To her disappointment he had already gone and she realised that one of the grooms must have come while they were having their meal and taken him home.
For a moment she felt her disappointment turn to anger that she should have been deprived of something she wanted so much.
Then she told herself that she was very lucky to have been able to ride this morning and it was greedy to expect to have the same joy again in the afternoon.
She also suspected that Marilyn might have realised how long she had talked to the Marquis and had deliberately sent for Bracken to punish her.
Then she told herself that once again she was being over-imaginative and Marilyn could have no idea that she had not hurried after her immediately as she had been told to do.
Equally she did not regret it.
It had been exciting to talk to somebody like the Marquis, even though she was hating him.
He might look cynical, he might behave in what she thought was a very reprehensible manner. Nevertheless he was obviously intelligent and she thought that he was without exception one of the smartest men she had ever seen or could imagine.
The way he held himself, the way he sat his horse and the almost blinding shine of his polished boots was something, she thought, which would colour her fantasy stories in the future, even though she cast him in the role of the villain.
She found herself thinking of him all the time she was walking towards Mrs. Buries’s cottage.
When she was within sight of it, she saw Ben Buries come running out of the low door.
He looked down the road and she thought that he must have seen her because he scuttled off in the opposite direction in a surreptitious manner as if he had something to hide.
‘I expect he is up to some mischief,’ she thought, thinking of her father’s words.
She reached the cottage door and knocked loudly because Mrs. Buries was inclined to be deaf.
It took some time for her to rise out of the armchair where she habitually sat in front of the stove and come to the door.
She opened it a few inches, peered round it to see who was standing there, then said,
“Come in, miss, come in! I were hopin’ you’d remember I were in pain and a real pain it be!”
Hermia entered the cottage, thinking as she had often thought before that it was in need of repair. It was something her uncle should order to be done for his tenants even though they paid only a shilling or two a week rent.
She knew that her father had spoken about the state of the cottages and had told his brother that many of those occupied by aged pensioners leaked when it rained.
The Earl had replied that he had no money to waste on a lot of old people, especially those who had sons who could do the repairs themselves.
The room, however, was clean and, as Mrs. Buries lowered herself very carefully into the armchair, Hermia sat down in a high-backed one near her so that she could hear what she had to say.
“I have brought you a tonic to make you better,” she said. “My mother says that you are to take a spoonful every morning, one after your midday meal and one when you go to bed at night.”
“It be good of you, miss, very good,” Mrs. Buries said. “I needs somethin’ not only for me body but for me mind.”
“This will soon make you feel better,” Hermia told her optimistically.
“It’s worried I be, worried all the time, and Ben shouldn’t do it, he shouldn’t!”
“Do what?” Hermia asked curiously.
“She’ll cast a spell on you, she will,” Mrs. Buries went on as though Hermia had not spoken. “I’ve warned you, time after time, not to go near that old witch, but ’e’ll never listen to me!”
Hermia realised that she was talking about old Mrs. Wombatt, who used to live in Witch Wood and who the villagers still believed haunted it.
Because she could see Mrs. Buries’s puckered face and the fear in her eyes, she leaned forward to put her hand on the old woman’s and said quietly,
“Listen, Mrs. Buries, Mrs. Wombatt is dead. She has been dead for a long time and she cannot hurt anybody now, so that you need not be afraid for Ben.”
“She’ll put a curse on ’im!” Mrs. Buries repeated. “He’s no right to go there, as I tells ’im. And they says that Satan ’imself ’as been seen with ’er.”
The way she spoke told Hermia that there was no use arguing.
This was one of her bad days and she knew that Mrs. Buries would never believe that not only the poor old woman who had lived in Witch Wood was dead but her magic had died with her.
She was quite certain that if Mrs. Wombatt had been a witch, she was a white one.
Hermia thought that she had magic powers because she used herbs when she cooked, told the fortunes of the village girls and gave the older folk cures for rheumatism and colic, which they believed healed them.
‘It’s no use arguing with her about a woman who has been dead for such a long time,’ Hermia thought.
Instead she went to the table, found a spoon and poured a little of her mother’s tonic into it.
“Swallow this,” she said to Mrs. Buries, “and you will soon feel better and I am sure it will help you to sleep.”
She knew that her mother had added camomile and a little verlain to the other herbs the tonic contained. Although she disapproved of giving those who were hale and hearty any form of sedative, it was different for those who were very old and whose minds wandered.
The old woman swallowed what was in the spoon and exclaimed,
“That be good! Give me some more.”
“No, that’s enough for the moment,” Hermia said, “but you must remember to take another spoonful before you go to bed.”
She put the tonic in the middle of the table and said,
“Goodbye, Mrs. Buries. I know you would like me to thank my mother for what she has sent you.”
She walked towards the door as she spoke and, as she reached it, Mrs. Buries said,
“You’ll not tell Ben I talked to you? He said everythin’ ’e tell me be a secret.”
“No, of course not,” Hermia said soothingly. “Shut your eyes and forget about him. I expect he will be back soon to look after you.”
Mrs. Buries did not seem to understand and, as Hermia opened the door, she heard the old woman mutter to herself,
“He shouldn’t have gone there! I says to ’im, I says, ‘Her’ll curse you, that’s what she’ll do!’”
‘Poor old thing, she really gets madder and madder!’ Hermia thought as she walked back through the village.
By now the sun had lost its heat and she longed to ride as she had done in the past over the fields and through the woods just as the birds were going to roost.
It had been an enchantment when the last rays of the sun made the tree trunks look like burnished brass and the shadows full of mystery, which increased as the dusk came bringing with it the night.
‘Now that I have to walk it’s not the same,’ she thought, ‘but I suppose it’s better than nothing.’
There were so many parts of the estate that she now never saw and yet she could conjure them up like pictures in her mind and knew that their beauty could never be forgotten.
When she was nearly home, she found herself again thinking of the strange conversation she had had with the Marquis.
He might be cynical and sarcastic, but her father had said how successful he was on the Racecourse and always won the big races.
‘That means he will be at Royal Ascot next week,’ Hermia told herself, remembering it started on Monday.
Because her father was interested in horses he always read the racing news in The Morning Post, which was the only newspaper they had at the Vicarage, and in fact the only one they could afford.
When Peter was at home, they would have long discussions on the merits of the horses they read about.
After Peter had been to the Derby with some of his friends, he had described to his father exactly what had happened and
how thrilling it had been.
“What is more,” he crowed boastfully, “I won five pounds!”
“You might have lost it,” the Vicar replied warningly.
“I know, Papa, and I was very nervous that might happen,” Peter said honestly. “However I won and that paid for all my expenses for the day and left me a little in hand.”
His father smiled as if he understood what a satisfaction it had been.
From the way he talked Hermia was sure her father would have liked to be at Epsom with Peter and she wondered if her brother would have the chance of going to Ascot.
It must be very frustrating for him, she thought, to know that his rich friends could afford to attend all the race meetings, either travelling from Oxford for the day or staying the night with some generous host or, if they had no invitation, at an hotel, which was invariably very expensive.
And yet Peter, although she felt sorry for him was seeing a great deal more of life than she was.
She wondered if there would ever be a chance of her going to a race meeting, attending one of the balls that took place after every big meeting or even just travelling to London to see the shops.
Then she laughed.
Those pearls were out of reach so it was no use troubling about them.
‘‘If wishes were horses, beggars could ride, she quoted to herself and hurried into the Vicarage to tell her mother about Mrs. Buries.
*
They had waited for the Vicar for nearly a quarter-of-an-hour and Nanny was complaining crossly that her food was spoiling, when he arrived home.
Hermia heard old Jake taking the gig round to the stables and, when she opened the front door and her father came in to the hall, her mother came hurrying out of the sitting room to exclaim,
“Darling, I have been so worried! What kept you so long?”
The Vicar kissed his wife affectionately and replied,
“I have told you not to worry. As a matter of fact I would have been home in plenty of time if I had not been delayed when I reached the village.”
“The village?” Hermia exclaimed. “What has happened in the village?”
As if the Vicar was aware that he ought not to keep Nanny waiting any longer, he walked into the dining room and sat down at the head of the table.
“You will hardly believe what has happened,” he said, “in fact I don’t believe it myself.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Brooke asked.
“The Marquis of Deverille has disappeared!”
Hermia stared at her father as if she felt she could not have heard correctly what he said.
“What do you mean disappeared, Papa?”
“Exactly what I say,” the Vicar replied. “The whole village is agog with it. Apparently everybody on the estate is out looking for him.”
Hermia’s eyes were very wide in her face, but it was her mother who exclaimed,
“Tell us everything, darling, from the beginning. I am trying to understand what you are saying.”
“I find it difficult to understand it myself!” the Vicar said. “But, when I was coming home, half-a-dozen people stopped me all chattering like parrots.”
He smiled before he went on,
“Before I could stop them from all talking at once, half the village was clustered round the gig.”
He stopped speaking to help first his wife then his daughter from the soup tureen that Nanny had put in front of him on the table.
It was a soup made with celery that always tasted delicious and was one of the Vicar’s favourites.
He filled his own plate, then, as he drank a spoonful, Hermia begged him,
“Please go on, Papa. We must know what happened!”
“Yes, of course,” the Vicar replied. “Well, it appears that immediately after luncheon at The Hall my brother had arranged to take the Marquis to see his yearlings which he has in a field on the North side of the Park.”
Hermia knew where this was, but she did not interrupt as her father went on,
“The two gentlemen were apparently not hurrying themselves, but talking as they rode when a groom came galloping after them to say that a visitor had arrived at The Hall asking to see the Earl urgently and saying that he could not wait.”
The Vicar paused and took another spoonful of soup before he continued,
“My brother was obviously annoyed at having to go back, but, as they had not gone very far, he told the Marquis to go on alone. He then rode back to The Hall.”
“Who did he find waiting for him?” Mrs. Brooke asked.
“The village did not seem to know this,” the Vicar replied, “but they say that John was only a few minutes at the house before he rode off again to catch the Marquis up.”
“Then what – happened?” Hermia asked breathlessly.
“He could not find him!”
“What do you mean – could not find him?’ Mrs. Brooke enquired.
“Exactly what I say,” her husband answered. “There was no sign of the Marquis and at a loss to understand what could have happened, John rode back to the stables.”
He paused dramatically, almost as if he enjoyed keeping his audience in suspense as he drank some more soup.
“My brother had only just arrived in the stables when to his consternation the horse the Marquis had been riding came galloping in, his stirrups flapping at his sides and his saddle empty!”
Hermia gave a little gasp.
“I thought he was a good rider!”
“He is!” the Vicar said. “In fact I have always been told that the Marquis has boasted that the horse has never been bred that can throw him!”
“On this occasion he must have been thrown!” Mrs. Brooke exclaimed.
“That, of course, is what I gather John and everybody else thought,” the Vicar said.
“What happened then?” Hermia asked.
“Naturally your uncle told all the grooms to get mounted and find the Marquis as quickly as possible.”
There was a little pause before Mrs. Brooke asked,
“Are you saying that they have not found him?”
“There is no sign of him!” her husband replied.
“That is impossible!” Hermia cried. “He must be somewhere not very far away!”
The Vicar finished his soup and, as Nanny took away the tureen and came back with the next course, he said,
“As soon as I have finished eating I am going up to The Hall to see if I can help in any way. According to Wade, who is a sensible man, everybody on the estate has been searching all the afternoon and evening, but there is not a sign of the Marquis anywhere.”
Hermia and her mother both knew that Wade was the Head Keeper and had been at The Hall for many years.
He was a man who did not speak much, but what he said could be believed and they could understand that the mystery of the Marquis’s disappearance was, if Wade had said so, unexaggerated,
“Yes, of course, you must go to see if you can help, darling,” Mrs. Brooke said, “but it does seem incredible that they cannot find him.”
“I quite agree with you, but Wade told me they have searched everywhere.”
He smiled as he added,
“It is a pity his horse cannot talk, because he in fact must know where he left his distinguished rider.”
Hermia was silent.
It flashed through her mind that perhaps after all, as she had thought the first time she met him, the Marquis was the Devil and he had now returned to the Underworld from which he came and they would never see him again.
“I should have thought the only thing that any of us can do,” Mrs. Brooke replied, “is somehow to find the Marquis.”
“Well, for one place he is not here in the Vicarage!” her husband said.
He put his arms around his wife and held her close against him as he added,
“I was looking forward to our having a quiet evening, but I will not be any longer than I can help. I suppose it would be a mistake for me to take Hermia with me
?”
“She had better stay with me,” Mrs. Brooke replied.
Hermia knew that her mother was thinking that if, as she suspected, the Marquis was being thought of as a suitable husband for Marilyn, they would certainly not want her.
After her father had left, Hermia and her mother sat in the sitting room discussing what could have happened.
Then Mrs. Brooke said,
“You must have spoken to the Marquis this morning when he was with Marilyn. What is he like?”
“The best way I can describe him, Mama, is bored, cynical and very sarcastic!”
Mrs. Brooke looked surprised.
“Why should he be like that?”
“I expect he has been spoilt, Mama, through being so successful at everything he undertakes.”
“Do you think that Marilyn is in love with him?” her mother enquired.
“She is very anxious to marry him, Mama, and naturally it is something that would please Aunt Edith.”
“Of course,” her mother agreed and there was no need for Hermia to explain herself any further.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when her father returned and, as he came into the hall, his wife and daughter sprang to their feet eagerly.
“Is there any news, Papa?” Hermia asked before her mother could speak.
“None at all,” the Vicar said. “It seems quite inexplicable and I have never known John to be so agitated,”
“And Edith?” Mrs. Brooke enquired.
“She had no time for me, as you can imagine,” the Vicar replied, “and I was informed that Marilyn is so distressed that she has taken to her bed.”
“I must say it’s a terrible thing to happen when one is entertaining a guest, whoever he may be,” Mrs. Brooke remarked. “I suppose there is nothing we can do to help?”
“Nothing,” the Vicar replied, “except pray he has not been murdered for any money he might have been carrying.”
He paused before he added,
“I suppose I should not tell you this, but John is sure that this could be the work of the Marquis’s heir presumptive – Roxford de Ville.”
“What a strange name!” Hermia murmured.
70 A Witch's Spell Page 7
