by Deryn Lake
‘I’ll try and find out when I get back,’ said John Joseph. ‘If it is what you said it was and I am what I think I could be ...’
Robert Anthony looked thoroughly mystified at this point but nodded his head brightly nonetheless.
‘... I really must do something to help her.’
Mary laughed again, clutching her enormous stomach. ‘Spoken like a true officer. Oh, John Joseph, you are so terribly grown-up.’
That night she went into labour and swore, ever afterwards, that it was John Joseph’s doing for ‘setting her off’. A dear little boy was born — Robert Anthony’s first son — and was named Robert John Joseph, partly to remind his mother of the happy reunion.
A few days later his uncle took the public stagecoach to Calais and embarked for England wondering a little about the wisdom of it all. So many memories — and now the possibility of his having fathered a child; but above all — mysterious and so empty and echoing — Sutton Place. As the boat went into the harbour at Dover he found himself more afraid than he had been at any time during the last two years.
*
On the evening that John Joseph landed in England, three trappers came into Quebec from Hudson Bay, armed with their pelts. That they were villains, all three of them, was obvious from their appearance. For a start not one of them looked as if he had seen soap and water nor a razor in a six-month; and for a second there was something in the way they walked into the cut-throat inn of their choice that showed — even to the assembled company of thieves — that here were men not to be taken lightly.
The eldest, and the largest, must have been well over six feet and had a mass of tangled grey hair falling from a scarred and balding dome. The second had the face and colouring of a fox and grinning pointed teeth. And the youngest, who was smaller than the other two, had dark, jewel-bright eyes and an evil-looking knife shoved into his belt, the handle of which was scarcely ever out of his hand.
They spoke in French but the one or two words that they did use in English showed pronounced Canadian accents. And they talked to nobody but each other, sitting with their backs to the wall and looking the other patrons up and down as they did so.
Eventually a group of the regular guests had had enough to drink to give them courage and they crossed over. Leaning above the smallest one, their ringleader hissed in his ear, ‘Why don’t you leave while you’re still alive?’ The answer to which was a hand, the fingers like wire, shooting out and grasping the speaker’s shoulder, while a whispered voice replied, ‘I have come to see Monsieur Papineau. I was told that I could find him here.’
There was a pause and then another of the number said, ‘What do you know of Papineau?’
For answer the smallest trapper snatched the cruel knife from his belt with such violence that every one of his questioners took an involuntary step back. But he merely reached beneath the table and hacked the rough string that held together his pelts. Then he threw down before them — amongst the candle grease and wine stains — a fur that made them gasp. It glowed sapphire blue in its depths and the springing coat shone soft as falling snow.
‘That is my introduction to Papineau,’ he said. ‘That is for the cause. I say finish with British rule — let us shake off the Imperialist yoke for once and for all.’
‘Lower your voice. You speak treason.’
The jewel-eyes of the trapper went hard.
‘Then let treason be the order of the day. Take me to Papineau. I wish to swear the oath beneath the cap of liberty.’
In the pungent smell of the Quebec inn nobody breathed.
‘Papineau?’ somebody repeated. ‘Oath of liberty? What are you talking about?’
The smallest of the three trappers leapt to his feet, the other two watching him from where they leaned back in their chairs. They gave the impression — despite their lolling posture — that if anyone had made a move in their companion’s direction they would have slit his throat as soon as look at him.
‘You know bloody well,’ he growled. ‘I have offered you the greatest pelt ever seen — if that is not good enough, then goodnight.’
He began to gather to him his string of furs.
‘Wait,’ said a woman’s voice from the back.
‘It’s Marie,’ somebody muttered in an undertone.
The trapper appeared not to have heard, continuing to put together his beautiful collection of skins, looking neither to right nor left.
‘Wait a moment,’ said the woman’s voice again — and a pale hand went out and touched the smallest trapper lightly on the arm.
What happened then was incredible. The girl stepped forward into the ring of brightness thrown by the guttering candles, her nimbus of red hair lighting up like a magic cloud. And out of the corner of his eye the trapper must have seen it, for he suddenly wheeled round and said, ‘Horry?’ in a completely different voice from the one he had just been using.
She frowned and answered in French, ‘My name is Marie. Who are you?’
He took a second or two to collect himself.
‘The Jackdaw.’
‘The Jackdaw? That is not a proper name.’
‘It is the name by which I am known. Are you going to take me to Papineau?
She moved forward so that she could see him closely and they stood for a moment only an inch or two apart, her eyes taking in every detail of his appearance, from the fur hat pulled down over his jet locks to the battered boots on his feet.
‘Well?’
‘How do I know that I can trust you?’
‘And how do I know I can trust you?’ he answered. ‘You have too much beauty for your own good.’
She brought her lips up almost to touch his.
‘You are a pompous fool,’ she said. ‘Come, I will take you to Papineau.’
The circle of patrons drew back as she led him by the hand down an ill-lit spiral staircase that fell steeply into the blackness beneath the bar. And he should have known, even from the familiar way she entered the small cave-like room and from the shock of red hair growing en brosse from the man seated at the table before them, that Papineau — arch-traitor in the eyes of the British government and the man whose headquarters Jackdaw had at last penetrated — was her father.
‘There is someone to see you,’ she said — and walked away, leaving Jackdaw the spy to stare straight into the eyes of the man who was leading the Canadian revolution.
*
The field was perfect for painting — green as an emerald and packed with a rather jolly sheep herd of mixed colouring. Moreover, in the pasture beyond, a cluster of brown and white cows grazed beneath the shade of some rustling oaks. The triumph of England in high summer lit the land as if God Himself had been a landscape painter.
‘Which He probably was,’ said Caroline Webbe Weston to herself, irreverently imagining the Almighty in a battered straw hat and paint-stained coat attending to the Creation with a mass of brushes in one hand and a well-coloured palette in the other.
She smiled at the thought and hitching her skirt hauled herself and her easel over the stile, her dark brows pointing upwards beneath her wheat-white locks as she shielded her eyes from the sun and stared about her as to where would be the best place to set up her things.
Much to her surprise — and slight irritation — she saw that another painter had already got there ahead of her and had established his place in the key position, with a view of the cattle dimensionally behind that of the flock, making the picture one flowing harmonious whole.
She thought, ‘That is quite the best angling I have ever seen. He cannot be some downright dauber.’
And never lacking in courage or confidence, Caroline — after casually arranging her stool and equipment — strolled up behind him.
The back of his neck caught her attention at once; it was, without doubt, the most intriguing she had ever set eyes on. Very brown and at the same time both vulnerable and masculine, the lively dark hair sprung in abundant growth half-way down its length
.
‘Hello,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Let me just capture that wayward calf and then I will introduce myself.’
Caroline laughed. His voice was light and without malice. She felt that he was someone with whom she could pleasantly argue for hours the theory of paint mixing.
‘I’m Caroline Webbe Weston,’ she said. ‘From Pomona House in Sutton Park.’
He completed a brush stroke and looked up at her. His face was wonderful. Bright and animated with sparkling, vivid bluebell eyes.
He stood up and bowed.
‘Francis Hicks, Miss Webbe Weston. Of St Bartholomew’s, London. A medical student not a patient, perhaps I should add.’
She dropped a little curtsey — which was quite out of character for her, for Caroline said what she thought and did not bother over-much with the finer points of considered behaviour.
‘Shall we paint together?’ he went on. ‘I have some terrible sandwiches — thick as an old hat — and very lukewarm wine.’
‘And I have greenstuffs and fruit.’
‘Which sounds very healthy. I am studying surgery and am quite au fait with ailments of the stomach caused by stuffing down an evil diet.’
He grinned, cat-like, and Caroline did not know whether to take him seriously or not.
‘I should like that very much,’ she said, as her Mama had taught her — and then burst, for no reason other than his comical face, into laughter.
‘Then shall we sit side by side? I would not like to think that I had deprived you of such a vista just because I saw it first.’
He was incorrigible — full of fun as a pink air balloon. Caroline shot him a look from beneath her jet eyebrows.
‘Very well, Mr Hicks. As long as you promise not to peer at me for hidden complaints.’
‘I promise. Bring your traps over here — we’ll catch the light while it is good.’
It was immense — the immediate feeling of harmony, of shared interest, of attraction that was tangible in the golden July sunshine. They painted for four hours without speaking and then stopped to lunch, Francis spreading an old rug upon the ground and setting out his humble sandwiches. Then lying back, putting his rough old hat — rather like that which Caroline had imagined for God — over his eyes.
‘Do you know Surrey well?’ she said. ‘Do you live here?’
‘No, in Henrietta Street just off Cavendish Square, more’s the pity. I love the country.’
‘Do you know Sutton Place?’
‘I’ve heard of it, of course. A ruined old pile near Guildford, isn’t it?’
She wrinkled her nose a fraction ruefully.
‘I’ll say it is. We own it — that is my family. But we can’t afford to live there. We’re as poor as chapel mice.’
Without really meaning to she shot him a look from her forget-me-not eyes.
‘I’m not,’ he said, quite matter-of-factly. ‘My father died and left my brother and me a load of truly delightful cash. It’s awfully nice, Caro — may I call you that?’
‘Please do. Forgive me if I go quiet — I’m trying to imagine what it must be like to have a spare pound or two.’
‘It’s fun,’ said Francis.
‘Are there just the two of you — you and your brother?’
‘Yes. He’s eighteen years older than I am. I believe I came to my mother as an afterthought — as well as a terrible shock.’
Caroline laughed again. She could not remember ever having been happier in her life.
‘I want to paint you — now,’ he said suddenly. ‘While the light is still good. Will you sit for me?’
‘In my painting clothes?’
‘Yes, just like that. Goddess of Summer — wheat-coloured hair, eyes like the sky, lips like sunshine roses.’
‘It sounds very romantic.’
‘You are very romantic,’ said Francis Hicks. ‘Now be quiet and don’t fidget, there’s a good girl.’
‘I want to sneeze,’ said Caroline.
‘Well you can’t.’
‘I must. It’s hay-fever.’
Francis just went ‘um’ because he had a brush firmly clenched between his teeth, but after Caroline had given two rather hearty snorts, he added ‘Sshh!’ After that there was a companionable silence.
Eventually Francis said, ‘I’ve done as much as I can — the light is changing too fast. Will you sit for me again tomorrow?’
‘Are you staying down here?’
‘Yes, at the Angel in Guildford.’
Caroline hesitated.
‘I don’t know that I can. My brother is coming home on leave and is due any day; he’s been away for two years in the Austrian Army.’
‘Really? How fascinating. I’ve always been interested in what drives bright young Englishmen into foreign service.’
‘I think he harboured ambitions for soldiering but thought he might do better abroad because we’re Catholics. That’s one of the reasons anyway.’
‘And the other? Or is that personal?’
Caroline pulled a face.
‘He was crossed in love — and then of course he’s the heir to the curse, which always unsettled him.’
‘The curse of Sutton Place?’
‘Yes. Have you heard of it?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Francis surprisingly. ‘It has been discussed at my club — quite seriously I might add.’
Caroline stared at him, astonished.
‘I hadn’t realized it was so well known. Do you believe in it?’
Francis lowered his brush and looked at her over the top of the canvas.
‘I am supposed to be a man of science. But the answer is still a categorical yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘I believe there is another dimension just outside the grasp of mankind.’
‘Have you ever seen a ghost?’
‘Unfortunately not. Come on let’s pack up. The shadows are lengthening and your family will want you home for tea.’
‘Will you walk back with me?’
‘Of course I will.’
As they crossed the stile and plunged into the green and gold of that late afternoon, a flight of swallows curved up almost from their feet and raced through the heavens like arrows, while above them a blackbird trilled into such a glorious song that they felt he would burst his heart with the joy of it. The cattle that they had painted earlier began, as one, to plod towards the corner of the field, heads down and lowing in harmonious sound, knowing that milking time was not far off; and everywhere the shadows of the trees dappled the landscape with fingers of coolness.
‘I shall ask your Mama for permission to call on you,’ said Francis.
Caroline’s light eyes smiled at him. ‘I notice you do not ask me first.’
‘Who needs pretension? Here, give me your hand.’
She intertwined her brown fingers with his, noticing how long and strong they were.
‘I think you will be a good surgeon,’ she said.
‘I shall try.’
In the far distance the first glimpse of Sutton Place became visible.
‘That’s it,’ said Caroline. ‘Our fabled family home.’
‘It looks peaceful enough.’
‘Like a sleeping tiger.’
‘Aptly put,’ said Francis, and nodded.
They cut left and walked the long way round by Jacob’s Well till at last Pomona House was only a few yards distant.
‘May I present my compliments to your mother now ...?’
Francis’s voice dwindled away as Caroline shouted across him, ‘It can’t be ...’ and then started to run.
A handsome figure in a blue uniform, frogged with gold, wheeled about and hurried towards her.
‘It’s my brother,’ Caroline called over her shoulder. ‘It’s John Joseph back from Austria.’
Then she suddenly stopped in her tracks, taking in with her artist’s eye the full splendour of the magnificent blue dragoon into whom John Joseph had turned. Almost simultaneously she and Fran
cis said, ‘You must sit for your portrait — dressed just like that.’
*
‘So you wish to join our brotherhood?’ said Papineau.
‘Yes,’ answered Jackdaw, throwing himself on to a rough chair and staring fixedly at the revolutionary.
‘Why?’
‘Because I believe in freedom.’
‘Pfew!’ Papineau made a noise of disgust. ‘What is that supposed to mean? One man’s freedom is another one’s prison. You’ll have to think of something a bit cleverer than that.’
‘The British took Canada by conquest. They have no right here. Let us break free like the American colonies. If anything we should be allied with France.’
Papineau looked at him narrowly but made no further reply. Instead he shouted, ‘Marie, bring us some wine.’
She came forward with a rough stone bottle and two glasses and once again the candles threw their light upon her. She was exquisite — fine boned and lean, her hair clouding crimson. She was as out of place in the dark and dirty room as an orchid in a graveyard. Jackdaw found it impossible to take his eyes off her.
‘So,’ said Papineau, pouring for himself and his visitor, ‘you believe in the Republic of Canada.’
‘I have already offered the sapphire pelt as proof of my good will. Does that not speak for itself?’
Not necessarily.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A rumour has reached my ears,’ said Papineau, leaning back in his chair, ‘a rumour that, if it is true, can only be described as alarming. I am told that a spy is infiltrating our group, a spy who takes many disguises. Sometimes he comes as a priest, sometimes as an Irishman, sometimes as a trapper. But one thing is consistent, his general description. He is dark, not very tall, and is believed to limp slightly. As you came in, my friend, I thought that I noticed these characteristics in you. Marie, over here!’
She disengaged herself from a shadow and stood at her father’s side.
‘Make him walk before you. Let us see if he limps.’ She met Jackdaw’s eyes with a totally unreadable expression.
‘Walk,’ she said.
‘To where?’
‘To the other side of the room. Don’t try to be clever. I have a pistol pointing between your shoulders.’
