Feral Park (3 page)

It was a very long walk to Turnington Lodge. Mr. Peppercorn would not hear of his daughter striking out “on shank’s mare” without accompaniment. But Anna was accustomed to solitary rambles. She enjoyed her frequent uncompanioned turns upon her father’s many-acred estate, and would often take herself by the road into the village of Berryknell, upon the stated pretext of purchasing a spool of thread or upon the unstated pretext of catching a glimpse of a certain clerk in a certain solicitor’s office. Anna relished the opportunity, as well, to sort out her crowded thoughts as she went along. As she climbed the downs, she sometimes fancied herself scaling the Alps with a staff and a mountain she-goat—the staff for negotiating the rocks and crags, the goat for the provision of milk to sustain her in her journey. Such a trip if undertaken in reality, Anna believed, would clear her head with great success; she would return to Feral Park restored and renewed.

As for the walk to Turnington Lodge, a compromise was reached between father and daughter: Anna would make the trip on foot over the downs, whilst her father’s man James followed a respectful number of paces behind. He would proceed quietly and without so much as a nod of acknowledgement to Anna’s presence. Should she happen to turn and glance behind her, he had been instructed by his employer to feign interest in something off to the side, or kneel at that instant to re-lace his boot. It should be plausible to anyone witnessing the trip that Anna’s father’s coachman and man-servant was only
by coincidence
peregrinating in the same direction as was Anna.

Whilst she was unhappy to have her independence compromised in this manner, Anna, in fact, found herself at one point along the way not unhappy at all, and even a bit comforted by James’ close proximity. It was in passing Canary Stream at the outskirts of Tatter Wood that she felt the sense of relief that came from knowing that James was near by. Within the wood lived a community of gipsies whose number proliferated by the week. “It is a veritable gipsy metropolis within that wood!” Gemma had remarked in amazement only the previous day. “And no doubt it is a metropolis with all manner of services: gipsy bank, gipsy post office, gipsy apothecary!” Anna at first had found more than a draught of wit in Gemma’s fanciful imaginings, but after the passage of several interminable minutes of the same, including the addition of “gipsy hot cross bun shop” and “gipsy dental appliances purveyor” to her lengthy list, Anna became quite bored with the whole topic, and gaped conspicuously, inadvertently sprinkling Gemma’s exposed right arm with droplets of yawn mizzle. Now thinking again of gipsy merchants and their sundry services brought a smile of amusement to Anna’s restive countenance and eased her in the transit. “Gipsy Inns of Court! Tee hee hee. Gemma is a clever one!”

Several Romany children watched with dirty faces and ragged smiles as first Anna and then her protector passed, some of the young ones emulating Anna’s gait, others mocking the distance deliberately placed between the two by putting equal space between themselves. Anna could not keep herself from looking at them, dresst as they were in the colourful, yet frayed and threadbare rags that passed amongst gipsies for clothing. Her heart was full for the children even as they insulted her with their disrespectful raillery. Anna thought to herself, “Do I walk thusly? Do I swing my arms in such a wide fashion? If so, I should look quite silly indeed! And James—does he march forward as would a wooden soldier? I should think not! I shall steal a glance to confirm my opinion. Now he kneels to lace his shoe! What a ridiculous pretense. I wish that he would not do it. Oh, goodness! The ragamuffins are pretending to lace their own shoes. And yet they have no shoes! They are wriggling their fingers above their dirty bare feet with no purpose but to ridicule my servant and myself. Oh, look at their dirty little feet! I will quicken my pace and be done with this most insalubrious portion of my journey.”

And then one final thought about the gipsy children: “I should like to take them all home and give them each a good scrubbing!”

Otherwise, the day was beautiful, the sky a shade of vivid blue that brought to mind cornflowers and bonnet ribbons for young girls possessed of bright, sparkling eyes of the very same cerulean hue.

Mrs. Guinevere Taptoe had been married to Roderick Peppercorn, younger brother of Henry Peppercorn, for all of seven months prior to his succumbing to putrid fever. Subsequently, Mrs. Taptoe married Mr. Byron Taptoe to whom she bore three children of which two lived to adulthood: a daughter, Guinevere, later to take the name Mallard in marriage; and a son, Maurice. A year after Mr. Taptoe’s death, also from putrid fever, Maurice departed and was not seen or heard from thereafter. Widow Taptoe sold her home for debts and delinquent taxes and in her diminished capacity was forced first to set up house in a tiny cottage in Berryknell, which once had belonged to a cooper (and seemed as it shook and shuddered in the wind to be constructed chiefly of barrel staves), and then to take up lodgings with her son-in-law Luther Mallard, daughter Guinevere, and their two surviving daughters (the firstborn, also named Guinevere, dying in toddlerhood of putrid fever). Anna for a time called her uncle’s widow
Aunt
Guinevere, until it was pointed out to her by Mrs. Mallard that her mother, having succeeded to a second marriage after the death of Anna’s uncle, was no longer Anna’s aunt, and that she should stop calling her thus. By the same token, Mrs. Taptoe’s daughter Mrs. Mallard was not Anna’s cousin, nor even a friend, but merely the wife of the owner of a draper’s and ironmonger’s shop in Berryknell Square, as well as the purveyor herself of ladies’ furnishings within, and if Anna did not wish to purchase something made of linen or iron she should stop loitering there and go elsewhere.

Until disabused of the error by her father, Anna had thought that Mrs. Taptoe lived still above the shop in the company of her daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters. It was here in the tiny Mallard parlour that Anna had upon occasion visited the older gentlewoman whom she once considered her aunt. Tea was often served during these visits, although duck pâté sandwiches were also offered from time to time, the idea of eating duck in the Mallard drawing-room never ceasing to amuse the readily-amused Mrs. Taptoe or her lady’s maid, who was later to accompany her mistress to the newly-let tenant cottage in Turnington Lodge. The servant’s name was Umbrous Elizabeth, the “umbrous” given for the intriguingly dusky tone of her complexion. Elizabeth had been with Mrs. Taptoe all of her life, her mother, a full Negro, having been in service since shortly after her escape from a slave ship and her passage to England under the auspices of kindly Quakers, with the daughter taking over as a maid-of-all-work when the mother passed away from putrid fever.

Anna, for all her love of a good, long walk, was, upon this morning, coming to regret how far she was required to go to visit someone who once resided so near to her own home in Feral Park as to be gained in a short stroll of less than a quarter hour. But the regret was tempered by an eagerness to see Mrs. Taptoe and to learn a few things about the woman’s situation that were not forthcoming from her tight-lipped father.

The cottage in which Mrs. Taptoe had several weeks earlier settled herself, though remarkably small, was warm and inviting, and Mrs. Taptoe, being informed of Anna’s approach by Umbrous Elizabeth, stood to greet her guest upon the front step with a welcoming smile and beseeching arms. Once enfolded, Anna was hugged for a very long time, pushed snuggly against the pillow of Mrs. Taptoe’s plump and expansive bosom. “It has been ages! Oh, let me look at you! Is that your man James over there? Send him to the stable round back. My man Tripp has snuff and a pack of cards for piquet.”

Mrs. Taptoe led Anna through the passage and into the small front parlour of her very tiny cottage, dipping her head to avoid striking it upon a lowbutting beam in the very low ceiling.“I live in a leprechaun’s house, as you see!” the old woman remarked. “Is it not wee? With tiny pictures on its tiny walls, it is wee and twee, all of a piece, is it not?”

“Yet quite lovely,” said Anna, wedging herself into a small chair (for all the furniture in the room was reduced in size—no doubt, thought Anna, to accommodate the tight circumstances).

“Tea, Elizabeth, if you please. In the small teacups. We have not room upon this miniature tea table for the larger ones.”

With a curtsey: “Yes, ma’am.”

“I must tell you the truth of the house, Anna. It was formerly let to dwarves.”

“Dwarves? My goodness!” exclaimed Anna, not believing her friend in the least, and then with an open smile: “It pleases me so much to see you so happy and so well, Mrs. Taptoe.”

“Anna, you may return to calling me
Auntie
if you wish, for I have all but disowned that lot which lives above the shop in the loud village. They are an unloving and ungrateful bunch, if I may speak freely. Every last one of them down to the younger of those two girls has treated me not as the grandmamma at all, but as a stranger—a veritable stranger in their midst! I was never so happy as when I learnt that this cottage was available to let, and that the dwarves, who previously occupied it, had moved on in search of a much smaller house that did not so terribly expend them in the upkeep.”

“So there really
were
dwarves living in this house before you?”

“Oh, dear me, yes. About this tall. No. More about here.” Mrs. Taptoe placed her hand out to her side to shew the measure. “Oh, Anna, my dear, you are looking more beautiful than ever. Are you in love? Now you hold your answer. I will return and retrieve it later! For the present, tell me every thing there is for me to know about Feral Park and your good father, who was once my dear brother-in-law, and all that I may have missed in my removal to this out-of-the-way little place upon the grounds of Turnington Lodge, and I promise to listen attentively as would any good hostess who entertains only once every ten or twelve weeks and is ravenous for the society of someone who does not serve tea or shoe horses.”

“But Mrs. Taptoe—have Sir Thomas and Lady Jane never invited you to dine at the manor house upon the hill?”

“An invitation has not yet come. I think, therefore, that their charity extends only to the letting of this thimble house. Yet, it bothers me not in the least, child, for what should I say to them, even over tea? ‘Though the cottage is small, your generosity is large,’ to be followed thereafter by half an hour of the most awkward silence? ’Tis better for all of us this way. So tell, tell, my dear, all that you may wish me to hear.”

“First I should say how very sorry I am to learn of the difficulties that have risen between you and your daughter and son-in-law that have necessitated this removal. It both shocks and saddens me”

Mrs. Taptoe nodded and dabbed a handkerchief at the corners of each eye. “And me as well. It was heartbreaking for me to realise that they cared not a tittle for their own flesh and blood. There is talk in the village that I was turned out. Well, I was
not
turned out! I withdrew by my own choice and am all too glad to be gone. I wish, in fact, to take up my first husband’s name to be done with even the reminder of them. I think I should like to be Peppercorn again, and how would you like
that
?”

“It is a good name, in my biased opinion,” said Anna with a wink.

“You are a good girl. La! You are all of a
woman
now. I recollect that upon your last visit to see me your breasts were pert and still wanting of some increase. But now they are in full blow. Now if you are lucky the growth will stop there. My back ails me monstrous from carrying these oat bags so much about!”

The topic coloured Anna’s face to a noticeable extent.

“Oh, dear, I have mortified you with the frankness of my talk. Shall we not speak so liberally? If you prefer, I will hold my tongue and present a more dignified and refined picture of the dwarf-cottage hostess.”

Regaining her composure, Anna replied, “No, no, no! I should like you to speak freely of whatever comes to mind. To be sure, that is one reason for my visit: to discover why you have parted company with your daughter and sonin-law, and to learn all there is that you may wish to tell me. I have no desire to see our morning together stultified by excessive propriety! Let us, therefore, banish propriety altogether if you wish it!” Anna said this with a flourish of the hand to demonstrate her conviction that such unbridled talk as Mrs. Taptoe was wont to exchange neither frightened her nor assaulted her sensibilities. In letting fly the hand, a small candelabrum was knocked from its console and sent to the floor. “Dear me. I am so very sorry.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear. I have struck that very candelabrum and in the very same manner. One has not room in this tiny house to even turn round. Yet I do so love it, for it is mine (so long as I am able to pay the rent) and I am no longer in the debt of my daughter and son-in-law. Now, my dear girl, are you altogether certain that our conversation may proceed without harness? There is, I must note, a trickle of perspiration put out by your left temple, which would by custom indicate a nervous aversion to free-flowing engagement. I am most familiar with the condition, for my very own daughter Guinevere has found herself too often similarly afflicted in my presence. I recall that once when the two of us were shopping at the greengrocers I remarked that a brace of radishes reminded me of one of the more bulbously piquant aspects of the male anatomy, although I must confess that my observation was expressed a bit less delicately than the way I express it now. I believe the word that I chose was ‘twiddle-diddles.’ Are you familiar with the term, my dear?”