Keeping the Castle (9 page)

They followed me in sulky silence to the preordained chamber in the east wing.

This time Fido and I climbed into bed and closed our eyes in well-deserved slumber. We slept so heavily that we almost missed the third disruption of the night when a fresh squall blew in across the sea from Norway and, lying as they were on a bed positioned under the worst of the leak in the roof, they began to feel the rain dripping onto their heads. I believe I may have heard a scream or two, but I did not bother to rouse myself. Rather, I snuggled down in my bed, with a satisfied smile on my face and a sense of accomplishment in my heart.

It required several days of continued rain and marauding rodents before Prudence and Charity capitulated. When a fine cashmere shawl belonging to Prudence that had been left in their original bedchamber was found with holes chewed along the hem (I rather fancy that our maid, Annie, who had been encouraged to exaggerate the mouse problem, may have been involved), they demanded that
something
be done. Faced with our undeniable poverty, they had no option save to pay for that
something
themselves.

With much tsk-tsk-ing and fretful remarks about how we
(my mother and I and, no doubt, my small brother and Fido as well) had allowed the castle to become so dilapidated that we had to rely on our too-trusting and too-easily-imposed-upon relations to keep it from falling into ruin, my stepsisters authorized the repairs and the extermination.

However, at last the rain was gone. The sun was come again, and so was the mason, to fix the roof this time. Happily, the repairs required proved to be minor rather than major. Also, a boy with a ferret was employed to clear out the infestation of mice. (I assisted in this latter task by removing the nests and their occupants to an unoccupied outbuilding.)

Mama was of course pleased, though surprised. “I can understand that they would wish to repair the roof, since they are now obliged to sleep in the leakiest bedroom, but it is a remarkable coincidence—” She looked at me and then down at her knitting, hiding a smile as she did so. “Never mind. Do not tell me. It is best I do not know.”

Dutiful and loving daughter that I am, I honored her request, and changed the subject.

Now the rains were over, Lord Boring came calling again, renewing his suggestion that we get up a riding party. I was delighted at the prospect, save for one or two minor matters. The Baron would know by now that my dowry was small and our income only just equal to our maintenance, but I did not wish him to know how
very
tightly our purse was drawn.

Firstly, my riding habit was in tatters. And, while I was reasonably handy with my needle, ladies’ riding habits were, like gentlemen’s clothing, cut and sewn by skilled tailors. The expense of a professionally tailored riding jacket, let alone a smart hat to match, was not to be thought of. I began picking through our store of old linens and outgrown clothing, looking for something I could turn into a respectable piece of ladies’ attire.

At last I came upon several suits of my father’s, now very outdated in appearance. I was meditating upon the possibility of adapting them for Alexander’s use someday, when an idea, full-formed, darted into my brain.

I have said that ladies’ riding coats and jackets were traditionally tailored; they also were decidedly masculine in appearance, so that only a long skirt and sidesaddle posture gave away the sex of the rider from a distance. Even the hats of fashionable ladies on horseback were inspired by military style.

When he was only sixteen my father had purchased a lieutenancy in the infantry in hopes of restoring his family fortune. These hopes ended at my grandfather’s death, when my father was called home to manage the estate.

Here was a well-made, barely used uniform of an infantry lieutenant, the coat a brilliant red with shiny brass buttons, epaulettes, and a stand-up collar. The regulation hat was a shako, a handsome cylindrical affair with a visor and jaunty plumes.

Did I dare?

It was too large for me, of course, even tho’ made for a boy of sixteen. However, if I carefully unpicked the seams, could I not take it in so it would fit? I decided that I could. I removed the white silk sash and several other insignia which too clearly indicated its provenance and began work. With a few hours’ work, I had a close-fitting scarlet coatee that handsomely set off my black muslin skirt. (A white skirt might have seemed to mimic the official uniform a little
too
closely.) True, it was unusual for a woman to wear a coat of such a brilliant hue, but no one could deny that it was striking.

The hat was likewise a triumph. Once stripped of its gold cording and metal badge of rank, and then swaddled with a filmy black scarf, it became a very fashionable ladies’ hat indeed. The feathers had been nibbled by moths, but a quick trim restored them. The only problem with the hat was that it was a bit large. I stuffed it with rags until it sat steady.

My attire for the outing now settled, I turned my attention to my second concern: my horse. She was an elderly mare who had to be coaxed up the smallest hill and suffered from severe vertigo on a rise of only a few feet. I dared not ride her near the cliffs. Once in recent months I had tried it; at first sight of the abyss she froze, her eyes grew large as saucers and in her terror she nearly plunged us both to our deaths. It would not do, not for her sake and not for mine.

The only way I could think of to obscure the fact that we could not afford a good ladies’ riding horse for Mama and me was to pretend that my mare had been purchased for me as being extremely gentle. Actually she had only been extremely cheap, though she was a dear, good creature, named Pegeen. I was able to afford her maintenance largely due to the kindness of Sir Quentin, who regularly directed his farrier to attend to her, and incidentally sent along several bales of feed.

“Can’t bear to see a horse badly shod,” was his explanation.

I loved to ride—it was my passion—but I would have to behave like a nervous little miss too frightened to be mounted on anything more spirited than a child’s hobby-horse.

This was injurious to my pride, but I decided that it was for the best, at least for the moment. I could—could I not?—appear to
gradually
become more adventurous on horseback, so that by the wedding I would be so much at ease that His Lordship could give me a strong-willed Arabian stallion for the groom’s gift to the bride. I closed my eyes and imagined myself galloping at a breakneck speed o’er hill and dale with the Baron at my side. However, if he was like most men, he would reserve the fiery stallion for himself and present me with a docile, younger version of Pegeen. Ah well, that was for the future.

I therefore decided that we would ride inland towards a group of megaliths arranged in a rough circle, known locally as “the Screaming Stones” because of the noise the wind made rushing between them. As standing stones went, they were not large or notable, but they were undeniably old, and might, by their extreme antiquity, provide a subject for reflection and conversation on the part of the more sensible members of the party and a certain amount of superstitious nonsense on the part of whichever of my stepsisters gained the right to accompany us.

Only one would be able to do so. My stepsisters had their own horse, shared between them. They would not on any account lend the animal so that Mama and I could ride together, or for any general purposes of the household, and would only allow it to be hitched to our chaise when
they
wished to be conveyed somewhere, such as on the night of the ball. Neither enjoyed riding much—the horse was for show and spent the vast majority of its life idle, eating its head off and growing stout—and so there was no reason to bear the expense of
two
when one was rarely used.

Once it occurred to Charity that she and Prudence would therefore not both be able to join the party, she proposed that we use the chaise.

“Then, you know, we could all go. It would be shocking to leave poor Mama Winthrop home,” she said. As the younger of the two Winthrop daughters,
she
would be the one obliged to give way to her elder sister.

I shook my head. I, too, thought it would be a shame to leave my mother at home. But taking the chaise was not to be thought of. “The roads are far too bad. You know quite well that the last few miles of the way are nothing more than a track fit only for walking or riding. Of course, if you wished to take the chaise, leave it at Allingham, and let Mama and me have the horses, while you and Prudence walked the rest of the way, it would certainly be very thoughtful and kind of y—”

“Certainly not!” “No, indeed!” cried Prudence and Charity.

Charity eyed me resentfully. At length she burst out, “I do not know why I should have to stay at home if Althea is to go.
She
is the youngest, after all. You ought to let me ride your horse, Althea. It’s only right.”

“Now, Charity,” interposed my mother hastily, “I am sorry for your disappointment, but you know I will be grateful to have your company.”

“
She
ought to stay at home. She is the youngest. I
want
her to lend me her horse.” And Charity almost, but did not quite, stamp her foot.

“Charity, dear,” said my mother, “Pegeen was purchased with funds from Althea’s father’s estate. He especially wished it—he even spoke of it on his deathbed—as Althea is so fond of riding. And you know that
you
have always been indifferent to the exercise. Pegeen is Althea’s horse. Indeed, I am told that she leaves almost nothing for the stable boy to do, so far as caring for the animal.”

“Perhaps, Charity,” chimed in Prudence, “while we are disporting ourselves on the moors, you could get on with counting our lace handkerchiefs and other items of dress, before we send them out to the laundress? You have such an exquisite eye for detail.”

Charity’s face turned red and seemed to swell.

I had remained silent, but now I had to speak. The proper thing for me to do would be to offer my horse to her and remain at home. But I could not bear it. Charity and Prudence were both dreadful horsewomen, quick with the whip and heedless of the horse’s comfort or safety. And the entire party had been a scheme of the Baron’s so that
I
could show him the countryside.

“Charity—” I began, but at this tense moment Greengages shuffled into the room. “Mr. Fredericks, madam.”

In strode Mr. Fredericks, the image of impatience. He nearly toppled poor Greengages onto the floor in his haste to enter, execute his business, and leave.

“Will two horses suffice, Mrs. Winthrop? If so, I will leave you. I’ve the devil of a lot of work to get through if I am to frivol away tomorrow chasing about after a collection of rocks in a circle. However, Boring insists that I attend.”

“Mr. Fredericks, how do you do?” said my bewildered mama. “Which horses do you mean, sir?”

“Why, the ones that you, and one of your daughters, I suppose”—he looked about at us as though uncertain of
which
sex we were—“are to ride on the morrow. I am told you have not enough horseflesh to ensure that everyone will be able to ride. Boring thought we ought to send a few over on loan.”

I could feel a flush of gratification rising to my cheeks.
This
was a marked attention, without mistake. He must have meant this to give me pleasure, and it was a thoughtful, generous gesture. True, I could have wished His Lordship had come to offer the horses himself instead of allowing his boorish friend to deliver them. However, perhaps he felt too self-conscious to appear in person.

I smiled and said nothing as my mother, with a swift glance at me, agreed that two horses would be adequate. Mr. Fredericks declined to sit down or accept refreshment and was gone, having been in the room for something less than five minutes.

“Never mind, Althea,” said Charity. “I had much, much rather ride the Baron’s horse than your poor old thing.”

Since I too had much, much rather she ride the Baron’s horse than my poor old thing, I said nothing but merely smiled.