Goldsmith's Row (15 page)

Philadelphia was expected to entertain Judith, which she found rather heavy going. Judith was very pretty and good, but she was dutiful to the point of dullness, and conversed only in prim, colorless monosyllables.

Laurence came down quite often from London. He began to get acquainted with his country neighbors, a thing his uncle and aunt had never managed to do. Occasionally he brought a friend with him for a short stay, and one of these was Mr. Walter Brand.

Philadelphia was a little surprised to meet Mr. Brand at Thurley, not because she would have considered him too proud to come, but in the present state of affairs she thought Laurence might have been too proud to ask him.

He seemed perfectly satisfied with the family party, and did not appear to be pining for any of the usual fashionable entertainments such as hunting, dancing, playing tennis and billiards, or performing masques.

The only fly in the ointment was Mrs. Beck, as she dominated the dinner-table, patronizing her sister, admonishing her grandchildren, and telling her daughters what to say and think.

She was particularly overbearing with Judith, whom she was carefully displaying as a possible bride for Laurence. You could not ask Judith to pass the salt without her mother chipping in, briskly scolding the poor girl for daydreaming, telling her to do as she was bid, explaining that Judith never took salt herself and why, with a eulogy about her excellent health since the age of five.

No wonder she's so silent, thought Philadelphia, when every word she utters provides more fuel for her mother's folly. She said as much to Walter Brand.

"It's monstrous!" he exclaimed. "Why does the girl allow herself to be turned into a doll, a puppet? Is she afraid of her mother? She's a grown woman, she ought to be able to speak with her own voice."

"I don't think she's afraid; I fancy her strict upbringing has simply given her a very strong sense of filial obedience. I dare say it won't do her any harm in the long run," added Philadelphia. "Most men prefer docility. She should make an excellent foil for a strong-minded husband."

"Provided he's strong-minded enough to bar the door against his mother-in-law!"

They were standing on the newly-mown grass outside the front door, just after dinner. Laurence was sitting on a stool, a little way off, making a charcoal sketch of an elm tree.

"Do you two want to ride?" he asked. "I'll be with you directly."

"I'll go and change," said Philadelphia. "And III warn Judith to be ready also."

The four of them had fallen into the habit of riding together in the afternoons and singing madrigals in the evenings. They all had well-trained voices and enjoyed airing them in comparative peace; even Mrs. Beck knew better than to interrupt a group of singers in full spate. Mrs. Tabor sometimes hinted that Grace ought to make one of their little group, but Philadelphia paid no attention. She felt that Grace's ambiguous presence would upset the delicate balance of friendliness between herself and Laurence. And Grace certainly did not want to join them. She was younger than any of them, she could neither ride nor sing, she was frightened of Laurence and very much preferred being with the children. So Philadelphia was able to leave her behind with a clear conscience.

There was only one side-saddle at Thurley, so Philadelphia let Judith have it and herself put on breeches and rode crossways like a man, as she had done all her life. The fact that Mrs. Tabor and all the female Becks thought this behavior unmaidenly caused her considerable amusement.

Presently the quartet were all assembled and mounted, Philadelphia on a handsome grey gelding who needed a lot of exercise and always set out from the stables with a swishing tail and a rolling eye.

The countryside was thickly wooded, and they rode from their own village of Thurley towards a hamlet called Little Pagwort, through tall groves of trees and along silent bridlepaths that lay deep in leaf mould.  There were herds of deer moving around them, appearing and disappearing, shadow-dappled in the broken light of the sun pouring through the branches.

"You'll have to keep the numbers down," said Brand. "They're too thick on the ground. I take it your uncle had no use for the noble art of venery?"

"Not he. And I know very little of it as
yet,
but I mean to learn. You must give me some good advice."

"It seems a pity," said town-bred Judith, "to kill such graceful creatures."

Walter Brand and Philadelphia exchanged eloquent glances.

"If they were left to breed unchecked," said Brand, "the people of this island would soon starve."

"Why, is their meat so necessary to us?"

"It's not simply their meat, it's the damage they do. Look at that cornfield, all fenced around with stakes and hurdles; as it is, the deer break in whenever they can. If there were three times as many, and they were maddened by hunger, nothing would keep them out. They would decimate the harvest. So some of them have to be killed, and if you lived in the country, you would soon come to enjoy the sport. I fancy Mrs. Whitethorn is a great huntress—are you not, madam?"

"I've never shot a driven deer, and I don't think I should care to. We hunt the hart at force where I come from."

"What's that mean?" asked Judith.

"We chase our quarry across country with a pack of hounds, and follow them on horseback."

"And it may comfort you to know that the hunters are in nearly as much peril as their prey," said Laurence cheerfully. "They often break their necks."

They had ridden past the field of standing corn—this summer's crop for an entire community—and were now level with a second field that lay fallow and unfenced, ready to be ploughed for sowing the following season. The talk of hunting and the country sights had made Philadelphia restless. It wasn't enough to amble down the lanes at a sedate jog that suited Judith. She took her horse into the open field, and let him choose his own pace across the stubble.

She heard the drum of hoof beats and the crackle of dry stalks behind her; glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Laurence was coming after her. She felt increasingly irritated by these Londoners and their town ways. Couldn't he leave her to ride by herself if she wished? Had she got to be continually hampered by an escort?

She touched the grey gelding's side with her heel, and he broke into a gallop.

At the far corner of the field she dropped into another lane, and turned to the right. They were going more slowly now, but still at a steady canter. It was a joy to be away from streets and houses and people and aimless chatter, moving freely through a solitary world of green grass and clear sky. She was just thinking this when her horse put his foot in a rabbit-hole, pecked and almost fell. She pitched out of the saddle and landed ignominiously on the ground.

For a moment she was so surprised that she just stayed there, swearing. She was not hurt, but furious at her own incompetence. The horse had recovered his footing and started back along the lane, the way they had come. She was horrified to see that he was going lame. Laurence had now appeared from the stubble field, and was coming towards them.

Philadelphia stood up, feeling extremely mortified. She had made a fool of herself, proved that she did require an escort, and lamed a valuable horse, unpardonably, through careless riding.

She watched Laurence reach for the grey's loose rein and coax him round. As he approached, with both horses under control, she had time to reflect that even if he hadn't been brought up to hunting and falconry, like a country gentleman, Laurence had traveled half across Europe on horseback, and he looked remarkably well in the saddle.

"You're not hurt?" he asked quickly. "What happened?"

"I let him stumble into a rabbit warren, and I've lamed him for you. I'm very sorry."

"Never mind that," he said, dismounting. "So long as you are not injured?"

"Oh, I'm as right as rain."

"And I don't think Grey Gallant is much the worse, either. He's worked a shoe loose, that's all." Laurence had inspected the damage; now he let go of the horse's hoof, patted his shoulder and straightened up. "If we continue along this way, we'll come to Great Pagwort where I believe they have a smithy. Will you let me put you up on my mare? I'll lead Gallant."

"That seems  a poor  sort of justice,"  said Philadelphia,

"considering that Gallant's accident was entirely my doing."

"My dear Mrs. Whitethorn, do you think I should care to be seen riding about the countryside, while you trudged beside me on foot?"

"No, I suppose not."

"You suppose right," said Laurence, with a perfectly straight face and a voice full of mockery. As he lifted her on to the mare he had the virtuous expression of someone engaged in heaping coals of fire. Philadelphia tried to feel indignant, but she found she wanted to laugh.

In fact he did not have to walk far. It was less than half a mile to the Great Pagwort crossroads, where they found a cluster of cottages, a tavern, a horse pond and a blacksmith's shop. The smith was busy mending a broken spit, but would soon attend to Grey Gallant's shoe.

"You have a snug place here," said Laurence, looking around the forge.

The smith noted the way he eyed the row of massive tools that hung by the fire.

"Maybe your honor has to fancy to try your hand?"

Laurence said meekly that he would never make a blacksmith.

"Those are the true sons of Vulcan," he said to Philadelphia, as they sauntered away together, leaving both horses tethered outside the forge. "What I can do is puny by comparison."

"Come, Mr. Tabor! It is not like you to be so modest."

He laughed, taking her arm, as they rounded the edge of a small wood. They came on a fallen tree-trunk that was blocking the path. By common consent they sat down on it to contemplate the view. There was a bracken-covered slope running down to a little stream, and on the other side a clump of oaks and more bracken, running over the opposite hillside like a turbulent sea.

"It's a fair prospect," she remarked.

"Yes."

She discovered that he was not admiring the Arcadian scene, he was looking at her legs as they stretched in front of her, slender and well-shaped, in russet-colored breeches and boots of Spanish leather. After a moment she asked, "Did you never see a woman in breeches before?"

"Certainly," he retorted, "but never one more admirably designed."

He studied her with an air of speculation.   The  world around them had suddenly become very still. Philadelphia thought that he was gong to kiss her. She was wearing a mask to protect her skin from the rays of the sun; almost unconsciously she untied the cord and slipped it off.

She had been kissed several times at harvest feasts and Christmas revels. (Usually in the dark and by men who were too drunk to notice her disfigurement, as her sister-in-law always pointed out on the following day.) Philadelphia had schooled herself not to expect anything more from these encounters than the immediate pleasure. That was what she expected now, with a desire so keen that it was almost painful. It was astonishing not to say disconcerting, that Laurence could make her feel like this.

But something had gone wrong. Instead of taking her in his arms, he just sat there, apparently trying to brace himself for an act he found intensely difficult. It was because of her scar, of course. He might have forgotten it while she was masked. Now it must be hideously repulsive. Perhaps he could not bear to touch her. She shut her eyes, as though by shutting him out she could herself become invisible.

"Don't do that," said the quiet voice beside her.

"What?"

"Deny me every pleasure I have a mind to. First I must not stare at your legs, and now you won't let me gaze into your eyes."

"Oh. I thought you had gazed long enough."

"I wasn't sure what I could see."

"I can tell you that," she said, rallying. "Your own portrait in miniature, twice reflected!"

This seemed to amuse him, and to gain a respite for them both, she asked whether he had ever painted a self-portrait.

"A dozen times at least. I'm my own favorite subject."

You would be, she thought, surveying the cameo features of that almost too perfect profile.

"I never distract myself by talking while I'm working," he explained. "Or grumble at having to hold the same pose too long. Or haggle with myself over the price."

"And what happens to these masterpieces when they are finished?"

"Oh, I give them to my valentines," he replied airily. "They are much in demand among the lovelorn maids of Cheapside—surely you might have guessed? Or did you think

I'd hidden them at the back of a high shelf with poor old Zachary's mazer bowls that nobody wants to buy?"

As a rule Philadelphia enjoyed this sort of nonsense, but today she had lost her sense of proportion and Laurence's wit seemed hardly more than a transparent cloak for his intolerable vanity.

She was not going to encourage him any further; she was not one of his spaniel-women, begging for favors. She began to move away from him, just as he finally made up his mind and leant forward to draw her into his arms. She wriggled out of his grasp and there was a slight scuffle. Laurence tried to get a firmer grip and Philadelphia gave him a buffet in the chest, just as Judith and Walter rode into view round the corner of the wood.

Philadelphia had a confused vision, over Laurence's shoulder, of the two horses, immensely tall from that angle, and the two disapproving and unsmiling faces above them.

Giving Laurence an angry push, she scrambled to her feet and started brushing the twigs off her jacket.

It was all made much more awkward by the solemnity of Judith and Brand. Even Laurence's assurance had failed him; when they had reclaimed Grey Gallant and the mare, and were all four mounted once more, he paid no further attention to Philadelphia but rode ahead with Judith who immediately began talking to him in a low, complaining voice.

Philadelphia was left with Brand.

"I hope you did not have much trouble finding us," she said. "I am afraid I have disrupted your ride."