Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  The discussion in two later chapters of this book, therefore, is intended to be read—as are the discussions on the other topics mentioned—in its historical context, rather than as an apologetic for or against any particular point of view. My goal is to present ideas, not sway opinion.

  To help in this regard I might remind you—as I occasionally tell readers who write, taking me to task for something or another in one of my books—that characters in a book must be true to themselves. Obviously, not every character in fiction represents either author or publisher. It would be a narrow-minded publisher and unimaginative author who wrote and published nothing but what tightly reflected his or her own limited perspective. If life is to be accurately represented, a certain range of thought and opinion must be allowed for among the characters.

  I suppose it cannot be helped that every character contains elements of the author who creates them. At the same time, none of these characters—Charles or Jocelyn Rutherford, Timothy Diggorsfeld, Bobby or Maggie McFee, nor anyone else in the story—is me. They are themselves. Not every word they say represents my particular viewpoint. Without such diversity there would be no way for characters in a book to engage in meaningful dialogue.

  The topics debated by characters in this book were on everyone’s minds. They were heated issues then. They remain heated issues today. You will no doubt find yourself agreeing with certain of the characters at some points, disagreeing at others. I encourage you, therefore, to keep in mind the historical context of the discussions where these issues are raised, not mentally arguing for or against any particular point of view that a certain character may voice. My desire as an author is not necessarily that we all reach agreement about these or any other doctrinal issues, but that we all think, that we learn, and that we grow closer to God as a result. If in the end you find yourself honing your own faith on the sharpening stones of these various controversial issues, then I will feel I have done my job well.

  In closing I should say, too, that perhaps even more than any other series of mine which you may have read, THE SECRETS OF HEATHERSLEIGH HALL truly is a series. Each of its titles will, I hope, give you a sense of completion and satisfaction. Yet at the same time it will be clear that “the whole story” has not yet been told with this one book. The first several books all combine to form a unity which none of the individual titles can achieve on their own. I beg the patience of my readers as the series develops, hoping you will remember that the various entrees of a “full-course literary meal” take longer to prepare than they do to consume.

  I hope you enjoy the literary, historical, spiritual, and personal “journey” we are about to embark on together.

  Michael Phillips

  Stormy Tryst

  1829

  A blustery wind swept down from out of the north. The sky steadily blackened through the afternoon hours as thick ominous clouds swirled overhead.

  Darkness gradually descended over the south of England. The violence of the gale increased.

  It whipped about unprotected corners of stone or wood with a frenzy that seemed determined to blow every dwelling in the region off its foundations and into the sea. Alas for those poor cottages with roofs of thatch, for the likes of such a storm had not been seen in a generation.

  Reasonable men and women had long since taken to their beds. Children slept through the tumult with happy visions of angels dancing in the windy heavens. Their parents lay awake, praying the covering over them would remain intact till morning.

  In the hours shortly before the stroke of midnight, fierce gusts now howled through every crevice, across slate roof tiles, and about the gables and turrets of the largest house in the north Devonshire downs. Even a tempest such as this could not hope to shake such a massive structure from its underpinnings. Yet its moans and eerie otherworldly sounds were enough to strike dread into the heart of anyone whose misfortune chanced to find them out in such a gale.

  Behind the house—not so close as to threaten the structure, but only to cause wreckage to the garden nearby—large pines and firs swayed dangerously. Now and then a loud crack of breaking limb added a sharp report, as of cymbals, to the frenetic natural symphony, though the wind swallowed up their fall, and no soul heard them as they crashed to the earth below.

  That the dead of winter had come there could be no doubt. Why the Creator had chosen a night such as this, full of evil forebodings, for the momentous event, none could say. Perhaps because what should have given great joy was destined instead to result in deceit, selfish ambition, and greed.

  Before the darkness had passed and the wind gone to continue its mischief further south, death would visit this house. Generations would have to pass before the lie that followed would be brought, as must be the fate of all lies in the end, into the light.

  A scream sounded from somewhere within the place. It was not the sound of terror, but of anguish and pain, for indeed the moment of woman’s travail had come. It was followed by a distant rumble of thunder.

  A lone window shone with the flickering of candles that somehow managed to stay alight despite the blasts from the heavens against the panes of glass. Inside, a second woman made what preparations she could for the hour of her calling, though she was not hopeful.

  A rider approached, galloping hard through the impending storm. How he had won through the blackness was no less a miracle than that the servant lad sent to fetch him had gotten to the manse at all. Where the boy was now, no one paused to wonder.

  The woman behind the second-floor window heard nothing of the hooves. She was busily engaged.

  A flash of lightning lit the sky. Already the thunder which answered was closer than that which had sounded minutes earlier.

  The rider dismounted, tied his horse to the rail with some difficulty, every piece of clothing on his body blowing about and doing its best to detach itself from his person and fly off into the night. A momentary gleam of white clerical collar revealed itself as the heavy cloak flapped open, though there was no one to see it.

  He approached the entry. One knock was sufficient, for he was expected. A hand reached out and pulled him inside. Even before the wind had swallowed up the dull echo of the door’s closing, the visitor was hurrying up the stairs after the master of the place.

  The beginning as well as the end came quickly.

  Within thirty minutes both midwife and vicar had carried out their respective offices.

  The rains arrived in the meantime, and now pelted the glass windows and stone walls with furious force. With its first heavy drops the wind began to subside.

  Not eager to brave the storm again, but even more reluctant to spend the night here—stories abounded in the region concerning the lord of the manor and his relationship with things of the night; if the house was not haunted already, it would surely be so after he was gone—the vicar offered his final condolences, then prepared to make his departure. Downstairs, he quietly accepted the proffered sheaf of one-pound notes, a huge sum to any man in his position.

  From the landing above, the midwife silently observed the clandestine exchange. The services which the man of the cloth had come to render accompanied his position—he was not being paid for that. She knew well enough that the final words now spoken went well beyond what the parish ordained. What was being bought at this moment, she had no doubt, was silence. She only prayed the vicar would yet somehow do his duty before God.

  She turned and tiptoed back. She must see to her charges until a wet nurse arrived in the morning. This room was no longer a fit place for new life, and the undertaker would be wanted before long.

  It took not many minutes after discharging the vicar for the master of the house to seek like interview with her, although she became the immediate recipient of no such fortune. With intimidation, not cash, the unlikely pact was sealed between the highest person in the area and, in his judgment, one of the lowest. That he had required her services when the night began, and now needed her more than ever, did not raise
the woman one speck in his eyes. If anything, it caused him to resent the very sight of her, and he spoke with disdain.

  “You’ll keep quiet about what you have seen here tonight,” he said, in a menacing tone that hovered in the debatable region between question and threat.

  The midwife said nothing.

  “Do you hear me, woman!” he growled. Any doubt of his intent was suddenly gone. “My eldest son shall be the heir to all I possess. I presume my meaning is clear enough.”

  “Your meaning is perfectly clear,” she returned.

  What few remaining words passed between them were not uttered in pleasant tones. In the end the lord of the manor had his way, for he was a powerful man.

  ————

  It was not until the next night, alone in her own cottage with her prayers and her conscience, after husband and daughter were asleep, that the midwife decided what to do. She had scarcely slept in twenty-four hours. Her soul was ill at ease in the knowledge that she was party to a falsehood. Even more, that she had not summoned the strength to resist Lord Rutherford’s sinister threats.

  An inner sense told her that the events of the previous night carried a significance beyond what she could see. Despite the promise the man had extracted, she must yet seek some means to bring the truth to light.

  She would hide a clue.

  If her own mouth was silenced, the vow she had uttered could not prevent another from discovering the secret. She would pray a day would come when the facts of the incident would emerge. Meanwhile, she would take what steps her conscience dictated.

  She opened the Bible which lay on her lap, and began thumbing through the pages she knew so well. The stories of this Book were dear to her heart. She found herself pausing at the midpoint of its first book.

  As she read through the significant passage again, suddenly the words leapt off the page into her brain. As they did, involuntarily she glanced up and sent her eyes roving around the room. Suddenly the next phase of her plan came into focus.

  She would leave her clue here, and hide it there! And then pray the Lord to bring faithful eyes to discern her hidden message.

  ————

  A fortnight passed.

  The night was again late. The solitary figure of a woman crept through the silent corridors of the great house.

  She who had been here in the midst of the storm two weeks earlier to attend life’s miracle had now come on a far different errand. Something else was on her mind on this night, something she prayed would set right—however long it took—the lie she had been forced to tell. She had stolen through the wooded region nearest the west wing. After fall of darkness she hurried from the cover of trees across to the cold stone wall of the Hall. She knew the place well, for certain long-forgotten circumstances of her childhood had made her a frequent visitor here and playmate to a maid of the present lord’s now-departed aunt. A little-used door near the servants’ quarters had always remained unlocked until a late hour. By it on this night she gained entrance.

  Another wind had risen, exactly as on that fateful night, though not so fierce. She hoped it would keep her footfall from being heard as she made her way through the darkened passageways.

  Seen by none, she climbed the narrow stone staircase. Reaching the landing at the top, she fumbled in the darkness. At length her hands fell upon the key. She turned it with painstaking care lest its mechanism betray her. The bolt gave way, sounding only as a dull thud absorbed by the surrounding stones. She pulled the door toward her, then tiptoed inside.

  Thin light from a pale moon shone into the small enclosure. She hadn’t been in the old haunt for years, but remembered it like yesterday. In a few seconds she located a second key in its hiding place. She inserted it into the cleverly concealed lock which could not be seen even in broad daylight. She turned it and waited for the invisible door to give way in the wall. She had no right to know of such things inside a great mansion like the Hall. But her own father had carried out a good deal of the construction of the mysterious affair for the present lord’s uncle. Overhearing him talk of it, she and her friend had sneaked here on more than one occasion to see what they could see. What the two young girls discovered proved essential to her purpose on this night so many years later.

  The occupation of midwife was one that conjured images of individuals more acquainted with the unseen world than most mortals. This woman was in truth a God-fearing soul. Yet an observer upon this present occasion would likely have spread the report that she was a witch, seeing as how in the few seconds of blackness which resulted from a cloud’s windy passage past the face of the moon, the woman disappeared through the wall of the room without a sound, and vanished.

  It took some time to reach her destination. She could have brought a candle, but the faintest odor escaping into the occupied portions of the house might prompt inquiry and a possible search. She chose instead to rely on feet grown older, it was true, but whose memory of these precincts as they felt their way along was accurate and true. They would not lead her wrong.

  The door she must exit at the other end was more perilous. One false move and she would be detected. She reached its reverse side. Here was no lock. With careful fingers she gently probed against the ancient wood. It moved an inch, then two.

  She set an eye against it, and peered through the crack thus created. The room into which she must carry her mission was dark and unoccupied. Slowly she swung the heavy frame further on its hinges, then stepped tiptoeing out of the blackness onto a carpeted floor. Warm air and an unmistakable musty smell of accumulated knowledge greeted her.

  She entered the room noiselessly, leaving the strange door open behind her.

  She had only seen the large family Bible once years before, and hoped it had not been removed to some other place in the mansion. She could afford no time for a lengthy search. Surely her presence would be discovered if she tarried too long.

  The grey reflection from the moon through a window again aided her design. She glanced around.

  There was the Bible on the library table.

  She breathed a sigh of relief, then continued forward. She stretched out her hand, then turned back the heavy, dark, ornate cover. She flipped through the first leaves until she came to the genealogical pages.

  The woman squinted in the eerie light.

  The lord of the manor had already entered the birth into the family record. She would add a notation beside it. Only one curious about family beginnings would investigate. She would pray for that person, whoever it might be and whenever he or she might lay eyes on this reference.

  Here she would leave the clue which would set things right.

  Her note took but a moment. Now she must hide the sacred book where only she for whose eyes they were intended would find them when time came for her to claim her rightful legacy. She closed the book and lifted it from the sideboard, then carried it to the hiding place where it would lie for a season. Her father had been not only a mason, but also a skilled craftsman who had cunningly fabricated one of the very pieces of furniture in this room with a tiny secret chamber. She would have known nothing about it except that he had perfected the design with an earlier model for their own humble dwelling, and she had discovered the nature of the working mechanism.

  It did not take long to conceal the book.

  She now closed the secret panel in front of it, slid in the drawer which hid the lock from visibility, removed the key to the inner chamber and took it with her, then finally closed the outer door to the secretary. There would the book lie until the appointed time for its unveiling.

  She returned the way she had come, joining the small key onto the ring of the larger by which she had gained entrance to the hidden passageway.

  She then hid both in the wall of the ancient tower.

  Mysterious Alliance

  1847–1856

  These were difficult years for everyone in Britain, rich and poor alike. The failure of the previous two years’ potato crop in Ir
eland had caused a famine with repercussions for the poor throughout Great Britain.

  The troubles of the rich, however, were caused by a failure of financial markets, not potato harvests, and Henry Rutherford, Lord of the Manor of Heathersleigh,* had grown frantic to save his Devon estate amid badly declining fortunes. Keeping the full truth from his children, he had sold off small portions of several outlying tracts of land, though the receipts from such sales had done little to arrest the financial slide.

  Lord Rutherford’s difficulties were in no small measure amplified by certain questionable speculations which had soured with the commercial crisis and collapse of credit. In truth, Rutherford feared legal repercussions if the details of two or three of these investments were discovered.

  His one hope of exoneration lay in the fact that an invisible partner in one of the most lucrative of his pursuits was a longtime personal friend and high-placed cleric in the Church of England. In exchange for continued discretion, Bishop Crompton let it be known that any large donation or deed of land to the Church would reflect with favor upon Lord Rutherford should future legal unpleasantnesses be visited upon him. The bishop would personally, he said, vouch for Lord Rutherford’s innocence insofar as complicity was concerned with those who had hatched the scheme.

  Such a benefaction on Lord Rutherford’s part, the bishop implied, would have the added benefit of insuring his own silence concerning certain events of a night long past. What had happened that evening, when the bishop was still vicar in Milverscombe, was a secret the two men held with only one other.