Now the sound of his horse’s hoofs could be heard outside the front door, and he departed without more ado. Fanny could feel only relief at his going, although these various admonitions and prohibitions had left her decidedly limp, low-spirited, and despondent; by contrast her life at home, free to walk in the fields or the village as she pleased, alone or with her sisters, appeared the height of liberty and independence; here, she was virtually a prisoner.
But perhaps he will change his views after a week or two, Fanny thought hopefully. For one thing, I cannot imagine that Bet and Martha will submit for long to being confined to the house and garden—remembering their conversation on the previous evening. She suspected that Thomas had little notion of his daughters’ real natures.
However, the two elder were now occupied, diligently and with due propriety, Martha stitching at a large canvas fire screen, while Bet practiced the pianoforte, so Fanny applied herself to the instruction of little Patty. This proved a decidedly unrewarding task; firstly, Patty was a dull and backward child, having poor natural abilities and a somewhat spiteful and disobliging nature; secondly, she seemed filled by a sullen resolve to learn as little as possible, countering any instruction Fanny gave her with an objection which varied only slightly in its form:
“Miss Fox never taught me so!” “Miss Fox never said that!” “That was not the way Miss Fox did it!”
By the end of the morning, out of all patience with the child, Fanny could not avoid wishing Miss Fox at the bottom of the sea. Wearied out, irked, and disheartened, with flushed cheeks and throbbing temples, she leaned against the windowsill and looked out at the autumnal tints of the trees, longing to walk in the garden, but, mindful of Thomas’s interdiction, not daring to do so unaccompanied. Talgarth was not to be seen; perhaps he was working in the kitchen garden. At least, Fanny thought with a small throb of satisfaction, the ash tree had been saved; from where she stood she could not see it, but the mere thought of its color and grace gave her pleasure.
“Try not to let your pencil squeak like that, Patty,” she said, sighing.
“I can’t stop it,” grumbled Patty, who was copying out scriptural texts with a scowl very reminiscent of her father. Deliberately, as it seemed, she made the pencil squeak even louder on her slate, and Fanny had to master a strong temptation to box her ears.
Kate, the cook-housekeeper, tapped at the door.
“If you please, ma’am, the master said I was to show you over the stores and books at noon, and, please, there’s a gypsy come selling lavender bags and clothes pegs, and would you be wishful to buy any?”
Fanny shook her head. Thomas had not yet given her any housekeeping money and, in any case, even if he had, she felt certain that he would never countenance such a frivolous purchase as lavender bags.
“You look fagged to death, ma’am,” said Kate, glancing from Fanny to the sulky child. “Should I be making you a cup of tea before you go over the stores? Or a nuncheon, you and the young ladies? It wouldn’t take but a few moments.”
Fanny was greatly tempted but—remembering the price of tea, over eleven shillings a pound—shook her head. “No, thank you, Kate; but I will take a glass of water.”
“You’re sure you wouldn’t touch a glass of my cowslip wine, ma’am? You look fair wore out, begging your pardon.”
Fanny shook her head again but was a little comforted at Kate’s unexpected friendliness. And presently, walking about the house, inspecting first the basement kitchen, then the storerooms, pantry, and servants’ attics, discussing the disposition of linens, furniture, and food stores, Fanny, to her own surprise, felt a certain uplifting of the spirits. Despite her several grounds for unhappiness—homesickness, the thought of Barnaby far away and forgetting her, sorrow and foreboding for her father, the hateful recollection of last night, and the expectation of tonight and all the nights to come, the repulsive looks of her stepdaughters when she met them about the house, and the recollection of Thomas’s evident distrust and censure—despite all these things, when she glanced, from one window or another, at the sunny valley or the golden ash tree, which seemed to stand preening its pale plumage in the fine autumn weather, she could not deny to herself that some influence all around seemed encouraging her to take heart.
It is as if the place were speaking to me, Fanny thought illogically; as if the house or garden liked me and wanted to make me welcome.
“Is this house haunted, do you know, Kate?” she asked suddenly.
Kate gasped and let slip a bundle of bed linen she was holding.
“Haunted, ma’am? Dear, what a shock you gave me! I should hope not, indeed! They say the house has only been built eighteen year or so—quite modern, it is, not the place for spooks or specters! Though I believe there was an old ancient monastery builded here, hundreds of years ago; but there’s no ghosts, ma’am, don’t you go filling your head with such notions, or you’ll frighten yourself to death!”
Fanny did not try to explain that she rather enjoyed the notion of a friendly spirit, the guardian of the place, keeping watch on behalf of its absent mistress. Perhaps, she thought fancifully, perhaps the house spirit dwells in the ash tree; how lucky it is that Thomas was prevented from cutting the tree down, or some terrible punishment might have been visited on his head…
She smiled and said, “No, I am not in the least frightened, Kate, thank you, only a little tired with being indoors all morning. I think I will find Miss Bet or Miss Martha and see if they would like to take a stroll in the garden.”
“Yes, you do that, ma’am. Only wrap up warm, for you look particular pale, all of a sudden.”
Martha, now heartily bored by indoor occupations, was pleased enough to leave them and explore the garden with her young stepmother, and little Patty was likewise encouraged to put on a pelisse and come out to bowl her hoop. However she rapidly tired of the hoop and demanded of Jem the bootboy where he had put her kite—she must have her kite! At last, after much search, the kite was forthcoming, it having been accidentally deposited in the barn, which was large enough to serve as both stable and garden shed.
Patty’s stepmother and sister soon had cause to wish that the kite never had been found, for its owner was far from expert in the handling of it, and it frequently became entangled in the boughs of various fruit trees; Jem had to be summoned each time to release it. Finally, after much tugging and ill-use, the string broke, and the truant kite soared away up the lane leading to the town.
“Oh, quick, quick! Let us go after it!” cried Patty, tugging at her sister’s hand. Martha was willing enough to go, but Fanny had scruples.
“Your papa does not wish us to go into the town, Patty. We had better not go up the lane, or he will be displeased.”
“But the kite will be lost! Some other child will find it!” whined Patty. “It is not far—I believe I saw it come down just around the bend in the lane.”
“We had best send Jem to look for it.”
But Jem had gone off to buy saddle soap and boot blacking, and the other servants were all occupied on tasks too important to leave for this trifling quest.
“I will take Patty up the lane; there can be no harm in going just as far as the street, after all,” proposed Martha, regarding her stepmother with some scorn. “If you are so frightened of Papa’s displeasure, Fanny, you had best stay here.”
Stung by this taunt—although it was true, and she was frightened—Fanny at last said that if Martha and Patty went she had better accompany them; she had better not let them go unescorted; but in any event, none of them must proceed farther than the end of the lane.
As they walked past the gate leading into the walled kitchen garden Fanny glanced through, wondering if Talgarth was at work picking the apples; but he was not visible, either there or in a small glasshouse beside the barn.
“Oh, there is my kite!” Patty shouted joyfully, running up the rutted track
to where the kite could now be seen, perched in a holly bush.
Next moment she had slipped and fallen on the muddy, uneven ground and was letting out loud uncontrolled shrieks and wails.
“Oh, oh, oh, my knee, my knee!”
“Hush, Patty!” said her sister with great impatience. “Do not be making such a coil about nothing. It is nothing of a scrape! You always go on as if you had half killed yourself.”
“It hurts, it hurts dreadfully!” sobbed Patty, hoisted to her feet by the unsympathetic Martha. Her face, hands, and knees were mud-covered, and a small bead of blood had started out on her leg. “Look, it is bleeding! Oh, oh, oh!”
“Dear, dear, here’s a sad commotion!” observed a cheerful voice over the heads of Martha and Fanny, who were both trying to set Patty to rights and stanch her wounds. They looked up in surprise, not having heard anybody approaching, and saw a gentleman, plainly but neatly clad in a riding jacket with buckskins and top boots, and holding two pointers on a leash. He made them a polite bow, doffing his hat, and with his free hand proffered the missing kite, remarking:
“Perhaps this will help to quench the young lady’s tears! I presume the kite is your property, my dear? Allow me to return it to you.”
Without a word of thanks, Patty seized the toy, directing a suspicious look at its restorer from swollen, tear-filled eyes.
“Patty! Where are your manners?” reproved Fanny. “Pray let me hear you say thank you to the gentleman.” And on her own behalf she added, “We are very much obliged to you, sir.”
“Oh, pray don’t name it, my dear ma’am,” he said easily. “Am I right in supposing that I see in you Mrs. Thomas Paget? Your husband’s cousin Juliana is a very delightful and charming friend of mine: I trust that we shall soon be equally good neighbors. Allow me to introduce myself—I am Egremont, you know, from over there”—and he waved a hand in the general direction of Petworth House, which, from here, however, was invisible, concealed by some intervening trees and roofs.
Fanny was very much startled and somewhat at a loss, unable to decide how she ought to deal with such an unforeseen encounter. She could not help being interested in this nobleman, who did not at all seem to live up to his scandalous reputation—except, to be sure, in the ease and unceremonious friendliness of his bearing. He was very fresh-complexioned, though he must be at least in his late forties, with decidedly humorous, twinkling eyes, slightly downturned at the corners, a long, rather hooked nose, and a long-lipped smiling mouth. As Fanny dropped her curtsy, somewhat flustered, and in a halting manner introduced herself and Martha, Lord Egremont went on affably:
“You’ll forgive my coming around so soon, when I daresay you are all at sixes and sevens still, probably ready to consign me to the Devil! But we are country folk hereabouts, you know, and don’t stand on ceremony. If there is anything you lack at present—a piece of game, for instance, a pine, or a few nectarines—say the word—I shall be happy to let you have any amount of fruit from my succession houses.”
“Thank you—you are very kind,” replied Fanny nervously, wondering with the deepest apprehension what opinion Thomas would entertain of this call and its lack of formality. She herself could not help liking Lord Egremont—finding herself greatly attracted by this very ease and want of ceremony—but she was very much afraid that it would have exactly the reverse effect upon her husband. Martha, meanwhile, was frankly gaping, all eyes, and Lord Egremont turned to say to her with great kindness:
“You will always find a sufficiency of young company up at Petworth House, my dear—my daughters and their friends, plenty of girls to play piano duets with—boys to lead your ponies or partner you for a dance—impromptu hops, you know, nothing formal! I cannot abide formality, but a small comfortable entertainment with the young folk all enjoying themselves is what I like best in the world; so feel free to step over whenever you like. Another pretty girl is always welcome!”
Martha colored up at this praise but did not take it at all amiss; and Lord Egremont, then turning back to Fanny, inquired with more formal politeness:
“Is your husband—is Captain Paget at home, ma’am? I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him but should be glad of the favor of his company for a few moments, over a small matter of business.”
Fanny was beginning to make his excuses and explain that he was from home, when she was interrupted by the sound of a horse’s hoofs and Thomas’s own voice from behind her, somewhat louder than usual, raised in tones of very decided displeasure.
“Frances? Do I find you here? With my children? And in what company, may I ask?”
“Ah, is that you, indeed, Paget? Delighted to meet you!” Lord Egremont turned with a cordial smile to greet his new neighbor, who seemed very far from returning the friendly sentiment, as was evidenced by his scowling brow and outthrust lip. “I was just saying to your wife here—”
Since Thomas continued to fix a fulminating stare upon Fanny, she hastily intervened, in case he should come out with some disastrous rebuff or piece of discourtesy.
“This—this is Lord Egremont, sir—very kindly come to inquire if we have all we require. We—we chanced to meet him here, in the lane—”
“Your youngest little miss had suffered a tumble, running after her kite,” Lord Egremont explained with his cheerful smile. “But it’s all forgot now, eh, Miss Puss? I’ll send you a fine big bunch of grapes, and you’ll never think twice about those scraped knees. I was saying to your young lady, Paget, that your daughters will be kindly welcome if ever they wish to step over and take potluck with my young people—we seldom have less than ten or a dozen young things there, skipping about.”
Fanny dared not look at her husband while this offer was so ingenuously made; she could almost feel the arctic chill issuing from him as he replied with extreme formality:
“That is excessively kind of your Lordship, but I believe they had better remain at home. Too much gratification of a wish for social pleasure may lead to self-indulgence and a reversal of all the principles in which they have been brought up—”
“Well, well, well, we shall see, we shall see,” said the earl easily, not very interested or choosing to pay too much heed to this speech. “But what I really wanted to see you about, Paget, was this matter of Talgarth—your gardener, you know; he is such an excellent young fellow that when he came to me and said you had dismissed him I felt sure there must have been some misunderstanding that could all be cleared up in a minute—Talgarth is as sober and steady a young man as I have ever come across in my life, and a first-rate gardener too; indeed I could not have considered letting him go to Madame Reynard if she had not been such a dear friend of mine! So I daresay it was a mistake, eh, and the lad is quite in error when he tells me that you turned him off?”
Fanny caught her breath sharply, but Thomas replied, in a cold, measured voice:
“No, my lord, he was not mistaken. Excellent gardener he may be, I have not the least doubt of it, but I cannot have in my employ somebody who coolly and impudently defies my orders, and that was what he did.”
“Oh, come now, Paget, my dear fellow, come, come, come!” expostulated Lord Egremont good-naturedly. “Young Andrew told me the whole, and I understood that it was to do with the business of cutting down that young ash tree—capital tree, you know, gave it to Madame Reynard myself, helped with the planting of it eighteen years ago—perfectly enter into Miss Juliana’s wish not to have it felled, can’t call that impertinence, only carrying out his mistress’s orders, you know! So forget about the whole business, eh, tell the young fellow he can come back to work, won’t you, now?”
“I am afraid, my lord, that is quite out of the question,” said Thomas icily. “The cause of the dispute may, to you, seem a trifling one—and, indeed, being now aware of Countess van Welcker’s predilection for the tree, I have relinquished my plan to fell it, though a more injudicious situation for planting
a tree of that size I have never encountered! But I have the strongest possible reasons for refusing to reinstate the man Talgarth. His manner was insolent—assertive—overweening; such airs in a servant I cannot and will not tolerate.”
“Talgarth insolent?” exclaimed his lordship, very much astonished. “Sure, sir, you mistake? It is just not possible! The politest, sweetest young fellow in the whole countryside! You must have misheard something he said! Come now, forget about the whole matter and take him back!”
“I thank your Lordship, I have excellent hearing,” replied Thomas, who was now in a silent rage, “and I have not the least intention of taking him back.”
“Well, I am very sorry to hear it,” said Lord Egremont. “Sorry for your sake, since Talgarth kept that garden in tiptop condition, and you will have far to go to find his equal. For my own sake I am glad, since I shall be happy to have him back at Petworth House, and indeed already promised that he should become my head gardener, should my intervention with you prove inauspicious. Sure you won’t change your mind, now?”
“That is quite out of the question, my lord,” replied Thomas. “In fact, I have already engaged another gardener.”
“Well, well, I can see you are a fellow who don’t let the grass grow under his feet,” remarked Lord Egremont, “but still I confess I am disappointed. By the by,” he added with apparent irrelevance, “I daresay you will be wishing to lock up the underground passage?”
“Underground passage?” Thomas sounded both suspicious and bewildered.
“Underground way, you know, between your little summer pavilion and Petworth House. Perhaps you will not have discovered it yet? The children have been used to run along it at all hours of the day,” said Lord Egremont cheerfully. “They were great friends of Miss Juliana, but I told them they were not to until you were settled in, just in case you did not care for the notion. I am afraid it has been used by the runners, too, from time to time—free traders, you know; I daresay, as an impress official, you, however, may not wish to countenance such activities.”