Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “I found some snow for my cup!” cried out Catharine, who had wandered away on the other side of the carriage.

  Suddenly Amanda was off like a shot toward her little sister, deserting the prized territory so recently disputed with her brother.

  “Amanda, leave Catharine alone,” said Jocelyn, climbing down onto the ground as Amanda ran past. “Find your own place.”

  “It’s not fair. Everyone else gets clean snow, but there’s none for me.”

  “Good heavens, Amanda!” laughed Charles in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous. Open your eyes.”

  “Come over here, Amanda,” said Jocelyn. “I’ll help you find a perfect spot.”

  Reluctantly Amanda complied. A few minutes later everyone had their cups in hand and stood beside the sleigh.

  “And do you have your cup, Charles?” said Jocelyn.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss this.”

  “All right, then. Everyone, get your spoons ready, and hold out your cups. I’ll pour on the cream and vanilla . . . then sprinkle on the sugar.”

  “This is good!” said George, sampling the concoction.

  “It just tastes like sweet water,” said Amanda.

  “I like it!” said Catharine.

  “The whole thing seems rather stupid to me,” insisted Amanda. “The ice cream we had when we were in London was so much better.”

  “But it’s fun to make it,” said Charles. “Amanda, your mother has planned a pleasant activity for us here. Can’t you enjoy it without complaining?”

  “I don’t think it’s fun.”

  “Your mother made an effort to do something special and you—”

  “It’s all right, Charles,” said Jocelyn softly. “I don’t mind.”

  “But I do. I get tired of her not appreciating all you do for her.”

  “Please, it’s not so important. The rest of us are enjoying it.”

  George glanced up and saw his mother sigh with disappointment. He had seen the look many times before. He gave Amanda a sharp poke in the ribs.

  “George, stop it. George hit me!”

  “You always spoil everything,” he returned.

  “I do not. It was all your fault.”

  “George, that wasn’t a very kind thing to say to your sister,” said Charles. “I want you to apologize.”

  “Why do I always have to apologize? Besides, what I said was true.”

  “You were unkind. That deserves an apology.”

  “Why don’t you make Amanda apologize?”

  Before Charles had a chance to say anything further, Catharine began to cry. Jocelyn gathered up the cups and supplies and climbed back up into the carriage.

  “Let’s just go back to the house, Charles,” she said. “I think that would be best.”

  “Nonsense—come on, everyone,” said Charles, doing his best to regain a cheerful spirit, “let’s go get those trees!”

  “Who cares about Christmas trees anyway?” groused Amanda.

  Charles sighed with frustration and glanced toward Jocelyn. This was not how they had hoped the day would turn out.

  “I care about them,” he said. “We’re going to get those trees, and this is going to be a pleasant outing. Come on, everyone—load back into the sleigh.”

  Charles urged Red Lady forward, and again the sleigh whisked off through the woods, though their surroundings did not seem nearly so magical as they had fifteen minutes earlier. The mood remained subdued, and they rode along for some distance in relative silence.

  “It’s the Christmas season,” said Charles at length. “It’s a wonderfully beautiful day. Let’s not let a little argument spoil it. We’ll go cut a couple of trees. We’ll find a good steep hill and try out George’s sled. We’ll go pay a visit to Bobby and Maggie McFee. Then we’ll go home and set up the tree in the entryway—what do you all say!”

  Jocelyn glanced at her husband and forced a smile, then gave Catharine, who sat on her lap still whimpering, a tight squeeze. She just hoped there would be no more incidents today. If they hadn’t been able to get along over the snow, she couldn’t imagine how they would be able to share a single sled.

  62

  New Challenges, New Opportunities

  The new century came, and the future accompanying it was now in full stride.

  King Edward VII shared the throne of Great Britain with the memory of his mother, dead for three years. Many and strong continued the forces for social and political change. The new century, however, would bring with it a future far different from what most English citizens would have predicted.

  On the horizon, not nearly so distant as one might imagine, already sounded the faint drumbeats of approaching conflict. Accompanying them, for those with ears to hear, were dissonant tones of strife, a global symphony in minor key whose movements were titled unrest, revolution, and change.

  This music, if such it could be called, originated in the east. From Russia especially it came, where the communist movement, spawned by the German Karl Marx during his sojourn in England, took deeper root with every passing year. The turbulent lands of Serbia and Austria-Hungary added their strident treble to the ominous bass of the crumbling Ottoman Empire. In the midst of it all sounded the sinister beginnings of a dangerous nationalistic march from a newly unified and increasingly powerful German empire.

  To the discordant strains of this confusing cacophony, old alliances were shifting, new ones forming. The power structure of the globe was being shaken as the music of change continued to swell, its drums beating with the cadence of foot soldiers striding unmistakably toward war.

  But few west of the Rhine as yet detected the faint strains of coming discord. Though the majority of English men and women knew change to be inevitable, they still harbored the illusion that the change would be peaceful and progressive, that the greatest of the world’s powers would continue to enjoy peace and prosperity, happiness and tranquility, for many decades to come. They read in their newspapers of developments on the Continent almost as if reading a novel, secure in the belief that the channel between the French coast and Dover would prevent aggression from intruding upon their hallowed shores.

  There were those, however, who understood that the alliances that had maintained Europe’s peace since German and Italian unification in 1871 were inevitably shifting and fracturing with the passage of time and in some cases eroding altogether.

  Thus far had diplomacy carried the day.

  But perilous times lay ahead.

  The request for a meeting with prime minister A.J. Balfour took Charles Rutherford completely by surprise. It was not merely that the two men represented opposing parties in Parliament. They were also relative strangers, despite many years across the aisle from one another.

  “Sit down . . . sit down, Sir Charles,” said the prime minister, closing the door behind him that their meeting might be private. “Would you care for something . . . brandy, Scotch?”

  “Tea will be fine, Prime Minister,” replied Charles.

  “I’ll ring for a pot.”

  Taking his own seat a moment later, Prime Minister Balfour’s face grew serious. He went straight to the point.

  “You are no doubt perplexed about my calling you in like this,” he said.

  “I confess—yes, I am, Prime Minister. I don’t believe the Conservatives need our Liberal bloc of votes just yet. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I doubt my colleagues would agree to a coalition.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” returned Balfour, also smiling shrewdly. “No, I have called you here on another errand altogether. One that I consider—and I hope you also will see it as such—nonpolitical.”

  He paused. As if he had anticipated it, a knock sounded on the door. His secretary entered bearing a tea tray. It was two or three minutes before he resumed.

  “The Continent grows steadily more worrisome,” the prime minister said at length. “That fact will come as no surprise to you or anyone in either the House of Commons or
the House of Lords. We have been debating and discussing the various trouble spots for years. But I fear for the stability of Europe, Sir Charles. We must be prepared, whatever direction events take. The Germans and Russians are entirely unpredictable. Their histories are rife with violence—and I fear we have not seen the last of their warmongering.”

  Charles Rutherford listened respectfully, sipping at his tea. Many in Parliament were voicing similar sentiments, despite general public complacency.

  “Well, sir, I have decided to do something about it,” Balfour went on. “Whether it will help, who can tell? But we mustn’t sit idly by. I have, therefore, decided to sponsor an inquiry into the likelihood of war and England’s preparedness for it.”

  “Are you not concerned about raising public alarm?” now asked Charles.

  “It will be done quietly,” rejoined the prime minister. “For this Commission on Preparedness, it is my hope to enlist the support of all parties, thus making the venture truly apolitical.”

  “I see.”

  “There are times when politics must subserve the greater national good, and this is such a time. We will not make a display of the Commission’s findings. I would hope we could keep the Times off our backs for a while, though I have no objection to your talking the matter over with your colleagues. We must all lay aside partisanship for the good of England.”

  The prime minister paused.

  “Talking over . . . what matter, sir?”

  Balfour eyed Charles carefully.

  “It is my hope,” he went on after a moment, “that you will agree to head the Commission.”

  Charles returned his gaze with an expression between surprise and incredulity.

  “Me,” he said in astonishment. “Why me? Why not a member of your own party?”

  “Precisely because you are not a Tory, Sir Charles. It is my hope that my appointing a Liberal to head a broad-based effort will demonstrate my good faith in keeping the matter free from political controversy. You are one of the most respected men in the Commons. You are recognized as one of Parliament’s rising stars, and you are well thought of among your own colleagues. Simply put—I consider you the best man for the job.”

  “You are most kind, sir. I am flattered and honored.”

  “Then you accept?”

  “I must, of course, take time to think the matter over . . . and talk with my wife.”

  “Ah, yes, I understand. But as you do, Sir Charles, bear in mind that there may be more than the future of your nation at stake. This may also be an important opportunity for you.”

  “In what way, Prime Minister?”

  “To put your stamp on history, Sir Charles,” Balfour told him as he rose from his chair. “To make an enduring mark for which you will be remembered . . . to establish your political legacy.”

  63

  The Boy With the Withered Leg

  Walking in Milverscombe with her mother, Amanda Rutherford heard rude sounds as they approached the entrance of a side street.

  Amanda glanced up. A boy who looked to be a year or two younger than her own fourteen years, though his condition made age difficult to estimate, struggled across their path. He limped decrepitly in the vain attempt to keep up with his father. The man had hold of the lad’s hand and was half dragging, half yanking him into the street. The boy, whose right leg was withered to only about half the thickness of the other, could scarcely walk upright. Yet his father, clearly under the influence of strong drink, pressed forward with great strides.

  “Keep up with me, you good-for-nothing cur!” growled the man. He gave him a cruel tug that now pulled the strong leg out from under his son. Released from the supporting hand of his father, the boy sprawled on his face in the dirt of the street.

  “Get up, you fool!” cried the man. He stopped, turned, and gave the boy a kick in the ribs.

  Whimpering in pain, the lad struggled to his knees, then fell back unsuccessfully. His father was about to strike again when Amanda broke from her mother’s side. She ran forward into the middle of the street. She stooped down and helped the boy to his feet.

  The eyes of the two met for the briefest of seconds—the young cripple and his pretty young champion—but there was no time for words between them. The next instant Amanda felt a vise-grip on her shoulder. A great man’s hand pulled her forcefully back.

  “If you know what’s good for you, Lady Rutherford,” the man said menacingly to Amanda’s mother, “you’ll keep this daughter of yours from meddling in other folks’ affairs! And I’ll thank you to keep away from my wife. We need no charity from the likes of you.”

  The man yanked Amanda back to her feet and shoved her toward her mother, nearly throwing her to the ground as he did. He grabbed the boy’s hand once more, sent the back of his free hand against the youngster’s face with a wicked slap, then twisted the thin arm viciously. He now pulled the boy up behind him and once again continued on his way.

  Seething indignation rose up in Amanda’s heart. For a moment she stood as if paralyzed while, behind her, tears quietly filled Jocelyn Rutherford’s eyes. Only a moment more did Amanda’s silence last.

  “We have to do something,” she said through clenched teeth. Her tone was one of quiet wrath.

  “There is nothing we can do,” replied her mother softly. “Not here. Not now.”

  “Father’s a knight and an important man!” rejoined the fourteen-year-old zealot, as if the fact of her father’s position both in the village and in London could of itself right any wrong.

  “Your father is not here. And I am a woman,” replied Jocelyn with no less pity in her heart than Amanda felt. The wisdom of her years, however, had tempered her compassion with caution.

  “What difference does that make?” demanded Amanda.

  “There is nothing I can possibly do. And even if there were, I would not do it without speaking with your father.”

  “Why? He’s not here.”

  “He is my spiritual head, Amanda—at all times, not just when we are together.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. This was another of her mother’s sermons about a woman’s place. She made it sound as if Father were a god or something. Couldn’t she think for herself anymore?

  “Any interference from us,” Jocelyn went on, “would not only place us in danger, but make things worse for the boy.”

  “That man wouldn’t dare hurt you, Mother. If he touched you, he would be put in jail.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Jocelyn, “which is yet another reason I mustn’t interfere.”

  “Why?” asked Amanda, unable to grasp her mother’s reluctance.

  “His being in jail would do the boy no good.”

  “He would be better off than he is now!”

  “Not without a father, Amanda.”

  “But he’s a bad man. Didn’t you see him, Mother? He was drunk! He hit him.”

  “He is still the boy’s father. That must always count for more than we might be able presently to see.”

  “Why?”

  “A bad father is better than no father at all, because you never know what healing God might intend in a family.”

  Amanda could find no trace of her mother’s reasoning to agree with. To her youthful ears, it sounded more than ridiculous.

  “Rune Blakeley is a heartless father; everyone knows it,” Jocelyn went on. “The poor boy’s situation is sad, but I fear you and I cannot change it today. I will continue to do what I can for his mother, and your father has long been trying to have an influence with Mr. Blakeley, but—”

  “He’s a drunk and a wicked man!” insisted Amanda.

  “We cannot change that, Amanda. Your helping young Stirling just now only made his problems worse. He will probably be whipped mercilessly when they reach home.”

  ————

  The incident was suddenly as vivid as yesterday. Eight-year-old Jocelyn Wildecott struggled to climb down from the carriage after her mother. The Bombay street was wet and slippery from recen
t rains. So too were the carriage steps.

  Mrs. Wildecott, stepping carefully herself to avoid the wet patches in the street, did not have hold of her daughter’s hand. The tiny white thing repulsed her, and she would touch it only if absolutely compelled to do so. Such occasions were extremely rare.

  On the bottom step young Jocelyn slipped, stumbling to the ground and onto her knees in the mud.

  A cry escaped her lips.

  “Shh!” sounded the stern voice of her mother towering above her. “Get up—do you want everyone to see? And keep your feet out of the puddles!”

  The girl glanced up, where a small crowd of women stood in front of the church. A few heads had turned toward them. She was agonizingly aware that eyes now watched her and her mother. Small wonder that as she grew, the place had never become for her a symbol of life, but only one of pain and humiliation.

  Mrs. Wildecott stooped down, pretending for the sake of the onlookers to help her daughter up, but in fact lending no hand of support.

  “Stand up!” she whispered to Jocelyn. “As if your face isn’t enough, you have to find other ways to embarrass me in front of my friends.”

  Jocelyn managed to regain her feet, tears rising in her eyes. They were more from her mother’s cruel words than the stinging of her knees. But she would blink back the tears until they were dry. She could not let her mother see them.

  Mrs. Wildecott took a handkerchief, brushed it roughly against the two thin knees, succeeding in removing most of the stain, then tossed the muddy cloth onto the floor of the carriage. With her daughter again halfway presentable, which was the most the lady ever hoped for, Mrs. Wildecott stood again to her full height, turned, and walked smiling toward the gathering at the church steps.

  Doing her best to keep her head tilted slightly downward, and the side of her birthmark turned away from view, Jocelyn silently followed.

  ————

  Jocelyn Rutherford shook her head, trying to rid herself of the painful memory of childhood. She had felt the sting of a parent’s rejection no less than Stirling Blakeley. She had had to learn both to forgive and to discover what good there was to glean from it.