by Charles Todd
“And Juliana?”
“No. Of course not.”
She was silent for a time. Then she said, “Sometimes I think they’re cursed. Margaret and Alan and Roger. Mama Ellis told me once that Juliana’s death was devastating. It scarred all of them. Roger’s father couldn’t accept it. He tried, but in the end he went out into the heath and shot himself.”
I was shocked. “She’s dead?” It was all I could manage to say.
“She died when she was only six years old. Of a mastoid tumor. Roger won’t speak her name. It’s as if she never existed. He was closer to her in age than Margaret and Alan. Alan, when he came of age, turned Vixen Hill over to Roger. He felt he couldn’t live there, and he bought a house in Portsmouth before joining the Navy as a career officer. Margaret married young. I think to escape. Although it turned out well enough. She and Henry have been very happy.”
“Did you—were you told these things before you married Roger Ellis?” I asked.
“I told myself I’d make Roger forget Juliana. But you can’t really change people, can you? We took a house in London for the first six months, and then I could tell that he missed Vixen Hill. Alan could walk away, you see, but Roger couldn’t. And so we returned to Sussex.” Putting a hand to her head, she said, “I wish this pounding would stop.”
I didn’t remind her about her promise.
We pulled into a station at that juncture, and in the flurry of people getting down or settling into seats, conversation was impossible. Lydia closed her eyes, and I thought she slept for a quarter of an hour or so.
We reached the station just outside of Hartfield in the early afternoon. I was glad, for the train was stuffy and so crowded we could hardly hear ourselves think. I said, as Lydia and I stepped down into a small station hardly worthy of the name, “How far is it to Vixen Hill?”
“Not far, as the crow flies,” she said, handing in our tickets. “There’s a carriage we can hire to take us there. I was so fortunate the day I left—a neighbor was on her way to Hartfield to do her marketing, and she was willing to take me to the station. I wouldn’t have wanted to walk—I’d have missed my train for one thing. But I would have walked, you know. I was that desperate to get away.”
We found the carriage without any trouble, and the driver, an elderly man with a foul-smelling pipe, was more than willing to take us to Vixen Hill. We were soon on our way through the village of Hartfield. It was prosperous enough, with cottages and houses leading into a street of shops and an inn. I could see the tower of a church up a side street, and farther along, I glimpsed the doctor’s shingle on a house facing a small shop selling dry goods.
Several people turned to stare, but I thought that had more to do with the fact that I was a stranger than with Lydia’s bruised face and blackened eye. Still, she kept her gloved hand raised, as if to keep her hat from blowing off.
I heard her murmur, “I knew this would be an ordeal.”
“It will be over soon. There’s the end of town in sight already.”
We came to a slight bend in the road just before the outskirts, and I turned to my left, aware of someone watching us. My gaze met that of the village constable standing there.
I was used to the constable who walked past Mrs. Hennessey’s house each evening and paused to pass the time of day with her. And to the constable in Somerset whose children brought us fresh strawberries from his garden every spring. Comfortable figures who kept order and were a part of the fabric of our lives.
This man was cut from a different cloth, and I thought perhaps he’d been in the war, wounded and discharged, for his face was hard, his eyes cold, as if he remembered too much and had no way of forgetting.
And then Hartsfield was behind us, and the heath, encroaching on the outskirts, as if lying in wait, quickly surrounded us. I was used to the moors in Devon and Cornwall. But this was dramatically different, low, black twisted branches of stunted heather and gorse filling the horizon now as far as the eye could see.
The land was sour, bare in places, in others dotted with blighted shrubs and what appeared to be the struggling remnants of grasses and other vegetation that had given up long ago.
“This is where you live?” I asked, surprised. I’d been to Sussex before, lovely villages and a countryside that was inviting. This was quite different.
“Ashdown Forest,” Lydia murmured. “I hate it. In winter it sucks the life out of you, leaving you as twisted and dead as it is. Winter bleak, that’s what it is.”
Apparently, from what she was telling me as we held on tightly on the now bumpy ride over winter-rutted tracks that bore little resemblance to roads, Ashdown Forest had been a hunting preserve of kings. A ditch had surrounded it to keep the animals in and the peasant poachers out.
“You can still find bits of the ditch if you know where to look. But the forest has long since disappeared. There are stands of trees here and there, mere remnants of what used to be.”
I could see why she called it winter bleak.
The day was overcast now, and that did little to make the drab brown and black landscape more appealing. In the far distance I glimpsed sheep grazing, which must have meant that this wiry and unappealing growth was nourishing. But there was so little color to this palette. Even the moors in the West Country were greener and more inviting.
I said, “Is it always so dreary?”
“To be fair, in the spring when the gorse blooms, it’s touched with green and gold. And in summer the ling—the heather—flowers. A carpet of lavender, and it comes right to the edge of the lawns. But I know winter is coming when I see the ling blooming, and that’s depressing. Winter seems to last longer than any other season. When my brother was alive, I’d find an excuse to go to Suffolk for a week or so. We were close, he and I, and while I like his wife well enough, sadly we have very little in common. After he was killed, I began to feel like a guest there on sufferance.”
Roger, I thought, sounded rather selfish. And so did her brother’s widow, for that matter.
She fell silent, as if bracing herself for what was to come.
As we moved deeper into Ashdown Forest, the landscape became even more bleak, if that was possible. The occasional sheep or cows, the handful of horses, seemed overwhelmed by the silence. From time to time we moved into the shadow of trees, their bare branches arching over our heads like the high ribbed ceiling of a cathedral nave. Occasionally I saw narrow, overgrown paths leading off into denser growth, mysterious, almost secretive.
I was hard-pressed to tell one featureless track from the other as we made our way across the heath. I found it difficult to imagine that this was once a great forest, with deer and whatever else a king chose to hunt confined here awaiting his pleasure. That was a chilling thought, that the animals were all but penned here, until he and his cronies came again to slaughter them. I was beginning to feel rather vulnerable myself in this strange world, and I compared it to the blighted landscape of France where war had destroyed every vestige of grass and trees and fields. Very different—and yet in some way, very much the same. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the similarity until I realized that no one seemed to live here either. A wasteland of man’s making. No Man’s Land. Just then I saw the distant broken arms of a windmill, but the house attached to it was not visible.
We turned off the track into a lane, bordered by a line of ash trees, that led in turn to a red brick house whose lawns ended abruptly at the edge of the gorse and heather. As if a line had been drawn, and the wildness told not to cross it. Or had the wildness told the grass to encroach no farther?
I wondered if the house had begun life as a hunting lodge, because there was a tall central block that appeared to be older than the wings to either side, the brick a mellow rose. High above the door, an oriel window broke the plainness of the facade, the panes dark and lifeless under the dull sky. Gardens graced the lawns where the lane became a drive looping back on itself. But at this time of year the gardens too were dead, bare bed
s with no promise of spring, not even a brave bit of green from a tulip or daffodil poking tentatively up.
I thought of the old legends of cursed land. Or Mr. Conan Doyle’s tale of great black hounds haunting the moors. One could believe in them in such a place. I couldn’t help but remember the comfortable drowsiness of Somerset, a soft green countryside where I would be now if I’d gone home with Simon.
“Vixen Hill,” Lydia said. “Home.” There was a hint of melancholy in the words.
As we came out of the looping drive, I could see the pair of holly trees standing guard on either side of the doorway, their tough, glossy leaves like armor in the pale light, the rich red berries bright against the brick. Whoever had planted those hollies, I thought, must have been hungry for even a small bit of color.
The carriage drew to a halt before the massive door, arched and faced with stone, barred with iron. It was either very old or a Victorian replica that had weathered well. I looked up at the long oriel window, and thought I saw a flicker of movement there. But it was only a trick of the light as the clouds scudded overhead.
Lydia gripped my hand like a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline. I could see, glancing at her face, that she was more likely to turn around and leave than get down and walk to the door. “I feel sick,” she whispered.
But it was too late to walk away. She would have to face whatever lay beyond that door. I wondered what role Roger’s mother and grandmother might play in this reunion. I hadn’t thought to ask Lydia about that.
“I’m here,” I said quietly. “Chin up, and take your courage in both hands. You’ve come home of your own free will.”
She smiled, a shaky one at best, but a smile nonetheless. “Is that what you tell your patients when you send them back to their regiments?”
“Of course,” I lied, paying the driver and grateful to be seeing the end of that pipe. What I told my patients was very different. Take care. And God go with you. Only I never spoke that last aloud. It was a silent prayer that they would survive another week, another month, another year. So many of them didn’t.
The horses moved restlessly, steaming in the cold air. Lydia got down and marched to the door like a man walking to the gallows, upheld by pride alone. I followed her. The carriage was on the point of turning in the drive, and as she realized it, she called to the elderly man who had brought us here, “No, wait.”
At that moment, the door swung open, and it was a middle-aged woman in a dark blue uniform who greeted Lydia with relief, staring anywhere except at that bruise as she said, “I thought I heard the carriage. Mrs. Roger? You’re all right then?”
“Hello, Daisy. Is Mr. Ellis at home?”
“I was told by Molly that he’d gone out again to search for you. He’s been that worried.” Her gaze moved from her mistress to me, politely curious.
“I’ve brought a guest with me. Miss Crawford, from London.” Lydia’s voice was steady, but I heard the undercurrent of nervousness. I hoped Daisy didn’t.
Daisy swept me an old-fashioned curtsey and welcomed me to the house, then took my valise and led me inside.
If I’d thought this was once a hunting lodge, I was proved right as I entered the hall. The ceiling was high, there was a massive stone hearth on one side, and displayed on the walls were an array of weapons and the mounted heads of game staring down at me.
Lydia, noticing my appraisal, said, “When the house was rebuilt in the late seventeen hundreds, this room was kept. The rest is more comfortable, I promise you.” Turning to Daisy, she asked, “Where is everyone?”
“Your grandmother is resting. Mrs. Matthew is putting together the menus for the guests she’s expecting. And Miss Margaret has gone out for a walk.”
Lydia said contritely, “Oh, dear, I’d forgot we’re to have guests. It completely slipped my mind. Mama Ellis will be wondering what on earth I was thinking of! Could you put Miss Crawford’s things in the room overlooking the knot garden?” And to me she added, “You’ll like that room. It looks away from the Forest. Nowhere near as gloomy as most of the other rooms. And you won’t mind, will you, Bess, if we speak to my mother-in-law before we go up?”
We crossed the hall, passing the stairs built into the wall on one side, and Lydia opened a door at the far end of the room. Beyond was a passage that branched left and right, leading to the two wings of the house. Lydia turned to her left and opened another door into a very pleasant, very feminine little room. She said tentatively said, “Mama?”
Over her shoulder I saw the woman seated at the desk by the window look up and stare for a moment, then rise to embrace Lydia.
“My dear. Your poor face!” she exclaimed. I remembered that the blow must have been just a red splotch the last time she’d seen Lydia, and that the bruising must have come as something of a shock. “Can nothing be done for it? Are you in any pain?”
“It’s all right, Mama. I promise you. I’ve been in London—visiting a friend. She’s come home with me. Elizabeth Crawford. She’s a nursing sister, just back from France.”
Mrs. Ellis smiled at me. “Welcome to Vixen Hill, Miss Crawford. I’m Amelia Ellis, Roger’s mother. I hope you’ll be comfortable here. Has Lydia shown you to your room?”
“Not yet,” I said, taking the hand she offered me. “I look forward to my stay. It’s a lovely house.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, not with arrogance but with pride in her home. “I’ve been happy here.” But even as she spoke the words a shadow crossed her face, as if this was not the whole truth. “You must be in need of tea, after that cold drive from the station. I need a bit of distraction myself. I’ve spent all morning on menus and arrangements.”
Lydia said contritely, “And I was not here to help.”
“Never mind,” Mrs. Ellis said cheerfully. “There’s still much to be done.”
She led us from her small sanctuary to the sitting room next door. There were long windows letting in what light there was, and a tall music box in a beautiful mahogany cabinet stood between them, the sort of music box that played large steel discs. The rest of the furnishings were a little shabby, as if this room was used often. The chair I was offered was covered in a pretty chintz patterned with pansies faded to a pale lavender and rose, each bunch tied by a white ribbon. Mrs. Ellis crossed to the hearth and rang the bell beside it.
As she turned back to us, she said, gesturing to my uniform, “You’re only just returned from France? What is it like out there? My son won’t tell me the truth. He says that the casualty lists are exaggerated.”
A sop to his mother’s fears?
“I only know how busy we are when there’s a push on,” I said, trying not to make her son out as a liar. “As you’d expect. But my father has high hopes, now that the Americans are coming over. He says their General Pershing knows what he’s about.” He’d also said that we badly needed fresh viewpoints at HQ, but I thought it best not to mention that.
“Crawford,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Not related to Colonel Crawford, by any chance, are you?”
“He’s my father.”
“My dear! How wonderful,” she exclaimed. “My husband met him briefly in India. Oh, years ago. Matthew had gone out on one of the mapping expeditions, and he hoped to do a little exploring while in the north. Your father—he was a captain then—was his contact in Peshawar. They got on well and corresponded until Matthew’s death. I wonder if Colonel Crawford remembers him.”
“I’m sure he will. I look forward to asking him.”
Another middle-aged maid appeared in the doorway and then stepped aside as a tall, vigorous woman with very white hair came in. “What’s this I hear about Lydia coming back?” She turned her sharp gaze on her granddaughter-in-law, but before she could say anything more, Mrs. Ellis asked for tea to be brought. The woman, whose name was Molly, quietly shut the door as she left.
“How did you come by that nasty bruise?” the elder Mrs. Ellis was demanding. “And don’t tell me that Roger inflicted it. I wo
n’t believe it.”
“It’s true, Gran,” Amelia Ellis replied quickly, before Lydia could answer.
“Nonsense. The Ellis men don’t strike their women. Surely a little powder will make you more presentable? I don’t hold with powder as a rule, but in this case, it’s necessary. Regrettably.”
Lydia said, “It was my fault, Gran. Truly it was.” She gestured toward me. “May I present my friend, Miss Crawford? Matthew knew her father in India.”
“Indeed. Don’t change the subject, my girl. What will our guests think, to see you looking like that?”
“I’ll try powder, Gran, I promise.”
Her grandmother turned to me then. “A nursing sister, are you? I hope you’ve brought some other clothing with you. It won’t do to be the skeleton at the feast at dinner tonight.”
“Perhaps I can borrow something suitable from Lydia,” I answered politely. I’d brought one pretty dress with me, expecting to dine tonight, but it appeared that no one contradicted Gran.
Molly came in just then with the tea tray, and Gran inspected it with a frown on her face. “We’ve hit a new low, Amelia,” she said to Mrs. Ellis. “There are no cakes for our tea.”
“Yes, dear, I know. Cook has been holding back eggs and honey and flour for our guests. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I shall write to my MP and demand to know what England is coming to,” she said, taking the first cup of tea and moving to a chair by the fire. “We had no wars in the old Queen’s day. I don’t see why we must put up with them now.”
Mrs. Ellis smiled at me as she passed me my cup. “Yes, Gran, dear, I should think that would be a very good idea.”
“Don’t patronize me, Amelia,” the older woman snapped. “I’m not in my dotage.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, Gran. There are some biscuits here. Would you care for one?”
The elder Mrs. Ellis grudgingly accepted one, and then said, “It’s not what I’m accustomed to. Where’s Roger? He ought to be here. It’s already getting dark. He knows I don’t care for him to wander about on the heath after dark. That shoulder can’t be fully healed, whatever he tries to tell himself.”
