by Annis Bell
Tonight we are camping in the middle of the jungle, and I am lying beside Dennis in the tent. We have sealed every chink and cranny as much as possible, but there is always some insect that manages to creep inside and tries to suck our blood. The wound on Dennis’s arm has become infected again; he fell and tore the bandage off the wound in the process, and some muck got into it. The poor chap is feverish, and I can only hope that he will be much improved by tomorrow morning. We cannot leave him behind alone, but at the same time it would be a shame not to be able to move on tomorrow, for the waterfalls are close enough for us to hear.
José suggested that we rinse out Dennis’s wound with cachaça, since that terrible stuff seems to work on flesh wounds. Indeed, this morning, Dennis was completely lucid and fit enough to march on with us. But will he ever again seek his luck as an adventurer in the wilderness after this experience? I’ve been traveling the world for so many years and have come to realize that there are various kinds of researchers and adventurers. I once stumbled upon a couple doing research in Africa, a husband and wife team. I have never before or since met such a resolute woman. She carried baskets just like the men did, and she had no fear of reptiles or other things that most women generally seem to view as cause for hysterics.
Our dear Dennis—for I have taken the young man very much into my heart—has a strong will but a body prone to fevers and other diseases that does not recover well. If both of us survive this adventure, I will do my utmost to put him on a ship bound for home. But until that time, we battle on together through the rainforest, in search of exotic plants.
Today, around noon, we reached a clearing near the bank of the river. The rush and roar of the waterfalls was so close and so tempting that we would have liked nothing more than to peel off our sweat-soaked clothes and take a refreshing dip. I was on the verge of doing just that when one of the Indian bearers cried, “Caimans, señor, caimans!”
All at once, our camp became frenzied, and everyone jumped to their feet to see the creatures that were causing all this commotion. José had drawn my attention many times to traces of these large animals, which liked to doze on the riverbanks. On the sandy shore, one can easily make out the impressions left by their scaly bellies and claws. But because the Indians are afraid of alligators, we’ve always kept these observations to ourselves. Now, however, five impressive specimens lay on the riverbank. The animals are, in fact, not especially aggressive, but one should still avoid provoking them. So we retreated, waited out the midday rain, then sought a spot on the shore uninhabited by caimans, where we filled our water bottles without the risk of losing a hand in the process.
I hope very much that the consignment I shipped before my departure has arrived safely ahead of this missive. The shipment contained a number of fine examples of Bulbophyllum and Grobya. The latter in particular should develop into quite a magnificent specimen with many eye-catching petals and a helmet-shaped dorsal sepal. I cannot recall that this species has ever been brought to flower in England.
I remain,
Your humble servant,
Derek Tomkins
11.
Crookham, Cheviot Hills, November 1860
The coach slowed, and Jane looked out the window. The landscape here was ancient and broad, wild and harsh and only sparsely settled . . . and vaguely repellent. Small farmsteads lay dotted about that survived off cattle and sheep breeding. From Allenton, they’d taken the main road out of town to reach Crookham. Directly to the north of Allenton, the moor and the eponymous Cheviot Hills made passage impossible. The long-contested Scottish border and the River Tweed were not far away, and the remains of Roman encampments could be found all around the area.
Hettie was fascinated by these sites, and Jane had had no objections to occasionally stopping the coach and taking short jaunts on foot to look at the old ruins together. Jane had waited a day to be sure that Alison had not come down with a serious illness. When Alison began feeling unwell, Charlotte immediately sent for Dr. Cribb, an experienced physician in his middle years and a man whose manner naturally inspired confidence. But luck was with Jane’s friend, and apart from a sniffle and a light cough, she did not get any worse.
Jane had asked Dr. Cribb to be patient and stay on for a few days, not just for Alison but also because Jane hoped Charlotte might let the doctor examine her. Indeed, Charlotte seemed very pale and peaked, but she blamed it on the cold, wet November weather. It had grown considerably cooler, and there was a good chance that snow would fall the next day, the first of December.
“Can you taste that, too, ma’am?”
Hettie’s voice dragged Jane back to the moment. “What’s that, Hettie?”
“The winter wind. Back home, we say the air tastes like snow, and it truly does. And it’s even colder here than in Winton Park, though we can’t be more than thirty miles north.” Hettie wrapped her shawl higher and stamped her feet. “Whew, it’ll freeze your bones, it will!”
“Well, we’ve arrived. At least the guesthouse looks respectable.” The coach drove through an arched gate into a courtyard ringed by low stone buildings.
Crates and bales of hay were stored under cover along one side of the courtyard, in front of a stable. On the other side, a farrier was at work, shoeing horses and trimming their hooves. The building in the middle combined a restaurant and a travelers’ hostel. Everything looked plain but in good condition. They could rent a basic but clean room for a night, and if the evening meal delivered on the promises of the delicious smells drifting from the kitchen, they could certainly have done worse for themselves.
The proprietor of the guesthouse was a red-faced man as round as a cartwheel. He stood in the courtyard with his hands propped on his hips, overseeing the unloading of their luggage and telling the stablehands what to do. “Is there anything else you wish for, my lady?” he asked when Jane approached him.
“I would like to visit the Bertram family. They live here in Crookham.”
The proprietor frowned. “Bertram? That’s a whole clan, my lady. Most of ’em keep sheep, and the rest fish the rivers. Sally’s the daughter of Willis Bertram, and she works for me in the restaurant. No one else wanted her in their employ because her mother’s Romany. What do you want with ’em?”
“Can I talk to her?” Jane asked, ignoring their host’s question.
“Of course, there she is now. Oy, Sally, over here!” the man called to a young girl carrying a wash basket across the courtyard.
The girl hurriedly set the basket down, smoothed out her white apron, and trotted over to them. She was rather short, probably no older than sixteen. Her face was very pretty, and her bonnet couldn’t contain all her pitch-black hair. A Romany trait, just like her dark eyes, thought Jane, and she smiled at the shy young woman.
“Hello, Sally. I’m Lady Jane Allen, and I’m looking for Rachel Bertram’s family. Do you know her?”
Sally stared at her wide-eyed. “She’s my sister! What’s wrong with her? Is she all right?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Sally. So you haven’t seen her lately?”
“No, my lady. Rachel hasn’t been back to Crookham since she started workin’ with them fine folks. Nor would I if—”
She didn’t get any further, because the proprietor snorted loudly and said, “Ungrateful little slattern! No one’d take you on, but here I give you work and you’re no better than your tramp of a sister. You’re all the same, you pack of gypsies!”
Sally’s eyes flashed angrily, and she swallowed hard, then said, “Is there anything else, my lady?”
“Where can I find your family?”
“Down the street. The little house with the sheep barn.”
“Thank you, Sally.”
The girl curtsied and ran back to her wash basket, the proprietor shooting her a look full of daggers.
Jane and Hettie set off immediately to visit the Bertram house, wanting to get back to the guesthouse—with the lilting name of “Blue Bell”—befo
re dark and in time for dinner.
The Bertram house lay some distance from the street and could only be reached through a closed gate and down a long, narrow path. Behind the house flowed the River Till, and sheep grazed around the impoverished house. The barn was little more than a ramshackle lean-to, crookedly built and so low that an adult could not possibly stand upright inside it.
Hardly had they touched the door when a black-and-white guard dog came dashing toward them, snarling threateningly. A second dog approached from the side of the house, barking furiously. It wasn’t long before Jane heard a whistle, and although the dogs fell silent, they maintained their threatening attitude. A powerful-looking man with gray, shoulder-length hair marched around the corner of the house, his hands smeared with blood as he wiped a knife on his trousers.
“Oh, no. He’s probably just slaughtered a sheep, ma’am,” whispered Hettie, who came from the country herself.
“No wonder Rachel didn’t want to return,” Jane replied just as quietly, then said loudly, “Mr. Bertram?”
The man slowed his pace along the path and stopped a few feet short of the gate, the dogs like two guards in front of him. “What if I am?” he growled unpleasantly.
“Then you’re Rachel’s father?” Behind the man, Jane saw the door of the house open and a small, dark-haired woman step out. Even at that distance, the similarity to dark-haired Sally was unmistakable. The woman moved with a proud, erect posture and wore a scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders.
“Has she run off? What d’you want? She ain’t here. Or d’you think somebody’d come back to this place of their own accord?” the man snapped.
The sound of men’s voices carried from the barn, and Mr. Bertram turned around nervously. “Leave us in peace. I’ve got enough troubles for havin’ a Roma for a wife.”
“I don’t want to cause you any inconvenience, Mr. Bertram. I would like to help you, in fact. Your daughter vanished about two weeks ago. They are worried about her at Winton Park. Rachel did not take any of her things with her. She just went out one night and didn’t return. Do you find that normal?”
The man stepped closer to the gate, and Jane could see the lines in his weathered face, the markings of a struggle to simply survive. In a voice filled with bitterness, he said, “What I find or not makes no difference. If you’re poor, you’ve no rights. That’s how I see it. We had a telegram. Ha, a telegram! Sir Frederick wanted to know if Rachel was here with us. No, she ain’t. And if she shows up here, I’ll send her back. Now leave us in peace!”
Mr. Bertram whistled softly, and his dogs turned and followed him to the house. Hettie wanted to leave because the weather had chilled considerably, but Jane stayed put. “No, wait. I think Rachel’s mother wants to tell us something. I saw her earlier.”
As dusk began to settle, the path up to the house faded in the shadows of day’s end. They had to wait for some time. Old Mr. Bertram had disappeared behind the house again, and the voices of the men grew louder. They were probably dividing up the sheep and celebrating the slaughter. Finally, Jane saw a small figure sweep silently along the path until she reached the gate.
“I’m Rachel’s mother, Zenada,” murmured the woman that Jane had noticed earlier. In her youth, she must have been very beautiful indeed, and there was still a trace of loveliness in her eyes. But lines were now engraved around her mouth and eyes, every one a witness to a lifetime of struggle and intolerance.
“We’re looking for your daughter, Rachel. Do you have any idea where she might have gone, madam? I’m Lady Jane Allen, a friend of Lady Charlotte’s.”
Jane felt the gypsy woman’s piercing gaze fall on her. “You are a good person,” Zenada said plainly, taking a letter out of her skirt. “Here. I received this from my daughter four weeks ago. My husband does not know about it. He’s afraid . . . we’ve gone through too much.”
The woman’s hands were warm, and they squeezed Jane’s as she held the letter. “And if you find her body, tell me. I know she is dead.”
A shudder ran through Jane. “How do you know that?” she whispered.
A sad, tight smile played across Zenada’s lips. “I’m her mother. When she died, I felt her pain. And her fear.”
“Zenada!” her husband bellowed.
The woman flinched, gathered up her dress, and ran back to the house in the failing light.
Hettie was trembling with curiosity, but Jane kept the letter in her bag until they were alone in their room in the Blue Bell. The room contained two narrow beds, a wardrobe, and a table with two chairs. Hettie lit the oil lamp on the table; with its beige glass shade, it cast just enough light to illuminate the room. After removing her gloves and her coat, Jane sat on one of the chairs and took the crumpled envelope from her bag. She could tell that it had been unfolded many times.
“That Zenada seemed a bit spooky, ma’am,” said Hettie.
Jane shook her head. “Why? She’s a mother, and she’s also Romany. Roma women often possess a sixth sense, an instinct for the supernatural.”
“Do you believe those fortune-tellers at the markets, too? Not me!” said Hettie.
Smiling, Jane replied, “There are many things between heaven and earth that we don’t understand. I don’t believe in crystal balls, but I do believe that there are people with special sensory gifts.” She quickly read the clearly hastily penned lines, with scattered Roma phrases mixed in. “Oh, well, if that doesn’t . . .”
“What does it say?” Still holding her coat in her arms, Hettie looked at Jane excitedly.
Dearest Mama,
My heart aches, and I miss you and Baba so much! But as dearly as I want to come and visit, Mrs. Gubbins will not allow me a weekend free. She says I’m not entitled. But I will come and visit you at Christmas; then she can’t tell me no, and you can make your delicious salmaia!
Mrs. Gubbins is a dragon who stands guard over the memory of the first Lady Halston, destroying anything that might muddy it. She can’t stand the idea that I look so much like the deceased woman. Sometimes, Sir Frederick calls for me and then simply makes me wait in the room. He looks at me so strangely, but he doesn’t do anything. He just looks at me, then sends me away again. He is a serious, stern man, always in his hothouse or brooding over books about plants.
Mama, what is it about these orchids? Lord Cunningham was just as obsessed with those exotic plants. One evening, Sir Frederick sent for me, and I stood in the library as bidden and waited, but he wasn’t there. While I was standing around, some papers lying on a desk caught my eye. They were lists with drawings of orchids that had complicated names and extraordinary prices. Mama! So much money for a flower! We could live for a year on that much money!
Suddenly, a side door opened, and the governess came in so fast that it seemed the devil himself were after her. She jumped when she saw me, then hissed: “What are you staring at. Go to your work!”
“I’m supposed to wait here, miss,” I answered politely, but she’d already left. Not a minute later, Mrs. Gubbins came in with a tray, and she snapped at me, “What are you doing here?”
But then Sir Frederick himself came and said that though he had called for me, the matter had sorted itself out. I went straight to the laundry and folded the dry washing. There are so many secrets in this house, Mama. Sometimes I hear Lady Charlotte crying—she is very sick and weak.
As pushy and loud as Lord Cunningham’s son was, I could always avoid him, but there are things going on here . . . Baba would say that evil dwells here.
Del tuha, God protect you!
Rachel
P.S. Don’t show this letter to Papa, or he will worry and think I’m going to lose another position.
Jane, shaken, lowered the letter and looked at her maid. “Poor Rachel was scared of someone, that much is certain!”
“But scared of whom?” Hettie murmured. “And where is she now?”
As it turned out, the latter question would be answered faster than the women would have liked. T
he next morning, they left the guesthouse early. The horses had rested overnight, and Jane and Hettie were seated in the coach by sunrise. The return journey was interrupted only to briefly feed and rest the horses, and as they drove up the lane to Winton Park, the first flakes of snow whirled from the sky.
When a servant opened the coach door for them and they stepped out into the courtyard, Jane looked up and closed her eyes, letting the tiny crystals of ice settle on her face. “Snow to start December,” she said to herself.
But she was a little concerned: if it really did start to snow heavily, then they would be trapped at Winton Park, an outcome that Jane did not like the thought of for many reasons. Her concern only deepened when she saw Draycroft, the butler, standing at the top of the steps, his face grim and stiff.
“My lady, I trust you had a good trip?” Draycroft signaled two servants to collect the luggage.
“I did, thank you. But has something happened, Mr. Draycroft?”
The butler cleared his throat. “The maid who disappeared two weeks hence has been found.”
“She’s been found?” Jane’s voice trembled; it seemed that Zenada’s prophecy had proved correct.
“Yes, my lady. Drowned. In the moor. Please, come inside.”
Behind her, Jane heard Hettie’s breath catch, but her maid said nothing. It was rare for Hettie to be at a loss for words.
12.
Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
Their weariness from the journey disappeared in an instant. Jane was on the alert, her mind focused, and she unbuttoned her coat as she climbed the steps.
“Mr. Draycroft, please show me to Sir Frederick at once!” Jane ordered. “Hettie, you take care of our things.”
“My lady, I’m sorry, he is . . . well, in . . .” The butler was clearly having difficulty finding the right words. “Please follow me.”