Beyond the Blue Mountains Page 13

  “Better comb your hair,” she said.

  “It looks like a bird’s nest!” She came over and stood by Carolan.

  “Do you know what the squire is doing to Charles now?” she asked.

  “He is whipping him,” said Carolan.

  “Yes. Because of you, you little harlot!”

  Carolan paused, the comb in her hand.

  “What is a harlot?”

  “Well enough you know,” said Jennifer, and whispered venomously: “It is someone like you, and like your lady mother. That is a harlot.”

  “Like me and my mother!” Carolan screwed up her face in concentration, trying to imagine in what way she was like her mother.

  “I saw you!” said Jennifer.

  “Smiling at the squire! Egging him on!”

  “What?” said Carolan, puzzled “Ha!” said Jennifer.

  “I wonder that Charles’s dear mother does not come and haunt you that I do!”

  Carolan put out her tongue. In broad daylight it was not so terrifying to think of Charles’s dead mother.

  “You can be saucy. Miss. If tonight she came into your room …” Jennifer made claws of her fingers and stared down at them.

  “Everard says there are no such things as ghosts.”

  “Doubtless it was because his mother told him not to frighten little girls. There are ghosts, so there!”

  Tired and wearied was Jennifer, too tired for tormenting. She though longingly of the gin she kept locked up in her room.

  “You had better not keep the squire waiting, unless you want a whipping.”

  Carolan went down to the stables. She would rather have ridden alone than with the squire; she had never before ridden with him. They said he was a marvelous horseman. Carolan shivered in an ecstasy of terror.

  One of the grooms came up to her and touched his forehead. “Morning, Miss Carolan.”

  “Good morning, Jake.”

  Jake’s chin was wagging, which it always did when he was amused; he was very amused this morning.

  “Happy birthday to you. Miss Carolan!”

  Carolan smiling dazzlingly. Fancy Jake’s knowing it was her birthday!

  “Oh, thank you, Jake! Is the pony ready?”

  Jake’s chin began to wag again.

  “Is it, Jake?” she asked; she was fearful of another scene. If she was to ride with the squire, and her pony was not ready, there would be trouble; the squire hated waiting.

  “Well, Missie, the pony bain’t ready…”

  “Oh, but Jake, did you not know “I weren’t told to get no pony ready. Miss Carolan.”

  “Well, let us get him ready now …”

  “No, no, Missie, you durst not go in there!” She stared at him, round-eyed.

  “What is in there, Jake?” “Twouldn’t be for me to tell you. Miss Carolan.” Then the squire came into the yard. He was whistling jauntily. He had enjoyed thrashing that arrogant youngster; it made him feel oddly young again.

  “Ah!” he said, in ripe good humour.

  “Ah! Mistress Carolan, eh? And Jake.” He winked at Jake, and Jake’s chin started to wag all over again.

  “Very important day today, did you know, Jake?” The squire was waggish. Jake chortled; he looked as if he was going to burst with suppressed laughter.

  “Aye, sir, I do know what day it be!”

  “Very important indeed. Now, Jake, lead the way, man! Stop standing there like a plaguey donkey, and lead the way.”

  They went into one of the stables, and there already saddled up was a smallish mare, strawberry roan in colour. She was a lovely little creature, spirited and full of personality, and as they came in, her ears pricked and she whinnied.

  “Well, there she is! And a nice little thing at that, eh, Jake?”

  “Aye, sir… a pretty little thing, and no mistake!”

  “And what do you say, Mistress Carolan?”

  “She is beautiful,” said Carolan, a sudden possibility occurring to her which could not, simply could not, be true. She could not bear the suspense, so she said: “Whose is she?” The squire laughed.

  “Well, Jake,” he said, ‘is it your birthday today, Jake?”

  “No, master, bain’t my birthday.”

  “Well, it bain’t my birthday either!” The squire slapped his thigh.

  “Do you mean …” said Carolan, looking at him very direct.

  “Do you mean… she’s mine?”

  “That’s about it,” said the squire.

  “A birthday present?”

  “Well, as Jake says, it bain’t his birthday, and it bain’t mine!”

  “Oh!” cried Carolan.

  “Oh!”

  And when she looked up, the squire’s eyes were swimming with tears. She could see the red in them behind the tears.

  “Thank you!” she said in a small voice.

  “Oh, thank you.” Then, because she was so happy, she forgot to be afraid; she forgot everything but that the strawberry roan was hers no more ponies for her! Charles had a horse; Margaret had a pony; and she, Carolan, had this lovely strawberry roan. She could hardly believe it. She leaped high in the air, threw aside that restraint she had always worn in the presence of the squire, and said: “I wanted a pony! I wanted a pony… I didn’t think of a horse.”

  The squire said briskly: “Not much good having a horse, if you cannot ride it. Think you can?”

  “Ride it!” screamed Carolan.

  “Well, let us see.”

  It was strange to be riding alongside the squire. Always before, she had been out with one of the grooms; usually with Charles and Margaret too. And perhaps it was because she had ridden with Charles in those early days that she had learned to ride so quickly, and sat her horse so well and with such confidence. In the early days when she had been a little frightened, Charles used to whip up his horse to a furious gallop and in a little while he would have her mount and Margaret’s galloping wildly after him. Charles thought it good fun to see Carolan, white-faced, clinging to her saddle.

  The squire watched her as she rode beside him; the sight of her straight little back delighted him. A good little horsewoman! Charles was good on a horse, and fearless enough, but he did not really like Charles. How pleased with the mare the child had been! The squire did not know when he had enjoyed anything so much. She had not expected a present from him either. There was a rare smile on the squire’s face; it was pleasant to look into the future. A daughter to dote on her old father. He pictured them, riding together through his estate. Why should they not be the best of companions? The squire and his daughter a good squire now. because he had no longer a roving eye for every village slut; he had eyes only for his daughter who was growing into a young woman more beautiful than any of them.

  He broke into a canter, and then into a gallop. Carolan kept beside him, her red hair flying out behind; fine she looked, sitting her strawberry roan with distinction. Dammed, thought the squire, if I don’t take her along to the hunt with me! Why not? She can sit a horse with the best.

  “Come on, Carrie girl,” he shouted.

  “Why are you lagging behind?” And he laughed inwardly to see her spurt forward, her little chin set and determined.

  Proud of her, he was. He wanted to show her off. A pity there was no meet today. Like to see her there among the pink coats. But not those disreputable cast-offs of Margaret’s. She should have a new riding habit; she should be grateful to him. He would say: “Come on, Carrie girl, what about a kiss for your old father?” When she was little more than a baby she had called him The Squire; now she called him nothing. She had to begin calling him Father; she had to think of him as her father. If anybody let her know he was not her father, there was going to be the devil to pay. After all, suppose he was her father; there was such a thing as a seven months child! She had been a little thing when she was born; suppose she had been born prematurely. Not impossible. How he wanted to believe that. The squire… and his daughter… The parsonage was down this road a
long which they were trotting. Why not call on the parson and “Mrs. Parson”? Be a good start. Let people know that he looked on Carolan as his daughter. He went riding with her on her birthday; he had given her a horse. Charles had had a horse on his ninth birthday, and Margaret a pony.

  “Oh!” said Carolan, when he drew up.

  “Are we going to see Everard?”

  He had not thought of the boy of course. He was thinking chiefly of the parson’s wife; old Orland did not count for much.

  The important thing was that Mrs. Orland should receive them and talk about the visit.

  He signed curtly to her to dismount, and she did so neatly, he noticed with pleasure. They made fast their horses to the gate posts.

  Mrs. Orland suppressed her surprise at the call.

  “Good morning. Squire. This is an unexpected pleasure!”

  He was bubbling over with good spirits.

  “As long as it is a pleasure, does it matter that it is unexpected?” he asked archly.

  Mrs. Orland tittered sharply.

  “We were out riding,” said the squire, ‘and as we were passing … well, Carrie and I did not feel we could pass old friends without calling in to say how do you do.”

  “Of course not. Of course not. You will drink a glass of my cowslip wine, Squire?”

  Cowslip wine! Elderberry wine! These old ladies! Champagne he would have preferred in his present mood.

  “Nothing would delight me more!” he said, and he let his rather bloodshot eyes roam over her. Skinny, was his verdict. A proper parson’s wife. Poor Orland! He reckoned he did not have much of a time with her. She flushed now at the boldness of his stare. Inwardly he chortled. These old women! Full of pretence. They thought they hated the way he looked at them because it was lechery; what they really hated was the fact that they had such skinny unattractive bodies. If they had something worth offering, they would be all a-simpering like any pot-house trollop.

  But he had forgotten his new role; he was a father today, not a hunter of women.

  “It is the little girl’s birthday,” he said, as they all sat drinking the cowslip wine.

  “I know that,” said Mrs. Orland, smiling.

  “Carolan, my dear, if you will go into the library you will find a parcel with your name on it. You may open it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Orland.”

  “Now run and get it.”

  Everard came into the library just as she found the parcel.

  “I heard your voice,” he said.

  Her eyes were dancing, her cheeks red as berries, her hair glinting like the bronze ornaments on the mantelpiece.

  “What has happened?” asked Everard.

  “It is my birthday. The squire has given me a horse … all for myself. And now … Mrs. Orland has said there is a parcel here for me… I have it.” On the brown paper was written “For Caro-Ian on her birthday from Sophia, Edward and Everard Orland’.

  Everard came over to look. He had not known it was Carolan’s birthday; he did not know what was in the parcel. Until this moment he had not been very interested in Carolan. She was just a little girl who was shamefully bullied by her half-brother whom Everard disliked intensely.

  Inside the parcel was a cedarwood box.

  “Oh …” cried Carolan.

  “What a lovely box! Oh, Everard, isn’t it lovely to have a birthday!” She leaped up suddenly and, putting her arms round his neck, kissed him.

  Everard said: “Here… I say … I soy!” But he was blushing, perhaps because she had kissed him, perhaps because he had known nothing of the cedarwood box.

  “It is lovely … lovely of you, Everard, to remember my birthday.”

  He was filled with shame; heartily he wished that he had remembered. He was going to explain, but that would be tantamount to saying his mother had told a lie. He was full of chivalry; he could not expose his mother’s deceit, any more than he could allow that beast Charles to bully his little half-sister.

  “I must go to thank your mother,” she said, and together they went back to the drawing-room. The squire was sprawling on the sofa, his great legs apart.

  “Ha, ha! Here is the heroine of the day!” Carolan was hugging the cedarwood box.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Orland. It is a beautiful box! May I go and thank Mr. Orland?”

  “He is writing his sermon, dear; I should not disturb him. I will convey your thanks to him.”

  “Let me see the box,” said the squire, and Carolan went over to him. She listened to his breath coming noisily through his great nostrils. The hairs in his nostrils fascinated her; they had frightened her when she was younger.

  “Ha! A nice little box, eh, daughter?” He thought with satisfaction cheap though! Picked up from some plaguey pedlar! And he laughed to think of the strawberry roan, impatiently stamping her foot outside.

  Some new intuition told Carolan that he wanted to be thanked again for his gift, and because she was truly grateful and wanted to show her delight, and because, in some way she did not understand she was sorry for him, she said “May I show Everard my lovely, lovely horse?”

  The squire gave her a contented push.

  “Go on!” he said.

  “Go on!”

  And she and Everard went out. It was good to be with Everard. Everard was old, nearly seventeen; a man, of course; she had to remember that and not be too silly, too childish.

  Everard patted the mare and said she was a beauty.

  Suddenly he said: “Carolan, we’ll ride together one day.”

  “Oh, Everard, shall we?”

  He wondered why he had suggested it. He, almost seventeen and destined for the church, to want to go riding with a little nine-year-old girl! It seemed silly; but he had spoken on impulse and now he would have to go, for he was much too kind to go back on his word.

  “And Carolan,” he said.

  “Wait here a moment, will you? Do not go indoors. Just wait here. I will be back.”

  She caught the excitement in him, birthday excitement.

  “Yes, Everard, I will wait.”

  She patted the mare, and stroked her soft, velvety muzzle.

  “You are mine,” she whispered.

  “You are mine! Carolan’s strawberry roan mare, you are! Nobody else’s.”

  The mare showed her pleasure in being made much of, and Carolan thought, She knows she’s mine and I love her.

  Then Everard was beside her. He held out to her a paperknife of wood which he had made himself.

  The box was from all of us.” he said shyly, ‘but I wanted to give you something special.”

  “Oh, Everard! Another birthday present. But you gave the box…”

  “Ah, but this is different. From me alone.”

  “From you alone,” said Carolan solemnly, and she knew that it was a very special present because Everard had given it to her. She was too young to keep that knowledge to herself.

  “I love it. It is the loveliest of all my presents.” She fondled the mare, and she knew she understood that this was no reflection on her value as herself, but merely as a birthday present.

  “It is not really very good,” said Everard, and showed her a flaw in the wood.

  “I love the flaw,” she persisted stubbornly, and he laughed and noticed, as the squire had done, that her eyes were deep green as the sea sometimes is.

  He said slowly: “If Charles ever hurts you, Carolan, you are to come and tell me. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “I will tell him what you said,” she promised him, looking up at Everard’s tall figure and hunching her shoulders in delight.

  “I think he will take very great care when I tell him that.”

  “It will be better for him if he does.” boasted Everard, and she played with the idea of telling him about the shrew mouse. How angry he would be, and what delight in seeing his anger! But her pity for her enemy was strong within her, for he was a vanquished enemy; today he had already been beaten for his cruel
ty and, worse still, humiliated. So she did not tell.

  Mrs. Orland and the squire watched them coming across the lawn, Carolan dancing beside Everard, dancing round him a dainty creature with flying hair and uncurbed spirits. Quite the most attractive of the Haredon children, though Mrs. Orland, and Everard obviously liked her more, it seemed, than he liked Margaret. But what did that matter, they were young yet. He would marry Margaret; both she and Edward had decided on Margaret for Everard, for Margaret would make an ideal parson’s wife, a sweet girl, skilled in the domestic arts, gentle and pliable. Mrs. Orland foresaw a happy life for her son. This living would be his and two others besides; a life of leisure should be Everard’s, with curates to help him. But Margaret was of course the wife for him, so he must not get too fond of the little girl. Her birth for one thing was against her; people in a small place did not forget these things; besides, her high spirits, her lack of decorum -charming as it was were not suitable for a parson’s wife. One had heard stories of a certain blacksmith’s daughter who had married a parson. History must not repeat itself as neatly as that.

  The squire watched them too, and wondered why anyone with as much spirit as his Carolan could admire a pale-faced scholar as this boy seemed to be. He felt jealous too. Dammed, there will be a bit of trouble with her when the time comes, he thought, and he did not know whether he was pleased or angry that there would be this trouble. He was disturbed anyway.

  “We must be going.” he said, and he roared: “Carolan! Come here, girl. Come and say goodbye to Mrs. Orland, for we are going!”

  Mrs. Orland and Everard walked to the gate with them. They stood waving as Carolan and the squire trotted down the lane.

  “Bah!” said the squire.

  “White-faced milksop of a boy that! A parson in the making!”

  He began to laugh derisively, looking at her from under his bushy brows as he did so.

  She flushed a little.

  “He is not,” she said.

  “He is very brave. Why…” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him how once, quite a long time ago, he had fought Charles for locking her in with the dead, and how, ever since Charles had been afraid of Everard. But how could she tell that story without telling of the part Charles had played in it?