Feral Park (20 page)

Said he, “It will be a tight fit but we shall put you up, rest all your concerns about
that
, my dear!”

“But if it is to be a tight fit, sir, perhaps I should seek temporary lodgings in some place other than this house. Perhaps you have a stable in which I may kneel upon the hay to say my ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’ before bedding myself upon the fodder.”

“Oh, dear me,
that
I simply will not allow!” protested Mr. Peppercorn, taking now the other hand in his own and leaning so far into the vicinage of his guest that he could easily have lost his balance and fallen face forward into her very lap! “We will make fine do, will we not, Anna? We will make fine do until we are successful in securing a situation for the young lady.”

“But we will not
have
to make fine do, Papa,” said Anna, brightening at a sudden thought.“Because Sir Thomas and Lady Jane are this very week in need of a governess for their two young daughters.”

Miss Younge’s face brightened as well. “You know this to be a certainty, Miss Peppercorn?”

“Aye. For it was only Saturday that Sir Thomas made an enquiry of me himself. It appears that their previous governess was given to quit his employ most suddenly and without explanation.” As Anna spoke, she inspected her father’s face for a tell-tale of disappointment. There was the hint of it, but he seemed in the chief happy that the cause for distress within the young woman who appeared to fix his fancy had been, in all likelihood, removed (and most expeditiously so).

Mr. Peppercorn turned to address James, who remained at the door: “James, good man, take Miss Younge to Thistlethorn and wait as she gathers her things. Upon your return you and she and my daughter are to go directly to Turnington Lodge. On your way to Thistlethorn, please stop in and tell Mr. Scourby that I cannot make my appointment at two o’clock, for the carriage is now required for a different, more urgent purpose.”

“Yes, sir.”

As James and Miss Younge were about to quit the room, Anna said, “Wait, James!” and then addressed her father: “Papa, it is foolish to cancel your appointment with Mr. Scourby. Miss Younge and James and I will
walk
to Turnington Lodge. It is a pleasant day for it and James and I are growing quite familiar with the path. That is, unless Miss Younge does not a fancy a long walk on a beautiful, sunny afternoon.”

“Oh, but I am
most
fond of a good walk, and the longer the better. I have walked all over London and could map the entire city within my head. And here the air is clean and clear and one never chokes upon fetid smoke and vapors.”

“Very well then,” said Anna’s father, and off went James and Miss Younge.

“It is a convenience how things work out,” remarked Mr. Peppercorn to his daughter after the two had gone, their departure preceded by several violently delivered thank-you’s on the part of Miss Younge. Anna, thinking upon the way that Miss Younge had batted her eyelashes and Mr. Peppercorn had demonstrated more than a Good Samaritan’s interest in the young woman’s fate and well-being, enquired of her father without a moment’s hesitation, “Do I take it, Papa, that you feel some affection for the young woman?”

“I confess that I do. Is there felony in it?”

“But you hardly know any thing of her.”

“I know more of her than you know of your Mr.Waitwaithe. She and I spent two lovely hours at Thistlethorn on Wednesday night playing backgammon together and discussing a number of things of mutual interest.”

“But I have all but given up on Mr. Waitwaithe for the very reason that one should not invest one’s heart in one whom one scarcely knows. And conversation which attends a game or two of backgammon does not inform one thoroughly of every aspect of one’s character nor every shading of one’s past. She is, I believe—until you have convinced me otherwise—merely a pretty face which does not mind too much smiling at an old man.”

“What a brutal estimation of your father’s capacity to win a heart!”

“I only ask if it may not be better for you to learn a bit more about her before you open your heart to her so generously.”

“And I shall. She will now reside in the parish and we shall see much more of each other, to be sure.”

“But how often will you see her if she is to be tending to the Turnington daughters at all hours of the day and night?”

“She will have her half-day off, and an evening as well, if Sir Thomas be a liberal employer. I will exploit each of these weekly opportunities to get to know her better. Have you any other questions?”

“Yes. What has happened to the warmth of our previous feelings for one another—father and daughter? These days we seem always at such odds.”

Drawing his daughter to him: “It does
seem
that way, does it not? It is almost as if I have lost some standing in your esteem. I do not know why. Is it because there are things I cannot tell you? I will tell you most every thing in accordance with our pact. I regret, however, that I
cannot
divulge that which you most want to know. Please acquit me now, my dear daughter, for if you were ever to learn the reason for my silence upon this point you would acquit me then most assuredly. Here now you may do it earlier and to the present benefit of the both of us.”

Anna kissed her father upon the forehead. “You silly old man. Whatever you have done or not done will not change my opinion of you one way or the other, for my respect and affection for you are immutable. But I shall not push you again.You should woo and win your Miss Younge, if that is what you wish to do, and without objection from me. You are old and she is young, but many an attachment has been unreservedly made with more dissimilarity between the parties than that.”

“Thank you, dear daughter. And you
are
a dear daughter. If I had had ten daughters rather than one I could not help but love you best. You are a true joy and comfort to me.”

During the long walk to Turnington Lodge, Anna and Miss Younge spoke of little that did not concern Miss Younge’s former position with the Matlocks in Bath. “And was there
never
a time in which the master spoke unfavourably of your work or your treatment of his children?”

Replied Miss Younge, whilst shaking her head, “Neither Mr. Matlock
nor
his wife. And the children were terribly fond of me, I am certain that they were. And I minded myself and did not loiter at the pump-house on my days off, or gad and loll about in idle society at the theatre or at assemblies, even though there were a good many that beckoned a fun-loving young woman such as myself. I was dedicated to serving that family above every personal consideration. Oh, Miss Peppercorn, it is such a mystery to me how I have come to be dismissed! I should try to solve it for my own peace of mind, but you say this is not necessary. You say that Sir Thomas and Lady Jane should take me without references and so I shall think no longer of the past but only of my bright future in Turnington Lodge.”

“Of course they will take you without references, Miss Younge, for I will explain that you were let go for no reason other than the caprice of a tradesman, who perhaps was coming up and required a governess of greater maturity for his children. Sir Thomas will appreciate the odiousness of one with aspirations above his own caste—especially aspirations that drive men to do stupid things, such as rid themselves of very good governesses simply for the sake of appearance.”

“Yes, he
was
coming up. He was expanding his tannery and his wife was dressing herself much better in my view,” (then with a conspiratorial whisper,) “and they were taking on
airs
.”

“Then there we have every jot of it. And James, no doubt, agrees.” Turning to her father’s man: “Do you not agree, James?”

“Didn’t hear, ma’am. Not a word. Am lacing my boot. Am not listening.”

Sir Thomas and Lady Jane seemed most happy to see Anna and Miss Younge crossing their lawn, their good spirits being further improved when their supposition as to the reason for the visit was confirmed. “The girls have been so disagreeable since Miss Pulvis left,” said Lady Jane. “It will be good to see Louise and Caroline restored to their formerly tractable dispositions.” Although Sir Thomas preferred to review formal letters of recommendation on behalf of an applicant, he seemed to take with surprising acceptance Anna’s word that Miss Younge’s dismissal was an odd thing from an odd man—and a tanner, no less, who was required by his profession to work his hands in dog feces to soften his morocco into kid leather—and therefore allowed Anna to vouch, alone, for the abilities and good character of the woman who stood before him. (For Anna’s part, her recommendation was based upon the fact that Miss Younge had said to her, “I am a very good governess, I am,” and that was enough for Anna.)

“I am now a matchmaker of professions!” marveled Anna as she and Mrs. Taptoe and Umbrous Elizabeth fitted up the small room that was to be Felicity Godby’s bed-chamber for eleven nights. (Umbrous Elizabeth was reminded by her employer that although Miss Godby was descending to live within the dwarf cottage, she was still a proper lady, and so Elizabeth should try her very best to elevate herself in the presence of one who would some day be amongst the richest women in England. The frolicsome maid therefore promised with a solemn face not to frolic with her lover when the guest was in residence, and for this heartfelt pledge received from her mistress a commendatory pat upon the head and a sweetmeat.)

Afterwards over tea Anna and her “Auntie” discussed a number of things of interest to the both of them. There was also a new “lesson” to be learnt:

“And that is the chief of it, my dear. If a husband wishes to pleasure his wife in this special way and she is receptive to the proposition then there should come no harm from the activity whatsoever.”

“And what if the wife wishes to put her mouth to similar service to benefit the husband?”

Laughed Mrs. Taptoe, “Well, there should be no crime in that either, my dear!”

“Even though there is no prospect within either act for the conceiving of a child?”

“Is there such a prospect in a kiss? Here, my dear, is only another—albeit slightly more intimate—form of a kiss, and a most thoroughly delightful one should both husband and wife be amenable to it. It should constitute no sin at all, unless, of course, one be Roman Catholic.”

Later the conversation turned to Miss Younge and the situation she had just secured in Turnington Lodge: “And Sir Thomas took her in just like that?”

“Indeed he did,” said Anna, happy for the much larger chair which had been recently introduced into the parlour, a great improvement upon the tiny one that had earlier been her bane, although the large one dominated the room most impertinently and made it difficult to move this way and that. It was agreed that Miss Godby would find the room (now designated “the big chair room”) incongruous, yet she could not disagree with its comfort so long as she occupied the oversized chair. “A recommendation from me was all that Sir Thomas required, and the position was Miss Younge’s to accept.”

“Sir Thomas is a strange man but I essay, whenever possible, not to hold that fact against him,” said Mrs. Taptoe, squeezing herself between the chair and the wall behind it to right a picture that had become skewed when Anna sat down. “If he were not a strange man, he should not have taken in Miss Younge as he did, for no other baronet would have hired a governess based only upon a friend’s recommendation.”

“And just what do you mean by ‘strange’?”

“Strange in the same way in which
several
men in the parish are strange and through no fault of their own. It goes back to their shared childhood here—a childhood that carried a mark upon it—a black smudge which could not be scrubbed away, for memory has made it indelible, and it saddens me deeply to give even a moment’s thought to what was done to them.”

“Then perhaps we should turn the subject.”

“Yet it is important for you to know, my dear, for the misfortune has played a significant role in the lives of several of our leading citizens and has touched a good many others through its ripples. If I can assemble the courage to speak of it, can you receive the details without blenching?”

“I blench and quail less and less these days, Auntie. Earlier to-day, in fact, my father described for me the accidental vivisection of a sentient man and I did not even turn one shade of pale.”

“For you knew that he was joking.”

“I did not. I am becoming inured to such things, you see. Tell me what it is about the childhood of Sir Thomas and the others which makes them strange.”

“How shall I begin? There are a number of gentlemen of Sir Thomas’ age and a little younger and a little older to whom a certain thing was done in boyhood. My very own son-in-law Luther was, in fact, a member of this group. It was no
small
number of them now, as I tell the names I know within my head. Even my own cousin, now of Portsmouth, was subjected to it.”

“And what is the ‘it’ of which you speak, Auntie?”

“I will tell you all that I know. There was a school attended by each. The headmaster was a man by the name of Holford. And there was a wife as well; Quentin and Agatha were their Christian names. But this was the extent of that which was Christian about the pair. In truth they were a monstrous cruel and odious couple. He was teacher in name only. Most often he was disciplinarian and little else.”