Darkwater (17 page)

Her mother turned in astonishment.

‘To forget what, for goodness sake?’

‘All faces are not as easy to read as Mr Marsh’s.’

‘Amelia,
what
are you talking about?’

Amelia flung her arms round her mother passionately.

‘Oh, Mamma, I want a kind safe husband. I don’t want to be—tortured.’

‘Good gracious, child! Whatever books have you been reading to get such ideas? Tortured, indeed! As if your Papa or I would allow you to meet that kind of man.’

Amelia gave a small hollow laugh. ‘No, I know you wouldn’t if you could help it.’

‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said her mother, losing patience. ‘You’re a very fortunate girl. You live a sheltered life.’

‘Yes, Mamma,’ Amelia whispered, her eyes dark. ‘I know.’

Amelia’s prediction about Marcus’s illness came true—he did have the measles, and by the end of the week Nolly had come down with them, too. So the children were not able to wear their new clothes to church on Sunday. The Davenport pew was occupied by Uncle Edgar, Aunt Louisa, Amelia, and George. It was taken for granted that Fanny should stay in the sickroom since, by her own behaviour, she had made the children so dependent on her that they were unmanageable when she was absent. No one else seemed to understand that two such little ones, deprived cruelly first of their parents, and then of their faithful nurse, must have some security in their lives.

Though perhaps Lady Arabella understood a little. She had taken it on herself to come and sit for long intervals in the sickroom, sometimes bringing Ludwig to sit in her capacious lap, sometimes her many-coloured wools and embroidery. She urged Fanny to take walks in the garden so as not to lose her pretty colour. At first Fanny was reluctant to do this, knowing Lady Arabella’s propensity for making children nervous. But she had become so quiet and gentle that Nolly and Marcus seemed to like her sitting in the big armchair, as dozy as the cat in her lap. It was only when after a day or two, they grew better, and restless, that she began to tell them stories.

The outcome of this was that when Amelia came rushing up to the nursery after church Nolly burst into loud hysterical screams.

No one could tell what was the matter. The day was bleak and rainy, and Amelia had taken the opportunity to wear her new white fur hat and muff.

It emerged, at last, that on her first glimpse of it Nolly thought it was a white bird.

Fanny turned on Lady Arabella.

‘You’ve been talking about that bird again!’

‘No, I haven’t, dear.’ Lady Arabella’s eyes were milky and innocent. ‘Except to point out to the child that it was white, and not that wretched black skeleton she found the other day. A white bird. A beautiful pure creature. And on that day the mistress of the house shall die.’

Amelia said scornfully, ‘Grandmamma, you can’t scare us now with that old myth. It isn’t true, anyway. Do you think a silly old bird is going to warn Mamma when she is going to die!’

‘Need it be your mother?’ said Lady Arabella softly.

‘Well, who else, if it is to be the mistress of the house? Pay no attention, Nolly. See, I’ll take my hat off and you can touch it. It’s only white fur, so soft.’

But Nolly wouldn’t be lured into touching the fur. She shrank away, hiding herself beneath the blankets, and although later she protested loudly that she hadn’t been frightened, Fanny knew that that particular fear had been tucked deeply into her mind and that it would be a long time before it ceased to haunt her.

That was when it came to her that Lady Arabella might be more than a foolish, imaginative and mischievous old woman. In her desire to shock and in her desire to wield power she might be dangerous.

But why she should feel that, Fanny couldn’t have said. She was becoming as overwrought as Nolly. Perhaps poor old women were happier than rich ones. They might be tired to the bone with washing and ironing great baskets of laundry, or scrubbing and cleaning, or hoeing the potato patch or caring for a clutch of grandchildren, but they were not so hopelessly bored with their idleness and uselessness that they weaved strange schemes in their heads.

It appeared that Amelia had rushed up to the nursery on her return from church for the express purpose of telling Fanny that she had talked with Adam Marsh. She had to wait until Fanny came down for her brief walk outdoors to seize her, and say, ‘Don’t you want to hear about Mr Marsh? He looked so elegant and everybody talked to him. And what do you think, Sir Giles Mowatt had heard of his father and of his famous collection of Chinese ceramics So Papa has to admit now that all his actions have been perfectly innocent.’

‘Innocent?’ said Fanny.

‘Mamma and I believed him on sight, but I suppose fathers of marriageable daughters have to be careful, and even suspicious.’

‘How can you
be
so smug?’ Fanny breathed passionately.

Amelia opened her eyes wide.

‘Smug? But why? Mr Marsh is unattached and we expect to be seeing a great deal of him this summer—by the way, he intended looking at Heronshall—and after all I am considered something of a catch. That isn’t being smug, Fanny. It’s simply looking at things the way they are.’

Fanny pulled her shawl more tightly round her shoulders. The wind was chilly. It was because of her that Adam had come here! Not because of this bright-eyed baby of a cousin, this plump naïve creature scarcely out of the schoolroom.

But then he hadn’t known about Amelia in London. He had imagined her, Fanny, the pampered daughter of the house…As Amelia had said, one had to look at things the way they were.

‘Do be a little more sympathetic, Fanny. Otherwise I won’t be able to tell you my affairs of the heart.’

Fanny laughed out loud.

‘Affairs of the heart, indeed! You’re only a child.’

Amelia flushed indignantly. ‘Mr Marsh doesn’t think so. He complimented me on the way I looked. You had only to see the expression in his eyes.’ Already she had forgotten her anger with Fanny, and was carried away with the happiness of her recollections. ‘He is so masculine. He makes me feel truly like a grown woman. Only one other—person has ever made me feel like that.’ Amelia’s eyes were suddenly inward-looking, strange. ‘Do you know,’ she said in a rush, ‘all the time I was in church I kept thinking of that wretched Chinese woman buried outside. Sometimes I am frightened…’

Fanny stared at her.

‘Why? Because the prisoner may come back?’

Amelia shook her head.

‘Sir Giles says he is afraid he has got away completely. To France or Belgium, or the Hook of Holland.’ Her next words were almost inaudible. ‘I think that is why I am frightened…’

George, tapping his riding crop against his leg, said to Fanny, ‘You’re not having your head turned by this fellow Marsh, too, are you?’

‘I think my head is fairly securely attached.’

‘Mamma and Amelia are behaving as if they had never seen a man from the city before. He must be laughing at them.’ George’s eyes, with their look of feverish excitement, were on Fanny with the intensity she was beginning to dread. ‘You won’t let him laugh at you, will you?’

‘I don’t suppose he’s laughing at anybody.’

‘I saw you looking at him yesterday. Don’t do it again, Fanny.’ His voice was very soft. ‘I don’t care for you to look at another man.’

‘Oh, George, leave me alone! I can’t bear this possessive attitude of yours. It’s suffocating me. You used to tease me and despise me. Be like that again. Please!’

‘Never!’ said George. ‘Never!’

‘You will be when you are well.’

‘I love you, Fanny. Being well won’t change that.’

Fanny was near to tears with exasperation and tiredness and strain.

‘Then if you must love me, you must. But please don’t persecute me, or I’ll have to tell your father.’

An indescribably sly look came into George’s eyes.

‘That wouldn’t be much use, you know. Not poor old Papa.’

Then he turned and left her, the once handsome young lieutenant of the 27th lancers, who had flirted shamelessly with every pretty girl, a shambling young man whose once immaculate clothing was now always a little untidy, and whose breath frequently carried the fumes of brandy.

George was a tragedy. But how long could one have patience and forbearance with that kind of tragedy! How long was it safe to do so? Fanny couldn’t help thinking constantly of Ching Mei’s death and the convenient way in which it had been blamed on the escaped prisoner. Had anyone else seen George in the garden that night? Uncle Edgar? For why had George begun to speak of his father with pitying contempt? Poor old Papa…

It didn’t seem, after all, as if Adam Marsh were laughing at Amelia with her transparent admiration for him. For he invited her to accompany him to look over the property, Heronshall. They went on horseback across the moors. Amelia rode almost as well as George did. On her mare, Jinny, she lost her dumpiness and her coquettish flutterings, and was a figure worth watching. They made a fine pair as they rode away. Fanny could scarcely bear to watch them go.

There was a shuffling sound behind her.

‘A well-matched pair,’ said Lady Arabella’s throaty voice. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Amelia scarcely comes to his shoulder.’

‘She is on a level with his heart. That used to be the thing in my young days. Don’t girls have these romantic notions nowadays?’

‘You know that Amelia has her head stuffed with romantic dreams,’ Fanny said irritably.

‘And you? You’re too practical for such things?’

Fanny turned away.

‘You know I am not,’ she said in a low voice, as if the words were forced from her.

Lady Arabella patted her hand.

‘Your turn will come, my dear. Don’t despair.’

Fanny snatched her hand away. She found the old lady’s kindness more intolerable than her sarcasm. How could she not despair when Amelia and Adam rode through the honeyed sweetness of the moorland air, talking perhaps intimately, perhaps touching hands. It was no use to wonder what Adam Marsh saw in an empty-headed rattle like Amelia. He would discover that she had beautiful small white hands, that her yellow curls blew across her throat when disordered by the wind. A man didn’t then seek for a high intelligence.

They arrived back late in the afternoon. Amelia came flying upstairs calling, ‘Fanny! Mr Marsh has things for the children. Are they well enough to see him? Oh, and you should have seen that divine house. Mr Farquarson’s things are gone and the rooms are empty, but one can imagine exactly what is needed. Mr Marsh has a fine Arabian carpet which he says will perfectly fit the drawing room. The staircase must have portraits on either side. It is so light and airy compared with all the dark stairways in this house. And the master bedroom has the most beautiful views across the moors.’

‘Did you furnish that, too?’

‘Fanny! What a thing to say. We merely discussed what could be done. And it was all perfectly respectable as Mr Farquarson’s housekeeper was still there. Mamma naturally wouldn’t have let me go otherwise. Then is Mr Marsh to come up?’

Fanny wanted to refuse to have Adam in the nursery, but it would give the children pleasure. She said he might come for five minutes, no more.

The wind had raised a glow in his sallow skin. Although he was smiling he looked strangely serious. He had brought gingerbread cookies, bought from old Mrs Potter in the village that morning.

‘For the invalids,’ he said. ‘I hope they are recovering fast. You see, Mrs Potter gave the gingerbread men spots too.’

The children studied the figures liberally sprinkled with coloured sugar, and laughed with delight.

‘Marcus got the measles first, Mr Marsh, but I had the most spots,’ Nolly declared.

‘I had the most spots,’ Marcus said.

‘You did not, Cousin Fanny said I had more. And anyway my gingerbread man has more spots than yours.’

‘No, it hasn’t. Mine has.’

‘Then count them. Come over here and I’ll teach you to count.’

While they were wrangling, Adam turned to Fanny.

‘Miss Amelia has been telling me a great deal about you.’

‘About me!’ Fanny exclaimed in astonishment. She could scarcely believe that they could find nothing to talk of but her on that long ride across the moors. She couldn’t prevent a dimple appearing momentarily in her cheek.

‘Amelia usually finds herself the most absorbing subject.’

‘Perhaps it was because I asked her questions.’

‘What kind of questions?’ Fanny’s face had gone still.

‘Why, how you came to be in this position.’

‘Yes, I suppose you must find it rather different than what you imagined it to be when we met in London.’

‘Amelia tells me your parents died when you were very young. Your mother—your father—tell me what you know about them.’

‘I know so little. My father died of a consumption. He had artistic leanings, I believe. I can’t remember him at all.’ Fanny frowned, feeling the old familiar bafflement. ‘My mother was Irish, of landed but poor gentry, Uncle Edgar has told me. Her name was Francesca, like mine. I try to imagine what she was like, but I know so little. I feel as if I had dropped from the sky. What I do know,’ she finished briskly, ‘is that poor Papa’s illness took all his money. That’s why he left me in my uncle’s care. To be quite accurate, Uncle Edgar isn’t my uncle, but a second cousin.’

She realised, all at once, his interest and was startled and a little disturbed.

‘Why do you ask me these things?’

‘I have an inquisitive bent,’ he said pleasantly.

Fanny frowned again. ‘I think I find your inquisitive bent, as you call it, a little presumptuous. So now you know without any doubts that I am a poor relation. Have you some better position to offer me?’

‘Cousin Fanny, Cousin Fanny! Marcus has eaten all his gingerbread.’

Nolly’s imperative voice broke in on their small duel. For duel it was and Adam seemed to welcome the interruption. He went over to sit on Nolly’s bed.

‘When you are quite recovered how would you like a picnic on the moors? We could take a hamper. Have you seen the moorland ponies? They will come for crusts of bread.’