The Lovegrove Hermit (3 page)

‘One of the gardeners probably told him I was out and he
went off home,’ said Sir Ralph.

‘I suppose that’s what happened,’ said Rowland. ‘He just touched his hat to me but didn’t speak. I’ve always had the feeling Hartley doesn’t like me – at least he never talks to me.’

‘What nonsense, my dear!’ exclaimed Lady Denby. ‘
Everybody
likes you – how could they not?’ She turned to us. ‘I’d better explain that Colonel Hartley is our neighbour. He lives at Shelbourne, little more than a mile away. You’ll meet him at dinner tomorrow. He dines with us at least once a week.’

‘A fine fellow! said Sir Ralph. ‘Fought in the Peninsula and at Waterloo.’

I felt sure that the mysterious gentleman I had seen talking to the hermit that afternoon must be Colonel Hartley. Mention of his service under Wellington aroused my interest and I was about to ask for more details when the new arrivals entered the hall.

I took an instant dislike to Louisa Thorpe. Perhaps I instinctively sensed she meant danger. George sprang to his feet and smiled winningly. Mrs Thorpe was exactly the kind of woman he found attractive. He had never realized I knew of his visits to a certain apothecary’s widow in our
neighbouring
market town at home.

Mrs Thorpe was a small, plump, vivacious woman who must have been in her mid-forties if she had been at school with Amelia Denby but she looked considerably younger. She had a generous allowance of dark curls, large, rolling dark eyes to match and a ready, gurgling laugh which seemed to come from the back of her throat.

Her nephew, although as dark as herself, was a different
matter. Frank Lawrence was of medium height and slender build with an expressive face that was not strictly
handsome
, but undeniably attractive. He had charm and an easy, assured manner. He was about my own age.

Introductions were made and Lady Denby made it clear she had never met Frank Lawrence before, though she was as effusive in her welcome as usual.

‘You are the son of my dear Louisa’s eldest sister,’ she cooed. ‘I believe there’s quite a family.’

‘Oh, yes – I have three sisters and four brothers,’ he smiled.

‘I’m so sorry, but I thought your name was Frederick – I remember hearing tales of your exploits at school.’

‘I was christened Frederick, certainly, but I never liked the name so I got everyone to call me Frank.’

‘But that’s short for Francis!’ protested Elinor suddenly.

‘So it is but Fred is even worse than Frederick.’

‘Well, Mr Lawrence,’ said Sir Ralph, ‘whatever you want to be called I’m sure everyone here will respect your wishes. Liberty Hall – that’s what this house is – Liberty Hall!’

I fancied that Lady Denby thought the remark rather vulgar. I wondered, as the evening progressed, whether she might fear Mr Lawrence making overtures to Sophie. He certainly had more polished and engaging manners than Rowland. But although he spoke to my niece in a friendly manner he seemed content to leave her to her first admirer.

To my utter astonishment, Frank Lawrence seemed to direct all his charm towards me. I would have found him easy enough to resist were it not for the fact that he reminded me a little of Harry. Indeed, seen in candlelight across a room he made my heart turn over.

When I retired for the night I looked at Harry’s portrait.

‘No!’ I thought. ‘There could never be another!’

I feared George was smitten. There was little I could do except look on helplessly while he made a fool of himself. She was an impoverished widow and he was an eligible,
prosperous
widower and a pleasant, good-looking man at that. I could only hope that it would not lead to marriage as I knew I could never live under the same roof as Louisa Thorpe. I would have to leave Fairfield. And what of poor Sophie? How would she cope with a stepmother after being the sole focus of her father’s affections? She was too old now to send away to school. I let my imagination run on and made myself
thoroughly
miserable.

The following morning, Mrs Thorpe and her nephew were taken on a tour of the premises. The former had visited Lovegrove before but as everything was new to Frank Lawrence he had to be conducted over the house and allowed to express admiration for its antique splendours. Mrs Thorpe persuaded George to accompany them although he had already taken the tour. I fancied he did not need much encouragement.

I told Sophie to put on her bonnet as I intended to take a walk. There was no sign of Elinor or I would have asked
her to come with us. I was just thinking we had escaped Rowland Webb’s attentions when he bellowed a greeting from the path behind us and ran to offer us his company.

My heart sank. Rowland was in a cheerful mood and talked a great deal about nothing of consequence. I judged him to be harmless enough; amiable, good-humoured,
thoroughly
spoilt and not very clever. He had no intellectual interests except perhaps a liking for the theatre, which Sophie shared. His reading had been limited and he had never even managed to finish one of his mother’s novels. His world was bounded by horses, dogs, curricles and, I had no doubt, races, prizefights, gambling and other disreputable pursuits.

Sophie was no bluestocking; she liked dancing, pretty clothes and silly romances as much as any other 17-
year-old
but she deserved better than Rowland. She was far too young to settle down with someone so shallow.

We found ourselves near the hermitage.

‘Let’s go and explore,’ Rowland suggested. ‘Old Brother Caspar does a circuit of the park every morning so he won’t be back yet.’

‘Do you think we ought?’ I said. ‘It seems very like trespassing.’

But Rowland, ducking his head, led the way through the cave, which did not extend very far, and indicated a door which he flung open. This was the hermit’s cell. It consisted of a small, rough-walled room built of undressed stone, a flagged floor and a small window framed in ivy. There was a tiny fireplace with a kettle and a couple of pans, a few items of crockery, a narrow bed covered in a grey blanket, a small crude table and stool and a shelf of books. Everything was
very neatly arranged. At the end of the bed stood a trunk with a curved lid.

‘Not very interesting,’ said Rowland.

‘
I
think it’s interesting,’ said Sophie. ‘I never saw a hermit’s cell before.’

I was looking at the books: Shakespeare, Byron, Cowper, Gray; several of Scott’s novels, a few volumes of history and a number of classical works in Greek and Latin. A small,
calf-bound
volume lay on the table and I picked it up:
Goldsmith’s
Poems
. A slip of paper indicated a page about two-thirds of the way through the book. I glanced at it and saw that it had writing on it, and marked a poem called ‘The Hermit’ which I had never come across before. There was a tiny engraving of a bearded hermit in a long robe, looking remarkably like the inhabitant of this very cell, about to conduct a nervous young traveller thorough a sinister wood.

‘I thought you might find this poem very appropriate,’ said the message on the paper. The writing was neat and firm and could have been masculine or feminine.

‘Look at this!’ cried Rowland, picking up a long, battered, brass-bound mahogany box. ‘I think I know what this is. Locked, dammit – and look, the nameplate’s been removed.’

He showed me the box and there was a discoloured
rectangle
in the middle of the lid where a brass plate had once carried the initials or name of the owner. I too knew what the box contained. Harry had one very similar.

‘But what is it?’ asked Sophie. ‘Do tell!’

‘I think if you wished to inspect my quarters you might have had the courtesy to ask me first,’ said a deep, cultivated voice.

The hermit stood in the doorway looking displeased.
Rowland began to bluster.

‘Well, no harm done, old fellow. When we’ve got a hermit on the premises we can’t help but feel a bit curious….’

‘We’re very sorry to intrude,’ I said, ‘and we shan’t bother you again. It was a serious misjudgement on our part.’

‘Not at all. Now please leave me to my own devices. I ought not to be talking to you like this.’

I was not merely embarrassed, I was mortified, and hastily made an exit.

Rowland was not greatly troubled. ‘Don’t know who he thinks he is,’ he complained, as we followed the path to the lake. ‘He’s paid ten guineas a year and all found. What more does he want? He didn’t have to take the job. My parents paid for everything in that cell of his.’

‘Except his trunk and that mysterious locked box and the books,’ said Sophie.

‘And that’s all he’s got in the world so I don’t see why he has to demand courtesies from me.’

‘I think he’s a gentleman,’ said Sophie. ‘He speaks like one, he carries himself like one and he reads poetry and Greek and Latin.’

‘Well, whatever he was before he came here – and I doubt if ‘gentleman’ would describe it, he’s our hermit now – no more than a servant.’

‘And you don’t know anything about his past?’

‘No – Sir Ralph is supposed to be in possession of his real name but I don’t think that means very much. He could have given a false one and he didn’t tell him much more than that. Who would choose to live as a hermit unless he had some reason to hide away from the world?’

‘A broken heart!’ cried Sophie. ‘Perhaps his wife or
inamorata died.’

‘I’ve never heard of anyone going to such extremes, have you, Miss Tyler?’ He directed the question to me.

‘No,’ I said, ‘most people hide their feelings and get on with their everyday lives.’

‘Quite! I think there’s a much more sinister reason. In fact, I think I know who he may be.’

‘Really?’ cried Sophie. ‘Who?’

‘Well, he’s obviously done something very seriously wrong – something that might threaten his very life if he were caught. And, as you pointed out, he’s educated.’

‘Now I remember a notorious case in London a couple of years ago – just before this fellow came here to take up the post of hermit. A barrister called Webster shot his wife. He found out she’d been having an affair with another man. I remember his name because it’s so like my own. He
disappeared
without a trace and hasn’t been seen since from that day to this.’

‘And you really think your hermit is a murderer?’ Sophie was aghast.

‘It seems only too likely.’

‘But he seems so – so dignified and self-controlled.’

‘Who can tell what violent passions may seize a man when in the throes of jealousy – like Othello, you know.’

‘He seems so sad and sorrowful.’

‘Guilt and remorse!’

I thought Rowland’s theory decidedly far-fetched and lurid but whatever Brother Caspar’s history might be I felt ashamed of trespassing on his domain. There was some excuse for foolish, impulsive young people like Rowland and Sophie but none at all for me. I decided to write a short
apology and wondered if I might give him some small gift to make amends. But what could one give a hermit, dedicated as he was to a simple, ascetic life? It must not be anything of intrinsic value. Perhaps a basket of fruit….

Meanwhile I decided to visit the Lovegrove library and see if I could find a copy of Goldsmith’s
Poems
. There was half an hour before lunch; Rowland had taken Sophie off to the stables to see the horses, which seemed an innocent enough activity.

Most of the books in the library had been bought with the house and looked as though no one ever opened them. When I examined the titles I was not surprised. There were whole shelves of bound copies of
The Spectator
and the
Gentleman’s Magazine
, dreary law reports and
parliamentary
proceedings, sermons galore and countless dull works of theology and biblical history. At last I found a section devoted to poetic and dramatic works and discovered a copy of Goldsmith very similar to the one in the hermitage. I soon found ‘The Hermit’ and settled down to read it, seated
comfortably
in a high backed chair. I did not realise it screened me from anyone entering the room.

Presently two people came in, deep in conversation. It did not take me long to recognize the voices of my brother and Louisa Thorpe. The tour of the house had obviously come to an end, though apparently Frank had lingered with Sir Ralph, who was explaining to him the finer points of
medieval
combat.

‘Not at all the sort of thing to interest
me
,’ said Mrs Thorpe, ‘and dear Sir Ralph can be rather tedious at times. Amelia seems quite interested but, of course, such matters may be of use to her when writing her novels. She is related
to you, isn’t she?’

‘Yes. She is second cousin to Charlotte and me. We share great-grandparents.’

So far the conversation was so mundane that I was about to reveal myself but then I realized that to do so would cause us all great embarrassment.

‘Oh, dear Mr Tyler, my necklace has come adrift – I fear the clasp has given way. Can you rescue it for me?’

‘I’m not very good at this sort of thing but I’ll do my best. It’s a pity Charlotte isn’t here. She’s got very agile fingers.’

‘Oh no, Mr Tyler, I’m sure you are just as agile – in every possible way!’ Her voice was low and seductive. I could scarcely believe my ears, the remark was so blatant – so bold and vulgar. She had not known my brother for a day. I felt sorry for poor George, who was rather a fool where women were concerned. Once or twice I had been obliged to rescue him from some predatory and utterly unsuitable female who saw an agreeable rich man who would perhaps offer
matrimony
and a life of comfort. If the right woman came along I would not stand in her way but the right woman would
certainly
not behave like Mrs Thorpe.

‘There,’ he said, ‘I think the clasp is quite securely
fastened
now. You won’t lose your pearls.’

‘They are not real ones, I’m afraid. Mr Thorpe left me in a poor way when he died – nothing but a small annuity – everything else to his greedy family, who always hated me. Amelia was left almost as badly off but at least she was able to buy a decent house and she had her writing to sustain her. I was obliged to move to a small cottage and I sold all my jewellery including my real pearls.’

‘Well, these are a very good imitation.’

‘Do you know how to tell if pearls are real?’ she asked.

‘Aren’t you supposed to bite them or something?’

‘Yes, but not really a bite – just slide your teeth over them. Real pearls feel gritty. Fake pearls are smooth. Try it!’

I recalled that her necklace was quite short. I could picture her encouraging my brother to put his mouth close to her neck. There was a certain amount of giggling,
chuckling
and murmuring: an ‘Oh, Mr Tyler!’ and a ‘Very smooth indeed, Mrs Thorpe!’

I felt nauseated. Then, mercifully, the bell went for luncheon.