by Deryn Lake
But it was only a moment before Mr Langham remembered himself. ‘My dear Miss Trevor, how very kind of you to call on me. And on the very day of your ordeal too. Come into the salon and have some tea.’
He ushered the ladies in, making small talk about the weather, and it wasn’t until Henrietta was comfortably seated that she remarked, ‘The ordeal was not too great, Mr Langham, after all.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. He was the guilty party, of course?’
‘On the contrary,’ Lucy put in. ‘Henrietta found they had arrested the wrong man.’
‘Good gracious.’ John looked thoroughly surprised. ‘Then the real villain is still at large.’
‘It would appear so, yes.’
There was a pause during which Miss Trevor found herself the subject of scrutiny from two pairs of eyes, the more disturbing of which were those belonging to John Langham. For they had in them something she had never come across before, a forcefulness which made her, reluctant as she was to do so, unable to look away.
‘How very interesting,’ he said. But whether he was talking about Jacob Challice or something he had observed about Henrietta, it was difficult to tell.
The moment was broken by the arrival of the silver tea-tray and the ritualistic serving and drinking of this highly-taxed commodity. So highly-taxed, in fact, that Henrietta did not like to enquire too closely as to where Mr Langham had obtained this particularly delicious consignment. But he said quite openly, ‘I found this in my cellar two nights ago. The rooms connect with the smugglers’ road that runs just beside the house.’
‘And did you keep it?’ asked Henrietta, surprised.
‘Keep it, I ordered it!’ answered John, and burst out laughing, while Lucy pretended to look shocked.
‘So the smugglers have many local purchasers?’
‘Indeed they do. With the import taxes imposed by our German king, what can you expect?’
Miss Trevor thought it wise to change the subject and said, ‘Have you studied surgery for many years, Mr Langham?’
‘It seems almost always. I was born with a liking for it. But though I am a surgeon it is in the more unusual branches of medicine that I am most interested.’
‘And what are they?’
‘Herbalism and the relationship between mind and body, to name but two.’
‘I did not know that the mind and body were related.’
‘Very much so,’ said John, warming to his theme and leaning forward earnestly, while Lucy looked on so lovingly that Henrietta, glancing at her, felt her own heart lurch at the pathos of this thwarted couple.
‘Pray go on.’
‘I made a very interesting discovery some years ago. I was about to perform an operation on a young sailor to amputate his leg, and before the surgery began was talking to him calmly, telling him to have no fear and so on. I noticed at the time that he was gazing at my watch, which I was swinging in my hand without realising what I was doing. It used to be a silly habit, now put to a better use I might add. However, I saw that the poor lad had passed into a dreamlike state, neither awake nor yet asleep, and the extraordinary thing was that I was able to operate on him without his feeling any pain at all. Even stranger, he continued in that state for hours, until I grew worried and begged him to wake up. Then he did so.’
Henrietta shook her head. ‘I have never heard anything quite like that.’
Lucy broke in. ‘John believes it to be a great discovery. He has subsequently used the method many times to soothe patients.’
‘And this can be done to anyone?’
‘To anyone who does not fight against it, Miss Trevor.’
‘Then I should like so much to try.’
‘Well, not now,’ said Lucy rising. ‘We must return home to see to the evening’s preparations.’
John stood up too. ‘Alas Miss Trevor, you have been summoned. But I do assure you that at some time in the future we will try the experiment. It really is most fascinating.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ she said, looking childlike in her excitement.
The older two smiled indulgently. ‘Well, you must for a while longer.’
‘Have you ever been in this dream state, Lucy?’ asked Henrietta.
‘With John I am in it all the time,’ she answered, indiscreetly but most romantically, and making her curtsey Henrietta withdrew to the coach to give them a few moments alone together.
*
It was not until she got into bed, the evening’s card games finally at an end, that Henrietta opened the note which she had taken to her bedroom and hidden. Now, sitting up, her nightgown slipping about her shoulders, she broke the seal, looking straight for the signature which she was sure would read, ‘Nicholas Grey’. Much to her astonishment she saw written there one word, ‘Challice’. She went back to the beginning and read in full.
My dear Miss Trevor
No words can express the gratitude I feel to you. Out of the goodness of your heart you have saved the life of a stranger. A stranger who menaced you, moreover.
I would deem it the greatest favour you can bestow if I might be allowed to thank you personally. I will wait in the high wood beyond the house known as Bainden, at ten of the clock tomorrow, and hope that you will have the kindness to come.
My salutations and greetings to the remarkable Miss Trevor.
Challice
Henrietta put the letter down, her principal feeling one of surprise; surprise that the highwayman could even write, let alone produce a note of such eloquence. Blowing out the candle, she tried to sleep but could not do so, her mind full of thoughts of tomorrow’s meeting and whether it was safe for her to go alone. Eventually she fell asleep, planning how she would set off on an early morning ride and thus escape the attention of the ever-protective Lucy.
Accordingly, Henrietta rose early and breakfasted alone, avoiding the family and leaving a message that she would return before midday. Then she went to the stables and chose a fast, dark horse to be saddled up, refusing the company of a groom and cantering away from Mayfield down the eastern track.
It was a fine, bright morning but over the distant hills, Henrietta could see falling showers. The air was full of the sweet, strong smell of newly washed earth and the heady scent of rain-damp flowers. For a moment Miss Trevor reined in, looking about her, seeing the harsh green of the woods mould against the soft slopes of the fields, and the vivid blue of the April sky lift the colour of everything to the brilliant shades of a childhood paintbox. She felt suddenly excited, as if all her life she had been preparing for something, and that shortly the secret of what it was would be revealed.
Turning right away from the track, Henrietta galloped through the woods, emerging above the manor house, still owned by the Squire of Glynde who was, in this case, her four-year-old brother, John. Cautiously, Henrietta hurried her horse beyond, aware that the tenants of Bainden knew her face and might wonder what she was doing riding alone towards the high wood. But she saw no one and entered the shadow of the green-gold trees quite unobserved.
The bluebells, that in a month’s time would turn the place into a lake of colour, stood in regiments, their heads closed and dark. And dark too was the coat of the man who stood awaiting her, his horse tethered to a branch, his face breaking into a smile as she approached.
‘So you came?’ he said, holding up his arms to lift her down.
‘Yes,’ she said, sliding from the saddle and taking care not to brush against him.
‘I’m glad.’
Once again, Henrietta studied the hacked-out features of that granite face, its one redeeming feature the deep blue eyes that were now staring at her.
‘I was not sure whether I should.’
‘Why? Surely you are not afraid of me? I would not like to think that, Miss Trevor.’
Henrietta did not reply, merely shaking her head, and the two of them stood looking at one another in silence.
‘Have we met before?’ Jacob said finally. ‘A long time ago?�
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‘No, I don’t think so.’
Yet, even as she answered, Henrietta could not help but feel that he was familiar.
‘Why did you do it?’ Challice asked. ‘Why did you deny you knew me? Why should you bother to save me?’
Henrietta looked at him gravely. ‘I don’t know. I meant to betray you, had opened my mouth to do so, but the words refused to come out. It was extraordinary. I was compelled to give you your life.’
‘Thank you for it,’ he said, equally grave. ‘I wish I could make recompense.’
Before she could stop him he had raised her fingers and brushed them with his lips. Henrietta felt as if a lightning flash had run through her.
‘I don’t want your gratitude,’ she said abruptly. ‘I could not help what I did. You should not be humble towards me.’
Jacob Challice smiled. ‘Most men are humbled by beauty, Miss Trevor. And you have that in plenty.’
She wanted to be aloof; proud, as if she was used to receiving compliments. But, perversely, her funny dimples sprang into life, and they stood smiling at one another, like children. Then, suddenly the spell that held them was shattered and, hastily mounting her horse, Henrietta wheeled round and cantered away towards Mayfield, without pausing once to look back over her shoulder.
Thirty-seven
The visit, all too short for Henrietta’s liking, was over. At precisely four o’clock the next day, she stood on the drive outside the main door of the palace, the coach bearing the Trevor coat of arms ready and waiting, and the family lined up to say farewell. Even old Squire Baker was present, wrapped in a mountain of shawls and leaning heavily on Lucy, who had a slightly despairing look on her face.
‘Pity she wasn’t sure of the villain,’ he kept saying in a loud voice. ‘Perhaps next time, eh Miss Trevor?’
‘Perhaps,’ she answered politely and kissed the bulging old cheek in farewell.
‘Pretty gal,’ he said suddenly, his little eyes narrowing. ‘Very pretty, what, what, Nizel?’ He nudged his youngest son, who had been called away from his easel set beneath the sturdy holm oak which, so legend had it, had been planted long ago by Tom May the poet and, as expected, Nizel went crimson.
‘Very pretty,’ he repeated uncomfortably as Henrietta dropped him a curtsey, followed by a peck on the cheek.
Now it was George and Philadelphia’s turn, the latter moist-eyed with the strain of parting. ‘You’ll come back soon, won’t you dearest Henrietta?’ she gasped breathlessly as they embraced. ‘The palace is so much gayer when you are here.’
‘Perhaps next time Henrietta calls we will entertain her in Aylwins,’ said George cheerfully, and was rewarded by Philadelphia giving a tremulous little sob and saying, ‘I hope not. The house is so old, George.’
‘Not as old as the palace.’
‘That’s different,’ answered his wife illogically, and they stood frowning at one another while Henrietta went to embrace Lucy.
‘You will remember me to Mr Langham,’ said Miss Trevor, as they hugged each other.
Rather wistfully, Lucy answered, ‘When I see him next, which may not be soon. It is very difficult to get out with father so frail.’
‘Frail? Who’s frail?’ bellowed the old man, cupping his hand round his ear.
‘No one, dearest,’ said Lucy, patting his head resignedly.
The departing guest could not help but smile as Thomas, dressed in a pink and violet embroidered coat, with flared skirt and hip buttons, to say nothing of silk stockings and lace cravat, arrived to say farewell.
‘You look splendid,’ she whispered as they embraced.
His eyes twinkled. ‘One must attempt to keep up, my dear. I would not like it to be said that we country people do not move with the times.’ He handed her in to the coach, bowing again as he did so.
Henrietta put her head out of the window, holding her wide-brimmed hat with one hand and waving with the other until they had turned the bend in the drive and the Baker family was out of sight. Then she settled back against the cushions, glad that Sarah her maid was following behind in another conveyance to watch over the luggage.
Without her chatter, Henrietta had almost nodded off to sleep, as the coach drew up before the great gates of Glynde Place. She woke and looked out of the window, seeing a dark figure on horseback separate itself from a copse. She knew at once who it was. Challice had obviously followed all the way and now stood, silently watching her departure.
She half got up, gazing out at him, but neither of them made any move to wave a hand or raise an arm. They just remained staring until the gates opened and they were lost to each other’s view.
Henrietta sat down again, her heart racing. The thief, the robber, the gentleman outer, had come to take his farewell of her. And that very action told her that he would not let it rest at that, that he would make it his business at some time in the future to seek her out once again.
*
By the time Jacob reluctantly returned to Mayfield, the evening had become a silver midnight, with a full moon over the valley of Bivelham. From the dark mass of sleeping Snape Wood to the little pond beneath Bainden next to the ruined cottage, all was changed by the wild, bright light. It was as if a second world lay just beneath that of the daylight hours, a world in which shapes and dimensions were subtly altered. The black and indigo hills took on softer lines beneath their silver-bright crowns, and the rivers and lakes sparkled. The deepest part of the valley was now a great mysterious sea in which there were islands of brilliant light where the moon caught a barrel of water or the surface of a duck pond.
But Jacob was in no mood to appreciate such delicate beauty, his mind too full of recent events. With a sigh he let himself into Lizzie’s cottage and climbed to the stifling room beneath the eaves.
It looked empty now that Emily’s gawdy belongings had vanished. She had gone back to Kit Jarvis, of course, as he should have guessed she would all along.
He had come back early on the previous day, still bemused from his encounter in the woods with Henrietta Trevor, to find Lizzie waiting for him, a grim expression on her face.
‘She’s gone to Kit,’ had been her opening gambit. ‘The bitch has flown the nest. She was always after him, ever since he came to Mayfield to go owling on Romney Marsh. I reckon he first had her when she was little more than a child.’
‘Then I’m well rid of her,’ answered Jacob tersely. ‘And my only concern now must be where I lodge.’
Lizzie’s face had taken on a placatory expression and a wheedling tone had crept into her voice. ‘There is no need for us to be enemies, Jacob. What Emmy chooses to do is her concern. Besides, there’s something strange between her and Kit. They are hopelessly drawn to one another. I say we forget them and you continue to lodge here.’
‘Very well. But Lizzie ...’ His hand had shot out and taken her hard by the shoulder. ‘... no betrayals. I have escaped justice once, I doubt I should be so lucky next time.’
‘There’ll be no betrayals from me, Jacob.’
Now, lying here sleepless upon his bed, Jacob’s thoughts turned, yet again, to Henrietta Trevor. He could no longer imagine a future without seeing her, without being close to her, without watching those crooked dimples appear. Wild schemes in which he abducted her and married and reformed, pursued one another, as Jacob Challice realised he was in love for the first time in his life.
He rose from his bed, tired of the airless attic on a night when all the earth was bathed in moonshine, and creeping down the ladder and past Lizzie’s room went down some further stairs and out into the open air, smiling to himself. It had suddenly occurred to him that Kit Jarvis could do with a lesson and Jacob was just in the mood, full of pent-up emotion and energy as he was, to give it. Quietly whistling to his horse, he mounted, and in the glory of all that mad moonlight, headed off towards Snape Wood.
*
On that silver night, the moat at Sharnden had become a crescent, a brooch for a fairy’s gown, but the slee
ping Lieutenant Grey saw none of this splendour for he had been removed to his own world of fantasy. In his dream, Nicholas saw the palace at Mayfield and a vast, merry crowd thronging into the great hall. Through the open door he could see that a fire roared in a central brazier and the room was set with many tables.
‘You can’t go in,’ said a voice, and Nicholas turned away, disappointed. After that, he slept fitfully, constantly waking and thinking, not about the Jarvis brothers, but of Henrietta Trevor and her eyes and dimples and hair, and of how much in love with her he already was.
Nicholas suddenly sat up in bed, wondering if Challice appealed to the romantic streak in the girl’s nature. Had she denied she knew him because in her eyes he was a dashing figure? If so, the highwayman was a bigger menace than he thought.
He lay back on his pillows again, knowing that a plan must be found — a plan, which, with any luck, might rid him of the smugglers and Challice in one stroke. Before he slept again, Nicholas determined that the very next day he would call on Kit Jarvis.
*
It was not usual for the smugglers to make a run when the moon was full, and this night was no exception. It was quiet along Mayfield’s track, no muffled hooves heading from the road towards the safe houses or the Royal Oak and, consequently, every noise seemed overloud. In fact, as Dash touched the mechanism, hidden in a gargoyle on the wall, that moved aside a floor-stone in the great hall, it creaked so loudly that he feared he might wake every sleeping occupant of the palace. He slipped into the shadows for a moment, standing motionless as he listened, but there was no sound either in the archbishops’ dining-room or the dwelling beyond. Reassured, he quietly proceeded down the steep flight of steps revealed and pulled the lever at the bottom, closing the entrance behind him. Then he ducked his head as he entered the tunnel that lay ahead.
After a few yards it bore round to the left, coming out in the cellar of the Royal Oak, and Dash pushed open the heavy door at the far end and stepped out into the Oak’s cellar, climbing another flight of stone steps and leaving the building by a side-door, unseen. In a second he was in the stables where a horse, already saddled, waited for him, its feet tied with sacking to deaden the sound. With a quick glance about, Dash swung into the saddle and headed off towards the valley of Bivelham and the secret farm that lay beside the stream running beneath the shadows of Wenbans, to give instructions to the gang’s figurehead — Kit Jarvis.