28 An Evening At Westwick Heights

Bertram was deep in preparation for his next lesson with Bea one morning, when his father came into the library.

"Did you hear a horse on the drive just now?"

Bertram blinked, bringing himself back into the modern world. "Erm… horse? No."

His father chuckled. "You would not hear the last trumpet unless it bellowed right in your ear. A horse came up the drive and round to the stables."

"Oh? An interesting visitor?"

"No, an interesting horse. One we have been much wondering about."

"Catullus?"

"The very same, with John Whyte leading him. Shall we go and hear his story?"

"It had better be good," Bertram said grimly.

By the time they reached the stables, all the grooms had gathered around Whyte in an angry altercation. They fell silent when the Athertons appeared.

"Well now, Whyte, we have been much concerned for you and Catullus," Bertram's father said in pleasant tones. "We were sure some accident must have befallen one or other of you, but here you both are, safe and sound."

"There was an accident, sir, and I'm very sorry for it, for it were my own fault. It were no more than five miles from Landerby, and I'd taken it easy and stopped to rest Catullus, but he seemed frisky after that and so… so I…"

"Yes?"

"So I let him have his head for a spell, sir, and there was a toll-gate and… well, he were all set to jump it and I were trying to rein him in, and he just went, sir. Nothing I could do."

"You jumped him?" Bertram said, startled.

"Aye, sir. Never meant to, cos you've always said you never jumped him, but he just took it into his head to do it, and then, what with me trying to hold him back, he caught one foot on the top bar. He were all right, seemingly, not lame nor nothing, but I were that worried, sir, in case I'd done some real damage, so I never rode him after that, just walked him."

"Walked him? All the way here?"

"Aye, sir. At least… not here. I took him to me sister, out at Brigg's Farm, cos the pastern were inflamed and I dursn't bring him back here till he were right again."

"And you could not have sent us word, I suppose?" Bertram cried. "Morton has been all over the place trying to find you. We were worried about you!"

His father chuckled. "We even wondered if you had run away because you were afraid to face Captain Edgerton's questions on the murder of Mr Nicholson. You received a letter that the captain wanted to question you, and the next thing we know, you have disappeared."

Whyte's face was a picture of bewilderment. "Mr Nicholson? You thought I'd killed the poor gentleman? Oh, Lord! It weren't me, Mr Atherton, sir. I'd never murder anyone! I never had nothing to do with it, I swear."

"We know. It was Tom Shapman."

"Tom Shapman? It never were! He'd not harm a fly, Tom wouldn't."

"Well, he has confessed to the murder of Mr Nicholson, and is currently in York gaol awaiting the Lent Assizes," Bertram said.

"But… but he'll hang!"

"Precisely. That is what happens to murderers." Bertram turned to the head groom, who had been carefully feeling Catullus's legs. "What do you think, Morton? What is the damage?"

"He's fine," Morton said, sounding surprised. "Whatever treatment you gave him, Whyte, it seems to have worked. I can't even tell which leg it was that was injured."

"Tis this one, sir," Whyte put in eagerly. "Will it do?"

"Sir?" Morton said to Bertram's father. "What do you think?"

"It looks fine to me."

"I'm real sorry, sir," Whyte said to Bertram. "I'll collect my things."

"Whatever for?"

"I assume you'll turn me off… won't you?"

Bertram shrugged. "You got him back safe and sound, in the end. Next time, write to tell us what is going on."

Whyte laughed. "I never thought of that, sir. I'm a fool, aren't I?"

"No, just a lad of only sixteen. No one expects you to be wise to the ways of the world, Whyte, not at your age, and you did well to get Catullus and yourself home safely. That is something to be proud of. And now, there's a broom over there waiting for you, and a yard to be swept."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Thank you very much, sir."

***

Bea was not sure what to make of the invitation from the George Athertons. Was it a recognition of her betrothal to Bertram, or merely a routine offer of hospitality, to be returned in a month or so when the George Athertons would dine at Highwood Place? Her stepmother took it as the former, and insisted that Bea wear one of her grandest London gowns for the occasion, something normally reserved for Marshfields.

With five adult children in the family, together with several visitors, the drawing room at Westwick Heights was already crowded when the Franklyns walked in. Mrs Atherton greeted them affably, and towed Lady Esther away to meet a friend of hers, newly arrived that day. Bea's father was immediately scooped up by Mr George Atherton. Bea herself was surrounded by the Atherton daughters, but they were of no interest to her.

Ah, there he was! But Bertram was looking bemused, with an unknown young lady on either side of him.

"Who are they?" Bea said.

"Who? Oh, friends of mine," Julia said. "The Pailthorpe sisters."

"They are very encroaching," Bea said, seeing one of them place a proprietorial hand on Bertram's sleeve. "He needs to be rescued."

So saying, she ploughed her way across the room to Bertram, elbowed one of the Miss Pailthorpes aside, and tucked her arm into his. "Did you think you could hide away from me, Bertram? Goodness, what a crush! I cannot remember when I last saw this room so full. Are there any more to come?"

"No, with your arrival we are all here now," he said, giving her a warm smile. "We have guests in the house, as you see. Bea, may I present to you Miss Pailthorpe and Miss Anne Pailthorpe. This is Miss Franklyn, our neighbour and my good friend. My very good friend. I am teaching her Latin."

The sisters exchanged a glance, then with one accord they marched away.

"Oh, well done," Bea murmured. "You got rid of them very efficiently. I have a question about that passage from The Aeneid, where—"

"No Latin this evening," he said, although his smile broadened.

"Oh. None at all?"

"Not one word," he whispered. "Tonight is for good company, although not so many that we become overheated, and good food, although nothing too rich or indigestible, and good music, although not so loud that it hurts the ears. Mother has taken every precaution for our continued good health, you understand."

"Your mama is all consideration," Bea said, chuckling. "And even if we do happen to become overheated, we shall not be allowed to open a window."

"Heaven forfend that the evening air should find its way to our delicate lungs!" he said. "One can never be too careful, for we are now into September and autumn is upon us. You wrapped up well on the drive over here, I trust? There will be fur wraps and hot bricks available for you upon departure, and if you take care to drink some beef tea when you reach home, warm but not too hot, you may be tolerably confident of surviving the night."

She giggled. "Your mama is lovely, and if she worries over your health somewhat, that is easier to bear than some other matters a mother might concern herself with." Her eyes strayed to her stepmother, presently engaged in conversation with Mrs Atherton and her friend. Lady Esther wore her habitual expression of restrained polite interest, but Bea thought she detected something more. Was it possible that her stepmother was surprised?

They went in to dinner soon afterwards, and Bea found herself, to her astonishment, seated next to Mr George Atherton. Her stepmother naturally had the place of honour on his right, but Bea sat to his left, and wondered quite what she would find to say to him. Did he know about her betrothal to Bertram? And if so, was it a good thing or a bad thing that he singled her out for this attention? Was he hoping to discover some hitherto unsuspected virtue in her, or was he wishing merely to confirm his previous bad opinion? She was sure his previous opinion had been bad, for even her father, who loved her unreservedly, thought she was bumptious and unrefined.

There was a small delay in serving the food, since Mrs Atherton's friend, Miss Priscilla Hand, called for grace to be said.

"Of course, dear," Mrs Atherton said. "Silence, everyone! Carter, keep the soup for a moment. We are about to say grace. Hush, Penelope, dear. Thank you." Everyone bowed their heads. "Um… bless this food to our use, O Lord, and us to thy service. Amen."

The refrain rumbled round the table, and the footmen hurried forward with the tureens of soup.

"Oh, no, Jane! That is hardly adequate," Miss Hand said, her fingers playing agitatedly with the cross at her throat. "Perhaps Mr Atherton could bring the necessary gravitas to the occasion?"

The footmen were waved away again, and once more heads were bowed. Mr George Atherton might have had more gravitas, but he was just as brief as his wife.

"For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen."

The chorus of ‘Amen' was louder this time, with an air of relief to it, but Carter held the footmen back, watching Miss Hand.

"Oh, dear," she said, playing with her cross even more violently.

Mr Atherton sighed. "Perhaps, madam, you would care to take the task upon yourself?"

"Oh… far be it from me to put myself forward… but if you insist, of course. Lord, bless this food and grant that we may be thankful for all thy manifold mercies. Bless us with thy grace, and…'

Eventually, some interminable time later, an interval punctuated by someone's stomach rumbling loudly, followed by muffled giggles, the prayer ended and the soup was permitted to be served. It was barely warm by that time, but no one minded.

Under the cover of the rising level of conversation, Mr Atherton leaned towards Bea and whispered, "She used to be such a mischievous girl, too. Always in some scrape or other. Sadly, when her mother was widowed, she remarried a dean… or an archdeacon at the Minster, I forget which, and both the ladies caught a severe case of piety. There is no cure."

Bea laughed, and whispered back, "Is it infectious?"

He pulled a horrified face. "Heavens, I hope not! She is here for a sennight, at least."

After that, he turned his attention to his soup, and Bea did likewise, but she was a little intimidated by him, all the same. All the Athertons intimidated her. No matter how affable they seemed, there was still an air of inherent nobility about them which made her very conscious of her humble beginnings. If her betrothal were real, Mr George Atherton would be her father-in-law, and even though he was a mere gentleman now, in time he would very likely be the Earl of Rennington. When she had been betrothed to Walter, she had taken great care to be on her very best behaviour in the earl's company, and although she fully intended to set Bertram free before too long, she nevertheless wanted to look well in his father's eyes.

For the whole of the first course, therefore, she took care to mind her manners and be as ladylike as possible in all her actions, as well as her conversation. When offered a dish, she took only a delicate spoonful. When asked how she had enjoyed her stay at Landerby Manor, she replied that she had enjoyed it very much and everyone had been prodigious kind to her. When asked her opinion of the Duke and Duchess of Wedhampton, she responded that they had been most gracious and affable.

By the second course, she was beginning to be bored. Mr Atherton was engrossed in conversation with Lady Esther about family matters at Corland Castle, and Bertram, on her other side, was being monopolised by Miss Hand, who was talking about the Archbishop of York and some uninteresting clerical matters. Only Mrs Atherton's constant refrain of ‘avoid the fish bones… take the greatest care with bones… please be cautious, for there are bound to be bones' enlivened the table.

So when Mr George Atherton turned to her with twinkling eyes and said, "How are you getting on with your Latin, Miss Franklyn? Bertram tells me you are an excellent scholar," she was delighted to have a more interesting topic of discussion.

"He is too kind, and so patient with my silly mistakes. I do my best, but it is not at all easy. One may learn the regular declensions very readily, but there are so many irregular ones to know, and so many words the meanings of which vary subtly from one situation to another. But it is fascinating to me to use the words of people who lived so long ago. Do you not think so, when you read Virgil or Horace?"

He laughed and shook his head. "It is a puzzle to me how I raised a son who is so proficient in the language, for I lost interest in it many years ago, and Greek, too. English and a little French are adequate to most occasions, as far as I am concerned."

"You do not even like Horace?"

"Not even Horace can tempt me. It is a favourite with Bertram, I know, and perhaps with you, too. Did you not recite one of the Odes at Landerby?"

"Oh, yes! It was the most amazing fun! It was book three, number nine — do you remember it?"

He shook his head, but with a smile.

"It is so beautiful! I wanted to learn it for my own amusement, but Bertram persuaded me to recite it aloud when the duchess was having an evening of poetry readings. The words are so wonderful — they echo in my head, and leave me feeling… oh, I cannot even describe it. There is something so magical in the Latin poets, do you not agree? The way the words sound when they are spoken aloud. ‘Donec gratus eram tibi nec quisquam potior bracchia candidae cervici iuvenis dabat, Persarum vigui rege beatior. Donec non alia magis…'"

Mr Atherton said nothing, listening with his full attention on her, and since she addressed herself solely to him, at first she did not notice the effect her words were having. But gradually it dawned on her that the general conversation around the table had died away. She became aware of her own voice, far more resonant than usual, and the eyes of the company turned towards her. Her voice dropped into uneasy silence.

"No Latin, Bea, remember?" Bertram said, smiling at her.

"Oh… sorry. I forgot."

There was some laughter around the table, but Miss Hand was clutching her cross in distress. "You speak the language of pagans!" she hissed.

Bea raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Latin is the language of civilisation, ma'am. It is the language of poetry and philosophy and rational thought. The Romans established a great civilisation when Englishmen were still rolling in the mud. I am not even sure there were Englishmen then. The Romans built beautiful monuments and aqueducts and roads, they had laws and education and houses that were heated by warmth beneath the floor. They were great engineers."

"But so many gods! They were not Christians."

"Well, I hardly see how they could have been!" Bea said, with a spurt of laughter. "Julius Caesar was BC — before Christ. They could not have been Christians before the birth of Jesus Christ."

That brought another ripple of laughter around the table.

"The Romans converted to Christianity in the 4th century AD," someone said from the other end of the table, and Miss Hand was immediately distracted. Someone else pointed out the widespread use of Latin in the church, and although Miss Hand muttered about Papists, and the Anglican church using civilised English, the heat had gone out of her protests.

The conversation became more general again, but Bea lapsed into miserable silence. When would she ever learn to hold her tongue?

Mr George Atherton leaned towards her, and said in a low voice, "No one could doubt your enthusiasm for the language, Miss Franklyn. I look forward to hearing the rest of the poem at some future date, with perhaps a less critical audience?"

"You are very kind, sir," Bea said miserably. "I am very bad at recognising the inappropriateness of my behaviour, and I apologise for it."

He reached across and rested his hand on hers. "It is not you who need apologise. In fact, I would go so far as to give you this advice — do not ever apologise for being yourself. You have not an ounce of artifice, and that is to be commended."

"Thank you, sir," she said, but she could see her stepmother eyeing her from across the table, and knew she would be receiving a reprimand later.

Well, she was used to that, but both Bertram and his father smiled upon her, so she felt the evening was not entirely a disaster.