4 Butterfly
Cora followed Cal down the path, and it was not long before she caught glimpses of the lake peeping through the trees, the sunshine turning the surface to dazzling silver. Just before that, however, a narrow side path disappeared behind a large bramble bush.
Cal stopped, hands on hips.
“What is it?” she said.
“Let’s try down here.”
“It is very narrow and brambly,” she said dubiously.
“Aye, but surprisingly well trodden. See where those fronds that grew across it have been trampled? In the muddy spot over there, there’s part of a boot print. You can stay here if you don’t want to risk tearing your clothes, but someone has gone this way recently and I’m curious as to why.”
“It looks too narrow and overgrown to be a main path.”
“Precisely. All the other paths are kept clear by hacking back the side growth, but not this one. I’ll just go and have a quick look but—”
“I shall come with you, although I expect it is just a short cut to somewhere.”
Cora followed Cal cautiously, holding her cloak tightly about her person and edging past the bramble bush. Beyond it was a large, open clearing with a tiny stone-built cottage on the far side.
“What an odd place for a cottage,” she said. “Who is living here, do you think?”
“No one, I’d guess,” he said. “There’s no smell of smoke, so I doubt anyone lit a fire here recently.
Not for weeks, anyway, possibly much longer.
But I can tell you why it’s here. This would have been the charcoal burner’s hut.
You see this big dead patch in the centre of the clearing?
That would have been where the kiln was, and I can see several coppiced trees around the perimeter.
From the regrowth, I’d say it’s above ten years since charcoal was made here. People prefer coal nowadays.”
“But coppiced wood is free to burn. My son still coppices at his estate in Norfolk, and we burned that in preference to coal. Except for the kitchen fire, which needs to be hot enough to bake bread.”
“Sensible man. Coppicing is a good way to produce whatever size of timber you want, over and over again. Better than clearing a whole forest. I’m going to have a wander round outside the hut to see what I can see, but it looks a bit too overgrown for your fine clothes.
You could see if the door’s unlocked, if you want. ”
“There might be someone inside,” she said uncertainly.
“He’d have come out at the sound of our voices, and besides, the shutters are closed. I doubt anyone’s sitting in the dark. But you can wait for me if you don’t like to go in alone.”
He grinned at her and strode off to wade through the waist-high weeds that surrounded the hut. Cora could see the sense in what he said, although it was not easy to overcome her reservations. Tentatively, therefore, she approached the door, then, rather nervously, tapped on it.
“Is anyone there?” she called.
No answer.
She hesitated, but Cal was only on the far side of the hut, for she could hear his progress through the undergrowth. What could possibly happen?
Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch and pushed open the door.
Nothing happened. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the hut was one room, the only furniture a table and wooden chair set under one shuttered window.
The fireplace held nothing but ashes and a few blackened twigs, and every corner of the room, as well as the few shelves on the walls, boasted a fine collection of spiders’ webs.
Curious about the sparse furnishings, she crossed the room to examine the table.
It was very elderly, cracked and twisted, but it was relatively clean — cleaner than the rest of the hut.
Something shifted… light flooded into the room, and a face peered through the window at her. She squeaked in alarm until she realised it was only Cal, lifting the outside shutter. The face vanished, and she heard a great swishing through the undergrowth before he reappeared at the door.
“Beg pardon. I never meant to startle you. Oh!” He turned slowly round, taking in the room. “This is interesting. What do you notice?”
“There is no one here,” she said at once. “The place is filthy. But what a splendid view of the lake.”
“Lake, lawns, drive and house,” he said. “A fine view, indeed, and someone’s gone to the trouble of clearing all the undergrowth away outside the window so he can admire it.”
“The table is clean,” she said. “I suppose he sat here… eating a meal, perhaps? And admiring the view.”
“No crumbs,” Cal said. “No footprints in the dust in the rest of the hut, just from the door to the chair. Ah, and look, the shutter can be lifted from inside, so he comes in here, raises the shutter and then sits watching… well, only the laundry maid hanging out sheets today.”
“So what is the table for, if he never ate in here?”
“To put his coat on? Or his bags… and his gun.”
“Oh, the gamekeeper? It could be. He is always back and forth through these woods. Or the gardeners might come here to shelter from the rain. This is the narrow part of the lake and I can see the stepping stones just below us. If they were caught out while trimming the lawns…”
“Only one chair,” Cal said. “You know, this could be made into a comfortable little place.”
“To use? This tiny hut? For what purpose?”
“To sleep in,” he said, laughing. “What could be finer than to sleep among the trees?”
“There is no glass in the windows,” she said, rather shocked.
“The shutters are sound, and with a fire, it would be warm enough, even in winter. The bed would go at the far end, along that wall. In fact, with a curtain or partition to divide the room into living and sleeping spaces, it would be a fine place to live. The fireplace is big enough to cook on, and there’s even a cooking grate, and several hooks and chains. ”
“You would truly like to live in a place like this? What was your accommodation like at Lampton Priory?”
“A cottage — in the woods!” he said, but his face changed abruptly. “No, not in the woods any longer.”
“Mr Garth cut them all down. But why? Miss Garth said that he hates you but that cannot be right… can it?”
“You’d have to ask him those questions. I can’t rightly answer them myself. But the cottage is still there, a parlour and kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms under the eaves. Larger than this place, but not by much.”
“My son loves cottages,” Cora said. “He designs them, as a pastime. More than a pastime, I suppose, since he has published an entire book of his designs and people buy it, apparently. It is very popular.”
“Why do people buy it?”
“To build the cottages. Each design specifies the precise number of bricks and lengths of wood required, with the costs worked out. Richard is particularly good at working out costs, especially when one needs a new gown.”
He smiled at her, and once again her stomach churned about, making her feel no more than seventeen.
Surely she was past all this nonsense, and could admire a man without melting?
She wanted to be able to enjoy his company without constantly worrying that she was going to start blushing violently or stumbling over her words. Ridiculous at her age!
“Ah, you ladies!” Cal said cheerfully. “Off you go to buy a new gown when there’s still plenty of life in the old one.”
“That is Richard’s philosophy, too,” Cora said sadly, “and if one cares nothing for fashion or one’s place in the world, that is all very well.
It is certainly economical. However, my husband always said that my appearance reflected on him, and I needed to look well for his sake, if not my own.
I brought the girls up with that in mind, and they have always been a credit to their father.
Then of course when Roland died and we had Richard’s parsimony imposed upon us, we were chided for every little expense.
It became a game, to try to finagle a little extra out of him, a game which we usually lost, I might say. ”
“He’s no need to count the pennies now, though,” Cal said.
“No need, although he does still like to do it, even though we are subsidised by the duke, who never minds how much we spend. It is a strange thing, but that makes me feel far more guilty, with the result that I agonise over every strip of lace and wonder if my evening slippers will do for another year or two. It is most provoking. I almost wish we were back at Norwich, wrangling with Richard over every button, and triumphing at an extra ribbon slipped past his vigilance. Heavens, listen to me! Let us go out into the sunshine, Mr Garford, before I become entirely maudlin and start telling you about my poor dead mother and affecting stories of my childhood.”
Outside, they walked once around the perimeter of the clearing, and Cal showed her the coppiced trees and some strange growth on one of the oak trees. It was a mushroom, he told her, although not like any that Cora had ever seen.
“It has a long Latin name — everything has a Latin name — but it’s commonly called ‘chicken of the forest’.”
“Chicken of the forest? How strange! It looks nothing like a chicken.”
“No, but it tastes a bit like it. Lovely fried with garlic and thyme. Now this one down here, just peeping through the leaves, with the red patches — not such good eating. Known as Red Jenny round here. I’m sure it’s got other names.”
“Is it poisonous?”
“No, but best avoided unless you know what you’re doing. Country midwives use it sometimes to help with women’s problems. Oh, now here’s the wild garlic to go with the chicken of the forest.”
She was amazed there was so much in these woods that she had walked through scores of times. How different to see them through Cal’s eyes!