He paused. Something was different this morning. The animals seemed jittery and agitated.
Hector glanced about in the semidarkness. Could one of the horses be down? he wondered. Or had one somehow managed to get out of the barn during the night? Slowly he made his way farther inside, checking each of the stalls. He petted each long nose as he went, mumbling a few words of affection to each, while the breathy snorts of the occupants indicated their impatience to be about the business of breakfast.
A sound disturbed the quiet behind him.
“What’s that?” he exclaimed, spinning around with a start. “Who’s there!”
Had a weasel or fox managed to get in and mistaken the barn for the chicken shed?
His hand fell upon a nearby pitchfork as he crept toward the corner farthest from him. He didn’t want to come upon any uninvited guest unprepared.
Another sound. Louder this time. Whatever the intruder was, it was too large for a fox.
Hector squinted into the darkness. Suddenly a form darted out of the shadows toward the door.
“Not so fast!” shouted Hector, deftly lunging to the right with his fork and blocking the way.
“Whatever you are, this is—”
The broken light from the door behind him fell on the face of the creature he had roused from its hiding place. The sight momentarily silenced his tongue.
“Why . . . why you’re a bit of a girl!” he exclaimed.
6
Bath and Breakfast
Hector walked into the kitchen with the waif in tow. Sarah had just come down to begin her morning duties. She took one look at Hector, then turned and ran back upstairs to fetch the lady of the house.
It took less than a minute of his attempted explanation of the dirty, cold, straggly haired, wild-eyed thirteen-year-old at his side before Jocelyn’s mother-heart took over. While Hector still stood with a bewildered expression on his face, Jocelyn and Amanda were already climbing the stairs with the girl. Catharine had disappeared ahead of them to begin preparing water for a bath.
“What is your name, child?” were the last words Hector heard his mistress say as they disappeared around the landing. He turned, still shaking his head at the strange affair, and went out for a second time that morning to attend to his creature friends.
Meanwhile, in the first-floor bathroom, after the bath had been prepared, Jocelyn handed their new guest, whose name she had at last managed to ascertain, a towel, a stack of fresh clean undergarments, and a nice fluffy robe.
“When you are finished with your bath, Elsbet, dear,” she said, “come out and I will be waiting for you right here. We will find you a dress and then have breakfast together.”
Still too bewildered at the turn of events that had so suddenly come over her, and hardly knowing what to think at finding herself whisked from a cold, smelly barn into the lap of luxury, little Elsbet Conlin merely nodded, expressionless.
Jocelyn began to close the door, wondering whether the child had ever taken a hot bath in such a tub before, then paused. A strange expression had come over the girl’s face. She seemed to be trying to say something.
“What is it, child?” Jocelyn asked.
“Why is there red all over your face?” she said. “Is it blood?”
“No, dear,” smiled Jocelyn. “This is a mark God gave me to remind me how much he loves me.”
“But it looks funny.”
“To some people it does. But that is only because they do not know it is God’s fingerprint.”
Again Elsbet hesitated.
“Would you . . . would you keep this?” she said. Slowly she held out her hand. In it she held a small framed oval photograph with several dark splotches on it. “I don’t want it to get wet.”
“Of course,” said Jocelyn, taking it from her. She glanced down at the photo. “Who is it, dear?”
“My mother,” replied Elsbet, then turned away. Slowly Jocelyn closed the door, now with more to think about than before. Catharine and Amanda stood waiting behind her.
“She just handed me this,” said Jocelyn, showing her daughters the photograph. All three looked at it for a moment in silence.
“She is a beautiful lady,” said Amanda. “I wonder who she is.”
“Elsbet said it was her mother,” replied Jocelyn.
“But look,” added Catharine, “—those dark stains . . . they look like dried blood.”
“That is what I thought too,” nodded Jocelyn. “I noticed similar stains on her dress and arm.”
“Do you think she is in trouble?” said Amanda.
“I don’t know,” sighed Jocelyn. “If so, we can only hope she will let us help her.”
They returned downstairs to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, talking and wondering together where the poor child could have come from, and what she was doing alone so far out in the country.
Forty minutes later, the three Rutherford women sat around the table in the kitchen. Their guest had already gobbled down two eggs and several pieces of toast with jam. She showed no sign of slowing down as Sarah continued to bring more food to the table. As she ate, however, she cast suspicious glances about the room, as if she still hadn’t made up her mind yet whether to trust them, but was not about to ask too many questions before her stomach was full. All their attempts to engage her in conversation had been unsuccessful. She reminded them of a frightened animal.
Amanda sat silently watching the girl, unable to get out of her mind the parallel between herself and Sister Gretchen at the Milan train station. How ironic, she thought, that she now occupied just the opposite role, and was involved in the attempt to befriend a young girl in need, possibly on the run exactly as she had been.
When she had eaten her fill, Elsbet rose without a word, again clutching the photograph of her mother that Jocelyn had laid beside her place at the table, and made for the door. Then she seemed to remember something. She paused and turned around.
“Where are my clothes?” she asked without expression.
“You may wear that dress, Elsbet,” replied Jocelyn.
“I want my own,” the girl replied.
“Sarah will wash them for you.”
“I do not need them washed. I must go.”
“Where . . . why must you go?”
“I don’t know. I just must. They might find me.”
“Who might find you, Elsbet?”
“Nobody. Please—may I have my clothes?”
“You may stay with us, Elsbet. No harm will come to you.”
“I want to go,” she repeated.
“Where are you going, then, Elsbet?” asked Jocelyn. “Perhaps I can drive you there.”
“No—I am going nowhere. I just must go.”
“Are you going to your mother, Elsbet?”
“No—my mother is at the sea. I cannot go to her.”
“Where, then?” said Jocelyn, more perplexed than ever. “Would you like us to help you find your family?”
“I have no family.”
“Your mother is very beautiful—what about her? Does she live near the sea?”
“The sea took her. I cannot go to her until the sea takes me too.”
“What about your father?”
“He is—”
Her voice began to choke, and Jocelyn saw her eyes begin to glisten.
“—he is dead,” said Elsbet, starting to cry.
Tears filled Jocelyn’s eyes. But her eldest daughter, weeping freely by now, was already moving across the floor ahead of her. Amanda approached and placed two loving arms around the poor girl and drew her to her chest. The poor waif melted into the embrace and cried freely.
“Then stay with us for a little while, Elsbet,” she said softly. “My mother will take the best care of you in the world.”
7
Rollo Black
How Gifford Rutherford obtained the name Rollo Black might have been an interesting inquiry in its own right. His banking associations, though mostly carried out with
three-piece suits and silk shirts, occasionally put him in touch with another class of individuals, namely those facing financial and other sorts of difficulties that would not generally be found in Mayfair. From one such contact had the name of the shadowy Mr. Black surfaced. The banker had filed the contact away for future reference, in case he should ever need someone with the kinds of skills this Black reportedly possessed.
That day had now come.
As Gifford made his way along the dark street of Seaton on the south Devon coast, glancing about nervously for sight of any thugs who might be lurking in the shadows of this waterfront district waiting for an easy mark, he found himself wondering if coming here had been such a good idea.
Ahead he saw a hanging sign waving back and forth in the wind.
R. BLACK, DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS.
He continued forward, turned and made his way up the rickety flight of outside stairs, and knocked on the door that presented itself at the landing.
A gruff noise bellowed from inside. Gifford took it as a summons to enter and tried the latch. The door opened.
The man he saw behind a cluttered desk inside wore at least a four-day growth of beard and looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. The fellow’s red beady eyes squinted imperceptibly at sight of his well-dressed potential client, revealing that, despite his appearance, he was a shrewd judge of character.
“Are you Black?” said Gifford.
The man nodded.
“I was told that you can find out anything about anybody.”
“Perhaps not quite,” Black rasped in reply. “But what there is to be found, I can uncover. What is it you want to know?”
“I need information regarding some old deeds and property transfers.”
“What kind of information?” asked Black.
“That is for me to keep to myself for the present.”
“Look—I don’t know who you are,” Black shot back. “From the sound of your tongue and the cut of your clothes I take you for a Londoner. But that means nothing to me. If you want my services, then you tell me everything. Otherwise, get back to London and take your money with you.”
“All right, no need to get testy,” rejoined Gifford. “I simply want to authenticate the deeds I mention, as well as look into certain other facts pertaining to the property in question.”
“You wouldn’t have come to me unless you had more in mind.”
“If the deeds are genuine, I want to know what loopholes might exist. That is where the rest of the information comes in. If they are not genuine, or if the loopholes are sufficiently ambiguous, then the information will provide me grounds for asserting my rights of ownership to an ancient family estate.”
“I thought as much. You’re trying to get your hands on someone else’s property, and you want me to help you. Why don’t you talk to your solicitor?”
“I have. He’s the one who sent me to you. If you find what I am looking for, he will take steps to file the necessary documents. Until then he doesn’t want to dirty his hands.”
“Who is he?’
Gifford told him. Black nodded.
“We’ve had dealings together in the past. A conniving bloke. He’s willing to bend the law if need be.”
“I don’t care what he is so long as I get what I want.”
Black did not reply immediately, but continued to stare at the banker in front of him, as if making one final assessment of whether he wanted to involve himself in this man’s affairs.
“All right, then,” he said at length, “show me the color of your money, then tell me about this estate.”
8
A Drive to the Coast
Summer came to Devon. But the fragrant middle months of 1915 brought little warmth to Heathersleigh, only nostalgically painful reminders of Charles Rutherford’s favorite time of the year.
In mid-June the telephone rang, itself a reminder of Charles’s fascination with invention and technology and the many modern advances he had brought to the region. Jocelyn answered it to find their friend and spiritual mentor, Timothy Diggorsfeld, on the other end of the line, calling from London.
“Timothy, it’s so good to hear from you,” she said. “I was commenting to Catharine and Amanda only yesterday that we needed to get you down for a visit.”
“Actually, that’s why I called,” replied Timothy. “I wondered if next week would be convenient with you for a battle-weary London pastor to escape to the country for a respite with his friends.”
“Of course, Timothy—you are welcome anytime. When should we expect you?”
“I will take the first train out Monday morning.”
“Then we will meet you at the station.—Oh, I am so glad! It has been rather dreary lately. It’s hard not to think of Charles all the time.”
The phone went silent a moment.
“I miss him, Timothy,” Jocelyn added softly.
Timothy could hear the quaver in her voice. “I know, my dear,” he said. “So do I. We shall have a cry again together on Monday, and remind one another of the happy times his life brought us.”
Both widow and pastor were in tears when they hung up their respective telephones a minute or two afterward.
Timothy arrived in Milverscombe as planned five days later.
As he stepped out of the train, however, he saw four ladies awaiting him, not three, one of them obviously quite young. The moment his foot touched the platform, Catharine bounded forward and smothered him in a huge embrace. The others followed with more reserve.
“Timothy, how wonderful to see you,” said Jocelyn, approaching with a smile. Hugs followed as Catharine stepped back.
“And meet the newest member of our family,” she went on, “—for now, I should say. Timothy, this is Elsbet Conlin. Elsbet, I would like you to meet our dear friend, Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld.”
“Hello, Elsbet,” said Timothy, bending his lanky frame down slightly so that he might look into the girl’s face from her own height. “I’m very happy to meet you.”
She smiled and shook his offered hand.
“Let me get my bag. Then, Elsbet, you can tell me how you come to be here.”
That evening the three Heathersleigh women sat with their two guests in the sitting room enjoying tea and biscuits. After sharing memories and shedding tears remembering Charles and George again together, with smiles on their faces and love in their hearts, Timothy gradually managed to draw Elsbet into conversation. By evening’s end he had succeeded in getting more smiles to break out on her face than had any of the others in two weeks. She had just told him about her night in the cave.
“You know what sounds good to me after all this talk of caves,” said Jocelyn as the evening advanced and yawns and silences indicated that beds were beckoning, “—a picnic at the sea. Who would like to drive down to the coast tomorrow?”
“A capital idea!” consented Timothy. “I’ve never actually been to the coast of Devon. I hear there are great stands of chalk like at Dover.”
“Then, girls, we shall get busy early and have Sarah help us pack a basket of provisions.—What do you think, Elsbet?” asked Jocelyn. “Would you like to drive to the sea?”
“My father loved the sea,” she replied indirectly.
“And you lived near the sea with him, did you not?”
She nodded quietly.
“Perhaps you could show us where you lived,” Jocelyn added.
Elsbet glanced down.
Jocelyn had not been successful in learning any details of Elsbet’s past life, and was concerned that someone must be looking for the girl.
“We will just go for a drive and enjoy the coast, then,” she added with a smile.
————
The next morning a little after ten o’clock, the Rutherford Peugeot was filled with the two Rutherford daughters, Elsbet, Timothy Diggorsfeld, and Jocelyn at the wheel, bounding through the Devonshire countryside for the coast some twenty miles to the south.
Jocelyn was able
to drive to a flat clearing about a quarter mile from the ocean. They piled out of the car and walked the rest of the way, Amanda carrying blankets and pullovers, Jocelyn and Timothy each holding an end of the basket laden with provisions.
Slowly Elsbet and Catharine inched ahead, as if the smell of the ocean was drawing them like the aroma of hay in the barn to a weary horse. By the time they were halfway, both girls broke into a run together.
A few minutes later, all five stood at the edge of a plateau which sloped down unevenly toward the water. The day was warm, and both sky and sea were a brilliant blue.
“It is positively spectacular!” said Timothy.
Though the bluff overlooking the sea was high, within minutes Catharine found a place where it was possible to climb down and was already scrambling in the direction of the water.
“Look,” she cried back above her, “there are caves in the bluff!”
Seconds later Amanda and Elsbet were after her.
“Timothy,” said Jocelyn as she began spreading out the blankets on the grass, “thank you for coming. We needed this.”
“So did I,” he replied. “How are you and the girls doing?”
“We manage. But every day is filled with painful reminders.”
“I know, my dear,” said Timothy, laying a tender hand on Jocelyn’s arm. “You are in my constant thoughts and prayers.”
“I know we are supposed to give thanks and even to be joyful, but how is it possible?”
“I don’t know if we are supposed to be joyful,” replied Timothy. “I haven’t been very good at that either. We’ve each lost our best friend. Who says we should be joyful? But we can give thanks. Not that it happened. I cannot thank God that Charles and George are gone. But I can thank him that he is good and will make good come of it in the end. But that will never make me joyful. I still wish it had not happened.”
Jocelyn nodded. “It is reassuring to hear you say it,” she replied. “Elsbet’s sudden appearance, I must admit, has been a welcome distraction. Sometimes having someone else to worry about helps take your mind off your own troubles, if only briefly.”
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