Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  And now, with the queen’s vote of confidence, his reputation was secure.

  5

  A Kitchen Mêlée

  Distant shrieks from downstairs interrupted Charles’ thoughts.

  They sounded alarming. He turned and ran quickly from the room. As he hurried along the corridor, then down the wide flight of stairs to the ground floor, voices echoed in his direction from the kitchen. Now, however, he detected laughter amidst the rest. Whatever was wrong, it no longer sounded dangerous. Gradually he slowed his pace.

  He entered the kitchen and beheld a scene quite unlike anything he had ever witnessed. There knelt his wife on the floor, face flushed, her abundant hair escaping from its pins. George’s face was buried in some contraption on the table. All around, the servants displayed various expressions of mingled humor and terror.

  “Papa! Papa!” cried Amanda, running toward him. “Mother’s caught three mice!”

  ————

  Daughter of an officer in the Indian Army, Jocelyn Wildecott had spent most of her early years in India. Growing up with the privilege of her position, for reasons highly personal she possessed a large heart that opened itself with compassion to the less fortunate native population. Though from a family of plenty, suffering had touched her closely, carving a well of sympathy within her heart even as it likewise set within her a determination to rise above the handicap that caused it. This tenderness of spirit, along with its corresponding energetic demeanor, first drew the young Charles Rutherford to her when they met at a military social event at Portsmouth. He had just begun his commission in the navy at the time, and Jocelyn’s father and family were in England on furlough from India.

  The encounter was brief, yet neither forgot the other. Their paths did not cross again for several years. Then suddenly they found themselves simultaneously engaging in second glances—she, at the time, working in a London hospital, he visiting an ailing friend.

  As Charles strode down the corridor, he paused at the nurse’s desk.

  “Miss, uh . . . Wildecott, is it not?” he said hesitantly.

  “Why, yes it is, Mr. Rutherford,” she replied, bringing his name back to mind in the second or two since she had first observed him. She smiled as she spoke. The words which followed, however, were accompanied by an uncertain curling of her lips in which was mingled the faintest touch of sarcasm. “You have a very good memory.”

  Indeed, she was used to being remembered. Once they laid eyes on her, no one forgot Jocelyn Wildecott. The realization always brought with it a reminder of the pain that was constantly with her.

  “No better than yours, it would seem,” replied Charles, displaying his teeth in a winning grin. “It is nice to see you again. Let me think, it must be, what, four or five years.”

  “My family was back from India in ’78. I believe it was—”

  “Ah, yes—’78 . . . the Navy fête down in Portsmouth—so . . . four years. You’re back in England for good now?”

  “My father retired two years ago,” nodded Jocelyn.

  The two spoke for another minute or two before a call took Jocelyn away.

  She was relieved, for the exchange was unnerving. The dashing young Rutherford had looked her so straight in the eye, with such unflinching sincerity, that she found herself wondering if he even noticed.

  The thought was absurd. How could he not notice!

  But never before had a man of quality spoken to her without her detecting a darting back and forth of the eyes toward the ugly bright red birthmark. But this young man, handsome enough to turn the head of any young woman in England, had gazed at her so directly, and spoken so genuinely that her appearance almost didn’t seem to matter to him.

  Charles Rutherford returned to the hospital the following day, this time not to visit his injured friend but to make arrangements to see the daughter of Colonel Wildecott at some other location than her place of employment. But already her uncertainty from the day before had returned. Doubts were creeping in about the fellow’s intentions. What else could it be but that he felt sorry for her?

  An hour with him on horseback, however, put her anxieties to rest. During the following month they visited nearly all of London’s parks together in such a manner. Never in her twenty-two years had she experienced such a thing, but when riding at Charles’ side, there were times she even forgot how different she was.

  Within a year and a half, Miss Wildecott became Mrs. Charles Jocelyn Rutherford, wife of an aspiring politician and the future lord of the manor of Heathersleigh . . . and herself future mistress of Heathersleigh Hall.

  ————

  All the maids and domestic help, male and female, loved Jocelyn Rutherford. Several had come with her to Heathersleigh when she married Charles.

  Breeding and title notwithstanding, Jocelyn Rutherford was no stuffy aristocrat. Was it because of or in spite of the disfigurement on one side of an otherwise lovely face that she seemed so endearingly real? In the secure environment of her own home she was able to let her hair down. When she did, even those of her servants who had known her for years sometimes did not quite know what to do.

  The evening before, it had seized Jocelyn’s fancy to show seven-year-old Amanda how to make paté from the lamb they had enjoyed at dinner that day. It would neither do for the cook to prepare it, nor to buy it in the village. Jocelyn herself would demonstrate the process exactly as she had learned from her own mother in India.

  Assembling the necessary ingredients took some time following breakfast, for no one could remember the last time anyone at Heathersleigh had requested lamb paté, either Jocelyn herself or Lady Rutherford, Jocelyn’s mother-in-law, dead now four years.

  When all was at last ready, she turned and addressed a simple and loyal hardworking woman by the name of Sarah Minsterly, who served as cook and housekeeper’s assistant. “Sarah,” said Jocelyn, “would you please find me the meat grinder?”

  “I don’t know where it is, mum. I doubt I’ve used it even once.”

  “It must be in the pantry.”

  “I’ll have a look.”

  Sarah disappeared. A few moments later her voice called out, “Ah, there it is—up on the very top shelf. Just be a minute, mum.”

  “George, go help Sarah get it down, would you?” said Jocelyn to Amanda’s brother. “It may be heavy.”

  George disappeared after the cook. The sounds of a stool dragging across the floor and climbing followed. A minute later nine-year-old George reappeared, carrying the seldom used grinder, trailing not a few cobwebs along with it, in both his hands. His mother took it while she and Amanda continued with mother-daughter chatter.

  “We’ll clean it up and get it ready after we’ve anchored it down,” said Jocelyn. “—Amanda, lay a tea towel on the edge of the table. I’ll hold it, and George, you tighten up the clamp underneath.”

  Amanda and George were curious now—mechanically minded George to see how this contraption worked, and Amanda to see what the big rotating handle could possibly have to do with making a delicate thing like paté.

  A minute later the grinder was solidly attached.

  “Now,” said Jocelyn, reaching inside, “we’ll remove this plunger and clean it—”

  A bloodcurdling shriek sounded from the woman’s ordinarily composed mouth.

  She leapt backward as the wooden plunger dropped to the floor with a crash. At the same instant three of the tiniest mice imaginable scurried out of their suddenly disturbed nest and ran in confusion across the table.

  A chorus of screams followed from Sarah and two housemaids who had drawn in closer to watch. They sprang backward from the table and ran for the furthest wall they could find. Only the two youngsters remained, watching the mice scamper to the edge of the table, stop, then resume their flight in the opposite direction.

  Coming to herself and thinking quickly, Jocelyn now grabbed up a nearby bread basket. The kitchen by now echoed with shouts and screams and laughter. Obviously in more panic th
an the humans, the terrified mice did not pause this time, but ran like lemmings off the opposite end of the table, where they found themselves falling straight into the ready basket. The next instant Jocelyn plopped it upside down onto the floor. Kneeling, she held the basket over the baby mice.

  When Charles made his entrance, he surveyed the scene, mouth open. Then he broke into laughter.

  “Mrs. Rutherford,” he said, “if I may ask—whatever are you doing down on your knees on the floor?”

  “It is exactly as Amanda said,” she laughed, still breathing deeply from the excitement. “I’ve got three little mice underneath me.”

  “I see. And I thought the Saxons had overrun Devon again and you were all being put to the sword. I am very relieved!”

  More laughter followed. The servants drew closer again. Curiosity now replaced anxiety. With the man of the house present, things seemed not nearly so alarming.

  “I can’t see inside,” said Amanda, kneeling down and trying to peer through the webbing into the basket.

  “Stand back, Amanda.”

  “I want to see them,” she insisted.

  “Hmm, let me see—what shall we do?” said Charles, thinking to himself and glancing about. “Ah yes—that should do it.”

  Spying a large baking sheet across the kitchen, he walked over and brought it back, himself kneeling down at his wife’s side.

  “Don’t hurt them, Papa!” exhorted Amanda.

  “I shall be careful,” he said.

  “This should take care of it,” he said. “All right, stand back, Jocelyn.”

  “Papa, Papa . . .”

  “You too, Amanda.”

  “I’m not afraid!”

  Charles slid the sheet slowly and gently under the basket.

  Holding one hand underneath and the other on top of the basket, he now lifted the entire assembly and carried the mice toward the door. Both children followed.

  “May I have them, Papa?” said Amanda at his side.

  “I think we should let them find a new home outside,” laughed Charles.

  They reached the door. George opened it and Charles stepped outside and across the drive.

  “Here, George, why don’t you take them out to the woods.”

  He carefully handed sheet and basket to his son. George took it and walked off across the grass. Amanda sprang after him.

  “George, don’t let the cat get them!” she cried, scurrying along at his side.

  “I’ll let them go in the woods.”

  “Don’t hurt them!”

  “I won’t.”

  Charles watched them go, then turned to see Jocelyn joining him. She slid her arm under his.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said as they slowly made their way back inside.

  “I have to admit,” he said, “that when I came into the kitchen, and saw you there on the floor with such a delighted but perplexed expression on your face . . . it was wonderful. You looked like both George and Amanda all at once.”

  Jocelyn laughed. “I am just glad you came along when you did. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I wouldn’t have thought of the bread sheet.”

  “Amanda would no doubt have figured something out and told you what to do.”

  “She usually does,” smiled Jocelyn.

  “Is there anything she doesn’t think she can do better than anyone in the world!” said Charles.

  “If so, I haven’t discovered it,” rejoined his wife.

  “I suppose it is our own fault,” he mused. “We have taught her to be independent.”

  “As in the matter of tomatoes! You were no help—I was trying to talk her into not making such a fuss over it!”

  “Sorry,” laughed Charles. “She’s just so adorable when she asserts herself. Such a tiny thing, and yet she sounds like a little grown-up. I just can’t be cross with her.”

  “No one can,” agreed his wife. “I sometimes worry a bit when she orders the servants around, yet she does it so charmingly that none of them seem to mind.”

  “Our precocious little daughter has indeed learned to get her own way,” Charles mused with another chuckle.

  Even as they spoke of her, they heard the high-pitched sounds of the rambunctious and assertive object of their words shouting out orders to George regarding every phase of the operation concerning the mice.

  They walked together into the house.

  “All ready for tomorrow?” asked Jocelyn.

  “I think so,” replied her husband. “How about you?”

  “I am nervous,” sighed Jocelyn. “You know I don’t like such events. I cannot but think people are always staring.”

  “If they are, it is only because you are so beautiful.”

  “Charles, please—you know what I mean.”

  “Of course I do,” he replied. “But you must believe me too. You know that I think you the most beautiful woman in England.”

  “One side of my face, at least.”

  “Perhaps, in the eyes of those who don’t know you. But to my sight, all of you is lovely, especially what is inside.”

  “How could I ever have been so lucky to have a man like you love me?” said Jocelyn. “I never expected to be married at all. I must still sometimes pinch myself to realize how happy you have made me. Yet I still wish there was some way I did not have to go tomorrow and mingle with all those people. Wouldn’t you really rather not be seen by the queen . . . with me?”

  “Jocelyn Rutherford! I will not have any more such talk. I love you and am proud of you, and I want the whole world to see you at my side!”

  Jocelyn smiled. “I’ll try to remember,” she said. “But that isn’t the only reason I’m nervous.”

  “What else?”

  “I thought what might happen if Amanda smuggled one of those mice into her pocket, to show to the queen.”

  He laughed at the thought. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “She has everyone here at Heathersleigh around her little finger, but somehow I don’t think Victoria would be amused.”

  “When she turns on the charm, she seems able to win over just about anyone.”

  “All the same, perhaps we should check her pockets before we leave.”

  6

  Lofty Objectives

  Charles Rutherford returned to his study while his wife returned to the kitchen to resume the making of the paté, now with an empty meat grinder.

  Again he read over the queen’s invitation which had prompted his earlier reflections.

  He recalled the first day he and Jocelyn had met. That same look had been on her face then which had appeared momentarily just a few minutes ago—an expression of energy and zest that could not help compel the eyes of any observer. It was a vitality that combined vigor of personality with the need to prove herself, a combination which only made her all the more interesting in his eyes.

  Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford had married in 1884, just two years before his first stand for Parliament. He was twenty-five at the time, she twenty-four. That was thirteen years ago. He had been elected to the House of Commons two years later, at twenty-seven, as a liberal, a progressive.

  Many said initially that Charles’ father’s money had secured him the post. Very quickly, however, the young Rutherford began to make his presence felt in the Liberal party. When his father died suddenly, Charles had stepped into his position as lord of the manor and used the respected family name to even greater advantage than before. Soon he was one of Liberal leader William Gladstone’s right-hand men, and a recognized leader in the House of Commons.

  Two years later he rose to yet greater prominence when the Gladstone Liberals joined ranks with the Irish Home Rulers to oust the Conservatives from control of the government. Charles Rutherford’s name and picture regularly found its way into the Times as he and his colleagues strove to steer British politics in a new direction.

  But their dominant role was short-lived. Effective Liberal government proved impossible, with a
Conservative House of Lords blocking their every move.

  In 1895, two years ago, new elections were held. The Conservative Lord Salisbury was soon back as prime minister with a solid and powerful Conservative majority. Young Charles Rutherford managed to keep his seat in the electoral swing, however, and with Gladstone now retired, his star continued to rise in Parliament, despite the minority role of his party.

  Reminded of his father by the painting in his study, Charles found himself wishing he could share tomorrow’s momentous event with the man who had given him life. His father, known affectionately as Lord Ashby, had now been gone seven years. When Charles’ mother died three years later, Charles and Jocelyn had become the new eldest generation at Heathersleigh, although Charles had resisted the appellation of “Lord” for himself, both because of his liberal views and because his title was not of the peerage.

  Now, the day after tomorrow, at a mere thirty-eight, Charles Rutherford, Esquire, would become Sir Charles Rutherford, the first in his family to be knighted. There were many places in society one of his position and reputation might do good and make his influence felt. For one desirous of achieving maximum impact on the world stage, however, the Commons certainly seemed the most logical and influential platform.

  Secretly Charles Rutherford cherished the ambition to be prime minister one day.

  But most important was that one day people look back on his life in the same way that he looked upon his two daring and innovative mentors Leonardo and Darwin—as a man bold to move the world forward in new directions, and one of whom in consequence it would be said that he had changed history.

  It was no small objective.

  But then Charles Rutherford was a renaissance man in his own right, and had all his life been driven by an ambition toward greatness.

  7

  Shadowy Schemes

  A well-dressed man in fashionable suit glanced about two or three times, then walked into the upscale London pub on Charing Cross Road not far from Cambridge Circus. The Owl and the Rose was noted less for its ale, although a variety could be had, than for who might be seen there. It was reported to be one of Dickens’ favorite haunts, and both Prince Edward and Rudyard Kipling were said to have been fond of its rich, though private, atmosphere. It is true that plots had been hatched between its walls, though mostly literary, and certainly not of the sort which on this day were to be discussed.