Miss Hartwell's Dilemma (12 page)

It was in this magnificent chamber that Mr. Lewis Majendie continued the hospitable tradition of Christmas banquets and merrymaking.

Here Louise disappeared only as far as the gallery, which she declared to be “beyond anything great.” She wished Papa might be persuaded to put one in the dining-room at home.

“Can you imagine what she and her brothers would get up to?” asked Lord Pomeroy with a groan. “Fortunately there is not the least likelihood of such a thing, or I should never dine there again.”

The top floor was dull in comparison. Here the de Vere family and their nobler guests had retired from the hubbub of the room below, to converse, to sleep, and probably to plot. The many curtained-off alcoves and niches provided private corners for the ladies. From the windows could be seen mile after mile of countryside, chequered green and brown, though much of the village was hidden by the nearby trees.

Turning from the view, Miss Hartwell discovered that Louise and Isabel were missing again.

“They went back to the dungeon,” reported one of the girls. “I heard them whispering.”

Heaving a sigh, Miss Hartwell gathered the rest of her small flock. Lord Pomeroy gallantly offered his arm, and laying her hand upon it she started down the stair. By the time they reached the first floor, dizzy from going round and round the spiral, she was glad of the support. Only one small figure stood at the rail outside the door, leaning over in an attitude of alarm.

With an oath, his lordship strode to Isabel’s side. “What the devil do you think you are doing?” he demanded of the pit, heedless of his feminine company. “Amaryllis, the little shatterbrain is down in the dungeon!”

Miss Hartwell giggled. “The very place,” she exclaimed. “I wonder I did not think, of it.”

“I wanted to see what it was like,” explained Louise composedly from below. “It was easy. I just climbed over the rail and lowered myself and dropped. Only I cannot see how to climb out.”

“That,” said her uncle wrathfully, “is the purpose of a dungeon!”

“What shall we do?” asked Isabel, frightened.

Miss Hartwell put her arm round the child’s thin shoulders and hugged her. “Don’t worry, goosecap. Lord Pomeroy will go and find one of Mr. Majendie’s gardeners and bring a ladder.”

“Lord Pomeroy may indeed do so,” said that gentleman. “However, Lord Pomeroy has a very good mind to take everyone else out to tea first.”

Louise gazed at him in horror. “Uncle Bertram, you would not. You could not be so...so inhuman! At the Falcon?”

“It is tempting. But Mr. Majendie’s housekeeper has invited you all to tea at the house, so I believe after all I shall merely see the rest safely bestowed before I rescue you.”

“And then I may have tea?”

His lordship looked at his erring niece with raised eyebrows.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Hartwell, to have caused so much trouble. Please may I have tea?” Louise begged and apologised in one breath.

“Please, ma’am?” Isabel added her voice.

Miss Hartwell laughed. “You would be very well served to have broke your leg,” she admonished, “but since you did not, I see no reason to starve you. Come, girls, let us get out of this cold wind.”

“I shall wait here with Louise,” declared Isabel stoutly. “Please, ma’am?”

Amaryllis looked at her with surprised approval. Little Miss Winterborne was gaining self-confidence at last.

“If you will,” she said with a smile. “Though I beg you will not feel it necessary to join her in the dungeon to show your sympathy.”

Chapter 9

Solemnly persevering, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, Isabel played the scale of C upon the pianoforte. Plink, plink, plink up the keyboard and plink, plink, plink back down to middle C. With a sigh of relief she raised her gaze to her teacher’s face.

“Bravo,” said Miss Hartwell, clapping.

Isabel beamed. “My aunt will be happy to hear that I am learning to play,” she said.

“Your Papa mentioned that your aunt had advised him to send you to school.” Amaryllis seized the opening. “Is that his sister?”

“Yes, my Aunt Mary. Lady Mary Carrington. She comes to see us sometimes, but not very often. She told Papa that I must learn to be a lady, and he could not teach me himself because he is a gentleman. I heard her say that she would like to have me learn with my cousins, but Sir Archibald would not hear of it. Sir Archibald is Aunt Mary’s husband.”

“Perhaps your Papa had a disagreement with him. You told me once he had fallen out with all his relatives. I am glad that your aunt does not take offence.”

“Yes, and Uncle George comes to visit us sometimes, too. More often than Aunt Mary. Only I should like to know my cousins, and my grandfather. Nearly all the girls here have Grandpapas, and cousins and brothers and sisters, and I have not even a Mama.”

Amaryllis was ready to expire with curiosity about the missing Mama, but looking down at the doleful little face she realised that this was not the moment to enquire. With her arm around Isabel, she brushed aside the gingery curls and kissed her forehead.

“Your Papa loves you enough for any number of relatives,” she assured her. “And I am sure your uncle and aunt are fond of you.”

“Uncle George sits me on his knee and gives me sugarplums to eat.”

“Then I am perfectly certain that he holds you in great affection,” laughed Amaryllis, trying to reconcile that picture with the top-o’-the-trees Corinthian she had known. “Now back to work. I have a little tune for you to play to celebrate your scale of C.”

The music lesson finished, she was on her way to her history class when Daisy called to her. Mr. Majendie’s groom had delivered a note.

“‘Tis from Lord Pomeroy, miss,” said the maid, suppressing a grin.

Amaryllis took it with a conscious look, impatiently thrust it into her pocket and hurried on. No doubt Bertram was proposing some quite ineligible rendezvous. Yesterday afternoon’s junketing at the castle had been enough to give rise to any amount of gossip, and she could not afford to provide further food for speculation. He simply did not realise that a schoolmistress could not behave with the freedom of a viscount’s daughter, nor how important the school was to her.

Pens sharpened, her pupils settled down to write an account of the history of Hedingham Castle. Judging by experience, Amaryllis knew a fascinating variety of misconceptions would surface, but for the moment all was peace. She took out Bertram’s letter.

A messenger from London, from his father, had just arrived. A number of urgent matters needed attention at Tatenhill, and though the Queen’s trial was in recess, the earl was not well enough to travel there and back. Bertram had already left for Tatenhill and did not know when he would be able to return. He begged her to believe that his sentiments remained unchanged, and that at a word from her he would send for her to come to Tatenhill where they might be married quietly at a moment’s notice.

Amaryllis stared blindly at the paper, disappointment, sympathy, and relief warring within her. Before she could analyse her feelings, a whisper caught her attention.

“Psst, Isabel! How do you spell ‘dungeon’?”

She smiled to herself. Louise was probably inventing marvellous stories about the unfortunate prisoners in the oubliette.

She turned to her preparations for the next lesson.

That evening, she wished she could share with Bertram his niece’s version of history. King John was a Bad Man, even though he fought the French, which was a good thing to do. He took the castle from the Earl of Oxford and threw the earl’s retainers in the ‘dungyon’—apparently Isabel’s spelling was not to be relied upon—and they were never seen again. When the earl recaptured his castle he threw King John’s retainers in the dungyon, and they were never seen again. Later on, King Henry threw some of the earl’s retainers in the dungyon because he had too many, but since it was the earl’s dungyon he rescued them with a ladder and gave King Henry all his money instead. Somehow, Louise had managed to connect to the dungyon even Queen Matilda’s death at the castle and Queen Elizabeth’s visit, four hundred years later.

Isabel’s essay, on the other hand, demonstrated a clear abhorrence of violence and sympathy for the underdog. Amaryllis wondered whether she had acquired her ideas from her father, or whether they arose from an instinctive revulsion against his harshness, though it never turned against her.

How little Amaryllis knew of the man!

On Sunday she had the opportunity to learn more about him, even before she saw him. His carriage, drawn by two dapple-grey and two sorrel horses, arrived at the school promptly at nine when she was scarce returned from church.

“I am sorry you should have been called so early from your bed on the sabbath,” she exclaimed to the coachman as Isabel’s chosen guests climbed into the vehicle.

“Nay, miss,” responded the thickset, middle-aged man, his eyes twinkling under bushy brows as he saluted her in a military manner, “though I’d a bin happy to for Miss Isabel. The master sent me over last night to put up at the inn, for he bain’t one to overwork man nor beast. He sent both pair o’ cattle to shorten the journey for the young ladies, so I’ll be staying again this night to rest ‘em.”

Having safely bestowed her friends, Isabel came up. “Thank you for coming to fetch me, Grayson,” she said, craning her neck to look up at his perch.

He beamed and saluted again. “Any time, Miss Isabel.”

They joined the others inside. The carriage was comfortable and commodious, though decidedly crowded since Isabel had invited as many friends as she thought could be squeezed in. Miss Hartwell sat with three girls facing the horses, and five more had piled themselves, giggling, onto the opposite seat. Skirts were crushed and bonnets knocked awry, but in view of the occasion everyone was good-humoured.

The grey, mild weather had continued, but that morning a wind had arisen. By the time they reached the halfway point, at Finchingfield, the clouds were gone and the sun shone in a pale blue sky.

Unexpectedly the carriage stopped, and Grayson called down, “I brung some bread, miss.”

“Oh please, Miss Hartwell, may we feed the ducks?” cried Isabel hopefully.

On receiving a surprised affirmative, the girls scrambled out. Amaryllis descended in a more dignified manner, accepting Grayson’s proffered arm. A charming scene awaited her. Before her spread a village green, with a large pond of clear brown water, sparking in the sun, where floated a multitude of ducks. Beyond, the cottages of Finchingfield straggled up the hill to the half-timbered Guildhall and the square Norman tower of the church at the top.

Grayson passed out three loaves of stale bread, and the young ladies advanced on the pond. As if repelling an attack, the ducks swam frantically for the shore, quacking loudly, struggled out of the water, and flocked towards the invaders. White domestic ducks with yellow bills, handsome brown mallards with glossy green heads and white-ringed necks, a solitary grey goose, they all squawked with joy as they recognised in eight young ladies a source of free food.

“Lots o’ folks feeds ‘em,” Grayson explained to Miss Hartweil. “They reckernise a loaf a mile off, I reckon.”

“What a delightful place,” she said. “And to think I have lived so close for six years without ever seeing it.”

Very soon the ducks were squabbling over the last crusts and everyone climbed reluctantly into the carriage. They set off up the hill.

“The goose bit me,” said Louise in great indignation, waving her ungloved hand. “There was a duck eating out of my hand, and then the goose came up and chased it off and bit me.”

Two of her fingers had red marks on them, but there was no real damage. Amaryllis could only wonder why the goose had chosen Louise to bite. She seemed to attract trouble as much as she sought it out.

They drove on for some time by way of country lanes and small villages. Just when the journey grew tedious, Isabel announced that the land to the left of the road belonged to her father. She sat forward on her seat to point out landmarks, and Amaryllis looked about with interest.

The gentle slopes of the low, rounded hills were mostly covered with wheat stubble, already being plowed under in places. Well-kept hedges divided the wide fields from each other, and here and there spinneys provided further protection against the wind, though this was not wooded country. Huge solitary oaks, beginning to lose their yellow-brown leaves, lent variety to the landscape. Amaryllis noted that the hedgerows, alive with fluttering, chirping birds, were weighed down with hips and haws and hazel nuts. According to country lore, such a bountiful harvest predicted a cold winter.

They rolled through the hamlet of Radwinter, and half a mile beyond turned left between gateposts of weathered brick. There were no gates and no gatehouse. “We’re home,” crowed Isabel. To either side stretched more harvested fields rather than the parkland to be expected of a gentleman’s residence, but the drive was gravelled and in good repair. It wound round the side of a hill, where, sheltered from the north winds, stood a rambling manor house built of oaken beams and richly red local brick. The tile roof sprouted a profusion of ornate Tudor chimney stacks. They lent the place an air of extravagant gaiety vastly at odds with what Amaryllis had discovered of its owner’s disposition.

The carriage rounded a circular sweep and pulled up before the front door. A pair of golden Sussex spaniels, snoozing on the brick steps, raised their heads and gazed at the carriage with liquid, expectant eyes.

“Juno! Jupiter!” called Isabel, struggling to open the carriage door in her hurry to get out. The dogs pricked up their floppy ears. “Juno, it’s me!”

They gambolled up, stubby tails switching madly, as she half fell out. She flung an arm round each silky neck and submitted to having her face washed by two loving tongues.

Amaryllis blinked tears away as the sight revived a painful memory. She had to leave her dogs behind when she removed from Hart Hall to London. Lord Hartwell had given her a lapdog but it was not the same, and she had soon made a present of it to an admiring friend.