The Forest (107 page)
The Colonel had hated writing letters, but he had made a copy of almost every one so that his record not only of incoming, but also of outgoing correspondence, was almost complete. For a man who hated paperwork it was a commendable achievement. The letters were arranged not chronologically but by subject, each batch placed either in an envelope or wrapped in a piece of covering paper and neatly labelled in the Colonel’s firm hand.
They went through them all, looking for anything labelled ‘Pride’. There was nothing.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Totton, ‘I’m sorry. I must have remembered it wrong.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Dottie. ‘It was kind of you to think of it.’
They started to put the letters away.
‘Look,’ said Imogen, and held up a packet. It was labelled: ‘Furzey, Minimus,’ under which the Colonel had drawn a short, angry line. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
There were a number of letters, mostly brief. But one was much longer. It began, curtly: ‘Sir, It may interest you to know that the agent I employed some two years ago has recently furnished me with a reply.’
‘Whatever can this be about?’ Imogen wondered aloud. She scanned the letter further, and then said: ‘Oh.’ She read a little more. ‘Dottie,’ she said, taking her arm. ‘I think I’ve found her.’
The Pride girl is found. She is alive and well. For that we may thank God, I suppose. She is living, in sin, with a person said to be an artist, of no moral repute. A person, I dare say, therefore, very like yourself.
She has been offered an inducement to return to her parents, or at least to let them know that she is alive. This she utterly refuses to do, whether because she has sunk and accustomed herself to a life of sin, or whether out of shame I do not know. In the circumstances I think it best to say nothing to her parents.
You may come to reflect upon the fact, Sir, that it is you and you alone who is responsible for the ruin of Dorothy Pride.
I say you may care to reflect: I should rather say that you
might
care to reflect, if I did not know that it is not in your character to draw any moral conclusions under any circumstances.
I can only conclude by assuring you that I, for my part, have learned with each passing year to feel for your character an ever-increasing revulsion and disgust.
‘I think that must be your great-grandmother, Dottie.’
‘It has to be. Living with an artist.’
‘And my great-grandfather … I’m sorry.’
‘Well, we’ve found her,’ said Mrs Totton. ‘It was a long time ago. But welcome home, Dottie, anyway. At least we can say that.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘My dears, it’s quite time for a drink.’
But Dottie excused herself. She needed the evening to work. She thanked them both and prepared to go.
‘Would you like a hand to put the papers back in the store room?’ she asked.
‘No. I think I may look at some of them myself this evening,’ said Mrs Totton. ‘Perhaps,’ she smiled, ‘we shall see you here in the Forest more in the future?’
‘Perhaps.’
Her evening’s work went well. The mass of material she had gathered was beginning to separate out, then fit itself together in new shapes. That was usually the prelude to getting her story.
It was strange about her great-grandmother and Minimus Furzey. She had little doubt that she had found Dorothy and, therefore, her own roots. Once or twice she nearly picked up the telephone to tell Peter Pride, but she forced herself not to. She could tell him on Sunday, if he turned up.
He was her cousin – a very distant one, of course.
Mrs Totton sat alone that evening in a state of contentment. It had been a good day. She liked the Pride girl. As for discovering her family, that had been a gift from above. To be connected with the Forest, in Mrs Totton’s eyes, was the greatest gift you could hope for.
She read a book for a little while, dozed for perhaps half an hour, and then, putting a chair beside the trunk on the floor, idly went through some more of old Colonel Albion’s letters. Many were routine matters connected with the estate; some concerned the disputes of the verderers with the Office of Woods. After the Furzey letters, none of them seemed very exciting. Perhaps she was not in the mood.
She was just about to put the bundles back and close the lid when a slim envelope detached itself from the rest. It seemed to be a single item with no accompanying correspondence. On it, in the Colonel’s hand, was written a single word: ‘Mother?’
Curious now, she picked up the envelope and opened it. There was only one sheet of paper inside, closely written on both sides, in a fine, rather academic hand, certainly not Colonel Albion’s.
‘My dearest wife,’ it began, ‘each of us has secrets and now there is something which I, too, have to confess.’
Yet if it was a confession, it was a strange one. It seemed that the writer’s wife, whom he clearly loved, had been having nightmares, calling out things in the night. And from this he had learned that she was guilty, or believed herself to be, of a great crime. Others, it seemed, had suffered transportation, even death. But she had got off free.
Because she had lied. Guilt, remorse, deep in the night, was visiting her in dreams. She was obviously in an agony which she could share with no one, not even her husband. Awake, no word was spoken. The nightmares, it would appear, came then departed for months at a time, then came again.
So what had her husband to confess? Firstly that he had, as it were, eavesdropped upon these confidences. He was still apparently undecided about whether to speak to her or not. Then came an urgent section. He knew her too well, he said, to have any doubt about her goodness. As a wife, a mother, mistress of their estates, there was not an evil thought or intention in her soul.
Had she really stolen that piece of lace, he asked, or was it possible that she herself had come to imagine it? He did not know. The crime itself, even if it were so, should never merit the punishments given; and she herself, by her goodness, had long ago earned forgiveness.
Perhaps, my dearest Fanny, I shall be able to persuade you of these things. Perhaps these terrible dreams will end. But I wish, in any case to leave you this letter to read, after I am gone.
For I, too, have an equal confession to make to you. When I came to you in Bath and implored you to save yourself and told you I knew you were not guilty of this crime, my beloved wife, I lied. I did not know. But I desired above all that you should be my wife, guilty or innocent. And even now, though I do not for one instant believe you are bound for anywhere but Our Father’s Heavenly Kingdom, I tell you truly that were you to be consigned to the fires of Hell, I should follow you there, even to the bottomless pit, and do so gladly a thousand times.
Your loving husband, Wyndham.
‘Well,’ murmured Mrs Totton. ‘Well.’
Dottie Pride awoke before dawn. It had come. She could feel it. She was going to get her story today.
She could not sleep any more. She got up and pulled on some clothes and, proceeding down the dimly lit stairs of Albion Park, made her way out through the big front door. The gravel drive scrunched under her feet. Faintly embarrassed at the thought of waking the other guests, she walked along the grass verge until she reached the gate.
It was quite chilly, but she didn’t care. For no particular reason of which she was aware, she wandered up the lane and into Oakley. The village was asleep. Not a soul was stirring yet. She came to the green where the cricket pitch was already fenced off. She could just make that out in the gloom.
Oakley. If she was a Pride, she suddenly realized, she must have come home. She walked across the wet, dewy grass to the edge of the heath. Her shoes would be sopping. She didn’t care. She took a deep breath, scenting peat and heather. She shivered for a moment.
The grey-black spring night still lay like a blanket over the sky. It was quiet, as if the whole New Forest was waiting for something to happen in the silence before the dawn. She stared out across Beaulieu Heath.
And then, suddenly, a skylark started singing in the dark.
