by Sally Wragg
His head bowed. ‘What I did was unforgiveable but I did have good reason. You have to believe me, Bron, hard as it is to understand.’
‘Hettie told me . . . about Lilli. You must love her very much.’
There, it was out! The one thing that hurt above all and at least he didn’t deny it.
‘I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘You led me on. You made me think you were free to love me when all the while . . . you loved someone else. How could you do that to me, Roland?’
‘It was unforgiveable and saying I’m sorry doesn’t begin to address it. . . .’
‘At least you admit it.’ How difficult it was to keep reproach from her voice. He heard it and flushed.
‘But I do have feelings for you, Bron! It wasn’t all show. I’d never have hurt you, willingly. Any other time . . . given different circumstances. . . . I wanted to tell you about Lilli. It was on the tip of my tongue, so many times and yet, how could I?’
‘You could have trusted me. You could have tried, Roland.’ The tears she’d determined not to let fall, stung the back of Bronwyn’s eyes. Wretchedly, already, the door was opening and Digby’s head appearing around it.
‘Time’s up, Your Grace,’ he murmured but with a gentleness in his voice which, even in her dismay, surprised her. She stood up, seeing before her now only a weak man. A man who’d done a bad thing in a futile effort to put right a wrong, not of his making. The evil reach of the Nazis was stretching far and wide. There were troubled times ahead and she knew that now.
After all, her overriding emotion was one of pity. ‘I’ll do what I can to help you,’ she said.
Two days later, in a local garage in Fernley Appleton, a busy market town nestled on the edges of Dartmoor, a well-dressed man entered the premises, treating with indifference the bedraggled tinker dozing gently on its forecourt, taking shelter against the slanting rain which had been falling all morning. The place was surprisingly busy, happening to run as a thriving side business, even at this poor time of year, cycle and car hire for passing trade and holidaymakers. Patiently, the man waited his turn to be served and, when it arrived, with his old world manner and good humour, easily charmed the middle-aged lady behind the counter. Several minutes later, the key to a motor clutched in one elegant hand, his imposing figure re-emerged to stand and look around him in evident satisfaction – a man happy with his lot and inordinately pleased with life. Abruptly, the tinker at his feet stirred and woke up, a bundle of rags, shifting to pathetic life.
‘Spare a few coppers, mister?’ he called, tremulously.
Struck by the disparity of their circumstances, confident he’d be out of the country within the next few days and thinking nothing of it, Dresler reached into his pocket, idly flicking a coin towards the eager, grasping hand, before striding briskly away.
The driving rain which had beset them these last three days splattered relentlessly against the morning room window. Staring out bleakly into the tangled remains of a garden once so redolent of summer, Hettie wondered if, in all her short life, she’d ever felt quite so frustrated. Despite their recent ordeal at the hands of Count Dresler, Bill had still had to go into college. Lewis meanwhile, since his release from prison, had been proving curiously evasive. Even Reuben had no idea where the young man had hidden himself away. Gone to ground to lick his wounds, Hettie suspected, cross at him because of it when she’d so much to tell him. Frowning, she turned away from the window as Soames, followed by her mother, came in bearing a tray laden with tea things. Katherine Loxley was at a meeting of the Women’s Institute. No matter what calamitous events beset its occupants, Loxley’s life ground inexorably on. As usual, any dissatisfaction Hettie was happening to feel was written plainly on her face.
‘Hettie, please cheer up!’ her mother ordered, once Soames had gone. She poured tea, handing a cup to Hettie before taking hers over to the hearth to drink, where a cheerful fire burned. She was pale, Hettie saw, at last waking up to the fact, the last few days hadn’t been easy for her mother, either.
‘There’s no news of that wretch, Dresler, yet, I take it?’ she demanded, crossly.
Regrettably, her mother shook her head. ‘General Hawker rang. They still have a watch on the coast and the airports but it looks as if he’s slipped the net, I’m afraid.’
‘But it’s so unfair!’ Hettie bridled. ‘You do realize, if we could only find Aelric, all our financial worries would be solved?’
Bronwyn, as ever, was philosophical. ‘It’ll end up in the hands of a private collector, I expect, and our Count will make himself a lot of money. I would have liked to have seen it, all the same. . . .’
There was something else Hettie needed to know, though it was an awkward subject. ‘Did the General happen to say what will happen to Roland?’ she asked, quietly. The business with Roland had hurt her mother badly and Hettie could have killed him for it.
‘He’ll go to prison,’ she admitted. ‘Though the General tells me, hopefully, he may be able to negotiate Lilli’s release through an exchange. She’ll hardly be of much use to the Nazis now they have no use for Roland.’ A shaft of sunlight in a gloom of general adversity and Hettie was only too aware that, if this situation could be achieved, her mother, such a forgiving woman, would take great comfort from it.
At that moment, the door reopened and Soames reappeared to usher in the Chief Inspector, who hurried towards them, smiling, unusually for him who found so little to smile at in life. ‘I thought you’d want to know, we’ve found that villain Dresler!’ he burst out at once, news as surprising as it was welcome and Hettie’s heart filled with joy. A wrong righted and a bad man exactly where he should be, safe in the hands of the British police!
‘We acted on a tip-off from a gypsy. He was holed up on Dartmoor,’ Digby went on happily. ‘We surrounded the cottage he’d rented at first light this morning.’
‘Chief Inspector, that’s wonderful,’ Bronwyn enthused.
‘Aye, he’ll have more than a few questions to answer, that one! A tricky customer, our Count. . . .’
‘And Aelric? You have found Aelric, too?’ Hettie demanded, impatiently. It was wonderful news of course but unfortunately, the Count’s capture wasn’t the only issue at stake here. She saw at once by the little man’s face that there might be a problem and her heart sank.
The Chief Inspector removed his hat, smoothing the brim with his sleeve.
‘Unfortunately not, though we’ve turned the place upside-down.’
‘But I don’t understand! He must have had it with him . . . hidden it somewhere?’ Hettie wailed.
Digby shook his head. ‘He swore he’d put it under his bed for safe keeping and appears as mystified as anyone where it’s disappeared. I have to admit, on this occasion, I happen to believe him. Your fabled sword’s gone, I’m afraid. Vamoosed, vanished and only the good Lord knows where. . . .’
It was so jolly unfair and so Hettie announced, at dinner that night, to everyone gathered round the table. ‘Where can it be?’ she fumed.
‘It’s no good moaning, Hettie. We have to get on with it,’ Katherine Loxley responded, tartly, throwing a discontented look meanwhile towards Bill and Reuben, their dinner guests, invited at the last minute by Bronwyn to liven up the party. Hettie had asked Lewis too but the young man had declined. Hurt by it, Hettie had arrived at the not unnatural conclusion he was deliberately avoiding her and that she must in some way have offended him.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ Reuben said, his stern gaze settling on her mother as if it were to her alone to whom he addressed himself. Chewing thoughtfully on a stick of celery, Hettie frowned. It was ridiculous of course, but she’d got to wondering of late if her newly discovered uncle didn’t feel more for her mother than he actually ought. Thoughts of her portrait in Berlin only added fuel to the suspicion.
This business was going to her head, she mused. The lamps were lit, the firelight flickered, chasing a rainbow of sparkling colour across the chandel
ier hanging low over the table. At once and to everyone’s surprise, the door burst open and a tall, imposing figure strode into the room. It was Leon. Soames hurried after him.
‘Madam, I’m sorry,’ the elderly butler spluttered, full of a righteous indignation.
‘It’s alright, Soames,’ Bronwyn answered, half-rising in her seat.
‘Leon!’ Hettie beamed, happily.
‘A fitting return,’ the gypsy leader murmured enigmatically, standing to gaze about him. With his long, flowing white locks and cloak, fastened with a jewelled pin winking in the glittering light, he looked a throwback to ancient times, a magnificent and medieval Saxon king. All at once, he tossed back his cloak to reveal the bundle he carried under one arm and which, with one bright and swift movement, he threw to the floor, the material around it unravelling as it fell so a dazzling brightness clattered on the flagstones. A ringing of ancient times, glittering and glistening gold, beset with sparkling jewels, rubies, emeralds and amethysts. But then, so much more than this, its real worth, a thing intangible.
Hettie’s heart exploded in happiness and joy. Aelric was home.
In great reverence, they carried the sword to the anteroom, laying it in state on the green baize table there, where, willingly, the servants took it in turns to sit up to keep watch until an expert should be summoned from London to give it proper valuation.
‘It is crown property,’ Katherine mused, still clearly shocked by events.
‘But it belongs here!’ Hettie retorted, so adamantly, the elderly lady smiled.
They were due a hefty remuneration whatever the outcome, wrong as it felt to value in purely monetary terms a work of art so clearly beyond value.
It was breakfast the following morning, Leon had long since departed but not before enthralling the company with the tale of how his people had tracked Dresler to his hide-out, stealing in to remove Aelric to safety before denouncing him to the police. ‘It was long our trust to bring Aelric home,’ he’d finished, his words ringing with pride that once, long ago, Romani people had been able to do the embattled Stuart King a good turn.
Munching on a slice of toast, Hettie was interrupted from her reverie by Soames. ‘A visitor, Your Grace,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve put him in the morning room. . . .’
Half-guessing who it would be, at once she threw down her serviette and hurried through, both relieved and delighted to find Lewis waiting, the first time she’d seen him since his release from prison. Her pleasure unfortunately was of a short duration.
‘I’m here to say goodbye, Het. I couldn’t go without seeing you again,’ he said, in one breath taking all pleasure from his visit.
‘But you can’t go now!’ she wailed. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to travel; I want to see the world whilst I’m still young enough to enjoy it.’
Hettie had no idea why she was instantly so against the idea. And yet it would be good for him, she acknowledged inwardly, a chance to put all his recent troubles behind him.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ she said, mastering both her confusion and disappointment together, taking his hand and dragging him upstairs to the anteroom. Loftily dismissing the servant keeping watch, she brought him to the table where Aelric lay in state, the morning’s pale light shifting over its brilliance, catching at its myriad of jewels so even she marvelled at it anew. A veil of centuries torn away, bringing to mind another young couple who’d shared a deep and joyful union. A love Hettie knew instinctively she’d yet to find.
Lewis stood beside her. ‘It’s breathtaking, Het,’ he murmured.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go’ she said, helplessly and, turning towards him, remembering now how much they’d been through together.
‘I’ll be back. Someday,’ he muttered. Before she could stop him, not even sure if she wanted to, he drew her towards him, kissing her gently and, oh so sweetly. And then he was gone, his footsteps clattering swiftly downstairs, leaving her staring after him, her gaze full of wonder and her fingers rising to trace his kiss on her lips.
Epilogue
Autumn was underway, the leaves in the churchyard drifting to join their compatriots, a riot of rich, bright colour, carpeting the floor around. Arranging the rusty-gold dahlias in the pot over her grandpa’s grave, Ursula Hamilton rocked back on her heels, looking past the weathered headstone to the stained glass in the church beyond, upon which the morning’s sun shimmered and gleamed, sparkling bright jewels over Queen Elgiva and Edmund, her King. And yet he was a mortal man whom Elgiva had loved with the same intensity as Ursula loved her Freddie, she mused. What affinity she felt to this Saxon Queen, who smiled so benignly on one and all.
The wind whistled, a windblown choir, a refrain of heavenly voices, rustling high up into the empyrean. Instinctively, Ursula’s hand fell to her stomach, feeling its flatness and yet, too, the life so miraculously quickening there. The music in her heart rose to a crescendo, a miracle, an answer to her prayers to this sainted lady to whom those in trouble had long since prayed.
‘You’ll be a great-grandfather, Ned,’ she whispered, hearing the old man’s chortle of delight as clearly as if he were standing here beside her. Doctors weren’t always right and Ned would have told her exactly as much. Smiling, she rose to her feet, quickly dusting down her knees. There was nothing to do now, only go home and tell Freddie.
Miracles happened all the time. All you had to do was believe. . . .
By the same author
Daisy’s Girl
Maggie’s Girl
Playing for Keeps
© Sally Wragg
First published in 2015 by
Robert Hale an imprint of
The Crowood Press Ltd,
Ramsbury, Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.crowood.com
www.halebooks.com
ISBN 978 0 7198 2001 4 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 2002 1 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 2003 8 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1430 3 (print)
The right of Sally Wragg to be identified as
author of this work has been asserted by her
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
