The Forest (83 page)

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed with a smile.

‘Yet I liked what he said.’ Fanny turned to the landowner hopefully.

‘I agree, Miss Albion,’ he replied. ‘His theology may be deficient, but these peasants have a kind of wisdom, in their way.’

‘It is hard to believe,’ Louisa maintained, ‘that such a creature is a man at all. I believe he is a troll or goblin of some kind. I’m sure he lives under the ground.’

‘As a Christian, I may not agree,’ Martell laughed. ‘Although I know what you mean, my dear Miss Totton.’

It was time to depart now. The Tottons with Mr Martell would take the lane that led across by Sowley to Lymington; Mr Gilpin wished to take another track that would bring them across the heath towards the ford above Albion House.

Before they parted, however, Mr Martell came to Fanny’s side. ‘My stay here will shortly end, Miss Albion,’ he said quietly, ‘but I fully expect to return. I hope when I do I shall find you here and that I may call upon you.’

‘By all means, Mr Martell. Although I fear I cannot answer for my father, it seems.’

‘I can assure you, Miss Albion’ – he looked her straight in the eye – ‘I am quite prepared to brave his wrath.’

She inclined her head to hide her pleasure. ‘Then come by all means, Sir,’ she softly said.

Minutes later, with young Nathaniel tucked beside her, she was bowling across the wild heath with Mr Gilpin, her heart singing in the breeze.

Puckle stayed down in the ship for a while after the visitors had gone. Though he despised the Tottons, he had been glad to speak to Miss Fanny Albion. He had liked something in her blue eyes. But after her departure, as he gazed sadly round the great wooden space, the thoughts that had troubled him returned with even more insistence than before.

In a few months’ time Miss Albion would still be here, in the Forest. But where would he be, cut adrift?

What had he done? What could he do about it?

The chaise had drawn up by Albion House, and Mr Gilpin had just handed Fanny down and was conducting her to the door, when he turned to her casually and remarked: ‘There is something, by the by, which I had been meaning to tell you, Fanny. Do you recall that we spoke of your grandmother and of her marriage?’

‘Why, yes, indeed,’ she answered brightly. ‘We were going to look it up, were we not?’

‘Indeed. And as I chanced, a little while ago, to be examining the parish register in Lymington I took the liberty of casting back to see what I could find.’

‘And did you find it?’ She felt quite eager.

‘Yes. I think so, anyway.’ He paused. ‘It may come as a surprise, perhaps a shock.’

‘Oh?’

‘Of course, such connections in any family, especially in the maternal line are quite commonplace, you know. Entirely normal. You would be surprised.’

‘Please tell me, Mr Gilpin.’

‘It would appear, Fanny, that Mr Totton, your mother’s father, as his second wife, married a certain Miss Seagull, of Lymington. The family is well known, as you may be aware, in the town.’

‘My grandmother, the old lady who gave me this’ – she fingered the wooden crucifix round her neck – ‘was born Miss Seagull?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. Not of any gentle family, then. Hardly even respectable.’

‘I’m sure she was respectable herself, Fanny, or Mr Totton your grandfather would not have married her.’

‘Do you suppose’ – she frowned – ‘that Edward and Louisa know this?’

He smiled wryly. ‘I have always supposed that the Tottons were pleased by their connection to the Albions. That is all they think of.’

‘Perhaps the Seagulls …’

‘It is a long time ago, Fanny. I think you may assume that no one except ourselves has any knowledge of this at all. It is nothing my child, I assure you, of which you should be ashamed.’ This was the only time she had ever heard Mr Gilpin tell an obvious lie.

‘So what should I do?’

‘Do? Nothing. I only thought to tell you myself …’

‘To save me an embarrassing discovery, perhaps in front of some curious parish clerk.’ She nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Gilpin.’

‘Put it out of your mind, Fanny. It has no significance.’

‘I shall. Goodbye. And thank you for taking me to Beaulieu.’

She did not go inside at once, but watched the chaise roll away round the corner of the drive. Then she went over to a bench under one of the trees and sat there, considering this new revelation for a while. She wondered what Mr Martell, without a blot upon his aristocratic escutcheon, would think of the fact that she was connected, and closely, to the lowly Seagulls of Lymington.

‘I have great hopes’, said Mrs Grockleton, well before the summer ended, ‘that our situation is about to improve. Indeed,’ she asserted, ‘I think I may say, Mr Grockleton, that I have never been more happy.’ This proposition filled her husband with some anxiety: for Mrs Grockleton’s happiness was a fearsome thing to behold. ‘And to think’, she went on, for she was very honest about such things, ‘that we have that clever girl Louisa to thank for all this.’

As Mr Grockleton couldn’t for the life of him think why he should be thanking Louisa Totton for anything in particular, but was too wise to say so, he gave her a look of enquiry that seemed also to signal agreement and she soon rattled on.

‘I shall always be quite persuaded that it was Louisa who decided Mr Martell to take such an interest in Lymington. Now it seems that he has spoken to Sir Harry Burrard about standing for Parliament.’

‘That may not be Louisa’s doing,’ Mr Grockleton observed.

‘Yes, yes, my dear. It is, I do assure you. And if proof were needed, Louisa and Edward are invited to visit him at his place in Dorset. They leave next week. There now! I tell you, Mr Grockleton, he means to marry her.’

‘It would not be unnatural, since the Tottons had him staying in their house, to return the hospitality,’ her husband pointed out.

‘Oh, Mr Grockleton, you do not see these things,’ she cried. ‘But I do. And surely you understand what this means for us?’

‘For us, Mrs Grockleton? I do not think I do.’

‘Why Mr Grockleton, it means everything. Our dear, dear Louisa, my favourite protégée, my most talented pupil, married to the Member of Parliament – and a notable landowner – and all tied up in every conceivable way with the Burrards.’

‘And the Albions?’

‘The Albions?’ She stared at him blankly. ‘I fail to see the significance of the Albions. There’s only the two old people and …’

‘Fanny.’

‘Fanny, to be sure. Fanny. Poor girl. But please do not stray from the point. Fanny is of no importance. With Louisa and dear Mr Martell our friends, why you may be sure we shall be in the Burrards’ house in the twinkling of an eye. It will all be’ – she beamed at him – ‘so natural.’ She considered the prospect in the spirit of an explorer who has at last come in sight of a fabled land. ‘Next time Mr Martell comes here,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I shall give that ball and I truly think the Burrards might come.’

‘He had better come by autumn, then,’ the Customs officer muttered, although his wife did not hear him.

Even if she had heard him, Mrs Grockleton could have no idea what her husband meant by this cryptic statement; nor did he wish her to know. But it was this secret consideration that caused him, now, to raise a subject that had been increasingly on his mind. ‘I wonder if it has ever occurred to you, Mrs Grockleton, that the time might come when we decide to leave Lymington.’

‘Leave Lymington?’ She turned to look at him and it seemed that her eyes took a moment or two to focus upon him. ‘Leave?’

‘It is a possibility.’

‘But Customs officers are never moved, Mr Grockleton. You are here to stay.’

It was quite true, of course. A position like his led to no possibility of advancement or transfer. You kept it until you retired. ‘True, my dear. But we might choose to move.’

‘But we shan’t, Mr Grockleton.’

‘What if,’ he proceeded very cautiously, ‘I cannot say it is likely but what if, Mrs Grockleton, we were to come into money?’

‘Money? From what source, Mr Grockleton?’

‘Have I ever spoken to you, my dear, of my cousin Balthazar?’ The question was somewhat devious, since he had only invented this relative the day before.

‘I do not think so. I am sure you have not. What an extraordinary name.’

‘Not’, he said calmly, ‘if your mother was Dutch. My cousin Balthazar made a great fortune in the East Indies and retired to the north, where he lives in utter seclusion. He has no children. Indeed, I gather that I am his only kinsman. As I hear that he has a malady from which he is unlikely to recover, I think it possible that his fortune may come to me.’

‘But Mr Grockleton, why have you never spoken of him? You should go to see him at once.’

‘I think not. He greatly disliked my father although to me, as a boy, he was always kind. A year ago I wrote to him. He wrote back, fairly warmly, but said quite plainly that he did not desire any visitors. His malady, I suspect, makes him unsightly. Should he die and remember me, as I say, our circumstances will alter and I mean to retire.’

He watched her carefully, rather pleased with himself. It was clear that she believed him; and it was important that she should. For the last part of his statement was entirely true.

It had been his interview with Puckle that had finally decided him. As he watched the fellow’s obvious fear – and he had no doubt it was well founded – he could scarcely help thinking of what the forest smugglers would do to him, too, after his great attack upon them. Perhaps they would be cowed; maybe respectful; possibly even broken. But he was not so foolish as to rely upon it. No, he had considered, as the days and weeks passed, it was far more likely, one dark night, that he would be ambushed somewhere and receive a pistol shot in his head for causing them so much inconvenience. Was he prepared to wait for that? On balance, he had concluded, he wasn’t. He was brave enough to take on the smugglers, but if he won and made a small fortune from the business, then he would do as Puckle meant to do. He’d take his winnings and leave, get out, retire. No one would blame him and, frankly, he no longer cared much if they did.

As he certainly couldn’t tell his wife the truth, since she was quite incapable of keeping such a secret, it had occurred to him to invent his cousin Balthazar and the legacy as a way of preparing her for the possible change of circumstances. He watched her face, therefore, with interest; and after she had reflected a few moments, he saw her smile.

‘But, my dear husband, should this happy event transpire and you acquire a fortune, there would be no cause to leave Lymington at all. We shall be able to live here, with only a little more money, I promise you, in the greatest style. Oh, indeed …’ It was clear that prospects of future balls, graced by Burrards, Martells, perhaps even royal visitors, were entering her mind one after another, like swans landing upon a river.

‘Ah.’ This was not at all what he wanted. ‘But think of the places we could choose to live. ‘Why,’ he suggested cleverly, ‘we could even go to live in Bath.’

‘Bath? I have no wish to live in Bath.’

‘But Mrs Grockleton.’ He looked at her in astonishment. ‘You speak constantly of Bath. Surely …’

‘No, no, Mr Grockleton,’ she cut in. ‘I speak of Bath as a model for Lymington, but I have no wish to live there. Bath is already taken. Whatever our fortune, we should be nobody in Bath. Whereas here, with our many dear friends …’

‘Our friends here’, he gently suggested, ‘may not be quite as close as you think.’

‘They are as good’, she retorted sharply, with one of those flashes of brutal realism that could be so disconcerting, ‘as any that you and I are likely to get.’

‘Well, my dear,’ he said in a conciliatory tone, ‘there is no need for us to consider the matter now, I dare say, for perhaps my cousin Balthazar will leave me nothing at all.’

But if he thought this would do, he was sorely mistaken, for by now his wife’s hackles were up. ‘I am quite persuaded to stay here, Mr Grockleton,’ she said, with a deliberateness that struck a chill into his heart. ‘Quite.’ She looked at him solemnly. ‘I will not be moved.’

For a fleeting moment Mr Grockleton imagined himself alone with his fortune in London, without Mrs Grockleton, and a wistful look passed across his face. Then he corrected himself. ‘Whatever you wish, my dear,’ he replied, and prepared to leave for the Customs house. ‘Do you really think’, he asked, to change the conversation, ‘that Mr Martell is so taken with Louisa Totton?’

‘I saw them together in the High Street just the day before he left,’ she replied, ‘and I observed his manner towards her. He likes her very much. And she means to marry him, you may depend upon it. She is a clever and determined young woman.’

‘Do determined women always get their way?’ he asked with genuine curiosity.

‘Yes, Mr Grockleton,’ she answered quietly. ‘They do.’

Isaac Seagull was very seldom taken by surprise.

The August sun was shining pleasantly on the High Street. As usual, he was standing by the entrance of the Angel Inn, surveying the scene. There was a particular reason why Mr Seagull liked to be where he was and it had nothing to do with the street scene before him. It pleased him to stand there not because of what was in front of him, but because of what lay under his feet.

A tunnel. It ran from under the Angel, across the street to the smaller inn opposite. Then it proceeded down the hill all the way to the water. There were other tunnels and chambers leading off it. By this means, Seagull knew, he could move goods from his boats to inns and hiding places all over Lymington without anything being seen. When he stood where he did, therefore, and thoughtfully tapped his foot on the ground, he could feel like the master of some ancient labyrinth filled with secret treasure.

There was nothing unusual about the Lymington tunnels. Most of the coastal towns in southern England had them. Christchurch had an elaborate labyrinth centred on the old priory church. Even villages thirty miles from the coast, up on the chalk downs near Sarum, often had tunnels for hiding contraband. Indeed, at a time when the revenue men were having little effect upon the smugglers’ trade, some of these systems may have reflected the human love of underground passages and hiding places as much as any real necessity.

Isaac Seagull was thinking quietly about his plans for the coming months and the use to which his tunnels might be put when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Miss Albion was strolling, under a parasol, in his direction. This was hardly of interest and he paid no attention until she came directly up to him and asked if they might speak. She had, she said, a private question.

As there was nowhere very private inside the inn, he led her through the courtyard into a small garden just behind. No one was there but themselves.

Then she lowered her parasol, looked up at him with a curious smile and a pair of wonderful blue eyes, and asked: ‘Mr Seagull, are you my cousin?’

That surprised him, all right.

It had taken her a long time to decide to come to him. Ever since Mr Gilpin had told her about his discovery in the parish register she had thought about the matter. She had asked her father and, after she had returned from tending her sick friend in Winchester, her aunt, if they knew anything about her mother’s family; but it was clear from their lack of interest in the subject that they didn’t. As far as they were concerned she had been a Totton, which was well enough, and she had married an Albion, which was the only thing about her that really mattered; that was the end of it. Fanny had not relished the thought of going to inspect the parish registers herself. At the very least, if she wanted to find out anything more about her mother’s connections, this could be a tedious and unsatisfactory process. The sensible course, undoubtedly, was to follow Mr Gilpin’s advice and forget the whole business.

And that was what she had tried to do. With Aunt Adelaide back, the normal pattern of their life had been peacefully resumed. She had gone visiting with her Totton cousins, shown her sketches to Mr Gilpin for his approval and secretly hoped that, if Mr Martell did return to the area and called upon her at Albion House, her aunt would ensure that this time he was given a better reception.

Yet she couldn’t forget it. Not quite. She herself was not sure why. Perhaps it was just that her curiosity had been aroused, or that she wanted to know more about the mother she had lost. But if she was honest with herself, there was more to it than that and the truth was not very comfortable.

For if I really am connected to such people, she thought, then I am ashamed of it. I am afraid to acknowledge members of my own family. How can I defend such cowardice?

It was in this frame of mind that she realized there was one person who almost certainly knew: Edward’s and Louisa’s father, her mother’s half-brother – Mr Totton. Perhaps she could ask him. Yet here a certain discretion held her back. If he knew and had never spoken of it, he might have his own reasons. Living, as he did, practically in the town, Mr Totton might not thank her for making him talk about even a half-sister’s connection to its less respectable elements. Whatever her curiosity about the matter, she decided not to approach him.

That left only one other source of information, potentially the most dangerous of all: the Seagulls themselves. Even if there was a connection, did the present Seagulls know it? Perhaps not, or maybe they had chosen to keep silent. Or, yet another possibility, possibly they and others in Lymington knew, but it had never come to her ears. What would happen if she approached them? Would they suddenly claim her as one of their own, embarrass her, annoy the Tottons and – it came back to this after all – undermine her own position in society? It would surely be folly to go near the Seagulls.

She had proceeded no further with this delicate matter when news of a different kind drove it, briefly, out of her mind.

‘Fanny, have you heard?’ Her cousin Louisa had taken a chaise by herself and come all the way to Albion House to share the news. ‘My dear, dear Fanny, what do you think? Mr Martell has asked Edward to stay with him in Dorset. And he has particularly asked that I may come too. We are to leave next week. Oh, kiss me, Fanny,’ she cried in delight. ‘I am so excited.’

‘I am sure’ – Fanny managed to smile – ‘that it will be a delightful visit.’

She had wondered, after Louisa had gone, if perhaps she might also be invited, but days passed and no invitation came. She told herself it was natural that Mr Martell should repay the Tottons’ hospitality, yet still continued, despite her better judgement, to hope. Perhaps, she thought, Mr Martell will write or send some message. Although I really don’t know, she scolded herself, why he should. He didn’t, anyway, and ten days after Louisa’s visit, the two young Tottons left for Dorset, after which she felt very much alone.

She had been sitting outside, three mornings after Louisa’s and Edward’s departure, trying to read a book; and, hardly aware that she was doing so, she had started to finger the little wooden cross she wore, when suddenly the thought struck her. The old woman who had given it to her: how lonely she must have been. Did my mother ever go to see her, Fanny wondered? Probably not. I’m quite sure I was only taken to see her once. And why? Almost certainly because my mother was ashamed of her. She didn’t even want me to keep this wooden cross, the only thing the old woman was ever able to give her granddaughter. Here am I, she considered, feeling sorry for myself because I have not been invited to the house of a man I hardly know and who has probably forgotten me; but how many years was my grandmother left to sit in that house in Lymington all alone, denied the love and affection of a granddaughter, all for a worthless vanity. For the first time in her life Fanny realized that nature is as wasteful of the affections as it is of the acorns that fall upon the forest floor.

‘I don’t care what they think,’ she murmured. ‘I shall go into Lymington tomorrow.’

Isaac Seagull gazed at her with interest. He understood exactly the daring of her question, as she calmly set out across the great social chasm that divided them, like an explorer upon a flimsy bridge. This one’s got courage, the master smuggler thought. He answered her carefully, all the same. ‘I’ve never thought of it as such, Miss Albion,’ he said. ‘It would be very distant, you see, and a long time ago.’