The Angel and the Sword

by Sally Wragg

  ‘I can’t wait. More than I can say and she’s in the sitting room!’ Bronwyn called to her retreating back as she extracted herself to run into the sitting room to her grandmother, who’d been on the lookout for her since lunch. Not one for overly demonstrative displays of affection, the old woman held her arms wide, unable to disguise her pleasure as Hettie ran into them.

  ‘Grandmamma!’ Hettie murmured, suddenly and overwhelmingly glad to be home. Only now did she realize how much she’d missed the old place, proof of the maxim she was only now achieving wisdom enough to realize that it was wonderful to travel but, surely, so much nicer to return home. Shortly, tea was ordered, Dizzy ushered inside and comfortably ensconced in an armchair whilst Hettie, having so much to tell everybody, held forth. ‘We’ve had a simply brilliant time, haven’t we, Miss Pettigrew? We’ve covered every inch of Europe, I should think. And, oh, Venice was wonderful, an absolute dream! I wouldn’t have missed it for anything!’

  Slightly bemused, Katherine took her tea and sat down. ‘I told you you’d enjoy yourself, darling. If only you’d believed me!’

  ‘You certainly did, Grandmamma!’ Hettie agreed happily, finding, for once, she was happy to agree with anybody, even her grandmother. ‘You’ll never guess what?’ she went on, excitedly.

  Bronwyn took Dizzy’s cup and refilled it. ‘What’s that, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve seen a picture of you,’ Hettie gushed. ‘A simply wonderful painting, in an art gallery in Berlin. I couldn’t actually believe it was you because you were so much younger but it was you, Mother, it really was. . . .’

  Bronwyn frowned, turning back towards her and only now paying attention to what she’d said.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Hettie nodded, happily. ‘It perplexed us too, didn’t it, Miss Pettigrew? It was a painting of you, Mother, done by a man called Alex Windrow. He’s a simply wonderful painter according to the Count and he should know because he owns the art gallery where it hangs. . . .’

  ‘The Count?’ demanded Bronwyn, none the wiser.

  Seeing she’d only confused things further, patiently, Hettie began again. Their meeting with Count Charles Dresler in Venice, the invitation to his art gallery in Berlin and the German’s assertion Bronwyn’s painting was by Alex Windrow, an English artist living in Berlin. How afterwards, Hettie had searched for Alex Windrow and his adopted nephew Lewis – who helped him with his work – to know the painting’s history, only to discover, frustratingly, both men had left for home. Given the travellers’ early departure for Bruges the following morning, there’d been no further opportunity to find them. ‘I managed to get their address from the Count and I’m going to write to Lewis as soon as I’ve chance. He did say I could,’ she finished, excitedly.

  ‘The boy who works for this Alex Windrow?’ Bronwyn demanded, still struggling to keep up.

  ‘A man who’s seen your picture in Tatler and taken advantage! I wouldn’t give it a second thought,’ Katherine observed, summing it up in the way only she could.

  ‘And who exactly is this Count?’ Bronwyn asked.

  ‘A highly respectable man. You mustn’t think anything else, Mother. Miss Pettigrew certainly took a shine to him!’ Hettie concluded, impishly. Dizzy coloured up.

  ‘Henrietta! I most certainly did not take a shine to him as you choose to call it!’

  ‘You’ll have a chance to make your own mind up, Mother,’ her charge responded carelessly and apparently heartlessly oblivious to the embarrassment she’d just caused. ‘I’ve asked him to visit, sometime within the next couple of weeks!’

  Bronwyn was horrified. ‘Hettie! I sincerely hope you haven’t! We already have a guest, due to arrive any moment, never mind the war committee meeting here this week!’

  ‘Child! What were you thinking?’ Katherine joined in.

  Some of Hettie’s infectious enthusiasm disappeared. ‘But there’s plenty of room! I thought he could have a look round at the paintings and give us some idea as to their value. There’s bound to be some worth a bob or two,’ she responded, looking crestfallen and too belatedly aware she’d been tactless to boot.

  ‘A bob or two!’ Her grandmother’s face had gone so deeply mottled at this sacrilege, it seemed expedient to Hettie, at this point, to beat a hasty retreat. The day was still young and, already recovered from the journey, begun at daylight with the ferry from Sables D’Olonne, she had other and more important fish to fry. Hastily she swallowed the last of her tea.

  ‘Perhaps he won’t bother to visit after all. It wasn’t as if we fixed an exact date.’

  ‘Hettie. . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Grandmamma! I hate to dash but I really have to go.’

  ‘But you’ve only just got home,’ Bronwyn wailed.

  ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’

  ‘Bill’s at college,’ Katherine boomed after her, guessing correctly where she was headed.

  Her words fell on empty air. Hettie had already disappeared into the hall, letting herself quickly through the front doors to run down the steps and into the gardens, waving to one of the gardener’s lads on the way and quickly reaching the meadows where she headed swiftly for the village and Sam Tennant’s garage. Her grandmother was wrong, she thought, rebelliously. It was Saturday and wherever Bill was likely to be, it certainly wouldn’t be at college.

  She was still upset Bill hadn’t written, not once, in the whole of the time she’d been away; worse still, the thought he hadn’t even been here to greet her when she’d been so certain that he would. Perhaps he hadn’t realized she was back today? She was desperate to see him even if, wretched thought, he couldn’t care less she was home.

  On the brow of the hill, she cannoned to a halt, lingering momentarily to look back towards Loxley, her home, standing so proudly, as if its turrets were holding up the sky, she mused fancifully, disbelieving quite how much she’d missed it whilst she’d been away. She’d no clear idea why, only that it belonged to her and that now she was the sole custodian of its dusty portals, she was only just beginning to realize the responsibility that brought. One day, she’d make her mark upon this place, she decided impulsively, so that people would talk of her, just as they talked of Nell, the first Duchess. The trip to Europe had made her more aware, she realized, continuing on her way and wondering now how an ancient pile of dilapidated Derbyshire stone had somehow so wrapped itself around her heart she couldn’t forget it; nor ever, she thought, vehemently and with a little thrill of ownership, be able to leave it for long.

  ‘Why, Your Grace, what a wonderful surprise!’ Lizzie Tennant exclaimed, coming to the door of the little cottage next to the garage where, on the forecourt, her husband Sam was stretched out under one of the two cars wanting attention. She smiled, looking content and incredibly pregnant. Of Bill there was no sign.

  ‘Is Bill in?’ Hettie asked, trying and failing not to sound too eager.

  Happily, Lizzie nodded. ‘He’s just finishing his college work. Would you like to come in, Your Grace? You must have had a long day travelling. You’re bound to be tired. Have you had a good holiday? Your mother said she was so looking forward to your homecoming!’

  If Lizzie was aware she was due back today, then so must Bill know it too. Something inside Hettie curled up and died at the thought. If Bill knew, why hadn’t he been there to greet her? Whatever the reason, his excuse had better be good! ‘She is pleased and yes, thank you, I’ve had a wonderful time,’ she responded mechanically as she followed the older woman into the cluttered little house and through the dark lobby into the back room where a number of children of varying ages and sizes were playing, making such a crowd, for a moment it deflected Hettie’s attention from the young man sitting at the table, head bent so assiduously over his books. He looked up quickly, the joy he was unable to disguise at the sight of his visitor leaping up into his face but so quickly gone that, frustratingly, Hettie wasn’t sure then if she hadn’t imag
ined it.

  ‘You’re back, then,’ he said ungraciously.

  ‘This afternoon,’ she agreed, wondering if that was all he was going to say and in such a subdued manner, she might as well have been any old acquaintance wandering in from the village. They were like strangers, not the old and inseparable friends they’d once been. Friends who’d grown up together, what’s more, telling each other every mortal thing with nothing spared.

  An awkward silence developed, which neither seemed able to break, the situation not helped by any number of inquisitive eyes watching their every move with undisguised amusement.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask Her Grace to sit down, Bill? Now. . . . Who’s for the post office and some sweeties?’ Lizzie enquired tactfully, her words working as if by magic. Within a short space of time and to the accompaniment of much stamping of feet and shouts of glee, there was a mass exodus as the brood, mother in tow, departed the house. The front door slammed behind them. At last they were alone. Hettie looked at Bill longingly.

  ‘Oh Bill, it is good to see you,’ she enthused, pleased for the moment, at least, to find matters so satisfactorily arranged. Unasked, she sat down at the table, across from him. ‘You look busy.’

  ‘Only college work,’ he muttered. Quickly gathering together his papers and books, he stuffed them into a leather case on the table, snapping the lock shut and yet, all the while, his gaze still, curiously, avoiding hers. Bill, who was so open and honest, she knew exactly what he was thinking, sometimes even before he knew it himself. The fact she’d no idea now was disconcerting.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I got on?’ she demanded, stifling a growing feeling of resentment.

  ‘How did you get on?’ he asked, his clipped tone bringing with it the thought that, if she’d imagined their enforced separation might miraculously have improved matters between them, wretchedly, it appeared to have done the reverse.

  ‘Wonderfully,’ she answered, coldly. ‘Why didn’t you write?’ she blurted out, at once.

  He stood up, pushing his chair under the table and positioning himself defensively behind it.

  ‘I dunno, Het. I meant too. It was just. . . .’ His voice trailed away awkwardly.

  Hettie had no idea what was the matter with him, only that something clearly was.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘I’ve been busy. College work and stuff.’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Yes, that,’ he admitted quietly and with an immense dignity that should have been funny and yet somehow wasn’t. ‘It’s easy for you to say, Het, but homework’s important if I want to get on.’

  ‘I see. . . .’

  ‘So you jolly well ought.’

  ‘I do see!’ she retorted, indignantly. However she’d imagined the conversation, this wasn’t it. ‘Bill, I hate it when we fall out.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Het. I don’t want us to fall out either,’ he responded, at last and thankfully, for the first time since she’d got here, sounding more himself.

  ‘Friends?’ she asked, eagerly.

  ‘We’ll always be friends,’ he replied, but so seriously, it only worried her all over again. But why would he think they might not always be friends? Friends who’d grown up together, been like brother and sister to each other! Deflated, Hettie pushed back her chair and stood up.

  ‘I’d better get back. They’ll be expecting me,’ she said, miserably, and still with the same curious little ache inside.

  ‘I’ll see you round, then?’ he asked but looking like he didn’t care if he did or didn’t or, at least, that was how it appeared to Hettie. Was that it, then? She’d travelled all this way, every moment of her journey spent longing to see him, dying to tell him about all her wonderful experiences, and he’d only . . . see her round? She’d see him round first!

  ‘I expect so,’ she told him coldly, only the hurt in her eyes giving away how much his words had stung her. There was no point staying, she decided quickly. Without another glance, she walked out, even, with admirable restraint, resisting the impulse to slam the door.

  The air was sultry and heavy, pressing down on her and fuelling her misery. If she’d been home, she would have slammed the door and no doubt got a ticking off from Grandmamma for her pains! She walked on quickly, up the sloping path away from the village towards Loxley, half-hoping to hear Bill tearing after her and yet resigned when he didn’t. He really didn’t care whether he saw her again or not, she thought miserably. The best, the only real friend she’d ever had, the one person to whom she could tell anything, and he couldn’t care less about her. He’d moved on, somewhere far away from her, become unobtainable, confirming her every worse fear before she’d gone away. But hadn’t she known that would happen? Her frustration grew. He’d been beguiled by his new life and all the exciting new friends he’d made at college and that was why he didn’t want anything else to do with her.

  The strident, jarring clang of a police bell disturbed her thoughts as below, on the northbound road snaking the perimeter of the estate, two police cars sped past, heading, it appeared, towards Freddie Hamilton’s land. For the moment, if nothing else, it took Hettie’s mind from her painful thoughts of Bill and she was grateful for it. She didn’t want to think about him! Something must have brought the police out here and, given both cars were crammed full of policemen, in fairly large numbers too. Her first thought was for the huddle of gaily coloured vardoes they’d passed on the way in that afternoon and that she’d meant to ask her mother about but in all the fuss of homecoming had forgotten. Forgetful too of the promise to her grandmother that she wouldn’t be long, she hurried eagerly after them.

  Easing his boots off at the door, Freddie Hamilton entered the kitchen of Merry Weather Farm. It was earlier that same day and he’d just returned from Bristol where he’d taken the cart to pick up some feed for the cattle. ‘I did warn you I was going to take action over the gypsies,’ he said to Ursula, who stood at the rough deal table, pummelling the dough for the day’s bread, with more force, he discerned, than was strictly necessary. ‘The wholesaler is right across from the police station and it was too good an opportunity to miss,’ he went on, speaking conversationally and as if dealing with the local constabulary was something he did every day of his life. Ursula frowned.

  ‘But we agreed when we talked yesterday, we wouldn’t involve the police,’ she observed crossly.

  ‘I don’t think we did, love. Anyway, it’s too late. I’ve done it now. Is there a cup of tea on the go? I’m parched. . . .’

  Shooting him a look of vexation, Ursula dusted her hands over the bowl before reaching for the kettle and lifting it onto the stove. ‘They’re only gypsies,’ she murmured, taking a grip on her temper. ‘They don’t mean any real harm.’

  ‘Their presence leaves no room for the Girl Guides you had rented the field to,’ he pointed out but this time with an edge to his voice. ‘That’s the trouble with gypsies; they don’t give a thought to anyone else. . . .’

  It was turning into an argument and there’d been too many of those of late but Ursula was too fired up by now to pay heed. ‘Bronwyn’s been kind enough to allow the girls the use of one of her fields. It was fallow anyway, no one minds in the slightest. . . .’

  ‘We shouldn’t be putting on our neighbours like this. . . .’

  ‘We haven’t. Bronwyn volunteered.’ At least Bronwyn Loxley had seen the fix she was in, Ursula fumed, making her more than kind offer despite the fact that, many years ago, it was a gypsy woman who had once tried to burn Loxley down to the ground. Bronwyn said Katherine, her mother-in-law, had taken against the whole clan of gypsy folk because of it, so much so, it was a wonder she hadn’t called in the police herself and armed them with shotguns whilst she was about it, too! Sighing, she poured a mug of tea and pushed it across the table. But then, given Hettie was returning home today from her jaunt abroad, thankfully Katherine Loxley had other and more important matters on her mind.

 
Freddie took his tea and drank it gratefully. ‘You do know there were a couple of extra caravans turned up this morning? Talk about taking a liberty! On top of the two that arrived yesterday and the one the day before. . . .’

  Even Ursula was unhappy to hear this state of affairs detailed so plainly. Her husband was watching her over the rim of his mug, aware of her little start of annoyance.

  ‘Love, I don’t understand you,’ he said.

  Ursula’s gaze fell away, hardly able to blame him when she wasn’t sure she understood herself. She felt sorry for the gypsies, that was the truth of it, and in particular, for their children, who, to her mind, didn’t seem to have any kind of a life that normal children might have. She’d hate to see them frightened and that was precisely what they would be when a bunch of heavy-handed policemen turned up at the site. ‘What did the police say they’d do?’ she asked, flatly.

  ‘I don’t know. Move them on, I expect.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When they’ve manpower enough.’

  She needed fresh air. ‘I’d better go and warn them,’ she retorted.

  Ignoring his snort of exasperation, calling to Fern, lolling at her feet, Ursula went outside into the warmth, glancing up into a sky so overcast, she wondered if a storm was brewing, indeed half hoped that it was, if only for the comfort of existing in elements so in tune with her feelings. She walked briskly, glad to let off steam, her footsteps guiding her over the brow of the hill so, in a very short time, she’d arrived at the meadows with their tumble of gaily decorated vardoes and horses tethered on land which, this week, should have been dotted with tents holding the party of Girl Guides who’d booked it. Freddie was right, there were more caravans now than when first they’d appeared and, if she’d never have dreamed of admitting it, a little part of her couldn’t help but think this was taking advantage of her good nature. From the communal fire from which plumes of greyish-blue smoke wisped upwards, a large cooking pot hung, attended to by an old woman with a wrinkled, wizened face and a crooked back. Nearby, a little knot of women stood chatting whilst they kept an eye on the group of children of varying ages, playing at their feet. Dirty and unkempt the children might be, they looked happy enough. It was a peaceful scene and again Ursula couldn’t help but wonder at Freddie going to the police when, surely, merely the threat of forceful eviction would have been enough?