Sons of the Wolf (2 page)

Now, though, my diary can be an even greater solace. I can tell it my innermost thoughts-as I would speak to some unseen friend, and know that that friend will never criticize or answer back! I love Ada and would cheerfully die for her if a suitable occasion ever presented itself, but some of my thoughts are not fit for her ears.

Of course my freedom is only temporary. The Magna Charta, the root of England's liberties, was written by and for Englishmen. In our great modern England women and children have no liberty. As soon as possible, "they" -that ambiguous, vaguely threatening "they"-will enslave me and Ada again. Grandmother's money will be managed for us, by some man or other; some man or other will choose our home and our servants, possibly even our bonnets. Then "they" will marry Ada to one of themselves. I told her I would take care of her. I could do it, too; I could guard her against swindlers, help her choose a good kind man from among the many fools who will propose to her-I could even manage her money. But "they" will not let me. "They"-the smug, pompous, selfish gentlemen of England. I wish Providence would wipe them all off the face of the earth!

April 2

That horrible old woman! That witch, that crone, that hateful, malicious hag! I have been too well brought up. I have exhausted my store of expletives.

We had the "Reading of the Will" this afternoon. The capitals are those of Mr. Partridge Junior-a nasty, smirking young man who is so thin he looks like a lamppost in his long black trousers, not at all like his dear old father, who was one of Grandmother's best friends, as well as her family lawyer. But Mr. Partridge Senior is confined to his bed by a stroke, brought on, they say, by Grandmother's death; so we, perforce, had to make do with his beanpole of a son.

I could tell by Junior's manner when he greeted us precisely what he was going to say. He gave me the coolest of nods and almost knocked his forehead against his knees being obsequious to Ada. So it came as no surprise to me to learn that Grandmother had left the 'Family Fortune" (again, the capitals are those of Par-ridge Junior) solely to Ada. No surprise, and no anger. What did infuriate me-my fingers are still shaking!-was he one clause in the will which referred to me. I can still remember every word. I doubt that I will ever forget them.

"To my granddaughter Harriet I leave my ebony workbox, with the hope that she will apply herself assiduously o its contents if she is ever to attain that station in life which she deserves. I also commend her to the care of my dear granddaughter Ada, knowing that the said Ada will never allow her cousin to be in financial need."

At that Ada squeezed my hand fiercely and tried to smile at me through eyes brimming with tears. She had been overflowing, like a flower filled with rain, since the funeral. I am writing only for the eyes of my "Unknown Reader," so I will admit that the last clause did not please me; of course Ada will never let me want for money, but it is maddening to be dependent on anyone, even a dear one. However, Ada is too unmalicious to catch the sting in that first, worst, sentence. I shan't point it out to her; it would be rubbing salt in the wound. That station in life which I deserve! A milliner, perhaps? Or could she have meant I might aspire to being a lady's maid? How dare she-and in front of that smirking young whippersnapper! I am tempted to take the ebony workbox and smash it against the wall. I won't, of course. I have had too many years of Grandmother.

Next day

I was so enraged yesterday that I forgot to record, or even to ask, the most essential question of all concerning Grandmother's will. However, my omission was rectified today when Mr. Partridge Junior paid us another call. I would have refused to see him, but Ada asked me to go down with her. Ordinarily she is not at all alarmed by young men-and why should she be, when one smile reduces them to red-faced adoration?-but she is alarmed by lawyers, and, both as young man and as lawyer, Junior is a particularly weedy specimen.

Junior (I like to think of him by that name) had news for us. I knew, naturally, that some member of the great male sex would be the arbiter of our poor little lives from now on, but I couldn't imagine who the fortunate gentleman would be. If I had my way I would have selected Mr. Partridge Junior's father, who is a dear old man. But that seemed too great a stroke of luck.

I was correct on both counts. Mr. Partridge Senior had been declared our trustee and guardian. However, Providence had intervened to cancel my grandmother's wishes. (I can almost hear her hoarse indignation at His daring to overrule her.) With Mr. Partridge ill, mere was no one, seemingly, to take on the alarming responsibility of Ada and Harriet, and our lawyers had been in a quandary until the day before the funeral.

"That day," Mr. Partridge Junior explained weightily, "we received a letter from your grandmother's half brother's son."

"Aves-vous la plume de la grand'mere de ma tante?" I murmured and stifled a giggle as Mr. Partridge stared at me indignantly.

"This gentleman, Mr. John Wolfson by name, has kindly offered to take charge of you young ladies. We have naturally made inquiries about him, and all our sources report him to be a gentleman of means and of position. He is also the sole remaining man of the family, so it is with great relief that we have accepted his offer."

"But"-Ada put her lace-trimmed handkerchief to her lips-"I do not know this gentleman. Harriet, have you ever heard of him?"

"Certainly, dearest, and so have you. Don't you remember Grandmother's famous, boring genealogical chart? Mr. Wolfson must be the son of Grandmother's young brother. Her father, you recall, married twice. But we have had no contact with that branch of the family for years-"

"An unfortunate circumstance," Junior interrupted. "Mr. Wolfson explained that his father and your grandmother had not spoken for years-the result of some foolish childhood squabble. But his position is irreproachable."

"Is he a-a kind man?"

If I had asked that question, Junior would have pronounced it the irrelevant absurdity which it undoubtedly was. Kind? What concern was that of ours, who would only be dependent on this man for paternal affection and care? But since Ada had asked it, and looked appealingly at Junior with her wet blue eyes, he tried to smile. He was not very good at it.

"My dear Miss Ada, who would not be kind to one so charming and . . . ?" The impertinent puppy caught my eye and had the grace to blush and cough. He finished his business in a great hurry after that. We are to leave for Yorkshire within the week. It seems like a short time, but, as Junior pointed out, what have we to wait for? It also seems very far away. But since Mr. Wolfson lives in Yorkshire, and Mr. Wolfson is henceforth our lord and master . . .

Grandmother would say that is irreverent. I daresay she would be right.

My boldness does not deceive even me. I will write it very small: I am afraid. Afraid of the future, afraid of this Mr. Wolfson. Perhaps my forebodings are bred of the twilight that darkens this gloomy, starkly furnished room. I am a superstitious Italian peasant at heart. Grandmother always said so. And she was always right.

April 14

I have been shockingly remiss with my poor diary, but I have not had a moment for more than a week. Even this moment will not last long; behind me in the big bed Ada still sleeps, her tumbled curls spilling out from under her nightcap, but when she awakes, she will want all my attention. She is torn between excitement at travel and strange new sights, and childish terror as she remembers the unknown future, now pressing close upon us.

It is so early that the housemaid has not rekindled the dying fire, and the room is bitter cold; my breath forms a pale cloud and my fingers are so stiff that I must stop and rub them before dipping the pen to take more ink.

The view from the window also slows my pen. We are high over the rooftops here, in this respectable inn; but above the gables and chimneys I can see the twin spires of the noble minster-the heart of York, which is in turn the heart and capital of the North. It is an English church and an English city, but it looks so strange to me; when I reflect on our surroundings and their distance from London, I can scarcely believe my senses. Four hundred miles north and two months back into winter; it was spring when we left, but here a blanket of snow carpets streets, rooftops, and spires. To the north lie the heaped stones of a structure older by centuries even than the walls of hoary York Minster-the stones of Hadrian's Wall, built by an emperor of Rome to guard young Britain against the wild barbarians. To the east, not far distant, lies the sea; to the west, mile on mile of rolling moorland, broken only by rude hamlets and isolated farmhouses, and the crumbing ruins of abbey and castle. Only the south seems warm and familiar.

Ada stirs. I must hasten, recording events rather than "foolish Italian fancies."

We left London on Thursday in a flurry of haste, rail and tearful farewells from the cook and housemaids. The first day of our journey Ada wept-no, that word is to strong; she seeps at the eyes like dew. When she is in these moods, she is, uncharacteristically, silent and subdued, so I spent the time reflecting on Mr. John Wolfson.

I had told Ada that I knew of him, but the mere fact c his existence was all I knew. Rack my brain as I might, could not remember Grandmother's ever mentioning him but I did have a vague impression that there had been some disagreement between the two branches of her father' family. That in itself would have been nothing against Mr. Wolfson; anyone who disagreed with Grandmother was automatically an ally of mine.

Even in the confusion of those last days in London found time for some quiet inquiries concerning Mr. Wolf son, and my efforts were rewarded by-of all things-a guidebook to Yorkshire. Apparently Mr. Wolfson is, as Junior claimed, a man of property in those parts and hi; home, Abbey Manor, is one of the most elegant mansions in the North Riding. According to the book, the mansion is built near the ruins of one of the abbeys destroyed b> Henry VIII; in fact, it is built of the abbey, the stones having been looted to supply building material. There was an engraving of the abbey ruins in the guidebook, and they looked very picturesque, with sprays of ivy twining over the tumbled stones. In some places the walls still stand, and the stone traceries of the empty windows made a lovely shape against the sky.

But I see my fancy is leading me astray again. What is most important, to Ada and me, is the hint of our new guardian's character given by one chance sentence in that helpful book. We will be more fortunate than most touring parties; we will be allowed to view the old abbey. Mr. Wolfson, it seems, does not allow visitors on his property, rich includes the ruins! Even the engraving was taken from a distance.

The author of the book was quite bitter about Mr. John Wolfson; but, contrary as I am, I am inclined to sympathize with his unkindness to amateur antiquarians. If I owned such ruins, I would be inclined to keep them to myself, so that I could wander the roofless cloisters and stone-floored cells in peace-meditating perhaps on the vanity of fine architecture and the transitory nature of even monkish aspirations. Or merely enjoying my ownership of something other people covet!

It seems certain, though, that Mr. Wolfson is not a man of yielding character. I have a picture of him in my mind: vinegary, peppery old gentleman with white whiskers and hair, who rushes at invading parties of travelers brandishing his cane. Yet I know this can't be right; if Mr. Wolfson is the son of grandmother's younger brother, he must be younger than my own father would be. Well, I shall soon know the truth. We leave for Abbey Manor this morning. Mr. Wolfson's carriage is already here; the landed informed us, when we arrived last night, that we would be prepared for an early departure. The manor is a long day's journey from York, far to the northwest. Only sixteen more hours before we know . . .

I may as well be frank. My efforts to sympathize with Mr. Wolfson are feeble subterfuge. I dislike him already, without ever having seen him; I will dislike him, whether le is white-haired and peppery or handsome and bland. He s our guardian-our guard. That is enough to turn me against him, or any other man.

Later

The date should really be April 15-it is long past midnight-but I cannot sleep without recording the impressions of this most eventful day. Let me say it at once: My apprehensions were groundless.

I sit now in a tastefully furnished chamber, equipped with all modern comforts. Heavy velvet portieres are drawn against the chill of the northern wind, and a fire burns on the hearth under a handsome marble mantelpiece. The bed which awaits me is new, and it is piled with quilts; the table on which I write has pen and ink and even a folder of writing paper. Bed, chamber, fire, all are my own. Ada's room, which is as comfortably and elegantly equipped, adjoins this one. The door which connects them was just cut last week, and it is open now, for fear Ada should be nervous in a strange house. She sleeps so peacefully that no such apprehension concerns me; but how thoughtful was this idea of Mr. Wolfson's!

Yet no more thoughtful than all the other arrangements he has made for our pleasure and comfort.

We left York early this morning, by the Aldersgate; I craned my neck out of the coach window, braving the biting air, to get a last view of the ancient city walls, with the great spires of the minster towering above them. The sky was a pale clear blue, foretelling sunny weather; but it was so cold that I shiver now at the memory of it. We kept our heads well inside the coach for the rest of the journey. Not that there was much to see; it is a pleasant, rolling country which may look pastorally beautiful in springtime-not at all the bleak moorland of my fancy. But now a heavy coating of snow reflects the sun and makes the eyes rater; the bare trees and shrubs look dismal and deserted, he area is certainly remote. We passed through several villages, but all of them were small. The houses, of gray tone, seemed to have shut their window-eyes and huddled themselves inside their thick walls against the cold.