“Goodbye, Nana,” she called.
She picked up her gloves and riding whip and went from the bedroom to the top of the Grand Staircase.
She heard voices and, as she descended the staircase slowly savouring the softness of the thick pile carpet under her feet and the splendour of the huge portraits by Van Dyke on the walls, she saw three men waiting below in the hall.
One of them was speaking to Barnham the butler, when she heard him saying,
“His Lordship is just finishing breakfast. I’ve sent a footman to inform him that you’re here.”
Even as he spoke, Syringa heard the Earl’s voice ask,
“What is all this about?”
He came into the hall and she saw that he was wearing riding breeches and a cut-away blue coat. His white cravat meticulously and intricately tied looked very white against the dark panelling.
“We’ve caught a poacher in the very act, my Lord,” one of the men said. “He’d a snare in one hand and a rabbit in the other. As I says to him, ‘’tis transportation for you, my man’.”
“What is his explanation?” the Earl asked.
“He ain’t said nothin’, my Lord. Seems a bit simple-like, but that be no excuse. Some of these here poachers be clever enough to keep their mouths shut so as not to incriminate themselves.”
It was not easy for Syringa to see the man who was accused as he was standing between two keepers, but now as she nearly reached the hall she heard the Earl say sharply,
“What have you got to say for yourself, man? This is your only chance, before I send you to the Magistrates.”
There was no answer and after a moment the Earl said,
“Very well. Take him away and have him charged.”
The keepers turned to obey.
Then, as Syringa reached the hall, she saw who it was between them. She moved forward with a little cry.
“Stop! Stop! There is some mistake!”
“There is no mistake,” the Earl said, “and this does not concern you, Syringa.”
“It does concern me!” Syringa retorted. “This man is not a poacher. He is old Ben and I know him well, he lives in the woods.”
“I finds him with a snare in his hand, ma’am,” one of the keepers said, holding up a contraption of wood and string, “and there be the rabbit.”
He pointed to the dead rabbit that the other keeper held in his hand.
“’Twere alive when we found it,” the man went on, “but it died on the way here.”
“He was setting it free – of course he was setting it free!” Syringa cried. “Ben would never harm a wild animal.”
“It’s no use trying to defend the man,” the Earl said. “My keepers have caught him in the act and you know as well as I do that poaching is a crime that cannot be tolerated. If he had anything to say in his defence, he would have said it by now.”
Syringa turned to face the Earl, her eyes wide and troubled.
“Ben never speaks, I think he was born dumb. He hums little tunes to the birds and to the animals, who trust him, and he makes himself understood to other people by signs. He would never have killed the rabbit, I know that.”
“I am sorry, Syringa,” the Earl said. “My keepers must do their duty and I must support them while they are doing it.”
Syringa looked up at him pleadingly and it seemed to her as if he avoided her eyes. She knew then that he was determined to ignore anything that she might say.
The keepers, as if they felt that the conversation was at an end, took Ben by the arm and turned him towards the door.
They had only taken a few steps when Syringa’s voice rang out.
“Stop! Wait! I will prove what I say!”
The two men looked at the Earl as if awaiting his orders, but he remained silent and Syringa said,
“Please stand on one side.”
Then she said quietly to the old man,
“Listen, Ben, I want to help you.”
His face was deeply lined and his hair was white, but there was something almost puckish in his old face and there was a faint smile on his lips as he looked at her.
He wore a ragged old coat with big patch pockets over a tattered waistcoat. His boots were tied up with string and there was a dirty cotton handkerchief round his neck.
Syringa standing facing him, her eyes on his, then said,
“Ben, show his Lordship what you have in your pocket.”
The old man glanced over his shoulder as if to be sure that the keepers were not too near and then from the pocket on his right hand side he drew out a small red squirrel.
He held it in his hands, then it ran up his arm and sat on his shoulder. He gave it a nut and the squirrel cracked it between his teeth, his little eyes glancing round curiously as he did so.
“And now in your other pocket,” Syringa said, her voice very low, hardly above a whisper.
Ben put his big hand into his pocket and drew out three small field mice.
They ran up his other arm and peeped round his collar. Then seeing the squirrel they scuttled back for safety into the warm pocket.
“And what else have you to show his Lordship?” Syringa prompted.
He put his hand inside his coat and produced a young wood pigeon.
He held it gently in his big hands and they could all see that one of the bird’s legs was strapped with a small sliver of stick. It was skilfully bound.
Old Ben caressed the grey feathers with one of his fingers and the pigeon sat quite still, its small bright eyes unafraid.
“Have you anything else?” Syringa asked.
The old man shook his head.
Syringa then turned towards the Earl.
“Do you think,” she asked, “that, if there was blood on his hands, these animals would trust him?”
There was silence for a moment and then the Earl said,
“You have proved your point. The man goes free.”
“But, my Lord!” one of the keepers expostulated, “if he is allowed to wander over the woods in the nestin’ season, he will disturb the pheasants and we were lookin’ forward to providin’ good shootin’ for Your Lordship in the autumn.”
“Shooting!”
Syringa suddenly went pale.
It was as if she realised what was meant by keepers patrolling the woods. If later in the year they were beaten out, what would become of the Secret Place?
Without realising she was doing so she laid her hand on the Earl’s arm.
He understood what she meant.
“I have given orders already,” he said, “that Monks Wood is to be a Sanctuary. The keepers will not go there.”
Syringa gave a quick sigh of relief and turned to tell Ben where he would be safe. But the old man had left.
He had slipped away as silently and as quickly as he moved through the woods and had gone back to the world he knew. The world of birds and animals, creatures who were injured and in pain and who trusted him.
It was when the Earl and Syringa were riding across the Park, their horses skittish from sheer exuberance, that Syringa managed to say,
“Thank you, my Lord, for releasing Ben. I knew you would understand.”
“I am glad you prevented me from making a mistake,” the Earl said.
“Must you employ keepers on the estate?” she asked. “It has been so quiet and peaceful in the woods until now,”
“They are unfortunately full of vermin,” the Earl replied, “and vermin can be as cruel as human beings if they are allowed to get out of hand.”
“I understand that,” Syringa said, “but at the same time I have loved the wildness of the woods and the feeling that everything is free and untroubled.”
“I would wish my lands to be a model of their kind,” the Earl replied.
She knew by the tone in his voice that he was determined to make improvements and that nothing she could say would alter his decision.
Their ride was an enjoyable one and, when they turned for home, Syringa’
s cheeks were flushed and she seemed to glow not only from the exercise but from happiness.
Her habit was very old and almost threadbare. But the dark blue velvet accentuated the whiteness of her skin and the little three-cornered hat set on her hair seemed to give it a colour that the Earl had not noticed before.
She rode extremely well, an instinctive rider with soft hands, yet who could make a horse obey her.
“I must have many more horses in the stables,” the Earl said aloud. “I plan to enlarge the place and soon you will have a big choice of mounts, Syringa.”
“I never want one that is better than Mercury,” Syringa replied, “and I doubt if you could find one.”
“You are offering me a challenge,” the Earl said with a smile. “But I grant you that Mercury is a very fine piece of horseflesh.”
“You know that the Colonel gave him to me.”
“I had no idea,” the Earl replied.
“He was bred here at King’s Keep,” Syringa said. “When he was a foal, the Colonel thought that he had too many horses, so he gave me a choice of Mercury and four others.”
“You chose the right one!”
“I know I did,” Syringa replied. “You do see that Mercury has come home?”
“I see in one way or another,” the Earl remarked, “that you are indivisibly linked with King’s Keep.”
“I like to think so,” Syringa answered, looking at the great house ahead of them, the sunshine glinting on its windows and the white swans moving slowly and majestically across the lake.
In the weeks that the Earl had been away the garden had burst into bloom, the white cherry and pink almond trees had a fairy-like quality and the purple lilac and its pale sister intermingled with the bushes of fragrant syringa.
It was so beautiful that even Syringa, who had known the garden for so many years, felt it lovelier than she had ever known it before.
Then she told herself that it was only because she was so happy.
When they reached the house, the grooms took away the horses and Syringa went upstairs to change her riding habit.
When she came downstairs again, she was surprised to hear a number of people talking outside the front door.
She looked with a question in her eyes at Barnham, who said,
“It’s them Italians, miss, from the West side of the estate They’re waiting to see his Lordship.”
“Italians!” Syringa cried. “Oh, I must speak to them!”
She went out through the front door and saw grouped at the bottom of the steps twenty or more people, mostly men.
“Why, it’s Miss Syringa Melton!” an old man exclaimed in surprise, his words tinged with an accent.
“Signor Giulio. How are you? But why are you here? I thought you never travelled far from your house and your workshop.”
“We’ve had terrible news, signorina!” the old man answered. “Terrible news indeed!”
“Why, what has happened?” Syringa enquired.
“We’ve been told to leave, Miss Syringa, leave our homes and clear out!”
“Who could have told you to do such a thing?” Syringa gasped with a sudden fear in her heart.
She had known the Italians who lived on the estate ever since she had been a child. There was a small colony of them in the houses they had occupied when they had first come to England.
Many of the older men had died, but those who remained had multiplied and Syringa reckoned now that they must be a community of forty or fifty having little social contact with people in the nearby villages, but managing to exist on local employment.
That they should be sent away after so many years seemed incredible and Syringa waited apprehensively for the answer to her question.
“’Tis Mr. Hempster, Miss Syringa. He’s never liked us and he’s ordered us to go at once. But where, I ask the Signorina, where?”
“Has he his Lordship’s authority for giving you notice?” Syringa enquired.
“How should we know, Miss Syringa? I understands Mr. Hempster is with his Lordship at this moment. He is our enemy – a cruel relentless enemy, Miss Syringa, as you know.”
“Yes, indeed I know,” Syringa replied.
She looked round at the men’s faces listening to what was being said and saw the desperate anxiety in their eloquent dark eyes.
“I will see what I can do,” she said and turned to run up the steps again.
“Where is his Lordship ?” she asked Barnham.
“He is with Mr. Hempster, miss, in the writing room.”
Syringa knew that this was rather an austere and formal room where the Colonel had dealt with the estate matters when he was too old to go to the office.
She moved quickly down the passage, hesitated a moment outside the door, then opened it and went in.
The Earl was sitting at the desk and in front of him was Mr. Hempster.
He was a man of about fifty with a red face and hard beady eyes set too close together. Syringa had never liked him and there were many local stories about his being a bully and at times over harsh with his horses.
The Earl looked up impatiently at her entrance.
“I am busy, Syringa.”
“I am here, my Lord, as – Counsel for the Defence.”
She saw a quickly repressed twinkle in the Earl’s eyes before he said sharply,
“This is an estate matter and I wish to deal with it in my own way.”
“At least, my Lord, hear what these people have to say on their own behalf,” Syringa pleaded. “Or let me say it for them.”
Before the Earl could speak, Mr. Hempster said almost aggressively,
“Miss Melton can know nothing of this problem, my Lord.”
His words made the Earl change his mind.
“That is for me to judge, Hempster,” he replied coldly. “Well, Syringa, what have you to tell me?”
“I don’t know whether you are aware, my Lord,” Syringa replied, “that the Italians were brought here originally by your grandfather. It was they who built his Observatory on the hill and who painted and gilded the ceiling of the house.”
She looked up before she went on,
“They worked under the great Masters who came from Italy to decorate the Banqueting Hall and the salons and carried out the designs of Bagutte and Plura for the chimneypieces. There were, of course, originally more of them and, although a number returned home, some remained.”
She paused and, looking at Mr. Hempster, added,
“They are hardworking decent people, but they have inadvertently incurred the enmity of your farm bailiff. He has always tried to get rid of them. The Colonel refused to listen to him and now he hopes to succeed with your Lordship, where he has failed before.”
“And why did the Colonel refuse such a request ?” the Earl asked.
“Because, my Lord, he was too old to realise what was going on,” the bailiff interposed angrily before Syringa could speak. “He didn’t realise he was being diddled by these lazy layabouts, these dirty foreigners who have no right on our land.”
“And what is your explanation?” the Earl asked turning to Syringa.
“The Colonel recognised what value they were to the estate,” Syringa answered. “Who do you think has mended the furniture in this house, who has painted the walls, who has done the small repairs that are needed week after week all the year round? These men are craftsmen, skilful and artistic, and can be trusted with your most valuable possessions.”
“The work can be done just as well by the English carpenters,” Mr. Hempster growled angrily.
“What is more,” Syringa continued ignoring the interruption, her eyes on the Earl, “after they have been here so long, they are your people! They belong to King’s Keep as much as anyone else on the estate. Although they are of Italian origin, they have chosen to stay here in England and their children born in this country are English.”
She paused and then raised her voice a little.
“Why should they be sen
t away for no reason except that Mr. Hempster hates them?”
“Is this true?” the Earl asked turning to his bailiff. “Do you hate them?”
“I know them for what they are, my Lord, a lot of ne’er-do- wells, thieving, poaching, defiling the land. They’re no good. If your Lordship takes my advice, you’ll be rid of them. I’ve told them to go and I only wants your Lordship to support me as I hope your Lordship will in other things.”
The Earl seemed to consider for a moment and then Syringa said,
“I cannot believe that it is just to allow a personal prejudice to affect the lives of so many people who have served King’s Keep well and to the best of their ability.”
“A personal prejudice?” the Earl asked sharply.
“Five years ago,” Syringa answered, “Mr. Hempster’s daughter ran away with one of the Italians. He has never forgiven her or Antonio’s relatives.”
“Is this true?” the Earl asked of his bailiff.
The man was glaring at Syringa and it was obvious that his temper was rising fast.
“Yes, my Lord, ’tis true. Women, all women, are besotted by their soft tongues and their dark eyes. They go lusting after those slimy devils and lose all sense of decency.”
“I will enquire further into your complaints,” the Earl said coldly. “In the meantime the Italians will remain where they are and receive the consideration they have always had.”
“So your Lordship means to reverse my orders?” the bailiff asked in an ugly voice.
It was obvious to Syringa that he had lost his temper.
“Then all I can say is that your Lordship is making a sad mistake, which you will regret,” he went on. “That’s what comes of listening to foreigners and to – women! Why does Miss Melton meddle in such matters when she should have been trying to prevent her father drinking himself insensible?”
He glared at Syringa before he went on,
“’Tis against your interests, my Lord, to allow these scallywags to remain, whatever some fancy woman from the village may say.”
He almost spat the words at Syringa as he spoke and she took a step backwards in surprise.
“That is enough!” the Earl said, rising to his feet. “I will have no one in my employment speaking in such a manner to a lady! You will leave my service immediately and your house within a week.”
The Ruthless Rake Page 10