The Misbegotten

1805

Jonathan and Alice wrote to each other constantly, each letter begun as soon as the one before had been received and devoured, so that missives passed between them like a lungful of air, breathed in and then out, tirelessly. Whenever the letter carrier called with something, Alice rushed to be the first person whose fingers touched the envelope; as if some vital essence of Jonathan might linger on it, and pass to her through her skin. Then she stole away to find some private place in which to read – in her room, or tucked into the window seat in the back parlour, or in the barn – with perfect concentration on her face, and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, ebbing and flowing according to the contents of the letter. Each letter was read twice, three times, even four. Then Alice would place it carefully in a polished rosewood box, and sit down with paper and pen to begin her reply.

More than once, Starling opened the rosewood box and tried to read one of the letters. She knew she shouldn’t, but that didn’t make the temptation any easier to resist. Her reading was coming along, under Alice’s tuition, but still she could only make out one or two words of Jonathan’s impossible writing, with its curls and flourishes and slanting loops. It was as though he’d designed it deliberately so that none but Alice could read it. And of course she never saw what Alice wrote to him in response. When she asked, Alice would say something like: I’m telling him about how well you are doing in your lessons, and how much of a help you are to Bridget. And about the owls nesting in the old tree, and to ask when he and his grandfather will next visit us. Then she’d give a nod and a smile, as if to say there, be satisfied. Starling chafed to know what else she wrote. The scant words she could pick from Jonathan’s script were usually dull things like clement, mother, city and season; only occasionally did she see more exciting things, like cherish, captive, and adore.

Starling always knew when Alice was keeping secrets – it wasn’t difficult to tell, because Alice wasn’t very good at keeping them. Not that she divulged them, unless they were silly and minor, and hers to divulge: a cake they were to have for tea, or some small present she’d bought for Starling, which was meant to be saved for the day they’d chosen as her birthday but would always be handed over sooner. When she had a secret that was not hers, or was important, she kept it, but the strain of doing so wrote itself all over her face. A tiny line appeared between her brows, and a distracted look in her eyes, as though what she could not tell ran constantly before them. Her lower lip stayed open, away from the upper; ever ready to speak. So she was for five days after one letter from Jonathan came, and Starling ached to know what she knew. Then, on a cool and breezy day, Alice wandered into the kitchen with studied calm, carrying a cloth-bound book of poems and her shawl. She went to stand by the window, and Starling, who was helping Bridget rub salt into a joint of bacon, noticed how high and tense her shoulders were. Eventually, Alice turned to them with an air of tremendous nonchalance.

‘I think I might take Starling on a walk into Bathampton today. The weather seems set fair,’ she said.

Bridget looked out at the skirling clouds and wind-bent trees, and pursed her lips doubtfully.

‘If it’s fresh air you want, you could go and see if there are any goosegogs ready for picking yet,’ she said.

‘Oh, there aren’t. I checked them earlier,’ Alice replied hurriedly. ‘You’d like a trip into the village, wouldn’t you, Starling?’ She was slightly breathless, her voice a little high.

‘Oh, yes. Can I, Bridget?’

‘What about this bacon, then?’

‘It’s almost done… leave it and I’ll be sure to finish it later. Please?’

‘Go on then, the pair of you. Never mind leaving me with all the work,’ said Bridget. Starling jumped down from the stool she was standing on, and untied her apron.

‘Run and get your hat, my chuck.’ Alice’s smile was irrepressible.

The farmhouse sat on the wide strip of land that lay between the river and the newly made canal that linked the River Kennet in the east to the River Avon at Bath. The Avon, wide and fast-flowing, passed to the north of the house; and to the south, a path led to a hump-backed bridge across the canal and then straight on to the high street. But that day, Alice stepped onto the gravelled towpath beside the canal instead.

‘Let’s go this way today,’ she said brightly. Turning west would have taken them the two miles into Bath; turning east led them along the southern edge of Bathampton. The wind bowled along the canal’s flat surface, pulling and puckering it; it made their skirts and the ribbons on their hats flutter. As they dodged piles of dung left by the barge horses, Starling was still fascinated to see water in the canal. For a long time it had been a muddied trench where teams of navvies had hacked and worked to shore up the earth, reinforcing the scar they cut so that it would not heal again in their wake. Now boats and barges were free to travel along it, moving cargos with far greater ease and economy than by road. The water had been glassy and clear for a month after the canal was filled. Now it was as green and cloudy as watercress soup, and it had a dank, clammy smell, like rain and rotting leaves.

A third of a mile or so along the towpath, a large inn called the George sat beside the canal, and another bridge crossed the water, linking Bathampton to a lane that went to Batheaston, on the north bank of the river. Alice stopped at the foot of this second bridge, and looked around.

‘Shan’t we go on into the village?’ said Starling, confused.

‘In a while. Or perhaps we could go into the inn, today? And have something to eat?’ Starling was always hungry and nodded at once, but Alice was looking along the lane towards Batheaston, her face lively with expectation. The hand that held Starling’s held it tightly. For a while nothing happened, and Starling watched a barge approach and slide by, its cargo hidden under sheets of canvas. The bargeman clucked his tongue at the horse when it baulked at the shadows beneath the bridge. He was weather-beaten and lean, and had a pipe clamped between teeth the colour of mahogany.

‘Where are you going?’ Starling called to him, shy but fascinated. He squinted his eyes at her and took his pipe into his hand.

‘I’m for Newbury, bantling,’ he said.

‘How long will it take you?’ Starling disengaged her hand from Alice’s to trot along the towpath behind the horse.

‘Four days, maybe somewhat less – don’t run up the rear of that horse or he’ll kick you skywards. Depends on the number already waiting at Foxhangers.’

‘Where’s that? Why should people wait?’

‘You’ve a good many questions, chickabiddy. There’s a great big hill, this side o’ Devizes. They’ve not yet fathomed how to make the canal climb it. We’ve to unload everything and take it up by rail wagon before we can go on along the water once more.’ By this time Starling had followed the barge a goodly way from the bridge, so she stopped, and he soon drew ahead.

‘How should water climb a hill?’ she called after him, but the bargeman just gave her a wave, and turned his back.

She picked a few handfuls of forget-me-nots as she walked back to Alice, who hadn’t seemed to notice her absence. A moment later, her arm shot out and grabbed at Starling for support.

‘Oh! Look!’ Alice gasped, staring along the lane. ‘Look, Starling – Mr Alleyn has come!’ Starling followed her gaze, and saw, far off, a gentleman who might have been Mr Alleyn, on a grey horse.

‘Is it him? He isn’t due to visit,’ she said, puzzled. She took hold of Alice’s arm where it grasped at her. Through the skin of her wrist, Starling felt the older girl’s pulse racing and stumbling along. Alarmed, she tugged to get Alice’s attention. ‘Be calm, Alice. Please, be calm,’ she murmured. Alice smiled down at her, and took a deep breath.

‘I’m quite well, dearest.’ But Starling had seen what happened sometimes, when Alice’s heart stuttered like that – had seen her turn pale as milk, and sway on her feet; had seen her faint dead away on three occasions, fits which left her weak and dizzy for days afterwards, and confined her to bed. Miss Alice’s heart is a fragile thing, Bridget told Starling, in serious tones. Do all you can to keep it easy. ‘Look – see! It is Mr Alleyn.’ Starling looked again, and as the figure drew nearer she could clearly recognise Jonathan Alleyn, riding alone.

When Jonathan saw them waiting he urged his horse into a trot, and dismounted in a graceless rush to stand so close to Alice that if either one had moved they would have touched. Neither spoke, and Starling watched in astonishment until Jonathan finally seemed to recover himself, took a step backwards and brought Alice’s fingers to his lips. There was colour high on his slanting cheekbones, and he smiled as though he couldn’t prevent it.

‘Miss Beckwith, how fortunate to chance across you like this.’ Starling wondered who the performance was for, since she knew at once that this meeting was the secret Alice had been keeping. ‘And Starling – how tall you are growing! Why, you’re near to Miss Beckwith’s shoulder now.’

‘Bridget says I’ll be as tall as her within a year, at this rate,’ Starling told him proudly. ‘How came you here, Mr Alleyn? Were you coming to call at the farmhouse?’

‘Well… I had some business in Batheaston, so I happened to be passing and I thought I would call in… but now I find you here, perhaps we could go into the inn for a while?’ he said, as if only then thinking of it. Starling smiled. One did not pass Bathampton on the road from Box to Batheaston.

‘By chance, we had just decided the same thing,’ she said.

‘Come then,’ said Jonathan. Alice was still breathless, and Starling kept tight hold of her hand as they went towards the door.

The George Inn occupied an ancient stone building, huddled and hoary, with tiny leaded windows and cracked chimney pots. It had many chambers inside, all with flagged stone floors worn into sagging curves, and soot-stained walls under low, oppressive ceilings. Jonathan led them to a bench away from any windows, near a hearth that had been swept clean for the coming summer. The other customers in the place were gentleman farmers talking business, travellers on their way into Bath and a few bargemen, who were rougher and poorly dressed. Loud, bawdy laughter broke out nearby, and Jonathan frowned.

‘I wonder if this is indeed the right place for you, Miss Beckwith,’ he said, but she only laughed.

‘I’m not as sensitive as you think me, Mr Alleyn. I like it here. Starling and I have come here before now, and with Bridget sometimes, on holidays.’

‘I ate devilled kidneys here last time, but I didn’t like them at all,’ Starling added.

‘Well, then. We shall be quite comfortable here for a time.’ Jonathan smiled. They ordered some beer, and a plate of lamb chops to share, and Starling sat, a little bored, as the two of them talked.

They talked of Jonathan’s family, and of his home, which was a grand manor house at Box, further to the west. He lived with his mother and his grandfather, since his own father had died when he was very young. They talked of his schooling, and his desire to buy an officer’s commission into the army, which made Alice’s eyes glow with fearful admiration, that he might put himself in harm’s way. ‘My mother is not enamoured with the idea. She would rather I went into the navy, where there are better prospects for promotion and wealth…’

‘But you do not wish it?’ said Alice.

‘I… I am quite ashamed to say it, but the sea makes me terribly ill. The few times I have gone aboard a boat have made me quite sure I never wish to again, if I can help it. Much less commit myself to a career upon it!’

‘But you would follow in the very footsteps of Lord Nelson – he also suffers, I have read. And I’ve heard that such illnesses can pass, once a person becomes accustomed.’

‘So they tell me. But if they are wrong, and I am doomed to feel that wretched every time we set sail – oh, Alice, the very thought makes me quail!’ he said, with a rueful laugh. Starling goggled at him in outrage, but neither one of them seemed to notice that he’d used Alice’s Christian name in a public place. ‘I mean to enrol at Le Marchant’s college at Marlow, and become a cavalry officer.’

‘Marlow? But… it is so far away…’ Alice said quietly.

‘I shall visit home very often, I promise. Very often.’ He spoke earnestly, and for a long moment their eyes stayed locked together, and some unspoken message passed between them that Starling could not read. ‘I mean to… I mean to visit Miss Fallonbrooke, before I go,’ Jonathan said softly. Alice’s eyes grew wide.

‘Who’s Miss Fallonbrooke?’ asked Starling, but they both ignored her. She folded her arms crossly and kicked at the table leg, but they ignored that too.

‘Oh?’ said Alice, and it was more of a breath than a word.

‘I wrote to her…’

‘You wrote to her?’ Alice’s face fell.

‘Only to ask for a meeting, Alice. Only for that. And I made it plain that… that is, in my tone, I sought to convey…’ He broke off, frustrated. ‘I mean to speak to her… of freeing ourselves from the intentions our parents have imposed upon us. I have reason to believe that she finds them as… onerous as I do.’

‘What reasons, Mr Alleyn?’ Alice looked as though she was suffering under some tension she could hardly stand.

‘I had word that… she, too, loves another,’ said Jonathan, gazing at Alice in supplication. For a second, Alice radiated a simple, uncomplicated joy. But then her face clouded again.

‘I shall be nineteen at my next birthday,’ she murmured, sounding inexplicably sad. ‘I pray that the visit… is a success. I pray that what you heard is right, for only she can release you. Only that way can you conduct yourself as a gentleman should.’ Jonathan looked distraught, so Starling fidgeted, kicking her legs some more, and chipped in:

‘How old are you, Mr Alleyn?’

‘I am not quite eighteen, Miss Starling. But I will be soon,’ he said, turning to her, looking relieved at the interruption.

‘I shall be nine very soon. We think.’

‘Nine! No wonder you’re as tall as an elm. And far too big to be frightened of ghosts, I am sure.’

‘Ghosts? What ghosts?’

‘This building was a monastery, in ancient times. Before old King Henry ordered them to disband. I have heard tell that the ghosts of the monks who once lived here still walk the halls and passageways.’

‘In truth, Mr Alleyn?’ Starling was agog.

‘In truth. In fact, I believe I saw one not a minute ago, peering over your shoulder to see if you’d left a lamb chop for him.’ Jonathan smiled, and Starling gasped, craning her head about to check for spectral monks.

‘You mustn’t tease her so!’ Alice admonished, laughing.

‘If a ghost monk sneaks up on me, Alice, can I throw something at him?’

‘Indeed you may, dearest. Be on your guard,’ said Alice, fondly.

When they parted, an hour or so later, Alice waited by the bridge until Mr Alleyn had ridden right out of sight. She watched forlornly, with her arms folded; and when at last he vanished, she sighed.

‘Come then, Starling. Let’s go back and see how Bridget is getting on.’

‘Aren’t we going into Bathampton at all, then?’ Starling was disappointed.

‘Well, we’ve been gone a good long while already… perhaps she might wonder where we are.’

‘And how surprised she’ll be when we tell her Mr Alleyn came riding and found us!’ said Starling. She said it deliberately, to find out what she should and should not say to Bridget, who was somehow both Alice’s servant and her mistress. Part of her knew that she had only been invited along to make it decent for Jonathan and Alice to have lunch together. She was at once proud of this important role, and also had the nagging feeling that something might be owing to her for it. Alice paused.

‘Perhaps she would not like to hear it. Perhaps she would be cross that we did not bring him to the farmhouse, where she could see him too,’ she said. Starling thought for a moment.

‘If we walked back along the high street instead of the canal, we might find something to take her, so she won’t feel so left out. And so she’ll know we’ve been busy, all this time,’ she suggested. Alice gave her a look that was half disapproving, half grateful.

‘A small present for her, to make up for us leaving her alone today,’ Alice agreed.

So they crossed the bridge and walked the length of Bathampton, and bought a handkerchief stitched with poppies and wheat sheaves from a huckster, which seemed to please Bridget well enough. And while Alice was too bright and nervy, and flew her anxiety like a pennant for the first few hours they were back, Starling found she had no such trouble with keeping a secret. She turned the memory of their visit from Jonathan over and over, like a precious stone in her pocket, and found that not telling Bridget was almost as much fun as the visit itself had been.

‘Who is Miss Fallonbrooke?’ she asked again, as Alice tucked her into her blankets that night.

‘Beatrice Fallonbrooke is just a girl who has never done anything to harm anybody.’ Alice sighed, and looked away. ‘She is the daughter of a very wealthy man, and she is intended for Jonathan.’

‘But… you’re going to marry Jonathan!’ At this, Alice smiled.

‘Yes, I am, dearest. But the course of true love never did run smooth. It is no fault of Miss Fallonbrooke’s that she presents an obstacle.’ She smiled again, though her eyes were sad. ‘You must not mention her, Starling. It is a secret that Jonathan shared with me, and now I have shared it with you. We must keep it secret. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, Alice.’

‘Good girl.’ Alice sealed the promise with a kiss, pressed to her forehead, and Starling slept soundly, well fed on secrets that were now hers to keep.