The path stretched ahead like a green tunnel. The old cart ridges underfoot had almost disappeared in thick grass and tall spikes of meadowsweet which gave off a delicious, almost intoxicating scent as the mare brushed through them. Above Grace’s head beech branches whispered and their leaves brushed against her face like caressing hands as she pushed through. In gaps between the trees, sunlight dappled the glades and lit up fading spikes of pink foxgloves and dying clusters of Scottish bluebells among curling fronds of pale green bracken. Bright pink campions dotted the banks and contrasted with the yellow stars of coltsfoot and the brilliant blue of cranesbill. The silence was like the hush inside a huge empty church and unhurried rabbits that bobbed slowly away at the sound of her approach seemed to move soundlessly. Some of them paused and stared up at the girl on the horse from round startled eyes but they were not really afraid because few people had passed that way for years.
The path led on for more than a mile, sometimes almost disappearing in the undergrowth but all the time heading deeper into woodland. Trees clustered closer and closer with the occasional young seedling almost blocking Grace’s passage. She could see that there were berries, turning pale orange already, on the branches of the rowan trees. Soon they would be scarlet, the sign of autumn. The rose hips were colouring up too and clusters of tight green brambles like little rosettes covered the ends of trailing thorn branches that reached out to grab Grace’s skirt as she brushed past them.
Her memory told her that the path to the mill was long so she did not despair of reaching its end for she knew she was heading in the right direction. As she pushed through the undergrowth, however, she hoped that the mill might not be so overgrown that it would be missed, but suddenly a grey stone wall and a broken roof could be spied rising above a line of trees. She jumped down from the saddle and led the mare by the bridle towards the buildings. Surprisingly the path was clearer here and the grass was beaten down as if someone had pushed a way through quite recently. A little wooden bridge, rotting in places but still capable of bearing weight, crossed a stream that was channelled between two stone embankments. Grace stood on the bridge and saw that the trodden-down path led up to the front door of an old house.
She remembered it well but her heart sank at the sight of its dilapidation. The last time she’d been there it had been very different, but now the window glass was broken and the wood of the door was split and it swung open on one hinge. She tied her horse up in the shade beside a patch of tall grass that would give sweet grazing and walked towards it. Behind the house rose the old mill which was even more broken down, for an ash sapling was growing through a gaping hole in the roof and though the wooden waterwheel was still there, it was stained with green lichen and some of the spars were missing.
For a moment Grace wondered if she should turn and ride away again. She’d seen what she came to see and the dilapidation was heartbreaking. Besides, from the state of the path it looked as if someone else had been there not so long ago and perhaps whoever it was still lurked among the trees watching her.
But something drew her on. She had old ghosts to lay. Walking slowly she reached the front door of the house and pushed it fully open. When she had visited the house as a child, the room was warm and welcoming with a fire blazing up the chimney and coloured rugs on the floor. A table covered with food always stood in the middle of the floor. There had been a tall dresser in a corner with pretty plates on its shelves and a tall clock with a painted face had ticked away the time. She stepped into the dimness and blinked to accustom her eyes to the lack of light after the blazing sun outside. Then slowly, she gazed around.
The dresser was still there, dusty and hung with cobwebs but the pretty plates had all gone. The clock had vanished too but the old round table stood isolated in the middle of the floor. In the corners of the room piles of dead leaves and dried twigs had blown in over many winters. Yet, in spite of all that, the room did not look too desolate. Someone had been there recently, for the middle of the floor had been swept and a chipped plate stood on the table. Grace saw that there were crumbs on it and lifted them to her lips: they were not yet stale. Disquiet filled her and she looked questioningly around. A candle stump stood in a puddle of dried wax by the side of the hearth and a bundle of twigs was laid in the grate as if someone had been interrupted in the act of building a fire.
All at once she became painfully aware of the isolation of the place and knew that even if she tried to get away there was little chance of escaping an attacker. If she called out, no one would hear her. Her skin prickled with sensitivity as if someone was watching her but there was no place in the room where an unseen watcher could hide. Her disquiet made her so unsettled, however, that she decided against going upstairs and ran back outside, closing the door firmly behind her and tying a bit of string through the latch to keep it secure, although that would be no deterrent to a determined intruder.
In the open once more Grace felt safer and decided that she had been silly. Some innocent tramp was probably living in the empty house or perhaps a pedlar on his way to the Fair was using it as a temporary lodging. There’s no reason to be afraid, she told herself and sat down to rest for a little before starting for home again. In the sunlit glade she felt warm and reassured so she lay down on the grass by the side of the mill lade which chattered through its course towards the river that could be seen glimmering silver through gaps in the trees.
She leaned on her elbow and looked down into the water of the lade which beckoned invitingly in the summer heat. Another memory wakened. Long ago she had bathed in that pool and she remembered standing naked in the water with someone – a woman – smiling down at her from the bank. On impulse she bent forward and took off her shoes and stockings, then dipped her thin white legs into the cool water. It gave her a delicious thrill as it surged around her legs and she kirtled up her skirt so as not to get it wet when she dropped off the bank and stood on the gravel bed of the little stream, staring down into the chattering water. Its flow was mesmeric and she was smiling as she watched it swirling around her calves. Though the day was hot, the water felt icy cold and stimulated the blood flow in her legs. She stared down at them – the right leg was white and strong-looking, a perfect leg, but the other was thin and wizened and seemed to belong to another person altogether. It was the leg of a cripple, of an imperfect girl. Balancing herself on the good leg, she moved the crippled one around gently in the water, holding it out and wriggling the toes as if trying to take some of the power of the rushing water into it. She wondered if the pulsing stream could make it whole and strong, could return it to what it had been when she paddled in the lade as a child, for her memory told her that she was not crippled then. She remembered running, jumping and splashing in the water. Her absorption was so complete that she did not see a woman walk up to the edge of the lade. Her reverie was broken, however, when a voice called softly from behind her, ‘What’s the matter with your leg, my dear? Have you hurt it?’
The tone was so friendly that Grace was not in the least frightened by the realisation that her suspicion was correct, unseen eyes had been watching her after all. She looked calmly up from her contemplation of her limbs in the water and said, ‘I’m crippled. I’ve been like this for a long time.’
A tall thin woman dressed in black had come out from behind a thicket of little trees at the side of the house. Now she squatted down on the grassy verge beside the mill lade and she and Grace both turned their eyes down to the legs shining white in the clear water. ‘It’s the left one, isn’t it? It doesn’t look too bad to me. Exercises would help. Have you seen a doctor about it?’ asked the stranger in a friendly and outright way.
Grace shook her head. ‘No. It’s been like this since I was small. My father and step-mother say that nothing can be done for it. I was sick in bed for a long time when I was seven years old and when I got up that leg didn’t work like the other one any more. I just have to endure it.’
The stranger raised her head a
nd stared at the girl. She wore no bonnet and Grace noticed that her hair was as dark as Odilie’s but her skin was not dark and she had eyes of the palest blue like a spring sky. Those eyes were sympathetic when she asked, ‘You’ve only a step-mother – no mother?’
Grace wriggled her toes in the cool water and sighed. ‘She died long ago but she used to live here when she was a girl. That’s why I’ve come today. I’ve only just found out that this mill was her home and I wanted to see it. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’
The woman stood up abruptly and the look on her face had changed. When she spoke her voice quavered as if she was having trouble breathing. ‘What’s your name, my dear?’
Grace looked up in surprise. ‘Grace Elliot. My mother’s name was Lucy Allen before she married.’
The woman looked down for a long moment and her voice was husky when she said, ‘I knew Lucy Allen once.’
Excitedly Grace came splashing out of the water and limped over to her, exclaiming in delight, ‘That’s wonderful! How lucky that I met you. Tell me anything you can remember about her, please. I’ve never been able to find out much – my father won’t talk about her at all and Martha Rutherford knows something but she’s very odd about it for some reason. No one else knows anything – or at least if they do, they won’t say. Tell me about my mother – please.’
When the woman turned towards Grace her face looked strained and sad. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but there’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. She had a short life, had poor Lucy, and not a very happy one – at least it wasn’t happy at the end although she was happy enough when she lived here as a girl.’
‘Oh, but she was happy when she had me, wasn’t she? I found a Bible that she’d written my name in and I could feel she was happy when she did that.’
‘Yes, she was happy about you, very happy. She loved you dearly. It was so painful – you were only a bairn when she went away.’
Grace was surprised. ‘Went away? I thought she died.’
The woman gave herself a shake as if she had said something wrong. ‘Of course, yes, she’s dead. She’s dead all right, but she had to go away first.’
‘Tell me, oh, please tell me,’ pleaded Grace but the stranger shook her head and said the same thing as everyone else. ‘There’s nothing much more to tell, at least I don’t know anything. She went away first and then she died in London.’
The terrible finality of that statement made the day lose its glory for Grace. It seemed to her that a cloud crossed the sun and dark shadows crept into the glades between the trees. A chill swept over her and she shivered, raising a hand to her eyes, as she said brokenly, ‘She went away. So she did not love me, either… no one has ever loved me.’
The strange woman saw the effect her words had on the girl and stepped quickly forward, saying in an urgent voice, ‘Oh believe me, she loved you. She loved you very much.’
Grace shook her head. ‘Why did she go away, then? It would have been bad enough if she died at home but to go away first – if she loved me, why did she leave me with a father who does not care about me – how could she?’ Her head fell forward like a broken-stemmed flower as the dreams of her loving, caring mother rapidly disappeared.
The stranger put out a hand and gently took hold of the girl’s chin, lifting her face up as she said, ‘Lucy didn’t want to go away, Grace. Please believe me. She was forced into it. She was brokenhearted to leave you. That’s true, as true as I’m standing here now.’
Grace looked up with bewilderment in her blue eyes. ‘How do you know?’ she asked.
‘I know because I saw her after she left Lauriston. She was bereft – no woman could have suffered more. She thought about you all the time, all the time.’
‘You must have known her well,’ said Grace, amazed. As she listened to the woman her face was beginning to look less stricken.
The answer was a vehement nod. ‘I knew her very well. It is because of her that I came back here today. I wanted to find out if there was anyone still living in the mill but it looks as if it’s been abandoned for years. It’s a miracle that I found you here.’ She took hold of Grace’s hand as she spoke and the girl could feel that the hand holding hers was trembling and there were tears in the woman’s eyes. After a little pause while they stared at each other wordlessly, the woman asked, ‘Do you know what happened to Lucy’s father, my dear?’
Grace shook her head. ‘The last time I came here I was six or seven – before I took ill. Jessie, our maid, brought me. The old man who was my grandfather was here then. Jessie told me he’d died when I was sick and I haven’t been back since – until today.’
Standing shoulder to shoulder they were almost the same height and together they stared around at the sad desolation. ‘It used to be so busy here – with the wheel turning, the water falling and the millstones grinding away all the time, day and night. It was like constant music,’ said the woman in a sad faraway voice.
Grace nodded. ‘I remember that, too. It was exciting. But the old man was so sad and Jessie used to cry all the way home after we came to see him – I remember that, too.’
‘Oh God – such sorrow!’ sighed the woman. ‘And Jessie – is Jessie still alive?’
‘Oh no, she died about ten years ago too – while I was sick as well. When I got better Kelly our skivvy told me that Jessie had died of the fever. Did you know her too?’
‘Yes, I knew Jessie very well. She used to live here in Bettymill too. There were five families living in the little houses at the back of the mill. How sad that they’ve all gone and the mill’s not working any longer.’ She sounded as if she was mourning.
Grace shook her head. ‘But it wouldn’t be worthwhile anyone staying here, would it? It’s a ruin.’
The woman turned to look closely at the girl and her eyes became sharp again when she said, ‘If both your mother and your grandfather are dead, my dear, this mill belongs to you.’
Grace was astonished. ‘To me! It can’t. No one’s ever told me anything about that and my father’s always saying that I’ve no dowry so I must do as I’m told.’
‘Your father – is he well?’ asked the woman guardedly.
‘Oh yes, he’s well and very busy. He’s a lawyer in Lauriston, he’s an important man.’
The answer was a nod and a small smile. ‘I’m not surprised. And he married again, I expect.’
Grace looked downcast. ‘Oh yes, it must have been shortly after my mother died – went away I mean – because I never remember a time when he wasn’t married. He has three other children, too.’ It was obvious from the girl’s tone that this was not a happy subject for her.
‘Whom did he marry?’
‘He married Hester.’
The woman gave a wild peal of laughter that rang out eerily among the trees. ‘Hester the maid! So he married the maid! Ha, ha, ha!’
‘She came from here as well. Do you know her?’ asked Grace in amazement.
‘Oh yes, I knew her but not as well as I knew Lucy or Jessie, not nearly as well.’ The woman impulsively threw her arms round the surprised girl and hugged her close, crying, ‘I’m so happy that I met you today. So happy, I can’t tell you how much.’ Then she held Grace away after a while and stared searchingly into her face as if she wanted to remember every feature. After a bit she said more soberly, ‘You must be wondering about me. My name is Alice Archer. My man and I run a travelling freak show and we’re coming to St James’ Fair on Monday but I wanted to see this old place again. He brought me up on horseback this morning but went back down the road to settle the waggons for the night. He’ll pick me up tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind me wanting to see your mill and spending the night in it.’
‘My mill!’ Grace looked around at her new and unexpected possession. The revelation that Bettymill might belong to her made the whole place seem different. The house was not so ruined-looking, it was almost habitable, in fact. ‘I could live here,’ she thought in delight and her spirits soared. It seemed as
if her whole world had started to change for the better and she smiled at the stranger by her side. ‘Of course I don’t mind. Stay here as long as you like. Or ride back to Lauriston on the pillion with me. The mare could carry us both easily. Come back to Viewhill and see Hester and my father.’
The woman threw back her head and laughed but again her merriment had a strange undertone to it. ‘Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all. I don’t think I’d be very welcome at Viewhill. I was your mother’s friend, not Hester’s. Anyway, my husband’ll come looking for me tomorrow morning and he’d be worried if I wasn’t here – he’s always half-expecting me to disappear, I’m afraid. Don’t worry about me. I’ve seen what I came for – much, much more than I came for, in fact. Before you go though there’s one thing I want to do. Sit down on that stone and let me look at your leg. I’m a sort of a healer – I do a lot of it with the freak show folk and I might be able to help you make that leg better.’
Grace sat and watched with fascination as Alice’s strong capable hands rubbed and kneaded the wasted muscle of her leg. The woman’s touch seemed to send heat down into the girl’s bones as she worked. Now and then she instructed, ‘Bend your toes up – now down. Twist your foot to the side, bend your knee.’ After about twenty minutes, she sat back on the grass and looked up to tell Grace, ‘Your leg’s not as bad as it looks. The muscle’s wasted, that’s all. If you could do exercises every day and bathe it in a herbal potion that I make it would improve a lot.’
St James' Fair Page 14
