Feral Park (21 page)
Authors: Mark Dunn
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #British & Irish, #Historical, #Dramas & Plays, #Genre Fiction, #Drama & Plays, #Historical Fiction, #Irish, #Scottish
“By ‘disciplinarian,’ what do you mean? Would he rap the knuckles of his students, rail at them, belittle and humiliate them before the others?”
“He did every one of those things but that was not the worst of it.” Mrs. Taptoe drew close to tell the worst of it: “The boys upon their arrival each morning and in anticipation of bad behaviour from each of them (which never, in fact, transpired) were subjected to a most terrible thrashing to greet the day.”
“And you say that it was
every
morning that this thrashing took place?”
“Mercy, yes. Each and every one—this for as long as the boys kept the thing between them and did not divulge their undeserved sufferings to anyone else. But in time—perhaps two months, perhaps less—the welts and blisters and open, draining festers upon the abused boys eventually betrayed them to those at home who asked about the markings, and in learning all, deemed the treatment of their young men so abhorrent that the headmaster and his wife were compelled to close their school and to quit the parish to avoid arrest.”
“The whippings must have been terrible indeed!”
“Abominable they were, child. The beatings were hard, this much is for sure, but it was the manner of their application that made it all the more difficult for the boys, aged twelve to fifteen, to endure, and which surely affected their recovery. These were boys upon the cusp of manhood, mind you, most of whom—my son-in-law being the exception—had been imbued within their well-to-do homes with a pride in their rank, and a pride, as well, in themselves as young coming-up gentlemen of great promise—and oh, to be subjected to such a mortifying and denigrating chastisement of the flesh which cannot but whittle down one’s esteem of self! And here is the chief of it: it was never the husband who administered this particular preemptive punishment. That would have been ill enough. It was the wife—Mrs. Holford—and a veritable witch she was, who put the boys to unspeakable mortification by the application of the punishing ferule upon the bare skin of the fundament! Monstrous! Monstrous! First to be dresst down by the hideous husband and then to be undresst in full within the small punishment closet, and thereafter exposed in such an atrocious way to the eyes of a woman who whilst reprehensible in the execution of the discipline was more beautiful than I could ever describe.”
“Her beauty has relevance to the story?”
“Oh, yes. A most terrible relevance. A ravishing and sultry beauty she was—one whose countenance might haunt a young boy’s dreams in a different way had she been kind and well-disposed. But she was not. She was beauty in integument but ugly vileness beneath the rind. I saw her myself only once. It was upon that very day in which the couple was taking hurried flight from the parish. She was being handed into the coach by her husband and I advantaged myself with a long look at the face. Most striking she was in her appearance and possessed of a beauty such as the Lord fabricates on only His very best days. Imagine my son-in-law or my cousin or young Thomas Turnington unbuckling himself to receive bare-skinned punishment from one so angelically featured (for the expression and countenance of the administrator was never transfigured in taking up the rod, the softness in the mouth and eyes lingering even as the ferule was landed upon the reddening bottoms of her youthful victims), and imagine what a confused and painful memory must remain. My cousin has described to me through mortified tears (for he was amongst the youngest to be so abused and more willing to speak of the experience) that it was as if an angel had descended from Heaven to do the filthy work of the devil. As for my son-in-law, Luther—he has never to this day been able to speak even a syllable about it.”
“My father, too, has never mentioned anything of it.”
“Although he, no doubt, knows of it. All of a certain age within the parish and older know of it. But this very conversation would prove a rarity, I am sure, for I am certain that few others could ever bring themselves to open a lid which has remained securely fastened for so long. You and I, however, may speak of
all
such things here in our dwarf university of human nature.”
“But allow me to understand, Mrs. Taptoe: you believe that this session of cruelty upon Sir Thomas has changed him for the worse?”
Mrs. Taptoe nodded. “It has made him strange in the company of young women. Very cautious indeed. Has he not until to-day spoken only a few words to you himself?”
“To be sure I see him only rarely.”
“And has he ever invited you and your father to dine with Lady Jane and himself?”
“He has not.”
“For I surmise that it is because you are a young and beautiful woman, not so much younger than was Mrs. Holford during the days of the cruel ferule.”
“How is it, then, that he was so at ease with his previous governess?”
“I dare say that he saw little of her. And that she was not, as well, blessed with a favourable countenance. You have met her. Do you agree?”
“She was not
overly
handsome, as I recall.”
“Now let us speak of something else—and quickly, if we may. I know that you should soon be on your way, for your Aunt Drone arrives this evening. Have I told you that I have now met each of the Alford brothers since our last visit?”
“No, you have not. However, I have met the oldest myself.”
“You will fancy the other two, and the middle brother most especially. The third is—what is the word—’tisn’t ‘foppish’.”
“Dandy? Bon vivant?”
“No. Something more. He reminds me in some small way of Mr. Nevers and Mr. Grove. Yet I do not know why, for although he teaches dance, he keeps no scented handkerchief within his cuff, and I surmise he has never worn a wig in all of his life. Moreover, he works upon the Turnington farm alongside his oldest brother and is strong and solid in his build.”
“Yet there must be
some
softness if he enjoys the dance.”
“Perhaps softness and hardness in equal measure. I understand that he is quite the teacher. Young Colin seems to have every thing to recommend him—a wide breadth of experience and taste and very good looks and a sharp wit. Just yesterday he was tramping about these grounds stripped to the waist and curious with how Tripp tended my horses. I called out of the window, ‘Young man, what has happened to the rest of your clothes?’ He answered knavishly, ‘I have no use for a shirt under the good and warm sun, madam. I welcome its rays for it bronzes me just as it did my antecedents from Greek antiquity.’ The young man was nonetheless most interested in my horses, or perhaps as I think upon it, it was my man Tripp who drew the chief of his interest, for Alford seemed to attend my groom most closely.”
Anna thought about her own interest in Tripp, which led to the isolated kiss (or five) in the wood, but she was careful that the look upon her face in recollection did not betray her. “And what of the middle one whom you think is the most suitable candidate for
my
interest?”
“Oh, he keeps mostly to himself, my dear. He seems the solitary, brooding young man—our very own Lord Byron in Turnington Lodge. I should never have seen him had he not been wandering nearby with his book, and looking up ever so often with a contemplative turn of the page to consider the natural scene round him.”
“But when should I ever meet Perry Alford if he is never to commune with the world except through thoughtful meanders with his books?”
“My dear, do not be foolish.
You
must meander when
he
is out meandering and your paths should cross by a design made to look completely accidental and you should snap him from his reverie and the both of you, I warrant, will be most handsomely rewarded by this effort on your side. But tell me, dear, have you given up on your Mr. Waitwaithe, even before you are to dine with him?”
“All but so. Yet dine I suppose I must. I will endure the evening but my mind will be most decidedly elsewhere.” Here Anna was thinking not so much of Perry Alford or even the kiss with Tripp in the wood, but of Mrs. Taptoe’s son, who was to arrive by Michaelmas. She thought for a moment to ask her Auntie if another letter had come, but she would not raise it, for it was best, she thought, to keep her interest veiled and to give the woman no ideas with regard to a possible match. It would only prove a needless consideration for one whose mind was already full with her son’s return and the happiness of the reunion and every regret over all that had been lost during his lengthy leave.
Maurice. Maurice. Why could she not remember him? There were other things she recollected from her seventh year: a favourite groom, who would sit her upon a favourite pony and lead her in a circle whilst her father looked on and clapped and approved. She remembered
that
. And her father reading fairy stories to her at fireside. She remembered
that
as well. “There must be something buried deep within my memory,” thought she, “in which I may find the origin of these warm feelings for Maurice Taptoe, who has been gone these fifteen years, and who was but a boy himself when he departed. I know it is there.” And then it came to her—more in the stillness of a picture than in a scene which moved and spoke, although in the picture Mrs. Taptoe’s mouth was open and
something
was being said. The two were standing at the window within Taptoe cottage in Berryknell—the six-year-old girl and Mrs. Taptoe with the rose of youth still upon her plump cheeks. The latter of the two was crying, the tears holding still upon her cheekbones in the picture. And outside the window upon the lane, there stood Maurice with a portmanteau in hand, viewing for perhaps the last time the boards of the cottage of his birth and childhood, the palisades in front, the wooden shutters that framed the couple who stood within, two faces in the pane: that of a weeping mother and another face as well—little Anna’s. Hardly tall enough to reach her head above the sill, yet there at the mother’s side. How curious! She was
there
when he left—at the very moment of his departure—to begin his fifteen-year journey into manhood, the odyssey that would take him through assorted trials and tribulations, and then home again. But most astonishing—Anna had been there at the start of it all. This was the memory that now surfaced. What was
not
recalled was what Mrs. Taptoe had said at that moment—said to
her
. She wished that she could remember it, but she dared not ask for help in the task, for it would tell Mrs. Taptoe that she had been thinking most earnestly about Maurice—about his leaving and about his return.
Anna referred back to the Alfords instead: “And who, Auntie, do
you
find the most handsome of the three?”
“What a silly question! Each is handsome in his own way. The oldest has a military mien and presents himself with a species of martial dignity that is quite becoming, especially if one were to see him in his uniform. Such a picture would indeed be one of crispness and pressed-starch and all manly decorum. Do you not agree?”
Anna nodded. “And Perry?”
“Hum. Let me draw the contrast: dreamy eyes and all wonder, and beneath the spectacles a most winning and handsome face, the voice well spoken, soft but resonant. He writes sonnets and books and plays and every thing else and he writes from a full heart—a heart that apprehends the world and must put it all down, all that he has learnt and every thing of beauty and passion that he has discovered which cries out for explication and illustration.”
“And the third—the very odd one, Colin—who lithely dances, yet plies the dumbbells to improve the thews?”
“I cannot put my finger on that one. He is the mystery of the three, but he makes me smile and that cannot be a discredit to him.”
“Each different in his own way,” said Anna contemplatively.
“Yet each most attractive. Would that they were like the three blind mice and we could pair them without protest with the three needful Misses Henshawe.”
Anna smiled within herself. She knew of one of the Misses Henshawe, who would be terribly delighted by just such a pairing (so long as she should claim the oldest for herself.)
Upon their return by foot to Feral Park, Anna and James, who trailed his mistress the usual several paces, were stopt by Elwood Epping who, standing within the rubble of the abbey, waved to her and bid her come to him. “I will be only a moment, James, to see what Mr. Epping wishes. Come quickly if his behaviour becomes odd, although I have never known him to harm anyone.”
“Thank you for speaking with me, Miss Peppercorn,” said Mr. Epping upon Anna’s approach. “Although our speaking together, as you shall see, will prove much more to
your
advantage than to mine.”
“And where is your wife? Where is Mrs. Epping?”
“At home I do believe. At Grantley Court. We are to have a special meal tonight in honour of her birthday. I am picking wildflowers to present to her in commemoration.” Here Mr. Epping revealed from behind his back a bouquet of colourful flowers of the field—a beautiful assortment of shapes and colours that were sure to please the eye of the simple and bucolic Lucy Epping. “It being her birthday, we are to have turkey.”
“If you will suffer my opinion, Mr. Epping, you should have such dishes more often than merely on birthdays. I wager that Lucy is growing quite weary of gruel.”
“Yes, she made this fact known to me only two nights ago when she swept the bowl onto the floor. ‘I have had my fill of this slop,’ said she. ‘We are not church mice. We command twelve servants. We can afford to eat better than this. You tire me. You tire me, sir.’”
“Dear me. And may I ask:
do
you tire her, do you think?”
“To be sure. I have therefore sat here and pondered how I am to be a better husband and have vowed henceforth to make every effort to that end. I must say, however, that I am put to somewhat of a disadvantage. You see, I was sent away in my youth to a special school. Perhaps you do not know that I have since those days been waking many a night to the sight of myself in the glass sitting straight up in bed and screaming.”
“Merciful Heavens, Mr. Epping! How terrible!”
“Aye. The screams emanate from within my dreams, but even the foggy gist of them I cannot recall. But I am told by Lucy, who hears a few words spoken by me in the depths of my disturbed slumber, that they pertain to Mr. and Mrs. Holford, the headmaster and his wife. You see, this is why I wish to speak with you. I was here observing you from behind this stone wall when you and the young lady—”
“You mean Miss Younge?”
“Miss Younge, yes, indeed—when the two of you passed on your way to Turnington Lodge this morning. You were taking her there, were you not, so that she should apply to Sir Thomas for the position of governess to his two young daughters?”
“You are correct.”
“And may I ask if the application was approved?”
“It was, Mr. Epping. Curious, though, that I did not detect you here, as I always inspect the ruins closely as I pass, for I know the gipsy children are given to make a debouchment from within upon occasion and I am easily frightened when not prepared for the sudden advance.”
“I confess, Miss Peppercorn, that I deliberately hid myself from you. For I could not say
then
what I wish to say
now
.”
“And whatever do you wish to say to me
now
, Mr. Epping, that has kept you within this same spot for the chief of the afternoon?”
“I wish to convey that I know the young woman—Miss Younge—that I know her from her former employment.”
“As a governess in Bath?”
With a shake of the head: “As governess even before that. In Reading. And differently employed in both towns as well.”
“I was not aware, Mr. Epping, that Miss Younge held
any
position prior to the one in Bath.”
“She has held several,in fact.It was in Berkshire that I became most acquainted with her, and with the connexion between herself and Mr. and Mrs. Holford.” “Mr. and Mrs.
Holford
, do you say?”
With a nod: “She goes to the towns and villages in which the Holfords had previously set up their schools. There have been several such schools, for the Holfords were rarely kept employed above a month or two, as it usually came out quite quickly the unfortunate things which they were doing there, and in each situation the outcry would drive them away.”
“So the story of the Holfords and their cruelty—which was just this morning related to me by Mrs. Taptoe—it is not limited to Payton Parish?”
“Not at all, Miss Peppercorn. In four, perhaps five other places did they set up their school of the cruel ferule. Do you know every thing there is to know of the school? But you
must
, for Mrs. Taptoe has never been shy about expounding upon delicate topics, has she?”
“No, she has not. And if you are not yourself inordinately retiring in matters such as these, perhaps you will tell me without further hesitation just what
is
the connexion between Miss Younge and the maleficent Mr. and Mrs. Holford? I must know every detail, for I have recently learnt—” Anna hesitated to say the reason, but then came forth with it as the only fair and sensible thing to do, for she felt at that moment that the best way to draw out Mr. Epping with a frank disclosure would be to discuss every aspect to the topic on
her
side. “I have learnt, Mr. Epping, that my father fancies her.”
“That does raise the pot a bit, does it not? And why should he
not
? Miss Younge is not a
bad
person except if you object to her methods of earning herself an extra guinea or two. She will do that here, I warrant. Just you wait and see.”
“She will do
what
here? Mr. Epping, please tell me all that you know.”
“She goes to the places where there was once the evil school and she—it is most difficult to describe, begging your pardon, Miss Peppercorn. I cannot say it with ease. I must collect myself.” (A breath and then another breath.) “I will say it, if you would but give me one moment more.”
Petulance shaded the words from Anna that followed: “Mr. Epping, you have drawn me by crooked finger to this rubbled abbey to tell me something, and blast it if you do not tell me! I recall a similar vexing situation in which you pulled me from a shop in Berryknell village to have me look at a frog which you said had three eyes and which you wagered I should find amusing. It had but two eyes in truth and the third was painted upon it and most unconvincingly so. I saw quite easily through the deception, but by then I had forfeited my claim upon the remaining yards of fine spotted muslin which I had set my eye upon. During my absence, you see, whilst you were shewing me a
perfectly normal everyday frog
, the fabric was snatched up by my friend Miss Dray, and rather than have a gown made from it for myself alone, I was subjected to the mortification of Miss Dray’s dressmaker producing
two
gowns of
Gemma Dray’s
chusing, each deliberately made identical to the other so that Gemma and I should wear them together as topsy twins. To-day it is not a frog which inconveniences me, but a bit of intelligence which you feel I might benefit from hearing. Yet you nonetheless protract the interview unmercifully by not speaking, and as you may observe, my patience is wearing quite thin!” (Anna did not consider that her lengthy declamation had protracted the interview to an even greater length, and then she realised that it had, and she felt a little guilty for it.)
From within the abbey now appeared the wife, Mrs. Epping, formerly the ward Miss Lucy Squab.
“Miss Peppercorn, you may suspend your berating of my husband if you please!”
With a start from the husband: “Lucy! Have you been hiding here long? I thought that you were at home.”
“I arrived in time to hear Miss Peppercorn go on and on as is her wont, when you are doing
her
the favour to tell her things she should know.”
“But my dear Mrs. Epping, your husband is telling me nothing except that he has something to tell me and then he fidgets and wavers and temporizes and I cannot bear it.”
“Then you will bear it from him no longer, for
I
will tell you every thing that must be told. I know all that
he
knows and there is even a little that I know better than he, as it is
I
who is kept awake at night by his sleep-jabber, and
I
who recollects what is said from the depths of his troubled dreams when he usually can recall very little upon rising the next morning.”
Said Mr. Epping to his wife, “I thought that you were home. I was going to bring you these flowers and we are to have roast turkey and fish soup and perhaps a pudding.”
“What a dear, dear man!” cried Mrs. Epping, taking the flowers and smelling them even though they generally gave no scent but that of plucked weed. To Anna she said, “My husband is an exasperation, this much is clear, and he may never be otherwise, but what was done to him excuses him of his present behaviour and I am to tell you every thing that will help you to understand the reason why Sir Thomas was most welcoming of Miss Younge into his home. Yes, I too saw you and the young woman headed in that direction and knew immediately why you were taking her there. Come and sit down now, Miss Peppercorn. I will explain and you may ask questions at your will. You may even take notes, but I do not see a tablet and pencil.”
Anna sat down upon a stone. Mrs. Epping seated herself next to her.
“May I first ask
you
a question, Miss Peppercorn?”
“Of course you may.”
“Where is the bonnet I trimmed for you?”
“At home,” said Anna with hesitation, having not anticipated the question. “I did not think it would be windy to-day.”
“But you have it still, and you wear it now and again?”
“I do,” said Anna. “It is amongst my favourites.”
“Now you shall have a
new
favourite, for I have trimmed you another.”
The new bonnet produced from Mrs. Epping’s travel basket was even more garish than the former one and contained snail shells and tufts of browning moss, but Anna tied the bow and wore it complacently through the moments which followed—moments which opened Anna’s eyes to things about her neighbours which defied belief, such that she forgot for a time that the ridiculous thing was sitting upon her head.
“Now you are aware that Mr. and Mrs. Holford went from county to county, parish to parish, setting up schools for young men and then treating them with the most abhorrent brutality. This has been told to you already?”
Anna owned that it had.
“And are you further aware of what happens to the boys when they grow to manhood?”
“They are changed, I have been told.”
“Some snivel upon occasion as do little girls, or dissolve themselves into tears when there is no immediate reason. I saw just the other day Mr. Scourby, the solicitor, standing in the middle of a hay field crying profusely—he, a lonely weeping figure in the straw and an incongruent one being a lawyer isolated from his books and papers upon a farm, but perhaps this is the only place where he may go to find a solitary moment to release the tears undetected and unquestioned.”
“But not
wholly
undetected, for
you
saw him,” countered Anna.
Mr. Epping responded on behalf of his wife: “Mrs. Epping sneaks about the parish like a wily fox. She sees things that others do not see.”
Mrs. Epping nodded. “At all events, my husband is not amongst the snivelers or those who weep alone behind haystacks. But he
does
have the most frightening and disquieting nightmares, from which he receives relief only when I wake him and hold him, careful to keep the caress of my arms away from the area of his bottom, which to this day remains tender to the touch. Perhaps its fragility lives only in his mind, but I respect it—do I not, Mr. Epping?—and go nowhere near the bum in my late night soothings. But there is something else about the men who were once the boys so terribly maltreated. They have grown to populate a small and odd fraternity which has taken a fancy to women who remind them of the one who administered the beatings— to Mrs. Holford, if you may believe it. One such woman who has commanded this strange variety of attention has been, in fact, your Miss Younge.”
“She reminds them?
She
?” Anna drew her hand to her mouth and held it there in amazement.
“Yet it is altogether true. On one of my husband’s trips to Reading to visit property he owns there he learnt of a situation which began with a request by one of its tenants—his identity is not important to the story—who requested that Miss Younge perpetrate upon him that which was punitively perpetrated by the odious Mrs. Holford.”
“I do not understand.”
Mr. Epping spoke the story now: “He asked if Miss Younge, for a price, would pretend to be Mrs. Holford and paddle him just as he was paddled when a boy.”
“But why? It makes no sense, such a request.”
“I do not know the exact reason,” said Mrs. Epping, picking up the thread of their talk.“But he was not alone, this man. There were others there—respectable men, men of wealth and prestige—who had been subjected to the same baculine discipline delivered by Mrs. Holford as were some of our men here, and who, when hearing of the service willingly rendered by Miss Younge upon this one man, eagerly requested the same for themselves. And Miss Younge consented.”