Lady Catherine's Necklace

  Not the world’s greatest poem, certainly, yet Maria found something touching and straightforward about it. She wondered who had written it. She did not mention it to Charlotte.

  * * *

  ‘A letter from Lady Catherine at last!’ exclaimed Mrs Jenkinson, hurrying with it into the breakfast parlour.

  Lord Luke looked up in surprise.

  ‘Not from Great Morran, surely? She cannot have travelled as far as that already? Or at least,’ he added, recollecting himself, ‘if she had, a letter could not so soon have returned from there?’

  ‘No, this was sent from Truro. She complains about the food and the weather. Both atrocious. And hopes that you are in good health, Lord Luke.’

  ‘Well, I am not,’ he said peevishly. ‘My old trouble is come upon me, I dare say thanks to all that dirt and dust upstairs. But I was never one to complain.’

  Mrs Jenkinson showed in a look her disbelief of this statement, but was too well trained to utter anything more than a sympathetic sigh.

  The garden-boy, Joss, was announced, and came in looking dusty but cheerful.

  ‘Well, Joss, how goes it?’

  ‘You said to bring you boxes o’ papers, me lord, so here’s one I found. ’Tis all full of a mort of written stuff. I brought it to ye directly.’

  Mrs Jenkinson uttered a slight scream.

  ‘The dust! Fetch a kitchenmaid, Frinton, with a duster, and let her wipe some of that dirt off before it spreads all over the room.’

  ‘Oh, never mind that!’ Lord Luke impatiently exclaimed. ‘Let’s have a look – here, I’ll flap a table napkin over it.’ He did so, producing clouds of thick snuffy powder which caused everybody in the room to cough and sneeze.

  Lord Luke, meanwhile, was delving with excited hands among the yellowing and brittle papers in the mahogany coffer.

  But after a very short time he gave up in disgust.

  ‘It’s naught but a confounded novel! By Mrs Ophelia Ogilvie – never heard of the woman.’

  ‘Oh, but I have!’ cried Mrs Jenkinson, displaying great interest. ‘I believe she was a great-aunt of Sir Lewis and a great friend of Walpole. She wrote a number of novels, but only one was ever published.’

  ‘I’m not surprised to hear that, for this one looks devilish dull,’ said Lord Luke. ‘Do you want to read it, Mrs Jenkinson? Take it then, it’s yours … No, boy, no, Joss, I fear that is not the object of my researches. Back to your labours … If you find the papers I want, I shall reward you with ten gold guineas.’

  ‘Thank ’ee, my lord.’ Joss grinned, touched his dusty forelock and disappeared through the folding doors.

  VIII

  When Lady Catherine recovered consciousness, it was to find herself in a stuffy, scantily furnished place, lying on what felt like an exceptionally hard and hummocky couch. She felt hideously unwell – an unsual and unwelcome state for Lady Catherine, who, all her life, had enjoyed excellent health, so much so that the sting of a bee or a touch of indigestion were the severest ills she had ever suffered. Now her bones ached, she seemed to be covered with bruises and abrasions from head to foot, a hammer beat inside her skull, and yet, despite these various afflictions, she was consumed by ravenous hunger.

  ‘Where am I?’ she said aloud, expecting an instant response. But none came. She tried to move. But the effort cost her such an assault of pain in every portion of her anatomy that once more she lost consciousness.

  This second faint passed into a more normal slumber from which she presently awoke, and once more called out, ‘Where am I? Who is there?’

  Still she received no answer.

  At last, with an immense effort, she pushed herself upright into a sitting posture, and looked about her.

  She had been, she now discovered, lying in a ship’s hammock made of rope netting. She had been covered with the sable travelling cloak that she had brought with her in the coach, and her head had been pillowed on the matching sable muff. Both these articles were exceedingly wet and mud-caked.

  With extreme difficulty, for she was still excessively weak, she managed to push herself out of the hammock and stand up on stiff and trembling legs.

  ‘Hollo there!’ she called. ‘Where am I? What has happened? Hoskins! Thompson! Where are you? Where is this?’

  Nobody answered.

  With growing alarm and astonishment, Lady Catherine began to take stock of her circumstances.

  She was in a small room which was both cold and damp. Not surprisingly: for, she now began to realize, what she had at first taken for a feverish rumbling inside her own skull was, in fact, the surge of waves beating on a rocky coast somewhere close at hand, and as well as that, she seemed to hear the continuous booming of a torrent, or waterfall.

  The room she was in had windows, but they were small and high, and offered nothing but squares of dim light. There was also a door, made of solid, unpainted wood. Lady Catherine tottered towards it and attempted to open it, but it was locked. She beat on it with her fists and called, ‘Open this door! Open up, I say!’ but there was no response.

  She noticed that a pool of water had collected inside the door, and more seemed to be coming from the crack under it.

  Now Lady Catherine began to be very frightened.

  I am imprisoned, she thought. Who can have done this? What can their intentions be?

  She tried to remember what had happened, but her memory failed her. She had been in the coach with Hoskins; they had stopped at Truro and had a very disagreeable meal of mutton stew and overcooked vegetables. Then what had ensued? She could recall nothing more.

  Turning to take stock of the place where she found herself, she received a shock.

  For she heard a loud male snore, and discovered that there was a man lying motionless, apparently fast asleep, on a mattress on the floor in one corner of the room. He was a bearded, grizzled individual with long white hair and very shabby clothes which were soaked with water and caked with mud – like her own gown and pelisse, Lady Catherine now observed. She and that man must have been together somewhere. Had there been some kind of accident?

  ‘Wake up!’ she said to him urgently. ‘Wake up and tell me what has happened!’

  But he slept on, and, even when she shook him, did not respond at all. Now she began to suspect that he might be ill – his colour was high and his breathing rapid and stertorous.

  ‘Hollo! Ho!’ she called at the door again. ‘This man is unwell. I believe he needs a doctor.’

  But no answer came, and she began to have the horrible feeling, not that there were hostile people beyond the door who had no intention of replying, but that nobody was near at hand at all; that she and this sick stranger were cast away in some wilderness where they might die of hunger or cold without the least chance of succour.

  Once more Lady Catherine surveyed the room in which she found herself – and this unknown man – now simply with a view to what amenities it offered.

  The walls were of stone, and the floor of beaten earth. Nails had been hammered into beams in the walls and on these a few male garments hung – also one or two cooking utensils, a long-handled pot, a skillet, a wooden spoon. A blackened side of bacon dangled from a beam in the roof. A large pile of apples lay in a corner, many of them rotten. From a spout in one wall water trickled down into a small stone bowl, and then away through a drain that led under the wall. The floor sloped slightly downwards to the corner containing this drain. Three slabs of granite in the centre of another wall formed a fireplace, but the hearth held only dead ashes. There was a woodpile, however, in the corner opposite the apples. A narrow shelf held a lamp and two tallow candles.

  The pool of water just inside the door was growing larger.

  Lady Catherine began to realize that any hope of succour, fire, or food for herself and this stranger might depend entirely on her own efforts – and she had never lit a fire in her life.

  * * *

  Colonel FitzWilliam had wheeled Priscilla Delaval in her basket-chair ac
ross the park to Hunsford churchyard to lay flowers on the grave of Desmond Finglow. The grave was turfed over, but as yet no headstone had been erected.

  Hunsford church, tiny, grey and ancient, crouched against the side of a hill between two majestic cypress trees. The neighbourhood was so small that hardly a score of headstones occupied the graveyard. The most recent one, not far removed from Old Tom’s grave, recorded the deaths of Barnabas Godwin, late rector of the parish and canon of Canterbury, and his dear wife Lucy, who had predeceased him by a number of years.

  ‘Why is there no tombstone for Sir Lewis de Bourgh?’ inquired Miss Delaval, after she had laid her bunch of sweet-scented narcissi, hyacinths and hawthorn blossom on Old Tom’s grave. ‘Are they not beautiful? I asked Smirke to prepare me a choice bouquet. He is such a kind, willing, obliging man, is he not? I find his conversation most entertaining.’

  ‘Kind and willing to some,’ said Colonel FitzWilliam with reserve. ‘There is no stone out here, Miss Delaval, because there is a memorial tablet to Sir Lewis inside the church commemorating his various excellent qualities. Would you care to go inside and take a look at it?’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you, it is much more pleasant out here. Yes, now I recollect seeing it at Sunday service – erected by his sorrowing widow, was it not? I wonder just how sorrowing some of these widows really are, do not you, Colonel FitzWilliam? I assume it is quite a number of years since Lady Catherine left off her black crape and bombazine?’

  ‘Do you care to return to the house?’ suggested the colonel. ‘The sky is clouding.’

  ‘Oh, no, let us remain here a little longer. The view is so agreeable, up that slanting hillside, with the dark clouds and the young green of the trees and white thorn blossom – I wish poor Mr Mynges would do one of his delightful paintings of it. I wish he were here to observe it with us.’

  The colonel looked as if he shared this wish.

  ‘Tell me, Colonel,’ inquired Miss Delaval, ‘why are you so resolved on marrying your cousin Anne? If you will permit me to say so, neither yourself nor your intended bride appear to have the least inclination for the match. And surely – forgive me! – your own circumstance cannot be so very moderate as to compel you to this course?

  ‘I know, I know, you think me shockingly impertinent to put such a question to a gentleman whom I have known only since we met at Mr Bingley’s house. But as my brother is such a great friend of Mr Bingley, and I understand you have known Mr Bingley for ever, I consider that I am entitled to rush in where angels fear to tread!’

  She gave him an arch smile.

  ‘The reasons for the connection are numerous and – and are the concern of several people besides myself,’ replied the colonel in his most grave and guarded manner. ‘By no means all of them are – are economic.’

  ‘In other words, the family have decided that your poor cousin Anne will never be off the shelf unless you take pity on her. And yet,’ pursued Miss Delaval thoughtfully, ‘she is not so very plain. I have seen her sometimes, when the poor dear is not on her best behaviour (or should I say her worst?), look quite lively and engaged. When my brother succeeds in getting her to pay attention to one of his jokes, for instance. Oh, if only I were a married lady and could bring her out for a season in town, I have not the least doubt that she might be most creditably established. It is really her unfortunate relationship with her mother that is the root cause of the mischief. Only remove her from Lady Catherine, and what a change might be affected!’

  ‘You suggest, for instance, that she should marry your brother?’ the colonel said drily.

  ‘Well, it would be for the benefit of both, would it not? Miss Anne would lead a much more entertaining and varied life with Ralph than if she were to remain here at Rosings for the rest of her days – and you would be free of an onerous duty! I wonder what use you would make of your freedom?’ (Another airy smile.) ‘Shall I undertake a guess?’

  Her question remained unanswered, for at this moment the dark grey cloud which had been the object of Miss Delaval’s admiration suddenly discharged its contents in the form of a heavy shower.

  Neither Miss Delaval nor the colonel were dressed for such a contingency, since they had set forth in bright sunlight; he therefore made haste to wheel her wicker chariot into the shelter of the church porch.

  ‘Gracious me! How very abruptly that came on! It shows how engrossing our conversation must have been that we did not observe the cloud approching. But I always do feel so very much at ease with you, Colonel – our minds seem to march together so freely, have you noticed that? I sometimes feel as if we had known each other in a previous existence. Do you believe in the transmigration of souls, Colonel?’

  ‘Certainly not! Shall we go into the church?’

  ‘Oh, no, let us not. Somebody is playing the organ in there. And I dare say this shower will not last so very long. While we wait, you can do me a kindness, Colonel – I seem to have got a thorn in my finger. It must have been from the may blossom in that posy. Can you possibly extract it for me? You will have to squeeze it out with your finger and thumbnail. Can you see it?’

  FitzWilliam was not sure that he could.

  ‘The light is so bad. Had you not best wait until we return to the house? I am sure Mrs Jenkinson will be able to get it out with hot water and a pair of tweezers.’

  ‘But it is so painful! Do please try! If you knelt down you could look at it more closely.’

  The colonel’s expression suggested that he did not relish this task. The church porch was a large one, spacious enough to accommodate the basket-chair. It was floored with stone flags, which were both damp and muddy. Plainly regretting the deleterious effect of these on his pantaloons, the colonel crouched down, took Miss Delaval’s hand in both his own and attempted to squeeze out the hawthorn splinter.

  It was at this moment that Charlotte Collins and her husband, equipped with a pair of umbrellas, came hastening through the churchyard to rescue Maria Lucas, who had been playing the organ inside the church. And, simultaneously, Maria herself came out of the church into the porch.

  * * *

  ‘I found a funny thing in the attics,’ Joss told Anne.

  ‘What was that?’

  Anne could never have enough of hearing Joss’s descriptions of the extraordinary old articles that rusted and mouldered away up in the attics of Rosings House: sabres, spits, chain mail, crossbows, warming-pans, ancient crumbling pieces of parchment containing who knew what journals, diaries, outdated information. Books; pictures; moth-eaten garments.

  ‘It is like having a millstone – like a whole houseful of millstones – up there, weighing down whoever lives in the house,’ said Anne. ‘If Rosings belonged to me, I would fling it all out.’

  ‘Won’t it belong to you by and by, missie, when you weds the colonel?’

  ‘I don’t want to wed him,’ said Anne. ‘And I am certain he doesn’t want to wed me. I believe he would like to marry Maria Lucas – I’m sure he loves her.’

  ‘Why don’t he speak for her, then?’

  ‘She has no money. And he is promised to me. When he and I are married, all Rosings will be his, he will be rich enough then. I wonder if he will want to keep all that rusty rubbish in the attics?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him these things?’

  ‘I don’t wish to talk to him. I don’t like him enough. But what was it, Joss, that you found up there?’

  ‘Why,’ said Joss, ‘it was a book. A book of trees. Talking About Trees.’

  ‘What is so odd about that?’

  ‘Naught in itself. But – well, I’d have to show you. ’Twas in a chest of books and papers I fetched down to the library to show his lordship. I reckon ’tis there yet.’

  ‘I’ll go and find it,’ said Anne, ‘and bring it here.’

  The two friends were planting out seedlings in a potting shed at the far end of the great walled vegetable garden.

  ‘Wait there, I shall not be many minutes,’ said Anne. ‘Wh
at did the book look like?’

  ‘’Twas bound in red leather, Miss Anne. But very faded. And only a little book – no bigger than a half-brick.’

  Anne nodded and ran off. But when she reached the library, she found there a scene of dismay and shock. Lord Luke was in the room, and Colonel FitzWilliam, Mrs Jenkinson, Frinton the butler, the Delavals and Lady Catherine’s maid Pronkum, who was having a fit of hysterics, weeping and laughing and calling upon heaven to have mercy.

  ‘Oh, be quiet, woman, will you! Cease making that atrocious racket!’ cried Lord Luke with furious impatience.

  ‘What in the world is the matter?’ asked Anne, startled out of her usual reserve.

  ‘Matter? Butchery and bloodshed’s the matter!’ shrieked Pronkum. ‘And torture and dreadfulness and wicked shockingness!’

  She beat her hands frantically on a bundle of documents that lay on the library table. Presumably they had come from the attics, for they emitted a cloud of dust.

  Mrs Jenkinson and Miss Delaval attempted to hush Pronkum, while Anne asked again, ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Your uncle has had a letter,’ said Colonel FitzWilliam, who was looking very pale and grave.

  ‘A letter? From whom?’

  ‘Oh, my lady, my lady!’ shrieked Pronkum.

  Anne was bewildered.

  ‘Is the letter from my mother?’

  ‘Oh, dear Lord Luke!’ cried Mrs Jenkinson anxiously. ‘Do you think it right that Miss Anne should know about this?’

  ‘She has reached the age of reason,’ snapped Lord Luke. ‘She is eighteen, is she not?’

  ‘Is my mother dead?’ inquired Anne.

  ‘No, no. At least, we hope not,’ said Colonel FitzWilliam.

  ‘If she is not dead, what has happened?’

  ‘The letter is unsigned,’ said Lord Luke. ‘It appears to come from Cornwall, or somewhere in the West Country. It demands money for the return of your mother, and makes alarming threats if the money is not paid.’

  ‘How much money? And what sort of threats?’

  Lord Luke and FitzWilliam exchanged looks.

  ‘No precise sum is stated,’ Lord Luke told Anne, his severe expression suggesting that he found her behaviour far too undaughterly, composed and matter-of-fact. ‘Nor are the threats in any way specific. They merely state that great harm and punishment will be inflicted upon my poor sister if the moneys are not paid over.’