A blond head poked out of the opened carriage window. He watched as Frankie placed a bridle over Big Red’s head. With unanimous gasps, we looked on as Davenport held up his dark-gloved hand. Pinched between the gloved-fingers was the tinier remnant of Big Red’s tail.
Davenport cried out, “Haven’t you been a bit drastic there with the scissors, man?”
“It wasn’t me who did it, milord. But when I do find out who, I’ll deal to him as he did to me horse’s once fine tail.”
“I have had my own set of problems with crime of late, fruit theft in fact. Perhaps the culprit is one and the same.” The aristocrat chuckled. He must have sensed he was being watched because he turned suddenly toward our window. In a lightning flash, we ducked away.
“If I do find the fellow, and he is the same one, I’ll gladly punish him personally on your behalf, sir,” replied Frankie.
“No, thank you. I would prefer to deal with matters myself.” With that said, Davenport called out to his driver to continue before bidding Frankie a good day. The sound of the carriage rumbling away had us all doubling over with sighs of relief.
“That was too close,” said Aunt Pam.
She, like the rest of us, had refrained from looking out the window furthermore. For the time we had heard the conversation between her son and the young lord, all of us had been sweating, not helped by the confinement of such a small room in the heat of the evening.
Frankie looked our way as the door of the washhouse opened; immediately, he effortlessly leaped the fence and then walked up to us. “What are you young ladies doing in there? Wash day was yesterday.”
“The girls were helping me hunt out a rat,” answered his mother.
“Well, it’s not that one you should be hunting for, unless it’s the same one who neatly gnawed off old Red’s tail.” Frankie walked up to the doorway and leaned against it.
“Perhaps he got his tail caught in something,” Aunt Pam said, edging over to the washtub, where us three girls stood, a group effort line up to block the view of the rat’s evidence in the tub.
“Mamma, a whole chunk of it is not going to come off in one neat slice without plucking off his entire tail. What the hell would they want with horsehair anyway, devil worship or something?” We girls broke out into nervous giggling. “Oh, you find it funny, eh, young madams? Is it one of you doing it for a laugh?”
We all shook our heads.
“It could be a new fashion; someone wanting to use horse hair to weave rugs and the like, just like the feather fashions that you see at the moment,” said Aunt Pam.
I jovially thought Aunt Pam wouldn’t know if there was a feather fashion now or ever, but it had the impact of convincing the fashion-ignorant man, who in response, pursed his lips, frowned, and conceded with a nod.
“And what in the name have you done with your hair, missy?” Frankie stepped over the door threshold toward me and rubbed the spiraling pinned-up hair on the top of my head.
Jenny came to the rescue. “I was experimenting with her hair, you know, the new fashions in Europe.”
“Out in the washhouse, thank heavens,” said Frankie, “because it’s downright ugly!”
Jenny frowned.
“Now, now!” interrupted Aunt Pam. “Let’s go and have a brew, shall we?”
“Oh, by the way, that rich young fella from the big house, did you see him talking to me?”
“What, err, no? But we did hear some talking,” replied Aunt Pam.
“He was telling me there’s been a bit of fruit theft; as if that doesn’t happen on a regular basis up there. To think, I could have asked him if he’d found the bride of his dreams. I could have told him ‘there is not much in the way of selection. I should know ‘cause the girls around here are a tainted bunch.’”
We laughed insanely, not out of humor, more out of relief.
Aunt Pam playfully shoved her son out of the washhouse. “Go and tend to your horse, cheeky lad.” Once he had leaped back over the fence, Aunt ordered us to quickly dispose of the horse hair.
Chapter Five
The occupants of our small cottage went to bed early. All would have to rise before dawn—the men to get ready to go to the coal mine, and us two women to serve up the breakfast and pack their lunches. Aunt and I slept in the bedroom, and Trevor slept on a mattress in the sitting room, while the two younger lads scaled the ladder to hunker down in the loft for the night. Aunt Pam would jokingly say, “The only place to isolate us from their loud snoring.”
Trevor snored contently on the other side of the wall; it wasn’t a loud, raucous one, rather, it was gentle and rhythmic, having the effect of lulling one to sleep. Having him nearby was comforting too because it meant if anyone was stupid enough to risk raiding our home, they would suffer greatly by his powerful hands and temper.
Once I was certain everyone was asleep, because I heard loud snoring coming from the loft, and Aunt Pam’s sleep mutterings, I arose from the bed, put on a shawl, grabbed my boots, and being extra careful, tiptoed past Trevor in the sitting room. I stealthily exited the door at the side porch, climbed over the wall instead of using the noisy front gate, and put on my boots out on the lane.
There was a waxing moon, giving a luminescent clarity to the lane. I walked stealthily along. Suddenly, there came a snorting sound somewhere beyond. I prepared to dive into the long grass when it became apparent that the sound came from a hedgehog. I laughed under my breath; I watched with fascination the spiked orb of a body carrying itself business-like toward the verge on the other side of my path, not at all perturbed by my close proximity.
Every single windowpane was void of any light, not even the gentle wisp of a smoke plume came out of the chimney tops; it had been a long drawn out summer and far too hot to keep the fires going on longer than the evening meal preparation. Everyone was asleep, giving me the feeling I was completely isolated from the rest of the world, free to do as I pleased, like a phantom in the night.
I reached the point where there were no houses but a parallel stretch of stone walls. It took me an age until I came to the turnoff to Evercrest Lane. This led me in the direction of the bridge, at our swimming hole, but it was the spot before there where my intentions laid, where the oak trees grew thickly on the Davenport property. I lowered myself into the trampled grass, walked along the boundary, but alas, when the time came to gain access via Albert’s secret entrance, it was to find the stones had been freshly mortared into place. The wall was no longer impenetrable.
The only other option was to aim for the bridge that was about a mile away. Considering I had run a great distance to escape the men the day before, I estimated it would take me at least fifteen minutes to walk there. No, I needed to get there faster. I needed to be home before Aunt Pam woke up to get the range fire ready before sunrise.
I jogged gently up to the bridge where on the other side it was a whitewashed gate. I slid down the bank and followed the well-tread trail that ran toward the river. Getting over the wall proved to be a struggle without the assistance of the girls this time, but once on the other side, it was a matter of following the same moon-lit sheep trail to the place where we had committed the fruit theft.
There was the sound of an owl. Rustling movement came from within the blackberries, which I had decided for my own peace of mind was a rodent. The gentle sound of the river caressed over the stones like a pianist playing a gentle melody on the tips of his fingers, while the warped reflection of the incomplete moon seemed to wave up at me from below the water’s surface. Someday, I reckoned, I would add the essence of this moment into charcoal imagery, or better still, and when I could afford to buy it, paint.
I scaled the bank and made it to the spot not far from the apple tree where the locket had fallen. Hoping the moonlight might highlight its whereabouts, I was sorely disappointed to see there was no sign of it anywhere. Maybe the heavy rain had washed it farther down and into the deepest growth of the plants, or one of two unbearable thoughts—a cro
w had snatched it away with its talons, or the rain had washed the precious keepsake directly into the river.
My heart slumped. I solemnly retraced my steps to the lane. Suddenly, my heart skipped a beat—the whitewashed gate on the other side of the bridge stood wide open and closed off the road entirely. Out from the entrance trotted several panicking cattle. Thinking the animals had escaped, that they had pushed their way out after some farmworker had carelessly forgotten to secure the latch during the day, I was preparing to stand out in front of the creatures to usher them back into their field, when two riders rode out onto the lane. I instinctively threw myself down into the long roadside grass and looked on as the cows trotted by.
There came the sound of a cantering horse in the distance. A new arrival pulled up just above where I lay hidden. He said in an upper-class voice, “All went as clockwork, I see. Meet me Wednesday noon at the Old Rose Inn. I’ll sort out your payment there.”
“But we both be wantin’ our money now like you promised!”
“Shut up, Spike!” said Spike’s companion.
The uppity voice replied, “If you want more business, then do as I say, Linklater. Now listen to my instructions or you can go back to your pitiful existences.”
“We understand, milord. Spike never thinks before ‘e speaks. I apologize for ‘is rudeness.”
“Now take the journey gently. If somebody questions you, say it is the quiet time that your employer likes to move stock. What with these pregnant beauties, I would hate for them to lose their cargo.”
“It is as good as done, sir. You can count on us to follow your orders.”
“Now be on your way, I must get back. I have a poker game to win.”
The men parted ways—two on sturdy, solid horses, one of the horses having an unusual white marking under its belly, and the other rider unseen, returning back from whence he came. His horse must have been designed for fantastic speed, for the galloping hooves quickly disappeared out of earshot.
The moon peeped out every so often behind the dark blanket above. A sudden cracking noise in some trees ahead made me dive under grassy cover. A bough bounced its way down a tree and landed in the middle of the road. Tugging at my conscience, thanks to my aunt’s thoughtful upbringing, I was set on going to remove the branch off the road. What halted me in my tracks was the sound of horses galloping. From around the bend ahead appeared a team of horses. The leading ones of the quartet saw the road obstacle up ahead and balked to an abrupt halt. From behind the thick sward of grass, I observed the driver jumping down from his seat to the sound of a baby wailing inside the carriage.
“Why have you stopped?” an agitated female’s voice yelled from the window.
“Sorry, my lady, it is just a branch, that is all.”
“Well, do it quick! We need to get this home.” The woman’s voice was swallowed up by more distressful cries from the infant.
The driver climbed expediently back into his seat and then whipped the horses into a gallop. As the carriage rumbled past me, the moon’s light broke clearly through the cloud blanket above, landing on the door image of the familiar eagle holding a cross-bearing shield.
Who was the woman in the carriage? Was she Albert and India’s guardian, since the driver had addressed her as “my lady?” And whose baby was she looking after, or had she secretly given birth? There would certainly have been much to say in the community about Lady Charlotte Davenport’s—nee Parker—pregnancy. For many years, the woman, who now ruled Evercrest Hall meticulously, had been rumored to have longed for a child of her own despite being barren. Having witnessed the two unusual nocturnal activities spaced so close to one another, I was able to reflect on them as I ran the rest of the way home.
»»•««
“You’re yawning a lot,” said Aunt Pam. She was busy shoveling coal into the range. “I can’t understand why you’re tired. You did nothing in the way of work yesterday.”
“It must be that time of the month that’s all,” I lied.
“A good kidney stew will put the blood back into you again.”
I had hardly slept a wink after getting home from my midnight mission. I was worried sick over losing the most precious memory that had belonged to my mother; not only that, it was the anticipation of how Aunt and Trevor would react when they inevitably found out I’d lost a family heirloom. The other preoccupation was why would that woman who married Alby’s uncle have been able to give birth to a baby without anyone being aware of her pregnancy, and return home in the depth of night. Why was she using the back road to enter the Davenport property? Was she afraid of the mad young men on their gigs, madly racing up and down the old coach road? No, no one would be about on the early hours of Monday morning, apart from cattle rustlers.
“Aunt,” I asked, sitting at the table. “Has Ewan Davenport’s wife ever had any children?” I wasn’t going to ask, “Has she just had a baby?” which would have induced her question, “Why do you ask?”
Oblivious to my eager stare as she mixed scone batter, Aunt replied, “She has never had children. I doubt she ever will, and if she was pregnant, it would be the talk of the village.” Aunt looked across at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing, I was just wondering that was all.” I made sure to answer casually. Thankfully, there was no further prompting from the woman agitating the bowl’s contents with a wooden spoon, leaving me in peace to plan my return to the Davenport’s property in the daylight of today.
After pushing myself to do several jobs, such as the tedious task of hoeing the weeds in the vegetable garden, I asked Aunt, “Is it all right for me to go down to the river now?”
“No! Not in your state. You can’t go down and defile the water with your menses.”
“I don’t want a swim. It’s just that I saw some cress on the bank and not a soul knows about it, not even Vera. I’d rather pick it now before it flowers and is too bitter to eat. It will be perfect with the stew.”
“That is very thoughtful of you, my dear.” Aunt Pam smiled broadly. “But you can’t take the horse, not in your state. And don’t be too long away…oh, and remember…cover up from the sun!”
“Yes, Aunt Pam.”
Wearing a wide-brimmed hat and cardigan, and stuffing a sack under my arm for collecting the cress, I did the exact same trip as I had done the night before. It was at the bridge that I observed several hoof prints and manure splatter patterns where the poached cattle had moved along nervously. I climbed down the bank, over the wall a little more adeptly now that I’d had much practice, and entered the Davenport property. I was extra vigilant by keeping down low by the water’s edge. If I heard any sound, I had the freedom of choice to hide behind the numerous little blackberry shrubs that had branched off independently from the main growing area. Finally, I reached the spot, not far from the lording apple tree, where the girls and I had huddled the other day. I made a final canvas of the scenery until I was satisfied there was no sign of human life before squatting and beginning my second search attempt for the locket.
I ignored the thud from the tree behind me. An apple continued its bumpy course past my right side to meet up with several rotting predecessors deep in the blackberry below. In the meantime, I craned my neck to look for any glint of the locket, in between looking up at the pastureland across the river for any riders. Again, another fruit thudded, and this time it bounced more vigorously past my left side.
“Oh, dear Lord, where is it? Please give me a sign,” I called toward the heavens.
There were two thuds, and two apples bounced past, one on either side, but this time there followed a voice. “You won’t find what you are looking for down in there.”
Sheer dread came over me like pins and needles, at the same time I clambered in a fluster to my feet, nearly losing my hat. I turned slowly to face where the voice had called from, only to see a human form, not the bright light of an angel, slide down from the lower bough of the apple tree and land on both feet with the delicacy of a
cat.
It was not too late to run, yet I was riveted to the spot as the striking-looking man swaggered in an easy manner toward me, still holding a half-eaten apple in one hand, the other casually stowed away in the front pocket of his riding coat.
“Well, what a coincidence that I should meet you here on this fine lovely day. It just so happened that I was riding past my favorite apple tree when I decided to have a sample…before it all disappeared.” He stopped walking and bit into the apple. Bits of juice carelessly spilled down his chin, and with the unsophistication of a child, he wiped it off with the cuff of his sleeve, saying with his mouth full, “Did you know this apple tree dates back two hundred and fifty years?”
I profusely shook my head, not at all concerned with the age of a stupid tree, when my thoughts were screaming—run now!
He walked up and studied me from head to toe with amusement. “It must be very precious for you to return here in broad daylight…especially after committing your gross offenses.” I trembled, still frozen to the spot. “Do you know it is a crime to trespass?” he added.
I nodded.
“I am at liberty to shoot trespassers.” I trembled visibly this time. “However, it is against my good nature to dispense another’s life; it would be such a shame to end the life of something as delicate and intricate as a flower.” He laughed with a derisive air. Changing the subject suddenly, he asked, “So, is this what you normally do in your spare time? Stealing from people?” He took another chomp out of his apple.
I looked away, unable to bear the man’s intense stare, which burned holes into my conscience. My attention was alerted to another bouncing apple, this time a half-eaten one.
Davenport’s voice took on an authoritative air. “I had a trespasser come on my property last night.”
My conscience poked hard before I could check it, and I said, “I am sorry, I won’t do it again!”
“Oh, was it…I mean, of course it was you.”
“Why didn’t you stop me?” I cried.
The Heir to Evercrest Hall Page 6