Longmeadow: Chapter Ten

in which Alta and Mr. Somerday perambulate

 

Alta

 

Mr. Somerday accompanies me on my rounds. We ride side by side on grey days, and on the sunny ones, I seek the shelter of the trap while he reins his horse alongside me. I’ve always felt proud of Longmeadow, both for its ancient lineage and its modern ideas. But Mr. Somerday’s enthusiasm helps me to see the place with new eyes.

nice old lathe

He is enthusiastic about all of Longmeadow: he admires the land itself; he admires the people who work it; he admires Grady for his patience; he admires the turn of Ben Mangum’s lathe; he admires the high ideals of the place and the straw-plaiting girls’ skill equally. As well as much else. He waxes eloquent on my parents’ work and speaks about them with high regard.

“Really, Alta, it’s wonderful, Longmeadow is. I have looked a bit into other places that make similar claims and there’s no comparison.”

“Yes,” I called to him from within the trap. We were on our way to Arum House for a look-see. “I agree. My father wished not to repeat the mistakes of others, he said.”

Mr. Somerday nodded. “And from what I’ve read, failures are plentiful. Places like Longmeadow usually don’t last. I have read that it is hard to make a go of them.”

Look at how the sun dapples his white shirt as he rides along. If I had the skill, I’d like to paint a portrait of that shirt.

“Alta?”

“Oh! Yes, Father used to call it a labor of love. He and my mother spoke about it at supper very often: how it is, for example that one may wish to improve a person who may prefer to remain…”

“Unimproved.”

“Yes. One reason for Longmeadow’s success may be its mildness. Some of the communities were quite extreme,” I told him. “Oneida, for example.”  Immediately, I regretted my words. I felt myself blush fiercely from my seat inside the trap. I hoped Mr. Somerday would not ask me to elaborate.

snoop

I had my information on Oneida from a treatise in Father’s locked desk which I had opened without permission. Lord, some of those images may never leave me.

“And the Shakers,” said Mr. Somerday.

“Mmm,” I said. I wished I had not opened this Pandora’s box.

“Why did they shake, do you imagine?” he inquired seriously.

I said nothing.

“Alta,” he said more loudly, “why do you suppose they shook?”

I think I sighed. “I imagine…I believe it had to do with…”

Mr. Somerday did not take the hint.

“With what? I am having trouble hearing you. Suppose I climb in beside you and Rudo can trot behind? This topic is quite interesting.”

“They shook to rid themselves of their animal urges!” I yelped out as quickly as I could.

He looked surprised—had I shocked him yet again?– and then he laughed loudly.

“Alta!” he said, “You are quite a girl. You do a fellow good!”

I was glad he thought so.

 

I have rarely visited Arum House. Mostly, I do not care to meet the ladies. On the rare occasions that one or another of them is invited to take supper at the manor, they treat me as if I am diseased; as if I am quite radical for wishing to dine at my own table and should, out of politeness, dine underneath it instead.  At first, Mother urged me to ignore their rudeness, but she has lately relented and, upon the ladies’ infrequent visits, has allowed me to take my meal in the kitchen where I feel more comfortable.

“They’re ghastly,” said Juliet at breakfast once, the morning after one of them had come to supper. “And always all the same. Vastly overdressed and vastly underburdened with the sense God gave to a cat.”

“They are spoiled and bored and therefore mean,” said Mother. “I sometimes think about closing Arum House altogether.”

“Why not do it?” I asked.

“Did you know,” Mother told us, “that the Widows & Orphans is supported almost entirely by the revenues from Arum House? That’s one reason.”

“A valid reason,” I said.

“Another reason is the caliber of guest,” said Juliet. “You can say it, Mama, though it sounds coarse. She wants Longmeadow,” Juliet said to me, “to be talked about at an earl’s table as well as at a dyer’s. Maybe even more.”

Mother looked at Juliet. “Not more, no. But as much. Longmeadow will thrive best if it can appeal to all.”

“Mama,” Juliet had said, “you must take care not to sound too much like a clerk at Harrod’s.”

Mother drew herself up but then suddenly seemed to deflate. “Yes,” she said, sighing. “There are so many things I do for Longmeadow that I never expected to do in my life. Sometimes I feel confused by what I am about.”

Juliet relented. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Mother patted Juliet’s hand.

“Mother,” I said, “it seems strange that Father conceived of such an idea as Arum House in the first place. A holiday place for ladies? Whatever gave him the notion?”

“Oh my,” Mother replied, consulting the little timepiece at her bosom, “is it as late as that? Well, there are things to see to. I’ll see the both of you later at tea.” And she had gone off to her office.

Charles Henry Harrod

 

Arum House was as charming to look at as ever. I’d forgotten its prettiness—all those roses. I could just see Mike on the roof, hammer in hand. He tipped his cap to me as Mr. Somerday helped me down from the trap.

 

 

As I tied on my sun hat, a plump lady emerged from the house and walked languidly over to the swing, trailing a parasol. I watched as the lady shielded her eyes from the sun with a mitted hand and looked at us, at the landscape, up at Mike on the roof.

I nodded at the lady who appeared not to notice.

I turned back to Mr. Somerday. “The woods here are especially lovely. I should like to walk a bit before we say our hellos inside, but we must seek shade, if you don’t mind.”

“Let’s go this way,” said Mr. Somerday taking my arm. “We’ll have an old-fashioned tromp, shall we?”

Mrs. Grey walked out of the house to greet us—tea? cold water?—and I told her we’d be back in a bit for some refreshment.  Off we went. The sun was high and hot but my hat brim, made especially wide for my by the girls in the strawshop, protected me quite well. I’m a good walker.

“Do not dawdle, Mr. Somerday,” I said to him as he stopped here to peer at a fern, there, at a moss. “I will outpace you and lose you and you will worry that you have lost me when in fact I will be back at the trap awaiting you with impatience. Do come along.”

“Coming, coming,” he said, pretending to pant with exertion. In fact, he is quite lean and in no danger of losing breath. It was a great pleasure to be with him in the wood.

 

“What do you hear from your sister?” he said as we walked.

“She is quite thrilled with herself,” I reported. “She writes that she attends any numbers of parties. She’s become a salon favorite and is asked often to perform. I told her that I expect she’s become very artistic and that when I see her next, she’ll be swathed in veils of red and gold and have taken to kohling her eyes and I shan’t recognize her at all.”

“Well,” said Mr. Somerday, holding a briar away from my skirt as we walked along, “I understand that the urge to ornament one’s person is quite universal, but for my own part, I much prefer what is natural. Watch now, I’m letting go of this briar. Like you, Alta. Unadorned, natural, hair like Titania’s; why, you’re perfect just as you are.”

For a moment, I could not catch my breath.

“Well in that case,” I made myself answer, “you would not, I think, care overmuch for Olive Oatman.”

“Who?”

“Olive Oatman. She was captured by the Yavapai Indians of the Arizona territory. They tattooed her chin to show that she was their slave. She was later rescued but the tattoo remained, of course.”

“My God,” said Mr. Somerday. “Poor girl.”

“Well,” I said, “but think of the adventure. And she came out of it all right.”

‘But for the tattoo,” he said.

My heart was still beating hard from his compliment. I had never received one from a man before except for Father. The artists, Mother’s friends, and those visitors who came to supper—they might laugh at my jokes or nod at my comments. They might tell me that they were pleased to see me looking well. They might smile and even kiss my hand, but never had one of them told me that I possessed hair like Titania’s.

We walked on. My eyes are bad but my hearing, quite good. “What was that?” I said low. We both stopped. It had occurred to me, and must have to him as well, that the last time we were in each other’s company in such a landscape, the stag lay dead.

Mr. Somerday whispered, “I think it came from over there,” and sprinted in the wrong direction. I stood where I was until I heard the sound again. One more step and then I saw: the plump lady from Arum House, her back against a tree, her bustle quite flattened behind her. The man in her embrace—it was Mike– had his face pressed to her wide-open bodice as he moved up and down. I heard her moan: that was the sound.  I could see the lady’s white skin—not as white as my own of course—shining in the sunlight.

I backed away as quietly as I could and then I ran—in the direction of the house and of Mr. Somerday, whom I wished both to see and not see, at once.

 

you can always read about her

Longmeadow: chapter 8

in which Alta receives a parcel and, as well, a little recognition, for a change

 

Alta

I had a parcel from London. Juliet found, in some dusty bookshop, a small store of pamphlets which she  purchased, tied with a string, and mailed. Dear girl. She knows me so well. I settled down on the small sofa in my bedroom and unpacked it.

“Dearest Alta,

You asked me to look for beetle books for you but they make my head itch and so I’m afraid I can’t oblige.

oh my

 

In the meantime, maybe these will do for something to read. I certainly haven’t read them, but from a glance at the drawings within, I judge there’s enough gore to suit you. I say, you are an odd girl. But then so am I. By the by, I bought these under cover of “posting a letter;” if Cousin Jemimah had seen what it was I was buying, there’d have been smelling salts to pay. As it was, when the bookseller peered at me, I said as innocently as I could, “Oh, these aren’t for me, no indeed. They’re for my little sister!

Yours, J.”

 

 

The pamphlets were of a style familiar to me– penny dreadfuls: tales of danger, over-stimulating, full of prurient images.

dreadful

Mr. Foyle, my favorite of the London booksellers, with whom I have a standing order, sends them when he finds them and I consume them like raspberries. I will admit: I’m a little embarrassed by my propensity for the dreadfuls; they are purple, and absolutely unwholesome, and I ought to know better. Everything about them is coarse, from the paper to the prose. They’re meant for little boys; adventure stories full of cliffs and ponies and flaming arrows. I dug in.

couple of ’em

 

Soon I found myself on the edge of my little sofa, Juliet’s pamphlets around my feet, my nose an inch from a most marvelous story called Calamity Jane at Death Notch. Of course I’d heard of Calamity Jane but I hadn’t read much about her before. And here was everything I never knew I wanted! With engravings! When have I been so thrilled?

“Darling Julie,” I murmured as I turned the flimsy pages.

 

Calamity

Calamity Jane was most shocking. Her trousers, the way her hat sat on the back of her head, those adventures! I sat upright—as if I was astride—and raced straight through the material. Through Calamity Jane  Rescues City Slickers from Wild Indians! Through Calamity Jane Rides 90 Miles with Vital Dispatch! Through Calamity Jane Rescues Colonel From Certain Death!

When I finished, I took a great breath. I expect I’m like a million others who find excitement between two paper covers rather than on the back of a pony. It came to me suddenly that I missed the stag. The idea of him, so unbound, roaming where he would, was an idea I had loved. He crashed through the undergrowth in the same way I would like to crash but cannot. Though white, he was ready, while here sit I, pinned like one of my beetles by my infirmity. Juliet is like the stag. Or he was like her. She crashes all she wants, while I sit by the window.

I sighed, shrugged, packed up the pamphlets and carried them to my collection room. “There,” I said putting them away, “you deserve your own cabinet, Miss Calamity.”

Mother’s office is at the other end of the house. I entered and seated myself at my own trim desk. By contrast, Mother’s desk is a constant tumult; unfinished articles, sketches of farm machinery, invitations to lectures, lists of goods needed to run the farms, the workshops, the school.

mundane

I often assist Mother with more mundane bookkeeping aspects of Longmeadow: how many pots of jam sold, how many chairs sold, how many bales produced. I had just taken up a stack of invoices to sort when Mother walked in. She kissed me and went to her desk to work. Only a moment passed before she put down her pen. I looked up.

“My great fear is that I will somehow undermine all your father achieved,” she said as if we had been in the midst of discussion. Her expression was dark. “I wasted so much of his time, you see, by questioning his ideas and his methods, for he had first to convince me of their legitimacy.”

Mother has been low since the gypsy’s death. While I mourn the stag, Mother takes the death of the man harder. She pities the gypsy band for their loss, she worries for the patience of the townsfolk, she considers the murder a blemish on Longmeadow’s reputation. Her low spirits have permeated her conversation. I can tell: if it weren’t for her corset, she would slump in her chair.

“Your father needed my help,” Mother continued, “but in the beginning, I was reluctant to see his views. I will forever feel,” she said, “that if I had been quicker to come to his understanding, he would have been…he would have felt shored up by me, do you see? But I delayed.” She sighed “I have tried to make up for it since his death, but it is hard to be a woman alone doing the work of a man, especially of one whom she loved as I loved him.”

I recalled; immediately after Father’s death, Mother had taken to her bed. Longmeadow might have fallen apart but for Mrs. Tell and Grady. The two of them made the rounds, remedied the problems, assured the people, while Mother mourned and Juliet and I tried to comfort her. I remember the darkened room, the sour sheets.

And then one day, after a month, Mother rose, straightened her back and went downstairs to breakfast. Her sense of duty seemed to flood back to her; that very day, she ventured into Father’s office and within an hour had called for Grady to help her understand the plans for an upgrade to the drains on the south lawn.

The gypsy’s murder seemed to shake her confidence anew. I understood it: her need to speculate aloud about the murder. Who was the culprit? Was he still at large in Longmeadow? Was Longmeadow in danger? Was there something that she, as leader, might have done to prevent the crime?

I felt that a little distraction was in order.

As if I had just that moment laid my hands on it, I held a newspaper aloft. “Have you seen this?” I asked. “It’s a letter to the Times from Mrs. Pankhurst about the workhouses.”

“The workhouses? Let me see it. Oh, how marvelous.” Mother took the paper and commenced to read the letter aloud.

Mrs. P, arrested while trying to present a suffrage petition to George V. 

I’d already read it myself, of course, but I feigned interest nonetheless; in fact, I was proud to have provided so successful a distraction. I heard Juliet’s voice in my head and almost chuckled at its exactness: ‘any other topic of conversation will do,’ drawled the phantom Juliet. ‘The price of grain. New spelling primers at the school. Even the vote. Anything, as long as it’s not that gypsy.’

Later that evening, as I sat in my bedroom reading, the door opened and in walked Mother  holding a sheaf of papers, her hair partly fallen from its upsweep.

 

messy

“Alta,” said Mother, waving the papers, “I must consult with you, my darling. I think I ought to go out onto the circuit again.”

When Father was alive, my parents had often traveled together around Britain—for a week or two at a time, perhaps—on lecture tours. They spoke to rooms of people about Longmeadow and the ideas of equality and shared labor that go into the place. They were extremely popular—Charles, so blonde and intelligent; Maria, so dark and impassioned, such a stirring oratress. Even these years after Father’s death, my mother’s celebrity status had remained intact and she still receives plenty of invitations to speak.              Once when Juliet and I were much younger and into the second week of one of our parents’ tours, Juliet had said,  “Perhaps they will never come back and you and I will become orphan-queens.                                                                                                                                I’d laughed, but later that same day, Juliet rode her pony up the front steps of the house and into the parlor and around. Mrs. Tell was so angry at the mud and the breakage that I could not bear it and fled to my room and my books. Juliet had shown no remorse, and had rather, in response to Mrs. Tell’s scolding, ridden round and round the great gravel drive in the front of the manor, grimacing and holding a tasseled table runner aloft like a flag.

“Really,” Mother had said upon her return when she heard of Juliet’s escapade, “Such a fuss! And after all, if your father and I were typical, we might simply hire a governess and then leave you for months while we wintered on the continent.”

“Yes,” said Father, “but we have our work, which is here, and thus we will always return.”

“To Longmeadow,” Juliet had said to me when we were alone together, “Not to us.”

I thought Juliet unfair; our parents never were away for terribly long, after all. They always left the circuit sooner than they wished to, for their responsibilities. Indeed, this habit they had of leaving before they’d worn through their welcome, called forth a constant admiration from their audiences who felt lucky to have caught them before they disappeared back into their small utopia.

Now, Mother’s expression was ardent. I was a little surprised at how things had turned.

“The circuit?” I said. “I am surprised!”

the circuit

 

Mother sank into the chair before the fireplace. “Honestly,” she said, “I’ve been so upset by the murder, as you know… and that’s a large part of it, of why I wish to go out again. I feel I need a bit of…I suppose I need a bit of air.” Her face changed suddenly. “Oh, Alta, darling, you know you could come with me. Do you know? You could do it, I am sure. You would enjoy seeing some of the world….” But she tapered off. I know that she knew that I would not go. But I am glad she asked.

“And it will make you feel better, then?” I said.

“Yes, I think it will. I think that if I face the incident–openly and honestly– then it will shine a good light on the place. It’s easier for people to trust in something if they feel a bit of vulnerability from it. Mr. Somerday suggested that perhaps I should even open my lectures with the incident, but I don’t know that I shall go that far.”

“Mr. Somerday?” I said.

“Why yes,” Mother said, rising from the chair, “even before the incident, he was eager that I go on tour. He urges me to do it. He is so enthusiastic about Longmeadow, you know. He is a little in love with the place, I think.”

He wishes Mother to go. He must know that I will stay. There is my heartbeat. My, how it pounds.

“I feel sure that people will welcome me though I am without your father. I shall work hard to spread our message. I feel that this is the right thing, do you not as well?”

“If it’s what you wish,” I said, standing, “And if you think you won’t worry about Longmeadow while you’re gone.”

“My love,” said Mother, hugging me. “I shall know that my lovely girl is here, at Longmeadow, continuing our important work. I plan to be two weeks, three at the most. I shall travel north to Cambridge and then circle around to Oxford and then London to see Juliet with some smaller stops between. If you will not accompany me, Alta, then you shall act in my stead here at Longmeadow.  You will take over my daily rounds for me. Grady will be at your side as well as Mrs. Tell. And Alta, one more thing—Mr. Somerday is very easy to talk to, my dear. Avail yourself of his ear. And I shall write to you every day.”

I hugged her back. I was glad to see her mother’s energy renewed. I was glad to see the familiar zeal for mission.  I was gratified to be trusted with Longmeadow’s work; I swear, I thought, my eyesight improves by the second as I look around and see the tasks ahead of me. And, because I aim always for honesty, I will admit it: the prospect of a daily ride with Mr. Somerday was not unpleasant.

 

 

Longmeadow: chapter seven

Mrs. Tell

 

Now I have said that my Grady and my Nancy are the two halves of my heart. I recall when Mags died and I couldn’t get them children from Dick and I was so distressed I was sick with it. My David couldn’t do nothing for me; I cried all the livelong day and my hair fell out in clumps.

The very night Mags died I told Dick I’d be glad take those children off his hands. I said, “Dick, you’ll give me Grady and Nan now, for you can’t raise ‘em all by yourself.”

And he said, “No, they’re mine and I’ll keep ‘em,” which I think he didn’t want them really, but more he didn’t want no one else to have them, not even their granny. That was a man who squeezed his happiness out of holding it back from someone else.

“But what’ll you do with ‘em when you’re down in the mines?” said I, for tin-mining was his job and his heart might’ve been made of it for all the loving-kindness in it. And his fist too, to judge by the marks on Mags’s cheek when she was still living. It ain’t right to hate a man, but hate him I did.

“I’ll do what I do,” said he, “and thank you to mind your own business.”

So, on a day so cold the birds fell froze from the sky, David and I stood together in the churchyard and watched Mags, our only child, go into the ground. Through my tears I looked at them babes, standing wide-eyed with their dad–he, grim as ever, the steam pouring from his open mouth like a great dragon– and I saw how he had his hands on them two little ones, not gentle, not loving, but like as if you’re holding a mean dog back, though they two were nothing but lambs. And I prayed, not for my Mags’s soul which needed her mother’s prayer, but instead that He would protect them two children from their own father, which I don’t know why she ever loved him in the first. I never could see it but she was my only one, and what she wanted was what I wanted for her. labio-partido_8He never hit her before they was married so I didn’t know to warn her away from him. I will never forgive myself that I couldn’t read him and what he would do once they was man and wife.

 

After the burying, I gave them three days, for David said I shouldn’t spy or nag, and then I went to the house with a basket. And there were those little ones, alone without no one to look after them, and no fire in the grate, and Nan with her little nose all a’snot and Grady, who was just five years old, trying to make her warm. And I made the fire up and gave them some soup and told them some stories like I had told Mags when she was little, which they loved the trolls for what child don’t love a troll in a story, and they went to sleep from finally being warm and full.

children like trolls

Some hours later in came Dick, all hale from drink and the first thing he said was what the hell was I was doing there.

Now I am a big woman, tall and stout, and I was as mad as a wasp and I stood myself up next to him and said, “These babes of yours was cold and hungry and what did you do, except for yourself,” and I could see that look in his eyes like murder.

mad

And my heart quavered in my chest, for I felt afraid for myself as well as for those little ones. I knew for certain: one way or the other, them children had to come to me lest they starve  or freeze or he beat them to death. But that night I had to leave them alone with him. I think I cried all the way home.

 

The next day I was mending a collar in the pantry when in came Miss Maria, which we downstairs ones still wasn’t used to, nor was she. But we was all trying this new way of working together and if that meant her below stairs with us, well, then we’d get used to it, for it was her house. Down she sat at the table with something on her mind, but I never did find out what it was for she saw my red nose and my pouring eyes and she stopped in her tracks. She asked me what was wrong and thanks to God, I told her, for I might’ve kept it to myself, as a servant ought to have done, but it was too awful and it all came out.

I told her about Dick and the two babes and the look she had was worried and then, and I thank God for this, it was furious. I could see her teeth set and her eyes dark up.  But she was quiet, for she’s a lady. And then she told me not to worry, that she would talk to Mr. Charles and they would figure it out.

And then, not a week passed and t’was like a miracle: Dick came to me very proud of hisself, and said he’d been offered a job up near Aubrey as captain in a tin-mine, but he’d have to live in a barracks among the miners and so did I still want the babes.

1bgvov
smug

It was all I could do not to bite the smug look off his face. Instead, I said very calm, “Yes, Dick, I’ll take care of ‘em,” and off he went like he owned the mine hisself and I never heard from him again, nor do I know if he’s alive or dead.

 

 

And so them babes were finally safe and sound. I put ‘em in with the Widows & Orphans during the day, which they was looked after very nice, and they went to the new school when it was opened up. In the evening, they came home to me and their grandpap in our cottage and we loved ‘em and coddled ‘em as we liked. I have never forgot what Miss Maria did for me. And never will I. And if she asks to me to do a thing I don’t care to do, I think back to what it is she did for me and then I go do the thing with a smile on my face. And that includes Arum House.

But today I mean to go visit my Nancy, which is a delight to me. I ain’t seen her for four days running what with my chores. I have a nice figgy cake which Mrs. Johnston made two of, one for her Sheila and one for my Nan and so I packed it up in a basket with two jars of jam and a tea cloth for her press, and went visiting.

When I knocked on the door of her little cottage, she opened it and bade me come in, all pink and smiles.

“Now how’s that Bert of yours,” said I, handing her the treats I brought with me.

311f852ad1a1960af032b2db54199b2b-wildflowers-dean-ogorman
bower of roses

“Aw, Gran,” she said, “he’s good to me, see what he brought me,” and there she pointed to a wilty little bunch of wildflowers set on the table like they was a bower of roses. I gave her a kiss and sat for a cup.

“And how does Grady do?” said she as she served me cake, all proper like a little lady of the house.

“Oh, well,” said I, “he’s up to his ears with that murder.”

Most of us who live and work here around the manor as well as down to Longmeadow Village would’ve run them gypsies out the very hour that stag was found dead. But Mr. Whitehead, who’s the sheriff after all, and of course Miss Maria herself wanted proof. And there’s been none, neither one way nor the other. So there them gypsies stay in those carts painted like a circus. Mr. Leighton the new curate, kindly as he is, didn’t want to let them bury that dead one in the churchyard—for he hadn’t never been christened– but Miss Maria convinced him, so heathen or not, that one had as nice a burial as I’ll have, though the folks attending didn’t know no better than to dress like they was going to a fair. Appalling, is what I say. But, I must keep my thoughts to myself for Grady’s getting enough muttering from everywhere else.

Van Gogh painted them

 

“I wish them gypsies would pick themselves up,” I said to Nan, “with whatever trash they’ve strowed all about, for I have no doubt it’s filthy, their camp, and get out, once and for all.”

I noticed that Nancy said not a word.

“Nan, my heart,” said I, “what could the matter be?”

Again, nothing, but her face showed her feelings.

“Nancy! Wait: they didn’t frighten you or hurt you, none, surely? No? Well then what is it, lovey?”

Nancy wiped her hands on a cloth and sat slowly down at her little table. “Gran,” she said very quiet, “What if they didn’t have nothing to do with that dead one after all?”

“What?” said I. “What can you mean, my love? Of course they did! It’s plain as the nose on your face! They must have been out there poaching and come to a quarrel. That dead man lost, I’d say. Lord, I’m just glad Miss Juliet ain’t here to see this. She loved that animal to distraction.”

Nancy nodded.

“Did you know that the dead one was the very same one as scared Miss Alta half to death that night?” I said. “Indeed he was. She saw him lying shot to bits there in the wood with her own eyes and knew him for the very one—I heard it from her own mouth. Now what do you think of that!”

Nan still looked worried. “I just thought that perhaps…that it’s wrong to accuse ‘em? Without knowing? Like Miss Maria says?” Her little face was pale under her yellow hair. I know my Nancy outside and in, but I could not think what she was about.

“Well and you’re right, my love,” said I to soothe her. “The evidence will out and prove it was them. And if it ain’t them and they’re truly innocent, which they ain’t, but if they are, then they have naught to fear, from neither God nor man.”

She looked at me with her eyes very large, just as if she was small again, trusting me to take care of her and make her slights, whatever they was, fall away. Lord knows I’ve tried my best for this sweet girl, though nothing in the world can take the place of a mother. I lost my own when I was but small, so I know. It’s a hole that can’t be filled, is what, by neither granny, nor husband, nor child of your own.

“Now Nan,” said I reaching for her hand, “are you all right, then?”

The door flew open and in burst Bert.

“Gran!” said he, for that’s what he calls me same as her, and he gave me a buss on my cheek loud as a gunshot, to make me laugh which it did, and then he picked up my girl and swung her around that little room til she squealed. He’ll turn a sob into a chuckle he will, and that’s why we love him.

loud kiss

I thought about it later that day, after I returned to the manor house—about how she was being so careful not to judge them gypsies. What could she know that I don’t, I asked myself–a little thing like her? I shook my head. No: that girl was too innocent to keep a secret; if she knew anything, she’d have spilled it to me in a trice. I wondered what the matter could be.

And then it came to me in a flash and for a moment my head was so light I had to sit down. Now Margery Tell, I asked myself, trying to be calm, when is it in a woman’s life that her chest can’t hardly contain her heart? When is it that she feels a deep well of charity inside her–deeper than the deep blue sea–towards all them who’ve lived before and all those who have yet to be born? When is it that a woman looks around the world and feels a part of all the people in it, even gypsies?

Could it be that my sweet girl was carrying a child inside her? A baby which I will hold it and smell its head and kiss it and love it? I thought I’d like to run back down to her cottage and hug her to bits but I knew better: if she hadn’t told me it’s because she don’t know herself and must come to it in her own time. Or maybe she and Bert are keeping it special between them, their own secret together for a little while, til the whole of Longmeadow gets hold of it. And that’s a thing I understood.

 

Longmeadow: chapter six

earlier chapters below

 

Alta

Juliet writes from London: quail in aspic is her new favorite; Cousin Jemima’s servants bow as they deliver letters on a salver; Cousin Jemima wears her stays too tight. As a postscript, Juliet added that she had only contempt for Annie Besant for instigating the recent matchgirl strike. I shook my head, rereading this last part. I knew that Juliet had included it only to irritate Mother.

“Indeed,” said Mother as she read the letter in her turn, “Juliet need not have added that bit about Annie. That was unkind.”

I agreed with her. Annie Besant is one of Mother’s best friends and on her frequent visits to Longmeadow, the discussions are more than enthusiastic. And numerous. Workers’ rights. The lack of sanitary conditions. The vote. And if you aren’t with them, why, you’re against them. I have seen more than one gentleman end in tatters for proffering an alternate point of view.

On such visits, which I find entertaining to a point, Juliet looks as if she’d like to weep from boredom. I understand Juliet’s dilemma; if she asks to be excused from the conversation too soon, Mother would lecture her for paragraphs on the subject’s importance. I myself just wait out the discussions patiently and then slip away, unnoticed, when Mother is distracted. But patience is in my nature. Or at least it’s my habit.  As I’ve said, I’m used to sitting quietly so as not to draw attention.

cfqqsd8z8tkmrclad2pa
“Phossy Jaw,”  (Phosphorus necrosis of the jaw, an occupational hazard of those who work with white phosphorus, such as the match-stick industry of the late nineteenth century.  One of the reasons for the  London Matchgirl Strike of 1888.)

 

Sometimes, however, even I feel restless. The day was grey; perfect for a sojourn out of doors. I felt like a ride. I asked Mark Grove to help me get my horse Roger, ready. I am to do it myself, as Juliet does, but I find the saddle heavy and the hook high. Mark is  obliging and so it our their secret that he does it for me and in truth, he does not seem to mind.

It was drizzling a bit as I went out. Longmeadow had recently enjoyed a fortnight of fine weather and I’d been cloistered for days. For me, the sun is no friend. But I wondered as I rode: was it the sunshine, really, that had kept me inside for these two weeks? Or was it, rather, some new fear brought on by the night I met the gypsy by the dovecote?

Certainly, the gypsy humiliated me. But humiliation is nothing new. And indeed, I agree with Mother’s assessment: it had not been his intention to hurt me. I know I was in no real danger that night.

Nevertheless, I find myself discomfited. I think it’s because I suddenly feel unsafe in my own home. And how can it be otherwise when I know that there are people here at Longmeadow who cannot tolerate even the sight of me?

protection against hex

It is one thing for the fat novelist Mr. Strich to gape; he is a gentleman, after all, and cannot imagine that I will hex his cat to death, or whatever other sort of nonsense there is to invent. But the gypsies who live in their carts just the other side of the wood? I imagine they think me quite dangerous.

 

However, here I am, riding in the morning on what is, after all, my land. (I suppose I ought to feel a pang for thinking that way—that Longmeadow is mine—‘mine,’ rather than ‘ours’—as if Mother were beside me, jabbing me with her crop, to remind me that we must share and share alike. Jabbing is not, of course, something Mother would do. It’s something Juliet might do, but in this case, as she’d agree with me, she’d likely keep her crop to herself.).

I rode in the direction of the great meadow some small distance from the manor. My veil whipped around my face, so I slowed Roger and removed it and then nudged him to a canter. Oh, it was exhilarating! The meadow stretches to the sea—if one rides far enough, one can catch a sight of the waves from the cliff’s edge. For some time, Grady has wanted part of the meadow for haying, but ancient Longmeadow tradition forbids its use as anything other than ornament. It is very beautiful, as it stretches over the hills. Were it up to me, it would remain in this wild state forever.

“Miss Alta?” I heard a voice on the wind and turned round in my saddle.

“Mr. Somerday!” There he was! His white shirt was open at his neck and his hair was blown about. I laughed at his expression: pure enjoyment.

“Miss Alta, do you mock me? How cruel. No, it’s too late for apologies. Well, I ought to be angry but it’s not possible. This field is marvelous for a hard ride. You are here for the same purpose, I see? Do you know, I have traveled throughout the country and these wilder places are disappearing! Oh, the moors are left, I suppose, but there your horse will break a leg if you ride too hard, by falling into some hole or other. This field’s one of the finest, and so vast!”

“Long,” I said to him, smiling at his enthusiasm.

“Long,” he nodded and then understood. “Meadow! I see! Well, it’s marvelous. Now, where are you off to? May I join you?”

We cantered along.

“Listen to the birdsong!” he called to me. “It’s quite deafening!”

I expect that I smiled and nodded. In truth, I’m surprised my heartbeat didn’t drown out

0cd1727067571cab8e90acccb7bb5e69-riding-hats-lace-veils
veils are important

all peeps and twitters. I thought perhaps I should replace my veil. I was afraid the constancy of my smile might make me look simple. It occurred to me: we had never yet been outside together, he and I, though we had come to know each other pretty well. Mr. Somerday visits me daily at the Manor, even now that Juliet had gone away to London. After one visit, I felt particularly delighted; when I realized why, I almost laughed aloud. It’s because he’d neglected to ask about Juliet even once, which I think would have amused Juliet entirely—that I liked it so much that he hadn’t. Not that I’d tell her, and not that she’s not marvelous, of course. But she’s in London, which is what she has wanted. All I have ever wanted is here. So we are each, in our own ways, contented.

During Mr. Somerday’s visits, he often describes the sights he sees as he accompanies Mother on her rounds to farms and the village and all about. The workshops in particular enchant him—he says he loves the chair turners and the weavers, but the straw-plaiters are his special favorites.

“They are so young, those girls,” he told me once, as we drank tea in the parlor, “not above your own age, Miss Alta. So dignified, as they sit at their braiding. And the place smells so sweetly of straw. And the hats they make; I suppose they’re marvelous, aren’t they? I felt like purchasing one myself, but in the end, wasn’t quite sure what I’d do with a bonnet in a hatbox.”

“Well,” I told him, “you could save it til you wished to paint an outdoor scene, I suppose. And then you’d have your model wear it, as she plucks a rose and holds it to her nose. You know.”

Mr. Somerday looked hurt. “Is that really what you think of me, Miss Alta,” he said to me as I tried not to smile, “that I would paint a girl with a rose? Is it? I am bruised, indeed, to my quick. Can you not see me as I am? A wild man, ready to paint an Indian with his bow and arrow?  Bring me an Indian! Mrs. Tell! Where are you? I require an Indian!” And with this, he picked up his teacup, crooked his little finger like a dandy, and took a tiny sip. I remember that I burst into giggles.

 

I’m grateful to Mother for having invited Mr. Somerday to accompany her on her rounds because it obviously brings him so much enjoyment.

“Yes,” said Mother, “I am glad to show him around. He’s listens so attentively and he’s so sensitive as to the nuances of the place. I wish you would come with us, Alta. Just cover up! You’ll be no worse for the wear, after all, and it would do you good to take the air.

I demurred, but I did not tell Mother the real reason. In truth, I have begun to depend on Mr. Somerday’s visits, and worry that if I rode out with the two of them in the morning, he might not visit me in the afternoon. Mother sometimes joins us at tea, and sometimes Mrs. Tell wanders through the room, but often it’s just the two of us, Mr. Somerday and me. I can tell that he still feels the strangeness of no chaperone, but he tells me that he’s getting used to it.

“Longmeadow—your mother’s ways—they still take a fellow aback, a bit,” he whispered to me one day when we were alone together. He affected a nervous glance at the door, pretending that Mother was hiding there, might overhear him, might pounce to scold him for being staid. “But I am learning how to be enlightened, as you see. And it is indeed the most charming and artless thing, of course it is.”

“I must compliment you on your flexibility, Mr. Somerday,” I said. I know I was flirting, but he didn’t seem to mind. Rather, he seemed to quite like it.

“Yes, I am a quick learner,” he smiled.

As we rode across the meadow, side by side, I recalled a letter from London, received just that morning. In it, Juliet extended her wish that we again thank Mr. Somerday for his part in convincing Mother to let her go to London.

“What can Juliet mean?” I asked Mother as I read the letter at breakfast, “about thanking Mr. Somerday? What had he to do with your decision?”

“Oh,” said Mother, buttering her toast, “I talked to him about it. He advised that it was time to let Juliet see something other than Longmeadow. I trust him, you see, because he seems already to understand important subtleties….

as of yet unbuttered

and  he spoke so eloquently about youth and freedom… and finally I realized that perhaps I’d been shortsighted….and then of course, my dear, you had been telling me the same thing, for months really, you know…and thus it came to be.”“Oh,” I said, “how marvelous of him.”

Mother nodded and bit her toast.

 

As we trotted along together, we called to each other about this or that birdsong, the clouds, the horses’ gaits.  After a few minutes, Mr. Somerday slowed and directed my attention to a gathering of horses on the side of the meadow, where the forest came up.

“What’s that, do you suppose?” said Mr. Somerday. “Shall we go see?”

There were men in the wood. We dismounted and picked our way through the undergrowth to where the men stood. There was Mr. Whitehead, the sheriff, and his assistant as well as two other men from the village. And there, on the floor of the forest, lay the white stag.

“Oh no,” cried Mr. Somerday and at his voice, Mr. Whitehead turned and stepped aside. There, some paces from the stag, lay the gypsy—that is to say, my gypsy—with his face partly gone. I recognized him by his vest. He lay on his back. One eye was out and where there had been a cheek, there was now nothing at all.

I may have made some noise, for Mr. Whitehead quickly made to shield me from the view of the dead man. One of the other men threw something over the gypsy’s face.

“Miss Alta,” said Mr. Whitehead, “are you faint?”

I thought not, but did wish to sit. There was of course, no chair. Mr. Somerday came quickly to my assistance and put an arm around my waist until my breathing calmed.

“What happened here?” said Mr. Somerday. “Can you tell?”

“That man’s a poacher,” I said.

Heads turned towards me. “At least,” I said, “at least…I found him just outside the dovecote…” I ceased speaking.

The men grumbled in assent, all but Mr. Whitehead.

“You do not agree, Mr. Whitehead?” said Mr. Somerday.

The sheriff looked confused. “Well,” he said, “it certainly seems the case….”

“Except?”

“Well, except that the stag and the man both was brought down by gunshot,” Mr. Whitehead said, bending over the animal, pointing at the hole in its side.

“Have the gypsies no guns?” asked Mr. Somerday.

“We’ve never known one of ‘em to own a gun,” said Mr. Whitehead.

“How strange,” said Mr. Somerday.

Mr. Whitehead shrugged.

 

This is not Alta’s gypsy. This is George Bennet who, in the late 1800’s, served time in jail for poaching quail, rabbits, and even beehives. He had three tattoos and no little finger on his left hand. 

 

 

Mr. Somerday and I rode back to the house where we found Mother in her office. Together, we delivered the news. Mother called for Grady immediately and then paced, wholly distressed.

“A murder at Longmeadow,” she said, “I cannot fathom it. I am glad Charles is not alive to see this. What would he have thought! What would he do?”

I shook my head. “I knew the stag was in trouble the moment the gyspsies arrived in their wagons. I knew they’d get him. I’m sure I told you they would.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Somerday, “it seems clear that they had a hand in this tragedy.”

I was pleased to hear him say it. But Mother objected violently.

“It is not so clear to me, Mr. Somerday,” she said.  “Nothing is clear to me at all.”

“How can you say that?” I asked. “There was the gypsy man lying dead!”

“Yes, but, that’s just it…,” said Mother, “he himself is dead…….” She suddenly stopped pacing and stood quite still and stared out the window towards the lawn. The day had darkened further; rain beat steadily against the panes. Her hand drifted up to her hair. I could see a dark stain under her arm.

“Mama,” I said, “you must calm yourself.” I rose to help Mother to the chair that Mr. Somerday proffered up.

Mother took a breath and then sat. “Yes, my love,” she nodded, “you are right. We must be calm. We must be sensible of their feelings at such a time. It would not do to act too hastily.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Somerday, “the Longmeadows trust you, Mrs. Pendergrast. They’ll take their lead from you, as ever, and you’ll decipher how best to ease them of their fears.”

I knew that Mr. Somerday was on the right track. Mother knew how badly it would distress the Longmeadows to hear of such a crime in their wood, how they would feel at peril themselves, how they might lash out by reflex. I knew that Mother was wondering how best to calm them, how best to pacify them. This was part of her own anxiety—how best to lessen theirs.

And this was the track that Mr. Somerday saw.

gigantic-chunk-of-railroad-track-stolen-in-massachusetts-workers-have-never-seen-anything-like-it
just one set, right here

But I knew, as Mr. Somerday did not, that there was more than one track to Mother’s thoughts. As much as she might concern herself with the equanimity of the Longmeadows themselves, and their happiness and their peace of mind, she worried as much about the face of Longmeadow to the outside world. Maybe more. And I knew, if Mr. Somerday did not, that the lion’s share of Mother’s work revolves around the good name, the noble aspect, the perfect idea of Longmeadow. A murder could muck all that up in a moment.

Mother is Longmeadow’s matron Joan of Arc. She daily battles the criticism of those who consider Longmeadow ungodly, those who believe that she twists scientific method for her own gain. When these enemies of Longmeadow heard of the murder, they’d blame it on the nature of the place, its unruliness, its arrogance. They’d sneer, and shrug their I told you so’s to each other, and Longmeadow would suffer for it. I understood that this—this public shaming–was at the heart of Mother’s distress.

But I esteemed Mr. Somerday for thinking first of the Longmeadows themselves and for thinking that Mother thought of them first, as well. He is such a good man, so decent, and kind. The bones in his face are so very fine.

As Mr. Somerday and I together bent over Mother to minister to her in her distress, our eyes met. He smiled at me and I swear I almost swooned.

“It is clear,” said Mother suddenly. She was calm again. I saw that she had figured out her path.

“We must remember what we are for!” said Mother.  “We must strive for justice! They promised to leave the stag alone. I must believe that they kept their promise. And now the gypsy man lies dead and cannot defend himself.  It will not do to falsely accuse. We must wait for the fullness of facts. Do you see?”

And I did see. Mother would use the murder as a lesson. And then before I could stop it, the thought flashed in: like she uses my condition. I bit my lip to punish myself for my selfishness. It’s my worst habit: that I turn outside events in. I try not to do it, but they seep nonetheless. I can be a self-centered girl.

I was aggravated, nonetheless. I turned to Mr. Somerday. He had seen the gore in the wood. He had seen it close up. The gypsies have brought violence to Longmeadow. The Longmeadows feel it. I have felt it. I do not want to feel it again. I looked at him, trying to encourage him with my eyes. Action is called for, not lessons. We must form a united front, he and I against Mother and her philosophies.

He did not look back at me. He spoke.

“Yes,” he said, still nodding at Mother, “you are right. It would not do to accuse the man without the fullness of the facts.”

I felt my jaw clench. Changeable Mr. Somerday!

varying

 

But then he smiled at me and of course I melted. And after all, his motivation was so pure: he wished to listen and learn; he wished to be useful; he was so eager to bolster us up.

“Miss Alta,” he said, “I think we could do with a bit of brandy. Will you fetch it? Shall you take a bit of brandy, Miss Maria?”

On my return with the glasses, Mother was still seated, and Mr. Somerday was on his knees in front of her, looking into her face. She was better, and almost smiling at something he’d said.

“Ah,” he said, taking the glass from my hand, “here we are. This will help, I think. Thank you, Miss Alta.”

I took a chair and pulled it close to Mother and together with Mr. Somerday, we watched the color return to Mother’s face.

 

oh Brandy

 

Hadrian II

In my witty little English guidebook, the Hadrian’s Wall Path is deemed an “easy to moderate” walk. At 84 miles, it’s long but not so long that, as with the Appalachian Trail, you have to stop your life and get off in order to walk from end to end. In other words, you can do it “on holiday” as they say up there in Northumbria.

hadrian-wall-path-wallsend-bowness-on-solway-british-walking-guide-hadrian-wall-path-wallsend-bowness-on-solway

henry-stedman
Henry Stedman, amusing author

 

Now: to me, “easy to moderate” means an amble down a nice flat trail punctuated now and again by a gentle slope. Perhaps, as one trips lightly along, one finds oneself on a highish ridge, o’erlooking beauteousness, but as to how one ascended the ridge—well—the guidebook said “easy to moderate” and so how rigorous could it have been?

Rigorous enough, my friends. Rigorous enough.

More than a few times, I was forced to use my hands in conjunction with my feet. I’m not saying that slacklines and carabiners were necessary, but there were moments during which I didn’t dare look down. Also: the British aren’t as freaked about litigation as we are here; a couple of signs indicating that you may wish to watch your step lest you fall into oblivion, but that was it. No guard-rails, no danger tape, no fussing about.

carabiner
blue carabiner

 

Not that I’m complaining. I’m a grown woman and I enjoy my freedom. In fact, as I walked along (and up) (and down) I felt a sort of glory and power: my short little hobbit legs are strong, my shadow was straight, I was vital (in an of-a-certain-age kinda way). I strode along, my backpack on my back, my step firm, a song on my lips. (Probably Barbara Allen, for propriety’s sake.)

shadow
not my shadow, but a nice one wouldn’t you say?

 

It is important to say this: most visitors to HWP don’t walk the whole thing. Most visitors drive up to the most interesting parts of the HWP: for a school field-trip; a weekend picnic; a robust hike in the merry month of May when the green buds they are swellin’.

What all this means is that most of the people who walk the Hadrian’s Wall Path (or parts of it) are British. And the Brits, when they feel like it, are hella walkers.

103580700bd54a1e8dcd0ea2fc35a3ee
heh

 

Following: an example of Brits walking.

At one point, as I left the apparent top of the world to descend a very steep very long flight of rock steps down a practically vertical slope, I was reminded viscerally of the secret path to Mordor. The difference was that Frodo and Sam were climbing and I was descending, all the more terrifying for me.  I was taking it easy—step by step, the longest march, can be won, can be won—and trying not to hyperventilate so much that I fell headlong into nothingness only to be found later, my lunch on my back, a sock tan-line on my ankles.

stairscirithungol3
not really as bad as this

stock-photo-42927612-packed-lunch-brown-paper-bag-isolated-on-white-background

Step. Hyperventilate a little. Rest. Repeat.

Suddenly, I heard a voice.  Holding my breath so as not to plunge downwards, I looked further down the precipitous flight, and there I beheld a foursome scrambling towards me.

 

 

These were them:

  1. A jolly 80-something grandmother with a cane;
  2. A sweet-faced, plump young mother holding a leash connected to
  3. her over-excited whippet puppy;
  4. a flaxen-haired four year-old lad, his tee-shirt emblazoned with a cartoon picture of Baloo. 

     

    whippet-whippet-dog-puppies-information-and-s-breed
    sure-footed

    baloo_the_bear

 

I gaped, stopped, and stood aside. It wasn’t courtesy that made me give way; it was more like dumbfoundedness. They smiled at me, each one, (except the whippet) and said “mawning,” (that’s British for “hey”). Even the little kid told me “mawning,” after which his mother pronounced him a good lad and brightly urged him up the next of the perilous steps.

I hope I was stunned into some small humility.

You will be glad to know that later that afternoon, I saw the quartet of them again, safely ensconced in a dog-friendly pub, the little boy lustily drinking something orange.

wildflowers_-_geograph-org-uk_-_473362
yes, it really looked like this