by Mary Nichols
It was her child’s home, she told herself, putting a hand over the bump in her abdomen which could no longer be hidden, even by voluminous clothes. Whatever happened to her, it was his heritage. She stopped to rest, leaning against the wall which surrounded the grounds of the Manor, and felt the baby kick inside her. ‘Kick, my son,’ she murmured. ‘Kick for all you are worth, for you will need to be strong to live here.’
It was too cold to stand still. She moved on, walking across the sloping lawn to a part of the garden which had been allowed to grow wild. In the spring she would tidy it up, cut the grass, plant some flowers—roses perhaps—and herbs for the kitchen. In the spring… Would she see the spring? She pushed the melancholy thought from her and walked on, picking her way carefully over uneven ground. She looked up to see a heron swoop and almost tripped over a stone slab. At first she thought it was part of an old pathway, but then she noticed that it had been engraved. She stooped and brushed aside the accumulation of lichen and moss to read the words.
Here lyeth Rosalind, Lady Pargeter, departed this life on the seventh day of December 1646. May God have mercy on her soul.
She had stumbled on Rosalind’s grave! It was Rosalind who had killed herself and then been denied a last resting-place in the churchyard. But she was not at rest; Margaret felt her presence very strongly. There was no escaping it, no relief from the evil of that curse; it was everywhere. She scrambled to her feet and ran into the house, as if the unhappy woman’s spirit pursued her. It seemed to be saying, It could happen to you. You will be next, and then your son’s wife and his son’s wife, if he should be fortunate enough to have one. There is no breaking that awful prediction. Why don’t you do as I did? Why prolong the anguish?
Stumbling up to her room with her hands over her ears to shut out the voice, Margaret knew that she was near to breaking-point. The legacy of that curse had finally conquered her will-power; she could no longer fight it. Faith had deserted her. Tomorrow, she would leave. But where could she go? How would she live? Where would her child be born? Her son. Roland’s. She hated him. She loved him. She wanted to die. She wanted to live. She did not know what she wanted. She flung herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow.
She stayed in her room for more than two weeks, never going out and eating hardly anything. Penny could do nothing with her. Sometimes she cried, sometimes she raged in anger; at other times she talked aloud as if an unseen ghost were arguing with her, and now and again she fell to her knees and prayed for deliverance. She slept during the day and was wakeful at night, sitting shivering at her window in her nightgown and cap, staring out across field and fen with unseeing eyes, watching for another dawn, wondering if today would be the day. If Penny had known where to find him, she would have sent for his lordship, for it was apparent that her ladyship was losing her mind.
And then her release came in the shape of a fat little man in black breeches and a long black coat. He arrived in the village in a hired chaise and booked into the Crown before asking the whereabouts of the Capitain residence. Directed to Sedge House, he set off along the drove, but returned almost immediately and knocked on the door of the Manor.
A footman sent Penny to find her mistress before he would allow the man to step over the threshold. Penny returned from her errand to say that her ladyship was not receiving visitors and she was to take a message.
‘Please tell her ladyship my mission is of the utmost importance,’ he said pompously. ‘Messages simply will not serve. And I am not accustomed to being kept waiting on doorsteps.’
The footman relented and allowed him into the vestibule, where he paced up and down while he waited for Penny to return a second time.
‘Her ladyship will be down directly,’ she told him breathlessly. ‘Please wait in the parlour.’
Margaret appeared half an hour later. Dressed in a grey gown which flowed freely from a high yoke and with a simple coif over tresses which had been brushed but not powdered, she seemed to glide down the stairs and along the hall, a ghost of her former self. It was apparent to the little man, who watched from the open door of the parlour, that she was ill. She was deathly pale.
He bowed over her hand. ‘My lady.’
‘Do you come from my husband?’ she demanded, because that was the only reason she had agreed to see him.
He looked startled. ‘No, my lady. I do not know his lordship. My name is Jacob Lovett. I am a lawyer.’
‘If this is legal business, should you not be speaking to my husband?’
‘No. It is you I have come to see.’
‘Then state your business. I am afraid I am not in the best of health and can spare you only a few minutes.’ She sat down heavily on a settle and motioned him to a chair.
‘Time,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Everyone is concerned with time these days, rushing about like a heap of ants. No one stands still. It has taken me months to find you.’
‘Why were you looking for me?’
‘Before I answer that question, I have one or two of my own. A formality, you understand. I need to know your mother’s name.’
‘My mother? She died almost exactly a year ago. Her name was Felicity Donnington.’
‘And your father? What do you know of him?’
‘Very little. He was, I believe, a merchant. His name was Richard and he died in India—Calcutta, I think it was—soon after I was born. My mother brought me back to England. I do not remember India, nor my father. Why are you asking about him?’
‘Because, my lady, he did not die when you were a child. I surmise your mother told you that to cover the fact that she had left him.’ He paused, watching her carefully. ‘You did not find life easy, you and your mother?’
Margaret could hardly take in what he was saying; it was so different from what she had always believed. ‘No, but we managed.’
He smiled slowly. ‘The irony of that is that your father became a very rich man.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He died in August ’46.’
‘But that was only fifteen months ago!’
‘Yes, and in England. He came back, knowing his end was near and wanting to find you. He passed on before that could be accomplished. In his will, he charged me to find you and apprise you of your inheritance.’ He stopped speaking when it looked as though Margaret would faint. ‘Shall I call your maid?’
Margaret pulled herself together with an effort. ‘No, please go on. How did you find me?’
He smiled. ‘By dint of much searching and questioning. I managed to trace where Mistress Donnington went when she first returned to England, and from then it was a long quest, going from address to address, workplace to workplace, until I found the lodgings where she died. But no one knew what had happened to you. I was told the place of your last employment, but you had left there and it seemed I was doomed to failure. Then I made the acquaintance of a Mistress Tolliday, a friend of your mother’s.’
‘Yes, they worked together before Mama became too ill to work.’
‘She told me she thought your mother had an uncle, though she did not know his name or where he lived. It was a slim hope but I pursued it. Your mother’s name had been Capitain. I worked it out from there. I have just come from Henry Capitain’s house.’
‘This is unbelievable.’
‘I have credentials, my lady.’ He bent to pick up his bag. ‘All you need. And a copy of the will. You are a very rich woman.’ He pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed them to her, but she was too dazed to read them. ‘The money is yours, my lady, to do with as you please. Unless you wish it, your husband cannot touch it.’ He looked round the luxurious room and smiled. ‘Though it appears he is not in want…’
‘No.’ She was in a dream; none of it was real. She had had too many sleepless nights and eaten too little and now she was having fantasies. But if it was true? If it was true, she had been a rich woman even before her mother died. If she had known, she could have bought her medicines, found somewhe
re more comfortable for her to live out her last days. There would have been no need to come to Winterford, no need to enter into that terrible marriage contract with Roland. And now there was no need for her to stay. Suddenly she began to laugh, a cracked, high-pitched sound which brought Penny to her side at once.
‘You have upset my lady,’ she told the little man in a fierce whisper. ‘I must take her to her bed.’ She helped Margaret to her feet and put her arm round her to guide her across the room.
Margaret turned to her visitor, who had gathered up his papers and come to his feet. ‘Master Lovett, I beg you to avail yourself of our hospitality. I will order dinner for you and we will talk again after I have rested.’
She pushed Penny away and walked unaided to the stairs, with her head high. She was an independent woman, a proud woman, and it was about time she took control of her own life. There would be formalities, of course, but as soon as she could, she would leave Winterford, go somewhere quiet to have her child, and after that she would make a life for herself somewhere where superstition was not rife, where the fate of Rosalind Pargeter could not haunt her. Away from Winterford she would begin to feel better.
But it was not as easy as that. She had commitments to the villagers and to the school; in Roland’s absence they looked to her for help and guidance. And without someone to oversee them, what would happen to the servants, and Penny in particular? Penny had a family in the village; she would not want to leave them. And Nellie bothered her; she must do something for her. Take her away from her uncle’s influence. According to Master Lovett her uncle had several visitors. ‘Very unsavoury characters they are, if you pardon my boldness, my lady,’ he said the following day, when they were sitting together going over her plans, plans he did not altogether agree with. She was throwing money away as if she did not expect to live to enjoy it. ‘I am indeed glad you are not domiciled with him, for he would have had his hands on your fortune in the blinking of an eye.’
‘The Capitains suffered great losses for their beliefs,’ she said mildly. ‘They were once as rich and powerful as the Pargeters, but they lost everything when they sided with the King in the civil strife.’
‘Did they not get it back with the Restoration?’
‘No. The Pargeters were well-received at court; they were allowed to keep their gains. The Capitains were granted a small annuity by Charles II in recognition of their services. It hardly seems fair.’
‘It was a hundred years ago.’
She smiled wryly. ‘Fen people have long memories, Master Lovett. I want to help my uncle.’
‘How, my lady? You have a fortune, but it is not limitless and he would only drink and gamble away anything you gave him.’
‘He is not as black as he is painted, I am sure of it.’
He sighed heavily. ‘Very well, my lady, though it is enough to make your father turn in his grave.’
She chuckled suddenly. ‘He will not be the only one turning in his grave, if I have my way.’
He looked puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It does not matter.’
She signed the papers he had brought with him and he took his leave to return to London, promising to be back within a week with all the formalities completed. ‘But I urge you to think carefully before you give any to your reprobate uncle,’ he said. ‘I do not care for his manner at all.’
Left to herself, Margaret mused on the problem of her uncle and Nellie. It was a way of keeping her from brooding over her own troubles. They had not gone away, simply changed their character. Money was no longer the reason why she was forced to remain in Winterford; she had the resources to go wherever fancy dictated. Roland’s undertaking to look after her, so long as she remained at the Manor to have her son, no longer mattered. Roland. He was never far from her thoughts. If he had been here, she could have discussed her new-found independence with him, asked him what he thought of her plans to benefit the village and build a proper school, enlisted his help over Henry and Nellie. She smiled wryly. If he had been at home, she would perhaps not be making plans to leave.
She could not send for Henry because he would not obey. There was nothing for it but to go to him. Penny would make a fuss, but Penny would have to do as she was told.
In the event, Penny’s mother became ill and Margaret sent her home. ‘I can manage without you for a day or two,’ she said. ‘Mothers are very precious people. Go and stay with her until she is better.’
As soon as the girl had gone, Margaret ordered horses to be harnessed to the curricle and went to her room to put on her warmest gown, fur-lined boots and a long cloak with a hood, for it would be cold driving along the drove beside the cut. By the time she returned downstairs the groom had brought the vehicle to the door.
‘I will drive myself,’ she said, stepping into the vehicle and picking up the reins.
‘But, my lady, his lordship——’
‘His lordship is not here, Barnard, but I am, and you will obey my orders. Tell Cook I expect to be back for dinner.’
She flicked the reins and, before the startled man could do anything, she was bowling out of the gates and on to the road into the village. At the crossroads she turned along the drove beside the cut, making for Sedge House, smiling to herself. She was independent now, she could do as she pleased, and if it pleased her to visit her uncle, then she would. Roland had left her to manage on her own; he could hardly complain if she did. She had hardly covered half the distance before her bravado began to fade; her uncle might be less than civil to her. He might not even let her in the house. She remembered her talk with Nellie in the blacksmith’s shop and almost turned back. But the road was too narrow to turn in and she had to go on.
‘Where is your courage?’ she asked herself. ‘Words can’t hurt you. And he can’t be bad through and through. He sent you that wedding-gown, didn’t he? And he came to help when you fell through the ice. Roland could not have managed on his own.’
She passed Mistress Henser walking towards the village from her cottage. She stopped and looked up at the carriage as it passed, but Margaret was too concerned with keeping the curricle on the narrow road to do more than bid her good-day. The horses had not been out for a day or two and they wanted to exercise their legs; it was all Margaret could do to control them. She brought them to a shuddering stop outside Sedge House and had to sit a moment before she could stop shaking enough to get down.
‘You are a fool, woman!’
Margaret looked up from tying the reins to a post, to see her uncle framed in the doorway, wearing a long brown coat and thick breeches and hose. She answered his scowl with a smile.
‘I came to see you, Uncle.’
‘Can’t think what for.’
She finished securing the horses and went over to him. ‘I never thanked you for sending me the gown, nor for helping Roland pull me from the dyke.’
‘It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?’
‘Better late than never,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘Better not. Better go back the way you came.’
‘That is hardly civil of you. I want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘About you and Nellie…’
‘What has she been saying about me?’ His bright little eyes peered at her suspiciously. ‘Little slattern! It’s a lie, whatever it is.’
‘She has said nothing. I want to help you both.’
‘Help us!’ His many chins wobbled as he threw up his head and laughed. ‘What can you do? You cannot even help yourself.’
‘Yes, I can. I have come into money——’
‘Money, eh? Then I suggest you use it to shake the dirt of Winterford from your feet. You haven’t got much time left to do something to save yourself, have you?’
‘It is cold on the doorstep,’ she said, ignoring his reference to the curse and trying to peer past him into the house. She thought she could see figures in the background.
&nbs
p; ‘She’s not going away, man,’ someone said behind him. ‘Better let her in.’
Henry stood to one side and Margaret stepped into the hall, and immediately wished she had not. There were six men there. They were as unlike the guests she had met on her previous visit as any men could be. The ones she had seen had been fops, dressed in silks and satins and only interested in pleasure; these were roughly dressed, unshaven and altogether more menacing. No wonder Nellie had been afraid.
‘Take her horses round the back and put them out of sight.’ The man who spoke was a little less scruffy in appearance than the others and obviously used to command. His order had been addressed to a boy, who scuttled away to obey.
‘There is no need for that,’ Margaret said. ‘I am not staying long.’
‘We say how long you stay, my lady.’ The man grinned suddenly. ‘Now you are here, you can be useful to us.’
‘Leave her alone,’ Henry said. ‘She is no good to us. Look at her—she’s practically dropping her brat.’
‘You think we should let her go?’
‘Why not? She will not harm you.’
‘Oh, I think she will. I think she will go straight to the militia.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Margaret asked.
‘Nothing,’ her uncle said quickly. ‘James will have his little joke.’
‘This is no jest,’ the man said, while the others looked on, saying nothing, doing nothing, but Margaret noticed their hands straying to the pistols they kept in their belts. She began to be very afraid and backed away towards the door.
‘Oh, no, you don’t, me beauty!’ The man her uncle had called James sprang forward and seized her arm. ‘You stay here.’
‘Let me go! You have no right——’
‘I have whatever right I choose to take,’ he said, and pushed her roughly towards the other men. ‘Tie her up.’
Margaret struggled ineffectually as two of them tied her hands behind her and dragged her off to the back parlour, where they pushed her into a chair and stuffed a piece of cloth torn from the tablecloth into her mouth. Then they left her and locked the door.
