Deception Page 16

  Proudly she shook out her long skirts.

  “Very handsome,” said her grandmother drily. “How came Mrs Galt to let you escape from the sewing room?”

  “I tiptoed away in my bare feet while her back was turned, pinning up Isa. They never heard me leave.”

  “You deserve to catch your death of cold before the wedding. And you had best tiptoe back again without loss of time, put on your shoes and stockings, and take off that fine dress before you crumple or soil it. Make haste now!”

  Slowly and with great reluctance, Parthie moved towards the door, casting several disappointed glances at James, from whom she had hoped to elicit some admiring comment. But he was looking out of the window again, across the gravel sweep to the rise of the pine-clad hill and the ferny grotto enclosing the Lion pool.

  A trio of persons had just emerged from the path by the pele tower and were making for the pool; now they clustered round it, apparently in performance of some ritual. They had flowers and branches of berries in their hands. Two were children, the third was older.

  “Who is that with Nish and Tot?” James demanded in a startled tone.

  “Where?”

  Old Mrs Winship limped across the room to stand by him and look out. Then she let out a sudden cackle of laughter.

  “Why, that is nobody. No stranger, I should say. Whom did you think it was? That is your sister Louisa.”

  “What are they doing with those flowers?” James asked curiously, still intent on the group.

  “Oh, I have seen the children do that before. It is some ceremony they have; I think it is a kind of mourning. For the little lost one, you know. Earlier in the day I recall they were searching for some toy of his—”

  “But were they so strongly attached to him?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But I fancy they feel,” said the old lady detachedly, “that, although such a dust has been kicked up about the matter, the more tragic aspect of it has gone unregarded. And so they are fulfilling that part themselves.”

  Parthie gave a loud peevish sniff and left the room. Nobody heeded her departure.

  “And Louisa?” said James perplexedly. “Was she so very devoted to wee Geordie?”

  “Gracious me, no! She was not even here when the event took place.”

  Parthie, back in her everyday clothes, went in search of her younger siblings and found them in the harness room.

  Fewer horses were kept, latterly, than had been in Sir Aydon’s hunting days, and this roomy place, next to the coach house, was now the repository for various discarded playthings, archery targets, croquet mallets, and wooden bats, as well as the coach-mops, wheel-jacks, dandy-brushes, stable-forks, horse-cloths, boot-levers, and lanterns which, with all the harness hanging on hooks, were its normal furniture.

  There was a fireplace, and a boiler for cooking bran-mash; wall cupboards and shelves held jars of harness paste, blacking, gutta percha, sal ammoniac, and saddle-soap. The room was comfortably warm and smelt of linseed and tar.

  “Look,” said Tot, rummaging in a capacious broom closet, “I found the sledge that Sim made for us.—Poor Sim. It is too bad that he never came back. If he had done so, things might have been different—”

  “Here is the hobby horse!” cried Nish in triumph. “It was lying under the saddletree all the time. I made sure I had seen him bring it in here—”

  Then they both fell silent, realizing that their sister Parthie stood in the doorway regarding them with her usual blend of hostility and contempt.

  “What are you doing with that hobby-horse?” she demanded, walking forward. “Give it to me!”

  “It’s not yours.” Ignoring Parthie’s extended hand, Nish stepped back a couple of paces.

  The hobby-horse in question was a home-made but handsome toy, with a carved beechwood head attached to a short shaft terminating in a small pair of solid wooden wheels. Small red-leather reins were fastened to a painted snaffle.

  “Give it here!” repeated Parthie.

  “Why? It’s not yours. Papa had Surtees make it for wee Geordie.”

  “And so, as Geordie is dead, you are taking possession of it,” said Parthie disagreeably. “Greedy little monsters. Jealous of a baby! Because Papa loved him better than you!”

  “We weren’t!”

  “Why have you taken it, then?”

  “We’re going to burn it,” said Tot coldly. “So Papa shan’t be upset by seeing it, if he comes to the harness room.”

  “A likely tale!” Parthie made a determined pounce, but Nish eluded her, being much quicker and lighter on her feet.

  “Why should you have it?” she panted, tossing the hobby-horse to Tot, over the top of the saddle-tree. “You can’t ride on it.” And she looked pointedly at Parthie’s thick, unshapely ankles and legs.

  Parthie slowly reddened with rage.

  “I was going to give it to Mr Thropton for some poor child in the village,” she said. “And I shall, too. Just because you have Big Sister Emmy to take your part now, you think you can be as impertinent to me as you please. But you are very wrong! Emmy won’t be at Birkland for long.”

  “Why not?”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that she’s not your real sister at all?”

  “Of course we do,” said Tot coolly and quenchingly, but Nish, with less discretion, cried, “Who is she, then?”

  “Very likely a witch who will suck the marrow out of your bones one night.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Tot with sturdy scepticism. “That’s just a tale to frighten us.”

  “What were you doing with those flowers in the Lion’s pool?”

  “None of your business. A thing we do with Emmy.”

  “It’s witchcraft. It’s blasphemy. You’ll go to hell.”

  “Emmy says there’s no such place.”

  “Oh! You’ll be sorry for those words when you are screaming out, and writhing, and burning and frizzling.”

  Parthie made another snatch, but Tot vaulted over the saddle-tree and raced out of the door before she could catch him.

  She ran after him, fast and clumsily, but he had vanished among the bushes of the shrubbery before she turned the corner of the house; meanwhile Nish made her escape in a different direction.

  Later, when they were burning the hobby-horse ceremonially over a fire of thorn-trimmings, Tot said to Nish,

  “Why do you think Parthie really wanted the hobby-horse?”

  He often deferred to his younger sister’s opinion about people; she had much more certainty in such matters.

  Nish said without hesitation, “To curry favour with Mr Thropton. Or just because she is a thief. She often steals from Grandma.”

  “Why was she so set on it?”

  “Oh, because—” Nish wrinkled her brow. “Because she was jealous of wee Geordie. It made her angry that Papa loved him so. Those things she said about us were true about her.”

  “Parthie said once to me that Papa was wee Geordie’s father,” observed Tot, carefully raking up the fire with a stick. “Do you think that was true?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Papa didn’t like Annie. I heard him say once that she was sonsy, but pig-headed obstinate.”

  “Umm. Parthie believed what she said. I think.”

  “Parthie likes to believe bad things about people.”

  As the flame swept up, and the little horse’s head began to blacken and char, both children bowed deeply, murmuring together,

  “Oh, Mithras, as we offer you this sacrifice, take into your kind keeping our young brother Geordie and Annie his mother. Watch over their steps in the underworld, lead them to your bright courts. With kind regards from Nish and Tot. Amen.”

  Meg and Isa had retreated to Isa’s bedchamber, where Meg was anointing her locks with the band
oline mixed up for her sister by Alvey and the cook.

  “You are a simpleton not to use this preparation more; it makes one’s hair feel so thick and luxurious.”

  “Oh,” said Isa impatiently, “I hate to feel my hair all clogged with some artificial paste. And to what end? Who will look at it twice?”

  “Major Fenway! He is rather puny and ill-looking, I grant you, but a sensible, gentlemanlike man, far superior to those Forsters and Musgraves and Fenwicks. I daresay he would talk to you for hours on end about books and landscapes. And it seemed to me that you were not uninterested in him.” Meg gave her sister a shrewd look.

  Isa slowly reddened.

  “I wish you would not talk so, Meg. It is vulgar. And—and not to the purpose. You know my views about men and matrimony. I shall not change them.”

  “Up to now, I grant, you have had no occasion to. But, in the next few months I assure you, you will encounter a vast deal of new persons—new experiences—it is absurd to make up your mind so adamantly before you have seen anything outside Birkland.—Oh well, if you don’t want it, I shall finish up the bandoline.—To think that this day week we shall be in Brighthelmstone—”

  “Listen, Meg. Never mind Brighthelmstone for the moment. What are we to do about James and Alvey?”

  “About James and Alvey?” Meg’s tone was inattentive; peering into Isa’s small mirror she was twisting her dark hair into ringlets.

  “Whether to tell him about the deception? He is our brother, after all; should we not let him into the secret?”

  “Why?” replied Meg carelessly. “He tells us little, if anything at all, about his affairs.”

  “Well, but suppose—suppose anything were to befall us while we were away—our ship founder, for instance—or there might be a carriage accident—”

  “Goose! Why should such things occur? And even if they did, even if we were both dispatched into the next world—Louisa is still in this one, to cry rope on Alvey if she chooses to. But for my part, Alvey is very welcome to remain here until she is as old as Grandmamma. I see no need to tell James.”

  “Oh, well—if that is how you feel—” Isa’s expression lightened. “Poor James; it was not that I wished to burden him with the information. He has enough troubles—with the loss of his leg—and all the agitation about Annie’s baby—”

  “Annie’s baby, Annie’s baby,” said Meg irritably. “I wish our mother had never introduced that wretched girl into the house. Thank heaven by next week we need never hear her name again.”

  “I will tell Alvey then,” said Isa, “that we think it best James is not undeceived.”

  The complete party did not assemble together until the hour of dinner, by which time Sir Aydon had succeeded, to some degree, in regaining his composure. His wife bore her usual aspect, stern, vague, and distraite. As the gong sounded, Meg, Isa, and Alvey all came down the stairs together, with Parthie trailing behind. James and his friend, with Sir Aydon, were in the hall with John Chibburn, who had ridden over for dinner.

  “James, have you made your friend Major Fenway known to the girls?” demanded his father, who liked things done in proper form.

  “Yes, sir; that is, I introduced him to Meg and Isa—”

  “And I introduced myself, in the most forward manner, to Miss Louisa Winship,” said Major Fenway, with a little formal bow, as the girls reached the bottom step.

  “How d’ye do, Louisa? I fancy it must be some five years at least since we last met,” James remarked coolly, making no attempt to salute Alvey. And she replied, as coolly, “Oh yes, James, at least that. I declare, we meet quite as strangers.”

  Isa gave Alvey a puzzled, anxious glance, and then tucked her arm through that of her brother, saying with warmth, “Well, I trust that you will not continue as strangers. Do take me in, James dear. Your friend the Major will look after Emmy, as we have taken to calling Louisa.”

  At the table, Alvey was placed almost opposite James, and was often able to study him unobserved, for he kept his eyes down and sat, sometimes for several minutes together, heedless of what was going on about him, silently plaiting and replaiting his napkin. Poor boy, thought Alvey, her heart wrung with pity. What a homecoming for him. And now for three days he must pretend high spirits, act as a good son and brother, do the civil to the neighbours, and say all the proper things at Meg’s wedding.

  There was something about his looks that she found deeply touching and full of forlorn appeal. Like Parthie, he was fair, but his hair was much thicker and brighter than Parthie’s. He had a narrow gentle face, though his mouth and chin bore promise of firmness, even obstinacy. Just now his dark grey eyes were filled with so much suffering that Alvey could hardly bear their expression, but they were large, beautiful, and well set. I wonder if Sir Aydon could have looked like that when he was James’s age, mused Alvey, glancing towards the head of the table. Perhaps; it is possible; the bone structure is the same, but James certainly has more intelligence than his father; and he looks as if he possesses imagination as well. Which I am very sure Sir Aydon does not.

  “What are you thinking of, Miss Louisa?” inquired her neighbour, and she replied absently, “I was thinking that James looks as if he suffered from imagination.”

  “You are right; he suffers from it severely. But what a singular remark for a sister to make!” remarked the Major. Alvey blushed.

  “Oh, well, you must remember we saw very little of one another when we were younger. Our—our natures did not accord. So—as James said—we are virtual strangers to one another. Poor James: he does not look at all well.”

  “Nor is he. He has borne his sufferings gallantly, but a long period of peace and care in this pleasant house is what he needs to put him back on his feet.—Oh, perdition take it! How one’s tongue does continually trip one up! Forgive me, Miss Louisa. James himself would laugh at such a blunder, fortunately. But it is no laughing matter.”

  “No, I can see that,” replied Alvey, frowning. “And I am afraid that the situation in this house is no laughing matter; I very much doubt if a prolonged sojourn here will be so beneficial to James as you hope—”

  “Indeed?” The Major’s pale brows flew up; he gave Alvey a very penetrating look and said, “I assume that present circumstances prevent your enlarging on this topic, but, perhaps, on a future, more private occasion—”

  “Oh—well—as to that—” Alvey, disconcerted, hardly knew how to respond. Was this man proposing to make her his confidant in regard to James’s problems?

  However at this moment old Mrs Winship broke in, questioning the young men about their military campaigns, and about the city of Brussels, which she had visited on her wedding journey. “And Paris too; but that was forty years ago, when the king and queen were on the throne—before all these shocking upheavals. And is the man Buonaparte safely stowed away now, pray? Well I recall the alarm—twelve years ago it must be now—when it was rumoured he had landed on the Scottish coast, and they lit the beacon on the castle in Chillingham Park.”

  “Yes, he is safely stowed away, ma’am, and all of us military men are at a stay, wondering how we shall fare for promotion now that our superior officers are in no danger of being carried off in battle.”

  “Yes, that is so; the peace comes as no boon to serving officers,” agreed Sir Aydon heavily, relieved to find a topic into which he could enter. “Who wants to kick his heels in barracks? That is no life for a soldier.”

  James opened his mouth to contribute some remark, then hastily closed it again.

  “So how do you intend to tie up your loose ends, Major Fenway?” inquired the old lady.

  “Why, ma’am, my regiment—an infantry one—is soon to be ordered abroad, to assist in the pacification of central India. But before I embark, I wish to enlarge my knowledge of medicine and surgery. While at Cambridge I interested myself to quite a degree in medical studies, and the
lore that I acquired then, scanty though it was in all conscience, stood me in good stead during the recent campaigns—”

  “Stood me in good stead,” interpolated James. “Without Guy’s expert care I should have died—”

  “Then Major Fenway is doubly welcome to this house,” said Sir Aydon. But he spoke in a flat, puzzled tone. Medical studies? he seemed to be asking himself. What kind of an occupation is that for a gentleman? What kind of a man is that?

  “You are an anomaly, Major Fenway,” remarked old Mrs Winship. “A soldier and a medical man. With one hand you take away life, with the other you restore it.”

  “Ma’am, I have observed so much needless suffering on the battlefield; men dying from loss of blood whose lives could have been saved; wounds turning putrid when a few elementary precautions might have enabled them to heal cleanly—But I fear I distress the young ladies.”

  “Indeed you do, Major!” cried Meg with pretty vehemence. “Keep those topics until after we have left you to your wine, if you please! And in the meantime, tell us about the balls in Brussels, and about the Duke of Wellington—is he as abrupt and strange in his manner as they say?”

  Politely, the Major changed the subject, and talked instead of balls and diversions. Alvey was rather sorry; she would have been interested to hear more of his plans, and where he intended to continue his medical studies; but she had noticed that James—who came to the meal looking fatigued, ate next to nothing, and contributed hardly more to the conversation—had turned deathly white during his friend’s mention of the battlefield; indeed James looked so extremely ill that she wondered his family did not notice his state; and for his sake she felt it was fortunate the topic had been abandoned.

  Shortly after, Lady Winship rose, nodded with vague authority to her daughters and mother-in-law, and trailed away, like a ship governed by an uncertain wind, towards the drawing-room. Old Mrs Winship limped briskly after her, and the girls followed.

  What can have taken place during that long, evidently painful scene in the library? Alvey wondered, settling herself in a corner and picking up a volume about the rivers of England to which she paid no heed. Clearly, nothing to anybody’s satisfaction.