Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  15

  Clandestine Arrangements

  As the Rutherford family settled down for the evening in their hotel, a late-night meeting was taking place some two thousand kilometers to the east. Though but two individuals were involved, it was destined to exercise an equal impact upon the future of England as the momentous festivities being planned in London for the following day.

  A woman by appearance in her late thirties, though in the dim light it was impossible to say for certain—handsome though with somewhat course features, possibly Slavic in origin—had just spoken.

  “I vill certainly be vatched,” she had said.

  “Of course, but your very visibility gives us our opportunity. And you must watch your accent. W’s are troublesome.”

  “I will pay closer attention,” she replied, emphasizing the proper English pronunciation. “Usually, it’s not so much the problem with me—when I’m with you, I get nervous. You don’t have to worry.”

  He ignored the hint of accusation. “The new arrangement will enable you to move about freely at the highest levels of society.”

  “It is not always good for a sleeper to be much seen.”

  “You will not be alone.”

  “How will we maintain contact?”

  “I will arrange everything. As long as you are able to travel to and from the Continent, and can come and go as you please, there will be no difficulty. As the wife of an important dignitary you should be able to do so at will.”

  “It vill be much different than evading the eye of the Austrians.”

  “And much easier. The English think they are invincible. That fact alone is our greatest weapon. Even when one of our number is discovered, they are usually sent back after but a brief disciplinary action. Not only are the English a proud people, they are a soft race.”

  “If our leaders found one of them out, he would be shot.”

  “Precisely. As I said, you have nothing to fear.—Tell me, do you love the man?”

  “I learned long ago that love must subserve the cause.”

  “It can nevertheless be put to good advantage.”

  “I am a realist,” she replied, then smiled thoughtfully. “I am fond of him, in a daughterly sort of way. He is kind to me.”

  “Will that be enough?”

  “For a woman in my position, one takes what opportunities one is presented. As I said, I am a realist. If it helps the cause, I will be content. Besides—” she added with a shrewd grin, “you are paying me too well for me not to be satisfied.”

  “I see we understand each other,” returned the man, the edges of his lips turning upward in a cunning grin.

  “I will stand to inherit a fortune, I hope before I am too old to enjoy it. This should presumably help advance the new order. I vill have the best of all worlds.”

  “And your son?”

  “He is but nine. He will adapt to the change. He speaks flawless English. No one will suspect his origins.”

  “Good. Then I wish you much happiness as the new lady Hal—”

  The woman put her finger to her lips to silence him.

  “Please,” she interrupted, “do not speak my new name here. These are uncertain times. Unfriendly ears are everywhere. I would rather get used to it over there first.”

  “As you wish.”

  The man rose from the table.

  “You will be contacted,” he said. “Once you are in touch with our network, you will receive notice of an antique auction to be held in Rome in the fall. Make sure you attend. We will meet again at that time.”

  The man turned and exited the cheap restaurant, leaving the woman alone with thoughts of her new future in a foreign land.

  16

  Last-Minute Reflections

  The morning of June 28 dawned as bright as Charles Rutherford’s optimism concerning the future of England and his part in it.

  When his wife Jocelyn first became aware of the light streaming through the window into the bedroom of their hotel suite, she rolled over in the bed to discover herself alone. She sat up and glanced about, then sought her small pendant watch, which she had placed on the nightstand. The hands displayed ten after six.

  She rose, put on her dressing gown, and walked into the sitting room. There stood her husband at the window, already dressed. His back was to the room as he stared over the rooftops of London at sunrise. Softly she approached.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” she said.

  Charles turned and smiled.

  “Ah, Jocelyn—creeping up behind me?”

  “I didn’t want to disturb your solitude with too loud a step.”

  He took her in his arms and they stood together a moment. “Yes, you’re right,” he said at length, “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “How long have you been up?”

  “An hour.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Excited. Perhaps a little nervous . . . I was thinking, too, of my father.”

  “In what way?”

  “Realizing what this means, being given an honor that never came to him.”

  “What does it make you feel?” asked his wife.

  “One part pride,” he answered, “—for I know he would be proud of me. Another part melancholy . . . and of course how is it possible not to feel humbled to be given so great an honor? It is impossible to pinpoint all the thoughts and emotions that come and go on such an occasion.”

  “You know I am very proud of you too,” said his wife softly.

  “I do know, Jocie,” replied Charles. “I cannot say it means more to me than all the rest,” he added with a smile. “But it means a great deal. I love you with all my heart.”

  Jocelyn Rutherford laid her head gently on her husband’s chest. Again they stood a few moments in silence. For her, this was worth all the knighthoods of a thousand kingdoms. She was willing enough to enjoy the wealth and prestige that came with rank and position. But she would have been just as happy as a pauper living in a stone cottage in the highlands . . . as long as they were together.

  “Shall we have some tea sent up?” he asked at length.

  “That would be nice. We can enjoy the morning before the children are awake. I think we have another hour before Constance and the children require us.”

  “Then I shall go downstairs and see about the tea, while you are getting dressed.”

  17

  Annoying Disturbance

  About midday on the 28th of June, after a thoroughly English breakfast of eggs, toast, tea, thick bacon, mushroom, and tomato—which even Amanda consumed without comment—and a morning spent dressing and making sure everyone looked just right, the Rutherford family left the hotel for Buckingham Palace.

  The actual anniversary of Victoria’s sixty years on the throne had passed a little more than a week earlier, on the 20th of June. The Diamond Jubilee celebration had been going on ever since, and would culminate with today’s huge garden party on the grounds of Buckingham Palace. The event would last informally most of the afternoon. Though she had been receiving accolades and gifts all week, yet more honors would be bestowed upon the queen. Numerous speeches would be made. Receiving of dignitaries by the queen was scheduled for four.

  Their carriage driver maneuvered his way through bustling traffic, deftly dodging pedestrians and vehicles alike, until they drew near a crowded thoroughfare where a hundred or more people blocked the street. Sounds as of a commotion of some kind filtered back to them, but they could see nothing other than a mass of humanity. The horse slowed, then finally stopped.

  “What is it?” called out Charles.

  “Can’t rightly say, guv,” replied the driver in thick Cockney. “Some kind o’ parade or wot—blimey, but if it ain’t got the street all tangled up ahead.”

  Charles leaned out the window and peered forward.

  “It’s the St. James Lecture Hall,” he said.

  “Right you be there, guv.”

  “There must be some event scheduled today.”

&n
bsp; The sound of music coming from somewhere did suggest a parade, yet the unmistakable tone of angry voices indicated a serious disturbance.

  “Are the police about?”

  “Ain’t a bobbie in sight, guv,” replied the driver.

  “Well, I shall see what’s to be done,” said Charles, opening the door and jumping down out of the carriage onto the street.

  “Charles, do be careful,” implored his wife. She had heard several angry shouts in the midst of the din.

  Dismissing her concern with a few words and a wave of the hand, he strode forward, disappearing quickly into the thick of the crowd. Pushing his way past those who had gathered to watch the spirited row, he arrived within a minute at the eye of the maelstrom.

  On the placard attached to the front of the lecture hall he noted an announcement in bold print reading, Evolution and Genesis: scientific facts replace creationist myths. Beneath this title were the words, “Open to public, 15d admission. Noon—June 28.”

  “What’s the trouble?” he asked an onlooker.

  “Bunch o’ chapelgoers came t’ protest the lecture, mate,” replied a man, who then paused to scrutinize Charles’ expensive attire. As he looked from polished boots up to black top hat, the man’s thick bushy eyebrows raised in wonderment.

  On the sidewalk ahead a salvation band made what attempt it could to continue a rousing gospel hymn. Some of their number passed out anti-evolution leaflets among the crowd—much of which had come to attend the lecture—doing their best to convince whoever would listen to change their plans.

  The horns and voices of the little band, however, were mostly drowned out by the shouts being tossed at them from about a dozen young men who had recently emerged from the hall, carrying a banner in support of their cause and attempting to put a stop to the protest so that more listeners could be drawn in. In the meantime, the more rowdy elements of the crowd had sided with the latter. Gradually they added their own taunts and threats to what had until a few moments earlier been mostly a civilized, albeit a heated, exchange.

  “—back to your church and hold a service there,” one of the men from the hall was saying. “You are welcome to attend the lecture and listen respectfully. Otherwise we ask you to leave so these other people can do so. We are happy for you to join us, but you must not prevent others from doing so.”

  “Get out of here, yer scruffy chapelgoers!” cried one of the newcomers. “No one needs the likes of you!”

  The evolutionists were doing what they could to exhort and encourage the crowd into the hall. Several young troublemakers in their twenties grew rowdy and belligerent. These now edged their way closer to the center of the confrontation. They shoved and pushed at the two men who stood in front of the dwindling congregation. The band leaders did their best to ignore them and continue singing, while their troops passed out their tracts.

  “We want none o’ yer hymns, so sod off!” shouted a particularly surly fellow to the leader of the band. Despite the early hour, he appeared to have been drinking heavily.

  One of his cohorts sidled up to an attractive young lady of the band. The same instant Charles arrived, the fellow stretched his arm around her.

  Nervously she stepped back, then tried to hand him a leaflet.

  “Hey, good-lookin’—how ’bout you comin’ home with me? I’m more interestin’ than’s these preachers o’ yers. I’ll let you preach t’ me when we’s alone!” he added, eying her with a leering grin.

  She drew away. He met her resistance by pulling her more forcefully toward him. Suddenly noticing what was going on behind him, one of the band leaders now turned and hurried forward.

  “Please, sir, leave her alone,” he said. “She’s done nothing to—”

  He did not have the chance to finish his sentence. The burly troublemaker let go of the terrified young lady. He grabbed the man’s lapels in his two huge fists, and now sent the slightly built evangelist sprawling back into the midst of his band.

  The music stopped with a crash. Preacher and drummer toppled in a heap onto the ground, the former’s leg through the middle of the latter’s broken instrument.

  Amid laughter and more jeers from the roughs, Charles now ran forward into the middle of the fray.

  “Please, all of you,” he cried, “stop this at once!”

  He approached the young lady, but was met by the brute who had instigated the incident.

  “Mind yer own business, guv!” he growled. “Who are you anyway—what’s it to you?”

  “I’m Charles Rutherford,” he answered, “and until the police get here to take these people away, I’m here to tell you—”

  But the man’s blood was flowing hot. Emboldened by what he judged his success with the preacher, he now likewise sent Charles flying back. It was no mere shove this time, however. A massive clenched fist landed with a vicious thud just above Charles’ left ear.

  Charles stumbled and fell back onto the sidewalk. His hat rolled into the crowd of onlookers.

  A few of them, seeing clearly enough that he was a gentleman—one or two by now recognizing him as a Member of Parliament—helped Charles back to his feet.

  Angered but forcing himself to remain calm, again Charles strode forward. This time he was on his guard. And he was handy enough with his own fists, as the young woman’s assailant would discover soon enough, a skill he had developed to some level of proficiency in Her Majesty’s navy.

  Laughing while Charles picked himself up off the ground, the troublemaker quickly lost his mirth. Warily he eyed the re-approach of the well-dressed man. He had no idea that by day’s end this new adversary would be a knight. But he recognized the glint in the fellow’s eye well enough, and the set of his lips. They were fighting expressions with which he was well enough acquainted.

  The ruffian raised his fists defiantly. The edges of his thick lips turned upward with an evil grin of anticipation. This would be an easy contest!

  Only a moment more he waited, then took a lurching but ill-advised step toward Charles, cocking his arm to swing.

  Suddenly Charles’ feet danced sideways. The same moment a luring flick of his head drew a great blow from the man. But the roguish fist met only air, and his feet stumbled in consequence. He spun back, surprised that he had missed. Again he lumbered toward Charles.

  None of the onlookers could say how it was accomplished exactly. The two punishing jabs which came next were delivered with such lightning speed that no one quite saw it clearly. The next moment, the brute lay unconscious, measuring his own length on the ground.

  “All right,” said Charles, turning toward a couple of the troublemaker’s cohorts, “take your friend and get him out of here.”

  They came forward and dragged the man to his feet. Groggily he came to himself, scarcely knowing what day it was, and having no recollection of what had just happened. They retreated without further incident.

  “The rest of you,” he said to the crowd, “go on about your business. You who are in charge of the lecture, and you people planning to attend, I suggest you proceed. Perhaps I shall even join you—the topic sounds intriguing!” he added with a laugh, which helped diffuse the tension.

  Laughing and talking about what had just happened, slowly the crowd disbursed. Some continued along the street. About half began moving in the direction of the lecture hall. A short man walked up with Charles’ hat and handed it to him.

  The leader of the small Christian band had been helped by his comrades out of the drum. He rose to his feet and now came forward to express his appreciation.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “I don’t know what we would have done had you not come along.”

  Behind him the young lady approached with a radiant smile of gratitude.

  “Thank you so much, sir,” she said sweetly. “I was so afraid.”

  “Don’t mention it,” replied Charles a bit gruffly. His head was already beginning to ache from the blow.

  “But I implore you, sir,” the pr
eacher went on, “not to attend the lecture. Evolution is not a teaching that comes from God.”

  Partly because of his throbbing head, partly because his black frock coat and elegant striped trowsers were now spotted with dirt, but mostly because the sound of religious sentimentality struck such an irritating chord of unreality in his brain, Charles felt a wave of anger and disgust sweep through him.

  “I’ll thank you to give me none of your sermons!” he said sharply, turning on the man. “This would not have happened at all if you people had not attempted to interfere with this lecture in the first place. When are you going to realize that your protests and hymn singing and absurd leaflets cannot stop progress or silence the voice of science?”

  “Claiming that man is descended from apes is hardly progress,” replied the man calmly. “If you would just read this leaflet, sir, the truth about evolution is explained clearly.”

  As he spoke, the man handed Charles one of the small tracts with which the street was now well littered. Charles grabbed at it rudely, crushed it in his fist, and threw it to the ground.

  “Don’t give me any of your religious claptrap,” he rejoined. “Just get your people out of here before I call the police and have you all thrown in jail for disturbing the peace.”

  Charles turned to go.

  Before he could take a step, however, an expression of mortification seized him. The face of the young lady whom he had rescued caught him with a force almost physical. She was looking at him stunned. Her eyes shone with profound hurt. She was saddened, rather than angered, by the rudeness of his angry remarks.

  Charles had the sense . . .

  The thought was ridiculous! He was on his way to see the queen. She was the worst form of commoner, one who allowed her life to be ruled by religious nonsense!

  Yet it almost seemed . . . that she felt sorry for him.

  He dismissed the notion from his brain. He spun around, and strode back through the disbursing crowd. Unaccountably agitated, he walked hurriedly to the carriage to join his waiting family.