by Mary Mackie
‘I might ask you the same! Dressed like that… Who do you think you are – Sidney Carton?’
‘At least I wasn’t fool enough to come alone.’
‘Oh?’ I glanced round, but in the shadows among the young pines I could see no one else.
‘Your uncle, Henry Hamilton, is with me,’ Geoffrey said irritably. ‘The entire purpose of our being here was to discover what was said. Now, thanks to you, I shall have to rely on Major Hamilton’s memory. We both agreed it was imperative that you be got away.’
If Uncle Henry was here, then the prince too had sent his spy. None of us could afford to be complacent.
‘I have as much reason to be here as you do!’ I retorted.
‘You should have sent your steward.’
‘I don’t trust my steward.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t! He’s probably there cheering with the rest of them, if he’s not in the inn pretending it’s a fuss about nothing. Besides, I run Orchards Farm, not him. If my men are being talked into treachery—’
‘You shouldn’t have come alone! Where’s your husband?’
‘Away, as usual. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing half the time – but that seems to be the way with modern marriage, thanks to the example of His Royal Highness. Companionship is as outmoded as fidelity.’
Muttering an oath, Geoffrey swung me round against the wheel of the trap. ‘If that’s a jibe at me,’ he said fiercely, ‘the only reason I sent that note was because I wanted to warn you to keep away from this meeting! Go home. If there’s g-going to be trouble, I want you well out of it.’
‘Why should there be trouble?’
‘It’s brewing. Can’t you feel it? Someone disabled our reaper, and last night an attempt was made to fire one of our barns.’
‘What?’
‘The attempt was unsuccessful. The dogs disturbed him in time, thank God, but—’
My throat felt clogged with fear. If there was an arsonist on the loose, none of us was safe. ‘Do you know who it was?’
‘No. The dogs roused us, but he got away.’
‘Have you ever suspected… the man Chilvers – Amos Chilvers?’
‘Our teamsman?’ Geoffrey considered, then admitted, ‘I’ve heard the stories they tell about him. He’s a surly devil, it’s true. And he seems to have had some personal grudge against your father. But he’s a fine man with horses. I’ve no reason to suspect him of doing harm at Ambleford.’
‘Even though he’s a close associate of Davy Timms?’
‘Who?’
‘One of the men who accosted me just now – the one with the scarred face, on account of which he bears a weighty chip on his shoulder. His sister is married to Chilvers’s son. They go drinking together, so I’ve heard.’
‘Well, there’s no crime in that, surely. What are you implying – that Chilvers is part of a conspiracy?’
‘I only meant…’ What had I meant, except that I was worried for him? In little more than a whisper, I begged him, ‘Be careful. Please be careful.’
The night came alive with awareness, unspoken messages sparking between us.
When at last he spoke, his voice was low and taut. ‘I waited an hour at the cottage on Friday. Why didn’t you come?’
‘The boy didn’t give me your note until too late.’
In the silence I heard the faint sound of the unionist’s voice, and a murmur of approval from the men. The earth was dark, the sky still streaked with light.
Geoffrey swept off his ridiculous hat and came nearer. In the darkness his face was just a pale blur marked by the thick line of his moustache. ‘D-do you know what day it was on Friday?’
My heart seemed to lurch. I turned my head away, looking off into the dark woods, moistening my dry lips. ‘The nineteenth of July.’
‘Ten years to the day.’
‘Yes.’
‘You remember?’
I closed my eyes tightly, feeling my throat choked with anguish. How could I forget the date we first met – really met – in the old hut in the woods? What made me want to weep was the fact that he remembered it, too.
‘Rose…’ His hand touched my shoulder, tentatively, pleading. I covered it with my own hand, feeling his fingers link urgently with mine. Love and longing fought a silent battle with conscience. And then, helplessly, I lifted a trembling hand to touch him, and in the same moment he reached for me.
As our lips met an explosion of emotion blinded me, searing my brain and setting my flesh alight. It came so suddenly I had no defence. We had waited too long. Desire like madness raged through me as we kissed and pressed together, both of us caught up in a wild need of each other.
Then a sudden, louder roar from the meeting reminded us of where we were. Geoffrey lifted his head, glanced back up the hill. Feeling the night air about me, I came awake as if from deep dreams, shivering a little.
‘I must go.’
‘Forgive me,’ he said anxiously. ‘The fault was mine – all mine.’
Loving him for wishing to spare me the guilt, I laid my hand against his cheek. ‘If there was fault, it was mine too.’
‘I love you. I always have. I always shall.’
‘And I you.’
‘Then… will you meet me again? At the cottage. Tomorrow?’
I meant to say no. But as I stood there looking up at him a long, long breath sighed quietly out of me. What use to deny fate?
‘Yes. Tomorrow.’
* * *
I hardly slept that night for thinking of Geoffrey being in disguise at that unionist meeting. What if he were discovered? The men would be angry to think that he was spying on them. Some of them were known trouble-makers. Was he in danger? When I did drift off it was into muddled, disturbing dreams from which I woke with a jerk, wide awake again before cockcrow. For a moment I had fancied I heard Georgie crying.
By the time the men started arriving I was down in the stables with young Jack, petting the saddle-horses and giving them sugar. Ned Plant came first, as always, leading his cart-teams in from the meadow where they ran free on summer nights, and behind him tramped the others in ones and twos. Those I encountered greeted me civilly, doffing their caps with a, ‘Mornin’, Miss Rose. Bootiful day that be, fare to be fine for harvest.’ At least they all turned up, despite unionist speeches.
McDowall, arriving late, seemed flustered to see me there. He gave out the day’s orders and at Plant’s call of, ‘Collars on’, the horses were equipped with suitable harness for that day’s work. I took McDowall aside and asked him about the meeting. He said it had gone much as expected – a deal of hot air, some feelings relieved, but no sign of any real trouble. I guessed he hadn’t even been there. Still, I thought with a chirrup of heady, guilty excitement lightening my spirits, I should hear the truth of it soon enough – from Geoffrey.
* * *
The garden at Willow Cottage was lush with summer, rampant now in Narnie’s absence. The guardian willows at the gate stirred in the breeze and lavender spread half across the path, with bees loud in the sunny air. Just visible over the ivy-clad wall and the towering yews, the church clock showed the hour of two. I thought of Cassie, lying behind that wall with a white marble angel to guard her. What would she say if she could see me now?
The key fitted the lock, the door opened under my hand. The living-room beyond was starkly tidy, emptied of all personal touches, dimly lit behind closed curtains, and smelling faintly of camphorated oil.
‘Hello?’ There was no reply. The place felt empty. Not even the cat was here – Narnie had brought her to Orchards but she kept running away and we heard that someone in Feltham had taken to feeding her.
Taking off my hat and shawl, I went into the bedroom. It was dim and warm, curtains drawn against the light. A swivel looking-glass stood on the dressing-table, so low that I was forced to bend to see myself, patting my hair into place, biting my lips, pinching my cheeks. Vanity…
Then
I froze as I heard the front door softly open. My heart stopped, then began to race, while colour rushed to my face.
‘Rose!’ a voice called. A woman’s voice. ‘Rose, are you there?’
It was Felicity Wyatt.
‘Rose!’ she exclaimed with pleasure as she saw me. ‘I thought that was your pony trap by the gate. Why… what’s wrong, my dear?’
‘You startled me, that’s all,’ I said with a breathy laugh. ‘I was thinking of something quite other and suddenly there you were.’
Felicity peered at me. ‘You look flushed. Have you been crying? Oh, my dear… I’ve been shedding a few quiet tears myself. I came to put some roses on Cassie’s grave. They’re almost over, but you know how she admired those big pink roses with their lovely scent. And I went into church – to say a prayer or two for Geoffrey Devlin.’
‘For Geoffrey?’
‘Why, yes. Hadn’t you heard?’ Her eyes were wide as she came closer and laid a hand on my arm. ‘My dear, it’s terrible. He was attacked last night. Stabbed. With a knife. They fear he may not live.’
Dear God. Cataracts roared in my ears and the cottage dimmed as I fought a wave of faintness. Through clouds of fog, Felicity’s voice: ‘Why, Rose, you’re ill! Whatever is it?’
‘It’s nothing. It’s nothing!’ Brushing her aside, I made my way to an armchair and sat down with my head bent to my knees. ‘I didn’t sleep very well, for worrying about that meeting.’ I looked up, my head reeling, nausea stirring inside me. ‘Is that where it happened? Where is he now?’
‘My dear…’ Felicity looked perplexed. ‘You’re not making much sense. What meeting?’
She knew very little. What she had heard was servants’ gossip, repeated at third or fourth hand, via the local carter, that Geoffrey Devlin had been attacked by a man with a knife, and that he was badly injured. ‘Mama sent to Ambleford for news, but all the man brought back was that Mr Devlin is being attended by the doctor. His life is hanging by a thread. It is terrible, isn’t it? He’s such a dear. And poor Lucy! She must be worried out of her mind.’
‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’ I thanked providence that this was the ingenuous Felicity. If the perspicacious Cassie had been there she would have guessed my secrets at once.
Five
My life was suspended as I waited for news of Geoffrey, wanting to go to him, yet forbidden by all the laws of sense and society from doing so. Somehow I managed to put on a show of normality about the farm and in the house, and with so much to do there were moments when I forgot. Then I would find myself alone, temporarily unoccupied, and back rushed the fear and the awful, awful not knowing. The pictures built by my imagination were a torture and a punishment.
Since I did have one ally, in the shape of Jack Huggins, I charged him with the task of bringing me news. He went over to Ambleford two or three times: ‘Oh, don’t worry, miss, on’y the stablelad saw me. I cracked on as how I was skivin’ off, over there for a chat.’
The attack had not happened at the unionist meeting. According to servants’ gossip, Geoffrey had returned home late that Sunday evening after dining with friends. He had been preparing for bed when, seeing a shadowy figure in the garden, he had gone out to investigate and had been attacked. Though terribly wounded, he had managed to get back to his room before collapsing. His terrified wife had raised the alarm.
‘Dunno what happened to the dogs, though,’ said Jack, taking off his hat to scratch his fair curls.
‘Dogs?’ I repeated.
‘They’ve got three great wolfhounds keep guard after dark. Had ’em a couple of months now. But not a peep out of ’em that night.’
Belatedly I recalled Geoffrey saying something about dogs – dogs which had frightened off a would-be arsonist. Why hadn’t they raised the alarm over this new intruder?
The answer came with a blow like iced lightning – a man who could ‘witch’ horses might also have power over dogs. Was Amos Chilvers involved in this, too?
The police, investigating the stabbing, came to Orchards asking about troubles we might have had, and I mentioned Amos Chilvers. Yes, they said, someone else had raised that name, but Chilvers had been at a meeting on the heath and afterwards at the inn in Dersingham; he had spent the night at his son’s house, snoring off the beer. I was relieved about that, for Ben’s sake.
It seemed that the unionist meeting had been called at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Harvest was imminent, promising bonuses which the men needed to clothe and shoe their families for the winter, and the republican talk had not impressed the men of Sandringham; they owed their livelihood to the Prince of Wales and they were still loyally thankful that he had survived his illness. However, some slight dissension continued to simmer, especially as the weather worsened and less work was available, so that casual labourers were thrown back on the parish. Some went north where the pay was better, where there were mines and factories; others migrated to the colonies. The shooting offered some of them employment as beaters now and then, but many of them would perforce be out of proper work until spring.
* * *
To my intense relief, word came that Geoffrey was beginning to recover. Within a month he was reported, via a friend of Felicity’s who lived at Ambleford, as having been well enough to attend Ambleford church with his wife and mother. ‘Though he still looked pale and was evidently weak,’ Felicity informed me. ‘Thora Thomas said it was quite touching to see how solicitous Lucy was, and how concerned she looked. Perhaps this will bring them together.’
‘Perhaps.’ So long as he was recovering, nothing else mattered.
‘Anyway, it appears they’re all going to Italy for the winter. Lady Ophelia thinks the warmer climate will be good for Sir Arthur’s gout, and it will certainly be better for Geoffrey to convalesce in the sunlight.’
‘Yes. Yes, it will.’
The story never changed. Geoffrey was going to Italy with his wife, and I must remain at Orchards with my husband.
* * *
The shooting season brought the Prince of Wales and his family back to Sandringham, where that winter they remained in residence from October to February with only the occasional excursion elsewhere to open a building or an exhibition, make a speech, or attend a special dinner. The big house was filled with a succession of illustrious guests for whose enjoyment shooting parties were organised, and days out hunting, walks about the estate, trips to the coast to watch the sea on wild, windy days, and of course dinners, soirées and balls…
Whenever they shot over Orchards’ land, Basil and I were invited to join the parties, Basil with his gun and I to add my company to the ladies’ at luncheon. The shoots were getting bigger, great battues with a score of Guns and dozens of beaters, so that birds and hares fell by the hundred. I still objected to the way my land and my crops were despoiled for His Royal Highness’s pleasure. But I had learned not to say so, not out loud.
During those months, Princess Alexandra often visited me at the farm, bringing her children to scramble in my parlour, rush up and down my stairs, play with my dogs and explore the barns along with Jack Huggins. The small princes loved to be out with stable-boys and grooms – their language was a disgrace. They also loved their homely home at Sandringham. What they dreaded was being obliged to visit Windsor and to cower under the stern, repressive gaze of their grandmother, the Queen.
It saddened me that I had no child of my own to join their romps.
‘Perhaps one day soon,’ the princess comforted me. ‘Only God can decide such things. For me…’ a shrug, a smile, ‘well, Mrs Pooley, for me he was perhaps a little too generous. Oh, I love my children dearly. I would not be without any one of them, and if only my baby Alexander had lived I would have loved him too, but alas my strength is not what it was. I do not think there will be more.’
We talked of farming, of our families, and of our grief for children lost to us. She spoke, too, about her friend Oliver Montagu, whose deep affection was a comfort at times of stress; from the thing
s she said I guessed the affection was returned, though in a purely platonic way. She never said a word amiss about the prince, never complained, nor blamed, nor criticised. She was always true to him, in word and deed. Except, I gathered, that she no longer shared his bed.
I almost wished the same could be said of me. Though I longed for another child I dreaded the nights when Basil came early to our room and subjected me to attentions which, at best, were brusque, designed only to quiet his own frustration. I was happier when he departed, leaving me free to lie and dream about Geoffrey, far away in Italy. Was he fully recovered? Part of me hoped he would stay away, well out of danger, for the police had never discovered the attacker. But most of me yearned for him to come home. Even if I didn’t see him, it would be a comfort just to know he was nearby.
* * *
Basil and I attended the informal tenants’ dinner, held in November at Sandringham House, a merry occasion when the prince danced with most of the ladies. When he sought me out a second time I was conscious of jealous stares and whispers as we whirled about the floor. He was testing my mettle, taking me headlong through a jig, and I, feeling reckless, matched him step for step, skirts billowing behind me. When the dance ended with us both breathless, His Royal Highness bellowed with laughter and declared that I had quite worn him out. But his eyes conveyed other messages. I interested him. My very coolness was a challenge.
A few days later, the prince called on me at the farm. He came alone and unheralded on a frosted, foggy day when he knew my husband was away. Fortunately Mama and Narnie were with me and I kept them close, despite hints that His Royal Highness would have preferred to see me alone. The visit was brief – merely a neighbourly call as he happened to be passing, so he claimed.
As I saw him to the door, he leaned close to me, almost touching me – he was much too fat for a man just turned thirty-one – and his pale blue eyes shone as they studied my face.