Lark (Sally Watson Family Tree Series)

by Sally Watson

  Willow stuck her head in the wagon door at this point, and batted her eyelashes at James, partly to tease Lark and partly because he was a most attractive young man. “And now we are going to take you home, Adopted Brother,” she announced in a voice that was anything but sisterly. “We might as well; we have nowhere else in particular to go, and the southern counties are best in winter. Besides, when we get there, we’ll camp as long as we like on your land, won’t we?”

  “Certainly,” agreed James promptly, that being the very least he could do. “For as long as I or my heirs own it . . . that is, if we own it at all any more,” he added glumly. “I expect the Roundheads will be turning even more Royalists out of their homes than ever, now.”

  Willow ignored this awful possibility. She tossed her dark head so that the golden hoops in her ears swung, and slitted her eyes. “When we are there, I shall amuse all your friends and family,” she decided. “I shall show them some Gypsy tricks, and they will be very much impressed, I promise you.” She smiled dazzingly at James, expecting him to say that that would be very nice.

  Instead, he stretched his lips across his teeth at her in what really could not at all be called a smile. “Oh, no, you won’t!” he declared a trifle grimly.

  Willow looked put-upon. “But I’m very good at them!” she bragged, unable to understand James’s narrow-minded attitude. “You ought to see me!” She looked at Lark speculatively.

  But Lark had heard enough to draw some very accurate conclusions about the nature of these tricks. She laughed and shook her head.

  Willow moped, disappointed. Gorgios were always taking the fun out of things.

  18

  A Manor in Devon

  The Gypsy caravan moved along lanes and byways down past Bristol and into Devon through a most upset countryside. Things still seethed with the last battle of a lost cause, with rampant Roundheads hunting Royalists, Scots, and most particularly one Charles Stewart. Rumors flew. The King was captured; he had fled back to Scotland; he was in hiding; he was dead and secretly buried.

  But the Romany were not part of that world. They moved in a dimension of their own, and James and Lark with them. Only once or twice did the outside world break in, in the form of soldiers wanting to search the wagons. But these invasions were hardly more than a gesture, since no one seriously supposed that Gypsies would risk their own necks and forfeit all those rewards for any Gorgio. And if two of the ragged, dirty, earringed Gypsies had rather lighter hair than most of them, no one ever bothered to look twice.

  By the time they reached Devon, James was very nearly his old self again. He claimed it was the air and the good red soil of his own country that did it.

  “It’s a well-known scientific fact,” he told Lark, “that just returning to the place of your birth can cure the most remarkable number of ailments.”

  Lark eyed him sideways. She was developing a rather scientific mind of her own, and it occurred to her that there might be other factors at work.

  “Sheba said days ago that you’d suddenly start feeling much better about now,” she reminded him. “Besides, the sun’s just come out after all those days of rain, so that I feel especially well myself; and I’m not returning to my place of birth. I was never in Devon before in my life.”

  James grinned down at her, quite admiring her practical nature. “But you see, you have an illogical female mind,” he teased her, wagging his head solemnly.

  “I see,” Lark said thoughtfully. “Then men’s minds are logical?”

  James nodded, curious to hear what would come next. “And it was men, of course, who figured out about men being the logical ones?”

  Another nod.

  “Like the men who are kings, and logically try to make their people like them by bringing in a foreign army to invade,” Lark went on hastily, “and the men who invented Puritanism—”

  “Help!” said James weakly. “Don’t start on Puritanism! I give up! . . . I can hardly wait for you to meet my mother,” he added with anticipation. “Excuse me for a few minutes, Lark. I know the man who owns that farm.”

  He left the caravan and reappeared some time later, looking pleased. “The King still hasn’t been caught,” he reported. “At least it’s pretty sure he hasn’t.”

  This had been going on ever since they got into Devon, for James had done a great deal of messenger work here before branching into other counties. Now there was hardly a Royalist home where he wasn’t known—even in Puritan brown or in Gypsy rags. As a result, he was able to pick up quite a lot of information as they headed south and west.

  There was a very healthy underground system in play here in the West Country for getting hunted Royalists out of the country and across the Channel. Even though ports and harbors were well watched, fishing boats managed to leave every day from some secluded cove or another, bearing refugees.

  “Actually, it’s been going on in a way for a long time,” James explained to Lark. “People get put out of their homes, for instance, so that they go into exile in France—like your parents. Only Cromwell never minded before. He said it was good riddance, so long as they didn’t take too much with them. Now it’s different, because he wants to hang every supporter of Charles he can catch. I expect we’ll have to wait for a while to cross, Lark,” he added. “You see, the ones whose lives are in danger have first rights.”

  Lark nodded, not at all distressed. She wanted very much to see her parents again, of course, but she did not want to be separated from James. He had never said anything about what was to happen after he found her family and restored her to them, and she was a little reluctant to mention it, because it might sound like a hint. It was quite important, Lark felt, that James should think it all his own idea to marry her—when he got around to thinking of it at all, she added to herself with a sigh. She really did want things understood, if possible, before having to be separated from him for a long time, when other girls might have ideas about James, themselves.

  “It might take quite a while to find out where Mother and Father are,” she suggested. “How will we go about it, James?”

  “Oh, there are several possibilities,” murmured James absently. It vaguely occurred to him that he had not yet got around to finding out their names, but that didn’t seem important at the moment. “There are communications between the Royalists here and in exile. My parents might possibly know. Or there’s that ‘fine gentleman’ we keep hearing about, who comes over from France in his private boat and takes Royalists back with him. He might know, and at the very least he could carry messages for us, and start inquiring.”

  He left her again to pay another visit and pick up another thread in the trail he was following. It was an elderly gentleman, he learned, though some said he was a young man in disguise. He hid his boat in some cove or on one of the rivers, and came further upstream in a dory, usually. But no one seemed to know any more, or how to get in touch with him. It was not much to go on—but on the other hand, this was Devon, and there was time.

  James felt more and more optimistic the closer he got to his home.

  Early on a misty mid-September day, a tribe of Gypsies turned off a Devon road into a green meadow, protected with trees, and with a stream running along one side. They proceeded to make camp just as if they had been personally invited to stay there—which, as a matter of fact, was the case. Presently two very dirty Gypsies detached themselves from the others and went hand in hand through a wood, across another field, past stables and garden, and up to a gray stone manor house. There they paused a moment, looked down at themselves, chuckled, and then went to the kitchen door rather than the front entrance.

  “For one thing, it’s closer,” observed James with amusement, “and for another, I shouldn’t think anything like us has ever gone in at the front door yet, so why should we start now?”

  With Lark’s hand firmly in his, he walked jauntily up to the kitchen door and stuck his head into the upper half, which stood open. The serving maid, who happene
d to look up from the oaken sideboard at that moment, gave a small shriek of alarm, looked around for help, and then prepared to stand and give battle.

  “Go away!” she squeaked. “Ee can’t come in here, ee nasty dirty thieving Gypsies! Oi’ll have t’coachman on ee, so oi will!”

  “Don’t be silly, Joan,” said James, laughing. “Look hard and you’ll know me. Where are Mother and Father?”

  “Awp?” said Joan, peering at him doubtfully, and seeming more distressed than ever at finding James’s familiar face behind the dirt. “Master, Mistress!” she squealed, running through the inner door and along the hallway. “Come quick!”

  When Sir William and Lady Trelawney arrived in their kitchen, escorted by the fluttering Joan, James had made himself and Lark quite at home, and was just helping them to a large slice of ham from the spit.

  “Mercy!” said his mother, and was then enveloped in a highly unwashed hug that left her breathless. James hugged his father too, and the three of them looked at one another happily for an instant. All of them, being bred and trained in self-control, recovered it at once.

  “Well, my dear,” observed Lady Trelawney, “I must confess that I might not have recognized you immediately in a crowd. Hadn’t you better introduce me to your friend?”

  “Oh, I am sorry!” James exclaimed, and turned to Lark. “This is Lark—uh—”

  “Elizabeth Lennox, Lark for short,” supplied Lark, curtseying.

  Lady Trelawney perceived at once from the manners and accent that Lark was a member of their own aristocratic class. It took her at least three seconds longer to see that there was a very stong attachment indeed between little Mistress Lennox and James. After that, it was a mere matter of one question to establish—satisfyingly—that Lark’s parents were Lord and Lady Heath, no less.

  “My dear son!” said Sir William. “What on earth have you been doing with the poor child, and yourself as well; and why?” He looked wryly at the brilliant but torn and dirty garments, the dark stain on their hands and faces, and most particularly at the large hoop earrings on both of them. “Why, you look like Gypsies!”

  “Yes,” agreed James. “Oh, and by the way, Father, Psammis and his tribe are camped in the south meadow, and I’ve told them they can stay as long and as often as they like—at least while our family owns Fairlawn.”

  “Really?” asked his father mildly. “May one ask why?”

  “Well, you see—” began James.

  Lark came straight to the point. “They saved James’s life, for one thing,” she said succinctly.

  “In that case, there’s nothing too good for them,” said Lady Trelawney promptly. She and Lark looked at each other with perfect agreement and the dawning of a great understanding. It was clear to both of them that James was quite the most remarkable and altogether wonderful young man on the face of the earth, and this made a very strong bond.

  “I want to hear every single thing you’ve been doing,” said Lady Trelawney wistfully. “I suppose, though, you’ll want to get washed and changed before you do another thing? Really, James, I never thought to see you in quite such a shocking state. And poor Lark . . . Joan, set all our kettles boiling, at once. Are you hungry and tired, too, my dears?”

  “As a matter of fact,” James said candidly, “we feel fine. We’ve been traveling quite comfortably with the Gypsies, and we’ve had plenty of sleep and breakfast; and to tell you the truth, Mother, we’re so used to our dirt and rags that I don’t really think we’d mind staying this way a little longer. We can’t have you perishing of curiosity.”

  His eyes twinkled at her teasingly, and his father chuckled.

  “Shame on you!” said Lady Trelawney with severity. “Are you trying to suggest, my dear James, that your own mother suffers from an excessive amount of curiosity?”

  “Yes,” said James incorrigibly, and for the next hour or two they sat comfortably in the big sunny kitchen going over James’s various adventures. Joan boiled huge pots of water and listened with her mouth in a round o of amazement, and Gaston hovered in the doorway.

  When her curiosity was at least blunted for the time being, Lady Trelawney arose. “Well, I do think there is enough hot water by now even for the two of you,” she said. “And I don’t mind saying that I shall enjoy the sight of you more when you are clean and presentable. Let me see, now—James, we’ll go up and fetch clothing from your room, and then you can bathe in the kitchen here, while Joan and I take Lark upstairs to the tiring room. You would like us to help you, would you not, my dear? And I fear you’ll have to wear makeshift clothing for the time being, until we can get something altered or made. Come along.”

  By this time she had led the way out of the kitchen and along the hall that ran right across the back of the house to a flight of stairs at the far end. Lark could see as they passed through that it led into the main hall and a drawing room, a study, a dining room, and perhaps another drawing room; she wasn’t quite sure. But it was a lovely house. Upstairs another hall ran just above the lower one, with windows on one side, bedrooms opening off the other, and family portraits along the walls. Each casement had its window seat, from which she could see the flower garden and the Devon countryside, with just the faintest hint of what might be the sea. Lark very much hoped she was correct in thinking that it might be her home some day.

  “You see, your room is just as you left it, James,” his mother was saying. “I should think the blue room will do admirably for Lark, and now just as soon as Ned and Giles bring up the hot water—”

  At this point she was interrupted by the arrival of a pale and agitated Joan, who ran up the stairs and broke in without so much as a curtsey.

  “Oh, Sir William!” she gasped. “T’Roundheads be here! They be at all t’windows all round t’house, sir, and six at t’back door, and two more coming up t’front.”

  For an instant there was dead silence. Four faces became blank with sudden hard concentration. Three of them were thinking as hard as they could, but Lark (feeling that three better brains than hers were sufficient for thinking) was sending out one of her silent and wordless shouts for help. She didn’t specify what kind of help. She felt that God was far more able than she to arrange such matters, and there were already far too many people telling Him exactly what to do. So she just presented Him with the complete problem and a great trust.

  It was probably only a few seconds before the other three finished thinking and prepared to act.

  “There’s no chance at all of getting you out,” observed Sir William quietly, glancing out one of the windows to verify Joan’s story.

  “No,” agreed James. “So we’d better stay up here.” He looked with satisfaction at the ground-in dirt on himself and Lark, that could not by any chance be taken for a recent disguise. “A good thing we haven’t bathed yet,” he added, and his parents understood exactly what he had in mind.

  “I shall go down to the drawing room and work on my embroidery,” announced Lady Trelawney, just as a series of loud knocks thundered through the house. They were the imperious sort of knocks that only a Roundhead was likely to produce.

  Sir William raised his eyebrows. “Quite. I shall go to my study. We haven’t seen you of course, son. Joan, go down to the kitchen and get ready to use all that hot water for whatever you do with hot water. Pretend it’s yesterday, and tell them whatever they may ask.”

  Joan fled. The knocking came again. Sir William chuckled. “Gaston will take his own good time about answering it,” he observed. “He doesn’t care for people who knock that way. Bless you, son.” He pressed his hand on James’s shoulder, straightened his own shoulders a trifle, and walked down the stairs with every appearance of leisurely calm.

  James swallowed in pride for them, then grabbed Lark’s hand and tiptoed into his parents’ bedroom just as the measured tread of Gaston moved with disapproving dignity toward the front door.

  19

  The Intruders

  Lady Trelawney sat at her embro
idery frame, her back to the door. “Whoever it was, Gaston,” she said as she heard his quiet feet behind her, “I am quite sure we don’t know them. None of our friends would think of knocking in that impolite fashion.”

  “It’s two—uh—persons from the Parliament army,” announced Gaston with clear distaste. “They wish to see Sir William, m’Lady.”

  Lady Trelawney turned and surveyed the Major and foot trooper who stood there. “Really?” she said without much interest. “I can’t think why. In any event, he’s in his study, and would dislike it very much if anyone were to disturb him there. Perhaps you may speak to him another time.”

  The trooper looked intimidated at this, but the officer bristled. “Army business,” he snapped. “Do not try to delay me, madam. Send for Sir William at once. I don’t care in the least whether he likes it or not.”

  “That’s because you are not married to him,” pointed out Lady Trelawney reasonably. “I am, and I do care. Perhaps you will tell me your business.”

  Gaston had momentary difficulty controlling his expression, but neither of the soldiers noticed it. The major, who was liking Lady Trelawney less and less by the minute, stiffened. “Very well, I shall tell you,” he replied, a gleam of spite in his eyes. “If you insist, madam. But you had best prepare yourself for a shock, and don’t say I didn’t try to spare you. The fact is, madam, I’ve a warrant here for the arrest of your son, James Trelawney.”

  He looked maliciously at Lady Trelawney, who confused him by relaxing visibly. “Oh, is that all!” she said in evident relief. “It’s all right then, Gaston; we shan’t have to disturb Sir William at all. I was afraid,” she explained, turning back to the major, “that you had come to put us out of our house or something, and I assure you, my husband would have been most seriously annoyed.”