The Weeping Ash (69 page)

Scylla had hoped to speak to Fanny after the hearing, but the behavior of the crowd outside the town hall became so ungovernable that the constables had to smuggle the prisoner away by a side entrance and into a closed carriage, before her enthusiastic sympathizers could mob and trample her.

Thomas, gloomily returning home, was startled by the sight of his daughter Martha, blooming and pretty, with an unusual air of matronly decision about her.

“Where the devil have
you
come from?” he growled at her. “Wherever it is, you may just go back there! You have no place in my house anymore!”

“I have not the least wish to stay in your house,” sharply retorted Martha. “I came to hear the court session, and what I heard decided me to take Patty back with me to my house. This is no place for a child her age. You may come too, Bet, if you like.”

Bet, though affronted at this casual invitation from her younger sister, nevertheless decided that almost any place would be more cheerful than the Hermitage and went off to pack up some clothes for herself and Patty. Thomas raged at them all, but somehow without conviction; he did not really care if his daughters remained or departed. Without waiting to bid them farewell, he strode away to his garden room.

The body of Henry Goble was discovered beside a tombstone in the new graveyard. Public shock and horror at this second death, following so rapidly after that of poor little Thomas Paget, was mitigated by Dr. Chilgrove's assurance that no foul play need be suspected. Inspection of the body had satisfied him that Goble had been carried off by the dangerous disorder of peripneumony, evidently brought on by chill and exposure acting on an already strained and enlarged heart which the doctor had been treating for some time with foxglove essence. It seemed plain that the poor man had been taken ill while tending the grave of Edward Wilshire, for he still clasped in his hand a bunch of crocuses that he must have been intending to place in a crock that stood nearby.

“Wretched man!” exclaimed Scylla when Lord Egremont brought her this news. “Cal will be excessively sad to hear of his death. I think he had grown truly attached to the old man, even in the short space of time that they had known one another. And now what is to be done? His testimony in court, however distracted, might have been worth
something
; now it is lost. All circumstances seem to favor my cousin Thomas! I believe he has sold his soul to the devil.”

“Not
quite
all circumstances,” Lord Egremont said. “I have here a letter from my friend James Henriques—”

“
That
good-for-nothing,” muttered Liz Wyndham, who was sitting with them in the Petworth House library. “What use in the world can he be?”

“Not quite good for nothing, love, for he writes:

“Relative to your recent disturbances in Petworth, I am indeed shocked to read in
The Times
that your charming little neighbor has been charged with the murder of her child. It may have some bearing on this matter & be worth your knowing that Mrs. Liliane Baggot (who is at present living under my protection) affirms with certainty the following: viz., that Capt. Paget during an unguarded and expansive moment once swore to her that he had succeeded in doing away with the first Mrs. P. & wd not hesitate to get rid of the second should she prove as intransigeant as she bid fair to do. Mrs. B. wd be prepared to repeat this statement in Court but asks that, if possible, she may be spared this Horrid ordeal.”

“She might as well,” remarked Liz, shrugging. “What is it, after all, but a spiteful piece of tittle-tattle?”

“Yes, very true, but investigations as to the death of the first Mrs. Paget might bring something to light. If only we had one piece of evidence of a more substantial nature!”

Unknown to Lord Egremont, such a piece of evidence was preparing, but it was not to come to light until some weeks later in the cold, bleak spring.

Meanwhile in Calcutta the new Governor General, the Earl of Mornington, resolved to strike at Tippoo Sahib's French-trained army and instructed his younger brother, Arthur Wellesley, with General Harris, to begin moving troops toward Seringapatam, the capital of Mysore. In the Mediterranean a combined Russian and Turkish fleet had captured Corfu. Marshal Suvorov, at the head of his Russian troops, had entered Milan. Buonaparte, having written urging Tippoo Sahib to overthrow the British in India, had set out on an overland march across the eastern desert toward Syria. Only the port and fortified town of Acre barred his passage eastward. And toward Acre the sloop
Asp
was making all speed with urgent dispatches.

In England the snow melted, fell again, melted again. And on the far side of the Shimmings Valley, Farmer Fewkes's cows, having scavenged in vain over the sodden hillside for a few mouthfuls of nourishing grass, raised their voices in complaint, lowing and bellowing their hunger and dissatisfaction.

“Drat 'em,” said Farmer Fewkes to his man Tom. “They be growing as thin as clothes props. Ye'll have to give 'em a few more prongfuls o' Rector's hay, Tom.”

* * *

Some weeks later, in Chichester jail, Fanny received an unexpected visitor. She had endeared herself to the wardresses by her gentle, diffident politeness; although accorded special privileges, she never presumed upon these, and performed any tasks set her with diligence and docility. Several of her kindly jailers were prepared to swear that she “could never have done that wicked deed” and would have been glad to shut their eyes to any small infringements of prison discipline. But Fanny never asked for any. Now, however—

“Here's a Lieutenant Paget to see you, love,” said the day wardress, putting her head around the cell door. “By rights you're only allowed to be visited by husband, lawyer, or closest female relative—but we'll just say this one's your husband, eh? It's the same name, so what's the difference? And
he
never comes, anyway,” she muttered disapprovingly, retreating and shutting the door.

Fanny almost fainted from surprise.

“Cal! I had thought you were in the Mediterranean Sea!”

“So I was. Oh, Fanny! My dearest dear! How can you
bear
it here? My poor love—what you have been through!”

It was very natural to find herself in Cal's arms, and the comfort of being there was so great that she was tempted to embrace him back, but withdrew herself, saying shakily:

“Indeed, we must not! Besides, what would they think—” glancing toward the grille in the door. “But, Cal, how in the world do you come to be here? I was never so astonished!”

She gazed at him, still hardly believing in his appearance, absently taking in the fact that he was very thin and looked pale under his sea tan.

“How do I come to be here? I posted direct from Portsmouth—and am on my way now to Petworth to make a deposition to the magistrates there. I shall tell them—what, I am sure, Goble already has but my testimony will add strength to his—that we saw Thomas in the garden on the night of—of your baby's death; that he wore shirt and trousers only, and looked wild and haggard. At the time I thought his strange appearance to be a result of our quarrel, but now I believe it was due to guilt and horror over the deed he had just committed. Do you not think so too?”

Fanny shivered. “I do not know! He is very pertinacious in accusing me; and I know that
I
did not do it—but still—I find it so hard to believe that he could—that even
Thomas
could do such a thing—”

She raised pain-filled eyes to Cal, who exclaimed in horror, “You did not think that
I
had done it, Fanny?”

“No—oh, how could I tell? I did not know what to think.”

“Have you no one to comfort you? Where is my sister?”

“Oh, she has come almost every day. She has been very kind. Everyone has indeed.”

Now Cal glanced about the cell and saw that it was filled with tokens of people's good will—newspapers and books lay piled on the floor, jam pots of flowers, baskets of fruit stood ranged against the wall.

“Many Petworth people—whom I do not even know—so often send little things—eggs, cheeses—and the children send posies—somebody comes every single day with these—” Fanny indicated a very beautifully arranged bouquet of woodland flowers and evergreens—old-man's beard, feathery broom, brilliant rose hips, pine fronds and cones, a few snowdrops and early wild daffodils. “Every day I receive a new one, but I do not know who brings them. Is it not beautiful?”

“Yes—very—but, Fanny, it is so dreadful to see you in this place. To set you free I would gladly admit to the murder myself—”

“Cal, no! You are not to think of such a thing!”

“Well, I daresay it will not be necessary,” he agreed. “I will go to see old Goble, and, between us, I daresay we may be able to piece together enough evidence to point the finger of justice at your abominable husband.”

Fanny had not been told of Goble's death. Lord Egremont and Scylla had agreed that there was no point in additionally burdening her with this painful news.

She murmured, “I wish you need not! Oh—I do not want to die—and yet I feel that it may be better this way. Poor Thomas—I never loved him—indeed it was hard not to hate him—which was very wrong. I feel I am being punished deservedly.”

“Arrant nonsense!” said Cal.

“No, it is not. I have a foreboding that, if I do not accept this as my just desert for not being a good wife to Thomas, something worse will happen. Oh, Cal—pray do not do anything rash or wild!”

“Not being a good wife to him? You were the best wife a man could hope for—far, far better than he deserved. Fanny, I daresay I should not be saying this to you now, but if—but when—when you are free of all this horror, free from Thomas—as you will, you
must
be—for he has quite disowned you—will you marry me? Will you be my wife? Indeed, I love you with my whole heart! Loving you has changed me from a boy to a man.” He smiled at her ingenuously, and her heart was pierced by a curious pang—belying his words, he looked so much a boy, still, a lock of soft dark hair hanging, as usual, over his eyes, which gazed pleadingly into hers. “Fanny? Will you? Please say yes!”

She felt too much at ease with him to pretend shock, or surprise, or disapproval. But she shook her head.

“No. Dearest, dearest Cal—no! I love you as much as anybody in the world—but it cannot be. It can never be.”

“Why not? You can divorce him, or—”

“Hush! It would be wrong. I know, I feel, it would be very wrong.”

“No! It would not! It would be right—right for both of us!”

She said quietly, “Please do not go on.”

“No, of course not.” He was humbled. “Forgive me! I am always—importuning you when I should not—when you have too many troubles already. I just wanted you to know. But you are right! I will leave you now. I will see you again as soon as may be. In the meantime—perhaps these may speak for me—” And he pulled a bundle of manuscript pages out of his pocket and handed them to her, saying with a slight smile, “Is it not strange? All the time I was under your roof, I could write nothing—not a single line—though I was feeling it in my heart. But the moment I was back at sea again, out it all came pouring, and the burden of it was Fanny—Fanny—Fanny! These are for you. Let them plead my case. Now I will bid you good-bye.”

And, first gently touching her forehead with his lips, he limped to the door and knocked to be let out.

During the hour's drive to Petworth he lay back against the cushions and sank into a profound sleep of exhaustion. Since receiving the news of Fanny's arrest he had hardly known a full night's repose—he had been riven by remorse over his quarrel with Thomas, which must have begun this whole train of events, harrowed by anxiety for Fanny, and consumed with a longing to affirm his love. The relief of having done this was so great that he slept like a child until awoken by his coach wheels clattering over the cobbled streets of Petworth.

He had told the driver to go straight to Petworth House, Fanny having informed him that Scylla was there. His need to see her almost equaled his need to see Fanny, and he was bitterly disappointed to be told by the major-domo that Miss Paget was not in the house just then.

“She'll be back here in two–three hours, though, sir, she and Mis' Wyndham have driven over to Chichester. They'll be back come dinnertime.”

“How vexatious! We must have passed on the road.”

However, Cal found the master of the house at home and unfeignedly delighted to see him.

“My dear Paget! You are welcome indeed. Where did my message finally catch up with you?”

“At Acre, sir.”

“Acre? By heaven, you have made good time back, then!”

“We were bringing dispatches from Captain Sydney Smith, you see, sir. Boney is marching in his direction—hoping to go on to India—I believe he is at Jaffa now—so it was urgent to bring the news back to England. In that way, fortune favored me—otherwise I might not have got back so fast.”

“You look worn to a bone, my poor boy. Will you eat a nuncheon?”

“No, I thank you, sir. I could not eat. I wish to make a deposition as soon as may be, regarding this horrible business.”

“Of course you do! Let us go into the library, and I will ask Frank Goodyear to write it all down as you tell me. Frank! Frank!” he called to his secretary. “Come along, I wish you to write down Lieutenant Paget's statement.”

In the library they found a young man studying a large number of elaborate plans which he had spread out on the great table. He rose politely at Lord Egremont's entrance and made to leave the room.

“Shan't disturb you long, Talgarth, my dear fellow,” Lord Egremont said. “You go out and take some air, now, prune a tree or something, you look pale as a plateful of tripe! I wish you would obey my orders and go off to study the gardens at Corsham Court, instead of fagging yourself to death over those plans—all work and no play, you know!”

He shook his head at Talgarth as the latter, bowing, left the room, and added to Cal, “Capital young fellow that—capital. Obstinate as a bear, of course, never listens to my orders—but I believe he will be outstripping Capability Brown, by and by, he has a remarkable natural genius. He don't look well at present, though. Silly fellow! He spends too long over those confounded plans—schemes for my new pleasure grounds, you know. However that ain't to the purpose. Well, Frank—are you ready to write?”

“I believe, sir,” said Cal, who had been thinking, “that it may be better if old Goble is brought here to confirm my testimony—that is, if it is possible to fetch him without arousing Captain Paget's suspicions?”

“Goble? What, hadn't you heard—No, but of course, how could you have? Why, he is dead, my dear fellow, dead and gone these six weeks.”

“What?” exclaimed Cal, horribly startled. “Goble
dead
? How can this be? He was not murdered also?”

“No—no, poor old fellow, natural causes took him off”—and Lord Egremont described the circumstances. “Chilgrove said he was not surprised; Goble had been ailing for some time, never took much care of himself; probably never ate a proper meal. I doubt if he was given much in that cheeseparing Paget's establishment.”