‘Where are they going?’
‘I don’t know, your honour. They didn’t say. But Mr Mulgrave walked over today from somewhere. He’s gone now but they say he called at the Master’s Lodge.’
Whichcote rubbed his cheek. Mulgrave was no great walker with that limp of his. The pony phaeton must be for Mrs Carbury, probably with a man to drive her. So light an equipage wouldn’t bear the Master’s weight. No one would hire a pony phaeton for a long journey, either.
He stared down at the thin, grubby face of the footboy. ‘Well, you must go to the stable tomorrow, and wait till they leave, and then you must follow them.’
‘But they will go faster than -’
‘Then you will have to run,’ Whichcote said. ‘After all, it is only a pony phaeton. It won’t proceed much above a footpace. I want to know who’s in it, where they go, and who they see. But you must not show yourself, boy, or I’ll have you whipped until you’re raw.’
They must have walked for ten or twelve miles in that long midsummer afternoon. They followed country roads that shimmered with dust and farm droves that were muddy even in this dry, warm weather. They marched along the high green banks of drainage cuts and dykes, as ruler-straight as their Dutch engineers had been able to make them. They splashed across fens where tall reeds waved above dark water stinking of rotting vegetation, disturbing countless waterfowl.
‘If only I had a gun,’ Frank said not once but many times. ‘What sport we should have.’
They met few people, and those they did were usually solitary – slouching men with muddy complexions who seemed as much a natural feature of this watery landscape as the reeds and the brackish water.
‘Ha!’ said Frank after one such encounter. ‘I wager they take us for father and son.’
Holdsworth did not reply. Georgie, he thought, my darling son.
Despite the heat, they walked rapidly. They did not talk much. The flatness of the country and the clarity of the air conspired to make Holdsworth feel he was a mere speck, lost in the immensity of the heavens. Frank, on the other hand, appeared positively to relish it. At one point, standing on top of an embankment running along a drainage cut, he stood for a moment, raised his arms and slowly spun around. Then he glanced at Holdsworth, and smiled like a happy child. Without a word, he started walking again, at the same rapid pace as before.
It was after seven o’clock by the time they came in sight of Whitebeach again. As they passed Mr Smedley’s farm, the dogs began to bark, rattling their chains and rushing to the yard gate, where they stared with wild yellow eyes at the strangers.
Mulgrave, alerted by the barking, came to meet them in the yard of the mill. Frank greeted him carelessly and went into the cottage, calling over his shoulder that he wanted a bowl of hot water, beer, bread and cheese.
Holdsworth lingered. ‘Well? Were you able to get what was needed?’
‘Yes, sir. Warm work, walking into town, I can tell you. But I got a lift back most of the way on a farm cart.’
‘Did you call at Jerusalem?’
‘Yes, sir. Mrs Carbury gave me a letter for you.’
He took it from his pocket and handed it to Holdsworth.
‘Did you see anyone else you know?’
‘Only college servants, sir. Mr Mepal at the lodge and the like.’
‘You did not tell them where we are, I hope?’
Mulgrave drew himself up, and went through the motions of looking affronted. ‘Of course not, sir.’
Holdsworth dismissed the servant and sat down on the bench near the horse trough. His tiredness forgotten, he turned the letter over in his hands. There was a curious and almost sensual pleasure in the texture of the paper and the sight of his own name in that unfamiliar handwriting. He broke the seal and tore the letter open.
Jerusalem College, 6th June.
Dear Sir, Her Ladyship commands me to call on you to see how Mr Oldershaw does in his new quarters. I have arranged to drive over tomorrow, and I hope you will both find it convenient to receive me at about two o’clock. Believe me, yours faithfully, E. Carbury
Mrs Carbury’s handwriting was like her face, Holdsworth thought, too decided and too heavily marked to be called beautiful in any formal or customary sense of the word, but undeniably striking. He read the letter again, though there was no need to do so, as if to make sure there was not some last drop of meaning to be squeezed out of those few words.
The ginger cat walked lightly across the yard and made a figure of eight round Holdworth’s ankles. He shivered at the touch of the animal’s body, at the casual intimacy of it. He thought of Elinor Carbury’s hand on the gate by the bridge.
Touch me, he thought. Touch me.
28
Elinor heard the shuffle of Dr Carbury’s slippered feet outside the door. A moment later her husband, still in cap and dressing gown, came slowly into the sitting room, leaning on a stick. She knew from one look at his face that he had not passed a comfortable night. She went to him at once and guided him to a chair. Since he had given her the news about his health, her emotions had been in a jumble. She scarcely knew what she should or could feel. She did not like being married to him but it was preferable to not being married at all, and without him she would have nothing to fall back on except the uncertain generosity of Lady Anne. Strangest of all, she felt pity for him and even a certain respect. Here was a man who knew he was in the very antechamber of death. His plight seemed more a source of irritation to him than terror.
As if purposely to destroy any sympathy he might have occasioned, the Doctor broke wind lingeringly and with the unselfconsciousness of a child alone in its own bed. ‘You go to the mill this morning, I collect? I shall depend on you to examine Mr Holdsworth very carefully. I do not know whether you will see Mr Oldershaw himself – he may require restraint and be under lock and key; you must allow Mr Holdsworth to be your guide.’ He stared at her with his small dark eyes, partly concealed by the folds of skin. ‘I judge him to be reliable on the whole. Like ourselves, he has a pressing reason to want Mr Frank restored to health. What time does he expect you?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘Go earlier. One o’clock, perhaps, or even sooner. Take them by surprise, and you will see them as they really are. Her ladyship wants accurate intelligence above everything, and that is the way to obtain it.’
‘Very well. If you wish it, sir.’
‘And I should like us to give her ladyship what she desires,’ he said slowly. ‘I have a particular favour to ask her.’
He paused, allowing Elinor time to conclude that the favour no doubt concerned herself, and what would become of her when she was a widow. Then she was distracted by the realization that her husband was trembling. She started up in her chair. His lips were quivering, and his great barrel of a chest shook slightly as though a small, heavy object were bouncing about inside. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, and in that instance became aware that there was no need: Dr Carbury was laughing.
‘I wish you had seen him, my dear Mrs Carbury – Mr Richardson, that is – it was most diverting. He did not know what to do or say.’
‘About what, sir?’
‘About the Rosington Fellowship, of course. I told him when we were at the dinner, in front of everyone. The poor man almost fell off his chair.’ Carbury folded his hands over his great stomach. ‘He desires above all things to be Master of this college. If her ladyship will use her influence against him, it would be a great thing. And Soresby too may have his uses, for if he holds the fellowship, he will have a vote in the election.’ He winced as a spasm of pain struck him. Slowly it passed. Then he smiled at her so broadly that his eyes entirely disappeared in the surrounding folds of skin. ‘My dear Mrs Carbury,’ he repeated. ‘You should have seen his face. You really should.’