The Forest (84 page)

‘Did you know my grandmother, old Mrs Totton?’

‘I did.’ He smiled. ‘A fine old lady.’

‘Was she not born a Miss Seagull?’

‘So I believe, Miss Albion. In fact,’ he admitted straightforwardly, ‘she was my father’s cousin. She had no brothers or sisters. That line of the family’s all gone.’

‘Except for me.’

‘If you wish to think of it that way.’

‘You don’t advise it?’

Isaac Seagull looked towards the end of the small garden. His curious, chinless face, in reflective repose, had an unexpected fineness, she thought.

‘I shouldn’t think, Miss Albion, that anyone in the town would remember about old Mrs Totton being a Seagull. I expect I’d be the only one who knows.’ He paused, apparently doing a quick reckoning. ‘You had sixteen great-great-grandparents and one of those was my great-grandfather. Only through your mother’s mother, too. No.’ He shook his head wryly. ‘You’re Miss Albion of Albion House as sure as I’m plain Isaac Seagull of the Angel Inn. If I said I was related to you, Miss Albion, people would just laugh at me and say I was getting above myself.’ And he smiled at her kindly.

‘So if my grandmother was the daughter of a Mr Seagull,’ she persisted quietly, ‘who was her mother?’

‘I can’t say I remember. Don’t think I ever knew.’

‘Liar.’

It was not often that anyone dared to say that to Isaac Seagull. He looked down into the girl’s startling blue eyes. ‘You don’t need to know.’

‘I do.’

‘If my memory serves me,’ he said reluctantly, ‘she might have been a Miss Puckle.’

‘Puckle?’ Fanny felt herself go pale. She couldn’t help it. Puckle, the gnome-like figure with the oaken face she had seen at Buckler’s Hard? Puckle, the family of woodsmen and charcoal burners, the lowliest peasants in the Forest? Why some of them, she had heard, used to live in hovels. ‘One of the Puckles of Burley?’

‘He was very taken with her, Miss Albion. She possessed a rare intelligence. She taught herself to read and write which, forgive me, none of the other Puckles has ever done, I’m sure. My father always told me she was a remarkable woman in every way.’

‘I see.’ She was dazed. Entire landscapes were suddenly opening up before her. In her mind’s eye she saw vistas of underground places, deep burrows, gnarled roots. They were peopled, too, with strange creatures – loathsome, subhuman, hag-like – who turned to look at her or came to her side, claiming her for their own. She felt a cold panic, as though she had been trapped in a cave and heard the flocking sound of bats. She, Fanny Albion, a Puckle. Not a Totton, not even a Seagull, but with the blood of the lowest charcoal burners running in her veins. It was too horrible to contemplate.

‘Miss Albion.’ He was calling her back to daylight. ‘I may be mistaken. These are only things I believe I heard when I was a child.’ He wasn’t quite sure if she had heard. ‘It makes no difference to anything,’ he told her kindly. But all she did was bow her head, and murmur some thanks; and then she departed.

A few minutes later Isaac Seagull was back in his usual place, enjoying the sun. The Albion girl’s secret was safe with him. He’d been keeping secrets all his life. But he contemplated her embarrassment with a philosophical wonder all the same. That, he supposed, was the price you paid for belonging to the gentry, where you had to display your ancestors like plumage and your acres were laid out for all to see. Too high a price, he reckoned; and not for the first time, the clever Free Trader shook his head at the all-embracing vanity of the landed class.

Personally, he was comfortable with all things dark and subterranean. Besides, his fortunes were always riding on the wild and open sea.

Fanny had gone halfway down the High Street when she encountered Mrs Grockleton, who greeted her most warmly. ‘You have not heard from your clever cousin Louisa, yet?’ She was positively beaming.

‘No, Mrs Grockleton. But I don’t think I expected to. Why do you call her clever, by the way?’

‘Oh, come now, my dear.’ Mrs Grockleton wagged her stout finger at her. ‘You and your cousin must not suppose you can hide your secrets from all us old people.’ She gave her a knowing look. ‘Methinks we may expect news from that quarter before long.’

‘I really have no idea what you mean.’

‘My dear child, I caught sight of Mr Martell with Louisa the day before his departure. Do not tell her so, mind. But these eyes can see. And sure enough, he has asked her to Dorset with her brother. Just the two of them. Had he not been serious I should think very likely he’d have asked you as well.’

‘I see no reason why.’

‘Oh, Fanny, you are a good and loyal friend, and I shall ask no more. But my dear child, we both know Louisa means to marry him and I can assure you, knowing the world as I do, that I think she will succeed.’ She patted Fanny’s cheek. ‘What celebrations you and I may enjoy with her then.’

She did not wait for any further comment, but billowed away, under full sail, up the street.

September came: the days were warm, but the oaks’ first golden leaves appeared, hinting at the sharp excitement of the rutting season ahead. At Boldre, Mr Gilpin’s school resumed, and the troop of girls and boys in their green coats were to be seen walking up the hill to Boldre church on its knoll each Sunday morning.

Among them was Nathaniel Furzey. The weeks of summer he had just spent with his own family up at Minstead had certainly done nothing to lessen his appetite for cheerful mischief. In school, he was more or less in order. Mr Gilpin had given him a book of simple algebra and geometry to study, since he had long ago mastered all the sums the other children were doing. Also, somewhat against his judgement, the vicar had agreed that one day a week he might read a history book. But the rest of the time, he was to confine his reading to the Bible. ‘For there is quite enough there, young man,’ the vicar told him sternly, ‘to occupy you for a lifetime.’

Even so, the schoolmaster found him a trial. He would start playing curious games with numbers instead of the problems set; if he was set to learn a text he would do so, but then rearrange the words to make foolish rhymes. More than once it had been necessary to punish him for practical jokes – and this was all since the term began. As for his questions, his infuriating habit of demanding the reasons for things instead of simply learning what he was told, the schoolmaster had to report to the vicar: ‘His mind is too active. It must be curbed.’

The Prides, however, were more indulgent. If Nathaniel tempted young Andrew into mischief there was always a wit to the business, which appealed to Pride the timber merchant. ‘Let them get into trouble,’ he told his wife. ‘I always did. Can’t do any harm.’ And if they got into trouble and were punished, which they were, Andrew and Nathaniel somehow knew, although nothing was ever said, that the grown-ups at home did not entirely disapprove of these activities.

But when, one afternoon after school, Nathaniel told Andrew about his new plan, even young Pride was awestruck. ‘You can’t do that,’ he whispered. ‘Not really.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because … well, it’s too difficult. And anyway, I daren’t.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Nathaniel.

September also seemed to have a strange effect upon Aunt Adelaide. It came out unexpectedly one evening when she and Fanny were sitting together in the usual way.

The shadows were falling, but Aunt Adelaide had decided not to light any candles yet and, sitting in her wing chair, was only dimly visible in the penumbra as the orange glow outside the windows slowly ceased. Apart from the soft ticking of the hall clock, the house was silent and it seemed that Adelaide might have fallen asleep when instead she suddenly said: ‘It’s time you married, Fanny.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I shan’t be here for ever. I want to see you settled before I die. Have you ever thought of anyone?’

‘No.’ Fanny paused only for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’ And having no wish to pursue this conversation just now she asked in turn: ‘Did you never think of marrying, Aunt Adelaide?’

‘Perhaps.’ The old lady sighed. ‘It was too difficult. There was my mother: I did not feel I could leave her and she lived such a long time. I was over forty when she died. Then there was this house. I had to look after this, you see. I was doing it for her and for the family.’

‘For old Alice, too?’

‘Of course.’ She nodded and then, with such feeling that Fanny could not fail to be moved, said: ‘How could I not keep Albion House as they would have wished? And whomever you marry, you will do the same, won’t you, Fanny?’

‘Yes.’ How many times had she made that promise? A hundred at least. But she knew she would keep it.

‘You must never dishonour your family, you see. When I think’, she burst out, as she had a thousand times before, ‘of that cursed Penruddock and his filthy troops, and my poor, innocent grandmother, made to ride through the night half naked like that. At her age. Thieves! Villains! And Penruddock calling himself a colonel, the common blackguard.’

Fanny nodded. This was her cue to keep her aunt diverted. ‘Was Penruddock at the trial, Aunt Adelaide?’

‘Of course he was.’ Fanny expected her aunt to plunge straight into a relation of the trial in the usual way, but instead the other fell silent for long moments and Fanny was wondering if she was going to have to listen to the tick of the clock, when Adelaide spoke: ‘My grandmother was wrong. I have always thought so.’

‘Wrong?’

‘At the trial.’ She shook her head. ‘Weak, or too proud. Foolish Alice.’ She suddenly burst out, ‘You must never give up, child. Never! You must fight to the end.’ Fanny hardly knew how to reply to this when her aunt continued: ‘At the trial, you know, she scarcely said a word. She even went to sleep. She let that liar Penruddock and the others take away her name. She let that evil judge bully them all and sentence her …’

‘Perhaps there was nothing she could do.’

‘No!’ her aunt contradicted with surprising vehemence. ‘She should have protested. She should have stood up and told the judge his court was a mockery. She should have shamed them.’

‘They would have carried her from the court, and sentenced her anyway.’

‘Probably. But better to go down fighting. If ever you find yourself accused in court, Fanny, promise me you will fight.’

‘Yes, Aunt Adelaide. I don’t think’, Fanny added, ‘it’s very likely I shall be in court, though.’

But her aunt didn’t seem to be listening to this last remark. Her eyes were gazing thoughtfully at the dimming light of the window. ‘Have you ever heard your father speak of Sir George West, Fanny?’ she now enquired.

‘Once or twice.’ Fanny tried to remember. ‘A friend in London, I think.’

‘A fine old family. His nephew Mr Arthur West has just taken the tenancy of Hale. As I mean to visit my old friend the vicar at Fordingbridge, which lies nearby, I thought to call upon him.’

‘I see.’ Fanny smiled to herself. Evidently her ruse to divert her aunt had not been successful. ‘You think Mr Arthur West is eligible?’

‘He is presumably a gentleman. His uncle is to leave him part of his fortune, which is ample. That is all I know, so far.’

‘You mean to inspect him, then?’

‘We shall, Fanny. You are to accompany me.’

September also brought Mr Martell back to the Forest. He came, this time, to stay with Sir Harry Burrard.

Fanny had heard a good deal about Mr Martell and his big estate in Dorset since Louisa’s return. ‘Oh, Fanny, I do declare I am in love with the house, and so would you be,’ she cried. ‘I was sorry you could not have seen it. The situation is so fine, with the great chalk ridges all around; and he is quite lord of the village, you know.’

‘The house is old?’

‘The part behind is very old, and that I own is dark and solemn. I should pull it down, I dare say. But the new wing has large rooms and is very fine, and has quite a noble prospect over the park.’

‘It sounds delightful.’

‘And the library, Fanny. How you would have loved that if you had been there. It has more books, all finely bound, than you ever saw, and on a table they place all the London journals, which are especially sent down, so that you can follow the world of fashion. I spent quite half an hour up there I swear.’

‘I am glad Mr Martell found you so studious.’

‘Oh, he is very easy at home, Fanny, I do assure you. Not at all the scholar. We amused ourselves in all kinds of ways. He draws – very well, I must say – and he even seemed to take pleasure in my poor efforts. This one in particular he liked.’ She had pulled out a small sketch. ‘Do you remember the day we all went to Buckler’s Hard?’

The sketch, Fanny had to admit it, was good. Very good. It was a caricature, of course, yet it caught the subject, as he seemed to her eyes, quite perfectly. It was Puckle. She had drawn him like a gnome, half tree, half monster. He was grotesque, absurd, rather disgusting.

Fanny shuddered. ‘You do not think it a little cruel?’ she asked.

‘Fanny, you cannot suppose I should let the fellow see it? ’Tis only for ourselves.’

‘I suppose that makes it different.’ But what would you say, she thought to herself, if you had any idea that I, an Albion, might be related to this peasant. And how, then, she wondered, would you draw me?

She also learned from Louisa that Martell had already written to Sir Harry Burrard about the parliamentary seat.

The very day that Mr Martell arrived at the Burrards’, Louisa came to tell Fanny that she and Edward were invited to dine there – ‘Sir Harry being our kinsman, you see.’ This did not seem surprising. And as Mr Martell was reported to be staying a week or more, she supposed that in due course he would call upon her. So it was with some dismay that she heard Aunt Adelaide announce: ‘We go to Fordingbridge on Tuesday, Fanny. My friend the vicar will give us shelter that night. In the evening, we are all invited to dine with Mr Arthur West.’

‘Might we not delay a little?’ Fanny asked. It was Saturday today. What if Mr Martell did not appear until Monday? Or Tuesday, in which case he would miss her entirely?

‘Delay? Why no, Fanny. We are already expected. Besides, I think we should be back by Wednesday afternoon as you have an engagement that evening in Lymington.’