The Forest (96 page)

‘Perhaps you would do me the honour of granting me the next dance.’

She turned. She had already made up her mind what to
do if this happened. Now she must see if she could carry it out. ‘Thank you, Mr Martell, but I do not care to dance at present. I am a little tired.’

‘I am sorry. But glad if it means that I have the chance to speak with you. My stay here will shortly end. Then I return to Dorset.’

She inclined her head and smiled politely. At the same time she glanced around the room in the hope that, without being rude to him, she could interrupt his attempt to converse with her. She caught sight of the count and nodded to him; she could see Mr Gilpin, but he was not looking in her direction.

The interruption came blowing in, however, from a different quarter, in the form of Mrs Grockleton.

‘Why Mr Martell, so there you are! But where is dear Louisa?’

‘I believe, Mrs Grockleton, she …’

‘You believe, Sir? Pray do not tell me you have lost her.’ Had Mrs Grockleton, perhaps, had a glass of champagne or two? ‘You must find her, Sir, at once. As for this young lady.’ She turned to Fanny and wagged her finger. ‘Methinks we hear interesting news of a young lady visiting a certain gentleman up at Hale.’ She beamed at Fanny. ‘I have been speaking to your aunt, Miss. She has formed a very good opinion of your Mr West.’

‘I scarcely know Mr West, Mrs Grockleton.’

‘You should have brought him with you,’ cried Mrs Grockleton, oblivious to Fanny’s embarrassment. ‘Methinks you are hiding him.’

How she might have silenced her hostess Fanny did not know, but at this moment the gallant count appeared at her side, asked for the minuet just beginning and, murmuring quite untruthfully to Mr Martell that she had already promised the count this dance, Fanny gratefully took this means of escape.

‘When this dance is over, Miss Albion,’ the Frenchman
asked with a twinkle in his eye, ‘shall I return you to Mrs Grockleton?’

‘As far away as possible,’ she begged.

For another quarter of an hour she managed to avoid Mr Martell. She saw him dancing with Louisa, then she sought refuge in the company of Mr Gilpin, with whom, for a little while, she could safely watch the proceedings.

Unfortunately, it could no longer be denied by now that Mrs Grockleton’s ball was not going quite so well. They should have taken the fiddler’s tankard away, since it contained a potent mixture of claret laced with brandy and his fingers were slipping. Strange sounds were beginning to emerge. A few people had started to giggle. Glancing towards the entrance, Fanny noticed Isaac Seagull standing there quietly, looking in with amusement; and wondered what thoughts were passing through his cynical mind. It suddenly occurred to her that his presence, reminding her of the grim secrets of her own ancestry, was not unlike the discordant notes in the music.

‘Something must be done,’ muttered Gilpin. ‘If Grockleton doesn’t act, I shall have to.’ And, as if to prompt him, the violin now made an excruciating screech that stopped the dancers in their tracks.

At that moment the vicar caught Grockleton’s eye. A sign and a brisk nod from Gilpin were enough, and with good grace the Customs officer stepped forward, clapped his hands, raised one of those claw-like appendages and announced: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the evening is growing late, I know, for some. So Mr Gilpin has kindly consented to give us a final – no, you are very generous, Sir – two final minuets.’

The first started off well enough. Fanny partnered one of the French officers. Louisa again danced with Mr Martell, but she tried not to look at them. Mr Gilpin on the piano acquitted himself admirably. Only towards the end did trouble break out.

The two violinists decided they had not done. They were both of them now at that stage of drunkenness where they believed they were enjoying themselves and took quite unkindly to any interference. They felt sure that Mr Gilpin needed accompaniment. Suddenly, therefore, the dancers became aware of the sound of strings. Even this might have passed, since Mr Gilpin was holding his own with firmness, had the other two not come to the conclusion that accompaniment was not enough. The vicar needed leading. And so it was that now the dancers became aware of a more strident sound from the strings, one of greater and greater urgency, but which, most unfortunately, was not the same tune that the vicar of Boldre was playing. In fact, it seemed to be a country dance. The dancers came to a halt. Mr Gilpin stopped and looked furious.

Mr Grockleton stepped forward, tried to speak to the fiddlers, who were still playing, put out his arm to restrain one of them and was promptly tapped on the head with a fiddle. Pale with annoyance, now, he grasped one of the fiddlers and began to drag him away, whereupon the other, who still had his tankard with him, emptied its contents over the Customs officer and started to belabour him with his bow. He might even have hurt him had he not suddenly, with a yelp, felt the finger and thumbnails of Mrs Grockleton close like piercing pincers upon his ear as that lady marched him away, past a grinning Isaac Seagull, past the plants and straight out into the night air.

The good people of Lymington laughed and applauded, and laughed again until they almost cried which, all semblance of dignity having been lost anyway, was probably the sensible thing to do. Mr Gilpin, considerably irritated now, but unwilling to see the evening end in shambles, waited patiently for a moment or two by the piano, then bravely continued the minuet, which the dancers very loyally took up again and brought to a conclusion. But as the Grockletons had now returned and the room was still awash
with ripples of laughter, the good vicar had in common charity to do his best to save the day.

He rose to the occasion admirably. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He advanced to the centre of the room. ‘In the days of ancient Rome it was the custom to grant victorious generals a triumph upon their return. Such a triumph, I think you will agree, has been earned by our kind host and hostess.
For they have expelled the barbarians from our gates
.’

There was stamping, ‘hear hears!’ and a round of applause. Fanny, standing to one side, heard a voice she knew to be Martell’s quietly murmur: ‘Well played, Sir.’

‘And now, for a final dance, I am at your service. Mrs Grockleton, what shall it be?’

It would not be true to say that the room fell silent. All around, murmurs arose from behind hands, or other people’s backs, or into handkerchiefs and fans. And Mrs Grockleton heard them. She smiled as gamely as she could. ‘Let it be a country dance,’ she said.

It really seemed they all would dance: the French aristocrats, the local coal merchants, the doctor, the lawyers. Fanny was not at all sure that Mr Isaac Seagull was not dancing as well. Mr Gilpin struck up, with the obvious intention of giving them a good five minutes’ worth.

But Fanny did not dance. She stood at the side, content to watch, unnoticed. She looked for Martell but did not see him. Louisa was dancing with a young Frenchman. Fanny frowned. And then she slowly realized. She had heard his voice just behind her before the dance began. He must, therefore, be standing there now. She dared not look round in case he should ask her to dance. For she had no wish to do so. She was sure she hadn’t. But if he was behind her, what was he doing? Did he mean to speak? How could she speak and what was the point, when he cared so little for her and when, besides, he was a Penruddock? She wished, if he was there, that he would disappear.

Something was happening on the dance floor now. A
little gaggle of young ladies had gathered, like an eddy, about Louisa. She was saying something to her partner, who shrugged amiably and smiled. The eddy was moving out towards the edge in the direction of her father. Louisa had detached herself. She was going up to the old man, saying something to him. Mr Albion was looking rather flushed; Aunt Adelaide, awake now, was also speaking but he was evidently ignoring it. Her father was getting up, a girl on each side of him; the others were squealing and starting to applaud. Dear heaven, Louisa Totton was leading the old man out to dance!

And he was dancing: stiffly, of course, with Louisa effectively holding him up. But Francis Albion was dancing a country dance. The other dancers were parting, they were forming a ring, everyone was applauding as a very old man who hadn’t been out in years came dancing through their midst with a pretty young girl and, if she was holding him up, why then so much the more gallant they both appeared. Fanny rose on her toes to see, her heart beating half in fear and half delight. Her father, of almost ninety, was dancing before all the world. Louisa was laughing with pleasure and real admiration. With a gesture that said ‘I’ll show you a thing or two now’ old Francis stepped free, treated them all to a little jig by himself and, as the room erupted into applause, turned back to Louisa, suddenly went deathly pale, choked, felt wildly for his collar and crashed face downwards on the boards, while Mr Gilpin, unaware of what was passing, continued to play for several more bars until the awful silence alerted him to stop.

‘Oh, my dear Miss Albion.’ She heard Martell’s voice behind her, but did not look back as she rushed forward through the dancers to the place where, miraculously, Mrs Pride’s strong arms were already raising the little old gentleman up. Without a word she carried him towards the entrance and the fresh air, where she was quickly joined by Mr Gilpin and the Lymington doctor.

Minutes later, still uncertain of the outcome of this scene, the guests were collecting their cloaks and coats to leave.

And poor Mrs Grockleton, having been through so much that night, could only turn helplessly to her husband and wail: ‘Alack-a-day.’

They had the pig ready and the moon was high as along the track on the gorse-strewn bareness of Wilverley Plain the cart containing Caleb Furzey trundled towards them.

The sky was clear and clustered with stars; the moon shone down with that intimate, frightening urgency it often has when it is full.

The six boys waited by the tree called the Naked Man. The pig was surprisingly quiet, probably because it had been well fed. It grunted a bit, that was all.

The cart was drawing closer. The horse was going at a slow walk. Caleb Furzey’s feet could just be seen resting on the side. From within the empty box of the cart his snores were magnified, as if by some magic of the moon.

Nathaniel and Andrew Pride moved out first. The old horse recognized them, and when Nathaniel took his head, he stopped quite willingly.

Taking him out of the harness was not too difficult. Andrew’s task was to lead him away across the plain and tether him to a stunted tree trunk behind a large gorse brake a few hundred yards off. The next step was to put the pig in the horse’s place.

The makeshift harness they had made worked well enough, but the shafts of the cart were far too high. Two of the boys now tried to pull them down, but couldn’t.

Two more boys added their weight to the shafts. The shafts came down, but not far enough. The pig didn’t like the look of it. Nathaniel was holding firm but the pig was large; if he made a run for it, there would be no stopping him. But now, as he clung on to the pig’s harness, he heard
a sound from the cart. Caleb’s feet were moving; the snoring was interrupted.

Suddenly the cart tipped forward. They heard a bump. Caleb had rolled to the front.

‘Quick.’

It was the work of a moment to attach the traces to the harness. Nathaniel was still holding the pig, soothing him as the others stepped back. They all looked apprehensively towards the cart but, miraculously, Furzey was still asleep.

‘Now.’

They fled, but not far. A hundred yards away, behind a gorse brake, Andrew was already waiting.

‘You know what to do,’ said Nathaniel, as he started undressing. So they did as he had told them and went to their stations. It was time for the fun to begin.

The pig, surprisingly, did not react for more than a minute. Then it decided to move.

The pig was much smaller than the horse, but it was heavy and very strong. The cart inched forward, but the sensation of something not only holding but following it was displeasing to the pig. It grunted loudly and tried to make a run. Again, the cart seemed to be holding on, as though it were determined not to let the pig escape its clutches. The pig didn’t like this a bit. It let out a bellow of rage, bumped the shafts from side to side and squealed loudly again.

Behind, Caleb Furzey frowned in his sleep. He opened his eyes, blinked, and awoke.

The full moon was high over Wilverley Plain. All around him, a magical silver light gleamed eerily; close by, the Naked Man stood with its bare arms raised as if it meant to reach down and strike him. He blinked again. What was that strange sound that had awoken him? He got up and started forward. His horse had disappeared. Something else was in the traces. That something made a strange sound which so startled him that he stepped back. The cart tilted.

The pig was lifted off the ground. It squealed, screamed,
paddled furiously with its legs. And Caleb Furzey let out a howl of fear.

His horse gone at full moon, a pig in its place. Every rustic knew who did such things – the witches and the fairies. He’d been bewitched! And he was about to clamber out of the cart when he saw another even more terrifying sight. From gorse bush to gorse bush, small, naked figures were flitting, emitting cries. They were all around. They had to be fairies. He must have been mad to come out, past Burley of all places, on the night of a full moon. As the figures flitted about, the squeals of the pig rose to a terrifying pitch. The cart tilted back wildly. For a terrible, mad moment Caleb saw the pig, outlined against the moon. He yelled again with fright, covered his face and threw himself down into the cart, which tilted forward once more.