by Deryn Lake
He stood quite tall for his age, already sporting the dashing good looks which all his life were to single him out from his fellows. His hair grew thickly and brown upon his head and his arresting eyes — the light blue of a winter sea, yet encircled by a rim of indigo — were set finely above a straight strong nose and a smiling, rather passionate, mouth. The heir to Sutton Place was almost as handsome as the first heir — Francis Weston, who had died beneath the axe blade.
But Jackdaw knew nothing, at this time, of the house’s tragic history and he stood overawed by his kinsman. He would always be little Jackdaw, in his own eyes, and beside this lively, good-looking young man must cut a poor figure indeed.
‘... you must be famished,’ Mrs Webbe Weston was saying. ‘As soon as you have seen your rooms we shall have tea. We live only in the West Wing now so you shouldn’t get lost. It is such a pity that we can do little with the rest. But it isn’t easy, it isn’t easy.’
She shook her head apologetically. She was a fair, ineffectual woman with a weakly pretty face and a mouth that constantly moved either into a smile or a purse, dependent on her words.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said John Joseph’s father — also called John Joseph. ‘Distressing really. Beautiful once. But there you are. Can’t be helped. Good after bad. Dear me.’
They all moved off to a staircase that lay on their right and began the ascent to the rooms above.
‘Hope you’ll enjoy yourselves,’ said John Joseph the elder. ‘Do our best. Good food, cold rooms. Nobody’s fault.’
Mrs Webbe Weston gave a silly little laugh.
‘And none of you children are to listen to ghost stories,’ she said. ‘Sutton Place is not that kind of house.’
‘Pshaw, pshaw,’ guffawed her husband, but Jackdaw shivered nonetheless as he looked back at the gloom of the shadowy Great Hall.
*
‘Well, this is a nice turn of events to be sure,’ said Anne, Countess Waldegrave.
‘What?’ said the Earl absently.
‘There’s a baby due to one of the maids at Christmas and she swears that it is J.J.’s.’
‘He should deny it,’ said the Earl without looking up.
‘I beg your pardon?’
She had paused, her silver fork loaded with salmon soufflé half way to her mouth.
‘Deny it. It’s the only way.’
‘How typical of you, John James.’
She always called him by his full name when she was angry, and the newspaper lowered a fraction to reveal his eyes — masked by half spectacles it was true but still an exciting shade of blue — peering at her over the top.
‘The servants, my dear,’ he said mildly and returned to his perusal of the news columns.
She glared at him furiously, for that was the way he had learned, over the years, to catch her out. For, for all his early wild behaviour — which his sons were fast learning to emulate — he had indisputably been born a member of the aristocracy and she had not. Miss Anne King of Hastings could — if the Earl so chose — be put in her place with a mere glance.
‘James,’ she said in a lowered voice, but still with urgency.
‘Yes?’ The newspaper did not shift.
‘I really must speak to you.’
‘Later, my dear. Later. Pray continue with your luncheon.’
‘Oh, it really is too bad.’
The newspaper rustled slightly but did not otherwise respond.
‘I am discussing our eldest son, Sir.’
‘I see that the King is wintering at Brighton.’
‘It is not the winter quarters of our Sovereign that concerns me, but the spring quarters of some little bastard not yet born.’
Just for a second the kingfisher eyes flashed from behind the printer’s ink.
‘Yes, my dear, that has been an occasional problem with you, as I remember it.’
The Countess jumped on to her satin-pumped feet, throwing her napkin down upon the table and steadfastly ignoring the principal footman who was holding his face aloft in studious contemplation of the ceiling.
‘I have had enough, John James. Should you so wish you will find me in the withdrawing room. Good day to you.’
And she was gone in a furious flurry of skirts.
‘Good day, my dear. Pour me some wine, Parkes, if you would be so kind. And see that it is properly chilled this time, the weather being so damned unseasonably warm. And send Jamieson to me if you please.’
And a few minutes later, when his personal valet hovered at his elbow, the Earl, still without looking up, said, ‘Ask Master J.J. to join me in the library after luncheon and set two glasses with the brandy decanter, there’s a good fellow.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘And I shall require complete privacy, Jamieson.’
‘Very good, my Lord.’
‘That will be all at present.’
The servant bowed. ‘I’ll see to it directly, Sir.’
The Earl waved a thin white hand. ‘And no word of warning to J.J. — simply find him and send him in. You understand.’
‘Of course, my Lord.’
The Earl sighed slightly, raised his wine to his lips and then set about consuming his salmon soufflé with relish.
*
That Horace Walpole in the eighteenth century had thought Twickenham ‘a seaport in miniature’ was undoubted. And that the delightful village, with its breathtaking view across the river to the sweep of parklands beyond, was favoured by other elegants of his day was indisputable. Alexander Pope had established his famous villa there and Henrietta Howard — George II’s amusing mistress — had lived nearby in Marble Hill.
But wittiest of them all had been Walpole himself, residing in his little Gothic castle known as Strawberry Hill, which lay amongst gardens of ‘shady bowers, nodding groves and amaranthine shades’.
But as a family house it had its shortcomings. Living space was limited and the boisterous tribe Waldegrave sometimes found itself a little cramped when one disagreed with another — which was regularly; or Lady Ida Anna whined for attention — which was often; or the Countess was in a pet with her husband — which was every day.
But, just for the moment, there was tranquillity. It was Christmas Day and it was evening and they sat — all seven of them — in the famous Round Room, round a huge mahogany table groaning with crystal and silver, surrounded by a bevy of liveried servants and lit by candled chandeliers.
The Earl, making a vastly handsome figure in scarlet cutaway, stood for once with the polished carving knife and fork in his hands paring immensely thin slices from a dozen or so pheasants that lay nestling in a trencher before him. To his right was Annette, to his left Horatia with her Uncle William — the Earl’s younger brother — beside her.
William and his wife were the only guests that night and the family sat packed close together in the intimacy of the turret, everything being jolly. Even J.J. had been forgiven his first serious transgression and the housemaid had been found lodgings in a cottage outside the village. And because she had been allowed to stay up late and sat perched next to her mother on an adult’s chair piled with three silk cushions, four-year-old Ida Anna was holding forth.
‘And I have been tho good,’ she lisped, ‘that I am the favouritetht baby in all the land.’
J.J. and George smiled indulgently with the elders but Annette’s lips tightened while Horry pulled a face at her empty soup plate. Since Ida Anna had been born there had been no real peace for the two girls. The Countess, forever busy with the war of wits she and the Earl played out constantly and implacably, had virtually handed over her youngest child to the servants and her other daughters.
However, she beamed at the little wretch now and patted the silken head with a small beringed hand.
‘And so you are, my precious,’ she said.
Lady Ida Anna pulled her little rosebud lips into a simper and looked round, head on one side, to see the effect she was making. She was a tiny, pretty thing with he
r mother’s fair hair and bright boot-button eyes. But she was already terribly spoiled and could get her own way with most merely by quivering her lips. Her habit when wheedling was to stand on one foot and curl the other round it, swaying slightly from side to side whilst staring at the floor. She was altogether an obnoxious child, though her parents would have been mortified by the very suggestion.
‘I love Horry,’ she went on. ‘She ith my bethtitht thithter in all the world. I shall always play dolls with her, Mama.’
Horry stared uncomfortably into her lap while the elders cooed with delight.
‘Oh, was ever a child so precious?’ gushed William’s wife. ‘Why I could eat her up, I swear I could.’
‘I wish she would,’ mouthed Annette across the table, hoping that only Horry would see.
‘What did you say, my dear?’ asked the Earl.
Annette’s moonstone eyes turned towards him innocently. ‘I only said that Ida was so good, Papa.’
He was not at all convinced but was in no mood to make an issue of it and the meal continued without interruption. The pheasants — which had been preceded by lobster bisque, cod in oyster sauce, a saddle of mutton and sweetbreads larded in parsley — gave way to jelly of fruit, cheese-cake, meringue à la crème, ice pudding and beignet soufflé. A plum pudding was brought in on fire with brandy and finally, when all were truly replete, the Countess rose and led her sister-in-law and her three daughters to the Holbein Room where they might talk freely while the Earl and his brother, with J.J. and George, lingered over fine port.
‘The King’s in poor health, William,’ said the Earl. ‘I fear that this could be his last Christmas.’
‘And they say at Eton,’ said J.J., ‘that there’ll be a woman on the throne of England before a dozen years are out. And how will we all like that?’
‘Tolerably well, I dare say.’ The Earl leant back in his chair and crossed one elegantly clad leg over the other. ‘In fact England does very well under a Queen. Think of Elizabeth.’
‘But Father —’ J.J.’s cheeks were bright with wine and he was speaking rather more loudly than usual ‘— what do we know of the Princess? Have you ever seen her?’
‘I admit her mother keeps her secluded in Kensington Palace. No, I’ve never laid eyes on her. William?’
‘No, nor I. How old is she? Eight, nine?’
‘She’s a year younger than Annette — ten.’
‘I hope the poor child reaches a decent age before responsibilities are thrust upon her.’
‘We can hope,’ said the Earl.
*
In many houses throughout the land, including Sutton Place, exactly the same conversation was taking place.
‘Good thing,’ said Mr Webbe Weston. ‘Make a change. Good Queen Bess. Fine Queen Anne. All that.’
‘It will seem strange to have a Queen though, John. I mean we are no longer used to it.’
Mrs Webbe Weston looked round her Boxing Day tea table with a deprecating smile. She had the knack of making even a fairly intelligent remark sound boring and all her family and guests now stared back at her owlishly.
‘Well,’ said General Wardlaw eventually, ‘the King is not dead yet and Prince William, his brother, is only sixty-four. They could go on for years.’
‘But obviously won’t,’ said Helen. ‘Victoria will come to the throne whilst still a girl, you mark my words.’
As always when she spoke the General feasted his eyes on her in a way that Mrs Webbe Weston thought ‘unhealthy’. This train of ideas was only interrupted by her husband’s rumbling into a laugh and saying, ‘Funny situation. Prince William’s little bastards. Not an heir among ’em! Ha, ha! Dashed odd.’
His wife rounded on him, her silly mouth pulled down crossly.
‘John! Really! Such a display! Little pitchers have big ears, you know.’
‘What does that mean, Mama?’ said Violet.
‘It means that you talk too much,’ Helen answered.
‘It means that Prince William has children but they can’t succeed to the throne,’ said John Joseph.
‘Oh dear,’ thought Jackdaw. ‘She’s going to ask why. You can see John Joseph has been away at school. He doesn’t know much about girls.’
Violet hesitated and in his anxiety Jackdaw thrust a piece of mince pie from his own plate into her mouth. Her eyes rolled protestingly and the General said, ‘What’s the matter with you, boy? Have you taken leave of your senses as well as your manners?’
Jackdaw went scarlet — all too conscious of the gaze of his idol John Joseph upon him — and said, ‘No, Sir.’
‘Then what are you doing to your sister?’
‘He was feeding her with his own food,’ said Helen very rapidly. ‘I think it considerate of him. Thank you, Jackdaw.’
He looked at her gratefully, gulping his cup of tea noisily in embarrassment.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Webbe Weston uncertainly. ‘Yes. To be sure. Well, you must all hurry and finish your repast because the estate workers will be up soon.’ She turned to Helen. ‘Such a nuisance really, but then it’s been a custom here since ancient times. Long ago they used to dance in the old barn, but that tradition ended when poor Miss Melior Mary grew old. Such a shame. Anyway, nowadays they come up for a kitchen supper and then the children are allowed to play for a while. Not that there are many of them left with everything dwindling so.’ She gave an apologetic laugh.
‘Quite true,’ said her husband. ‘Money draining. Hard times. Can’t go on for ever.’
It was not clear whether he meant that the end of his resources was in sight or that his luck was about to turn, and nobody thought it delicate to enquire. In the slight silence that followed Violet gave a convulsive gulp and said, ‘Can we play in all the house, please Ma’am?’
Mrs Webbe Weston hesitated. ‘Well, the East Wing is in a poor state ...’
‘Oh, let them see it, Mama,’ put in John Joseph. ‘They can’t come to much harm. After all, Miss Huss is here.’
The wretched governess, who had been sitting at the table without uttering, now raised her head and gave an unenthusiastic nod.
‘Very well,’ said his mother. ‘But nobody is to go into the Chapel. It is far too damp. Besides —’ she added piously, ‘it is not right that children should play in a place of worship.’
‘Used it not to be a Long Gallery?’ This from Helen.
‘Originally, yes. It was Cousin Melior Mary who had it changed. She grew very odd in her declining years, you know.’
‘Somebody once told me it was haunted.’
Mrs Webbe Weston looked uncomfortable and said, ‘Les enfants, Helen!’
John Joseph, who seemed intent on mischief, said, ‘It is. By a jester. May I take the boys on a ghost hunt, Mother?’
‘No you may not. Such talk! Come Helen, children. Let us see what has been prepared below. I ordered some hams and beef sides. I do hope there will be enough.’
She looked suddenly distraught and Jackdaw had a fleeting moment of pity for her. It was obvious that the Webbe Westons had fallen into dire straits, that Sutton Place was bleeding them white. He wondered if they would be able to continue to live there in such awful and harrowing penury.
But below stairs a considerable effort had been made. A large table, spread with a darned but nonetheless crisp cloth, had been laid with a plain yet plentiful feast. A haunch of mutton added to the choice of meats, and leveret and chicken pies were packed closely by cheeses, puddings and tarts. Jugs of ale stood at the ready and there were cordials and sweets for the children. Above all loomed a large Christmas cake iced and decorated with the words Yuletide Greetings.
Standing and staring at the collation, caps in hands and shuffling a little, were two dozen or so assorted men, women and children. These were the servants, gardeners and farm labourers who nowadays comprised the staff of Sutton Place. Three hundred years before Sir Richard Weston’s lads had swarmed the house in their dozens, and even when the last of the male line —
John Weston — had taken his adopted daughter Sibella to her wedding at Holy Trinity, she had been preceded by eighty marching people from the estate. But now only this diminished collection was left. Nonetheless they shouted a brave Huzzah for the Master and Mistress, and as Mr Webbe Weston cried jovially, ‘Merry Christmas. Be seated all. Hot punch. Ha ha!’ a fiddle struck up.
Jackdaw had never seen anything quite like it; the rosy-cheeked children scrambling for places nearest the cake and the adults jostling one another at the punch bowl. And they certainly made up in noise for what they lacked in numbers; giggles and shouts, laughs and the odd muffled curse filled the huge kitchen. Sutton Place might have fallen on hard times but these people were determined to enjoy themselves.
John Joseph stood amongst them in the most carefree manner, lifting the smaller children into their chairs and even going so far as to push one fat boy out of his seat that a tiny and pale lame child might have a place.
‘Why is he like that?’ Jackdaw whispered. ‘What caused such a thing?’
He stared at the crushed and broken leg which hung, smaller than the other, above the ground, and was painfully reminded of his own deformity. Surreptitiously he hid his built-up shoe beneath the flowing tablecloth.
‘He was caught in a man trap.’
‘A what?’
‘A trap for men. It is set to catch poachers. It has iron teeth which sink into the flesh and break the leg.’
‘Ugh!’
‘The last poacher caught on the estate was transported for ten years.’
‘It seems very cruel — all of it.’
John Joseph’s eyes were suddenly bleak. ‘This is a cruel house, Jackdaw.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing goes right here. There’s supposedly a curse on the Lord of the Manor.’
Behind John Joseph’s head a copper pitcher blurred as a picture began to form in it. The stars danced in Jackdaw’s head.
‘A curse of ancient times,’ John Joseph went on, unaware of Jackdaw’s fixed and unblinking gaze. ‘They say it strikes the lord and heir — that the heir dies young in many cases; that the lord has no good fortune. Look at my father. He had never a debt till he inherited this place. Now he is practically ruined. What are you staring at?’