The Misbegotten (25 page)

‘No, dearest,’ she said, shaking with grief. ‘Nobody came for you.’

‘I’m glad they didn’t,’ Starling said quickly.

‘Are you?’

‘I don’t care who they were, not really. Sometimes I like to imagine them, but . . . I only want to stay here with you, so I don’t need to know about them.’

‘You only want to stay here? For ever?’ Alice turned her head to face Starling, and opened her bloodshot eyes. ‘You only want to live in ignorance of your true heritage, your true family? You only want to go on at the whim of one man, who has the power to prescribe your life to you, though you know not why?’

‘Who, Lord Faukes? He doesn’t prescribe my life . . .’ Starling trailed off.
Does he?
she wondered. ‘You prescribe my life, Alice. You’re my big sister, after all.’

‘You are no more free than I am, Starling.’ Alice sniffed, and stared at her intently. ‘You and I are every bit as trapped and used as poor Flint, on his wheel. Don’t you see?’ Starling was mystified. Life at the farmhouse held everything she thought she needed. She could think of few ways in which it might improve. ‘But I will find a way,’ Alice whispered then, and a spark kindled in her eyes. ‘I will find a way to change it, and Jonathan will help me.’

‘What’s Jonathan going to do?’

‘He’s going to marry me,’ Alice whispered, and she shut her eyes again, and seemed more serene. Starling was still trying to puzzle out her meaning when she realised that Alice had fallen asleep. She watched her sister’s pale and lovely face for a while, suddenly feeling as though there was much she did not know.

The following month was June, and Bridget packed up some clothing, and several pots of home preserves as presents, and prepared to make an overdue visit to her niece in Oxford.

‘Now, you’ll be all right? There is plenty of food in the larder – I’ve left you a mutton pie, and the peas are coming all the time – keep picking them. There’s—’

‘Dear Bridget, you’re only going for a week! We shan’t starve, nor the house cave in,’ Alice interrupted her. ‘Besides, you’ve been training Starling these past four years – what kind of teacher would you be if she couldn’t cope with a few simple meals in your absence?’

‘Hmm.’ Bridget seamed her lips together for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Well, then,’ she said, tying the ribbon of her straw hat under her chin and hefting up her basket. ‘Behave yourselves.’ With that she went out and climbed up beside the yardman in their little wagon; he was to take her up to the Bath road, where she could catch the stagecoach. Alice and Starling stood side by side to wave her off, and once she was out of sight Alice turned to Starling, and smiled.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘What shall we do today? Since it’s holiday time you don’t have to do your lessons. Not until Bridget gets back.’

‘And can we have chocolate this evening?’

‘We can. Every evening!’

‘Huzzah!’ Starling shouted, running out across the yard into the sunshine, and sending the chickens scattering.

Later that day Alice went for one of her solitary walks, just for half an hour or so while Starling put a slab of pork belly in the oven to roast, and shelled peas to go with it. When Alice got back she was secretive – Starling was wise to it in an instant; a misaimed pea bounced across the work top and rolled onto the floor.

‘What is it, Alice? Is Mr Alleyn coming? Have you seen him?’

‘I have not. But . . . a little bird told me that we should make ourselves look festive, and be waiting on the far side of the miller’s bridge by middle morning tomorrow.’ Her eyes were dancing with excitement, a happier countenance than any she’d worn since Flint died. Starling hopped from one foot to the other in agitation.

‘Who says so? What little bird? Is it Jonathan? Where are we going?’ she demanded.

‘I don’t know, dearest. But I think it will be fun.’

‘Will we visit away from Bathampton, do you think?’ This was something Starling longed to do. The world, only heard and read about, seemed impossibly huge and thrilling to one who had no memories before the farmhouse.

‘We’ll just have to wait and see, my chuck,’ said Alice.

It took a long time for Starling to succumb to sleep that night; her anticipation of the day to come kept her mind alight and humming, and got her up at dawn. She was out and about before the yardman, even; while the air was still as cool and fresh as rainwater, and dew soaked the summer grasses. The sky was a pale, pristine blue, so high up and far away that looking up felt like falling. Swallows and house martins arrowed across it, adding their wheeling voices to the dawn chorus. Starling could smell the pea flowers and lavender in the kitchen garden; the damp stone of the farmhouse; the sweet greenery of the meadow; the familiar, reassuring stink of the muck heap. The chickens muttered at her as she reached beneath them for the eggs, but it was so early that not all had laid yet. She tipped the previous day’s kitchen slops into the sow’s trough and stayed awhile to stroke her piglets, which had skin as soft and pink as her own ears. But after all of that the shutters were still closed over their bedroom window, and Alice was therefore still abed, so Starling went to pester the horse in his stable. She could not be still.

After breakfast Starling chafed even more, as Alice washed her hair for her and combed it dry, tucking and fussing her red curls into their proper places. She put on her best white cotton dress, spat on a rag and rubbed her leather shoes into a semblance of cleanliness. Only then, when much primping and styling and beribboning was done, did they quit the house and set off towards the bridge. They paid the toll to cross and went up the lane towards Batheaston, and there waited in the shade of an ash tree because the climbing sun had grown hot. At the sound of a single set of hooves approaching, Alice’s hand on Starling’s shoulder squeezed; Starling looked up at her, grinning, as Jonathan Alleyn came into view, driving a small trap with a pretty spotted pony in the traces.

‘Good day, fair cousins,’ he called to them, with a wide smile. His dark hair had been pushed back by the breeze; there was a light tan on his skin from the bright spell of weather.

‘And to you, cousin,’ Alice replied, pointedly.

‘Why are you calling each other—’ Starling began to say, but got an elbow in her ribs from Alice. ‘Ouch! You didn’t have to! Where are we going?’ she asked, as Jonathan held out his hand to help them climb up in turn.

‘We’re going somewhere where nobody will recognise any one of us, or know that we are not three cousins, out together for the day. And . . . we’re going to a fair,’ said Jonathan. Starling gasped, and goggled incredulously at Alice, who was beaming. Bathampton had a May Day fair; it was a small event, where the village children danced ribbons around the pole, tea and ale were drunk and ferrets raced, and that was enough to make it a gala day for Starling. Jonathan clicked his tongue at the pony, and they moved off. ‘Bridget left on her visit as planned, then?’ he said.

‘She did, and will not be back until Tuesday next. And . . . Lord Faukes?’

‘He and my mother are in London this month and I find myself quite recovered from the slight head cold that prevented me accompanying them.’

Alice and Jonathan chattered and laughed as the spotted pony walked up and down the hills, and trotted along the flat, covering the eight miles north and east towards Corsham. Starling paid little mind to what they said, she was too busy staring around at the rolling hills, all bright and summer green; at the farmhouses and hamlets they passed; at the village of Box, with its stone cottages and pretty gardens. A good way back from the road in Box, she saw the dormer windows, gabled ends and tall chimney stacks of a very large, grand house, hidden by a screen of cypress trees.

‘See, there,’ said Jonathan, pointing to it. ‘There is my grandfather’s house, where I live.’

‘But I can hardly see it . . . can’t we drive up to it, just for a second?’ said Alice, eagerly. Jonathan shook his head.

‘I dare not . . . I’m sorry, Alice – I mean, cousin. The servants would surely see us, and wonder. And they cannot be relied upon to say nothing at a later date.’

‘Oh.’ Alice’s disappointment lasted seconds; soon she was merry and laughing once more. Starling looked back at the massive roof, and had the peculiar feeling that the house was watching her in return.

Corsham was a bigger town than Starling had ever seen before. It had an ancient high street between undulating stone houses, paved with buff slabs and cobbles. There were flags and flowers hanging from every shop front and lamp-post, and the scent of food was everywhere – hot pies, strawberries, fresh fudge and cinnamon buns. Starling’s mouth watered as she breathed it in; her stomach rumbled audibly, and Jonathan laughed.

‘Famished already, little coz? Fear not. I have a fistful of pennies with me, for this very purpose. You can eat whatever you wish.’

‘Anything I wish? Truly?’ Starling breathed.

‘Not more than one cone of fudge, and one of honeycomb, or you’ll be sick,’ Alice qualified. The high street and the square by the church were crowded with people and stalls; everything was for sale, from gloves to garden tools and corn dollies; jam to pig’s ears and liver pills.

From the church square, a long carriage drive led up to the towering, intricate walls of Corsham Court, a house so huge and elaborate that Starling could only stare at it in amazement.

‘Who lives there?’ she asked.

‘A man called Methuen. We dine there, sometimes,’ said Jonathan. At this, both Starling and Alice turned to stare at him in near disbelief. It suddenly seemed inappropriate that they should be in his company.

‘You have been invited to dine . . . in that house?’ Alice murmured. She’d gone a little pale, and Jonathan looked confused for a moment.

‘Oh – but have no fear, Miss Beckwith. Cousin Alice, I mean.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘The family are not at home. There’s no chance of my being recognised.’ They walked on, and neither of the girls spoke. For a while, their Jonathan seemed a different creature entirely, and they were in awe of him, until he looked across and smiled his slightly bashful smile, and so went back to being the man they knew.

‘What’s it like inside?’ Starling couldn’t help but ask. Jonathan shrugged.

‘Opulent. Ugly, for the most part. In the richest possible way. As you would expect, from what has been done to the outside of the house. He has some very fine paintings, however.’ The silence resumed, Starling and Alice both hoping that Jonathan wouldn’t realise that neither one of them had the first idea what to expect of the interior of such a place.

A pipe, fiddle and drum band were playing in the square, and people had begun to dance; simple country dances that involved a good deal of spinning, promenading and galloping. The dancers’ faces grew red and sweaty in the heat of the day, but it didn’t slow them any, and the spectators clapped and stamped out the time, on and on. The three of them meandered from one end of the fair to the other, seeing all there was to see, grazing from the food sellers, admiring the hawkers’ wares. Starling ran this way and that, panting for breath, wanting to see and do it all at once. She was bewildered and enthralled by the myriad of strange faces, the crush of people, the noise and throng and chaos. It made her heart race and her head spin. She felt, for the first time in her life, like a citizen of the wider world, and she loved it. She only slowed for one thing – a song of perfect loveliness. In a quiet corner on the edge of everything, an Irish girl was singing with an old man to accompany her on the fiddle; they’d placed a grubby felt hat on the ground in front of them, and a few coins had gone in. They were battered and weather-worn, their clothes were worn out, but the fiddle had a hoarse, bittersweet timbre, and the girl’s voice was as unadorned and beautiful as any of them had ever heard.

‘My young love said to me, my mother won’t mind
, she sang, and all who heard her stopped to listen. ‘She
placed her hand on me, and this she did say: it will not be long, love, till our wedding day . .
.’ Alice glanced at Jonathan, and caught him studying her. A blush flared over his long cheekbones, and he looked away, abashed. As the Irish girl’s song ended, and her spell was broken, Jonathan rummaged in his pocket and found a coin for the hat.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back for another of those delicious gooseberry pies.’

Soothed by the song, Starling quietened a little. She straightened her skirts and tried to walk with more decorum, like a proper young lady – moving through the fair, stepping neatly between and around the other revellers. When she glanced back, Alice had taken Jonathan’s arm; they walked with their eyes on each other, not on where they were going – they followed Starling blindly. She was their pilot and captain, just then, so she changed course, humming the song she’d just learnt, and led them back to the lady with the marshmallow, and the liquorice-flavoured fudge. Later on they walked a distance across Corsham Court’s parkland, opened to the public for the day, and rested in the shade of an ancient oak tree. They were full of food and laughter and sunshine, and drowsy from it all; shooing lazily at the buzzing flies, watching the brilliant light flicker down through the leaves. There came a roar from the edge of the park, as the winning tug o’ war team pulled the losers into a mud patch; a sudden crescendo of noise and applause that pattered and echoed against the back walls of the townhouses.

‘I wish every day was like today,’ said Starling. Jonathan had lain back with his head on his arms, and shut his eyes; Alice sat as close to him as she could without touching. They’d stopped calling each other ‘cousin’ so ostentatiously, since nobody was listening. There was nobody there to tell them they shouldn’t be; they were at their liberty, for once, and unconcerned.

‘And I,’ Alice agreed.

‘Except we would all be as fat as your old sow if it were so,’ said Jonathan.

‘No, indeed.’ Alice laughed. ‘We would dance it all away.’

‘
It will not be long, love, till our wedding day
,’ Starling sang softly. ‘I loved that song, didn’t you?’ She picked the feathery seeds from a stalk of grass and scattered them to the balmy air.