The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Freedom had made a crown of cornflowers. She laughed when he set it gently on her head. Then arm in arm they walked down from the mountain, away from the grave. Evelyne’s gentle, delighted laugh echoed back to them, like the soft whisper of Mar y Jones . . .

  ‘Leave the valley, Evie, promise me . . .’

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 17

  Sir Charles Wheeler’s estate was twenty miles from Salisbury. After passing through Andover, the route then wound through mile upon mile of country lanes. Eventually, small, white, hand-painted wooden signposts directed the traveller towards ‘The Grange’ and along lanes only wide enough for a single vehicle, so that it seemed as though The Grange might be only one of the numerous farms buried among the fields and woods.

  The arched stone entrance, with gates twenty feet high, set in six-foot stone walls, gave no indication of what lay beyond. The driveway was of gravel, raked smooth, and showed no tracks, but the hedgerows and the profusion of rhododendron bushes with their bright pink and purple blooms gave a hint of what lay beyond. The bushes gave way to a stretch of oak trees half a mile wide, their thick trunks and massive branches joining in an arch, and still the driveway continued.

  After a further mile through the magical bower, The Grange itself was still not in sight until, rounding a curve, there it was, standing in such splendour it took the breath away. Hundreds of rose bushes covered immaculate sloping lawns which bordered the horseshoe drive. A vast fountain sprayed fans of water twenty feet from the open mouths of marble dolphins. Glittering mermaids rode on the creatures’ backs, hands outstretched to welcome visitors. But dominating it all was The Grange, a majestic, overpoweringly beautiful house. Six white pillars flanked the fifteen marble steps to the arched entrance. Three storeys high, built in white sandstone, the house was awe-inspiring in its size and architectural proportions.

  On each side were more lawns and gardens, with lily ponds and statues. Paths led to the outhouses, stables, barns and, hidden behind a bank of trees, a farm with sprawling, well-kept fields. Behind were more gardens, a man-made lake, and mile upon mile of forest and sloping hills. The Grange dominated the thousand acres surrounding it with such power that any onlooker bowed to its presence.

  Also behind The Grange were staff quarters for those who worked the land. In comparison with the house, their cottages were like rows of dolls’ houses. The stables were more splendid, with vast paddocks containing a herd of the finest hunters, groomed by a score of stable boys. The ground staff numbered thirty-five; gardeners, gamekeepers, huntsmen. In addition, there were more than twenty full-time staff employed to run the house. Cooks, butlers, footmen, pantry-maids, valets; all quartered on the very top floor of The Grange . . . the personal estate of Sir Charles Wheeler.

  Rawnie blew a circle of smoke from her hand-rolled cigarette. It drifted and curled above her head in a blue haze. She closed her eyes. She stood high on the brow of a hill overlooking The Grange. Next to her stood Jesse, chewing a long piece of grass, as handsome as ever. He shaded his eyes to look down into the paddocks below.

  ‘Do ye see him?’

  ‘Aye, it’s him, cross the paddocks, running like a hare . . . Mun runs for ’em like one of their grys . . . look at ’im.’

  Way below her Rawnie watched the running figure of Freedom. Behind him was a motorcar, and they could see a boy standing on the running board, shouting and waving his arms at Freedom.

  With one eye on his stopwatch and the other on the road, Ed Meadows swerved the car, almost knocking the boy off the running board. He put his foot down on the accelerator, and closed the gap between the car and Freedom. ‘Tell ’im to ease off, that’s enough for today.’

  The boy shouted, but Freedom continued to run. If anything, he picked up speed.

  ‘Jesus God, ’e’ll run ’imself ter death.’

  Ed tooted the horn and drove alongside Freedom. ‘Hey, hey, that’s it, Freedom . . . come on, lad, ease yerself down.’

  Freedom turned his head towards Ed, but ran on. He had a look on his face that Ed had become accustomed to, a strange, defiant stare. Eventually Ed drove in front of Freedom and turned the car across the lane, got out and shouted at him in a fury, hands on hips. ‘When I say you’ve ’ad enough I mean it. You’ve run more’n fifteen miles and we got to go an’ work out, you tryin’ ter kill yerself?’

  Breath hissing, lungs heaving, Freedom faced him. His long hair was dripping, and his old, rough shirt was sodden with sweat. He laid his hands on the motor, and Ed quickly wrapped a towel around his shoulders and began rubbing him down. Freedom shrugged him away, flicked the towel out of his grasp, and stepped aside to wipe his own sweating body. ‘Months I been here, mun, every day, runnin’, sparrin’, liftin’ the weights, trainin’ . . . and for what, when do I fight, mun?’

  Ed’s look told the young lad to move off. The boy was one of the sparring partners they had brought from London and he was standing staring at Freedom, hero-worship written all over his face.

  Ed moved closer to Freedom. ‘You don’t talk ter me that way. You want a fight, I want a fight, but we do what ’is Lordship tells us to do, we wait. I tell you when we’re ready for a bout, not you, I’m the bloody trainer.’

  His breathing eased, Freedom tossed the towel to the boy and shrugged. His voice was quiet, his fist clenched.

  ‘I’m ready, you know it. I been fighting years before I was brought here, I’m in the gym day in day out, an’ for what? To entertain ’is Lordship’s toffs when they come ta visit? I hate him always watchin’ me, is that all I’m here fer? I want a fight.’

  Ed knew all that Freedom was saying was right, but he could do nothing. He moved to Freedom and began to rub his shoulders, calming him as if he were an animal. ‘I know, I know, lad . . . maybe we’ll take it easy for a few days, huh? Maybe I pushed you too hard.’

  Freedom laughed, rubbed Ed’s balding head. ‘I want a fight, Ed, that’s all.’

  As they were about to climb into the car there was the sound of an owl hooting. Neither the young boy nor Ed paid any attention, but Freedom turned, suddenly alert. Then came a whistle, soft but shrill, and Freedom shaded his eyes to look up into the woods. He cupped his hands and whistled, and again came the high-pitched, single note, like a bird.

  ‘Gawd ’elp us, get in the car, what yer doin’ now? Birdwatchin’? Come on, lad, let’s have breakfast, I’m starvin’ after all this exercise.’

  Freedom jumped on to the running board of the car as Ed drove back to The Grange. He looked up to the woods and smiled, gave a small wave like a salute. Jesse and Rawnie knew he was aware that they were waiting, he had answered their call.

  Evelyne had been up since six-thirty, eaten her breakfast in the kitchens and then begun her work in the library. Sir Charles had given her the job of repairing and cataloguing the vast collection of books. Since her arrival at The Grange, Evelyne had seen him only once, when he implied that he would employ her on condition that she have no contact with Freedom. Quietly and icily, he had told her he was prepared to make Freedom a champion, but if he discovered there was anything more in Freedom’s run from the train than the desire to thank her for her part in his acquittal, he would have no option but to destroy Freedom’s contract. He did not want any scandal, any repercussions or publicity in relation to the murder charges Freedom faced in Cardiff.

  ‘He ran once, let him try it again and I will wash my hands of him, is that clear?’

  Evelyne understood the veiled threat and assured Sir Charles that she would work in the house as instructed, nothing more.

  She was given a small room in the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. She spent her days in the musty library, ate her meals with the servants. The housekeeper, Miss Balfour, was loathed by all of them. She ran The Grange like a military camp and God help anyone who did not knuckle under her regime. Due to the nature of Evelyne’s work, she was immediately set apart.

  ‘I have always inter viewed the staff in the past,
Miss Jones . . . However, as Sir Charles has already instructed you in your duties, make sure you carry them out to the letter.’

  The housemaids’ and parlour maids’ gossip bored Evelyne, and the rules and regulations they all abided by frustrated her. The house revolved around the periods when Sir Charles was in residence, his weekend house parties. Evelyne had no chance to see any of his high-society guests. All servants, unless they were actually in attendance, were told to stay out of sight. Evelyne felt trapped. Even to enjoy the beauty of their surroundings was forbidden; they were not allowed to use the grounds or walk among the rose gardens. The gulf between ‘them’ and ‘us’ was brought home to Evelyne daily.

  Her frustration mounted until she felt she would explode. This was not what she wanted, to be a servant. At least in the valley she had felt free, but here she was bound by such strict rules that even to be in the main hall was a sin. But her secret meetings with Freedom would have been judged a greater sin, were they discovered.

  Freedom had also had the lecture from Sir Charles, but with a difference. Sir Charles had implied that Evelyne would be dismissed if he should hear so much as a whisper of an association between them.

  Freda, now Mrs Ed Meadows, had tried to talk to Ed, tried to tell him that keeping the couple apart was asking for trouble. In his heart Ed knew she was right, but it was not only the cottage and his job that were at stake, there was the future champion’s career. ‘You got ter do what ’is Lordship wants, Freda love, there’s no way round it.’

  ‘Ed, this is our home, Sir Charles won’t even know if they come and have a little supper with us now and then, just once a week, on her after noon off . . .’

  Ed huffed and puffed, but the suppers had become a regular weekly occurrence, and it was during these evenings that Evelyne had begun to teach Freedom to read and write.

  They had been at The Grange almost four months, and tension lay close to the surface. Freda could feel it and it worried her. She hoped the four of them would discuss it today, it was Eve lyne’s half-day off. Freda always cooked a roast on these occasions, and she had already begun laying the table. Ed paced up and down, unable to relax enough to put his carpet slippers on.

  ‘You know he’s ready ter fight, and we ain’t had a word from Sir Charles. He’s gettin’ hard ter handle, Freda, he knows ’e’s ready an’ all. I just don’t know what else I can do . . .’

  Evelyne arrived and tossed her coat aside. She sighed, and slumped into the fireside chair.

  ‘I’ve had enough of that Miss Balfour. The library’s nearly finished and she snoops after me, checking that I’ve done this or that. Well, she’ll not get me lugging buckets of coal up and down them stairs like the maids. She caught me in the drawing room, I was just looking at the paintings and she tells me I have no right to be in there. “I’m just looking at the paintings, Miss Balfour,” I tell her. “You’ve no right to look,” she says. Can you believe it, Freda? I said to her, “You don’t mind if I look out of my window and see the woods, the countryside, he don’t own them, does he?”’

  Ed sighed, looking very glum. ‘They do, love, they do, far as the eye can see – all his Lordship’s land, he owns the lot.’

  Evelyne turned to Ed with a furious look. ‘Well, he doesn’t own me!’

  ‘As long as you are in his employ, he does.’

  Evelyne paced the tiny cottage while Freda finished setting the table. Ed flicked the curtains aside, wondering where Freedom was and hoping no one would see him coming to the cottage.

  ‘He’s late, he’s in a terrible mood, an’ all, can’t you talk to ’im, Evie? Settle ’im down, you know he’s taken to sleeping outside, made hisself some kind of tent? The lads don’t know what to make of him . . . where the hell is he? You got the time, Freda?’

  Freda pointed to the clock, then checked to see how the chicken was cooking. Unlike everyone else, Freda was happy as a lark. The cottage, with its new curtains and loose covers, delighted her. ‘Oh, he’ll be here, he won’t miss seeing his Evie.’

  Ed sighed. That was another thing, if Sir Charles found out about those two, there would be real trouble. He was up and down, jumpy as a ferret, worried someone would find out about these weekly meetings.

  Evelyne took out Freedom’s exercise books, thumbed through the pages of looped, childish writing. ‘He won’t try half the time, you know. He should be able to read and write by now, but he won’t concentrate for more than a minute . . .’

  Freda tittered, waved her wooden spoon. ‘His attention is too much on you, that’s why, darlink.’

  Ed flicked the curtains again, muttered, and sat down opposite Evelyne.

  She was shaking her head, still turning the pages. ‘Funny thing, he’s completely ambidextrous, and he’s no fool, got a wit about him, has me laughing . . .’

  ‘What? What you say ’e’s got? Ambi what? Ill, you fink ’e’s ill?’

  With a giggle, Evelyne explained to Ed that she meant he could write with either hand, right or left.

  ‘Gawd ’elp me, I been assumin’ he was a southpaw, but . . . Hey, wait ’til I get him in action termorrow, ambidixious, that what you call it? Well, I never . . . look, Freda love, I’ll just go an’ see what ’e’s doin’, all right, ducks?’

  Freda raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Well, at least that cheered him up . . . Evie?’

  Evelyne was staring into the fire, Freedom’s book still on her knee. Freda sat on the arm of her chair and hugged her.

  ‘What is it, darlink, you want to tell me?’

  Evelyne kissed Freda’s hand. ‘I’m thinking of leaving, Freda, I feel as if I’m being buried alive. There’s a whole world out there, and I want . . . I want . . .’

  ‘What, Evie? What do you think is so special out there?’

  Confused, frustrated, Evelyne bit her lip. ‘I won’t know unless I try, but I want to teach, you know? And maybe I could get work that would fulfil me. Here, I’m just stifled.’

  ‘What about Freedom?’

  Tears pricked Evelyne’s eyes, and she shook her head. ‘There’s no future for us, you must know that, and if Sir Charles knew we even saw each other . . . well, I don’t have to tell you what would happen.’

  Freda kept quiet, knowing Evie had to talk, get it out of her system.

  ‘We meet on Sundays, oh, far away from this place, up in the woods. We walk, and he’s like a child. There’s a wild deer, and he calls to it and it comes over, nuzzles him and takes food from his hand. He knows the name of every flower, every creature, and sometimes it’s magic with him. He’s so gentle, caring, and those times I love him . . . He’s like no other man I’ve ever known, and yet, he won’t educate himself, he won’t better himself . . . I have to go away, Freda.’

  Freda bent and kissed the top of Evelyne’s head as Ed burst into the cottage. ‘He’s gone, no sign of ’im no place, the lads said they saw ’im crossin’ the field at six, an’ ’e had a bundle under ’is arm. He’s run off . . . you better go back to the house, Evie, I’m going ter ’ave ter get a search party out.’

  ‘Oh, Ed, don’t be stupid, he will be back! He will just have gone walking, you know the way he is – he knows it’s Evie’s supper with us.’

  ‘There’s a gypsy camp in the field behind the woods, I got to get to ’im first. If the estate manager finds out, they’ll get the law on to ’em. If they’re poachin’, there’ll be all hell let loose.’

  Evelyne’s hands clenched in anger. ‘Ed, he came here of his own free will, he’ll not run out on you . . . for God’s sake don’t tell the game wardens, I’ll go and find him.’

  Ed gripped her by the shoulders, tight. ‘You’ll do no such thing, ’is Lordship’s back, arrived half an hour ago wiv a whole party of society people, I don’t want you gettin’ involved. My job’s on the line as it is, havin’ you meetin’ him here.’

  It was Freda’s turn to confront Ed. ‘Ed, listen to her, she knows him better than anyone, he’ll be back, you know he will.’

&n
bsp; ‘Will he? Well, you go an’ tell that bitch, Miss Balfour. He took a bundle under his arm all right, two hams, a chicken and a turkey what they was preparin’ fer Sir Charles’ bleedin’ house guests. It ain’t me settin’ the gamekeepers on ’im, but Miss bloody Balfour.’

  Evelyne grabbed her coat and was halfway to the door.

  ‘Evie, darlin’, I’m sorry, don’t get me wrong, I trust him, Gawd ’elp me, I love the lad, but . . . I been worried sick these last few weeks. I knew somethin’ was brewin’, I didn’t mean to sound off at you, you an’ him are welcome here any time.’

  Evelyne gave him a small smile, then hurried back to The Grange. From her tiny window high in the roof she could see the flare of torches as the gamekeepers prepared to search the woods. She was saddened by Freedom’s foolishness, but at the same time it cemented her decision. She would have to leave.

  The camp-fire was lit, piled high with logs stolen from The Grange’s wood-house. There were only four wagons, belonging to travellers on their way back from the Ascot races. Sitting in a semicircle around the fire, they ate the food Freedom had brought. There was beer and Jesse had two bottles of whisky. They were all in good humour, and one of the men took out his fiddle and began to play. Strung up on one of the wagons were rabbits, poached from the estate.

  Jesse was wearing a new, dark pin-striped suit, and he was proud of it, flaunting his waistcoat, amusing them all as he clicked his heels and danced to the fiddle. There were gold rings on his fingers, and his heavy earring was of gold. He clapped his hands, and his whiter-than-white teeth gleamed in the firelight. ‘Will you rokka Romany, Freedom? Eh, ehe heyup yup?’

  Freedom had been downing beer and whisky and now he lolled against the side of a wagon. He shook his head and waved for Jesse to continue. Jesse was making them all laugh at the fine man Freedom had turned into, living like a prince and being made to run each day to beat the motor vehicle . . .

  Rawnie slipped to Freedom’s side. She still wore her brightly coloured skirts, her bangles and beads. Her thick, coal-black hair was braided and threaded with gold. The kohl around her eyes made them seem huge, like the tame deer that fed from Freedom’s hand. But she was thin, even gaunt, and she coughed constantly. ‘Are thee well, mun?’