by S K Rizzolo
Buckler’s spells had begun in his youth, to continue with such unremitting regularity that he sometimes considered them a bane laid upon him by God. This time, as usual, he had not been able to pinpoint the root of his trouble. Hours of reflection, of self-prodding and scolding, had brought only one fact to light: his life, in aggregate, failed to satisfy. He had found neither a true vocation in his career, nor deeply satisfying fulfillment in personal relationships, for of what use could it be to dangle after a married woman? He didn’t suppose she cared for him anyway.
Although he had the curtains drawn, the rich sunlight slipped through the gaps to collect in warm pools on the faded rug. His chamber, furnished years ago by castoffs from the public rooms below, had never changed. It was stolid, reassuring…suffocating. He stumbled to his feet. He would take out the horse that Henry kept for his brother’s use and ride the downs, letting the fresh air rout his lethargy. Perhaps he would be in time to accompany his brother as he ranged over the property in his stylish curricle, accompanied by his hounds and a groom to open the gates.
Buckler strode to the washstand and, lifting the ewer, poured out water to wash. The coolness refreshed his hot brow and cheeks, and when he looked in the glass hanging on the wall, a surge of strength swept through his veins. Bemused, he stared at his dripping face in the mirror. Yes, he thought, the day awaited him, and he did not intend to miss his appointment.
When he had made himself presentable, he descended the staircase to the hall, where he encountered the household’s single footman.
“Where is my brother?”
“In the library, Master Edward. A local man has called to speak to him,” the man replied cheerfully.
The library was one of the few rooms that had been redone since his mother’s time. The young female cousin who had raised both boys after their mother’s death had always wished to redecorate, but had only succeeded in convincing Buckler’s father to “freshen up” the one chamber in which he practically lived. But that had been twenty years ago. Today it bore the same comfortably inhabited atmosphere as the rest of the house.
Henry was seated in his favorite ancient armchair. He had really only one manner of disposing his long frame, whether he sat his horse, his carriage, or this chair inherited from their father. It was a sort of relaxed ease, as if he knew himself always to be in the right place at the right moment.
Buckler did not at first recognize the man who stood on the hearthrug opposite Henry but noticed immediately that, though the visitor looked singularly out of place, he was not overawed by his surroundings. Bent and stooped, he wore a woodsman’s smock over woolen leggings and leather gaiters. He held a misshapen hat in front of him, his stern face composed.
“Edward,” said Henry, catching sight of his brother lingering in the doorway. “I was about to send for you.”
Buckler was gazing at the visitor. Old Jack Willard, he thought, as he finally placed him. In Buckler’s youth, the neighborhood boys had gone in terror of this man who had confiscated the slingshots they used to shoot at birds and shouted at them for disturbing the deer during the rutting season.
Buckler went forward to offer his hand. “Good day, Jack. You are looking well. It’s been many a year since I’ve set eyes on you.”
Willard gave a regal nod. “Master Edward.”
“Sit down, brother,” said Henry. “I’ve asked Jack to do likewise, but he won’t.”
“I be best as I am.”
“Well then, I’ll ask you to start from the beginning, Jack. My brother will want to hear your tale, especially as it concerns Mrs. Wolfe, who is a friend of his.”
Willard nodded. “The London woman. Yesterday I carried eggs to the Abbey, and Cook told me the child was took terrible ill.”
“Sarah? What’s amiss with her?” demanded Buckler harshly. He did not take the other armchair Henry had motioned him to, but remained facing the woodsman across the hearthrug.
“The fever, I reckon. That’s what was said. I mentioned the matter to Rebecca when I reached home last night, and this morning, she’m gone again. That be why I come.”
“That’s the odd part, Edward,” broke in Henry. “Jack says this prophetess Rebecca Barnwell was once a local woman, a nursemaid at the Abbey. I seem to recall something of her. She went by a different name then—one Rebecca Barton. Was that it, Jack?”
Willard nodded slowly, his unfathomable gaze on Buckler’s face. “That be it, Squire. She were a pretty little thing in those days, but full of herself, you might say. She landed herself in difficulties.”
“You mean, in the usual way?”
“Yes, Master Edward. After all these years, I found her in the wood t’other day, wandering all lost-like. Well, it put me in mind of finding her before, so I knew who she was. I gave her shelter.”
Buckler was thoughtful. John Chase had discovered that the prophetess was mixed up in the murder in St. James’s Square. Now it seemed she had surfaced at the same time as Wallace-Crag’s household was in residence.
Willard continued. “A day or two later I came home for dinner, and she was gone. When I went looking, I found that London woman with some story about being stalked in the wood. It were Rebecca, of course, though I can’t say what she wanted with the lady.”
“The prophetess has disappeared again? I assume you think she may still be seeking Mrs. Wolfe?”
“Well, Master Edward, she did before. You see, she’s been speaking so wild. I don’t feel easy in my mind.”
“Jack and I have an understanding,” said Henry gravely. “He knows to turn to me when in trouble. He did very right to come.”
Buckler and his brother exchanged a long look, and Buckler said, “What of finding the woman in the wood all those years ago? What were the circumstances?”
For the first time, Willard looked uncomfortable. Lowering his eyes, he stared at his boots.
When Buckler looked a question, Henry shook his head warningly. “You’ve kept your secret well, Jack, but now it is time to speak.” He turned to Buckler. “This was a year or two before Sir Roger’s wife died. You are too young to remember, brother, but there was some talk that things weren’t quite right at Cayhill. When the girl was sent away, the matter was quickly forgotten.”
Willard burst out, “It weren’t in the wood but in that old church t’other side of it. I was nearby, and I heard her call out. She were there lying on the stones, staring up at the sky. Her dress was all…bloody, and she were white as if near to death.”
“Good God,” said Buckler. “She had given birth out there all alone?” A cold horror trickled down his spine at the thought of it.
“Alone? Maybe, Master Edward. But, you see, there was no baby, and she were crying for it, heart fit to break. Her wits went a-begging that day, and I don’t suppose she’s ever found ’em again. So I took her home and sent a message to the Abbey. Next day Sir Roger sent someone to take her away. I never see her more until t’other day.”
“But the child…what was its fate? Did no one ever discover?”
“I reckon ’twas born dead, for when I went back to the church, I saw some freshly disturbed soil along the earthbank. I warrant the babe is laid to rest there.”
“Surely the woman was in no condition to wield a shovel,” objected Henry. “Someone must have removed the corpse before you arrived, Jack, and buried it.”
“I reckon so, Squire. There was something not right about the business. And I reckon it isn’t finished yet.”
Yes. Buckler knew. He had been feeling the gathering storm clouds ever since he had learned that Penelope meant to travel to Dorset. Perhaps that partially explained his melancholy. It felt good now to throw it off and to know what to do.
“I shall go at once to the Abbey and make sure Mrs. Wolfe and young Sarah are all right,” he told Henry.
“Yes, I think that would be wise.”
“Jack,” said Buckler, “Rebecca Barnwell is said to be pregnant. Does she seem to you to be near her time? P
erhaps that is why she has returned to her home, to bear her child at the scene of her earlier shame. To atone for her sin, erase it with this new life?”
Willard avoided his eyes. “All I know is she says she must find that child from long ago. If she don’t, the babe she carries is doomed and the rest of us along with it.”
“Madness,” said Henry. “Didn’t you tell her the baby was dead?”
Willard smiled without humor. “That I did, Squire, and took her to see its resting place.”
Chapter XXII
Morning came, brilliant and still but for the birdsong and the far-off bleating of sheep on the downs. On the elm tree outside, the tender leaves and reddish clusters of flowers trembled with an unearthly joy, and the sky above the monks’ cloister glowed a clear, sweet blue. Penelope had been standing at the window a long time, struggling to master the yawning fear that threatened to swallow her whole. The beauty spread before her eyes like a feast seemed unreal, the stuff of dreams, and she was sure that if she closed her eyes for an instant, it would all be snatched away.
At her back, she heard Maggie enter. “Has the letter gone?” she asked without turning.
“Yes’m. The man did ride for Salisbury a quarter-hour since, but Mrs. Pen, a strange thing—”
“She is quieter now, sleeping I think.”
Penelope heard a rustling noise as Maggie approached the bed to adjust the covering, then a gasp. Her breath catching in her throat, she turned. “My God, what is it? Do we need to change her nightgown again?”
Maggie did not at first reply, but stood with her reddened, toil-worn fingers cupped around Sarah’s cheek as tears slipped unheeded down her face. She said, “Sorry, mum, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Come see. Look, she’ll do now. The fever has broken.”
Penelope was at her daughter’s side in an instant, thrusting out her own hand to touch her. Sarah’s forehead was cool, and there was a faint, fresh color under her skin. Penelope looked at Maggie and tried to smile. “Yes, she is better.”
“I don’t mind telling you I was right worried.” Maggie reached into her apron pocket to retrieve her wipe. Loudly, she blew her nose. Then she asked curiously, “Be you sorry you sent that express?”
Penelope plucked a few strands of sweaty hair from the child’s eyes. Her hand drifted over the small form, patting and stroking, checking to make sure everything was in its proper place. There was no doubt. She was better. “No, I’m not sorry. If Jeremy comes for us, well, Sarah will be glad to see him.”
“I warrant you too after a shock like this.”
“I shall make sure you and the children can return to London if you like, or maybe you can stay on here. I’m afraid I won’t be able—”
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Pen. We’ll be fine.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, smiling at Maggie with a rush of affection. “Go now and see to the children. They’ll be wanting their breakfast.”
“Yes’m. Mrs. Dobson will be glad to hear Miss Sarah is on the mend. Shall I tell her, mum? And old starched shirt and the maids as well. Why, that child is a favorite with one and all. ’Tis a pity I couldn’t have given a better account of her to that poor country woman as inquired.”
“One of the local people, Maggie?”
“I reckon so. A pitiful, strange creature, she was. Stopped me when I went outside to speak to the post boy. She laid her hand on my arm and asked me how the little girl did. When she saw my worry, she told me not to fret about Miss Sarah, that the end be near when the Lord will come in glory to take all the little white souls up to heaven. And she patted her belly.”
Penelope’s heart, which had slowed to a reassuring, solid thud, suddenly accelerated again. “This woman was with child? Oh, Maggie, it must be she, but what could she want here? I must find Sir Roger at once.”
“You’ve no call to fear that one, mum,” replied Maggie, bewildered. “She’s weak and ill, and it’ll go the worse for her when her time comes, which is nigh, I can tell you.”
“I must ask you to stay with Sarah a while longer. Bring Frank and Baby in here and let the children stay together. I don’t suppose they will take infection from her now.”
“You’re never going out without changing your dress?” cried Maggie, scandalized, as Penelope shoved her feet into her boots and began to lace them.
Dragging a brush through her unruly hair, Penelope only shook her head. She tore off her soiled gown and donned another, hardly stopping to see which it was. She felt a driving urgency, yet she had no clear notion of why.
Ten minutes later, she was tapping at the door of Sir Roger’s study. She knew his habits well. In the country he breakfasted even earlier and should be at his desk by this hour. But it was Julia who answered her knock, throwing open the door so abruptly that Penelope took a step back in alarm.
“Penelope. How is Sarah?”
“The fever has abated. I came to speak to your father.”
Julia gaped at her. “He isn’t here.”
“It is most important I speak to him. Where is he?”
Slowly, Julia extended her right hand towards Penelope and, uncurling her fingers, revealed three small, unripe hazelnuts nestled against her pinkly delicate palm.
***
As the wind roared over his head, Chase snatched at his hat and tugged it closer. He slapped the reins. The old horse ignored him, merely continuing its sullen plod up the track.
Many would find the country air clean and invigorating. He could well imagine Ezekiel Thorogood, for instance, voicing a running panegyric on the scenery. But Chase felt exposed in this low, boundless landscape. And buffeted. A London wind, wafting its odors of spices, oranges, oysters, sewage, baking bread, and coal smoke, snaked through alleyways, crept around buildings, and nipped at one with icy teeth. Here any true gale would flatten all that came before it.
This was just one element of the country that disconcerted him. Everything was too spread out, even if only a mile or so separated the various tiny villages. Mired byways. Lonely stretches of woodland that might easily harbor the last bastion of thieves and other malcontents. The so-called beauties of nature were lost on John Chase.
He cracked the reins a second time, but with much the same result. Clearly, the landlord’s “third best horse” possessed more stubbornness than wind. Moreover, the trap to which the beast was hitched was poorly sprung and rickety.
Slipping a hand into his greatcoat pocket, Chase fingered the little Celtic letter knife that he still carried. In spite of Graham’s belief that the arrest of the Jacobin conspirators had neatly resolved the matter of Dick Ransom’s murder, Chase knew otherwise. Rebecca Barnwell had not been taken with the others, and she, he was convinced, was the key to the whole.
Caught up in his musings, he was startled when a man on horseback thundered down a rise in the road to pass the trap with a bare inch to spare. As Chase gave the reins a hard yank to the left, he was already opening his mouth to call out in recognition. The rider, it seemed, had recognized him too, for he pulled up in an impressive display of horsemanship and turned back, his mount dancing over the track.
“John Chase! What brings you here?”
Occupied in trying to avoid the ditch at the side of the road, he growled in reply, “I imagine the same thing that has brought you. How is Mrs. Wolfe?”
“I was on my way to inquire. It seems young Sarah has taken ill, perhaps seriously.”
Chase felt a pang of fear at the thought of Penelope’s little girl in danger, but all he said was, “It seems I have arrived opportunely. Let’s go.”
“By all means, but not in that.” Buckler abandoned his inspection of the ancient equipage, adding, “I’m afraid there’s more you should know.” Chase listened as he related Jack Willard’s story of the nursemaid giving birth in the abandoned church.
“Strange, isn’t it?” Buckler finished. “A disgraced young woman transforms herself into God’s mouthpiece on a divine mission and manages to persuade thousand
s of other people to embrace her nonsense. But I cannot tell you what any of this has to do with the footman’s murder.”
Chase was thoughtful. Wallace-Crag had mentioned his plan to survey an abandoned church, remarking upon misplaced correspondence that had held up the project. Was it possible someone in the household had not wanted the site disturbed? “Janet Gore alleges that Ransom went to St. James’s Square to intercept the prophetess, who had run away. Now, according to this woodsman, we learn that the prophetess seeks a child dead these five-and-twenty years. A young man died, and Barnwell herself was viciously attacked because of this old tragedy.”
“Do you believe Wallace-Crag killed the footman, that is if he was the one to father Barnwell’s babe?”
“It may be so, yet he doesn’t seem the sort to care overmuch about a youthful folly.” Chase picked up the reins. “We had better go.”
“Yes, of course. You will allow me to mount you on one of my brother’s horses?”
A short distance up the road, they swung onto a broad, graveled sweep opening to a fair prospect of a two-storied brick house, which looked at once commanding and gracious and so much a part of the landscape as to be unremarkable.
A solid but never a brilliant rider, Chase, soon provided with his own rather mettlesome mount, eyed its prancing with some misgiving. He was exhausted, and his knee still felt the effects of yesterday’s long coach ride. The thought of the ride to Cayhill, the return trip to Buckland, and the three-mile journey back to the inn seemed daunting.
But when they were on their way, Buckler said, “Henry will send a groom to return the trap and collect your luggage. Of course, you will stay at Buckland.”
Embarrassed, Chase spluttered a protest that was waved aside. “Henry looks forward to making your acquaintance. He says you must not deprive him of the opportunity to crow over the neighbors. No one in this district has ever entertained a Bow Street Runner.”
“Most people would not deem that a distinction. Still, I thank you both.” He thought it strange that a baronet should show so little height in his manner.