Island of Bones

II.4

Mrs Briggs’s garden party was always an event. But this year’s in particular provided much conversation for the gentry of Cumberland in the months that followed. It was the lost Lord Keswick, Mr Gabriel Crowther, who attracted most attention during the party itself, though Mrs Westerman was also narrowly observed by each matron and frankly admired by many of the younger men. Mrs Briggs was as pleasant as ever, the Vizegrafin considered to be rather high-handed, and Felix, until the unfortunate events of the latter part of the afternoon unfolded, was said to have set the hearts of many a young woman beating at an unnatural pace.

Mrs Briggs was acknowledged an excellent hostess by her friends and neighbours, and it was agreed she had surpassed herself this afternoon. Shades had been set out at convenient intervals all about the lawns so as to provide some shelter from the heat. Ices were served on the upper parts of the lawn, and by the lake her guests could watch the gentlemen who were so inclined shoot arrows across the width of the grass, then compete for a silver arrow that had been commissioned in London for the occasion.

Harriet allowed herself to be handed about by her hostess for as long as she could bear it, and paused to watch the archery competition. There were a surprising number of competitors and she was impressed by the quality of the shooting. The prize was taken by a lawyer’s son visiting relatives in Ambleside. He was delighted, but several gentlemen had cause to be sorry at his success. The betting had heavily favoured Felix after the practise sessions, but when the competition was opened he seemed to have been cursed, since his shots were barely competent. He was heard to complain, and the gentlemen were embarrassed at having put any faith in him.

Harriet continued to shake hands, but after the fifth time she had heard herself referred to as ‘original’, she pleaded exhaustion in the heat and retreated to the most shaded part of the lawn, from where she hoped to see Crowther being pursued by the curious for a change, and watch him swat them away like biting flies.

As soon as she seated herself, however, she found she was not to be alone after all. There was a stir in the shadows and a woman appeared, of early middle age and dressed neatly in grey with a bonnet that cast a further shadow over her face, so that her features were almost invisible to Harriet’s heated eyes.

‘Mrs Westerman!’ The lady offered her hand. ‘I am Katherine Scales. My father is the vicar of Crosthwaite. I am delighted to meet you.’

Harriet took the hand offered and gathered her strength for the proper niceties.

‘Now please, Mrs Westerman, I saw the expression on your face as you sat down. You are worn out with meeting people, I am sure. Do make yourself comfortable and we shall watch the party together. Or rather I shall chatter, and you need do no more than pretend to listen.’ Harriet thanked her. ‘I would be a monster to say anything else, but I am glad to meet you, Mrs Westerman! It is like becoming acquainted with a character from a novel. My father loves to hear me read in the evenings, and sometimes encourages me to read from the newspapers as well as from Mr Clarke’s Sermons, so we have heard all about your cleverness and bravery.’

Such speeches normally made Harriet nervous, but it was all spoken with such comfortable warmth she could not help thinking the lady sincere.

‘They write a great deal of nonsense,’ she replied politely, ‘but if they have managed to create a good opinion of me, I shall hold my tongue.’ Her eyes were now adapting themselves to the relative gloom, and she saw she had been correct in thinking Miss Scales was some years over forty. In her figure and features there was much to admire, but the skin on her face and hands was badly marked with the pitted scars of smallpox, and one of her eye-sockets was apparently empty, judging by the way the lid fell over it. She reminded Harriet of a statue of some ancient god found among the rubble of its former temple. The disease had chipped away at her and left her face a ruined memory of itself.

‘Now let me take advantage of meeting a stranger to say all sorts of cutting things about my neighbours, Mrs Westerman.’ Miss Scales folded her hands in her lap. ‘As the daughter of a clergyman I have to be terribly understanding about everybody most of the time, so it would be a great release to me.’

Miss Scales was an amusing guide to Mrs Briggs’s neighbours, but even having claimed the freedom to say what she wished, she said little that was not generous in spirit and humour. Miss Scales had apparently not been driven into solitude by her disfigurement. It became clear while she chattered and Harriet rested that she kept house for her father, went among his parishioners every day, seemed quite happy in the company she found and was confident of her usefulness.

Harriet was still listening to Miss Scales when her son approached and silently climbed into her lap. He was bored, she supposed, or had been eating too many ices. Mr Quince had been shooting arrows with the other men, and she had no doubt that, unsupervised, Stephen would have charmed more rich food than was good for him out of the servants. After a few moments Harriet realised he was staring at the scars on Miss Scales’s hands and hoped the lady did not mark it. Having finished her description of last year’s regatta, however, Miss Scales turned to the boy at her side.

‘You are looking at my hands, Mr Stephen. And so you might, for they are funny-looking things, are they not?’

Stephen nodded. ‘Why are they like that, ma’am?’

‘I had small-pox when I was a young girl.’ She pointed to her dead eye. ‘It cost me this too, you see. But I am thankful. I lived, and whatever other sin I commit, at least I shall never be vain. Think of all those ladies who must suffer so when they lose their looks with age. I shall never be any uglier than I am now, even if I live to be ninety! But I lost far more than what you see. My mother and sister were taken to God by the illness, and I miss them still every day.’

Stephen looked up at her with his clear brown eyes. ‘I think you look kind. And you must be very strong, ma’am, to have lived.’

Harriet saw a flush touch Miss Scales’s face and was proud of her child.

‘I like you almost as much as I do your mother. She has let me clear out my lungs for the last ten minutes and had the courtesy to look amused the whole time. I was saved, my boy.’

‘You are not sad then, ma’am?’

‘No, bless you. Well, perhaps a little when I see a lady as pretty as your mama, but I have the love of my father and my friends, and of God Himself so I am thankful for every day.’

‘Did Mr Casper come and see you when you were sick? He visits sick people, does he not?’ Stephen asked.

‘Casper was very young himself at that time. It was his father, Ruben Grace, who was the cunning-man in those days, though Ruben did service as a steward in this house for many years too, and owned the Black Pig Inn in Portinscale in later times.’ She frowned and lifted her hand to her face. ‘I think I do remember them coming to see me though, Casper and Ruben. Must have been a hard way for the lad to learn his father’s trade. They visited every house where the sickness was, bless them for their kindness, and there were many that year, but I was so ill I hardly know what I saw and what I dreamed.’

Harriet shifted to face them. ‘He brought his son with him? I cannot imagine taking Stephen into a house where the sickness was.’

Miss Scales smiled sadly. ‘They were stuck close together, Mrs Westerman. Ruben had lost his wife some years before and clung to the boy, though he had sent his daughter to live with her aunt. Now what was her name? She was thought of as a troublemaker in the village, though I’m sure she was just injured by the way her father cast her off, and the aunt was never a kind woman. .’ She lifted her hand to the sky, then gave it a sudden flourish. ‘Jocasta! That was it — married a man called Bligh over in Kendal, then we all lost sight of her.’

Harriet smiled widely. ‘Jocasta Bligh! We know her! She lives in London now. I had every intention of making enquiries after her family, but the matter slipped my mind until now. So she is the sister of the famous Casper Grace.’

Miss Scales tilted her head to Harriet. ‘You know her? How remarkable! How came you to be acquainted?’

Harriet’s face clouded. ‘It was in eighty-one.’ She then continued after a moment of silence, ‘As it happens, I hope to hear from her shortly — and Stephen, would you not like to give your new friend news of his sister?’

‘I am sure he would like that. I can tell him of her patchwork skirts and her dog, and Sam.’ Stephen scratched his leg, and when Harriet put her hand over his, he looked a little guilty.

‘Why was she thought of as a troublemaker, Miss Scales?’ Harriet asked. ‘She seemed a good enough woman to me.’

Miss Scales tried to recall. ‘She had some trouble in our little school, I think. Ruben was a reading man, had to be, to rise to the position of steward to Silverside, but Jocasta never got the way of it, and was beaten for it. How does she manage now?’

‘She reads fortunes,’ Stephen declared, never happier than when instructing someone, ‘and helps catch spies.’

Harriet was afraid this might lead to more questions than she cared to answer, so decided to steer the conversation another way.

‘What does your father think of such traditions, Miss Scales? Here is Stephen, brimful with tales of witches and cunning-men.’

Miss Scales grinned. ‘There are enough such stories to fill us all up! Have you heard that the last Lord Greta is said to walk the hills in hard times? And you will find a dozen households that put out bowls of milk and oats for the dobbies, and there are stories of bogles and devils in every village. I ask the people why they believe, and they say the butter is churning and the milk is gone in the morning, so why should they not believe the dobbie has had his feed and blessed them with his aid? For myself, I think butter churning is all in the wrist, and it’s foxes and hedgehogs that drink the milk. As to my father, he tries at least once a month to tell them there are no such things as witches, and he and his parishioners all walk away from the church, each thinking the other foolish and hoping for their enlightenment. Then all agree to say no more about it and carry on just as before. I say let them hear the word of Christ and love Him, and I’m sure the Lord will forgive a few shreds of the pagan hanging on the souls of such good Christian people. And they are good people here. Certainly there are some that take more than they give, but my father says he is blessed by his flock and I agree with him.’

Harriet was surprised. It seemed entirely foreign to her that in her own country there should still be so many who clung to the old ways. She wondered if there was something unusual about this place, or if her own father’s parishioners had held similar beliefs. Her father had been blessed with a firm faith, but he had seen lively debate on matters theological as part of his Christian duty. He confessed his own doubts and confusions honestly and sought through conversation with his wife and daughters and his own careful reading to understand and overcome them. He had felt his efforts to come to a deeper understanding of the Christian message to be part of the same project for the enlightenment of the nation that the natural philosophers continued in their laboratories, or the anatomists in their lecture theatres. Harriet’s father, Mr Trench had believed there was no danger in knowledge, and all enquiry could only lead in the end to a deeper love of God and His works. Harriet could not recall, however, a single occasion where the subject of witchcraft had been mentioned in their home, other than as an historical oddity. Yet here such things blossomed like moss on her lawns at Caveley, and not all the raking and seeding of Church and State could pull it out. However far we come, she found herself thinking, we are at times still all animals huddled round the firelight fearing what moves in the dark.

Stephen was asking Miss Scales about Casper.

‘Whenever I see a picture of the Green Man, I think of Casper,’ she said. ‘It is his beard, I suppose, but also he has that light in his eyes and that thirst for the spaces and hills. He seems part of them to me.’

‘Witches talk to him, Miriam told me,’ Stephen said.

‘Certainly someone does,’ Katherine said a little sadly. ‘I have seen it. He’ll look fierce, or sometimes you are speaking to him and suddenly it appears he can hardly hear you. Sometimes they are kind and sometimes cruel to him, I think. There have been periods when he has disappeared into the hills for weeks on end, and come back very weak. I am sure it is they that drive him to distraction at those times. It leaves him a little strange, but he is a good man and I think he knows what can harm and heal in these hills.’

‘When did they begin to talk to him?’ Harriet shifted her son’s weight, and hoped her dress would not become too badly crushed.

‘Soon after his father died, I believe. It was 1754. Ruben was taken in the same illness that took my mother and sister and left me as you see me now. Poor Casper was still very young.’

Stephen looked concerned. ‘I hope they shall not start talking to me.’

Harriet wondered what she might say to reassure him, but Miss Scales was already patting his hand. ‘Do not trouble yourself, young man. Not every boy who loses a father is haunted in such a way.’ Miss Scales lifted her face and Harriet followed her gaze to where Crowther was standing on the lawn with Mr Askew. He looked severe.

It was at that same moment that Harriet became aware of a disturbance coming from where the lower lawns reached the lakeshore. She saw heads turning, the ladies covering their mouths then huddling together. Gently shifting Stephen from her lap, she stood. At the foot of the little wooden jetty she saw Felix, shoulders hunched, standing with an older man she did not recognise. He appeared to be shouting at Felix. To their left, a pair of younger men were helping a third man, soaked to the skin, out of the water. The third man was Mr Quince.

‘Stephen, stay here with Miss Scales, please.’ And when he looked as if he might be about to protest, she repeated, ‘Stay here,’ and before he could argue she began to walk briskly between the groups of staring guests, reaching the little group just as her son’s tutor managed to set foot on shore again.

Mr Quince was in a sorry state. He had lost one of his shoes, his hair was flattened to his pink face, and his pale coat was dirty, and clinging to him. He was gasping a little and his chin wobbled. He sat down on the bank and began to shiver, wrapping his arms around his thick waist and keeping his back to the staring crowd.

Harriet came to a halt by him. ‘Are you injured, Mr Quince?’

He looked up quickly and saw her. ‘No, I thank you, Mrs Westerman.’

‘What happened here?’ she asked.

An older gentleman stepped forward and pointed at Felix. ‘He pushed him in!’ He spoke with emphasis and passion enough to fill a theatre. ‘I saw it all. That gentleman,’ he indicated the unfortunate Mr Quince, ‘joined him on the jetty. They exchanged a few words. He bowed and turned away, then this damned boy pushed him in — just like that! I have never seen such a thing.’

The head-shaking and murmuring that followed this statement flowed up the lawn in ripples. The fierce gentleman’s words were being repeated and exclaimed at, all the way to the house.

Harriet glanced down at her shivering employee. He looked utterly miserable and she felt her palms itching to slap Felix’s face. ‘Felix?’

Before he could lift his eyes, they were interrupted by the trill of the Vizegrafin as she came down towards them almost at a run. Mrs Briggs followed behind her with a towel over her arm.

‘It was an accident! A silly accident. No doubt Mr Quince slipped. A narrow jetty for a big man.’

The witnesses’ looks were speaking. Mrs Briggs said nothing, but laid the towel around Mr Quince’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. He turned his blotched red face towards Felix with a look of loathing. ‘I did not slip.’

‘Wasn’t it, Felix, dear? An accident?’ The Vizegrafin put her hand on her son’s arm and smiled at the world in general, but Harriet noticed her fingers tightening round his wrist. Felix seemed to shake himself awake.

‘Naturally. I am so terribly sorry. It was I that lost my footing and stumbled against him. Please accept my apologies, Mr Quince. Unforgivably clumsy of me.’

He stepped forward and put out his hand. Mr Quince looked at it but made no move. Harriet was keenly aware of the total silence around them and the fixed attention of Mrs Briggs’s guests.

‘Mr Quince?’ she said, very softly and not moving her head. Mr Quince took Felix’s hand and shook it without a word. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Quince glanced at her, water still dripping from his hair onto the towel round his shoulders, then allowed himself to be shepherded by Mrs Briggs up the slope. The groups of people made way for him as he hobbled past, and stared, then as he passed began to whisper.

Felix watched his progress up the lawn, a slight smile on his lips, then turned to Harriet. ‘I am sorry your son’s tutor got a drenching, Mrs Westerman. These larger fellows can be rather unsteady on their feet.’

The Vizegrafin fluttered her eyelashes. ‘True, Felix, very true.’

Harriet moved away from them both without a word and followed Mr Quince up the lawn. Had Crowther renewed his offer to horsewhip Felix at this moment, she would have taken him up on it with delight.