by Deryn Lake
She wondered if her mother and the Earl were perhaps up and kissing — a risky business, for Annette had told her that if a man kissed a woman she had a baby. Or was it a thief come to steal Horace Walpole’s famous collection? Or was the shade of her ancestor walking in the Gallery and not the Breakfast Room at all?
A sudden burst of courage jettisoned her forward and down the passage, passing the Holbein Room — no longer a sitting room but now the place where George and J.J. slept — on her right. To the left the door of the Gallery loomed large and, grasping the knob in brave fingers, she turned it silently.
The outlines of the extraordinary salon with its ornately moulded ceiling, carved woodwork, great carpet and mass of paintings, became clear to her at once in the argent light. She saw also that a high-backed sofa had been pulled before the fire and that on the floor, to the right of it, was a silver tray bearing several decanters and a selection of glasses. And as to who was drinking there was little doubt, for J.J.’s bare forearm — his shirt sleeve rolled up to his elbow — suddenly appeared in view, tipping out three glasses of port.
The soft laughter re-echoed and it became apparent to Horatia’s horrified ears that J.J. was lying on the sofa with two females at the same time. Then — oh extraordinary and inexplicable happening! — a white petticoat, of the type worn by the maidservants, was thrown over the sofa back and a voice said, ‘Come on, Master J.J. It’s my turn now.’
Horry could listen to no more. She understood nothing except that J.J. was behaving ‘badly’, as her parents called it. She sped from the Gallery on bare silent feet. But something must have sounded for she heard J.J. call out, ‘Who’s there? God damn it, what’s going on?’
She made no reply but scuttled into bed like a mouse, pulling the coverlet over her head and thinking of her parents’ shout, J.J.’s soft laughter, the giggling of the maids. Things she did not comprehend were at work in Strawberry Hill that autumn night; things that made her fearful but curious, disturbed yet frighteningly excited.
*
Up in the mighty elm tree, whose boughs swept so near the drive of Sutton Place that anyone who bothered to climb would have a clear view of what was going on in the great house, sat Cloverella Blanchard; her bare legs dangling over the branch, her fingers working merrily on her ancient flute and her observant eyes fixing in a long appraising stare.
She saw the comings and goings, heard the shrieks and sighs, the weepings and the chucklings, that are an inherent part of the ritual of moving home. And she watched, without apparent emotion, the last personal possessions being stowed upon the hand cart. Then her flute was silent as first Mary, then Caroline, then Matilda, followed by a weeping Mrs Webbe Weston and finally a fluttering Miss Huss, piled into the carriage. She smiled as Mr Webbe Weston, gaitered leg swung well into the air, mounted his horse for fear of the crush.
She saw, her reed still quiet in her lap, John Joseph stand in the Middle Enter and wave his hand until the pathetic procession had plodded out of sight. Then she watched him turn back and enter the house for one last long look. The Westons had built Sutton Place in 1523; now — three hundred and eight years later — the last of their lineage, their kinsmen by marriage and distant cousinship, were leaving. The cycle was over — the age of tenants and strangers was about to begin.
5
‘Jackdaw? What the deuce, it can’t be! But it is you!’
The small elegant figure walking before John Joseph down Drury Lane, swinging its cane and occasionally throwing its wide-crowned top hat in the air, turned in its tracks. There was a moment’s pause before it let out a loud shout of, ‘John Joseph, by God! I thought I’d never see you again. How are you?’ and they fell upon each other, slapping backs and shaking hands like long-lost brothers. Then, after a while, they stood at arm’s length to appraise the difference that four years had brought about.
They were both young men now, handsome in their different ways. John Joseph dashing and fine with beautiful eyes and a sensual mouth; Jackdaw small and dark as his namesake, and dressed like a dandy in trousers and half-boots and a nipped-waist coat with padded shoulders.
‘You’ve changed,’ said John Joseph. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘I left school at the end of last year. I’ve been in Russia.’
‘What for? No, don’t tell me now. I’m off to my club. Come with me — or do you have an appointment?’
Jackdaw shook his head. ‘I’ve already kept one. John Joseph, I was seen this morning by the General Command. I’m to join the Army!’
John Joseph gaped and Jackdaw added hurriedly, ‘No, I still limp. But it is for something special. I’ll tell you in a minute. How far is your place?’
‘Just round the corner. It is nothing very grand, I’m afraid. We are not quite up to the scratch of White’s.’
‘Who cares? A drink is a drink — and I’ve the rest of the day free to celebrate.’
‘Then what better! Come on, you wretch — I’m riddled with envy.’
Arms round each other’s shoulders and laughing as if it were still that far-away Christmas when they had first met, the pair stepped briskly down Maiden Lane and into a small but prettily pillared room. The discreet pink shades over the candelabra and the presence of two ladies with high-built and feathered hairstyles caused Jackdaw’s eyebrows to rise but John Joseph whispered to him with a grin, ‘No, it is not what you think — though I believe that would be available if you desired it. The place is owned by a Mrs Fitz and those are her two daughters, so take that lecherous look off your face.’
Jackdaw shook his head, his eyes slightly rueful.
‘Alas, I still lead a sheltered life, John Joseph. Russia was dark with mystery — and its women remained so as well. Perhaps the Army will broaden my education.’
‘You can wager on it. Now tell me how you managed to pull your posting off, you lucky fox.’
‘Well, they don’t want me for my physical prowess. No, it is just that I speak ten languages.’
‘Good God — I didn’t know. What are they?’
‘The usual European plus Russian — that’s why I was there, to become fluent — Hungarian, Polish, Portuguese, Rumanian. I am starting on the Easterns next year.’
John Joseph sat back in his chair and drained his glass of wine.
‘I had no idea you were that clever. So why do the Army require your services — to be a spy?’
‘Yes, actually. In the event of hostilities I am to go behind the lines. I am also to assist with translations and the questioning of prisoners-of-war.’
John Joseph looked suddenly sad. ‘I wish to God it was me. I would change places with you any day. Damn it, Jackdaw, I don’t see where my future lies. Being a Catholic precludes me from so much — yet I can’t go on like this. Quite honestly I am nothing but a land bailiff. I see the tenants into Sutton Place and see them out again. I check inventories and ride about collecting rents. It’s a hideous existence. I would do anything to be an Army man but what hope have I as a British officer?’
Jackdaw finished his glass and poured another.
‘Have you thought of foreign service?’ he said. ‘How old are you now?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Then apply to a Catholic country. Spain — or perhaps Austria.’
‘Do you think there’s a chance?’
‘Of course. You know how many mercenaries there are in both those armies. My great-great-grandfather fought for the Spanish Queen when he lost his fortune.’
‘Then perhaps I should emulate him, for we most certainly have lost ours. Jackdaw, we live in Pomona House in the Home Park these days. We have had to let Sutton Place.’
‘I know. My father wrote to yours two years ago when you were on the point of moving ...’
‘And my mother threw an hysteric that lasted all summer long. Yes, I remember vividly. But you must come and stay next week. Are you able to?’
‘Yes. My enrolment is not for another twenty-one days. I have that t
ime to say goodbye to my wives and sweethearts — if only there were any.’
‘I think,’ said John Joseph, peering up over imaginary spectacles and giving a wink, ‘that I must introduce you to Cloverella Blanchard. I think you two might get on very well together. After all she is descended from magic stock too.’
‘Cloverella,’ answered Jackdaw slowly. ‘I seem somehow to know that name.’
*
Beneath a tree in a shady bower at Strawberry Hill, Lady Horatia Waldegrave lay sleeping. At some distance away her sister Annette — now fifteen and considered fair of feature — sat busy at her embroidery, and even further off, Lady Ida Anna dug in the ground and made sand-shapes with an old cake tin. They were all that was left of the family at home, for J.J. now had his own household on the Earl’s estates at Navestock in Essex and George, who had left Eton, was on the Continent doing the Grand Tour.
Things had grown quiet — and definitely boring — since the departure of the two boys and Annette, her light blue eyes apparently fixed on the delicate stitching of a golden humming bird, was in fact busy watching the gardener’s boy. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him — for though he was a labourer and really rather stupid looking he was big and strong and broad, and would make a pleasant diversion in the monotony of her everyday life.
She had, at one time, been close to Horatia but now the change in Annette’s body, and the commencement of the moon’s cycle within, had put her on a different plane. Instead of one of the little girls of the household she had become the eldest unmarried daughter at home. Within the next two years the governess would have done with her and then she could be introduced by her parents to polite society and the marriage market. She felt she could hardly wait.
But Horatia — fast asleep and dreaming peacelessly — sensed none of those things. She wandered, at first, on the banks of a great and fast-flowing river. Not her own dearly loved Thames, nor even a river she had ever seen before — but somewhere alien and foreign to her. And though it flowed through green and flower-strewn pastures where cattle bent their heads in idyllic grazing, somewhere — not too far distant — roared the sound of battle. She heard the whine of shot, the boom of cannon, the constant shouts and screams of men.
And — most frighteningly — she suffered in the midst of that tumult a terrible sense of loneliness. No — worse than that — of separation, of bereavement. She knew what it was like, as she walked along the banks of that strange river, to be completely solitary. She felt that she would be alone for the rest of her life.
The dream changed and melted. She stood now before an altar in a chapel that lay above the sea’s sweep, at her side a man whose face was turned away.
‘Oh, my love,’ she said, ‘who are you, what is happening to me?’
‘Don’t be afraid, Horry,’ he answered. ‘Give me your hand and let me break the spell.’
‘But I am frightened.’
‘Trust me,’ he said.
And with that he led her out and she stood in a welter of bell sound, watching the gulls wheel beneath a cloudless sky and the sea pound against a great white rock. Far in the distance a solitary figure walked down the sand and out of her line of vision.
‘Who was that?’ she said to the bridegroom.
‘He who has stepped out,’ he answered. And with that he began to weep silently.
The dream changed once more and she found herself standing before a forbidding house that loomed against the sky like a tower. She was alone again, only she and the mansion in all the empty world. She knew somehow that she must not go in — for if she did she would never come out again. But a yawning door situated quite centrally in the building swung open before her as she watched it.
‘Who’s there?’ she called out.
But there was no answer. Then she saw in horror that a figure was forming and had come to stand upon the step, grinning at her. She could not look at it. It was cruelty in the flesh. It reeked of death and despair — and yet it smiled and beckoned.
‘I will not enter,’ she shouted out.
But it stood there, immutable, grimacing at her futility.
‘Who will help me?’ she called in desperation. But only her own voice echoed back off the heartless stonework.
She turned to run but her way was barred by a thick forest that had suddenly grown up round the house and almost hidden it from sight. And that was how she woke, struggling with a branch of a shadowy tree that had bent in the wind and brushed against her face.
‘What is it, Horry?’ said Annette. ‘You’re making the most dreadful noise.’
‘I’ve been dreaming. Frightening things. I dreamt of getting married too. That wasn’t frightening — just strange.’
‘Well, you can’t dream of it yet,’ answered Annette. ‘Remember the rule. The eldest must wed before the others. Did you dream of my wedding as well?’
‘No — just mine and the bridegroom’s.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Only a dream person,’ answered Horatia.
*
Dawn over Drury Lane was enlivened that next summer morning by an extraordinary sight. Staggering forth, arms supporting one another, and mixing none too readily with the crowd of hawkers, milkmaids, beggars and starved humanity which was already thronging the streets of London, were two young gentlemen obviously the worse for a night of debauchery. One — John Joseph — was minus his cravat whilst the other’s — Jackdaw’s — hat was rammed down over his eyes in an inelegant manner. Furthermore the younger man was only wearing one boot, his right foot being clad simply in a silk sock.
‘Well?’ said John Joseph.
‘Well what?’
‘Do you feel a man at last? By the way the two Misses Fitz dived upon you I thought never to see you alive again.’
Jackdaw winced. ‘My head is throbbing fit to burst.’
‘Not only your head I should imagine!’ John Joseph retorted rudely.
Jackdaw laughed.
‘Now, how are you travelling to Hastings?’
‘By chaise. I don’t think my head and I would stay together if I attempted the railway.’
‘Never mind. They’ll have it right one of these days. So, I shall see you at Pomona House next week?’
‘Indeed you shall. Will we be able to go inside Sutton Place?’
‘There’s a new tenant arriving within the next two or three days. But we can present our compliments no doubt.’
‘Good. Despite its discomforts I have some fond memories of it.’
‘Very well. My kindest regards to your mother — and to the General of course.’
‘Of course.’
Jackdaw gave one of his odd little bows and groaned as his head hammered in response. Then he disappeared into the crowd, his limp pronounced by the fact that his built-up boot had gone astray and was — at that very moment — adorning the bedroom of the elder Miss Fitz, filled with flowers and tied about with John Joseph’s cravat.
Five hours later he arrived at Hastings wishing that he had taken the railroad after all. Since George Stephenson had won the Rainhill Trials four years earlier — in 1829 — with the fabulous Rocket, railways were springing up all over the country, starting with the line from Liverpool to Manchester which had been opened to the public on September 15, 1830. And though he could not have completed his journey Jackdaw would have saved himself a tedious hour or so.
Therefore, as he disembarked outside his house in the hill-hung crescent, he glanced at his watch and — realizing that he had been away for nearly forty-eight hours — crept surreptitiously down the area steps to the servants’ entrance. Admonishing all who met him to silence, he was on his way to his bedroom to restore his battered appearance when he heard Helen call out from her sitting room, ‘Violet, is that you?’
‘No Mother,’ shouted the pretty creature from behind her brother. ‘It is Jackdaw creeping up the stairs like a scallowag. He is all in disarray and has a lady’s stocking peeping out from his top po
cket.’
Helen’s light laugh rang out. ‘Has he now! Come here, both of you.’
She was sitting in her favourite window seat where she had been engaged on gazing out into the sea-bright distance, a small telescope lying in her hand to aid her. But now she turned to look at her children with eyes bright as a bird’s.
Since her illness two years ago she had grown a little thinner, a little more fragile. Yet she had lost none of her old attractiveness, nor still — or so Jackdaw thought — did she look very much over twenty-five. No wonder his father gazed upon her to this day with unconcealed infatuation. But the General was away in barracks and at the present moment Jackdaw was the acting head of the household.
So it was a little guiltily that he said, ‘I am so sorry to have been out last night. Forgive me.’
But Helen merely smiled and answered, ‘I gather from your appearance that you have been celebrating. Jackdaw, have they taken you in the Army? Was the interview successful?’
‘Yes.’ He picked her up in his arms, swinging her out of her chair. ‘Yes, yes, yes, my darling Mama. I am John Wardlaw — soldier.’
Violet let out a squeal and jumped where she stood, her tight black curls bouncing about her little face.
‘What wonderful news! Your father will be so proud of you. I shall write to him immediately.’
Jackdaw stood his mother gently upon her feet.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I will too. As soon as I have changed.’
He was aware, even as he said it, that the General would receive the letters with mixed feelings: could imagine the bewhiskered face drawing set, the truculent eye changing expression as he read that all his predictions had been wrong; that his lame son had followed him in the great family tradition and gone to be a soldier for King William IV. Jackdaw knew as well as if he had been present that General Wardlaw would once more feel the terrible tug of jealousy at his heart — and then curse himself for it. Poor wretched man!
Helen said with a straight face, ‘So a new era has begun for you, my son.’
He looked at her quizzically, but there was only the merest hint of a twinkle as she went on, ‘We will all have to regard you as an officer and a man of the world from now on, I see.’
