Wayward Winds

by Michael Phillips

  “But it’s the people who know the secrets. And our ancestors are all dead.”

  George recalled his experience staring at the face of Lord Henry.

  “Have you ever spent much time in the portrait gallery?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Not much,” Catharine answered. “I mean I’ve walked through it a thousand times.”

  “Next time you do, stop and look into some of the faces. I mean, really look . . . gaze into their eyes. See if you don’t start to imagine that they are trying to tell you something. Maybe they’re not as dead as we think,” he said.

  “What is that supposed to mean!” laughed Catharine. “Now you are getting spooky.”

  “Only that maybe they left behind information, clues that point to those secrets. Perhaps even something on the surface as boring as a financial ledger might contain more than one thinks, if you know what to look for. Like how in old portraits people choose things to surround themselves with that are significant—a family jewel or hat or walking stick.”

  “So what do you think this ledger has to say?”

  “What I found most interesting of all,” said George enthusiastically, again flipping through the pages toward the latter portions of the book, “is the construction that went on during the time of Broughton Rutherford in the late 1700s.”

  “What kind of construction?” asked Catharine.

  “Lord Broughton began—”

  “Who is he?” interrupted Catharine. “I recognize the name, but I’m not sure of the connection.”

  “Let’s see,” replied George. “He would be our . . . great . . . no, our great-great-grandfather. He began work on the third and final wing of the Hall, which is the west wing. Also a gamekeeper’s lodge was built between 1777 and 1779. But then Lord Broughton died suddenly at fifty-five.”

  “Did he have a son?”

  “No, he was unmarried.”

  “What happened to the estate?”

  “I’ve never really heard Father talk about it much, but it passed down to Henry Rutherford after Lord Broughton’s death, who then became lord of the manor.”

  “Wasn’t he a nephew or something?”

  “Right—and young, too, as I recall, when he inherited. Eighteen, I think. He was father’s grandfather, and I’ve heard both Father and Cousin Gifford say that they remember him from when they were boys.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Henry. In any event, from what I can tell from the records in this ledger, he carried forward his uncle’s construction project, ultimately completing the west wing and bringing Heathersleigh Hall more or less to its present form. Moreover—”

  George paused for dramatic effect.

  “—I think I have may have found some cryptic entries pointing to the construction of these secret passages.”

  He scanned one of the pages, turned to the next—

  “Here it is—look, Catharine. There are expenditures, both for lumber and labor, with only the single word ‘garret’ beside them.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “Like I said, I think it’s got something to do with the hidden passageways of the house. The first ‘garret’ entries are dated 1799 alongside the name W. Kyrkwode.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I assume a builder, laborer, stonemason, craftsman of some kind, I don’t know . . . maybe a supplier of materials.”

  “The name rings a bell in my brain,” said Catharine.

  “I didn’t know you were so up on your Milverscombe history. I’ve never heard the name. Where do you know it from?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’m sure I’ve heard it . . . or seen it written somewhere.”

  “One thing’s sure—whoever this W. Kyrkwode was, there are no Kyrkwodes in the area now. Otherwise we’d know it.”

  “The parish would have some record.”

  “If there was a birth or marriage or death or baptism or confirmation, or something like that. But what if this Kyrkwode was just an itinerant laborer of some kind whom old Lord Broughton—”

  George stopped, puzzling over the page he had shown Catharine and that which followed.

  “No,” he said after a moment, “that could hardly be . . . because look—the Kyrkwode entries continue on after Broughton’s death. Whatever project he had begun, Lord Henry obviously continued after he inherited, for he continued to employ Kyrkwode’s services on and off all the way up until 1819.”

  “There’s another name, too,” said Catharine, pointing down to the same page. “Now that is one I know I recognize.”

  “Digges,” said George, nodding. “I hadn’t noticed it the first time. The family have been locksmiths in the village for generations. Some former ancestor of John Digges must have done some work at the Hall. I suppose it is hardly surprising. Most of the local craftsmen probably worked for the lord of the manor at one time or another.”

  Brother and sister fell silent for a time.

  “This is really a mine of information,” said Catharine at length. “Have you shown it to Father or Mother?”

  George shook his head. “I just found it this morning, and Father’s been out with Rune Blakeley all day.”

  “Mother’s gone to the village too. But can we show it to them when they get back? They’ll be excited.”

  George closed the ledger and rose, folding down the lid of the chest but keeping the old book of financial records in his hand. He helped Catharine to her feet.

  “What do you say to a walk back through the passageway to the tower?” said George. “All this sleuthing in the ledger makes me curious to see if I can find something I’ve overlooked before. I’m sure there are clues about just waiting to be found.”

  “George, you imagine half the mysteries you try to solve,” laughed Catharine. “What if they just built these passageways for fun, to give their children, and future generations like you, a place to romp and play?”

  “You go look at the face of old Lord Henry in the portrait gallery,” rejoined George, “and then tell me you see ‘fun’ in those eyes. No, Catharine—those eyes are trying to tell us something. I don’t know what, but they’ve got a secret to tell, and these peculiar passageways have more to do with it than we’ve yet discovered.”

  “And you’re determined to find out, even though it’s more than a century old!”

  “It might not be that old. But however old it is . . . yes, I am determined to get to the bottom of it.”

  “You always were the curious one of the family. Amanda and I could never understand your fascination with all the rusty old things you find.”

  George laughed. “I suppose you’re right—once my brain sees something it doesn’t understand, it can’t rest. Come on, Catharine—let’s go explore!”

  37

  Milverscombe and Its Secrets

  Forty minutes later the two young people stood at the window of the tower which rose at the convergence of the north and east wings of Heathersleigh Hall, having little idea that the high empty room of stone walls and slab floor itself held some of the very secrets about their home which they sought. Unfortunately, however, its walls could not talk, and thus it would be some years before all would come to light.

  The village of Milverscombe upon which their gaze fell sat roughly in the middle of Devonshire between the Bristol Channel to the north and the English Channel to the south. It was a peaceful landscape of gentle fields, green and flowered meadows, and occasional woodlands. Cattle and sheep grazed it, fox and deer and rabbit made its forests their homes, and potatoes, grain, and a variety of crops grew up from out of it. The people of this region thus derived from the land their sustenance, and enjoyed its unspoiled simplicity and beauty, each after his own fashion.

  England was growing and its urbanization expanding. Yet thankfully for the people of this region, modernity had not quite yet stretched out its grasp to consume them. The railroad was here, it is true, and electricity was on the way. But though the telephone had made inroads, it
would be years before it had quite taken them over. Thus, for now, the people of Devonshire yet had to meet one another face-to-face to express their thoughts and conduct their business. Humanity still ruled here, not invention nor technology.

  But the pleasant setting hid the fact that a misdeed had altered the course of the history of this region. To a certain vicar and midwife long before had been entrusted the key to the mystery, each of whom dealt with the silence imposed upon them by the lord of the manor of Heathersleigh Hall in his own way. The vicar left the region, rose high in the church, became a bishop and did whatever bishops do. He returned to the country in his advancing years, when the fate of that night long past came back to bless him with the home in which he spent his final years. Happily they were years marked by the waking of his conscience and the discovery of that greatest of all secrets of the human race that so few ever find, the mysterious wonder that he was a child after all, and that a good and loving Father cared for him. The bishop’s discovery of that central truth came late, but that it did come at last made a man of him.

  The midwife, meanwhile, raised her own family in the village, and lived to see her grandchildren grow into fine, God-fearing girls and boys, though neither she nor her daughter’s family enjoyed an easy time of it. She too was rewarded in the end, finding herself the recipient of the material benefit of the bishop’s changed and humbled heart.

  The village of Milverscombe had grown slightly since Victoria’s time. The tall steeple of the parish church, where Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford had been married in 1884, rose above a cluster of homes and shops connected by a disorderly arrangement of dirt streets through which, on most days, a steady stream of horses, wagons, buggies, and pedestrians moved about their affairs. The Devon rail line had been built to pass the edge of the village some thirty years before, insuring that gradually the effects of advancing civilization would be felt here.

  And now the fact that Sir Charles and Lady Jocelyn, whom everyone for miles around loved with all their hearts, had brought electricity to the Hall, and could be seen occasionally motoring through the village in the latest invention of the times, insured that Milverscombe would continue to grow and change with the times. Many Saturday afternoons saw Charles in the village, giving rides in his Peugeot to the children as a reward for their hard week at school, or else attempting to teach some of the more daring of the locals actually to sit behind the wheel and drive it. That its one bright red coat of paint had suffered a good number of scrapes and bruises in the process concerned Charles not in the least. He valued people more than things. If sheep farmers Mudgley and Bloxham, or Bob the station master, or Andrew Osborne, husband of the new village schoolteacher, drove his car into a tree, his only concern would be for their safety, not the damaged fender.

  Even some of the more intrepid women of Milverscombe ventured into the backseat when it came time for their husband’s turn at the wheel, usually to the accompaniment of much banter from the watching crowd and many shrieking wifely exhortations against haste once the ride was under way. Charles refused, however, to allow Mrs. Osborne, when it was rumored, according to Jocelyn, that she was in the early stages of pregnancy, to ride with her own eager husband.

  The highlight of the entire year surely had to be the day when the red Peugeot appeared one Saturday afternoon in Milverscombe with Lady Jocelyn Rutherford behind the wheel in place of her husband. Immediately word spread. Within minutes twenty or thirty women were scrambling to climb in. The rest of the afternoon saw the Peugeot touring all about the countryside with load after load of ladies jammed inside, many of whom had never before ridden in an automobile. It was a day talked and laughed about for the rest of the year. The discussion on the ladies’ part nearly always contained mention of the fact that not so much as a single scratch had been added to the already numerous dings, dents, and other alterations administered to Sir Charles’ car by the men.

  As brother and sister gazed outward from the tower, Catharine’s eyes gradually came to rest upon the cottage in the woods between the Hall and the village by which bishop and midwife were linked. Her conversation with George put her in a reminiscent mood, which oddly turned her thoughts toward Maggie McFee.

  “I think I’m in a mood to visit Grandma Maggie,” said Catharine at length.

  She and George turned and left the tower, this time by the stairway. George went back to the library, whereas the conversation had left him, on the other hand, in the mood for a good book. He and Catharine parted at the second-floor landing of the main stairway.

  38

  Curiously Disappeared Bible

  Catharine set out for her room to change into her riding habit. Her way took her back through the gallery. Like George, she had passed through it many times nearly every day of her life without giving any of the silent personalities a moment’s thought. But today, with George’s references to the portraits still fresh in her mind, her step slowed.

  She gazed up at old Henry Rutherford. George was right—he seemed desirous of saying something. It certainly wasn’t a happy face.

  Slowly Catharine wandered about, gradually taking in face after face from the other portraits.

  A certain family resemblance was clear enough—the lines of the face, the wide-set eyes, the high foreheads on most of the men. And as George had said, it was interesting to note what special items had been chosen as props for the various portraits. Two elderly women had been painted together, with a framed portrait sitting on an easel in the background. The brass plate on the frame identified the two subjects, but there was no way to tell who might be the woman whose portrait rested behind them. Catharine glanced about, but saw no earlier portrait hanging anywhere which might be the same picture.

  Two other paintings featured a light cream-and-peach-colored marble pedestal beside the subjects. In one the pedestal held a potted plant. In the other it served as a base for what appeared to be an open family Bible. Catharine recognized the pedestal as the same family heirloom that stood upstairs in their library right now with a small potted palm on it.

  One of the largest portraits, a horizontal view, displayed a family grouping—a seated man and woman with their seven children standing gathered around and behind them. In the woman’s lap lay the same large Bible.

  Catharine moved as close as she could, though the painting hung higher than her head, to examine the mother’s face. Yes . . . it was the same woman whose portrait stood on the background easel of the other painting.

  Who are all these people? said Catharine to herself. What might they tell me if only they could speak!

  As her eyes drifted about, she saw the Bible, variously placed, in a number of other portraits. Again her eyes came to rest on Henry Rutherford. There was the Bible beside him too, not being held but lying on a table beside him.

  But . . . hmm, that was odd—none of the more recent portraits had the family Bible in them.

  Catharine glanced about, looking at all the dates now. All the people who were painted posing with the Bible predated Henry Rutherford. His was the last portrait in which it appeared.

  She would have to remember to ask her father about it, Catharine thought, then finally continued on the way to her room.

  39

  Catharine and Grandma Maggie

  Catharine left the Hall in the direction of the stables. She saddled Black Fire and was soon on her way across the fields in the direction of the cottage where dwelt Robert and Margaret McFee, as close to spiritual parents to her own parents as two individuals can be. The old couple were thus affectionately known to George and Catharine as Grandma Maggie and Grandpa Bobby.

  Their cottage stood at a point approximately between the Hall and the village, in the midst of a lightly forested region, about a mile and a half from the Hall. It had once been part of the lord of the manor’s estate, constructed originally, as George had recently discovered, during the time of Broughton Rutherford as a gamekeeper’s lodge. It had remained within the precincts of the lord
of the manor’s estate until the year 1847, when financial reversals and fear of scandal resulted in its ownership being transferred to a certain Arthur Crompton, bishop in the Church of England. When the repentant bishop died in the mid-1850s without heirs, his will stipulated that the cottage should go to a local peasant woman. No one ever knew why. It had been in Maggie’s family ever since.

  Catharine’s conversation with George in the tower of Heathersleigh Hall put Catharine in a thoughtful mood of inquiry. As she set off across the fields northeastward toward the McFee place, her thoughts were on the history of the region. She had been to the cottage many times throughout her years, as had George, for their parents visited the wise and friendly couple weekly, if not more often.

  Catharine rode up and saw Maggie behind the cottage taking her laundry down from the line. She dismounted, tied Black Fire’s reins to a post, then went to greet her spiritual grandmother with a loving embrace.

  “Catharine, my dear!” said Maggie. “You make my heart glad just to see your smiling face.”

  “How are you, Grandma Maggie?” said Catharine, reaching up to remove a towel and then working her way through the linens and shirts in the opposite direction.

  “We’re well indeed. But I declare you’ve grown another inch or two since I saw you last!”

  “That was only last week, Grandma Maggie, when you and Grandpa Bobby were at the Hall for Mum’s birthday. I can’t have grown since then!”

  “You know how old folks’ eyes see years passing like they were days.”

  “You’re not that old, Grandma Maggie.”

  “True enough, there’s a world of difference between being old and thinking old. I hope I never start doing the one, but nothing man or woman does can stop the other from coming at its appointed time. I’ll be seventy-four in a month’s time.—There, that’s the last of my Bobby’s shirts. Thank you, lass!”