The Forest (93 page)

Fanny nodded. This was her cue to keep her aunt diverted. ‘Was Penruddock at the trial, Aunt Adelaide?’

‘Of course he was.’ Fanny expected her aunt to plunge straight into a relation of the trial in the usual way, but instead the other fell silent for long moments and Fanny was wondering if she was going to have to listen to the tick of the clock, when Adelaide spoke: ‘My grandmother was wrong. I have always thought so.’

‘Wrong?’

‘At the trial.’ She shook her head. ‘Weak, or too proud. Foolish Alice.’ She suddenly burst out, ‘You must never give up, child. Never! You must fight to the end.’ Fanny hardly knew how to reply to this when her aunt continued: ‘At the trial, you know, she scarcely said a word. She even went to sleep. She let that liar Penruddock and the others take away her name. She let that evil judge bully them all and sentence her …’

‘Perhaps there was nothing she could do.’

‘No!’ her aunt contradicted with surprising vehemence. ‘She should have protested. She should have stood up and told the judge his court was a mockery. She should have shamed them.’

‘They would have carried her from the court, and sentenced her anyway.’

‘Probably. But better to go down fighting. If ever you find yourself accused in court, Fanny, promise me you will fight.’

‘Yes, Aunt Adelaide. I don’t think’, Fanny added, ‘it’s very likely I shall be in court, though.’

But her aunt didn’t seem to be listening to this last remark. Her eyes were gazing thoughtfully at the dimming light of the window. ‘Have you ever heard your father speak of Sir George West, Fanny?’ she now enquired.

‘Once or twice.’ Fanny tried to remember. ‘A friend in London, I think.’

‘A fine old family. His nephew Mr Arthur West has just
taken the tenancy of Hale. As I mean to visit my old friend the vicar at Fordingbridge, which lies nearby, I thought to call upon him.’

‘I see.’ Fanny smiled to herself. Evidently her ruse to divert her aunt had not been successful. ‘You think Mr Arthur West is eligible?’

‘He is presumably a gentleman. His uncle is to leave him part of his fortune, which is ample. That is all I know, so far.’

‘You mean to inspect him, then?’

‘We shall, Fanny. You are to accompany me.’

September also brought Mr Martell back to the Forest. He came, this time, to stay with Sir Harry Burrard.

Fanny had heard a good deal about Mr Martell and his big estate in Dorset since Louisa’s return. ‘Oh, Fanny, I do declare I am in love with the house, and so would you be,’ she cried. ‘I was sorry you could not have seen it. The situation is so fine, with the great chalk ridges all around; and he is quite lord of the village, you know.’

‘The house is old?’

‘The part behind is very old, and that I own is dark and solemn. I should pull it down, I dare say. But the new wing has large rooms and is very fine, and has quite a noble prospect over the park.’

‘It sounds delightful.’

‘And the library, Fanny. How you would have loved that if you had been there. It has more books, all finely bound, than you ever saw, and on a table they place all the London journals, which are especially sent down, so that you can follow the world of fashion. I spent quite half an hour up there I swear.’

‘I am glad Mr Martell found you so studious.’

‘Oh, he is very easy at home, Fanny, I do assure you. Not at all the scholar. We amused ourselves in all kinds of ways. He draws – very well, I must say – and he even seemed to
take pleasure in my poor efforts. This one in particular he liked.’ She had pulled out a small sketch. ‘Do you remember the day we all went to Buckler’s Hard?’

The sketch, Fanny had to admit it, was good. Very good. It was a caricature, of course, yet it caught the subject, as he seemed to her eyes, quite perfectly. It was Puckle. She had drawn him like a gnome, half tree, half monster. He was grotesque, absurd, rather disgusting.

Fanny shuddered. ‘You do not think it a little cruel?’ she asked.

‘Fanny, you cannot suppose I should let the fellow see it? ’Tis only for ourselves.’

‘I suppose that makes it different.’ But what would you say, she thought to herself, if you had any idea that I, an Albion, might be related to this peasant. And how, then, she wondered, would you draw me?

She also learned from Louisa that Martell had already written to Sir Harry Burrard about the parliamentary seat.

The very day that Mr Martell arrived at the Burrards’, Louisa came to tell Fanny that she and Edward were invited to dine there – ‘Sir Harry being our kinsman, you see.’ This did not seem surprising. And as Mr Martell was reported to be staying a week or more, she supposed that in due course he would call upon her. So it was with some dismay that she heard Aunt Adelaide announce: ‘We go to Fordingbridge on Tuesday, Fanny. My friend the vicar will give us shelter that night. In the evening, we are all invited to dine with Mr Arthur West.’

‘Might we not delay a little?’ Fanny asked. It was Saturday today. What if Mr Martell did not appear until Monday? Or Tuesday, in which case he would miss her entirely?

‘Delay? Why no, Fanny. We are already expected. Besides, I think we should be back by Wednesday afternoon as you have an engagement that evening in Lymington.’

‘Oh?’ Fanny felt her heart leap. ‘With the Burrards?’

‘The Burrards? No. But I have just received this message, a rather tiresome invitation no doubt, but I supposed, as a matter of courtesy, that you would wish to go.’ And she handed Fanny the invitation.

Mrs Grockleton was going to give a ball.

‘It’s perfect, don’t you see, Mr Grockleton.’ His wife was chirping like a bird. ‘Mr Martell is here. Louisa assures me she will bring him. Besides, he knows he promised me himself and he is far too much a gentleman to break his word.’

‘That may be,’ Mr Grockleton said gloomily.

‘Between Louisa and Mr Martell, who is after all their guest, I do not see how they can fail to bring the Burrards. Think of that, Mr Grockleton.’ Mr Grockleton did his best to think about the Burrards. ‘Dear Mr Gilpin will be there, of course,’ she continued. ‘And he is certainly a gentleman.’

‘And Miss Albion?’

‘Yes, yes, she too.’ If Fanny was a less exciting catch, she was, of course, of impeccable family. Indeed, Mrs Grockleton started to think, if she could have an Albion, a Martell and the Burrards, perhaps she might be able to snare yet another member of the local gentry. A Morant, perhaps. ‘We shall have refreshments, dinner, the orchestra from the playhouse – they will be delighted, you may depend upon it – and there must be wine, champagne, brandy. You must see to that, Mr Grockleton.’

‘I shall have to buy it, you know.’

‘To be sure, you will buy it. How else would we come by it?’

‘You forget’, he said drily, ‘that I’m the only man between Southampton and Christchurch who has to pay full price.’ But Mrs Grockleton, if she heard this, ignored it. ‘Apart from the presence, or otherwise, of Mr Martell,’ he enquired irritably, ‘why must everything be done at such short notice? Why Wednesday?’

And now Mrs Grockleton looked at him with genuine astonishment. ‘But Mr Grockleton, of course it must be Wednesday,’ she cried, pausing an instant to give him time to realize for himself. ‘Wednesday is a full moon.’

Tuesday morning was clear and bright, and Aunt Adelaide was in such good humour that you might have thought she was twenty years younger than her age. ‘Francis,’ she told her brother, ‘you shall be quite happy with Mrs Pride.’ As this was virtually an order, Mr Albion did not disagree. Taking just the coachman to drive and one maid to look after them, she and Fanny set off early in the morning on the track across the Forest to Ringwood, from where it was an easy road up to Fordingbridge. ‘We should’, Aunt Adelaide announced brightly, ‘be there by noon.’ And it was with just a trace of reproach that, as they came up towards the wide open space of Wilverley Plain, that she remarked: ‘You don’t seem very happy, Fanny.’

He had not come. He had been, with the Burrards, to dine at the Tottons’ – who might, she thought, have invited her – but he had not come to Albion House. Perhaps, considering his previous reception, that was not surprising; but after what he had said when they parted, she had expected at least a message of some kind. There had been nothing, though: no letter, no word.

‘No, Aunt Adelaide,’ she replied, ‘I am quite happy.’

As they came up on to Wilverley Plain they noticed some small boys in the distance, but thought nothing of it.

The problem was the pig. A full-grown pig is a formidable creature. Not only is it heavy, but it can move with remarkable speed. A harness was needed in order to lead it. Then there was a further difficulty.

‘We’ll have to keep it somewhere for the night,’ Nathaniel had pointed out. That had seemed an almost
insuperable obstacle until one of the gang remembered a cousin who had a shed at Burley.

They did not take the main track but kept a few hundred yards to the north of it. At one point the track passed by a lonely, bare old tree.

‘That’s the Naked Man,’ Nathaniel said, and the boys gazed at it solemnly. ‘That’ll be where we do it.’

The vicar was a tall, thin, grey-haired man who welcomed them to his pleasant vicarage very warmly. He appeared delighted at the chance to accompany them to Hale for dinner. The new tenant, he assured Adelaide, seemed in every way a gentleman and had taken the place for five years. ‘Hale has had several owners and tenants in recent decades,’ he explained, ‘and nobody has taken much care of the place. But I understand that Mr West intends to take the house in hand.’

Aunt Adelaide wished to rest after her journey and Fanny was glad to let the vicar conduct her round the small town of Fordingbridge. The five rivers of Sarum, which lay about eight miles to the north, had all joined the Avon’s stream by now and the river, with its long river weeds, made a delightful scene as it passed under the handsome old stone bridge. By the time she returned to prepare for their evening excursion, she was able, at least, to put on a reasonably cheerful face.

Certainly, she thought, as the vicar’s carriage slowly climbed the slope of Godshill that led up to the manor of Hale, the place had the most charming views over the Avon valley. As they came up the long drive to the house, she could see that its handsome Georgian façade showed signs of neglect; but as soon as they reached the entrance it was clear from the two smart footmen who issued from the door that Mr West intended to maintain himself in style. And the appearance of the gentleman himself made everything clearer still.

Mr Arthur West was a fair-haired, rather stocky, thirty-five-year-old gentleman whose brisk, masculine manner told you at once that if anyone had an estate that lacked a master, he was equipped by birth and in every way to satisfy the attendant obligations. His inheritance, if it would not quite allow him to set himself up as a landowner on the scale he desired, was enough for him to look any heiress in the eye. No one would think him an adventurer. He deserved the heiress of a fine estate and he meant to have one; and this very self-assurance made him attractive to many women of that sort. At least, such a woman would know, if Arthur West fixed his blue eyes upon her, he knew what he wanted. And that, as every woman sooner or later discovers, is something to be grateful for.

Towards Aunt Adelaide he was solicitous and gallant, which was very pleasing to her. As for Fanny, he immediately made himself agreeable in a quiet and practised way so that she felt both that they had an understanding and that, if she wished it, he would pursue her. Not having encountered such treatment from men before, she was a little cautious, but as his behaviour was, at the same time, impeccable, she could explore the situation safely and found it not unpleasant.

‘My uncle has told me many tales of your father and his travels, Miss Albion,’ he said with a quiet smile. ‘He sounds a most adventurous man.’

‘Not nowadays, I’m afraid, Mr West.’

‘Well.’ He looked at her in a companionable way. ‘Each age has its season. It is probably our turn to be adventurous now.’

‘I’m not very adventurous, perhaps, living down here.’

‘I don’t believe it, Miss Albion.’ He gave her an almost boyish grin. ‘There are always enough adventures in the countryside to satisfy good people like us, don’t you think?’

‘I love the Forest,’ she replied simply.

‘And I quite agree with you,’ he answered.

He entertained them all very pleasantly in the big salon. While he was talking briefly to the vicar, Aunt Adelaide found the occasion to tap Fanny lightly on the arm and whisper audibly that she found their host a very proper man – by which Fanny understood very well that she meant that, having no estate of his own to distract him, Mr West might do very well for Albion House. She was spared the embarrassment of having to reply to this, however, since dinner was then announced and Mr West came to escort the old lady, upon his arm, into the dining room.

The dinner was excellent. Mr West made delightful conversation. He told amusing stories about London, asked, and was kind enough to seem very interested in, the views of both Aunt Adelaide and Fanny upon the great events of the day, was fascinated to learn about the French garrison in Lymington and glad to hear anything they cared to tell him about life in the Forest.

He was also engagingly frank. For when Fanny remarked that their lives were really very quiet, his blue eyes flashed with genial amusement and he replied: ‘Of course they are, Miss Albion. But I assure you I think none the worse of the countryside for that. Our armies fight and our ships patrol the seas precisely to safeguard such quietness.’