Deception

  Sir Aydon believes that his wife murdered wee Geordie, thought Alvey instantly. At some point he must have picked up that idea. From his mother, perhaps? Or is it possible that Lady Winship confessed the deed to Guy Fenway when she recovered from her faint after the garden was destroyed. Could Sir Aydon have been in the dressing-room next door, listening? Guy does not say the suspicions are unfounded. He merely says, “I hope some means can be found of dispelling them.” But how? If they are correct? Or, even if they are not correct, even if the wretched woman were to deny them entirely, how is the truth ever to be discovered?

  Of course Sir Aydon believes that she was jealous of his fondness for wee Geordie. Because she suspected that he was the child’s father?

  Even if he denied that, how could the truth ever be proved?

  What a wretched, wretched tangle they are in, Alvey thought. I do not see how it can ever be unravelled. Perhaps it would be better if they were to remain apart. Yet he must come back to Birkland. Everyone misses him: strange, but true. And she could hardly leave; Birkland has been her entire life. Where else could she go?

  Oh, Wicked Lord Love, thought Alvey sadly, what a happy, nonsensical, harmless career yours has been, compared with the dark, swampy, thickety land that these poor souls inhabit.—Yet when I came here I thought this place such a haven. And so it has been, for me.

  I must write back to Guy, and try to reassure him.

  She could not write back to Guy immediately, however, for Mug Lizzie had gone on her way, and communication with the world beyond the village was for the time cut off.

  And, as for the village . . .

  One morning Alvey went in search of Lady Winship, having been applied to by Blackett the head groom for some instructions regarding the horses, on which she was wholly incapable of making a pronouncement.

  Lady Winship was discovered in the library, where she often sat nowadays, wistfully staring out at the Lion pool. With her was Mrs Slaley.

  “Ma’am, can you tell me if in the past—” began Alvey, but stopped in mid sentence, for neither of the other people there had even noticed her arrival.

  Mrs Slaley, pale as it was possible for anyone of her complexion to be, was pleating her apron distressfully.

  “Aw thowt it best to tell ye, ma’am, what fowk are sayin’. It’s not reet they should say it behind yor back and ye not knaw.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Slaley. You did very right to tell me. And it was courageous of you,” said Lady Winship faintly. “They are saying in the village that I—that I murdered the child—Annie Herdman’s baby?”

  “Ay, ma’am. They say ‘twas fathered by the maister—and so ye were angry aboot it, an’ did awa’ wi’ the boy.”

  “I see. And do you believe that yourself, Mrs Slaley?”

  Mrs Slaley swallowed, and said firmly, “No, ma’am. Ye wor a bit hard on Annie, now-an’-now, but ye’d nivor do a thing like yon. That aw do believe.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Slaley. You are a good woman.”

  “And ye’ve elwis bin gud to me, ma’am, and I’ve knawn ye ower twenty years.”

  “What about the other servants? Do they believe this of me?”

  “Nay, ma’am, nane o’ the owder ones, Ellen or Grace or Blackett or Carey. Nane o’ those as knaw ye well.”

  “I am glad of that,” said the faint voice.

  “As to the yoonger ones aw canna say.”

  “Of course not. I wonder if Mr Thropton knows—what he thinks?” Lady Winship went on, half to herself.

  Mrs Slaley made an indescribably derisive noise, which conveyed her opinion that it was of little consequence what Mr Thropton knew, or what he thought. Then she curtsied, with dignity, and turned to leave.

  Alvey had remained all this time motionless, transfixed, halfway between the door and the fireplace; Mrs Slaley, as she walked by, gave her a little frowning nod, lips pressed together, as if she said, “Now you have to deal with this situation; and rather you than I.”

  Lady Winship moved to the window and stood there staring out. Alvey followed and stood by her, wondering how she could possibly pierce the loneliness that surrounded this woman like a sepulchre.

  “Ma’am . . . the talk will die down. It is idle spite . . . bred of winter conditions, inaction, lack of diversion, lack of other news . . .”

  Slowly Lady Winship shook her head.

  “It will never die down completely. The stigma will be on me till I die. And the sooner that happens, the better—”

  “No, ma’am! You must not talk so!” Now Alvey was really terrified. She clasped Lady Winship’s arm. It felt like an oak branch. “Such talk, such thinking is wicked—and—and cowardly, too!”

  “Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I am not the sort to terminate my own existence. Once,” said Lady Winship thoughtfully, “once upon a time, I would have been too eager to see how my young walnut tree did, and if the yellow flags throve and the new rose plants; and even now, after my garden has been murdered, I can still look forward to the pussy-willows and the first primroses.”

  “Well, thank God for that. There must,” said Alvey angrily, “there must be some means of scotching this talk—silencing those spiteful tongues. If Mr Thropton knew—he should do something—”

  “Mr Thropton! Now that I come to think about him,” said Lady Winship, with one of those streaks of insight which always took Alvey by surprise, “I fancy he is more likely to have started the talk than be instrumental in putting an end to it.”

  “So what should we do, ma’am?”

  “Perhaps the sheriff ought to be informed. If Aydon were here—”

  “The sheriff? Who is he? What would he do?” Thank Heaven Sir Aydon is not here, thought Alvey.

  “Old Lord Linhope, over at Watch. He is Tot’s godfather. But I believe he is very ill . . . What could he do? Put me under restraint, I suppose; have me arrested and imprisoned until I can be tried and the matter cleared up.”

  “Arrested?” Suddenly Alvey felt sick. This was like some wicked nightmare. “But there is no evidence. Ma’am, you are taking this all far too seriously. Just because there is evil, spiteful gossip—”

  “I wish Aydon were here,” said Lady Winship simply. “He would know the proper action to take. I will write to him.”

  What good will that do? thought Alvey helplessly. He himself believes the tale.

  “I have brought this on myself, in a way.” Lady Winship frowned and rubbed her forehead. “I did do wrong.” She lifted her head and stared at Alvey, still frowning. “I did pretend that I believed James to be the child’s father. Which I never did. Let James take the blame, I thought. He is not here, what does he care? I thought they would be gone from the district long before James ever came near us again. I acted a part—that was very wrong. And perhaps this is my punishment.”

  “Why did you do that, mother?”

  “I was afraid that the tale would spread that the child was Aydon’s—”

  And was it? Alvey wanted to know, but could not bring herself to put the question.

  Grace appeared in the doorway.

  “Miss Emmy, could ye come? Aw wuddint trooble ye, but Janet’s cut herself in the dairy: a reet nasty cut and they’re all frit—”

  Ever since she had dealt with the emergency of Stridge’s wound, Alvey had been applied to in accidents of this kind, which, in the cold and dark of winter months, were of more frequent occurrence, when tools were slippery and hands were numb with chill.

  “Of course, Grace; I’ll come directly.”

  Next day Lady Winship moved herself into the pele room.

  “Until the matter of Annie’s baby is cleared up,” she informed Alvey and Mrs Slaley, “I shall consider myself confined to this room.”

  “But how can it ever be cleared up? Suppose it never is?”

  Lady Winship shrugged, gazing rem
otely past Alvey and out of the window.

  “Then, I suppose, I shall remain here. Unless legal measures are taken to remove me elsewhere. You may give the children their lessons in the library . . .”

  Mrs Slaley and Alvey stared at one another in dismay as the door closed on the mistress of the house.

  “Mebbe she’ll git the notion awt of her heid, Miss Emmy, by an’ by—when spring comes—when she hears the birds callin’—when the maister cooms back—”

  Knowing Lady Winship’s obstinate, tenacious nature, Alvey doubted this. Besides, closeted up there in the tower room, how would she ever know if the talk died down or not?

  And what a nuisance it was going to be having Lady Winship in the tower; she would need far more wood and coals carried up than the children, who occupied the room only during a portion of the daylight hours, and were spartan in their disregard of cold; and servants would have to take up meals and washing water and carry down slops. It was hard on the children, too, being deprived of their eyrie.

  Martyrdom creates a kind of selfishness, thought Alvey; I must put that down in my notebook, only, to what end? I have no story through which to plait it . . . How I wish that the young men would come back with Sir Aydon.

  In the meantime, it was at least a considerable relief that the old lady was now sensible enough to be supplied with such information, and even appealed to for occasional advice in household affairs.

  “Humph! Charlotte’s as stubborn as a mule,” said old Mrs Winship. “It’s a fortunate thing that you are here just now to run the household, miss; my daughter-in-law is perfectly capable of remaining up there for twenty years out of sheer pig-headedness. That’s where Louisa inherited her obstinacy. And Meg has it too; only Meg, as it happens, has never been crossed.”

  Alvey opened her mouth to speak; then quietly closed it again.

  “We’ll see what falls out when Aydon gets back. Is there any news of him? How does he go on?”

  Happily Alvey was soon able to satisfy the old lady on these points. Another letter had come from Guy Fenway, delivered by Fish Benjie. Sir Aydon was walking more freely withindoors, though he had not, as yet, ventured out. No term could yet be set, however, as to his stay in Edinburgh. A long coach ride, with its jolting, bumping, and vibration, was thought very inadvisable for several months to come. But meanwhile the news and lively doings of the city were benefiting Sir Aydon greatly; various old friends had come to see him; if not reconciled to his son’s new choice of profession, he was at least becoming inured to talk of it, and to seeing James; a kind of truce existed between the two, wrote Guy, which, no doubt, in time, would warm to a better relationship. James, by the be, sent his best regards, hoped that his grandmother was mending, promised to write to her that very day, or, at least, the following day; he was most deeply engrossed in his studies.

  No word came back about Alvey’s novel.

  During a slight thaw she struggled to Hexham on horseback escorted by Surtees. While Surtees bought a few necessities for the house and stable, Alvey went to call on Canon Beaumont and his sister, who had heard rumours of Sir Aydon’s removal to Edinburgh and were eager and interested to learn the full facts of the matter. What Alvey really wished to discover was whether any talk about Lady Winship had percolated as far as Hexham; she was relieved to find that this did not seem to be the case—unless the Beaumonts were amazingly discreet. And, remembering Miss Beaumont’s lynx-eyed observation and relishing discussion of every tiny gesture at the Assembly, Alvey thought it unlikely that, if such a tale had come to her ears, she would not wish to talk it over.

  “You will stay the night, Louisa?” invited Fanny Beaumont wistfully, but Alvey said no, she had to get back; “My mother is not—is not very well, still deeply distressed by the loss of her garden; and, with grandmother only just recovering from her seizure—”

  The Beaumont ladies perfectly understood, and entrusted her with all manner of kind messages.

  Before starting for home, Alvey went to Mr Allgood’s shop and bought Lord Byron’s Hebrew Melodies, which she had a faint hope that Parthie might enjoy. The girl had been looking so stifled lately. As on the previous occasion, Alvey had asked her if she would enjoy the ride to Hexham, but Parthie was no horse-woman and curtly refused. Alvey, despite her dislike, could not help feeling sorry for Parthie, who seemed to have so few pleasures or resources. Perhaps Lord Byron would do the trick . . . Also, of course, Alvey wished to see Mr Allgood, who, smiling, produced a letter for her.

  From Edinburgh? No, it was not. It came from Bath, and was in Isa’s handwriting.

  “No news from my cousin, I fear,” said Mr Allgood kindly. “But editors, you know, are very busy men; they have so many matters to deal with. And indeed, there have been remarkably few mails from the north; only about two in the last six weeks.”

  “Of course I know I must not be impatient,” said Alvey.

  But she was bitterly disappointed just the same, as she rejoined Surtees and the horses, having stuffed Isa’s letter, unopened, into her reticule. That could wait until she was at home.

  The journey back was hideously cold. A ferocious north-east wind seared their faces all the way; the horses jibbed and whinnied and shook their heads angrily as they were forced onwards into the biting blast.

  “Slaister on, Miss Emmy! Aw doot there’s a hale whack o’ snaw on the way.”

  The snow began, indeed, when they were still an hour’s ride away from home, and blew in their faces so savagely that they were obliged to dismount and lead the horses; the one hour’s ride lengthened into three, and it was well after dark when, to Alvey’s infinite thankfulness, they crawled into the comparative shelter of the pine-grove and saw the lights of the house shining down below.

  “I’d have been lost for sure without you, Surtees, I’d never have found my way in this.”

  “Ah, nivvor mind it, ye’re a right plucked ‘un, Miss Emmy.”

  Alvey was warmed, both physically and in her cautious heart, by the welcome she received from the kitchen staff. Mrs Slaley sat her down by the fire and made her swallow a bowl of barley gruel with whisky and ginger in it.

  “We began to think we’d nivvor see ye more, the pair o’ ye, when it coom on to snaw se sudden.”

  “Oh, Mrs Slaley, this gruel is wonderful. I believe it would bring the children’s prickly monster back to life. Now I must run up and see my mother and grandmother; there’s a piece of news for them.”

  She had read Isa’s letter while the gruel was preparing.

  “Meg is very cross and sick,” wrote Isa mournfully. “She is breeding, and has made me promise to return with her to Tinnis Hall in April, for she cannot bear to be on her own while she feels so down-pin. John, of course, is overjoyed. I think of you often in the winter snow and wonder how you do? Pray, pray send word to York which will be our next address, if you can. And how does your writing fare?”

  “Miss Meg’s expecting a baby,” Alvey told Mrs Slaley.

  “Bliss me! That’s grand news. Aa rackon maister’ll be hoping it’s a boy.”

  A boy, a boy, Alvey thought impatiently as she climbed the stairs, why this need, this insistence on having a male child? As far as I can see, women are stronger than men, they are more resilient, they endure better . . .

  She had intended to run up the stairs, for she feared the old lady would have been suffering anxiety at her late return. But the long struggle of walking through the snow, leading the reluctant horse, forcing her way against the gale, had rendered her legs so stiff that she could only climb up slowly and painfully, like an old woman herself.

  She was greeted with a storm of reproach.

  “There you are at last! I wonder you thought it worth returning at all! Why not stay with the Beaumonts?”

  “Don’t scold,” said Alvey, and kissed the cold papery cheek. “There, I brought you a puzzle game. And a novel by Ja
ne Austen, of which Mr Allgood speaks very highly.—Where are the children?”

  “They became so worried about you that I could not endure their company and sent them to bed. They will be asleep by now.”

  “And Parthie? Has she not been in to sit with you?”

  “Haven’t laid eyes on her since breakfast time. Considers herself too grand to be bothered with me since I became senile.” The old lady sniffed.

  Carrying a candle, Alvey visited Lady Winship, who registered her return with a calm lack of interest; then she went to the children’s room. Their own candle was still alight, but gave only a small patch of illumination in the big, shadowy room, which, situated on the third storey, was seldom visited by any adult save Grace, who scolded, but had no power to make them remove the boxes of birds’ eggs, bags of quartz stones, the stag’s skull, with antlers, the doll’s house constructed out of wooden packing-cases, the bundle of lapwings’ feathers, the bows, arrows, and spears. Picking her way across the floor was a hazardous exercise. The room, at the opposite end of the house from Alvey’s, faced north and west; through its two windows the roar of the Hungry Water could be heard, even above the roar of the gale. Despite adult prohibitions, the children’s beds had been pulled directly under the windows. Alvey approached that of Tot which was nearer to the door, and found both children in it, wrapped, cocoon-like, in all their blankets, (for the room was icy,) clamped tightly, head-to-tail, like zodiacal fish. Alvey wondered if they were asleep, but Tot said instantly—,