The Tarrant Rose

by Veronica Heley

  “How many invitations have you managed to procure from Jacobite sympathizers so far?” he asked.

  Lord Carteret smiled his approval. “Three or four. Three firm invitations from the North and Wales, and one more doubtful one from the Midlands. The poor fools little knew, when they entrusted their letters to the couriers, that they were putting their heads in a noose.”

  “But so far you have no invitation from the South of England?”

  “Precisely. Your quick-wittedness gratifies me. I am pleased with you, Philip. The Stuart boy has written to the Tarrants, but this letter, as we know, was most unfortunately intercepted and has not yet been delivered. The Stuart boy must even now be pacing his chambers, wondering if it has miscarried, and his scheme betrayed. He must be put out of his misery. He must receive the kind of letter which will encourage him in his plans. It is regrettable that Sir Richard Tarrant should have seen fit to die at this juncture, but I daresay the boy will serve our purpose just as well. You must return to Tarrant Hall tomorrow, Philip. Go as Mr. Rich, or as yourself, whichever you prefer. Give the boy the letter from the Stuarts, and allow him to think that you sympathize with the Stuart cause. Encourage him to talk. If he was not in his father’s confidence—which I find difficult to believe—you must get the woman to tell you what she knows. I don’t believe that she burned that correspondence unread, and being a woman, she will have memorized all the important names. Then you will help the boy compose the sort of letter which we want, mentioning that he has firm promises of support from So-and-So, and Such-and-Such, and send the letter to me. I will see that it is forwarded to France without delay.”

  “I will not do it. The boy is no traitor, and you would have me make him into one. He will be perfectly happy, and remain a good servant of King George, if I can only get him a commission.”

  “A commission? Out of the question, with his background. I would block any attempt to persuade His Majesty to give him one. Is that understood? Oh, if you are so tender-hearted, I will guarantee the lad immunity from prosecution, always provided that he does not come out in support of the Pretender in due course.”

  “I do not like your game, and I will not play it.”

  “It is a very little thing to ask of you, in return for future favors.”

  “If that is the price of my becoming Ambassador, then I regret I am not worthy of the position.”

  “Philip, you exasperate me!” Lord Carteret took a turn round the room. “Come, we will not quarrel. I will not disguise the fact that I am deeply disappointed in you, but I can easily find someone else to deliver that letter and obtain the sort of reply we need. You leave here this week, you say? I am surprised you go to Bath when Lady Millicent is still in London. How goes that affair? Do you wish me to make her an offer on your behalf?”

  “I hardly know.”

  “This is no way to woo a young and spirited lady! First you flee to the country from her charms, then to Bath and thence to Hanover for the summer. What is she to make of it, eh? I tell you, this is a match I have had in mind for many months, but I have had other offers for the lady. Her estates are broad, and she has £15,000 in the Funds. Do you place any trust in that promise His Majesty made to find you another bride? The offer was made in the heat of the moment; I daresay he has forgotten he ever made it, by now.”

  “Yes, I know that. Forgive me, Uncle, but I am not yet ready to take another wife. I am very anxious about Thomas, and …” His eyes were on the fire, and perhaps he saw something there which made him sad. At any rate, he sighed. His uncle frowned.

  “Are you not well, lad?”

  “A little tired, perhaps. I expect you are right, and that I ought to remarry. Lady Millicent is charming. I will certainly call on her again when I return from Hanover, and perhaps her brown eyes will banish the memory of eyes of blue.”

  “Who has blue eyes, eh?”

  But Philip would not tell.

  The Earl of Rame might not have had first hand experience of raising pigs, or crop rotation, but he knew enough of human nature to understand that Mr. Farrow was in an excellent position to feather his own nest. Philip suspected that he himself had been partly to blame, for taking Mr. Farrow’s reports at face value. Mr. Farrow’s accounts and the amount of money he sent the Earl on Quarter Days had been adequate; it was the villagers who seemed to have suffered. Doubtless Mr. Farrow had never dreamed that the Earl would ever visit Hamberley, or that if he did, the condition of the manor house would ensure he did not stay long. Mr. Farrow had reckoned without Philip’s sense of duty, which obliged him to investigate his bailiff’s affairs not only for the sake of the villagers, but for the sake of his own reputation. Sophia’s words had stung.

  So one morning he ordered his coach, and drove down to the village with Mr. Farrow sitting at his side. It was the Earl’s intention to make himself known to his tenants, and enquire if they had any complaints to make. He had expected to be met with a flood of grievances, but the villagers were oddly mute in his presence. He could hardly get a word out of them. They pulled their forelocks and made legs, bobbed curtseys, and muttered that it was very good of his lordship to enquire, but talk freely they would not. Philip turned sharply to catch Mr. Farrow in the act of pulling a threatening face at the innkeeper, which caused him to wonder if the villagers were afraid of his bailiff.

  “They seem overawed by my person,” he remarked to his bailiff, as he reseated himself in his coach. “Perhaps I made a mistake in coming down, dressed in a silk coat and periwig.”

  “Perhaps they have nothing to complain of,” said Mr. Farrow.

  “They seem very quiet to me. It is almost as if they were afraid of something—or someone.”

  “Ah, that’ll be the witch, my lord. It makes them uneasy when she comes into the village. Mrs. Barnes’s little one is dying, and they say the witch has cast the Evil Eye on him.”

  “What nonsense! I hope you don’t encourage them in such foolishness.”

  “Not I, my lord. But these countryfolk will believe anything, if it suits them to do so. I wouldn’t like to be in the witch’s shoes if she comes into the village now … she’d get what’s due to her … but I’d see to it that none of your property was harmed, my lord!”

  Once back at the manor house, Philip dismissed Mr. Farrow and took out his bailiff’s accounts. He had not been able to induce the villagers to talk to him, but he had a retentive memory and he had made a mental note of the properties which seemed to him most in need of repair … yes, he had been right. According to Mr. Farrow’s accounts, most of those dilapidated cottages had been repaired during the preceding year at a total cost to the estate of—he totted up the amount and raised his eyebrows. It looked as if Mr. Farrow had pocketed the money which he said he had spent on repairs.

  Philip’s chin became prominent, and he sent for Chivers. Half an hour later, plain-suited and neatly-wigged, he rode down into the village on Prince. It was in his mind that the villagers might talk more freely to Mr. Rich, the Earl’s secretary, especially if Mr. Farrow were not at his side to threaten reprisals.

  At first the village seemed deserted. He could not understand it. There had been a fair number of people there earlier that day. Then he heard a murmur like a swarm of bees in flight, and equally threatening. Prince shifted uneasily between Philip’s thighs. He tightened his grasp on his riding crop and remembered, with a prickle of fear, that Miss Nan Tarrant had been called a witch by Mr. Farrow. Could she be in trouble? He turned his horse in the direction of the buzzing sound. A girl ran stumbling down the street toward him, looking back over her shoulder. She leaned against a cottage, her hands pressed to her side. She was young but not a child, with flaxen hair and rounded chin. She saw Philip and made a run at him, clutching at Prince’s bridle. She gestured to the road along which she had come, unable to speak clearly.

  “Help! Oh, please … Miss Tarrant … they think … terrible … will you—?”

  “Show me the way. Put your foot on mine.”
He pulled and she jumped up behind him, lithe country girl that she was. She was shorter than Sophia, but just as capable. She pointed over his shoulder, and took a firm grip round his waist as he set Prince to a canter. Through the village they went, across the triangle of grass before the smithy, past a stone cross set at a junction of roads, and then sharply right down a lane between dry-stone walls, twisting and turning.

  “The mill,” gasped the girl. “They are going to tie stones round her neck and throw her over the millrace to see if she’s a witch or not. That awful man Farrow is there, egging them on. I tried to stop them, but someone threw a stone at me, and so I ran back to the village, but no one would listen to me. They shut their doors in my face. So I was going to run to Tarrant Hall for Jasper … when I saw you.”

  The hum had grown louder. Individual voices could be heard, shouting. The end of the lane was blocked with the backs of men and women straining to see what was happening in front of them. The bulk of the mill towered to the sky as the walls fell away on either side of them. There was a sudden shout, and a splash. And then silence.

  Philip raised his riding crop. “Back, you curs … back, I say! Make way! Make way, or I’ll cut you down!” He forced Prince into the press. The horse reared and neighed in a panic. Philip mastered the horse and spurred him on, using him as a battering-ram to part the crowd. The girl had wound her arms tightly around him, and kept her head down. He was in among them … conscious of scowling faces on every side … of hands that tried to grasp Prince’s bridle … of fists raised … of a stone grazing his cheek, and then he was through to the bank of the river, and the sullen splash of a great waterwheel turning close by. The wheel was large, capable of lifting many gallons of water at a time. The miller was being held flat against his own door, but he was struggling to free himself. He was held by two men, one of whom Philip recognized. Mr. Farrow’s eyes narrowed. He had been shouting some obscenity. His mouth stayed open, and he turned a sickly color. He loosed his grip on the miller’s arm, and that worthy individual wrenched himself free, and sent his other captor sprawling with a swing. With a shock of surprise, Philip recognized the second man as Greenwood, the footman he had recently dismissed. The man fell heavily, and did not resume the fight.

  “You!” Philip pointed at Mr. Farrow with his riding crop. “Out of here! I’ll deal with you later!” Mr. Farrow had seen the Earl unpainted, in his morning gown. He had certainly recognized Philip. His mouth worked. He might have said something, but the miller was not waiting for anybody. He picked Mr. Farrow up by his collarband and the seat of his britches, and swung him once, twice, and let him go, flying with a cry of terror over the path and into the deep, black waters of the mill-pool.

  A sigh of horror—or was it satisfaction?—rose from the crowd. Philip turned on them. One or two women at the back of the crowd ran away, up the lane. Another went. A man dropped the stone he had been holding, and took one step back, and then another. The crowd melted away, its cohesion gone.

  The girl slipped to the ground from behind Philip, and ran to the side of the pool. She held back her hair as she peered into the water. Ripples spread as Mr. Farrow surfaced, spluttering.

  The girl wrung her hands. “Oh, they’ve killed her!”

  Chapter Four

  There was hardly a trace left of the mob. Here and there stones lay on the path. Greenwood had vanished. Philip swung himself to the ground as Mr. Farrow painfully pulled himself out of the water, and slunk away.

  The miller grasped Prince’s bridle and pointed downstream to where some willows overhung the pool. “She’ll be held over there … I thought I saw her surface a while back, but the roots will hold her. If you’re quick, you’ll save her. Hurry, Guv’nor. I can’t swim.”

  Philip knew that this was quite likely to be true, as very few countrymen learned to swim. He slipped out of his coat and boots. Shedding his wig, he dived into the darkness of the pool. He could see nothing … feel nothing. The current was swift. He stayed under as long as he could, and fought his way to the surface. The current had carried him against the far bank, but he was a little way from the willows. He dived under the surface again, and let the current carry him where it would, groping with his hands as he went. Then he was being held by roots … he touched cloth. There was nothing for him to hold on to … his bad arm would never … he had brought his burden to the surface, but could not lift her out of the water, handicapped as he was. The water was freezing. Miss Nan was surely dead. There was a livid mark around her neck, but the rope which had been tied around it was gone. Her hands floated against him, bound in front of her. Perhaps she had managed to free herself of the stone tied round her neck while she was under water … but what now?”

  The miller and the fair-haired girl were watching him from the far bank. The girl had been on her knees, peering anxiously downstream. Now she was up and running along the bank, crying to him to hold on. Had she gone for help? The little fool! Who was there who would help them? What was the miller doing? Tying Prince to a ring set in the wall of the mill? That made sense, but … how long could he keep afloat? The bank above him sloped steeply, and the trees thereabouts overhung the water. He pushed and paddled himself along until he could grasp at the gnarled root of a willow, but the strain of holding Miss Nan up was beginning to tell on his weakened arm and shoulder. If he had had the use of both his arms, he could have climbed up, but as it was. …

  The whips of willow branches above him parted to let the fair-haired girl through. She scrambled down the slope above him. Bracing herself against the roots of the tree, she leaned over and grasped one of Miss Nan’s arms. She was a strong, well-made girl, and determined. She pulled. Philip exerted all his remaining strength to push, and the body of the old woman slowly left the water. Philip could now reach up with both arms and hang onto a convenient root. He rested his head against his arms and felt the pain gradually recede from his shoulder, leaving it aching … he could endure that.

  “Hurry up,” said the girl. “Or you’ll catch your death of cold. She’s still alive. Job’s gone to fetch his men, who hid in the mill when the mob came. We’ll have to carry her round by the bridge, which is a little way downstream. It’s not far, but I can’t do it by myself. You’ll have to help me.”

  Philip began to laugh. There must be something in the air of Hamberley which produced strong-minded, capable women, who always knew what to do in an emergency. Wearily he pulled himself out of the water, favoring his bad arm.

  “Tck!” said the girl, annoyed. “Have you hurt your arm again? How clumsy you men are! Still, I suppose that at your age such things take time to heal.”

  “At my age—!” gasped the Earl.

  “I told Jasper that he ought to make allowances for older people. Oh, by the way, I’m Maijorie Bladen.”

  “So I had supposed,” said the Earl. Then up ran Job the miller, with two men, all swearing vengeance on Mr. Farrow and only too willing to carry Miss Nan to the mill. The Earl walked behind them, listening appreciatively as Miss Bladen scolded the men for walking too fast, not supporting Miss Nan properly, and having failed to bring blankets in which to wrap her. What was it Philip had heard about Marjorie Bladen? Oh, yes. She was an heiress whom Sir John wished to marry into the nobility. Poor Marjorie; Philip did not think she would find much to amuse her in Town life. She was a born housewife, young though she was. He could see her, married to Jasper, scolding and running about telling everyone their business from morning to night, with a brood of children at her skirts, as happy as the day was long. He could not see her adapting to Town life and fashions, any more than Sophia. …

  He sighed, and Miss Bladen turned on him to demand why he had not had the sense to run ahead to the mill. She must rub him down herself, she supposed, and retrieve his clothes, and send messages to Tarrant Hall and her own home. …

  The Earl said meekly but firmly that if she would deal with Miss Nan, he would attend to himself, and no doubt Job would be able to find someone to run
errands for them.

  “Suttenly, guv’nor,” said Job, grinning as he handed the Earl a tankard half full of brandy. “This’ll put you right.”

  The Earl sipped, frowned, and smiled. Then drank deeply. He supposed it was the first time that he had ever knowingly drunk smuggled brandy, but he didn’t suppose it would be the last, in the company he was forced to keep at Hamberley. He toweled himself dry, resumed his clothes, and after satisfying himself that Miss Nan was recovering under the ministrations of Miss Bladen, strolled out to have words with Job. That worthy was only too willing to talk to the “gennelman” who had saved Miss Nan. He was a tenant, not of the Earl, but of the Tarrants, which explained why he had been willing to risk being hurt for her sake. He was also a mine of information about the misdeeds of Mr. Farrow, and very willing to give the Earl particulars of rents extorted and excuses and threats made by the bailiff. Twice he referred to Mr. Carramine, and it became clear to the Earl that the miller formed an important link in the chain of distribution of contraband in that part of the country. But, as he had said to Carramine, Philip was not in the least interested in apprehending smugglers. In fact, glowing with so much brandy, he was very far from wishing to do so.

  The gig had not arrived from Tarrant Hall by the time dusk fell, although the miller had sent messages telling of the riot and its aftermath to the Hall, to Mr. Carramine, and to Sir John Bladen. A servant arrived to fetch Miss Marjorie, and although she was loath to go, the Earl persuaded her to do so. It would not be wise for her to walk unattended through the village in the dark that night. Miss Nan had made an excellent recovery, to which the brandy had contributed. She insisted she was well enough to walk home, but the Earl would not hear of it. Finally, it was settled that she would ride on his horse, perched like a child before him, and it was in this manner that they traversed the still silent village and made their way towards the Hall. Miss Nan sat huddled in blankets, the Earl’s riding crop in her tiny hands.