Sandringham Rose

by Mary Mackie

  What had she said – ‘upsetting Miss de Crecy’? Stunned, I looked at the pale girl beside me. Was this frightened creature the ‘beautiful heiress’, Geoffrey’s intended bride?

  ‘Leave us, Lucy,’ Lady Devlin said.

  The girl looked relieved. ‘Yes, Aunt. Thank you.’ But before she left she gave me a troubled glance. The hand that had been guarding her mouth dropped away, and I saw the scar that cut across her upper lip, puckering and disfiguring it.

  ‘They say she’s horribly deformed,’ Grace’s voice echoed in my head. The story had been exaggerated in the telling, but it was evidently based on truth. Wealthy as Miss Lucinda de Crecy might be, some accident had destroyed her chances of beauty. Now she was afraid to be seen in public. Poor girl. My heart contracted with pity as she hurried away, her slippers pattering on the polished floorboards that edged the room.

  And then with a chill I thought of Geoffrey – my Geoffrey – planning to marry that sad, timid creature. ‘I shall be a faithful husband,’ he had vowed. Did he love the girl? Perhaps he pitied her. Or perhaps the truth was that she was heiress to great wealth, while Sir Arthur’s experiments in farming had drained his own resources and put him in debt. Was Geoffrey marrying her merely to restore his family fortune?

  ‘Well, Miss Hamilton?’ Lady Devlin reminded me of her presence.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ I said, starting for the door. But as I passed her I paused and looked her in the eye, saying, ‘I apologise for the way I burst in, and for my appearance. I was angry. I didn’t think.’

  ‘That would appear to be an unfortunate trait in your character,’ she replied loftily.

  ‘I didn’t mean to cause offence. I came to try and settle this stupid feud. We’re tired of it. My father’s unwell and… Lady Devlin, you must know as well as I do that if your husband doesn’t curb his temper he may do something that—’

  Her eyes sparked at me. They were slate-blue, like Geoffrey’s. Though she was turned sixty, grey-haired and female, I saw clearly where her son had acquired his good looks. ‘My husband,’ she said coldly, ‘is perfectly in control of his temper. Unlike yourself, by your own admission, Miss Hamilton. As for your brother, I suggest that next time you listen to him whine you might stay to enquire a little more deeply into the truth. Yes, he was found on Ambleford land. He had a shot-gun with him. He was shooting pheasant. Which would you prefer for him, Miss Hamilton – a beating, to teach him a lesson, or a jail sentence for poaching?’

  ‘I would have preferred it if Sir Arthur had had the courtesy to explain it to me himself,’ I said. ‘Good day, Lady Devlin.’

  When I tackled Johnny about it, he confessed. Yes, he had taken a shot-gun with him, but he had been after rabbit, not pheasant. He wouldn’t be such a fool as to go after pheasant. I believed him. I was furious with him for lying to me over the gun, but for the rest I believed him. I still do.

  And – no, we didn’t tell Father. Not about any of it.

  * * *

  Geoffrey married his heiress later that month. At the bride’s request, the wedding took place at Ambleford church, followed by a vast reception to which most of county society – including the Wyatt family – was invited. The only notable absentee was, apparently, Lucinda’s father, struck down by illness at the last moment.

  I spent the day at home, in a daze, hardly knowing what I was doing, all my aching thoughts concentrated on what was happening a few miles away, my imagination conjuring the scene in painful detail. I kept dreaming that news would come of some last-minute change of heart by one of the parties. Only will-power prevented me from making a spectacle of myself by riding over to Ambleford to witness the event.

  Felicity Wyatt later told me how wonderful the bride’s gown had been, all lace and pearls; how handsome the groom had looked, and how exciting their honeymoon was going to be – six whole months in Europe.

  ‘Lucinda looked quite beautiful,’ she kept saying. Felicity seldom spoke an unkind word about anyone.

  But others had been at the wedding, and had got their first good view of Lucinda de Crecy. Gossip spread, like a flood-tide across the marshes, as people speculated about the truth of the affair. General feeling was summed up by one matron who was heard to remark, ‘Well, she’s rich, and in the dark I dare say her equipment’s the same as every other woman’s. Geoffrey Devlin’s no fool. Once he’s got her in the family way he’ll be free to carry on with his philandering. She’s not the sort to ask too many questions. Only too pleased to have got herself a husband of any kind, I should think.’

  * * *

  After harvest, when the cost of damage to our crops became calculable, the angry farmers called a meeting. Father attended it and, seeming disturbed by what had happened, recounted the story to me as we walked in the orchard, checking the fruit, with the sun low and clouds of screaming swifts darting over the meadow after midges.

  The annual audit of farm rents was due at Michaelmas; as a matter of custom, it was preceded by a tenants’ dinner held in one of the large hotels in King’s Lynn and attended by the Sandringham agent and the prince’s London lawyer. At this year’s dinner, the farmers intended to rise as one man and demand proper compensation for damage by game. The longest-standing tenant had sworn that, if he didn’t get fair treatment, he would resign his lease.

  ‘A sight of good it will do him,’ Father said in weary disgust. ‘He’ll lose his home, that’s all, when he’s spent years of toil and a fortune in good money consolidating and improving the land. Beck won’t be blackmailed by threats of that kind. There are farmers lining up to get a place on the royal estate.’

  ‘Is that what you think, or what McDowall says?’ I asked – our farm steward was known for his pessimism.

  He shot me a dark look. ‘It’s a fact. I don’t need McDowall to point out what’s plain as a pikestaff.’

  ‘Then you won’t join the protest?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll join it – God willing. I’ll complain as loudly as the next man, never you fear. And then I’ll listen to Beck explain why there won’t be compensation, and why the rent’s going up again.’

  ‘But it’s not right!’ I exclaimed. ‘Our profits are being eaten up by those rotten “kangaroos”. If it goes on—’

  ‘So what do you want me to do about it, Rose? Maybe you’d like to go to the audit and have it out with Beck yourself.’

  ‘I only wish I could!’ I said fiercely.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a fool,’ he sighed, and turned away, coughing, hawking up mucus that he spat over the fence. ‘It’s coming up damp. Best come in and have your dinner.’

  * * *

  The following Sunday, when William Turnbull arrived, he asked to speak to me alone. In his solemn, pedantic fashion, he was seeking my permission to approach Father to ask for Grace’s hand in marriage.

  ‘I thought it only right to speak with you first,’ he said. ‘You have known for some time that my affections were turning towards your sister. Even so, I should be in your debt if you could find it in your heart freely to give us your blessing. I was always most fond of you, Miss Hamilton. And while fondness may have been enough, had you returned it, my feelings for your sister are such that—’

  When he was embarrassed, it made him more pompous than ever.

  ‘Mr Turnbull… William, dear,’ I sighed. ‘If you’re in love with my sister, shouldn’t you be telling her, not me?’

  He looked down at the hat he was turning in his hands. ‘I have done so.’

  ‘And will she have you?’

  ‘Her only fear is that, by marrying one who was formerly so bold as to call frequently on her older sister, she may offend you. And, you being the older, you might expect her to wait until such time as you yourself are in the happy position of—’

  ‘She might die of old age, waiting for that,’ I said. ‘Oh…’ Reaching on tiptoe, I brushed a kiss against an unbearded area of his face. ‘Go and put her out of her misery. I’ll dance at your wedding and be glad for you both.�
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  As he hurried away to give the news to Grace, I was prey to a momentary pang of regret. But if I had married William Turnbull his stiff formality would have irritated me to fury. He deserved better.

  Father gave his consent, and so a delirious Grace became engaged and began to make plans for a spring wedding. Not only was she stealing a march on me, she was going to the altar ahead of her dear friend Maria Kinnersley, who was beside herself with envy. Grace’s cup was full.

  * * *

  On the day of the tenants’ dinner, tense and unable to settle, I took Dandy for a gallop through the autumn woods. A big shoot was being held in the Dersingham area, so I went the other way, towards Ambleford, and found myself following familiar pathways. Hares ran ahead of me, and birds flew complaining as I raced along, my mind on the rent audit and what might come of the farmers’ protest at their dinner. Without consciously intending it, I came to the refuge.

  I sat on Dandy’s back staring at the mean, tumble-down hut that had witnessed so much youthful passion, so many hopes and heartaches. It was a desolate place now. Weeds grew waist-high, inside and out, and a sapling had somehow grown, poking its way through the thatch. Hurdle walls were broken, sagging askew. And on one of the nearby trees was nailed a gamekeeper’s gibbet – a long pole on which, impaled on metal hooks, the dead bodies of stoats, rats, squirrels, jays and magpies hung rotting. It seemed a comment on the nature of my relationship with Geoffrey Devlin.

  I had avoided the place before, because of an illogical fear of facing my memories. But my memories were with me all the time. And now I had to face the present: Geoffrey was far away, in Europe with his new wife; my sister was to marry the man whom once I might have had for my own husband; and I…

  A rustling of leaves jerked me out of my reverie. I started, making Dandy dance uneasily beneath me, as one of the Sandringham gamekeepers ducked out of a thicket and stood glowering at me.

  I knew the man by sight. His name was Pyke, and he was reputed to be ferocious with anything, on two legs or four, that threatened his precious pheasants. A shifty-eyed, unshaven man, he wore a jaunty hat with a feather in it, crammed down near to bushy eyebrows, and on his scrawny frame the uniform of cord breeches and green velveteen jacket hung lank and oversized. Over his arm he carried a broken shot-gun, while his other hand restrained a shaggy wolfhound by a short leash.

  ‘What the ’ell d’you think you’re doin’ ’ere?!’ Astounded to be addressed in such a coarse, hostile manner, I said, ‘I beg your pardon? How dare you speak to me in—’

  He gestured with the gun. ‘Go on! Get away from ’ere. You’re disturbing the game.’

  ‘My good man,’ said I, ‘I happen to know that the shoot is over at Dersingham.’

  ‘So it is. Today. They’re shooting these woods tomorrow, as you know very well.’

  ‘Indeed? And how should I know that?’

  ‘’Course you know! Why else are you ’ere? Thought you’d come over and stir up the birds, did you? Scare a few of ’em away? I know what you’d like to do, if you had your way. Blasted farmers! At ’em, Tyke! At ’em!’ With that, he loosed his dog.

  The wolfhound came leaping, barking and snapping round my stirrup. Dandy reared in fright. I clung on, trying to keep my seat, trying to control him. Then he thudded to earth and shot off, almost unseating me. Above the snarling of the dog, I heard the keeper call out in derision as low branches slapped at my face. I bent close to Dandy’s neck. I shouted at him, hauling at the reins, but he was out of control. He would have to run it out.

  He stepped into a hole. I heard the bone snap, and then I was flying headlong into a thicket of bramble and bracken. Tossed head over heels, I lay winded for a moment, then scrambled up in a fury. Dandy was whinnying piteously, threshing in pain. The dog stood over him, still giving tongue.

  Hampered by thorns and briers, wrenching my skirts free from their clutches, I went to throw myself down near the horse, speaking to soothe him, seeing his eyes roll wildly.

  Pyke had come up. He said, ‘Only one thing for it. Move aside, miss,’ and I heard him prepare his shot-gun.

  ‘Don’t you—’ Leaping up, I wrested the gun from him. He was so surprised he didn’t even try to stop me. I stood over Dandy, sighting down the long double barrel, waiting for a moment when he was still enough for me to be sure of a clean shot. The gun boomed. The kick hurt my shoulder, drove me staggering back a few steps. As Dandy died, such pain twisted inside me that I swung round, levelling the gun at the man who had caused Dandy’s death. I had one barrel left.

  The dog went wild. The keeper went pale. He held out his hands. ‘Wait, miss. Don’t!’

  I swung the gun, pointing it straight up in the air, and discharged the shot. Ears ringing from the noise, I threw the gun at the keeper and whirled to kneel beside Dandy. Around us the shot pattered like hail on leaves and branches.

  Blinded by tears, I stroked Dandy’s neck, hating the keeper, hating the prince. ‘Damn them! Damn them all!!’ I raged, having no better vocabulary to express my feelings.

  They had robbed me of my last living link with Victor.

  When eventually I looked up, the under-gamekeeper and his dog had gone. Good! I didn’t need his help. If he had offered it I would have refused. In anger and distress, I ran to summon other hands to help bring Dandy home.

  My way led me along a sorry field of mangolds whose hare-bitten tops were as sparse of leaf as the roots were thin beneath them. The sight only added to my bitter sense of injustice. It wasn’t right! It wasn’t fair! Father had worked hard to build up the farm; just when he was prospering, along came the Prince of Wales and, all for his own private sport and amusement, allowed our livelihood to be jeopardised. There had to be some way of bringing the truth home to him.

  We buried Dandy in a corner of the meadow, within sight of the orchards where the ladders were out, the fruit being cropped. Johnny and Grace were there, and the men who had dug the grave, with McDowall observing in his non-committal way. Mama didn’t come out; she said it was all too sad to bear and she would watch from a window. She had one of her weepy moods on, perhaps because Father had gone to Lynn. He was attending the tenants’ dinner, and would be staying overnight at Weal House before meeting with the agent and lawyer next day to agree the rent figure for the coming year. I guessed that Mama wondered who else he might be seeing in Lynn; she was still haunted by the existence of her rival, Jane Stead.

  ‘We’ll have a headstone made,’ Grace promised through her tears, holding my arm to comfort me as the men shovelled soft dark earth on to the old blanket which covered Dandy’s body. ‘Don’t weep, Rose.’

  I wasn’t weeping, not then. My eyes were dry, my tears done. I felt hard and angry, bitter with the whole world, and determined to do something about it. If Father didn’t have the energy to fight for our rights, then I would. I would!

  * * *

  Unable to sleep for thinking of Dandy, and the coming audit, I got up at first light. I was stiff from my fall the previous day, my right knee sore and bruises showing on several parts of my body; it all helped to fuel my determination. Going out to the decimated field of mangolds, I pulled several of the sorry roots and put them in a willow basket. Then, dressed in my best coat of pine-green cloth with Russian frogging, I took the dogcart and drove to Lynn.

  Early as it was, the town was busy. Horses and vehicles jostled for space, carriers’ carts and farmers’ buggies, village women carrying laden baskets, all on their way to the Tuesday market. I negotiated the dogcart through the throng, down King Street and under the carriage arch to the yard behind Weal House.

  As I entered the house, Aunt Beatrice was hurrying down the stairs with her skirts billowing and an anxious look on her face. She paused in surprise on seeing me.

  ‘Why… Rose, were you expected? Oh, no matter, I’m glad you’re here. Your father’s been taken ill. He went to the dinner last night and came in quite late. Then this morning the maid found him collapsed in his roo
m. No…’ As I made for the stairs, she drew me instead towards the morning-room, ‘don’t go up. He’s sleeping now.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with him?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘The doctor says it’s a stomach disorder. It may take a few days to clear up. But he’s welcome to stay here. You know that. I’ll look after him.’

  In the sunny morning-room, Uncle Jonathan was at breakfast in company with Uncle Seward, who had come over from Morsford to offer his support at the audit. Being directors of Hamilton’s Bank, both of them could claim to be Father’s financial advisers.

  ‘Stomach disorder!’ scoffed the portly Seward, tucking into a plateful of devilled kidneys and fat bacon. ‘Why not call a spade a spade, Bea? Truth is, Rose, your father had too much to drink.’

  ‘Seward!’ Aunt Beatrice reproved. ‘Have some charity.’

  He made a face at her. ‘Can’t stand mealy-mouthed humbug. You know that, Bea. Besides, Will was bound to get falling-down drunk. He never did take disappointment well.’

  ‘Disappointment?’ I queried.

  Uncle Jonathan, thin and lugubrious as a stork, explained: ‘Mr Beck and the solicitor both found themselves unable to attend the tenants’ dinner last evening owing to other engagements.’

  ‘You mean they heard there was going to be trouble and they both turned coward,’ said Uncle Seward. ‘So the farmers’ guns were spiked, Rose. No point in taking aim when the targets weren’t in sight.’

  ‘And now your father has made sure of losing today’s fight, too,’ Uncle Jonathan added. ‘There’s not a great deal of purpose in our attending the audit without him.’