Matthew often spoke of his desire to take his nephew to a toyshop and to invite him to choose a gift. He imagined the joy on the child’s face as he was confronted by so many delights. Which should he select? On the basis of my experience this morning, I could not imagine anything crueller. Where should I start? The gallery? Indeed, I sat in front of a Hals for several minutes, until I became aware of a housemaid desperate to dust. Should I claim my right as a guest to be as awkward as I pleased? If she was late in her schedule then let her take the consequences. But I had once been a girl like that. With a smile that clearly nonplussed her I moved away.
I was intercepted on the stairs by Lady Hortensia, with a polite but not necessarily interested question: ‘Is all well, Cousin Harriet?’
‘Thank you, yes, Lady Hortensia. What a lovely fine day it is.’
With barely a nod she moved on, but turned, pausing two steps above me so that she could literally look down on me.
‘You should know,’ she said, ‘that the ladies watching the match always wear white, like the players, of course. And I think I should warn you,’ she added, ‘not to monopolize the Gräfin. Not good form. Quite a faux pas, indeed.’ She turned and ascended too briskly for me to reply.
I could have demanded to know what she meant, insisting I might talk to whom I chose. As for the wearing of white, I knew that once Lady Croft had favoured such a fashion and I had come prepared. But if I hadn’t? I suppose I could always have borrowed a maid’s uniform and watched from behind the tables spread with tea for the teams.
It was probably bad form to stand there fuming. What next? It would be good to browse in the much-vaunted library.
I was greeted as I arrived by my dinner partner of the previous night, Mr Digby – and by his lighted cigar. Had anyone ever smoked in our nascent library at home, I would have ejected them. His late lordship’s Will gave me the same authority in the Thorncroft library. But here I could do no more than hint that smoking put the books at very least at risk – and given that the library was at the very heart of the building a fire there would endanger everyone and everything in it. A hint should be offered in a quiet and gentle way, so as to achieve a result without the miscreant even being away of the implied rebuke. But nothing quiet and gentle would have any effect on Mr Digby. A town crier might be challenged to make the poor man hear. I had to do something – but what? The answer must be to move him outside.
‘You say you’ve never played croquet before, ma’am? Here – let me help you with your grip on the mallet,’ Mr Digby said.
For all I had judged him to be a kind and decent man, his notion of assisting involved standing behind me, pressing the bulk of his body against my back and like a villain in a novel by Richardson distorting the hoops of my crinoline – which for once I blessed for keeping more of his anatomy at bay. Somehow I must stop myself screaming. I must not stamp on his foot. I must do nothing to draw attention to myself. Because this, it seemed, was what not just servants but ladies were expected to endure from gentlemen in the name of light flirtation. Perhaps that was why so many of them fainted – either because a fierce embrace made an already tight corset even more stifling, or because falling heavily backward or forward would dislodge the unwanted leech. I had been known to feign a faint myself – but not in the open air. I must use my wits some more. After all, I was out here on a mission to save a library. I had told him I knew nothing of the house or gardens and asked what I should look out for. Of course he was going to escort me. Being too clever had got me into this mess. I must be even cleverer. To speak to him, I had to screw my head right round to make myself heard, only to be rewarded with a vile gust of tobacco-scented breath. I pointed to his ear. Surely that would indicate I wished to speak to him. At last he worked it out. I was released. I passed him a mallet. Would he show me how to hit it? He did not do it well. He blamed the brightness of the sun: he had had to squint.
An ill-advised moment of vanity assailed me. Surely I had spent enough time in my life going through metaphorical hoops to be able to get a ball through a literal one. But I knew from endless experience that men like this enjoyed flattery. A near miss was what was needed. And a request for him to demonstrate again what he had done so that I could watch him. I retreated behind a hoop to watch, apparently absorbing every word of his prattling advice. Not for the first time I agreed with Hamlet – These tedious old fools! Of course, a woman, like a man, may smile and smile and be a villain. Not that I had any villainy in my heart – just a very sincere desire to be elsewhere.
I was sure it would have been, in Lady Hortensia’s words, terribly bad form to run to Matthew as he finally appeared, his face an interesting mixture of relief and guilt overlaying what looked like black fury. It mirrored my own. As a pair we could engage Mr Digby in a conversation rendered all the more meaningless by his inability to hear half of it. After ten minutes my dislike of him had evaporated, replaced by a profound pity for a man with such a handicap – hidden, but socially even more crippling than Cousin Barrington’s physical injuries.
At last we were alone, walking in the warm sun. Matthew was unwontedly silent as we took a path alongside the stream that marked the edge of the estate. It was choked with reeds, but some work had evidently been done on it recently. The little humpbacked bridge was a mixture of old stone and very bright red bricks. Matthew stared at it, as if it was infuriating him. Usually he told me why he was angry; for some reason today he did not. So tucking my arm in his, I summed up my morning very briefly, omitting my encounter with Lady Hortensia and why I asked Mr Digby to demonstrate a shot. After all, I had no desire to make him angrier. In his past there had been some incident – he had never told even me quite what had happened – when he had nearly killed someone. I had seen with my own eyes the damage he could inflict on himself when enraged.
‘Learning how to play croquet!’ he laughed. ‘So that was how you came to be with that old bore! But taking lessons from him? You?’
‘Some gentlemen like to think they know everything, do they not?’ I risked asking, ‘Have you had a similar experience at your practice?’
‘Similar – but more! My love, you should have been a fly on the wall. But not that one,’ he added, eyeing the bridge.
Soon he was laughing at what he described as a debacle. We strolled on. The day got warmer. But the bright sky was becoming slightly milky. ‘When halo rings the Moon or Sun, Rain’s approaching on the run,’ I remarked.
He nodded. ‘I just hope we can finish the game. Though I sense some people might be relieved if we can’t. I just wish I knew why. I can’t imagine that you could keep away, my love, but do you think any other wives or sweethearts will bother to watch?’
‘I’m sure they will at least gather on the boundary. Wearing white gowns. Yes, there are strong if unwritten rules about what constitutes the right apparel to wear. The Gräfin won’t attend: she told me last night she is now too Austrian to enjoy such a strange game. What I can’t understand is why she should have gone to such pains to be kind to me.’ Or why Lady Hortensia should consider my behaviour bad form. If only Cousin Mark’s kind wife Dora was here to confide in. ‘Ah! A kingfisher!’
Luncheon was a fairly perfunctory occasion, as we needed to change into our cricket-playing or cricket-watching whites. The ladies needed cricket-watching hats, of course. Alas for the person sitting behind some of the creations. I sported – at a very jaunty angle, I must say – a pretty little straw hat that Matthew had pointed out to me in the window of our new village draper’s. It would impede no one’s view. If the other ladies drifted languidly to the field, I had to stop myself striding out to claim a good viewpoint. I fell into step with Lady Pidgeon, who was carrying a book.
‘Many of my acquaintances seem to enjoy George Eliot’s works,’ she said, looking up at me. ‘I must say I have never found the characters to my taste, but if I have to sit for three hours I might as well read this. The Mill on the Floss. Such low people she writes about!’
I had to say something, and, moreover, something that would not immediately offend one of the few people with whom I had even a remote connection. So I looked up at the sky. ‘I suspect, ma’am, that you will not be sitting here for as long as you fear. Look at that line of cloud on the horizon.’
‘Let us pray it arrives soon. Over there, I think.’ She headed for a seat from which one could see nothing.
‘Forgive me, ma’am. My husband is playing and he will expect me to watch him.’ How disloyal of me. I added with a smile, ‘And I will expect him to play well enough for me to want to watch.’
‘Dear me. You’re a little old to be a devoted newly-wed,’ she said mockingly.
I took my tone from her. ‘I am indeed, ma’am, no spring chicken, as the saying goes, but we have been married less than a year. And – forgive me – I do so love the game.’
‘So does my husband – umpiring! After all these years watching him play now I’m supposed to watch him watching other men play.’ She sighed heavily. ‘But at least I have my book. Ah! I see that play is about to begin.’
‘In that case, pray excuse me.’ I bobbed a curtsey, taking a deckchair almost at random. I could move at the end of the over.
To my surprise she sat beside me. ‘I’m sure you will know which team is which.’
‘Indeed I do. The village team is fielding. Cousin Barrington’s team is batting.’ Sadly I was a long way from the pavilion – oh, yes, there was a tiny white painted doll’s house about ninety degrees to my right – so I could not easily see who was already wearing pads, ready to bat next. But with Lady Pidgeon beside me I could not politely move closer, even though within minutes her eyes were shut, her mouth hanging open.
Cousin Barrington was apparently sticking to his self-created law that he must be dismissed three times before he departed from the crease, but already four other players had lost their wickets. Now it was poor Mr Turton’s turn to bat, his Adam’s apple no doubt a-bobble and his elbows and knees at all angles. All I could do was pray for him. So when would Mr Harrison be allowed to bat? And when Matthew?
Now Lady Pidgeon and I had company. Two or three young mothers, accompanied by nannies who carried blankets and an assortment of toys, camped right on the boundary rope. Had no one ever told them about fielders running hell for leather as they chased the ball? It was generally accepted that any spectators had a duty to move for them. Should I point this out? But to whom? The mothers, twirling parasols, clearly did not consider their babies to be their problem as they laughed together; the nannies, also deep in gossip, probably had no authority. Yet I got up. Whom should I approach? At least I had been introduced to Lady FitzAllen. At last she broke off her conversation with the other young mothers – who all looked like dolls from the same box – to raise an enquiring but forbidding eyebrow.
My courage did not often fail me, but it took a great deal of effort to speak. ‘Your ladyship, I fear the babies and their nannies are in what Cousin Barrington would call the line of fire. They are indeed perilously close to the boundary.’
‘Thank you. I will speak to Nurse about it. Johnson, Mrs – er – is worried about Miss Baby.’ She resumed her conversation.
Thinking the children’s safety was more important than my pride, I delivered the warning to Johnson myself.
‘Oh, they’ll never hit a ball this far, will they, ma’am? Anyway, this is where madam said we should be. Thanks ever so, though.’
I might as well sit down.
Lady Pidgeon awoke at this point and discovered that her novel was too tedious for words. Having helped her to her feet and watched her join another group of older ladies, I moved my position slightly closer to the pavilion, just in time to join in the smattering of applause for the latest batsman to lose his wicket. Mr Turton, flushed red right to the back of his neck, made an ignominious return having failed to score. Surely they would send Mr Harrison in now? No, Major Jameson himself, the man who was the self-appointed coach; he swatted wildly and was caught by the bowler. A gentleman I didn’t know acquitted himself no better. If Cousin Barrington’s side were not to be totally humiliated, then Mr Harrison and Matthew – not as good with the bat as with the ball – must achieve a miracle.
Once they were batting together, they hardly stopped running. Three runs here; five there. At one point an amazing seven when Matthew skied the ball into some brambles and it took the poor fielders a lot of effort and some blood to retrieve it. Mr Harrison batted even better. Soon the gentlemen’s team had accumulated fifty-six more runs – not enough, probably, but at least a respectable total in the overs they were allowed. The two not-out batsmen were applauded back to the pavilion.
It was time for the sumptuous tea.
It was time for pretty girls to flirt with handsome young men.
It was time to fan oneself and complain about the increasing sticky heat and the ominous grey and brown balloons of clouds bunching overhead. These, however, were nothing compared to the clouds on some of the players’ faces, Matthew’s particularly. Knowing how hard it was for him to control his violent urges – it was as if he had to retreat inside himself – I did not approach him. He would find me if he needed me. But as I drank my tea, since none of the ladies was troubling me with conversation, I could simply watch. Cousin Barrington, white with an emotion I could not determine, was arguing with the Major, whose face was brick red. They were both pointing, the Major with a shaking hand, at Mr Harrison, who was with apparent calm donning the pads he would need to keep wicket. Mr Turton took him a cup of tea, but clearly and not surprisingly, preferred to avoid a long conversation. Mr Harrison smiled awkwardly as he took it. Seeing him on his own again, Matthew went over and sat beside him. Soon they were talking with some animation. I could relax.
Perhaps the umpires, one supplied by each side, could relax too. But it seemed unlikely. The village umpire – a loyal team member a few years ago, no doubt – looked as thunderous as the weather. The other, Lord Pidgeon, poured something from a silver flask into his tea, his hand shaking badly. They made no attempt to chat, but perhaps they had nothing to discuss: apart from regularly raising fingers to show the batsman had lost his wicket, neither had been called on to do anything other than hold caps and call when the over was concluded and it was time to bowl from the other end.
Mr Turton crept up beside me. The gist of what he said was, ‘It is a pity you are not playing, ma’am.’
I smiled my thanks and amusement. ‘My husband tells me that you are the best fielder in the team, Mr Turton. And probably in the other team too. Now, what do you think those two gentlemen are arguing about?’
‘The Colonel and the Major? Which weapon to deploy,’ he said, actually managing to grin. ‘First b-b-b-b-owler. And who is to keep wicket.’
‘It must be hard, a team having two captains. Who would you choose as wicket-keeper?’
‘M-M-M-Mr Harrison. And your husband to b-b-b-bowl. Ob-b-b—’ He stopped, swamped by a vicious blush.
In such circumstances I would have patted a young footman’s arm – though we would never have employed one, I fear, with so crippling a speech impediment. I patted his.
He ducked his head, declaring, ‘I could kill Jameson, ma’am.’ Or as near as he could get to that.
This time I gripped both his hands. I spoke with quiet urgency. ‘For your sake, let his rudeness, his unkindness pass. You have a better life ahead of you. I promise. Now, dry your eyes and drink some tea. Yes? Yes!’
The clouds grew almost crushingly heavy. The wind dropped.
‘Do you think the match can be finished before the rain comes?’
He answered with a dubious smile and a rocking hand.
Others beside Mr Turton must loathe the Major. Even the spectators could hear him as he loudly blamed Mr Harrison for every error made by the bowlers he chose. Even in a dress like this I could have bowled better than any of them. He knew he had a brilliant bowler at his disposal in Matthew, but would not throw him the ball. The gentlemen were going to lose.
Unless …
Without being asked, Matthew took the ball. A snarling expostulation from the vice-captain had no effect. He ran in. The first ball was unplayable, but somehow the batsman survived. And the next and even the next. Then Matthew shrugged his shoulders slightly, in a way I recognized as a signal he’d taught our village wicket-keeper. Yes. Mr Harrison took the catch. The next ball simply toppled the wickets. The third went towards Mr Turton, who snatched it from the air and held it. A hat trick! Even the opposition applauded. Perhaps especially the opposition. Having completed his over he returned to his usual fielding position.
So why did Jameson, assuming the mantle of captain, now give the ball to the very worst bowler? The village team only needed nine runs to win. Soon they only needed three. Look at that delivery: a child could hit it. The man certainly did. He heaved the ball high and long – directly to where I had been sitting. Where the children still played and the nursemaids still chatted and the mothers—
Act. Act now.
There is nothing more important than that ball. Forget the babies on the rug. The ball. That is the only thing in my mind. The angle. The speed. My speed. My feet must find their own way. The ball.
I have it. It is safe in my hands.
And the babies play on, quite oblivious. Miss Baby FitzAllen waves at the sky. Alexander Morton Frobisher Brewood shakes a silver and coral rattle.
By now they are probably the only ones who are not reacting. The men on the field send up the sort of cheer they probably practised back at Eton or Harrow. Even the batsman slaps his bat in approval. The ladies amongst the onlookers are fainting or screaming according to their temperament. And I know that while I probably saved an aristocratic life, I have committed a most terrible faux pas.