The Forest (102 page)

‘No, Aunt Adelaide, please do not leave me. I promise that I shall not see him.’

Adelaide sighed. She turned towards Mrs Pride. ‘I am tired. I think we should go back after all. My child.’ She embraced Fanny gently. ‘We shall meet again tomorrow.’ Having, thus, done all she could to preserve the family, the old lady retired.

Fanny did receive one unexpected visitor that night, however. It was Mrs Pride. That worthy lady stayed with
her nearly an hour, during which time she learned exactly what had passed between Mr Martell and Fanny, and saw only too well what the true state of Fanny’s affection was.

‘He came to save me,’ the girl wailed, ‘but it is impossible. I know it to be impossible. Everything is impossible.’ And though she held her, and let her cry, and comforted her as best she could, even Mrs Pride could not deny that what Fanny said was true. As long, she thought grimly, as the memory of Alice Lisle dwelt at Albion House, no Penruddock could ever come there. It could not be otherwise. Memories were long in the Forest.

The next morning Mr Martell came to call, but on Fanny’s instructions he was turned away. The same thing happened that afternoon. The day after, he tried to leave a letter, but it was refused.

There had been so many false alarms in the past that only when the doctor was absolutely certain that Francis Albion was dying and could not last more than a day or two did Mr Gilpin finally send a message to Adelaide.

The arrival of the letter placed the old lady in a quandary. She felt she must return to her brother yet did not wish to leave Fanny, the more especially since she dreaded the thought of her receiving another visit from Mr Martell. But when Fanny pointed out that there had been no sign of Martell for three days and once again renewed her promise not to have any contact with him, she felt somewhat reassured.

‘Besides, how could I bear to think that I had kept you, his only comfort, from him at such a time?’ Fanny cried. ‘Go, I beg you, and take my love to him so that he may know I am there in spirit if not in body.’

There was much truth in this and Adelaide agreed to go. There remained, however, the paramount question of the coming trial. It was only ten days away now. The best available lawyer was ready and waiting to defend her in
court. But Fanny’s own state of mind remained unclear. One day she would seem to have the energy to defend herself, another she would sink into a lethargy so that, as the lawyer very fairly pointed out: ‘I cannot be sure what impression she will make in court, nor even how she will answer any questions put to her.’

‘No matter what my brother’s state of health,’ Adelaide assured him, ‘I shall return well before the trial. We shall have to do the best we can then. Perhaps,’ she added, ‘I shall bring Mr Gilpin with me.’

Upon these terms, therefore, Aunt Adelaide departed on the arm of Mrs Pride, leaving Fanny, for the time being, alone.

As the carriage rolled along the swift turnpike between Bath and Sarum, Mrs Pride had time to reflect carefully on all that had passed in the last few days. She only wished that she could see a solution to the terrible dilemma ahead.

About Fanny she had no confidence at all. The trial, it seemed to her, could very well go against her even if she made a strong defence. As to her state of mind and the presence of Mr Martell, both raised large questions to which she could see no solution.

As far as Aunt Adelaide was concerned, Mrs Pride didn’t blame the old lady for her view of Mr Martell. If the Prides still remembered the treachery of the Furzeys, how could old Adelaide forgive a Penruddock? In her place, thought Mrs Pride, she would have felt the same. As for finding him with Fanny like that … It must have nearly killed her.

Again and again, though, her mind returned to that tearful interview with Fanny. She had no doubt about the state of Fanny’s heart. She wished it were otherwise. But it was surely this impossible love that lay, at least partly, behind Fanny’s helpless condition. They reached Sarum in the evening without Mrs Pride seeing any way out of the dilemma.

They took the Southampton road out of Salisbury, over
the high chalk ridge with its view over the Forest, and picked up the Lymington turnpike later in the day. By late afternoon, as the day was closing, they came along the lane to Mr Gilpin’s vicarage.

The vicar himself came to the door to greet them, which he did gravely, leading Adelaide straight to the drawing room, where he asked her to sit down. To her enquiry after her brother’s health, he paused a moment and then quietly told her: ‘Your brother died, just before dawn, this morning. It was entirely peaceful. I had been praying with him, then he slept a little, and then he slipped away. I could wish for such an end myself.’

Adelaide nodded slowly. ‘The funeral?’

‘With your permission, tomorrow. We can wait if you wish.’

‘No.’ Adelaide sighed. ‘It is better that way. I must return to Bath as soon as possible.’

‘You wish to see him? He is in the dining room, all ready.’

‘Yes.’ She got up. ‘I will see him now.’

Mr Gilpin had made all the arrangements and done so thoughtfully. When Adelaide had spent a little time alone with her brother he explained briefly the form of service he proposed at Boldre church, where the Albion family vault had been made ready. The Tottons, Burrards and other local families had all been informed and would be coming unless she wished otherwise. She herself was most welcome to stay at the vicarage, he added, but this, with many thanks, she declined as she preferred to stay in Albion House. Though some of the servants had been allowed to return to their homes in her absence, enough were still there to take care of her.

‘Promise me to rest at least a day or two before your return to Bath,’ he begged her. ‘You have time to do so.’

‘Yes. A day. But after that I think I must go. I cannot leave Fanny alone.’

‘Quite so. Perhaps, then, the day after the funeral, I may
call upon you; for there are certain matters in that connection I wish to discuss.’

‘Of course.’ Indeed, she let him know, she was most anxious for his advice.

He saw her safely off, watching her carriage from his door until it was out of sight. Only then did he come back, cross the hall and enter his library, the door of which had been kept closed during Adelaide’s visit. He turned to the figure with whom he had been closeted for most of the afternoon. ‘The day after tomorrow, then. I shall talk to her. But I want you to come with me. You may have to speak to her too.’

‘You think it wise?’

‘Wise or not, it may be necessary.’

‘I shall be guided by you, then,’ said Mr Martell.

The funeral at the old church on its little knoll had been an intimate occasion. The Tottons, the various Forest neighbours, the tenants and servants of Albion House had all been there. Mr Gilpin had kept the service short but very dignified. He had alluded to Fanny in his brief address and in the prayers and, as they parted from Aunt Adelaide, the congregation did not fail to send her kindly messages.

Adelaide had wished to return quietly to the house alone when the service was over and this was respected, so that it was only she and Mrs Pride who were conveyed up the drive to the old gabled house. When she was installed in the oak-panelled parlour, Mrs Pride brought her some herbal tea and left her, so that the old lady could doze a while before eating a small dinner of ham and retiring early.

Mr Gilpin appeared at eleven o’clock the next morning and Adelaide was ready to receive him.

You had to admire her, Mrs Pride thought. As she sat, very erect, propped up with cushions in a big wing chair in the parlour, she might be frail but, despite all she had been through, she was sharply alert.

When Mr Gilpin entered, Mrs Pride started to withdraw, but Adelaide summoned her back. ‘I should like Mrs Pride to remain,’ she said to Gilpin. ‘We could not manage without her.’

‘I quite agree.’ The clergyman smiled at the housekeeper warmly.

‘Let me tell you first’, the old lady began, ‘how the case rests with Fanny.’

She described exactly the state in which Fanny remained, her inability to come up with any defence, the lawyer’s concern, the whole dismal business. She spoke briefly of the Grockletons’ kindness, but she did not mention Mr Martell. When she had finished Mr Gilpin turned to Mrs Pride and asked her if she had anything to add.

Mrs Pride hesitated. What should she say? ‘Miss Albion’s recollection is very precise,’ she said carefully. ‘Miss Fanny’s case seems grave. I fear for her.’

‘Her lack of defence is strange,’ Gilpin remarked. ‘I wonder, is it possible, do you suppose, that the lawyers have any thought that she might have – for whatever reason – actually taken this piece of lace?’

‘The idea is absurd,’ replied her aunt.

Gilpin looked at Mrs Pride. ‘I cannot say, Sir, what they may think. I do not believe, even now, that she has ever addressed the question.’

‘She is in a strange state of mind, most evidently. Almost, forgive me, a derangement. She is clearly, my dear Miss Albion, not herself.’

‘Quite.’

‘Yet why’ – he looked at her searchingly – ‘could this be? Is anything disturbing her mind, or her affections?’

‘Nothing of consequence,’ snapped Adelaide.

‘I believe, Sir,’ said Mrs Pride quietly, ‘that her emotions are greatly disturbed.’ She got a sharp look from Adelaide, but she had to say it.

And now started the most difficult part of Mr Gilpin’s
mission. He began by making very clear to Adelaide the extreme danger he believed Fanny was in. ‘She is accused. There are respectable witnesses. Her position in society will not, in these circumstances, protect her. Indeed, as a point of honour, the judges might even sentence her to transportation, to show they make no distinctions. Such things have happened.’ He paused to allow this awful consequence to sink in.

But even he had not fully reckoned with the fixed nature of Adelaide’s mind. ‘Justice,’ she replied scornfully. ‘Do not speak of justice when I remember what the courts did to Alice Lisle.’

‘Justice or not,’ the vicar pursued, ‘that is the risk. You will surely agree that we must take every possible step to save her.’ This received a curt nod. ‘I believe I should accompany you to Bath. Would that be agreeable to you?’ Again a nod. ‘I must, however, caution you’, he went on, ‘that I do not believe my presence will necessarily induce Fanny to save herself – and save herself she must. I am now convinced that the answer lies elsewhere.’

If Adelaide guessed what he meant, she gave no indication beyond a slight frown. Gilpin pressed on.

He really showed great wisdom. He dwelt – how as a Christian could he not? – upon the need for reconciliation. He dwelt upon the evil of ancient feuds. ‘The sins of the father, Miss Albion, cannot be visited upon the son.’ He dwelt, above all, upon the paramount need to save Fanny. ‘I think’, he said penetratingly, ‘that you know to what I am referring.’

‘I have not’, old Adelaide said invincibly, ‘the least idea.’

‘And yet, Madam,’ another voice came quietly but firmly from the doorway, ‘I believe that you have.’

And Mr Martell entered the room and made her a polite bow. Although told by Gilpin to wait in the covered carriage outside, he had entered the house and been quietly listening for some time.

Adelaide went pale, looked from Martell to Gilpin and then enquired acidly: ‘You brought this villain here?’

‘I did,’ the vicar confessed, ‘but I am convinced he is no villain. Quite the reverse, in fact.’

‘Kindly leave, Mr Gilpin, and take this villain’ – she deliberately used the word again – ‘with you.’ Her eyes seemed to fix themselves upon a distant point beyond the panelling. ‘I see, Sir, that even clergymen betray the trust of their friends nowadays. But my family are accustomed to dealing with villains, murderers and seducers, even if this is the first time that a clergyman has introduced them to our house.’

‘My dear Miss Albion.’

‘I suggest, in future, Mr Gilpin, that you keep your own company. You are not to approach my niece in Bath. Good day.’

If even Gilpin was reduced to speechlessness by this, Wyndham Martell was not. ‘Madam,’ he explained, calmly and politely, ‘you may abuse my mother’s family as much as you wish. If what you say of them is true, then I am very sorry for it. If it lay within my power’ – he raised his hand – ‘to take away my Penruddock ancestry by cutting off this hand, then I assure you I should gladly do it to save your niece.’

She stared at him in silence. Perhaps he was making progress.

‘I discovered that I resemble an ancestor about whom I knew little, and then that this man was held in contempt and abhorrence by the family of the young lady to whom my affections had already become deeply attached and who, without explanation, then rejected me because of it. But each generation, although we honour our parents and our ancestors, is still born anew. Even the Forest grows new oaks. I am not, I assure you, Colonel Penruddock and have no wish to be. I am Wyndham Martell. And Fanny is not Alice Lisle.’

‘Get out.’

‘Madam, I think it is possible that I can induce Miss Albion to defend herself. Whatever your feelings, would you not even allow me to attempt to save her?’

Gilpin chanced to glance, just then, at Mrs Pride and saw, clear as day upon her face that, whatever she knew from Fanny, she thought that Martell could save her too. ‘I beg you, consider above all the possibility of saving Fanny,’ he interposed.