Coronach, page 30
More flowers arrived, an armful of Persian lilac cut, he wrote, by his own hand, accompanied by a long, incoherent sonnet beginning, Virgin pure, you shall be my sheath, and I shall be your sword. The rest was pornographic. I took the lilac to the library: I had never previously hesitated before opening this door.
“Where did those come from?”
“Captain Harrington.”
“Is this an affair you have encouraged?”
“I have not encouraged him in any way.”
I laid the folded, perfumed paper on the desk beside the lilac. I think he knew what it was before he read it.
“This man is dangerous.”
“I know, Papa.”
He said, “Then I will deal with it.”
Valentine Harrington came to Evesham in response to a letter, the contents of which I never knew, on a June morning. I was not at home. He was directed from the front door to the courtyard, into the cool shade of which he walked, leading his horse. He was in the process of resigning the commission he so disdained and consequently wore civilian dress, a newly acquired coat from the finest tailor in Newcastle, a cascade of freshly laundered linen. He was piqued to find himself in the midst of stable muck, and to discover his impeccable riding boots awash with the effluent of running pumps.
The man he had come to see was standing ankle deep in horse manure, wearing an old coat and wielding a pitchfork. When Harrington spoke, he drove it into the pile of manure and turned. Harrington said, “I had not anticipated this, Mordaunt. Surely we can discuss our differences in some more suitable place.”
“This seems a suitable place to me.”
“Very well. You wished to see me. I am at your service.”
“Your attentions are unwelcome to my daughter.”
“Have you asked your daughter if she shares your opinion? She seemed willing to learn more of me— aye, very willing.”
“Your attentions are unwelcome. As is your poetry. As is your presence. This is the proper place for you, you bastard, shit amongst the shit.”
Harrington said sharply, “It will be my pleasure to see you in the company of seconds,” and attempted to withdraw. “And as for your daughter— the cuckoo in the nest—the cuckoo and the cuckold— there’ll be a man in her bed one day, Mordaunt, whether you like it or not, and it won’t be you.”
He had deliberately provoked a response and had been prepared to enjoy it. He had not anticipated this, a slashing, potentially fatal blow from the edge of the right hand across his carotid artery. His windpipe swelled and his knees bent like paper; he crumpled forward and lay face down, manure soiling his hair and clothing. He fainted, and when he was conscious once more he was turned over by a booted foot, which delivered a final kick to his wounded thigh. Then the shadow passed away and he lay on his back on the cobbles; the sun moved imperceptibly and the impervious sky, delicate with cloud, shimmered above. A bluebottle explored his face: the stench overwhelmed him. He fainted again: no one came, although there were voices in the nearby paddock. He lay in the heat, vomited with terrible effort and began to cry with pain. The sun moved, and in the pearly, vibrant air a clock chimed many times. He dragged himself to his knees, groped for the rein of the horse standing patiently, and kicked its flank. It carried him safely, so safely that he never knew how many times he vomited or swooned in the saddle.
It had been dealt with, so finally that but for the disappearance of the man and the cessation of the gifts and the strangely stimulating poetry, it might never have happened. It was never discussed, and his name was never spoken at Evesham again.
I was in charge of the household at the end of the month, Mordaunt and Vennor having taken colts to Durham to sell.
There was little peace in solitude for me. The morning after their departure an accident occured, and the major-domo came to me as logically as he would have gone to Mordaunt. I rode up to the scene. A few men from our stables were already there, but they had not moved the victim; the nature of his injury was so horrifying that they did not know how to proceed. One of the boys was huddled by the body, holding his hand: it was his father, a groom I had known since childhood. The rest was a rider’s nightmare. There had been lightning, the young horse he had been exercising had thrown him, and his boot had caught in the stirrup. The horse had bolted, dragging him until it cleared a fallen log. The impact had wrenched his boot free and broken his leg, and when I knelt beside him I saw that his face was impaled. The branch had torn open his mouth and emerged beneath his cheekbone; the cheek lay peeled open like a flap, attached to his jaw by a few threads of bloody tissue.
I dared not touch him, but I spoke to him. He seemed utterly alert. The boy was still sobbing, and I sensed that this was disturbing him: I told some one to take him away. There was more lightning, but no rain. I said to the most senior of the men that I was going for the doctor.
“Whit abaht t’ rain, miss?”
“Cover him. And keep that child quiet, or send him back to Evesham.”
I rode down to the village. Thackeray was washing his hands at the stone sink, his case lying ready and his horse saddled; I thought some one had had the foresight to send for him before coming for me.
“Why do you want me?”
“Haven’t they told you? One of our grooms has had an accident.”
“Your father will deal with it. I’ll come later.”
“My father is in Durham.”
I described the injury: he was never still. In that darkened, humid room he unlocked cabinets, opened drawers, selected vials, removed a leather roll of instruments and put them in his bag.
He said, “I shall depend on you. I hope you’ve the stomach for it.”
It was raining by the time we reached the wood, and the injured man had pulled himself or been lifted from the log and was lying on the ground with some one’s shirt pressed to his face; another was holding a coat like a canopy over his head. The eye in the undamaged side of the face remained open, nor did he lose consciousness at any time during the proceedings. Thackeray spoke quietly to him: whatever his thoughts were, he was adept at concealing them.
“Keep the rain from his face. There is nothing more distressing to one who is in pain.” Then to me, “Do exactly as I direct you. If you faint, do it elsewhere.”
“I won’t faint.”
“We shall see.”
He worked quickly, without opiates, holding out his bloodied fingers for the instruments: the blood ran and thinned, and the rain soaked our hair and clothing. He stitched impassively, a neat line of sutures from the swollen eye to the corner of the torn mouth, and from the mouth to the jawbone. The man groaned and retched, voiding a river of blood and broken teeth. Thackeray wiped his mouth gently and gestured for a fresh dressing.
“There will be considerable scarring, and there is always the risk of serious infection.... I consider it fortunate that he did not lose an eye. I have known the shock of a blow force an eye from its socket.... You do not find my conversation too distasteful?”
“I find it interesting, in a peculiar way.”
“You surprise me.”
He applied the dressing; the injured man had fainted. The others moved forward with their door.
He said to them, “Carry him carefully to the house, and I will attend him further there,” and began to gather the instruments; I helped him. The steel was extraordinarily cold to the touch.
“Was it as you thought? Or did you consider it a minor injury?”
“It was much as I expected.” He rolled the case and put it into his bag. “But I hope you will apprehend that a burned child in Middleton went without my help, and that child may be dead by the time I reach her.”
“Is that where your duty lies, Doctor, in Middleton? Or with us?”
“My duty lies where I am most needed.” He closed his bag. “Still, it was surgeon’s work, and I am a surgeon, not an apothecary. Perhaps my obligation lies where my skills are challenged.”
We stood staring at one another while the rain dripped from our faces, then, unexpectedly, he said, “I admire you. Don’t let them strap you into a backboard and make you read improving books, when you could be giving something useful to the world.”
“What could I give?”
“Your intelligence. Your courage. You have great spirit. Not many women of your station would sit watching a man sew another man’s face without blenching.”
“So much the Major’s child, you said.”
He said enigmatically, “Perhaps. His influence is not always benign. You do well out of it.”
I walked away. Whatever I thought privately of our relationship the observations of a stranger were heresy, even if they happened to be true.
Anne Hatherleigh was delivered of a son, and the strengthening flicker of his life was watched with disappointment by Catherine’s brother Priam, who saw his hopes of a baronetcy dim in proportion, and by Mordaunt with an obsessive interest, and when he said to me, “Anne has a son,” I heard an echo of great Elizabeth’s cry, And I am but barren stock.
He rode to Westmorland to stand godfather to the child. I declined to go with him: one visit to that decaying house was enough. Apparently Catherine shared my views, for neither she nor her reverend brother attended the christening, and the others, as we had so scathingly been reminded, were in their country’s service.
During his absence Thackeray called to attend his patient, whose eye he had saved but whose wound was infected: he feared some secondary paralysis of the facial muscles and wanted to discuss the case with Mordaunt. He asked me pointedly if the Major was never at home, and I told him that my father’s affairs were none of his concern. He apologized almost grudgingly, and then to my surprise he laughed, and said, “Poor Margaret, between the rock and the hard place. What a devil of a thing is love.”
When we met again it was warily, conversing like fencers, like adversaries. I began to put myself in his way, riding out alone at that hour of the morning when I knew he would be starting his rounds. He greeted this tartly with, “I thought fine ladies stayed abed until noon. Or is this another soldierly influence?”
He did not protest on the second morning. It was high summer, with dew and fog hanging on the pastures. He rode up the track at eight, saluted me with his crop and would have passed, but I kneed my horse up beside him and asked if I might ride with him.
“There will be gossip.”
“Shall I go back? Do you want me to go back?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t want you to go back.”
So it began. The sun burned away the mist, the moors unfolded, the day opened fully like a rose, and we rode together. I relished his company because he seemed to expect nothing of me: what he found in mine I could not speculate, but he must have thought me sympathetic because he talked of himself, and told me more of what had previously been an enigmatic background than I think he had any one since taking up his practise, and I sensed that they had been lonely years; perhaps that was the reason for his interest in me.
It became customary for us to meet, at that time and in that place, and to ride for an hour together. I never went farther or remained absent longer. He did not comment on the absence of a groom, but one morning he said, “Does the Major know you ride with me like this?”
“Would I deceive him?”
“Oh, yes, you would. Do you think for one moment that he would allow you to ride alone, knowing what might happen to you? Do you think my heart isn’t in my mouth every time I watch you turn and ride away, when anything or any one could be waiting for you?”
I might have turned back. Instead I rode on, in a simmering silence, and had Mordaunt not spoken to me it is possible that I would have allowed the relationship to die. I continued it out of defiance, condemning us to the consequences.
It was evening, and raining, and I was sitting opposite him dealing for piquet. We played for money, he with a gambler’s dedication. My temper was short: I was menstruating, and perspiring heavily in my boned corset. I envied him his freedom.
He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing the scars of Dettingen.
He said without preamble, “I don’t approve of this unseemly friendship with Christopher Thackeray.”
“In what way is it unseemly?”
“He is a man and you are not a child. And you have been seen together, in case you thought it had escaped my notice.”
He laid the cards down, and again I saw the scars: how nearly they must have crippled that hand which now so seldom played.
“And if your taste is for long rides, then by God you can ride with me. You seemed to enjoy my society once. Now I have fallen out of favour.”
I stared at my cards, conscious of the sweat running from beneath my hair to the nape of my neck. He laid his wrist flat on the table, deliberately.
“I have worse. You need not embarrass me by displaying your revulsion.”
I left the money and the cards and went up to bed. Whatever devil drove him, I would not give it the satisfaction of seeing me weep for my loss of him.
The summer continued, and destiny shaped the course of all our lives.
Belle-Île off the coast of Brittany fell to the Royal Navy with heavy British casualties, and the blame for this costly and indecisive amphibious action was laid at Pitt’s door. There was, fortunately, news of other victories to bolster his sagging popularity, from the West Indies, Germany, and in July from India, where Pondicherry, the last French outpost, had fallen to British forces on the fifteenth of January. Houses in London were illuminated, and bonfires lit in celebration.
On the eighth of July the King’s betrothal was announced, to Sophia Charlotte, youngest daughter of the Prussian Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. The young Charlotte came to London in September, where Catherine wrote that she had been well received by the crowds, but she was short, thin, pale, and large of mouth and nose. They were married almost immediately, and the coronation followed a fortnight later.
On the tenth of September I rode with Thackeray to High Force, and sat in the sun watching the play of foam and opening my heart.
“She isn’t my mother, and you know it as well as I.”
There was a long silence, and a curlew’s cry, and the rushing of the water; spray drifted against my cheek.
“Have you been saying this to any one else?”
“No.”
“Why do you say it to me?”
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I knew.”
“Well, then, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It is indiscreet, and it would hurt the Major.”
I sat in silence, the sun beating on my back.
“You are very unhappy, aren’t you?”
“I think... he resents me, because I have none of her beauty.”
“Great beauty can be a handicap.”
“I shall not likely suffer it, then.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous.” And I heard the contempt and impatience of maturity, and felt denigrated, childish. “She is a woman. She has suffered much, and loved much, and her face reveals it. Your face shows nothing yet.”
I stared over the moor, resenting this unlikely championship.
“What has she suffered?”
“She’s borne children and lost them, and she can never give him another, although she has almost broken her health in the attempt. And she has loved him, although that cannot always have been easy.”
“How do you know what’s easy for her and what isn’t?”
“He is a difficult man, and life with him must be a difficult business.”
It was true, God knew. Mordaunt ignored me, or baited me; in my presence he was withdrawn and restless; he spent hours in the saddle, sometimes alone, sometimes with his steward or his keepers, whose society he apparently found more congenial than mine.
I said, “She’s had to suffer me for sixteen years,” and his answer was unexpected.
“Yes. I don’t imagine that has been easy for her, either.”
He took out his watch. I had no desire to know the time, or to return to a house where I no longer felt welcome.
“Can she carry a child to term?”
“I should not discuss this with you.... I do not say it is impossible, but I think it unlikely.”
“Then I’m a bastard.”
He said sharply, “Don’t ever say that to the Major.”
“Why not, for God’s sake? If I am, he made me one.”
“You do not know that is the truth.”
“What other truth is there? I have no name, I have no rights―”
“You bear his name and you enjoy his protection, and you are heir to everything he owns. What further proof of any man’s devotion have you any right to expect?”
The sun was weaker now, drifting behind cloud. I pulled on the coat I had discarded and mounted without waiting for him.
He was no horseman and I outpaced him, and came back to look for him through a sea of tossing heather. He was on foot; his horse had cast a shoe.
“You’ll be hellish late if you stay with me.”
“I daresay no one will notice.”
We walked, and over the miles of desolation a wind roared that in this high place made speech impossible. There was nothing but darkness, the rushing darkness of the sky, the dark seas of the heather, and the tortured half-light flying over our faces from cloud that seemed close enough to touch. When the rain came it obliterated everything. We leaned against the horses and it beat like whips around us, and I saw him laughing at me through it, then it lessened and the moors unfolded, softened with mist. It had cleared by the time we came down into Teesdale, and we walked under a wide evening sky, suffused with the long light of summer.
