by Sally Wragg
Standing framed in the sunlight which filtered through the morning room window, Bronwyn was trying, if failing miserably, not to dwell on the thoughts of exactly what damage the theft of the war committee’s papers, shocking as it was, would do to Loxley’s reputation. Rather the family jewellery had been taken than documents of such national importance; it was bound to throw them all in a bad light. Even now, she couldn’t believe what had happened, finding herself wishing desperately she could simply wave a magic wand and put the situation to rights.
‘Roland, that this should have happened whilst you’re here,’ she fretted.
Roland de Loxley sat drinking yet another cup of coffee, all they’d done all morning. ‘I can’t say I enjoyed Hawker’s grilling but I think I passed muster. . . .’ he murmured, getting up to refill Bronwyn’s cup. ‘Should I go home, do you think? I don’t want to be under anyone’s feet.’
‘I’d rather you stayed. . . .’ Bronwyn replied, sipping her drink meditatively and speaking only the simple truth. At the same time, she couldn’t help but see the way Roland’s face lit up at her words. There was trouble enough without further complications, she considered, a little sadly.
At that moment, thankfully, voices were heard in the hall, Soames and another she recognized instantly. ‘Reuben’s here,’ she added, quietly.
‘Why don’t I do some work in the library?’ Roland suggested tactfully, springing up at once. He saw her hesitation. ‘Please . . . I’d like to.’
A shadow crossed Bronwyn’s face. It was easier to give in than to tell him the truth that, for some reason, Reuben unsettled her so she feared to be left alone with him. ‘I’ll see what he wants. . . .’ she said, deciding quickly it was expedient to do so. They’d problems enough this morning and she hated to think Reuben might cause more. She put down her cup and followed Roland out. He headed swiftly upstairs as Reuben came hurrying towards her.
‘The place’s crawling with police! What’s happened?’ he demanded, roughly.
‘Will that be all, Your Grace?’ Soames called, hastening after him.
‘Thank you, I’ll see to things now, Soames. I’ll tell you,’ she said to Reuben, as she led the way back into the morning room. As succinctly as she could, over fresh coffee, she told him, feeling a sense of relief to get the whole wretched debacle out of her system. ‘It feels as if the world’s fallen in,’ she confessed, once she’d finished.
‘You mustn’t distress yourself,’ Reuben murmured, with such a surprising gentleness, instantly and oh, so wonderfully she was reminded of Harry. If only a miracle could happen and Harry was here with her now! Bronwyn was horrified to feel tears pricking the back of her eyes. Even worse, instinctively she knew Reuben was aware of them too so she remembered then how sensitive he’d always been to her feelings. More like Harry than he knew. Valiantly, she made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Reuben, I’m sorry. . . . You can’t possibly want to know all this. Is there some way I can help you?’
He looked awkward. ‘I hardly like to bother you now.’
‘Please, if there’s anything? Whatever it is!’
‘I was wondering if you’d seen anything of Lewis, then. I’m afraid he’s disappeared. I know he’d fixed up some kind of a meeting with Hettie last night.’
‘Oh, but Hettie had dinner with us last night. . . .’ Bronwyn stopped, aware then that she’d no idea what Hettie had done with herself after dinner and, worse, given that young lady’s behaviour of late, her mother could well believe she’d gone out on some escapade or other and never said a word of it to anyone. Hettie, she was afraid to say and despite all attempts to the contrary, was getting out of control. Reuben’s normally ruddy colour deepened.
‘The lad didn’t come back last night. I haven’t seen him since.’
He’d no need to spell out his thoughts on the matter and she was only too relieved to put him right.
‘Hettie was tucked up in bed fast asleep,’ she told him, thankfully. ‘I checked before I turned in. She’s lending Cook a hand this morning, keeping out of the way, I presume. Why don’t we go and ask her?’
Reuben put out a hand, delaying her. ‘And does she know about me?’ he asked.
He meant did Hettie yet know about his relationship to the family? An uncomfortable question and typically Reuben, but the wrong one and at the wrong time and she saw he knew it too.
‘Reuben, there’s hardly been chance. . . .’
‘But you do mean to tell her?’ he persisted.
He couldn’t help himself and, Bronwyn conceded, if she were in his shoes, she’d feel exactly the same way too. ‘She has every right to know,’ she agreed, quickly. ‘But only when the time’s right. . . .’
‘What have I a right to know?’ murmured a familiar voice, behind them.
Bronwyn spun round, feeling alarmed and ridiculously guilty to see Hettie, framed in the doorway. Her heart began to thump. How much had she heard, exactly?
Hettie’s stint in the kitchens had done her good. She was feeling virtuously smug; she’d been of use and, at the same time, had managed to hear the gossip in the servants’ hall, rife given all that had gone off. All in all, it was turning out to be a very exciting morning. At sight of the two adult faces confronting her, however, some of her good humour vanished.
‘What have I a right to know?’ she persisted.
‘Nothing to worry yourself over, darling. . . .’ her mother answered, quickly. Far too quickly to Hettie’s mind and she was growing more convinced by the moment that something was up.
An awkward silence developed and it was the man she now knew as Reuben Fairfax, his face working strangely, who broke it. ‘Nothing, she says! And what do you think it might be, young lady?’ he snapped, his fierce gaze turning to Hettie.
‘Why, I’ve no idea!’ she told him, defiantly.
He rocked back on his heels, an odd, cruel smile playing across his lips. What he said next shocked her to the core. ‘I’ll tell you then, shall I? It’s only that I belong to this family! I’m your grandfather’s by-blow and your uncle, my dear, your dear father’s half-brother and someone should have told you long before now.’ He spoke roughly, imparting the information in a way that only made it all the more alarming. Hettie’s head spun as, desperately, she tried to assimilate the news. Gathering her wits, she articulated the first thought to fly into her head.
‘But what on earth does Grandmamma think?’ she demanded, crossly.
‘It was before their marriage,’ her mother chimed in, darting a look towards their visitor that, upset as she was, Hettie could only think boded ill for his future.
Reuben’s eyes blazed. He bore grudges, Hettie could see. Young as she was, even she knew old hurts lay buried deep. ‘Aye! An affair with a maid, a lass he thought not good enough!’ he snapped.
‘But I thought you were the gamekeeper here?’ she protested.
‘Your grandmother took Reuben in and had him brought up here, on the estate. . . .’ her mother interjected.
‘Neither fish nor fowl!’ The subject of the old woman’s largesse frowned, angrily
‘Oh . . . gosh . . . . But that was good of Grandmamma, wasn’t it?’ Hettie said, not quite sure what they expected from her and really, rather shocked. She stared hard at Reuben, remembering now how he’d broken up the fight between Lewis and Bill and how fiercely he’d looked at her afterwards so she’d wondered then what she’d done to deserve it. And all the while, he’d known he was her uncle! A strange, wild man and she’d thought so from the very first moment she’d met him.
‘Should I be pleased?’ she asked, having no idea if she should.
He stared back. ‘Some wouldn’t,’ he answered honestly.
‘You do have a look of my father about you,’ she murmured, fretfully. ‘I . . . I miss him.’
‘We all do, lass.’
The response came quickly and was unexpectedly reassuring. She swung back towards her mother, seeking more truth. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Was that
down to Grandmamma too?’ she asked, hitting on the truth at once. Wouldn’t that just be like her? Her dear grandmother thought Hettie wasn’t old enough to know anything yet!
‘She does find the situation . . . difficult,’ her mother agreed.
Taking everyone by surprise, even herself, suddenly Hettie grinned.
‘Uncle Reuben! Who would have believed it?’
That was Hettie, a gust of fresh air blowing through Loxley’s deepest, darkest corridors. Her mother smiled, a rather painful smile, and Hettie even saw amusement lurking in Reuben’s eyes. It disappeared far too quickly. ‘Have you seen Lewis?’ he demanded, abruptly.
‘Not today,’ she answered guardedly, the memory of last night’s escapade rushing back into her head. If anything could have put flight to the startling news she’d just learned, this was it. No one knew about the visit to the gypsies and, as far as she was concerned, that was exactly how it should remain.
‘But you did see him last night?’ Reuben persisted.
How much did he know? This new addition to the family wasn’t the kind of man with whom you tangled, Hettie sensed. Her immediate response, to deny all knowledge, died an instant death. If the truth couldn’t be avoided, it was best to confess, she summed up quickly, dreading already what her mother would say. ‘I did sort of see him after dinner last night,’ she began, tentatively.
‘You went out?’ her mother asked, sharply. ‘Hettie, what have you been up to now?’
There was no hope for it. She told them. She’d gone with Bill and Lewis, to see the gypsies. They’d heard some fabulous tales, but most fabulous of all, the story Leon, the gypsy leader, had related concerning a Saxon King Edmund and his Queen, Elgiva and a fantastic sword named Aelric, forged in honour of the marriage. It had been a magical evening and it would stay with her the rest of her life. And then. . . . Well, that was it, really. She’d parted company with the boys at the bridge and they’d all gone their separate ways although she wasn’t sure where Lewis had gone after that, exactly. . . . Her mother was clearly appalled. Abruptly, Hettie’s unexpected euphoria at the recounting of events disappeared.
‘Hettie, how could you? Anything could have happened. . . . Why don’t you think?’
‘But I do think, Mother!’ she interjected, indignantly. ‘I think more than anyone ever gives me credit for. . . .’
‘Is this other lad Bill, Lizzie’s lad – her first-born?’ Reuben broke in, fiercely.
‘His dad, Sam Tennant, owns the garage in the village,’ Hettie explained, eagerly.
‘Sam Tennant’s still here and married to Lizzie?’ He sounded surprised.
‘He adopted Bill as his own. Reuben, I hardly see why you’re so worried,’ her mother interjected, to Hettie’s relief, her attention, if only momentarily, thankfully deflected.
Uncle Reuben, as Hettie had already decided she must now think of him, sighed heavily. ‘Lewis has history,’ he said, managing to shock her all over again. ‘He’s been in trouble with the police before, I’m afraid. . . .’
Ursula hunkered down on a level with Maisie May and held up the little dress she’d just extracted from the box beside her, clothes collected over the last few days from friends and neighbours and brought with her here to Leon’s comfortable and comforting little caravan. She’d worked hard, chivvying everyone she knew with children, to spare as many unwanted clothes as possible. So much wasted time, Freddie had complained, which would have been better spent on the farm.
Ursula pushed all thoughts of Freddie’s vexatious temper from her mind. She didn’t want to think about Freddie right now.
‘Pwetty,’ the little girl lisped, stroking the material, shyly.
‘It is, darling, isn’t it,’ she agreed, brushing the little girl’s cheek with her hand. She stood up, replacing the dress in the box, her ready smile fading when she saw Leon’s expression. The gypsy leader looked put out and Ursula had a strong suspicion why that was. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Leon?’ she asked.
‘And would it matter if I did?’ he asked, answering her question with another.
‘It would be so much better if you did agree!’ she returned quickly, wondering now if she’d affronted him in some way. But it was clear the old man didn’t want the gypsy children to go to school. The atmosphere in the caravan bristled with his offended dignity and her own good intentions. This was going to be more difficult than she’d so blithely assumed and she should have realized. She smiled encouragement. ‘It’s only a few bits and bobs, clothes people no longer need, their children have grown out of. . . . And, oh, Leon, you are alright about the children going to school, aren’t you?’ she burst out, passionately.
‘Maisie May’s not old enough for school yet,’ he pointed out.
‘But the other children – it’s such a wonderful opportunity – think of all they’ll learn!’
Folding his arms, Leon stared down at her impassively so she realized anew what a strong-minded man he was, a man who, once he’d made up his mind, wouldn’t be budged. She took a deep and steadying breath. ‘It’s only for three afternoons a week,’ she persisted. ‘They’ll soon get into the routine.’
‘We’re never in a place long enough for routine, routine is anathema to us,’ came the predictable answer.
‘But you can’t be leaving yet!’
‘It wasn’t so long ago you couldn’t wait for us to leave.’
Ursula blushed. It was true and she couldn’t deny it. Happily, she saw Leon’s eyes were twinkling and at once she was filled with relief. He was teasing her. Everything was going to be alright after all!
‘A trial period only, mind,’ he warned, if he had but known it, echoing Cynthia Bradwell, the village school head teacher.
‘That’s all I ask.’ She smiled.
In the distance, a police bell clanged. ‘Something’s going off at the hall?’ the old man conjectured.
She nodded. Freddie had seen Tom Compton earlier that morning, who’d told him the news. ‘They’ve had some kind of a break-in. You do know the war committee was meeting there this week? They’ve had some papers stolen, apparently, important documents and it’s created no end of a stink,’ she said, passing on the news and making a mental note to call round at the hall later to see if there was anything she could do to help. Nowhere seemed safe any more, even fortress Loxley! Ursula shivered, forcing her mind back to the business in hand.
At that moment, the kettle began to boil on the stove and, to her horror and without warning, Maisie May set off in determined fashion towards it. Ursula’s reactions were instinctive. With a yelp of warning she dashed towards her, scooping her hastily up into her arms but only just in time. Another second. . . . Horribly aware of the tragedy with which they might have been dealing, unable to bear the thought, she clasped the little girl to her fiercely.
The colour draining from his face, Leon sank down into a chair. ‘That child will be the death of me,’ he muttered, at that moment, looking every one of his years, more numerous than Ursula had guessed, she thought now, shocked by it. An old man who, much as he so obviously loved Maisie May, must surely, at times, find the care of her a trial?
‘Why don’t I take Maisie back to the farm with me?’ she proffered. She glanced down at the child, emotion shadowing her face. ‘You’d like to see the baby piglets, darling, wouldn’t you?’
Even Leon hadn’t the heart to spoil the little girl’s obvious pleasure at the idea and, in as short a time as it took to make their way from the gypsy encampment back to Merry Weather Farm, Ursula was holding her up over the side of the pen to see Sadie, the Gloucester Old Spot, and her brood of ten fine piglets, lying supine, tails curled in a milky delight. Maisie May laughed out loud to see them, a sound that did Ursula so much good to hear.
Fresh from the winter planting at which he’d been working all morning and already fed-up to the back teeth with it, Freddie Hamilton trooped wearily round the side of the barn. Up at the crack of dawn, hardly time to force down a bit of breakf
ast before he was out in the fields; repetitive, back-breaking work. . . . At once, he stopped, brought up short by sight of Ursula with a little girl in her arms, holding the child up so she could see into the pigsty and Sadie’s new litter of pigs. The pair were so engrossed, they hadn’t even heard him. Something inside the farmer tightened in pain at the sight, more so when he realized how happy Ursula looked – and how long it was since he’d seen her look that way. He’d no need to think why either for, if ever a woman was cut out for motherhood, it was his Ursula. How he railed at the fate that had denied her children! And him too, he reminded himself, for once acknowledging feelings he more normally pushed down deep inside. It hurt like hell to think there’d never be a son to whom he could pass on the farm.
Wondering whose child it was, he walked towards them. ‘There you are, Ursula,’ he murmured softly, miserably aware of her instinctive flinch at his words. She turned towards him so he saw now the dark circles shadowing her eyes. ‘I’ve just finished Top Field,’ he said, struggling for something to say. ‘Pru’s making a start on Lower Brook. . . .’
‘Hah! That’s good of her. . . .’
She sounded so bitter it shocked him. Was there something more than her words, seeming to him laden with a meaning of which he’d no idea? But this was what it had been like between them of late, and how he hated it! Listlessly, she put the little girl down and would have led her away if only he hadn’t planted himself firmly in their path, blocking their way. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ he asked, pleasantly he hoped.
‘This is Maisie May, Leon’s grandchild. . . . Leon, the gypsy leader,’ she answered, confirming his suspicions and already sounding defensive. As if she imagined he was going to argue – and in front of the child, too. Freddie knew he ought to be cross; that many men would assume the child had been brought here deliberately to flout him. To both the adults’ surprise, perhaps most of all to his own, he hunkered down in front of her, smiling gently.
‘I bet you’d like some milk and a biscuit?’ he murmured.
The little girl nodded uncertainly but nevertheless, when he stood up, allowed him to take her free hand. Across the top of her head, he flashed Ursula a warm smile, catching her surprise and taking mild satisfaction in it. It was clear their marriage was undergoing some kind of a transformation, raising all kinds of difficulties of which they’d never dreamed, but wasn’t it more important how they went on from here? They had to make a start somewhere. Resolutely determined, a small flame of hope burning inside him which refused to be extinguished no matter what trials beset them, he ushered the little party back towards the house.
