‘Child, enjoy yourself while you’re able! When the money’s gone will be time enough to think about what you must do. Enjoy yourself …’
But where? … with whom? There was only William and Jerome Taylor; the whole teeming world of London waited beyond Anne’s silken curtained windows, and her only companions were the child and his tutor. She began to slip into the schoolroom, and listened to Jerome’s pleasant voice as he read history with William; with faint wonder she studied the maps that recorded Captain Cook’s voyages in the Pacific, and heard accounts of the settlement at Botany Bay in New South Wales. Jerome Taylor responded instantly to her need and loneliness. He went to Anne and asked if Miss Jane shouldn’t be taken to see the sights of the town. William, of course, would go with them.
Anne had lain back in her bed chuckling over it when Jane entered the bedroom one morning.
‘Oh, Jane, that poor young man! He’s dazzled! And I was just about to forget to pay his salary this mouth ‒ now I’ll have to find it somewhere. I couldn’t have it on my conscience!’
And she told it to Lord O’Neill with great relish.
Jerome’s devotion made Jane uncomfortable. She wasn’t used to being treated as if she hadn’t seen a mud puddle in her life before. But she learned to play the part he expected from her reasonably well, knowing that he had mixed with gentlewomen all his life, and was impressing her with the pattern. She stifled her impatience and high spirits, and tried to remember the things he talked about. She followed him quietly round the city’s churches which Christopher Wren had built. She learned to draw him out. He would talk on happily, and nothing was beyond him ‒ the Revolution in France, the War of Independence that had cost England her American colonies, the root system of the dandelion growing at their feet in the churchyard, the science of botany, and what he hoped to record on the voyage in the South Seas. She listened to it all, and tried to remember. He knew more than she had believed was contained in one mind. He loved music and painting too ‒ as his confidence grew he began to talk of visits to the playhouses, occasions when William could not be present. She was eager for the experience of learning the city by night. These excursions to Covent Garden and The Bedford were a step in that direction, a faint brush with the world that Anne inhabited.
William’s head turned and twisted endlessly; he sipped his chocolate and let nothing go by him. He had all of Anne’s restless curiosity. These past days with Jane and Jerome Taylor had been blissfully happy ones for him ‒ free from lessons of a formal sort, and mingling with the crowds and bustle he loved. He approved of The Bedford completely, approved of Jane because she drew the glances of the men, approved of the packed, suffocating odours. He liked the world as he saw it.
Then he spoke suddenly. ‘There’s a man over there who keeps staring. I’ve stared back at him, and frowned, and I’ve shaken my head at him. But he just goes on staring.’
Jerome Taylor looked angry. ‘Who? … where?’
‘Over there, behind you.’ Jerome turned round quickly as William indicated the man ‒ a youngish man, with the aged, timeless look of a sailor, the faded eyes and the weathered skin. He wore a sailor’s jersey and a tasselled cap.
‘Who ‒ that fellow?’ Jerome looked back at Jane. ‘Miss Jane, perhaps you would like to go. This is no place to have a scene. It would be all over the town in a day …’
‘Oh, hush!’ Jane broke in. ‘Look ‒ he’s getting up! He’s coming over here!’ Jerome’s eyes clouded, because she was visibly excited and expectant.
Without haste the sailor made his way through the crowd, never taking his eye off the group, staring at them unblinkingly and without embarrassment. He bent over the table a little. Indignantly, Jerome rose to his feet.
‘Look here …!’
The sailor took no notice of him. ‘You’ll be a Blake,’ he said to Jane.
‘What?’
‘You’ll be a Blake,’ he repeated. ‘You’ll be a child of Anne Blake, or I’m a dead man.’
Jane looked at him with rounded, astonished eyes. ‘Yes … Yes, that’s right! My name’s Jane Howard. Anne Blake is my mother.’
He nodded, a wide grin splitting his face. He pulled his cap off his head.
‘I seen y’ ’ere once before, an’ I said t’ myself soon as I clapped eyes on y’ were kin o’ the Blake family … but this time I were sure.’ His eyes examined her face again carefully, wonderingly. ‘Well … so y’er Miss Anne’s and Tom Howard’s child! Miss Anne ‒ she were about yer age when I seen her last. She were much of an age with meself.’
‘You knew her when she was at Blake’s Reach?’ Jane said. It was strange to hear that name uttered like this to a man she had never seen before.
He nodded again. ‘It were like I said ‒ she were much of an age with meself, and she used t’ come ridin’ through Appledore most every day. Sometimes she’d stop by the cottage and talk with me mother. Why ‒ the whole Marsh knew Miss Anne. Blake’s Reach weren’t big enough to hold her. She were out in all weathers, and she used t’ talk t’ every living soul she met on the road. The way she used to act ‒ the folks used t’ say the whole Marsh belonged t’ her.’
He warmed to his own memories. ‘Just you ask her if she don’t remember riding into Appledore and talkin’ with Mary Thomas … and young Adam hangin’ round to catch a glimpse o’ her. She were that pretty! There were so many Thomases around in them days y’ couldn’t hardly stir a step without y’ fell over one o’ them. Ask ’er if she remembers!’
‘She remembers ‒ I’m sure she remembers!’ This was from William, who couldn’t contain himself any longer. His face was flushed with excitement.
The sailor turned and regarded William carefully. ‘An’ this will be another Blake ‒ same hair, same mouth.’
‘My half-brother,’ Jane said. After a slight hesitation, she added, ‘Won’t you take a seat?’
Jerome Taylor’s expression was thunderous as the man slipped easily into the seat by Jane; he was outraged and ruffled. But a glance from Jane forbade any objection; stiffly he acknowledged the introduction Jane made.
Adam Thomas was not at all disturbed by Jerome’s scowl. He continued talking calmly. ‘We did ’ear, down on the Marsh, that Miss Anne had a child ‒ maybe two or three. Just scraps o’ news, y’ know ‒ maybe picked up from one o’ the folks from Rye, who’d been t’ London. But I come up ’ere to London meself a few weeks back, an’ I begin askin’ about ’er. Was told she comes ’ere t’ The Bedford once in a while. I’ve been keepin’ an eye skinned for ’er ‒ she always bein’ so friendly-like, she’d never take offence at any of the Marsh folk speakin’ to ’er …’ He looked pointedly across at Jerome.
‘Miss Anne ain’t never been back t’ the Marsh,’ Adam observed regretfully. ‘We always did ’ope that maybe someday she would make it up with the old man. But the Blakes ‒ they always been ’igh-spirited and proud people. Weren’t no way, really, that Miss Anne could make amends, and the old man ain’t the forgivin’ type. Proud as peacocks, the Blakes are! Always ’igh and mighty they’ve been, and there’s some o’ the gentry about as ’asn’t liked it ‒ but I say ‒ and there’s many a one as says it with me ‒ that it’ll be a bad thing when the Blakes go from the Marsh. An’ the time’s comin’ pretty soon, ma’am, when there’ll be none on the Marsh who’s a Blake, either by birth or name. As long as the Marsh folk remember, there’s been a Blake … It’ll seem wrong without them.’
‘Without them?’ Jane echoed. ‘Why?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Why, ma’am … Well it’s plain old Spencer can ’ardly last the year ‒ ’e’s drinkin’ ’eavy, I do ’ear, and ’e’s not a young man any more. Seems like ’e don’t care, neither … the land’s almost all gone, and the ’ouse be fallin’ down about ’is ears.’
‘The land’s gone? Why?’
He shrugged again. ‘That’s ’ardly my business, is it, Miss Jane? What the gentry do is their affair ‒ and it’s not for the likes o’ me t’ ’ave a
nything to say about it. If Spencer Blake takes too much t’ drink when ’e settled down with the cards … well, a man’s got the right to gamble with ’is own property. But once y’ start slicin’ up a fine property like that was ‒ sellin’ a bit ’ere, a bit there ‒ well, it don’t amount t’ much, now. The tenant farmers ’ave most of it ‒ and old Spencer, ’e ’asn’t troubled to improve the sheep, and they’re a pretty run down lot, not givin’ anythin’ like the yield o’ wool or mutton, or the fancy price the Blake’s Reach stuff used t’ fetch. A pity like ‒ that’s what I say.’
‘The land’s gone …’ Jane repeated it in a dazed fashion.
‘Aye ‒ it’s gone, an’ beggin’ Miss Anne’s pardon, there’s no one could really blame Spencer. There’s the man all alone in the great house, not kith or kin near ’im. ’Tain’t any wonder ’e takes a drop. It seems ’e don’t care what ’appens to ’im, or t’ Blake’s Reach. There be no one t’ leave it t’ after ’e’s gone ‒ that is, no one who’ll live on the Marsh. After Miss Anne ran away with Tom Howard, ’twas said ’e named the nephew, the dark little one who was half-French, in ’is will. But then ’e ran away back to France. But it don’t matter whether Spencer left ’im in the will or cut ’im out, because ’e’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Aye … ’is ’ead cut off in this Revolution that’s goin’ on. I remember ’im almost as clear as Miss Anne ‒ as dark as the devil, ’e was, and could ride a horse like I never seen before. Well, ’e’s dead, now ‒ and ’tain’t likely there’ll ever be Blakes on the Marsh again …’
‘No … I expect not …’
He scratched his head slowly. ‘Well ‒ I was thinkin’ that maybe I’d perhaps see Miss Anne about ’ere some place. I could ’a’ told ’er about ’ow feeble old Spencer’s gettin’ … maybe she’d go and visit ’im. Guess even people as proud as the Blakes make it up sometimes. Would do the old man good if she went back and saw ’im ‒ would kind o’ lift ’im up if ’e saw ’is grandchildren. ’E’s a touchy old devil, is Spencer ‒ but there can’t never be a man as won’t feel like makin’ friends when ’e’s near to dyin’.’
Jane nodded. ‘I’ll tell my mother what you’ve said ‒ maybe some time she’ll be here, and you must say it all again to her. How long will you be in London?’
He scratched his head again. ‘Can’t rightly say. I get some work from time t’ time. Was figgerin’ I’d get t’gether a few shillin’s and make me way to Liverpool, and ship out from there.’ He grinned suddenly, and his face seemed full of an unholy glee. ‘’Ad a brush with the Customs men a few weeks back, so the Marsh ain’t exactly ’ealthy for me right now. But I’ll be back! ‒ someday I’ll be back! The pickin’s are too good t’ lose …’
He favoured Jane with a broad wink, and another grin, as if she shared some fantastic plot with him. He rose to his feet then.
‘I’ll bid y’ good-day, Miss Jane ‒ and you’ll please remember me kindly to Miss Anne. Just tell ’er what I’ve told you ‒ and say it came from Adam Thomas. That’s all.’
‘Wouldn’t you come and tell her yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘’Tain’t for the likes o’ me t’ be callin’ on Miss Anne. Just tell ’er the old man’s slippin’ ‒ that’s enough. No one tells Miss Anne what t’ do ‒ no one! An’ this ain’t none o’ me business, see. Ain’t none o’ me business!’ He made an attempt at a clumsy bow, and strode out of the coffee-house, disappearing into the crowd in the Garden. Jane watched his sailor’s cap bobbing; when he was gone from sight she turned quickly to Jerome. Her face was pale; two brilliant spots of colour burned in her cheeks.
‘I must go back now. I must speak with my mother.’
II
Anne sat once again before her mirror; she listened while Jane talked. Her face, reflected in the pale oval, was thoughtful; she nodded quietly at Jane’s words.
‘So … Charlie’s dead! … And Father is dying! Well, that’s the end of the Blakes!’ Her voice was curiously hollow and lifeless.
‘Don’t you care?’
‘Care?’ Anne stirred a little. ‘I don’t know ‒ it’s so long since I’ve seen Father I can hardly feel what it will be like to know that he’s dead. And Charlie ‒ he was a little boy when I left. He was my first cousin, the only child of Spencer’s brother, who married a Frenchwoman. I can’t think of him as a man who has lost his head. All I remember of Charlie was the way he used to ride across the Marsh as if he and the pony were one animal. He was so dark, Charlie was ‒ and so silent. It’s as if you told me a shadow was dead.’
‘But you don’t care? … about Blake’s Reach?’
Now Anne’s expression took form and meaning. ‘Care about Blake’s Reach? You mean why don’t I go and make it up with Father and he will leave Blake’s Reach to me? Well ‒ I’ll tell you plainly. I hate Blake’s Reach! And I’d rather die than have to go back to live there!’
‘But the inheritance?’
‘What inheritance?’ Anne snapped. ‘Will it do me any good to inherit a crumbling pile of bricks, and a mountain of debts? I have enough debts of my own!’
‘How do you know?’ Jane persisted. ‘How can you be sure that Adam Thomas knows all the truth? Or that he knows any of it? He may be wrong.’
‘He’s not wrong. The Marsh people always know everything that whispers or breathes on the Marsh. Adam Thomas’s father was one of our shepherds, and his father before him. The mother worked in our dairy. Don’t you think they know? Believe me, they know almost as much as Father does about Blake’s Reach! Didn’t he say that the land was gone? Well, let me tell you ‒ that land is money. You need land for sheep, and sheep are all that matter on the Romney Marsh.’
‘But there must be something! ‒ something that’s worth saving!’ Jane’s voice was anguished. She couldn’t believe what her senses were telling her ‒ that Anne meant to do nothing about Blake’s Reach, that she wouldn’t stir a finger to keep any part of it for herself, that she could let it all be submerged in a tide of indifference.
‘There’s nothing worth saving ‒ nothing! There was almost nothing worth saving twenty years ago when I ran away with Tom. Father had a match all made for me with a man who could have put Blake’s Reach back on its feet. Only he didn’t take into account the fact that I didn’t care enough for Blake’s Reach to save it at the expense of myself.’ She gave an angry toss of her head, and her lovely voice grew a trifle shrill. ‘He pretended he loved me ‒ worshipped me! But all it was was pride in the way I looked, and how I sat a horse. He gave me everything I wanted, but all it meant was that in the end I should be agreeable to marrying myself to Roger Pym, and living on that God-forsaken Marsh for the rest of my days.
‘Do you think,’ she demanded harshly, ‘that I care to go back now and drop on my knees to him, just so that I’ll inherit the mess he chose to make of his life? I’m in a mess too ‒ but at least it’s one of my own making! Do you think I could go back there and live? You don’t know what it’s like, Jane. Just flat ‒ all of it, and Blake’s Reach standing on the cliff above the Marsh where the sea winds cut you to pieces, and the roads so bad in winter that you couldn’t even travel the six miles to Rye for a little company and gaiety. There’s nothing but flat miles of sheep, and beyond them, the sea. Just think of it! ‒ sitting by the fire all winter long, and listening to the gales sweeping up the Channel … and knowing that there was nothing to do except struggle up the hill every third Sunday, to sit in the Blake pew in the church great-grandfather Blake built with money he had stolen in the Marlborough wars. No news, no excitement ‒ nothing except the whisper that runs round the Marsh when a big run of smugglers’ goods have been safely landed. The only lights that show on the Marsh by night, Jane, are the beacons and the lanterns that light the smugglers’ luggers into anchor. On the one hand you have murderers and cut-throats for company ‒ on the other there’s the country squires, with their dowdy wives and daughters.’
‘Murderers? What do you me
an ‒ murderers?’
Anne said quietly, ‘In all of England there’s no district so favourable to the smuggling fraternity. They’re born seamen, Jane ‒ more brave and reckless than men have right to be. Tea and brandy and tobacco ‒ the whole country uses smuggled goods without thinking that they break the law by not paying Customs duty on them. And it’s the men along the coast from Kent to Cornwall who bring it in. The Romney Marsh has an edge on all the other counties because it has the wool that the Flemish weavers need. They take wool instead of gold to pay for the tea and brandy. They make fortunes, Jane ‒ real fortunes! Don’t you think men will murder for such money? I can tell you that the life of the man who informs isn’t worth a penny piece on the Marsh. He had best say his prayers.
‘That’s what the Marsh means, Jane ‒ smugglers, sheep and clottish squires. Could you expect me to want to go running there now to a father I have never cared for, and who has never cared for me? Could you see me living there, even if the land and the money wasn’t all gone. It’s unthinkable!’
In those terms, it was unthinkable. Jane turned away slowly. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said.
Over by the window she stood for a long time pondering what Anne had said. It sounded bleak and sombre ‒ the long winters of Channel storms and the slow pace of country life. She thought of the old man who was dying there alone, who had quarrelled with every living blood relation ‒ and who, perhaps, was now regretting it. She thought of the long succession of Blakes who had been on the Marsh, the house and the family that Anne hated, but which symbolized part of the life of the Marsh itself to Adam Thomas. It seemed criminal to her that Anne should make no attempt to salvage some of it. The energies of a family for generations had gone into the making of this, the last one ‒ and she was going to cast it aside like a gown out of fashion. The whole idea made Jane desperate and rebellious.
‘The Blakes ‒ they’ve been there a long time?’ she asked. ‘Even hundreds of years?’
Blake's Reach Page 8
