The Black Opal
Виктория Холт
Abandoned as a baby, her exotic beauty prompted hushed whispers of gypsy blood. But lovely Carmel March remained shrouded in mystery....
When tragedy struck her adopted home of Commonwood House, little Carmel had been bundled off to Australia. Returning to England as a young woman, she became haunted by questions from her past, as well as the shocking revelation that she had been rushed from a murder scene those many years ago.
Yet she was convinced that the wrong man had been sentenced for the crime. Was the answer locked away in her childhood memory -- or in the dark, secretive behavior of her old childhood friend, Lucian? And what fateful role did the opals -- always present at crucial moments of her life -- play? For only when she released the dark secrets imprisoned at Commonwood would she find the freedom to love.
Victoria Holt
The black opal
Discovery in the Garden
One early March morning when Tom Yardley was strolling round the garden to see how the newly-pruned roses were coming along, he made a startling discovery.
Tom was gardener to Dr. Marline at Commonwood House and, as he said, he was not much of a sleeper. He would often rise as soon as it was light and go into the garden, which provided his main interest in life.
He could not believe his eyes, but there it was. He heard it cry first and, looking under the azalea bush the one which had given him all that trouble last year-what should he see wrapped up in a woollen shawl, but a baby.
I was that baby.
The doctor had lived in Commonwood House ever since he had taken over the practice from old Dr. Freeman. He had bought it with his wife’s money, so it was said, and people in small country places always knew such details about their neighbours. The doctor and Mrs. Marline kept a comfortable house on her money, of course and it was Mrs. Marline who was master as well as mistress of the house.
At the time when I made my appearance there were three children in the family. Adeline was ten and simple. The servants whispered about her and I learned that her birth had been a ‘difficult’ one. She had never been quite ‘all there’. Mrs. Marline, who could not believe that anything she produced could not be perfect, had been most upset and there had been a long gap before Henry was born. He was four years old at the time of my arrival, and there was nothing wrong with him, nor with Estella, who was two years younger.
Nanny Gilroy was in charge of the nursery and Sally Green, who was thirteen at the time, had just come to the house to be trained by Nanny, which was fortunate for me, for she told me, when I was of an age to understand, of my coming and the effect it had had on the household.
“Well, nobody might have found you,” she said.
“You could have stayed under that bush till you died, poor mite. But I reckon you would have made yourself heard. A proper little bawler, you was. Tom Yardley come up them nursery stairs holding you as if he thought you was going to bite him. Nanny wasn’t up. She come out of her bed room in that old red flannel dressing-gown and her hair in curlers. I’d heard too, so I came out. Tom Yardley said, ” Look what I found. Under that azalea bush the one I had all that trouble with last year. “
“Nanny Gilroy stared at him. Then she said, ” My patience me. Here’s a nice how-do-you-do, I must say. “
“I took to you straight away. I love babies, especially when they’re little and helpless, before they start getting into everything. Nanny said, ” It belongs to one of them gipsies, I’ll be bound. Come here, making a nuisance of themselves and then go off, leaving messes for other people to clear up. “
I did not like hearing myself referred to as ‘a mess’, but I loved the story and kept silent. The gipsies, it seemed, had been camping in the woods not far from Commonwood House. One could see the woods from the back windows; and it was clear why the house was called Commonwood House, because there were views of the common from the front.
Sally went on to tell me that Nanny Gilroy had thought the sensible thing would have been to send me off to an orphanage or the workhouse, which were the places for babies left under bushes.
“Well, there was a regular to-do,” she explained.
“Mrs. Marline came up to the nursery to take a look at you. She didn’t much like what she saw. She gave you that funny look of hers with her mouth turned down and her eyes half closed, and she said the blanket must be burned on the rubbish heap and you cleaned up. Then the authorities could be consulted and could come and take you away.
“The doctor came up then. He looked at you for a bit without saying anything. He was all the doctor then. He said, ” The child is hungry.
Give her some milk. Nanny, and clean her. “
“There was this thing hanging round your neck.”
I said: “I know. I have always kept it a pendant. It’s on a chain and it’s got markings on it.”
“The doctor looked at it and said, ” They’re Romany signs . or something like that. She must have come from the gipsies. “
“Nanny was ever so pleased, because that was what she’d thought.
“I knew it,” she said.
“Coming here in them woods. It ought not to be allowed.” The doctor held up his hand. You know the way he has . as though he didn’t want to hear her, but you know Nanny. She thought she was right and she said the sooner the baby was on its way to the orphanage the better. It was the proper place for you.
“The doctor said, ” Can you be sure of that. Nanny? “
‘ “Well,” said Nanny, “she’s a regular little gipsy, sir. It should be the poorhouse or the orphanage for that son.”
‘“Can you be sure what sort she is?” His voice was all cold like, and Nanny should have noticed, but she was so sure she was right. She said: “There’s no doubt in my mind.”
‘“Then you are very discerning,” he said.
“But to me this child’s origins are not obvious as yet.”
“You started to bawl at the top of your voice and I was dying to tell you to stop, ‘cos, with your face all red and nothing wrong with him, nor with Estella, who was two years younger.
Nanny Gilroy was in charge of the nursery and Sally Green, who was thirteen at the time, had just come to the house to be trained by Nanny, which was fortunate for me, for she told me, when I was of an age to understand, of my coming and the effect it had had on the household.
“Well, nobody might have found you,” she said.
“You could have stayed under that bush till you died, poor mite. But I reckon you would have made yourself heard. A proper little bawler, you was. Tom Yardley come up them nursery stairs holding you as if he thought you was going to bite him. Nanny wasn’t up. She come out of her bed room in that old red flannel dressing-gown and her hair in curlers. I’d heard too, so I came out. Tom Yardley said, ” Look what I found. Under that azalea bush the one I had all that trouble with last year. “
“Nanny Gilroy stared at him. Then she said, ” My patience me. Here’s a nice how-do-you-do, I must say. “
“I took to you straight away. I love babies, especially when they’re little and helpless, before they start getting into everything. Nanny said, ” It belongs to one of them gipsies, I’ll be bound. Come here, making a nuisance of themselves and then go off, leaving messes for other people to clear up. “
I did not like hearing myself referred to as ‘a mess’, but I loved the story and kept silent. The gipsies, it seemed, had been camping in the woods not far from Commonwood House. One could see the woods from the back windows; and it was clear why the house was called Commonwood House, because there were views of the common from the front.
Sally went on to tell me that Nanny Gilroy had thought the sensible thing would have
been to send me off to an orphanage or the workhouse, which were the places for babies left under bushes.
“Well, there was a regular to-do,” she explained.
“Mrs. Marline came up to the nursery to take a look at you. She didn’t much like what she saw. She gave you that funny look of hers with her mouth turned down and her eyes half closed, and she said the blanket must be burned on the rubbish heap and you cleaned up. Then the authorities could be consulted and could come and take you away.
“The doctor came up then. He looked at you for a bit without saying anything. He was all the doctor then. He said, ” The child is hungry.
Give her some milk, Nanny, and clean her. “
“There was this thing hanging round your neck.”
I said: “I know. I have always kept it a pendant. It’s on a chain and it’s got markings on it.”
“The doctor looked at it and said, ” They’re Romany signs . or something like that. She must have come from the gipsies. “
“Nanny was ever so pleased, because that was what she’d thought.
“I knew it,” she said.
“Coming here in them woods. It ought not to be allowed.” The doctor held up his hand. You know the way he has . as though he didn’t want to hear her, but you know Nanny. She thought she was right and she said the sooner the baby was on its way to the orphanage the better. It was the proper place for you.
“The doctor said, ” Can you be sure of that. Nanny? “
‘ “Well,” said Nanny, “she’s a regular little gipsy, sir. It should be the poorhouse or the orphanage for that sort.”
‘ “Can you be sure what sort she is?” His voice was all cold like, and Nanny should have noticed, but she was so sure she was right. She said: “There’s no doubt in my mind.”
‘“Then you are very discerning,” he said.
“But to me this child’s origins are not obvious as yet.”
“You started to bawl at the top of your voice and I was dying to tell you to stop, ‘cos, with your face all red and screwed up, you wasn’t the prettiest sight, and I thought:
They’ll get rid of you, you silly baby, if you go on like that, and how are you going to like that orphanage?
‘” think, sir” Nanny started to say, but the doctor stopped her.
‘ “Don’t make the effort, Nanny,” he said, which was a polite way of saying “shut up” “Mrs. Marline and I will decide what is to be done.”
“I thought: She will, you mean. You’re not going to have much say in it and it will be the orphanage for that baby.
“I was wrong. I can’t think what made Mrs. Marline change her mind.
She’d been all for getting you out of the house as quick as she could.
To this day I can’t think what happened. Well, Nanny had to do what the doctor ordered, so she washed you and put you into some of Miss Estella’s clothes, and you looked like a proper baby then. We heard that you were to stay at Commonwood for a while because someone might claim you which seemed unlikely since whoever you belonged to had just left you under that azalea bush.
“Nanny said, ” The doctor’s soft, but it won’t be him who has the last word. Mistress will be the one who has that. He can’t see that it’s better for that baby to go now, before she gets to know the ways of gentlefolk. “
“Nanny was wrong. She could have sworn Mistress would have had that baby out of the house in next to no time. But, for some reason, she had to do what the doctor wanted.”
So I stayed in Commonwood House and what was most extraordinary was that I was to share the nursery with the Marline children.
“You was more my little baby than anyone else’s,” Sally said.
“I took to you and you took to me. Nanny couldn’t forget how you’d come. You didn’t belong here, she said.
She couldn’t bring herself to treat you like the others, never had and never would. “
I knew that well enough. As for Mrs. Marline, she scarcely ever glanced at me, though once or twice, when I caught her doing so, she looked quickly away. The doctor was aloof on the rare occasions when I encountered him, but he always gave me a vacant smile and sometimes patted my head and said, “All right?” to which I would nod nervously and he would nod in return and quickly pass on, as though eager to get away from me.
Adeline was always gentle. She liked babies and helped me when I was small. She used to hold my hand when I was learning to walk; she showed me pictures in the nursery books and seemed to delight in them as much as I did.
Estella was in turn friendly and hostile. It seemed that she sometimes remembered Nanny’s contempt for me and shared it. At other times she treated me like a sister.
As for Henry, he took little notice of me, but, as he appeared to have no time for any girls or people younger than himself and that included his sister it was not hurtful in the least.
It was some time before they decided I must have a name. I had always been referred to as ‘the Child’, or by Nanny as ‘that gipsy’.
Sally told me how it had come about. Sally was interested in names.
“Ever since I heard mine meant ” Princess”. That’s Sarah, see? Well, they was going to call you Rose. Tom Yardley was always telling how he’d gone out to look at the roses he’d just planted when he found you under the azalea bush. So they thought Rose would be a good name for you. I didn’t like it. You wasn’t a Rose to me. There are lots of Roses. You were somehow different. I thought you had something of the look of a little gipsy. Once I’d heard of somebody who was a gipsy called Carmen … no, it was Carmel, I think. And, do you know, when I found out Carmel meant a garden, well, it was right, wasn’t it? You couldn’t be anything else but Carmel. Wasn’t you found in the garden?
“Carmel,” I said.
“That’s her name. Couldn’t be anything else.” Nobody minded much and they all started calling you Carmel. Then March . it was March when Tom Yardley found you. So, you could say I named you. “
“Thank you. Sally,” I said.
“There are a lot of Roses.” So there I was. Carmel March, origins unknown, living in Commonwood House by the grace of Dr. Marline and suffered with something less than grace by his masterful wife and Nanny Gilroy.
It was perhaps not surprising that I grew up to be what Nanny Gilroy called ‘pushing’. In that household, where I had to fend for myself in a way, I had constantly to make people understand that I did not intend to be treated as a person of no importance. I had to make them understand that, although my origins might be obscure, I was as good as any of them.
In those early days, my domain was mostly the nursery where Nanny Gilroy made a distinct difference in her treatment between me and the others. I was the outsider, and although I had to admit the truth of this, at the same time I had to show them that there was something rather special about being a person of mystery. I was there on sufferance because of a strange idea the doctor had got into his head about orphan children, and for an even stranger reason that Mrs. Marline had let it pass, so I was defiant. I told myself I was as good as any of them. This made me assertive.
“Gipsy blood!” commented Nanny.
“Weren’t they always pushing in with their clothes pegs and trying to tempt you into crossing their hands with silver in return for their telling you some trumped-up tale about the great fortune that would be yours?”
I wondered a good deal about the gipsies and tried to find out all I could. I discovered they lived in caravans and travelled from place to place. To me they were mysterious and romantic people. And it was almost certain that I was one of them.
Miss Mary Harley used to come to the house to teach us.
She was the vicar’s daughter very tall, angular with untidy, wispy hair which kept escaping from the hairpins which were intended to control it. She was nervous and self-effacing, and, I know now, not very effectual. But she was kind and, as I was very appreciative of any kindness which came my way, I was fond of her.
She came b
ecause Mrs. Marline had said the children were too young to go away to school and Miss Harley would do very well until that time came.
Miss Harley was very pleased to come. I had heard Nanny Gilroy comment to Mrs. Barton, the cook, that she would be glad of the money. There wasn’t much of that to spare at the vicarage, and not surprising with that barn of a place to keep up and three daughters to marry off and none of them much to look at. Everyone said the vicarage family was as poor as their church mice, and the money would come in handy.
Miss Harley taught me my letters and I used to sit with Adeline, whom I soon overtook-and I was very contented during these sessions.
Outstanding in all my childhood memories was my first meeting with Uncle Toby.
I liked to go into the garden alone and my steps often took me in the direction of the azalea bush. I would imagine that March morning when I was placed there. I would picture a hazy figure stealing into the garden, creeping silently so as not to be heard. And there was I, wrapped up in a shawl. Carefully, lovingly, I should have been placed under the bushes and whoever had left me would kiss me tenderly, because she it must have been a she, for it was women who were concerned with babies must have been very unhappy at leaving me.
Who was she? A gipsy, Nanny had said. She would have big earrings in her ears and her hair would be black and curly, hanging down over her shoulders.
And while I stood there, someone came very close to me. He said:
“Hello! Who are you?”
I turned sharply. He seemed enormous. He was indeed very tall. He had fair hair bleached by the sun, I discovered later-and his skin was golden brown. He had the bluest eyes I had ever seen and he was smiling.
“I’m Carmel,” I said with that dignity I had learned to assume.
“Well, that’s fine,” he said.
“Now, I knew there was something special about you. What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking at the azalea bush.”
“It’s a very nice one.”
The Black Opal Page 1