The Youngest Miss Ward

  Her grandson’s eyes slid from side to side with amusement though his face remained sober. ‘Ay, they make a pair, she and Mr Ward, no question,’ he said. ‘And I reckon t’other Ward in Portsmouth is the same. It’s my belief they won’t keep Miss Hatty at Bythorn Lodge longer than it takes them to find another roof to lodge her under.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘Oh, likely they’ll send her off to Mansfield Parsonage with Mrs Norris, Miss Agnes Ward that was.’

  ‘Miss Agnes won’t want her, for certain sure. My grand-niece Jenny, that was named for me, she went as housemaid to Bythorn Lodge, and she used to say as how Miss Agnes was always tormenting of Miss Hatty, putting upon her and laying into her, over one thing or another.’

  Hatty came down the steep stair, heavy-eyed and apologetic.

  ‘I have slept so long! It must be dreadfully late.’

  ‘Never fret your head for that, miss, dear! See how it snows still. There will be no wheeled traffic along the roads this day. You must just bide with us, and we’re happy to have you. Eli, make the young lady a bowl of toast-and-milk. There’s nigh a foot of snow outside, dearie; we must all take the weather that’s sent us and make the best of it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Hatty, ‘I hope in that case you will allow me to be of some use. I’ll do anything you ask me.’

  She looked with pleasure round the plain square room, which last night she had been too weary to observe with close attention in dim firelight and candlelight. Today, although there was no sun, a white-reflected light shone up from the snow-covered ground outside the windows and threw a pale radiance on to the cedar-wood-panelled walls, the dresser holding blue plates and cups, the simple solid table, chairs and settle, the white ceiling and row of thriving plants on the windowsill. A large grey dog was peacefully asleep stretched over the hearthstone, and a tabby cat lay crossways, using the dog as a pillow. The room seemed to combine the function of kitchen and living-room. Hatty wondered where Lord Camber might be.

  ‘His Lordship’s up in his study,’ said Godwit, accurately reading her thoughts. ‘He mostly spends the mornings in there writing. But he said to give him a call when you roused up. He’ll likely want to show you over the place.’

  ‘Is it very old?’

  ‘Nay, nobbut a hundred years. It used to be the old laundry. Then his Grace’s father, he took a fancy to have a hermit living on his estate; so he had this place turned into a hermitage, called it The Grotto. But never a hermit could he find – ’ Godwit’s eyes slipped to and fro in amusement – ‘so the place was not used, and was nigh to falling down when Master Harry came into the property. He added some more rooms and made it snug and weatherproof.’

  Everybody in the room had some occupation, Hatty noticed, except for the dog and cat. Mrs Daizley was plucking a pheasant, Godwit was polishing spoons with hartshorn powder and spirits of wine; old Mrs Godwit was making another rag rug like the brilliant red-and-blue ones that lay on the stone floor. From outside came a sound of woodchopping.

  ‘May I learn to do that, Mrs Godwit?’ Hatty asked. ‘I should dearly like to know how to make a rug.’

  ‘For sure you may, dearie; I’ll be glad to teach you. And it’s not hard. But here’s his lordship coming now – we’ll wait to start till he’s showed you round the place.’

  Lord Camber appeared, in a sheepskin shooting jacket and corduroy breeches. His benevolent smile fitted so comfortably into this scene that Hatty wondered how he could ever have the heart to leave it and sail across the ocean to work as a carpenter for some unknown master. What an extraordinary man he was . . .

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hatty. I hope that you slept well?’

  ‘Like a dormouse, thank you, sir. I was just asking Mrs Godwit if she would show me how to make a rag rug. Since they tell me there will be no chance of reaching Bythorn today.’

  ‘No travel today, nor tomorrow, by the look of it,’ said Lord Camber cheerfully. ‘Neither you to Bythorn, nor I to America. We must just make the best of our circumstances. Let me conduct you over my mansion.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I should like that.’

  He took her up another narrow twisting stair, which had been concealed behind what looked like a cupboard door, and along a dark hallway with sloping ceilings, carpeted by more of Mrs Godwit’s brilliant rugs.

  ‘Bedrooms on each side –’ he gestured – ‘and here is my workroom which lies at the end of the house above the stable and cart-shed.’ He threw open a latched door and revealed a lofty attic room, its roof sloping down to the floor on each side, lit by three large dormer windows, two facing each other, one at the end, all of which let in clear snow light. The roof was of thatch, very thick; that, and the massive cedar boards which formed the floor gave the place a pleasant, spicy farmyard odour. A row of well-filled bookcases, waist-high, back to back, ran down the centre of the room; and each of the side windows had a large desk in it. A brazier beside one of the desks kept the room only moderately warm. By the far window it was bitingly cold. But Lord Camber did not seem affected by the temperature. Opened books and piles of paper lay everywhere.

  ‘Oh!’ breathed Hatty. ‘What a beautiful room! How can you ever bear to leave it?’

  ‘Well, in winter weather it does become a trifle chilly. But the horses and cattle down below help ameliorate the worst of the cold. And now, my dear Miss Hatty, do you want to tell me what unexpected upheaval in the Portsmouth household sent you flying north in this sudden and precipitate way, up into the wilds of Huntingdonshire – or is it a private matter which you would prefer not to divulge to me?’

  Hatty hesitated.

  ‘Will you not be seated for a moment or two?’ suggested Lord Camber, and drew out a wooden armchair by the desk that was nearest to the brazier. ‘We must not remain here very long; it is not warm enough for you.’ Hatty sat down in the chair, and her host, having first wrapped his sheepskin jacket round her, pushed aside a pile of papers covered with handwriting, and perched himself on the desk.

  ‘I am writing a book,’ he explained, ‘but it will probably take me till my dying day and not be finished even then.’

  ‘What is it about?’

  ‘Too many things. Clothes – and how they affect character; climate – and how climate affects clothes. How can you tell a king from a savage? By his crown. But the savage would not necessarily recognize the crown as a symbol of royalty.’

  ‘Nor he would,’ said Hatty. ‘That is true.’ She reflected. ‘I should like to tell you, Lord Camber, what happened at my uncle’s house – but some of it is not my story to tell, so I must leave that part out.’

  ‘I am at your disposal, and my ear is as private as when I listen to your poetry.’

  She told him about Aunt Polly’s illness and how, with the cares of the household on her shoulders, she had persuaded Ned to play chess with the twins, and how they had caught measles and died. His face puckered with sympathy.

  ‘Poor, poor little creatures. Theirs would have been such an interesting and difficult, such a remarkable existence. It is sad, sad indeed, that it has been cut off. You must feel it deeply.’

  ‘I do. I do. I cannot think of them without misery.’

  Tears had been running down her cheeks as she told the story, and she now stopped and dried them.

  ‘Was that – was their death – why your uncle sent you away?’

  ‘Only in part. He was very angry with me about that – that I had persuaded Ned to play chess with them and that they had taken the infection from him. But my uncle’s anger had another cause as well, and on that head you must excuse me – I cannot go into the other part. It concerns my cousin Ned; and my cousin Sydney.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lord Camber.

  He looked at Hatty very kindly.

  ‘But what troubles me very much, sir,’ she went on, staring down at her tightly joined hands, unaware o
f his sympathetic, frowning scrutiny, ‘what makes me very anxious is that, in part, I believe my being sent away was engineered by the twins’ nurse, Burnaby. She, you see, would have had no duties in the house now the twins are – are gone. But – but now, as matters are, she will be occupied in caring for my aunt, so she will be secure of her place; she is needed. But oh, I am afraid – I am so afraid that she will not take sufficient care of my aunt – that she will not be kind, or solicitous enough, but will simply use her as she did the twins.’

  Hatty came to a stop, her voice shrivelling in her throat.

  Lord Camber studied her in friendly silence for a few minutes. Then he said, ‘I do not think that – perhaps – you need worry unduly about Burnaby’s care of your aunt. After all, Mrs Ward is a grown person, not like the twins, who were small and helpless and without sufficient wit to defend themselves. Mrs Ward is a lady of excellent good sense. And she has a solicitous, affectionate husband, who will be frequently at her bedside. And now Burnaby, who does not lack for shrewdness, will see that her position depends on that very thought and care which you fear is in doubt . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Hatty. ‘You are perfectly right. It was selfish of me to feel that I was indispensable to my aunt’s comfort.’

  ‘Not altogether! I have no doubt that she will miss you a great deal. But are you not happy to be returning to your childhood home?’

  ‘You see—’ began Hatty.

  But here she came to a complete stop, due to the impossibility of telling Lord Camber how much she dreaded the prospect of Lady Ursula as a stepmother. For was not Lady Ursula his long-time friend – his childhood playmate? His lost love?

  And what did Lord Camber think of Lady Ursula’s marriage to Mr Ward?

  ‘You see, I was never my father’s favourite,’ Hatty went on slowly. ‘He had hoped for a boy – he was not pleased when I was born – it was because of the entail. It was he who arranged for me to be sent away to my uncle’s and he may not be at all happy to have me back.’

  ‘Oh, come,’ said Lord Camber. ‘When you left home you were, how old? – ten? eleven? – just the most difficult age. Now he receives back a complete young lady, accomplished, skilled in all the household arts, pleasing in every way. You will be a friend and companion for my cousin Ursula. Which I do not doubt she will be glad of, since I believe your father still goes out hunting as often as he is able? Nearly every day?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Hatty. ‘But whether—’

  She had been about to voice her doubts as to Lady Ursula’s acceptance of her as a companion, but at that moment the boy Dickon passed below the window, waving something that looked like a large, flat basket, while, simultaneously, from the foot of the stair, Godwit could be heard calling: ‘My Lord! My grandmother says it is too cold for the young lady to be any longer above-stairs!’

  ‘She is quite right! Let us go down. Besides, I believe the sun is on the point of breaking through the cloud. And I see that Dickon has made you a pair of snow-shoes, so that we can walk in the wood.’

  Back in the kitchen Dickon proudly demonstrated the products of his labour: flat, pear-shaped frames of willow-saplings woven with a tight criss-cross, and leather straps to fasten over Hatty’s boots.

  ‘They seem clumsy at first, but you will soon grow accustomed,’ Lord Camber promised.

  ‘Now, Master Harry, don’t you keep the young lady out too long!’ cautioned old Mrs Godwit. ‘Mortal cold out there it be!’

  ‘Half an hour, no longer,’ promised Lord Camber. ‘I will just take her as far as the Viewpoint.’

  They went out into a suddenly dazzling world, shutting the door on old Mrs Godwit’s protestations that the Viewpoint was by far too far for the young lady, not used to snow-shoes. She’d be worn to a bone, if she didn’t break her ankle coming down the sheep-track . . .

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense, Lena!’ Lord Camber called back, laughing, and he said to Hatty, ‘You can manage to go as far as half a mile, I am sure, can you not? There is a little hill from which one is able to see twenty miles in every direction; it is a favourite spot of mine. I am certain you will be able to walk as far as that without the least difficulty.’

  Hatty was not so sanguine about her ability, and felt some scepticism as to whether Lord Cambers half-mile would be any shorter than Godwit’s. The snow-shoes felt amazingly cumbrous at first, on her unaccustomed feet; soon her ankles began to ache. But, by following his directions and example – ‘No, no, don’t try to pick your feet up. Slide, just keep sliding as you see me do, that’s right, now you have it!’ – she began to acquire the necessary competence.

  ‘It is mighty hard work, though!’ she gasped.

  ‘That is because we are, all the time, going slightly uphill. This path winds very slowly round and round until it reaches the summit. There you will be able to sit and rest.’

  The track was indeed slowly, steadily ascending through different layers of woodland: first a beech grove, with a little frozen brook in a deep gully far below them; then oak forest, then birch, then pine; at last they came out on a treeless slope with clumps of snow-covered heather and furze; and the last circuit of the hill brought them to the bare crest, where there was a simple seat, made from two posts sunk into the ground with a plank nailed across them.

  ‘From this we can measure how much snow has fallen,’ said Lord Camber, wiping the snow from the plank with a bunch of heather, and spreading his thick-knitted scarf for Hatty to sit down. ‘I would say there has been six inches at least. I very much doubt if there can be any travel tomorrow. But now, look about you at all the kingdoms of the earth!’

  It was indeed a dazzling prospect. Below them the woods wrapped the hillside like black fur; in the distance, beyond the woods, a rolling, snow-covered landscape shimmered and gleamed.

  ‘That brick-chimneyed house,’ said Lord Camber, pointing, ‘in the shade at the foot of the wooded hill over there, that is my Uncle Gilbert’s place, Underwood Priors, where my cousin Ursula grew up. Poor things, they get no sun from December to February. And the house in the opposite direction, on the hilltop, that is Bythorn Chase, my father’s principal residence. As you probably know. And beyond it lies Bythorn village – there is smoke rising from the chimneys, but you cannot see your father’s house, it is hidden behind a fold of land. And over there eastwards is Mansfield Park (can you detect the church steeple?), home of your sisters Maria and Agnes. On a clear day from here you may see as far as Peterborough to the north and Bedford to the south – but now the air grows hazy – I believe we shall have more snow. Come, I had better take you home, or I shall receive a terrible trimming from Nanny Godwit. You will find that the return journey is a great deal faster.’

  So it proved, for the homeward path was a breakneck descent straight down the side of the hill; Lord Camber held tightly on to Hatty’s arm as they slid, panting and laughing, down the snowy slope. At one point she fell over completely into a heathery tussock, but he picked her up and dusted her off.

  ‘Never let them know that happened, or I shall be made to eat my dinner in the stable! There! Now we are back on our original path. And here comes Godwit, who has been to the Cross to find out the state of the roads.’

  Godwit’s report, when they met him, was negative. The roads were still blocked, there was drifting to the south and east, even the way to Bythorn was impassable with drifts. There were no horses or carriages to be hired.

  ‘And more snow coming,’ Godwit predicted. ‘Old Chicksand, from Copse Gate, was in the Tap, he’s a wonderful wise head for weather, he reckons another two-three inches will fall by tomorrow’s morn. I doubt you’ll get to Bristol afore Saturday, my Lord, or the young lady to her folks . . .’

  ‘Then there is nothing we can do but resign ourselves,’ said Camber happily. ‘Now Miss Hatty has learned to walk on snow-shoes, I can show her all my favourite paths. The person we s
hould be feeling sorry for is Miss Hatty’s father, deprived of his hunting.’

  ‘Nay, my Lord, old Chicksand said the Underwood pack would meet on Friday, as usual, that’s unless there should come a hard frost, but he don’t think there will be.’

  They were now back within view of Lord Camber’s dwelling, and he asked Hatty what she thought of it.

  Struggling to combine truthfulness with honesty, she said, ‘Well, it is not just in the common way—’

  He gave a shout of laughter, and Godwit allowed himself a small dry smile.

  ‘We call it the Thatched Grotto,’ Lord Camber told Hatty. ‘The front porch, you see, is supposed to represent a cave mouth. It was constructed during the period when my grandfather hoped that a hermit might be found to come and inhabit it. He had the Greek words inscribed on the lintel. They mean “A place for leisure is the best property”.’

  ‘From Plato,’ said Hatty.

  ‘Just so. Then the pillars were added as a kind of afterthought by a different architect. The original roof was of slate, but it was in very poor repair when I inherited the building, so, as Godwit has a cousin who is an excellent thatcher, he re-covered it for me, and taught me the trade at the same time, which I hope will stand me in good stead during my sojourn in Pennsylvania. I believe they use wooden shingles there, rather than thatch, but doubtless there is straw to be had.’

  Godwit sighed. ‘They say maize is grown there, my Lord, rather than wheat or barley,’ he observed. ‘Maize straw would not be suitable for thatching, perhaps.’

  There was a shade, Hatty thought, of reserve or disapproval in his tone; she wondered if Godwit privately considered his master’s project a hare-brained scheme, but was too loyal to voice his doubts.

  But Lord Camber, perhaps catching the tone also, clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Set your mind at rest, old fellow! If shingle roofs are the mode, I will soon find somebody to teach me how it is done.’

  The boy Dickon came out of the house, capered round Hatty, evidently admiring her proficiency on the snow-shoes, then knelt in the snow to help unlace them. When he had taken them off to the stable, Hatty asked in a low voice, ‘Does he never say anything? I have never heard him speak.’