Wrong-turned

Here's a moment of high drama from Hearts and Minds. The inky Weird Sisters highly recommend Jay Taverner's well-researched historical novels in the Brynsquilver series. They're all an excellent read. We suggest you dive in!

By the time Hope reached the end of the last row of cabbages, down by the bottom hedge, Parsley’s shadow was longer than the little cat herself, sitting upright on the path with ears cocked. Hope leaned her hoe on the hedge and looked out over the gate. Bron was not coming, then; she had chosen the shorter but steeper road home, round Bryn. Pushing back the rush of loneliness which came with the thought, Hope shook out her skirt and set off down the slope. The goats were loud in protest in the lower field: it was more than time to bring them in for milking.

Crossing the old field, where the grass still needed resting, she heard something that stopped her dead. It was the cry she had heard this morning - but now it was clearly human. It came from the old goat shed. Hope turned, and began to run.

She pulled open the sagging door, then found herself suddenly sprawled on her back in the grass, the wind knocked out of her and her right cheek exploding into pain. She grabbed ineffectually at a bare foot that ran over her chest, but had scarcely heaved herself on to her knees when the fleeing figure collapsed with a howl into the grass. For a moment Hope knelt there foolishly, shaking her head to clear it, before she stood up and walked cautiously towards the girl who had flung her aside.

The face that turned towards her was filthy and blood-streaked, but the eyes were blazing. The girl struggled to get up but fell back, her face contracted with pain.

“You need not run away,” said Hope, “I won’t hurt you.” She stretched out a hand, but the girl flinched away and flung up an arm to shield her face. Then the narrow, distended body arched in a spasm of pain and she turned her face to bite the grass. Hope could see clearly now why she had not been able to run away: she was in labour - deep in, and a failing labour, if Hope was any judge. She was covered in mud, her skirt bloody and torn as if by desperate hands. The memory of the earlier screams came to Hope with dreadful clarity. She must have been in the shed all day.

Hope bent and took her gently by the shoulders. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “You must let me be your friend. I have some skill in this.” But not as much as Bell has, she thought desperately. Why aren’t you here? I knew I would need you...


Four hours later the girl was weaker, but no nearer to the birth of her baby. She lay before the fire on a straw pallet spread with Hope’s old shawl. Between her fierce, futile pains she lay more and more still, far gone in exhaustion. Hope was exhausted herself; her small experience of birthing had been no preparation for this. The old women of these hills kept their power over their daughters by making this their mystery, and even Bell, trusted wise-woman for all other ills and ailments, was not their first choice for a childbed. Hope had delivered children, two or three, and had helped Bell with a dozen more; but she had seen nothing like this deathly straining for hour after hour, with nothing coming but blood. She knew much more about goats; she had turned back-facing kids, though nannies were feeble things, and still might die on you. This girl seemed unlikely to do that, after all she had so far endured; but Hope did not know how to help her.

She was standing, irresolute, at the foot of the stair, when the door opened suddenly and a tall, slightly stooped figure was outlined against the red and gold of the sinking sun.

“Bron! Thank God!”

Bron looked startled. “What’s the matter?”

Before Hope could answer, the girl screamed. Bron’s eyes widened; she stood, frozen, as the girl thrashed on the floor. Hope thought suddenly, she has never seen this. How could she, living all her days on a hill farm so far from other human dwellings, and no mother, no women there, only her father and brother since she was a child? Bron was staring, horrified; for a desperate moment Hope thought she might turn and go. She felt a great need to keep her, to have company, however little help it might be. Words tumbled out of her.

“I think the babe is turned wrong,” she said. “It won’t come. And I don’t know how to help her, I…” She stopped and ran her hand through her hair. “I don’t know what to do, Bron.”


Bron’s eyes had not left the writhing body on the floor. Hope could not tell what she was thinking. Then, still without speaking, Bron crossed to the hearth and knelt down. She took the see-sawing head between her hands; she was making a little crooning noise, between whistling and humming. She was not flung off, or bitten; the flailing body relaxed, and the hands that reached up held on, thin brown fingers gripping into Bron’s old jerkin as if it were the last handhold in the world. Bron stroked the matted black hair out of the girl’s eyes, then gently, and still making the same reassuring, wordless noise, ran her large red hands over the swollen belly. “Wrong-turned, yes,” she said, “and wedged so. I must turn it, or it will kill her. Hold her, if she will let you.”

All those words left unsaid

Constance Wilde died on 7th April 1898. Inevitably linked for all time with the scandals of her famous husband Oscar, Constance's tumultuous interior life is imagined by Rohase Piercy in her novel The Coward Does It With A Kiss.

The curtain is moving in the breeze … it comforts me, like the rocking of a cradle.  Green, with turquoise motif – what are they?  Flowers?  Dragons?  I always loved green.  These are decadent curtains; you would not find them in an English hospital. The colours absorb the pain a little, and I find some ease.

Well, it is over; and the nuns who nurse me are  kind, and bring me morphine for the pain, and do everything for my comfort.  They have laid me on my side today, and I cannot move without help, so I watch the light move slowly across the window, and the curtain stirring where they have opened it a little to let in fresh air.  Faint voices drift up from the grounds below; a bell tolls in the distance.  I remind myself that you, Oscar, suffered worse things in prison.

If I could go back – oh, a long way back in my life, I could make all things as new as this new morning.  This must be what a newborn baby sees, light and movement, the edge of a curtain dancing in the breeze.  And all sound is muffled.

I have short, jagged periods of sleep, and when I wake the bedclothes are drenched in sweat.  In my dreams I hear people shouting, aiming words at me like sharp, black beads.  What are they saying?  Next time I awake, I will try to make sense of it.  Is it just my name that I hear, repeated over and over?

Constance!  Constance!  Constance!

*****

I remember you called my name, and I ran out of the house, out of the front door and across the street to the beach; there were carriages, and pedestrians on the street turning to stare, and families on the beach.  This was Worthing, not Babbacombe; there were no nooks and crannies in which to hide.

I walked along the Esplanade, wringing my hands.  My agitation drew curious glances, but I kept my head down and walked to the pier, and to the end of the pier, and then all the way back to the house.  You were there in the little front parlour, alone.  I tried to dash past, to go up to my room, but you ran out and caught me by the arm.

“Constance.”

“Let me go, Oscar.”

“Constance, I have got to talk to you.”

“I don't want to talk.  Leave me alone.”

“Constance please.  Come in here, please, the children will hear.  Just one brief word, I beg of you.”

I followed you into the room, and you closed the door.  Wearily I sat down upon the sofa.

“Where are they?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Away. Does it matter? Constance, please listen.  I am sorry that you saw what you did.  I am sorry that I allowed Bosie to bring him here.  It will not happen again, my dear;  please try to put it out of your mind.”

“What will not happen again, Oscar?”

“Well, this – this intrusion into your domestic life.  I have told Bosie he is not to bring any more of his - friends to this house.  Really, the last thing I want to do is to upset you, Constance.  I promise to be more careful ...”

“More careful?  Careful to keep your sordid life out of sight, is that what you mean?  You do realise, don't you, that our children could have walked past that door at any moment?”

“No!  I mean yes, I suppose that is what I mean, and no, I made sure the boys were out with Fräulein Zeigler, or I would never ...”

“I see.  May I go now?”

“Constance, please try to understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly well, Oscar.  You are not sorry for what you and Bosie are doing, but you are sorry that I saw you do it.  You will not promise to give up your unsavoury companions and activities, but you will try to keep them out of my way.  Oscar, I don't know exactly what age that young man was, but he cannot have been more than fifteen at most.  Have you absolutely no sense of responsibility?  In a few years' time your own sons will be that age – does that not even give you pause for thought?”

You sighed, a long, shuddering sigh, and held your head in your hands.  At last you said quietly:  “But you knew, Constance.”

“I knew about you and Bosie, but not about this.  Where do you meet these boys, Oscar?  Do you do this in London?  Of course you do, how stupid of me.  You introduced me to that boy Edward Shelley, when I came home unexpectedly and found him in the house.  How can you – how can you corrupt the young like this, when you have children of your own?”

You blushed deeply, and murmured something inaudible.

“What?” I asked sharply, “What did you say?”

“I do not corrupt them, Constance.  There are boys that I know, but they are already hardened little … they are already leading that life, Constance, it is how they earn a living.”

“Oh, I see.  So you are kindly providing employment for the poor.”

“I did not say that, Constance.”

“Where do you meet them?  On the streets?”

“My dear, you don't want to know all this.”

“But I do!  I do!  I have a right to know, I demand to know.  Where do you meet them?  Do you bring them to our house on a regular basis, when I am away?”

“No!  I have a friend called Alfred Taylor.  He lives in Little College Street.  He – arranges introductions.  We go out for meals, to hotels … there.  That is all.  Now you know.  What are you going to do, Constance?  Are you going to divorce me, and take the boys away?”

You sounded so hopeless, so desolate, that I raged inwardly at my inability to keep pity at bay.

“No, of course not.  What would I have to gain by dragging our children's name in the mud?”

“Your freedom, my dear.  A new husband, perhaps.”

I was furious at having the tables turned on me at a time like this.

“What?  It is you who want freedom, not I!  Well, you have it.  You have always taken it, anyway.  Consider yourself free to do as you wish.  And I do not want a new husband.”

That was true.  I would have given anything, there and then, to have my old husband back, the husband I had courted so shyly and married so proudly only a decade ago.  Not this debauched and lascivious stranger.

“Constance, I know that Arthur Humphreys is in love with you.”

“Don't talk nonsense, he's a married man,” I said, and left the room.

I lay on my bed and sobbed until I was nearly sick.  I remembered with revulsion my romantic indulgence of your friendships, and the spell cast over me, in the early days, by Bosie.  I bit my nails to the quick, and damned him to Hell a thousand times.  I thought of Ada Leverson, that wily old Sphinx on her pedestal; she knew you for what you were and revelled in it, and by watching you as I had done I felt that I'd brought myself down to her level.  As for you, Oscar – well, I planned my revenge in this way and that, and swore that I would make you suffer.  

When I came to myself, I found that you'd left for Brighton; and there was still the blood on my lips of all those words left unsaid, crying out for vengeance.

The boys had been clamouring to go out.  They wanted to know where Bosie was – he'd arrived out of the blue as was his wont, apparently completely oblivious to his father's threats and determined to muscle in on our family holiday, as always.  They wanted to go to the beach with you both, but I had no idea where you were so I sent them on a sedate afternoon walk with Fräulein Zeigler.  Poor dears, this was not turning out to be a happy holiday for them; they were restless and demanding, estranged by school and unable to settle.  

When you came in to find the parlour empty, you must have assumed I'd gone with them; but  I was in the kitchen, checking the supplies, suspecting that the local cook we'd engaged was not above a little domestic pilfering.  I found nothing amiss however, and after a while I made my way upstairs to lie down; as I passed the open door of the room I'd reluctantly allotted to Bosie, I saw you.

You were kneeling before a young boy lying on the bed, leaning over him, your fingers twined in his hair.  With your free hand you were loosening his clothes, quickly, deftly, while Bosie sat poised on the edge of the bedside chair, watching with a greedy, hateful expression on his face.  The boy slid his arm around your neck, and pulled you down to him.  You kissed first his lips and then his throat, moving slowly down his body.

I should have backed away, quickly and silently, but I stood in the doorway for some time and watched you quite calmly, until Bosie looked up and saw me.  I have never seen anyone's eyes become quite so round with shock.  I turned and ran back down the stairs, along the passage to the front door, and out into the street.  I heard your voices calling me:  “Constance!  Constance!  Constance!”

New Teacher Nerves

We're delighted to have an extract from The Incident by Maggie Redding today. Nervous new teacher Vida Hartley is trying to navigate life in a rough school. She starts the day with a significant encounter.

With her energy and wild, red hair, the woman appeared like an avenging angel pouncing on poor Dudley Waters.  He had just run in front of Vida Hartley’s car in the staff car park.  The woman was unknown to Vida.  She did, however. vaguely recognise Dudley Waters.  Everyone at Hill Common School knew of Dudley Waters, Year Nine and difficult.  Now he was being marched rapidly up to Vida.  The red-haired woman held onto him by the collar of his blazer. 

‘Say sorry to this lady,’ this vivid stranger instructed him. ‘You gave her a fright.  Look how white she’s gone.’

‘White?’  He grinned up at Vida, who, conscious of her colour, was not sure if his query was a cheeky reference to it.  ‘Sorry’, he added.

Vida thanked him.

‘Off you go and in future, take care around cars,’ he was told by the woman.  He scampered off as though triumphant. She turned to Vida.  ‘Saucy little devil,’ she gave a laugh.  ‘White!  Hello, I’m the newly assigned Ed. Psych. to this school, Elin Lewis Jones. You teach here?’

Vida took the proffered hand.  There had been talk of the new Educational Psychologist in the staff room, with sniffs of disdain, but no one had referred to her striking appearance nor to her Welsh accent. 

‘Yes, I do.  I’m Davida Hartley, always known as Vida, new this term.  Must hurry. I’m late.’

‘Maybe we’ll meet up in the staff room.’

Not if she could help it, Vida told herself.  Elin Lewis Jones was not the route to the acceptance of her colleagues that Vida needed. She’d already found the staff room unfriendly.

At break, she was helping herself to coffee when a quiet voice behind her said, ‘Mucky lot, teachers.’

She turned, mug in hand, to see Elin Lewis Jones reaching past her to lift a tea towel from the countertop and proceed to mop up spills with it.  She then dumped it on the counter.  

‘Are you sitting with particular friends?’ Elin said as she helped herself to coffee. 

‘I don’t sit with anyone.’

She gazed at Vida.  ‘You are a Nervous Nelly, Vida.’  Her voice was surprisingly kind. Vida could have become tearful at that gentle tone in this otherwise hostile place.  Elin surveyed the prospect of a seat, or two seats, in the room, overcrowded and, to Vida, daunting.

‘I still feel very new here,’ Vida said, relenting because of the soft voice. 

‘Look, there are two upright chairs over there,'' Elin said, as she took Vida’s elbow to steer her across the staff-room.

‘Are you Welsh?’ she said as they both sat down.  ‘I ask because of your name, Davida.’

‘Everyone calls me Vida.’

‘Not Welsh, though?’

‘No. Just a boring Londoner.’

‘Being a Londoner, that's not boring. What’s your subject?’

‘History.  And cynicism.’ 

Elin smiled. ‘Oh, a wit.’

‘It's not original.  My previous Head of History used to say it.’ 

‘It can save some angst, though, can’t it, a little cynicism?’

Vida looked at the woman properly for the first time. Her hair was auburn, wild and curly and there were hints of freckles on her creamy skin. She was enviably slender, in a white blouse and black culottes. Her Welsh voice was devoid of harshness. ‘I agree,’ Vida said. 

‘What made you want to be a teacher?’  

  ‘My mother, I suppose.’

‘It was her idea? Was your mother a teacher, then?’ 

‘No. She wanted a daughter who was a teacher. I was an obedient daughter. She died some years ago.’ Vida told Elin a little about her life as an only child of a single mother in North London.

‘Have you settled in at Hill Common?’

‘I have not.’  Her own vehemence surprised her.

‘I can imagine you haven’t. There are many problems in this school and in the estate around it. I am thinking you could maybe ratify my opinions about this place.’

The signal for the end of break sounded throughout the school.  

‘Back to the grindstone,’ Elin said, rising. ‘I’ll see you again.’

The following day, at break, by the time Elin Lewis Jones strode into the staff-room, Vida was already engaged in a conversation with Kelly Bedford. Elin’s presence seemed to be a focus in the room and to have a tug on Vida’s awareness, perhaps because of her eagerness to avoid her. 

Kelly had introduced herself: ‘You’re new, aren’t you?  How are you coping? I’m Kelly Bedford. Maths.’

Vida smiled - with relief as much as anything.  She had been so aware of her isolation in the staff-room. 'Vida Hartley, history. I’m coping in fear and trepidation, most of the time,’ she said. 

‘I know. I came in January. You’ll soon get used to it.’

‘I’m not sure that I want to.  In my worst moments, I hesitate at the car park entrance and I’m tempted to go back home.’ Vida felt her gaze drawn to the corner where Elin stood, tall, elegant, aloof and alone, without any apparent concern. 

‘Oh, we all feel like that, all the time,’ Kelly was saying.

Vida and Kelly sipped coffee. ‘They’re all so angry, aren’t they?’ Vida said.

‘I suppose it’s not their fault.  They don’t choose to live on Hill Common estate, do they?’

Vida glanced at her, trying to hide her alarm. Kelly picked it up, though. 

       ‘Or did you mean the staff?’  She threw her head back and gave a gurgling laugh. ‘In another week, you’ll be the same.’

Vida laughed sheepishly. ‘Perhaps I am now.’ Oh, she hoped not.

‘Who do you have next lesson?’

‘A Year Eleven. For the Civil War. They are quite a decent crowd.’

‘My son, Ben Morrison, is in year Eleven.  But you don’t have him, do you? Oh, that’s the bell for the end of break, already.  Peace doesn’t last long, does it?  Keep your pecker up, Vida.’

Discovering Brynsquilver

The ancient cottage at Brynsquilver features in all Jay Taverner’s historical novels. Unlike the other stories, Something Wicked is set in the present, but the cottage is still standing. 

Scotty and Helen shelter from the rain.

Crossing a slimy little wooden bridge, they scrambled up a steep thread-like sheep-path, already softening into mud as the rain came on. Scotty felt the back of her shirt begin to soak through, and concentrated on trying to work her tired legs fast enough to catch up. Ahead, Helen pushed through a thin hedge and plunged into a band of trees. Scotty followed, fending off a branch that slapped wetly back at her. Inside the wood, the ground was still dry; the patter of a million raindrops on the upper leaves sounded like a distant waterfall, but it had not yet broken through. They walked silently on a springing carpet of rust-coloured leaves. There was a ferocious clap of thunder, right overhead, and the first drops of what was by now an icy deluge began to fall from the leaves. Heedless of the twisting roots and sudden hollows, they ran. Helen clambered over a low stile, almost buried in the undergrowth and, following her, Scotty found they were in a derelict garden. Ancient roses climbed and hung from every branch around, a bower of softest pink. A very wet bower. She charged after Helen, up the path, and into the front porch of a substantial stone cottage.

"Do you know them?" she gasped, clutching hold of the nearest post amidst the gnarled stems of the roses.

“It's empty," Helen said. "Has been for a long time. Hang on." She was fiddling with the door; after a moment she lifted it up, and pushed. It opened. They slipped inside. 

Breathing in deeply, Scotty closed the door and leant on it, shutting out the drumming downpour. The place smelt strong, but not of dirt or dung or the usual pollutions. It smelt of stone and of water, wetness; and some green overtone, weirdly like an expensive perfume. 

Helen was standing looking at her. There was suddenly a very awkward pause. Then Helen smiled dazzlingly, and Scotty blessed the gloom for hiding her blush. I've not felt like this since the junior geography mistress left, she thought.

Helen unslung her backpack. "Are you very wet?" she asked. "We could light a fire, I expect, and dry your shirt."

"No - no, I'm fine." 

She peered around. There was indeed a fireplace, one of those enormous stone ones. Its front was blackened, and the remains of a wood fire lay somewhere in its depths. The wood probably came from the panelling of the staircase, she thought, glancing across the low room. The whitewashed matchboard had been wrenched away, to reveal a flight of solid wood steps more like a medieval castle-scaling ladder than a domestic staircase. On an impulse, she crossed the uneven flagged floor, and climbed up.

Her head came out through the floor, into a lighted space - lighted by a hole in the roof. Broken tiles, those amazing graded stone things she had noticed on Owen’s cottage, lay piled in front of her nose. The kind of stuff merchant bankers from Chipping Camden would give half a year’s ecus for; but here they just seemed to lie around, totally neglected. Oddly moved, she reached out and touched the nearest stone. It was surprisingly warm. She ran a finger along its naturally laminated edge; beautiful.

She looked up. A noose, made of pink baler twine, hung from the rafters. The mindless hordes had daubed a skull and some sort of animal outline in charcoal on the plaster of the great chimney. Rain beat in. She retreated.

Helen was busying herself. "Let's light a fire, anyway - it's obviously the thing to do," she said, collecting bits of wood.

Scotty helped: she got out her cigarette lighter. Helen looked at her as if she had produced an Uzi from her back pocket.

"I don't smoke," Scotty rushed to reassure her. "It's a memento of my youth – " She hesitated, then went on, deliberately, "It was a present from my first lover. Someone who didn't know me very well at the time."

"Oh. Right," said Helen. She stood up, and rummaging in her backpack produced a pristine Guardian, which she shook open and crumpled into balls; she thrust each one efficiently into the old ashes, securing them with sticks.

Scotty flicked and lit. Another fire began. They both stood up.

"How did you know you could get in?"

"I've been here before on a walk, with my aunt – she had something to do with the disposal of the furniture, once upon a time." She walked to the window, and began to pick at the last flakes of paint on the frame. "It's been empty years - thirty years at least, probably a lot longer. But they're tough, these old stone cottages - built to keep out the weather, whether you're here or not."

"There's a hole in the roof, now, though," Scotty said, and Helen frowned. She crossed to the steps and looked up.

"That's bad," she said, "once the roof starts to go –" She smiled at Scotty. "But I think it'll last out the shower. I brought a thermos – would you like a cup of tea?" 

They drove back through the sharp, cool sunshine that came after the storm in a comfortable silence. The image of the cottage as they had left it, half-hidden by its ancient hedges, a haven and a mystery, was vivid in Scotty's mind.

Delicious kisses

We're very lucky to have this beautiful poem by Maria Jastrzębska to share with you all for St Valentine's Day. It's from At the Library of Memories published by Waterloo Press 2013.

                                                      Baci di Dama

 

 

Sharp as a whistle 

       her breath

 

catches your breath.

      Tang of silver-

 

berry, darkness icy

      with stars, your mouth

 

waters in her

     mouth.  If this 

          

was not your first

     kiss, it was

 

your first kiss 

  like this.

Maria Jastrzębska

                                                                            At the Library of Memories

                                                                                        Waterloo Press 2013

Poor Little Fool

Before Elizabeth by Rohase Piercy suggests a more complicated past for Anne de Bourgh than Jane Austen allows in Pride and Prejudice. In this extract, a very young Anne talks to her cousin Edward and discovers that the future holds surprises.

At first, Edward seemed amused by my questions. “Why, Anne, what is all this? Are you so concerned for my future? I shall not be an Ensign for long, you know; thanks to my father I can expect a rapid promotion, and in a year or so I shall be a Captain, with a hundred men under my command! And a Captain, you know, must be with his battalion for most of the time. But I shall always have a home at Evesham, I expect, unless my brother marries someone who takes a dislike to me; and yes, I shall probably take a house in town eventually. Why so serious, little cousin? I shall always come often to Kent, to visit my uncle and to assure myself that the heiress of Rosings is still the most beautiful and accomplished young lady in the country. Will that do?”     The phrase ‘heiress of Rosings’ was not lost upon me. I nodded and smiled, but persisted in my questioning: “Will you not need an estate of your own though, Edward, when you are married?”     My cousin knelt down amongst the daffodils and began to select blooms at random, suddenly preoccupied. At length he repeated, “An estate of my own! Well, I do not know about that. I shall do well enough for a younger son, I dare say; I'm sure plenty of people will advise me to marry a rich heiress, and acquire a grand house in that way. But as I said, I am to be a soldier. That is the life I have decided upon, and it will suit me well enough for the foreseeable future. I may choose not to marry at all; what do you think of that?”     I did not know what to think of it. “I thought everyone had to be married,” I said, heedlessly crushing the hem of my gown into the dirt as I sat back on my heels to consider the matter.     Edward laughed. “Well, it is not yet enshrined in English law! It is the general expectation, I suppose, and maybe in due course I shall give it some thought. But not yet, and certainly not now, on such a beautiful spring day when the Park is dancing with daffodils! Come now, cousin, you are not keeping to your part of the bargain - I have a fine armful of blooms already, and what have you? Nothing! You must match me stem for stem, and we will carry them back to the house and ask Mrs Jenkinson to bring us two great vases. Then we shall have a display to do justice to Mr Wordsworth! My uncle tells me you have been enjoying his poetry - will you read to me while I am here? I should dearly love to hear you.” 

As we wandered back happily towards the house with our saffron bundles, I determined to set Miss Harvey right at the earliest opportunity.  The only design that my cousin had upon Rosings was to visit often, and assure himself that its heiress - that was I - was still the most beautiful and accomplished young lady in the country!  I searched for her later that afternoon, but failing to find her I returned to the schoolroom to daydream amongst the daffodils, imagining a dozen pleasant future scenarios involving Edward, my father and my grown-up self before hitting upon the one that so obviously suited every convenience and solved every problem that I leapt to my feet, transported by the genius of my own imagination!

What was it that had Edward said? 'I'm sure plenty of people will advise me to marry a rich heiress, and acquire a grand house in that way.'  Well, I would be a rich heiress - why should he not marry me in due course, and come to live at Rosings? Unable to remain still, I began to dance about the room as the possibility took root in my imagination and began to put forth shoots. What if this had been Papa’s plan all along?  Would not that explain everything, from his special treatment of Edward to my cousin’s embarrassment when I brought up the subject of marriage?  Oh, what to do – should I speak to Papa immediately, or wait until the Fitzwilliams had left us? Mrs Jenkinson would certainly advise me to wait… but Miss Harvey …

Determined to find her there and then, I rushed headlong out onto the stairway, where I almost collided with Mrs Jenkinson coming to fetch me for supper.

“Oh Jenky!” I gasped, ignoring her gentle admonition, “Do you know where Miss Harvey is? I’ve been looking for her everywhere!”

“She is out walking,” was her cool reply, in tones so laced with disapproval that my curiosity was aroused.

“Out walking where?” I demanded, as she ushered me firmly along the corridor towards the nursery – and then, as an unmistakable peal of laughter rose up the stairwell towards us, I ducked out from her restraining grasp and rushed to the banister just in time to see my governess enter the hallway on the arm of my cousin John! Disengaging herself from his eager grasp, she removed her bonnet and re-arranged a stray curl; and as he pulled playfully upon her arm, Mrs Jenkinson pulled firmly upon mine, telling me not to tarry as my soup was cooling.  Dumbly I followed her, unable to make sense of the scene I had just witnessed - for had not Miss Harvey  described John, in tones heavy with contempt, as a 'great coxcomb' and 'a danger to the female sex'?  Why then would she walk with him, laugh with him, even – there was no other word for it – flirt with him in so obvious a manner?  I had never seen her behave so, and it troubled me deeply.  Upon reaching the nursery, I went straight to the table and ate my supper in silence - a silence upon which Mrs Jenkinson did not intrude, though she regarded me with watchful eyes.

John remained at Rosings until after Easter, giving me ample opportunity to observe the flirtation that he and Miss Harvey pursued whenever they thought themselves unobserved. They were discreet enough to escape the notice of my parents and uncle, but not that of the servants, whose barely concealed disapproval caused me agonies of mortification. It distressed me beyond words to see my beloved governess reduced to a simpering ninny by a man I so much disliked, and whose attentions she could surely not imagine to be serious.  Could she not see that she was being made a fool of?  When John left for London, abruptly and with no word of farewell to anyone save my mother, I breathed a long sigh of relief.

Miss Harvey’s red eyes on the following morning, however, could not but arouse my pity.  In an attempt to raise her spirits - and also to divert her attention towards a more deserving object - I invited her to join me in reading poetry with Edward that afternoon, a pastime which had already given me much pleasure.  She looked at me as though I were utterly mad.

“What a baby you are, Miss Anne,” she sniffed, tossing her red curls. “’Tis as well I set little store by your judgment of the male sex.  Go and read to Mr Edward by all means, but don’t expect me to hold your hand – not that you’ll need a chaperone in his company!”

My pity evaporated upon the spot, and I retaliated in kind: “Just because my cousin John has made a fool of you in front of the whole household, 'tis no reason to take it out on me!  And you were utterly wrong, you know, about Edward - Papa has no intention of adopting him.”

I saw her fist clench, and knew that she would have struck me had she dared.  Her face contorted into a sneer.  “Well, I can see that!” she snapped; “I was wide of the mark there, and no mistake. That will teach me to listen to peasants’ gossip! No wonder your poor mother complains - the sooner that young man goes into the Army, or gets married off to some poor undemanding fool, the better!”

At the mention of marriage I blushed involuntarily, and my cheeks burned hotter as Miss Harvey stared at me. Suddenly she began to laugh.

“Oh Lord!  I don’t believe it! You think you're to marry Mr Edward, don't you? You poor little fool!  Well I've news for you Miss Anne, 'tis another cousin who's in line for you - young Mr Darcy, your mother's sister's son!   What do you think of that?  And you’d better raise your expectations before the wedding or you’ll be in for a shock!”

I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving me as pale as I had been scarlet the moment before. “Young – young Mr Darcy?” I stammered, as William’s stern, aquiline features and haughty expression leapt into my mind. 

Miss Harvey laughed on, enjoying my discomfiture.  “Don’t tell me you had not an idea of it?  Why, your mother is quite determined upon it, ‘tis the talk of the household!  He’s quite the young gentleman, I hear, and handsome to boot – I’m sure I wish you joy.  I'd settle myself for a husband half so fine!”

I left her still laughing as I ran from the schoolroom, heading for the sanctuary of the nursery where I could be alone.  Closing the door behind me, I threw myself down upon the bed, burying my face in the bolster as the hot tears spilled.   

In less than three months' time we would be making our annual summer visit to Pemberley, which William's brooding presence and disapproving frown would no doubt once more drain of all enjoyment. It was always the same: my aunt and uncle would welcome me affectionately and do their best to put me at my ease, but all of their efforts would be brought to naught by their son's unsmiling, rigid manner.  Whilst remaining perfectly polite, he would make it clear that he found my presence an irksome nuisance to be borne only at his parents' behest; he would dutifully chaperone me and my cousin Georgiana on all outdoor excursions, observing our play with haughty composure whilst refusing all invitations to participate; he would converse with me only when strictly necessary, in tones designed to reduce me to painful confusion.  The possibility that this arrogant young man could be my future husband had never in my wildest dreams occurred to me.  Was I to be sent away from Kent into the rugged wilds of Derbyshire?  Was I actually to leave Rosings - my inheritance, my home – behind, and become the lifelong companion of someone whose society I dreaded?  Did Papa know of this?  Could this possibly have his approval?

With a few careless words Miss Harvey had rocked my world to its foundations, and now everything, everything was changed.

Dr Watson's Cough

Dr Watson’s cough seemed to occur with the regularity of the ticking of the clock. It was particularly annoying and left him exhausted with each fresh attack.

‘Watson, please take some medicine,’ said Holmes in a voice of iron calm. He was in the midst of packing a valise in his bedroom, dividing his attention between that and darting back and forth to scribble notes on a sheet of paper at his overburdened desk.

‘I won’t say,’ said Watson weakly, holding a handkerchief over his mouth, ‘that this bronchial condition may not partially be due to your experiments with gases the other day.’

‘You won’t say it but you will think it,’ said Holmes drily without turning round from his writing. 

‘And I also won’t say that it is very vexing to be unable to accompany you to St Petersburg.’

‘Yes, it is vexing for me too. And please put the whole matter of where I am to be found out of your mind. Forget to remember it, my dear fellow. This case will not be suitable for publication.’

‘How can you be so sure? I have very discreetly –’ he broke off to cough – ‘managed it in the past. The Second Stain, that was a diplomatic affair …’

‘I doubt that this will be so easy to transform into a story for your readers. Now, listen,’ said Holmes, coming and sitting down opposite his friend with the air of one who still has pressing errands and a deadline. ‘My train leaves in half an hour and you are not to accompany me to the station. No, I insist you stay at the fireside. There, you see, you try to object and you break out coughing again. Do not expect to hear from me, my dear fellow, for a few weeks. I shall probably be far from a post office.’ He laughed a little grimly.

‘I know,’ said Watson gloomily. ‘But I trust that from time to time you will remember to send me word – even a postcard from Eastbourne!’

‘I shan’t be in Eastbourne, Watson,’ said Mr Holmes patiently.

‘I know very well you shan’t be in Eastbourne, Holmes,’ Watson said. ‘And you know very well what I mean. Send me word, that’s all. My health suffers when I become unduly anxious. Particularly my chest.’

‘Tut. You sound like an elderly spinster.’

‘Well, you are prone to the darkest of depressions when forced into inactivity – ’

‘I know. But you won’t be inactive. Look, there’re all the files on my desk – you could beguile the time away by organising some of that monstrosity. And you could write your stories.’

‘I am definitely not well enough to touch your desk. I may consider some cases to write up, of course, but it is immensely vexing and I –’ The cough returned at that point and precluded any possibility of finishing his speech. 

Holmes regarded him for a minute. ‘I am so sorry, old boy, but there simply isn’t time. I must get on.’ He rose to finish his packing with a little sympathetic grimace; and in ten minutes, he was ready to depart. They said a reticent goodbye and Watson listened as his friend’s footsteps descended the stairs to the front door. Then he was gone. 

Left to himself, Dr Watson sat feebly coughing by the fire, feeling both restless and exhausted. He had got to the point where his chest hurt so much he feared he’d cracked a rib. The absence of Holmes and his current state of health made him feel so low that it brought to mind a desperate time some years before when he had been led to believe his friend was lost. Sitting there alone, he was ashamed to find that emotion threatened to swamp him. I must keep myself occupied. And as soon as I’m fit, he told himself sternly, I must be sure to get out and about, meet people, see off this loneliness. I’m damned if I’ll let myself sink into melancholy again. 

                                                        *                *                *

The scene in the Café Royal was as busy and opulent as usual. Dr Watson was not particularly fond of the décor, with its gilding and vast mirrors. The place was worth visiting mainly because he enjoyed watching the patrons. Over here were famous faces from the art world in deep discussion; in a corner to the right was a noisy group of exquisite young men, somewhat the worse for wear; to the left a decorous, well-dressed pair of ladies with their escorts; and nearby a couple of intense poetic-looking characters, sipping pale, wicked drinks and conversing almost in whispers. But Watson was alone. He had not intended to come into such an expensive place at all but, having taken himself out for a restorative walk, now that he was definitely on the mend, he found that he needed somewhere to rest. A small coffee with brandy seemed to have helped his general sense of well-being, but it was time to make a move. He made his way to the door and was bumped into by a portly chap who was just coming in. The next moment, he was being gripped by the elbow and steered to one side. It was Valentine Cabot. Watson sighed internally and began to make an excuse about needing to leave immediately. Cabot was impervious.

‘How gorgeous to see you, my dear Dr Watson! You look stunning! Such a long time since we coincided – but I must say this place is horribly expensive and full of gawpers and hangers-on. And are you still writing up accounts of criminal cases for the magazines?’

‘From time to time,’ said Watson, trying to edge towards the door. 

‘Does very well for you, I hear? Yes, very well indeed, so far as short stories can go; but, you know, your readership would increase vastly, my dear Doctor, if you were to take some part of your work to the stage. An adaptation of one of your detective stories would be most appealing.’ 

‘I’ll think about it, Mr Cabot,’ said Watson. ‘If ever I wanted to, I’d certainly take your advice on the matter. And now, I’m afraid I’m rather late for an appointment …’

‘Well, I would be delighted to help you adapt something. You would be amazed at how mere prose springs to life when presented by really good actors. I am lucky to have such a client now – a good actor, I mean. A promising young fellow, name of Arden. You might have heard of him? I count myself fortunate to be his manager, I can tell you!’

‘Oh? That is excellent. And now, I must …’

‘So you may even consider working with me, depending on my next production? I have a most intriguing idea for a play and, do listen because you’ll like this, a musical tragi-comedy, based upon Hamlet. Intriguing, is it not?’

‘Alas,’ said Watson carefully, ‘I am not in a position to consider such an opportunity just now. But I congratulate you on your actor. It must be fortunate to manage a great talent. Well, it’s been pleasant to chat, but now …’

Cabot sighed and glanced towards the group in the far corner. ‘I am, if you insist upon knowing, in the process of arranging a meeting. My friend’s over there – somewhere in the middle of that noisy huddle – and he’s definitely interested in the scheme I mentioned. Perfectly ecstatic about it. I’ve just come in to find him – casual arrangement, and all that, so need to wander over. Unfortunately, I seem to have left my wallet at the bank – I couldn’t ask you to …?’

‘Not really, Cabot,’ said Watson hastily. ‘Crime doesn’t pay, you know, not nearly as well as it should. Certainly not the writing about it anyway.’

‘Oh. Well, I hope we’ll bump into each other soon. Will you be going to Dame Fortune’s?’

Watson hesitated. ‘Ye-es,’ he said, ‘I expect I will, at some point.’

A burst of laughter from the group in the corner attracted Valentine’s attention. ‘Ah, mirth, divine wit, flowing champagne! There they are. I shall go to them. Mr Pollitt and his circle of admirers await.’

Watson escaped.

Extract from The Compact by Charlie Raven.