Black Heather

by Virginia Coffman

  I let go of his cravat with haste, noting guiltily that my dusty fingerprints were smudged upon its snowy surface, and I held on to his neck, feeling odd and rather shy. It was a strange sensation, entirely foreign to my experience at home, where my relationship with males was a friendly one, much as it had been in my childhood. I could not imagine myself being uneasy in the presence of the boys I had known in play or the fishermen and tinkers and townsmen I had known all my life.

  “That’ll be an odd bit of news entirely, sir,” said Jacob. “About the dogs, I mean.”

  I assumed that Sir Nicholas and Jacob must be confused as to where the dogs had been, perhaps not knowing exactly what time I had been at the spinney.

  “But this was an hour gone by, I should think. And anyway, I did see it.”

  “I’m sure you did. You need not be so defensive.”

  Sir Nicholas turned his head, and I saw Jacob come up beside us and shrug. I could not understand their confusion about it and ventured further, “Perhaps it was before you were on the heath. It—it might have been earlier. But it wasn’t simply me, sir. It was Timothy also. He saw the dog and was frightened. That was how I first knew we were being followed.”

  “Do you mean to tell me your cat saw some fancied animal and you ran so hard you hurt your foot?”

  “It was not a fancied animal! Ask Tim—that is,” I amended hastily, “look at Timmy. He ran even faster than I did.”

  Sir Nicholas had his usual sardonic look, which still managed to suggest maddeningly that though his exterior was perfectly serious, within he was laughing at me.

  “I’m sure that he did. He looks a cowardly feline if ever I saw one. But the fact remains, none of my dogs have been near Seven Spinney today, and I doubt very much if anyone else’s dogs were either, unless it was a poacher, and they know they can be shot on sight. No dogs and no hunters are let to run upon this heath except mine.”

  “Sir, do you call me a liar?”

  “My dear Miss Bodmun, I have never called you anything but what you are, an inordinately tiresome child. I believe you saw something, though indeed, one can scarcely attest to the observations of your cat. But what you and your precious Tinny really did see arouses more interest in me.”

  I began to be aware of a return to that cold terror I had first felt at the Hag’s Head when the wounded Macrae had pointed at the top of the staircase and screamed and died. What had Macrae really seen?

  “I thought it must be a dog—a hound, perhaps—trailing us.”

  “What precisely did you see—or think you saw? Tell me exactly; omit nothing.”

  “Sir,” put in Jacob, “could it be the young lass was acomin’ from the Hag’s Head and the haunt give chase?”

  “Oh!” I remembered suddenly the peculiar illusion I had had when looking back across the stream, my feeling that what I saw through the shadows of the little copse was the pale, masklike face of an old crone.

  “Yes?” Sir Nicholas prompted me. It seemed almost as though he could read my very thoughts and did not find them so incredible after all. I explained quickly about my visit to the Hag’s Head with the wounded Macrae and how he had screamed and died. This aroused even the imperturbable Sir Nicholas.

  “Good God! I should think the poor devil would die at such a sight! First getting struck upon the head, and then to be returned to the very place where it all happened—poor Macrae! So he saw the Hag! He was ever an unlucky beggar. Loving greedy Jassy, who herself loved his property, the Owl of York, not Macrae. And then, to be taken back to the very place where he met his deathblow!”

  “But it was no fault of mine. I was on my way to the Hag’s Head, and naturally I thought that was the inn he spoke of.” I looked around from my perch in the baronet’s arms, hoping to change this subject which came dangerously close to blaming me for Macrae’s death. “You cannot think I imagined the whole!”

  “Indeed not, Miss!” Jacob assured me, being thus appealed to. “There’ll be forever talk on that wicked ghost creature that takes its way about the Hag’s Head. Nor do ’is Ludship think it’s your imaginings. His Worship, the justice, that is.”

  “Never mind, Jacob. You tire the young lady when you talk of such things as my titles. She would much prefer to title me that Dreadful Man, or even that Disagreeable Creature, either of which will do nicely and will not give me the setdown I so richly deserve. Is that the case, Miss Bodmun?” It was shameful to be reminded of my rudeness to him, but then, it was ungentlemanly of him to have noticed, and I was heartily glad when he said briskly, “I fear there is nothing for it but to take you to Everett Hall. My housekeeper will make you tolerably comfortable. But meanwhile ...” As I prepared for some horrid quizzing, he boosted me up higher in his arms and smiled at Jacob. “Whatever the danger to you, Jacob, keep friend Tinny safe!”

  “Timmy,” I corrected him.

  “You heard the lass, I trust, Jacob. Mind you, no throwing him in the pot to pace out the stew.”

  “Aye, sir. But about the old Hag ... Twas seen by me and by others, as Yer Worship knows. Are we to think we all saw mere phantasms? My mother saw the Hag many a time and oft, sir, beg-gin’ your pardon, sir.”

  We had no “Lordships” in my part of Cornwall, and it was difficult for me to show deference to this haughty justice of the peace as his servant did. Such careful respect would have been considered fawning by the rough fisherfolk and townsmen where I lived; yet no one there was of a tougher fiber than these Yorkshiremen, so I felt there must be manners I had not yet learned—a thought that rather surprised me.

  “Do not talk to me of hags!” said Sir Nicholas in a voice that made both the loader and me apprehensive. “If it comes to that, I may be forced to burn down the wreck myself. I am tired of these idiot visitors traipsing in and out across my own property to get there, fancying they see ghosts and the like, when all that lies within is the proof of Patrick Kelleher’s murderous design upon his wife. If I can but find it.”

  “I am not an idiot visitor!” I reminded him proudly. “I am by way of making the purchase. What do you think of that?”

  Sir Nicholas turned his head, which was so close to mine that our faces touched, and I felt a sensation of warmth and a quickened pulsebeat theretofore unknown to me. He did not seem in the least changed by the encounter, however, and was just as insufferable as ever.

  “I think, in your present position, you would do well not to challenge your preserver. I may very easily drop you here on the heath for wild dogs and guytrashes to nibble at.”

  “You came here by purest accident,” I reminded him.

  “My child, I never hunt by purest accident. Nor do I act upon impulse. I have considered purchasing the Hag’s Head ever since Megan—Mrs. Kelleher—was murdered, but it did not seem necessary, as no one else was anxious to own it. But let me tell you this”—he shook me with a rather awesome power—“no little snipper of an outlander child is going to make purchase and develop it for prying visitors. And if there is more trouble there in the way of such tales, it shall be burned to the ground. It is unhealthy altogether.”

  What absolute nonsense! I thought. Why in heaven’s name should I buy the Hag’s Head merely in order to show it to visitors? If he ever listened to my plans, he must know they have nothing to do with exhibiting it.

  His argument seemed more childish than any of my behavior—unless, of course, he was jealous of Patrick because of Patrick’s dead wife. But that had been long before. I could not imagine myself being so bitter over something that had happened twelve years before, with the murderer undoubtedly long gone out of the county in the meanwhile. Why, twelve years ago, I had been not quite six years old!

  There was one other thought that was rather insidious and extremely unpleasant in the circumstances, but I could not quite drown it. What if Sir Nicholas had murdered Megan Kelleher himself, when she would not run away with him, and now he wished to find, not evidence against Megan’s husband, but evidence against himself that had no
t been destroyed in the fire?

  “I cannot imagine anything of less interest to me than the destruction of evidence,” I said with my chin in the air, then reverted to normal with a serious thought that needed preparation before I spoke it aloud. “I had a thought just now, but you must promise not to think me a fool.”

  “I promise not to say you are a fool,” he amended in his grave voice whose true seriousness I was beginning to suspect. “Jacob, the gates, if you please. And as for you, Miss Bodmun, you will forget about hags and dead men for the moment and concentrate upon enjoying a decent meal and a bit of cosseting by Mrs. Hardwicke, my housekeeper.”

  I began to be nervous. I had not thought beyond merely being rescued. I knew perfectly well that Mama would never understand this, my being a guest in a bachelor’s home! She would never understand either that I should be in absolutely no danger of that sort from Sir Nicholas, who, in all likelihood, despised me for an incurable rattle and an utter incompetent.

  “I do not wish to put Mrs. Hardwicke to any trouble,” I objected meekly. “I’m sure if I could be set upon the road to Maidenmoor, perhaps in a vehicle of some sort, or even on horseback ...”

  “Be quiet. I must lift you over a stile. Here, Jacob, have you the maze-gate open? Ah, just so. Here we are. Now, as for Mrs. Hardwicke, I assure you, nothing would give her greater pleasure than to make a grand fuss about you. So mind you, make objections if she grows obnoxious.”

  “Oh, never! It is too kind of her, really. I do not wish to cause inconvenience or anything of that sort.”

  “Rubbish! How does your foot feel?”

  I wiggled it and winced but became aware for the first time in the past fifteen or twenty minutes that I had been much more comfortable in Sir Nicholas’s arms than I would ever have been in anyone else’s care. I had to give him full honors for having argued with me so strenuously during this stiff walk, for I had not once noticed the pain of my strained foot muscles.

  Then I looked around. So this was Everett Hall!

  I could well understand Elspeth’s reluctance to exchange the charming, comfortable Sedley House for the cold grandeur of this estate. We approached by a side route, but I could see the estate road at the front of the long, rectangular stone building of four stories and a series of attic windows, besides innumerable outbuildings and a truly impressive and carefully trimmed maze. Even at the end of the season, as now, the park was green, the foliage and trees were elegant and well kept, and the entire state, as nearly as I could make out, had the look of a place on exhibition. I could not imagine that any children had ever played here or that any loving mother had spent time under the shade of these precise, mathematically designed trees and flowers. I could see a part of the kitchen garden, which seemed much more human, more likable, and I thought that if I had been reared here as had Sir Nicholas and his brother, I should certainly have spent all my time near the kitchens. But perhaps my family, being yeomen, gave me a clearer and more comfortable feeling with the company of the lower orders amid such stateliness.

  I knew very little about architecture but assumed Everett Hall had been built after the Tudor period, perhaps in the late seventeenth century. It had a look of clean lines and great care, and I wondered how Sir Nicholas felt about it, having acceded to its dignities too late to win the one girl he had loved Did he feel that it was all hollow grandeur and worthless?

  “Jacob, call Mrs. Hardwicke. I’ll take the child to the summer parlor until there is a bedchamber made suitable.”

  “Don’t trouble, please. I’ll be leaving soon...”

  “Hush!” said Sir Nicholas. “I can scarcely hear myself think.”

  I gave over protesting and allowed myself to be taken through a long gallery whose elegant high ceilings, crystal lusters, and fabulous portraits of dead Everetts left me quite speechless. I was sure that Carlton House itself, and even the Royal Pavillion at Brighton, were simply nothing compared to the noble dignity of Everett Hall. And small wonder. Carlton House was the demesne of a mere German prince, and Everett Hall had been British since time out of mind. I was so fascinated by all the portraits that I was still looking back over Sir Nicholas’s shoulder and trying to get a good look at each of them in turn when he reached the open door of a bright, cheerful room that must have belonged to the womenfolk of the Hall. Even with the heavens overcast and the windows speckled by mist, the room was still a lovely, light place and just large enough so that I felt quite at home and not stifled by my surroundings. If this room had been deliberately chosen by Sir Nicholas for me, he had much more sensitivity than I had suspected in so proud and cold a man.

  He dropped me upon the worn but lovely old silk covering of the sofa, and before I could catch my breath and thank him after the pain of my shaken foot subsided, he was out in the gallery giving orders to a woman whom I took to be the housekeeper.

  I sat up, rubbing my foot and wondering how I should ever make myself presentable to do justice to such an elegant household. Nothing the housekeeper could do for me would substitute clean, white stockings for my muddy, tattered ones or new shoes for my low travel shoes. And here was my best coat, which looked as though its hem had been dipped in the mud—as, in fact, it had. Upon giving some dispirited attention to my general appearance, I was surprised that the noble Sir Nicholas hadn’t thrown me back onto the muddy heath, rather than risk soiling his own fine hunting jacket by carrying me.

  I ached in every bone and felt sure Sir Nicholas did likewise, but when I leaned back dizzily against the sofa, there was my green bonnet dangling halfway down my back and my hair falling in long witchlocks around my shoulders. I was too tired to care.

  In this disheveled appearance, my second in as many days, I felt even less comfortable when I beheld the woman in the doorway, a middle-aged person in black, so uncompromisingly stuffed into her dress-uniform that she put me in mind of a sausage on two flat, serviceable feet.

  “You be the young person Sir Nicholas mentioned, mum?”

  I was so nervous that I nearly answered “Aye!” which would have shocked Father and Mama no end; for they had seen to it that I was reared up to proper English like the gentry, Father having done well in the merchant line after beginning as a clerk and supercargo on the coastal packets to Ireland. But except for Mrs. Hardwicke’s language, which had the twang of the lower orders, she affected me almost as did Sir Nicholas upon first sight. Her graying hair was braided and wound around her broad, not ignoble head, and her bosom was like a great shelf carefully encased. The rest of her too was in every way the perfect representative for a great house. I longed for her good opinion of me and started to explain my accident.

  “Aye, ’tis the way of it, mum. Sir Nicholas has obligingly explained. Come along of me, leanin’ so—upon my arm.”

  Thus challenged, I felt that I must put my weight on that foot, whether I could or no, and set my feet upon the floor and hopped over to her with gritted teeth. The hopping movement made me quite giddy with pain, and Mrs. Hardwicke, watching me, seemed to be weighing me in some curious way.

  “Enough, lass; enough.”

  Gladly, I stopped and clung to the pretty spinet near the door.

  “I see ye’re right enough.”

  I looked so astonished that her face broke into a grim smile.

  “It’s been tried afore, Miss. Usually the ankle, I believe. I was that surprised Sir Nicholas fell in with your little scheme.” I was bristling indignantly when she added, “Many’s the Heatherton miss that has a fancy to play Lady Everett and we’ve had such a blooming of turned ankles as would give pause to a passel of surgeons. I’m Mrs. Hardwicke, lass. Sit ye down. Here. Let me see that foot.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so muddy. I did not wish to stain the lovely sofa, and all.”

  She was busy looking over my stockinged foot. “Nonsense. They’ll clean. I have an efficacious remedy. Hmm. A good stiff soak in boiling water with a bit of powder and a brisk rubbing afterward will put this foot in much better case
... So you’re the lass that means to make purchase of the Hag’s Head.”

  Confused by this change of subject, I murmured, “It’s hard to say. I haven’t really seen it yet. Only the ground floor and the wine cellar.”

  “Not a bad bit of business, that.”

  I did not know whether she meant the strained muscles of my foot or the purchase of the Hag’s Head, and I hesitated to reply to this equivocal remark. She seemed to have forgotten it as she went on her efficient way, testing my toes and my ankle.

  “You were lucky, lass. You might have broke a bone and limped the rest of your life like Hardwicke does. I had an aunt who did so, and from a simple turned foot, just as you did.” Cheerful thoughts, both of them, but she went on as though such were everyday problems. “So you haven’t been abovestairs at the Hag’s Head.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Hmph. Be advised and do not.”

  I began to be suspicious of her interest in the old haunted place. Was she pleading her employer’s case by warning me away from its purchase? I thought it rather shabby and unworthy of Sir Nicholas.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I explained quite truthfully.

  “Just so. Just so.” She paused and looked up at me. “It would be best if you do not bespeak its purchase in this house, or even make mention of the inn itself.”

  “Really?” I asked with an edge of scorn. “I am not afraid of His Lordship’s disapproval.”

  She looked at me several seconds without replying. It made me singularly nervous.

  “I see His Ludship’s not told you the whole of it. The Hag’s Head was the property of my husband’s people since it was built, and that’ll be nigh two hundred years agone. And while Hardwicke—my husband, that is—was off fighting the Frenchies in Egypt and getting his leg stiffened, his father sold out the Hag’s Head to Mistress Sedley and came for to drink up the profits of the sale.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmured, not seeing how I was to blame.