The Weeping Ash (7 page)

“The kitchen plot an' orchard's over yonder behind the wall,” Talgarth said, pointing toward the barn. “There's aplenty late beans yet, do you fancy 'em, ma'am—artichokes—medlars—pears—an' some fine Ribston pippins. 'Tis time they were picked; if the master sees fit, I'll be setting to that today—”

His voice died as a door slammed behind Fanny, and he glanced past her, politely touching his black forelock. “Morning, sir!”

Thomas's voice exclaimed angrily:

“
Frances!
What in the world are you doing out here? I have been seeking you all over the house! Did you not hear the gong? Why do you not come to morning prayers?”

Through his indignant tones the church clock could be heard chiming eight. Fanny had spun guiltily around at the first sound of his voice. She almost slipped again on the greasy flagstone; but this time Talgarth made no move to assist her, and she recovered herself by laying a hand against the house wall.

“I—I am sorry, sir. I was just coming, indeed—”

Thomas looked both incensed and mistrustful; he held his watch in his hand; his mouth was set in a hard line; his suspicious gaze moved from Fanny to the gardener, as if he had detected them plotting against him.

“Truly I had no notion that it was so late,” faltered Fanny.

“And yet you can clearly see the church clock from the garden! Go indoors at once; I will speak with you presently. As for you,” Thomas said to the gardener, looking at him with a marked lack of liking, “you are Talgarth, I infer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What you are doing so close to the house at breakfast time I do not know, but since I see you here I may as well tell you now—your first task for the day shall be to cut down that tree there.”

He gestured toward the ash.

“Cut it down, Captain Paget, sir?” Talgarth's voice was startled; he looked as if he could hardly believe what he had heard.

“Oh
no
!” Fanny cried out piteously at the same moment, forgetting that she had been told to go indoors. “Oh, pray, sir, do not have it cut! It is so beautiful!”

“Frances! When I wish for your opinion I will invite it; otherwise, I must request you to be silent! Besides, did I not just order you to go inside? Yes—cut it down,” Thomas commanded the gardener. “The tree is by far too close to the house; whoever planted it there must have been clean out of his senses. It blocks out the light from the parlor and my bedroom; it is bound to bring damp—insects—probably disease. And its wood will furnish us with a plentiful supply of firewood—though why I should trouble myself to give an explanation of my orders, I do not know! You may commence at once; by the time breakfast is over, I wish the tree to be gone.”

Talgarth, however, stood his ground.

“Begging your pardon, I'm sure, sir, but I can't do that,” he said, wooden-faced.

Thus calmly contradicted, Thomas flew into a cold fury, which Fanny observed with terror. The visible marks of rage were two white spots at either side of his nostrils, a congestion of the eyes, and a quickening of his breath. He said in a gritty voice:

“And what, may I ask, is your justification for this insolence? Do you wish to be dismissed out of hand?”

“No, sir,” replied Talgarth calmly. “But Miss Juliana—Lady van Welcker, as she be now—she did say to me that, while she were away, she didn't wish for no big changes to be made in her garden, no trees nor hedges cut down, nor new paths laid, naught o' that nature, for she be main fond of it the way it be now, an' wishes it kept so, in memory o' the lady as she left it to her, Madame Reynard. Miss Juliana were
particular
fond o' this ash tree, sir, for Lord Egremont himself gave it to the other lady; I wouldn't hurt it for the world, or go agin her wishes in such a matter. Anyhows,” he added practically, as Thomas, clenching his hands, drew a breath of fury, “I believe it hain't in your power, sir, to go again Miss Juliana's wish, for she did tell me, afore she left, as how she'd had a lawyer's piece writ out for ye to sign, as named all those things ye could do about the place, an' those ye couldn't.”

The silence maintained by Thomas for some moments after Talgarth's words appeared to indicate that this shaft had gone home; evidently such an agreement
had
been signed, which, in the exasperation of the moment, he had overlooked; but Fanny felt fairly certain that, now it was recalled to his mind, the severe rectitude and rigidity of his nature would prevent him from taking any further action to contravene it. This was not likely to sweeten his temper, however, and Fanny now had sufficient discretion to step softly in through the open door without attempting to catch the eye of Talgarth, who still stood, in a perfectly respectful attitude, awaiting his master's further orders.

Without waiting to hear what these might be, Fanny hastened to the dining room where she found the remainder of the household assembled, the servants with expressions of hungry resignation, while Paget's children appeared startled at this variation from routine, and decidedly impatient. Fanny slipped in to align herself with her stepdaughters, and a moment or two later Thomas strode into the room with a brow as black as thunder.

Without pausing an instant, he snatched up the prayer book from the sideboard and began reading rapidly:

“‘Almighty and most merciful Father, who has safely brought us to the beginning of this day…'”

Outside the window, Fanny could hear the gardener's footsteps crunching away along a gravel path.

* * *

After breakfast, when Fanny had a moment alone with Thomas, who had eaten the meal in ominous silence, she thought it best to apologize again for her lateness and did so speedily, before she had time to lose courage.

Thomas listened without comment and then said:

“Very well; pray do not let it occur again. Frances! I trust that you will remember your position in this household as
my wife
. You are no longer a child, among your sisters, but a woman grown, and must comport yourself as such, with suitable dignity and reserve.”

“Yes, sir.” She could not bear to look at his face; she kept her eyes, instead, upon the three-fingered hand, holding his cocked hat.

He said, “I do not wish to discover you laughing and talking with menservants—with any such persons. It is wholly unbecoming to your station. You are married to
me
now; please keep this in mind at all times.”

Fanny did not feel she was at all likely to forget, but his look was so forbidding that she merely repeated her apology.

“I am going out, now, on impress business, and shall very likely be absent until the late afternoon,” Thomas went on. “I have directed Patience to bring her slate and copybooks down to this room where you may give her her lessons until noon. Then I have instructed Kate to wait on you with the housekeeping books and a list of the stores, so that you may be fully conversant with the running of the household. And you had best discuss with her the disposition of the furniture and make certain that the pantry and all the closets have been set in order. This afternoon you may go out into the garden, but pray do not go unescorted—either take one of the maids or, better, have Bet and Martha accompany you.”

Rather faintly, Fanny inquired, “May I not go into the town?”

Bending a frowning glance upon her—while he gave her his instructions, Thomas had kept his gaze averted, as if the sight of her was displeasing to him—he said:

“Why should you wish to do
that
? You can have no need to buy any article yet, surely? Your father assured me that he had expended on you sufficient funds to equip you with all the usual bride's gear?”

“Oh yes, sir, he did, of course—” Fanny's voice trembled at the thought of her father, parting with guineas he could ill spare to buy her linen. “I—I merely had a wish to inspect the town, to see the streets—and your daughters might enjoy it also.”

“I prefer that you do not,” Thomas said shortly. “If there is some particular necessity, such as thread, or lamp oil, you may send one of the servants to buy it.”

Now the sound of his horse's hoofs could be heard outside the front door, and he departed without more ado. Fanny could feel only relief at his going, although these various admonitions and prohibitions had left her decidedly limp, low-spirited, and despondent; by contrast her life at home, free to walk in the fields or the village as she pleased, alone or with her sisters, appeared the height of liberty and independence; here, she was virtually a prisoner.

But perhaps he will change his views after a week or two, Fanny thought hopefully. For one thing, I cannot imagine that Bet and Martha will submit for long to being confined to the house and garden—remembering their conversation on the previous evening. She suspected that Thomas had little notion of his daughters' real natures.

However, the two elder were now occupied, diligently and with due propriety, Martha stitching at a large canvas fire screen, while Bet practiced the pianoforte, so Fanny applied herself to the instruction of little Patty. This proved a decidedly unrewarding task; firstly, Patty was a dull and backward child, having poor natural abilities and a somewhat spiteful and disobliging nature; secondly, she seemed filled by a sullen resolve to learn as little as possible, countering any instruction Fanny gave her with an objection which varied only slightly in its form:

“Miss Fox never taught me so!” “Miss Fox never said that!” “That was not the way Miss Fox did it!”

By the end of the morning, out of all patience with the child, Fanny could not avoid wishing Miss Fox at the bottom of the sea. Wearied out, irked, and disheartened, with flushed cheeks and throbbing temples, she leaned against the windowsill and looked out at the autumnal tints of the trees, longing to walk in the garden, but, mindful of Thomas's interdiction, not daring to do so unaccompanied. Talgarth was not to be seen; perhaps he was working in the kitchen garden. At least, Fanny thought with a small throb of satisfaction, the ash tree had been saved; from where she stood she could not see it, but the mere thought of its color and grace gave her pleasure.

“Try not to let your pencil squeak like that, Patty,” she said, sighing.

“I can't stop it,” grumbled Patty, who was copying out scriptural texts with a scowl very reminiscent of her father. Deliberately, as it seemed, she made the pencil squeak even louder on her slate, and Fanny had to master a strong temptation to box her ears.

Kate, the cook-housekeeper, tapped at the door.

“If you please, ma'am, the master said I was to show you over the stores and books at noon, and, please, there's a gypsy come selling lavender bags and clothes pegs, and would you be wishful to buy any?”

Fanny shook her head. Thomas had not yet given her any housekeeping money and, in any case, even if he had, she felt certain that he would never countenance such a frivolous purchase as lavender bags.

“You look fagged to death, ma'am,” said Kate, glancing from Fanny to the sulky child. “Should I be making you a cup of tea before you go over the stores? Or a nuncheon, you and the young ladies? It wouldn't take but a few moments.”

Fanny was greatly tempted but—remembering the price of tea, over eleven shillings a pound—shook her head. “No, thank you, Kate; but I will take a glass of water.”

“You're sure you wouldn't touch a glass of my cowslip wine, ma'am? You look fair wore out, begging your pardon.”

Fanny shook her head again but was a little comforted at Kate's unexpected friendliness. And presently, walking about the house, inspecting first the basement kitchen, then the storerooms, pantry, and servants' attics, discussing the disposition of linens, furniture, and food stores, Fanny, to her own surprise, felt a certain uplifting of the spirits. Despite her several grounds for unhappiness—homesickness, the thought of Barnaby far away and forgetting her, sorrow and foreboding for her father, the hateful recollection of last night, and the expectation of tonight and all the nights to come, the repulsive looks of her stepdaughters when she met them about the house, and the recollection of Thomas's evident distrust and censure—despite all these things, when she glanced, from one window or another, at the sunny valley or the golden ash tree, which seemed to stand preening its pale plumage in the fine autumn weather, she could not deny to herself that some influence all around seemed encouraging her to take heart.

It is as if the
place
were speaking to me, Fanny thought illogically; as if the house or garden liked me and wanted to make me welcome.

“Is this house haunted, do you know, Kate?” she asked suddenly.

Kate gasped and let slip a bundle of bed linen she was holding.

“
Haunted
, ma'am? Dear, what a shock you gave me! I should hope not, indeed! They say the house has only been built eighteen year or so—quite modern, it is, not the place for spooks or specters! Though I believe there was an old ancient monastery builded here, hundreds of years ago; but there's no ghosts, ma'am, don't you go filling your head with such notions, or you'll frighten yourself to death!”

Fanny did not try to explain that she rather enjoyed the notion of a friendly spirit, the guardian of the place, keeping watch on behalf of its absent mistress. Perhaps, she thought fancifully, perhaps the house spirit dwells in the ash tree; how lucky it is that Thomas was prevented from cutting the tree down, or some terrible punishment might have been visited on his head…

She smiled and said, “No, I am not in the least frightened, Kate, thank you, only a little tired with being indoors all morning. I think I will find Miss Bet or Miss Martha and see if they would like to take a stroll in the garden.”

“Yes, you do that, ma'am. Only wrap up warm, for you look particular pale, all of a sudden.”