Long Summer Day (34 page)

Through the open door Grace saw that the girl was startled by his eruption and wondered idly if she too had been engaged in eavesdropping but the possibility did not concern her overmuch. Half the Valley would know about it by now and she wondered, smiling one of her small, crooked smiles, what they would make of it, and whether they would credit her with a technique superior to Claire Derwent, the hot favourite in the Shallowford matrimonial stakes throughout the summer.

VI

N
o one could say how the news spread to every corner of the Valley in such a short space of time. Things usually did, of course, but not quite so rapidly as on this occasion. Perhaps the news was blown back on the Sorrel by the indoor staff at Heronslea, who heard Lord Gilroy and Cribb discussing it over luncheon, or perhaps Thirza Tremlett, the housemaid, had been keyhole peeping after all; or maybe Ikey Palfrey, an exceptionally observant lad, noticed the way Paul looked at Grace when he helped her mount in the forecourt, and told Gappy, the gardener’s boy, ‘It’s ’er, like I said!’, for Gappy, living on the Coombe side of the estate, had offered to wager on Claire Derwent. At all events, it soon got about and was common in the kitchens and barns.

Elinor Codsall heard it from Matt the shepherd that same afternoon and Matt must have got it from the wind gossip of Priory Wood pines for he had been outalong since first light and nowhere near the Big House. Elinor told Will as soon as he came into the kitchen and kicked off his boots and Will, for once, showed an interest in Valley tittle-tattle, exclaiming, ‘Well, I’m bliddy glad to hear it, midear! It’ll ha’ been lonesome for un in that gurt ol’ place, especially o’ nights, eh?’ and winked, half-expecting her to blush, but twenty-eight successive nights beside Will had used up Elinor’s blushes and all she said was, ‘Oh, giddon with ’ee! Come and zit down, man, I’ve made treacle pudding for ’ee!’

Martha Pitts heard it from the Bagman, who got it from one of the gardeners, Horace Handcock perhaps, who heard most things long before everybody else and Martha too was delighted. She had a great regard for the young city man who seemed so anxious to be a good landlord and had been hoping that the Big House would soon have a mistress to take some of the work off his hands. She told Arthur and Henry as soon as they came in at dusk and Henry said, ‘Well, damme, who’d ha’ thowt it? The Lovell girl, you zay, who was to have been wed to that waster, Ralph Lovell?’ His mother thought this a good opportunity to drive home a lesson on the subject of his bachelorhood and said, crossly, ‘Aye, and tiz time you thought about getting wed, boy! Baint the maids round here good enough for ’ee?’ to which Henry replied, with a wink at his father, ‘The maids is well enough as maids, Mother! Tiz when they cease to be maids they shows their true colours!’ and went on to talk about more serious matters, like the overflowing brook on the north slope of the wood.

Arabella Codsall learned it from one of the dairy-maids and it says something for the impression it made on her that she received the news in silence. There were times, these days, when Arabella retreated into silence, a change in her that disconcerted everyone at Four Winds. This is not to say she was mute. She still spoke approximately three times as many words each day as most people on the farm, but seemed to have ceased to expect replies to trigger off renewed outbursts and resorted to the long, muttered monologue, which family and staff could safely ignore. She had two repetitive themes nowadays, one directed at Martin, and the other at her younger son, Sydney. Martin’s began, ‘Well on the road to ruin we are, you, me, the boy, the farm, everything about us and I’m sure I don’t know what I’ve done to merit it …!’, whereas the monologue addressed to Sydney was more cautionary than abusive, beginning, ‘You see the fruits of the lusts of the flesh, Sydney! Take heed of a man like your brother Will, who can turn his back on bottom land like this and banish himself to hill country, bringing shame on us and a pauper’s grave on himself,’ and so on, a lamentation to which Sydney, ever a thoughtful, silent boy, would listen with rapidly blinking eyes, as his mother heaved herself about the big kitchen, going about her work with the joyless movements of a bond slave. But although Arabella made no comment on the new Squire’s intention to marry she thought with sour satisfaction of his choice, for Bruce Lovell’s reputation in the Valley was a scandalous one and it followed that his blood would bring tribulation to the deceitful young man at the Big House who had played his part in reducing her domestic audience to two.

News of the engagement reached the Potter Dell at dusk and Tamer Potter, lifting his nose, scented deprivation and strictures in the rumour. He had been relieved when the estate had been taken over by a bachelor, whom he sensed would regard him and his brood as characters and had done nothing since Paul’s arrival to check the march of dock and nettle across Lower Coombe fields. Now, perhaps, changes might be on the way, for it was not improbable that a man with a wife to support would see him for what he was, a cunning and indolent old loafer, and urge him on pain of eviction to plough fields that had long lain fallow, or engage in the back-breaking labour of hedging and ditching. For his part he wished the young fool up at the Big House would remain single and count his blessings.

Farmer Willoughby, of Deepdene, heard the news with satisfaction. His gospel was love and Mr Craddock’s championship of Elinor had established him in Willoughby’s heart as a patron of love. He knew nothing of the Lovell girl, whom the Squire was now said to be marrying; but was sure that such an upstanding young man would choose wisely and he wished both of them well, even in the matter of procreation which, strictly speaking, did not feature in Farmer Willoughby’s conception of love.

Edward Derwent was told the news at supper that night. His wife Liz should have known better than to broach the subject just as her husband was sitting down to a large helping of cold duck. She succeeded in demolishing his appetite with a single sentence for his eyebrows came together like the prongs of a badger trap and growling that here was another piece of woman’s tittle-tattle, he turned to Rose for corroboration. Rose confirmed the news. Alone among the Valley folk she was not much surprised by it for Claire had told her where the Squire’s interests lay on the night of the fireworks. Now she wondered, a little wretchedly, whether she should relay the news to Claire, in Kent, but Derwent, satisfied that there must be something in it after all, left his food untouched and stumped off to the yard, lighting his pipe and leaning against the oak pillars of the byre to contemplate his cow stalls with masochistic gloom. He found himself wishing that he had never set eyes on the young fool up at the Big House. It was a tiresome and troublesome business to be levered out of one’s comfortable pessimism only to discover that he had been right after all and would live and die as a tenant, without graduating to the status of freeholder for surely this was certain now. Marriage implied continuity and a married squire meant a squire with heirs to consider. In addition to that it was now painfully apparent that any heirs Craddock produced would not have Derwent blood in their veins, as he had once been led to believe possible. It would have been better, he reflected bitterly, if the estate had jogged along in its old pre-war muddle for all that recent changes brought to High Coombe were two cliff fields and the loss of his favourite daughter, currently wasting her time in a tea shop on the other side of England. Ordinarily he would not have cared two straws whom Craddock married but it was hard to have glimpsed such a bright prospect and then see it vanish, together with his eligible daughter. Standing there in the January fog, puffing clouds of strong tobacco smoke at his blameless cows, Edward Derwent silently cursed Paul Craddock, his bride-to-be, and all his works.

Sam Potter heard the news from Aaron Stokes gathering reeds for thatching and Sam threw down his axe and ran at once to his cottage to tell Joannie. Sam was delighted. Ever since he had become a father himself he wished all men to be blessed with children, and neither had he forgotten young Squire’s generosity and lack of condescension when he had called at the cottage on the day little Pauline was born. He got out the crown piece Paul had given him on that occasion and swung it from the string to which it had been attached through a hole, drilled in Queen Victoria’s diadem. Joannie, a practical soul, said it was fortunate Pauline’s arrival had preceded the Squire’s marriage for had it not the christening gift might have been bestowed on one of his own children but Sam laughed at this, pointing out that young Squire possessed more crown pieces than he could spend in a lifetime, and that when an heir did make its appearance there would be junketings on an unprecedented scale and free beer for everyone in the Valley. He then replaced the medallion in its box on the mantelshelf, gave a gleeful imitation of his child’s gurgle and returned to work in the wood.

Mrs Handcock, who surely should have been one of the first to hear, was in fact, one of the last, learning it from the lips of her own husband, Horace, when he was lying flat on his back in their double bed and she was struggling to free herself of her vast, whalebone corset. The act of undressing always occupied Mrs Handcock upwards of half-an-hour and during this period it was Horace’s custom to comment on life and the British Empire, with occasional snippets of local gossip gleaned from heaven knew where. His awareness of all that happened, or was about to happen, in the Valley was a source of reverent astonishment to his wife, and contributed in no small measure to her respect for him. He looked small and insignificant when he was in bed, with nothing but his bald head and side-whiskers showing above the coverlet but it was at these times that he was inclined to be more than usually oracular, staring up at the ceiling and giving her full benefit of his wisdom and logic. She still had nine hooks to free when he said, as casually as if he had been discussing compost, ‘You’ll have heard, no doubt, that Squire’ll be marrying Bruce Lovell’s girl before the daffodils be out?’ and she gave two yelps, one of surprise, and the other as her fingers slipped and she nipped a fold of flesh. He turned his mild gaze on her; ‘You mean you
haven’t
heard? You’ve been on top of un and baint put two and two together?’

‘I’ve heard no such thing,’ she said indignantly, ‘but I should ha’ said if ’er was marrying anyone it would ha’ been the Derwent maid!’

‘Then youm behindhand, considerably so,’ he told her. ‘Squire’ll wed the Lovell maid before you’ve time to bake a cake, and that’s a fact, so you may as well make up your mind to it!’ He did not need to look at her to know that his news had shocked her or that already, as she stood half-undressed, wrestling with her corset, she was boiling with uncertainty and resentment. This was understandable, he thought, for she was only a woman and therefore a fool, quite incapable of reasoning. Moreover, it pleased him that he had been the first to bring her the news for he was probably the only man in the world who could stem her panic.

‘Now dornee get in one of your ole tizzies, midear,’ he said, mildly, ‘for there baint a need! Taken all round tiz well for us tiz the Lovell maid an’ not the Derwent maid, because the Lovell maid, being a lady born, will be less likely to chase ’ee round than a varmer’s daughter brought up to work with her hands! Let your mind dwell on that for a spell and mebbe you’ll zee the zense in it!’

‘But it won’t be the same, Horace,’ she wailed, tearing at the last obstinate hook, ‘I’ve done for ’un ever zince he set foot in the Valley, and he’s no more’n a baby to be taking a wife an unsetting things like this!’ and she hurled the corset from her and burst into tears.

‘Babies grow up, and gets interested in young wimmin,’ said Horace, unmoved, ‘so thank your lucky stars he’s found someone who knows the plaace and not cottoned on one o’ them townees who would have brought her own housekeeper, along with her trousseau! Now put on your nightgown before you gets your death o’ cold woman, and take it from me we’m lucky it’s turned out as it has. The Lovell maid won’t be one to count the linen, nor look too closely at the tradesmen’s bills, I can tell ’ee that! You’ve had the ordering of the plaace all this time and you’ll have it yet, zo blow the bliddy candle out and go to sleep!’

As always she was able to retreat under the mantle of his profundity and before she slept the worst of her alarms were stilled. She had been very happy mothering Paul, and before Paul, the widower, Rudd, and before Rudd the tetchy Sir George on the rare occasions he was in residence but Horace was right, of course. A mistress had to appear sooner or later, and it might, as he said, have been worse, for at least Grace Lovell, a lady born, would be likely to leave the ordering of the house to servants. Then another, happier thought comforted her. There would soon be children about the house and she would like that very much and she smiled to herself in the darkness, listening to Horace’s heavy breathing as she recalled the width of the Lovell maid’s hips, in an attempt to estimate her child-bearing capacity.

The news reached Meg Potter when she was gathering herbs for her winter rheumatism cure. The Bagman, who had informed Martha Pitts, told her and passed on his way, leaving her to look for further enlightenment in the cards. Meg carried her cards everywhere, using them as a sailor uses a compass, or a stranger a signpost at crossroads. She now spread them on a beech stump, cutting, shuffling and recutting and three times out of five the face card that turned up was the Queen of Spades, Lady of Sorrow. This puzzled her, for she had gone to her cards on the day Paul Craddock first rode into the Dell and what they had told her had been very encouraging but today the turn up alternated between the Lady of Sorrow and the Knave of Diamonds, whom she recognised as her son Smut and no matter how often she reshuffled the result was the same. At last she gave it up, accepting the inevitable with the stoicism she brought to every turning-point in her life. There would be trouble in the Valley and soon it would involve the Lovell maid and Smut, in the proportion of about five to two. She went back to her herb collecting, wishing it could have been otherwise.