The Reckoning (17 page)

‘
His plan? Ah, that!' He laughed. 'I will tell you one day.’

‘
I thought we had a pact, Mr Farraline.'

‘
We have. But we didn't agree to tell each other
everything
–
only nothing that wasn't true.'

‘Unscrupulous!'

‘
It's the coarsening effect of the manufactories. I shall soon
cease to be a gentleman at all.'

‘That is nothing to boast of.'

‘
How cruel you are, Lady Rosamund. You shouldn't have
agreed with me.'

‘
You refuse to tell me what Mr Hawker's design is? But you
admit that he has one – that our acquaintance has not been
accidental?’

They reached the top of the path and he stopped and
turned to face her, suddenly serious, his burning blue eyes
looking directly into hers in a way that made something inside
her clench in a most extraordinary fashion – frightening but
exciting.

‘
No, it hasn't been accidental. But I have the strongest
feeling that you and I must have met at last, one way or
another. I don't believe that I could have gone through my
life and never known you.’

He held her gaze. The damp breeze coming up over the
headland pushed against her like a cold animal nudging, and
she could taste the salt of it on her lips, see the tiny droplets of
moisture catching and gathering on his eyelashes. Behind his
head the grey sky moved fast and indifferent, hurrying the
day on, as though impatient to be rid of summer altogether.
She felt her feet anchoring her to the path against the
pressure of time, which wanted to snatch her and Farraline
away, away from this instant which was so unexpectedly
important. She felt as though she had been stripped bare to
the soul. She felt that he and she were alone together on the
brink of some momentous discovery.

And then the others arrived, catching up with them, and
shook them loose from their foothold so that they slipped
again into the stream of time.

‘
It is very windy up here,' Hawker said. 'I'm afraid your
feathers will uncurl, Miss Morland.’

Moss took the cue. 'It's going to rain,' she said disappro
vingly. She was a stout little person, and not designed by
nature for hilly walks. 'This wasn't a good scheme of yours,
my lady.'

‘
Well, never mind it,' Rosamund said. 'I've seen the castle
now, so we can go back down again if you like. Is that what
you want, Sophie?'

‘
I am feeling a little chilly,' Sophie said apologetically.

‘
It won't do to be catching a cold, Miss Sophie,' Moss said
sternly. 'You wouldn't want to miss the Assembly tomorrow
night, would you?'

‘
She certainly wouldn't,' Farraline said. 'Fitz, what are you
thinking of? Take Miss Morland out of this cold wind at
once.'

‘
Of course – sister Sophie, come on this side of me, where
the path is firmer. Your feet aren't wet, I hope?'

‘
No, not at all. It was only the sudden breeze on the head
land that chilled me. I'm quite comfortable now, Mr Hawker,
thank you.'

‘
I'm glad. I shouldn't have wanted to miss the chance of
dancing with you tomorrow. You will allow me a dance, I
trust?’

He sounded quite genuinely concerned, and his tone was
gentler than Rosamund had ever heard it. She walked back
down the hill in silence, with plenty of things to ponder, and
Farraline seemed content to do without conversation, and not
to break into her thoughts.

*

One of the things which Nicholas liked most about going to school was that he now had a bosom friend – Henry Anstey,
seventh of the eight Anstey children, and Nicholas's exact
contemporary. They shared a desk at school, frequently did
each other's work, and outside of lesson hours did those
things together that boys do, got into mischief, and talked
endlessly. Both sets of parents were more than happy with the
association, and since Morland Place was so close to St
Edward's School, Henry was allowed quite often to go home
with Nicholas to supper, and stay the night.

In summer, school ended at six o'clock, and the walk to
Morland Place was only a mile straight across Hob Moor. But
today was a dark day – grey and overcast, though not actu
ally raining – and they had lingered a long time at the
crossing of Holgate Beck, seduced by the suspicion of a water-
rat's hole in the bank. By the time they set off again up the
track, it was growing distinctly gloomy.

The boys didn't notice, however, occupied as they were in
deep and far-ranging discussion.

‘
What was it Mr Cook was jawing about?' Nicholas asked,
slashing at the grass with a stick as he walked.

‘Weren't you listening?'

‘
No. Fender had a beetle he'd brought in his pocket. What
did he say?'

‘
He was warning us about something. He said it caused
blindness, consumption and curvy of the spine – or some
thing. And he said sometimes it made you go mad.'

‘I heard that part. But what is it we're not supposed to do?'

‘
I don't know. I didn't understand that bit,' Henry said
vaguely. 'I think it's something older boys do. But he said if you
do it, you don't grow up properly. You stay short all your life.'

‘Like Willens? Willens is short.’

They both giggled.

‘
And he's short-sighted. That's why he has to sit at the
front. Yes, I bet Willens does it.'

‘
I bet old Cook knew. I bet that's why he gave us the jaw.’

‘
D'you think Willens'll go mad?'

‘He is mad already!’

They made the joke last all the way to the crossing of the
track which led back down to the post road, coming out oppo
site the gallows-tree. Then a new topic presented itself.

‘
My father saw a ghost once on this path,' Nicholas said.

‘
A real ghost? Truly?'

‘
Well, his horse did, anyway. Down there by the road. It
stopped dead and wouldn't move. Papa said it must have seen the ghost of a hanging man. He says lots of horses won't pass
the gibbet.’

‘Do you believe in ghosts?' Henry asked.

‘
Oh yes. Morland Place is
full
of them,' Nicholas said
proudly. 'The servants are always seeing them. I never have
though,' he added sadly. 'P'raps I'm not old enough yet. But I
bet I will one day.'

‘
If I saw a ghost, I wouldn't be scared,' Henry said firmly,
feeling he was being left out.

‘
I bet you would,' Nicholas countered, as proprietor, so to
speak, with the honour of ghosts to defend. 'Everyone's
scared of ghosts.'

‘
I
wouldn't be. I'd just stare straight at it, and say
"Begone!", like they do in novels.'

‘You've never read novels, have you?'

‘
My sister Louisa reads 'em, and the ladies in the novels
always say "Begone!" when they want someone to go away,
and they do.'

‘
Well, a ghost wouldn't. They moan and rattle chains and
things.'

‘
If it started moaning and rattling at me, I'd go right up to
it and I'd go like
that
and like
that!'
He squared up,
Gentleman Jackson style, and delivered a left and a right to
an invisible opponent, to his own entire satisfaction. ‘I'd give
it toco all right!’

Nicholas was impressed, in spite of himself, by his friend's
style, and his objection was only half-hearted. 'I bet you
wouldn't. I bet –’

He broke off. They had been wandering on all this while,
and had reached the highest point of the stray, where a clump of trees and gorse-bushes gave the only cover in an otherwise
bare landscape. In the uncertain light, Nicholas had seen
something moving in the shadow of the trees.

‘
I say!' Henry breathed. He had seen it too. Both boys
stopped and stared. 'Do you think it's a ghost – like the one
your father saw?' Henry asked in a small voice.

‘
It was only his horse saw it,' Nicholas whispered. 'I don't
know. I don't know what ghosts look like.'

‘Aren't they white?'

‘I don't know. P'raps not
always.
What shall we do?’

Henry felt his reputation was at stake. 'Let's go and see.
And if it is a ghost,' he said stoutly, 'it had jolly well better
not start moaning at me.'

‘
Or rattling,' Nicholas said, trying to sound as resolute
as
his friend; but already his breath was coming shorter, and he could feel the tightness in his chest. His old enemy, asthma,
lay always in wait for him in moments of tension.

They walked towards the trees. The dark clouds pulled
down closer to the earth, increasing the gloom and making
everything look strange. The queer light gave a yellowish
tinge to all colours, and altered perspective, so that it was
hard to tell how far away things were. The Thing in the trees
moved again, shapelessly, and Henry suddenly found that he
was holding Nicholas's cold, damp hand. He hung onto it as
they moved nearer. He could hear Nicholas's breathing now,
the only sound in the still, grey dusk. Nearer, nearer ...

And then the Thing jumped out at them. Nicholas shrieked
high and shrilly, and Henry's heart seemed to stop dead, painfully, in his chest. His feet nailed themselves to the
ground, and he swayed with terror. In the same instant,
Nicholas tore his hand free and turned to fly, and the Thing
grabbed him round the waist and heaved him up off the
ground.

‘
Now then, young gent, just you hold on!’

The hoarse voice, the strange accent, proved it no ghost.
Henry saw instantly, with a flood of an entirely different sort
of fear, that it was a dirty and ragged man, a tramping man
perhaps, or a footpad – dangerous, probably, but human
after all, flesh and blood. He was holding Nicholas against
him with one arm, and trying to shove the other hand into the
various pockets of the boy's clothing. Nicholas, his feet off the
ground, was thrashing like a fish, but silently now, his eyes
popping as he tried to drag air into his rigid lungs.