Keeping the Castle

5



I AM NOT ACCUSTOMED to dancing all night. When finally we had made our grateful adieux, squashed ourselves into the chaise, and, wending our way down a dark and damp lane, at last discovered ourselves to be at home again, the clock was striking four and faint glimmerings of dawn could be discerned in the eastern sky. We disentangled our weary limbs, climbed down, and went yawning to bed.

We were up betimes, however, as I wished to call on the Throstletwists early enough in the day to forestall them, and our other friends, from calling on us. As delightful as it is to entertain one’s neighbors, I prefer not to do so too often—the incidental expenses are rather higher than our domestic economy can withstand.

I had some difficulty in wresting Charity and Prudence from the depths of slumber, however. They wailed and attempted to retreat under the bedclothes again. When I persisted, they demanded tea and toast before they would consider rising from their beds. At last, however, with the assistance of their maid, I succeeded in getting them dressed for the day and prodded and pushed them out the front door. Collecting my mother and little Alexander, we prepared to walk to Yellering Hall.

Alas, my exertions were futile. No sooner had we gained the front walk than Charity demanded that we wait while she fetched a parasol for the sun. Once she’d rejoined us we had to retrieve Alexander out of a large bush into which he had chased a cat, and then Prudence turned back, requiring a ribbon for her hair of a slightly different hue than the one I had selected. I urged the rest of our party to press on without her, but to no avail. A large mass of humanity and horseflesh was visible, advancing up the drive. Four coaches and several men on horseback were hastening towards Crooked Castle, bent on receiving hospitality. I sighed and retreated, outmaneuvered.

However, I had resources at my command that had not been available the last time we received guests; they would not go away hungry. The strawberries were fast ripening, and there would be some cream left from the milking. It was a pity—I had planned to make strawberry jam for the winter—but there was no help for it. I murmured in my mother’s ear, retreated to the kitchen and gave my directions to Cook.

I was pleased but not surprised to find that Lord Boring had come, and surprised but not pleased that he had brought along his unpleasant cousin. I had rather supposed Mr. Fredericks’s presence last night to be accidental, as a result of his bumbling into the ballroom in mistake for some much humbler clerical office. Yet here he was, looking discontentedly about himself and remarking more than once that Boring had browbeaten him into making the visit; he couldn’t in the least imagine why.

“Upon my word, Fredericks,” exclaimed Lord Boring, “looking at these charming and lovely ladies”—he bowed to my mother and then to my stepsisters, who tittered, and finally to me—“you wonder why I should wish to call on them? I do believe you’ve lost every trace of gallantry and civilized behavior in your time away from England.”

Mr. Fredericks contented himself with uttering a short, satirical laugh in response. My small brother, Alexander, looked up at him in wonder and then burst into tears, climbing into my mother’s lap for comfort. Mr. Fredericks seemed somewhat nonplused by this outburst and, casting about himself for a peace offering, held out a strawberry still warm from the sun to the child. Knowing, as I did, that Alexander was stuffed brimful with purloined sweets from the ball, I did not expect this to be a success, but after a long, grave look and a hiccupping sigh, Alexander took the strawberry and began to nibble at it.

“In any case,” continued Lord Boring, ignoring this small contretemps, “you know that the doctor has ordered rest and a change of scene for you, and you also know quite well that you have been itching to get a good look at Crawley Castle. As have I,” he added.

“Yes,” admitted Mr. Fredericks, “I have, but you rousted me out just when I was getting down to the heart of that Beddoes contract. There’s something rotten there, I can smell it.”

“You shall sniff out rotten contracts to your heart’s content when we return. Just now we are paying a social call.” His Lordship turned to me. “The Marquis, by-the-by, sends his compliments and apologies for not calling on you. He has business to attend to in York today. But perhaps, Miss Crawley, as great-granddaughter of the original owner, you would be so good as to give Fredericks and me a brief tour of the public rooms?” He bowed to my stepsisters and continued, “I should be sorry to put the Misses Winthrop to the trouble.”

Prudence gave way easily enough. The Baron’s appearance, wealth and position put him beyond her ambitions, though if Mr. Fredericks had only maintained his own house she might have considered him with some interest. It was harder to persuade Charity, who had some claims to beauty along with an impressive fortune, that she should not serve as guide. However, her friend Miss Hopkins, having already seen the attractions of Crooked Castle, such as they were, begged her to remain. And as a number of other unattached young men remained in the room she evidently concluded that without me present she could hope to work her wiles upon them uninterrupted.

As I rose to conduct them around, I reflected that Lord Boring, in common with Mr. Fredericks’s mother, treated that difficult young man with an amused indulgence. This was understandable in Mrs. Fredericks, who, as his mother, was more or less required to love him, but less so in Lord Boring, who was not. Perhaps Lord Boring found Mr. Fredericks’s rudeness amusing, as medieval kings were said to be entertained by the coarse and impertinent behavior of their jesters.

“Are you and your cousin intimately acquainted, Lord Boring?” I enquired. We stood a little apart from Mr. Fredericks as he paused to examine the least moth-eaten of the tapestries. “Did you grow up together?”

“No, not entirely, though from time to time he would come to stay with us, of course.”

From what I knew of the former Lord Boring’s attitude, there was no “of course” about it. It cast a surprisingly good light on the Westings—I should not have expected them to find the son of a shop clerk an acceptable playmate for the heir to a barony.

“Perhaps,” I hazarded a guess, “he saved your life?”

A quick smile came and went across Lord Boring’s face.

“Almost—but no, not exactly,” he said. “I am very fond of him. And of course, we are associated in our overseas interests—he looks out for my investments in India and so on.” He lowered his voice. “I owe him a great deal, more than he will allow me to say. He’s a good fellow, Hugh is, tho’ not very polished, I know,” he said, as we watched Mr. Fredericks poking a finger through a moth hole, thereby enlarging it.

I understood, or supposed I did. Lord Boring had employed this socially inept backdoor cousin and now felt responsible for him. Presumably Mr. Fredericks was a faithful steward of his master’s affairs, and Lord Boring was no doubt relieved to be able to fulfill a family obligation as well as to safeguard his own interests.

“Oh undoubtedly,” I said. The “good fellow” had just detached at least two feet of fringe off the bottom of the tapestry while attempting to tug it into place. My eyes narrowed. Someday I might have to sell those tapestries so that we could eat.

“That wants sewing back on,” said Mr. Fredericks, handing the strip of material to me. “What’s behind this door?”

“A passageway to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen offices,” I replied, but he opened it nonetheless. Unwilling to inflict this person on our long-suffering cook, no doubt enjoying a well-earned rest after whipping up all that cream, I suggested, “Perhaps you would like to follow me up to the minstrel gallery. We have a great many family portraits and other paintings, some of which are said to be quite fine.” In fact, most of the paintings left were portraits, as landscapes and still lifes are easier to sell than ancestors.

The walls of Crooked Castle are pierced, more or less at random, with arrow slits. In a real fortress these small openings, just large enough to accommodate an arrow angled towards the ground, would have allowed archers inside to take potshots at an enemy outside without providing a target themselves. In an unreal fortress like Crooked Castle, their only function is to allow the winds from off the North Sea free access to the interior. One such breeze rolled down the stairs to meet us as we mounted. Mr. Fredericks hugged himself and shivered. “You ought to have Rumford fireplaces installed—it’s like an icehouse in here,” he said.

“Oh, that’s only because you’re so used to the tropics, you know,” said His Lordship, smiling bravely at me as the gust of air lifted the hair on his forehead. “Fredericks has been ill,” he confided, as the gentleman in question moved ahead of us to examine the portraits. “He came back from India a few weeks ago and on the voyage home he acquired a chill on the liver that he’s finding difficult to shake.”

“I see.” I spoke over my shoulder to His Lordship as I hastened after our other guest, who was scratching with his fingernail at the gold leaf on the frame of my grandfather’s image. I’d have thought that even a chill on the liver would be pleased to be excused from Mr. Fredericks’s company, but apparently not.

When I reached him, Mr. Fredericks was looking down at a small object in the palm of his hand. He held out a curlicue of gold, broken off from the frame, saying accusingly, “Shoddy workmanship. However,” he went on, pointing at a painting I had loved from infancy, a small picture of a brown and black dog playing with a ball, “that is by George Stubbs. Take care of it. It may be worth something someday. Or not, of course—Stubbs turned them out by the boatload, you know—but it is a pleasant little thing. The others, of course . . .” He shrugged.

With enormous restraint, I did not remark that, up until today, the paintings had not suffered any damage in my lifetime. “Allow me to show you the view from the parapet,” I said, in hopes of distracting him. What harm could he do on the battlements, out in the open air?

“These portraits ought to be cleaned,” he said, ignoring my suggestion and fiddling with the painting of the little dog. “They are shockingly dirty. Let me show you . . . I believe that a penknife inserted here under the frame would allow us to see—”

“Mr. Fredericks!” I cried. “Please! I am exceptionally fond of that picture.” I looked to Lord Boring for assistance, but he was some distance away, examining a portrait of my great-great-great-aunt on my father’s side. He turned, however, and was about to remonstrate, when Mr. Fredericks began groping in his pocket for a knife.

“Oh, never fear, I shan’t harm it,” said that gentleman.

I gasped and, struck by inspiration, clutched at my throat. “I—I require some air or I shall faint! I must ascend to the roof. I pray you, gentlemen, follow me at once!” And I pulled the picture from Mr. Fredericks’s grasp, set it down, and staggered towards the stair to the rooftop walkway.

Mr. Fredericks looked rather startled, but followed me meekly enough, once Lord Boring gave him a push in the proper direction. Once out on the parapet, with its splendid view of the sea, however, it occurred to me that the drop from where we stood to the beach below was prodigious. I eyed him nervously and moved a safe distance away. The danger, however, was not to my person but to my family’s property; he began prodding at the massive stone making up the battlement in front of him, trying to see if he could pry it from its position. (“This one’s loose,” was his comment.)

“Fredericks, stop that at once,” said Lord Boring. “You’ve done enough damage for one day.” And he pulled his cousin bodily back from the edge.

“I? I have done damage?”

“You have. And if you knock that stone over you’ll be held criminally liable for doing to death a whole family of fisher folk.”

Indeed, peering over the edge I could see our tenants, John Snyder and his sons, dragging their boat and nets onto the beach far below us. I gasped at their peril.

“Gentlemen, indeed I pray you! Shall we not go downstairs? And—and—” I wracked my brain for some activity which would engross Mr. Fredericks’s energies without resulting in murder or mayhem.

“And we shall take our leave,” finished Lord Boring. “We have trespassed on your kindness for far too long.” As we moved towards the staircase he addressed me privately. “My apologies. I shall ensure that reparations are made for any harm our visit has caused.”

Mr. Fredericks was still looking out to sea. “Yes, do let’s go down. I was examining the cliff face that supports this portion of the castle earlier, and it is my opinion that a good storm could fatally weaken it. That moat was a foolish idea of your great-grandfather’s—it undercuts the integrity of the ground this building stands on. The only thing that prevents the waters of the moat from breaking through are two thin stone walls, and a major flood could breach them. All this”—he gestured about us—“is quite apt to fall into the sea at any time.”

Most thankfully we arrived downstairs without further mishap, Mr. Fredericks complaining fretfully that he had not been shown over the whole of the property. “I have not inspected the dungeons yet, Sidney, and you know how I wished to.”

Lord Boring darted a swift look at my face and, smiling, said, “Another time, Hugh. I fear that today Miss Crawley might show us in and then forget to let us out again.”

To my surprise, Mr. Fredericks apologized for any alarm he may have caused—“I am enthusiastic, you see,” he explained—and then he sought out my little brother, solemnly shaking hands in farewell. “I am sorry I made you cry,” he said. Alexander rewarded him with a large smile and skipped alongside him in a friendly fashion all the way out to the drawbridge, prattling happily and begging his new friend to visit us again as soon and as often as possible.

I myself could not help but wonder if entertaining Lord Boring would mean entertaining Mr. Fredericks as well. As delightful as I found His Lordship, that would be a rather heavy price to pay for his company.



The next morning a stone mason appeared at our gate, saying he had been instructed to secure the stone that so nearly had crashed down upon our tenants’ heads, with the compliments of our new neighbors. Greengages questioned him and then brought him along to me.

“I—I beg leave to send my thanks to Lord Boring,” I said, amazed but grateful.

“Yes, miss,” he said. “Where am I to begin?”

After I had set him to work, a young woman with a basket was shown in. Greengages explained that this was Susan, an expert seamstress employed by Mrs. Westing, who had been dispatched to mend our tapestry.

“Oh, and miss?” added Susan. “This basket here is for you.”

I took the basket from her, puzzled. Inside lay one of Lord Boring’s cards atop a quantity of fine woolen fabric. It said, “Hoping this will make some restitution.” Folding back the cloth I found that I was looking into two enormous brown eyes. “It—it’s a dog!” I said stupidly.

“Yes, miss,” agreed Susan. “A puppy. Two months old today.”

I sank down into a chair. What on earth was I to do with a puppy? Yet another mouth to feed!

“My—my thanks to His Lordship,” I said.

The tiny black and brown creature—a perfect copy of the dog in the Stubbs painting—had no doubts as to what I should do with him. He climbed out of his nest in the basket and began the arduous journey up to my lap, pawing and scrabbling with his fat little legs. He looked up at me, reproachful at my lack of response, and for a moment I thought I glimpsed a will of steel in those sweet, rather bulbous brown eyes. Obediently, I helped him up and, with a loud sigh, he curled into a ball and fell asleep.

Evidently I now had a dog.

Greengages reappeared, breathing hard from this unusual exercise. “This person says he’s come to clean and repair the pictures,” he said.

“Well then, I suppose you had better show him to the picture gallery, hadn’t you?”

Perhaps, I decided, entertaining Mr. Fredericks was not without its benefits, if His Lordship always felt the need to make good the damages caused by his friend.