Love's Way (11 page)

“I will be happy to take you over, Miss Barwick, to make up for having caused Ulrich’s indisposition,” Gamble offered.

“That’s not necessary,” I said, brushing the offer aside.

“It’s a longer trip than she’d like to make alone, and her brother is away,” Ulrich went on, still ignoring my presence. “Tell Ritson it’s Becky we want. She showed well at the fair. She’ll cost something, but there’s no stinting on your dog. If she’s wise she’ll take the bitch, Becky, so as to breed up her own dogs. I could train them to gather for her. It’s poor economy not having a young ‘un learning. If we had one now ...” he said, his voice petering out while his hands silently finished the statement for him. He flung them out, showing the callouses that had deformed his right hand from the constant pressure of the crook. It hung now over his wrist like an umbrella.

“I don’t intend going all the way to Stickle Tarn to buy a dog, Ulrich,” I said firmly.

“It’s the cost you’re worried about,” he said, reading my mind, or perhaps the worried lines on my forehead. “Ritson will give you credit.” This offending speech at least he directed to myself.

“It’s not the cost; it is the time. I’ll go to Axels, in the village.”

“Nay, I don’t want to be stuck with a fixer,” he said, in a voice that did not invite argument.

To terminate this unpleasant subject, I said, “It is the wall I have really come to see. I’ll arrange a substitute for Scout. Now, show me where the walls are breached, if you please.”

Three discrete spots were pointed out, great holes knocked out, plenty wide and low enough to allow sheep to scramble through. Ulrich repeated his thought that the mischief had been done by human hand—at night—as he would have seen anyone about the fells by daylight.

When I turned to go home Gamble walked along beside me, hampering my progress greatly, as I could not like to dart sheep-like down the steep slopes with him beside me. I had to lift my skirts and pick my way daintily, taking longer to get home than I could spare with such a busy day ahead of me, getting some sort of a dog to replace Scout and visiting fence menders to haggle them into a bargain.

I was not very good company for Gamble. He first tried to talk, but with my mind so preoccupied I made only desultory answers, so that he soon gave up trying altogether. He offered his hand solicitously to traverse bumps I would have taken at a leap without his help. This wearying mode of getting home was more tiring than my customary scramble. By slow degrees I abandoned it entirely, without quite noticing what I was about. As I leaped down the last two-foot rock and bounded to the meadow below, I was several yards ahead of Gamble. He came puffing up behind me.

“I must be getting soft,” he said. “It is kind of you to slow your pace down, but it would have been kinder to refrain from increasing it as we approached the end of the trail. I used to be pretty good at this, once upon a time.”

“You won’t be winning any fell races this year.”

“I did once, right here at Grasmere. You were too young to remember.’’

My knowing glance undeceived him as to my memory, or at least knowledge, of that season. “I was pretty unpopular with the local bucks, an outsider pushing in and winning the prize, but over in the west where I came from, the countryside is much wilder than these gentle slopes you have here.”

“You were wise to move then, as you can hardly manage these little inclines in your senility. Where exactly was your home?”

He took the rebuke in stiff silence, putting all his displeasure into one scathing look. “The Cumberland coast, where we have the more beautiful, wild scenery,” he answered, with what pride that is so much a part of those westerners.

“Most tourists prefer
our
landscape,” I retaliated.

“True, but I am surprised to hear Miss Barwick sunk to quoting tourists as a judge. Now that you are speaking to me again, pray permit me to apologize for having got Ulrich tipsy last night. I went to milk him for his knowledge, and felt I should provide something in return. Loll shrub was obviously a poor thing to have provided. I shan’t do it again.”

“Loll shrub? What on earth is that?”

“It is what we call red wine in India. I am planning to get into sheep farming and know Ulrich to be an expert.”

“I would have thought you would turn your time and attention to the copper mine.”

“So I would have done, were it not on the verge of running out. Old Carnforth insists it is good for another ten years, but the man I have had in to do surveys for me says otherwise. What bit of ore that remains is too deep and too thin a strain to be mined economically. Besides, I would rather be a farmer. My father raised sheep, so I am not totally ignorant.”

“What happened to your father’s estate?”

“I sold it after I came back from India—paid off the mortgage and had nearly enough left to buy myself a new jacket in London. The work of Weston. Like it?” he asked, fingering his coat.

“Exquisite.” We had reached the house. As I was feeling warm myself, I took for granted Mr. Gamble was also and invited him in for refreshment, to repay his civility in seeing me home. I also wished to find time to work the subject around to Lady Irene, in some subtle manner. He had not mentioned her.

“That sounds delightful. Would it be possible for us to sit in the garden? Yours is so lovely,” he said, looking to the left, where a tangle of honeysuckle fought their way to the sun, hampered by sweet peas. There were some dispirited roses in there somewhere.

I physically blushed for the condition of it. “It’s a mess,” I admitted quite frankly. “I was used to take some pride in it, but lately
...
We are very busy, you know.’’

He continued looking at it, seeming to inhale its jumbled profusion. “I don’t care for these new-fangled gardens where every bloom is placed artistically, all of a new improved variety, and nothing ever to be touched on pain of having your fingers cut off. May I?” he asked playfully, touching a honeysuckle, which he snapped off and smelled before sticking it into his vest.

“Of course. Nothing is improved here.”

“My mother had such a garden as this,” he said.

I had never thought of Mr. Gamble as having had a mother, which is rather absurd when I put it down in black and white, but you know what I mean. There was nothing of the boy in him—he was all mature man. “There were pretty little purple flowers in the autumn. What would they have been?”

“Asters, perhaps.” As he sank into a reverie of his mother’s garden, I walked to the backhouse door and called for ale, and a glass of lemonade for myself. We pride ourselves a little on growing lemons. We have the only trees for ten miles around, though of course Wingdale imports the fruit by the barrel.

When I returned, I noticed Gamble’s gaze had roved from the garden to the house—there was an angled view of the front and the side from where we were silting. The wistful air was still with him, but I think it was for the fading grandeur of Ambledown now, not his mother’s garden. He was too polite to say it, but he was surely thinking what I so often thought myself, that it was a pity to let such a fine home sink into disrepair. It was little better than a derelict in its outward appearance, though I will add it was better preserved within, where women were in charge of its upkeep.

The drinks arrived, carried on a tin tray by Effie, our kitchen servant, who curtsied prettily. Effie always made a good appearance, having been jawed into clean aprons and tidy hair by Nora and me. Never immune to a pretty face, Gamble smiled and made a few jokes with her. It, or something, put him in a good mood. He leaned back with a sigh of luxury and took a deep quaff.

“Miss Barwick,” he said suddenly, leaning forward in a businesslike way gentlemen seldom adopt with a lady, “I have a suggestion which your pride is not going to like. I suspect your reluctance to go over to Stickle Tarn and buy Becky has to do with a lack of ready blunt. It was foolish, inconsiderate I mean, of Edward to have gone on his tour without leaving you any emergency funds. I hope you will let me loan you the sum required till he returns. The mishap is my fault, and we are neighbours after all, not strangers.”

“No, no, it is not at all necessary,” I said quickly. “You are quite mistaken.”

“No, Miss Barwick, I ain’t,” he answered baldly. “No good sheep farmer, which I give you credit for being, would think for two minutes of buying a fixer unless he already had a good general sheep dog. If you plan to have only the one, it is one of Ritson’s Border collies you want. I see no other reason for not getting this Becky your shepherd spoke of than lack of blunt. I’ll go over to Stickle Tarn and pick her up for you. You won’t have the burden of making the trip with me, which is the only other reason for your refusal that
I
can think of.”

“It is kind of you to offer. Actually Edward left me plenty of money,” I lied glibly, “and if he had not, I have good friends from whom I would be more apt to borrow than from a
...
a...” I came to a dead halt. I could suddenly think of no word in the world to finish the statement that would not be an insult to my guest. Instead of helping me out of my dilemma he sat looking, first with interest, then gradually with amusement.

“Yes?” he asked, leaning back to wait.

“A westerner,” I finished, with an embarrassed smile.

“I expect that is as bad an insult in your view as what you originally intended saying, but I can hardly take exception to the term.”

“You must learn to despise anyone who comes from a point west of Thirlmere if you hope to settle peacefully here, Mr. Gamble,” I rallied him.

“I expect they’ll be calling me a demmed soft easterner, next time I go home to visit. I’m glad you have not taken into your head to be offended with my offer. I meant no harm, I assure you.”

I muttered some sound of approbation. His glass was about empty, raising a hope he would take his leave. I had done all that politeness demanded, and a good deal more than I ever expected I would. He did nothing of the sort, but crossed one leg over the other, hinted outrageously for a refill, and settled in for a neighbourly chat.

“It is unfortunate that we should be virtual strangers, Miss Barwick, particularly when we will soon have something in common. I refer to my new career as a sheep farmer. Where would you recommend I apply for fellside for grazing? Heaf, we called it in the west.”

“We speak the same language here in the east. We are not such total strangers as that.”

“Since Leroy sold his flock and Chapman is turning brewmaster, I might get the fellside between their two driftroads. I expect part of the herds might be up for sale next auction. Wingdale, I believe, is the gent who presently holds them.”

“I wish you luck of getting anything from
him,
Mr. Gamble.”

“Folks call me Jack,” he mentioned. “Yes, I know nothing will come at a bargain from Wingdale. What do you think of his notion of turning the place into a tourist mecca?”

“It would be a
desecration!
” I said.

“We had better put a spoke in his wheel then. Do others share your view?”

I was ecstatic to see he shared my view, for though I found much to dislike in the man, there was no denying he was the most influential person in the neighbourhood, or soon would be. “Certainly they do!” I assured him.

“Why do they go on selling to him then?”

I had so long carried my disgust and fear of Wingdale in my bosom that it erupted like a volcano. All my suspicions were aired—the barn burnings, and more recently the accidents to the wall and Scout on our own heaf.

“This should be reported to the authorities,” he said, greatly surprised that it never had been.

“Much good it would do. Wingdale
is
the authority. It is no secret he runs Grasmere.”

“That will come as news to my uncle. He is still the Deputy Lieutenant for the district of Westmoreland.”

“He has taken no active interest for a few years. It is Wingdale who has appropriated the function of appointing the magistrates locally, including himself. He has put himself in charge of the militia group we have here. It must have been done with your uncle’s agreement.” It had not occurred to me before, but once it entered my head, I began to wonder whether Wingdale had not paid the old earl some sum to acquire these perquisites.

“I wonder ...” Gamble said, then stopped, leaving me hanging in a limbo of curiosity. “That would explain the old boy’s having been able to obtain such staggering mortgages. I wondered that anyone would give him such huge ones. Anything about seventy-five percent is generally impossible to obtain. The Hall is mortgaged to the tune of ... well you would not be interested in that,” he said, very erroneously.

“Pay the mortgages off if you can, Mr. Gamble. Wingdale has some way of buying them from the bank and foreclosing at the first sign of non-payment. It is another of his tricks for stealing properties. I have wondered from time to time if he had not his eye on the Hall, as the star of his new village.”

A grim, mocking smile alit on Gamble’s swarthy countenance. “This promises to be a more interesting fight than I thought. I have taken up more than enough of your time, Miss Barwick. I must return home.”

“Is Lady Irene still with you?” I remembered to ask, before he left.

“She went home to replenish her wardrobe, but has promised to return soon.”

“How is Emily?”

“Blooming. Since I have been taking her about a little, she has turned into a butterfly. Now she is after me to take her dancing again tonight. Would you care to join us?” he asked.

I had never been more in charity with Gamble than I was at that moment. For that reason I hesitated, though I feared the dancing would occur at Wingdale Hause. “Where ...”

“Wingdale’s. I know you dislike the spot, but it will give us an excellent opportunity to observe The Enemy,” he said, smiling in a conspiratorial way.
“Do
come,” he urged.

I sat wavering on the edge of acceptance, wanting to go, yet not wanting to break my word to myself. “Or would Mr. Carrick take it amiss that I ask you?” he added, with a hesitant expression. “I shall invite him to join us, if you wish.”