Chapter Seven: Strathclyde

 

After dark the moor loses its friendly purple hue. It turns blacker than night, and with a wrong turn, a young girl would be no better off on those lonely, windy hills than a ship lost at sea. But Lily was in no danger of getting lost. Her house was brightly lit, as if every lamp and every fireplace had been stoked to their full capacity to guide her safely home. She ran up and down and up and down over the hills, her ribbons trailing behind her like the tail of a comet, and long before she reached the village’s boundary wall, she could hear her name trailing on the wind as Nan, Strathclyde, and his plump wife called desperately into the night.

“I’m here!” Lily shouted, stumbling over a small stone. “Nan! I’m here!” But her cries were in vain, for the wind only carried them back toward the forest.

The lights grew brighter and her way clearer as she ran ever nearer home. “I’m here!” she shouted again, and in three steps she had scrambled over the village wall and almost knocked down Strathclyde just as he called her name into the night.

“Well, Lily, it looks as if you’ve been adventuring,” the old man said with a quiet laugh. He set his hand upon her shoulder and looked her up and down. “Yes, sir. You have had quite an adventure, I suspect.”

“I did! Oh Strathclyde! It was wonderful! There was a rook, and a—”

“I do wish we had time now for storytelling, lass” he interrupted with a whisper. “Perhaps you can tell me all about it tomorrow. But for now I’m afraid you have some trouble coming your way. The womenfolk are on the prowl and it looks like they’ve found you. Ah yes...”

“LILY!” shouted Nan, her face the most fantastic shade of purple. “Where have you been? And look at the state of you! Stockings ripped and muddied, dress torn, shoes scuffed! You are a mess! What am I supposed to do with you? And where were you?”

“I—” Lily tried to answer.

“You’re filthy! I always said you needed a firmer hand, and I intend to tell your mother as much just as soon as she returns. Upstairs and into the bath at once, young lady! I have never been so furious in my life!” Nan held Lily firmly by the arm and half-dragged her into the house, muttering the whole way.

Lily was ashamed of her behavior, of course. She hadn’t wanted to upset Nan when she followed Titus into the forest, but in the end she felt it couldn’t have been helped. Nevertheless, she wore a truly repentant look as Nan marched her up the stairs—but just as the two climbed out of sight, Lily heard a quiet chuckle. She glanced behind her to see Strathclyde standing by the drawing room fireplace, staring up at her with a hint of amusement in his gaze.

By the time Lily had been bathed and brushed, pajamaed and bedded, the crackling nursery fire had begun to burn low. Nan had spent her anger on phrases such as, “If your father were here...” and, “If you ever do that again...” and now she leaned gently over Lily’s bed to kiss her goodnight. “You gave me a dreadful fright tonight, Lily,” she whispered, “but I am glad you have come home safe and sound. You won’t ever do that again, will you?”

“No, I promise. Good night, Nannykins,” Lily grinned.

“Good night,” Nan said with a weary smile as she closed the nursery door.

As the firelight danced on the warm, safe nursery walls, Lily’s mind drifted slowly back to the Rookery. Soon shadows of rooks and hawks in battle flickered across the walls, shadows of mice scurried for safety, and badgers and foxes snuffled around innocently below. Lily closed her eyes, and before she knew it, she was swimming in a sea of piano music. All around her, animals of every sort danced a slow, stately dance, as if they were guests at a royal ball. An Indian prince drifted by on his bejeweled elephant. He dismounted regally, and asked permission to take her arm for the next dance. He was handsome and strong and he smelled of warm hay and firewood, and Lily simply couldn’t resist. Soon they were twirling and spinning through the ocean of music and the elephant swayed gracefully to and fro (for so elephants can when swimming in a sea of nothing but music). The music swelled. They spun and drifted, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the prince became a mouse. He was dressed in splendid robes of white and gold, with a delicate golden crown resting between his pink ears. He smiled warmly, and they danced off through a forest of dark greens and purples until they came to his palace—an enormous golden rookery. The music faded, the prince bowed low in thanks, and Lily drifted away into a deep and happy sleep.

The day was still young when Lily opened her eyes the next morning. Sunrise had not yet cast off its pink nightgown, and the rays streamed gently through Lily’s window, illuminating her white bedposts, and turning the whole nursery into a bowl of strawberry ice cream. Lily liked mornings best. In the morning, there were no rough scrubbings, and no scoldings. She had, so far, done nothing wrong, and her heart was light and hopeful. She knelt beside her bed, as she had done every morning since she could remember, and said her prayers for Father in India, for Mother and Aunt Sarah’s new baby, for her brothers Tom and Newton, and of course for old Strathclyde and his grumpy wife, the housekeeper. And then she prayed a special prayer for Arthur, Titus and the rooks, for it was on them that her mind had rested much of the night.

In her nightstand, just beside her bed, Lily kept a very special book. She also kept several sheets of writing paper and her favorite charcoal pencils. For all her curiosity about life outside the village, Lily was also very content to sit beside the cold nursery fireplace in the mornings and draw. Arthur, Titus, and the Rookery would certainly make their way into the book before morning tea had arrived, but Lily was in no mood for drawing just now. Now was the time for writing.

Ever since her father had gone to India, Lily had been writing him letters. Most of them she never sent. Instead, she tucked them away in her special drawer waiting for the day he would next come home. She often dreamed of how it would be: He would have arrived late in the night while she was asleep, and the early morning light would find her creeping quietly down the stairs. She would stop just as she saw him, sitting in his huge dark leather chair, his feet propped up near the drawing room’s stone fireplace. Gray swirls of pipe smoke would be twisting in the air above him as he sat very still, staring into the fire. Mother would be back from Aunt Sarah’s by then, of course, and she would be humming just outside in the garden, happy that her husband had come home at last. Step by step, Lily would creep silently down the stairs until, bewitched by the rightness of her father’s presence, she would forget to skip the fourth step from the bottom, and it would creak in just the right way. A twinkle in his eye, her father would turn his head and leap from his chair. “There’s my girl!” he would cry as he bounded toward her. She would sail through the air from the fourth step and land in his embrace, enveloped in his dark red beard and his warm, strong arms, and they would spin around and around, laughing, until they fell together into Father’s chair.

And that’s when the stories would begin. Such wonderful stories! The Maharaja who Lost His Marbles, Pipkin’s Popcorn, and The Tale of the Golden Football—all the stories he had told her in his letters would come tumbling out of her father’s memory. He would tell her of his adventures among the Indians of the Himalayas. He would tell her of the monsoons and the grand procession of the kings. And most of all, he would tell her of the wondrous animals—orange-and-black striped cats the size of ponies, furry yellow horses who carry water in humps on their backs, and birds who can barely fly, but whose tail feathers open so wide they look like they’re standing under a blue and green rainbow. Oh, the fascinating animals of India!

“And now I will have a story to tell too, when Father returns,” thought Lily as her daydream ended and she returned, body and soul, to the nursery. She imagined pulling out her letters, tied neatly with one of her own hair ribbons, and giving them to her father. She simply couldn’t wait to share with him all the things she had seen and done since he had left nearly two years ago. And this latest adventure would be the best of them all. She pulled out her favorite pencil and began to write. 

Dear Father,

       I do hope you are well in India. We have heard much about the fighting from old Mrs. Smythe down Fulham Lane. She always comes to have tea with Mother on Thursdays and tells us many things from her son’s letters. She smells of mothballs.

       I am glad to hear from your last letter that you are doing well. But, oh Papa! You must be having so many adventures and I simply can’t contain my joy any longer. I must tell you right away. I have had an adventure of my own. Not an imaginary one, mind. A real one, and you will be ever so surprised when I tell you—oh, but you may be disappointed to learn that I gave Nan and the others quite a fright because I stayed out much too late and I ruined my dress and stockings. I am very sorry for that, and I do hope you can forgive me, dear Father. But oh, it was ever so worth the scolding and the rough scrubbing I received for it. Papa, I have met a mouse. And he is not just any mouse. His name is Arthur, and he plays the piano and his piano is in a beautiful place called the Rookery where all the rooks in the forest live (Father, do forgive me, but I went into the forest alone. I was very safe, though, I promise.), and he is ever so kind and polite and he has asked me to tea! It is all true, Papa! Every bit of it! What a grand adventure, what a surprise to find a mouse as polite and gentlemanly as Arthur. He reminds me ever so much of you. Oh, and I’ve almost forgotten Titus and the rooks and the great ancient battle with the hawks and the spade and, oh Father, what a story this is! Today I am going to a real, proper tea time with the animals, and I’m sure it will be splendid. But I do hope they don’t ask me to have stoat cakes instead of proper ones. Oh dear. Perhaps I will take some cakes of my own just in case. I don’t think I could eat stoat. But Father, what a wonder it all is! Please come home soon. I miss you.
                                                                                                                            Love,
                                                                                                                            Lily

Lily carefully folded her letter and placed it with the others in her special drawer. She had only just closed the drawer when there came a knock at the door. It was Nan calling her down to breakfast.

“Good morning, Nan!” Lily chirped. “You look lovely this morning! Will you help me with my braids, please?”

“Good morning, my girl! I would be happy to help! I don’t get to help you nearly as much as I used to, you know,” Nan said.

“I know, Nan. But I do like it when you help me,” Lily replied, looking down at her feet. “I’m sorry I frightened you last night. I just became curious and wandered off. You know that is one of my faults. One of many, I’m afraid...But I was never in any danger, though. I kept safe the whole time.”

“Now, now, Lily, don’t trouble yourself any more about it. It is water under the bridge, like they say. Let us have a new start, shall we?”

“I would like that very much!” Lily replied as they walked together toward the dining room.

Lily’s brothers were out on an early morning ramble, so Lily was alone at the table with Nan and Strathclyde, who was just finishing his first cup of tea.

“Morning, Strathclyde,” Lily smiled as she sat down at the table.

“Good morning, Lulu,” he said with a wink. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Now Lily, I believe you had a story you wanted to tell me?” he reminded her, with a glance at Nan, who was busy stirring her tea.

“Oh, yes!” she cried. “I was in the forest!”

“What?” Nan cried, very nearly spilling her tea. “You went to the forest? Lily—”

“Oh, er,” Lily stumbled, remembering that Strathclyde and Nan would not approve of her visit to the Rookery. “…no, last night I was…just wandering. It’s really not much of a story. What I meant to say is that last night I dreamed that I went to the forest.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Silly me, I know that you would never go into the forest alone. Please, continue,” Nan urged her, going back to her tea.

Lily was slightly ashamed of deceiving Nan, but continued. “I was in the forest in a kind of forest castle, and there were rooks and music and a mouse who can play the piano. Oh, it was so wonderful! And today—“ Lily stopped, horrified that she had almost given away her secret. “And then I woke up,” she said, gulping down her tea.

“A piano-playing mouse, eh?” Strathclyde laughed. “Well that’s something I’d sure like to see. And what else did you dream about, my dear?”

She hesitated. “Oh, not much. There was a curious spade stuck in the ground and some candles and...”

 “A spade, you said?” Strathclyde asked.

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Very interesting dream, Lulu,” he said, a troubled look on his face. “Let me know if you have another one!” Strathclyde drank the rest of his tea in one gulp. “Well, I have to be off!” he said, setting the teacup back onto the table a bit harder than was strictly necessary. He bolted out the back door, leaving Lily alone with Nan, once again plotting her escape from Nan’s afternoon tea.