Gavin raised an eyebrow. ‘Faith, I am honoured! It’s not often you ask your old uncle to ride with you.’
She dimpled at him. ‘Oh, you’re not old! You’re much younger than Papa.’
‘A couple of years only.’
‘Well you seem much younger. And much more fun! And if you don’t ride with me, I won’t be able to go. Papa has forbidden me to go out alone.’
‘Ah! Now I see it all. It’s not like you to obey your father so readily, though.’
Antoinette gave me a sly look. ‘I have to answer to Flora while Papa is away. And she is very strict, aren’t you, Flora?’
I shook my head, smiling, and refusing to be drawn.
‘Do you ride, Flora?’ Gavin asked.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I admitted. ‘Anywhere I needed to go, I went by trap. And riding can be expensive as well as time-consuming. Neither money nor time were plentiful at Tucker’s Grave.’
‘In that case, I think you should learn!’ Gavin said. ‘Why, I’d be happy to teach you myself.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ I couldn’t help but wonder what Louis would say if he came home to find me trotting about the countryside on a horse belonging to him, and with his much-disliked brother for company.
‘Well, you have only to say the word,’ Gavin told me. Then his face became serious. ‘If you could ride you could go back to visit your friends and even spend an hour or two in your old home, and no one the wiser,’ he said. ‘You must miss it all a great deal.’
‘I do,’ I agreed wistfully. ‘But even if I could ride, I wouldn’t be able to get into the inn. Louis has had it all boarded up.’
‘But you must have a key.’
‘No. There was only the one, and Louis has that. He is the rightful owner now, remember.’
Antoinette was becoming bored with this conversation. ‘Uncle Gavin, can we ride this afternoon?’ she begged. ‘When you’ve checked out Perdita for me?’
He laughed. ‘Don’t you think I have any work to do?’
‘No,’ she said without hesitation. ‘That’s Papa’s domain. You… I’ve never known you to choose work over pleasure. In fact, I don’t think you do any work at all!’
Gavin’s eyes flickered over my face and for a brief moment I saw an almost uncanny reflection of that look I had seen when I surprised him in the study. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, and Gavin was his laughing, confident self once more.
‘Of course I never work if I can help it. Especially when your father is not here to drive me with a bull whip like some poor slave. Yes, Antoinette, if Perdita is not lame, we will ride this afternoon. And it is Flora’s loss that she chooses not to come with us.’
* * *
It was almost certainly that conversation over luncheon which set me thinking again about Tucker’s Grave and how much I missed it – and missed, too, all my old friends in Monksmoor, the nearby village. It would be so pleasant to see them again, and perhaps with Louis away this was my opportunity to do so, for I felt fairly certain he would not approve of me making any such visit, though for the life of me I did not know the reason why.
I would not be able to go into the inn, of course, since I had no key, but simply to be on familiar ground would be a comfort to me, and I thought, too, that I would very much like to visit my father’s grave.
The next day dawned bright, cold and clear, and I suggested to Antoinette that we might take a drive in the carriage. To my surprise, she agreed readily enough, as if she were making an effort to make the best of our new situation.
The carriage was made ready and Cook prepared a picnic lunch for us in a wicker hamper – cold game pie and some pickles, and a stone flask of home-made elderberry wine. As we settled back, the carriage rug tucked snugly around our knees, I wondered if Antoinette might be remembering those drives with her Grandmama which she had spoken of, for there was a pensive expression on her sharp little face, and she said little.
As the countryside through which we travelled became more familiar it seemed to call to me, singing with the rattle of the wheels on the road and the sighing of the wind around the carriage, and the longing in me was a bitter-sweet ache. Yet somehow at the same time the sense of latent excitement that I had felt ever since I had realized my feelings for Louis was there too, and an edge of wonder that I could experience such a jumble of emotions, so sharply, so clearly, and see the old familiar sights through new eyes as if, like a newborn babe, I was seeing them for the first time.
At the top of the rise above the village I asked Thompson to stop for a moment, and Antoinette and I got down so as to have a better view. My stomach twisted with homesickness as I looked down on the little cluster of houses that was Monksmoor, the smoke curling up comfortingly from their chimneys, and the church with its square tower rising high above the churchyard trees as if to be the closer to God and heaven. I thought of how I had followed my father’s coffin along the winding path to its great oak door, and felt again the great abyss of despair and grief opening up within me. But this morning, with the sun glinting on the roof slates so that they shone like polished pewter and the flag fluttering bravely from its pole on the very summit of the tower, I remembered other times – walking along that same path to morning service as a child, my mother and father one on each side of me, holding my hands as I skipped along with no thought of the tedious hour and a half ahead of me, simply happy in the company of the two people I loved most in the world. I remembered too a wedding when Agnes Grant, the butcher’s daughter, had married a handsome young man from the next village. They had arranged for a large wagon to carry them and their guests out to Tucker’s Grave when the ceremony was over so as to be able to celebrate in style, and even now I could see Agnes in her lovely new gown and flowers in her hair, squashed into that wagon between her fat old father and her new husband, laughing for joy.
The church might recently have been the setting for some of the darkest moments of my life, but that was not the whole story. It was the place my own mother and father had married, the place where I had been baptized. All life was encapsulated there, sorrow and joy, celebration and mourning, and the truth of it, striking me for the first time, uplifted me and seemed, in some way, almost to set me free.
‘Can you see Tucker’s Grave from here?’ Antoinette’s voice interrupted my reverie.
‘Not really. You see where the road winds up again? It’s just out of sight over the brow of the hill.’
Antoinette stood for a moment, shading her eyes and staring into the distance.
‘What’s that pile of stones in the middle of the fields?’ she asked.
I followed her line of vision. Stark on the skyline were the crumbling remains of what had once been the stout walls of the abbey. I told her so.
‘The abbey that is linked by underground tunnels to the inn?’ Antoinette’s usually bored tones had become animated – she was as fascinated by the romance of it as her father and uncle had been before her.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you never explore them?’ she asked.
I laughed. ‘Never.’
‘Because you were afraid you might come upon the bones of the old monks who died trapped there?’
‘Because of the spiders!’ I told her with a shudder. ‘I think we should be going on now, Antoinette, if we are to have time to do all the things I plan.’
We drove on, down over the hill and into Monksmoor village. At this time on a winter’s day the main street was quite deserted, for the children were all at the dame school, the men at work in the fields, and the womenfolk busy at home with their daily chores. There was only old Toby Taylor, shuffling along leaning heavily on his stick. When he saw the carriage approaching he stopped and doffed his hat respectfully, much to my amusement. What would he think, I wondered, if he knew it was just Flora from Tucker’s Grave Inn who was riding in such splendour!
‘I should like to visit my father’s grave and pay my respects,’ I said to Antoinette, ‘but I promise I
won’t be long.’
‘Oh, I’ll come with you,’ she replied to my surprise. ‘I like looking at old gravestones. And I might find some of my relatives buried here. My grandfather’s family originated from this part of Devon, you know.’
I could not help but smile wryly. ‘I do know, yes, Antoinette, since I am part of that family. And besides my father’s grave, I can show you half a dozen more if you are interested – all relations your grandfather left behind when he made his money and moved away.’
‘Oh of course!’ she said, as if she had never before made the connection. ‘I suppose you and I are cousins in a sort of distant way.’
‘It’s the reason your father came to inherit my home,’ I said. ‘It’s very unfair, I think, but there you are. It’s the law of the land and will be until some enlightened politician sees fit to change it.’
‘Because you are a woman,’ Antoinette said.
‘Yes.’
She was silent for a moment. Then she said: ‘Does that mean then that if Papa were to die I’d lose my home too?’
I did not want to alarm her, but I could not be less than honest.
‘I’m afraid it does. But I don’t think you should worry your head about it. Nothing is going to happen to your father for a very long time. You’ll be married with a home of your own long before then.’
I half expected Antoinette to retort, as she had once before, that she had no intention of marrying, but for the moment the question of inheritance was the only thing on her mind.
‘Who would own Belvedere if something did happen to Papa?’ she persisted.
‘Well, your Uncle Gavin is your father’s closest relative,’ I said, cornered. And then, to lighten the tone: ‘I suppose he’d own Tucker’s Grave, too. My home.’
‘He’d be a very rich man then,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He’d like that.’
‘But not the responsibility that goes with it, perhaps,’ I said wryly. ‘But nothing is going to happen to your father, Antoinette.’
‘He goes to France.’ Her face was very serious now. ‘France is a very dangerous place at present, I’ve heard him say so. And there’s the voyage too. Ships can be lost at sea.’
My heart seemed to stop beating at her words. She was quite right, of course. France was a dangerous place, and as for the crossing… I thought of all the ships that foundered, and quaked inwardly.
But Louis’ captain would not attempt to make the crossing if the weather looked set to blow up a storm, I reassured myself. And the French revolutionaries, bloodthirsty as they were, would not have any interest in an English merchant.
‘Stop this at once, Antoinette,’ I said severely. ‘You are frightening yourself, and me as well. Look – we’re at the churchyard now. Are you coming in with me?’
The carriage had indeed drawn up at the lychgate. We climbed down and Antoinette wandered off, deciphering the inscriptions on the weathered old stones and tombs whilst I followed the path to the spot where my father lay.
The grave still looked new, and the headstone with my mother’s name on it lay in the grass beside it. The earth had begun to settle now though and in a month or two it would be time to have the stone re-erected.
I would ask Louis if he would lend me enough money to have my father’s name inscribed upon it by the stonemason, and perhaps have it cleaned of lichen before it was replaced, I decided. I did not like the idea of having to beg like a pauper but since I had no money of my own I had no choice if I was to accord my father the respect he deserved.
I fell to my knees beside the grave.
‘Oh Father, I wish I could have brought you some flowers,’ I whispered. ‘But there are none to be had at this time of year. I’ll come again in spring with daffodils and tulips. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
You came, my dear. That’s all that matters to me. His voice seemed to speak in my head, clear as if he had been right there beside me.
‘Oh Father!’ I pressed my fingers to my lips. ‘At least you are with Mother now. But I do miss you, so very much.’
And the voice came again.
We are with you too. Always with you.
The wind stirred the branches of the trees that overhung the grave. I looked up. A pair of blackbirds had settled there briefly. They seemed to be watching me. And suddenly my spirit lightened and I felt my lips curve into a smile of wonder. For long moments I regarded them, motionless, and they regarded me. Then the wind stirred the branch again, they spread their wings and were gone, following one another across the churchyard in the sunshine.
I felt that my heart went with them.
* * *
‘Flora! Flora, my dear, is it really you?’
So lost in thought was I that I had not noticed anyone approaching; now I looked up to see Alice Doughty on the path.
‘Alice! Oh, how good it is to see you!’ I got to my feet and ran to hug her. ‘What are you doing here? You haven’t…?’
‘Lost George?’ Her lips twitched as she read my mind. ‘Oh no. I know exactly where he is – at home, tending the forge. No, it’s my turn for cleaning the church, and when I came out the door and saw you there, well, lawks, I couldn’t believe my own eyes! Are you home again? Have you come back to us?’
‘Only for the day, I’m afraid,’ I told her. ‘I’ve driven over with Antoinette – she’s my father’s cousin’s daughter, and she is off somewhere seeking her long-lost relatives.’
‘Oh mercy, is that your carriage at the lychgate? That grand affair with goodness knows how many guineas worth of horseflesh between the shafts? My, you have come up in the world, Flora!’
‘Oh, it’s not mine,’ I said hastily. ‘It belongs to Louis.’
‘Ah – him. I might have known.’ Alice sniffed. ‘Him as came to your father’s funeral and took you away. Louis Fletcher, isn’t it? Peter Fletcher’s boy.’
I was surprised that Alice seemed to know so much about Louis. They had not seemed to be acquainted at the funeral. Alice laid a hand on my arm.
‘So how have you been, my love? Homesick, I’ll be bound. That’s why you’re here. Well, it’s close on dinner time. Why don’t you come home with me and have a bit to eat with me and George?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t impose,’ I said regretfully. ‘I did intend calling on you, of course, but it’s not just me, it’s Antoinette too. And we’ve a picnic lunch Cook packed for us, and she will be offended if we take it back uneaten.’
‘And I shall be offended if you don’t come and eat with us!’ Alice returned smartly. ‘I shall think you’ve got too grand for us, with your carriages and your picnic baskets! As for this Antoinette… well it will do her good to see something of the other side of life, if I know anything about it. If she’s anything like the rest of her family, that is.’
I smiled. Alice was practically echoing my own thoughts. It would do Antoinette good to see that there were people in the world without the advantages of wealth who were still good and loving, happy, and content with their lot.
‘Thank you, Alice,’ I said. ‘We’ll accept your offer. The coachman can eat our picnic and take whatever is over home for his wife and family. Would you like to ride with us?’
And: ‘Oh, I most certainly would!’ Alice replied with relish.
* * *
We caused quite a stir arriving at the forge in the grand carriage. George came rushing out with the sweat from the furnace running down his face, thinking, no doubt, that he had some rich new customer, and Alice took great delight in climbing down to surprise him.
‘Disappointed, George? Oh, you won’t be! Not when you see who I’ve got here!’
George was indeed as pleased to see me as Alice had been. ‘Flora, my dear! Well, well. Just let me go and get those irons out, and I’ll be in to see you…’
‘They’re stopping for their dinner,’ Alice said. ‘And it’ll be ready the minute I’ve got it on the plates, so mind you don’t take too long about it.’
‘As if!’ Georg
e disappeared back into the forge and I followed Alice towards the cottage which adjoined it. But Antoinette, I could see, was fascinated by the fiery furnace glowing white hot in the dark interior of the forge and I could well understand that. It had fascinated me, too, as a child – a place that could have been a vision of hell, but was somehow more exciting than frightening.
‘Do you shoe horses here?’ she asked George, bold as if she had known him all her life.
‘I do,’ he told her. ‘Amongst other things. You have the travelling farrier to attend to yours, I dare say.’
‘Yes – but oh! This is wonderful!’
‘I’m expecting the shire horses what pulls the brewer’s dray in this afternoon,’ he told her. ‘And a little foal too. You can come in and watch if you like – if you can stop that long, that is.’
‘Oh, we can, can’t we, Flora?’ Her face was alight.
I smiled. ‘Of course we can,’ I said.
* * *
Dinner with George and Alice was both comfortable and comforting. Alice was a good plain cook who dished up directly from the stove, something I imagined Antoinette had never experienced before. Her disbelieving expression as Alice banged spoonfuls of steak pudding on to the plates and set them unceremoniously in front of us was really quite amusing, but she refrained from caustic comment – afraid, perhaps, if she offended George she would not be taken to see the horses being shod - and she certainly seemed to enjoy the good wholesome fare.
When we had finished she went with George to the forge and I helped Alice clear the dishes and wash them in the big stone scullery sink.
‘I’m glad I’ve got you by yourself,’ Alice said, elbow deep in soapy water. ‘There’s things I want to say to you that can’t be said in front of the maid. I’ve been worried to death about you, Flora, and that’s a fact.’
‘I’m well enough,’ I assured her. ‘Grieving and homesick, of course, but well enough.’
‘I don’t know… taking you off like that! You should have come to us. You know you’d have been welcome.’
Tucker's Inn Page 16