Philippa Carr - [Daughters of England 05]

by Lament for a Lost Lover

  After that we talked of the man Titus Oates who had caused a stir throughout the country by discovering, as he said, the Popish Plot.

  Edwin told us that he had taken Holy Orders and had had a small living which had been presented to him by the Duke of Norfolk until he was involved in some legal trouble and had had to retire, after which he became a chaplain in the navy.

  “He is a man who lives by his wits, I’m sure,” Leigh went on, “and this discovery of the Popish Plot is meant to work to his advantage in some way.”

  “The country was ready to listen,” said Christabel, “because the people have always been afraid that Protestantism might be in danger and, of course, with the Duke of York heir to the throne, and its being known where his sympathies lie, it is easy to arouse people’s anger.”

  “Exactly,” said Edwin, smiling at her with admiration I thought both for her intelligence and good looks. “The plot is supposed to be that there is a scheme among Catholics to massacre the Protestants as they did in France on St. Bartholomew’s Eve, to murder the King and set his brother James on the throne. Oates has succeeded in arousing the wrath of the people. It’s a dangerous situation.”

  “And not a grain of truth in it, I’ll swear,” added Leigh.

  “Yes, it’s nonsense,” agreed Edwin.

  “Dangerous nonsense,” said Leigh. “But look what it has brought Oates—a pension of nine hundred pounds a year and apartments in Whitehall where he carries out his investigations.”

  “How can it be allowed?” I cried.

  “It is the wish of the people,” answered Leigh, “so cleverly has he worked up feeling against the Catholics. I heard a disturbing piece of news and I was horrified to discover that it was true. A friend of ours, Sir Jocelyn Frinton, head of a Catholic family, was taken from his house, accused of complicity and executed.”

  “Horrifying!” cried Edwin. “It brings it home to you when it is someone you know.”

  “Was he involved in a plot?” asked Christabel.

  “Ah, Mistress Connalt,” replied Leigh, “was there a plot?”

  “Surely your friend must have done something?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Leigh bitterly, “what he did was think differently from Titus Oates.”

  “It is a puzzle to me,” put in Edwin, “and always has been why people who follow the Christian Faith in one way should become so incensed against those who follow the same faith by a slightly different road.”

  We were silent for a while and then Leigh said: “Enough of this gloomy subject. Tell us what you have been doing.”

  There was very little to tell, and the next day, said Leigh, we must all go riding down to the sea. We could go to the Old Boar’s Head where they produced the best cider in the world.

  Christabel reminded me that we had our lessons in the morning.

  “Lessons!” cried Leigh. “I assure you we will endeavour to make the day most instructive for your pupil.”

  Everyone laughed. We were all in a very merry mood that night.

  The next day we did ride out to the Old Boar’s Head. We drank cider, which was a little heady and made us laugh immoderately over the smallest amusement. We galloped along the shore. Edwin kept very close to Christabel because he sensed at once that she was less sure on horseback than the rest of us, having had less practice and only being able to ride when Lady Letty’s horses were to be exercised.

  The next day Leigh suggested we ride in another direction, and once again Christabel’s objections to joining us were overruled. I could see, though, that she was very happy that they should be.

  She grew prettier as the days passed, and the reason was that both Edwin and Leigh appeared to have forgotten she was, as she rather bitterly called herself, “only the governess,” and behaved as though she were a guest and intimate friend at that. They both paid her a great deal of attention. They were affectionate to me as they always had been but it was Christabel whom they tried to please. Her eyes sparkled within that fringe of thick lashes; there was colour in her cheeks and her mouth had ceased to quirk and quiver and had become fuller and softer. The change in her was obvious to me.

  I was uneasy, asking myself: Is she falling in love? With Edwin? With Leigh? I felt apprehensive. Leigh fell in and out of love with ease, and I wondered whether Christabel knew this. Edwin was different, more serious. But then he was Lord Eversleigh, with an important name, rich estates and a family tradition. I had heard my parents discuss his marriage, and I knew he would be urged to make what would be called a suitable match, which would mean someone of similarly aristocratic birth and a supply of worldly goods. There were two contenders already in sight for the honour of marrying Edwin. One was Jane Merridew, daughter of the Earl of Milchester, and the other, Caroline Egham, daughter of Sir Charles Egham. There had been mild overtures between the families and I knew that this was in the air. Edwin knew both girls and liked them well enough. My mother had thought that Edwin—always so mild—would do what was expected of him. He always had, so why change now?

  Christabel was good-looking and clever. Personally she was every bit as presentable as Jane Merridew or Caroline Egham, but she came from an impecunious rectory and I knew she would not be acceptable as the future Lady Eversleigh.

  This vague apprehension clouded the happiness of those days, and then suddenly something so stupendous happened that I forgot about it.

  It was about five o’clock, and a week since the return of Leigh and Edwin. It would have been dark, but there was a gibbous moon in the sky and it gave a shifting light as the dark clouds, whipped by the strong southwesterly wind, scudded across the sky.

  It had been a pleasant day. We had gone riding through the woods where some of the oaks and hornbeams still carried wisps of foliage. Soon they would be quite bare, their branches making intricate patterns against the sky. We rode past brown fields where a faint line of green showed that the wheat had started to push through the earth. Winter was coming on. It would soon be Christmas. Most of the flowers were gone, though here and there was a spray of gorse. Leigh pointed it out with glee and quoted the old saying that the time to kiss a maid was when the gorse was out, and that was the whole year round. We saw just a few flowers—dead nettles, shepherd’s purse and woundwort—pathetically determined to stay till the very last moment. There was something mournful about the occasional song of a bird. A blackbird tried a few notes and then was silent, as though disappointed with what he had done. And as we rode through the woods I heard the woodpecker. It was almost as though he were laughing in a mocking kind of way.

  Yes, I thought, there is a warning in the air today. Winter is coming—a hard winter, perhaps, because there are so many berries, which are said to be nature’s preservation for her children.

  The woodpecker’s laughter rang out again. Yes, there was a warning in the air that morning.

  When we alighted at an inn I saw Edwin help Christabel to dismount, and I thought he held her hand rather longer than was necessary. Edwin looked elated, yet serious; Christabel was radiant.

  Oh, yes, I could see trouble ahead.

  When we went back through the woods I deliberately lost them. It was a sort of game we played and so far they had always caught up with me. This time they didn’t, so I came home alone. They had not returned when I reached the stables. I didn’t want to go into the house. I wanted to think of what was happening and speculate on the outcome. And that was how I came to be in the garden at that hour of dusk.

  I was thinking that my parents would be back sometime soon, for their visits to Court were not of long duration. I know my mother hated to be away from home for too long. Christmas would soon be with us and there would be preparations to be made. We usually had a houseful for the twelve days of Christmas. I wondered who would be our guests this year. If Edwin and Leigh were home, as they no doubt would be since they had returned from abroad, I was sure we would be entertaining the Merridews and the Eghams.

  Christmas was a time to look
forward to. We would go into the woods and bring in the holly and the ivy. We would decorate the hall; the carol singers and mummers would come; there would be hot punch and great joints of roasting meat; there would be gifts for each other—wonderful surprises and a few disappointments; there would be dancing, games and hide-and-seek all over the house. Christabel would be with us … and Edwin and Leigh.

  I wished my mother were home and yet in one way I was glad that she was not. I feared that if she were here, matters would come to a head. Perhaps Christabel would be sent away. Where? Back to that cheerless rectory? She had made me see it so clearly; I had shivered when she had talked of it and actually felt the goose pimples on my arms. I had tasted the tasteless stews; I had felt the soreness of knees which had touched the floor so often in prayer. I had really become deeply involved with Christabel. And now I feared she might be hurt again.

  As I walked in the gardens, thinking of all this, my steps took me to the haunted flowerbed. A gloomy place—but only because of its associations. It was really beautiful. A few late roses were blooming still, desperately holding on to life, which the frosts and cold winds of winter would soon be snatching from them. Beyond the rosebushes was a shrubbery, and it occurred to me that it was this which preserved the legend of the flowerbed’s being haunted. It looked eerie in the shifting moonlight, and one could imagine ghosts lurking there, hidden from sight by the short, stubby firs.

  I stood there among the red rose trees, looking back at the house, and thought of Edwin’s father being murdered on this spot. I did not know the details, of course, but I should learn them in due course when I was allowed to read the journals. That would be in two years’ time when I was sixteen.

  And then as I stood there I was aware of a sound in the shrubbery, a rustle of leaves, a crackle of a branch. It could have been a rabbit strayed some distance from his burrow; yet somehow I knew it was not so. I could feel my heart thumping against my side. There was something in the shrubbery.

  My first thoughts were that it was true the place was haunted. There was something here, and because I had thoughtlessly strayed out and come to this spot after dark, I was being made aware of it.

  My first impulse was to turn and run back to the house, but my curiosity was greater than my fear and I remained still, staring at the shrubbery, my ears strained to catch every sound.

  Silence … The darkness of the trees was hiding … what? The clouds had now almost completely obscured the face of the moon. I had a sudden fear that supernatural powers were at work. There would be utter darkness and mysterious hands would reach out to draw me into the shrubbery.

  There it was again—that cautious movement. I felt that someone was watching me.

  I called out: “Who is there?”

  There was no answer.

  “I know you’re there,” I shouted. “Come out. If you don’t I will bring out the dogs.”

  I thought of our dogs—Castor and Pollux—two red setters who loved everybody and only barked and pretended to be fierce when they were playing with bones.

  Then a voice said: “I must speak to Lord Eversleigh.”

  I felt a great relief. It was a man after all, not a ghost.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Please ask Lord Eversleigh to come here. He is in residence, I know.”

  “If you want to see him why do you not come to the house?” I asked.

  “Are you his sister … Priscilla?”

  This was clearly someone who knew the family and there was something pleasant about his voice.

  “I am Priscilla Eversleigh,” I answered. “Who are you? Come out and show yourself.”

  “This is dangerous,” he said. “Please talk in a low voice, and please, please bring Lord Eversleigh to me.”

  I approached the shrubbery. Perhaps he was a robber; perhaps he was a murderer; perhaps he was a ghost; but I was always reckless and never thought of the clever thing to do until I had done that which was foolish.

  I heard his voice then urgent and insistent. “Yes, please come into the shelter of the trees. It will be safer.”

  I stepped into the path among the trees and he came to meet me. He was wearing a cloak and a black felt hat over the kind of short periwig which most men had started to wear when the King’s brother set the fashion. The moon had escaped from the clouds which had shielded it and shone on the shubery.

  “I am Jocelyn Frinton,” he said.

  In such moments I suppose one should feel something intense, some premonition. I did feel an excitement which made me tremble, but that was because I remembered I had heard the name before and I realized that the events of which we had talked over dinner had moved nearer and that, remote in the country though I was, I was now being drawn into intrigue.

  “I’ve heard of you,” I said.

  “They murdered my father. They are after me. Please … Eversleigh is here, I know. He’ll help. I know he will. Go and tell him. Remember … only tell Eversleigh … or perhaps Leigh Main if he is there, too. Tell him. Either one of them. But tell no one else. It’s dangerous … a matter of life and death. If they get me …”

  “I understand,” I told him. “You’ll be safe here until the morning. No one comes here. They think it is haunted. My brother should be back by now. I’ll tell him at once.”

  He smiled and I noticed how handsome he was. In fact I thought I had never seen anyone so handsome, and I felt a great desire to help him.

  I went back to the house to find that the others had returned.

  “Where did you get to?” demanded Leigh. “Why, what’s the matter? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

  I said: “Come inside. I want to talk to you. It’s very important. I’ve seen … something.”

  Leigh put his arm about me affectionately. “I knew it was a ghost,” he said.

  “More dangerous than that,” I whispered.

  We went to the schoolroom—Edwin, Leigh, Christabel and I. As soon as the door was shut I blurted out: “Jocelyn Frinton is in the shrubbery.”

  “What!” cried Leigh.

  “He’s dead,” said Edwin.

  “No. It’s the son of that one. He’s being hunted. I went down there when I came in and I heard someone there. I shouted for him to come out and I threatened him with the dogs. Then he spoke to me and told me that he must see you, Edwin … or Leigh … because he wants you to help him. They murdered his father, he said, and they would do the same to him if they caught him.”

  “God help us!” cried Leigh. “It is this monster, Titus Oates.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Christabel.

  “We’ve got to help him of course,” replied Leigh.

  “How?” asked Edwin.

  “Give him food for one thing and find him a hiding place for another.”

  “You can’t keep him hidden long in the shrubbery,” I pointed out.

  “No,” replied Edwin, “but this madness is going to be over sooner or later. Oates is beginning to show up in his true colours. People will turn against him in time, I’m sure of it.”

  “It could be a year … two years,” said Christabel.

  “Nevertheless,” said Leigh, who had always been the man of action, “the first thing to do is to get him to a place of safety.”

  “There is the secret compartment in the library where my father hid our treasures during the war and saved them from the Roundheads,” I said.

  Edwin was thoughtful. “If he were discovered that would bring the family into it.”

  “My father hates the Papists,” I said.

  “There you have it,” replied Edwin. “The country is being divided. That is what happens when there is an affair like this. Before Oates reared his ugly head people did not greatly care how others worshiped. It is because of this anxiety about the succession and rumours about the King’s brother’s religion …”

  “I know, I know,” interrupted Leigh impatiently, “but in the meantime we have to do something abou
t Jocelyn Frinton. If he is caught it will be the end of him. Where can we put him?”

  “We shall have to be careful,” I cautioned. “We have a fanatic in Jasper. He would soon discover him if he remained in the shrubbery and there is no doubt what his reaction would be. He thinks Catholics are agents of the devil and talks often of the Whore of Babylon. He is a bigoted old man and a dangerous one.”

  “Then it can’t be the garden and it can’t be the house,” said Leigh.

  “I know a place!” I cried. “It would do for a while anyway. Your father was there, Edwin, when he came to England during the Commonwealth. I remember my mother’s showing it to me. She came with your father. It was just before he was murdered.”

  “All right. All right,” said Leigh. “Where is this place?”

  “It’s White Cliff Cave on a lonely part of the shore. Few people ever go there. It would be a good hiding place.”

  “It’s the best suggestion so far,” said Leigh approvingly. “Now we have to get to work quickly.”

  He was silent suddenly, putting his finger to his lips. He was clearly listening. Then he went quietly to the door and opened it suddenly. Carl almost fell into the room.

  He grinned at us. “There’s a beef pie in the larder,” he said. “I’ll get a great hunk of that for him. And some ale, too. I’ll take it from the back and they won’t know it’s gone.”

  We were all astounded and realized how careless we had been. It might have been one of the servants—perhaps Jasper—instead of Carl.

  Leigh gave him an affectionate push.

  “Do you know what happens to people who listen at doors?” he asked.

  “Yes,” retorted Carl, “they come in and join in the fun.”

  It was not difficult to get Jocelyn Frinton to the cave. Leigh and Edwin rode off with him that night after the household was asleep. If it was discovered that they had been out, the servants would shrug their shoulders and would believe that they had been in pursuit of those adventures which were characteristic of men in a lax society. Jasper would shake his head and prophesy hell fire, but no one else would take much notice.