Lark (Sally Watson Family Tree Series)

by Sally Watson

  Lark’s creamy cheeks just weren’t of the pink-and-white variety. But she now saw a chance to pass her detested dull gray skirt and bodice down to Patience and perhaps fall heir to the slightly less drab brown one that Honour was outgrowing. “Gray always makes me look pale,” she explained artlessly, thinking of the bright wildflower colors she used to wear at home.

  Uncle Jeremiah sometimes had a disconcerting habit of seeming to guess her thoughts. “I suppose you’d like a frock of scarlet taffeta?” he suggested dryly. “I fear the Devil is still at work in you, Elizabeth. I would suggest rather a walk in the fresh air for your cheeks. If your aunt doesn’t need you this afternoon, you may walk into the village for me, to deliver a note to the parson.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lark humbly, careful not to show her delight. There seemed to be a general rule among Puritans that if one enjoyed something, it must be bad for the soul, and vice versa.

  A little later she paced sedately out of the weathered stone house and down the lane, hardly able to believe her good fortune. A walk all the way to the village, out in the enchanting summer sunshine, without a critical cousin in sight! She wanted to skip and run and sing, but she prudently waited for that until she was safely around the turn of the road and into the wood. Instead she gave her best imitation of a lark—a trick her big brother had taught her in honor of her nickname.

  The forest was magical today. Silver-trunked beech trees soared upward to make a flecked roof of green and blue, and there were emerald cushions of moss at their feet. Squirrels frolicked fearlessly, and a yaffingale sang, and it was perfectly ridiculous to suppose that a God who made all this did not love beauty and color and joy and song.

  Lark sang.

  But she stopped when she came near the steep-roofed cottage at the edge of the wood. It was a very nice cottage, set in the midst of an herb garden—but it was the home of Mistress Tillyard, and Lark was a trifle nervous about that old lady. She had, for one thing, a long nose and chin, and deep-set eyes beneath beetling brows, and she brewed potions of herbs. She might easily have been a witch if she had not, instead, been one of the most outspoken and strict Puritans for miles around. Lark wasn’t sure which of the two was more alarming.

  It was fortunate that she stopped singing when she did, for as the road entered the clearing, Lark saw Mistress Tillyard coming out of her cottage.

  2

  The Lark Flies

  Lark’s footsteps faltered slightly. Mistress Tillyard was walking with the brisk air of someone who might be going to the village, too, and Lark did not in the least want her lovely walk spoiled by this formidable old woman. Still, her mother had fixed a firm notion of proper manners in her head, and she felt that she could neither rush past nor hang back and hide.

  Moreover, Mistress Tillyard had paused by her gate, and was definitely looking at Lark. She even beckoned to her with a bony forefinger. There was no help for it. Lark went along up to her and curtseyed.

  “You’re Jeremiah Talbot’s niece, Elizabeth Lennox, aren’t you?” demanded Mistress Tillyard.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” agreed Lark, faintly surprised. Not knowing what else to say, she prudently said nothing.

  “We’ll walk along together if you’re going to the village,” commanded the old woman, and set out at a surprisingly nimble pace. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, especially the last day or so. How do you like living with your uncle, by the way? Does he treat you well?”

  Lark tactfully hid her surprise and ignored the first part of the question. “He treats me the same as his own children,” she said truthfully, “except that he prays about me a little more often.” She refrained from adding that in her opinion some of her cousins could have well done with extra prayers, for Will-of-God bullied all the smaller ones, Faithful was selfish, Temperance had a sharp tongue, and little Patience was a shocking crybaby and tell-tale.

  The old woman chuckled. “But he still hasn’t made a Puritan of you, has he?” Then she chuckled again as Lark turned a blank face to her. “So that’s your armor, is it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Lark, looking blanker than ever.

  “Your expression,” Mistress Tillyard explained, suddenly sounding quite kind. “We all need something to hide behind when we feel alarmed or not sure of ourselves. It might be anger or tears, or sarcasm, or laughter, or a shrug. Yours is that look of affable imbecility. It’s quite effective, you know. Makes you look pitifully young. . . . How old are you, really?”

  Lark eyed Mistress Tillyard with considerable alarm. How could she know so much about a person she had scarcely spoken to before now? “Thirteen,” she admitted reluctantly.

  “Good. Don’t remind people of it, though. The younger and more helpless you look, the better your defense. It suits you, with that short face and those wide eyes.” She stopped in the road and turned to lift Lark’s chin with a finger and study her face. “Widow’s peak,” she murmured. “Wide across the eyes and cheekbones, short chin—like a fat heart lopped off at the bottom. It’s not a bad face, my dear. It hides originality and independence of mind.”

  Lark blinked. She had never been particularly conscious of having originality and independence of mind, but now it had been brought to her attention, she saw quite clearly that it was so. The discovery pleased her. She began to feel affection for the strange old woman.

  Mistress Tillyard dropped Lark’s chin and continued walking. “Tell me, poppet, what do you hear of your own family?” she asked.

  Lark began to get into the spirit of this surprising conversation. “Practically nothing,” she said sadly. “Sometimes they write, but Aunt Judith or Uncle Jeremiah keep their letters and just tell me what they think I should know. And I haven’t heard anything at all about my sister.” She paused and looked at Mistress Tillyard, who was looking as interested as if she knew Lark’s family.

  “Your sister?” she prompted gently.

  “She married a Scot,” explained Lark. “And so of course she went to live in Scotland. And I think she’s still safe there, but I don’t know, because I haven’t heard anything for more than two years.” She stared at the ground, feeling as forlorn as she always did when she allowed herself to think about these things.

  “Yes, she’s still there,” said Mistress Tillyard as calmly as if she went around dropping thunderbolts every day of the year. “Things are quite peaceful in those remote glens of the Highlands. She has a baby, and she sends you her love, and wishes you could be with her.”

  Lark had stopped dead in the road and was simply staring. “I—I—How—”

  “How do I know?” The old woman smiled toothlessly. “Oh, I have my ways, and it will be safer if you don’t know them. But the message is quite recent, poppet. It didn’t come in one of those expensive letters that can be delayed for months, and perhaps never arrive at all. That’s all I can tell you, so be content.”

  Lark walked on in dazed silence, and Mistress Tillyard, looking at the radiant small face, was pleased. She would have been less pleased had she known that Lark had just, at that moment, definitely decided to go to Scotland.

  It was not Mistress Tillyard’s fault that she underestimated Lark’s initiative. It had been very shrewd of her to see as much as she had in that babyish looking face. And there was nothing in the least sudden about Lark’s decision. She had merely been biding her time, all along, until the right time should come. It would never do just to run away at random. She must have a definite place to run to, and the news from Cecily was all she needed.

  Although it took Lark only three seconds to decide to go to Scotland, it took a full three weeks to plan and prepare, for Lark was the sort of person who could plan wildly impossible things in a perfectly practical way. She surprised Aunt Judith by her industry in finishing the new warm brown cloak that was for next winter, and then she talked herself into Honour’s brown skirt and bodice. It was, she pointed out, so short for Honour that a positively indecent amount of ankle showed, and what woul
d the neighbors think?

  Her astonishing appetite became even more astonishing, for she began saving everything that would keep, and hiding it in her apron pocket to be stored later in her little tin box that was hidden in the corner of the shed. She also helped herself, a little at a time, to raisins and nuts and other dried things from the cupboards, explaining to her conscience that it wasn’t really stealing, but only borrowing in advance on the future meals she wouldn’t be here to eat, and in the long run it would still save Aunt Judith a great deal on food. Her conscience, of course, would never dream of taking so much as a farthing of money, but she did have two shillings, fivepence halfpenny of her very own, that had been in her pocket when she left home.

  Next Lark began getting up in the middle of the night, explaining to the sleepily indignant Temperance, whose bed she shared, that she was off to the night chamber, or to get a drink of water. After the first week Temperance no longer bothered to grumble, and in two weeks she didn’t even wake up when her cousin slipped out of the high four-poster.

  Finally, Lark counted the steps from her bed to the stairs, and all the way to the garden door, memorizing every creaky spot. She even practiced walking the chosen route with her eyes shut, until one day Aunt Judith caught her at it.

  “What on earth are you doing, Elizabeth?”

  Lark opened her eyes to their widest, remembering Mistress Tillyard’s advice. “I just wanted to see what it would be like if I were blind,” she invented, and then bowed her head meekly while Aunt Judith pointed out at great length that she would do much better to be thinking of God, and whether her soul were in a State of Grace.

  But after three weeks Lark began to realize she was taking rather more time to prepare than she really needed, and that the reason for this was because she was a little afraid. Lark couldn’t bear being a coward. She would rather, she thought, be downright wicked. And so she decided to set out that very night.

  She lay still and tense on the edge of the bed for what seemed hours. One by one Honour and Temperance and Patience stopped whispering and began breathing deeply and regularly. She waited. Presently a muffled growling began from down the hall: Aunt Judith snoring. Her snores were not nearly as loud and varied as Uncle Jeremiah’s, Lark reflected, but they were impressive all the same. Had she waited long enough? Yes, it must be safe now. She couldn’t bear to hold still a moment more!

  She inched her way out of bed, freezing where she was and holding her breath while Temperance grunted and turned over in her sleep. She breathed and moved again, and then quietly scooped up her clothes, shoes, and work bag, which she had laid conveniently near the door. She moved forward—

  And then the sleepy voice of Patience inquired peevishly from the other bed whether that was Elizabeth, and where she was going.

  “Where do you think I’m going?” hissed Lark, in a panic lest the others wake up, too. She had never disliked Patience as much as she did now.

  Patience sniffed resentfully, muttering that Elizabeth needn’t be so rude, need she, and just wait until Mother heard about it in the morning, and then she’d see.

  “Oh, hush,” Lark whispered, and then quickly slipped out of the door before Patience could answer back. But she stood there for a moment, listening. If Patience did decide to create a fuss . . . But there was silence again.

  Lark swallowed hard, and began to follow the dark route she had traveled so many times in practice. Down the hall she crept, keeping to the right side because of the squeaky board on the left. Then down the stairs—counting—skipping the second and seventh steps—and along the tiled lower hall, which had, thank goodness, no creaks at all. She snatched the warm winter cloak from its peg and hurried into the big kitchen, which still glowed faintly from the direction of the huge fireplace. The first step was accomplished!

  She stood still for an instant, panting a little from excitement, hardly daring to believe it. Then she hastily dressed, one ear cocked toward the stairs, filled with a splendid sense of adventure well started. After that she regarded her voluminous nightgown with deep perplexity. What was she to do with it? She couldn’t just leave it here to be found at the crack of dawn. Finally she simply stuffed it into her workbag along with a clean collar and cap, her comb, and her small silken purse with her precious coins.

  The garden door unbolted easily, and she was out in the summer darkness and across the vegetable garden to the little shed, where she took out her hoard of food and put that in on top of the nightgown. The bag was distinctly bulky by now, but she could worry about that later. Now it was time to put as much distance as possible between herself and Aunt Judith, and do it before dawn. Thank goodness Uncle Jeremiah and Will had gone back to the army! Lark wasn’t at all sure she would have the courage to go at all if they had been here to start searching for her.

  She flickered like a shadow through the garden gate, and started off on the small road that led away from the village to the north. All she had to do was keep on going north until she reached Scotland, and then she could begin to ask about Cameron country, where Cecily lived. She set out cheerfully.

  Presently she felt less cheerful. The land stretched blackly around her, and it occurred to her for the first time that she was not at all sure how far it was to Scotland from Fordingbridge-near-Salisbury, which was the nearest town she knew. Suppose it was as much as a hundred miles! The thought was daunting. Would two shillings, fivepence halfpenny take care of inns, and more food when hers ran out, for all that way? Moreover, there might be danger with the country all upset about the Scottish invasion. Suppose she met a robber or goblin or evil spirit or Gypsy, or something?

  By the time she reached the edge of a very dark-looking wood, she was definitely wondering if this was such a good idea, after all. Perhaps she had been too hasty? It was not too late to change her mind. She paused, peering into the blackness of the forest, considering. But then it dawned on her that she was frightened, and if she turned back now she would dislike herself forever for being a coward, and even meeting a goblin would be better than that. Taking a deep breath, she marched into the woods.

  After a few minutes it seemed less dark and alarming. Her eyes got used to it, and presently a moon came up and filtered through the trees. She went on and on, though she was getting a little tired. The woods ended, and the road found its way to a river and ran along beside it. Lark had a drink and resisted the temptation to eat all of her food. She was extremely hungry.

  When the sky to the northeast began to gray, she saw that the road was still leading her northward. When the sun came up, she found a patch of trees and underbrush. There she hid herself amid long grass and elderberry bushes, and curled up for a nap. She felt rather pleased with herself. She would stay hidden during the day, when Faithful or some of the neighbors might be searching for her, and she did not think they would find her here. Aunt Judith would doubtless think she had gone south to the coast, to try to get to France.

  Lark made herself more comfortable, stared sleepily up at the tranquil morning sky for a moment, imitated a lark for a bar or two, yawned, and went to sleep.

  3

  The Rescue

  James strode along in full daylight, enjoying life. He had been in Dorset and Hampshire for the last three weeks or so, and now was heading northward again, sorry only that he hadn’t been able to stop for another visit with Mistress Tillyard. She was not only a delightful person, but she had taught him a great deal about passing as a staunch Puritan. That came in handy, these days. James put more faith in this knowledge than in the tinker’s tools which he now was carrying to distract suspicion.

  James fondly hoped that no one would ask him to repair a pan or anything. If they did, he was going to say that he was just taking them to his father near Shrewsbury as a gift from an elderly uncle. He wouldn’t have bothered with them at all, but the squire near Corfe Castle had been very insistent, and James hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings. He had worked very hard on that squire, who had gallantly supported C
romwell until the execution of King Charles I two years ago. There, like many other Englishmen, the squire had drawn the line. Beheading one’s king—however badly the king might have behaved—was, he felt, going too far. He had withdrawn himself from the Parliament army, returned to his home, and brooded. It was one of James’s tasks to visit such men and try to bring them around to the point of view that perhaps Cromwell was becoming an even worse tyrant than he claimed Charles had been, and that young Charles should be accepted as King.

  Persuading people of this was not easy these days, with young Charles actually leading a Scottish army into England. In fact, it was exceedingly difficult. Even Royalists were beginning to mutter that now it was Charles who was going too far, and that even Cromwell was better than the Scots.

  Still, James was very persuasive. Although he was only eighteen, his candid brown eyes and logic were very convincing, and the squire had been deeply impressed—especially when he found out that Charles was practically a prisoner of the Scots, and had no choice in the matter, and that it was up to loyal Englishmen to free him and send the Scots back home with a flea in their ears. It was very pleasant to feel that he was doing something really helpful for Charles, who was only three years older than himself, and who had already had more misfortune than James had seriously dreamed of.

  He strolled along by the side of the river in the radiant sunshine. Around the next bend, a lark broke into song. James smiled and then frowned. It wasn’t a lark, although it was an excellent imitation. The sweet fluting broke into a gay Cavalier song in a girl’s voice.

  “I prithee send me back my heart,

  Since I cannot have thine;

  For if from yours you will not part,

  Why then shouldst thou have mine?”

  James’s eyebrows flew upwards. A Cavalier song in Puritan England? What could the lark, whoever it was, be thinking?