"It's digging up the past, they'm saying. They reckon they'm going to find bits and pieces left behind by them as lived here years and years ago."
"What here, Mr. Pegger?"
"Here in St. Erno's. A lot of heathens they were, so why any God-fearing gentleman should bother himself with them is past my understanding."
"Perhaps they're not God-fearing, Mr. Pegger; but it's all very respectable. It's called archaeology."
"What it's called makes no difference. If God had intended 'em to find these things He wouldn't have covered 'em up with his good earth."
"Perhaps it wasn't God who covered them up."
"Then who?"
"Time," I said portentously.
He shook his head and started to dig again, throwing the soil up onto the bank he had made.
"Squire were always one for taking up with these fancies. I don't like this one. Let the dead bury their dead, I say."
"I believe someone else said that some time ago, Mr. Pegger. Well, I think it would be interesting if we found something very important here in St. Erno's. Roman remains perhaps. We'd be famous."
"We weren't meant to be famous, Miss Judith. We were meant to be . . ."
"God-fearing," I supplied for him. "So the Squire and his friends are looking for Roman remains close by. And it's not a sudden fancy of his. He's always been interested. Famous archaeologists often come to stay at Keverall Court. Perhaps that's why his nephew is named Hadrian."
"Hadrian!" thundered Mr. Pegger. "It's a heathen name. And the young lady too."
"Hadrian and Theodosia."
"They'm not good Christian names."
"Not like your Matthew Mark Luke John Isaac Reuben . . . and the rest. Judith is in the Bible. So I'm all right."
I fell to thinking of names. "Dorcas! Alison!" I said. "Did you know, Mr. Pegger, that Theodosia means divinely given? So you see it is a Christian name. As for Hadrian, he's named after a wall and a Roman Emperor."
"They're not good Christian names," he repeated.
"Lavinia," I said. "I wonder what that means."
"Ah. Miss Lavinia," said Mr. Pegger.
"It was very sad, wasn't it, to die so young?"
"With all her sins upon her."
"I don't think she had many. Alison and Dorcas speak of her as though they loved her dearly."
There was a picture of Lavinia hanging in the rectory on the landing just at the top of the first flight of stairs. I used to be afraid to pass it after dark because I imagined that at night Lavinia stepped out of it and walked about the house. I used to think that one day I would pass it and find the frame empty because she had failed to get back into it in time.
I was such a fanciful child, said Dorcas, who was very practical herself and could not understand my strange imaginings.
"Every mortal man has sins," declared Mr. Pegger. "As for women they can have ten times as many."
"Not Lavinia," I said.
He leaned on his spade and scratched his white mane of hair. "Lavinia! She were the prettiest of the rectory girls."
Well, I thought, that might not have meant a great deal if I was not so familiar with Lavinia's picture, for neither Alison nor Dorcas were exactly beauties. They always wore somber-colored skirts and jackets, and thick strong boots—so sensible for the country. Yet in the picture Lavinia had a velvet jacket and a hat with a curling feather.
"It was a pity she was ever on that train."
"In one moment she had no idea what was about to happen and the next . . . she was facing her Maker."
"Do you think it's as quick as that, Mr. Pegger? After all she would have to get there . . ."
"Taken in sin, you might say, with no time for repentance."
"No one would be hard on Lavinia."
Pegger was not so sure. He shook his head. "She could have her flighty ways."
"Dorcas and Alison loved her, and so did the reverend. I can tell by the way they look when they say her name."
Mr. Pegger had put down his spade to mop his brow once more. "This be one of the hottest days the Lord have sent us this year." He stepped out of the hole and sat down on the curb of the next grave so that he and I were facing each other over the yawning hole. I stood up and peered down into it. Poor Josiah Polgrey who beat his wife and had his children out working on the farm at five years old. On impulse I jumped down into the hole.
"What be doing, Miss Judith?" demanded Mr. Pegger.
"I just want to see what it feels like to be down here," I said.
I reached up for his spade and started to dig.
"It smells damp," I said.
"A fine muss you'll be getting yourself in."
"I'm already in it," I cried, as my shoes slipped down into the loose earth. It was a horrible feeling of being shut in with the walls of the trench so close to me. "It must be terrible, Mr. Pegger, to be buried alive."
"Now you come out of there."
"I'll dig just a bit while I'm here," I said, "to see what it feels like to be a gravedigger."
I dug the spade into the earth and threw out what it had picked up as I had seen Mr. Pegger do. I repeated the operation several times before my spade struck something hard.
"There's something here," I called.
"You come out of there, Miss Judith."
I ignored him and went on probing. Then I had it. "I've found something, Mr. Pegger," I cried. I stooped and picked up the object. "What is it, do you know?"
Mr. Pegger stood up and took it from me. "Piece of old metal," he said. I gave him my hand and he pulled me out of Josiah Polgrey's grave.
"I don't know," I said. "There's something about it."
"Dirty old thing," said Mr. Pegger.
"But look at it, Mr. Pegger. Just what is it? There's a sort of engraving on it."
"I'd throw that away . . . sharp about it," said Mr. Pegger.
But I would do no such thing, I decided. I would take it back with me and clean it. I rather liked it.
Mr. Pegger took up his spade and continued to dig while I tried to wipe the earth from my shoes and noticed with dismay that the hem of my skirt was decidedly grubby.
I talked for a while with Mr. Pegger, then I went back to the rectory carrying the piece of what appeared to be bronze with me. It was oval shaped and about six inches in diameter. I wondered what it would be like when it was cleaned and what I would use it for. I didn't give much thought to it, because talking about Lavinia had made me think about her and what a sad house it must have been when the news was brought that Lavinia, beloved daughter of the Reverend James Osmond and sister of Alison and Dorcas, had been killed in the train which was traveling from Plymouth to London.
"She was killed outright," Dorcas had told me as we stood at her grave while she pruned the roses growing there. "It was a mercy in a way for she would have been an invalid for the rest of her life had she lived. She was twenty-one years old. It was a great tragedy."
"Why was she going to live in London, Dorcas?" I had asked.
"She was going to take up a post."
"What sort of post?"
"Oh . . . governess, I think."
"You think! Weren't you sure?"
"She had been staying with a distant cousin."
"What cousin was that?"
"Oh dear, what a probing child you are! She was a very distant cousin. We never hear of her now. Lavinia had been staying with her so she took the train from Plymouth and then . . . there was this terrible accident. Many people were killed. It was one of the worst accidents in living memory. We were heartbroken."
"That was when you decided to take me in and bring me up to take Lavinia's place."
"Nobody could take Lavinia's place, dear. You have a place of your own."
"But it's not Lavinia's. I'm not a bit like her, am I?"
"Not in the least."
"She was quiet, I suppose, and gentle; and she didn't talk too much, probe or be impulsive or try to order people about ... all the things that I
do."
"No, she was not like you, Judith. But she could be very firm on occasions, although she was so gentle."
"So then because she was dead and I was an orphan you decided to take me in. I was related to you."
"A sort of cousin."
"A distant one, I suppose. All your cousins seem to be so distant."
"Well, we knew that you were an orphan and we were so distressed. We thought it would help us all ... and you too of course."
"So I came here and it was all because of Lavinia."
So considering all this I felt that Lavinia had had a marked effect on my life; and I fell to wondering what would have happened to me if Lavinia had not decided to take that particular train to London.
It was cool in the stone hall of the old rectory, cool and dark. On the hall table stood a great bowl of buddleia, lavender, and roses. Some of the rose petals had already fallen onto the stone flags of the hall floor. The rectory was an old house, almost as old as Keverall Court. Built in the early days of Elizabeth's reign it had been the residence of rectors over the last three hundred years. Their names were inscribed on a tablet in the church. The rooms were large and some beautifully paneled but dark because of the small windows with their leaded panes. There was an air of great quietness brooding over the house and it was particularly noticeable on this hot day.
I went up the staircase to my room; and the first thing I did was wash the soil from the ornament. I had poured water from the ewer into the basin and was dabbing it with cotton wool when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," I called. Dorcas and Alison were standing there. They looked so solemn that I completely forgot the ornament and cried out: "Is anything wrong?"
"We heard you come in," said Alison.
"Oh dear, did I make a lot of noise?"
They looked at each other and exchanged smiles.
"We were listening for you," said Dorcas.
There was silence. This was unusual. "Something is wrong," I insisted.
"No, dear, nothing has changed. We have been making up our minds to speak to you for some time; and as it is your birthday and fourteen is a sort of milestone ... we thought the time had come."
"It is all rather mysterious," I said.
Alison drew a deep breath and said: "Well, Judith . . ." Dorcas nodded to her to proceed. "Well, Judith, you have always been under the impression that you were the daughter of a cousin of ours."
"Yes, a distant one," I said.
"This is not the case."
I looked from one to the other. "Then who am I?"
"You're our adopted daughter."
"Yes, I know that, but if my parents are not the distant cousins, who are they?"
Neither of them spoke, and I cried out impatiently: "You said you came to tell me."
Alison cleared her throat. "You were on the train . . . the same train as Lavinia."
"In the accident?"
"Yes, you were in the accident ... a child of one year or so."
"My parents were killed then."
"It seems so."
"Who were they?"
Alison and Dorcas exchanged glances. Dorcas nodded slightly to Alison which meant: Tell her all.
"You were unharmed."
"And my parents killed?"
Alison nodded.
"But who were they?"
"They . . . they must have been killed outright. No one came forward to say who you were."
"Then I might be anybody!" I cried.
"So," went on Dorcas, "as we had lost a sister we adopted you."
"What would have happened to me if you hadn't?"
"Someone else would have done so perhaps."
I looked from one to the other and thought of all the kindness I had had from them and how I had plagued them —talking too much and too loudly, bringing mud into the house, breaking their prized crockery; and I ran to them and put my arms about them so that the three of us were in a huddle.
"Judith! Judith!" said Dorcas smiling, and the tears— which always came rather readily to her—glistened in her eyes.
Alison said: "You were a comfort to us. We needed comfort when Lavinia was gone."
"Well," I said, "it's nothing to cry about, is it? Perhaps I'm the long-lost heiress to a great estate. My parents have been searching high and low for me . . ."
Alison and Dorcas were smiling again. I had further food for my flights of fancy. "It's better than being a distant cousin anyway," I said. "But I do wonder who I was."
"It is clear that your parents were killed outright. It was such a ... violent disaster that we heard many people were unrecognizable. Papa went and identified poor Lavinia. He came back so upset."
"Why did you tell me that I came from distant cousins?"
"We thought it better, Judith. We thought you'd be happier believing yourself related to us."
"You're thinking I was unclaimed . . . unwanted, and that might have upset me and thrown a shadow over my childhood."
"There could have been so many explanations. Perhaps you only had your parents and no other relations. We thought that very likely."
"An orphan born of two orphans."
"That seems possible."
"Or perhaps your parents had just come to England."
"A foreigner. Perhaps I'm French, or Spanish. I am rather dark. My hair looks quite black by candlelight. My eyes are much lighter though, just ordinary brown. I do look rather like a Spaniard. But then lots of Cornish people do. That's because the Spaniards were wrecked along our coasts when we destroyed the Armada."
"Well, all ended well. You came to be as our very own and I can never tell you what a joy that has been for us."
"I don't know why you're looking so glum. It's rather exciting I think, not to know who you are. Just think what you might discover! I might have a sister or brother somewhere. Or grandparents. Perhaps they'll come and claim me and take me back to Spain. Senorita Judith. It sounds rather good. Mademoiselle Judith de . . . de Something. Just imagine going to see my long-lost family in their wonderful old chateau."
"Oh Judith, you romance about everything," said Dorcas.
"I'm glad she's taken it like this," added Alison.
"What other way should I take it? I never did like those distant cousins anyway."
"So you don't feel that you were . . . deserted . . . unwanted . . . unclaimed?"
"Of course not. They didn't know that my parents had been killed. Nobody told them and as they were in a foreign country they weren't missed. They just thought they had slipped out of their lives. As for the little baby, me, well they often dream of me. 'I wonder what the child is like,' they say. 'She will be fourteen today. Dear little Judith.' But I suppose you named me that."
"You were christened by Papa soon after we brought you to the rectory."
"Well," I said, "it's all very exciting. A nice birthday surprise. Look at this. I found it. I think when it's cleaned up it will be rather unusual."
"What is it?"
"I've no idea. What would you say, Dorcas? There are scratchings on it. Look."
"Where did you find it?"
"In Josiah Polgrey's grave. Mr. Pegger was digging it and I had a go, and lo and behold my spade struck this. I shall clean it up and then see what I shall use it for. It's a sort of birthday present from Josiah Polgrey."
"What an ideal I've seen something like this before," continued Alison. "I think it may have some significance."
"What do you mean, Alison? Significance?'
"Sir Ralph would know."
Dorcas and Alison exchanged looks. Alison said, speaking rather slowly: "I think, Judith, that you should take it along to Keverall Court and ask if you may show it to Sir Ralph."
"Whatever for?"
"Because he's interested in this sort of thing."
"Things that are dug up you mean?"
"Certain things. Of course this may be just nothing . . . but there is something about it. I think it may be very old indeed and y
ou have stumbled on something important."
I was excited. It was true there was talk of digging up Carter's Meadow. How interesting if I had been the first to find something!
"I'll take it right away," I said.
"I should wash first, change your dress and comb your hair."
I smiled at them. I loved them very much; they were so normal. It was my birthday; they had just told me that I had been unclaimed, my parents had been killed and I might be just anybody; I may have stumbled on something important from centuries ago and they were worried about my changing my dress and making myself presentable to see Sir Ralph!
Under the portcullis, into the courtyard, sniffing the stables and touching the mounting block for luck; and then into the great baronial hall. The heavy iron-studded door creaked as I pushed it open. How silent it seemed! I stood there for a second or so looking at the two suits of armor on either side of the wide staircase and the weapons on the walls; on the refectory table were pewter utensils, and there was a great bowl of flowers too.
I wondered what Hadrian and Theodosia were doing and what fun I would have tomorrow when I told them what I had found. I had already magnified it into something priceless. The greatest archaeologists in the world were shaking me by the hand. "We are so grateful to you, Judith. We have been digging for years and never have we found anything quite so wonderful as this."
I heard the scraping of a chair behind me. I had not noticed Derwent, the footman, dozing in a chair.
"Oh, it's you," he said.
"I want to see Sir Ralph immediately. It is a matter of the utmost importance."
He looked at me superciliously. "Now, Miss. This is another of your tricks, I know."
"It's no trick. I have found something which is of great value. My aunts"—I called Dorcas and Alison aunts; it simplified the relationship—"said I was to bring it to Sir Ralph without delay and woe betide anyone who tries to keep this from him."
I hugged the piece of metal against me and faced him squarely.
"He's taking tea with her ladyship."
"Go and tell him I am here," I said imperiously.
Because there had been some talk about Carter's Meadow, and Sir Ralph's interest in what could be dug out of the earth was well known, I eventually prevailed on Derwent to go and tell Sir Ralph that I had found something which my aunts thought might be of interest. Consequently within five minutes I was in the library, that fascinating room full of Sir Ralph's collection of exotic pieces.
Curse of the Kings Page 2
