A Child of Secrets

by Mary Mackie

  Shaking his head, lounging indolently in his chair, he smiled to himself and reached to scratch Dash’s head, saying, ‘A poacher’d have to be daft to risk trespassing just before a shoot, Miss Potts. I’ve got men out all round the woods.’

  Eliza tossed her head, her cheeks touched with colour that made her eyes look extra green. ‘You must be sure o’ your hirelings, if you can afford to spend time here drinkin’ tea.’

  ‘I’m sure of ’em,’ Rudd said.

  Eliza’s boldness was tinged with defiance, and Rudd’s apparent ease was a camouflage for deeper, guarded thoughts. Sexual challenge thrummed in the air between them, loud as a drumbeat to Jess’s perceptions, though obscured by murky undercurrents.

  It was only then – and Jess never understood why it had taken her so long to see it, except maybe that she’d been stupefied by her own reactions to the man – only then did she realise the truth of what was going on: the man skulking along in the garden the other night – a man wearing a big heavy cape and tweed cap, with a shaggy black dog at his heels…

  Rudd was Eliza’s secret lover! The thought made Jess feel numb.

  ‘Get on with your work,’ Miss Peartree admonished and Jess hurried to get a pan of hot water from the boiler beside the fire, to scrub the floury table, while Dolly and Eliza made through the scullery to get rid of the foliage in the yard. Later, the boy Button would make a bonfire.

  ‘Speaking of the shoot,’ Rudd said, ‘that’s the reason I called, Miss Peartree, ma’am – to warn you that we’ll be beating through the woods here,’ a gesture indicated the rear of the rectory, ‘probably late tomorrow afternoon. So don’t be alarmed if you hear the noise.’

  ‘That’s most considerate of you, Mr Rudd,’ Miss Peartree replied. ‘Do you know yet where you’ll be lunching?’

  ‘We plan for the old barn at Soley’s Low.’

  ‘Good. I shall send over some of these pies and things. If you’re at the big house, you might tell Mrs Roberts I haven’t forgotten them.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Easing himself to his feet, straightening his jacket, Rudd glanced at Jess. ‘Why don’t you send Miss Sharp over with the food? The fresh air might put some roses in her cheeks.’

  ‘She doesn’t know the countryside, as yet.’

  ‘She has to learn some time. The way you get there, Miss Sharp, is—’

  ‘Mr Rudd,’ Miss Peartree interrupted, ‘I’m quite capable of giving the girl directions, if I decide she’s the one to come.’

  He took the rebuke equably, murmuring with a smile, ‘My apologies, ma’am,’ and made her a little bow, rolling his cap up in his hand as he said to the dog, ‘Come on, Dash, we’ve work to do.’ At the door, he paused to add, ‘Thank you kindly for the tea, Miss Peartree. Miss Sharp…’ His glance was warm, sending messages of hope for future encounters, filling Jess with bitter thoughts of the faithfulness of men. She’d thought him so fine, but it seemed that the charming, smiling Gamekeeper Rudd had sordid black depths to him. Well, why should that surprise her? Hadn’t she learned by now that men could wear two faces?

  ‘Good day to you both,’ he concluded. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ And he was gone, leaving Jess wanting the answers to a million questions.

  ‘Perhaps I should warn you,’ Miss Peartree said as the back door was heard to close, ‘Reverend Clare doesn’t allow followers.’

  ‘Then mebbe you should tell that to Eliza,’ Jess retorted, stung. ‘Seem as how there was sparks flyin’ ’twixt him and her.’

  ‘Sparks of animosity, Jess. Eliza’s father is reputed to be the finest poacher in the district.’

  Was that what the undercurrents had been about – poaching? Jess didn’t believe it. A blind man would have sensed that other, more intimate tug between them. Eliza was a fine-looking woman and Rudd an undeniably attractive man. And he visited Eliza late at night.

  ‘Is he married?’ she heard herself ask.

  ‘He’s a widower, I understand. Lost both his wife and his boy to the low fever a few years ago. That was up north somewhere. It was what made him leave and take the job with Sir Richard.’ She peered sharply at Jess through her oval spectacles. ‘But, as I said, Jessamy, you’d be wiser not to think of him in a personal way. I hope you’re not going to turn out to be the flighty sort.’

  ‘Me, miss?’ Jess almost laughed.

  Something in her great tawny eyes made Oriana Peartree flush and look away. ‘No, of course you’re not. Forgive me.’

  Flighty she was not, nor ever could be. But she was still a woman, despite emotional scars. She kept on thinking about Rudd, both scared and flattered by his interest in her. She knew she’d be wiser to steer clear of him, but she couldn’t stop her thoughts from roaming in his direction at disconcertingly frequent intervals.

  At least he’d done her a good turn – he’d brought her ring back. She found a piece of ribbon and hung it back round her neck, against her skin where she could feel its small weight brushing her when she moved.

  * * *

  When Lily heard that someone must take the pies to the shooting party, she found her own solution: ‘Jess and I will both go. Well, gracious goodness, Cousin Oriana, if we send Eliza she’ll be gone for hours – you know how she loves to abscond. Poor Dolly’s hurt her arm. And if Jess goes alone she may get lost. I can show her the short cut. It will make splendid exercise for us both.’

  Miss Peartree could think of no valid objection so they set out, warmly wrapped against the cold. The day had dawned fine and crisp, with pools of ice everywhere, making the going treacherous. Frozen ruts could easily break an unwary ankle, or there was the danger of slipping on the ice so Jess went gingerly, hampered by a heavy basket which banged against her thigh at every step and left her trailing behind an exuberant Lily.

  ‘Of course I know why Papa decided to accept this invitation,’ Lily confided at one point as she waited for Jess to catch up. ‘One of Sir Richard’s friends is a publisher. I expect Papa is hoping to persuade him to take one of his books of sermons. Or perhaps…’ Her face was bright with excitement at the thought, ‘it could even be that the Prince of Wales will be there. He does sometimes shoot at Hewinghall. Imagine meeting His Royal Highness!’

  ‘I’d be frit to death,’ said Jess, panting from exertion.

  Lily laughed. She felt elated, though even to herself she hardly dared to admit why – it was because the Clares might be at the shoot, Cousin Oliver and Dickon, and if they were present then, perhaps, oh please! Ashton Haverleigh might also be among the Guns.

  All morning, at intervals, they had heard the distant fusillade as the shoot progressed. But the lanes themselves were quiet. ‘They stop all farm work on shooting days,’ Lily explained to Jess. ‘The men find work indoors – those that aren’t used as beaters. No one’s allowed to wander about.’

  As if to prove the truth of this, up ahead they saw a man in a labourer’s smock, a blue ribbon tied round his arm and another fluttering from his cap. Before he could see them, Lily grasped Jess’s arm and pulled her into a field gateway, saying in an undertone, ‘That’s one of the marshals. They’re supposed to stop people getting too close. If he sees us, he won’t let us through until the beaters have gone by and then we shall be late. Come, Jess… we’ll go across the fields.’

  Pushing open the great five-bar gate, she let Jess and the basket through and eased the gate shut, so its noise didn’t alert the marshal. Then, laughing and tossing her hair, she strode on across frozen furrows.

  Once away from the tall hedges, the countryside opened around them, gentle hills and hollows, snow still lying in sheltered spots, the earth just on the thaw. A hint of mist hovered about the nearby woods, as if trapped by the net of black branches, but the sky was clear, a bright sun making patches of snow look blinding white while shadows lay inky.

  In the distance something small and dark, just a shape on the frozen earth, crawled away to die. Seeing it, Lily noted the other wildlife that dotted the arable slopes, partridge
, pheasant and hare – oblivious to the fate of their fellows not far away. The unwelcome thought made her hesitate. In her excitement she had forgotten that the whole purpose of the shoot was death for small, helpless creatures. But she mustn’t be squeamish. Not today. She just wouldn’t think about it.

  Her face and hands were cold, but under layers of flannel and wool her body began to glow as she forged on, crossing the field to the far end where it bordered a stretch of open woodland and a track ran downhill. This was the quickest way to Soley’s Low, whatever the rules of shooting etiquette might say.

  Reaching the track, Lily followed it downhill, keeping the copse on her left, with the sun in her eyes making it hard to see. Ahead of her, in a fold of land, a tall hedge threw a shadow so deep and black that it was some time before she discerned the figures waiting there – the shooting party and their attendants – spread out in a line, waiting, with the dogs straining at leashes nearby.

  Then all at once she heard the noise coming from behind the further rise – voices calling, sticks clattering… Lily stopped, dismayed, her mouth dry and her heart thudding. She’d never been this close to a shoot before. All at once she recalled hearing warnings of the dangers of being in the wrong place when a drive began. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?

  ‘What is it?’ Jess asked, pausing a few yards away as she sensed the waiting tension in both Lily and the men below.

  ‘It’s the beaters,’ Lily said. ‘Perhaps… Perhaps we shouldn’t have come this—’

  With a mighty whirr and clatter of a thousand wings, with screechings, calls, cryings of pure terror, the birds burst into sight over the hedge. The guns leapt up, muzzles lifting skyward. And bang – bang – bang-bang came the staccato beat of sound. Lily cried out in horror and threw her hands to cover her ears as around her birds rained upon the earth, or were knocked off course to flutter wounded into the woods. Others flew on, impelled by fright. And still they came, wave on wave, grey partridge fast and low, pheasants sailing higher, slower, long tails streaming. Bang – bang – bang. Dead or dying they fell, crashing into trees and hedges, thudding on frozen ground, some bouncing to waist height with the force of their landing. On the ground, hares ran in panic, and halted, to roll dead. Puffs of blue smoke rose and hung on the still, cold air. Feathers drifted, swinging like fairground boats. Bang – bang – bang – bang the slaughter went on while Lily stood mesmerised by horror. Though her fingers stopped her ears she could still hear it, feel it in all her nerves – the noise of guns, the calls of terror.

  Jess stared at the carnage in confusion, deafened by the noise. She could see that Lily was upset but she daren’t move to help her. If she moved, she might get shot too.

  A final pheasant soared, coming over the hedge. ‘Fly. Fly!’ Lily urged it. Then another gun spoke. Feathers floated free. The bird halted, faltered, veering away from its course towards where Lily stood. With frantic efforts it tried to hold the air, but it was failing, falling. It hit the ground only feet away from Lily, rolled over, fluttering, one wing useless, plumage sticky with blood – trying to crawl to her, begging her to save it. Its harsh cries fell like despair on her ears.

  Then she heard someone laugh, and through a daze of sick horror she saw Dickon Clare come running, his stocky figure garbed in tweed with thick woollen stockings. Saying, ‘Mine, I think,’ he set himself with feet apart, his gun bare inches from the struggling pheasant. The shot boomed, blasting the creature’s head. Shreds of blood and flesh and bone spat sideways, splattering Lily’s skirts. But when she lifted her shocked face Dickon was laughing, jeering at her timidity.

  ‘You’re so mew-hearted, Lily. So mew-hearted!’

  Behind him, striding up the slope on his short legs, Lily saw her papa, his pink face flushed with temper. He grasped her arm in hurting fingers that made her squirm, saying in a low, furious voice, ‘What are you doing here, Lily Victoria? Does it please you to make me look a fool by displaying your stupidity in front of all these gentlemen? You should know better. You don’t get in the way of a shoot. You get to cover. Behind the guns. And if you don’t know that yet—’

  ‘Oh, come, Mr Clare,’ another voice interposed, and through tear-dazzled eyes Lily made out the tall, concerned figure of Sir Richard Fyncham. His deep voice soothed her like balm and from under the brim of a flat cap his pale grey eyes spoke of his empathy. She was thankful he had appeared; she had always thought him a fine, kind man. ‘Your daughter wasn’t to know the birds would break this way,’ he said, laying a hand on the rector’s arm so that he released his fierce hold on Lily. ‘Are you quite well, my dear?’

  ‘Quite,’ Lily lied. ‘Yes, quite. Thank you, Sir Richard. Forgive me, please. I—’ She felt nauseated, numbed. Around her the dogs were busy, searching the undergrowth for still-warm bodies. Somewhere not far away a wounded hare was crying, sounding like a human child.

  Sir Richard sent a summoning look at Jess as he laid a kindly hand on Lily’s shoulder. ‘Go on with your maid to the barn, and rest there. Come, Mr Clare, let’s go back to the others.’

  ‘You’re most gracious, Sir Richard,’ the rector fawned, giving Lily a last searing glance. ‘I can’t think what possessed her. She knows better than to interfere with a shoot. What it is to have an ungrateful child…’

  As they moved away, Lily was relieved to find Jess, all huge eyes and worried looks. ‘You all right, Miss Lily?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, of course. Silly of me. Stupid…’ But it wasn’t stupid. She just hadn’t expected to witness such carnage, not so closely. She vowed she would never go near a shoot, nor eat pheasant, ever again…

  An advance party from Hewinghall House had arrived and was setting out the luncheon in the disused barn in a corner of the next field. They had brought a portable stove and already had a huge kettle coming to the boil. A man was broaching a barrel of ale, another setting out bottles of porter and whisky. After the disturbing noise and confusion of the shooting, Jess was glad to get back to something she understood.

  ‘Yes, I shall be all right,’ Lily said. ‘I just need to catch my breath.’

  She paused to watch the Guns come ambling up the hill for their lunch. She had a headache behind her eyes and the thought of food made her queasy, as did the sight of the game cart that waited outside the barn, hung with dead birds and hares – like so many rags on a washing line: for Lily the shoot had lost its glamour. She would never forgive Dickon.

  Even as she thought of him, she saw him approaching among a group of young men, waving his hands, miming the action of taking aim as he recounted some heroic moment from the day’s sport. Sickened by him, Lily was slow in realising that one of his companions was Ashton Haverleigh.

  Before she could move out of sight, their eyes met across fifty yards and she saw his interest quicken. As surely as if he had spoken, she knew he was eager to talk to her. And hadn’t she come to the shoot in the hope of speaking with him?

  But not now! Not when she felt so unsettled and ill. Not when he had the stench of blood still on him.

  Six

  The three maids who had walked from the big house with the food cart welcomed Jess among their number. She found herself carving cold roasts and cutting up game pies for the groups of men who came strolling up, and for the ladies whose carriage had toiled along the muddy track so that they might join their menfolk for the picnic.

  At the centre of the ladies’ group was Sir Richard’s wife, Lady Maud Fyncham, a tall, plain woman, with hair like new chestnuts. She and her husband were matched in height, both thin and angular, more like siblings than spouses. ‘First cousins,’ one of the maids vouchsafed. The couple had one child, a five-year-old daughter named Bella, who was ‘not strong. Else they might have brung her along today – she’re the apple of Sir Richard’s eye. He love to show her off. He ought to have more little ’uns, but since Lady Maud have shut him out of her bedroom…’ Before she could impart any more gossip, she was called away.

  The gentry, includin
g Reverend Clare, kept to one side of the barn, while tenant farmers and tradesmen gathered at the other; outside, the beaters and keepers flirted with the Hewinghall maids amid much laughter and good-natured teasing. Among the company, Lily remained apart, as if trying to hide herself, Jess thought. Lily was habitually afraid of curiosity, or censure, or condescension – but on that day she was also trying to avoid the fair young man with the dark brown eyes.

  For his part, though he kept glancing in her direction he made no attempt to join her. Jess had no doubt who he was: she’d heard one of his companions call him ‘Ash’. Well, he was handsome, true enough. But Jess noted a weakness about his mouth, and shadows under his eyes. He looked a dissolute young man – ‘nowt of a mucher’ her mother would have said – and the group about him the same. Lily was better off without him.

  The head gamekeeper, Rudd, came up to speak to the squire. Jess had been watching for him, but the sight of him still surprised and unsettled her – Rudd, with the cold sunlight striking red lights out of his brown hair, his freckled face alive with concentration. This was his day, the success of the shoot his responsibility. When he moved on, Jess noticed how everyone – from the gentry to the youngest beater – treated him with respect. Obviously Gamekeeper Rudd was a person of some consequence.

  When he noticed her, his face lit in a way that both flattered and disturbed her. Breaking off from the group with whom he was chatting, he made a bee-line for the buffet table.

  ‘Well, Miss Sharp,’ he greeted her, his easy smile not entirely masking a touch of censure in those hazel eyes. ‘So you managed to find your way here?’

  ‘That weren’t difficult,’ Jess said.

  ‘Pity you didn’t come round by the lane, though. Weren’t there any marshals about to stop you coming over the field?’

  ‘Not as we saw,’ Jess replied, stiff in defence of Lily.

  ‘That’s rum. I put some good men on duty in the lane.’