Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  The newcomer looked about in the dim light, then strode forward and sat down at a vacant table alongside one of the rear walls. He ordered a light ploughman’s lunch for two, and waited.

  Fifteen minutes later, another man entered, not so finely attired as the first, though obviously a cut above working class. The two were soon engaged in low but earnest dialogue as they partook of the meal and a light amber brew.

  “You have the men you need lined up?” asked the first man. The accent in which he spoke, though the English was refined enough, was clearly continental.

  “The roughs will be there,” replied the other, an Englishman through and through. “All it took was a quid apiece. They’re a greedy lot, those street types. They’ll do anything for a bit of brass.”

  “They know nothing?”

  “As far as they’re concerned, I’m a bleeding antireligious nut just wanting to give the evangelists what for. They don’t know an evolutionist from a communist, and care even less.”

  “Just make sure it stays that way.”

  “What good is it going to do to rouse up that crowd, if you don’t mind my asking? Neither side’s got any clout.”

  “All we’re after is a ruckus, not a cause. Agitation is what we want from the masses. Any public gathering serves our purpose equally well. Once the pot is boiling, but not before, it will be time to incite them further with ideas. For the time, all we want is to rouse people against one another, to produce a general spirit of unrest. Such must always be the unseen foundation for revolution.”

  “Then rest easy. These bounders I got are a rowdy lot. If it’s unrest you want, that’s what you’ll get.”

  8

  Difference of Outlook

  You know what I’m in the mood for?” said Jocelyn at lunch.

  “What’s that?” asked her husband.

  “A ride,” she replied. “I need to get out for some fresh air before I think too much about tomorrow. How would you like to take me for a romp?”

  “Oh yes—I’ll go!” exclaimed Amanda before her father had the chance to answer.

  “I was speaking to your father,” said Jocelyn good-naturedly.

  “I want to go too,” persisted Amanda.

  “Sometimes your father and I like to get off by ourselves so we can talk. Men and women do that, you know.”

  Amanda said nothing. She returned to her meal with an expression that was certainly not indifferent, yet fell short of an outright pout.

  “What do you say, Charles?” said Jocelyn, turning once more to her husband.

  “I’d love it. You and I haven’t been out into the hills for months.”

  “Good. I’ll do my best to forget London for a couple of hours.”

  As soon as lunch was over, both older children disappeared. The children’s nanny, Constance Dimble, took three-year-old Catharine upstairs, and Jocelyn and Charles went to change into their riding clothes.

  As she was dressing, Jocelyn Rutherford found herself thinking back to her first ride with Charles, which had been in Hyde Park in London only a few days after the encounter in the hospital.

  ————

  “Do you intend to work in a hospital forever?” Charles had asked as they had ridden along.

  “I don’t know,” Jocelyn had replied. “Forever is a long time. I don’t know that I’ve thought of it in such permanent terms.”

  “What do you dream about then, when you think of the future?”

  “I don’t think about it that much.”

  “Oh, but you must.”

  “Why? I am content with each day as it comes.”

  “Of course. But the accumulation of days won’t amount to anything unless we leave the world a better place. How will we change the world if we don’t think about it ahead of time?”

  “Change the world!” she laughed. “Whoever said anything about changing the world? That’s not my goal in life.”

  “What other goal is there? All great men who aspire to significance want to change the world.”

  “But I’m not a man,” smiled Jocelyn.

  Charles laughed. “A good reply. You have a sharp wit, Miss Wildecott. But what does being a man or woman have to do with it? Surely you are one who believes in equality between the sexes. Even in India you must have been aware of this question.” As he said these last words, Charles glanced sideways with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Of course,” Jocelyn answered. “But equality is yet far off when women are not even permitted to vote.”

  “Touché! Then I will modify my statement to accommodate the new age—you can be a great woman who changes the world.”

  “Perhaps,” she rejoined. “In fact, I heartily agree. Women can do most anything men can do.”

  “There—we are on the same side after all.”

  “On the discussionary point, perhaps. But who says I desire to exercise great influence, as you obviously do? I may admit to wanting to do something worthwhile, even to prove myself. I try to make a difference with my nursing. But someone like me has no illusions about changing the world.”

  “Why not?”

  “Come, Mr. Rutherford. Look at me.”

  “You mean the mark on your face.”

  “What else would I mean?”

  “That is no limitation. These are new times in all ways. You can do and be anything you want. That’s one of the things I first noticed which drew me to you. Here you are, a woman of standing who chooses to work in a hospital. I like that about you.”

  Jocelyn could not prevent a smile creeping to her lips as he bestowed his approval. Yet despite the obvious sincerity of his tone, she could hardly believe him. She had listened to him first with a certain humorous detachment. She liked him, but how could such a good-looking man possibly understand? Eventually, however, Charles Rutherford’s infectious enthusiasm to do and become and achieve could not help but begin to exercise its influence on young Jocelyn Wildecott’s way of thinking. Especially once she began to fall in love with him. Before many months were out he was taking her to women’s rallies and liberal speeches and other political and activist lectures. She found herself becoming so involved in the issues that she thought less about her appearance than at any other time in her young life. He had helped her begin to believe in herself.

  “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this kind of life,” she said one day when they were talking seriously on their way back from a lecture. “I am interested in the issues. But I don’t find myself as eager as you seem to be to join in.”

  “Why not? You have good ideas and much to offer. I don’t understand you.”

  “I’m not like all the other women who are talking about rights and all the social causes.”

  “Not like them . . . in what way?”

  Jocelyn did not answer immediately. When at last she spoke, her voice was soft and thoughtful.

  “You’ve hardly ever mentioned my face,” she said. “Even after that day we were riding when I brought it up, you’ve never said another word about it. Surely you notice how people stare.”

  “It means nothing to me—either the mark or people’s stares. If they want to think less of you as a result, that’s to their shame, not yours.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. But I’m the one who must live with it. A sick person in a hospital, or a child in an orphanage—well, there is a need I can fill, and they are very accepting of my help. Perhaps even more so because I too am an individual, as it were, with a lack, a handicap. But being involved in social issues means mixing with people less likely to be accepting than a poor sick child.”

  “But don’t you want to show that kind of people how wrong they are about you?”

  “I suppose there is a side of me that always feels I must prove myself, that I have to make up for my looks by doing what I do better than someone else. At the same time, it’s so difficult to realize that wherever you go and whatever you do, people are looking at a red splotch on your skin rather than at your character, at who you
are . . . on the inside.”

  “Perhaps you don’t give people enough credit?”

  “I only wish I could agree with you, Mr. Rutherford. Unfortunately I have twenty-two years of experience on my side. I’ve lived with the stares, the pointing fingers, the snickers from children, the polite drop of the eyes.”

  “But you are a very attractive, intelligent, and articulate young woman. Why would anyone—”

  “Believe me, I have suffered much from the silent glances of people who stare at me as if I am some kind of a freak, even the looks of pain in the eyes of my own mother, to whom I have always been a great disappointment.”

  “Your own mother? Surely not.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Her response silenced him for a moment. He could hardly believe what he’d heard. Deeply affected at the thought of her pain, he reached out and touched her hand. But quickly his irrepressible optimism rose up again.

  “Well, what of it? All the more reason to show people what you’re made of—to stand up and be who you are and make something of yourself.”

  “That takes a great deal of courage in light of a challenge such as mine.”

  “You do not strike me as one lacking in that virtue.”

  Jocelyn smiled. “I have been known to be feisty at times, even to be more outspoken than was good for me. Whether that is the same as being courageous, I couldn’t say. But as to your point, I am not sure I am willing to pay the personal price of, as you say, standing up and showing people what I am made of. I think I would rather simply live my life and avoid the stares.”

  “But I return to my conviction that you don’t give people enough credit. If you stood up and showed people who you are, they wouldn’t even notice your face.”

  “It just may be that you give people too much credit. I am not at all certain I want to risk my future on your theory. If looks don’t matter as much as character to you, Mr. Rutherford, then you are an unusual man.”

  ————

  She had been right in that, thought Jocelyn to herself. Charles Rutherford was indeed an unusual man, and a good one. In their thirteen years of marriage he had shown himself to be a thoughtful and loving husband.

  Sometimes she could hardly believe her good fortune.

  9

  A Ride

  Half an hour later, Charles and Jocelyn left the house and walked toward the stables, chatting freely and looking forward to the afternoon.

  They entered the barn to see Amanda atop a tall chestnut mare, comfortably ensconced in the saddle and waiting with what patience she possessed, a look of knowing conquest on her face.

  Heathersleigh’s groom and stable man, Hector Farnham, greeted Charles and his wife as they walked in. “Miss Amanda, she said you was all to have a ride together,” he said cheerfully.

  Charles and Jocelyn glanced at one another with an expression of thwarted resignation.

  The groom had just tossed a saddle onto a second horse’s back and proceeded to gather the leather straps underneath its belly, utterly unsuspecting of the plot in which he had been made an accomplice. “She told me I should saddle up Red Lady here for her with the gent’s saddle,” the man went on. “She said you and Mrs. Rutherford would be along presently, and that I should saddle Celtic Star for you, ma’am, and Clydon for you, sir.”

  Jocelyn glanced at her husband. Red Lady was her favorite horse, a gift from Charles three years ago on their tenth anniversary. But she knew from experience that there would be no reasoning with Amanda, and she was reluctant to spoil the pleasant afternoon. Besides, she was comfortable on any horse, though Celtic Star was showing signs of her age.

  “Yes, Hector,” said Jocelyn with a smile, “that will be fine.”

  Charles sighed and nodded his like assent. He had hoped for the time alone with his wife. Like her, however, he quickly realized the inevitable.

  “—But, Amanda,” said Jocelyn, glancing up, “you must let Mr. Farnham put the small lady’s saddle on her.”

  “I want to ride like George and Papa.”

  “Ladies ride sidesaddle,” answered her mother in a calm voice. “It would never do for a girl of your position to ride like a boy.”

  “Why?”

  Jocelyn glanced helplessly at her husband. She knew the reply that had been about to escape her lips, Because that is the way ladies are supposed to ride, would carry no more weight with Amanda than a feather.

  As Jocelyn Rutherford stood struggling for an appropriate reply, Amanda appeared like a tiny general atop her horse looking down upon her troops. Amanda herself was perceptive enough to realize that her mother’s pause was her own greatest ally in this present contest of wills.

  “Since this appears to have become a family event,” said Charles, rescuing his wife from the necessity to reply, “we might as well see if George would like to join us.—Saddle up Raith too, will you please, Hector.”

  He turned and ran back to the house while Amanda smiled from astride the tall chestnut mare.

  Even at the young age of seven, Amanda Rutherford was well accustomed to such triumphs. Strong willed and precocious, she had walked and talked at an early age . . . and begun even then to exercise her dominance over her older brother. Before much longer she was the acknowledged queen of the whole household. Whether barking out orders like the little commander she was, slyly orchestrating events so they conformed to her liking, or simply charming others into complying with her wishes, she had become adept at getting her own way.

  Nor did either father or mother strenuously resist such tendencies. Times had changed, and they were enlightened parents. Laws and educational advances, not to mention socialist ideas of equality for every man, woman, and child, all combined to heighten their respect for childhood. The thought that indulging their daughter’s willfulness might be detrimental to her never occurred to such modern thinkers as Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford. For the most part, they admired her independent spirit, and they were confident that through education and example they could shape it toward the good.

  By the time Charles and his son returned to the barn, two horses were ready for them and the two ladies sat in their saddles, mother toward one side, Amanda’s tiny legs undaintily straddling Red Lady. Father and son mounted, and the four set out.

  Charles led northward across open grassland. Within a few minutes Amanda passed him and struck a course more westerly toward the highest of the hills on the estate. Soon George followed her.

  Charles and Jocelyn communicated as much with their eyes and facial gestures as with words. The expression that passed between them as the children rode off ahead was one of amused pride. Young George sat well upon his roan gelding, and Amanda, more determined than graceful, stuck like a burr astride the oversized mare. They had no concern about her safety, for Red Lady was always a gentle and responsive mount. And neither stopped to reflect that it was their little daughter, not the mare, who might require the discipline of bridle and reins.

  For Charles, it was enough that he teach her and guide her bright young mind toward enlightened thinking.

  For Jocelyn, all that mattered was that her daughter feel her accepting and unconditional love—the love she herself had never felt.

  ————

  She had been aware of her mother’s disappointment in her from before she could even remember. An aloof woman by nature, the colonel’s wife could hardly find it in her power even to take her firstborn into her arms, so loathsome did she find the hideous red birthmark. The attending physician had assured her the redness would disappear over the course of several months.

  Mrs. Wildecott was content to leave her first daughter with the nurse as soon as she was able to resume her social appointments. No one would expect her to take such a child out. For a time she held out hope in the doctor’s words. By the time Jocelyn was five, however, Mrs. Wildecott had resigned herself to the inevitable.

  By then she’d given birth to a second daughter—a delightful girl unmarked by
nature, into whom she could pour her attentions and what measure of love the rigid woman may have possessed. Her firstborn would have known she was different without ever once looking in a mirror, simply from the cool, detached way her mother behaved around her. While her baby sister was often in her mother’s arms, young Jocelyn could not even remember the feel of her mother’s hand upon her own.

  As a result, trying but in vain to win the approval of her mother, she gradually became all the more attached to her father. Yet he was not an emotive man, and found her childish desire for loving relationship not repulsive as did his wife, but nevertheless awkward. He did his best by the girl. But his tentative touch, and the stiffness of his lap, were woefully insufficient to give her the affection future men and women require.

  Jocelyn’s parents were not religious people. In India, the British contingent gathered at church to see and be seen. Jocelyn knew her mother was embarrassed by her very existence. The Sunday bonnets with which she outfitted her each week were large and unattractive—but they served their purpose well, keeping one side of her face under perpetual shadow.

  When Jocelyn thought of God, she thought of her father—a good enough man, but distant and impersonal. Her father was kind. God probably was as well. It had never yet dawned on her to consider that God had created her. If the thought had come into her young brain, it would have sent shock waves through her system to imagine that God would make someone so ugly and so deformed. What kind of God would do such a thing?

  As she grew into her teen years, Jocelyn Wildecott never allowed herself to think or dream about the future. She set herself to serving in the hospitals and orphanages, and took each day as it came.