Gibbous House 34

Once more we were aboard the Phaeton; the beleaguered horse began to struggle on to our destination, over-burdened by the extra passenger and the exertions of the past 3 days. Maccabi made as if to lay about the nag once more , so I stayed him with a sharp word and was duly rewarded with glances of quite different character from himself and the young lady. Of course, I gave not a fig for his treatment of the beast. Not so much rolling as roiling northbound out of Seahouses, I was surprised to feel an anticipation at the prospect of finally reaching my new home. This thrill was dampened somewhat by the realisation that I was travelling the same road for a third time. It was indeed vexing to suspect that Brown, or Maccabi, had gone to great lengths to delay my occupation of Gibbous House.

Catching Miss Pardoner’s eye, I enquired how she came to be entangled in my affairs. She gave me as cool a look as possible with those eyes and retorted:

‘Once again I find your choice of words unfortunate, Mr Moffat. However, if you mean to enquire after the history of my arrival at the home of Septimus Coble, I shall tell you, though it is a commonplace tale in most parts.’

Maccabi’s ears seemed possessed of an astounding muscularity, for I could have sworn his right extended a quarter inch in the direction of we passengers. The young woman cleared her throat and began thus:

‘This life began 17 years ago in June 183_ as my mother’s deliverance from the trials of her own took place. I do not mean to say that her trials were any greater than those of any wife to a country parson with a living disposed to keep him and his in impecuniousness if not poverty. My father would have married in haste again, to give this babe a mother, but his prospects were no better than his situation, and society did not consider him in want of a wife. Besides, my father did not survive beyond my own fifth year. The parish had seemed to be my fate had not the new incumbent of the living begun a search for any relative of mine with the means and inclination to take me. The Reverend must indeed have been a charitable man, if charity be measured in years and not affection, for I was eleven years in age, when Mrs Armstrong collected me from the Yorkshire vicarage for delivery to Septimus Coble and his home here in Northumbria.

‘That woman, once in receipt of a guinea for her pains, was never seen by me again. I saw Mr Coble daily at dinner. He was distant, but made generous provision for me until his death. My tutors were diligent if uninspiring and it seems to me I have had and education of a kind not enjoyed by many women of any station. In fact, I had hopes of…’

She broke off, remaining silent despite all my efforts to draw her out.

The silence became too much for Maccabi as we passed Bamburgh Castle and he remarked on the renovations being carried out:

‘The trust has paid a penny or two for that work. More than 13 centuries of history in the Castle.’

He had slowed the nag’s pace – though I scarce believed it possible – to take in the majesty of the place, as he put it. I could not but reprove him thus:

‘Maccabi, it is my belief that time or money is wasted on the past. I am more concerned with the future, mine in particular. You would do well to look to yours. How distant lies the House, for I am heartsick at all this delay.’

His back stiffened agreeably and he grunted:

‘Just past Budle Hall on the way to Spindlestone.’

Which answer of course meant nothing to me, and I told him so.

‘2 miles, Mr Moffat. 2 miles to your house, no more.’