Midnight is a Place (7 page)

"He walked off into the dark. The party went on for a while longer, but it broke up fairly soon. The musicians were paid off. Local people collected the remains of the food next day. And next day also it was heard that Sir Quincy had died in his bed of a seizure not five minutes after his son had left him—of rage, it was thought. So Sir Randolph, through his lawyers, sent a formal message to the effect that, since Denzil had inherited the estate the minute his father died, the house and the land, like his horse and clothes, were forfeit to the winner of the wager."

"My goodness. The whole estate? That would mean the Mill, too, everything?"

"The Mill, the house, the land, the coal mines, everything. It was said by many people, fairly openly, that Sir Randolph must have found some means of cheating. But it could not be proved. He had been seen to ride through Canby, and back again; the pie was there, in Sir Quincy's room."

"Did Denzil say he had cheated?"

"He said nothing at all. Sir Randolph, getting wind of what people were saying, became very angry; said he'd not be called a cheat without getting satisfaction, and challenged Sir Denzil, as he had become on his father's death, to a duel. But Sir Denzil refused."

"Refused a duel? Wasn't that rather a cowardly thing to do?"

"In those days it was thought shocking, yes. They had met in Midnight Park for Sir Denzil to hand over the title deeds of the estate. Sir Randolph accused Denzil of having spread slanderous stories, and challenged him. But he replied, 'My dear Grimsby, I have not said you cheated. For all I care, you borrowed the Devil's mare; I think it quite probable. I am not interested in how you achieved your end. And I have no intention of fighting you; the cause is not worth five minutes of my time. Here is your slice of Clutterby Pie; I hope you enjoy it.' Sir Denzil then walked away, said good-bye to his mother, Lady Murgatroyd, got into a borrowed carriage, went to Dover, and from there to France. The fishing boat in which he crossed was wrecked in a storm, and he was thought to have been drowned, but this was a false rumor as it turned out. A message was recently received, simply addressed to Murgatroyd House, Blastburn, England, to say that he had been living in France, but had died, and his little daughter was left destitute."

"I wonder how he lived?"

"Taught music, I believe. And English," said Mr. Oakapple,
shrugging. "Apparently he died in very reduced circumstances. But enough money was collected to send his child to England, where it was thought she might have relatives."

Questions were struggling together in Lucas's mind like sheep at a gate. "Then Anna-Marie—is she the daughter of the beautiful young lady—Miss Eleanor Thingummy?"

"Featherstonehuff? No,
she
called off the engagement as soon as she heard of the wager, and of Sir Quincy's death. I believe that in the end Sir Denzil married a French girl, who died when the child was born. But that cannot have been until many years later."

"And Sir Randolph came to live at Midnight Court?"

"He came to live at Midnight Court. Many of the old servants left. A few stayed. But in society the suggestion that he had somehow managed to win the estate by underhand means became more and more widely circulated. Sir Randolph was invited nowhere; people began cutting him in the streets of London. Neighbors refused to meet him. It soured his nature as you have seen. He shut himself up here, took in a partner to manage the Mill—your father—and spent his days in playing solitaire and drinking brandy. For twenty years he has hardly set foot outside the park."

No wonder he isn't very pleased to have little Anna-Marie Murgatroyd in the place, Lucas thought. Even suppose he did not cheat in the wager, he must feel fairly mean at living in the place that would have come to her.

"Perhaps he was ashamed of the way he won Midnight Court," Lucas said, half to himself.

"Oh, wagers of that kind were perfectly respectable then," Mr. Oakapple assured him. "Larger fortunes changed hands over the card table every day."

A new thought occurred to Lucas. "Mr. Oakapple—how do
you
come to know so much about it? The Roustabouts' party—you told the story almost as if you had been there."

"I
was
there." Mr. Oakapple brought his pale eyes back from the horizon and turned them on Lucas. "I was a fiddler. When I was quite young—five or six—my parents found I had a great gift for violin playing, so I was sent to a choir school in York where there was very good tuition; my father was the rector in Sutton Grimsdale. We were very hard up; by the time I was nine or ten I was earning quite a bit of extra cash playing my fiddle at balls and parties. So I was at Bellemont on the night of the party."

"You know all about it." Lucas wished he had the courage to ask about the accident—or duel—that had brought an end to Mr. Oakapple's playing, and whether that too had any connection with the story of Denzil Murgatroyd. But a set, bleak expression had come over the tutor's face as he remembered those old times, and Lucas knew that he did not have the courage.

"I wonder if Anna-Marie knows all this?"

"Very likely not," Mr. Oakapple said indifferently. "On the whole, if she does not, it would be best for her to continue in ignorance."

"Yes, it might," Lucas began, thinking that Anna-Marie would not be one to take matters calmly if she believed that somebody had deprived her of her rightful property by unfair means. Then he broke off, "Look, isn't that her?"

They looked back toward the house.

By daylight Midnight Court was visible as a big, light-gray mass, built of Grimshead Moor stone, which neither storm nor rain could darken; the fiercest gale only bleached its pale smooth surface so that, from a distance, the house appeared to be covered by the same frosty coating that whitened the park. But the roof looked ruinous, with many tiles awry, and most of the windows gaped black and broken.

Now from this large pale mass a small black object emerged, and came slowly toward them.

"Poor child—it will be strange for her here," Mr. Oakapple muttered, and started toward her, with Lucas following him more slowly. But they had not gone more than half the distance between them and the black-clad Anna-Marie when the figure of Mrs. Gourd appeared, red-faced and flustered, in the doorway from which the child had issued, and came hurrying after her.

They heard the housekeeper's voice calling: "Miss! Miss! Come back here directly! You are not to go off by yourself!" Anna-Marie ignored the summons and walked on determinedly.

"Miss! You are to come back here at once."

Then Mrs. Gourd perceived Mr. Oakapple and Lucas. Her face cleared. "Oh, Mr. Oakapple! I was just searching for you when this little madam wandered off. You are wanted in master's study. The gentleman from the tax office is here again, and Sir Randolph isn't himself. He won't answer the gentleman's questions, and he threw an inkpot. Could you come?"

"Oh—very well." Mr. Oakapple showed no relish for the interview. He muttered what sounded like a bad word under his breath, and then turned to Lucas. "You may be excused lessons for the rest of the morning. You had—you had best show Anna-Marie over the place and find something to amuse her."

"Aye, that's a good notion." The housekeeper plainly approved of this proposal which would relieve her of her difficult charge. "You'll keep a good eye on her, won't you, Mester Lucas? Such a mardy little one!" Lucas heard her say to the tutor in an undertone as they turned back toward the house. "There is no doing anything with her. Willful! And obstinate! Let alone she doosn't speak a word o' the King's English."

Lucas gazed in dismay at the responsibility that had been thrust on him. Anna-Marie returned his stare with her underlip thrust out. Then she hunched her shoulders, turned away, and walked as fast as she could toward the top of the slope. She could not go very fast because of her clothes. Somebody had found her an outfit of black—black hat, black dress, black petticoat, black stockings—But everything was too big. The hat kept slipping down over her eyes. The petticoat dangled below the dress, and the coat flapped round her calves, hindering her progress. The stockings, much too loose, kept sliding down, and at every few steps she had to stop and impatiently haul them up. It was not hard for Lucas to overtake her. But when he did so she pushed him off with a furious little black-gloved fist, shouting, "Away! Go away! I do not want you at all."

"You have got to have me," said Lucas crossly. He saw that her pale face under the wide black brim of the hat was streaked again with tears. "Either me or Mrs. Gourd."

"
Hein?
That woman? I do not like her. She smells of sneeze."

"Of
what?
"

"Sneeze," she repeated impatiently in French. "When one goes
attishoo!
"

Utterly baffled by this, Lucas walked beside her, frowning.

"Where do you think you are going?" he asked.

"I am going away. I do not wish to stay here. I do not like it."

"How can you go away? Who will look sifter you?"

"I will go back to Calais, and Madame will look after me."

"But you cannot. You have no money. How can you go on the boat?"

"Oh, be quiet! I do not wish to talk to you."

She pulled a small china doll out of the large pocket of her oversize coat and walked doggedly on, cradling it in her arms. Lucas perforce accompanied her; she was too big to pick up and carry back, and he was reluctant to drag her by the hand against her will. So they went on unwillingly together. And Lucas suddenly thought, If Anna-Marie's father had not made that rash bet, he would still be living here now, and Anna-Marie would have been born here; this place would be her home. Maybe she would have brothers and sisters to play with. Sir Randolph would not be here.
I
would not be here. How queer it seemed that a dozen words, spoken in a temper, could travel so far, like a tidal wave or an earthquake, could alter the lives of people in distant countries, people who were not even born at the time when the words were spoken.

"How old are you, Anna-Marie?" he asked presently, in a more friendly tone.

"
J'ai huit and.
"

"Eight! You don't look as old as that."

"I am small," she said with dignity. "My mother was like this also, they say. There is nothing wrong with being small."

"Of course not."

"Napoleon was so. And he was a great man. He beat the English in many battles."

"They beat him in the end, though," Lucas put in without thinking.

She turned around and faced him, her eyes flashing, her face red with fury. "Will you go away from me! I did not ask you to follow. I do not want you with me."

"Oh, don't be so stupid," he said irritably. "You are too small to be out on your own."

"
I am not too ¿matt!
" she shouted in a passion, stamped her foot, tripped over a protruding wedge of rock in the hummocky ground, and fell in a tangle of black cloth. Her hat came off and rolled down the slope. Shrugging, Lucas went after it.

When he came back, he found that Anna-Marie had made no effort to get up, but was lying as she had fallen, crying bitterly, with her face pressed into a tussock of brown, frost-covered grass. Half of the doll was clutched against her heaving chest. The legs, broken into three bits, lay separately.

Oh, dear, Lucas thought. It wanted only that. Now what do we do? He sat down beside her and said nothing, because he could think of nothing to say.

Anna-Marie went on crying. After some time her sobs died down to a gulp every other minute. Then the spaces between became longer. Finally she was silent; the heaving of her shoulders stopped. She lay so still that Lucas began to fear she might have fallen asleep.

"Hey, Anna-Marie!" he said anxiously, at length. "You can't go to sleep out here. It's too cold. You'll freeze."

"I do not care," she said in a muffled way through the tussock. "Then I will go to heaven and see Papa and play on a trumpet, with the angels."

"Oh, don't be silly!" he snapped. "You can't lie there till you die! Come on. I'm sorry your doll broke. We'll go back to the house and find Garridge in the stables and ask him for some—some jelly"—he could not think of the French word for glue—"and perhaps we'll be able to mend it."

"
Her,
not it! And you do not mend things with jam, stupid."

But she sat up, exhibiting an earthy, tear-stained face. Lucas drew out his handkerchief and wiped her cheeks, none too gently; she pulled away from his grasp, sniffing, and picked up the broken bits of the doll's legs. Her lip quivered again and a great sigh shook her from head to feet, but she had cried all the tears that were in her just then.

"Right," said Lucas. "Come on."

"I do not wish to come." She stood stubbornly still.

"Oh, for heaven's
Jake!
" He looked around him in despair at the frozen, empty park, at the distant silent house. The sky had clouded over to its customary leaden gray. A cold wind was beginning to numb his face and fingers. They seemed to have been out a terribly long time. "Listen, as we go along I'll tell you a story about Greg." He took her hand, giving it a gentle tug.

"Who is Greg?" She came after him with slow, reluctant steps.

"Greg is a boy who rides on a big black horse called Sultan. And he has a lot of adventures. I'll tell you about how he fought a dragon."

"I do not wish to hear. I do not like boys," Anna-Marie said ungratefully. "Tell about a
girl
who has adventures."

"Girls don't have adventures."

"Yes they do! Just as much as boys."

"Girls stay at home and do sewing," Lucas began to say, but suddenly, out of nowhere, there flashed into his mind the image of the little snatcher, yesterday, at the Mill, dashing out under the huge descending press to gather up the fragment of cotton waste in her metal tongs. And another, stranger thought struck him: if Anna-Marie's father had not made that wild bet, then this child here beside him would own that carpet factory and be the employer of all the people in it, including the snatcher.