Keeping the Castle (6 page)

On the other hand, in my judgment I had toiled long enough in the marriage market for one evening. I was quite willing to be entertained by a handsome face, a ready wit, and a pleasing manner. Seeing Mrs. Fredericks approaching with a young man by her side, I prepared to be as pleasing, in turn, as I could.

I curtsied and raised a smiling face to gaze upon a countenance so peevish and ill-tempered that my welcoming smile faltered and I stepped backwards a pace in consternation.

He was an amazingly unattractive man. Or perhaps, I decided upon brief reflection, he was not really so, when judged by his face and figure alone. These were quite good, tho’ his complexion was sallow and unhealthy looking. No, it was the black scowl he bestowed on my mother and me that ruined his looks and rendered him repellent. Furthermore, he was not attired in evening dress, but rather wore a patterned waistcoat, a wrinkled neckcloth, and an old blue tailcoat liberally spattered with ink, as though he were in the habit of wiping a pen on it. The only acceptable item in this disgraceful costume was a handsome pair of Hessian boots.

I have never seen a true fop or dandy—they are London-bred birds, I fancy—and I do not think I would admire one if I did. I would not care for a man who thought more of his own beauty than of mine. But to appear in a ballroom dressed as a shabby little clerk!

As I was studying this displeasing specimen, his mother addressed him in affectionate tones, giving further proof to the adage that a mother’s love is blind. “My dear,” she said, “Mrs. Winthrop and her daughters live in that most remarkable structure, Crawley Castle. You know we have spoken of it often.”

“Oh, yes—perfect gargoyle of a building. Foolish place to put it, out on a cliff like that,” was his amiable response. “I shouldn’t be surprised if the place didn’t break off and fall into the sea someday.”

I felt my cheeks grow hot with outrage.

“I am delighted to meet you both,” he went on, looking anything but. “However, I must bid you good-bye on the heels of bidding you hello, Mrs. Winthrop, and Miss uh . . . hrmm,” he glanced in my direction. “So sorry, Mother, but I told you I could not stay. Do forgive me.” He bowed and made as if to leave, then turned back to say, “By the way, Mrs. Winthrop, I should get that drawbridge of yours seen to. Even a cursory inspection from the road makes it obvious that the mechanism is quite rusted through.” As an apparent afterthought he added, “Good night, and do enjoy the rest of your evening,” as if he were our host. He sketched a slight bow and walked away.

“Oh dear, he is
so
devoted to business,” said his mama, smiling after him. “I fear that the reason you did not meet him before was because he was cooped up in the library doing sums all the evening. I had so hoped he would dance with you, Miss Crawley. I was counting on you to distract him from his everlasting accounts for a few moments at least.”

“I regret I was unable to be of service, Mrs. Fredericks,” I said in as pleasant a voice as I could manage, “Perhaps we will meet again.”

Not if I see him coming first,
I thought.

5

I AM NOT ACCUSTOMED to dancing all night. When finally we had made our grateful
adieux
, squashed ourselves into the chaise, and, wending our way down a dark and damp lane, at last discovered ourselves to be at home again, the clock was striking four and faint glimmerings of dawn could be discerned in the eastern sky. We disentangled our weary limbs, climbed down, and went yawning to bed.

We were up betimes, however, as I wished to call on the Throstletwists early enough in the day to forestall them, and our other friends, from calling on
us.
As delightful as it is to entertain one’s neighbors, I prefer not to do so
too
often—the incidental expenses are rather higher than our domestic economy can withstand.

I had some difficulty in wresting Charity and Prudence from the depths of slumber, however. They wailed and attempted to retreat under the bedclothes again. When I persisted, they demanded tea and toast before they would consider rising from their beds. At last, however, with the assistance of their maid, I succeeded in getting them dressed for the day and prodded and pushed them out the front door. Collecting my mother and little Alexander, we prepared to walk to Yellering Hall.

Alas, my exertions were futile. No sooner had we gained the front walk than Charity demanded that we wait while she fetched a parasol for the sun. Once she’d rejoined us we had to retrieve Alexander out of a large bush into which he had chased a cat, and then Prudence turned back, requiring a ribbon for her hair of a slightly different hue than the one I had selected. I urged the rest of our party to press on without her, but to no avail. A large mass of humanity and horseflesh was visible, advancing up the drive. Four coaches and several men on horseback were hastening towards Crooked Castle, bent on receiving hospitality. I sighed and retreated, outmaneuvered.

However, I had resources at my command that had not been available the last time we received guests; they would not go away hungry. The strawberries were fast ripening, and there would be some cream left from the milking. It was a pity—I had planned to make strawberry jam for the winter—but there was no help for it. I murmured in my mother’s ear, retreated to the kitchen and gave my directions to Cook.

I was pleased but not surprised to find that Lord Boring had come, and surprised but not pleased that he had brought along his unpleasant cousin. I had rather supposed Mr. Fredericks’s presence last night to be accidental, as a result of his bumbling into the ballroom in mistake for some much humbler clerical office. Yet here he was, looking discontentedly about himself and remarking more than once that Boring had browbeaten him into making the visit; he couldn’t in the least imagine why.

“Upon my word, Fredericks,” exclaimed Lord Boring, “looking at these charming and lovely ladies”—he bowed to my mother and then to my stepsisters, who tittered, and finally to me—“you wonder
why
I should wish to call on them? I do believe you’ve lost every trace of gallantry and civilized behavior in your time away from England.”

Mr. Fredericks contented himself with uttering a short, satirical laugh in response. My small brother, Alexander, looked up at him in wonder and then burst into tears, climbing into my mother’s lap for comfort. Mr. Fredericks seemed somewhat nonplused by this outburst and, casting about himself for a peace offering, held out a strawberry still warm from the sun to the child. Knowing, as I did, that Alexander was stuffed brimful with purloined sweets from the ball, I did not expect this to be a success, but after a long, grave look and a hiccupping sigh, Alexander took the strawberry and began to nibble at it.

“In any case,” continued Lord Boring, ignoring this small contretemps, “you know that the doctor has ordered rest and a change of scene for you, and you also know quite well that you have been itching to get a good look at Crawley Castle. As have I,” he added.

“Yes,” admitted Mr. Fredericks, “I have, but you rousted me out just when I was getting down to the heart of that Beddoes contract. There’s something rotten there, I can smell it.”

“You shall sniff out rotten contracts to your heart’s content when we return. Just now we are paying a social call.” His Lordship turned to me. “The Marquis, by-the-by, sends his compliments and apologies for not calling on you. He has business to attend to in York today. But perhaps, Miss Crawley, as great-granddaughter of the original owner, you would be so good as to give Fredericks and me a brief tour of the public rooms?” He bowed to my stepsisters and continued, “I should be sorry to put the Misses Winthrop to the trouble.”

Prudence gave way easily enough. The Baron’s appearance, wealth and position put him beyond her ambitions, though if Mr. Fredericks had only maintained his own house she might have considered him with some interest. It was harder to persuade Charity, who had some claims to beauty along with an impressive fortune, that
she
should not serve as guide. However, her friend Miss Hopkins, having already seen the attractions of Crooked Castle, such as they were, begged her to remain. And as a number of other unattached young men remained in the room she evidently concluded that without me present she could hope to work her wiles upon them uninterrupted.

As I rose to conduct them around, I reflected that Lord Boring, in common with Mr. Fredericks’s mother, treated that difficult young man with an amused indulgence. This was understandable in Mrs. Fredericks, who, as his mother, was more or less required to love him, but less so in Lord Boring, who was not. Perhaps Lord Boring found Mr. Fredericks’s rudeness amusing, as medieval kings were said to be entertained by the coarse and impertinent behavior of their jesters.

“Are you and your cousin intimately acquainted, Lord Boring?” I enquired. We stood a little apart from Mr. Fredericks as he paused to examine the least moth-eaten of the tapestries. “Did you grow up together?”

“No, not entirely, though from time to time he would come to stay with us, of course.”

From what I knew of the former Lord Boring’s attitude, there was no “of course” about it. It cast a surprisingly good light on the Westings—I should not have expected them to find the son of a shop clerk an acceptable playmate for the heir to a barony.

“Perhaps,” I hazarded a guess, “he saved your life?”

A quick smile came and went across Lord Boring’s face.

“Almost—but no, not exactly,” he said. “I am very fond of him. And of course, we are associated in our overseas interests—he looks out for my investments in India and so on.” He lowered his voice. “I owe him a great deal, more than he will allow me to say. He’s a good fellow, Hugh is, tho’ not very polished, I know,” he said, as we watched Mr. Fredericks poking a finger through a moth hole, thereby enlarging it.

I understood, or supposed I did. Lord Boring had employed this socially inept backdoor cousin and now felt responsible for him. Presumably Mr. Fredericks was a faithful steward of his master’s affairs, and Lord Boring was no doubt relieved to be able to fulfill a family obligation as well as to safeguard his own interests.

“Oh undoubtedly,” I said. The “good fellow” had just detached at least two feet of fringe off the bottom of the tapestry while attempting to tug it into place. My eyes narrowed. Someday I might have to sell those tapestries so that we could eat.

“That wants sewing back on,” said Mr. Fredericks, handing the strip of material to me. “What’s behind this door?”

“A passageway to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen offices,” I replied, but he opened it nonetheless. Unwilling to inflict this person on our long-suffering cook, no doubt enjoying a well-earned rest after whipping up all that cream, I suggested, “Perhaps you would like to follow me up to the minstrel gallery. We have a great many family portraits and other paintings, some of which are said to be quite fine.” In fact, most of the paintings left were portraits, as landscapes and still lifes are easier to sell than ancestors.

The walls of Crooked Castle are pierced, more or less at random, with arrow slits. In a real fortress these small openings, just large enough to accommodate an arrow angled towards the ground, would have allowed archers inside to take potshots at an enemy outside without providing a target themselves. In an unreal fortress like Crooked Castle, their only function is to allow the winds from off the North Sea free access to the interior. One such breeze rolled down the stairs to meet us as we mounted. Mr. Fredericks hugged himself and shivered. “You ought to have Rumford fireplaces installed—it’s like an icehouse in here,” he said.

“Oh, that’s only because you’re so used to the tropics, you know,” said His Lordship, smiling bravely at me as the gust of air lifted the hair on his forehead. “Fredericks has been ill,” he confided, as the gentleman in question moved ahead of us to examine the portraits. “He came back from India a few weeks ago and on the voyage home he acquired a chill on the liver that he’s finding difficult to shake.”

“I see.” I spoke over my shoulder to His Lordship as I hastened after our other guest, who was scratching with his fingernail at the gold leaf on the frame of my grandfather’s image. I’d have thought that even a chill on the liver would be pleased to be excused from Mr. Fredericks’s company, but apparently not.

When I reached him, Mr. Fredericks was looking down at a small object in the palm of his hand. He held out a curlicue of gold, broken off from the frame, saying accusingly, “Shoddy workmanship. However,” he went on, pointing at a painting I had loved from infancy, a small picture of a brown and black dog playing with a ball, “
that
is by George Stubbs. Take care of it. It may be worth something someday. Or not, of course—Stubbs turned them out by the boatload, you know—but it is a pleasant little thing. The others, of course . . .” He shrugged.

With enormous restraint, I did not remark that, up until today, the paintings had not suffered any damage in
my
lifetime. “Allow me to show you the view from the parapet,” I said, in hopes of distracting him. What harm could he do on the battlements, out in the open air?

“These portraits ought to be cleaned,” he said, ignoring my suggestion and fiddling with the painting of the little dog. “They are shockingly dirty. Let me show you . . . I believe that a penknife inserted here under the frame would allow us to see—”

“Mr. Fredericks!” I cried. “Please! I am exceptionally fond of that picture.” I looked to Lord Boring for assistance, but he was some distance away, examining a portrait of my great-great-great-aunt on my father’s side. He turned, however, and was about to remonstrate, when Mr. Fredericks began groping in his pocket for a knife.

“Oh, never fear,
I
shan’t harm it,” said that gentleman.

I gasped and, struck by inspiration, clutched at my throat. “I—I require some air or I shall faint! I must ascend to the roof. I pray you, gentlemen, follow me at once!” And I pulled the picture from Mr. Fredericks’s grasp, set it down, and staggered towards the stair to the rooftop walkway.