9 Settling In #3
Yet still he worried about it. What precisely did she want of him?
Where was it going, this odd friendship or whatever it was?
Would it fizzle out, dwindling into nothing but a pleasant memory?
Or would it become even more outrageous?
She was already openly seeking out his company, as he sought hers.
She had even said that she loved him, and thrilled him with a kiss, although only because she had just hit her head.
Best not to set too much store by that. Even so, was it wrong?
Could two people of mature age not strike up a friendship that brought a little happiness to both, and affected no one else?
No, that could not be wrong, surely, but any further steps would be unwise.
And even as he acknowledged the thought, he smiled inwardly and knew that he would not hesitate to take those steps if she asked it of him, however unwise it might be.
***
Cal was so busy about his own affairs that he hardly noticed the depletion of the household at Staineybank as the season began in earnest in London.
The duke and duchess left, with a great retinue of servants and mountains of luggage, taking Violetta with them, and Mr Chamberlain the painter.
Cora’s middle daughters, Augusta and Maria, went, too, for a short visit, although they could not long be kept away from the Staineybank stables and library respectively.
Charlotte Merrington stayed behind to manage the house, and the recent mothers, Mrs Richard Merrington and Mrs Simon Payne, remained along with their husbands.
And Cora stayed, too. Somehow, he had known that she would.
Now that he was officially an employee of the duke’s, and for an exorbitant salary, too, he made himself known to Tom Hogarth, the head gardener.
“Not sure there’s much need for an extra man, to be honest, Garford,” Hogarth said, lifting his hat to scratch his bald pate.
“We manage well enough, and there’s always a boy or two to do a bit of digging if’n we get behindhand.
I’d a thought you’d have enough on your plate, what with all the woods you’ve got to look after. ”
“There’s not so much of it, really. I can walk from Staineybank to the river in under an hour.”
“Oh, the Staineybank Wood, to be sure, but the Frickham Wood, now, that’s more of a size. Mebbe ten times as big as Staineybank.”
Cal quivered with excitement. “Ten times? And that’s the duke’s land?”
“Oh, aye. Not that he does much with it.”
“Where is it?”
“Quickest way’s past the home farm — you know where that is?
” Cal nodded. “Aye, well, you have to follow the lane all the way between the fields there, and past where the old mill used to be. There’s a few spinneys and whatnot, but watch out for the guns, cos that’s where the gen’lemen shoot, or it might be Ben Lovell.
If you keep going, you’ll see the witch’s cottage, where you turn into a narrow track and the woods are ahead o’ you. ”
“The witch’s cottage?”
“Aye,” the gardener said seriously. “Keep well clear o’ her or she’ll curse you.”
Cal shot off to discover this vast, unsuspected forest, but the maze of tracks and narrow lanes beyond the home farm defeated him. He returned to Staineybank thwarted but undaunted, and went to the study to ask James Hammond for a map, instead.
“The Frickham Wood? Heaven only knows what state it is in, for no one goes there. Let me see if I can find the map.”
After only a few moments rifling in cupboards, he produced a large roll of parchment which he unrolled on the table, weighting down the edges with a standish, two candlesticks and a decanter.
The faded writing and spidery hand attested to the venerable age of the document.
“Now, let me see… ah, here is Staineybank, and our woods… the Brin and Woodbridge… the home farm… there it is… the Frickham Wood comprises all that area between High Frickham, here, and the Rindle, over here. That is a tributary of the Brin… it comes in up here, do you see? I had forgotten how big the Frickham Wood is. What does the duke want you to do with it?”
“No idea. I didn’t know it existed until Tom Hogarth mentioned it.”
“I shall write to the duke, if you like, and ask if he has any instructions.”
“Thank you, I’d be grateful. Tell me, who is this witch that lives in the witch’s cottage?”
Hammond laughed. “An old woman who rants at the world — half mad, if you ask me, but she is not violent and certainly not a witch. She lives with her daughter who has a couple of children. Timmy, the kitchen boy, is one of hers. Garford…” He paused, chewing his lip.
“Will you be at your hut later today? I have to go into the village first, but I should like to talk to you, if I may.” Pyott, the comptroller, looked up from his desk with sudden interest. “There is a matter which puzzles me.”
“You and your puzzles,” Pyott said, chuckling.
“I’ll be there when I’ve looked over these maps,” Cal said easily.
He spent about an hour poring over the map, and memorising the tracks, buildings and boundaries, and after that it was too late in the day to do any serious exploring. He went thoughtfully back to the hut, wondering why on earth Hammond might wish to talk to him.