by Deryn Lake
And so it was, with only the sound of churning wheels and spitting steam to disturb him, that Jackdaw took stock of himself. He looked back on his life, sitting there in that railway carriage, and thought of everything that had brought him to this point.
He remembered, first of all, his childhood; his fear of disappointing his father; his short leg and built-up shoes; his second sight.
Then he thought of the boy; that grasp of other languages within a week of study, comparable only to the lifting of a veil; the meeting with John Joseph and his instant love for him — not sexual but brotherly, worshipping a heroic figure. Next he remembered dawning manhood: the loss of innocence with the Misses Fitz; Mary Webbe Weston’s infatuation and Mrs Trevelyan’s hatred; Cloverella’s gypsy mouth on his.
But most of all he remembered Horatia, each little vision of her cherished and taken out like a favourite jewel from a casket. And he thought finally of seeing her at Hastings — and making a fool of himself.
The train entered a tunnel and Jackdaw closed his eyes. He was at peace, his only regret that he had tried at one point to suppress his inherited gift. India — glad though he had been to leave it — had taught him much of the way of psychic development. It would take a lifetime to grasp the true concept of Raja Yoga — the royal path to perfection of the spirit — and he had studied for only three brief years. But he had entered, through its means, the threshold of awareness.
And now he knew that with this — this journey to Yorkshire’s wild cliffs — he would come one step nearer the truth. For not only his grandfather had sent for him but also his great-uncle and aunt. The three magic children of the house of FitzHoward — ancient as they were — were together in England and ready to receive him.
He thought back to what he knew of them, Pernel, Jacob and James; the grandchildren of the great rake Joseph Gage and direct descendants of Zachary Howard, son of the Duke of Norfolk by a Romany girl, and astrologer to the court of Henry VIII.
That they were vastly old was undeniably true. He calculated that Pernel, his great-aunt, must be ninety-four and his grandfather Jacob and his twin brother James at least ninety-one. That they had all been born in Spain, to which country Joseph Gage had gone as a mercenary when he had lost his fortune in the collapse of the Mississippi Company, was also true. What was not quite clear was how Jacob — a Colonel in the Spanish Army — had managed to get himself an English peerage from George III, when the family was known as a rabble bunch of Jacobites.
The accepted version was that he had brought about a trading treaty between England and Spain, but the truth remained shrouded in mystery. Whatever the reason, Jacob had settled in England — in Dorset — with another home set high on the cliffs above Scarborough. From time to time his brother and sister would make the unlikely journey from Castile to Yorkshire, sending for members of their family. Then the trio would disperse and there would be no further reunion for several years.
Jackdaw knew of their powers, had been told by his mother that they had inherited their grandmother Sibella’s gift. And now he sat in the train, gazing out over England’s sweetly changing face, and looking forward to the visit that lay ahead, and asking the magic trio what they knew of the mysteries of life.
Before making his way to Jacob Gage’s gracious house, perched on the clifftop like a temple, Jackdaw strode out along the rocky path to where the ruins of a huge castle straddled a headland dividing two of the most magnificent bays in the world. Everywhere was sweep upon sweep of blue; vast skyscapes stretched down to a cobalt thread that lay along the horizon like a tinker’s ribbon. Far away from the shore the white froth of the distant waves glinted azurine, and inland, where the beautiful sand curved like double horseshoes, drops of sparkling aqua played upon the sea’s edge. There seemed no other colour anywhere, only the cornfield sweep of the beaches breaking the pattern, to show that the world had not vanished into the sky.
Jackdaw drew breath. In the vast concept in which he found himself standing it was not difficult to sense that unseen forces were at work and that soon he would learn of things too powerful for him to fully understand.
And so he changed for dinner that night in a state of considerable excitement. He had never seen the three magic children together — or if he had he could not remember the occasion — and when he entered the drawing room he stopped and stared in wonderment.
Pernel sat very upright in a high-backed chair, her hands clasped upon an ebony cane, her mass of white hair swept up on her head and adorned with three black ostrich feathers. On her fingers she wore jet rings and her dress was of black taffeta, the only colour about her being a diamond brooch as big as a plum. This seemed to have a life of its own, and gleamed and winked a thousand million rainbows without her so much as breathing.
She saw Jackdaw’s fascinated gaze, chuckled and said, ‘That was left to me by Joseph Gage. It once belonged to the Infanta. I see that you like it.’
Remembering himself Jackdaw bowed very deeply and then went forward to kiss her hand.
On either side of her chair stood the twin brothers — his grandfather and great-uncle. He had heard it said by Helen that when they were children only their mother Sarah could tell them apart, and now he could truly believe it. For his grandfather stood doubled before him. Two old men, white-haired but still with clear grape-bright blue eyes unwearied by time, gazed at him from identical faces.
‘Grandfather?’ he said uncertainly and the one on the left laughed.
‘Jackdaw, how are you? You met your aunt and uncle when you were very small but I feel sure you do not remember, so let me introduce you again. Pernel my dear, may I present your great-nephew? James, this is Jackdaw.’
Jackdaw bowed once more and offered his arm to Pernel as the trio rose and went into the dining room. She walked very stiffly and slowly but never faltered in her steps. Like the twins’ he found her eyes quite amazing, lucent as water and not wrinkled or pouched in any way.
‘I see you like me as well as my brooch,’ she said. ‘You must come and visit me in Spain. I believe you are fluent in Spanish.’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Then we shall speak it at dinner tonight that we may be more private before the servants.’
And with that she switched languages effortlessly.
They spoke of everything — of the political scene; of Prince Albert’s influence on the Queen; of the theatre; of the family and Violet’s first baby. But they said not a word of the gift in which they knew they all shared until the meal was ended and they had withdrawn into Jacob’s private sanctum. Here a servant drew the heavy velvet drapery and logs were stacked on a fire that had been lit against the sharp spring night.
Then, at last, Jacob said, ‘Jackdaw, you have guessed already that we have summoned you for a purpose.’
He thought, ‘So it’s coming at last,’ and prayed that he would be equal to them, that their old power would not overwhelm him utterly.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Then sit down, my child.’
‘Here,’ Pernel put in, ‘on this stool by my feet.’
He did as he was told and felt his great-aunt lay her hand upon his shoulder. The contact was electric. A current passed through her fingers into his frame. He felt fear combine with his desire for knowledge.
Most unexpectedly then, Uncle James, instead of telling him anything, said, ‘Speak to us of Karma.’
Jackdaw gaped at them. He had come to them for truth and now they were asking him.
His grandfather read his thoughts and put in, ‘Wisdom must be shared, Jackdaw. That is the law of the universe. Tell us what you learned in India of death and life.’
‘Sir, only that they are a continuing process — like the march of the seasons.’
‘With many lives within the framework of the whole?’
‘Yes. And each step, each part of the path, governed by Karmic law.’
‘Tell us,’ said Pernel.
In Jackdaw’s eyes they were trans
formed. He did not know what mystery was at work in that room overlooking the great cliffs of Scarborough — that landscape surely scooped by a god — but to him the old people were young again. He sat in his grandfather’s study with three contemporaries; all four of them black of hair and bright of eye and talking of the mystery of the universe as sister and brothers all. Quietly he spoke.
‘Basically it is cause and effect. The Law of Karma is that we initiate events through our actions — for good or for evil — that we reap as we sow.’
‘But it is far more complex than that, surely?’
‘Yes,’ said Jackdaw, ‘it is very complex. It is believed that we are only now, in this life, living out causes that we set into motion in other lives. Do you agree with the theory, Grandfather?’
‘To a certain extent. But I do not believe in inevitability. We are given a choice of courses — and therefore of end results as well.’
‘I am sure that is so,’ said Uncle James. ‘There are two paths for everyone, all the time.’
‘And the Life Force governs all?’ This from Jackdaw.
‘We are all part of it: we come from it, we return to it. It is omnipotent.’
‘And those with our gift. What is their function?’
‘To be allowed to glimpse, as through a tear in a blindfold, something of the pattern of destiny.’
They were all silent, thinking how complex were the stepping stones of existence, the only sound the roar of the wind that had come up suddenly from the sea.
‘So why have you sent for me?’ said Jackdaw slowly. ‘What part is it you wish me to play?’
They all turned to look at him simultaneously, three pairs of eyes regarding him unblinkingly.
Then Jacob Gage said quietly, ‘It is not yet the right time for you to seek your soulmate.’
‘What?’ He looked at them, his jaw dropping.
‘We know about her,’ said Pernel. ‘You have dreamed of her always and you have seen her only once.’
Her nephew’s astonished silence spoke for him, and his grandfather went on, ‘If you find her now — and she is not far away — another soul will never see the truth. It will perish not knowing fulfilment.’
Jackdaw remained silent and Jacob went on, ‘Somebody close to you — it is not meant at this time that you know who it is — is condemned by fate. But it is your part to assist his earthly development. It is destined, Jackdaw, that you take no positive action to find the woman you love. All I can do is assure you that she will come to you when it is the right time for her to do so.’
An unenlightened young man — a young man brought up, as Jackdaw had been, in the rough and tumble of the British Army — might have scoffed at this, might have come out with silly statements about his life and to Hell with the rest. But Jackdaw listened carefully.
‘So I must let what will be, be?’
‘That is the right choice for you at present.’
‘I shall do what is decreed.’ He bowed to his three magic relatives and laughed suddenly, breaking the mood. His great-aunt saw him through a woman’s eyes and thought how attractive he was. And they all drew even closer together, that the descendants of Dr Zachary might speak of secrets until the dawn had come up over the wild bays of Scarborough, streaking the blue void with strands of coral and flame.
*
‘I have here, ladies and gentlemen, the silver bell carved with masks with which Pope Clement VII cursed the caterpillars. Now what am I offered for this rarity? Do I hear fifty pounds? Fifty pounds yes. Sixty pounds? Seventy pounds? Thank you, Madam ...’
The auctioneer’s voice slipped into its familiar drawl as hands popped up like corks and the twentieth day of ‘the Most distinguished Gem that has ever Adorned the Annals of Auctions’ commenced with a flourish. The Gallery in Strawberry Hill had been a saleroom for over two weeks now, while Horace Walpole’s collection went under the hammer amidst a blaze of strong reaction both in the press and privately.
Anne thought it quite dreadful, a blow to the Waldegrave honour, but George had simply shrugged his shoulders. He had been released from prison the previous November, his send-off tumultuous, his homecoming greeted with cheering and fireworks. And then he had announced his intention of selling up the treasured collection, leaving Strawberry Hill and going abroad. By his side stood Frances, getting prettier and prettier and cleverer and cleverer.
‘She’s behind it!’ Anne had said furiously to Algernon. ‘That minx, that scheming witch. What does she care about her heritage? Why, her father sold pencils outside the synagogue to keep himself from starving. What price the English aristocracy to her?’
Algy’s brow had furrowed like a mastiff’s.
‘You must be careful what you say, my dear. There are many who would resent that remark.’
‘I can’t help that.’ Anne’s voice had broken in a sob. ‘Since Frances Braham’s arrival on the scene there has been nothing but trouble. J.J.’s death, George’s imprisonment — and now this!’
Algy pondered the wisdom of pointing out that Frances had hardly been responsible for the first two, but decided against it after a glance at Anne’s face. Instead he said, very mildly, ‘The Times declares that the collection is worthless.’
And indeed it had. Not only that. Parodies of the catalogue — which had sold out eight editions — were changing hands amidst much jocularity, offering, as it did, such items as a pimple from the nose of Oliver Cromwell, a pip from the Garden of Eden’s apple and the bridge of the fiddle which Nero had scraped whilst Rome burned.
Now Anne, who had had enough of all of it, rounded on him.
‘Very easy for a newspaper to say. Our kinsman Horace Walpole made it his lifetime’s work.’
And she had been proud, when she had been mistress of Strawberry Hill, to show her visitors the curious accumulation of pictures, portraits, watercolours, gems, swords, urns, statues, china, vases, books, manuscripts, muskets, medals, coins, tapestries, rings, clocks — in fact all the sundry bric-à-brac of a compulsive hoarder’s obsession.
But everything had not been rubbish and to dismiss the collection, as The Times had done, was both silly and unfair. For amidst the rummage could be found Holbein’s portrait of Katharine of Aragon; Cardinal Wolsey’s red hat; a missal with miniatures by Raphael; a contemporary bust of Caligula; Alexander Pope’s copy of Homer; and rare and precious manuscripts.
And now the sale was into its third week — with a fourth envisaged — and 25,000 people had already attended. The British Museum had bid for the finest manuscripts, coins and prints, and Buckingham Palace itself had acquired the collection of tracts.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr George Robins, the auctioneer from Covent Garden, ‘I have here a fan of ostrich feathers, the base being filled with butterfly wings. It is said that this fan once belonged to the Empress of Russia and was given to the Lady Laura Waldegrave by an unknown admirer, supposedly a Venetian nobleman. The fan is not part of Walpole’s collection as such but was added to it after the death of Lady Laura. Now, do I hear fifty pounds?’
‘Yes,’ said Anne, who was sitting defiantly in the front row, clutching her catalogue in a kid-gloved hand.
‘Fifty pounds from the Dowager Countess Waldegrave. Any advance? Thank you, Sir.’
The bidding had started in earnest and Frances and George, unobserved at the back of the Gallery, stood stock still. Outside a carriage waited to take them to Dover, for tonight they were crossing to France and a new life. They had already made £20,000 from the sale of their kinsman’s memorabilia and Mr Robins believed that the sum realized might well reach £35,000. And as far as George was concerned his ancestral home could fall to the ground, for he had paid off the worst of his debts, had married his brother’s widow, and there was nothing left for him in England.
He half turned his back now but Frances pulled him round.
‘Your mother is going to be beaten,’ she whispered. ‘Her opponent represents a private collector, and will go t
o two hundred pounds.’
‘Let Mr Hicks buy it for her then.’
‘George, how can you be so cruel? We are unpopular enough as it is.’
‘Any advance on two hundred pounds?’ said Mr Robins. ‘Do I hear two hundred and ten pounds? No? For the first time then, at two hundred pounds, the fan of Lady Laura Waldegrave. For the ...’
‘Two hundred and ten pounds,’ said Frances clearly.
‘Two hundred and ten pounds to the Countess Waldegrave. Any advance on that? Do I hear any advance?’
Four heads turned and Frances found herself the subject of four, quite different, angry glances: Anne’s haughty and proud, telling Frances, with a look, that she was a parvenu little Jew; Mr Hicks’s canine and snarling; Horatia’s glacial, flashing like emeralds on ice; Ida Anna’s insolent and cheeky, her bootbutton gaze hard as nails as she actually mouthed the word ‘Bitch’.
‘No? Then for the first time, going at two hundred and ten pounds ...’
Frances saw Mr Hicks go to raise his arm and the Dowager Countess lay her gloved hand upon it and shake her head.
‘... sold to the Countess Waldegrave. The next item ...’
But the Hicks family was not staying for any more. With a mighty swish of her skirt Anne had risen from her gilt chair and was making her way to the door, past the very spot where her husband had died at her feet. They drew level with Frances and George, who stood trapped in the entrance, unable to move without rudeness bordering on insult.
Anne’s chin went into the air at an angle of ninety degrees and it seemed almost as if she would cut her son and daughter-in-law had not Mr Hicks barked, ‘Anne, goodbyes are in order, I think.’
For the first time George felt a sneaking admiration for the stepfather he considered an absolute bumbling idiot, and he made him a small bow.
‘Goodbye, Sir.’
