The Forest (100 page)

Since he is living in a world quite beyond mine, where he has certainly no further desire for my company; since his heart is probably engaged by now; and since, besides, he is a Penruddock, with whom I cannot and do not wish to have anything to do, she thought, these speculations are quite useless. The only thing is to move on.

She didn’t. Looking around for an excuse, she found a view to admire and lingered there several minutes, in case he came out. After all, he might have been returning the lady to her house. But no one emerged. The carriage remained where it was. After a further pause she began to walk along the pavement towards it. She was only curious, she told herself, that was all.

Her heart was beating faster, though. What if he appeared now and bumped into her? She would be polite
but cool to him. She would certainly rebuff him. If there were any lingering doubts in his mind about her attitude towards him she would be able to settle them. Fortified with this intention, she walked casually in the direction of the big wheels of the carriage.

The door of the house was closed. The coachman was sitting calmly but very smartly in position. He was wearing an elegant chocolate-brown coat and cape. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘You have a very handsome carriage,’ she said pleasantly. He touched his hat and thanked her kindly. ‘And who does it belong to?’

‘To Mr Markham, My Lady,’ he replied politely.

‘Markham, did you say, or Martell?’

‘Markham, My Lady. I don’t know any Mr Martell. Mr Markham just stepped into the house.’

‘Oh. I see.’ She forced another smile, then walked on. Had she made herself look foolish? She didn’t think so. Was she relieved? She thought she must be. So why was it, then, as she turned the next corner, that the energy she had experienced in the last few minutes seemed to drain from her? Her feet suddenly felt heavy. Scarcely knowing it was doing so, her head hung forward and her shoulders seemed to wilt. Ahead of her, up the steep stone hill, the sky inadvertently grew a duller grey.

When she got back she went up to sit with a book by the window of the drawing room and when Mrs Grockleton suggested a drive she excused herself, saying she had a headache. And there she sat for some hours, doing nothing, wishing for nothing. That night she slept badly.

Fanny’s curiosity as to the whereabouts of Mr Martell was to be satisfied early the following week by a letter from Louisa.

It informed her that as Mr Martell was expected at the Burrards’ in a few days, she and Edward had decided not to come to see her in Bath.

Indeed, Fanny, I’m sure you will be glad to hear that Mr Martell is to go to London afterwards and has proposed that Edward and I should travel with him. Great as the delights of Bath must be, I’m sure they cannot compare with London, so I fear we shall not be seeing you and Mrs Grockleton there.

That was it. Louisa had forgotten to enquire after her health or even to seem sorry at their not meeting. There was something else, too, about the letter. At first Fanny could not quite put her finger on what it was, but gradually, as she pondered it, she saw the intention clearly enough. A note of triumph: her cousin was telling her plainly that she had done better. A coldness: behind the brief, throwaway regret at not seeing her, Louisa was really saying that she had more exciting things to do and she didn’t care if Fanny knew it.

So, Fanny thought grimly, my cousin and close friend doesn’t love me. Apart from her father and Aunt Adelaide, did anyone? Mr Gilpin, perhaps, but it was his duty to love. Maybe there was little to love about her anyway. And the sense of her worthlessness and the pointlessness of all things overwhelmed her, so that life itself seemed like a great, grey winter wave breaking and then receding upon an empty shore.

The incident that took place at the end of February in the fashionable spa city of Bath was, you might think, an almost trivial event. Yet it was not seen in that way at the time. Within days there was hardly a person in the whole of Bath, despite the fact that practically no one knew the unfortunate young lady in question, who had not taken sides. The matter was of such curiosity because it was so hard to explain. Theories abounded. It cannot be said that all this talk, none of it even known to the unfortunate young lady, did anyone much harm or good. Except, that is, for the impoverished major who had danced and talked with her at
the Assembly Rooms. For on the strength of this intimate knowledge of the subject, he was soon much in demand, invited to dine in houses where he’d never been asked before, with his chances of finding a rich widow enhanced considerably.

Fanny Albion, meanwhile, was in gaol.

‘Mrs Pride must come with me.’ Aunt Adelaide was firm and, in such circumstances, even old Francis could hardly argue; but he did somewhat plaintively enquire who was going to look after him. ‘You are going to stay with the Gilpins,’ his sister told him.

Mr Gilpin had wanted to go to Fanny himself but Adelaide had persuaded him that he could be more help in looking after her brother. ‘I could have no peace of mind leaving him without Mrs Pride,’ she told him and so the old man was conveyed down to the vicarage, with which he pronounced himself well enough pleased. Mr Gilpin, meanwhile, contented himself with a letter.

My dear child,

How or why this strange business has arisen I can scarcely guess. Nor can I imagine that you could ever perform any act of malice or dishonesty. I am praying for you and ask you to remember – more than that, to know that you are in God’s hands. Trust Him, and know that the Truth shall make you free.

To Adelaide he said only: ‘Get a good lawyer.’

So the intrepid old lady and Mrs Pride set off together to make the seventy-mile journey to Bath. On the turnpike roads, with changes of horses, they could arrive there upon the second day.

It was a source of fury to Mrs Grockleton that Fanny should be held in prison at all, but all that good lady’s efforts had
been in vain. For some reason – perhaps it was something he had eaten, or merely the fact that the trial judge was to arrive shortly – the magistrate had ordered that Fanny was to be held in the city gaol. Not even Mrs Grockleton’s threat to have the Customs men inspect his house had moved him.

Insofar as was possible, the small prison where she was held had been made comfortable for her. She had her own cell, food, everything she could need. She was treated with politeness as those set to guard her had no wish to displease the generous and slightly frightening Mrs Grockleton, who was constantly visiting. Mr Grockleton, meanwhile, had already secured the services of Bath’s leading law firm to defend her and the head of the firm himself had been to see Fanny three times.

Surely, therefore, it should not be long before this regrettable matter was cleared up and Fanny set at liberty. It should be so. Yet, on each of the three occasions, the distinguished legal gentleman had come away shaking his head. ‘I cannot obtain a statement from her,’ he confessed.

So that finally Mr Grockleton was moved to suggest to his wife what had been in his mind for some time. ‘Supposing she did it,’ he said.

The outrage with which this was received did that stout lady credit. ‘If you ever say such a thing again, Mr Grockleton, I shall box your ears.’

So Mr Grockleton said no more. But he wondered, all the same.

The shop was not a large emporium, but a busy one: buttons and bows, ribbons, every kind of fine lace. You might find ladies, dressmakers, all sorts of people in there, buying the small oddments without which, in Bath, life would be almost meaningless.

It had been a slow, dull day and the afternoon was already losing light, as though someone were drawing down the blinds, when Fanny Albion had started to move towards the
door. She had been in the shop for some time, drifting listlessly round the tables, inspecting pieces of silk and other fashionable fripperies. She had no real desire to buy anything and had only come in there because she lacked the energy, or the will, to walk up the hill towards her lodgings. Her mind had been full of melancholy reflections. During her wanderings the bag on her arm had come open. After spending about twenty minutes in this way, she had lingered, in an abstracted way, for several minutes by a round table on which were displayed a large number of pieces of fine lace, some of which she had picked up. Then, calmly closing her handbag, she had moved towards the door.

The shop assistant who had been watching her had run out to apprehend her the moment she was through the door. This girl had been joined by the manager of the shop only seconds later. They had made her open the bag, in which – this was not in doubt – lay a neatly folded piece of lace, value ten shillings. Passers-by were called to witness. Fanny was taken back inside the shop. The beadle was summoned.

In all this it was noticed that Fanny seemed dazed and said nothing.

‘But my dear child, what can you possibly mean?’

Despite her long journey, Aunt Adelaide had insisted upon being taken to see Fanny as soon as they came to the Grockletons’ house. Now, looking very frail in these strange surroundings, but with a steely determination, the gallant old lady gazed at her niece with a piercing look.

But even that did no good as Fanny sat there and slowly shook her head, while her aunt and Mrs Pride looked on.

‘What can you possibly mean, child?’ Adelaide’s long, arduous effort at self-control had stretched her nerves, now, almost to breaking point, so that her question rose in exasperation until it was almost a scream. ‘
What can you mean, you don’t know whether you did it or not
?’

The dinner at the Burrards’ was a fine affair. The Tottons were all there and Mr Martell, who had just arrived that afternoon; also Mr Arthur West, who by now was known to the Burrards and always a useful addition at any dinner.

The first remove had just been served and the company was investigating the venison, duck, rabbit stew, fish pie and other dishes supplied when Mr Martell, having taken his first taste of the first-rate claret, politely enquired of Louisa: ‘What news of your cousin Miss Albion?’

As the table fell silent and Louisa blushed red, it was Sir Harry himself at the end of the table who very sensibly interposed: ‘If you wish to help yourself and Fanny Albion, you must be prepared with a better answer than a blush, Louisa. For I must tell you plainly, the whole Forest is talking about her and the news is already in London.’ He turned to Martell. ‘That poor young lady, Sir, has been accused of stealing a piece of lace from a shop in Bath. It’s the most absurd and unconscionable thing imaginable. She is being held in the common gaol and will be tried, I believe, very soon. As the business cannot be anything but a misunderstanding she will, of course, be acquitted. Her aunt, despite her age, has gone to her. She is a most courageous old lady. Her father is with Mr Gilpin.’ He fixed his eyes upon Louisa. ‘Everyone at this table, Louisa, and all our acquaintance unite in defending Fanny Albion and we shall welcome her back soon.’ He said it sternly.

‘Hear, hear,’ said Mr Totton firmly.

‘I wish’, remarked Mr Martell, with a deep frown, ‘that I could offer my services in some way. I know an excellent lawyer in Bath.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately I fear I may have offended her in some way.’

The Tottons and the Burrards glanced at each other questioningly and Mr Totton remarked that he had never heard this was so. Mr Arthur West leaned forward helpfully. ‘I believe, if you will permit me, Sir, that I can tell
you why that is. You will recall the picture of your great-grandfather you came to see at Hale?’

‘Indeed.’

‘To whom, Sir, you bear so striking a resemblance. Perhaps you were not aware that old Mr Albion and his sister Adelaide are the grandchildren of Alice Lisle and, in their eyes, you are a Penruddock.’

The effect of this information upon the table was dramatic. Burrard and the Tottons stared at him in amazement.

‘You are a Penruddock?’ There were so many other significant items of information about Martell – his two estates, his education, his good looks, his interest in the Church and in politics – that the question of his late mother’s family had somehow never come up.

‘The Martells and Penruddocks have married each other for centuries. My mother was a Penruddock,’ he said with pride. ‘I had not realized the connection of the Albions with Alice Lisle, but surely Colonel Penruddock was only arresting a known troublemaker, and the business is long forgotten now.’

‘Not in the Forest.’ Sir Harry shook his head. ‘The Albions, at least, would regard you with horror.’

‘I see.’ Martell fell silent. He remembered, now, Fanny’s questioning him at Mrs Grockleton’s ball and her sudden coldness.

‘Old Miss Albion, in particular,’ Mr Totton explained, ‘feels passionately about the subject. Her mother brought her up, so to speak, in Alice Lisle’s shadow. Alice was born Alice Albion, you see, and Albion House was her true home.’

Martell nodded slowly. The vision he had had of Fanny the first time he had come to that dark old house came back to him with vividness. His impression had not been wrong, then. She was, indeed, a tragic figure, trapped with those two old people in a house full of memories and ghostly
shadows. But this information also meant something else: he had been correct, almost certainly, in thinking she cared for him. It was the discovery that he was a Penruddock that had caused her to avoid him and push him away.