Keeping the Castle

7



RAIN, RAIN, RAIN, AND yet more rain. On the day after we sat in the sunlit garden with the Marquis, black clouds rolled in off the sea bringing a driving downpour. It rained and blew and then rained some more, for five nights and days. No one came to call. The plans that the Baron and I had made to organize a riding party had perforce to be put off until the weather improved. The ladies of Crooked Castle sat indoors for days in near darkness as wind and water beat against the castle walls, and Fido and Alexander chafed at their involuntary imprisonment. One morning when we awoke we found a small stream of water trickling down the hallway in the eastern wing where Mama and I slept.

We looked at each other and sighed. There could now be no doubt that there was a hole in the roof. I had spoken to the stone mason, and he had told me that a good slate roof such as ours could last for a long time. The damp spots I showed him might be due to a few missing slates, the repair of which would take an hour or two, no more. On the other hand, the entire framework beneath the slates might be rotten, calling for a time-consuming and, above all, expensive undertaking to replace it. In any case, we could not afford even the least costly repair.

“Do not fret yourself, Mama,” I said. “I will see to it.”

“But the money—”

“I will see to it.”

“Prudence and Charity would never—”

I smiled, and Mama fell silent.

We knew better than to ask Prudence and Charity to contribute any money towards the upkeep of this, their only home, though they could readily have afforded it. (I knew this for a fact, as I had taken care to read their last financial statement from London.) We had attempted to shame them into it before, with dismal results. A common saying in our part of the world is, “Eat all, drink all, and pay nowt”—in other words, we are not known for foolish generosity—and my stepsisters are true daughters of Yorkshire. Their position was that they were certain to marry some day, and it would be wrong to deny their future husbands and children even the smallest portion of the fortunes that had been left to them.

“Perhaps we may be blessed with large families, Stepmama,” Charity explained. “Then only think how we would regret squandering money that might have made provision for younger sons, or for daughters without the means or desire to marry. No, I am sorry, but it is not to be thought of.”

However, Mama knew that I had contrived to get money out of them before for some important repair or to augment our meager food budget. She did not always approve of the means I used, but had to admit that it was only fair that they pay some small part of their maintenance. Of course, every time I managed to squeeze a few coins out of them, we paid for it by having to listen to endless remarks about how lucky my mother was to have such open-handed, free-spending stepdaughters in her household.

I would be glad enough to agree with such sentiments if it meant that the roof over our heads would remain whole.

Their bedroom was on the leeward side of the castle, away from the wind and rain blowing in off the sea, which meant it was dry and secure and they were not affected by the leaky roof. It was necessary to arrange matters so that they would be affected, or they would never stir themselves in the matter.

It took me some hours searching in the least-inhabited rooms of the castle, as well as in several outbuildings where grain and foodstuffs were stored, to find what I required. I had to lock Fido into the pantry, and I feared that his howls and scratching at the woodwork would give away my plan, but it did not; my stepsisters were making a great noise on the old pianoforte and did not hear. Gently transporting my finds on cushions or old burlap sacks, I made several trips to the bedrooms in the same wing of the building where Prudence and Charity slept, with special attention to their chamber. Once I was satisfied with the west wing, I made certain arrangements to a bedroom on the eastern side.

Then I sat back and awaited developments.

At nightfall we retired to our several rooms and soon darkness and silence reigned over the castle. I lay awake with my door open, listening. I did not have long to wait. Shriek upon shriek split the night. I arose, pulled on a robe and lit my candle. Fido leapt to the floor and accompanied me. My mother, much perturbed by the disturbance, cried out to me as I passed her room, “Oh Althea, what dreadful thing can have happened?”

“I do not know. Remain in your room and I will ascertain what the trouble is. I do believe . . . why, yes, I believe the cries came from the west wing, where Prudence and Charity are.”

Not content to wait to hear what was causing the uproar, which was increasing in volume every moment that passed, my mother insisted on following me down the hall. As we came closer and the screams grew louder and more strident, the servants began to appear in the hallways, rubbing their eyes and yawning. I noted with interest that Greengages’s nightshirt was of a virulent green color, patterned with pink flowers. Could it have belonged to his deceased wife?

I found myself murmuring a paraphrase of some lines from Shakespeare, in tribute to this awe-inspiring din:



Methought I heard a voice cry “Sleep no more!

The Misses Winthrop do murder sleep,” the innocent sleep,

Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.



We paused in the doorway of Prudence and Charity’s bedroom, the servitors peeping over our shoulders.

“Charity, what are you doing? Prudence, it is Althea. Pray do not strike me with that broom.”

“Mice! Hordes of them!” Charity paused in beating at the floor and walls with a pillow in order to answer me. Fido began barking and then pounced at a small moving shape.

Prudence said, “Our pillows are infested with their nests! They creep between our sheets and swarm over the floor and up the draperies!”

“How remarkable!” I said. “I wonder why there should be such a sudden infestation. Fido, please be quiet. At any rate, you had best shift to another room to finish out the night. Perhaps . . . let me think . . . ah! This room at the end of the corridor—not too close to your old room, but in the same wing—I believe it has a large and relatively comfortable bed. May I assist you in moving?”

“No . . . no, we can manage, Althea,” said Prudence. “Please go away, all of you.”

“Are you certain?” I enquired. “I could bring your bedclothes, for instance. The bed coverings in the new room are sure to be cold and clammy.”

“Ugh, no!” cried Charity. “I never want to so much as look at those bedclothes again. Disgusting!”

“But perhaps Annie could bring you a bedwarmer? No? Very well, if you are sure.” Mama, Fido and I escorted them to their new domicile and, once they had inspected the bed for evidence of rodents and found none, we said goodnight and left them.

I did not lie down again. I feared it might take somewhat longer this time, and I preferred not to doze off. The nest of mice was under the wardrobe, in this room.

At least an hour must have passed before the screams began anew. This time they more resembled wails than squeals; my stepsisters were grown tired and petulant.

“More vermin?” I asked at the doorway to their new room.

“They are everywhere! All the rooms are teeming with them!”

“Not quite,” I said. “Mama and I have not been bothered in the east wing.”

Prudence turned a suspicious gaze on me. “Oh? Not at all? That seems strange.”

Charity, alerted by the tone of her sister’s voice, looked around at that, and they both regarded me with narrowed eyes and scowling faces.

“Indeed, it seems odd to me also,” I said. “I cannot think of an explanation—but wait! Perhaps I have it. Have you been eating, or storing, any food in your room?” Their hostile stares faltered, and they darted glances at one another out of the corners of their eyes.

“Oh, but what am I saying?” I went on, shaking my head at my own foolishness. “If you had bought any sweets or cakes or anything of that nature, you would have taken them to the kitchen, so that they could be served up to the entire household, rather than hiding them away. Forgive me for making such a suggestion. No, it must remain a mystery, I fear. However, there is a furnished room in our wing where you can sleep. Please allow me to show you.”

They followed me in sulky silence to the preordained chamber in the east wing.

This time Fido and I climbed into bed and closed our eyes in well-deserved slumber. We slept so heavily that we almost missed the third disruption of the night when a fresh squall blew in across the sea from Norway and, lying as they were on a bed positioned under the worst of the leak in the roof, they began to feel the rain dripping onto their heads. I believe I may have heard a scream or two, but I did not bother to rouse myself. Rather, I snuggled down in my bed, with a satisfied smile on my face and a sense of accomplishment in my heart.



It required several days of continued rain and marauding rodents before Prudence and Charity capitulated. When a fine cashmere shawl belonging to Prudence that had been left in their original bedchamber was found with holes chewed along the hem (I rather fancy that our maid, Annie, who had been encouraged to exaggerate the mouse problem, may have been involved), they demanded that something be done. Faced with our undeniable poverty, they had no option save to pay for that something themselves.

With much tsk-tsk-ing and fretful remarks about how we (my mother and I and, no doubt, my small brother and Fido as well) had allowed the castle to become so dilapidated that we had to rely on our too-trusting and too-easily-imposed-upon relations to keep it from falling into ruin, my stepsisters authorized the repairs and the extermination.

However, at last the rain was gone. The sun was come again, and so was the mason, to fix the roof this time. Happily, the repairs required proved to be minor rather than major. Also, a boy with a ferret was employed to clear out the infestation of mice. (I assisted in this latter task by removing the nests and their occupants to an unoccupied outbuilding.)

Mama was of course pleased, though surprised. “I can understand that they would wish to repair the roof, since they are now obliged to sleep in the leakiest bedroom, but it is a remarkable coincidence—” She looked at me and then down at her knitting, hiding a smile as she did so. “Never mind. Do not tell me. It is best I do not know.”

Dutiful and loving daughter that I am, I honored her request, and changed the subject.



Now the rains were over, Lord Boring came calling again, renewing his suggestion that we get up a riding party. I was delighted at the prospect, save for one or two minor matters. The Baron would know by now that my dowry was small and our income only just equal to our maintenance, but I did not wish him to know how very tightly our purse was drawn.

Firstly, my riding habit was in tatters. And, while I was reasonably handy with my needle, ladies’ riding habits were, like gentlemen’s clothing, cut and sewn by skilled tailors. The expense of a professionally tailored riding jacket, let alone a smart hat to match, was not to be thought of. I began picking through our store of old linens and outgrown clothing, looking for something I could turn into a respectable piece of ladies’ attire.

At last I came upon several suits of my father’s, now very outdated in appearance. I was meditating upon the possibility of adapting them for Alexander’s use someday, when an idea, full-formed, darted into my brain.

I have said that ladies’ riding coats and jackets were traditionally tailored; they also were decidedly masculine in appearance, so that only a long skirt and sidesaddle posture gave away the sex of the rider from a distance. Even the hats of fashionable ladies on horseback were inspired by military style.

When he was only sixteen my father had purchased a lieutenancy in the infantry in hopes of restoring his family fortune. These hopes ended at my grandfather’s death, when my father was called home to manage the estate.

Here was a well-made, barely used uniform of an infantry lieutenant, the coat a brilliant red with shiny brass buttons, epaulettes, and a stand-up collar. The regulation hat was a shako, a handsome cylindrical affair with a visor and jaunty plumes.

Did I dare?

It was too large for me, of course, even tho’ made for a boy of sixteen. However, if I carefully unpicked the seams, could I not take it in so it would fit? I decided that I could. I removed the white silk sash and several other insignia which too clearly indicated its provenance and began work. With a few hours’ work, I had a close-fitting scarlet coatee that handsomely set off my black muslin skirt. (A white skirt might have seemed to mimic the official uniform a little too closely.) True, it was unusual for a woman to wear a coat of such a brilliant hue, but no one could deny that it was striking.

The hat was likewise a triumph. Once stripped of its gold cording and metal badge of rank, and then swaddled with a filmy black scarf, it became a very fashionable ladies’ hat indeed. The feathers had been nibbled by moths, but a quick trim restored them. The only problem with the hat was that it was a bit large. I stuffed it with rags until it sat steady.

My attire for the outing now settled, I turned my attention to my second concern: my horse. She was an elderly mare who had to be coaxed up the smallest hill and suffered from severe vertigo on a rise of only a few feet. I dared not ride her near the cliffs. Once in recent months I had tried it; at first sight of the abyss she froze, her eyes grew large as saucers and in her terror she nearly plunged us both to our deaths. It would not do, not for her sake and not for mine.

The only way I could think of to obscure the fact that we could not afford a good ladies’ riding horse for Mama and me was to pretend that my mare had been purchased for me as being extremely gentle. Actually she had only been extremely cheap, though she was a dear, good creature, named Pegeen. I was able to afford her maintenance largely due to the kindness of Sir Quentin, who regularly directed his farrier to attend to her, and incidentally sent along several bales of feed.

“Can’t bear to see a horse badly shod,” was his explanation.

I loved to ride—it was my passion—but I would have to behave like a nervous little miss too frightened to be mounted on anything more spirited than a child’s hobby-horse.

This was injurious to my pride, but I decided that it was for the best, at least for the moment. I could—could I not?—appear to gradually become more adventurous on horseback, so that by the wedding I would be so much at ease that His Lordship could give me a strong-willed Arabian stallion for the groom’s gift to the bride. I closed my eyes and imagined myself galloping at a breakneck speed o’er hill and dale with the Baron at my side. However, if he was like most men, he would reserve the fiery stallion for himself and present me with a docile, younger version of Pegeen. Ah well, that was for the future.

I therefore decided that we would ride inland towards a group of megaliths arranged in a rough circle, known locally as “the Screaming Stones” because of the noise the wind made rushing between them. As standing stones went, they were not large or notable, but they were undeniably old, and might, by their extreme antiquity, provide a subject for reflection and conversation on the part of the more sensible members of the party and a certain amount of superstitious nonsense on the part of whichever of my stepsisters gained the right to accompany us.

Only one would be able to do so. My stepsisters had their own horse, shared between them. They would not on any account lend the animal so that Mama and I could ride together, or for any general purposes of the household, and would only allow it to be hitched to our chaise when they wished to be conveyed somewhere, such as on the night of the ball. Neither enjoyed riding much—the horse was for show and spent the vast majority of its life idle, eating its head off and growing stout—and so there was no reason to bear the expense of two when one was rarely used.

Once it occurred to Charity that she and Prudence would therefore not both be able to join the party, she proposed that we use the chaise.

“Then, you know, we could all go. It would be shocking to leave poor Mama Winthrop home,” she said. As the younger of the two Winthrop daughters, she would be the one obliged to give way to her elder sister.

I shook my head. I, too, thought it would be a shame to leave my mother at home. But taking the chaise was not to be thought of. “The roads are far too bad. You know quite well that the last few miles of the way are nothing more than a track fit only for walking or riding. Of course, if you wished to take the chaise, leave it at Allingham, and let Mama and me have the horses, while you and Prudence walked the rest of the way, it would certainly be very thoughtful and kind of y—”

“Certainly not!” “No, indeed!” cried Prudence and Charity.

Charity eyed me resentfully. At length she burst out, “I do not know why I should have to stay at home if Althea is to go. She is the youngest, after all. You ought to let me ride your horse, Althea. It’s only right.”

“Now, Charity,” interposed my mother hastily, “I am sorry for your disappointment, but you know I will be grateful to have your company.”

“She ought to stay at home. She is the youngest. I want her to lend me her horse.” And Charity almost, but did not quite, stamp her foot.

“Charity, dear,” said my mother, “Pegeen was purchased with funds from Althea’s father’s estate. He especially wished it—he even spoke of it on his deathbed—as Althea is so fond of riding. And you know that you have always been indifferent to the exercise. Pegeen is Althea’s horse. Indeed, I am told that she leaves almost nothing for the stable boy to do, so far as caring for the animal.”

“Perhaps, Charity,” chimed in Prudence, “while we are disporting ourselves on the moors, you could get on with counting our lace handkerchiefs and other items of dress, before we send them out to the laundress? You have such an exquisite eye for detail.”

Charity’s face turned red and seemed to swell.

I had remained silent, but now I had to speak. The proper thing for me to do would be to offer my horse to her and remain at home. But I could not bear it. Charity and Prudence were both dreadful horsewomen, quick with the whip and heedless of the horse’s comfort or safety. And the entire party had been a scheme of the Baron’s so that I could show him the countryside.

“Charity—” I began, but at this tense moment Greengages shuffled into the room. “Mr. Fredericks, madam.”

In strode Mr. Fredericks, the image of impatience. He nearly toppled poor Greengages onto the floor in his haste to enter, execute his business, and leave.

“Will two horses suffice, Mrs. Winthrop? If so, I will leave you. I’ve the devil of a lot of work to get through if I am to frivol away tomorrow chasing about after a collection of rocks in a circle. However, Boring insists that I attend.”

“Mr. Fredericks, how do you do?” said my bewildered mama. “Which horses do you mean, sir?”

“Why, the ones that you, and one of your daughters, I suppose”—he looked about at us as though uncertain of which sex we were—“are to ride on the morrow. I am told you have not enough horseflesh to ensure that everyone will be able to ride. Boring thought we ought to send a few over on loan.”

I could feel a flush of gratification rising to my cheeks. This was a marked attention, without mistake. He must have meant this to give me pleasure, and it was a thoughtful, generous gesture. True, I could have wished His Lordship had come to offer the horses himself instead of allowing his boorish friend to deliver them. However, perhaps he felt too self-conscious to appear in person.

I smiled and said nothing as my mother, with a swift glance at me, agreed that two horses would be adequate. Mr. Fredericks declined to sit down or accept refreshment and was gone, having been in the room for something less than five minutes.

“Never mind, Althea,” said Charity. “I had much, much rather ride the Baron’s horse than your poor old thing.”

Since I too had much, much rather she ride the Baron’s horse than my poor old thing, I said nothing but merely smiled.