Филиппа Карр - The pool of St Branok

"I think she appears with him, doesn't she?"

"Yes, but there is more to it than that. Grace is with them. Now she knows it all. I believe she is quite an asset. But it is not the same. It should be the wife who is there."

"I know Grace helps Lizzie quite a lot. Lizzie herself said so."

"That's what I'm saying. Lizzie should be doing all this. She shouldn't need prompting. It doesn't go down so well. No, I'm afraid Lizzie is a bit of a handicap for a man like Ben."

"A handicap!" I cried. "Where would he be without her? She brought him the gold mine, didn't she? Without her help he would still be scrabbling for gold in Golden Creek."

"You are very vehement, my dear."

"Well, it is true. I hate all this talk about Lizzie's being a handicap when it is only because of her that he has become in a position to do all he is doing."

Then he said a strange thing. He put his arm about me. "I, too, wish it had been otherwise."

"What do you mean?" I stammered.

But he just smiled rather sadly at me and I knew that Uncle Peter was aware of my feelings for Ben ... and his for me.

We had betrayed ourselves in some way.

There was a letter from my mother.

My darling Angelet,

Amaryllis tells me how hard you are working at Frances' Mission and finding it so rewarding. I am glad. I told your father that you needed something like that. It must be interesting and harrowing too, but Amaryllis tells me that Frances is delighted to have you there and what a great help you are to her.

We miss you very much and I have written to Amaryllis telling her that I should love to come up ... just for a few weeks. Your father can't leave the place at this time, nor can Jack. But I feel I want to see you. I want to hear all about the work you are doing and see for myself that you are well and getting happier.

Everything here goes on much as usual. And how is darling Rebecca? It is wonderful for her to have Pedrek to play with. And Morwenna is so close and you help each other with the children, so giving you those opportunities to go to the Mission.

Josiah Pencarron tells me that Justin is doing a fine job in London and he wonders why he did not think of opening the office up there years ago.

So everything seems to be going well. I shall see you soon.

Much love,

Mother

I knew what this meant. Aunt Amaryllis had reported my growing friendship with Timothy Ransome, and my mother wanted to know how far it had progressed.

I wished that they were not so interested in my affairs. Of course, it was all for my benefit. There was a hint of seriousness in my friendship with Timothy. I was aware of that in Timothy's manner.

But I did not want to think of it. I liked him. I enjoyed his company; but I did not want to go farther than that. My heart was in Manorleigh. There was nothing I should have liked better than to take part in that campaign and everything else seemed only a makeshift and a poor consolation.

Now that Fanny had gone, Timothy and I returned to our old task of shopping in the markets for the provisions. We did so in a somewhat disenchanted mood having been told by Fanny that we were not much good at it.

We had lost the excitement we used to have in the project, perhaps because it reminded us of Fanny.

One day we set out. I was telling him that my mother was coming to London for a short stay and he was saying how pleased he would be to meet her.

"I am sure you will be invited to," I told him.

He pressed my arm and said: "I'm glad of that."

We stopped at one of the stalls to buy fruit. I chose it and while Timothy was paying for it, I turned suddenly and stared. There among the crowd was Fanny.

"Fanny!" I called and started after her.

She must have heard me but she began to run.

"Fanny! Fanny!" I called.

But she ran on pushing her way through the crowds.

Perhaps I should have let her go, but some impulse would not allow me to. I had to talk to her. I had to ask her why she had run away.

We had left the market behind. But she was still ahead of me.

"Fanny!" I shouted. "Come back. I want to talk to you."

She did not glance back but sped on. I followed without thinking where I was. On she went. We were in a maze of little streets where I had never been before and still Fanny was running. She darted round a comer and I nearly lost sight of her. I rushed on.

I was only vaguely aware of my surroundings. The houses were nothing more than hovels and I noticed an unpleasant odor of old clothes and unwashed bodies. There was a gin shop on the corner of the street into which Fanny had turned; and as I dashed past, I caught a glimpse of people in there. Outside one man sprawled on the pavement.

Someone called out: " 'Ello, Missus," as I passed. I went on blindly. I saw Fanny turn into one of the hovels and disappear from sight.

Suddenly the folly of what I had done dawned on me. I was lost. Timothy would wonder what had happened. He had been paying for the goods we had bought and suddenly I had darted away. And here I was ... in this place alone ...

Children were squatting on the pavement playing some game; they stopped to stare at me. There was a woman on a doorstep. She pushed the greasy hair back from her face and laughed at me.

Two men ... little more than boys ... were coming towards me.

"Can we 'elp yer, Miss?"

As I stepped back and they came forward, one slipped behind me, the other faced me.

I was filled with terror.

"Fanny!" I called.

But what was the use? She had disappeared. She could not hear me and she had taken no heed of me when she had.

One of the men seized my arm. He was leering at me.

"Good-looking gal," he said meaningfully.

I shouted: "Go away. How dare you!"

And then I heard a voice.

"Angelet!"

It was Timothy. He took hold of the young man who was touching me and threw him to the ground. The other came at him but Timothy was too quick for him. They were spindly youths, ill-nourished, I could see. They were no match for Timothy.

"Angelet ... what on Earth ..." he began.

I pointed to the house. "Fanny," I said. "She has gone in there."

Timothy hesitated for only a second. Then he said: "Come on. We'll go in."

His face was grim. He took a firm hold of my arm and we went towards the hovel which I presumed was Fanny's home.

We were in a dark passage which smelt of damp and decay. A door opened and a woman with a baby in her arms came out and said: "What do you want?"

"Fanny ..."

She jerked her head. "Upstairs."

We mounted the rickety staircase. The banister was broken and water was dripping through the ceiling.

There was a door at the top of the stairs. We opened it and were in a room. A piece of torn cloth had been put up across the window to serve as a curtain. There was a couch from which the springs protruded and which I presumed was used as a bed. But I hardly noticed the room because there was Fanny and with her the woman I judged to be her mother.

Fanny was wearing the blue merino which had lost its pristine freshness. She wore the ribbon in her hair. She looked ashamed and very unhappy.

"Fanny," I said. "Why didn't you speak to me?"

"You didn't ought to have come," she snapped.

"Of course I had to come."

"Likes of you shouldn't be here." It was the old aggression.

"We had to come," said Timothy gently.

"Fan," said her mother. "You ought to go with 'em. You oughtn't to of run away. I told yer."

"I had to, didn't I? 'Cause of 'im."

Poor Mrs. Billings. I could see the wretchedness in her face.

I realized with a rush of gratitude to fate that he was not here and that raised my hopes.

Timothy said, "We want to take you back, Fanny. You were getting on so well."