‘That’s all right, lass. That’s all right.’
She watched him walk away and become lost beyond a bend in the path before she looked down at the little grave again; and then a trembling seized her as she thought of what the master would do if he ever found out. But there also came to her forcibly now the strong feeling that it wasn’t right that he should be deceived, it was wicked…Yet he was happy. His every action and word spoke of his happiness in his…the child. Mrs Poulter had said only yesterday that she had never seen the master so happy since he was a lad. Was it better then to leave things as they were and keep him happy? Strangely she wanted this man to be happy; there was rising in her an intensity of feeling concerning him. She wanted his happiness in the same way as she wanted the children at Ma Bradley’s to be happy. She couldn’t explain the feeling to herself, only the fact that it was funny because he was far from being like a child of Ma Bradley.
She turned slowly about and went down a gentle slope and into the meadow banking the river. The water had gone right down but there was devastating evidence of its visit, for the banks were strewn with wreckage of all kinds, except dead animals, which had been cleared away; but large structural pieces of wood from houses, bridges and barns lay widely scattered.
She dropped down from the meadow bank onto the stones and boulders, then walked right to the edge of the water. The river was not more than a hundred feet wide at this part, and was tumbling over the rocks in what appeared to her a lazy fashion, for she was comparing it with its mad racing when she had last seen it. She had a faint and shivering memory of her feet resting on a horse’s head until it submerged, and of crawling along a tree. She shook her head as if throwing off the memory, then turning, went up the bank into the meadow again, thinking as she did so that somewhere along here she would come across that tree, and perhaps the shaft, if it hadn’t been taken down the river.
Her step quickened as she followed the curving river bank. At one point the meadow dwindled into a mere track and was bordered on the right by towering trees, and she could see on the lower branches where the river had left its mark, for there was driftwood, straw and what looked like a dead otter cradled in the branches. She shivered again. She had been lucky, so very lucky.
She rounded another bend, which brought her clear of the wood and into a field and there, a little way on and not far from the river bank and high and dry, lay a tree, and about it a lot of debris.
She lifted her skirts and ran, and when she came to the rim of tangled mass she stopped and stared. There was no sign of the shafts on this side. She walked up into the field and round the torn root and to the other side, and immediately her heart leapt for there, sticking out from between a broken hen cree and a great pile of thatch, were the shafts.
Climbing onto the driftwood, she reached up and was just able to grasp the end of one, but as she went to pull it towards her her foot slipped and the pile of wood gave way beneath her and she just saved herself from being trapped by jumping to the ground. But the moving of the wood had tilted the shafts and she could now see that they were no longer attached to the front of the cart and that the one farther away from her, and jammed beneath a barn beam, was cracked across its middle and was almost in two.
The nearer shaft was just above her eye level and she gripped it and levered it back and forwards in an effort to dislodge it, but try as she might she couldn’t drag it from the pile. So what she did was to remove the loose wood beneath it, and then without thinking of what might happen should the whole structure fall she stooped and worked her way underneath the shaft until her hands could reach the part where it had been joined to the cart; the part that Hop Fuller had been so secret about. But probe as she might she could find no knob or handle that would act as a lever to slide back anything like a trap door. She peered up at it in disappointment. Perhaps it was in the other shaft. It could be, because she had sensed him at both sides of the cart. Again she moved her fingers back and forward along the wood, but nothing happened.
One side of the shaft was painted in a pretty scroll like the paintings the gypsies had on their caravans, and her fingers now traced the scroll, not in search of anything, just following the tendrils thoughtfully as they swirled in a blue spiral to a point in the middle; she had always thought the painting on the shafts pretty, standing out as they did against the yellow paint. When she felt the centre of the circle move she gave an audible cry, then brought her fingers to her mouth before her hand moved quickly to the shaft again to where there was now an opening of about a quarter of an inch. Her heart racing, she pressed the centre of the painted circle once more, keeping her finger on it this time, and as a panel in the shaft slowly slid back for about six inches her mouth dropped into a gape. And then, her hand in the hole, she was pulling from it a small black velvet bundle. Then another, and another.
Her body still bent, she stepped back out of the debris and looked quickly about her before sitting down on a plank of wood in the shelter of the pile. Her fingers were trembling as she opened the first bundle and stared down at the contents, her mouth dropping wider as she gazed. She had expected to see golden sovereigns; well if not sovereigns, silver. What she was looking down at were two stars made of stones, all gleaming. Her eyes again darted about her, first along the bank to where a wall, skirting the meadow, finished at the river’s bank; then to the right, and in the direction of the house.
The second bundle was bigger, unwieldy, and her fingers moved around it before unwinding the cloth; then, there on her lap lay a half-circle of glistening stones, the middle one of which was a similar star to those in the other bundle. Looking closer, she could see the sockets, which should have held the two loose stars. What was it? Not a necklace; no. A sort of head-piece?
She closed her eyes tight before opening the third bundle. Here was a necklace of the same pattern as the half-loop. Her eyes staring from her head, she now gazed at the bundles as if they were reptiles. This is what had taken Hop Fuller on his night journeys. He was a thief. If he had been caught he would have been transported…and her along of him, for they would never have believed that she didn’t know what he was up to and her in the cart all day and night. And if she gave this stuff up now, they’d never believe her, would they? No; no, they wouldn’t. What could she do with it? Throw it in the river? But the river ran clear and anyone would see it lying there. She’d have to bury it. But where? There was only this field, and she hadn’t a shovel. She thought about the grave back there at the bottom of the park, the earth would be soft. But no; she shuddered, she couldn’t touch that. That wall. That wall over there. If she could scrape some earth away from the bottom stones.
She stood up and stealthily looked about her. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The afternoon was still and quiet; there was no wind, no bird song, no sound of cattle. She was running again and when she reached the wall she leant against it panting; then after once more looking from side to side she dropped onto her knees and, near some rabbit droppings, picked out what seemed to be a soft patch of earth at which she clawed until she had made a hole about nine inches deep. Into this she thrust the black packages, and quickly covered them over. Now she stood up and stamped the earth down; then bending again, she scraped her fingers backwards and forwards across it; finally she drew some loose twigs and dead grass over the place.
It was as she was straightening up and endeavouring to clean her hands that the voice called, ‘Hello there! How are you now?’
She closed her eyes tight and leant against the wall for a moment and began to cough as if she were about to choke, and when she opened her eyes again her head turned in the direction of the voice and there was the man, standing within the enclosure of the stone wall but on the other side of the river.
Her eyes staring, she watched him now grip a rope drawn tight between two posts, one on each bank, and step lightly across the stepping stones. And then he was coming towards her and when he was about six feet from her and on the opposite side of the w
all he stopped and they stared at each other before he said again, ‘Hello there.’
‘Hell-o.’
‘You look a bit different now.’ He jerked his head to the side.
She narrowed her eyes slightly; she was trying to place him. Where had she seen him before? Where? When she was on the road? No, no. And then she had it. The day she had walked beside the river. He was the man who had warned her about the bog. Yet though she hadn’t seen the face clearly that day she seemed to remember it.
‘I thought I would never get you up,’ he said; ‘you looked as dead as the horse…The bairn, is it all right?’
She moved her head slowly from side to side, her eyes still fixed on his face, and then she remembered. It was his face that had looked down into hers, and his was the voice that had shouted at her. She had thought it was Mr Dixon alone who had pulled her out. She said hesitantly, ‘It was you then…I mean…who…who got me out of the river?’
‘Aye, aye, it was me…and Art an’ all. I would never have known you were there but for him. You’ve got him to thank really; if he hadn’t spotted you I never would. But he couldn’t get you out on his own, being an old man like. What’s your name?’
‘Kirsten…Kirsten MacGregor.’
‘Mine’s Colum Flynn.’
They were staring at each other in silence again, and then she nodded her head slowly twice before saying, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much indeed for gettin’ me out.’
‘The bairn, as I said, is he all right?’
She felt her eye flicker now and she looked down and for a moment her vision doubled, as it was apt to do at times, and she saw two pair of feet sticking out from underneath her skirt. And then his voice came to her saying soothingly, ‘Well it’s to be expected, you had a rough time…Are you still up…up there?’ His head jerked in the direction of the house.
She hunched her shoulders slightly as she muttered, ‘I’m…I’m wet nurse to the…their child.’
‘Oh! Oh, she had one then, the missis?’
She did not answer, and he went on, ‘You’ll be staying on then. That’s good, better than travelling the road. You were too young, I would say, for the road anyway.’
When she lifted her head a little and looked at him he was smiling gently at her, and she thought, He’s got a nice face. His brown eyes were kind, and although his hair was very black, his skin wasn’t swarthy like that of gypsies who had black hair, but was just weathered warmly as if it always had the wind on it.
‘Is it your time off?’ he asked, and she answered, ‘For an hour or so.’
Again they were staring at each other in silence, and then he half swung his body round and, flinging his arm out, he said loudly. ‘This is my…our land, all this inside the wall, as far as it goes right up there for six hundred feet.’ He pointed; then swinging his tall thin body round again he now pointed across the river and up the hill, adding, ‘An’ goes all the way up there an’ all to the Abode and beyond. That’s our house on the top, Tarn Abode. We have a grand view. You know we can see your place; we look down on it.’ His chin gave a slight tilt at this, and his nose wrinkled slightly and he laughed, seemingly at his own words; and in answer to his laughter, and as if defending the house she smiled slightly as she said, ‘I can see your place an’ all, if that’s it up there.’ She was pointing now, but back in the direction of the house: ‘I can see it from my window.’
‘Can you now, can you really?’
‘Aye…yes.’ Her smile was stretched as the trembling eased from her body.
‘What does it look like from over yonder?’
She became thoughtful for a moment as she looked back into his eyes. She felt he was waiting for her answer as if it were important. She hadn’t thought about the house across the river, only to think it didn’t look real. Now she looked upwards towards it, and feeling the necessity to be kind, to please him, for had he not saved her life, she said, ‘Nice, like a castle floating in the clouds.’
And her answer did please him for he threw back his head and laughed as he said, ‘Castle indeed! And in the clouds. Aye, for the river never touches us. My folks back down the ages were wise, they didn’t build their habitations in a scoop that the river could fill.’ She detected a sneer in his tone now; he had turned his head and was looking over the wall across the park and towards the house. Then turning to her again he said, ‘Well, I’m away. Good day to you.’ And on this abrupt note he went from her. But he hadn’t gone six steps when he turned round to face her again, saying, ‘Don’t let them put on you up there, for they’ll suck your blood, then charge you for selling it. Take all you can get while the going’s good.’ His jerking head gave emphasis to his words; then he was striding away from her, going towards the river again and the stepping stones. She watched him until he reached the other side, where he turned, and once more they stood looking at each other over the distance as they had done before. But now it was she who moved away.
She had forgotten for the moment how frightened she was when she had first heard his voice, and the reason for her fear; but even now her thoughts did not return to the jewellery for he, the young fellow, the man, had disturbed her. He had not made her afraid, he had just disturbed her. She couldn’t understand why.
Three
It was Friday, the fourteenth of March. Kirsten was to remember it as the day when the fly-fishing began for she had heard the master talking about it in the bedroom, and she had wondered what fly-fishing was and had told herself she would ask Mrs Poulter later. There were lots of things she asked Mrs Poulter. To her, Mrs Poulter seemed very wise, very knowledgeable, but when she came to think about it later, she thought she should have remembered it as the day she first feared the master.
Everything had been going smoothly over the past days. A party had been arranged for the child’s christening on the second Sunday in Lent, and a ball was to be held ten days later on the Wednesday, the day following Quarter Day. Lent or no Lent, the master was for having a ball.
The nurse had protested it wasn’t seemly to have a ball in Lent. If the master wasn’t thinking about what impression he would make on the county, then he should think of his own staff, it showed a bad example. Miss Cartwright had answered to this that if the master wished to have a ball on Good Friday and continue it to Easter Sunday he would do so, with or without her approval.
The nurse was getting worse, or braver; Kirsten didn’t know which word to apply to the woman’s attitude. She was no longer the rope being tugged between the two, that was now the mistress. As long as the nurse could keep the mistress in bed, her post was secure, but Miss Cartwright was for getting the mistress on her feet, and in this she was aided by the master, both continually painting a picture of the ball as the occasion when she could wear her jewels …
It was about eleven o’clock in the morning when Konrad left his wife’s bedroom and went down to the safe, the special safe in the library where the jewels were kept. There were two safes in the house, one behind a picture of Rembrandt in the drawing room, the other in an alcove in the library, an inconspicuous place which was covered by a circular portrait of Konrad’s grandfather. There was one key to each safe and Konrad carried them both on a ring in an inner pocket when away from home; when at home, he kept these two particular keys in a secret drawer in a small bureau in a corner of the library.
The secret drawer was not all that secret. It was known to most members of the staff that you pulled out the right-hand drawer, pressed a concealed knob in the roof of the compartment and the top of the desk slid upwards, revealing a number of miniature cupboards and drawers.
Konrad went straight to the alcove in the library, where he lifted down the portrait and gently placed it on a chair, inserted the special key in the very special lock and turned it.
The safe was a foot square and inside lay two black cases. These were towards the back, but at the front, on a piece of black velvet which draped a tray, lay a number of rings, about twenty in all. He lifted out
the tray and looked down at the assortment for a moment; then picking up a ring he held it to the light, stared at it, then replaced it on the tray, after which he took the two cases from the back and went out of the room and up the stairs and into his wife’s bedroom.
Florence was sitting up in bed bedecked in fur-trimmed lace. She was not so pale now, but her expression still remained peevish, and in the back of her eyes there was a look that had in it a thin thread of defiance.
His smile wide and his voice deep and teasing, Konrad sat himself down on the side of the bed and placed the tray and the two black boxes on his wife’s covered knees, saying. ‘There, my love, bedeck yourself; you have never worn the tiara since your wedding, and the necklace only once. Come, let us have a rehearsal.’ He jumped up now, saying, ‘Bring her wrap, Bella.’ He thrust his hand backwards towards Bella, who was standing at the foot of the bed. ‘We’ll do a grand parade around the room preparatory to descending the staircase on the twenty-sixth. Come, come, my love.’ He went to pull the bedclothes back from her but Florence pressed her hand tightly down on them, crying peevishly, ‘Later, later; I’m…I’m not feeling too strong this morning. I will rise after lunch.’
Her eyelids drooped and Konrad stared at her, his face straight now, his lips forming a line without curve. He watched her thin fingers moving nervously among the rings, picking them up and trying them on; then she gave him a fleeting glance before reaching out and picking up the larger of the two cases. Almost as she opened it, it dropped from her fingers onto the bedcover spilling some pebbles over the silk quilt and onto the floor, and she let out a high scream, which had hardly died away before Konrad’s roar almost lifted her from the bed. He was tearing open the second case and staring down with unbelieving gaze at the jumble of pebbles this, too, held. Then, his voice like thunder, he demanded, ‘What is this?’
The Slow Awakening Page 11