A Dinner Of Herbs (55 page)

immediately as Mr.

Bentley. Since their meeting last November in the hotel dining-room, he had visited the farm three times,

supposedly to discuss cattle with her father. But on two occasions he had stayed to have a hot drink and

had partaken of it in the kitchen, the last time only a month ago, when Florrie, in large bib bed white

apron, had been making pastry at the kitchen table, and he had pointedly talked to her, which,

afterwards, had caused the boys to chip her and her to retaliate by saying, “Don’t be silly.

He is Lord

Redman’s nephew.” Whereup on her father had got on his hind legs and said, “And what

was Lord

Redman, anyway, two generations ago?” And then they had listened to the early

beginnings of the man

who now owned a very large estate on the borders of Northumberland.

“Good-day, Miss Roystan.”

“Good-day, Mr. Bentley.”

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Indeed, yes, and it hasn’t come too soon. It’s been an awful winter.”

She dismounted from her horse now, saying, “He loves to drink here.”

“Yes, they do, don’t they? But I’ve just come down from my friend’s cottage’ —he

pointed over his

shoulder towards the far hills ‘and her ladyship here’ —he patted the horse’s neck ‘had her fill up there.

At least as much as I would allow her, because if she had her own way, she’d take on so much I

wouldn’t even get a trot out of her.

Strangely,” he now added, “ I was going to call on your father today. I want a little more advice.

Picking his brains again. By the way, how is your family? “

“Oh, very well, very well, thank you.”

“That is good to hear. No one suffered from the cold?”

“No, not really. A few sniffs and sneezes.” She smiled at him and he laughed, repeating

“A few sniffs

and sneezes.”

“Are you going on, or is this your limit?”

“I had intended to go on,” “Are you making for the peak?” He turned his head and looked back

towards the hill in the distance.

“Perhaps, yes.”

“It’s lovely up there today, a grand sight, although I don’t know how my friend has stood the winter, his

first in England. You... you may remember, he was with me on that memorable day in the hotel in

Hexham.”

“Oh, yes, yes.” She nodded at him.

“The ... the ...” She could not say foreigner.

“American, isn’t he? American

“Yes, indeed, an American, and a very interesting one too. He rented the shepherd’s

cottage from me in

the autumn last year, supposedly for two months. Of all things, he was writing the history of the villages,

and the customs hereabouts. Apparently, his far forebears came from these parts,

although he doesn’t

seem to know much about them, as far as I can gather. He’s a great listener, but not all that much of a

talker, which is something of a diversity from his fellow-countrymen, and I’ve met one or two of them. I

have tried to get him to come down and meet your family, knowing that he would find

you all most

interesting, and no doubt you would find him that way too. But to no avail, he seems

disinclined to make

close contacts, although he walks the villages to gather all the data he can for his book or whatever he

intends to write. At present, he’s engrossed with Langley: the mill, the mine, and its surrounding land. “

He shook his head for a moment, saying, “He’s a most interesting man. And besides

writing, he’s a very

clever hand with a pencil. He’s done some wonderful little sketches of the Abbey in

Hexham and the old

houses in Allendale. But, strangely, he never seems to complete anything. Part of a roof and a door, or

a branch of a tree, and all on the bottom of the page on which he is writing. I think he’s very skilful,

though he firmly denies being either an artist or a writer. Well’—he jerked his horse’s reins’I’ll get him

down to be viewed by your family one day, I hope, because I cannot help but think he’s rather lonely up

there, and I can’t manage to ride over as often as I’d wish.”

There was nothing she could say to this unusual discourse, she could only nod her head.

As he raised

his hat with a “Goodbye, Miss Roystan, enjoy your ride,” he put his horse into a gallop to take the first

part of the hill.

Alone again, she led Ranger to the burn, then sat on the parapet looking down at the

reflection of the sun

dancing like stars on the water as it gurgled over the stones. He was a nice man was Mr.

Charles

Bentley. Wouldn’t it be lovely for Florrie if something happened between them. She felt no jealousy at

the thought. Florrie was her favourite sister. She was sweet and gentle, yet had a mind of her own, and

she’d be able to adapt to any company. Not so Maggie. Maggie was turbulent, and her

tongue could

have a flashing sting to it at times.

Ranger, unlike Mr. Bentley’s mount, knew when he had had enough and, tossing his

head, he came up

the bank and towards her, and she, taking up the reins, stroked his nose as she said to him, “There’s no

grass here for you to nibble; further up there will be.” And with this she stepped onto the low parapet,

then mounted the horse again.

There was no vestige of a road now, only sheep tracks. The land, open and bare, was

patterned with

the dull purply brown of dead heather and the burnt brown of crumpled bracken fronds,

until once again,

descending, she came upon an isolated piece of woodland, and when she emerged from it

and rounded

the bottom of a hill there, in the distance, she saw a cottage, so small it looked no bigger than the piggery

sheds at home.

She drew the horse to a stop, wondering how the American could possibly exist there all the winter. Of

course, there was plenty of wood from the thicket behind her, and there, not ten yards away, she could

see the glint of water tumbling down over an outcrop of stone.

But you couldn’t live on wood and water. He’d have to carry all his essential foods up here. And at

times he must have been snowed in for days on end. Strange man.

She avoided going nearer the cottage, and drove her horse towards the base of the hill beyond the

outcrop of rocks over which the spring tumbled. The hill curved sharply to the right and as she rounded

it the horse gave a loud neigh of fright and she a startled gasp for there, lying stretched across the path,

his head resting on a small mound, was the man she had been thinking about.

The horse’s neigh not only brought him out of sleep, but scrambling to his feet. Blinking, he looked up at

her, and she down at him.

She was the first to speak, saying, “I’m sorry. He was startled, the horse. He .. he might have trodden

on you.

I’m . I’m so sorry. “

“My fault.” He smiled quietly at her.

“Silly place to lie anyway. But the view’s good.” He thumbed over his shoulder, but

didn’t look away

from her.

“We’ve ... we’ve met before,” he said.

“Yes.” She swallowed deeply.

“In the hotel dining—room.”

“Yes, in the hotel dining-room. The day my friend almost knocked over your sister.”

Lost for the moment for something to say, she said quietly, “I ... I have just seen Mr.

Bentley down by

the burn.”

“Oh, yes, yes. He left me right here not long ago.” He too now seemed lost for further words, then

found a subject in the view. Turning from her, he stretched out his arm, saying, “Look at that. People

travel across continents and don’t see anything finer. All those hills springing up from the valley and

rolling on and on.” He glanced over his shoulder now, his arm still out-stretched as he said, “Do you

know that eternity is just beyond that last hill?”

She smiled faintly now as she said, “No, I didn’t.”

“Well, it is. I’ve tried to reach it. I walked a full day and a night and I might as well have just stood

here.”

She stared down at him. What a strange man he was, but nicely strange, and disturbingly strange. It

was his eyes. She could well imagine them looking into eternity. She moved in the saddle and the horse,

restless, took a quick step forward and his fore-paw rested on an open book. Pulling him up, she bent

over, crying, “Oh! dear me. I’m sorry.

I seem to be. “ She didn’t finish but, sliding from the saddle, she pulled the animal

backwards and

watched the man lift the book, saying, on a laugh, “ It’ll be worth more now than the

author ever

dreamed of, it isn’t often a horse puts its signature to a page. “

“Has he torn it?”

“No, no. Anyway, if it had, it would be of little loss. Horace Walpole stretches

imagination a little too

far, I think.. Do you read?

Have you read this? “He lifted up the book: The Castle ofOtranto.

“No, I haven’t. I ... I haven’t read anything by that author, but I have read Sir Walter Scott.”

She made the announcement as if with pride, and he nodded, “Oh, yes, your Sir Walter

Scott. Yes, he

is a good writer, but I find he drags things out. I suppose it goes without saying that you have also read

Miss Austen’s work?”

“Oh, yes, yes.” She smiled frankly at him.

“It goes without saying.”

“De-light-ful woman.”

She noticed how he drew out the word delightful, as he did most of his words, even the ordinary words

sounded different on his tongue. She found she wanted him to go on talking. And

remembering the

advice Miss Pritchard had given to all her pupils should they be in a drawing room and were called upon

to keep the conversation going, either to ask a question delicately, or bring in tactfully some interest of

your own, so now she said, “Referring to Scott, have you read Quentin Durward7 “ No,

no, I haven’t

read that one. “

“I... I should imagine that you might like it. It is full of foreign adventures.”

“And you think I might like foreign adventures?”

She felt colour rising to her face, but said, “Well, seeing as you’re not English, I... I imagined.. well,

perhaps, you might recognize some of the places.”

“You give me credit of being a great traveller, which I’m sorry I cannot claim, for, apart from

comparatively speaking short journeys I have made in my own country, England is the

first foreign place I

have visited.”

“Do ... do you like it?”

“Very much. But I have one grievance.” He inclined his head towards her and smiled.

“Your cold is much too cold.”

“Oh, yes, yes’-she returned his smile now-’especially up here.” As she spoke, a quick

gust of wind

came up the valley and caused her to shiver slightly, and he was quick to say, “You see, even on a day

like this, when the sun is warm, the wind reminds you that this is a cold climate.”

“Yes, indeed.” Again she felt at a loss for something to say. And so she turned to the horse and started

to walk it back round the hill. He walked with her, and when they came in sight of the cottage he said,

“It would be both American and English courtesy to offer you some refreshment but I

have no tea, I only

drink coffee.”

“I like coffee.”

Now why had she said that? Miss Pritchard would not have approved. She would have

put it under the

heading of unladylike behaviour, angling for an invitation. Even her mother would have exclaimed, “Oh,

Kate!”

He stopped and she drew the horse to a standstill, and once again they were looking at each other

straight in the eyes, and of a sudden she felt embarrassed and deeply ashamed as she

acknowledged that

she had for a moment hoped that he would offer her coffee.

She gripped the pummel of the saddle, saying, “I must get home.

Goodbye, Mr. Mr. “

“Please.” His hand was extended towards her.

“I always have a pot on the side of the fire; I’d be happy if you would join me.”

She turned her head and looked from his outstretched hand to his face again, then

formally she said,

“You’re sure it will not be interrupting your work?”

His head went up and he laughed outright, saying, “I don’t work. I haven’t any work.”

“Oh.” Slowly she turned the horse in the direction of the cottage, and they were walking side by side

when she put in quietly, “I understood from Mr. Bentley that you are writing about the history of the

county.”

“Oh, that. Well, if that’s work, then I work.”

As they neared the cottage she realized that it wasn’t so minute as she had first imagined.

It had a low

door, with two small windows to the right of it and one to the left, and there was a kind of byre attached.

When she drew the horse to a stop on the edge of the 387 rough slabs laid in front of the cottage, he

said, “You can tie him to the post there, or let him into the field with Daisy. Oh, Daisy would like that.”

He smiled at her and looked towards the dry-stone wall running parallel to the side of the cottage, and

she smiled in answer, saying, “Oh, I’m sure he would like to meet Daisy.” And on this

she walked the

animal towards a rough gate set in the wall.

There was no sign of another horse until he put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, then said, “She’ll be

away down the hill having a talk with Biddy.”

“Biddy?” She looked her enquiry, and he nodded at her, saying, “Yes. I have a goat, and she gives me

milk when I can catch her. See yonder’ he pointed ‘at the bottom of the hill, you see a black dot?”