19 Visitors
Cora knew at once that evening that Richard was up to something.
She recognised the slightly smug expression on his face, for one thing, and his unusual solicitude for her comfort.
He fussed around her rather like a mother hen with a recalcitrant chick, fetching cushions for her back, though she had no need of them, and adjusting her shawl whenever the opportunity presented itself.
He had also invited Colonel and Mrs Whitestone for dinner.
They were an impoverished pair, having returned from twenty years in India without deriving any pecuniary benefit from it, and now living a hand to mouth existence on the fringes of good society.
The colonel had a small fund of tales to amuse the company, and the only entertainment he and his wife required in return was to play whist against anyone who would allow them to rise from the table a few pounds richer.
At Staineybank this task fell to Cora and Mr Godley, and since she knew that they would be there until at least two o’clock, she sent Souter to warn Cal that she would not be coming to the hut that night.
As soon as she retired to her room that night, exhausted and ready for bed, she saw that Souter was agitated.
“Whatever is the matter?” she cried. “He is not—? There is nothing wrong, is there?”
“Oh, madam! He’s been turned off! Mr Richard’s told him to go, and there’s nothing he can do! He’ll have to leave.”
“Where will he go? Back to Gloucestershire?”
“No, nothing like that. He said to tell you he’s organising something and he’ll send word of where he’ll be.”
“But he will not be here! It will be Brinchester, I suppose, and if he has no income, it will be a couple of rooms over a baker’s shop. He will not want to live on his savings, so he will have to find employment — is Richard to give him a reference?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t mention it.”
“I will talk to Richard about it. Oh, my foolish son! Why does he have to meddle, when we were going on so splendidly?”
***
Cal was still cooking his breakfast porridge when Richard arrived with a small army of footmen and grooms, together with boxes and packing materials.
“We will give you a helping hand,” he said affably. “There is a lot to do for one person.”
“How thoughtful of you,” Cal said, amused.
“Are you going to stay and supervise? You’ll want to make sure nothing leaves that belongs to Staineybank.
Your books, for instance. That table and chair were here before I came.
The two rugs, the bed and the sofa are yours.
Most of the pots and plates are mine. The wine glasses are yours, too, and the brandy, but I’m afraid the claret the duke sent was drunk some time ago.
The new bottle is mine. The curtains are new, but they’re made to fit the windows so you can keep them. ”
Richard’s eyebrows lowered, as if he wondered whether Cal was making a May game of him, but he said only, “Your boxes may be left here until you are settled somewhere. Send word of your address, and I shall see that they reach you.”
“Thank you, but they can go to the Dog and Duck for now. I’ll deal with the carter myself.”
“As you wish. Let me know if you need any additional help.” He turned to go, one hand on the door latch before turning slowly back to face Cal. “You had better have this.”
He pulled a purse from a pocket and tossed it towards Cal, who made no move to catch it, so it fell with a thump to the floor.
“What’s this?”
“Your wages, up to Michaelmas.”
Then he spun round and stomped from the hut. Cal laughed, and picked up the purse, weighing it in his hand. He had no doubt it contained the exact amount, to the shilling.
Robert paused from stuffing Cal’s clothes into a portmanteau. “That’s fair. He could’a just paid you to Lady Day.”
“Aye, he’s a fair man,” Cal said, laughing again. “My friends, there’s no point heaving a half-full barrel of ale about. Let’s see if we can empty it, shall we?”
***
Cal gazed dispiritedly around his new home.
It was as dismal a place as he had ever seen, and he could quite understand why it had stood empty for more than two years.
It was just as its previous occupant, the relict of a clergyman, had left it, the furnishings and decorations harking back to an earlier era, and everything tired and dilapidated.
The bedroom ceiling featured a dark stain from a once leaky roof.
The attorney had thrown in an army of women to clean it from top to bottom the day before, and although it now smelled of beeswax polish and the vinegar used to clean the windows, nothing could make it an appealing home.
It had, however, one incomparable advantage over every other possible residence, in that it was situated at the very end of the village, just where the footpath from the Staineybank stables met the road.
It meant that Cora would be able to continue to visit him at night, if she wished.
Of course, that assumed that her implacable son did not keep her locked in.
He walked from room to room, pondering what he would need to make it bearable.
Fresh paint and wallpaper on the walls. Good quality rugs to replace the threadbare ones.
New coverings on the chairs. Brighter curtains.
That thought made him smile, for he could see Cora sitting with her needle, stitching away.
Yes, she would help him make the place habitable.
It was called Lilac House, but it was no more than a cottage, in truth.
The tiny hall gave access to a bedroom on one side and a parlour on the other.
Behind the parlour was a good sized kitchen, with a pantry, store room and a maid’s room.
Outside was what the attorney had described as a coach house, just large enough to squeeze in a gig and a single horse.
That would do to keep his lathe and tools.
He took a turn around the garden, and here at least he could find some comfort, and even grey skies and a slight drizzle could not dampen his spirits.
There was a substantial orchard taking up a quarter of the ground, and although the trees were gnarled and twisted, they already bore a substantial haul of burgeoning fruit.
More trees around the perimeter provided some privacy, and the illusion of living amidst forest.
Apart from a drying line for washing near the kitchen, and some kind of structure almost hidden under brambles and creeping vines which he took to be a collapsed pig pen, the entire rest of the garden was buried in rank grass and an abundance of weeds.
That did not deter him. A gardener with a spade and two strong arms would not have any trouble restoring order from the wilderness.
It was a little late in the year to sow much but next year he would be able to keep himself very well supplied.
He went back inside, and began to methodically unpack the various bags and boxes which had been left in the kitchen.
He had managed to unearth his rumpled clothes, and was attempting to disentangle the mess of greenery that had once been neatly bunched branches of herbs, when a crisp rat-a-tat-tat echoed through the house.
“Ah, my barrel of ale at last,” he murmured. “A man could die of thirst round here. But why have they come to the front door?”
His hands were covered in herby leaves and broken pieces of stem, and he hadn’t yet brought in washing water. Unwilling to trail bits of herb through the house, he yelled out, “Round the back!”
Silence fell, then, to his surprise, a bonnet with a jauntily waving feather passed the kitchen window. Laughing, he raced to open the kitchen door.
“You’re not from the Dog and Duck. I was expecting my ale. Come in.”
Cora stepped over the threshold, and gazed around. “Well!” was all she said.
“Aye, it’s not very prepossessing.”
“It is clean, at least,” she said, running a finger along one shelf. “Those windows are positively sparkling. But everything else is so dingy.”
“I’ll splash some white paint on the walls. That’ll brighten it up. You didn’t have any trouble finding the place, then?”
“No, your directions were very clear,” she said, unfastening her bonnet and casting it onto a chair.
“How very ingenious of you to write to me by way of Ben Lovell and Souter. That worked excessively well. I do not think anyone else knows where you are, and they will not squeeze the direction out of Souter. She is the soul of discretion. They will get it from John Coachman, of course.”
“John Coachman?”
“Souter is following in the carriage with my boxes.”
“Oh! You’re planning to stay?” He shivered suddenly. This was a change, and not for the better.
“If you have no objection,” she said, her face suddenly anxious.
“Not the least in the world,” he said, scooping her into his arms. “It will be lovely but… you’re crossing the Rubicon, Cora.”
“Rubicon?”
“The river that Julius Caesar crossed to invade Rome. A point of no return. I took this dismal house because it is close enough to Staineybank for you to walk here whenever you want to. I didn’t imagine you’d want to live here. It’s not appropriate for you.”
“Cal, I would have lived in the charcoal burner’s hut with you if I could.
I understand what you have tried to do, but it would have been impossible for me to get here at night.
Ever since you left, they have positively hounded me, watching me every moment, nagging me to make me behave the way they think I ought to.
Not just Richard, but all my daughters, too.
I would have thought one or two of them might have understood, but no.
They go on and on and on. You have no idea how difficult it was to evade them today.
They have driven me mad, and I could not bear it a moment longer.
So, if you will have me, I will live here with you, as I have long wanted to do. ”