The Song of the Siren (41 page)

There was terrible consternation. Harriet came over to see and tell us what she knew.

My mother told me afterwards because since I had been ill she told me things. I think she felt that had I not been in ignorance of what had happened I would not have gone into the forbidden wood that night but would have come straight home, in which case I could probably have been nursed back to health.

What she told me was this: “Harriet says that Carlotta has been taken away by a man called Lord Hessenfield who is an important

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Jacobite. He was known to be in the neighbourhood. He made his escape to France.

And has taken Clarissa with him. What is not generally known is that Lord Hessenfield is Clarissa’s father.”

Then Harriet told us how Carlotta had been captured by these Jacobites when she was at the Black Boar Inn on her way to Eyot Abbass and that Lord Hessenfield had raped her. The result was that she was pregnant and Benjie had married her to help, as Harriet said, “straighten matters out.” Benjie had long been in love with her and eagerly grasped the opportunity to marry her. So Clarissa is the daughter of Hessenfield.

He must have cared something for Carlotta to risk his life to take her back with him. That she had been taken by force was clear because her cloak came off in the struggle and was found in the shrubbery. It seemed likely that Clarissa had been taken before, because she was missing some hours before Carlotta was forced to go.

It all seemed wildly incredible. But Carlotta was born to be the centre of storm.

Moreover, when I considered what had happened to my parents I wondered whether almost all of us did not at some time have to face unusual and stormy episodes in our lives.

Even I had once had a frightening adventure with Good Mrs. Brown. For a long time after that I used to let my imagination run on as I pictured all sorts of horrible consequences which could have ensued. I had never really grown away from it and occasionally

had a nightmare.

We have a tenant at Enderby Hall. It amazed me that anyone should take the place.

It was so gloomy and had this reputation of being haunted. One or two people came to see it. My mother or my father and sometimes my grandmother from Eversleigh Court showed them over it. In fact people were more inclined to go to Eversleigh Court than to the Dower House.

I remember the day my grandmother came to tell us about this man who had come.

We were all sitting in my room because my mother always brought visitors to me. She had some notion that it cheered me.

My grandmother said: “I cannot think why he came to see it. He seemed determined to dislike everything even before he saw it and heaven knows it is easy enough to find fault with Enderby.”

“I always think,” said my mother, “that if one set out to change all that, one could.”

303”How, Priscilla dear?” asked my grandmother.

“Cut away some of the undergrowth, for one thing. It’s terribly overgrown. Get a little light into the place. Bring in the sunshine. I visualise a happy man and his wife with a horde of children. It’s light and laughter that place lacks.”

“Dear Priscilla!” was all my grandmother said.

Of course, I thought, there had been a murder in it. Beaumont Granville was murdered there and lay buried nearby. Then there was the original ghost who had tried to hang herself from the minstrels’ gallery.

“Tell us about this man,” said my mother.

“He fitted the place, I will say that. He was lame, and of a morbid countenance.

He looked as if it would really hurt him to smile. He was not by any means old. I said to him: ‘And if you took the house would you live here alone?’ He said he would, and I must have looked surprised for he added: ‘I prefer it that way,’ as though warning me to keep my thoughts to myself, which I certainly decided to do. He said the place was dark and gloomy. I said exactly what you have been saying, Priscilla.

Cut things down and let the light in.”

“What about the furniture?” said my mother, and I immediately thought of that bedroom and the four-poster bed with the red curtains.

“He said that it would suit him to have the place furnished.”

“Well, that would solve a problem,” said my mother.

“It will solve nothing. I think he just revelled in looking at the place for the purpose of showing us how uhsalable it was.”

“Well, it looks as though he succeeded.”

“I think we should get rid of the furniture, clear it out . . . repair the place from top to bottom and then see what happens. In any case we need give no more thought to Jeremy Granthorn. We shall not be hearing from him again.”

But there she was wrong.

The new owner of Enderby Hall was Jeremy Granthorn.

He did nothing to improve the reputation of Enderby Hall.

Abby, one of the maids whose duty it was to attend to my special needs and who had been given the task of doing this by my mother

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because not only was she a good worker but, as I had heard my mother say, a cheerful one, which I think meant that she was rather garrulous.

I did not talk much. I was always shut in with my own thoughts but Abby was one of those people who did not need a very attentive audience.

As she dusted and polished my room, and I lay idly watching or reading or sewing, she would give out a stream of conversation about what was going on. I would nod and murmur occasionally because I did not like to spoil the pleasure she took, although I was rarely very interested.

That was my trouble. Nothing nowadays was of any interest to me.

She chattered about the affairs of the neighbourhood and gradually I found that the name of Jeremy Granthorn was creeping more and more into her conversation.

“He’s got a man there, mistress, his only servant. They say he don’t like women.”

She giggled. “Funny sort of man I’d say, mistress. And this man . . . Smith ‘is name is ... is just like him. Emmy Camp was walking by one day and she thought she’d look round a bit. This Smith was in the garden . . . and Emmy asks him the way to Eversleigh village. As if she don’t know. Born and bred there. Emmy says: ‘Which path do I take?’

And he points it out to her without a word, and she says, ‘Are you dumb, sir?’ And then he tells her to mind her tongue and not be insolent. Emmy says all she was doing was asking the way. Emmy says he didn’t believe her. ‘You’ve come prying,’ he said.

‘We don’t like pryers here. Be careful. There’s a big dog here and he don’t like pryers either.’ Emmy was all taken aback. She’s got an eye for the men and they for her in the general way. Not this Smith, though. She reckons he’s just like his master.”

I said: “Emmy should not have pried. It’s none of her business.”

“Oh, no, mistress, but you know how it is. We all likes to know what’s going on.

. . .”

Another day she told me: “Nobody’s ever been there. Biddy Lang says she reckons they’re only ghosts themselves. Two men ... in that big house ... it don’t seem natural, that’s what Biddy says.”

It was no concern of mine what happened to the house. I had promised myself that I would never go in it again.

Since Clarissa’s visit I had walked a little. My mother was de-

305lighted. She said it was a sign I was getting better and in time I would be quite well.

I did not tell her that the only thing that had changed was that I could use my legs

. . . but only a little. I was soon tired. And it was not so much the physical nature of my illness but the terrible lassitude, the listlessness, the not caring about anything which was the hardest to bear.

When my mother read to me I had little interest in what she was reading. I pretended to but it was a poor pretence. When my father played chess with me I played the game joylessly without excitement. Perhaps that was why I won more then he did; I was calm, dispassionate, unmoved by victory or defeat.

That was what was so hard to bear, this lack of interest in life.

But I did find that I was listening more to Abby. I rarely cornmented and never asked questions but when she mentioned the strange pair at Enderby I did feel a slight quickening of interest.

I had taken to riding a little. I never went far because I became so tired. But when I went to the stables and Tomtit nuzzled against me and whinnied and showed so clearly how happy he was to see me I felt I would like to ride again. And how he tossed back his head and expressed delight in every quiver of his body when I mounted, so I thought I must ride now and then . . . because of Tomtit.

I had behaved so badly to him on that night. I had left him shivering in the outhouse while I had gone into the forbidden wood. I had forgotten him. That was the worst way to treat an animal.

He bore me no malice. When I first approached him, full of remorse wondering what reception I should get from him, he had shown me so clearly that he had forgotten my carelessness towards him. Malice? There was nothing of that. There was only that fond devotion and the bond between us was as strong as ever.

So I rode out now and then and I used to let Tomtit take me where he would. He never galloped; he rarely cantered; he would walk with me gently and when I was tired I’d bend forward and say to him: “Take me home, Tomtit.” And he would turn from where we were going and we’d take the shortest cut home.

I think my parents would have been anxious if I had gone out with any other horse.

They used to say: “She’s safe with Tomtit. He’ll look after her.”

306He was a wonderful horse, my dear friend Tomtit.

On that morning as usual I gave him his head and he led me to Enderby Hall, and when we reached there a desire came to me to visit Belle’s grave.

I dismounted, which was an unusual procedure because I did not usually do that until I was back in the stables.

I tethered Tomtit to a stake and I whispered to him: “I won’t forget you this time.

I’ll soon be back.”

So I went into what I used to think of as the forbidden wood. How different it was now. The gloom had vanished. Over what must have been Belle’s grave the roses

bloomed

in the summer.

It was my mother’s private garden now.

Much of the undergrowth had been cut away. It was beautiful-an oasis in the heart of the country. A garden of roses where once there had been gloom.

I stood for a moment thinking of Belle, whose curiosity had brought about her death; dear Belle, she had been beautiful and friendly and good. Her death would have been quick, though, and now I knew why it had happened I could not blame my father.

I turned away and started back to Tomtit, but the temptation to take one look at the house was too much for me. The wind had risen and was taking the last of the leaves off the trees. I liked the wind. It blew away the mists which were so prevalent at this time of the year.

There was the house-gloomier than ever. I thought of the misanthrope who lived in it now. It must be a house which suited his mood.

Then suddenly I was seeing it all again so vividly-Matt there with Carlotta. I felt a wave of pity for myself and I realised my eyes were wet. I took out a handkerchief to wipe my eyes. The wind caught it and carried it along the drive to the house.

I ran to retrieve it, and, like a mischievous child playing tricks, just as I was about to pick it up the wind lifted it and carried it along the drive.

Thus I penetrated farther than I should and as at last I picked it up, I heard a growl and a dog came bounding toward me.

He was a large black Newfoundland and he was coming straight for me.

I was trespassing. I remembered, as one does on such occasions,

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that Abby had said something about a dog who did not like people who pried ... and I might be suspected of that. But I knew dogs ... all animals in fact. There was a special camaraderie between us which was recognised on both sides.

I murmured: “Good dog ... good dog ... I’m your friend. ...”

He hesitated. He looked very fierce. Then he saw the handkerchief in my hand and it seemed as though he thought I might have stolen it for he caught and held it; and as he did so he nipped my hand.

There was blood on the handkerchief.

I did not let go of it. I stood there holding it while he held the other end in his teeth.

“We should be good friends,” I murmured. “You’re a good dog to protect your master’s house.”

I put out a hand to pat him.

A voice close by cried: “Don’t touch him.” Then: “Here, Daemon. Come here.”

The dog dropped the handkerchief and immediately walked towards the man who appeared.

Smith? I thought. Then I saw that he walked with a limp and I realised that I was in the presence of Jeremy Granthorn himself.

He looked at me with distaste.

“He would have bitten you . . . severely,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing only and my handkerchief fluttered away in the wind. I was trying to get it.”

“Well, you have it now.”

“Yes, thank you.”

I thought: What a disagreeable man. This was not how we behaved in the country. My mother would have called on him; he would have been invited to Eversleigh Court; but it was clear that he wished to be a hermit.

I said: “I am sorry to have intruded. But, you see, it was the wind. Good day.”

He said: “The dog nipped your hand.”

“It is nothing. My own fault, you will say, for coming where I shouldn’t.”

“It should be attended to at once.”

308”I have a horse here. I live a very short distance away. At the Dower House. I shall be home very soon.”

“Nevertheless it should be attended to now.”

“Where?”

He waved his hand towards the house.

This was too much to miss. I was being given the opportunity of entering the house, to which, according to Abby and my parents, no one had yet been invited.

“Thank you,” I said.

It was a strange feeling to go into that Hall again.

I said: “You haven’t changed it at all.”

“Why should I?” he said.

“Most people like to imprint their own personalities on their houses.”