Watch the Wall, My Darling Page 5

  If Mrs. Emeret had been wondering how to greet this interloper, she found herself somehow decided. A low curtsy, and, “It’s good to see you home, Miss Tretteign, but, the master has given orders—”

  “Very nonsensical ones,” said Christina coolly, “and so I will tell him when I have the opportunity. In the meantime, are you or are you not the housekeeper?”

  “Of course I am, miss.”

  “Then there is nothing to prevent you, I take it, from serving a light nuncheon to Mrs. Tretteign and me. Something quite simple will do—I don’t suppose your household rises to anything more. A little cold meat, perhaps, some fruit? A glass of wine would do me good, and you, too, Aunt, I am sure.”

  “Wine!” Horrified.

  “What, have you none?” asked Christina sweetly. “I am so sorry to lay bare the defects of your housekeeping.”

  “Oh, as to having it—”

  “Well, then—and quickly, if you please. I am hoping to see my grandfather shortly and should be sorry to have to tell him I was starving in his house.”

  The threat was decisive. Mrs. Emeret, bridled, started to say something, changed her mind and withdrew.

  “Christina, how could you?” asked her aunt, somewhere between awe and terror. “Beyond question she will give in her notice, and then what shall we do? You have no idea how hard it is to get anyone to come and live here on the marsh.”

  “I devoutly hope she does,” said Christina. “A mannerless woman and a deplorable housekeeper. Look!” She ran a finger across the face of a big, gold-framed mirror and left a shining mark on the dull surface. “I cannot imagine why you have borne with her so long. As to the housekeeping, I have been wondering what on earth I should find to do here. Now I know. I made my father comfortable. I hope I shall be able to do as much for you.”

  She spoke more cheerfully than she felt, and a long, gloomy afternoon confirmed her fears about life at the Grange. Over their nuncheon, her aunt embarked on a cross-examination about her life in America that she found at once difficult to answer and hard to bear. It was no better when Mrs. Tretteign turned to the subject of her mother and sister. “You hear nothing from them?” Her eyes were bright with curiosity.

  “From France? Not for years.” The tears she had shed years ago, over the letters that never came, made her aunt’s inquisitive sympathy still less endurable.

  But the meal was over at last, and Mrs. Tretteign retired to her room, leaving Christina to her own devices. Rain was beating against the window panes. She abandoned her hopes of continuing her outdoor exploration and wandered instead through the high, dark downstairs rooms of the Grange. They were dreary enough in the half light of small panes and wet October and her heart sank at the idea of a lifetime spent moldering here. No, she told herself firmly—not a lifetime, six months. After that she would be her own mistress, free of her promise to her father. But at the moment, with a wet afternoon stretching endlessly before her, six months seemed like a lifetime. The morning room, where a fire provided the only cheerful note, offered no prospect of occupation beyond her aunt’s collection of fashion magazines. She looked further and found, at the end of the hall, a smaller room, half study, half office, with one wall given over to bookshelves. It seemed, at first, a discouraging collection enough, composed mainly of sermons and odd volumes of The Spectator, but at last, in a dark corner, she hit upon a gold mine—the complete works of Henry Fielding.

  Two hours later, her aunt found her curled up in a chair in the morning room, her book held up to catch the ebbing light. “Reading?” She made it sound a most unusual activity. “What can you have found worth spoiling your eyes for?”

  “Oh—just a novel,” Christina closed the book, anticipating trouble.

  “A novel?” And then, on a note of horror, “Good God, you cannot be reading Tom Jones!”

  “Why not? Father let me. He said Mr. Fielding was a considerable moralist in his own way.”

  “You cannot be serious! I can only say, I was never so shocked in my life. But I suppose it’s all of a piece—I can only warn you, miss, that no young lady of any breeding here in England would ever mention such a book, still less think of reading it.”

  “I wonder,” said Christina. And then, “I’m sorry, Aunt. I promise I won’t be caught reading it, but it is so entertaining.”

  “Christina!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, and then, to change the subject, “It’s getting dark already.” She put her book down and moved over to the window. “Ross must be back,” she said, “there’s his horse. I never heard him come.”

  “You don’t hear things in this house,” said her aunt. “The walls are so thick. It’s quiet as well as dark. They call it that, you know?”

  “What?”

  “The Dark House. The marsh people do. Most of the living rooms look inward, you see, on to the stable yard, so there are seldom any lights showing at night.”

  “And a very absurd arrangement it is,” said Christina. “Unhealthy, too, if you ask me.”

  “Don’t say that to Papa when he sends for you.… Ah—yes, Parkes?”

  “Mr. Tretteign will see Miss Tretteign now.” The old man was at his most formal.

  “Does he want me, Parkes?” Mrs. Tretteign sounded nervous.

  “No, ma’am.” Oddly uncompromising. And then, “This way, Miss Christina.”

  Old Mr. Tretteign occupied a whole suite of rooms on the second floor at the back of the house, and Christina, following Parkes through a dark little antechamber, saw that they too must look out on the stable yard. But there the likeness to the rest of the house ended. When Parkes opened a second door, it was to reveal a blaze of light. The big room was aglow with candles in branched, glass candlesticks. Deep-golden curtains, already drawn against the gathering dusk, intensified the mellow light, as did the fire on the hearth. A big, winged armchair drawn up close to it had its back to her, and facing it, negligently leaning against the chimney piece, her cousin Ross seemed to dominate the room. Her heart gave an odd little lurch at the sight of him. Well, of course, she had assumed that her first interview with her grandfather would be tête-à-tête.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in, girl, and let’s have a look at you.” The invisible occupant of the armchair showed no sign of rising to greet her.

  “Yes, Grandfather.” She moved forward to stand beside Ross and look down at the withered old man, who sat, wrapped in a knitted shawl, tiny in the huge chair.

  “‘Yes, Grandfather!’” the harsh voice mimicked hers. “Expect me to welcome you with open arms, I suppose.” His thin right hand tapped angrily on the letter he held in his left. “Wrote me a letter full of pretty phrases, eh, and thought to turn me up sweet? And signed it Tretton!” His voice cracked with anger.

  “That’s my name. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but Father changed it, years ago. He said fancy spellings and America didn’t suit.”

  “Just like his impudence. Nothing was ever good enough for Christopher. Not his home, not his family, not even his name. Well, miss, you’ll change it back now, d’you hear.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandfather, I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Can’t? Won’t, you mean!”

  “If you prefer it that way. But—can’t was what I said. Father left his estate to me as Christina Tretton. That’s my name.”

  “His estate, eh? That’s rich!” A harsh cackle of laughter shook him. “A log cabin, five cows and his rifle, I suppose. And, besides, what about your sister—your mother for the matter of that?”

  “They went back to France, you know, sir, four years ago, after Bonaparte seized power in ’99. My father is a friend of his wife’s.”

  “A Frenchwoman and a friend of Joséphine de Beauharnais! There’s a striking recommendation for you. Trust my son Christopher to make a fool of himself.”

  “I wish you will remember, sir, that you are speaking of my mother. And—my father is dead.”

  “And the more fool h
e for trusting the Indians. Or for going there in the first place.” And then in response to a little angry movement on her part, “Oh very well, we’ll say no more about it. Your mother had more sense when she went back to France, and took your sister. Why didn’t you go?”

  “I preferred to stay with my father.”

  “Preferred!” Once again he contrived a falsetto parody of her voice. “And now you prefer to come here and be a charge on me—and begin your visit by getting rid of my housekeeper, who has served me faithfully for twenty years. What have you to say about that, hey?”

  “Why, that I didn’t discharge her, Grandfather, though if she has seen fit to give in her notice, I’m glad to hear it. Her manner to Mrs. Tretteign left me no alternative but to speak as I did. I am only amazed that you have tolerated her so long.” Here a glance part explanation, part apology, for Ross, but his brooding face was turned toward their grandfather. “And as for serving you faithfully—if insolence and dirt are your idea of good service, they most certainly are not mine.”

  She stopped, taken aback both by her own vehemence and by his reaction to it. Once again he had gone off into the long, wheezing laugh that shook his whole body. “Listen to her!” he appealed to Ross. “A proper spitfire, ain’t she? Turns up bold as brass in the middle of the night and starts telling us all our business first thing next morning. Well, now, Miss Know-all, having got rid of Mrs. Emeret for me, how do you suggest I set about finding a replacement for her? Have you heard what they call this house on the marsh? The Dark House. They don’t come here willingly, I can tell you. And—for our part—we don’t much like strangers, do we, Ross?”

  “Not overmuch.” Ross turned a darkling stare on her. Then, suddenly, he laughed. “I wager I know what my cousin has in mind, though. Going to take us over, Cousin Chris?”

  Now, suddenly, she felt herself ill at ease. “Well, I had thought of it.” And then, impulsively, to her grandfather, “If you would let me try, sir. I have looked after my father—ever since Mother left. I would do my possible to have everything as you wish it, and, truly, I do not wish to be merely a charge and a burden on you. And, besides, it would be something to do.”

  “Find it dull already, do you?” The thin voice was sardonic. “Well, remember, no one invited you to come here. What do you think, Ross? Shall we risk discomfort and spoiled dinners, or shall we go on our bended knees to Mrs. Emeret?”

  “I doubt if it would answer,” said Ross dryly. “Jem tells me she has her boxes packed already!”

  “In that case, girl, you had best see to it that you get her keys from her before she goes. And now, I’m worn out with all this chatter. You may go, both of you. Oh”—an afterthought—“what did we pay Emeret, Ross?”

  “Fifty pounds a year, sir, and her keep.”

  “Hmmm …” A long pause. “By rights, Christina should have less, being a novice. But since she is a member of the family.… What do you say to forty-five pounds my dear?”

  Christina could hardly help laughing. “Thank you, Grandfather,” she managed meekly.

  Chapter Four

  There was nearly mutiny in the servants’ hall when Christina took over the housekeeping. Lazy and venal herself, Mrs. Emeret had had two blind eyes for the corruption of others. Christina had to dismiss two housemaids and a groom in the first week she was there.

  “And what if you can’t replace them?” Mrs. Tretteign, too delicate, she explained, to concern herself with domestic affairs, had done nothing but grumble at Christina’s activities; had done so, Christina suspected, where it did most harm—to the servants themselves.

  “We’ll still be better off.” Christina was checking through the household accounts. “The amount of work they did—Betty and I could get through it in a morning.”

  “Most unsuitable,” said Mrs. Tretteign.

  “Well, I’ve got to do something. It’s no use, Aunt, I wasn’t raised to be a lady and do nothing. I’d far rather clean out the stillroom. D’you know, we found quince preserve dated 1794!”

  “Was it any good?” How quietly Ross moved. She had had no idea he had joined them.

  “Delicious …, Ross, you’re drenched. Does it rain still?”

  “Of course. It always does in November.” His dark hair was sleeked down close to his face, his cheeks flushed with exercise. “Do you see now, Chris, why the house was built facing away from the sea?”

  She laughed. “I do indeed. As it is, the wind gets in everywhere. It’s no wonder there are stories of ghosts and hauntings.”

  “And you are attacking the ghosts, like a colony of spiders, with a New England broom and scouring powder?” Ross had crossed the room to look out at the stable yard. Now, over his shoulder, “I had a complaint about you today, Cousin.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “No. I have no doubt you were right to dismiss those two girls, but of course it’s hard …” He left it at that.

  “Hard! It’s monstrous!” Mrs. Tretteign put down the book of fashion plates she had been studying. “Sally’s mother came to see me this morning. She says they’re starving.”

  “For lack of the five pounds Sally used to get a year?” Christina asked. “Or because they miss the perquisites she used to take home? Now that I can believe, Aunt. I know now why we could never afford working candles. If they had but been lighted for five minutes, they’d be out of their holders next morning and shared out in the servants’ hall. We must have been keeping half the marsh in wax candles.”

  “Well—and why not? That ever I should live to see such cheese-paring Yankee ways at Tretteign Grange. No, wait a minute, miss. Try to show a little respect for your elders. I know I’m only a useless invalid, whom nobody minds, but I’ve a warning for you just the same, and I consider it my duty to give it. You’re making enemies, you know. Don’t blame me, girl, if you run into trouble one of these fine days, on those walks of yours to the beach. And don’t expect me to be sorry for you either. It will serve you richly right. Walking alone! Miss Tretteign of Tretteign Grange!”

  “Not Tretteign, Aunt. Tretton. And as to walking alone, well, I’m a Yankee, remember, and used to taking care of myself. I’ve walked in places where you’d not like to go with a regiment of guards.”

  “I believe you.” Mrs. Tretteign shuddered. “And the less said about it the better. Ross, cannot you persuade your cousin?”

  “No, ma’am.” To Christina’s relief his voice was firm. “You know we’ve been into this before, many times. Since we’ve no horse for Chris, and since she’s such an active young lady, the only thing left for her is these walks of hers along the beach. I promise you, no harm will come to her. She’s made friends as well as enemies. Your medicines seem to be powerful ones, Chris. From what I hear on the marsh, my worst fear for you is that you’ll end up burning as a witch.”

  She laughed. “If that’s the worst! Yes, I’ve some useful things with me, and lord knows they’re needed here on the marsh, with no doctor nearer than Rye. My nurse was an Indian woman, you know. She taught me a great deal—”

  “Ugh!” said Mrs. Tretteign. “Don’t talk about it. Unspeakable things, I have no doubt!”

  “Just herbs, Aunt If it would only stop raining, I would go out and replenish my supply.”

  But the wind and rain continued, day after day, night after night, worrying last leaves from the stunted bushes that grew all sideways on the marsh. Even in the house, the wind seemed to get in everywhere. Frayed old tapestries lifted from the walls as one walked by; curtains blew out unaccountably over closed windows; even the thin carpeting in some of the rooms seemed alive on the floor.

  “Invasion weather again.” Ross took the cup of coffee Christina handed him across the breakfast table. “Are you alarmed at finding yourself in what may prove the front line?”

  “Should I be?”

  “You’d think so if you’d come to Hastings with me yesterday. They were taking a census of wagons suitable for evacuating women and children when t
he enemy lands. Delicious coffee, Chris. What magic have you used on the cook?”

  “Simple. I let her use enough of the beans. But—you don’t seriously think the French will come?”

  “I don’t know. I thought not, this summer, but these bungling attempts of ours on Boulogne and Le Havre must have put new heart into them. There’s been no more talk for a while of disaffection in their troops over there. I know one thing—if I was Bonaparte, I’d come tomorrow. Look at us! Piles of bricks where there should be fortresses … pikes in the churches … volunteers without muskets … cavalry without horses! Yes, Parkes?”

  “Mr. Tretteign would like a word with you, sir, if you please.”

  “The royal summons.” He finished his coffee and rose to his feet “I hope you’ve not been overspending on the housekeeping, Chris. The food’s so good these days I’ve been expecting a complaint.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. What I’ve spent in one place, I’ve saved in others. I hope to show a profit over the month, and so you can tell Grandfather, if he asks.”

  “What an economist! I cannot imagine how we struggled on without you. Indeed, it seems already as if you had been here forever.”

  “Does it? How flattering!” But he had gone. She sighed and finished her own coffee. It should be satisfactory to be taken so comfortably for granted by this tall cousin whose dislike of women was, she knew, something of a byword in the district. “Here forever,” indeed. Angrily, she poured coffee she did not want and then made herself drink it so as not to hurt Cook’s feelings. And yet she, too, sometimes felt as if she had been here forever, fighting her battle with dust and carelessness in the dark house that had seemed so sinister and had proved so dull.

  Had it all been imagination, then? Had she dreamed that her cousin Ross led a band of smugglers? She paused, the cup halfway to her lips. How did he know there was no talk now of disaffection among the French troops around Boulogne? She had certainly seen nothing about it in the papers, which she read quite as thoroughly as he did.