Читать книгу Daisychain Summer - Elizabeth Elgin - Страница 10

Clementina Sutton had fretted and fumed alternately for the remainder of the week. How much longer she could remain in the London house waiting for the countess to return her call, she did not know. And when was she to meet Anna Petrovska? Clearly, something must be done, yet etiquette decreed she could not call again at the house next door. Correct behaviour demanded that she must now await a return visit and as yet the silly woman hadn’t even left her calling card!

How long before she must return to Pendenys? How long dare she leave Elliot alone, virtually, with no one to pull on the reins when he became bored and restless and decided to take himself off in search of pleasure!

His father didn’t care. Edward disliked his eldest son with undisguised feeling and avoided the poor boy like the plague. Trouble was, she brooded, Pendenys Place was so vast that avoidance came easily. So many rooms, inner doors, outer doors, unexpected staircases. People could go for days without meeting, if they were set on it.

It was then she had jumped moodily to her feet, lifted the lace curtain that covered the window and saw, oh, thanks be! a young woman in the garden next door who could only be Anna Petrovska.

At once she felt relief she’d had the good sense to have the fence removed; the fence she caused to be built – with good reason, mind! – when it seemed certain the people next door might be European refugees, common soldiers or gypsies.

In less than a minute she was standing at the garden wall, smiling a welcome over it, whispering, ‘Good morning, my dear – you must be Anna. I have heard so much about you.’

‘Good morning, ma’am. Are you the lady who called on Mama – Mrs Sutton of Pendenys? I am so pleased to meet you.’

She extended a delicate hand. ‘Aleksandrina Anastasia Petrovska,’ she smiled. ‘Anna …’

‘You have a very beautiful name.’ Genteelly Clementina touched her fingertips.

‘Ah, yes, but so long. I decided when I was a little girl that my birth-name was too awful to have to print out, so I insisted I became Anna. Vassily and Igor had short names – it was most unfair!’

The corners of her mouth lifted in an enchanting smile to show white, even teeth. She was, Clementina was bound to admit, not only aristocratic but beautiful and if Elliot didn’t think so, she would box his ears!

‘You have the same name as the poor little Grand Duchess,’ she murmured for want of something better to say.

‘Ah – the dear Anastasia, God rest her.’ Exactly as her mother had done, she crossed herself, head bowed. ‘She and I share the same natal day – birthday. I was called in her honour. We were, Mama assures me, born only two hours apart.’

‘Are you Roman?’ Clementina had to ask it, even though it was as wrong to enquire about a person’s religion as it was to ask the extent of their bank balance. ‘A Catholic?’ Well – all that crossing themselves …

‘I am Orthodox – Russian Orthodox …’

‘And is that Christian?’ Clementina sensed difficulties.

‘Yes, of course!’ She laughed with delight. ‘We are as devoutly Christian as the English, only we worship a little differently.’

‘Aaah.’ Clementina’s relief was heartfelt. ‘You mentioned Vassily and Igor. I thought –’

‘Vassily is Basil. I forget we speak only English, now, by command of Mama, though today they talk away in our own tongue – twenty to the dozen, is it you say?’

‘Then today is a saint’s day?’

‘No. Far, far better. Last evening my brother returned safely to England and we all laughed and cried and hugged and kissed. Mama is so happy.’

‘He’s back? Then be sure to tell the countess how very glad I am.’

‘I think you may tell her yourself. She intends to call on you tomorrow or the next day, she said, and give you her good news. You will not spoil it for her? You will be suitably surprised – yes?’

‘Not one word will I breathe,’ she beamed, happy beyond words. ‘And when she calls, might I hope you will be with her?’

‘I shall visit, I thank you. Now, you see, I am permitted to take off my black clothes, though Mama still wears her mourning – for Vassily and Papa, of course …’

‘I shall look forward to your coming. Is your brother well? Were things bad for him, in St Petersburg – oh, your mother told me about it, never fear,’ she hastened to add.

‘He came back safely – and successfully – though doubtless you will hear of it, soon. But Igor is safe, now, and we will try to start living again!’

‘Of course you will! And you, my dear – you’ll be getting married?’ Clementina hesitated. ‘When the countess is out of mourning, that is …’

‘I fear not.’ All at once, the dark eyes were sad. ‘My marriage money, now, is much diminished – and besides, no one has spoken for me though Mama says I am old enough.’

‘And how old would that be?’

‘Nineteen – soon …’

‘Then you must hope. You are very beautiful and that will more than compensate for your dowry. The solution is simple. You must insist upon a wealthy husband! Forgive me, I beg you, for saying so on such a short acquaintance.’ A husband like Elliot, perhaps? All at once, Clementina decided that no other but Anna Petrovska would do. She was the answer to all her prayers. The girl had beauty and breeding and was not so well-heeled, it would seem, that she could afford to be over choosy. And she, Clementina, had the brass. She had a money tree grown tall and thick from a seed planted by Mary Anne Pendennis! ‘And I do so hope I may have the pleasure of receiving you, very soon.’

Clementina knew when to end a conversation. She smiled a goodbye, stumbling in her eagerness to get to the telephone and call Pendenys Place.

‘Edward!’ she gasped when finally her husband lifted the phone. ‘Tomorrow! I won’t be home! I must stay here a few more days!’

‘What is it, Clemmy? You sound quite upset. Has something happened?’

‘Happened? Everything has happened! Oh, I do believe things are working out, at last!’

‘Are you all right?’ Working out? What bee had she got in her bonnet, now?

‘I am perfectly all right! Will you tell Elliot to telephone me back – at once!’

‘I’m afraid he’s in York – a visit to his tailor.’

‘Damn! Well, the very minute he gets back, tell him to get himself down here! Train or motor – I don’t care which. But I want him at Cheyne Walk by ten in the morning – and no prevaricating!’

‘But what if he has other plans?’

‘Then he’d best cancel them. And if he starts making excuses, just say, “Allowance” to him! Now don’t forget, Edward. Ten o’clock tomorrow! Perhaps it’s best he should get the overnight train. Either way, I want him here!’

Edward Sutton was given time to ask no more; the click of the receiver put paid to that. But no matter, he shrugged. He would telephone again tonight when hopefully his wife was calmer.

He reached for the bell-pull. Best order his son’s packing to be done, for Elliot would do as his mother ordered. Any mention of his allowance usually carried the veiled threat of cancellation and commanded instant obedience. It was the only thing, Edward considered with relish, that could bring his wayward firstborn to heel – apart from a good thrashing, that was, and no one yet had dared to give him that. Only the gamekeeper, and that hadn’t been half hard enough, he thought with regret.

He turned his thoughts to his wife. What in heaven’s name was she up to, now?

Tom Dwerryhouse walked the game covers, his dogs at his heels. He had schooled them from brash, bouncy pups to obedient retrievers. They were a fine pair; would work well when the shooting began in October. Until then, it pleased him to see the covers so well stocked with game. This year, Mr Hillier would have the shooting he so looked forward to.

He was a decent employer, Tom conceded, understanding that the keeper had yet to be born who could conjure up instant sport when an estate had been left to neglect over the war years and everything that ran or flew taken by the soldiers to eke out their rations.

He’d had to start from scratch, yet now he had good reason to be satisfied with the young birds in his rearing field. Plump and fine-feathered, they would be turned out before so very much longer to join last year’s rearings.

He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin with pride. Before so very much longer, Windrush shoots would be the talk of the county – he would see to that – and it made him wonder if now wouldn’t be the best time to bring up the matter of an assistant. Soon, the night patrols must start. With the coming of earlier darkness the poachers would be out. Not, Tom accepted, that the one-for-the-pot man was all that much of a nuisance. That kind of poacher took one or two birds only, easily hidden beneath his coat, his need to feed his family far outweighing the risk of being caught and brought before the Magistrates.

It was the organized gangs from the towns a keeper feared; those who took birds by the score. That, Tom said, was greed and not need and the time was not far distant when he would have to talk to Mr Hillier about taking on another man.

He grinned, suddenly, remembering Daisy and the smile she had given him that morning. Her very first smile, and for him! Not wind, Alice assured him solemnly, and before so very much longer they would hear her first chuckle, she had promised.

He was a lucky man. The country was plagued with the Irish troubles, with unemployment and the workhouses full of decent men, tramping the roads begging, almost, for a job; any job. And where were the homes for heroes those fighting men had been promised, once the war was over? What wouldn’t so many of them give for a house such as his? He shivered. Someone had just trailed an icicle the length of his backbone – or was it that someone had just walked over his grave?

It was neither. It was a feeling of sudden alertness; the scent of danger primitive man must have known. It had served Tom well on those forays into No Man’s Land and he had obeyed it without question. He spun round, aiming his shotgun at the bush.

‘Come out. Come out slow …’ he hissed.

There was a rustling and a voice said, ‘All right, mister.’ Two hands appeared in a gesture of surrender, then a face; white, thin, full of fear.

‘Out here …’ Tom took a few steps backward. The man straightened himself.

‘Don’t shoot, sir?’

‘I won’t. It isn’t loaded.’ Tom lowered his gun. He didn’t need to threaten. He could take the man with one hand behind his back. Skin and bone, he was. ‘After game, were you? This is private land!’

‘Not birds, sir. Had a couple of snares down, for a rabbit …’

‘Got bairns, have you?’ Poor devil. A square meal – one like Alice cooked – would send his stomach into cramps, by the look of him.

‘One little lad. At home, with the wife.’

‘And where is home?’

‘Near Camborne – Cornwall. She’s with her mother. Had to leave her there. No work, see.’

‘So you’re tramping – looking for a job?’

‘That’s it. But who’ll employ a man with a badly foot? I was a keeper myself before the war, but who wants a lame keeper? You should know the walking that’s got to be done.’

Tom knew – especially now. He’d been wondering about another keeper, he thought wryly, and one had popped out of the bushes in front of him, though one who’d be little use to anybody!

‘I know,’ he said. ‘And what’s to do with you, then?’

‘Wounded in the war. My foot. Two toes gone. Makes it awkward, when it comes to walking.’

‘Then how come you’re damn-near starving? What about your pension? The Army gives pensions to badly wounded men.’

‘Pension? You don’t get one of them when it was your own doing – or so they said!’

‘And did you? Did you shoot yourself?’ It hadn’t been uncommon. Driven to desperation, some soldiers had put a round into their own foot; an easy way out of the Army – a ticket to civvy street.

‘Did I hell! We went over the top, one night. I tripped and my rifle went off. Did you ever know what it was like, out there in No Man’s Land?’

‘I knew,’ Tom said grimly. ‘I was a marksman.’

‘And so was I. Like I told you, I was a keeper, and I know how to shoot, mister. If I’d had a go at my own foot I’d have made a tidier job of it than that!’ He stuck out his right boot. The front of it had been hacked away to accommodate the distortion of flesh and bone. ‘So they wouldn’t give me a pension. Told me I was lucky I wasn’t being put on a charge with a firing squad at the end of it.

‘My wife goes out scrubbing. She goes without so the boy can eat. If I had a loaded gun now, it wouldn’t be my foot I’d aim it at!’

‘That’s enough!’ Tom rapped. ‘You’re alive, man! Think back to how it was, and be grateful. There’s many a one who’d be glad to be as hungry and alive as you!’

‘Aye. Then more’s the pity I wasn’t one of them,’ he said without self-pity. ‘I’d be a hero, now, with a tidy gravestone to show for it – and my Polly with a widow’s pension.’

‘Sit you down, man. You don’t have to make excuses to me. How bad is that foot? In pain, are you?’

‘Sometimes. It’s my balance, though. I have to walk on my heel. Bairns make fun of me and you don’t get any help – not a penny parish relief – when your discharge papers say you shot yourself in the foot. A coward, that makes me, and I’ll swear on my son’s life it was an accident.’

‘How old is he?’ Tom was still remembering Daisy’s smile.

‘Just gone three, though I haven’t seen him for six months. Don’t know how it is with him and Polly – no fixed address, as they say, for them to write to. But you believe me, don’t you, sir?’

‘I believe you.’ He did – and besides, what right did a deserter have to stand in judgement on any man? ‘But you’re a long way from your wife and child – how come you ended up here? You’ll not find work in these parts, either.’

‘Maybe not. But I was billeted here, in the war, for six months. All of the summer of ’fifteen. A grand time it was, and the war something that was happening to the other poor sods – not to me.

‘The Army took over Windrush Hall as a billet. Polly was in service, then, ’bout two miles away. That was when I met her. When I knew I was going to the Front we got married and she went back home, to Cornwall. Her father was badly. She helped her mother to nurse him, though he died …

‘But that time around these parts were the best months of my life. I knew this estate and the big house, too, like the back of my own hand. Can’t blame me, I suppose, for making my way back.’

‘No, though the army left a right old mess behind them when they moved out. Windrush had gone to rack and ruin and as for these woods – nothing but a wilderness and not a game bird in them. I came here about eighteen months ago; been trying to lick things into shape, ever since. Reckon we’ll have some decent sport, though, come October.’

‘Aye, sir. And you’ll not turn me over to the constable? I’ll be off your land as soon as maybe if you’ll turn a blind eye to the snares.’

‘Did you catch anything?’

‘A rabbit. It’s in the bush, yonder. I’d aimed to light a fire, tonight – cook it. That was one thing you learned in the army. You were never stuck fast to find a way to cook a rabbit.’

‘Nor a chicken,’ Tom grinned. ‘But look over there.’ He pointed to the church tower. ‘Over to the right – that clump of oaks. There’s a hut, beside them. You can kip there.’

It was a keeper’s hut, usually to be found near the rearing field but moved away, now the chicks were grown, to the edge of the estate. On small, iron wheels with a tin roof, it was snug and dry with a stove inside it and a kettle and pan. A fine place for a keeper to shelter in on cold, wet nights when a poacher might be forgiven for thinking the weather was on his side.

‘I know it – remember it from way back.’

‘Then you’ll know there’s a little iron stove in there. Find yourself some dry wood, and light a fire. You can cook your rabbit on it. There’s matches on the ledge over the door, and water in the beck, nearby.’

‘How will I get in?’ he demanded, eagerly.

‘About twenty yards from the door you’ll see some stones. The key is under the big one …’

‘I’ll find it – and I’ll not take liberties. I’ll leave it tidy.’

‘You better had! And there’s no hurry, for a couple of nights. If anyone finds you there, tell them Dwerryhouse said it’s all right.’

‘I will, and thank you, sir. God bless you, and yours.’

‘Aaar. Be off with you,’ Tom grated, embarrassed. ‘And here – catch!’ he called to the limping man, throwing his packet of sandwiches. ‘Have these. You need them more than I do. And by the way – got a name, have you?’

‘Purvis, sir. Dickon Purvis …’

Tom turned abruptly, striding angrily away. It should not have been like this – a decent man begging, his wife and bairn miles away. And when he’d see them again, only God knew. Nothing but skin and bone, poor devil. He’d never see another winter through, in his condition. What would become of his wife, then? And what about the little lad; what if it had been Tom Dwerryhouse with a badly foot and Alice and Daisy miles away and living on charity and Alice taking in sewing, like as not, to help ends meet?

‘Come on!’ he snapped at his dogs, though they had never left his heels all morning. ‘Home!’

He took a deep, steadying breath. Alice would cut him more sandwiches and besides, he needed to see her, tell her about the man. Alice would listen, understand his anger, and happen Daisy would smile for him again.

And that lot had better not start another war! They’d never get him into a uniform again, if they did; not if they begged him on bended knees and offered him a cushy billet for the duration.

Then he stopped his rantings, and thought on. They would never get him. How could you call a man to the colours who’d been killed at a place called Epernay; wiped out with eleven others on a March morning, more than two years ago?

‘Alice!’ he called, breaking into a run. He needed to touch her, hold her, pour out his bitterness. At his garden gate, he paused. The big black, shiny pram stood there, with Morgan asleep beside it, head on paws. It would be all right. Alice would know what to say to ease his conscience.

She heard the snapping of the sneck as he opened the gate and came, smiling, to stand on the doorstep.

‘Hullo, love,’ she said softly and all at once his world was sane and safe again.

‘Put the kettle on, lass, and make us a sandwich, eh?’

‘But I cut you some, this morning. Didn’t you think on to take them?’

‘I did, love, only – oh, come on inside, and I’ll tell you …’

‘Well, now.’ Julia checked that the compartment door was properly closed, then settled Drew beside the window. ‘That wasn’t as awful as you thought, now was it?’

‘I wasn’t entirely looking forward to it,’ Helen admitted, ‘but Mr Carver was very understanding, and the young one seems efficient enough, though he asked a lot of questions.’

‘Officious, more like.’ Julia had not liked Carver-the-young. His manner had been patronizing; he didn’t like doing business with women, and it showed.

‘Neither could see any difficulty. We might not even have to go to court, if everything works out as it should. And I suppose it’s only right they should want to meet Alice and have a talk with her. After all, we might be domineering in-laws, bullying her into giving up her son.’

‘Gracious, mother – they know we aren’t like that! It will all go through smoothly.’

‘I hope so. And do keep hold of Drew. He mustn’t stand on the seat.’

‘Sit down, you little horror!’ Julia ordered. ‘But you’ve got to admit he was very good at the solicitors,’ she defended. ‘We’ll have a good run on the lawn before bedtime – tire him out,’ she smiled.

‘Play cricket,’ he demanded, then turned his attention again to the window and the fields and animals slipping past it.

‘He’s a good little soul,’ Julia smiled, fondly. ‘He ought to have someone his own age to play with.’

‘A sister, you mean? But he has one, and when Alice visits they’ll have the time of their young lives.’

‘But Alice will be with us quite soon – especially now that the Carvers want to see her. Daisy will hardly be big enough to have a rough and tumble with Drew.’

‘Perhaps not just yet – but Alice will come to see us often, I hope. And when they are both old enough to understand, we shall tell them they are –’ She left the sentence in mid-air.’

‘We’ll have to be careful,’ Julia frowned. ‘But the sooner they know, the better. It would be awful if they were never told, then fell in love.’

‘Julia!’ Helen laughed. ‘That kind of thing only happens in storybooks – not in real life. And even if you and I were determined they should never know, there would be some busybody think it their duty to tell them.’

It was Helen’s turn, now, to reassure her daughter. And soon, Drew would be theirs entirely and Alice would visit often. She had loved Alice deeply; would ever be grateful for Drew – for the little boy who laughed with delight as the engine driver let go three important hoots at the approaches to Holdenby station.

‘He does so love trains. I suppose he’ll want to drive an engine, when he grows up.’

‘Most small boys do, mother. But Drew will grow up to care for Rowangarth and those who work for it – and Shillong, too. And to make a happy marriage, I hope, and have sons.’

‘He isn’t two, yet.’ Helen put out a protective arm as the train began its slowing in a series of small jerks. ‘And at nearly two, hardly anything is more important than a ride on a train. This has been a good day, hasn’t it?’ She looked for her handbag, gathered the parcels from the seat beside her. ‘And there is Will, in the yard.’

Will, thought Julia; waiting with the carriage and pair. They really ought to have a motor. It was so unlike her mother to forbid one to her. Everyone had motors, these days. Why must Julia MacMalcolm not be permitted to drive?

‘Come on, young Sutton!’ She scooped Drew into her arms. ‘Say goodbye to the train.’ And why shouldn’t she drive? Why, just because Pa had been killed in a driving accident, should motors be taboo at Rowangarth? ‘And come and say hullo to the horses.’

Their homecoming was robbed of its usual pleasure. Immediately she saw the expression on the face of the housekeeper who waited at the top of the stone steps, Julia knew that something was wrong.

‘Milady – this came, two hours ago. I took the liberty of ringing the solicitors, but they said you had left and didn’t know which train you’d be coming back on.’

Julia held out her hand for the small, yellow envelope that could still send fear tearing through her, even though the war was long over. Tight-lipped, she ripped open the telegram.

‘It’s signed Bossart. That’s the name of the farmer Aunt Sutton stays with. Mlle Sutton injured. Please come with haste. What’s happened, mother?’

‘Injured. A motor!’

‘No. She rarely drove, in France. Doesn’t like the wrong side of the road. Probably an accident horse-riding.’

‘Then the best way to find out is to go at once. I can get the overnight train to London. With luck, I could be with her by tomorrow evening.’ Helen frowned. Her fear was real, her distress obvious.

‘Mother – first have a cup of tea, then we’ll talk,’ Julia soothed. ‘Take a deep breath. It might not be as bad as it sounds. Perhaps Monsieur Bossart was being overcautious.’

‘I shall go tonight, for all that!’

‘Then I shall come with you. Do you think we could take Drew?’

‘Certainly not! You must stay here. Anne Lavinia would want you to.’

‘Then let me at least see you safely onto the boat train?’

‘Julia! I am not quite in my dotage. I’ll manage. And let us hope you are right. Monsieur Bossart might be overreacting. I can get the last train from Holdenby and still be in good time for the York sleeper to King’s Cross. When we have had our tea, I want you to ring up York; make a reservation for me. I shall manage well enough but oh, poor Anne Lavinia.’

Aunt Sutton, to most. Her husband’s sister, Helen thought sadly. Forthright, outspoken, unmarried. A woman who cared more for horses than for most human beings. Julia had always been her favourite; Julia, so like her aunt in many ways.

Poor, poor Aunt. Julia stirred her tea thoughtfully. She had visited her doctor when in London, but this appeared to be an accident, not an illness. She wished there was some way she could be with her.

‘Mother – why don’t I go to France, instead? You could take care of Drew, then.’

‘No. I shall go.’ Her voice was firm. ‘John would wish it to be me who is with her – if it is serious, that is. And like you say, I think I shall find her not as ill as Monsieur implies. She’ll be all right. She’s a very strong-minded lady. Whatever it is, she’ll pull through!’

‘If that’s what you want. I’ll phone Reservations, then I’ll ring Pendenys. They ought to be told, and mother – why doesn’t Uncle Edward go with you? After all, he’s her brother and more nearly related than you.’

‘I agree. So stupid to forget such a thing. By all means he must come. But don’t suggest it when you ring, Julia. If he feels he should be with me, he’ll say so at once. Be tactful.

‘And now I must ask Miss Clitherow to give me a hand with my case. Don’t want to pack too much – travel as light as possible …’

God – let everything be all right? Julia lifted her eyes to the ceiling. She’s such an old love … Picking up the phone, she asked the operator for York station.