Mist Over Pendle (13 page)

He stood gracefully aside to let her pass, and as she led him in he chatted easily in his light tones.

“I’m ashamed that you should be plagued with quittances for pence, madam. But I’m told you’ll know the occasion for it. This Anne Redfern dwells on my father’s land, and my mother has some softness---“

“No doubt sir.” She thought it prudent to interrupt. It would be safer than an argument about his mother, and softness was not the first of the qualities Margery would have attributed to the lady.

She solemnly took his proffered pence and then busied herself with the writing of what she hoped would pass as a quittance. She had no idea what form it should take, but she need not have been troubled. He took it without a reading and quickly stowed it in his pouch. Apparently he was more interested in Margery than in the quittance; yet a shyness seemed upon him now, as though he were reluctant to speak what was in his mind. Margery thought she had better help him.

“You’ll drink a cup of ale, sir?” she said, and pulled at the bell cord. “You’ll need it after riding through so fresh a morning.”

He accepted it pleasantly, and Margery moved to the window as he drank. There was sunlight there that could pick a glint of red.

Master Nutter seemed encouraged.

“It is indeed a very fresh morning, madam.” He was looking thoughtfully at the orange-tawny. “I--er--I have to ride yet a little further this clay--up into Goldshaw. Has any yet conducted you to Goldshaw, madam?”

“No sir.” An eye flickered and a forehead crinkled. “I’ve heard talk of it, but not yet seen it.”

Ten minutes later they trotted out together into a fine September morning with a soft west wind and a sky of cobalt blue. They went in an amiable silence, and Margery told herself that there was much to be said for these easy Lancashire customs. She would certainly not have been given this freedom at home, but Roger had specifically told her that in the Forest she might ride where and with whom she chose; the Forest folk had easy ways and were not given to raising eyebrows at nothing. So Margery rode at ease, and found happiness enough in the cool air and the greens and blues of the morning.

He led her by the road she had ridden when she had gone with Roger to the Rough Lee. But before they had come to the Hoarstones, Master Nutter, still chattering amiably of everything and nothing, turned abruptly into a side-road, and they dropped steeply into the valley where the Sabden brook glittered in the morning sun.

“I’ve messages for my Uncle Anthony,” he explained. “He fives up in Goldshaw here, with his sister who’s my aunt.”

“Your mother’s sister, is it?”

Margery was in some disappointment. She had expected a morning spent roving on this hillside, and a visit to a second Alice Nutter was a much less tempting prospect. But he was in haste to reassure her.

“Not so,” he said quickly. “It’s from my father’s side. My uncle in Goldshaw is younger brother to my father. He’s a widower now, and his sister, being my Aunt Margaret, dwells with him and keeps his house. In full style she’s Mistress Crook, but she’s widowed too, and it serves her turn to dwell with him. This road leads to the Newchurch, but here’s where we leave it.”

They were at the bottom of the hill and had just splashed across the brook. Master Nutter turned to ride down it, but soon he had left it and was leading up a gulley in the hillside. Margery followed without protest. She was at least partly reassured. The proposed visit certainly suited her worse than the ride she had expected; but she had liked Dick Nutter, and if his brother and sister were after his pattern they might be tolerable folk to visit. And when all was said, they were Roger’s neighbours, and there might be nothing lost by knowing what they were like.

Two minutes on the climbing track brought them to a modest house, squat, comfortable and unpretentious, sure of itself in the strength that the grey stone gave. It was set in a fringe of pines, linked by a blackthorn hedge; in the Winter it might have had an air of gloom, but on this brilliant morning the grey stones were gleaming in the sun, and the fringeing pines gave a cool and pleasant shade.

Master Nutter was assiduous. He helped Margery to dismount; he opened the gate; he led the horses, and when the fine oak door swung open he was in haste to present her to the man who stood quietly beneath the low stone lintel.

He might have spared his breath in that, for one look told Margery that here was Dick Nutter’s brother. He had the same spare and wiry figure, the same sandy hair, the same look of decent honesty; and this Anthony had also a kindliness of eye that won him Margery’s liking at once. In a soft quiet voice he gave her friendly welcome, and he led her into a small square hall, stoutly panelled in oak. To her right, an oaken stair led to chambers above; before her, an oaken door stood open to show a cool stone-flagged kitchen; to her left, another door led to a sunlit parlour, likewise panelled in oak. Anthony Nutter took Margery’s cloak while his nephew hurried into the parlour; and at once his voice was lifted in greeting to his Aunt Margaret. Anthony Nutter smiled at the sound of it, and then stood aside as an ancient servitor came waddling out of the kitchen and went to the horses. Anthony was smiling again as he viewed the old fellow’s back; then he turned to Margery and took her into the parlour.

Aunt Margaret turned out to be a pleasant middle-aged woman, soft of speech and kindly of face. She offered the friendliest of welcomes, and produced ale, and cakes, and an apple tart of surpassing excellence. The welcome, and the unassuming friendliness of the house, soon melted Margery’s carefully-assumed dignity and set her chattering freely. Miles, too, had plenty to say for himself. He turned to Margery with a very boyish grin and offered her more of the apple tart.

Margery hesitated. She was in her usual state of suppressed hunger, and it was an excellent tart. But she was a guest on a first visit--and the tart, when all was said, did not belong to Miles.

Margaret Crook gave an understanding smile.

“Now no holding back for the looks of things, please. It was made for the boy’s visit, and it shall end with that.”

Her affectionate glance at Miles, and his smiling response, were not lost on Margery. It looked like the spoiled nephew of the favourite aunt. Margery ceased to hesitate, and sank her teeth into apple tart instead.

“I’m glad it’s liked,” said Mistress Crook. “Though I must not take all the credit for it. It’s of a special making, and I had it from Miles’s mother. Have you met Mistress Nutter yet?”

Margery, having her mouth full, nodded.

“She’s the best of cooks,” Mistress Crook went on “She’s skilled in all things, and not least in that.”

“Spoken like yourself, my dear. If you spoke of the Devil you’d find his good parts.”

This was Anthony Nutter, breaking suddenly into the talk from the hearth, where he was leaning his shoulders against the littered shelf that ran above it. He had said no more till now than some polite greetings, and his sudden intervention surprised them all. His sister shook her head in vigorous disapproval.

“Tony! Tony!” she said. “You must stop saying things like that. What will Mistress Whitaker think?”

]Think? Of me, or of Alice? Which?”

“Of both of you, Tony. And you might remember that Miles is here. Alice is his mother, even though you forget it.”

But Anthony Nutter was unabashed. He broke into a shy affectionate smile.

“So she is, my dear. So she is. Though he takes more after you. And you, my dear, are the sweetest thing made, and it’s beyond your powers to think hardly of any.”

His smile was disarming, and his sister laughed openly.

“Take no more notice of him, Miles,” she said. “It’s the humour he’s in. Tell me now, what news have you for me?”

This led to family gossip, and Margery left Miles to it. Anthony she noticed, had left the hearth and was standing in the sunlight of the open window, with his hair rippling faintly in the soft wind that blew through the casement. On impulse she went across to him, and he waved her to the low seat, done in blue linen that ran under the window. Himself, he remained standing as he looked her over gravely. Apparently he was satisfied, for he nodded as though pleased.

“You’re kin to Roger Nowell, are you not?” he asked without prelude.

“Yes.”

She answered him simply, for she felt already that this was a man to be dealt with plainly.

He nodded again and His answer had a plainness that surprised her.

“Inheritance made him an Esquire. God made him a gentleman. Have that in mind, for you’ll meet some who’ll blacken him.

The slow, puckering smile came on him again.

“Enough of that!” he said. “I’ll be having you in flight from me. Such earnestness on a September morning! Are you come for long?”

She laughed.

“Truly sir, I know not. But I think I’m here till my cousin tires of me.”

“That should be long. I doubt not that your presence gladdens him.”

She was surprised at the warmth that his answer stirred in her. There was a patent sincerity about Anthony Nutter which gave power to his words.

“You are too good, sir,” was all she could find to say.

“Polite belittlement! But I know of what I speak. Roger Nowell had daughters, and now they’re gone, and his house is the emptier for that--as mine has been since my Anne is gone.”

“Your daughter, sir?”

“Aye.” He hesitated. “She was of your age,” he went on. “She died. Just two years agone.”

“Oh!” Margery came to a stop, not knowing what she could say.

“Be at ease. It was not your fault.” His smile was a little twisted now. “These things are of God, and I doubt not He has care for His own. But perhaps we talk too long. Miles seems astir.”

Miles was. He had risen and was looking inquiringly at Margery. She nodded, aware that for a first visit she had stayed long enough.

But as Miles sought her cloak, her host had yet a word to say; and he said it with the direct simplicity that seemed to be his way.

“You’ve met Alice--my brother’s wife?”

“Only once.”

“It’s enough. She might be called--powerful.”

Margery’s faint nod gave cautious assent. She knew exactly what he meant.

“You and I,” he continued, “have not to live with her. Miles has. Moreover, he’s her son---“

“Yes?”

“He’s a good lad at heart. If you come to think him more under his mother than a lad should be--why then, have charity of thought.”

If she wondered why he thought it needful to say that, she had no chance to ask him; for Miles came up with her cloak and she had to turn to thank him. Then there were friendly partings, with Mistress Crook wordily insistent that she should come again and Anthony quietly confirming that. Then they took leave’ Miles calling gay farewells as he held her stirrup.

He led her down the track by which they had come. He seemed to have grown silent now, but Margery had a clear question to ask She asked it as they crossed the Sabden brook.

“Your
uncle spoke to me,” she said, “of a daughter who had died. What was it that took her off?”

“Anne?” he answered. “Poor Anne! Aye, she was my cousin.”

He fell silent again, and Margery began to be irritated. Aye, sir. Your cousin, to be sure. I had guessed as much. But pray, what did she die of?”

“Why, as to that---“ He seemed out of humour. “I cannot well say. It was very sudden. Some said---“

Again he stopped, arid she knew she ought to press this no further. But press it she did, curiosity getting the better of manners.

‘‘What did some say?” she asked bluntly.

“Why, they said so many things that--that I know not what they said.

And at that she had to leave it. She could not in decency press it further, and they toiled up the hill in an awkward silence he disconcerted and she irritated. In the same silence they came to the mam road again, and he turned to the right as was needful if they were to return to Read. But Margery stopped at the turning.

“I’ll not need escort from here, sir,” she told him. “You’ve distance enough m your road to the Rough Lee. My thanks sir for your kindnesses.”

He demurred at that, insisting that it was his plain duty to escort her home, and thus irritating Margery even more. To insist on the duty of it, and speak not at all of the pleasure of it was by no means what she thought proper; and she was wondering how she might best tell him so. She had had quite enough of Miles Nutter for one morning. She thought his aunt pleasant and his uncle charming; but Miles himself, for all his good looks, had fallen in her estimation. She found him a silent and tactless fellow and she faced him now with a steadiness of eye that should have warned him,

“I’ve no wish to have you a slave to duty, sir. I pray you take your leave.”

She thought he was about to expostulate when she saw to her further anger, that he was not even looking at her. He was looking over her shoulder at something beyond, and she turned sharply to see what it was. Then she had to contrive a hasty smile as Richard Baldwin rode up; and Richard Baldwin, she thought, did not look pleased. .

“Good day to you, mistress! And to you, Miles!”

It was civilly said, but his face was impassive and his voice had a chill.

There was exchange of greetings and Margery sought for some softening approach. But Miles Nutter cut her short.

“I’m for the Rough Lee,” he said to Baldwin. “May we ride together?”

“Surely. Then I’ll take leave, mistress. Good day to you!”

He rode off, and Miles, with a flourish of his hat and not another word spoken, rode after him.

Margery sat her horse in silence, furious that he had presumed to do what she had bidden him do. It was a humiliating end to a morning which had once held hope and promise, and her teeth were holding her lip stiffly as she thought of it.

“What the Devil ails the fellow?” she asked herself. And then her lip eased into a smile, and she all but laughed as she perceived how her thoughts had somehow dressed themselves in Roger Nowell’s clothing. It made her feel better, and she was almost good humoured as she turned her horse. But she was thoughtful as she rode home. Questions were pressing upon her. What had happened to Anne Nutter? Why had Miles behaved so oddly? And what irked Richard Baldwin?