Saddle the Wind (8 page)

Savill’s expression remained one of concern. He had arrived home after spending several days in London on business to find his daughter fretful, listless, and refusing to eat, and her nurse, Ellen Jessop, worried and at a loss to account for the situation. Now, with the nurse being questioned by the doctor, it emerged that Marianne’s condition had developed over the past three or four days.

‘But what’s
wrong
with her?’ John Savill said. He added, ‘As you know, Mrs Farrar has been here wet-nursing her. She took her own baby away just the other day. Could it be that Marianne was weaned too early? Perhaps she wasn’t ready.’

‘No.’ Kelsey shook his head. ‘I’m sure it’s not that.’ He was silent, then: ‘You say Mrs Farrar only recently took her baby home?’

‘Yes,’ Savill answered, to which Ellen added,

‘A week ago exactly, sir.’

After a moment’s thought Kelsey said, ‘When I’ve called at the house in the past they’ve always been together – Marianne and the Farrar child. Did they sleep together too?’

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ the nurse answered, ‘– here in the same crib. Miss Marianne always slept better like that.’

Kelsey nodded. Turning to Savill he said, ‘Then I should think that’s your answer. I can’t be sure, of course, but it seems to me that your daughter misses the other infant. She’s pining for her.’

‘Pining?’

‘Yes, if Marianne has spent almost every minute of her life with the other baby then she’s bound to miss her enormously. I’ve seen the same thing in the past, with twins – when one of them dies.’

Savill frowned. ‘And – and what happens?’

‘To the pining child? – the survivor? Oh, usually it gets over it all right – though I’ve known it to take quite a time.’

‘– You say the child
usually
gets over it. What does that mean?’

‘Well, the pining in itself isn’t dangerous. It’s just that its effects can sometimes – cause problems.’

‘In what way?’

Kelsey shrugged. ‘Well, according to the nurse the baby’s not eating properly – which commonly happens when a child pines. And of course at this very tender age a child is delicate and needs to be properly nourished. If not, it starts losing weight and then, of course, becomes far more vulnerable to any illness that might be lying in wait.’

Seeing the deepening concern in John Savill’s face the doctor quickly added, ‘Look, I don’t think you need to start worrying. The Farrar baby has only just left. Marianne will probably get over it in a few more days.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’

‘Then you’d do well to try to get the other child back for a while. It’s like weaning a baby from the breast. Sometimes a child needs to be weaned, slowly, from the
companionship of another infant.’ The doctor fastened his bag. ‘Look,’ he said, turning back to Savill, ‘I suggest you wait a day or two and see whether Marianne begins to get over it. If she doesn’t then perhaps you can get the Farrar child back to stay with her for a time. If you do that then I warrant that your daughter will pick up again in no time.’

A few minutes after Kelsey had gone from the house Savill was downstairs and reaching for his coat. ‘I shan’t be long,’ he said to Mrs Callow, the housekeeper, ‘I’m just going down the hill to see Mrs Farrar.’ He wasn’t prepared to wait to see whether Marianne began to grow accustomed to the Farrar child’s absence. Where Marianne’s health was at stake he wasn’t prepared to take any chances.

Sarah Farrar was drying her hands as she opened the front door to John Savill’s knock and it was clear to him that he had caught her in the middle of her work. After he had wished her a good afternoon he said apologetically,

‘Mrs Farrar, I’m sorry to disturb you. I wanted to talk to you for a minute – but it looks as if I’ve chosen the wrong time. I’ll come back when you’re not so busy.’

She smiled ruefully. ‘Wait for then, sir, and you’ll be waiting a very long time.’ As she spoke her small daughter – he remembered that her name was Agnes – came to her side and stood looking up at him with wide hazel eyes, curious to see him again. The woman spoke again.

‘Please, sir – come in.’

Urging the child to stand aside, she stood back from the door and John Savill thanked her and stepped into the little hall. Then she opened a door to a room on the left and gestured in. ‘Please, sir – do go in and sit down.’
As Savill entered the room she turned to the child and said softly:

‘Go into the kitchen and try to keep Blanche amused for a few minutes, Agnes, will you? There’s a good girl. Mr Savill wants to talk to me.’

The child protested at once, shaking her head: ‘Oh, must I?’ and quickly the woman lifted a finger to her lips. ‘Not so loud,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll disturb your brother. He was awake all night and he needs his sleep.’

As the child turned and moved into the kitchen the woman followed, and John Savill heard her say, ‘Now make sure you keep an eye on her. And don’t let her get up to any mischief.’

He knew a sense of reluctance as he stood there, feeling that he was intruding on the woman’s privacy. He looked around him. He had passed by the Coates Lane cottages countless times but he had rarely been inside any of them. Now, standing in the Farrars’ little front room he realized how very small the buildings were. And in the tiny, cramped interior the Farrars were raising a family of five children. His eyes wandered about the small room, taking in its cleanness, its neatness, the pictures around the walls. He noticed to his surprise that there was a piano. In the silence the solemn ticking of the old grandfather clock sounded unusually loud. He saw that the time was almost half-past two. The woman’s husband, Oliver Farrar, would be working in the gardens up at the house. He wondered briefly what life was like living with Farrar. He saw him from time to time going about his duties, and according to the head gardener he was a good worker, conscientious and efficient. Savill recalled how he had given him a rise in wages a while back, but that had been less for the man’s efficiency than for the inconvenience he had suffered in having his wife up at the house for so long.
Before that, soon after Mrs Farrar had gone to stay up at the house, Savill had made a point of seeking Farrar out, going into the garden where he was working and making known his appreciation of what he and his wife were doing. Farrar had politely replied that they were glad to do what they could. In the brief conversation that followed Savill had found the man to be intelligent and articulate, and his voice surprisingly pleasant. When Savill had left him some ten minutes later, however, it was with the feeling that he didn’t know him much better than he had before. The one thought that had stuck in Savill’s mind was that in spite of the man’s efficiency at his job he nevertheless seemed somehow a stranger to it, as if in a way some part of his mind was on other things.

The woman came back into the room, closed the door behind her and, a little shyly, asked him to sit. Thanking her, he took a seat on an old sofa, holding his hat between his hands. She looked nervous and a little worried, he thought, as she sat in the chair opposite. Then, before he could speak she said quickly:

‘You wanted to see me, sir. It’s – is it about Oliver, sir?’

‘About your husband?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, not at all.’

He suddenly realized that he had never really looked at her before. He had only ever seen what she stood for in his mind – a strong, intelligent woman, the woman who had so willingly come out in the snow that night to try to help his wife – and to be his daughter’s saviour. And somehow, because of her strength of will at that terrible time, because of the spirit she had shown and all that she had done since then he had always seemed to see her as a tall woman. And he could see now that he was wrong. She was quite small. It was partly her
carriage that gave the impression of height, he realized; the way she held herself, proudly erect as she faced him, as if her spirit alone might be shield enough against misfortune.

The thought came into his mind that at one time she must have been beautiful. Now, though, much of that beauty had been worn away, leaving just a shadow of what had once been there; worn away by child-bearing, hard work, care and worry. Even so, enough remained to show what she must have looked like as a girl. Her hair, a rich chestnut colour and plaited about the crown of her head, still looked thick and luxuriant, and her hazel eyes, in spite of the faint lines that now lay beneath them, were wide and clear. Her features were well-shaped and finely boned, though her hands were broadened and coarsened with hard work.

He smiled gravely at her.

‘Mrs Farrar,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to see you about your little daughter.’

‘Blanche … ?’ Her frown deepened.

‘Yes – Blanche.’ He hesitated for a moment and then began to tell her of Marianne’s pining and of what Kelsey had said. When he came to a stop the woman said nothing, waiting for him to continue. After a moment he went on:

‘What I’m asking is – is whether you would allow Blanche to come back up to the house for a while – to live there again – just to be with Marianne …’

‘I see.’ She paused. ‘For how long did you have in mind, sir?’

He shook his head. ‘Well, I can’t say exactly – but I’d hope it wouldn’t be for too long. As the time goes by I’d think we could begin to keep the two babies apart more and more, so eventually we can separate them completely – without Marianne fretting.’ He paused. ‘I
need hardly add that I’ll pay you something for your – temporary loss.’

She moved her hands in a little gesture of protest. ‘Oh, sir, I wouldn’t want to be paid for such a thing. And you’ve already done so much – what with the rent and Ollie’s rise in pay.’

He shrugged. ‘Well – anyway, you’d have the consolation of knowing that Blanche would be well looked after. She’d have the best of everything, I can assure you. And, naturally, I’d take full responsibility for all her expenses – her food, clothing, any doctor’s bills – everything.’ He waited while the woman sat in silence. Then he said gently,

‘Well, Mrs Farrar – what do you think?’

After a moment she said, ‘Yes, Mr Savill. We can do what you want, I’m sure.’

‘You think your husband will agree?’

She gave a slow nod, then she said, ‘I don’t need to ask Oliver. I know what his answer will be. It’ll be the same as mine.’ She smiled, an uncertain smile, then added, as if forcing a positive note into her voice, ‘Yes, sir, if you need Blanche up at the house for a time then you must have her.’

A few minutes later when all the arrangements had been made he prepared to go. Standing before her he reached out and took her hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you, so much.’

As he withdrew his hand his eyes were caught again by the pictures around the walls, and suddenly he was aware of a significance that had previously missed him. ‘It’s just struck me,’ he said, ‘– your pictures – they’re original oils – they’re not prints.’ Then immediately he regretted his remark, afraid that it might have been taken to imply that people in the Farrars’ situation shouldn’t have original paintings. The woman merely
smiled, though, and said, ‘Oh, yes, sir, they’re all original.’

He shook his head in a little gesture of wonder. ‘It’s like a picture gallery,’ he said. He paused. ‘I’m no expert, but they look to me to be of very fine quality.’ He noticed then that not all the pictures were framed – and that the frames that had been used were mostly very old and shabby or else had obviously been cheaply and simply made.

He took a step closer to the painting on the wall immediately to his right. It showed a tranquil scene of a shepherd and a flock of sheep on a hillside. He gazed at it for long moments then moved on a step to look at the next picture. It depicted a harvest scene, the workers, men, women and children, gathering up the stooks and placing them in rows. The scene was drenched in sunlight. Savill could almost feel the sticky, almost airless, heat of the day. Who could have done such work, he wondered – and then his eye caught the signature, written small in the lower righthand corner:
Oliver Farrar
– and beside it:
1879
. He turned to the woman.

‘Your husband,’ he said wonderingly, and shook his head. ‘They’re done by your husband. I had no idea he had such talent. They’re beautiful.’

At his words he saw pride in her eyes. She smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll tell him what you said when he comes in. He’ll be pleased.’

He turned and gave his attention to the paintings again, looking at them one by one as he moved slowly around the small room. There were nine of them altogether, landscapes, still-lifes, portraits, and studies of figures in domestic scenes.

‘When does he find the time to do them?’ he asked.

‘At the weekends – on his time off on Sundays. Just about any spare minute he can find.’

‘Does he sell them?’

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Sell them, sir? How would he do that?’

‘Well – I should think he’d be able to. And perhaps for quite considerable sums.’

‘– Really, sir?’

He nodded. ‘I would think so. I don’t know. I’m no expert, but I should think he could take them somewhere. To the city. To Bath or somewhere – or even up to London. There must be somebody there who would be interested.’

She smiled. ‘It needs time and money to go traipsing off like that, sir.’ Then she added: ‘Though it doesn’t stop him – not selling them, I mean. I should think whatever happened he’d still go on painting. It’s all he thinks about.’

Savill thought again of the time he had gone to talk to Oliver Farrar in the garden, and suddenly, now, he could understand him better. If a man had such a thing as this inside him – this talent eating away at him with no real outlet for it, it wasn’t to be wondered at if he gave the air of having things on his mind apart from gardening.

After a moment Savill prepared to leave and the woman opened the door. He thanked her, said he hoped he hadn’t taken up too much of her time.

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, sir. There’s a while yet before my other children get back from school.’

‘D’you have to go and meet them?’

‘No – Mrs Hewitt, my neighbour, will do that when she meets her own boy.’