Joan Aiken - The Wolves of Willoughbe Chase

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THE WOLVES OF WILLOUGHBY CHASE

Joan Aiken

THE WOLVES OF WILLOUGHBY CHASE

by JOAN AIKEN

London

JONATHAN CAPE

FIRST PUBLISHED 1962

ISBN 0 224 60OO4 4

For JOHN and ELIZABETH and

TORQUEMADA

Note: The action of this book takes place in a period

of English history that never happened shortly

after the accession to the throne of

Good King James III in 1832. At this time,

the Channel Tunnel from Dover to Calais

having been recently completed, a great many

wolves, driven by severe winters, had migrated

through the tunnel from Europe and Russia to

the British Isles.

THE WOLVES OF WILLOUGHBY CHASE

it was dusk - winter dusk. Snow lay white and shining over the pleated

hills, and icicles hung from the forest trees. Snow lay piled on the

dark road across Willoughby Wood, but from dawn men had been clearing it

with brooms and shovels. There were hundreds of them at work, wrapped in

sacking because of the bitter cold, and keeping together in groups for

fear of the wolves, grown savage and reckless from hunger.

Snow lay thick, too, upon the roof of Willoughby Chase, the great house

that stood on an open eminence in the heart of the wood. But for all

that, the Chase looked an inviting home - a warm and welcoming

stronghold. Its rosy herring-bone brick was bright and well-cared-for,

its numerous turrets and battlements stood up sharp against the sky, and

the crenellated balconies, corniced with snow, each held a golden square

of window. The house was all alight within, and the joyous hubbub of its

activity contrasted with the sombre sighing of the wind and the hideous

howling of the wolves without.

In the nursery a little girl was impatiently dancing up and down before

the great window, fourteen feet high, which faced out over the park and

commanded the long black expanse of road.

"Will she be here soon, Pattern? Will she?" was her continual cry.

"We shall hear soon enough, I dare say, Miss Bonnie," was the inevitable

reply from her maid, who, on hands and knees in front of the fire, was

folding and goffering the frills of twenty lace petticoats.

The little girl turned again to her impatient vigil. She had climbed up

on to the window-seat, the better to survey the snowy park, and was

jumping on its well-sprung cushions, covered in crimson satin. Each time

she bounced, she nearly hit the ceiling.

"Give over, Miss Bonnie, do," said Pattern after a while. "Look at the

dust you're raising. I can hardly see my tongs. Come and sit by the

fire. We shall hear soon enough when the train's due."

Bonnie left her perch reluctantly enough and came to sit by the fire.

She was a slender creature, small for her age, but rosycheeked, with a

mass of tumbled black locks falling to her shoulders, and two brilliant

blue eyes, equally ready to dance with laughter or flash with

indignation. Her square chin also gave promise of a powerful and

obstinate temper, not always perfectly controlled. But her mouth was

sweet, and she could be very thoughtful on occasion - as now, when she

sat gazing into the fire, piled high on its two carved alabaster

wolfhounds.

"I hope the train hasn't been delayed by wolves," she said presently.

"Nonsense, Miss Bonnie dear - don't worry your pretty head with thoughts

like that," replied Pattern. "You know the porters and station-master

have been practising with their muskets and fowling-pieces all the

week."

At that moment there was a commotion from downstairs, and Bonnie turned,

her face alight with expectancy. As the noise of dogs barking, men

shouting, and the doorbell clanging continued, she flew recklessly along

the huge expanse of nursery floor, gleaming and polished as glass, and

down the main staircase to the entrance hall. Her impetuosity brought

her in a heap to the feet of an immensely tall, thin lady, clad from

neck to toe in a travelling dress of swathed grey twill, with a stiff

collar, dark glasses, and dull green buttoned boots. Bonnie's headlong

rush nearly sent this person flying, and

she recovered her balance with an exclamation of annoyance.

"Who is guilty of this unmannerly irruption?" she said, settling her

glasses once more upon her nose. "Can this hoydenish creature be my new

pupil?"

"I --I beg your pardon!" Bonnie exclaimed, picking herself up.

"So I should hope! Am I right in supposing that you are Miss Green? I am

Miss Slighcarp, your new governess. I am also your fourth cousin, once

removed," the lady added haughtily, as if she found the removal hardly

sufficient.

"Oh," Bonnie stammered, "I didn't know - that is, I thought you were not

expected until tomorrow. I was looking for my cousin Sylvia, who is

arriving this evening."

"I am aware of the fact," Miss Slighcarp replied coldly, "but that does

not excuse bad manners. Where, pray, is your curtsy?"

Rather flustered, Bonnie performed this formality with less than her

usual grace*

"Lessons in deportment, I see, will need priority on our time-table,"

Miss Slighcarp remarked, and she turned to look after the disposition of

her luggage. "You, sir! Do not stand there smirking and dawdling, but

see that my valises are carried at once to my apartments, and that my

maid is immediately in attendance to help me."

James, the footman, who had been exchanging grimaces with the butler

over the fact that he had received no tip, at once sprang to attention,

and said:

"Your maid, miss? Did you bring a maid with you?"

"No, blockhead. The maid whom Lady Green will have appointed to wait on

me."

"Well, I suppose Miss Pattern will be helping you," said James,

scratching his head, and he shouldered one of the nine walrus-hide

portmanteaux and staggered off to the service stairs.

"I will show you the way to your room," said Bonnie eagerly, "and when

you are ready I will take you to see Papa and Mamma. I hope we shall

love each other," she continued, leading the way up the magnificent

marble staircase, and along the portrait gallery. "I shall have so much

to show you - my collection of flint arrowheads and my semiprecious

stones."

Miss Slighcarp thinned her lips disapprovingly and Bonnie, fearing that

she had been forward, said no more of her pursuits.

"Here is your apartment," she explained presently, opening a door and

exhibiting a commodious set of rooms, cheerful with fires and furnished

with elegant taste in gilt and mahogany. "And here is my maid Pattern to

help you."

Miss Slighcarp drew down her brows at this, but acknowledged the remark

by an inclination of her head. Pattern was already kneeling at the

dressing-case and drawing out such articles as the governess might

immediately need.

"I shall leave you, then, for the moment," said Bonnie, preparing to go.

She turned to add, "Shall I come back in half an hour?" but was arrested

by the sight of Miss Slighcarp snatching a heavy marble hairbrush from

its rest and striking a savage blow at the maid, who had taken out a

little case apparently containing letters and papers.

"Prying wretch! Who gave you permission to meddle with my letters?" she

cried.

Bonnie sprang back in an instant, all her violent temper roused, and

seized the brush from Miss Slighcarp's hand, hurling it recklessly

through the plate-glass window. She picked up a jug of warm water which

a housemaid had just brought, and dashed it full in the face of her new

instructress.

Miss Slighcarp reeled under the impact - her bonnet came off, so did her

grey hair, which, apparently, was a wig, leaving her bald, dripping, and

livid with rage.

"Oh dear -- I am so sorry!" said Bonnie in consternation.

"I did not mean to do that. My temper is a dreadful fault. But you must

not strike Pattern. She is one of my best friends. Oh Pattern-help her!"

The maid assisted Miss Slighcarp to replace the damp wig and repair the

damage done by the water, but her compressed lips and nostrils showed

how little she relished the task. An angry red weal was rising on her

cheek where the brush had struck her.

"Go!" said Miss Slighcarp to Bonnie, pointing at the door.

Bonnie was glad to do so. Half an hour later, though, she returned,

having done her best in the meantime to wrestle with her rebellious

temper.

"Shall I escort you to Mamma and Papa now?" she said, when the governess

bade her enter. Miss Slighcarp had changed into another grey twill dress

with a high white collar, and had laid aside her merino

travelling-cloak.

She permitted Bonnie to lead her towards the apartments of her parents,

having first locked up several drawers in which she had deposited

papers, and placed the keys in a chatelaine at her belt.

Bonnie, whose indignation never lasted long, danced ahead cheerfully

enough, pointing out to her companion the oubliette where Cousin Roger

had slipped, the panel which concealed a secret staircase, the haunted

portico, the priests' hole, and other features of her beloved home. Miss

Slighcarp, however, as she followed, wore on her face an expression that

boded little good towards her charge.

At length they paused before a pair of doors grander than any they had

yet passed, and Bonnie inquired of the attendant who stood before them

if her parents were within. Receiving an affirmative answer, she

joyfully entered and, running towards an elegant-looking lady and

gentleman who were seated on an ottoman near the fireplace, exclaimed:

"Papa! Mamma! Such a surprise! Here is Miss Slighcarp, come a day

earlier than expected!"

Miss Slighcarp advanced and made her salutations to her employers.

"I regret not having come up to London to make arrange ments with you

myself," said Sir Willoughby, bowing easily to her, "but my good friend

and man of business Mr Gripe will have told you how we are situated - on

the eve of a departure, with so much to attend to. I had been aware that

we had a distant cousin - yourself, ma'am - living in London, and I

entrusted Mr Gripe with the task of seeking you out and asking whether

you would be willing to undertake the care of my estates and my child

while we are abroad. My only other relative, my sister Jane, is, as

perhaps you know, too frail and elderly for such a responsibility. I

hope you and Bonnie will get on together famously."

Here Miss Slighcarp, in a low and grating tone, told him the story of

the hairbrush and the jug of water, omitting, however, her unprovoked

assault in the first place upon poor Pattern. Sir Willoughby burst into

laughter.

"Did she do that, the minx? Eh, you hussy!" and he lovingly pinched his

daughter's cheek. "Girls will be girls, Miss Slighcarp, and you must

allow something for the natural high spirits and excitement attendant on

your own arrival and the expected one of her cousin. I shall look to you

to instil, in time, a more ladylike deportment into our wild sprite."

Lady Green, who was dark-haired and sad-eyed, and who looked very ill,

here raised her voice wearily and asked her husband if that were not a

knock on the door. He called a summons impatiently, and the

station-master entered - a black, dingy figure, twisting his cap in his

hands.

"The down train is signalled, Squire," he said, after bobbing his head

in reverence to each of the persons present in the room. "Is it your

pleasure to let it proceed?"

"Surely, surely," said Sir Willoughby. "My little niece is aboard it -

let it approach with all speed. How did you come from the station, my

man? Walked? Let orders be given for

Solly to drive you back in the chaise - with a suitable escort, of

course - then he can wait there and bring back Miss Sylvia at the same

time."

"Oh, thank you indeed, sir," said the man with heartfelt gratitude.

"Bless your noble heart! It would have taken me a weary while to walk

those ten miles back, and it is freezing fast."

"That's all right," said Sir Willoughby heartily. "Mustn't let Miss

Sylvia die of cold on the train. Besides, the wolves might get you, and

then the poor child would be held up on the train all night for want of

the signal. Never do, eh? Well, Bonnie, what is it, miss?"

"Oh, Papa," said Bonnie, who had been plucking at his sleeve, "may I go

with Solly in the chaise to meet Sylvia? May I?"

"No indulgence should be permitted a child who has behaved as she has

done," remarked Miss Slighcarp.

"Oh, come, come, Miss Slighcarp, come, come, ma'am," said Sir Willoughby

good-naturedly. "Young blood, you know. Besides, my Bonnie's as good a

shot at a wolf as any of them. Run along, then, miss, but wrap up snug —

remember you'll be several hours on the road."

"Oh, thank you, Papa! Goodbye! Goodbye, Mamma dear, goodbye, Miss

Slighcarp!" and she fondly kissed her parents and ran from the room to

find her warmest bonnet and pelisse.

"Reckless, foolish indulgence," muttered the governess, directing after

Bonnie a look of the purest spite.

"But hey!" exclaimed Sir Willoughby, recalled to memory of Miss

Slighcarp's presence by the sound though he missed the sense, of her

words. "If the train's only just signalled, how did you come, then,

ma'am? You can't have flown here, hey?"

For the first time the governess showed signs of confusion.

"I - er - that is to say, a friend who was driving over from Blastburn

kindly offered to bring me here with my baggage," she at length replied.

A bell clanged through the apartment at that moment.

"The dressing-bell," said Sir Willoughby, looking at a handsome gold

watch, slung on a chain across his ample waistcoat. "I apprehend, Miss

Slighcarp, that you are fatigued from your journey and will not wish to

dine with us. A meal will be served in your own apartments."

He inclined his head in a dignified gesture of dismissal, which the

governess had no option but to obey.

Two days before these events a very different scene had been enacted far

away in London, where Bonnie's cousin Sylvia was being prepared for her

journey.

Sylvia was an orphan, both her parents having been carried off by a

fever when she was only an infant. She lived with her Aunt Jane, who was

now becoming very aged and frail and had written to Sir Willoughby to

suggest that he took on the care of the little girl. He had agreed at

once to this proposal, for Sylvia, he knew, was delicate, and the

country air would do her good. Besides, he welcomed the idea of her

gentle companionship for his rather harum-scarum Bonnie.

Aunt Jane and Sylvia shared a room at the top of a house. It was in Park

Lane, this being the only street in which Aunt Jane could consider

living. Unfortunately, as she was very poor, she could afford to rent

only a tiny attic in such a genteel district. The room was divided into

two by a very beautiful, but old, curtain of white Chinese brocade. She

and Sylvia each had half the room at night, Aunt Jane sleeping on the

divan and Sylvia on the ottoman. During the daytime the curtain was

drawn back and hung elegantly looped against the wall. They cooked their

meals over the gas jet, and had baths in a large enamelled Chinese bowl,

covered with dragons, an heirloom of Aunt Jane's. At other times it

stood on a little occasional table by the door and was used for visiting

cards.

They were making Sylvia's clothes.

Aunt Jane, with tears running down her face, had taken down the white

curtain (which would no longer be needed) and

was cutting it up. Fortunately it was large enough to afford material

for several chemises, petticoats, pantalettes, dresses, and even a

bonnet. Aunt Jane, mopping her eyes with a tiny shred of the material,

murmured:

"I do like to see a little girl dressed all in white." "I wish we

needn't cut up your curtain, Auntie," said Sylvia, who hated to see her

aunt so distressed. "When I'm thirty-five and come into my money, I

shall buy you a whole set of white brocade curtains."

"There's my angel," her aunt replied, embracing her. "But when you are

thirty-five I shall be a hundred and three," and she set to work making

the tucks in a petticoat with thousands

of tiny stitches. Sylvia sighed, and bent her fair head over another,

with stitches almost equally tiny. She was a little depressed - though

she would not dream of saying so - at the idea of wearing nothing but

white, especially at her cousin Bonnie's, where everything was sure to

be grand and handsome.

"Now let me think," muttered Aunt Jane, sewing away like lightning.

"What can we use to make you a travellingcloak?"

She paused for a moment and glanced round the room, at the lovingly

tended pieces of Sheraton and Hepplewhite furniture, the antimacassars,

the Persian screen across the gas-jet kitchen. The window curtains were

too threadbare to use - and in any case one must have window curtains.

At last she recollected an old green velvet shawl which they sometimes

used as an extra bed-cover when it was very cold and they slept together

on the ottoman.

"I can use my jet-trimmed mantle instead," she said reassuringly to

Sylvia. "After all, one person cannot be so cold as two."

By the day of departure, all the clothes had been finished. Nothing much

could be done about Sylvia's shoes, which were deplorably shabby, but

Aunt Jane blacked them with a mixture of soot and candle grease, and

Sylvia's bonnet was trimmed with a white plume from the ostrich-feather

fan which her aunt had carried at her coming-out ball. All Sylvia's

belongings were neatly packed into an old carpetbag, and Aunt Jane had

made her up a little packet of provisions for the journey, though with

strict injunctions not to eat them if there were anyone else in the

compartment.

"For ladies never eat in public."

They were too poor to take a hackney-carriage to the station, and Aunt

Jane always refused to travel in omnibuses, so they walked, carrying the

bag between them. Fortunately the station was not far, nor the bag

heavy.

Aunt Jane secured a corner seat for her charge, and put her under the

care of the guard.

"Now remember, my dear child," she said, kissing Sylvia and looking

suspiciously round the empty compartment, "never speak to strangers, tip

all the servants immediately (I have put all the farthings from my

reticule at the bottom of your valise); do not model yourself on your

cousin Bonnie, who I believe is a dear good child but a little wild;

give my fond regards to my brother Willoughby and tell him that I am in

the pink of health and amply provided for; and if anyone except the

guard speaks to you, pull the communication cord."

"Yes, Auntie," replied Sylvia dutifully, embracing her. She felt a pang

as she saw the frail old figure struggling away through the crowd, and

wondered how her Aunt Jane would manage that evening without her little

niece to adjust her curl-papers and read aloud a page of Dr Johnson's

Dictionary.

Then all Sylvia's fears were aroused, for a strange man entered the

compartment and sat down. He did not speak, however, and took no notice

of her, and, the train shortly afterwards departing, her thoughts were

diverted into a less apprehensive vein as she watched the unfamiliar

houses with their lighted windows flying past.

It was to be a long journey - a night and a day. The hour of departure

was six o'clock in the evening, and Sylvia knew that she did not arrive

at her destination until about eight of the following evening. What

strange forests, towns, mountains, and stretches of countryside would

they not have passed by then, as the train proceeded at its steady

fifteen miles an hour! She had never been out of London before, and

watched eagerly from her window until they had left the houses behind,

and she was driven to study the toes of her own shoes, so lovingly

polished by Aunt Jane.

The thought of the old lady, carefully preparing for her solitary

slumbers, was too much for Sylvia, and tears began to run silently down

her cheeks, which she endeavoured to mop

with her tiny handkerchief (made from a spare two inches of white

brocade).

"Here, this won't do," said a voice in her ear suddenly, and she looked

up in alarm to see that the man at the' other end of the compartment had

moved along and was sitting opposite and staring at her. Sylvia gave her

eyes a final dab and haughtily concentrated on her reflection in the

dark window, but her heart was racing. Should she pull the communication

cord? She stole a cautious glance at the man's reflection and saw that

he was standing up, apparently extracting something from a large leather

portmanteau. Then he turned towards her, holding something out: she

looked round enough to see that it was a box of chocolates about a foot

square by six inches deep, swathed around with violet ribbons.

"No, thank you," said Sylvia, in as ladylike a tone as she could muster.

"I never touch chocolate." All the same, she had to swallow rapidly a

couple of times, for the tea which she had shared with Aunt Jane before

the journey, although very refined, had not been substantial - two

pieces of thin bread-andbutter, a cinnamon wafer, and a sliver of

caraway cake.

She knew better, however, than to accept food from strangers, and as to

opening her own little packet while he was in the carriage - that was

out of the question. She shook her head again.

"Now come along - do," said the man coaxingly. "All little girls like

sweeties, / know."

"Sir," said Sylvia coldly, "if you speak to me again I shall be obliged

to pull the communication cord."

He sighed and put away the box. Her relief over this was premature,

however, for he turned round next minute with a confectioners'

pasteboard carton filled with every imaginable variety of little cakes -

there were jam tarts, maids of honour, lemon cheese cakes, Chelsea buns,

and numerous little iced confections in brilliant and enticing colours.

"I always put up a bit of tiffin for a journey," he murmured

as if to himself, and, placing the box on the seat directly opposite

Sylvia, he selected a cake covered with violet icing and bit into it. It

appeared to be filled with jam. Sylvia looked straight ahead and ignored

him, but again she had to swallow.

"Now my dear, how about one of these little odds and ends?" said the

man. "I can't possibly eat them all by myself can I?"

Sylvia stood up and looked for the communication cord. It was out of her

reach.

"Shall I pull it for you?" inquired her fellow-traveller politely,

following the direction of her eyes upwards. Sylvia did not reply to

him. She did not feel, though, that it would be ladylike to climb up on

the seat or arm-rest to pull the cord herself, so she sat down again,

biting her lip with anxiety. To her inexpressible relief the stranger,

after eating three or four more cakes with every appearance of

enjoyment, put the box back in his portmanteau, wrapped himself in a

richly furred cloak, retired to his own corner, and shut his eyes. A

subdued but regular snore soon issuing from his partly-opened mouth

presently convinced Sylvia that he was asleep, and she began to breathe

more freely. At length she brought out from concealment under her mantle

her most treasured possession, and held it lovingly in her arms.

This was a doll named Annabelle, made of wood, not much larger than a

candle, and plainly dressed, but extremely dear to Sylvia. She and

Annabelle had no secrets from one another, and it was a great comfort to

her to have this companion as the train rocked on through the unfamiliar

dark.

Presently she grew drowsy and fell into uneasy slumber, but not for

long; it was bitterly cold and her feet in their thin shoes felt like

lumps of ice. She huddled into her corner and wrapped herself in the

green cloak, envying her companion his thick furs and undisturbed

repose, and wishing it were ladylike to curl her feet up beneath her on

the seat. Unfortunately she knew better than that.

She dreamed, without being really asleep, of arctic seas, of monstrous

tunnels through hillsides fringed with icicles. Her travelling

companion, who had grown a long tail and a pair of horns, offered her

cakes the size of grand pianos and coloured scarlet, blue, and green;

when she bit into them she found they were made of snow.

She woke suddenly from one of these dreams to find that the train had

stopped with a jerk.

"Oh! What is it? Where are we?" she exclaimed before she could stop

herself.

"No need to alarm yourself, miss," said her companion, looking

unavailingly out of the black square of window. "Wolves on the line,

most likely - they often have trouble of that kind hereabouts."

"Wolves!" Sylvia stared at him in terror.

"They don't often get into the train, though," he added reassuringly.

"Two years ago they managed to climb into the guard's van and eat a pig,

and once they got the engine-driver - another had to be sent in a

relief-engine - but they don't often eat a passenger, I promise you."

As if in contradiction of his words a sad and sinister howling now arose

beyond the windows, and Sylvia, pressing her face against the dark pane,

saw that they were passing through a thickly wooded region where snow

lay deep on the ground. Across this white carpet she could just discern

a ragged multitude pouring, out of which arose, from time to time, this

terrible cry. She was almost petrified with fear and sat clutching

Annabelle in a cold and trembling hand. At length she summoned up

strength to whisper:

"Why don't we go on?"

"Oh, I expect there are too many of 'em on the line ahead," the man

answered carelessly. "Can't just push through them, you see - the engine

would be derailed in no time, and then we should be in a bad way. No, I

expect we'll have to wait here till daylight now - the wolves get scared

then, you know, and

make for home. All that matters is that the driver shan't get eaten in

the meantime - he'll keep 'em off by throwing lumps of coal at them I

dare say."

"Oh!" Sylvia exclaimed in irrepressible alarm, as a heavy body thudded

suddenly against the window, and she had a momentary view of a pointed

grey head, red slavering jaws, and pale eyes gleaming with ferocity.

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THEWOLVESOFWILLOUGHBYCHASEbyJoanAikenTHEWOLVESOFWILLOUGHBYCHASEbyJOANAIKENLondonJONATHANCAPEFIRSTPUBLISHED1962Copyright1962BYJOANAIKENISBN022460OO44ForJOHNandELIZABETHandTORQUEMADANote:TheactionofthisbooktakesplaceinaperiodofEnglishhistorythatneverhappenedshortlyaftertheaccessiontothethroneofGoodKin...

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Joan Aiken - The Wolves of Willoughbe Chase

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