The Weeping Ash (23 page)

“Lord bless you, I daresay the old lady won't be a mite of trouble,” she added with a smiling, disdainful glance toward the bed, where the lady in question was already avidly gulping down bread and milk. “Biddable as a lamb, she do seem, compared with some I've had charge of.”

“Indeed? You appear young to have had such wide experience,” Fanny replied politely. “I am afraid I have not been told your name, Miss—?”

“Baggot, ma'am—Miss Lily Baggot,” said the nurse with a simper. “Mercy, yes, I've seen a-many into their coffins, my name is well known in Gosport, I promise you—Cap'n Paget knew what he was about when he hired me to come and take charge of the old lady. I'll take famous care of you, shan't I, Missus What's-Your-Name,” Nurse Baggot went on, removing the empty bowl from her patient so briskly—indeed before the old lady was quite ready to part with it—that a small quantity of milk was spilled on the sheet. “Tt, tt, missus, we shall have to be carefuller than that, shan't we?” she observed, playfully slapping the wrist of her patient, who flinched back in alarm. “No spilling on sheets, ma'am, or Master'll be
that
put out! Now then, here's the hot water; I'll just wash your face and get you all redd up for the day.”

Fanny, at this hint, was about to withdraw, but from the doorway inquired softly, on an afterthought:

“Nurse, can you tell me my mother-in-law's name? I know it is not Paget, for she married again after my husband's father died.”

“Ay, but master don't care for her other name,” the nurse said with a grin. “He gave word as we were to call her Missus Paget here; and it don't make any odds to her, for the old girl's as deaf as a post, you could call her Mrs. Punchinello and
she'd
never know any different—would you, dear?” she added as she vigorously hoisted the old lady up in bed, propped her with a bolster, and removed her nightcap.

Fanny took herself slowly and thoughtfully downstairs. She was not sure that she liked Mrs. Baggot, who had a high color, a mass of tightly curled glossy black hair, sharp dark eyes holding a somewhat predatory expression, a wide mouth that smiled a great deal, displaying two gold teeth, without giving the impression of real good nature, a buxom hourglass figure, and an arm like a leg of mutton. Doubtless the nurse was strong and capable at her job, but Fanny wondered, rather doubtfully, whether she could be trusted to be altogether kind to the old lady. However so long as Thomas's mother was frequently visited by other members of the family and spent a fair proportion of her time downstairs, it should be possible to ensure that her treatment continued all it ought to be.

Now Fanny recalled that one of her original motives in paying the visit had been to discover whether by any chance her mother-in-law possessed a clock she did not immediately need that might be spared for the use of Tess. Having now observed the simplicity of the old lady's appointments, Fanny doubted the utility of this errand but was turning to retrace her steps when she encountered Mrs. Lily Baggot coming down with the empty breakfast bowl.

“Not that it ain't Tess's job to fetch it,” remarked the nurse with a kind of cheerful irritability, “but a body can wait half the morning for
he
r
—and meanwhile there's nowhere to lay so much as a hairpin.”

“Do you by any chance know if my mother-in-law has such a thing as a spare timepiece—to save my troubling her again?” Fanny inquired, thinking how strange and grasping the request must sound.

“Lord bless you, no, ma'am! Master stopped off in Chichester yesterday and sold all her trunks full of bits to an auctioneer,” said Mrs. Baggot carelessly, going on down the stairs. “He said there was no space for her to bring more'n a couple of gowns here, and no need, either, for she'd not be stirring out o'doors, there's none as knows her in this town, and she might as well keep her chamber. All he kept back was a few trinkets, as much as'd go into a dressing case, but her household gear was sold off—no sense in keeping a passel of old, worn things as'd only remind her of times gone past, he said.” And Mrs. Baggot bustled off with a flounce of her striped poplin skirts.

Fanny returned to her own chamber and took a pair of unworn silk stockings from her drawer. She had been saving them for some special occasion, but it seemed unlikely that such an occasion would ever arrive, and she felt no particular pang at parting from them.

Downstairs, ten minutes later, Fanny was putting on her shabby pelisse when she was startled to hear the nurse say to Mrs. Strudwick:

“Did master come back from Shoreham? I must speak to him.”

“Ay, he came back; he's in his garden room. But no one's allowed to disturb him
there
, not nohow.”

“Well, he's going to hear from
me
,” said the nurse, and swung, on her heel.

“Don't blame me if you come back with a flea in your ear!” Mrs. Strudwick called after her.

Aghast, Fanny watched through the drawing-room window as Mrs. Baggot marched down the yew walk and rapped on the door of the garden room. This was a small stone building about fifty yards away from the house, at the northern end of the yew walk. It had been built so as to overlook the valley and commanded a magnificent view from the window on the valley side. Fanny had gathered that the lady for whom the Hermitage had been built, Madame Reynard, had used the little place for a summerhouse and (so rumor suggested) a rendezvous in which to meet her lover, Lord Egremont, who had visited her by means of an underground passage leading from a vault under the building to Petworth House. The passage was there still but Thomas had had its door nailed shut and the trap door to the vault secured with a padlock. He himself used the garden house as a study and workroom. Here he did the mill's accounts and went through a good deal of press gang business also, for the impress rendezvous in the town was merely a dismal little room hired from the Bull Inn. Members of his household were strictly forbidden to enter the garden room at any time (except for Jem bootboy, who was periodically summoned to make up the fire) and Fanny would not have dreamed of setting foot in the place. Indeed she carefully avoided that end of the yew walk unless certain that Thomas was away from home. To see Mrs. Baggot imperiously rap on the door and then open it, plainly without even waiting for a summons, turned Fanny pale with fright. She lingered, petrified, expecting to see the nurse come flying out with scarlet cheeks the very next minute, but, astonishingly, this did not occur, and the door was closed. Possibly she was discussing with Thomas some medical aspect of his mother's condition.

It occurred to Fanny that now would be an advantageous time for her own errand, while Thomas's attention was otherwise engaged, and she went quietly out by the back door and along a brick-laid path which skirted along the edge of the shrubbery, beyond the view of the garden-house windows. Thomas had been persuaded by Mrs. Socket that there would be nothing improper in Fanny's going unescorted to the Rectory, since a path led there from the Hermitage garden, crossing a disused graveyard, so that it was possible to walk from one house to the other without setting foot in the public street. Unfortunately the door through the wall that led into the graveyard was situated in the corner directly beside the garden house, and Thomas was only too likely, if he saw Fanny setting off in that direction, to demand why she was going and find plenty of reasons to prove that her errand was unnecessary and trivial. On this occasion she really did not know
what
she could tell him if he discovered her… But luckily the blind was drawn over the garden-room window and she was able to slip past unobserved, through the door, and into the graveyard, where she drew a breath of thankfulness.

Any time now spent away from Thomas seemed like a holiday. While he was at home his eye seemed to follow and oppress her wherever she went, whatever she did. He could not, these days, lay claim to her in bed, for it was too close to the birth of her child, but because of this sexual abstinence (enjoined by Dr. Chilgrove) his spirit loomed all the more heavily. In one way Fanny dreaded the baby's birth, because, once that was over, there would be nothing to prevent Thomas from resuming his marital rights.—She really did not know how she was going to bear that, but hoped and prayed that God would send her the necessary strength and endurance.—On the whole, though, she looked forward to the baby. It will give me something of my own, she thought optimistically; one small province in which I am the authority; forgetting, in her inexperience, what terrible importance Thomas attached to this event, this child who was to be the perpetuation of his image. Secretly, Fanny would have preferred that the baby should be a girl; she felt that she could understand a girl better, manage her better; hardly guessing at the disgrace that would await her should she produce a fourth daughter.

When she arrived at the Rectory she was dismayed to see that a harnessed pony and trap waited on the neatly raked gravel sweep by the front door. Evidently Mrs. Socket was just going out, for she appeared in the doorway wearing an old blue velvet riding dress and cloak and a silk and whalebone calash to protect her cap.

“Aha, you are come in a good hour, my dear!” she exclaimed, however, on seeing Fanny. “I am just about to try my new equipage, and you can come with me!”

“New equipage, ma'am?”

“Why, yes, Lord Egremont has given it to me—is he not a love? The kindest man in the world, I do believe. Hearing that the old pony was almost past work, what must he do but give me this beautiful dapple-gray animal and a charming new cabriolet to go with it. Will you not come for a drive in it, my dear?”

“Oh!” Fanny was immensely tempted; the thought of going out for a drive, having a chance to get a glimpse of the countryside, which as yet she hardly knew, on such a charming spring day, was just what she needed to refresh her spirits. But, remembering the certain intensity of Thomas's disapproval, she said forlornly:

“It is exceedingly kind of you, ma'am, but I believe I must not. Thomas does not like me to go abroad in—in my condition. He thinks it immodest.”

“What, is that ogreish husband of yours putting his foot down again? Fiddle-dee-dee, my dear! A drive is just what you need—your cheeks are by far too pale. In any case, Captain Paget could find nothing to cavil at on this excursion, for I am not going through the streets but merely into Petworth Park. So you may accompany me without the slightest anxiety. Nobody will see you. And furthermore I will wrap you in a shawl so that your condition is not observable. Pringle, help Mrs. Paget into the carriage.”

Thus urged—indeed, almost ordered—Fanny had not the heart to refuse. Comfortably swathed, she settled in beside Mrs. Socket, who, an accomplished driver, took the reins, while Pringle accompanied them, riding beside on the old pony—“Just to open the gates, like,” as he put it.

“What he means is that he is not going to let me out of his sight until he is sure of the new pony's manners,” Mrs. Socket cheerfully remarked. “But I am very sure that Lord Egremont would not bestow on us any animal that was not guaranteed sweet-tempered and biddable beyond the ordinary—he knows what Martin is like as a driver, Lord Egremont has the very highest regard for my husband, and no intention of letting him break his neck.”

Fanny looked about her with lively interest as they drove up the Rectory lane, trotted a few yards northward along the London road, then turned left through a gateway in an immensely high wall and threaded their way among the outbuildings of Petworth House. They passed a farrier's forge, a coach house, a couple of cart sheds, and what looked like servants' cottages with neat little vegetable gardens. A man was walking through one of these. He glanced up at the sound of hoofs and, recognizing Fanny, gave her a flashing smile.

“You know Lord Egremont's gardener?” inquired Mrs. Socket, a little surprised, as they went on.

“Why, yes—that is—I have spoken to him; he was to have worked for my husband but—but Thomas found him too independent.”

“Of course—I recollect.” Without further allusion to this episode, Mrs. Socket went on, “Now here, you see, we pass under the pleasure gardens of Petworth House; this tunnel leads us directly into the park.”

Fanny had been somewhat exercised in mind as to whether they might run any risk of encountering the inmates of Petworth House—the very last thing Thomas would wish for her, she knew full well; so she was much relieved to find they had such an inconspicuous means of ingress to the park. They drove under a stone archway and along a tunnel wide and high enough to allow a horse and carriage to pass through; it was about thirty yards long and brought them into a sunken driveway which terminated at a wrought iron gate. Mrs. Socket had driven rather slowly through the tunnel; now they discovered that Andrew Talgarth had been walking behind them; he quickly made his way past Pringle on the cob and opened the gate for them, touching his cap to Mrs. Socket and giving Fanny another smile. As he closed the gate behind them he said a few words to Pringle, who, coming up beside them, said:

“Begging your pardon, ma'am, but young Talgarth there says best not to go up to the north end of the park today; one of the old stags hasn't shed its antlers yet, and it be in a very twitty, tempersome skin.”

“Very well, thank you, Pringle; in fact I had not been intending to go that way,” Mrs. Socket said. “I am simply going to drive around the pond.”

Beyond the entrance gate a steep grassy slope cut off the view. Mrs. Socket turned her pony's head to the right and they ascended a gradually rising track which circled around a high, grassy knoll. Browsing deer moved across a shallow valley ahead; the animals moved with elegant grace, flicking their tails, black with vertical strips of white; the bodies of the deer varied from dark brown to a light fawn color. Suddenly they all broke into a run, and the whole herd flitted away, moving so lightly over the ground that they seemed more like insects than animals.