Mist Over Pendle (27 page)

“I was indeed! I’ve not felt the like before with any woman --or man. And you, madam, were you at ease?”

“No,” she answered simply, “I was not.” They ambled on in silence till Margery suddenly drew rein again. It had occurred to her that this climbing lane must soon bring her to the sight of that coppice where tall plants grew; and this day she did not wish to see that coppice and have thought of what it hid. She turned abruptly from the lane and made off along the wooded ridge; without protest, he followed.

“I was most ill at ease,” she told him suddenly. “And not for the first time. It’s ever so with Alice Nutter.”

“I’ll believe you,” he said fervently. And again there was silence as the horses picked an unhurried way. Master Hilliard was looking at her thoughtfully.

“Yet Master Miles,” he said suddenly, “seemed a very tolerable fellow. Do you find him so?”

Margery’s mind became alert. She had the thought that this was less casual than it seemed; he was, perhaps, probing, and she was quick to assure him.

“I find him likeable,” she said. Then she pointed up the hill towards Wheathead. “There’s a girl yonder who’s my good friend and finds him more than likeable.”

“Ah!” He seemed relieved. “And he returns that good sentiment?”

“Yes. Though that’s a confidence.”

“A safe one, I assure you, madam. He’s perhaps to be envied.”

“In that, yes. But to live with such a mother? I’ve no envy for that.”

“Nor I.” He hesitated again. “Yet one thing more I could envy him.”

“Which is?”

“His easy speech with you, where I must be formal--as you perceive, madam.”

Margery laughed openly. She was in friendly humour with him now.

“You may have the like privilege if you wish it,” she told him. “I hereby absolve you from all formality.” His face took on a broad grin.

“Margery, the day improves. Now, whither do we ride?”

She laughed at him again, and then she paused to consider. They had ridden most of the length of the ridge, and before them a stream crossed their track. She saw it first with surprise and then with amusement, and her face was crinkling as she turned from the path and led down the stream.

“What’s to do?” he asked as he saw her amusement.

“This stream,” she answered. “It’s the one I was riding down yesterday when I first set eyes on you.”

“When you spilled from your horse--by that knoll yonder?”

“Just that.”

“My thanks for being told. Permit me, if you please.”

He passed in front of her and then pulled his horse back to a safe walk as they came to the knoll. Margery, behind him, had to match her speed to his.

“You’ll be safer if I lead you,” he assured her heartily.

That was plain enough, but Margery preferred to be slow of understanding.

“Meaning what, if you please?”

“Meaning that you all but broke your silly neck yesterday, and I’m not minded to have you succeed this day.”

Margery’s eyes opened a little. He was certainly dropping the formalities, and she was disposed to test this further.

“So you impose caution by constraining me?”

His answer came quickly.

“If you journey with me there’ll be moments when you’ll conform.”

Her eyes opened wider as she went slowly past the knoll, staring thoughtfully at the orange-plumed hat that jogged in front of her; and when they were come safely into the road she stopped, and sat considering him.

“How did you say you were named?” she asked.

“Francis.” His tone told her he was at a guess.

“Francis, is it? Is that what your mother calls you?”

“My mother? No--she shortens it and calls me Frank.”

“She does well.”

He stared blankly at her till understanding broke upon him. Then his smile came, and it broadened happily.

“A hit!” he said easily. “A very true and proper hit! I won’t tell you what I think of you for it.”

“Why not?”

“It might make you vain.”

It was her turn to smile when understanding came.

“Make me vain, do you say? My brothers, I fear, would account that superfluous labour. But if you’ve sisters, I’d like to hear them talk.”

His smile returned and she waited happily for his answer. But it never came; behind them a twig snapped loudly, and his answer was lost as they both turned. Standing on the grass verge, a bare five paces away, and certainly within hearing distance, was Anne Redfern of the shapely face and the shifty eyes.

Margery stiffened as she looked. She had not set eyes on Anne Redfern since that Sunday at the Newchurch when Roger had so quickly quelled the quarrel. She remembered that incident now, and she had the feeling that Anne Redfern was remembering it, too. The woman’s eyes were vicious as she looked from Margery to the man who sat his horse so near to her. The thin mouth twisted to an open leer as she moved backwards to the ditch and hedge behind her; there she paused, and of a sudden she loosed a laugh that was an insult--a laugh blatant with obscene suggestion.

Then she was through the hedge and away, and Margery caught Frank Hilliard’s arm as he was dismounting to pursue. “Let be!” she said urgently. “For pity’s sake, let be!”

“After that?”

“Aye, after that. She’s not worth your arm. And we’ve hatreds enough already, here in Pendle.”

He assented--unwillingly and with a grumble, but he assented. They went deviously home. But Margery had no warmth from the pale sun and no pleasure from their talk. The woman’s malice had been too plain, and Margery remembered unhappily that this Redfern had been wife to a servant whose master had died at Chester one fateful Candlemas. Now the woman dwelt on the Nutter land, for which she surely gave obedience to the Rough Lee. Margery remembered again the dark eyes that had gleamed so coldly in that house not an hour ago; and remembering them, she felt a sudden dread. Soon and somehow she might expect the mud to stir in these Pendle undercurrents, and when it stirred it would surely disturb what seemed a present happiness. Happiness, she now thought, was a quality that did not flourish in the lee of Pendle Hill.

She had not long to wait. There were two cool November days in which all was peace, days in which Margery rode with Frank Hilliard and made pretence of searching for a papist priest. She saw to it, indeed, that he did not ride to a grey house in Goldshaw, nor to any other place where a priest might be thought to lurk; but apart from that she was content to ride at large with him, chattering about everything and coming to grips about nothing. On the second day she rode with him to Wheathead and presented him to Grace; and when they were home again, and before even they were out of their riding-clothes, a horseman rode in, haggard and dusty. He bore the Derby colours, and he carried a written order from the Earl that Master Francis Hilliard was to return forthwith to Lathom--no delay permitted. It gave no reason and it showed no courtesy.

He broke the seal and read; then, without speaking, he showed it to Margery, and as soon as she had read she was apprehensive. The thing, she thought, was redolent of trouble, and her conscience was uneasy as she thought of a priest escaped, and the part she had played in that.

Roger was lazing in his parlour when they burst in on him and thrust the paper beneath his nose. He read it in silence, and then he handed it back.

“You ride at dawn,” he said.

“Dawn?” Margery was aghast.

“Dawn, I said. That’s meant to be obeyed.”

“Aye sir.” This was Frank Hilliard, and there was a note of resentment in his voice. “But do you mark the tone of it? Why that? It’s not His Lordship’s way.”

“It’s his way when he’s angered. You’d best obey orders.”

“Aye sir. But--what’s so angered him?”

“That’s to be learned at Lathom. But the order’s plain that you’re to ride forthwith--which does not mean at your leisure.” The half smile was on Roger as he scanned the rueful faces before him. “Other things apart,” he added quietly, “to obey orders is commonly the path of wisdom.”

Frank Hilliard obeyed orders. He breakfasted by candles and rode at first light. Margery hauled herself out of bed and came sleepily down the stair to see him off; she detested dressing in the dark, but this time she felt she could do no less; there was something on her conscience here.

Mist hung over the gravel as he mounted, and Margery stood, shivering in the cold grey light, her gown pulled tightly round her

“I want to know what befalls,” she told him.

“You shall,” he assured her. “Whatever it is, you shall know. Meantime, have some care for yourself. I’ve no wish to hear of you with a broken neck.”

At another time there would have been a retort to that, but now, in this sleepy hour, her mind felt numbed; and she was still standing by his stirrup, looking up at him, when Roger walked quietly out of the door. He surprised them both, for neither had guessed that he was astir.

“Just one word,” he said. “When you’ve leisure and can leave Lathom, you make yourself our guest again, if it so please you.”

“It pleases me mightily.” Frank Hilliard was prompt in his answer. But then he seemed to have a second thought, and he looked almost doubtingly at Margery. “That is,” he went on, “if Margery’s of that mind too?”

“I’ve no mind but my cousin’s,” said Margery, trying to blend manners with equivocation, and he laughed.

“That suffices,” he said. “I’m your promised guest then.”

“It’s something past dawn,” said Roger quietly.

“Aye sir. Then I’ll be off. God keep you--both!”

He went boisterously away, his two servants clattering behind him. Margery watched them go, and then she walked slowly to the door, and for all her bickerings with him she felt cold and lonely now that he had gone. Roger stood in silence on the gravel, and she turned to him impulsively. She had just realized that he had roused and dressed in the dawn to give that invitation and that he had done it for her sake. Whether she wanted it given or not she had a very warm feeling for this thoughtful cousin.

“In with you,” he said suddenly. “It’s cold out here.” He slipped his arm round her and urged her through the doorway. Then he paused to look her over.

“You’re early from bed,” he told her.

Margery spun round, wide awake and alert for anything. She knew that tone of old, and she wondered what sly thrust was coming. But he had no more to say. He merely passed his fingers lightly over her hair--and something rustled. Margery gasped with annoyance as she clapped her hand on a stray curling-paper she had overlooked and left in.

“Lord of Hell!” she said, echoing the words of the man her thoughts had flown to. Then she looked ruefully at Roger, caught his grin, and gave herself to reluctant laughter.

“Now go furbish yourself,” he told her. “It’s cold for empty stomachs, and we’ll be better for breakfast.”

She took her time at it, and when she at last came down Roger was ending his breakfast. By the time she had ended hers a red sun was lifting over the leafless trees, and Roger walked to the window to watch the thinning mist.

“It improves,” he said. “I think we’ll go a-riding.”

“As you will.” Margery thought she might as well ride as mope. “And whither?”

“Goldshaw.” Roger spoke decisively. “We’ll call on Harry Hargreaves.”

“The Constable?”

“Why not? It’s time he was asked for news of a Massing priest. He was told to inquire.”

“Oh!” Margery was nervous of this. “Do you think he’ll have news?”

“Since he’s a papist I’m quite sure he won’t. So a zealous magistrate may safely ask him.”

Margery was amused. She had a continuing interest in Roger’s subtleties.

“Then why be at such trouble?”

“It proves my zeal. And a visit to Hargreaves will make it natural for us to pay respects to his neighbour.”

Margery stared blankly. She was beginning to understand why some were not at ease with Roger Nowell.

“Tony Nutter?” she asked at length.

“You
may chat with him. My own trust is in his sister.”

That made it no clearer, but she had to be content with it. Getting information from Roger when he did not mean to give it was not a hopeful undertaking, as she well knew. Margery gave it up and went off to make ready.

The interview with Hargreaves went as Roger had foretold. The Constable was apologetic. He had made all possible inquiry and had learned nothing; he was very sorry, but it was not to be mended. All of which drew no more than a nonchalant nod from Roger. He thanked the zealous Constable, drained his mug of October, and took a friendly leave.

The next short journey was quickly made, and soon the old servitor was leading away their horses while Tony Nutter greeted them heartily.

“You’re guests we’ve wanted,” he said. “Come within.”

“You’re cordial this day, Tony. You’re sure we’re no burden?”

“Very sure. You’re never a burden, either of you.”

“Never?” Margery saw Roger’s forehead crinkle as he spoke. “That should mean you’ve never guests I shouldn’t meet. However----”

They went into the little parlour, cosy with a fire on this grey morning, and then Tony had a word for Margery.

“You of all,” he told her, “will never be a burden here. Be sure of that. We’ve been hearing lately of your doings.”

“You’re gracious, sir.”

Margery was being cautious. She had the thought that something of this warmth had to do with an escaping priest, and if that were so she might do well to pick her words with care. Apparently Roger thought the same, and he went at it boldly.

“Here’s fine talk, Tony! First you accuse her of a treason, and then you all but thank her for it. Let be, man!”

“As you will.” Tony Nutter was unabashed. “I did but strive to be plain.”

Then Mistress Crook came bustling in, and she left them in no doubt of her feelings. She was profuse in her hospitality; there were the cheese-cakes and the famous apple-tart; there were plums, dried and set in sugar; there were nuts, all the way from the Spice Islands; and there were little strips of salted fish to raise a thirst for the prime October which her brother was spicing by the fire. And with it all was her babbling chatter, profuse, eager and indiscreet.