, here she comes.’

  A tall white figure had emerged from the shadows and was floating towards them.

  ‘I never knew you were here!’ exclaimed Romilly. ‘When did you come?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been upstairs these two hours with Amabel. We heard that she came home very unwell, so I ran up to see how she does.’

  ‘You must be careful. There’s some risk of …’

  ‘Fever? It’s nothing of that sort. Travelling always makes her unwell.’

  ‘You were in the house, then, when we were at dinner?’

  ‘Yes. When I come to see Amabel I slip in by the side door and up the back stairs. Do you think you should have guessed?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he murmured. ‘By the pricking in my thumbs.’

  She heard him and laughed. They all three began to walk down the drive, and Romilly complained that there should be nightingales.

  ‘They’ve all been scared away by the fever,’ she suggested.

  Dr. Newbolt asserted that nobody need be alarmed by scarlet fever. Romilly was impressed by his confidence and almost believed it, but then remembered that the old boy would say the same thing about smallpox, gangrene, or a broken neck.

  ‘Not this fever,’ agreed Venetia. ‘Amabel assures me that Sophy’s children have nothing worse than nettlerash.’

  ‘What?’ cried Romilly.

  ‘Ssh! Listen!’

  From a lonely tree came four long sweet notes and a fine roulade. If Newbolt now quotes Milton, thought Romilly, I shall knock him over the head.

  ‘Most musical, most melancholy bird,’ quoted Dr. Newbolt with diabolic promptitude. ‘But I see nothing melancholy in a nightingale. There is often some confusion between the melancholy and the solemn.’

  He discoursed on this theme at some length, without much taxing the attention of his companions. Romilly was convinced that Venetia knew the Brandon Arabian to be back again on his wall, that she was laughing at him silently, and that she despised him for not turning Charlotte and her brats out of the house.

  He, for his part, was planning to turn the tables very neatly. Venetia might, he began to think, supply him with an effective threat, should his ladies remain insubordinate. Nothing would alarm them more than the notion that he might be going to marry her. Nor would it be difficult to suggest such a possibility. She was undeniably a beauty; any man must admire her. But it was obvious that they all disliked her, with the possible exception of Amabel whose particular friendships seldom lasted longer than a fortnight. They would compound for anything, they would dine at midnight, sooner than see Venetia set over them as mistress of the house. He had already made a start; he had frightened them by praising her at dinner. He would continue to frighten them. He would call every day at the Parsonage. By marked and public attentions to Venetia he would bring them all, even Charlotte, to heel.

  At the gate into the lane he parted from the talkative old gentleman, made his bow to the silent young lady, and walked back to the field of battle. A dozen nightingales were now in full chorus, tossing long cadenzas from tree to tree. There were too many, and they made too much noise, for which he was not sorry since one alone might have evoked too sharp a reminder of former days. He was able to continue his plan of attack. That Venetia deserved no consideration was a signal advantage. Had she been a candid, artless young creature he must have had scruples: his attentions would arouse expectations in the whole neighbourhood, and when they came to nothing her situation would be unenviable. The world would say that she had failed to catch him. She might even fall in love with him. But he need fear nothing of that sort in Venetia’s case. She was a sly little schemer, and he doubted very much whether she had a heart to lose. She would be mortified, but that would do her no harm.

  I should think twice about it, he decided, if it was in the least likely that she ever helps Jenny to carry a heavy basket. Or even takes a turn at the fringe frame. I believe she does nothing all day save sit with a book in her hand, some book which she ought not to be reading and has not, in fact, read. But I must take care that she don’t creep in by the side door and deposit some horrid little antiquity under the floorboards in my bed-chamber. Those who cross her might, I fancy, be liable to ‘banish away’.

  PART II

  THE VICTIMS

  1

  IN ONE OF the Parsonage garrets lay old Tibbie, formerly autocrat of the Newbolt nurseries, now palsied and senile. The servants, who were supposed to tend her, did so grudgingly. Four times a year Dr. Newbolt climbed the stairs to take Tibbie the Sacrament. No other member of the family went there except Jenny, who ascended daily in order to make sure that Tibbie was kept clean and comfortable, to persuade her to swallow her pap, and to listen to her grievances. Of these the most persistent was irritation at Jenny’s own folly.

  ‘You might have been lady at the Priors these ten years if you hadn’t gone and ruinated yourself by keeping that promise to your poor Mama. Nobody a penny the better for it. Not that you should have refused the poor dear aught in her last dying moments. I never says that. If she went easier for hearing you swear you’d stay by your poor desolate Papa, you was right to swear it. But once she was gone …’

  Jenny no longer troubled to reply that a promise is a promise, whether given to the living or to the dead. Had she known how to refuse that plea, gasped out in such mortal agony, she would have refused. Since she had not been able to do so there was no more to be said. She scarcely listened to Tibbie and heard her now very much as she heard the squeak of the pump handle in the yard below; it was one of the morning noises at the Parsonage. She merely waited for another opportunity to insert a spoonful of pap into Tibbie’s mouth.

  ‘She never gave you your place. The boys was her pride, and Venetia was her dote. She never made no favourite of you. She didn’t care to believe young Squire was sweet on you. “’Tis nothing,” she’d say. “A mere boy’s fancy. He’ll never wed Jenny. He can take his pick of the handsomest women in the country, and she’s no beauty. Which is a comfort to me,” she’d say, “for I daresay she’ll never get an offer, and her father will need her when I’m gone. He could never endure to be solitary and if Jenny an’t by he’ll put some stepmother over my lambs.” Which is true enough. But it would have been all to one a better thing if your Papa had married again. He’d have thought more of his new lady than he ever has of you. And who’s to say she would have been unkind to the children? What’s this spoon? This an’t my spoon. What’s become of my good silver spoon?’

  ‘Oh, Tibbie, don’t you remember? You had me put it away in your chest after it had been taken down to the kitchen by mistake one day.’

  ‘In my chest? You’re sure?’ asked Tibbie suspiciously.

  ‘You saw me put it there yourself.’

  ‘I don’t like to eat from a pewter spoon. I want my own spoon, that’s solid silver, that I had from my Granny.’

  ‘Tibbie, your pap will get cold if I look for it now.’

  ‘I must make sure ’tis still there. Wait now till I give you the key.’

  When Tibbie failed to find the key under her pillow she declared that some thief must have stolen it and demanded the constables until Jenny found it in her Bible box.

  ‘Some unaccountable person must have put it there.’

  ‘Won’t you take your pap before I unpack the chest?’

  ‘Not with a pewter spoon. A labouring person’s kind of spoon. Not fit for a gentleman’s house. There’s no stepmother could have bested Venetia. That might have been seen, if your Mama had cared to see it. And who’s the better for it all? You’ve had no thanks for it. They think nothing of you. You’
re but a servant that asks no wages. Who’s the gainer?’

  Jenny, unpacking the magpie hoard in the chest, might have said that Tibbie was a gainer, since nobody else would have put up with her. But the kind of reflection likely to prompt such a reply was a danger which Jenny avoided as much as possible. Thought of any kind was certain to be painful, as she had long ago discovered. She fled from it. Bet Brandon had not been far wrong when she said that a pair of feet and a pair of hands provided the sum total of Jenny Newbolt. To keep both in continual action was a measure of defence against thought. There was always, luckily, a great deal to be done.

  ‘Young Squire, he flew off in a rage. No wonder! Never knew a check in his life before; it took him all in a drawback. What’s that you have there?’

  ‘Your Paisley shawl.’

  ‘Give it me here. I’m feared of the moth.’

  As Jenny brought the shawl the church bell tolled a single doleful:

  BONG!

  ‘Eh!’ cried Tibbie in high glee. ‘Who’s passing?’

  ‘I think it must be Goody Tompkins.’

  ‘You don’t say so! Mary Ann Tompkins! I never thought she’d be taken so young. Why wan’t I told?’

  She had been told, but recent events made no impression on her.

  ‘What ailed her?’

  Jenny was about to say old age, since Goody Tompkins had been over eighty, but changed this to a chill on the lungs.

  ‘Eh dear! Well! She was a flimsy kind of creature all her life.’

  BONG!

  ‘Here’s your spoon, Tibbie.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your silver spoon. Now you can eat your pap.’

  ‘Nay, I did but want to be sure it was there. Put it away now, careful, with the rest of my things.’

  ‘But your pap!’

  BONG!

  ‘Did Parson take her the Sacrament all according?’

  ‘Yes. He was there on Thursday.’

  ‘Ah well … we must hope she’s gone to a better world. Mary Ann! She was married a Shrove Tuesday and lay in before Easter. That child got a good taste of his mammy’s wedding cake, as the common people say. But loose talk of that sort I won’t have in my nursery. Little pitchers has long ears.’

  Tibbie’s pap was the first item in the morning programme. Dinner must then be ordered. Jenny was still in the kitchen, talking to the cook, when a maid called Kitty, whose services were pretty well monopolised by Venetia, came running in breathless from some errand to the Priors. Venetia had contrived to send her there every day, since Romilly’s return, upon one excuse or another, and she always brought back a budget full of news. On the first Sunday she had been able to tell them that Squire would never choose to dine before six o’clock, that he had tried, and failed, to take down that great old horse in the dining-room, and that he was making a rare to-do over a picture called Froggysomething, in the yellow room. It was Jenny who had deduced Fragonard, and had stuck to it that there was such a painter; she had seen a Fragonard once in some great house to which she had been taken when at school. This episode had been transferred to Venetia’s schooldays by Monday, when Romilly and Latymer called, and Fragonard stood high in her esteem, which Jenny might have thought a little odd had she not decided that it was always wiser not to think at all.

  What must be done next? she asked herself as she went from the kitchen. What task demanded hands and feet? The poultry yard? Her father’s newspaper? Had they brought it from the village? She looked into the study to make sure, He had it, but produced another errand for her.

  ‘Tomorrow is Sacrament Sunday,’ he said, ‘and there may be an unusually large party from the Priors. They will, of course, communicate before the rest of the congregation. Should they all stay, they will make up a complete row. The chancel is so narrow. As a rule you and Venetia make up a row with the Brandons. In this case you must wait. The Arbuthnots come next. Should you not have a word with Mrs. Arbuthnot, explaining that you girls will join them after the Priors party have communicated? They are very worthy people, the Arbuthnots, but they might not like to come forward until you have returned, since you go, as a general rule, before them. Yet it would be a sad waste of time for all of us if you girls were to be making a row by yourselves, eh?’

  ‘I’ll call on Mrs. Arbuthnot now, and explain it.’

  ‘Pray do. Of course there is no knowing how many of the Brandons … it will be a tight fit if Romilly and the other young man were to take it into their heads … but that’s not very likely.’

  Communion once a month, in Dr. Newbolt’s opinion, might do very well for women. Men who turned up more than four times a year were liable to brand themselves as enthusiasts.

  ‘Mr. Latymer,’ said Jenny, ‘might stay. He goes back to sea on Thursday, and may not get another opportunity for a long time.’

  ‘Oh ay! In his case it would be a wise precaution, poor fellow. At least in time of war.’

  Off into the village went Jenny, at the rapid pace, almost a trot, which had become habitual to her. As she went she turned her blank faded face from side to side, lest she might pass acquaintance without duly smiling at them.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot was a widow with two daughters. All three were in the parlour when Jenny appeared, although the two girls generally beat a retreat on such an occasion. Today, however, they were agog for news, since Romilly’s attentions to Venetia were the talk of the village. They heard with some impatience of the problems created by a narrow chancel on Sacrament Sunday, and answered as briefly as possible Jenny’s conscientious questions concerning their health, their garden, and their relations. These enquiries represented Jenny’s idea of social intercourse; to make them and to get answers was a duty, not a pleasure; their general effect was often to make her victims feel that even their own affairs were singularly dull.

  At last Louisa Arbuthnot rebelled.

  ‘Do you think that Mr. Brandon will run off from church tomorrow, as he did last Sunday, without saying anything to anybody?’

  ‘What could he have meant by it?’ asked Maria. ‘Does he know, I wonder, how much offence he has given?’

  Jenny flushed unbecomingly, as she always did when something disapproving or critical was said in company. She hastened to find excuses for the offender. Last Sunday, she suggested, Mr. Brandon might have found it difficult to remember his neighbours’ names, since he had been away for so long. Tomorrow he would have his mother to remind him. Perhaps he had been waiting for that.

  ‘You are the only family to have seen anything of him,’ suggested Louisa. ‘He called again at the Parsonage yesterday, so we heard.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenny.

  ‘What is he like? You must remember him before he went away. Is he much altered?’

  ‘No more than one would expect, in ten years.’

  ‘What does he talk about?’ pressed Louisa.

  Jenny tried to remember.

  ‘I was not there all the time,’ she said, upon which the three exchanged glances. ‘I think … he talked about Mount Vesuvius.’

  She rose to take her leave, since her fifteen minutes were up, and left them to fruitless speculation. Had she been extremely discreet, or could she be so simple as to have observed nothing, conjectured nothing? The world, they all agreed, held not a better creature than poor Jenny Newbolt. She would do anything for anybody. She had never been heard to say an unkind thing. But she put one out of spirits.

  Her next task was to visit a cottage where a new-born child must be inspected. To hear Romilly discussed caused her no agitation. His return meant nothing to her. This stranger had no more in common with the lover, vanished ten years before, than she had with the girl who had lost him. Both were gone for ever. He had dissolved immediately, when he refused to listen, refused to forgive, refused to wait until the children at the Parsonage were old enough to do without her. She had never doubted that he would, in the end, agree that she had no choice. He might be angry and jealous that she should recognise any claim
s save his own. But he would, she was sure, ultimately allow that she could not refuse a promise demanded in such circumstances, nor fail to keep it, once given. When it became clear that he expected her to break her word, he vanished. She had never ceased to love and mourn him, but as a creature inhabiting some other world, now lost.

  Her cottage errand was soon despatched. Mother and child were doing well. With poor people she was popular. She only came amongst them to make herself useful. She never advised them to be contented with their lot, nor did she preach at them, or scold them, as most ladies did. They could not suppose her own lot to be very delightful, which gave them a fellow feeling for her.

  Her path from the cottage led across a common and here her pace slackened. She fell into a fitful stroll and at length sat down upon a log. Pulling off her bonnet, she flung it on to the withered bluebells at her feet. For a while she stared fixedly at the ground. Then her face changed. She looked about her like a person awakening from sleep in a happy place, smiling with a relaxed simplicity, as very young children smile. She had indeed taken a trip backwards over twenty years and more; she was safe for a while in a region well on the further side of calamity.

  This respite was granted to her occasionally. Her existence otherwise would have been intolerable, solitary and comfortless as it was. She could not have found the energy to continue in it. Tibbie had told no more than the truth. Nobody valued her, save as she might serve them. Nobody cared to hear what she might say. She had no money and no hope of liberty; when she left Stretton Courtenay, presumably upon her father’s death, it would be to live, dependent and useful, with one of her brothers. She lived as a nun, but unsupported by knowing herself to be a member of a community. Yet her mother had not been mistaken when, the dire promise given, she whispered that God would send the strength to keep it. He had done so. He sent her these hours of release, thus sparing her the guilt, the shame, of vices, drink, laudanum, the hysteria, spite, and malice, to which she might otherwise have been driven. Suffering had withered her body and dulled her mind, but her soul had been preserved from evil.