by Sally Wragg
Mary frowned. She’d looked worried all morning, Bronwyn realized, assuming Loxley’s lack of adequate bedlinen wasn’t the sole cause of it. She’d no idea what the problem could be.
‘Indeed there isn’t, Your Grace,’ Mary answered, with that touch of deference Bronwyn should have been used to by now and yet somehow wasn’t. ‘Why don’t I fetch more from home? They’ll tide us over, if nothing else,’ she suggested practically.
It had come to something, Loxley depending on linen from the estate manager’s cottage but it appeared there was no alternative.
‘It’s good of you to help out, Mary, without having to provide decent sheets on top!’ Bronwyn complained, giving in with good grace.
‘Your Grace, you know I’d do anything to help. . . .’
‘I know you would, and believe me, we’re more than grateful!’
Bronwyn smiled, wondering meanwhile where the estate would be without these faithful servants to whom Loxley represented so much more than mere employment. Loxley was a way of life, the place where they lived their lives and where their forebears had lived their lives too, enabling the sense of continuity.
‘We put on you too much,’ she muttered. ‘You should have more help. According to Katherine, the time was, this house was full of servants!’
For the first time that morning, Mary returned her smile. ‘Aye and I can remember it too, just!’
She would have gone, bent on her mission, but determined to find out if there was any kind of a problem, Bronwyn delayed her.
‘Mary, are you sure there’s nothing wrong? Only you do seem rather . . . worried. . . . If there’s anything at all I can do to help, you only have to say!’
Mary shook her head. ‘It’s only tiredness, I expect, Your Grace. I have to admit, these old legs aren’t as young as they used to be,’ she answered quietly, though the rising tide of colour flushing her homely cheeks told her employer otherwise.
With these far from reassuring words, Mary hurried away downstairs. Bronwyn returned to the State Bedroom where her frustration only deepened, fuelled by her awareness that here was a room with possibilities if only there’d been money to spare to spend on it. She stood looking around her, frowning at the Utrecht velvet on the walls, such a delicate shade of pink, and the matching draperies and bedspread and satin curtains, all in a sad state of disintegration. No one could deny the view from the large bay window was magnificent. The room was said to have been occupied by Charles II, who, in dire need of some home comforts, had begged Loxley hospitality overnight when he’d broken off from one of his infrequent journeys up north. Katherine scoffed at the tale but, romantic at heart, Bronwyn loved to believe it was true and moreover, thought that it was a crying shame that Nell Loxley, ardent Royalist as they now knew her to have been, hadn’t been alive to see it too.
Considering it, she decided at once that Roland should be installed in here, rather than in the Blue Bedroom as she’d originally intended. For that Roland was a Loxley, at heart as well as by name, couldn’t be denied. More importantly, she knew him well enough by now to know he’d understand the dilapidated state of the furnishings.
As if on cue, the bell over the front door clanged. Moments later, she heard Soames’ calm tones ushering a visitor inside, gladly recognizing the response as belonging to Roland. Better still, he was earlier than expected. Suddenly, inexplicably happy, she hastened away downstairs, discovering her distant relative looking remarkably happy to have arrived, a man at ease with himself and his surroundings. At the sight of her, his face broke into a warm smile of approval.
‘There you are, Bron. . . .’ he murmured, hurrying forward.
‘It’s good to see you again, Roland!’ she responded warmly. ‘Soames, take Monsieur de Loxley’s cases upstairs to the State Room if you would and then bring coffee to the morning room. Your mother’s keeping well, I hope? She really must pay us a visit one of these days. . . .’ Keeping up such a steady stream of pleasantries, she led the way into the pretty, south-facing room, where the little sunlight the morning had brought spilled through the French windows in shafts of sifting liquid gold. Shortly, they were comfortably settled in armchairs and drinking piping hot coffee from the best china cups Soames had seen fit to bring out for such a happy occasion. Even the downstairs staff approved of Roland. Bronwyn hid a smile. After all the hurly-burly of her morning, she was relieved to take a break.
‘Oh, Roland, it’s truly good to see you,’ she reiterated. She stopped, as a thought rose, disturbing the calm of her happiness. Unnerved by it, she took refuge in the depths of her coffee cup, well aware that though on the surface, her life here at Loxley was a full one, she’d long felt there was something missing from it too. Warmth, fulfilment, the close physical contact only a man could bring. . . . She missed Harry and always would and with an ache like a bodily pain, often keeping her awake at night. She was lonely, hating with a passion the thought that she’d most likely spend the rest of her life alone. And yet, she was still young . . . ish, she knew she had much to offer a man; why should she entirely give up hope of married happiness?
‘You’ve had a good journey, I hope?’ she asked, looking up to discover, disconcertingly, her visitor had been watching her meanwhile and worse, with a worryingly thoughtful expression on his face. What must he think of her! He appeared what he was; a man who’d arrived from an arduous journey and considered every mile of it well worth the effort spent. He smiled easily.
‘I’ve had an excellent journey, thank you,’ he replied, his gaze lingering on her far longer than with which Bronwyn was comfortable. She sat up primly and finished her coffee. Her imagination was running away with itself again and if this was what her lonely state had brought her to, she should pull herself together! She put down her cup and, fully in control of herself by now, or so she soothed herself, she smiled benignly.
‘I was so pleased you said you were going to stay here despite the war committee’s presence. It was ridiculous to imagine you putting up in the village when we have so much room here. . . .’ she said, referring to the arrangements conducted by telephone between them. Even Katherine when consulted had been in agreement; there was perfectly no need for Roland to incur the cost of the single inn which the village boasted when he would be more comfortable here at Loxley.
‘It’s good of you to put me up. . . .’
Bronwyn’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘We’re hosting the war committee welcome dinner tonight. I did warn you about it, remember? It’s rather a stuffy affair, I’m afraid. You’d be doing me a huge favour if you’d attend.’
‘I’d be delighted, if you think it will help.’ He smiled his acquiescence.
His response was typical – a kind man always ready to do a good turn. She liked him tremendously. Another, even happier thought, darted into her head. ‘It’ll be a good opportunity to meet Hettie, too. She’s out at the moment, exercising Tallow, her father’s hunter. Katherine rides him now and again, of course, but I’m afraid arthritis forbids her as often as she’d like.’
‘I shall look forward to it.’
‘You’ll like Hettie, Roland, I’m sure. The trip abroad’s done her so much good.’ Delighted to find matters so satisfactorily arranged, Bronwyn settled back in her chair, aware she was repeating Katherine’s mantra that the Europe trip must mean some good had rubbed off on Hettie. Would it really have done her as much good as Katherine assumed? To Bronwyn’s mind, nothing was more certain than Hettie had been in a dire need of direction before she’d set off. If more than once over the last few days, her mother had happened to think her daughter’s extensive and expensive tour had made not the slightest jot of difference to her waywardness, unlike Katherine, she was determined not to make an issue of it.
A gust of wind whistled across the meadows, whipping the bright red hair Hettie so abhorred back across her face. Impatiently, she brushed it away, leaning forwards to murmur encouragement to her mount Tallow, a dappled grey, before spurring him on and taking
the high hedge before her at a gallop, sailing over it with a whoop of glee. Pulling up, waiting for her heart to resume its normal pattern, she was only glad her grandmother hadn’t been around to see it. Grandmamma would have boxed her ears and given her a ticking-off into the bargain!
‘Well done, boy,’ she whispered into the horse’s ear. Unsure whether to go on or to return to Loxley, in time for lunch, a movement in the hedgerow at the far end of the field caught her attention. To her astonishment, Hettie saw that it was a small child who sat on the ground, pulling at a few late, straggly flowers and babbling happily to herself. Watching her curiously, Hettie walked Tallow nearer. A heart-shaped face framed by a shock of dark, unruly hair. She was adorable. Hettie sat up in the saddle. Gypsy caravans apart, in the meadow below she could see nothing and no one, so to whom else could this child possibly belong other than the gypsies? She wasn’t old enough to be out unaccompanied. Not wishing to startle her, she dismounted and leading Tallow by his rein walked him down towards her.
‘Have you come from the caravans, poppet?’ she asked.
The child looked up and smiled and evidently liking what she saw, held out her little arms. There was no help for it. She couldn’t leave her here. Talking soothingly the while, Hettie scooped her up, manoeuvring them both back onto Tallow, who stood patiently by and, by dint of clasping her small charge carefully in front of her, walked them sedately through a gap in the hedgerow and down towards the caravans.
As chance would have it, the first of these they arrived at belonged to the white-haired old man she now knew as Leon, the leader of these people. He was asleep, dozing gently on the steps, but woke at their approach, his expression changing to one of alarm when he saw who it was and, moreover, who was with her. ‘Maisie May!’ he cried, jumping up and hurrying over. Instantly, the little girl reached towards him, allowing him to catch hold of her and swing her down.
‘I found her in the field up top. She must have wandered off,’ Hettie exclaimed, jumping neatly down. ‘She does belong to you, I take it?’
‘My granddaughter, Maisie May,’ Leon agreed, clutching the child fiercely to him. ‘It appears I’m indebted to you yet again, Your Grace. I didn’t even know she’d wandered off.’
He was distressed, feeling guilty he’d been so negligent and, sensitively aware of it, Hettie did her best to comfort him. ‘There’s no real harm done,’ she soothed and yet inwardly acknowledging he’d had a lucky escape. There was no getting away from the fact: the child was very young and he was very old to have a care of her. It was none of her business, of course.
‘You must let me repay you,’ he murmured, gathering his composure. His eyes, so dark and deep set, so uniquely alive for a man of his age, began to twinkle. ‘At least let me make you some tea?’
Hettie was surprised to find herself accepting and yet the truth was, Bill in the kind of mood he was nowadays, she’d been at a loose end all morning, hence the ride on Tallow. She nodded happily and, as Leon disappeared inside his caravan, sat down next to Maisie May, on the steps, lolling in a way that would have sent her grandmother apoplectic if she’d been around to see it and entertaining the little girl by pulling faces, encouraged to more and grotesque distortions by her giggles of delight.
‘She likes you,’ Leon remarked, returning from his caravan with a mug of tea in either hand and holding one out towards her.
‘I’ve always wanted a little sister,’ Hettie agreed, only just now realizing it.
She took her tea, sipping it gratefully.
‘We have to make the best of what we have.’ Leon smiled and sat down beside her, making himself comfortable. A man who seemed to have an opinion on most things, Hettie surmised, wondering if he really were as wise as he appeared. Abruptly, she remembered what he’d told her a few days ago, after the business with the police threatening to move them on and concerning the gypsies’ connections to Loxley.
‘You mentioned your people once had cause to do Nell Loxley a good turn?’ she prompted, suddenly wanting to find out more.
‘Romanies guard their secrets well,’ he murmured, enigmatically.
‘I’m sure they do,’ Hettie agreed earnestly, not sure what else to say.
He drank his tea, his gaze settling on his granddaughter and instantly softening. ‘Knowledge passes from generation to generation amongst our people, from the Civil War when first we came to this land and even before that time. There’s much we could tell concerning Nell Loxley. She was well known amongst us.’
Hettie smiled. ‘Because of her secret love child, you mean?’
‘More than that,’ he answered and so seriously, instantly her levity disappeared, replaced by a quickening interest.
‘Please won’t you tell me?’ she wheedled. ‘I’m Nell’s descendant, after all! Surely, I have a right to know?’
Leon nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s common knowledge amongst us that Alexander Hyssop and not his brother, Rufus, was father to Nell’s child,’ he said.
‘Oh, but we found Alexander’s tomb in a secret passageway in the ruins of Loxley Old Hall,’ Hettie agreed, eagerly. ‘It’s a simply wonderful story even if Grandmamma wanted us to keep it secret. . . .’ She ground to a halt, wondering now if she’d said too much. But, after all, given the publicity following their discovery of Alexander Hyssop’s mortal remains, everyone knew the tale well enough by now. It was spellbinding and romantic and she loved it.
Leon frowned. ‘Many think, mortally wounded as he was, it was some kind of a miracle Alexander Hyssop found his way from the battlefields of Naseby to the safety of Loxley Old Hall. Legend has it it was only with the Romanies’ help.’ He glanced back towards the crumbling ruins, his gaze far away, as if he saw before him the magnificent old edifice still in its prime, massive-stoned and forbidding, springing up from the rock from which it was hewn. And Nell Loxley triumphant atop its battlements! Hettie sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, enthralled.
‘Oh, but you have to tell me now, Leon, please!’ she implored.
He smiled gently. ‘There are secrets that, as Duchess of Loxley, perhaps you ought to know. Events that happened long ago when England was a wild and lawless place so different from the land we now know. . . .’
Hettie opened her mouth to beg him to tell her more but frustratingly, pre-empting her, he stood up, shaking the dregs from his tea out onto the grass.
‘Mayhap I’ll tell you sometime but not now,’ he murmured thoughtfully.
He was a strong-minded man and, she knew him well enough already to know that once he’d made up his mind that was it. The interlude was over and even she could see it was futile to argue. Maisie May was lolling propped against her and had dropped to sleep. Seeing it, her grandfather scooped her up into his arms, cradling her against him.
‘Please come again,’ he invited, before returning inside the caravan.
The door closed firmly behind him.
It should have been rude but somehow it wasn’t. He was a strange man and yet Hettie liked and trusted him. Gypsies were gypsies and had manners and rules of their own, she mused, if inside bubbling over with excitement. Wait until she told Grandmamma! With one thought only now, to get back to Loxley as quickly as possible and to tell her grandmother all that had happened, she jumped up and ran over to Tallow, leaping up onto his back and heading them straight for home.
It was playtime at Loxley village school. A blur of happy, shouting faces, the sight of which winged Ursula swiftly back to the childhood she’d shared with Freddie. She could still picture them now, a pair of tousle-haired scamps, taking it in turns to swing on this same rope ladder hanging from a tree whose thick greenery in so short a time would be a mass of glistening chestnut cobs.
‘As I was saying, Mrs Hamilton. . . ?’ The voice breaking into her thoughts, scattering them to the four ends of the playground, belonged to Cynthia Bardwell, head teacher of the cheerful little stone school building outside which the two women stood, once belonging to the church and now
serving the village for the education of its youngest children. ‘There’s no point finding places for the gypsy children,’ she insisted, smiling to soften the impact of her words. ‘I’d no sooner have them settled than they’d be off again. I’ve seen it too often, I’m afraid.’
‘But surely even a little education would be better than none at all?’ Ursula argued, wondering the while why it should mean so much to her. It was none of her business whether the Romani children were educated or not but something during her last visit to the site, on impulse, to take some cakes she’d baked to Leon, with whom she’d struck up an unexpected friendship, had stirred her into action. The sight of those grubby, happy little faces, she expected, running harum-scarum, in and out of the caravans, unchecked and apparently uncared for and yet, conversely, so obviously loved and nurtured, it had made her all the more keen to ensure they were allowed the same opportunities as children from more conventional homes.
‘And then there’s general hygiene. . . .’ Cynthia Bardwell shuddered visibly, continuing as if Ursula had never spoken. ‘My mothers would be up in arms. No! It would never do, I’m afraid.’
Something about her complacency was beginning to annoy Ursula. ‘It’s only surface grime,’ she insisted. ‘If you’re talking about the way the children are dressed, well. . . . Surely you, of all people, Miss Bardwell, must believe the old adage, clothes never maketh the man?’
She’d gone too far. Miss Bardwell bridled. ‘I never suggested that for one moment!’
‘But you’re prepared to ignore potential?’
‘Not that, exactly. . . .’
The tenacity at the heart of Ursula’s being, the refusal to give in, no matter what obstacles were flung in her way, sprang to the fore. ‘And what if I undertook to bring them here, clean and well presented?’ she demanded, her mind already working furiously as how best to effect this miracle. But approached in the right way, she knew plenty of women who would be willing to donate clothing their own children no longer had use for. Earnestness illumined her face. ‘Please, Miss Bardwell. . . . Cynthia! You must give these children a chance. It would make all the difference.’ She was weakening, she could see. In a nervous anticipation, Ursula waited.
