by Deryn Lake
She thought, then, that Mr Salvin would never go away from Sutton Place. And, indeed, they had been back from their holiday twelve days before he finally announced, at the breakfast table, that he was off that morning to London, where he was meeting Uncle Thomas Monington.
‘Good,’ said Mr Hicks, lowering his newspaper and staring fixedly through his pince-nez. ‘That should clear the air.’
‘What do you mean by that, Sir?’ asked Francis, looking rather startled.
‘What I say. I am sure Mr Monington will have very definite views on your future, Francis.’
And with that he refused to be drawn further, disappearing behind The Times as if it were a shield.
By ten o’clock Francis had left and the mansion house seemed still at last. Algernon and Anne, accompanied by four dogs — their own and Horatia’s — went for a walk; Ida Anna took the jaunting car into Guildford to visit the shops and Horatia, taking a drawing block with her, went to sit on the lawns beyond the courtyard, trying to sketch but really wondering if it might be better to write to Cousin Francis now that he had at long last left. She had heard it said that to announce the breaking off of an engagement by letter was a cowardly way out, but at the moment could see no alternative.
And it was at this point that she heard — very much as she had expected — the silvery notes of a distant flute. Cloverella, either by a sixth sense or by watching the house, probably a combination of the two, obviously knew that Francis Salvin had gone and was making her way up the drive.
But when she rounded the bend Horatia, hurrying forward to greet her, saw that it was not the witch girl playing but a tall handsome lad with a mass of curly dark brown hair and long lean fingers that moved like birds over the reed.
‘Jay?’ she said, stopping short.
He swept her a deep bow, plucking his cap from his head and brushing the ground with it. And when he straightened up Horatia saw that he was the image of his mother, even down to the strong white teeth. Yet there was something about the set of his eyes that reminded her of someone else.
‘You sent for us, my Lady,’ he said.
It was not a question but a statement of fact. Whatever ritual Horatia had enacted with the wax dolly had come to fruition. Cloverella and her son had heard her plea for help.
Now Cloverella said, ‘How can we serve you?’
Horatia decided to come straight to the point.
‘It is about Jackdaw — Major John Wardlaw. I believe that Captain Webbe Weston has spoken to me from beyond the grave. I believe he is trying to tell me that the Major is not dead as everyone believes. What is the truth, Cloverella?’
The gypsy sat down beneath the elm tree, sticking her legs straight out in front of her and producing her pipe from her pocket.
‘I’ll let Jay tell you that,’ she said.
‘Jay?’
‘Yes, my Lady. He will scry for you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Crystal-gaze, divine. He is better than I am, my Lady. He too comes from the old blood of Dr Zachary and Cloverella the Witch. He will find the answer you seek.’
‘Here, my Lady.’ Jay’s steadfast eyes stared into Horatia’s. ‘Hold this crystal in your hands.’
His gaze was growing faraway even as he spoke, and his shoulders were hunching. He suddenly looked very wild-blooded and Horatia caught herself wondering who this Dr Zachary could have been to create such a remarkable descendant. But without further indication Jay took the crystal back from her and held it closely, hardly looking at it at all.
‘You are very unhappy,’ he said. ‘But there is no real need for that. Within three years you will achieve your heart’s wish.’
‘Which is?’
‘To be reunited with Major Wardlaw.’
There was a prolonged silence and then Horatia said, ‘But I hardly know Major Wardlaw. I doubt that I have met him half a dozen times.’
Jay turned to look at her, and she saw that his face had undergone a transformation. A man looked out at her, a man with strong features yet whose smile was naughty if he chose. She was seeing the boy as he would look twenty years hence and she was amazed at his power.
‘Perhaps — but in truth you know Major Wardlaw well, Lady Horatia. It is no good giving conventional answers and thinking conventional thoughts. They are but mouse squeaks in the face of God. You must think on the great scale if you are to achieve wisdom.’
Normally a boy of his background speaking thus to the Lady of the Manor would have had his ears soundly boxed and been put on bread and water for a week. But Horatia made no move. She knew that something else — a force she did not understand — was using Jay as its instrument.
‘Then Major Wardlaw is alive?’ she said.
‘He lives, my Lady. But he is in great danger of his life — not from a particular threat but from the surroundings in which he has been forced to dwell. It is up to you now to keep faith with him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you give your thoughts — and heart — to him, he will know it. It will give him the strength he needs to escape.’
‘Then he is a prisoner?’
‘Of a kind, yes. But let me tell you this, Lady. It is decreed that you and he should always be together, through many stages of experience, and it is up to you to help destiny fulfil its pattern.’
‘Jay, what are you saying?’
His eyes were bright as the evening star as he answered, ‘Wait for him. Think of no other. Have faith.’
‘And Mr Salvin?’
‘That will be made easy for you. He himself will break away.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
Jay laughed and Horatia saw that he was a youth again; a handsome lean youth who would be so great a person when he came to maturity.
‘Watch out for Uncle False-Teeth,’ he said.
Horatia looked thoroughly startled. ‘But I thought he wanted it — the Lady of the Manor marrying his heir.’
Jay winked. ‘Perhaps he drives too hard a bargain, Lady Horatia.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jay stood up, still laughing, helping Horatia to her feet at the same time.
‘I have told you enough. It is not good to know too much. Just remember that Major Wardlaw needs the power of your thought if what is meant is to be fulfilled.’
Jay’s strong teeth flashed into a smile as he looked at Cloverella, fast asleep beneath the elm tree, her pipe still smoking in her hand.
‘She is with child,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Horatia was shocked. ‘Cloverella — after all these years? By whom?’
‘Some great man she thought fit to father her daughter.’
Horatia shook her head. ‘I can’t keep pace with you Romanies.’
‘It is not intended that you should.’
Horatia looked thoughtful. ‘And that reminds me of something else, Jay. Who is your father? Is his name known?’
‘Oh yes, it’s known,’ said Jay.
And with that he picked up the flute and played a tune so merry that Horatia lifted up her skirts and — there in the sunshine of Sutton Place — danced as if the world had just begun.
24
That the letter could contain good news did not even go through Horatia’s mind. It lay on the silver tray harmlessly enough but there, for a knowing eye to see, was all the evidence that it had been written hurriedly and under a great deal of stress. Algernon’s Hicks’s usually neat and precise hand was sprawled across the envelope like a child’s, and a watery blot lay at the bottom left-hand corner.
Horatia ripped the envelope open with her fingers, not bothering to pick up the silver knife bought in a little shop in Vienna — John Joseph laughing beside her — the place filled with the smell of hot chocolate from the café next door and crowded with dolls and musical boxes. Her eyes scanned the contents. She read:
Sutton Place,
August 1, 1852.
My very dear Stepdaughters,
/> I am writing to you in the greatest haste and distress. My beloved wife, your mother, collapsed with severe abdominal pain last night and Dr Thorne was called at once from Guildford. He has diagnosed inflammation of the stomach wall and seems to be treating the matter with some seriousness. Nurse Woodware — a blunt woman but highly recommended by the doctor — came to take charge this morning but I would implore you, if you have any love at all for your family, to come immediately. Your mother seems very weak and I do believe the presence of her two daughters might be of great assistance.
I am writing to Annette by the same post but feel that family commitments might preclude her from coming for long.
Yours in great affection,
Algernon Hicks.
Horatia sat down rather suddenly, her blood going cold. For her stepfather to write in those terms must mean that the Dowager Countess’s condition was poor; nothing else would induce dear old Algy to sound quite so fraught with anxiety.
Thoughts of her mother went through Horatia’s mind. She remembered the beautiful woman, hair swept up into an Apollo knot, on her way to dine with George IV; she remembered the crazy creature who had run round and round the Tribune in grief; she remembered the dear little soul who had married Algernon Hicks in the sweetest wedding ever. Above all she remembered her mother’s bravery, her tenacity, her incomparable yearning for life in the face of such hardship. And now — ‘inflammation of the stomach wall’. What sinister reality was concealed in those vague words?
The front door opened and closed and Ida Anna, arrayed in sealskin taffeta and sporting fifteen petticoats to hold out the skirt, appeared with Lulie and Porter trotting beside her.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. ‘I had such an adventure in the flower market.’ She stopped short on seeing Horatia’s face. ‘What is it?’ Her tone changed completely. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘It’s Mother,’ her sister answered shortly. ‘She’s seriously ill.’
‘Oh Heaven!’
Ida Anna sat down hard on the other chair and there was total silence for a moment or two. Then she said, ‘It’s not my fault, is it?’
‘How could it be your fault?’ Horatia answered. ‘She has a stomach complaint.’
‘Yes, but it could have been brought on by worry. She was so bitterly opposed to my coming to live with you.’ There was silence again while both the sisters thought of the Countess’s letter to Ida Anna written only four months earlier.
‘It is hard upon me having two unmarried daughters to lose the society of both in my latter days,’ it had read. ‘But as it is your wish and pleasure I must submit, and sincerely do I hope that you may be the happier for the change ...’
‘I feel guilty,’ said Ida Anna now. ‘But I did hate Sutton Place so much.’
‘So did I.’
‘And I wanted to be with you in Leamington, Horry. There’s life and fun up here.’
They were both full of remorse.
‘Anyway,’ Ida Anna went on, ‘after Cousin Francis turned you down you needed a companion.’
They both laughed out loud for a moment, thinking of how neatly Horatia had slid out of the commitment. And how Uncle Thomas Monington’s plotting had worked so brilliantly to her advantage.
It had been his idea that she should, on marrying Francis Salvin, his heir, give up her allowance of an annual £1,000 on remarriage as stipulated in John Joseph’s will. In return, Uncle Thomas Monington would waive his inheritance of Sutton Place, for which he was next in line should she marry again. And at this dear Algy had risen up growling.
‘That money was left to you especially by John Joseph,’ he had said, standing in the Library and looking furious. ‘Horatia, you are not to agree. I shall see Salvin myself and refuse the proposal on your behalf.’
And that had been that! Cousin Francis had told Horatia that he could not proceed with the wedding unless she was prepared to give up her allowance — and she had said, in return, that in no circumstances would she do so. The engagement was over and Uncle Thomas had gone off hissing like a rattlesnake.
‘Thank God he did,’ said Horatia now. ‘I don’t think I could have stood all that hawking and hunting.’
‘Cousin Francis is very sweet,’ answered Ida Anna wisely. ‘But not right for you, Horry. Nor for me either,’ she added with a sigh.
There was another pause and then Ida Anna said, ‘Do you think Jay Blanchard’s prophecy is true? That Jackdaw is still alive?’
‘I don’t know. I pray so. I wish you had been there, Ida Anna. Jay looked so ... old, so knowing. I truly thought I was in the presence of magic.’
‘They are a funny couple — Cloverella and her son.’
‘There are three of them now. She had a baby girl in February.’
‘I know. And called it Bluebell, would anyone believe! Bluebell Blanchard, I declare!’
‘I think it pretty,’ answered Horatia slowly. ‘Bluebell, Jackdaw — both unusual names, and unforgettable.’
*
Over the snow, over the ice, speeding out of the great mountain pass that reached up to heaven, the tiger came towards the hunting party like a thunderbolt, pausing not at all as it raced forward in full sprint. Every muscle in its body coordinated to produce a glorious effect — fur rippling over sinew, powerful legs leaving the ground with each bound, so that for a moment everyone stood spellbound, finding it hard to realize that in a minute this mighty being would be dead, crunching down on to the ice in a scarlet pool of blood. But, even as it hurtled, guns were raised and the whine of bullets broke the absolute silence of this gateway of the gods — the vast and mysterious border between Siberia and the secret land of Manchuria.
Jackdaw raised his gun with the others but aimed over the beast’s proud head. He had no intention of being the one to end that glorious life unless it was absolutely necessary that he should. And then he found that he did, in fact, have to fire again, for the animal charged on unscathed, a flash of steel preparing to defend itself.
The first hunter fell silently beneath its snarling onslaught and the screams of the second were only protracted a moment or two. The third managed to run away and had vanished before the tiger came. So only the fourth was left, standing there in his fur hat and coat, and realizing that it was either he or the magnificent animal that must perish in the snows.
He narrowed his eye and took aim at the tiger’s brain. The bullet chamber clicked round and he fired twice more, holding the last two bullets in reserve. Still the creature came on and he fired again at the mighty heart. He saw the tiger leap in pain and then fall, like thunder, at his feet. He could have wept. He, who did not believe in taking life, had been forced to kill one of the most beautiful creations in the world.
And then he realized that the tiger had released him. That by its immense charge against the guns it had rid him of two fellow prisoners and their gaoler. He was free at last — after four years in the Czar’s penal colony — to make his way through the mountains and into China. And then back to England.
The thought of Horatia — of her burnished hair and shining beauty — made him look once more at the dead animal at his feet, its fur glimmering like his love. The creature’s eyes were open and staring at him mournfully. Just as if it was human he bent to close them — and then a curious thing happened. Quite how it came about he could never afterwards tell but John Joseph gazed at him out of the tiger’s eye.
Jackdaw started back in terror, unable to look. But when he regained his composure and stared at the animal once more, he saw that the eyes had now closed peacefully. He knew at once what it meant. In the four years since last he had seen him John Joseph Webbe Weston had died. Horatia was a widow.
As he set his sight towards the perilous mountains through which he must travel to escape, Jackdaw could only think of one thing; that he was going back. Back, to take Horatia away from Sutton Place and the curse that had killed her husband and would surely, in time, find its own way of ending her.
*
It was extraordinary! Despite the fact of the season’s being high summer, Sutton Place had vanished in thick mist. In fact as the carriage bearing the Ladies Horatia and Ida Anna from the railway station came round the sweep of the drive from which the first glimpse of the house was always taken, they saw only a wall of fog. The mansion had disappeared.
‘Is it an omen?’ said Ida Anna, her eyes fearful. ‘I’ve never seen it — or rather not seen it — as bad as this before.’
Despite being the elder of the two and attempting to be the more sensible, Horatia shivered. She sat opposite her sister, for their huge skirts, supported by layer after layer of petticoat, needed the full width of a seat to allow them to sit at all. But now she leant across and touched Ida Anna’s arm.
‘I am sure it is not,’ she said. ‘It is just something to do with the hot days and cool evenings. Look, there are the lights of the house now.’
And sure enough, through the gloom, they could see the gleam of lamps in the courtyard. Yet the feeling of a house cut off from the world persisted, for as the wheels turned over the cobbles there was no familiar clatter and click, but only a strange and disembodied silence. Mr Hicks had ordered straw to be put down so that the Dowager Countess should not be disturbed.
Inside the depressing feeling persisted. There even seemed to be mist in the Great Hall as the ladies, not even stopping to remove their bonnets, traversed the vast space to greet their stepfather, who awaited them in the Library.
They had never seen him so drawn, so quiet, so lacking in merriment. In fact, behind his pince-nez, Horatia saw that his eyes were watery and pink. Dear Algy, who had bounded into their lives and brought them so much in the way of material benefits — and so much, too, in the way of support and encouragement — had been weeping on his own.
