The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Evelyne hovered at the door of the wagon, and felt the whole camp grow still and silent as they all stared towards her, their expressionless eyes taking her in, then turning to Freedom for an answer. Freedom guided Evelyne into the glare of the fire, and she was very conscious of her appearance. She knew she must look very strange to the gathered people. Her hair was loose, her skirt filthy, she wore no stockings and her jacket had only one and a half sleeves. On top of that she was covered in mud and blood, even her face was streaked with dirt.

  Freedom held her hand, guiding her firmly forward, and spoke sharply to two old women who whispered to each other. Evelyne couldn’t understand him, he spoke in his strange language. Whatever he said made one of the old women step towards Evelyne and take her hand, tugging at her to follow. Evelyne was a little afraid to let go of Freedom’s strong hand, but he nodded that it would be all right and to go with the old crone.

  She was let into a rounded tent. Inside she could see the carved willow hoops that supported the canvas, shaped like a ribcage. The tent was large, and inside were four cot-like beds. Cooking utensils and household equipment were stacked in one corner and the floor was strewn with rushes. The tent was warm and cosy, and the old woman tugged at Evelyne’s sleeve for her to follow. Opening a wooden box, the woman chatted away, although Evelyne couldn’t understand a word. Out of the box came a cardigan, an old skirt and a white petticoat. Again the woman plucked at Evelyne’s sleeve, gesturing for her to take off her skirt. There was a strange, musky smell to the clothes, but at least they were dry, and she began to feel a little warmer.

  Evelyne could see the women scrubbing her clothes and she sighed; they looked as if they were trying to get the oil stain out, but she knew they were rubbing too hard. They should have used vinegar and brown paper, but she didn’t like to move out of the tent, in fact she wasn’t too sure exactly what she should do. She had no idea of the time or where she was.

  Jesse was all for driving into town and finding the boys. He constantly flicked his knife, it was razor sharp and his intentions were obvious. Freedom strove to keep the peace.

  ‘Jesse, I know, mun, what was done to her, but for us all to ride into town is madness.’

  Jesse hurled the knife at a tree. It whizzed through the air.

  ‘I’ll not move out of camp until I take revenge, you saw nothin’– you did not see what they done. It scarred her mind, not just her body, mun.’

  ‘Jesse, the men will pay for what they done.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, you tell me how much? Go on, an’ tell me how? By us going to the police when you know what they would do, clap every one of us into jail so much as look at us. We all go in now. We ride in, take them bastards one by one and then we ride out.’

  ‘You go in tonight, Jesse, and they will arrest you.’

  Jesse put up his fists and struck out at Freedom. He was crazy with rage.

  ‘It’s you, mush, they want you, the law want you for tonight’s fight.’

  The other men stepped in and held Jesse back. Their prince, their great warrior, made them more money than Jesse, they needed him and they needed his fights.

  ‘He’s our fighter, mush, so listen to what he says. It was fair, no fault of his if that bastard dies.’

  Freedom gripped the furious, blazing Jesse. ‘Trust me, mush, we’ll get each one.’

  Jesse wanted to weep, always they turned against him in favour of Freedom. He removed his knife from the tree.

  ‘So be it, but I want each man dead, I want their hearts.’

  Mr Beshaley rode up on his sweating horse. He shouted to the men to collect their winnings, and make it fast.

  ‘Hammer’s still alive, but the law want to question one and all, so pack up and get out, move fast, we’ve made good money . . . head for Scotland.’

  Never one to ride with them, Beshaley heeled his horse and galloped away. He looked back once to Freedom and shouted that he would arrange a fight come next month, then he was gone.

  The men occupied themselves with counting their winnings, and Rawnie’s plight was forgotten for the moment. Freedom took Jesse aside and told him to get everyone prepared to move out by morning. Everyone except himself and Jesse who would repay the men who had raped Rawnie.

  ‘How will ye do it, man, punch every miner we cross?’

  Freedom smiled, and took out the wallet he had taken from one of the boys. Find one and they could get the names of the others. Jesse was so eager to use his knife – he would soon have the opportunity.

  Jesse seethed inside. It was as if Freedom was always one step ahead of him, but he had to concede that it made sense. Already the men were preparing to move out, quietly taking down the tents and bringing the horses from the fields.

  Freedom went to the tent where Evelyne was and stood at the opening. He could see Evelyne fast asleep, her mass of hair sprayed out across the pillow. Her white skin seemed translucent, and the soft violet shade of her eyelids fascinated him. He moved closer to the bed, and stood for a while looking down into the strange, beautiful face. He touched her hair gently – golden hair, it felt soft to his touch, and then he looked again. There was something in the back of his mind, a long-forgotten memory. Evelyne woke to see his face looming above her, and started. As she sat up he smiled at her and said she had no need to fear him.

  Her clothes were dry but wrinkled, and when she was left alone to change she discovered that they had shrunk. So much for expensive French labels! She went to the tent flap and opened it a fraction. Freedom was waiting, as if on guard, outside.

  ‘I can’t get into my skirt, it’s shrunk.’

  He turned and looked at her and then laughed, said for her to keep what she had been given. Wearing the petticoat and brown sack skirt, with her own blouse and the jacket that now had only one sleeve, she opened the tent flap. There was a blackened area where the fire had been, and all the tents had been packed away. Most of the camp had already moved on, there were just a few caravans left in line with the horses being backed into the shafts.

  The last caravan in the line, with red curtains, was brightly painted, and the blues, reds and greens merged into a strange pattern all over the wagon itself.

  ‘Rawnie wants to see you, then we will take you back to town.’

  Evelyne was led over to the caravan, and she mounted the steps and tapped on the door. Jesse opened it, and with a curt nod jumped down and gestured for her to go inside.

  Jesse joined Freedom, who was dismantling the tent Evelyne had used. He jerked his head in the direction of Rawnie’s caravan.

  ‘By God she’s a big’un, you see the way she fought, like a wildcat . . .’

  Freedom made no reply but continued to pull down the canvas.

  The caravan inside was as bright as the outside, full of colours and wonderful paintings. Each panel bore a different scene, and the wooden ceiling was dark blue with moons and stars, and lanterns dangling. The brass was sparkling, polished like mirrors. Bright skirts and blouses were strewn around, and the heavy, sweet smell of musk was everywhere. Aside table attached to the wall of the caravan was crammed with pots of cream and rouge. Hanging on hooks were bracelets and bangles and hundreds of beaded necklaces, mostly of bright red beads mixed with gold coins. There were boxes of gold earrings, hair slides, strange, diamond-cut stones, and amber, quaint and oriental. There was malachite and silver, and wonderful, rich, matte yellow gold, a treasure-chest of coral and jet. Evelyne gasped: there were so many colours and sparkling ornaments, it took her completely by surprise.

  Rawnie sat curled up on a couch. She was dressed in a bright red skirt with layers and layers of ribboned petticoats. Her hair glistened with oils, her arms covered with bracelets, and she wore a shawl with embroidered roses. She gestured for Evelyne to sit, and seemed pleased with the effect her home had on the strange girl with the funny hair.

  Evelyne had to bend slightly, the ceiling was so low, and she sat down next to Rawnie. The girl took Evelyne’s hand and kissed her pal
m, then she removed her heavy gold earrings and handed them to Evelyne.

  ‘No, no, I can’t, please, you don’t have to . . . take them back.’

  Rawnie frowned, took back the earrings and reached for some beads. She held them out, and Evelyne again shook her head.

  ‘You don’t like them? What is it you want?’

  Evelyne smiled and said she wanted nothing.

  Rawnie’s eyes filled with tears. She lowered her head, and her voice was so soft Evelyne could only just hear.

  ‘Will you take him when you go?’

  Evelyne did not understand. She looked puzzled and reached for Rawnie’s hand, but Rawnie cowered back against the cushions.

  ‘What is it, Rawnie? That’s your name, isn’t it? Are you afraid of me? I am ashamed for what happened to you, and I will help you in any way . . . if you want the police informed . . .’

  Rawnie grasped Evelyne’s arm and shook her head, said there were to be no police, they had their own ways of taking care of their people. She had to give her thanks, and Evelyne had refused her gifts; was she ashamed to take them? They were not stolen, they had been handed down to Rawnie from her mother . . . Evelyne accepted a tiny pair of hooped earrings, and as she bent to kiss Rawnie again, the girl shrank away. There seemed nothing more to say and Evelyne prepared to leave. She could hear the men moving, putting a horse between the shafts of the caravan.

  She was aware of Rawnie’s dark eyes staring at her, as if she could see inside her head. Then Rawnie took Evelyne’s hand, her own in comparison were dark-skinned, tiny. The girl’s touch was delicate, as she slowly traced the head line, the life line, her dark eyes seeming even darker as the feather-light touch traced the heart line. Three times she traced the heart line and mur mured, ‘Mercury, Apollo, Saturn, Jupiter . . . venus, venus, venus . . . the venus.’ She reached over for a lighted candle, brought it closer, and as Evelyne tried to withdraw her hand, her grip tightened. She began to drip the wax slowly into Evelyne’s upturned palm until it was covered in the warm wax. Her black eyes held Evelyne as she began to spread her hand down, pressing hard, palm to palm.

  Freedom looked in at the caravan door, glanced at the two women and closed the door again. Rawnie was distant, her eyes expressionless, dark pools. They held Evelyne’s like a snake and then Rawnie lifted her hand away together with the imprint of Evelyne’s in the wax, like a shell. She held it up against the candle flames and stared at the strange, delicate imprint.

  The sides of the wagon were banged and Jesse’s voice called out that they must be on their way. Evelyne stood up, nearly knocking her head on the ceiling but remembering just in time. Rawnie still held the paper-thin waxen palm to the candle flame. Evelyne was opening the door to go outside when Rawnie spoke, her low, husky voice as hypnotic as her eyes, ‘He will give you two sons, strong, healthy sons, and you will lose him when the sky is full of black . . . dark birds. They fill the sky. Beware of the big dark birds, my friend . . .’

  Rawnie was crying soundlessly, tears streaming down her face. She could not read her own destiny, but the faces of the palefaced woman’s two sons mirrored Freedom’s. She might not know it now, but one day he would be the paleface’s rommando: she would have his heart, she already had his soul.

  Evelyne turned back, but Rawnie did not look up. She was melting the wax palm in the candle flame, the tears on her cheeks like wax drops, clear, heavy drops.

  Chapter 9

  The caravans moved out. As the dukkerin, Rawnie travelled last. Roped to the wagon shafts was their herd of wild ponies. Rawnie stood at the door of her wagon and heard from up front the boy yelping and clicking his tongue to move her horse forward over the field.

  In the distance she could still see Freedom, Jesse and the paleface woman sitting on top of the rag-and-bone cart. She sighed, so be it, she would marry Jesse, the Black Prince, if he would have her. She closed the door and flicked open the knife Jesse had given her, similar to his own. He had carved her name on the shaft. She ran her finger along the blade, then opened her palm and slit the mound beneath her thumb. The blood oozed out, became a fine trickle. Although the wagon rocked and jolted, she was able to stand still as if by magic, unaware of the movement . . . suddenly she opened her eyes wide and screamed, cursing like a witch, and the blade sang through the air to land poised in the wood of her caravan wall, twanging.

  Sitting on top of the cart, Evelyne clung on for dear life. Jesse led the donkey, pulling on the reins and glowering, muttering to himself. Freedom walked casually alongside, occasionally looking up at her and smiling. Twice she had almost slipped off, but each time he had been there, hand out to help her regain her balance. He had a way, this fighter, of always being there.

  Jesse hit the donkey with a stick and the beast veered to the right, tipping Evelyne over. Freedom made Jesse stop the cart for a moment and got up beside her. Jesse flipped him the rein and walked on, swishing the hedges with his stick. Casually, Freedom slipped an arm loosely around Evelyne’s waist and clicked his tongue for the donkey to move on. She sniffed, there was a musky, sweet smell, and at first she thought it came from the hedgerow, maybe a flower, but as she turned her head she realized it came from Freedom, that he must be using a perfume on his hair, or oil. He caught her looking at him and smiled, showing his perfect white teeth.

  As soon as they entered town Evelyne jumped down, insisting she would be all right. Without a word Jesse hopped up on to the cart and took the reins again, flipped them and whacked the donkey with his stick at the same time. The cart rattled off.

  ‘Rags, bones . . . bring out yer rags . . .’

  As Jesse shouted, Freedom turned back to stare at Evelyne. He gave her a small wave and then turned to face ahead.

  Not having the slightest idea where she was, Evelyne kept walking. She had not a penny to her name, and wondered if there might be a post office, then remembered it was Sunday. She sighed, no train ticket home, no handbag, and what did she look like? She was filthy, her skirt was wrinkled, her blouse torn, her beautiful suit completely ruined. She walked on until her feet ached, heading towards the centre of town.

  Miss Freda stepped out of her shop, neat as ever and wearing one of her hats. She always walked past the Grand Hotel on a Sunday, showing off her creations as a means of advertising.

  ‘Miss Freda, oh, Miss Freda . . . I’ve found you.’

  She squinted in a short-sighted fashion and looked in the direction of the voice, then her mouth dropped open.

  ‘Oh, oh, what happened to you, child?’

  ‘Could I possibly borrow my bus fare, it’s a threepenny ride from the terminal, only I lost my bag and . . .’

  To Freda’s horror Evelyne burst into tears. She looked around to see if anyone was watching, ashamed to be seen with the girl, and hustled her towards a shop doorway. Wiping her nose on Miss Freda’s little lace handkerchief, Evelyne promised to come to the shop next day and repay the three pennies. Freda opened her purse and counted out the money, snapped it shut again and said she had to be on her way as she had a very important business meeting and couldn’t stop to talk. From the doorway, Evelyne watched her hurry away down the street.

  By the time Evelyne arrived at Dr Collins’ house her heels were blistered and red raw. Mrs Darwin opened the basement door to her.

  ‘Gawd love me, what have you been doing? Come on in, lovey.’

  She ushered Evelyne into the kitchen where the maid was slumped in a chair by the fire.

  Kicking the maid out of the chair Mrs Darwin settled Evelyne down with a steaming cup of tea. As Evelyne drew breath to launch into an explanation of her appearance, Mrs Darwin began to cry, wiping her nose on her apron.

  ‘I’d have left long ago, but I’ve not had me wages and Master David’s taken everything of value, and what he left that bugger Morgan’s made off with. It’s a shocking state of affairs . . .’

  Evelyne felt the tea warming her chilled body.

  ‘Is David at home, Mrs Darwin?’


  Mrs Darwin looked at Evelyne, her jaw dropped open.

  ‘We went to a fair last night, there was a terrible to-do afterwards, all the benches fell down and David hurt his leg. Did he come home, or is he in hospital?’

  Mrs Darwin glanced at Muriel then back to Evelyne. ‘He doesn’t live here, not any more.’ She could see the confusion in Evelyne’s face and she bit her lip, concerned. ‘He only stays here occasionally, see, he wants to sell this place but he can’t, not without your permission, and then what with all his debts, well, the place is not what it was. He’s sold off everything that wasn’t nailed down. We’ve not been paid . . .’

  Evelyne interrupted her, saying she had already said that she would see about the wages as soon as things were settled.

  ‘Where is David living, then?’

  ‘Well, with his wife of course. Then if he’s not there he’s with his friend Freddy Carlton, spends a lot of . . .’

  Mrs Darwin didn’t finish. Evelyne’s body shook and she had to put her teacup down.

  ‘Wife? Is David married?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s married all right, not that you’d know by his manner, and he’s got a little boy too . . . Lady Primrose, he married Her Ladyship – oh, what would it be – three, almost four years ago.’

  Evelyne couldn’t stop herself shaking, her whole body trembled. Mrs Darwin stood up and bent over her. ‘Are you all right, lovey? You’ve gone ever so pale.’

  Unable to speak, Evelyne bit her lip hard, forcing herself not to faint, not to cry out, scream his name. Mrs Darwin held her close, patted her head.

  ‘I can see by your face, lovey, something is terribly wrong. What did he do to you? Oh, dear God, what did he do?’

  Mrs Darwin blew her nose on her apron and, shaking her fat head, slumped into her chair.

  ‘We’ve had a terrible time with him, he killed his father, you know. Oh, it was shocking the way he carried on when he came home. See, he didn’t know who he was – sometimes he would be gone for days on end and we’d have to send the police out looking for him. Her Ladyship had a shocking time of it, it’s memory loss, they say, but it’s terrible to see. He don’t know who he is, where he is, and he never recognized his father. Broke his heart, it did, killed him as sure as I’m sitting here, shocking, terrible, shocking time.’