The Misbegotten (17 page)

A third of a mile or so along the towpath, a large inn called the George sat beside the canal, and another bridge crossed the water, linking Bathampton to a lane that went to Batheaston, on the north bank of the river. Alice stopped at the foot of this second bridge, and looked around.

‘Shan’t we go on into the village?’ said Starling, confused.

‘In a while. Or perhaps we could go into the inn, today? And have something to eat?’ Starling was always hungry and nodded at once, but Alice was looking along the lane towards Batheaston, her face lively with expectation. The hand that held Starling’s held it tightly. For a while nothing happened, and Starling watched a barge approach and slide by, its cargo hidden under sheets of canvas. The bargeman clucked his tongue at the horse when it baulked at the shadows beneath the bridge. He was weather-beaten and lean, and had a pipe clamped between teeth the colour of mahogany.

‘Where are you going?’ Starling called to him, shy but fascinated. He squinted his eyes at her and took his pipe into his hand.

‘I’m for Newbury, bantling,’ he said.

‘How long will it take you?’ Starling disengaged her hand from Alice’s to trot along the towpath behind the horse.

‘Four days, maybe somewhat less – don’t run up the rear of that horse or he’ll kick you skywards. Depends on the number already waiting at Foxhangers.’

‘Where’s that? Why should people wait?’

‘You’ve a good many questions, chickabiddy. There’s a great big hill, this side o’ Devizes. They’ve not yet fathomed how to make the canal climb it. We’ve to unload everything and take it up by rail wagon before we can go on along the water once more.’ By this time Starling had followed the barge a goodly way from the bridge, so she stopped, and he soon drew ahead.

‘How should water climb a hill?’ she called after him, but the bargeman just gave her a wave, and turned his back.

She picked a few handfuls of forget-me-nots as she walked back to Alice, who hadn’t seemed to notice her absence. A moment later, her arm shot out and grabbed at Starling for support.

‘Oh! Look!’ Alice gasped, staring along the lane. ‘Look, Starling – Mr Alleyn has come!’ Starling followed her gaze, and saw, far off, a gentleman who might have been Mr Alleyn, on a grey horse.

‘Is it him? He isn’t due to visit,’ she said, puzzled. She took hold of Alice’s arm where it grasped at her. Through the skin of her wrist, Starling felt the older girl’s pulse racing and stumbling along. Alarmed, she tugged to get Alice’s attention. ‘Be calm, Alice. Please, be calm,’ she murmured. Alice smiled down at her, and took a deep breath.

‘I’m quite well, dearest.’ But Starling had seen what happened sometimes, when Alice’s heart stuttered like that – had seen her turn pale as milk, and sway on her feet; had seen her faint dead away on three occasions, fits which left her weak and dizzy for days afterwards, and confined her to bed.
Miss Alice’s heart is a fragile thing
, Bridget told Starling, in serious tones.
Do all you can to keep it easy.
‘Look – see! It
is
Mr Alleyn.’ Starling looked again, and as the figure drew nearer she could clearly recognise Jonathan Alleyn, riding alone.

When Jonathan saw them waiting he urged his horse into a trot, and dismounted in a graceless rush to stand so close to Alice that if either one had moved they would have touched. Neither spoke, and Starling watched in astonishment until Jonathan finally seemed to recover himself, took a step backwards and brought Alice’s fingers to his lips. There was colour high on his slanting cheekbones, and he smiled as though he couldn’t prevent it.

‘Miss Beckwith, how fortunate to chance across you like this.’ Starling wondered who the performance was for, since she knew at once that this meeting was the secret Alice had been keeping. ‘And Starling – how tall you are growing! Why, you’re near to Miss Beckwith’s shoulder now.’

‘Bridget says I’ll be as tall as her within a year, at this rate,’ Starling told him proudly. ‘How came you here, Mr Alleyn? Were you coming to call at the farmhouse?’

‘Well . . . I had some business in Batheaston, so I happened to be passing and I thought I would call in . . . but now I find you here, perhaps we could go into the inn for a while?’ he said, as if only then thinking of it. Starling smiled. One did not pass Bathampton on the road from Box to Batheaston.

‘By chance, we had just decided the same thing,’ she said.

‘Come then,’ said Jonathan. Alice was still breathless, and Starling kept tight hold of her hand as they went towards the door.

The George Inn occupied an ancient stone building, huddled and hoary, with tiny leaded windows and cracked chimney pots. It had many chambers inside, all with flagged stone floors worn into sagging curves, and soot-stained walls under low, oppressive ceilings. Jonathan led them to a bench away from any windows, near a hearth that had been swept clean for the coming summer. The other customers in the place were gentleman farmers talking business, travellers on their way into Bath and a few bargemen, who were rougher and poorly dressed. Loud, bawdy laughter broke out nearby, and Jonathan frowned.

‘I wonder if this is indeed the right place for you, Miss Beckwith,’ he said, but she only laughed.

‘I’m not as sensitive as you think me, Mr Alleyn. I like it here. Starling and I have come here before now, and with Bridget sometimes, on holidays.’

‘I ate devilled kidneys here last time, but I didn’t like them at all,’ Starling added.

‘Well, then. We shall be quite comfortable here for a time.’ Jonathan smiled. They ordered some beer, and a plate of lamb chops to share, and Starling sat, a little bored, as the two of them talked.

They talked of Jonathan’s family, and of his home, which was a grand manor house at Box, further to the west. He lived with his mother and his grandfather, since his own father had died when he was very young. They talked of his schooling, and his desire to buy an officer’s commission into the army, which made Alice’s eyes glow with fearful admiration, that he might put himself in harm’s way. ‘My mother is not enamoured with the idea. She would rather I went into the navy, where there are better prospects for promotion and wealth . . .’

‘But you do not wish it?’ said Alice.

‘I . . . I am quite ashamed to say it, but the sea makes me terribly ill. The few times I have gone aboard a boat have made me quite sure I never wish to again, if I can help it. Much less commit myself to a career upon it!’

‘But you would follow in the very footsteps of Lord Nelson – he also suffers, I have read. And I’ve heard that such illnesses can pass, once a person becomes accustomed.’

‘So they tell me. But if they are wrong, and I am doomed to feel that wretched every time we set sail – oh, Alice, the very thought makes me quail!’ he said, with a rueful laugh. Starling goggled at him in outrage, but neither one of them seemed to notice that he’d used Alice’s Christian name in a public place. ‘I mean to enrol at Le Marchant’s college at Marlow, and become a cavalry officer.’

‘Marlow? But . . . it is so far away . . .’ Alice said quietly.

‘I shall visit home very often, I promise. Very often.’ He spoke earnestly, and for a long moment their eyes stayed locked together, and some unspoken message passed between them that Starling could not read. ‘I mean to . . . I mean to visit Miss Fallonbrooke, before I go,’ Jonathan said softly. Alice’s eyes grew wide.

‘Who’s Miss Fallonbrooke?’ asked Starling, but they both ignored her. She folded her arms crossly and kicked at the table leg, but they ignored that too.

‘Oh?’ said Alice, and it was more of a breath than a word.

‘I wrote to her . . .’

‘You wrote to her?’ Alice’s face fell.

‘Only to ask for a meeting, Alice. Only for that. And I made it plain that . . . that is, in my tone, I sought to convey . . .’ He broke off, frustrated. ‘I mean to speak to her . . . of freeing ourselves from the intentions our parents have imposed upon us. I have reason to believe that she finds them as . . . onerous as I do.’

‘What reasons, Mr Alleyn?’ Alice looked as though she was suffering under some tension she could hardly stand.

‘I had word that . . . she, too, loves another,’ said Jonathan, gazing at Alice in supplication. For a second, Alice radiated a simple, uncomplicated joy. But then her face clouded again.

‘I shall be nineteen at my next birthday,’ she murmured, sounding inexplicably sad. ‘I pray that the visit . . . is a success. I pray that what you heard is right, for only she can release you. Only that way can you conduct yourself as a gentleman should.’ Jonathan looked distraught, so Starling fidgeted, kicking her legs some more, and chipped in:

‘How old are you, Mr Alleyn?’

‘I am not quite eighteen, Miss Starling. But I will be soon,’ he said, turning to her, looking relieved at the interruption.

‘I shall be nine very soon. We think.’

‘Nine! No wonder you’re as tall as an elm. And far too big to be frightened of ghosts, I am sure.’

‘Ghosts? What ghosts?’

‘This building was a monastery, in ancient times. Before old King Henry ordered them to disband. I have heard tell that the ghosts of the monks who once lived here still walk the halls and passageways.’

‘In truth, Mr Alleyn?’ Starling was agog.

‘In truth. In fact, I believe I saw one not a minute ago, peering over your shoulder to see if you’d left a lamb chop for him.’ Jonathan smiled, and Starling gasped, craning her head about to check for spectral monks.

‘You mustn’t tease her so!’ Alice admonished, laughing.

‘If a ghost monk sneaks up on me, Alice, can I throw something at him?’

‘Indeed you may, dearest. Be on your guard,’ said Alice, fondly.

When they parted, an hour or so later, Alice waited by the bridge until Mr Alleyn had ridden right out of sight. She watched forlornly, with her arms folded; and when at last he vanished, she sighed.

‘Come then, Starling. Let’s go back and see how Bridget is getting on.’

‘Aren’t we going into Bathampton at all, then?’ Starling was disappointed.

‘Well, we’ve been gone a good long while already . . . perhaps she might wonder where we are.’

‘And how surprised she’ll be when we tell her Mr Alleyn came riding and found us!’ said Starling. She said it deliberately, to find out what she should and should not say to Bridget, who was somehow both Alice’s servant and her mistress. Part of her knew that she had only been invited along to make it decent for Jonathan and Alice to have lunch together. She was at once proud of this important role, and also had the nagging feeling that something might be owing to her for it. Alice paused.

‘Perhaps she would not like to hear it. Perhaps she would be cross that we did not bring him to the farmhouse, where she could see him too,’ she said. Starling thought for a moment.

‘If we walked back along the high street instead of the canal, we might find something to take her, so she won’t feel so left out. And so she’ll know we’ve been busy, all this time,’ she suggested. Alice gave her a look that was half disapproving, half grateful.

‘A small present for her, to make up for us leaving her alone today,’ Alice agreed.

So they crossed the bridge and walked the length of Bathampton, and bought a handkerchief stitched with poppies and wheat sheaves from a huckster, which seemed to please Bridget well enough. And while Alice was too bright and nervy, and flew her anxiety like a pennant for the first few hours they were back, Starling found she had no such trouble with keeping a secret. She turned the memory of their visit from Jonathan over and over, like a precious stone in her pocket, and found that not telling Bridget was almost as much fun as the visit itself had been.

‘Who is Miss Fallonbrooke?’ she asked again, as Alice tucked her into her blankets that night.

‘Beatrice Fallonbrooke is just a girl who has never done anything to harm anybody.’ Alice sighed, and looked away. ‘She is the daughter of a very wealthy man, and she is intended for Jonathan.’

‘But . . .
you’re
going to marry Jonathan!’ At this, Alice smiled.

‘Yes, I am, dearest. But the course of true love never did run smooth. It is no fault of Miss Fallonbrooke’s that she presents an obstacle.’ She smiled again, though her eyes were sad. ‘You must not mention her, Starling. It is a secret that Jonathan shared with me, and now I have shared it with you. We must keep it secret. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, Alice.’

‘Good girl.’ Alice sealed the promise with a kiss, pressed to her forehead, and Starling slept soundly, well fed on secrets that were now hers to keep.

My Dear Mrs Weekes
,

I do hope this note finds you well and quite recovered from any distress you might have felt upon recently meeting my son, Mr Jonathan Alleyn. I am more grateful than you can know that you agreed to speak with him, in what must have seemed very peculiar circumstances. I can only apologise if his behaviour towards you seemed in any way uncouth. He suffers a great deal, and has been so long out of polite company that I fear he forgets himself and his good manners upon occasion. I pray that you will find it within you to forgive this, and see only the troubled soul that plagues him.

I can quite understand that the meeting was not a pleasant one for you, but it has given me cause to hope. My relationship with my son has been much strained both by past events and by his current malaise, and I regret to impart that he rarely confides in me. It causes me great distress. Forgive the candour of this letter – I thought it best to speak plainly: Jonathan has asked to see you again. It has been far too many years since he made any such request of any visitor, and it fills my heart with joy that he makes it now. So I must ask, though I have little right to: will you call here again at your earliest convenience? Whatever passed between you and my son upon your last visit, it must have had some beneficial effect, and so I have much to thank you for already. But I beg you now, please call again.

Yours &c

Mrs Josephine Alleyn

For several days, Rachel carried Josephine Alleyn’s note around in her pocket, and spoke of it to no one. She took it out and reread it often, and thought about throwing it into the grate and forgetting she had ever seen it. Surely if she did, she wouldn’t be invited to Lansdown Crescent again, and that would be the end of it. She would never have to see them again – the man who had attempted to throttle her, and his beautiful, unreadable mother, so highly regarded by Richard. When she thought of the house, and of Jonathan Alleyn, waiting in his darkened rooms like some ghoul, she shivered. Even his mother, who was gentility itself, and so graceful, had a lost and mournful air. She put Rachel in mind of a porcelain doll – lovely but frozen, and liable to shatter. But then, when Rachel thought what life must be like for Josephine, trapped with a mad and invalid son who scared all callers from the house, she felt a stab of pity, and of guilt. So she kept the letter, and never quite managed to throw it into the fire, however sure she was that she would not see Jonathan Alleyn again, even if attacking her had indeed been beneficial to him.