by Mary Nichols
‘And your child?’
‘And to our child.’
‘Am I to tell her that?’
‘She knows it already. Now I must be off.’ He turned to go back to where Johnson stood holding his horse.
‘But you have not told me where I can contact you.’
‘I will send you word,’ Roland said over his shoulder as he mounted. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’
‘God fare thee well,’ Charles said, but Roland did not hear him; he had already gone, cantering along the road and turning off down a rough bridleway which led over the heath.
CHAPTER TEN
THE next day the weather was so bad, with rain and gales blowing round the chimney-pots, that there was no going out even if they had wanted to, and Margaret could not dissuade Kate from taking the opportunity to search the house for evidence of the curse. As soon as breakfast was over, she pushed her chair away and stood up. ‘Come, I think I know where to begin our hunt.’
She would not be denied, and Margaret reluctantly followed as she led the way from the dining-room, across the hall to the door which opened on to the east wing. The only room in use on that side of the house was the schoolroom, and though Margaret had looked round the others she had not explored them thoroughly.
‘This used to be separate living quarters for the Dowager,’ Kate said. ‘But when my mother died and Grandmama resumed control of the household she moved back into the west wing and this part of the house was shut up. It was always dreadfully expensive to heat.’
‘But there is very little furniture. Where would papers be kept?’
‘We’ll start in the attic,’ Kate went on. ‘i seem to remember some chests and trunks being taken up there years and years ago, when my grandmother moved. She would never allow anything to be thrown away.’
Margaret followed her up some stairs, along a landing and up another flight to a series of little rooms high up under the roof, where it was possible to stand upright only in the centre. Here they found discarded chairs and stools, faded curtains and old pictures stacked against the walls. Margaret moved one or two to face the dormer window so that she could see them better. ‘These are filthy,’ she said. ‘It is almost impossible to make out the figures.’
‘The best ones are hanging in the hall downstairs,’ Kate said. ‘These must be of poorer workmanship.’
Margaret picked up a piece of cloth and gently rubbed it over one of the portraits. ‘But this is far from inferior; it is very well-drawn. The sitter is very thin of face and her eyes are sad. Her hair is scraped back into a coif and she is wearing such plain clothes that it makes her look gaunt. I suppose it could be one of the wives who died. Their successors would hardly want them hanging where they could see them every day and be reminded they were not their husbands’ first choice.’
Kate seemed hardly to be listening. ‘That’s true. Look, there are documents in this chest.’ She delved into it and pulled out a sheaf of papers, holding them to the candlelight. ‘Goodness, this is signed by Oliver Cromwell. It says
To John Pargeter, Baron, by reason of his faithful service to the cause of Parliament, to be held in perpetuity for him and his heirs, those lands north of the parish boundary of Winterford and lying south of Sedge Fen, from the dwelling known as Sedge House, and between the Bedford River to the west and the drain known as the Winterford Cut to the east, lately in the possession of James Capitain and sequestered by Parliament for non-payment of taxes. The said James Capitain is required to vacate and surrender such lands one month from today. Signed Oliver Cromwell, on this seventh day of August, 1646.’
She turned to Margaret. ‘Supposing the Capitains had been looking to the marriage of their daughter, Anne, to John Pargeter, to restore the land to the family, then it would have been a bitter pill to swallow when it did not take place.’
She began rifling through the chest again. ‘There are records here of acquisitions and sales of other strips of land, dotted all over the fields. It looks as though my Pargeter forebears were trying to consolidate their land and enclose their boundaries. There are copies of wills here and bills for cattle and horses and a travelling-chaise. Oh, and here is the receipt for a portrait of Rosalind, Lady Pargeter. Which one was she?’
‘According to Roland, that was the first one, the one Anne Capitain cursed.’
‘I do not remember seeing a record of her death in the church. Surely, if the curse story was true, then she would certainly have had to die within a year of her marriage?’
‘Yes.’ Margaret sat heavily on a nearby stool; she was little more than a month to her lying-in and today she was more than usually tired. ‘Perhaps she moved away from the village.’
‘Why should she do that? It was her home. We must delve a little deeper.’ Kate bent to the chest and produced a small leather-bound book. ‘A journal, or I miss my guess,’ she said, opening it. ‘Look at this entry.
The curse lies heavy upon me and I pray daily that it will be lifted from me. An if that cannot be, then let me alone bear the burthen of this terrible evil and let it not pass to my child. If it please God to grant me a healthy son, I shall die in peace.’
‘Oh, Kate, the poor woman,’ Margaret said. ‘I feel dreadful prying into her private thoughts.’
‘Yes, but she has been dead these many years. What I should like to know is when and how she died.’
Margaret did not answer because her attention had been caught by a letter. The careful script was her mother’s and she picked it up with shaking hands. Dated 1715, it was addressed to George Pargeter. She read:
This was your mother’s doing. I do not know what makes her hate me so. I am not nor ever have been a Catholic, but if I were I would not have kept it from you, whom I love. But you believed the lie and that is more than I can bear. I am going away. Perhaps one day, when you and I are forgotten, things will change and love will replace hate…
The rest of the letter had been scratched out and over it in another hand had been written, ‘We cannot change our destinies.’
Margaret could no longer see the words for the tears which gathered in her eyes. ‘Poor Mama,’ she whispered. ‘Nothing has changed.’
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ Kate asked, but Margaret was in another time, another place. She was at her mother’s bedside, helplessly watching her die. Had Mama ever been truly happy after leaving her home? Was that why she had suggested that Margaret should go to her uncle? She could not have known that history would repeat itself. Sitting in that dusty attic, Margaret lived again her journey to Ely, her flight from her uncle’s house, her arrival at the Manor and Roland’s strange proposal. She went over their conversation again and again, word for word, and wondered if it had all been ordained. Then who had ordained it? A loving God or an evil witch?
‘Margaret, what is it?’ Kate’s voice penetrated her thoughts at last. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No, but I am a little tired.’
Kate was immediately penitent. ‘Oh, my dear, how remiss of me. I was carried away by all this.’ She paused. ‘Shall we ask to have the chest brought down to your room? Then we can look through it at our leisure and you won’t have to climb these stairs again.’
‘If you wish.’
Margaret was not at all sure she wanted to know any more. Everything they had uncovered so far had only served to verify the story of the curse. She told herself it made no difference to her own conviction, but she could not stop herself thinking about all the people who had been involved—Anne Capitain, bitter and disappointed, Rosalind, who had so obviously believed she was about to die, and John Pargeter, with all his newly acquired land. Could he have found any pleasure in it? Handling Rosalind’s journal and reading the faded words she had written a hundred years before, and that poignant letter from her mother to the man she loved, had brought the evil into the present, made it more real. For the first time since she had spoken to the parson about it, she felt its force. She knew what Rosalind had meant when she had written of
the curse lying heavily upon her. Margaret felt weighed down by it.
As soon as they returned downstairs, she asked to be excused and went to lie down. She really was tired, in body and in spirit, but she could not rest. She imagined Rosalind, big with child, just as she was, going about her daily life around the Manor, visiting the village, preparing for the coming of the infant and wondering if it would ever be born and, if it was, whether she would live long enough to hold it in her arms. Where had John Pargeter been when all this was happening? Had he been by her side, supporting her, or had he turned his back on her? That picture she had seen—was that of Rosalind? What had happened to her? Margaret was torn between her need for reassurance and her fear of uncovering something she would rather not know. Could anything at all be gained by continuing the search? She was sure it would make no difference to the final outcome.
She said as much to Kate when she joined her for dinner, but Kate simply smiled and said, ‘You can’t mean that, Margaret. Surely knowing the truth must help? The boxes have been brought down to the library and the weather is no better. It will occupy the rest of the afternoon.’
In the warmth and light of the occupied part of the house, and with the matter-of-fact Kate for company, there seemed little to be afraid of, and Margaret gave in and followed her sister-in-law to the library as soon as the meal was over and George, who had been brought down to see his indulgent mama, had been returned to the nursery.
It was in the library that Charles found them, surrounded by dusty papers and documents, books and pictures, which smelled mouldy. Both women had smudges of dirt on their faces. He stood a moment in the doorway looking at them, before Kate saw him and ran to throw herself into his arms to be kissed. ‘Charles! I did not expect you so soon.’
‘Evidently not,’ he said laconically. ‘Shall I go away again?’
She laughed and dragged him forward. ‘No, I missed you. You’ll never guess what we have been doing.’
‘Making yourselves very dirty,’ he said, smiling and bowing over Margaret’s hand. ‘How are you, Margaret?’
‘Well, as you can see.’ She spread her hands to encompass herself and the cluttered room.
He wished Roland could see his wife now. Pregnancy had made her more beautiful and she had a glow about her; she did not look like someone about to die. And yet there was a sad depth to her eyes, which he guessed was caused not so much by fear of the curse as by the prolonged absence of her husband. He wanted to reassure her, but did not know how to explain that he had seen Roland not twenty miles away when he was thought to be with his regiment. From the little Roland had told him, such knowledge might be dangerous.
Margaret sent a servant to tell the cook there would be three for supper. ‘Sit down,’ she said to Charles, indicating a chair. ‘We will put these away and talk to you instead. Did you have a successful trip?’
‘Yes, I bought a beautiful matched pair of bays for the carriage, and a brood mare.’ He paused and looked round the room. Every available space was littered with papers. ‘What are all these?’
‘Margaret is going to write a family history,’ Kate told him, her enthusiasm shining in her eyes. ‘We found all these things in Grandmama’s chest but they are all in a muddle, so we were putting them into date order.’
‘And have you found anything of interest?’ He picked up a piece of paper. ‘This has become so damp it is hardly legible,’ he said. ‘Something I can’t decipher, then "dying by her own hand…" More smudges. "Must be buried outside the confines of the churchyard…" Is it all like this?’
‘Some of it is,’ Kate said. ‘Some we cannot read at all and some of it is in Latin. It will take years to sort it all out.’
He looked up at Margaret, thinking of the curse; five more weeks and it would have run its course, for good or ill. She caught his eye and smiled as if she had read his thoughts. ‘Yes, Charles, years.’ She took the paper from him, but there was no date, nor indication of the writer, though she guessed it might be the parson of the time. But who was he writing about? Who had died by her own hand? Could it be the unhappy Rosalind?
‘Margaret told me the most extraordinary story,’ Kate told her husband. ‘That’s why we went in search of the chest, to prove it.’
‘And did you?’
‘You haven’t asked what the story was.’
‘If you are referring to the curse of the Pargeters and Roland’s fear of it, I know it.’
Kate looked at him in surprise. ‘You do? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was sworn to secrecy. And it was for Margaret or Roland to tell you, if they wanted you to know it.’
‘Margaret has told me now and I am thoroughly ashamed of my brother. If I knew where he was, I would go to him and tell him so.’
‘I doubt it would help. You could not make him feel any worse than he does already. He loves Margaret.’
‘And I suppose it is a measure of his love that he leaves her just when she needs him most?’
‘Yes, exactly.’ He turned to Margaret. ‘I don’t know when he realised he loved you but, having married you, he didn’t know what to do. It was like being caught in one of those eel-traps you see on the fen. You go in forwards and the way becomes narrower and narrower, but there is no backing out.’
‘I am the one that’s been caught,’ she said tartly. ‘I was lured into a trap just as the wild ducks are lured by decoys.’
‘Please don’t judge him too harshly; he was badly advised,’ he said.
‘By his grandmother, I know.’
‘And also by me. I was the one who suggested he should marry a stranger until the curse had run its course. What I did not bargain for was that Roland would fall in love with you and you with him. The idea was that you should separate immediately after the wedding and not meet again until ——’
‘Until Margaret had died,’ Kate put in. ‘Oh, Charles, not you too? Oh, I think I begin to hate you…’
‘No, Kate, please,’ he begged. ‘I am penitent. I would do anything…’
‘Can you lift this dreadful evil?’ she demanded, eyes glinting angrily.
‘No, or I would.’ He turned to Margaret. ‘Can you forgive me?’
He looked so thoroughly miserable, Margaret took pity on him. ‘Nothing is going to happen,’ she said, packing the papers back in the chest which stood open in the middle of the room. ‘I am perfectly healthy and so is my child. There is nothing to forgive.’
He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It is more important that you absolve Roland because he will not return until you do.’
‘And I will not make myself the laughing-stock of Society by going on my knees to him. I have my pride.’
‘What has Society to do with it?’ he asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘He is with Mistress Chalfont, is he not?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea? He has returned to the service of his country. He wants you to live, Margaret, and he believes the only way is to leave you in possession of the domain of Winterford, as a kind of restitution. There is no one else; I’ll take an oath on it.’
Margaret was so taken by surprise that she could only stare at him. She had been so sure that Roland was with Susan, and she had used that conviction to harden her heart against him, but if he was somewhere else entirely, if he really did love her… Oh, what a dreadful mess it all was! ‘Then where is he?’
‘He rejoined his regiment and was sent on special duties,’ he went on, collecting up more papers to put in the chest. ‘I do not know if he can come home.’
She dropped the bundle of documents she had been gathering up into the chest. ‘Have you seen him? Since he left here, I mean.’
‘Yes, very briefly, but he could tell me nothing.’ He could not tell her that he thought Roland was behaving recklessly, that he was trying to punish himself for what he had done to her. He might even be trying to get himself killed in order that she might live. Why else would he be riding about the countryside pretending to be a fugitive?
‘I asked him to come home, but he said he must carry out his orders.’
‘If he wants to be reconciled, then he has only to come home and say so,’ she said. ‘But it must be before the year is cut. I want some evidence of his faith in himself and in me. Now I suggest we go in to supper.’
They abandoned the chest and the musty papers and went through to the dining-room to eat, and after that they played cards and Charles gave them a tune on the flageolet, and the research was forgotten. Margaret did not return to it until two days later, after Kate and Charles had left, and then only because the chest stood in the middle of her boudoir floor and she had to walk round it every time she crossed the room. Its unfinished business seemed to accuse her. She put an apron over her grey wool round gown and opened the lid.
Here was a family’s history, encapsulated in faded letters tied with ribbon, official-looking documents, sealed with wax, private journals, never meant to be seen by strangers, hidden pictures, maps and plans. What could she learn from them, except the anguish of a family under threat? Did she want to pry into that? She picked up Rosalind’s journal and turned the pages, but she did not read it; she had seen enough. The present was more important than the past. Life was for living now and that was what she must do. She put the journal back and shut the lid; let the memories lie. She stood up, took off the apron and went to find a couple of footmen to take the chest back to the attic. Then she put on a warm cloak, tucked her hands in a fur muff and went out for a walk.
An east wind blew across the fens from the North Sea and stung her face; it whipped at her skirts and froze her toes. Even the ducks seemed to be huddled together under the lea of the boat house. The sky, though as immense as ever, was low with heavy clouds, which chased each other across the heavens like giant grey horses, manes and tails flying. Winter was at hand and the seasons would soon have come full circle since that fateful day when she had stepped down from the stage at Ely. She had been penniless and homeless then; was it any different now? She could spend Roland’s money, he begrudged her nothing, and she had a roof to shelter her, but was it home?