The Forest (101 page)

It is the shadow of Alice Lisle that stands between us, he thought. Curse her. The thing was ungodly. And now, thinking of her terrible situation, a wave of pity swept over him. How must she feel, facing such an ordeal, almost alone? ‘I am deeply sorry to hear of her predicament,’ he said quietly and the dinner continued with no further mention of such a painful subject.

When the ladies retired, leaving the men to their port, he did venture to bring up the subject with Burrard and Totton.

‘It’s a strange business,’ Burrard informed him. ‘Gilpin and I, without interfering, have tried to get information. The shop in question, having accused her, is unwilling to back down. The magistrate insisted she be held. But worst of all is the state of mind of Fanny herself.’ And he explained, briefly, how Gilpin had persuaded the Grockletons to take Fanny to Bath. ‘She had fallen, during the winter, into a very melancholic state. Alas, it seems the visit to Bath, as yet, has effected no cure. She is utterly lethargic and says nothing to help her cause. And, even for people of our sort, Martell, theft is theft. I will not conceal from you that, privately, I fear for her. The case is grave.’

Theft: the penalties for theft in eighteenth-century England were harsh indeed. Sentences of death or transportation were frequent. The value of the goods stolen seldom interested the courts much: it was the moral character of the criminal and the attack upon property that concerned them. Theft, of the kind of which Fanny was accused, was theft pure and simple, and even gentlefolk could be severely punished for such an offence. After all, it provided an example to society at large that the law was absolute.

‘Do we know why she should have fallen into melancholy when she did?’ Martell ventured to ask.

‘No.’ It was Edward Totton who answered now. ‘I think it was after Mrs Grockleton’s ball that she seemed to become withdrawn. I suppose her father’s making a spectacle of himself may have caused her, however unjustifiably, embarrassment. Louisa and I are at fault, I believe. We didn’t realize; we should have done much more for her at that time. But we didn’t and I feel rather ashamed.’

Just after the ball. Her melancholy, thought Martell, might also have another cause. Yet what the devil, he wondered, as they went to join the ladies, could he do about it? It was hardly to be imagined that the family would have failed to obtain good legal counsel. His involvement could not possibly be welcome.

Only one phrase from all this conversation kept recurring, nagging at his mind: ‘She is utterly lethargic and says nothing to help her cause.’ She must be persuaded to help her cause. The case was far too serious to be left to chance. She must help herself in every way she could.

The gentlemen and ladies were making up two tables of cards, but Martell was not in the mood for play just then and nor, it seemed, was Louisa; so they moved away to a sofa and began to talk.

There was no doubt, Martell considered, that Louisa was a very pretty and amusing young woman. He liked her; enjoyed her company. He had even, once or twice, thought of more. A Totton might not have been quite his style, but within a broad range he could marry whom he pleased. Perhaps the shock of the news about Fanny had added a tenderness to his mood, but he looked at Louisa now with affection. ‘I must confess’, he told her, ‘that I am very distressed about Miss Albion.’

‘We all are,’ she said quietly.

‘I only wonder if there is not something I can do.
Perhaps,’ he continued, thinking aloud, ‘if Edward were to go to see her, I could accompany him.’

A little cloud crossed Louisa’s face. ‘I had not known you wished to involve yourself with Fanny,’ she remarked softly. ‘I am not sure she wants even Edward’s company at present.’

‘Perhaps. And yet’ – he shook his head – ‘I suspect it is precisely company – I truly mean affection – that she needs.’

‘I see.’ It scarcely required the female instinct, with which Louisa was well endowed, to see in which direction Martell’s feelings might be tending. ‘It is not easy to be sure’, Louisa said carefully, ‘exactly how matters lie. For that reason, perhaps, we are cautious.’

‘Your meaning? It cannot surely be that Miss Albion is guilty of this crime.’

‘No, Mr Martell.’ She paused. ‘Yet even so, we cannot at this distance know anything for certain. There may be something …’

He gazed at her, half astonished, half curious. Louisa was no fool. She was trying to hint something. But what?

‘I will tell you something, Mr Martell, if you will promise never to repeat it.’

‘Very well.’ He considered. ‘I will not.’

‘There is a circumstance of which my cousin may not herself be aware. You know, I think, that my father and her mother were brother and sister.’

‘I do.’

‘But they were not. She was his half-sister. And her mother … well, my grandfather’s second wife came from a different station of society. She was a Miss Seagull. The family are of the lowest kind: sailors, innkeepers, smugglers. And further back …’ She made a little grimace. ‘It’s better not to ask.’

‘I see.’

‘So that is why, perhaps, we wonder … we cannot be
sure …’ She gave him a sad little smile and he stared at her.

For he saw – he saw it quite clearly – that she was not herself even aware of the incalculable malice behind what she had just told him. ‘It is good of you to confide in me, Miss Totton,’ he said quietly and made up his mind, that very instant, that he would go straight to Bath, at dawn the very next morning.

Adelaide shook her head. She had been in Bath for over a week, without success. At moments she had been so near the end of her tether that she had almost decided she could bear it no more and that she would return home. But she had been guarding the temple of her family for so long now, tenaciously holding on for her mother, her brother and her niece, that she could scarcely have let go had she wanted to. She was so locked, clamped, riveted to the house of Albion that she couldn’t have given up on Fanny if she’d tried.

This did not mean, however, that she was hopeful of success. ‘You’ll be like Alice,’ she cried bitterly. ‘She wouldn’t defend herself: falling asleep in front of that judge; never protesting. Are you going to let them murder you too? Are there to be no more Albions?’

But Fanny said nothing.

‘Can you’ – the old lady turned wearily to Mrs Pride – ‘say anything to persuade her?’

For a week, now, Mrs Pride had conveyed Aunt Adelaide to and fro, had listened quietly to all that passed in the Grockleton household and brought, as far as possible, a sense of comfort by her presence. She had also observed Fanny and drawn her own conclusions. So now, although she spoke gently, the Forest woman was firm.

‘I’ve known you all your life, Miss Fanny,’ she said. ‘I’ve watched over you. You were always bold and sensible. But they’re hunting you now.’ She looked straight into Fanny’s eyes. ‘You’ve got to save yourself. That’s all there is to it, really. Just save yourself or there won’t be anything left.’

‘I’m not sure I can,’ said Fanny.

‘You just have to. That’s all,’ Mrs Pride repeated.

‘You must fight, Fanny,’ cried her aunt. ‘Can’t you see? You must fight. You must never give up.’ She stared at Fanny, then turned to Mrs Pride. ‘I think we should go now.’ She rose stiffly to her feet.

As they left, Mrs Pride glanced back at Fanny and their eyes met. There was no mistaking the older woman’s message: ‘Save yourself.’

After they had gone, Fanny took out Mr Gilpin’s letter and read it again in the hope it would give her strength, but it didn’t really help and she put it away again. Then she closed her eyes, though she did not sleep.

Save herself. If only she could. Sometimes, when no one was looking, she would curl up into a ball, like an unborn child and lie like that for an hour. At other times, she would sit staring vacantly ahead of her, unable to do anything at all. It seemed to Fanny that there was no way out of her predicament. Her life was enclosed by walls as blank, as unyielding and as close as those of her prison. There was no way out, no alternative, no end.

Yet how she yearned for an escape, for someone to come and save her. Aunt Adelaide could not do it. Even Mrs Pride could not. They told her to save herself when all she needed now was to be saved and comforted by another. But who? Mr Gilpin, had he been there, might have helped. Yet in the end she knew he could not.

She longed to be forgiven. For what she scarcely knew. For her very existence, perhaps. She longed for the one she loved to come and comfort her and tell her he forgave her. She could face anything, then. But it was, from first to last, impossible. So she stayed, in utter misery, where she was and kept her eyes closed to shut out the pain of the light of the world.

She did not, therefore, see him as he came to her door.

How long does it take for a man to know, absolutely, that he loves a woman?

Wyndham Martell looked down upon the pale figure sitting in silence in her cell, as a pale ray of sunlight through the small window caught her face, making it look ethereal. He thought of her vulnerability and all he now understood about her, and he knew in that moment that this was the woman whom destiny had given him to love. After which, as all who have loved have known, there is nothing further to say. His life was decided. It took, approximately, one second.

Then he stepped through the door and she looked up in the most entire astonishment. He did not pause but moved straight to her and, as she started to rise, he took her in his arms and with a tender smile said: ‘I have come, Fanny, and I shall never leave you.’

‘But …’ She frowned, then looked desperate, ‘you do not know …’

‘I know everything.’

‘You cannot …’

‘I even know the dark secret of your Seagull grandmother and her forebears, my dearest.’ He shook his head affectionately. ‘Nothing matters, so long as I am with you and you are with me.’ And, before she could speak further, he kissed her and held her in his arms.

Fanny began to shake, then she broke down and, clinging to him, she wept and wept, hot tears that came in a shaking flood that would not stop. He did not try to soothe them but let them come and held her tightly, murmuring only words of love. And there they remained, they did not know how long.

Neither saw Aunt Adelaide return.

For a moment or two the old lady could not understand what was happening. Fanny was in the arms of a strange man, whose face was turned away. Who he was or why
Fanny was clinging to him she had no idea. She put out her hand to steady herself on the arm of Mrs Pride, who was standing just behind her. Several seconds passed before she spoke.

‘Fanny?’

The two young people sprang apart. The man turned and looked towards her. Aunt Adelaide stared and then went very pale.

Whether she realized that this must be Mr Martell or whether, for a moment, she supposed that the figure in the picture she had seen at Hale had miraculously come to life and she was looking at Colonel Penruddock himself it was hard to guess; but whichever it was, as she gazed at him in horror, she hissed only a single word. ‘You!’

He collected himself quickly. ‘Miss Albion, I am Wyndham Martell.’

If Aunt Adelaide heard him, she chose to ignore it. Her face was white and wore a look of anger and hatred unlike any that Fanny had ever seen before. When she spoke, it was in a tone of contempt that she might have used to a thief. ‘How dare you come here, you villain! Get out.’

‘I am aware, Madam, that in the past there has been bad feeling between your family and that of my mother.’

‘Get out, Sir.’

‘I think it is unnecessary …’

‘Get out.’ She turned to Fanny now, as if Martell no longer existed. ‘What is the meaning of this? What are you doing with this Penruddock?’

It was not only the cold, angry question; it was the look of hurt, of shattered disappointment, of betrayal in the poor old woman’s eyes that was so terrible to Fanny.

She has looked after me all my life, Fanny thought, trusted me, and now I have done this to her: the most terrible thing that I could do – the worst, betrayal. ‘Oh, Aunt Adelaide,’ she cried.

‘Perhaps’, her aunt said, with a quietness that went like
an arrow through her heart, ‘you have no need of your family any more.’

‘I do, Aunt Adelaide.’ She turned to Martell. ‘Please go.’

He looked from one to the other. ‘I shall come again,’ he said.

There was silence as he left.

‘Do you wish’, her aunt asked, still coldly, ‘to give me any explanation?’

Fanny did her best. She confessed that she had developed feelings for Martell without knowing about his ancestry. ‘I do not suppose’, she added, ‘that he knew of my ancestry either.’ She explained how she had discovered and, effectively, sent him away; and how she had not seen him since, until he had so unexpectedly walked into her cell.

‘You kissed him.’

‘I know. He was tender. I was overcome.’

‘Overcome’, her aunt said with bitterness, ‘by a Penruddock.’

‘It shall never happen again.’

‘He may return.’

‘I will not see him.’

Her aunt looked at her with suspicion, but Fanny shook her head.

‘Fanny.’ Aunt Adelaide did not speak with anger now; her voice was very quiet. ‘I am afraid that if you see that man again I can no longer see you myself. We shall have to part.’