The Town House (41 page)

So, bit by bit, I worked myself into place at Beauclaire and before I had thoroughly recovered from my homesickness, Christmas was drawing near. I expected to go home for Christmas, and I cherished a hope of being allowed to stay there. After all one of the reasons for sending
me away had been that it wouldn’t be fair for Walter to go and for me to remain, and Walter had remained; and another reason was that I should learn, and I had taken care to learn all I could.

Advent came; the first Sunday in Advent, and then the second, and nothing was said about my going back to Baildon for Christmas. It seemed to me that it might be one of those things overlooked or gone awry – like my arrival – so during that week I said to Dame Margery,

‘Madam, I am supposed to go home for Christmas.’

‘Are you indeed?’

‘No one has spoken of any arrangements yet.’

‘Heaven bless you, child, have patience. Your home is … how far away?’

‘Five days’ ride.’

‘Then there is plenty of time.’

Another Sunday came; and I reminded my Dame, and she said,

‘Maybe I should make inquiries.’

She must have done so, for next day, at dinner in the hall my Lady Astallon sent for me and when I stood close, said,

‘This notion about going home for Christmas. What put that into your little head?’

I asked myself, what? When there was talk of Walter going to the Choir School and of me going to Clevely there had been mention of being home for Christmas; but he was now at home and I was here. It was I, bidding Jack farewell at Brentwood, who had said, ‘home for Christmas’.

‘It was understood, Madam,’ I said in a weak voice.

‘Not by me. And not I think by your uncle. In any case travel at this time of the year is undesirable; the inns so uncomfortable and the likelihood of being snowbound….’

She waved an elegant hand in dismissal and I now knew better than to argue.

Next day, on my way out of the Hall after dinner I was stopped by my Uncle Godfrey. He had, on and off, paid me some attention, for which I was very grateful. He had returned to Beauclaire four or five days after my arrival and had at once sought me out and asked how I fared. Now he said,

‘This going back to Baildon for Christmas, Maude, would be very silly. Christmas here is kept in such style. People come from London to share in the festivities.’

‘But I expected to go home.’

‘There you are mistaken. Your mother was clear on that point. You stay here until you are twelve.’

‘And not go home at all?’

‘Running to and fro,’ he said, ‘vastly expensive and bothersome and unsettling. And all to what purpose?’

‘I want to see my mother and Walter and my grandfather.’

Something changed in his face, so that for a moment I feared that I had offended him. Then he took a lock of my hair between his fingers and twisted it, saying slowly,

‘You know, child, sooner or later you have to learn to do without people. It’s best to learn young.’

‘But why? If it is a question of expense I still have the broad gold piece my grandfather gave me.’

‘You’d only make it harder for yourself….’

Where the words, or the thought came from I do not know, but I heard myself saying,

‘My mother doesn’t want me at home, does she?’

‘She knows that you will do better here. And so for that matter, do I. Who else looks to go home?’

‘Alison, Alison Fortescue.’

‘Does she so? Well, for your ear alone, in that house Christmas is so meanly celebrated I’ll wager she’ll wish she’d stayed here. Many’s the Christmas I’ve spent there and believe me, even the plums in the pudding are counted out, one by one.’

I wanted to shout that it was no matter to me whether there was one plum in the pudding or a thousand. Most of all I wanted to go and cry somewhere, alone, by myself. But the truth was that at Beauclaire there was no place to cry alone; once you were part of it you lived a public life where every sigh or frown or tear was observed and remarked. At this moment, because my uncle had stopped me on my way out of the Hall there were Constance and Helen, Alison and Madge waiting for me.

I walked slowly to join them, thinking that when I had said that Mother didn’t want me home my uncle had not denied it. I remembered then, what I had forgotten, the face she had worn as she watched me ride away. Something within me hardened. I thought, Well, if she does not want me, I don’t want her. It wasn’t true at first, but thinking it over and over made it become true. I still yearned for the smallness and friendliness of the Old Vine, for the kitchen where I was welcomed and
given gingerbread men, for the yard full of men like Jack who would call me ‘Little Mistress’ one minute and ‘Maude’ the next. But, over that Christmastime, I began to be weaned.

That I had not been expected to go home was made very clear by the arrival, two days before Christmas, of gifts for me. From my grandfather – or so I imagined, another broad gold piece, from my mother a blue velvet hood, lined and bordered with fur. With these gifts was a square of parchment, bordered all down the left side with leaves and berries painted in green and red, and with words written in the remaining space. The letters were very black, except for a few which were gaily coloured.

I held it out to Dame Margery and learned, to my surprise, that she could not read. But she knew what it was.

‘It is a Christmas Piece, to bring you good wishes. Carry it down to the Well Yard Room. Most like one of the young ladies can spell it out for you. If not you must ask the Chaplain.’

I was delighted to have a chance to go where I might see Melusine, for whom I still entertained a passion of gratitude and admiration. There was, rightly, a firm barrier fixed between the Children’s Dorter and the Well Yard Room and the Ladies’ Dorter, and I seldom saw her except at a distance. That morning I found her and she read me out what Walter had written. It said,

Melusine read for me three times, so that I could get it by heart. Then she asked how old was Walter and when I told her that he was just my age she said,

‘He must be a clever scholar. It is nicely written and very even.’

The Christmas Piece, bringing home almost as much as Walter to mind, made me homesick again. The pretty furred hood seemed a mockery, and when I returned to the Children’s Dorter I gave it to Madge FitzHerbert who had received no gifts at all.

The Christmas Piece I carried about with me all through the Twelve Days – which were kept, as my uncle had promised, with every possible gaiety.

While I was showing it to my Uncle Godfrey I said,

‘I would dearly like to read and write, too.’

‘You would
what
?’

I said it again.

‘Then you must consult with Dame Margery.’

‘She cannot read. I had to ask the Lady Melusine to tell me the words.’

‘She has learning? Perhaps she could teach you. As I said, consult with your Dame.’

Dame Margery showed more sympathy with my desire than I had dared to expect.

‘You are to be a religious,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘and some learning might serve to advance you. I will speak to my Lady.’

The answer, when it came, was typical of Beauclaire where the most prodigal extravagance ran side by side with sparing economy over trivial things. It seemed a pity for Melusine to waste her time teaching one child to read; who else would like to learn? Everyone else showed the utmost horror for the notion; I went round, pleading with one after another, even poor Madge. I argued that writing might be the one thing she
could
do, how could she know till she had tried. But she just giggled. In the end it was Henry Rancon, the least likely of all who came to my aid. I thought of a good argument to use on him.

‘At Easter you will move out of the Children’s Dorter,’ I said, ‘and your life will be changed. So you would have only a few lessons, and meanwhile I would do anything you asked. I would be your liege man.’

Henry was always wanting somebody to be his faithful unquestioning servant and neither of the other boys was obliging,

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll have lessons till Easter. Now you kneel down and put your hands between mine and swear to be my faithful liege and obey my every command.’

That I did most gladly; and though Dame Margery said,

‘Wonders will never cease,’ when Henry professed his desire to learn to read and write, by Candlemas the lessons were arranged.

Tucked away in that same long passage where the suits of armour occupied a whole room there was a small room in which some earlier Lord Astallon had gathered several books; there was a table, too, and a bench, and a slab of wood out of which sprouted three horns. One held the ink, the other the quills, and the third the sand for drying anything which was needed too hastily to permit the ink to dry itself.

And here, on three afternoons of the week, in the space between our play-time and supper, Henry and I and Melusine met. On the first day, when I thanked her most eagerly for agreeing to teach us, she said,

‘The saddle is on the other horse, Maude. To escape even for an hour from the everlasting chatter and bickering; to get out of that carp pond, delights me.’

Another time she said that it should be a law that every woman who was not a busy housewife should learn to read.

‘If they could find stories in books they would be less ready to make up tales about those they live amongst. And they would learn that their own small joys and troubles do not fill up the world.’

I learned fast, partly because I wanted to and partly to please Melusine. Henry was content to learn how to write his name. Page after page he filled with ‘Henry Rancon, Henry Rancon’, then ‘Sir Henry Rancon’, or ‘Henry Rancon, Knight’. He just lived for the moment when he should be a knight; he had the same feeling for my Uncle Godfrey – who was reckoned one of the best knights in England – as I had for Melusine; and I think one thing which resigned him to the tedium of the lessons was that, every now and then, and always unexpectedly, my uncle would look into the Book Room to see what progress I was making. My uncle, unlike most of his kind, spoke of learning with respect, and told Henry he was lucky to be taught.

‘I never had the chance,’ he said. ‘At your age I was never in one place long enough.’

‘I could teach you now, Sir Godfrey,’ Melusine said.

‘I am an old dog, too old for new tricks. But there are old tricks that I could teach
you
!’

‘Of that I have no doubt,’ she said, and laughed.

It was towards the end of that February month that Henry made one of his demands upon me, in keeping with my vow. There had been some days of continuing snow, during which our afternoon playtime had been spent indoors where tedium had led to squabbling and squabbling to punishment. Rheumy colds had afflicted us too, and my Cousin Ralph was still abed on one side of the screen, and Helen and Madge abed on the other side. Our Dame had her hands full and her temper was short.

On this day, however, the sun shone and the snow was melting fast, and as we came out of the Hall Henry said,

‘Come and play Hare and Hounds in the Maze.’

The Maze at Beauclaire was a singular oddity. It was part of the old Low Garden, at least it formed one of its boundaries, but it was said to be older than the garden, older even than the castle. It was an intricate puzzle of narrow paths, crossing and turning back on themselves, bordered by clipped yew hedges as tall as a mounted man. In its very centre stood a block of black stone on a mound of grey ones. There was a story that in the very far away past, when the people who lived in England were heathen, that stone was worshipped.

I had only penetrated deep into the Maze on one occasion; very soon after my arrival at Beauclaire Helen Beaufort had mentioned, in Dame Margery’s hearing, something about the Maze being the haunt of evil spirits and Dame Margery had said,

‘Rubbish. It is just a puzzle, laid out in the days when people could not walk far from the castle walls for fear of enemies, so they made the longest walk, and the most interesting on the smallest possible space.’ And to prove that she believed what she said she had taken the lot of us, on a sunny autumn afternoon, and we had gone in and lost ourselves, and run this way and that, and shouted, and laughed and in the end come breathless to the black stone in the centre, and Dame Margery had said,

‘You see. You have all lost your breath and wearied your legs as though you had run a mile. It is simply an exercise ground.’

Then what is the stone, Madam?’ Helen Beaufort asked.

‘To mark the centre, so that people could know that they had arrived.’

‘It’s a Rune Stone,’ Helen said in the stubborn way which she had mastered; not rude or ill-tempered, just a flat, unshakable way of stating something.

‘And what might that mean?’ Dame Margery asked.

‘I don’t know. I heard it spoken of as a Rune Stone.’

‘Meaning a marker, like a milestone,’ said Dame Margery. ‘Now, all take different paths and let’s see who can be out first’

That night, in the Children’s Dorter, after the light was out, Helen said to me,

‘A Rune Stone is not a marker, say what she may. Before I came to Beauclaire I lived at Greenwich and one was found there, and the priest had it hacked to pieces; he said it was evil.’

There was no need for Dame Margery to tell us girls not to play in the Maze, we avoided it; but the boys often played a game of Hare and Hounds there, and certainly seemed to suffer no harm.

On this afternoon I said,

‘Oh, Henry, it’s so cold and so sloppy underfoot.’

‘Running will warm you, and you can put on thick shoes. Besides … you promised.’

That was true, so I said meekly,

‘Can I be a Hound?’ Hounds could run in company, the Hare must go alone.

‘You are a Hound; with William. It is my turn to be Hare.’

‘I’ll get my cloak and my thick shoes.’

‘We’ll wait for you by the Maze,’ he said.