Sons of the Wolf (8 page)

"Can you remember anything about it?"

"Well ... I had given her that gown-you know, the pink muslin that is too large for me. She liked it very much. Later she came back with the flower-she called it a flower, but it is not very pretty, is it? At any rate, she said I must always keep it by me. Why is this important, Harriet?"

"It is not important, I suppose. I was curious."

"Some Yorkshire superstition, no doubt," said Ada placidly. "Perhaps if I place it under my pillow, I will dream of my future husband." She giggled and then sighed. "Oh, dear. I shall never mend this properly. My fingers are all thumbs."

"Let me try-although my efforts are not apt to be much better. Ada, you need some new frocks-and probably another shawl, when I finish running this one. We had so little time for shopping in London. ..."

"It would be fun to shop." Ada's face brightened. "Just to visit a large town would be a change. We see no one here."

"I'll speak to Mr. Wolfson. Perhaps he will take us to York."

I could not help thinking, as I walked back down the corridor, that she was right. We have no visitors, except for Mr. •Wolfson's occasional business acquaintances, and he does not entertain them socially. Of course the Abbey is isolated; in all our rides I have not seen another house. But surely there must be some neighbors? We are not accustomed to society-Grandmother's friends having been elderly ladies and gentlemen-but Mr. Wolfson's abilities and position ought to command a wide circle of acquaintances. I suppose the explanation is to be found in Mr. Wolfson's affliction. I can see him fending off would-be sympathizers with savage remarks and contempt. Julian certainly seems to find life at the manor dull. He is frequently absent on visits to friends. But none of his friends ever come here.

May 22

I spoke with Mr. Wolfson today about a journey to York. To my surprise-for he has acquiesced to almost every whim either of us has expressed-he was not agreeable to the idea. As he pointed out, he cannot travel easily, and there is no one else suitable to chaperone Ada and myself in the shops and inns.

I thought of arguing with him. He can travel quite well when he wishes to-witness our trip to Middleham-but I suspect it is a case of "will not" rather than "cannot." He does not like to display his handicap to the world. I can hardly blame him, and yet it does seem as if some arrangement could be made. Ada and I can hardly spend the rest of our lives here.

He did say, however, that if we would make up a list of what we wanted, he would have William purchase the things for us on his next trip; he visits York monthly to buy commodities which cannot be procured locally. A typically masculine suggestion, I thought angrily.

"A typically masculine suggestion," said Mr. Wolfson, grinning-there is really no other word for that white-toothed smile of his. I thought I was used to his mind-reading abilities, but this time I literally and actually started. His smile widened.

"Now, Harriet, your face is as easy to read as print; you have neither the experience nor the character for dissimulation. You were thinking that it is absurd to expect a butler to choose dress materials for a pair of young ladies, weren't you? But you will discover that William can do anything. Tell him color and type of fabric and he will astound you with his taste. We can find someone in Middleham to make the garments up for you."

"Yes, sir," I said.

"I know-you will miss the fun of choosing the things yourselves. That isn't fair. But just now . . . perhaps later we can manage a shopping expedition. By the way, you will not, I hope, be buying more black? It does not suit either of you."

"It seems hardly proper to abandon mourning so soon."

"If anyone criticizes you, say that I ordered it." He gave me another wide white grin. "Cultivate eccentricity, Harriet, and tell society to go to-blazes. It's much more fun than being conventional."

"It's not very amusing," I said crossly, rising to go, "when there is no one to tell to go to blazes."

He was laughing as I swept out of the room.

Julian is back from one of his visits-this time to stay for a bit, he informed me. He seems sullen and out of sorts; my vanity would be hurt if I were that sort of young lady, for he does not seem to be at all fascinated by our society.

May 29

Wrong again! It is a good thing I am not setting myself up as a student of human nature, for I seem to be constantly mistaken about people. Julian is fascinated by our society; he has been cultivating us assiduously of late. It has made all the difference in our rather dull lives, for he can be absolutely charming. Even his pretended timidity on horseback is amusing, because he obviously is not so inept as everyone seems to think.

It was a beautiful warm morning Tuesday, so we all went riding together. By "all" I mean Julian and Ada and myself. David had four horses saddled, but Julian told him carelessly that he need not accompany us. I was glad to see that Ada seemed not to notice nor care.

We rode to the old abbey ruins and for the first time I had my fill of exploring them. The other two soon tired of this amusement and I left them sitting on a fallen stone, talking. After all, I did keep them in sight for almost the entire time.

The ruined cloisters are quite lovely. Most of the ceiling has fallen in, but there are bits of the most beautiful vaulting still in place. The low building which still seems intact was, as I suspected, the dormitory of the monks. It was at this stage in my explorations that Ada deserted me. She took one look at the gaping black rectangle of the doorway, draped with cobwebs and framed by lichen-smeared stones, and shook her head decisively.

"There will be spiders!" she warned me, as Julian led her off.

There were spiders, and I own I am not very fond of them. But that was not what cut my inquiries short; it was the difficulty of exploring in near-absolute darkness. Only one wing of the monastery still survives; it consists of a long corridor, without windows, upon which the small cells open. The cells themselves have each one window, but these are small and barred and the openings are now almost covered by the rank weeds of what was once an inner courtyard. Since most of the cell doors remain in place-though sadly rotted-the light which struggles out into the corridor is dim indeed.

I ventured into one cell, the one opposite the entrance to the corridor. The fragile-looking but invincible weeds had forced their way up between the stone blocks of the floor, almost obliterating that surface. On one wall I found a patch of plaster, with traces of faded color, but could make out nothing of the design. Popish and un-English as these establishments were, it makes one gnash one's teeth to think of the beauty so wantonly destroyed.

Although I would never have owned it to Ada, I had no intention of exploring that corridor; it was festooned with cobwebs thick as curtains, and the darkness at either end seemed palpable enough to touch. I promised myself that I would come back one day with a lantern-and David. Julian is not the man to ruin his fine shirts and broadcloth with cobwebs, even to oblige a lady.

The tower, which I had planned to investigate, proved also a disappointment. I simply could not gain entry to it at all. The door is a huge structure built of thick planks, which look fairly new. Though there was no visible bolt or lock, I pushed against it in vain. The tower is built right up against the dormitory and may connect with it; perhaps I may be able to enter from the corridor once the cobwebs are disposed of.

When I turned back to Ada, I couldn't help stopping for a moment to admire the picture my two cousins made as they sat chatting. Ada's bright head was dazzling in the sunlight and her black-clad figure was as slim as a child's against the soft gray stone and green grass. Julian was sprawled at her feet, like an effigy of a young knight on a tombstone. He is a graceful creature and his profile-I had not noticed it before-has the true Wolfson look, long-nosed and clean-cut.

As I joined them Julian was in the middle of a description of one of the young ladies at the house where he had been staying. It was malicious but witty; he "did" the simpering young miss, flirting as hard as she dares, to perfection. Ada laughed as much as I did. On the way back Julian showed off. He cleared a wall with such fine form that even Ada was impressed.

May 30

I am so angry I can hardly think, let alone write. But I must compose myself, and I have found this fat old diary a useful means to that end. Of all the stupid, unforgivable, malicious . . . !

I have found out what the mysterious dried plant is. It is St.-John's-wort-Hypericum. I remember it now from a course in botany Ada and I once pursued. It is a common-enough plant, though I have not chanced to see any hereabouts. And it is used—

I am still angry! The very thought of it makes my hand unsteady. Let me start from the beginning.

I went down to the kitchens this morning to tell Mrs. Bennett about some change in the menu. Ada had expressed a desire for another apple tart, and f had forgotten to tell the cook earlier. I have a blister on my heel from my exploring yesterday, so I was wearing soft-soled slippers. The kitchen door, at the end of a long flagstoned corridor, stood open for coolness after the morning baking. Inside they were talking as hard as they could-Mrs. Bennett, Elspeth and Mary, one of the other maids. They did not hear me approaching. I was just outside the door when I caught a phrase that held me transfixed. My subsequent eavesdropping, though in poor taste, was unavoidable; I literally could not move for astonishment.

The phrase was:

"He killed one of Abel's sheep last night."

"He," mind you-not "it." I never for a moment thought that they were speaking of an animal.

The voice was Elspeth's. Mrs. Bennett replied (I translate from the broad Yorkshire, which I have come to understand better):

"Aye, it was th' full moon last night."

"It was Abel's telling un that he couldna coom for th' sowing till Moonday."

"Abel should know better," said Mrs. Bennett crisply. "He only-sends th' dogs when summat vexes un."

"Sends the dogs?" It was not a question so much as a sardonic denial.

Mrs. Bennett replied quickly, "Thee's got no call to give way to heathen superstitions. Th' preacher told thee-"

"Ah, the preacher!"

"He's a good mun, is Mr. Ablewhite."

"A foreigner! If he'd been born and bred here, nigh to the wolf's brood-"

There was a little squeak of breath from Elspeth, and another sharp reproof from Mrs. Bennett.

" 'T was Abel's own feyther that lamed un," the older maid Mary persisted, but in a lower voice. "He shot th' hound when it joomped at him-shot it in th' hindquarters. He heerd it howl an' saw it drag itself awa'. ..."

"Aye, I know th' tale. A foolish tale! Hoo could th' beast move, so hurt?"

"Th' dog wa'n't harmed. Next day it was well as e'er. But he-"

"Heathen talk!" The older woman's voice was rock-hard, but I seemed to hear a quiver of marshy doubt under the stone.

"Thee shalt not suffer a witch to live! That's Scripture, that is!"

"Witch. But-"

"Wizard, then." The maid's voice sank to a reedy whisper. "Shape-changers, skin-turners. Old Grannie Price, nigh Ripon-all know she hangs th' hareskin behind her door; didna they almost catch her last Midsummer Day, but for the preacher? If the Wolf-"

I pushed the kitchen door wide open and walked in.

It was the most dramatic entrance I have ever made, I will say that-despite the softness of my movements and the stillness of my face. The three women were stock-still, frozen in the last convulsive movement they had made toward the door: the cook at the table, hands poised over a pot of potatoes, Mary leaning toward her with her head twisted grotesquely over her shoulder to stare at me, Elspeth crouched and white-faced as if she were about to run for her life.

They gaped at me as if I were a bat-winged Fury. I felt like one; the rages Grandmother used to send me into were only pale reflections of the demoniac fury I felt then.

When I finally was able to speak, the voice was like that of a stranger.

"The plant on Miss Ada's dressing table. What is it?"

Two younger women sagged simultaneously, like dolls when a child's hand releases them. The cook was made of sterner stuff, but I saw on her disciplined face the same expression that weakened the faces of the maids. The emotion that moved them was relief. It was not my sudden appearance which had petrified them, but the fear that I was someone else.

"St.-John's-wort, miss," said Mary in a gasp. "It's for-for guarding-"

"In Italy they use garlic," I said, a dim memory stirring. The woman stared blankly, without comprehension. "What do you mean by telling such vicious tales? This is England in the nineteenth century, not a ruined castle in the Balkans! I can understand these foolish girls, but you, Mrs. Bennett-you ought to know better. Aren't you ashamed? Your superstitious stupidity is bad enough, but such cruelty toward a man who has been so sadly treated by Providence-"

"Ah, Providence ..." Mrs. Bennett wet her lips and let the suggestive words linger. "Miss, I'm sorry you heard. You know I tried-"

"Yes, I know. I shall emphasize that when I tell Mr. Wolfson."

The sound that came from Mary's parted lips sent me back a step. It was not loud-that seemed, somehow, to make it worse.