The Forest (93 page)

Then he stepped through the door and she looked up in the most entire astonishment. He did not pause but moved straight to her and, as she started to rise, he took her in his arms and with a tender smile said: ‘I have come, Fanny, and I shall never leave you.’

‘But …’ She frowned, then looked desperate, ‘you do not know …’

‘I know everything.’

‘You cannot …’

‘I even know the dark secret of your Seagull grandmother and her forebears, my dearest.’ He shook his head affectionately. ‘Nothing matters, so long as I am with you and you are with me.’ And, before she could speak further, he kissed her and held her in his arms.

Fanny began to shake, then she broke down and, clinging to him, she wept and wept, hot tears that came in a shaking flood that would not stop. He did not try to soothe them but let them come and held her tightly, murmuring only words of love. And there they remained, they did not know how long.

Neither saw Aunt Adelaide return.

For a moment or two the old lady could not understand what was happening. Fanny was in the arms of a strange man, whose face was turned away. Who he was or why Fanny was clinging to him she had no idea. She put out her hand to steady herself on the arm of Mrs Pride, who was standing just behind her. Several seconds passed before she spoke.

‘Fanny?’

The two young people sprang apart. The man turned and looked towards her. Aunt Adelaide stared and then went very pale.

Whether she realized that this must be Mr Martell or whether, for a moment, she supposed that the figure in the picture she had seen at Hale had miraculously come to life and she was looking at Colonel Penruddock himself it was hard to guess; but whichever it was, as she gazed at him in horror, she hissed only a single word. ‘You!’

He collected himself quickly. ‘Miss Albion, I am Wyndham Martell.’

If Aunt Adelaide heard him, she chose to ignore it. Her face was white and wore a look of anger and hatred unlike any that Fanny had ever seen before. When she spoke, it was in a tone of contempt that she might have used to a thief. ‘How dare you come here, you villain! Get out.’

‘I am aware, Madam, that in the past there has been bad feeling between your family and that of my mother.’

‘Get out, Sir.’

‘I think it is unnecessary …’

‘Get out.’ She turned to Fanny now, as if Martell no longer existed. ‘What is the meaning of this? What are you doing with this Penruddock?’

It was not only the cold, angry question; it was the look of hurt, of shattered disappointment, of betrayal in the poor old woman’s eyes that was so terrible to Fanny.

She has looked after me all my life, Fanny thought, trusted me, and now I have done this to her: the most terrible thing that I could do – the worst, betrayal. ‘Oh, Aunt Adelaide,’ she cried.

‘Perhaps’, her aunt said, with a quietness that went like an arrow through her heart, ‘you have no need of your family any more.’

‘I do, Aunt Adelaide.’ She turned to Martell. ‘Please go.’

He looked from one to the other. ‘I shall come again,’ he said.

There was silence as he left.

‘Do you wish’, her aunt asked, still coldly, ‘to give me any explanation?’

Fanny did her best. She confessed that she had developed feelings for Martell without knowing about his ancestry. ‘I do not suppose’, she added, ‘that he knew of my ancestry either.’ She explained how she had discovered and, effectively, sent him away; and how she had not seen him since, until he had so unexpectedly walked into her cell.

‘You kissed him.’

‘I know. He was tender. I was overcome.’

‘Overcome’, her aunt said with bitterness, ‘by a Penruddock.’

‘It shall never happen again.’

‘He may return.’

‘I will not see him.’

Her aunt looked at her with suspicion, but Fanny shook her head.

‘Fanny.’ Aunt Adelaide did not speak with anger now; her voice was very quiet. ‘I am afraid that if you see that man again I can no longer see you myself. We shall have to part.’

‘No, Aunt Adelaide, please do not leave me. I promise that I shall not see him.’

Adelaide sighed. She turned towards Mrs Pride. ‘I am tired. I think we should go back after all. My child.’ She embraced Fanny gently. ‘We shall meet again tomorrow.’ Having, thus, done all she could to preserve the family, the old lady retired.

Fanny did receive one unexpected visitor that night, however. It was Mrs Pride. That worthy lady stayed with her nearly an hour, during which time she learned exactly what had passed between Mr Martell and Fanny, and saw only too well what the true state of Fanny’s affection was.

‘He came to save me,’ the girl wailed, ‘but it is impossible. I know it to be impossible. Everything is impossible.’ And though she held her, and let her cry, and comforted her as best she could, even Mrs Pride could not deny that what Fanny said was true. As long, she thought grimly, as the memory of Alice Lisle dwelt at Albion House, no Penruddock could ever come there. It could not be otherwise. Memories were long in the Forest.

The next morning Mr Martell came to call, but on Fanny’s instructions he was turned away. The same thing happened that afternoon. The day after, he tried to leave a letter, but it was refused.

There had been so many false alarms in the past that only when the doctor was absolutely certain that Francis Albion was dying and could not last more than a day or two did Mr Gilpin finally send a message to Adelaide.

The arrival of the letter placed the old lady in a quandary. She felt she must return to her brother yet did not wish to leave Fanny, the more especially since she dreaded the thought of her receiving another visit from Mr Martell. But when Fanny pointed out that there had been no sign of Martell for three days and once again renewed her promise not to have any contact with him, she felt somewhat reassured.

‘Besides, how could I bear to think that I had kept you, his only comfort, from him at such a time?’ Fanny cried. ‘Go, I beg you, and take my love to him so that he may know I am there in spirit if not in body.’

There was much truth in this and Adelaide agreed to go. There remained, however, the paramount question of the coming trial. It was only ten days away now. The best available lawyer was ready and waiting to defend her in court. But Fanny’s own state of mind remained unclear. One day she would seem to have the energy to defend herself, another she would sink into a lethargy so that, as the lawyer very fairly pointed out: ‘I cannot be sure what impression she will make in court, nor even how she will answer any questions put to her.’

‘No matter what my brother’s state of health,’ Adelaide assured him, ‘I shall return well before the trial. We shall have to do the best we can then. Perhaps,’ she added, ‘I shall bring Mr Gilpin with me.’

Upon these terms, therefore, Aunt Adelaide departed on the arm of Mrs Pride, leaving Fanny, for the time being, alone.

As the carriage rolled along the swift turnpike between Bath and Sarum, Mrs Pride had time to reflect carefully on all that had passed in the last few days. She only wished that she could see a solution to the terrible dilemma ahead.

About Fanny she had no confidence at all. The trial, it seemed to her, could very well go against her even if she made a strong defence. As to her state of mind and the presence of Mr Martell, both raised large questions to which she could see no solution.

As far as Aunt Adelaide was concerned, Mrs Pride didn’t blame the old lady for her view of Mr Martell. If the Prides still remembered the treachery of the Furzeys, how could old Adelaide forgive a Penruddock? In her place, thought Mrs Pride, she would have felt the same. As for finding him with Fanny like that … It must have nearly killed her.

Again and again, though, her mind returned to that tearful interview with Fanny. She had no doubt about the state of Fanny’s heart. She wished it were otherwise. But it was surely this impossible love that lay, at least partly, behind Fanny’s helpless condition. They reached Sarum in the evening without Mrs Pride seeing any way out of the dilemma.

They took the Southampton road out of Salisbury, over the high chalk ridge with its view over the Forest, and picked up the Lymington turnpike later in the day. By late afternoon, as the day was closing, they came along the lane to Mr Gilpin’s vicarage.

The vicar himself came to the door to greet them, which he did gravely, leading Adelaide straight to the drawing room, where he asked her to sit down. To her enquiry after her brother’s health, he paused a moment and then quietly told her: ‘Your brother died, just before dawn, this morning. It was entirely peaceful. I had been praying with him, then he slept a little, and then he slipped away. I could wish for such an end myself.’

Adelaide nodded slowly. ‘The funeral?’

‘With your permission, tomorrow. We can wait if you wish.’

‘No.’ Adelaide sighed. ‘It is better that way. I must return to Bath as soon as possible.’

‘You wish to see him? He is in the dining room, all ready.’

‘Yes.’ She got up. ‘I will see him now.’

Mr Gilpin had made all the arrangements and done so thoughtfully. When Adelaide had spent a little time alone with her brother he explained briefly the form of service he proposed at Boldre church, where the Albion family vault had been made ready. The Tottons, Burrards and other local families had all been informed and would be coming unless she wished otherwise. She herself was most welcome to stay at the vicarage, he added, but this, with many thanks, she declined as she preferred to stay in Albion House. Though some of the servants had been allowed to return to their homes in her absence, enough were still there to take care of her.

‘Promise me to rest at least a day or two before your return to Bath,’ he begged her. ‘You have time to do so.’

‘Yes. A day. But after that I think I must go. I cannot leave Fanny alone.’

‘Quite so. Perhaps, then, the day after the funeral, I may call upon you; for there are certain matters in that connection I wish to discuss.’

‘Of course.’ Indeed, she let him know, she was most anxious for his advice.

He saw her safely off, watching her carriage from his door until it was out of sight. Only then did he come back, cross the hall and enter his library, the door of which had been kept closed during Adelaide’s visit. He turned to the figure with whom he had been closeted for most of the afternoon. ‘The day after tomorrow, then. I shall talk to her. But I want you to come with me. You may have to speak to her too.’

‘You think it wise?’

‘Wise or not, it may be necessary.’

‘I shall be guided by you, then,’ said Mr Martell.

The funeral at the old church on its little knoll had been an intimate occasion. The Tottons, the various Forest neighbours, the tenants and servants of Albion House had all been there. Mr Gilpin had kept the service short but very dignified. He had alluded to Fanny in his brief address and in the prayers and, as they parted from Aunt Adelaide, the congregation did not fail to send her kindly messages.

Adelaide had wished to return quietly to the house alone when the service was over and this was respected, so that it was only she and Mrs Pride who were conveyed up the drive to the old gabled house. When she was installed in the oak-panelled parlour, Mrs Pride brought her some herbal tea and left her, so that the old lady could doze a while before eating a small dinner of ham and retiring early.

Mr Gilpin appeared at eleven o’clock the next morning and Adelaide was ready to receive him.

You had to admire her, Mrs Pride thought. As she sat, very erect, propped up with cushions in a big wing chair in the parlour, she might be frail but, despite all she had been through, she was sharply alert.

When Mr Gilpin entered, Mrs Pride started to withdraw, but Adelaide summoned her back. ‘I should like Mrs Pride to remain,’ she said to Gilpin. ‘We could not manage without her.’

‘I quite agree.’ The clergyman smiled at the housekeeper warmly.

‘Let me tell you first’, the old lady began, ‘how the case rests with Fanny.’

She described exactly the state in which Fanny remained, her inability to come up with any defence, the lawyer’s concern, the whole dismal business. She spoke briefly of the Grockletons’ kindness, but she did not mention Mr Martell. When she had finished Mr Gilpin turned to Mrs Pride and asked her if she had anything to add.

Mrs Pride hesitated. What should she say? ‘Miss Albion’s recollection is very precise,’ she said carefully. ‘Miss Fanny’s case seems grave. I fear for her.’

‘Her lack of defence is strange,’ Gilpin remarked. ‘I wonder, is it possible, do you suppose, that the lawyers have any thought that she might have – for whatever reason – actually taken this piece of lace?’

‘The idea is absurd,’ replied her aunt.

Gilpin looked at Mrs Pride. ‘I cannot say, Sir, what they may think. I do not believe, even now, that she has ever addressed the question.’

‘She is in a strange state of mind, most evidently. Almost, forgive me, a derangement. She is clearly, my dear Miss Albion, not herself.’

‘Quite.’

‘Yet why’ – he looked at her searchingly – ‘could this be? Is anything disturbing her mind, or her affections?’

‘Nothing of consequence,’ snapped Adelaide.

‘I believe, Sir,’ said Mrs Pride quietly, ‘that her emotions are greatly disturbed.’ She got a sharp look from Adelaide, but she had to say it.

And now started the most difficult part of Mr Gilpin’s mission. He began by making very clear to Adelaide the extreme danger he believed Fanny was in. ‘She is accused. There are respectable witnesses. Her position in society will not, in these circumstances, protect her. Indeed, as a point of honour, the judges might even sentence her to transportation, to show they make no distinctions. Such things have happened.’ He paused to allow this awful consequence to sink in.

But even he had not fully reckoned with the fixed nature of Adelaide’s mind. ‘Justice,’ she replied scornfully. ‘Do not speak of justice when I remember what the courts did to Alice Lisle.’

‘Justice or not,’ the vicar pursued, ‘that is the risk. You will surely agree that we must take every possible step to save her.’ This received a curt nod. ‘I believe I should accompany you to Bath. Would that be agreeable to you?’ Again a nod. ‘I must, however, caution you’, he went on, ‘that I do not believe my presence will necessarily induce Fanny to save herself – and save herself she must. I am now convinced that the answer lies elsewhere.’