White Water (43 page)

‘Is it true, Maria? You are coming back to us? Tell me with your own lips or else I dare not believe it.’

‘’Tis true, Katharine. So much has happened — I cannot tell it all now, ’tis too painful — ’

‘Then don’t! We shall have plenty of time and I so look forward to hearing everything. Life is as dull as ever!’

‘Dull? Oh Katharine, if you knew how I crave a dull existence! I’ve changed, Katharine. I have changed so much.’

‘But your husband is dead? The prioress spoke of it. I was so grieved for you. We prayed for you. And those that remember you talked of your letter that told us you were not coming back.’

‘That I was going to wed Hugo!’

‘Aye. Such a stir, you can imagine! That set the cat among the pigeons, I can tell you. And now he is dead. My poor Maria.’

‘We won’t speak of it,’ she said hastily.

At that moment the novice returned to say that the prioress would receive Maria.

‘I’ll speak to you again,’ she promised Katharine and followed the girl through the familiar cloisters, past the chapel where she had made her first penance and from where she had crept out for a clandestine meeting with Matt. A smile lit up her face at the memory. She had been inattentive during the study period which she and Katharine shared: Dame Augusta, who instructed the novices, reprimanded her not once but twice and finally gave Maria a penance of an extra hour’s prayer on her knees after Compline.

‘This way,’ said the novice shyly.

Maria smiled at her. ‘I know the way like the back of my hand.’

The girl nodded, opened the door and Maria came face to face with the new prioress.

Dame Margaret greeted her quietly and expressed her regret at Maria’s recent loss. They sat down and the question of Maria’s return — at a time unspecified — was discussed to their joint satisfaction. The financial aspect was then raised and that, too, proved to be in order.

‘You will no doubt find many changes,’ said the prioress. She was a tall woman with an angular face and cold grey eyes. Her voice betrayed her London origins and her manner was confident to the point of arrogance. Not a woman to tangle with, Maria thought, but with her own maturity the thought gave her no qualms. She was no longer a headstrong young girl, resentful of the limitations of a cloistered existence. She was a tired, lonely woman craving security and a small corner of the world that was hers alone. In Arnsville she would find just that. This austere woman would keep a tight rein on the little group of women and her forbidding presence would deter the troublemakers, maintain the efficient running of the establishment and ensure the even tenor of convent life. Maria could appreciate the need for such a woman and would, she knew, find occasion to be grateful. They drank sweet ale together and Dame Margaret encouraged Maria to talk about her family and the responsibilities which delayed her return to Arnsville. She then spoke briefly of her own connections and of her earlier life in London. Her young husband had died at sea without giving her a child. She had refused to wed again and her parents had settled her at her own request in a convent in Arundel which had been closed like many others by the Dissolution of the monasteries. After two more such setbacks she had moved into Arnsville.

‘So you see,’ she concluded, ‘I, too, have tasted marriage and the ways of the world. But I thank God daily for my decision to take Holy Orders. I have never regretted it. You are making the right decision, my dear,’

‘I know I am,’ said Maria. ‘I shall look forward to my return.’

She little knew, as she spoke, quite how soon that would be.

Katharine was waiting for her when she left the prioress and the two women walked in the flagged courtyard, talking animatedly but in low voices.

‘I’m Mistress of the Novices now,’ Katharine told her. ‘And Dame Agnes has died of a fit, God rest her soul. Dame Augusta left us. She began to quarrel quite dreadfully with the old prioress and the bishop was consulted. On his advice she moved to Ealing, where no doubt she is quarrelling still!’

‘Dame Augusta!’ said Maria. ‘I recall she escorted me when I went to Harold’s funeral. She was not quarrelsome then. Strict and so pious — but not quarrelsome.’

‘’Twas her health. She had a troublesome stone and was often laid low with the pain of it. So, I am Mistress of the Novices in her stead. But you, Maria, in those clothes! You look so worldly. How can you bear to give it all up?’

‘I cannot speak of it yet, Katharine. My griefs are so recent but I will tell you all in time, if you will be patient. I would come back tomorrow were it not for my two children. I cannot leave them until Allan has wed again. I love them dearly but — ’ She laughed a little shamefacedly. ‘Hugo was the light of my life — ’

‘As I well recall!’

‘Aye. Even the children did not replace him in my affections. My worldly life ended with his death.’

Katharine was silent. Then she said cheerfully, ‘How’s the devoted Matt? Will he return with you?’

‘No. I would not ask it of him, poor Matt. He is happy at Heron, and must end his days there. And, indeed, I don’t need him with me the way I did before. Then he was a link with my old life. Now, I do not need such links. But tell me of your own life while I have been gone.’

Katharine threw out her hands despairingly. ‘There is nothing to tell,’ she said. ‘I teach the novices but I have no Maria among them so I am fortunate!’ They both laughed. ‘I am quite reconciled to my life here and can enjoy the company of most of my sisters — with the exception of Dame Martha. You will not care for her, Maria. She is a thorn in our flesh but we pray for her and are hopeful of a transformation. She fills the dorter with her snores, eats like a pig and smells like a farmyard! But she brought great wealth with her — we have a new orchard full of plum and pear trees and the stables were rebuilt. But there, we tolerate her. We are all God’s creatures.’

Katharine’s words brought back so clearly the essence of spiritual life. Maria glanced down at the black velvet of her travelling outfit and felt a sudden distaste for the rich fabric and fashionable detail. She thought of the rose-red taffeta and the blue silk and discovered that they had lost their charm. She envied Katharine her sandalled feet, and dark shapeless tunic with its simple cord at the waist. A deep sigh shook her. She would be patient a little longer and then this coveted way of life would be hers again.

Before she left she dined with the prioress in the Guest Room and, at Maria’s request, Katharine was invited to join them. Three others shared the meal — one of the young novices and an anxious mother and father who were paying her a first visit. They ate a well-cooked meal of fish soup followed by a brace of baked pheasant — a gift from the visiting parents. Meat was allowed in the Guest Room. The rest of the nuns who dined in the frater were eating mullet and cucumber. Maria joined in the conversation while her thoughts wandered. In this same room she had entertained Ruth Cummins and they had eaten baked heron. And later Hugo had come to see her and they stood together in this very room. Dame Elinor had chosen to wait outside, allowing them a few precious moments alone together. She could see Hugo still in brown and gold, the sleeves of his doublet slashed with red, his brown eyes intense under the dark hair. He had begged her to leave Arnsville and return to Heron. Hannah was ailing and the children needed Maria.
He
needed her! Somehow she had refused, unable to live with him while Hannah was his wife.

After the meal she walked with Katharine a while longer. She saw the old orchard where she had met Matt by moonlight; saw her tiny bare room with its high window where she had worked so hard at her studies; and the long, lofty dorter where they all slept. Aye, she would be patient, she told herself again. Arnsville would wait for her.

*

From deep under the ground came an excited barking which Nat translated for Lorna’s benefit.

‘Fox!’ he said. ‘I reckon we’ll have that old devil before long.’ He bent forward and, head on one side, listened carefully to the sounds of conflict. Trapped underground, the fox was snarling and snapping at his small attacker. Brin would be braced firm, toes dug well into the sandy floor of the fox’s earth, hurling defiance and waiting his chance to pounce. The fox, aware of his desperate position, would fight like one possessed.

‘Smell that fox!’ cried Nat. ‘A real old dog fox!’

Lorna declined the offer, with a toss of her head and an expression of disgust. She was annoyed at Nat Gully. She had walked miles in search of him to regale him with all the exciting events of the past week and she had finally found him near Ladyford digging out a fox — ‘the fox that most likely killed all those poor hens,’ he told her.

His spade lay beside the enlarged entrance hole and a small mound of newly turned earth lay close by. But the fox had gone deeper still and Brin had gone in to flush him out. Nat’s attention was directed to the dog’s efforts and Lorna felt, rightly, that her news was not receiving the appreciation it deserved.

‘The twins are so bonny,’ she exclaimed. ‘One with hair and one without. And one bawls lustily and the other is silent. And Felicity — ’

‘Hush up! There’s summat wrong down there.’

She pursed her lips and stared at him balefully, but he was lying flat out on the grass, his ear to the ground. ‘What is wrong?’

‘’Tis hard to say. I heard Brin yelp.’

‘The fox! Mayhap ’tis biting him. Oh Brin! Brin!’

‘Hush up, I tell you. I can’t hear for your noise.’ He listened, cursing softly, and then leapt up and began to dig again. He seemed to have forgotten her existence.

‘Then I shan’t tell you about Felicity and Allan’s wedding or which day ’twill be — or that Mama is going away to be a nun and Felicity will care for me — or that a letter is come from Oliver and he is coming home shortly — and Allan is to reopen the mine.’ She glanced at his recumbent form then crouched beside him.

‘I shan’t tell you, I say,’ she insisted.

‘And hush up,
I
say! ’Tis damned quiet down there. I don’t like it at all.’ He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, ‘Brin!’

There was an ominous silence.

‘Mayhap they are both dead,’ whispered Lorna.

He shouted again and the same silence followed. Nat scrambled into a kneeling position, his face thoughtful, his eyes never leaving the darkness through which either Brin or the fox should appear. Suddenly, without moving, they heard a scuffling and the rear end of the dog came slowly into view. The hind legs were well dug in to the soil and the dog moved backwards with slow jerky movements.

‘Damn me if he hasn’t got the fox!’ cried Nat. ‘He’s pulling it out. Here, Brin boy! Come, boy!’

Encouraged by the sound of Nat’s voice, the terrier redoubled his efforts. As his short tail came within reach, Nat reached down and grasped it with his right hand and pulled hard. The dog emerged
with
the fox, which had fastened its teeth into Brin’s snout. Lorna screamed. The fox still hung from the dog’s snout as Nat scrambled to his feet, momentarily at a loss how to deal with the situation. Then he shouted to Lorna to hand him the large stone which stood on the folded net to one side of the earth. As she reached for it, Nat snatched at the fox’s brush with his left hand and for a second the two animals swung between his two hands like a living rope. Lorna handed him the rock and with one movement he released the dog, allowing it to swing down. Still the fox refused to loosen his hold on the dog and, with an oath, Nat smashed the rock against the fox’s skull with a sickening thud. Lorna screamed again, her hands over her face. The fox shuddered, its jaws slackened and the terrier fell to the ground, yelping with pain. Nat struck the fox again. The red-brown body jerked convulsively and was still. He held it up, grinning. ‘A big old dog fox,’ he said. ‘You can open your eyes now. ’Tis all over.’

‘And poor Brin!’

‘Aye. We must get him home and I’ll make him a salve for his poor old nose. Here, boy. Come and show us.’

The terrier crept forward, the small tail wagging.

‘You were a brave dog,’ Lorna told him, ‘but you will soon be well again.’ Nat inspected the wound, patted the dog and smiled. ‘He’ll survive.’ Then he plunged his arm down the fox’s earth again and drew it out.

‘Ah, I thought so,’ he said. ‘See here, Lorna, I reckon’m the fox that killed the Ladyford hens. Once they go for feathers there’s no stopping them.’ He held out a handful of earth in which a few brown feathers were visible. ‘You tell them I’ve got the culprit and he’s well and truly dead and I’ll be up in a day or two with the brush for my reward.’

‘I will.’

She stood up. While Brin waited, Nat collected up his net and stick and slung the limp body of the fox over his shoulder.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘we’ll walk back towards Heron and you shall tell me all that news again. Will you do that?’

Lorna needed no second asking. She gave a little skip, took a deep breath and began all over again.

*

Maria knew, before she arrived back at Heron, that Felicity and the twins would be there. She had learned from Lucas of the dramatic change of plans and her anger at the news equalled his dismay. She had made careful plans and now they had all been rendered worthless. Felicity had no right to put forward such a plan, she protested. And Allan had no right to act upon it without consulting her first. Lucas was astonished by her reaction and Dorothy’s own hostility towards Maria faded when she saw that the latter’s concern was genuine. Nothing would convince Maria that Martin’s mistress was the right woman to wed Martin’s brother. She could foresee distant problems over the inheritance if Allan adopted the twins. She was sorry for Lucas and told him, quite sincerely, that she believed him to be a far more suitable husband for Felicity. But what, as Dorothy repeatedly asked, could be done about it? Maria assured them of her best endeavours and promised to do anything she could to put matters right on her return. Lucas was still in love with Felicity and would take her back if she would come.