Valley of the Ravens

by Nancy Buckingham

  “I am sure you can safely leave it to Jerome,” I said. He glared at me. “What do you know about it, girl—er, Sarah? I wonder you dare open your mouth in my presence after the way your father nearly bankrupted me.”

  It was like a slap in the face, and I felt tears spring to my eyes.

  “My father did nothing of the kind, Uncle Joshua, and I won’t allow you to suggest that he did. If this is all you wanted to say to me, then there is no purpose in my staying to listen.” I rose to my feet again and started for the door.

  He called me back impatiently. “Don’t be so damned touchy, Sarah. You’re as bad as your father. He was a hot-tempered man—now you can’t deny that”

  I returned to my chair, but remained standing beside it.

  “My father,” I said stiffly, “was the kindest, gentlest man I have ever known. If he lost his temper with you it was no doubt because you provoked him.”

  “He as good as called me a fool to my face. He said I knew nothing whatever about iron mining.”

  “And did you?”

  Uncle Joshua gave an impatient exclamation. “I should have learned from the failure of others. Sir Frederick Knight of Simonsbath gave up mining years before we did, but your father persuaded me into continuing. He lost me a fortune with his pigheaded idea that there was a wealth of iron ore under Exmoor, only waiting to be dug out.”

  “He was still convinced of it, right up to his death,” I said. “He was of the opinion that it only needed courage and persistence—”

  “And money!” Uncle Joshua pointed out. “My money!”

  “His own money, too! Papa put everything he possessed into the Farracombe mines. He was ruined when they closed down before the agreed time. He had to make a completely new start in Lancashire.”

  “If he was so damned certain he was right, then why didn’t he keep going?”

  I stared at Uncle Joshua in astonishment. “Because you withdrew your financial backing, that’s why. There was no money to continue.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Well—not in so many words, I suppose. Poor Papa hated talking about his time at Farracombe, and I couldn’t blame him, after the shabby way he was treated.”

  Uncle Joshua waved his hand at me impatiently. “I told your father that I was unwilling to pour good money after bad. But there was cash enough remaining in the company’s funds to keep going for another year or so if he’d really wanted. You’d better understand this, Sarah—it was your father who threw his hand in, not I who forced him out.”

  My knees suddenly felt weak, and I sank down slowly into the chair. All that I had believed for the past five years was being knocked from under me by what Uncle Joshua was saying. Papa—and Mama, too, while she had still been alive—had always led me to believe that we had virtually been driven away from Farracombe.

  “It is easy for you to claim this,” I faltered, “now that there is no one left to contradict you. But I knew my father—he would never have abandoned something in which he had so much faith.”

  In the silence, I could hear the ponderous ticking of the long-case clock. I prayed for Uncle Joshua to withdraw what he had said, to let me keep my beliefs. He was stroking his white beard and frowning. Then, as if to himself, he muttered, “Charles Harrow was a fool not to tell the truth.”

  “The—the truth?”

  “Unlike your father, Sarah, I don’t believe in shielding anyone from ugly facts. Much better that you should know the truth, and be warned by it.” He paused, then said bluntly, “Your sister was a thief!”

  My body reacted before my mind had fully grasped the meaning of his words. I grew ice cold.

  “Felicity a thief?” I whispered. “No—no, I don’t believe it.”

  “Just like Ned Tassell—the pair of them. She helped herself to jewelry which had belonged to my wife.”

  “It isn’t possible. Felicity would never have stooped to anything so despicable.”

  A malicious smile curved Uncle Joshua’s lips. “Are you suggesting that I am a liar? I’m telling you, Sarah, just as I had to tell your father, that Felicity stole your aunt’s pearl necklet before she ran off with that lout Ned Tassell. There is nothing she could have done to hurt me more bitterly. I treasured those pearls as a precious memento of my beloved wife. They were my gift to her on our wedding day. And she took other things as well.”

  I sprang to my feet once more. “I shall not remain here and listen to such horrible accusations. You are making all this up. You did not want me to come to Farracombe and now you’re trying to drive me away.”

  I ran to the door, dragging it open and nearly bumping into Rudd who stood just outside as though he had been listening. As I fled across the landing, a mocking voice followed me. “That’s right, girl—run away, like that weak fool your father.”

  Mrs. Bardock was ascending the staircase with a pile of linen in her arms, and she looked astonished as I raced past her. Uncle Joshua’s voice had such carrying power that she might well have overheard him.

  But what difference did it make? I realized with a chilling sense of dismay that probably Mrs. Bardock—and every other servant at Farracombe— was fully conversant with what my parents had so carefully kept from me. Probably, they all accepted without question that my sister was a thief. And no doubt they thought that I, being so like Felicity in appearance, was tarred with the same brush. I recalled Mr. Smallbridge’s embarrassment when I asked him what it was he had heard about me, and a shiver ran down my spine.

  I felt an impelling need to get away from the house. To be quite alone. Slipping out by way of the orangery, I hurried blindly along the flagged path that led through the herb garden to the iron gate in the boundary wall, and thence directly onto the moor.

  Presently the going became steep and I was obliged to slow down. But I pressed on, heedless of the white wraiths of moorland mist that curled around me, of the sodden heather that brushed the hem of my gown, quickly soaking through my fragile indoor shoes.

  It was eerily silent, with no sound of wind, or bird, or beast, or human voice.

  I should have to leave Farracombe, leave without delay. There was no alternative. It had been made very clear to me that I was unwelcome here. And yet, would it not be a sign of weakness to run away, as Uncle Joshua accused my father of doing? Would it be construed as a tacit admission of my sister’s guilt?

  I wandered on aimlessly, having long since lost sight of a clearly defined path. Under my feet was the soft peaty ground of high Exmoor, crisscrossed with tiny tracks through the heather made by sheep and wild ponies. Then, without warning, I stepped into a boggy patch and sank to the ankle.

  I withdrew my foot with some difficulty, nearly losing my shoe. Cautiously, I retreated to firmer ground that would hold my weight. Feeling badly shaken, I stood and looked around, seeking familiar landmarks to show me my way.

  There was nothing now but an opaque wall of fog.

  I had heard somber tales of men being lost in fog on the lonely heights of the moor and wandering blindly for hours. But only now did I realize with dismay how rapidly a harmless-looking mist could become a blank gray emptiness.

  Choosing what I fervently hoped was the way I had come, I started to move slowly, picking out tussocks of sedge grass on which I could safely tread. But whether I was going in the direction of the Farracombe valley, or heading farther into the wilderness of the moor, I had no means of knowing for sure.

  And then, after several minutes of stumbling progress, something loomed ahead of me, at first just a vaguely denser patch in the encircling grayness, then taking on a more distinct shape—a tall, upright figure, only a short distance away. I gasped in relief and called out, plunging forward impetuously. My foot sank into bog again, and I was thrown headlong to the wet, peaty ground.

  Sobbing, I struggled to my feet and stared around me frantically. Just as before, the fog presented a blank wall of grayness. Had I only imagined seeing someone standing there?

&
nbsp; But the fog must have been drifting, and suddenly the figure appeared again, coming toward me. In a burst of thankfulness I plunged forward to meet him.

  “Please, please help me,” I cried out. “I’ve lost my way.”

  There was no response.

  The ground beneath my feet seemed to shake, and I stopped. The advancing figure stopped too. I called out again, but again there was no reply.

  I stood very still, my hands clenched tightly. The figure appeared to have grown to an immense size, looming high above me, silent and sinister. My last shred of courage deserted me. I screamed. From somewhere came an answering shout.

  “Sarah! Sarah, where are you?”

  “Here—here! Oh, Jerome, come quickly.” He emerged suddenly from the fog, his big bay horse trotting surefooted on the squelchy ground.

  “Thank God I found you, Sarah. What in heaven’s name were you thinking of, coming up here alone in this fog?” He swung down from the saddle and comfortingly slipped his arm around my shoulders. “It was madness, my dear, didn’t you realize?”

  For a moment I couldn’t find my voice. Then I said in a whisper, “That man, Jerome—who is he? He would not answer when I called to him.”

  Jerome studied my face with concern. “There is no one here, Sarah, except myself. You must have been imagining things.”

  “Look,” I cried. “Over there.” I felt his arm tighten around me. “My poor Sarah, were you alarmed? That is the Widgery Longstone—don’t you remember? You must often have seen it before.”

  Incredulously, I stared at the misty outline of the ancient stone, standing like a pillar, and chided myself for my foolishness. But an echo of fear still lingered. Even on spring days when the sky was a clear, bright blue, I recalled, there had been an aura of brooding mystery about this relic from a prehistoric age.

  “You—you must think I’m very stupid,” I stammered.

  “Not at all. Anyone, alone up here on a day like this, could be affected. Fog can produce some strange optical illusions.” He started to peel off his heavy reefer coat. “You are shivering, my dear. Let me put this around you.”

  It was true I was shivering, but not merely from cold. I made an effort to speak calmly. “Thank goodness you appeared. I was hopelessly lost. But what brought you up here, Jerome?”

  “I came in search of you. Why did you go rushing out of the house like that? I was in the estate office and I saw you taking the moor path. Something had obviously upset you. I’d like to know what it is.”

  I hesitated. “I—I was talking to Uncle Joshua, and he said ...”

  “Yes?”

  “It was about my sister. He said that she was a thief!”

  “How could he have been so unkind? Your papa explained in his letter that you had never been told the full facts, and he asked us to withhold them from you. I thought Father was in agreement.”

  A cold feeling of shock went through me. Why had I imagined that Jerome was my friend? Like everybody else, he believed that Felicity had stolen the pearl necklet.

  I said in a stiff voice, “Thank you for coming to find me, Jerome. Now will you please take me back to the house? I intend to leave Farracombe as soon as possible.”

  “Leave Farracombe? But why, Sarah? Surely not because my father spoke to you unfeelingly? You must understand that he is a sick man now, and elderly. He can no longer be held responsible for his actions.”

  “How do you think I can stay on here when my sister has been called a thief?” I demanded.

  “Nobody blames you, Sarah,” he said earnestly. “It happened a long time ago—-five years ago. It is over and forgotten. An unfortunate incident.”

  “I shall never forget, as long as I live.” I looked up at Jerome with bitter reproach. “You knew Felicity. You knew her from the day she was born. How could you believe her capable of such a thing?”

  “I dearly wish it were possible to believe otherwise. But you must consider the weight of evidence, Sarah.”

  “Evidence? What are you talking about?”

  “For one thing, my dear, who else had a motive?”

  “A—a motive?”

  “She and Ned Tassell must have needed all the money they could lay their hands on,” Jerome explained. “So Ned took the miners’ wages, and Felicity took the pearl necklet. She was fully aware of its value. I expect you remember that my father once let her wear it, for the ball given in Nadine’s honor. He told your sister then precisely how much it cost him when he bought it for my mother.”

  I recalled the incident clearly. The ball had marked Jerome’s return to Farracombe with his bride, and the entire neighborhood had been invited to meet her. Felicity begged Mama to be allowed a piece of jewelry to set off her new blue taffeta gown. Papa was consulted, and two days later he presented my sister with a pretty necklace of seed pearls.

  Just before the ball commenced, when we were all assembled in the great hall waiting to welcome the guests, Felicity’s necklace had suddenly snapped and the tiny pearls went skittering hither and thither across the tesselated marble floor. While everyone was stooping to retrieve them before they were crushed underfoot, Uncle Joshua took my sister’s hand and led her upstairs with a great show of mystery. When they returned a few minutes later, Felicity was glowing with happiness. Around her throat, looking cool and translucent against her creamy skin, was an exquisite necklet of perfectly matched pearls.

  Afterward, my sister had confessed to me in tones of awe, “I was terrified all the time I was wearing it, Sarah. I never thought I’d ever have anything worth so much around my neck. Wasn’t it absolutely gorgeous, though?”

  But that hadn’t meant she would ever dream of stealing it.

  “We all of us heard Uncle Joshua say how much the necklet cost,” I protested furiously to Jerome. “Everybody knew it was very valuable.”

  Jerome’s brow furrowed. “That wasn’t the only thing, Sarah. Father keeps all my mother’s jewelry in a silver casket in his room. It is always kept locked. But during the evening of the day on which Felicity and Ned ran away, he found it unlocked and the pearls gone. Later, when your sister’s room was thoroughly searched for some clue to her disappearance, the key was found under her bed. She must have dropped it in her haste.”

  “It isn’t true. I don’t believe you.”

  “Sarah, my dear—it was your mother who found the key.”

  I felt faint with shock. I wanted to plunge into the fog, to lose myself in its gray nothingness and escape from the dreadful things that were being said about Felicity.

  But there could be no escape.

  Even if I were to leave Farracombe now, the knowledge that my sister had been branded a thief would continue to haunt me. My mother and father had gone to their graves with the belief that she was guilty. But it was something I refused to accept.

  “Come along, Sarah,” said Jerome gently. “We’d better be getting back.”

  Almost before I knew it he had swept me up onto Hercales’ neck and swung himself into the saddle behind me. As the great horse picked its way cautiously through the boggy patches, I was acutely aware of Jerome’s arms holding me, of his broad chest against which I had perforce to steady myself.

  There, up on the fog-shrouded moor, I came to a decision. I determined to stay on at Farracombe and try to put the record straight. I had no idea by what means, but somehow—somehow I would clear Felicity’s name.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  I had been at Farracombe for six days now, and I was still no nearer deciding how I was going to prove my sister’s innocence. It was a thousand times easier to make such a resolution, I’d discovered, than to formulate a plan of action.

  Then, suddenly, it occurred to me that the obvious point at which to start was the Tassells. But the prospect of confronting the two of them together daunted me. I decided to tackle Batsy on her own in the kitchen. I chose the afternoon and, as I’d hoped, I found her alone, except for a kitchenmaid who stood scouring the ea
rthenware sink in the adjoining scullery.

  Batsy herself was busy making pastry at the huge scrubbed-wood table. Always fond of sampling her own cooking, she had grown fatter than ever. On her chin were three large warts, with whiskers sticking from them. These had so fascinated me as a child that once my mother had scolded me for staring.

  “Batsy,” I began, “could I please have a word with you?”

  “I s’pose so, miss,” she said sullenly, not troubling to hide the fact that I was unwelcome in her kitchen. “Rosie, you can leave that sink now. It’ll do.”

  “Ta, Mrs. Tassell,” the girl said thankfully, wiping her hands and slipping away at once.

  “Us can talk private now,” said Batsy, barely civil. “The rest of ‘em are in the servants’ hall, havin’ a bit of a rest while they got the chance.”

  “It was about your nephew, Batsy—and my sister.”

  With a shrug, she returned to her task of rolling out the pastry dough.

  “Thomas and me reckon best thing is to forgit all that, miss. Why doan’t ‘ee do the same?”

  “But I can’t forget, Batsy. I have just learned that my sister is supposed to have stolen a valuable pearl necklet”

  She made no comment, but began forcibly dabbing butter on the rolled pastry.

  “I don’t believe it’s true,” I continued. “I know that my sister would never have done such a thing.”

  Batsy slapped down the pastry spatula knife and turned on me, her beady black eyes spitting fury.

  “What be ‘ee trying to make out? That it were Ned took the necklit, as well as the money? That it were all his fault?”

  “No, I—”

  “I’ll tell ‘ee this, Miss Sarah Haddow. Our Ned were an honest lad, the way we always bringed him up to be. If that sister of yourn hadn’t turned his head and gived him ideas above his proper station, him’ud be in a good situation today. I used to say to him, ‘Forgit about Miss Felicity, she bain’t for the likes of ‘ee, Ned. Find some nice lass down the village—there be plenty of’n would be glad to have a decent, hardworking lad like ‘ee.’ But he wouldn’t listen to I, ‘cause her egged him on. A proper flibbertigibbet, her were.”