Quincunx

  At last Miss Lydia spoke, panting slightly but with admirable dignity: “This is a very unceremonious introduction, Mr Vamplew. I think you should have waited for my permission before you entered. I was hardly even aware that you were in Town.”

  He now withdrew his gaze from me and directed it towards her: “I beg your pardon for surprising you, Miss Mompesson. Mr Tom has returned because of the illness of his father.”

  “Oh well, no matter,” she stammered. “We were just getting this boy to move the table so that we could play a hand of whist.”

  Mr Vamplew smiled slyly: “It was because I was so preoccupied with the gravity of my news that I entered so abruptly. The tidings have clearly not yet been brought to you.” He paused as if calculating his effect: “I regret to inform you that Sir Perceval was gathered to his ancestors about an hour ago.”

  Henrietta gripped her great-aunt’s arm and, involuntarily, looked at me.

  Mr Vamplew followed her gaze with interest.

  “This is grave news indeed,” Miss Lydia said and I saw her patting Henrietta’s arm reassuringly. “I had feared this event.”

  “He was carried away by an apoplexy,” Mr Vamplew added.

  As if suddenly remembering my presence Miss Lydia said distantly: “That is all, John. I mean to say, Dick. You may go now.”

  I bowed slightly and made to leave the room. Mr Vamplew stood aside for me, watching me closely as he did so.

  Just before I reached the door I heard Miss Lydia say: “I would have asked you, Mr Vamplew, to do me the honour of taking tea with me, but under these sad circumstances …”

  “Oh quite, Miss Mompesson,” Mr Vamplew said smoothly. “I perfectly understand and you are very kind to have thought of saying so.”

  By now I was out in the passage and could not resist glancing back. Mr Vamplew was closing Miss Lydia’s door behind him but he turned his head and stared directly at me. I should not have looked back, but probably the harm had already been done for it seemed to me to be almost certain that, his attention having been drawn by the sight of a hall-boy seated like a guest on the sopha, he had recognised me from the night of the burglary. As I descended the back-stairs I speculated, in an anguish of uncertainty, as to whether he had or not. I was almost certain that he had, and so, almost with a kind of impatience, I waited for the consequences. I expected him to alert Mr Thackaberry and for both of them to appear in the scullery, armed and accompanied by two or three of the footmen. Should I therefore flee from the house while I had the chance?

  It was, as it happened, the usual time to meet Joey so I went out into the dark mews-lane. As I waited, walking up and down to try to keep warm, I heard the sound of hammering from our house: the hatchments were being erected to mark Sir Perceval’s death.

  Dared I go back and risk arrest and trial? If I did not, then what had I to live for? At the end of half an hour, Joey had not come and now I had to make my choice. I decided to risk staying and returned to the house. As I resumed my duties in the hall and scullery, I found my fellow-servants excited and hushed by the news of the death of the master. They went about their work in a state of shock, preoccupied with the uncertainty about their future.

  However, as the minutes and then the hours passed and nothing happened to me, I began to wonder if I had been wrong and Mr Vamplew had not, after all, recognised me. And now I had time to think of the implications of Sir Perceval’s death. Above all, what would it mean for Henrietta? That she would be forced into this hideous marriage? And how would it affect my chance of getting the will? Indeed, how would it affect my position in the household? And would the will continue to lie in its hiding-place in the Great Parlour — assuming that it was indeed there? For the succession of David — Sir David as I supposed he must now be referred to — might well bring about so complete an upheaval in the domestic arrangements within the house as to throw all my plans into jeopardy. It became clear to me, therefore, that if I were going to do it, I should undertake my assault on the hiding-place as soon as possible. Yet I still had no idea of how to defeat the lock on the chimney-piece which had baffled Mr Digweed and myself on our earlier attempt. And, of course, I had to think first about Henrietta’s opposition to the undertaking.

  The evening unfolded as usual: the watchman arrived for his chat with Mr Thackaberry — which lasted longer than usual as if the open-handedness of the family had to be upheld on such an occasion with particular scrupulousness — and the ritual of locking-up began.

  As I accompanied the little party around the house, still half-expecting to be denounced at any moment, it occurred to me that Mr Vamplew might be delaying his exposure of me for some reason connected with the confusion now reigning in the mansion. Although it seemed so important to me, in the midst of these great events it might have struck him as of little significance. Yet I still felt that this explanation did not fit with the peculiarly piercing gaze that he had directed towards me.

  I learned something of interest, however, for just as we were about to ascend the stairs after securing the street-door, someone hammered at it. Grumbling, Jakeman took the bunch of keys from Mr Thackaberry, went back to the door and inserted one of them in the lock. There was a pause, then he bellowed instructions through the door, and after a few moments it was opened and Sir (formerly Mr) David staggered in cursing him volubly. (He had obviously been marking the death of his father.) So it was a double-lock and could only be opened if the corresponding key was used on both the inner and the outer wards! That meant that even if I could obtain the keys, I could still not get out of the street-door.

  That night when I went to my shake-down in the servants’-hall I found it so cold that I ventured into the scullery (for Jakeman had already taken up residence in the kitchen) and sat before the dying fire. As I stared at the flames that flickered languidly around the smouldering coals, I found myself seeing pictures just as I used to when I was a child in Melthorpe. Henrietta’s disapproving face came to me and I thought of her hostility towards my intention to regain the will. Had she no sense of Justice? Miss Lydia had, and had striven nobly in pursuit of it when she had tried to return the will to my grandfather. Was she right, however, to defend Mr Fortisquince from my suspicions? Or had it indeed been he who betrayed my grandfather over the will? Perhaps even murdered him? Presumably Miss Lydia defended him because she believed that Peter Clothier was the murderer, and yet I was determined not to believe this if I could help it. Probably, however, I would never establish the truth of what had happened on the night of my grandfather’s death.

  What a dilemma Henrietta had placed me in! The only way I could rescue her was at the cost of earning her contempt. How dared she accuse me of being motivated by nothing more than revenge! And imply that I coveted the estate! It was not vengeance I sought but Justice, and since that entailed the completion of a pattern in such a way that everyone got what they deserved, then if that meant that some suffered so that others could benefit, this was an incidental effect.

  As for coveting the estate, why, I had never thought of anything but the weighty responsibilities that the ownership of such a vast property would impose upon me — and the opportunities to do good. I remembered what Sukey and Mr Advowson had told me about the management — the mismanagement — of the Hougham demesne and the injustices and wastefulness that it involved: the demolitions and evictions, the murderous spring-guns in the preserves, the crumbling walls, and the flooded, ill-drained meadows. And yet it could all be so different: I thought of the charming park with its huge house, the villages of Hougham, Mompesson St. Lucy, Stoke Mompesson and much of Melthorpe, the thousands of acres of rich farm-land, and all the woodlands and streams and commons that encompassed the estate. The Mompessons cared nothing for the land or the people beyond what they could extort from them in the short term. How differently I would manage it! I would dismiss Assinder, the rapacious steward, along with the brutal gamekeepers, and take the management of the estate into my own hands.

  As I
sat in the cold and darkness in the bowels of the house with the beetles rustling on the floor and the drunken snores of the watchman audible from the kitchen, I drew up schemes for the rebuilding of the cottages, the draining of land, the construction of walls, the fairer management of tenancies, the foundation of schools for the education of the poor, the relief of the aged, and so on. Then the fire finally died and I returned to my hard form in the servants’-hall.

  Before I fell asleep I reflected that it was not solely my right to decide what to do. If Henrietta chose to take the risk of being forced into a travesty of a marriage rather than seize the chance to be free to marry whom she chose, then I had to give some weight to that.

  CHAPTER 99

  All that week the house was in an uproar and it was like a continuous Sunday. The servants were drunk most of the time as if, fearing dismissal, they wanted to enjoy what they could while it lasted. Yet since the mansion was under siege from tradesmen with unpaid bills, only meagre provisions were coming in and the larders and cellar were being emptied. Sir Perceval’s funeral took place that Thursday — though of course I saw nothing of it — and this was another occasion for a Bacchanalia.

  I longed for the chance to win over Henrietta to my view for I wondered — as I carried coals, brushed boots in that dark and airless hole, and scoured pots in the scullery — what I was doing these things for if not to oust the Mompessons and, as far as was possible, redeem the sacrifice of my grandfather’s, my mother’s, and Peter Clothier’s lives. Because of the changes in the household’s routine, however, I found it impossible to meet Henrietta and Miss Lydia the following Sunday. I had another disappointment that evening for though I waited in the mews for Joey for two hours, he once again failed to appear. This meant I had not seen him for several weeks and I was somewhat indignant at his remissness now. Or had he even abandoned me?

  It was not until the third week after the occasion last described — the first Sunday in February — that I managed to come to Miss Lydia’s room again. (Joey had not come on either of the intervening Sundays.) I found the old lady alone and she explained that Henrietta had been summoned to an interview with her aunt earlier in the afternoon and would come to us afterwards.

  “But I am glad that we have this opportunity to talk by ourselves,” she said. “Tell me, what have you decided about the will?”

  “I want to go ahead, but I don’t believe I can in the teeth of Henrietta’s opposition.”

  “You must!” she exclaimed with so much force that I was quite disconcerted. “I know what they will do to her! She is not strong enough to resist.”

  I studied her face and believed I understood her meaning: “Very well,” I said. “As long as she does not positively forbid me.”

  I could see that the old lady was disappointed by this condition.

  “But you don’t know her!” she cried. “She will forbid you. There is something in her that almost craves to be hurt. Remember what I told you of how she used to wound herself. You must go ahead whatever she says and whatever she makes you promise.”

  I nodded and was about to speak but at that moment the door opened and Henrietta entered. Miss Lydia and I started guiltily.

  “I will secure the lock,” said the old lady, “so that none of the servants — nor that odious tutor — can interrupt us.”

  “You were right, Great-aunt,” Henrietta began as she sat down. “Aunt Isabella and David wanted to see me in order to tell me they desire that I should marry Tom.”

  “And poor Perceval is hardly cold in his grave!” his aunt cried.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “What do you imagine?” she replied. “They told me that it would not be a real marriage, but I still refused to consider it.”

  “Then,” I asked, “do you withdraw your objection to my taking back the will?”

  “Certainly not,” she replied. “I can resist anything they can do to me.”

  I looked at Miss Lydia and said: “Then I cannot go ahead.”

  The old lady cried in anguish: “Oh but you must. All this is my fault. I have not told you enough, Henrietta. I have been selfish. And so you don’t understand what will happen. What has happened in the past.”

  Henrietta and I looked at her in surprise.

  She went on: “I told you that my grandfather, Jeoffrey Huffam, quarrelled with most of his family, but I did not tell you why.” She paused and seemed to be collecting her strength: “It goes back to the time when my father asked Jeoffrey Huffam for the hand of his elder daughter, Alice, and he refused on the grounds that she was too young. This was many, many years ago. Almost a century. My father believed that he was being repulsed because he was not well-born enough, just as his father had been rejected when he had offered for the hand of Jeoffrey’s sister. And he deeply resented this second rebuff to his family who now had wealth and a title and were, he believed, at least the equals of the Huffams who, for all their ancientness and the extent of their lands, had no title and were deeply in debt.”

  “I know this story,” I said. “Mr Escreet told it to me. And I wondered then why Jeoffrey Huffam suddenly changed his mind. It seemed quite out of character that immediately after opposing it he should give his blessing to the match and promise to make the child of the marriage his heir.”

  “You’re right!” Miss Lydia cried. “There was a reason for it, though I fear the story reflects deep shame on some of my nearest relatives. Mr Escreet could not have told you the full story for he could not know it. Well, my father had a younger sister, Anna, a beautiful young woman, but wild and wayward. He knew of Jeoffrey Huffam’s reputation for gallantry, even though he was now a reformed man after the excesses of his youth. Your grandfather was now a little past forty and it was widely known that there was scant affection between himself and his wife, for it was a marriage of convenience. So my father threw Anna in his way. Well, I need not dwell upon it. Poor Aunt Anna often told me that she had had no idea of her brother’s designs. At first she hated Jeoffrey but he had considerable charm and I fear that it was not long before she became his mistress. This was precisely what my father had hoped, and he now took advantage of his knowledge.”

  “You mean, he blackmailed him?” I asked, glancing at Henrietta who, in obvious embarrassment, averted her gaze.

  The old lady cast her eyes down for a moment and then looked directly at me and said: “I fear so. That is why Jeoffrey consented to the match and agreed to a treaty of marriage upon such generous terms. But it wasn’t long until Jeoffrey tired of Anna and cast her off. She became quite wild with grief and despair, it seems, especially when the threat of exposure and ruin loomed.” She looked at Henrietta who blushed and glanced down. “For the following year,” she went on, “she secretly bore a child. My father and Jeoffrey Huffam took the baby from her against her wishes. Imagine her anguish. Her pain and grief. And then later … later, they told her it had died.”

  The old lady broke off and it was some moments before she could continue. As I watched her I reflected that this had happened before even she was born. The grief that was nearly a century old was living again in her and through her in Henrietta and myself.

  At last she was able to go on: “Then my father tried to force her into marrying a rich acquaintance of his, but she held out against this. Oh, Henrietta, they did such terrible things to her! At last she was brought to a state of complete mental alienation. All of this had profound consequences. For one thing, this is why my father was on such bad terms with my grandfather. And that is why he used the excuse of my not being a boy to avoid making me his heir. But there were other consequences that affected events many years later when Jeoffrey Huffam opposed the marriage of his son, James, to Eliza Umphraville. I did not tell you the whole truth about that, either.”

  She turned to me.

  “I am afraid, John, that your great-grandfather, James, was a drunken and dissolute spendthrift, although he had great charm. The real reason for my grandfather’s oppos
ition to his marriage to Eliza Umphraville was that she had been openly kept by him for some years. He had seduced her when she was hardly more than a child, but she was a very fast young woman who had little regard for modesty. Later on, the fact that she had been his acknowledged concubine was exploited as proof against their ever having married.”

  “Mr Escreet explained none of this,” I said. “But considering that he believed he was addressing the son of James and Eliza, that is hardly to be wondered at.”

  “Of course. Anyhow, John Umphraville quarrelled with James about his treatment of Eliza and forced him to marry her. Meanwhile Jeoffrey was trying to prevent the alliance, and this is why Jeoffrey hated John: he blamed him for the match. And then something else happened and made Jeoffrey even angrier with him: John and I met at about this time because of this business between James and his sister, and we fell in love. It was because of his sister’s disgrace — and also his poverty — that John Umphraville was so unacceptable to my family as a suitor for my hand.” She paused for a moment and then went on: “John and I decided to elope and marry. And since John had forced James to agree to marry Eliza, we were to have a double elopement and wedding. John arranged for a clergyman who was a friend of his to come with us and perform the ceremonies.”

  She stopped and seeing that she was in distress, Henrietta said: “Dear Great-aunt, pray do not continue if it gives you pain.”

  The old lady smiled and squeezed her hand: “No, my dear. I must tell my story or I will take it with me to the grave.”

  “And are you sure that they were married?” I asked.

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then where did it take place? No record has ever been found.”

  “Where should we flee to but Hougham?”

  “But there is no church there,” I objected. “The church at Melthorpe serves the whole parish which includes Hougham.”

  Miss Lydia smiled: “That is only partly true. I assure you that James and Eliza indeed married. Let me tell you the story. We obtained two special licences and set off. We guessed that we were being pursued for we knew before we left Town that Jeoffrey had found out our plans and we feared that he had sent some agent of his to prevent both marriages. However, we reached the chapel safely late at night. We entered it very quietly in order not to disturb the Fortisquinces, for they were living at this date in another wing of the Old Hall. James suggested that the two young gentlemen should spin a coin to see which ceremony should be performed first. John protested at this levity but he agreed to do it. He and I were unlucky. My life was determined by the spinning of that coin.” She stopped for a moment and then smiled at me: “So you see, I know for certain that James succeeded in marrying Eliza. I was present throughout the ceremony. Indeed, I was a witness.”