At that moment the vicar caught Grockleton’s eye. A sign and a brisk nod from Gilpin were enough, and with good grace the Customs officer stepped forward, clapped his hands, raised one of those claw-like appendages and announced: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the evening is growing late, I know, for some. So Mr Gilpin has kindly consented to give us a final – no, you are very generous, Sir – two final minuets.’
The first started off well enough. Fanny partnered one of the French officers. Louisa again danced with Mr Martell, but she tried not to look at them. Mr Gilpin on the piano acquitted himself admirably. Only towards the end did trouble break out.
The two violinists decided they had not done. They were both of them now at that stage of drunkenness where they believed they were enjoying themselves and took quite unkindly to any interference. They felt sure that Mr Gilpin needed accompaniment. Suddenly, therefore, the dancers became aware of the sound of strings. Even this might have passed, since Mr Gilpin was holding his own with firmness, had the other two not come to the conclusion that accompaniment was not enough. The vicar needed leading. And so it was that now the dancers became aware of a more strident sound from the strings, one of greater and greater urgency, but which, most unfortunately, was not the same tune that the vicar of Boldre was playing. In fact, it seemed to be a country dance. The dancers came to a halt. Mr Gilpin stopped and looked furious.
Mr Grockleton stepped forward, tried to speak to the fiddlers, who were still playing, put out his arm to restrain one of them and was promptly tapped on the head with a fiddle. Pale with annoyance, now, he grasped one of the fiddlers and began to drag him away, whereupon the other, who still had his tankard with him, emptied its contents over the Customs officer and started to belabour him with his bow. He might even have hurt him had he not suddenly, with a yelp, felt the finger and thumbnails of Mrs Grockleton close like piercing pincers upon his ear as that lady marched him away, past a grinning Isaac Seagull, past the plants and straight out into the night air.
The good people of Lymington laughed and applauded, and laughed again until they almost cried which, all semblance of dignity having been lost anyway, was probably the sensible thing to do. Mr Gilpin, considerably irritated now, but unwilling to see the evening end in shambles, waited patiently for a moment or two by the piano, then bravely continued the minuet, which the dancers very loyally took up again and brought to a conclusion. But as the Grockletons had now returned and the room was still awash with ripples of laughter, the good vicar had in common charity to do his best to save the day.
He rose to the occasion admirably. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He advanced to the centre of the room. ‘In the days of ancient Rome it was the custom to grant victorious generals a triumph upon their return. Such a triumph, I think you will agree, has been earned by our kind host and hostess. For they have expelled the barbarians from our gates.’
There was stamping, ‘hear hears!’ and a round of applause. Fanny, standing to one side, heard a voice she knew to be Martell’s quietly murmur: ‘Well played, Sir.’
‘And now, for a final dance, I am at your service. Mrs Grockleton, what shall it be?’
It would not be true to say that the room fell silent. All around, murmurs arose from behind hands, or other people’s backs, or into handkerchiefs and fans. And Mrs Grockleton heard them. She smiled as gamely as she could. ‘Let it be a country dance,’ she said.
It really seemed they all would dance: the French aristocrats, the local coal merchants, the doctor, the lawyers. Fanny was not at all sure that Mr Isaac Seagull was not dancing as well. Mr Gilpin struck up, with the obvious intention of giving them a good five minutes’ worth.
But Fanny did not dance. She stood at the side, content to watch, unnoticed. She looked for Martell but did not see him. Louisa was dancing with a young Frenchman. Fanny frowned. And then she slowly realized. She had heard his voice just behind her before the dance began. He must, therefore, be standing there now. She dared not look round in case he should ask her to dance. For she had no wish to do so. She was sure she hadn’t. But if he was behind her, what was he doing? Did he mean to speak? How could she speak and what was the point, when he cared so little for her and when, besides, he was a Penruddock? She wished, if he was there, that he would disappear.
Something was happening on the dance floor now. A little gaggle of young ladies had gathered, like an eddy, about Louisa. She was saying something to her partner, who shrugged amiably and smiled. The eddy was moving out towards the edge in the direction of her father. Louisa had detached herself. She was going up to the old man, saying something to him. Mr Albion was looking rather flushed; Aunt Adelaide, awake now, was also speaking but he was evidently ignoring it. Her father was getting up, a girl on each side of him; the others were squealing and starting to applaud. Dear heaven, Louisa Totton was leading the old man out to dance!
And he was dancing: stiffly, of course, with Louisa effectively holding him up. But Francis Albion was dancing a country dance. The other dancers were parting, they were forming a ring, everyone was applauding as a very old man who hadn’t been out in years came dancing through their midst with a pretty young girl and, if she was holding him up, why then so much the more gallant they both appeared. Fanny rose on her toes to see, her heart beating half in fear and half delight. Her father, of almost ninety, was dancing before all the world. Louisa was laughing with pleasure and real admiration. With a gesture that said ‘I’ll show you a thing or two now’ old Francis stepped free, treated them all to a little jig by himself and, as the room erupted into applause, turned back to Louisa, suddenly went deathly pale, choked, felt wildly for his collar and crashed face downwards on the boards, while Mr Gilpin, unaware of what was passing, continued to play for several more bars until the awful silence alerted him to stop.
‘Oh, my dear Miss Albion.’ She heard Martell’s voice behind her, but did not look back as she rushed forward through the dancers to the place where, miraculously, Mrs Pride’s strong arms were already raising the little old gentleman up. Without a word she carried him towards the entrance and the fresh air, where she was quickly joined by Mr Gilpin and the Lymington doctor.
Minutes later, still uncertain of the outcome of this scene, the guests were collecting their cloaks and coats to leave.
And poor Mrs Grockleton, having been through so much that night, could only turn helplessly to her husband and wail: ‘Alack-a-day.’
They had the pig ready and the moon was high as along the track on the gorse-strewn bareness of Wilverley Plain the cart containing Caleb Furzey trundled towards them.
The sky was clear and clustered with stars; the moon shone down with that intimate, frightening urgency it often has when it is full.
The six boys waited by the tree called the Naked Man. The pig was surprisingly quiet, probably because it had been well fed. It grunted a bit, that was all.
The cart was drawing closer. The horse was going at a slow walk. Caleb Furzey’s feet could just be seen resting on the side. From within the empty box of the cart his snores were magnified, as if by some magic of the moon.
Nathaniel and Andrew Pride moved out first. The old horse recognized them, and when Nathaniel took his head, he stopped quite willingly.
Taking him out of the harness was not too difficult. Andrew’s task was to lead him away across the plain and tether him to a stunted tree trunk behind a large gorse brake a few hundred yards off. The next step was to put the pig in the horse’s place.
The makeshift harness they had made worked well enough, but the shafts of the cart were far too high. Two of the boys now tried to pull them down, but couldn’t.
Two more boys added their weight to the shafts. The shafts came down, but not far enough. The pig didn’t like the look of it. Nathaniel was holding firm but the pig was large; if he made a run for it, there would be no stopping him. But now, as he clung on to the pig’s harness, he heard a sound from the cart. Caleb’s feet were moving; the snoring was interrupted.
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Suddenly the cart tipped forward. They heard a bump. Caleb had rolled to the front.
‘Quick.’
It was the work of a moment to attach the traces to the harness. Nathaniel was still holding the pig, soothing him as the others stepped back. They all looked apprehensively towards the cart but, miraculously, Furzey was still asleep.
‘Now.’
They fled, but not far. A hundred yards away, behind a gorse brake, Andrew was already waiting.
‘You know what to do,’ said Nathaniel, as he started undressing. So they did as he had told them and went to their stations. It was time for the fun to begin.
The pig, surprisingly, did not react for more than a minute. Then it decided to move.
The pig was much smaller than the horse, but it was heavy and very strong. The cart inched forward, but the sensation of something not only holding but following it was displeasing to the pig. It grunted loudly and tried to make a run. Again, the cart seemed to be holding on, as though it were determined not to let the pig escape its clutches. The pig didn’t like this a bit. It let out a bellow of rage, bumped the shafts from side to side and squealed loudly again.
Behind, Caleb Furzey frowned in his sleep. He opened his eyes, blinked, and awoke.
The full moon was high over Wilverley Plain. All around him, a magical silver light gleamed eerily; close by, the Naked Man stood with its bare arms raised as if it meant to reach down and strike him. He blinked again. What was that strange sound that had awoken him? He got up and started forward. His horse had disappeared. Something else was in the traces. That something made a strange sound which so startled him that he stepped back. The cart tilted.
The pig was lifted off the ground. It squealed, screamed, paddled furiously with its legs. And Caleb Furzey let out a howl of fear.
His horse gone at full moon, a pig in its place. Every rustic knew who did such things – the witches and the fairies. He’d been bewitched! And he was about to clamber out of the cart when he saw another even more terrifying sight. From gorse bush to gorse bush, small, naked figures were flitting, emitting cries. They were all around. They had to be fairies. He must have been mad to come out, past Burley of all places, on the night of a full moon. As the figures flitted about, the squeals of the pig rose to a terrifying pitch. The cart tilted back wildly. For a terrible, mad moment Caleb saw the pig, outlined against the moon. He yelled again with fright, covered his face and threw himself down into the cart, which tilted forward once more.
And there poor Caleb Furzey lay, curled up in a ball, cowering with terror, for upwards of half an hour, until, after there had been silence for some time, he finally peeped out.
The moon was high. The Naked Man was still standing in its threatening attitude; but the pig was gone and the fairies, it seemed, had disappeared into the ground. Out in the silver light of Wilverley Plain, about two hundred yards off, his horse was peaceably grazing.
A mile away, Nathaniel was giving his final instructions. ‘Not a word – not even to your brothers and sisters. Remember, if anybody tells, then we’re all dead.’ He looked at them solemnly. ‘Swear.’ They swore. ‘All right, then,’ he said.
Wyndham Martell couldn’t sleep. The Burrards’ big house was quiet; everyone else had long gone to bed, but he still sat in his room, wide awake.
The moonlight flooded in through the window. He told himself it was the full moon that was keeping him from sleeping. Perhaps. But it was also the girl.
Old Francis Albion had been taken home. At first the doctor had thought he had suffered an apoplexy, but then concluded he hadn’t. They had waited an hour, given him a little brandy to revive him and packed him off home, with the good Mr Gilpin accompanying him.
Although his presence was clearly not desired, Martell had waited about all the same, requesting the landlord of the Angel to give him news, before returning himself. He had caught sight of Fanny as she left, but she had not seen him. She had looked composed, but very pale. He had no doubt she must feel embarrassed by the whole business even though, in his opinion, she had no need.
But that brought him to the other question. Why had Fanny changed so abruptly towards him? Of course, it might be that he had been mistaken all along and that she had never been interested in him in the first place. Perhaps he was guilty of mere vanity in supposing otherwise. But a man has to trust his instincts, and he believed she had liked him. Why the sudden coldness? Had he neglected her? In her eyes, yes. And, he had better confess it, she was right. But he felt there was more. Mrs Grockleton’s word in such matters was probably unreliable, but Mr Arthur West undoubtedly existed, might be considered eligible and was therefore a factor. I should have returned sooner, he thought. I shouldn’t have tarried. But was that enough to explain her coldness? And what should he do?
What, come to that, did he want to do?
It was no good. The moon was making sleep impossible. He seized a pair of boots, went softly down the stairs and outside. The night was really very fine. The stars over the Forest were sharp as crystal. He started to make for Beaulieu Heath, by the moon’s light.
The September night was not cold. He walked very comfortably along the edge of the heath, past Oakley, with the woods on his left. He was not going anywhere in particular. He had continued like this for about a mile when he realized that Boldre church must be not far off and, sure enough, after following a track for a little time he came upon it, standing in a friendly way upon its knoll in the moonlight. He walked round it, then realized that he could not be far from Albion House. So he went down the lane into the valley and took the track that led northwards, under the trees, although it was rather dark, and just as he heard the river splashing over some stones he turned away into the still darker drive until, emerging into the clearing, he saw the ghostly old gables of the house, apparently wide awake in the harsh moonlight. He moved cautiously, now, keeping to the edge of the grounds, not wishing to wake any dogs or alert whatever guardian spirits might be up there, like sentinels upon their watchtowers, in the ancient timbers or the chimneys on the roof.
Which room was hers, he wondered, and where did old Francis Albion sleep? What history and what secrets was the old manor keeping? Could it be that Fanny’s rejection of him was caused by something more than mere indifference or the presence of another lover, some part of her soul, perhaps, secreted in this house?
He supposed he was being fanciful, yet he did not leave. Taking up a station where he had a good view of the most likely windows, he remained there, he really could not say why, for an hour or so.
And some time before dawn, when the moon was still casting long shadows on the bright lawn, he saw a pair of wooden shutters open and a window go up.
Fanny was in a white nightdress. She was staring out at the moonlit scene. Her hair fell loosely upon her shoulders and her face, so beautiful yet so tragic, seemed as pale, as unearthly, as any spirit. She did not see him. After a time, she closed the shutters again.
There was a cold snap in the October evening air as Puckle came to Beaulieu Rails; and out in the misty brown gloaming of the heath beyond, the ancient roar of a red stag announced that the rutting season had at last begun.
Puckle was tired. He had been working down at Buckler’s Hard all day. Then he had stopped briefly to see a friend at the farmhouse which had once been St Leonards Grange. Now, walking along the straggle of cottages by the heath’s edge as dusk was falling, he was ready to go to bed. He had just reached the door of his tiny cottage when a noise made him turn: the sound of a horse walking up the track towards him – a single horse and rider. As he swung round, instinct told him who it would be.
Even in that dim brown light there was no mistaking the chinless face and the faint, cynical smile of Isaac Seagull as he came towards him.
The lander did not speak until he was right beside him. ‘I’ll be needing you soon,’ he said quietly. Puckle took a deep breath.
It was time.
There had been no s
mall amusement in the village of Oakley when Caleb Furzey told them he’d been bewitched.
‘You was drunk at the time, remember,’ they jovially told him. ‘Have another drink,’ they’d cry, ‘and tell us how many fairies you see.’ Or, ‘Careful of that horse, mind. He might turn into a pig!’
But Furzey stuck doggedly to his story, and his description of the pig and the sprites up on Wilverley Plain was so vivid that there were some folk in Oakley who were almost ready to believe him. Only Pride gave young Nathaniel a slow and thoughtful look; but if he had his suspicions he evidently concluded that it was better to say nothing. So the days had passed and then the weeks. And aside from a few titters and jokes about the gullible cottager, nothing of any note occurred in the quiet New Forest hamlet on the edge of Beaulieu Heath.
It had not been long before Mr Arthur West had called at Albion House. He had turned up, driving himself in a smart chaise, explaining that he was staying a day or two with the Morants at Brockenhurst. He was dressed in a heavy coachman’s coat and hat, smiling very amiably at the joke, and looked every inch the brisk sporting gentleman that he was.
He was received with enthusiasm by Aunt Adelaide and, since he was the nephew of a friend, even old Francis felt obliged to be polite to him. To Fanny he was friendly, relaxed and cheerful. He did not make the mistake of issuing any invitation that might seem to remove her from her father’s company, but contented himself with remarking that he felt sure they would meet again at one of their neighbours’ soon and that he would greatly look forward to it.
All in all, Fanny thought to herself with a smile, he had played his hand very well. She realized that she was grateful, too. You knew where you were with Mr West. He was there; he was marriageable; he would make himself known to the young ladies of the county and if he received an indication that his attention might be welcome, he would advance, sensibly, one step at a time. They would meet at a dinner here, a dance there; and if something developed, well and good.