by Deryn Lake
‘Yes.’
‘But what has he to do with it?’
‘He has second sight,’ said Mary simply. ‘You know, the old Romany gift. He sees lots of things. He could tell you whether the house is out to catch you.’
Mrs Trevelyan laughed and shivered simultaneously.
‘What an interesting young man. I shall ask him to read my palm when he rejoins us. Does he practise that kind of thing?’
‘I have never seen him do so. But then we have been out of touch for four years. And now he is — grown-up. Who knows?’
Mary blushed and looked at her lap and Mrs Trevelyan laughed again.
‘I think you have a soft spot in your heart for him.’
Mary, shooting her a glance of consternation was about to reply when the door was tapped lightly and John Joseph and Jackdaw came into the room.
‘So you did not linger long,’ said Mrs Trevelyan. She turned to Jackdaw with a smile. ‘Mr Wardlaw, I believe I have underestimated you.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Really, Mrs Trevelyan? How is that?’
‘Mary has been telling me that you are not only a linguist. She says you have the gift of clairvoyance.’
‘I did long ago. It seems to have departed in recent years. But why does that interest you?’
‘I don’t know really. Perhaps because I would like to have prior knowledge of the direction in which Fate will take me. Will you read my future? Am I to be affected by the curse of Sutton Place?’
John Joseph leant forward in his chair, his hands suddenly clenching.
‘How did you know about that? Marguerite, who has been talking to you?’
Realizing with a lurching heart that he had said her name out loud the wretched young man looked at the floor in misery, not daring to catch anyone’s eye. Mrs Trevelyan passed over the gaffe as if it had not taken place.
‘Nobody has been talking to me, as you say, John Joseph. The subject came up quite naturally in conversation between Mary and myself. And you are not to look at her crossly. Somebody would have told me of it sooner or later.’
Jackdaw, seeing his friend’s wretched face, spoke up rather rapidly.
‘I have never told fortunes — as it is called.’
‘Could you not try?’
‘If I do we must be alone.’
Mrs Trevelyan’s fine eyebrows rose and Jackdaw added, ‘If I see certain events, you might not wish them discussed before your guests.’
The widow nodded her head slowly. ‘Mary, John Joseph — would you humour me in this? I have always found such things so fascinating. You may have noticed that I have had a pianoforte placed in the Great Hall — a Broadwood, you know — and I wonder if you would mind amusing yourselves for ten minutes.’
John Joseph stood up at once and, after a second or two, Mary — rather reluctantly — did so as well.
‘I promise I shall not keep him longer than necessary,’ said Mrs Trevelyan, giving them a smile that made John Joseph’s heart race again.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ answered Mary — and went so red that she had to fly out of the room to hide her burning cheeks.
‘A charming young couple,’ said Mrs Trevelyan, staring after their departing backs. ‘I am so fortunate to have them as landlords.’
She and Jackdaw eyed each other closely behind their smiles.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘do you wish to see my palms? Or I have some playing cards if that would be better.’
‘Mrs Trevelyan,’ answered Jackdaw. ‘I have never done this before in my life — but I will try. Let me look into that silver dish.’
She laughed a little mockingly. ‘A surrogate crystal ball?’
‘Something of that nature. Here, put your hand on it first. Try to be quiet.’
She gave him a sharp glance at the abrupt way he spoke, but saw that he was serious. From downstairs the sound of the piano — rather laboriously played — drifted up to where they sat. There was no other noise except the differing rhythms of their breathing.
‘Does the name Fish Street mean anything to you?’ said Jackdaw softly.
Mrs Trevelyan drew in a sharp breath and looked at him with a narrow eye; other than that she made no reply.
‘I see six poor children,’ he went on. ‘I see a mother dead before the youngest was two. I see a pretty young girl, Mrs Trevelyan. I see the Alhambra Theatre, Manchester.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘No? Ah well. I see lights and music and ballet girls ...’
‘Enough!’ She withdrew her hand abruptly from the salver. ‘Is that all you can talk about, the past? Do you see nothing of what lies ahead?’
‘I see great riches, Mrs Trevelyan — and a broken heart.’
‘Whose? Mine?’
‘No, not yours.’ Jackdaw shook his head. ‘You will always triumph. Yours is a soul of steel — you are a dangerous woman for men to know.’
She leaned forward so that her eyes were an inch from his.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am. You just try, Mister, clawing your way up from a slum’s gutter. You just bloody try.’
‘Don’t destroy John Joseph.’
‘Destroy? A man? They’re all tarred with the same brush! Even you, with your pretty looks and your sad little limp.’
‘How poetically put.’
‘I am bored with this conversation,’ said Marguerite Trevelyan, suddenly standing up. ‘And with you. After you leave my house this evening you will not be welcome to call again.’
‘Sutton Place is not your house,’ Jackdaw answered, also rising. ‘Nor will it ever be so. Be careful what you say and do here, Mrs Trevelyan. Sometimes I think it watches.’
She turned away in a flurry of petticoats, then stopped, her hand on the door knob.
‘You breathe a word of this at your peril,’ she said.
Jackdaw gave a jerky bow. ‘What I learn through clairvoyance must be kept a secret. But even if I were to blurt everything it would make no difference. You must know as well as I do that John Joseph is already enchanted with you.’
She made no answer, simply flinging the door open and running down the corridor towards the stairs. The piano music finished abruptly as she called out gaily, ‘Hello there, my dears. No don’t stop playing. I love the sound. Let us all sing together.’
Jackdaw walked slowly along behind her, reluctantly meaning to join them but instead — not knowing quite why he did so — stepping into the West Musicians’ Gallery which let him look down on the scene below without being observed. Not altogether to his surprise he saw that somebody was already sitting there, black curls just hidden by the shadows.
‘Cloverella?’ he said.
‘Jackdaw?’
They had never set eyes on each other before but she rose and took his hand like a long-lost friend.
‘I have heard so much of you from the Webbe Westons.’
‘And I you.’
‘Is it possible that we know each other?’
Much to his astonishment Cloverella answered, ‘Yes. It is certain that I am familiar to you because we are kinfolk.’
‘Related?’
‘Aye. You are a descendant of Dr Zachary through Sibella Gage and her mother Amelia FitzHoward, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we are twenty-second cousins — or something as remote.’
Jackdaw gaped at her. ‘Why? Who are you?’
‘I am also one of his tribe. By his second wife Cloverella the Witch.’
‘He married twice?’
‘Yes, but surely you knew that? His first wife Jane died of the Sweat.’
Jackdaw sat down rather fast on an old gilt chair that had stood in the Gallery since the days of Melior Mary.
‘I am amazed,’ he said. ‘Yet I feel that I have perhaps heard something of the story in the old family tales. Was Cloverella the Witch not astrologer to the great Seymour family?’
‘That she was,’ answered Miss Blanchard with a chuckle. �
�Mortal enemies of the Howard clan, they were. There were some fine goings-on — and yet was there ever such an alliance?’
‘I can well imagine. So — greetings, my little hazelnut cousin! Am I allowed a fraternal kiss?’
She put her rosy mouth to his and held it there for one second longer than was decent between relatives.
‘You’re wicked,’ said Jackdaw.
She laughed. ‘I know. But not like her down there.’
She motioned to the Great Hall that lay below. Jackdaw followed the movement, keeping his dark head low, and peeped over the balustrade.
Directly beneath him was the Broadwood pianoforte, seated at it Mary. John Joseph and Marguerite Trevelyan stood just behind her, not touching and yet touching tremendously with the feeling that was passing from one to the other. The young man leant forward slightly, turning the music for his sister, while Marguerite had her sweet voice raised in song.
‘Dear, dear!’ said Jackdaw.
‘Yes, indeed! Have you inherited the sight from your old blood?’
‘I have — but not consistently. It has been gone for four years — except for a brief time when my mother was ill — but tonight it came back when Mrs Trevelyan wanted her future read. Why is that?’
‘You have not fully developed. You are afraid of the power perhaps.’
‘Yes,’ said Jackdaw slowly, ‘I think so. It frightened me witless on the night Sam Clopper disappeared.’
‘He’s in the Chapel somewhere,’ Cloverella answered surprisingly. ‘I saw him up there. I was waiting for you to come, Jackdaw, that we might find his poor bones and lay them to rest with Christian rite.’
‘When do you want to search?’
‘I would go now but they might see us.’
The distant cousins looked down with one thought at the little musical gathering below them. John Joseph was singing a solo in a light baritone and Mrs Trevelyan had taken a seat nearby, gazing steadfastly into her lap.
‘What is going to happen there?’ said Jackdaw. ‘Will she break his heart?’
Cloverella blushed a little. ‘W-e-ll, I am not as gifted as my ancestress, but I do believe she will.’ She sighed. ‘Poor John Joseph.’
Beneath them the soirée was breaking up as Marguerite led the way, her full skirt sweeping behind her, in the direction of the West Staircase and out of the line of vision of the Musicians’ Gallery. Somewhere they heard Mary’s voice call out, ‘Jackdaw!’
‘Now’s our chance,’ said Cloverella. ‘Are you game to go searching? I’ve a good idea where Sam is.’
‘All right. But I daren’t be too long. It would be rude.’
‘Move fast then. They are in her sitting room. We can creep down the stairs without them knowing.’
The two descendants of Dr Zachary joined hands in the shadows and went across the Great Hall, peeping into John Weston’s library on their left, up the Great Staircase and beyond into what had once been the Long Gallery.
The smell of rot was so pungent that Jackdaw had the grim thought poor Sam could have mouldered away anywhere within without causing undue attention.
‘Is there any light up here?’ he whispered, to hide his feelings from Cloverella.
‘Only the Chapel candles. Wait, I’ll light some.’
In the darkness he heard her strike a tinder and saw, as the pools of flame lengthened, just how terrible the great Gallery had become.
‘It’s a sin,’ he said. ‘This place was made for joy and laughter.’
Behind him a stick rattled along the Chapel wall. He started violently, turning ready to defend himself. There was nothing.
‘What was that?’
‘Only Giles. Take no notice of him, he’s harmless. He’s not been here much since this became a place of worship.’
‘Worship!’ Jackdaw answered with bitterness. ‘How one could praise God in such a dwelling defeats me.’
Cloverella turned to face him and suddenly, there in the dim candlelight, they were very alike; dark as rooks — and magical.
‘We know about worshipping God, don’t we? The God of ancient lore and light.’
‘Was Cloverella a white witch?’
‘Very much so. Like Dr Zachary’s mother she had the power without becoming a Mistress of Satan.’
Will you do your best to protect John Joseph?’
‘Yes. But Jackdaw, I believe the die is cast. It is his fate to love Marguerite and to know bitterness.’
‘Probably. Cloverella, where did you see ...’
‘The ghost? Over there. Follow me.’
She led him to a spot beyond the altar where the shadows lay like ink pools. Snatching up one of the candles, Jackdaw peered within.
‘There’s nothing there — only an old oak chest.’
‘We must open it.’
‘You don’t think ...? Oh my God!’ He heaved at the lid but it was shut solid, jammed in some way. ‘Help me push.’
Her fingers were like little claws as she grabbed the top and Jackdaw was violently reminded of his vision in the kitchens of Sutton Place — the coffin lid closing irrevocably. There was a creak and a whirl of dust and the hinges finally moved.
‘Don’t look’, said Jackdaw.
‘I’m not afraid. He can’t hurt me.’
But nonetheless she shuddered and turned into Jackdaw’s shoulder at the sight of the little deformed skeleton that lay within.
They had found Sam Clopper.
7
Four months after they buried the lost boy the first snow of winter came. Caroline Webbe Weston stood before the little mouldering grave and threw winter roses on to the white earth. They lay there like drops of blood, seeming to tincture the ground. And as she watched they formed into shapes, dazzling her and making her eyes full of tears.
‘Oh Sam, Sam,’ she said with a sigh, but nothing answered her except a churchyard rook.
She drove back to Sutton Park in the pony and trap — blinded by the dancing flakes and frozen by the cold — and thought not only of her future and that of her family but that of England as well. The Great Reform Bill passed the year before — in 1832 — had heralded a revolution in society. The middle classes had been enfranchised; ordinary people like the curate could now go and vote.
Not only that. The railways had come to break up the countryside; the population was increasing; James Nasmyth was perfecting a steam hammer that could forge a mighty casting or crack an egg. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Caroline’s thoughts turned to the monarchy; to the lonely girl who lived with her German mother in Kensington Palace and would, one day soon now, rule them all. Some people said that the new age had begun with locomotion, that the old days of wicked George IV and his brother William — the Sailor King — were over. They already thought of themselves as the early Victorians.
With a burst of confidence Caroline pictured the country beneath a young and attractive Queen. Surely, she thought, one of the most fascinating epochs in British history was about to begin.
‘Gee up, Jessie,’ she said to the pony and turned into the Home Park — and crumpets for tea.
Standing at her bedroom window, watching the countryside turning white for miles around, Marguerite Trevelyan saw the trap go by and knocked and waved her hand. But, of course, Caroline did not hear her and went bowling on past Sutton Place without even looking up from the depths of her sober black hood.
Bored, Marguerite sighed and consulted the gold watch pinned on to her bodice. Another hour until she could decently ring for tea. She felt she could weep with the sheer quiet and stillness of the house. In fact it often unnerved her, spending so much time alone in such a vast and echoing mansion.
‘Thank God it’s Christmas next week,’ she said aloud. ‘At least I can invite the County without appearing unseemly.’
She stared at her reflection in the glass, garbed in black from head to toe.
‘Well, widow woman,’ she said to it. ‘You’ve another five years left till you
see forty — another five years to make yourself a good match. For, as God is my judge, I’ve no intention of wearing drab colours and living nunlike the rest of my days. I would as soon flout convention and appear in this ...’
She turned to her wardrobe and from its depths dragged out a box with a French label upon it. Laying it on her bed, she reached within the mounds of tissue paper and drew out an evening gown which she held against her: yards of voluptuous crimson floated like a wisp while — so stark that it was shocking — white bands of dove’s feathers formed thin straps to cover the shoulders.
‘... and be ousted by polite society.’
She whirled about as if she were dancing, and then, on a sudden impulse, drew out a midnight blue riding habit.
‘I’ve had enough of black for one day,’ she said, still speaking aloud. ‘Anyway, who’s to see me when I ride alone?’
As quickly as she thought of it she rang her bell and when her maid appeared said, ‘Help me change. I’ve decided to go riding.’
‘But Ma’am, it’s snowing heavily.’
‘I don’t care. Lace me in tightly. I’ve still a smaller waist than most.’
She stood before the maid naked except for her stockings and garters.
‘But Ma’am, are you to wear nothing underneath on this cold day?’
‘No, nothing. It fits better like this. Go on, don’t stare.’
‘Yes, Mrs Trevelyan.’
Twenty minutes later she was in the side saddle, her habit like a second skin as she had hoped, her veiled hat with its plume of little feathers perched jauntily on her head, her honeyed hair snatched into a blue snood.
‘You can’t ride alone, Ma’am,’ said the groom, staring at her in covert admiration. ‘It’s far too treacherous underfoot.’
‘Nonsense,’ she answered. ‘I rode in worse weather than this when I lived in the North. I shall be back within an hour.’
‘Mind you do, Ma’am. It’ll be dark early today.’
She smiled and nodded and trotted off across the cobbles in the direction of the River Wey. But once there she changed course swiftly. It was her foremost intention to go to Pomona House, pleading sudden fatigue caused by the weather, and there to beg a cup of tea. And to see John Joseph, naturally, and tease him lightly for not calling upon her.