Beyond the Wild River Page 14

  ‘And we have no audience of admirers to impress.’

  How little one really needed, she mused, as she went through her bag, thinking how absurd it was to have brought her slippers. They belonged to the opulence of a New York hotel room or to the trim luxury of the Valkyrie, not to the rough hewn simplicity of Skinner’s lodge, or a tent. She stuffed them down into the bottom of her bag, and then crawled to the end of her cot to pull open the flap and watch the men preparing to go back out onto the water, assembling rods and landing nets.

  ‘And Rupert already knows you’re pretty,’ Clementina said.

  Evelyn made no response, but continued to watch as the men climbed back into the canoes. Her father and Mr Larsen were with James in one, the others going with the man they called Louis. Her father had probably arranged it so; little he did was by accident.

  Somehow she must contrive to speak to James alone—

  She let the flap fall and turned back, and observed that Clementina had brought twice as many clothes as she had and was now wondering where to put them.

  ‘Do you like Rupert Dalston?’ she asked, on a sudden impulse.

  Clementina looked up in surprise. ‘ Of course I do! Don’t you?’

  ‘I think so—’

  ‘Well, he likes you very much— He was a little worried, though, that your father might think he had rather inveigled himself into our party, but he doesn’t, does he? I’d told Rupert it would be alright, and they founds lots to talk about at supper.’ So Rupert confided in Clementina, did he? And she wondered what else they discussed. Suddenly she felt the need for more space, and pulled over her bag to find her sketchbook and pencils to use them as an excuse. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack, Clemmy. Stuff things under my cot if you want to. I’m going to go and explore.’

  But once out of the tent, she found she was alone with only the native guides, and she felt conspicuous and somehow rather foolish. She stood there, uncertain, and the men looked back at her, openly studying her. Perhaps they were finding it strange as well. And then one of them gestured to the table and chairs, so she nodded her thanks and went to sit down. She looked around for Mr Skinner, but he too had disappeared somewhere.

  ‘You want coffee?’ the man asked.

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘You want—’ He gestured with his head to where a canvas screen had been erected set back in the forest, and she studied it for a moment before realising its purpose and felt her colour rise. She shook her head, and wondered privately what Clementina would make of the arrangement.

  After that the natives ignored her but continued with their tasks, speaking in low voices in their own language. She let a few minutes elapse and then covertly began studying them in return. They were quite dark-skinned or deeply tanned, with unfamiliar features, and were dressed in an eclectic mixture of native and European clothes, some with their hair worn loose and long, some with it braided. But they were different in every way from those disconsolate figures she had seen at the Exposition. Like the people in Port Arthur, these men were not exhibits but went about their tasks with a quiet purpose. She watched with interest as they finished putting skins over their simple shelters, dragging in spruce branches for flooring, then one set an iron cooking pot on a cross pole over the fire, pouring in water collected in a leather pail. All was executed with a calm efficiency. And yet – there was a false note here too, she thought with a frown, for all this activity was simply for the comfort of their party, who had come here to play; and who had no doubt paid handsomely for the experience. The men would be rewarded for their work, of course, but what would they have been doing otherwise? What would their fathers have done? Or their grandfathers—

  The one who had offered her coffee was called Tala, she had been told, and he seemed friendly enough, but the other one, Machk, never seemed to smile. His lean face was weather-beaten and dark, and his high cheekbones and hooked nose gave him a striking profile. Tala’s face was quite different, rather broad and flat. She would like to try to sketch them but dared not. Another man she had heard James call Marcel; Skinner had said that he was a half-breed, half French, half native, but he looked no different from the others. He was small and wiry and had a ferocious scowl, and she sensed that everyone, even Mr Skinner, treated him differently. And then there were two others who had not been introduced, hardly more than boys, who went about their business talking to each other in low voices, occasionally laughing.

  If you counted Mr Skinner, Louis, and James, there were eight of them in all, to look after a party of six!

  She began to feel more self-conscious, just sitting there idly while they worked, so she went down to the shore and sat on a boulder to watch the sun as it began to sink behind the pine trees. Out on the water she could see the canoes some distance away, no more than dark shapes on a plane of silver. There was not a breath of wind and the far shoreline was mirrored perfectly in the still water, the top of each jagged pine reflected there, like the ink stains in the fold of an exercise book she used to make as a child. And looking back down the river, the way they had come, the two banks converged in flawless symmetry, perfectly bonded with their reflections, while upstream she could see swirls of current, deep and powerful. There was a majestic beauty to the place, unchanged since time began— She opened her sketchbook, but doubted that she had the skill to capture it, and after a while she simply sat there, her arms clasped about her knees, and watched as evening fell.

  It grew chilly. Little zephyrs sped across the surface of the water, shattering the still reflection, and the darkening forest sighed in the sudden breeze. Night fell quickly here.

  She looked back at the camp which, now drained of light, had lost its theatrical quality and become solid and real. And exposed— She would be glad now if the men came back. There was no other light in the forest, and they might be quite alone in the world. One or two other boats had passed them in the course of the day, but as they travelled upstream there had been fewer, and now there were none. She stood and went down to the water’s edge, looking across the river, and then to each side. There were wolves and bears out there, Mr Skinner had said – and always eyes in the forest. And when night came there would be nothing but thin canvas between them and the wilderness.

  Yet this was the life that James now lived—

  Once, years ago, he had described to her the delight of sleeping outdoors on a bed of heather and bracken, with only the scuffling sounds of nocturnal creatures for company, and she had schemed, hopelessly, to contrive it, for just one night, and he had laughed at her. But the woodland at home was familiar and benign, bordered by tracks or gently rolling fields, with nothing more savage than a hedgehog or a fox roaming the hedgerows, while here the forest seemed to stretch forever. A man could soon lose himself, Mr Skinner had said—

  The breeze shifted and blew the smoke from the campfire towards her, and she felt absurdly comforted by the familiar smell. It reminded her of the bonfires which the gardeners would light in the autumn when the leaves had been raked into heaps and then wheel-barrowed off the lawns to be burned down near the greenhouses. One day she and James had come across one bonfire which was still smouldering, unattended, and James had dismounted and crouched down, blowing the embers back into life so that she could warm her hands. And she had slipped from her saddle and gathered twigs and pine cones to throw on it, delighted as they crackled and spat. But there had been trouble later when she had returned home reeking of woodsmoke, and she had hid her dirty hands behind her.

  When she looked up again she saw that the canoes were returning, and felt both relief and a renewal of tension. If she did somehow contrive to get James alone, what would he say? The thought provoked another flutter of panic. Would it be easier to hear the truth or lies—?

  So far he had steadfastly ignored her; only once, as they assembled that morning at Skinner’s jetty, had she looked up to find him watching her, but he had turned aside and taken his place in front of the canoe, leaving Mr Skinner to h
elp her aboard.

  And yet, not so very long ago, she had thought of him as her friend.

  Ballantyre House, Five Years Earlier

  Evelyn stepped quickly into the courtyard, escaping from Miss Carstairs’s protests which had followed her all the way from her bedroom. ‘I shall speak to your father when he returns. I’m not sure it’s right anymore, not now you’re older.’

  ‘If you could ride you could come too.’ No danger there, old Carstairs was terrified of horses.

  ‘Let us go out in the trap instead, my dear, it’s a lovely day.’

  ‘Where’s the exercise in that?’ She could see James waiting for her beside the pump holding Bella’s reins in one hand, Melrose’s in the other, studiously not listening.

  ‘Then we could go for a longer walk—’

  ‘Papa wants me to ride each day. You heard him say so.’ That usually did the trick. ‘Good morning, James.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Evelyn. Lovely morning, Miss Carstairs.’

  Evelyn heard Carstairs sniff. ‘Don’t you take her so far today. I was ready to send someone after you last time. Miss Evelyn was late for tea.’

  ‘Oh, good heavens,’ Evelyn muttered as James led Bella to the mounting block and offered his hand. ‘Tea.’

  ‘Right you are, Miss Carstairs,’ said James, his eyes flashing Evelyn a smile as he checked the stirrups. Then he swung himself into Melrose’s saddle, gave a small salute to the much-tried woman, and urged the horses forward.

  ‘And stay on the paths.’

  Neither of them troubled to answer but left the governess standing on the cobbles, lips pursed and arms folded, watching them go.

  ‘Same thing, every day! It’s not right,’ Evelyn mimicked, over her shoulder to James. ‘At fourteen you’re almost a young lady.’

  ‘Nothing like,’ he replied, and she giggled.

  They rode down the drive which led from the house and turned onto one of the leafy rides. As soon as they were out of sight of the house she dropped back to ride beside him.

  ‘How much longer will Papa insist I put up with her? Between Miss Carstairs and Mr Jenkins prosing on about Roman gods, you’ve no idea how tedious life is. And everything I do now is unladylike or unbecoming. It makes me want to scream. Yesterday, just imagine, I went down into the kitchen and Maud gave me two scones. I ate one there and put the other in my pocket, and then I forgot about it and left it on my dressing table. She found it at bedtime and was outraged, telling me if I was hungry I should ring for someone to bring me a tray, not go down to the kitchen and help myself as if I were a child.’

  He gave her an odd sort of smile. ‘It’s a terrible life you have.’

  ‘You can go into the kitchen whenever you like.’

  ‘Aye, but they throw me out.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear,’ she said, giving him a glancing look and a smirk.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Nothing of the lady about you at all. Look out for that branch, and sit up straight. You’re like a sack of flour.’

  She ducked to avoid the low beech branch and felt herself relaxing, the frustrations sloughing off her as they proceeded down the leafy bridle way. James was so companionable— She took a deep restorative breath and looked about her. Everything smelled so fresh and clean after last night’s rain, the cow parsley had grown quickly this year, it almost reached her knees already, nettles too, and every now and then the horses’ hooves trampled patches of wild garlic and released the sharp sour odour. How fast spring came once the frosts were over! And she could feel it frothing up inside her, bringing a strange restlessness, as the tiny may blossom flowers spread like snow along the hedgerows, and primroses unfurled amongst the roots. The dawn chorus woke her earlier each morning.

  ‘I should love to sleep outdoors, like you used to do,’ she said. He made no reply. ‘It must be splendid.’

  Sometimes he would talk about his past life, sometimes not, and she had yet to judge his mood today. She had taken a proprietary interest in him ever since that first evening when the keepers had dragged him across the lawn, a ragged dark-eyed boy, and she used to ask Papa about him. Did James Douglas like working in the stables? Hopefully, he would answer. Did he have new boots? Of course— And was he not hungry anymore? No, not hungry— And her father would tell her how Sinclair was teaching James his letters, and how skilled he was with the horses. Then later had come the delight of riding lessons, with James holding the leading reins, grinning at her, whispering encouragement to counter her father’s exacting criticisms delivered from Zeus’s lofty height. And now their daily rides through the estate were what she lived for. She could shed her frustrations along the dappled tracks, and in forbidden canters across the fields, out of sight of the house. From James she had learned where the moorhen had her nest in the reeds along the riverbank, and where tadpoles could be found. They had caught some a couple of weeks ago and he had put them in a basin stolen from the kitchen for her, and then secreted them behind the stable. Whenever she could she would escape from Miss Carstairs and watch them grow. Some of them already had legs; she must tell him—

  ‘Do you miss it, sleeping outdoors?’ she coaxed.

  ‘Aye. Mostly in November after a good hoar frost.’

  She frowned at him. ‘I meant now, of course. In spring.’

  ‘Still cold at night.’

  ‘I suppose so. But if you had a little shelter, or a cave. And lots of clothes on, and blankets. And a fire. And soup.’ He smiled but said nothing. She tried another tack. ‘Shall we go down to the river again today?’

  ‘No. McAllister has his men patrolling the banks; there’s talk of poachers again.’ His voice had hardened. She glanced at his profile but it gave nothing away. Was Jacko back? She dared not ask— She had stopped believing that James would one day run away again and rejoin his old companion, but whenever there were rumours that Jacko was in the district she grew uneasy.

  ‘Taking the salmon?’ she ventured.

  ‘No. Tadpoles.’

  She grinned back at him. ‘Ours have grown legs now, some of them.’

  ‘Aye? They’re clever like that.’

  She smiled again and took advantage of this shift in mood. ‘Then let’s go up to the hazel wood and you can show me how to set a snare. You said you would! And we can come back tomorrow and see what we’ve caught. And maybe even cook it?’

  ‘I never said we’d do that.’

  ‘You said we’d set a snare, though. You promised.’

  ‘I don’t make promises.’ He looked across at her and she could see the beginnings of a smile. ‘I’ve no twine, anyway.’

  ‘I have.’ She had been carrying it in her pocket for days, awaiting her chance, and pulled it out to show him.

  At that he laughed. ‘In that case, little Miss Poacher— First lesson. Go somewhere where you won’t get caught.’ He leant forward in his saddle, his eyes glinting in the way that Evelyn loved, and gave Bella a hearty smack on her rump. She shrieked as the startled mare shot forward.

  They had not been caught, not that time anyway. But having shown her how a snare was set he had kicked it away again, gathering up the twine, declaring that he would not set the keepers’ noses a-quivering. And as the soft summer stretched out he had shown her many things, plunging into the hedgerows to pick the berries of the deadly nightshade so that she would know them, and then gathering blackberries instead. They had feasted on them, washing away the telltale stains from her fingers in the river.

  It was on that occasion, just as he helped her back into the saddle, that McAllister had stepped out of the undergrowth to confront them. ‘Having trouble, Miss Evelyn?’ he had asked, his eyes darting from one to the other. James had swung round to face him. During their rides she was not supposed to dismount.

  ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘I asked Miss Ballantyre.’

  ‘The saddle was slipping,’ she had said quickly, knowing that some excuse was needed.

  ‘Careless—’ McAllist
er elbowed James aside to check the girth strap.

  ‘She must have blown out her stomach when it was put on,’ Evelyn added, by way of defence.

  ‘That old trick—’ He looked scornfully at James. ‘Didn’t you check?’ James made no response, and turned to remount Melrose. McAllister moved to block his path. ‘I’ll take Miss Evelyn home.’

  ‘No need. The saddle’s secure now.’ James made to go round him.

  McAllister sidestepped, and they were chest to chest. ‘I said I’ll take her. You walk.’

  On impulse Evelyn had pulled on her reins and turned Bella’s head, forcing McAllister to step aside. ‘James will take me back. Why wouldn’t he?’ James had gone past him then and thrown himself over Melrose’s back.

  ‘Obliged, just the same,’ he said and smirked down at McAllister, then urged the horses forward.

  They had laughed once they were out of earshot, but the next day it was Sinclair, the stable master, who awaited her on the cobbles with the horses, and for the days that followed. She glimpsed James only once, but it was enough to see that his face was swollen and his eye an ugly purple. She had been deeply shocked, and then boiled with impotent rage.

  At the end of the week her father returned and she had wanted to tell him, to explain what had happened, but she had glimpsed undercurrents at play that were beyond her understanding. Perhaps she would make things worse for James— The following day, however, she went down to the courtyard to find that James was there holding not only the reins of Bella and Melrose but of Zeus too. Then her father had appeared, with Sinclair walking beside him, and he had tossed her into the saddle without a word, signalling to James to mount and follow them.

  After half a mile of silence her father had bidden her to ride on ahead and dropped back beside James. Whatever was said she had never learned, but a moment later her father had trotted past her, commending her on her posture, and left her to finish her ride with James as escort. James shook his head when she asked him to tell her what had been said, but after that their rides resumed as before, and as James’s bruises faded they slipped back into the old easy companionship, a little more circumspect perhaps, but only for a while.