by Mary Nichols
‘She nursed him when he was all but dying.’
‘Nursed him!’ Kate scoffed. ‘The servants nursed him. She simply sighed over him when he began to get better. He cannot have been taken in by that.’
‘She obviously has qualities we can neither of us see,’ Margaret said. ‘He once admitted to me that he loved her.’
‘Oh, that must have been ages ago, before he met you. It is all over and done with.’
‘I wish that were true.’
‘I shall ask Charles when he comes back. He will know.’
‘Please don’t.’ She paused, then took a breath and went on quickly, ‘Oh, Kate, it is so complicated and so silly.’
‘You quarrelled. It must have been serious to send him away like that, especially after your accident. I could have sworn then that nothing could have dragged him from your side.’
‘It wasn’t exactly a quarrel. It was about… Oh, please don’t laugh. It was about a witch’s curse made a hundred years ago.’
‘I am not going to laugh,’ Kate said. ‘Who was cursed and why?’
‘Roland, or more specifically Pargeter heirs and Pargeter wives. Surely you have heard the tale?’
‘Oh, there was a story I heard when I was little, but I never really took any note of it. Fen people are always putting spells on each other. It is part of their folklore.’
‘So I have since discovered. But I also realise that many people take such things very seriously.’
‘Roland? Surely not.’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘Then you had better tell me all about it.’
So Margaret did, haltingly at first, and then more freely, pouring out her misery, forgetting all about the roast duck growing cold on her plate. ‘You see,’ she said at the end of the recital, ‘what I never considered was that I should fall in love with Roland.’
Kate had listened without interrupting but now she exploded into wrath. ‘Roland should be horsewhipped. That a brother of mine, whom I loved and looked up to, could dream up such a devilish plot is past comprehension,’ she said. ‘And why, in heaven’s name, did you agree to marry him?’
‘I have asked myself that time and time again,’ Margaret said, pushing her plate with its congealing food away. ‘At first I told myself it was because I was penniless and had nowhere to go after I ran away from my uncle, but I knew that wasn’t true even before the wedding; I had worked for a living before, I could have done it again. The truth was I fell in love with Roland almost from the first and I hoped that in time he would come to love me and confide in me.’
‘He must have been mad,’ Kate said. ‘That wound he suffered addled his brains.’
Margaret smiled wanly. ‘It was a chest injury, close to the heart, not a head wound.’
‘Heart! He has no heart. How could he? How could he do it to you?’
‘I believe old Lady Pargeter put the idea into his head when he told her he was thinking of marrying Mistress Chalfont. She was the one who explained the details of the curse.’
‘Grandmama.’ Kate smiled. ‘She was always forecasting doom; I truly think she enjoyed frightening people.’
‘But she was your grandfather’s second wife, wasn’t she?’
‘And what is so unusual about that?’
‘And your father married twice too, didn’t he?’
‘Papa’s first wife died in a fall from a horse. According to stories I have heard, she was a little mad and rode astride all over the country on a huge black stallion which was too strong for her. She put him to a hedge one day and he simply refused to jump. There were no children, so Papa had to marry again to produce an heir.’
‘Roland?’
‘Yes, followed by me. Mama was never well after I was born and died when I was about eight. Papa did not marry a third time. He used to laugh and say twice was enough for any man, and what did he want another woman in the house for when he had me?’
‘You make everything sound so normal.’
‘But it is normal, Margaret. Men often marry twice; it is the way of the world. And how can you be sure the myth did not grow up as a result of these second marriages, not the other way about?’
‘I never thought of that.’
‘You know, Margaret,’ Kate said thoughtfully, ‘I think you have come to believe a little in this evil prediction.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Then fight it.’
‘That is what I am trying to do. Mistress Henser says all I need is faith.’
Kate laughed. ‘So you did go to see her!’
‘Only out of curiosity, to see what she was like. I wanted to find out why people believe in spells and superstitions.’
‘And was your curiosity satisfied?’
‘In a way. At least, I felt calmer when I left.’ She paused. ‘Kate, I am determined to live and prove the curse is wrong for my son’s sake.’
Kate lifted one finely drawn brow. ‘Not for your own?’
‘I care little for myself if Roland does not love me. And since he left I have become convinced we have no future together. He said as much to me on that last day.’
‘I cannot fathom him,’ Kate said. ‘He never used to be so unfeeling. When we were children he was so good to me. He understood how unhappy I was when Mama died, and tried to make up to me for her loss. He took me out on the fens and taught me how to pole a boat and we went "babbing" for eels with worms tied to lengths of worsted. The eels catch their teeth in the wool, you know, and it makes them easy to pull out. We went riding together in the summer when he came home from school; he is a superb horseman. He is a good shot too, and his fencing master said he was one of the best swordsmen he had ever taught. But he could be gentle too. I remember once he became quite distraught when Wheeler, the gardener, had to drown some unwanted kittens. Roland fought him for them. Papa was angry and said he should not interfere with the work of the servants and if every kitten was allowed to live we should become overrun with them. Roland would never hurt another living thing—so why did he marry you if he truly believed in that curse?’
‘Love makes us do strange things sometimes,’ Margaret said, remembering, with a pang, that Roland had once referred to her as a kitten. ‘He wanted to marry Susan Chalfont and he did not want her to die; that was his only consideration. And my mother was a Capitain; that seemed to have some bearing on it too.’ She gave a cracked laugh. ‘I was as expendable as one of those new-born kittens.’
‘No, you are not.’ Kate reached out and took Margaret’s hand. ‘You are my friend and I love you and I will fight for you, if no one else does. My foolish brother may do as he pleases. Tomorrow we will begin delving.’
‘Delving?’
‘Yes. First we will go to the church and examine the registers and make certain of our facts; we do not know that Papa’s first wife died within the year, nor Grandpapa’s either, and if they didn’t, then the story of the curse is flawed from the start. Then we will search the house. There must be letters and papers about the place. If such a curse exists we must find out the exact words; we may even discover an antidote.’ She stopped to face Margaret. ‘Now, is that not better than relying entirely on faith?’
Margaret laughed shakily because it was so comforting to have someone to talk to about it, someone as level-headed as Kate. Even if they found nothing, it would occupy her mind and make her believe she was doing something constructive.
Next morning she was not so sure. When they took a walk to the church and began their search of the parish registers, they very soon confirmed that not only had Kate’s father and grandfather married twice within the year, but so had two generations before that. David Pargeter, who had been born to Rosalind in 1646, a few months after Anne Capitain had been hanged as a witch, married in August 1670. His wife had died giving birth to a son, Miles, in June 1671. They could find no record of David’s having married again. Miles himself was married in 1692 and his wife, Caroline, had died of a fever only three weeks a
fter the wedding.
‘Look at this,’ Kate said, pointing down the funeral records. ‘Dozens of people died in the village in 1692; there must have been an epidemic. Caroline was one of many.’
‘But it happened within the year, just as predicted,’ Margaret put in, turning pages. ‘Was Miles your grandfather?’
‘Yes.’
‘His first wife died within a month of the wedding.’
Miles had subsequently married Matilda—the Lady Pargeter Margaret had known—who had borne him two children—a daughter, who had died in childhood, and a son, George, who was Roland and Kate’s father. George’s marriage to Janet in 1716 had lasted a day short of the year and he had married again in 1719. Roland was born in 1720 and Kate eight years later. Matilda, of course, had outlived all her relatives except Roland and Kate. The stone over her tomb still looked very new.
‘And Papa’s lasted a year all but a day; that proves nothing. Every single one is easily explained.’
‘Do you think all those wives knew about and believed in the curse?’
Kate shrugged. ‘Who knows? Perhaps we will find out when we search the house.’
As soon as they returned home, Kate flung off her bonnet and cloak and ran up to the nursery to see George. He had a very reliable nurse and all the other servants were more than anxious to spoil him, but his mother could hardly bear to be parted from him. Her first action whenever she had been away, even if it had only been for an hour or two, was to reasssure herself that he was well and happy. That done, she returned downstairs to join Margaret for dinner.
‘Nurse took him out in the garden,’ she said, helping herself from a dish of partridges. ‘She said he loved all the ducks waddling on the lawn and laughed when they squabbled over the crumbs from the kitchen table.’
‘Kate, he is barely four weeks old. You can hardly expect him to be amused by ducks.’
‘But he is very knowing,’ Kate protested. ‘I can see a change in him every day. Oh, he is going to be clever, I know it, and I shall be so proud of him.’ She stopped suddenly, thinking of her sister-in-law’s coming child. ‘Oh, Margaret, you must conquer that terrible curse.’
‘So you believe in it too.’
‘No, no.’ Kate’s protests did little to comfort Margaret. ‘But we love you and need you. Your baby will need you…’
‘And I shall need you when my turn comes.’ Margaret smiled, though it was not altogether convincing. When anyone spoke of the future, it made her wonder how much of that she would have. Would she see her child change from day to day, grow up into manhood? And what about his father? Would he ever come home?
Roland brought the black stallion to a halt at the end of the gallop, where a belt of trees stood between the town and the open heath. ‘Good fellow,’ he said, patting the horse’s neck. ‘We will do well together.’ He turned to walk the animal back to where the horse-dealer and the faithful Johnson stood waiting for his verdict. The horse had taken his fancy as soon as he’d seen it. Of mixed Barb and English stock, its long muscles, deep chest and firm hocks told him it was a stayer and the proud neck, flaring nostrils and lovely expressive eyes were evidence of a turn of speed he might have need of if his enemies recognised him or tumbled to his intentions.
It had taken weeks to track them down and he had only been able to do that by pretending to be a loyal follower of Bonnie Prince Charlie, a name the traitorous Scots had given their master. Flora Macdonald had helped the prince to escape to France and been arrested for it, but Roland knew there were others helping survivors of Culloden to leave the country, where they would be free to plot another return of the ‘king over the water’. Following a trail which had often grown cold, he had come down from Scotland to East Anglia, taking each day as it came, working his way into the confidence of the remnants of the Jacobite following, being passed from one safe house to another, until he had arrived at a small village on the cliffs north of Lowestoft. But he had been too late. The four men he had been following had scrambled into a rowing-boat and pulled out to where a Dutch sloop waited to take them on board. Cursing the ill luck which had delayed him on the road, he had returned to the house where he lodged.
‘I missed them,’ he had told his host, a fat brewer, who had been the one to arrange for the men to be taken on board the sloop by his brother, who owned the rowing-boat.
‘I did tell ye they wouldn’t wait. Will ye stay to see if any more arrive? I’ll not risk life and limb arranging an escape for one man.’
‘No, I understand,’ Roland had said. He had no intention of going to France or anywhere else; his instructions were to prevent anyone else from doing so. ‘I must find other means of leaving.’
‘Course, if you are anxious to be gone, there are other routes.’
‘Then you’d best be telling me about them. I have urgent dispatches.’
The brewer had been reluctant to speak because the different routes were kept secret and he only knew about them from snatches of conversation he had overheard, but in the end Roland, with a huge bribe, had elicited all he knew. He had turned back inland, but the horse which had bravely carried him hundreds of miles was done for and he needed another, and so he had stopped at Newmarket to buy one. Now he trotted back to meet the dealer, satisfied that the stallion was just what he was looking for.
Half an hour later, with Johnson on a bay a few paces behind him, he was riding along a rough track, which went by the name of a road, towards King’s Lynn, knowing he would pass very close to Winterford on the way. Dared he stop? Dared he go home? He longed to see Margaret, to satisfy himself that she was well, to be there when their child was born, but if leaving her had lifted the curse, then going back would bring it down upon her again. Besides, he had a very good idea that a message had been sent ahead of him to the next safe house to warn his new hosts of his coming, and, if he did not arrive at the expected time they would become suspicious and go out looking for him. It was too dangerous to deviate from his given route. But if only he could send Margaret a message he would feel easier.
He was so immersed in his thoughts that he did not hear the coach and was not aware of it coming round the bend until it was almost too late. In a flurry of neighing horses and locked wheels, the carriage came to a halt only feet from him, and it was due to Roland’s competent horsemanship that he was not unseated.
‘You crazy fool!’ Charles opened the door and put his head out. ‘D’you expect the whole road to yourself?’ He stopped suddenly. ‘My God, Roland! What are you doing here?’ He looked at Roland’s rough coat and battered tall hat, his patched breeches and scuffed boots, his matted beard and filthy cravat. His appearance was in sharp contrast to the magnificent animal he rode. ‘What happened to you, man?’
Roland grinned. ‘You see before you Captain Robert MacDougal.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Me, you dunderhead.’ He dismounted and walked leisurely over to the carriage. ‘You very nearly killed me.’
‘You should watch where you’re going. Why are you wearing those rags? Surely you can afford to dress like a gentleman?’
‘Oh, that would never do. I have been on the run since Culloden, putting up wherever I could find a friend and, when I could not, sleeping by the wayside. It is small wonder I look like a wayfarer.’
‘I do believe you are gone mad. Come, tie the horse on behind and get in the chaise. I’m on my way to Winterford to fetch Kate. I’ll take you home.’
‘No. I am expected elsewhere and I cannot be seen with you.’
‘No one can see us—the road is deserted.’ He jumped down and took Roland’s arm. ‘If you won’t get in the coach, let’s walk a little, because I do not intend to leave here until I hear what you have been doing since you left home. You do remember leaving home?’
‘To fight at Culloden, yes. You were with me.’
‘No, after Culloden.’ Charles heaved a sigh. ‘I suppose you can recall what happened after the battle—your wound, Chalfont Hall, comi
ng home, getting married, all that?’ He turned to face his friend, wondering how he was going to tell him, if he had really lost all recollection. He did not relish the task at all. He looked up into Roland’s face and suddenly became aware of the light in the other man’s eye. He burst into laughter. ‘Oh, you devil. You really had me thinking you had lost all memory…’
‘Would that I had, or, better still, would that it were a nightmare and I about to wake up.’ Roland sounded morose. ‘But tell me, how is Margaret?’
‘Come home and see for yourself.’
‘No, I cannot. The year is not yet up and I have not completed my mission.’
‘Mission? I had thought you were back in uniform.’
‘Does it look like it?’
‘No, a more bedraggled-looking sight never met my eyes. What happened to you?’
‘I shall tell you, my friend, but only if you swear not to breath a word to a living soul…’
‘But Margaret and Kate——’
‘No!’ It was almost a shout. ‘I am not proud of what I am doing. When it is finished…’
‘You will come home?’
‘How can I? Margaret must hate me for what I did to her, and even if the year passes and she survives——’
‘Of course she will survive!’
‘–she will not take me back,’ he went on, ignoring Charles’s remark. ‘I do not blame her. I am the lowest of the low. I cannot even ride into battle with my head up, but must slink about like a rat in a midden-heap. I sacrificed her for a whim. And I hurt Susan.’
‘Do not worry about Susan; she soon found consolation. I heard only this week that she is to marry Sir Bartholomew Fletcher.’
‘He is an old man.’
Charles laughed. ‘But rich. You may safely forget her. But Margaret… Margaret is another matter. She does not hate you, she loves you.’
‘I wish I could believe it.’
‘Oh, you may believe it. When you left, she almost pined away, but she is a courageous woman and rallied miraculously. She will break that curse, Roland. I’ll lay odds.’
‘When the year is at an end, an it please God to spare us both, I will come home if she sends for me, not otherwise. I leave the Manor and all its contents to her.’
