by Deryn Lake
Unobserved, Lucy studied her, envying the splendid little face, with its two dimples running in opposite directions, and the honey-bright hair that framed it. For though Henrietta was not a beauty she had an endearing quality that men adored. Quite unconsciously, Lucy sighed.
She went forward with her arms outstretched. ‘My dear, what a terrible ordeal for you. Are you quite safe? Did the villain lay hands on you?’
Henrietta turned to her with a smile, the warring dimples appearing amusingly. ‘No, not at all. He even let me keep my jewels.’
Philadelphia stopped shrieking and squeaked, ‘How romantic! Did he steal a kiss, Henrietta?’
‘No.’
‘So you didn’t see his face?’
Henrietta hesitated; ‘Well, I ...’
George was suddenly all attention. ‘Did you, Henrietta? Zounds, if you could identify the fellow, he could be caught yet.’ He grinned at her hopefully, his large wig quivering in excitement.
Yet again, Henrietta hesitated, reluctant, for no reason, to admit the truth. Then her innate sense of honesty made her say, ‘His neckerchief slipped for a moment and I did get a glimpse of him.’
‘Was he handsome?’ This from Philadelphia.
‘No, hard looking. A villain really.’
‘Would you know him again if you saw him?’ said George, excitedly.
Again that odd reluctance before Henrietta answered, ‘Yes, I think so.’
She was saved further questioning by the arrival of the Baker Bachelors, as they were nicknamed by their intimates in the county. Yet, though they bore the same sobriquet, two greater contrasts there could never have been, for Thomas, though now quite middle-aged, still dressed in the height of fashion, just as if he lived in London and not a remote Sussex village; while Nizel hid himself away in a low-necked coat with dark buttons, and an old pair of knee-breeches, as if he belonged on a farm. These were not the only differences, for where Thomas still regarded himself as a rake and a lady’s man, Nizel would have spent every day painting his watercolours and speaking to no female other than his sisters.
Now, on seeing Henrietta Trevor, Thomas hurried forward to kiss her hand, bowing and saying, ‘My dear Henrietta,’ while Nizel shuffled his feet and blushed violently, muttering something incoherent.
For once Lucy had no patience with either of them and she swept Thomas aside, declaring, ‘Henrietta is tired and has had a frightening experience. Let us all go to the withdrawing-room for some light refreshment and then, I think, we should retire. You shall stay in Ruth’s old room, Henrietta dear.’
She took Miss Trevor’s hand and would have led her up the stairs without further ado had not George called out, ‘One moment, Lucy. Sayer has been shot in the shoulder and is losing a lot of blood. Late though it is, someone must go and fetch John Langham.’
Henrietta felt the hand holding hers give an involuntary twitch and, looking at Lucy closely, saw that her hostess had lost a little colour. But her voice was perfectly even as she said, ‘Then I shall wait up for him. There is no need for you to bother, George.’
‘There’s every need,’ answered her brother, as he started up the stairs. ‘Dammit Lucy, he is my coachman and was shot by the man who robbed me. I have every need to be present.’
They continued to argue between themselves and Henrietta suddenly found herself left behind, mounting the grand staircase beside Philadelphia.
‘I would have fainted,’ said the silly little creature, her long dark hair escaping from the ribbon with which she had hastily tied it. ‘I would have fainted because he must have been so manly.’
Henrietta laughed. ‘He was fiery, all red hair and blue eyes, not handsome at all.’
‘So you did see him clearly?’ said Philadelphia, with more acuity than Henrietta would have given her credit for.
Miss Trevor had the grace to blush. ‘Well ... yes. I did notice his colouring.’
Philadelphia giggled but said no more and Henrietta was glad to enter the beautiful withdrawing-room which she always, on every occasion she visited the palace, greeted with pleasure. Almost as if she had once known every stick and stone of the place.
*
An hour later Henrietta Trevor sat before the mirror in Ruth Baker’s — now Mrs William Fuller’s — old room, slowly brushing her hair. She had dispensed with the services of Sarah, whose hand still shook so much that she had hardly been able to get the brush to her mistress’s head, and was alone, revelling in the silence which had fallen since the Bakers had retired. Dearly as she loved the whole eccentric crowd of them, this night they had overpowered her. She put down her brush and stared at her reflection. Cool green eyes regarded a serious face with no sign of the unruly dimples.
Henrietta rose from her chair and slowly walked over to the window, throwing the curtains aside to look out at the night. The moon was fully risen now and the clouds had dispersed so that the gardens and the church beyond were clearly visible. There was not a soul to be seen.
Her thoughts went straight to the robbery and she considered where the highwayman had gone — and where he had come from. He was obviously not a Sussex man and she wondered what could have brought him to Mayfield.
Henrietta turned away again but as she did so a movement in the churchyard caught her eye. She drew back. The night was not so peaceful after all; apparently someone was out and about and up to no good, for no one other than smugglers would walk about near midnight unafraid. Almost too timid to look, Henrietta gave one last glance before drawing the curtains tightly shut, and saw a vaguely familiar figure standing by one of the crypts. Then it had vanished, gone to earth — and she was left to go tremblingly to bed and pull the covers up over her head.
Thirty-four
Rolling slumberously across the vivid spring sky came a chain of enormous clouds: some like daisies with petalled edges, others as dark blue as the heart of a hyacinth, and others still resembling the white roses that would soon bloom in the gardens of the great house Wenbans, that stood at the very head of the valley of Bivelham beneath the dark and mysterious spread of Snape Wood.
Reflected in the stream that ran down to the farm on Wenbans land, the image of the clouds became distorted as the ripples turned their fluffy edges into wavering lines, to be banished altogether by a stone that was hurled into the stream, breaking the mirror completely.
The man who had thrown it, after lifting his head and scowling at those same beautiful clouds, proceeded into the farm, banging the door behind him and shouting, ‘Kit, Kit for God’s sake wake up. I’ve strange news.’ He then made for the kitchen and poured himself a jug of ale, which he proceeded to drink, even at that hour of the morning.
He was an intriguing young man; quite small and dark with a day’s growth of beard about his chin which served to accentuate the fact that his eyes were of a very light blue, ringed with a darker shade. In one ear he wore a gold ring from France.
As no sound answered him from the upper room, he went to the bottom of the staircase and called again, ‘Kit, have you died up there? Come down for the love of God.’
There was a mumbled response and a moment or two later a bleary-eyed figure appeared at the top saying, ‘What the devil’s amiss? Edward, is that you?’
‘Of course it is,’ came the answer. ‘I’ve been in Mayfield and seen Dash. There’s trouble.’
Kit seemed to suddenly awaken, coming down the stairs quickly, though still yawning.
‘What’s up?’ he said, seating himself at the rough wooden table and pouring out another jug.
‘A gentleman outer held up Squire Baker’s coach at Pennybridge last night.’
Kit sat upright. ‘There’s been no one there since they hanged Sixteen Strings. Who is he?’
‘Nobody knows. Dash says he had a strange accent. He’s not from hereabouts.’
‘Well he’d better get back to wherever he comes from. I’ll have no strangers on my patch. Find out who he is, Ted — and quickly.’
Edward
nodded, saying, ‘There’s a brandy run at Seaford tomorrow. It’s said a hundred tubs will be landed.’
‘And some letters for London. I think I’ll make my way there this morning.’ Kit stood. ‘But I want you to stay here, Ted. I need to know about the new cove fast. I’ll have no gentleman outer spoiling things for the rest of us. Curse the bastard!’
Edward looked disappointed but answered, ‘I’ll have him tracked down by the time you return.’ He laughed suddenly and added, ‘Dash says that one of the Miss Trevors was in the coach, being escorted back from London by the Squire. The outer didn’t rob her.’
Kit fingered his chin thoughtfully. ‘A dolly lover, eh. That won’t do him much good.’
‘No, it certainly won’t!’ answered his brother.
*
There was no window in the room beneath the eaves, the only light trickling through the thatched roof. Yet the room itself was large and had in it a bed, a wooden chest, a chair, a chamber pot and a basin. Clothes were scattered everywhere: breeches, a shirt, a plain riding coat, a pair of boots and a black hat. Tumbling over the chair were female garments: a scarlet petticoat, stockings and a pair of buckled shoes, together with a dress and mob cap sporting satin ribbons. In the narrow bed by the wall lay the owners of the clothes, asleep.
The man awoke, stretching his arms over his head, and this movement also wakened the girl, who yawned noisily and then fixed her lover with an accusing eye.
‘So you’re home, Jacob Challice. I didn’t hear you come in. Where did you get to?’
He laughed. ‘To Pennybridge — and back again. It was successful, Emmy. My first time out in Mayfield and I bag the local Squire.’
‘Had he much on him?’
‘His money-box and jewellery and some snuff-boxes. Sovereigns as well.’
‘Was there anyone else aboard?’
He hesitated. ‘There was a woman with him but she only had baubles. I think her name was Henrietta Trevor.’
‘Oh she must be one of the Trevors of Glynde. Probably the eldest girl if she was travelling back from town. She has a very beautiful mother but her father died two years ago. The little boy is Squire now.’
‘The little boy?’
‘Henrietta’s brother. Mrs Trevor had nine girls and then produced a son at the very last knocking. I think the shock of it must have killed the old Squire, because he was dead three years later.’
Jacob got out of bed, obviously interested, for as he started to dress he said, ‘I like this place. The pickings seem excellent.’
Emily gave him a long stare before answering, ‘As long as you don’t fall foul of Kit Jarvis.’
Jacob turned to look at her. ‘And who is he?’
‘The leader of the free-traders. He’s famous throughout Sussex. His real name is Gabriel Tomkins but Kit is his favourite alias. He used to be a brick-layer but started owling some years ago.’
‘Owling?’
‘The illegal lifting of wool. But he lands spirits and tea now. To say nothing of silks and laces. He supports the Pretender as well. He publicly drank his health when Jamie landed in 1715.’
Jacob pulled a face. ‘He sounds quite a man.’
‘Oh he is,’ answered Emily softly. ‘Quite a man.’
Pulling on his boots he turned away from her. ‘I think I’ll go out for a little. Just to get the lie of the land.’
‘Be careful no one recognises you.’
‘No one saw me.’
With uncanny perception, Emily said, ‘Not even Miss Trevor?’
‘Not even Miss Trevor. Now hurry and get dressed. I’m hungry as a wolf.’
Leaving her, Jacob went down the ladder and then down again to the kitchen, sniffing the smell of freshly baking bread as he went. And sure enough, there, pulling a loaf from the oven with a long-handled scoop, was Emily’s mother, Lizzie.
She turned at hearing footsteps and gave Jacob a brown-toothed smile. She had been as pretty as her daughter once, but those looks had long since gone. Now she was a small, dark-eyed lump with greying black hair, one straggle of which hung unattractively from a greasy cap. For no good reason she filled the highwayman with a strange sense of foreboding.
Lizzie’s smile deepened as he approached. ‘I heard you come in. Was it good pickings?’
‘Very. I happened on Squire Baker returning from London.’
‘But no one saw you get away to here?’
‘No. I vanished from sight.’
She smiled again. ‘Good.’
As Lizzie turned her attention to the oven, Challice stepped outside and away from her, looking with pleasure at the prospect which lay before him.
Just beyond the cottage the land dipped in a flow of emerald green, and beyond that lay the darkly wooded hills which concealed Pennybridge and the steep descent down which coaches must go at snail’s pace if they were to keep their balance. Other than a house at the summit, there was not a building to be seen. It was perfect territory in which a gentleman of the road might secretly pursue his business.
Jacob breathed in deeply, the smell of hot bread mingling with all the scents of April. He suddenly felt happy, as if he had come home after a journey, and wondered at the chance of fate which had brought him to the magic county of Sussex. Yet he knew he had made the right decision. Already he loved the place; already he had got a good haul; already he had cast eyes on one of the most intriguing young women he had ever seen. Jacob’s heart started to thump at the memory of those crooked dimples. Sighing a little, he turned and went into the cottage and the prospect of a loaf of hot and delicious bread.
*
Henrietta woke slowly, stretching and yawning and looking about her at the pretty lines of Ruth’s old room, wondering why she always felt such a comforting sense of familiarity whenever she visited the palace. Much as she loved Glynde Place, adored the long gallery, its crimson dining room, it could never hold such a place in Henrietta’s affections as did the old palace at Mayfield.
She got out of bed, slipping a gown about her shoulders. Sarah had rather snivellingly unpacked her night things on the previous evening and Henrietta’s green hooped petticoat and emerald open robe lay on a nearby press. Ringing a little bell in the hope that her maid had recovered and would come to tend her, Henrietta started to dress. Fortunately the girl, looking quite her old self, appeared and within thirty minutes Miss Trevor was attired, her headdress with fine, looped lace fixed into place, and she was ready to descend to the floor below.
The palace seemed unusually deserted, only old Squire Baker sitting noisily breaking his fast in what had once been the archbishops’ ante-room, now the dining-room. On very special occasions the Bakers dined in the great hall, but it was little used these days and was beginning to fall into a state of disrepair.
Dropping a curtsey, Henrietta went to greet him. The old man’s florid face turned in her direction and, just for a moment he stared at her, his gimlet eyes suspicious, until he realised who she was and gave a wintery smile.
‘Good morning Squire Baker. I was looking for Lucy. Do you know where she is?’
His chest rumbled and he began to speak. ‘In the servants’ quarters, tending the coachman. He was shot you know. They say there’s some damnable highwayman down at Pennybridge. I’d string him up if I caught him. In chains! Vermin, the lot of them. Don’t deserve to live!’
Henrietta shivered, imagining vividly the terrible agonising kicks of the dance of death.
‘Then I’ll join her there.’
The old man, his mouth crammed with food, flapped a hand in acknowledgement, and Henrietta left the room, descending the grand staircase and going across the central courtyard to the kitchens, then round to the tower where the servants were housed. Following the sound of Lucy’s voice she came to a small bedchamber, furnished only by a bed and a chest, to find the wounded servant lying asleep and Lucy and a man engaged in earnest conversation. They jumped apart as Henrietta tapped on the door and entered.
‘Why,�
�� said her hostess, flushing a little, ‘Henrietta dear! I did not know you were about. I have been keeping watch over poor Sayer with Mr Langham the surgeon, who last night extracted a bullet from his shoulder. May I introduce you? Henrietta, this is Mr John Langham of Luckhurst Hall. John, this is Miss Henrietta Trevor of Glynde.’
‘How do you do, Miss Trevor?’ said the surgeon, rising and executing a polite bow. Henrietta curtsied and murmured a greeting, covertly watching him as she did so.
She took her new acquaintance to be about fifty years old and, though not at all handsome, having a tendency to be plump and moon-faced beneath his wig, she saw that he had a pair of magnificent eyes, deep and penetrating. Henrietta felt drawn to him at once. And so too, she thought, was Lucy Baker, whose very manner spoke volumes of the depths of her feelings. Henrietta found herself hoping for her dear friend’s sake that the surgeon was not a married man.
Lucy said now, ‘Have you breakfasted yet?’ and when Henrietta shook her head, went on, ‘Perhaps we could all take a light repast together. John, I do believe that you should have something to eat after such a long night’s vigil.’
‘Gladly,’ he said, giving another courteous bow. ‘And then before I leave perhaps I should look in on Philadelphia.’
‘I wish you would. She has taken to her bed this morning.’ In response to Henrietta’s slightly puzzled look Lucy went on, ‘She is so prone to nervous disorders, you know. She should have gone to Aylwins as a bride, but George wished that she would stay with me for a while in order to feel her feet.’
Henrietta smiled. The prosperous Bakers owned not only the palace but the house built for Sir Thomas Gresham, which they had renamed the Middle House, together with Aylwins, once the dwelling of Thomas Aynscombe, the iron master. It was the custom for the heir to live in the old Gresham residence, and, indeed, there dwelt Peter Baker, the eldest surviving son, and also the Vicar of Mayfield. Henrietta could not help but think that the Bakers had an almost octopuslike hold on the village.