by Mary Mackie
‘I did!’
His look was like a knife-thrust. ‘Goodbye, Rose.’
The doorway yawned empty. I heard the back door open and close, and in the tingling silence the fire cracked, the cat yowled softly.
Trembling all over, I sank to my knees and set the still-warm pan down on the hearth. My hands smelled of stale ashes as I flung them to my face and swayed back and forth like a child needing comfort. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. I only knew that I hurt – and that I wished he would come back and hold me – and that if he did I would be forced to send him away.
It was never going to be possible for us. Never.
* * *
‘The cottage is in apple-pie order,’ I told Narnie flatly. ‘You may pack your things and be ready to go home tomorrow. I’ll have Benstead drive you.’ I could not go back to the cottage myself. Not yet.
Mama made no open protest, but she shed tears and hugged Narnie closely, while over her shoulder the old woman glowered at me.
As I saw her out to the cart where Benstead was waiting, she said sourly, ‘You’ve more of your father in you than I ever dreamed. You’ve grown hard, Miss Rose. Very hard.’
‘I do what I have to do.’
‘Tell that to Master Johnny,’ she said, grunting with effort as she climbed up to the cart, aided by Benstead.
‘Johnny?’ I asked. ‘Why, what—’
‘You’ll see. Hurry up, man, don’t stand about gawping, I want to be going home. I’ve a lot to do. Those maids can’t be trusted to do anything right. If my bed’s not aired through, I’ll die of pneumonia. Not that anyone’ll care.’
‘What did you mean about Johnny?’ I persisted, remembering my young brother at Weal House at the time of Agnes’s funeral, silent and withdrawn, suffering from yet another tragedy – so I had thought. Having concerns of my own, I hadn’t interfered in what had seemed to be his grieving.
‘Don’t you know? You’ve upset him good and proper. Still, it’s none of my concern. You’ve made that clear. I’m out to grass and there I’ll stay, and mind my own business. Least said, soonest mended. Come on, Benstead, let’s be off before it rains.’
He cast her a look that tilted up to the windy sky. ‘That don’t fare to rain just now, Miss Narborough, ma’am. That’s wholly too wild for rain.’ Then something caught his attention and he pointed. ‘Why – look! Look there, in the meadow. See ’im?’
An old dog fox came loping slantwise across the meadow, half hidden in long grass. Behind him, beyond a copse that topped the rise, the brassy bray of the hunting horn called the hounds to pursue. The fox ran for the wooden fence, found himself baulked by the anti-hare sacking and scrabbled there for a moment. He found a hole. He wrenched at it with frantic teeth and claws and pushed through. Wriggling free, he darted down the driveway, through the open gates and across the lane, heading for the trees around the pond.
As I picked up my skirts and hurried after him, consternation cried havoc among the fowl by the pond. Ducks and geese went complaining in all directions. Chickens scattered squawking. But the fox was not after them. While they flew yelling their silly heads off, the sleek red body with its grey muzzle and rippling, white-tipped tail slipped across the farmyard. The bullocks in their pen looked askance and moved aside as he sped through their pungent straw and made off between the barns.
‘Blast that varmint!’ Benstead clambered down from the cart and came loping on rheumaticky legs to join me, anxious for his beasts. Both of us knew that nothing could stop the hounds in full cry. I could hear their music now.
Along the lane, climbing trees and perched on gates, men and boys appeared, leaving their work to watch the hunt. The hounds came into sight, streaming over the hill in a long fluid column. Behind them rode the huntsman, blowing liquid notes of pursuit, and in his wake came the first of the riders, two men with a woman close behind, then another man, and another, two more…
‘He’s gone away!’ Benstead yelled, waving his arms. ‘Away!’
The hounds milled, yelping, behind the meadow fence, seeking a way through the sack barrier. One found the hole the fox had made. It tore more as he pushed through. Others followed, leaving the sacking shredded. Meanwhile the huntsman opened the meadow gate. The pack divided, some coming through the fence, others pouring for the easier exit of the gate. All of them made for the pond. More terrified birds rose with a great carfuffle of squawking, quacking, beating wings, flying feathers… and then the dogs were at the bullock pen, confused by the strong scent of dung and urine, making the bullocks bawl and back away, rolling their eyes.
The first two riders elected to use the meadow gate. The woman behind them drove her horse at the fence. A cry escaped her as she took the jump and landed with a jolt that all but shook her from the saddle. She recovered, whipped up and came galloping on, intent on being first into the farmyard behind the pack. Her face was contorted with effort, her eyes glittering. She didn’t see me. She had no thought in her head except to follow the pack and be in at the kill.
If I had not seen it, I would not have believed it. The woman was Lucinda Devlin – sad, timorous Lucy, riding headlong after a fox with the light of blood in her eyes.
One or two of the other leading riders followed her example and leapt the fence, though most took the less showy route through the gate. The dogs were still sniffing about the yard, the bullocks stamping and snorting, backed into a corner. Horses danced, voices shouted…
The horn called a triumphant note – one of the hounds had refound the scent, on a path through Poacher’s Wood. Baying in answer, the pack made off through a narrow gap between the barns, leaving the riders to find a way round, back to the lane and off into the wood. As they departed, Benstead made for the yard to check on his bullocks.
Another party of riders came galloping across the meadow, with a few last stragglers behind them. The gate had swung partly closed, creating a bottleneck that delayed them. Among them, I saw, was Geoffrey Devlin, caked with mud down one side of his coat – he must have taken a fall to put him so far behind the leaders. He looked impatient as he wheeled his horse, waiting for the others to clear the gate; then, as if he couldn’t wait any longer, he set his mount to jump the fence. The hunter took the leap effortlessly, hooves striking sharply on gravel as it was driven on towards me. Nearing the gate, Geoffrey drew rein with such force that the horse was startled into rearing. I flinched away from the flailing hooves, seeing how unsettled the animal was, sweating heavily, with rolling eyes. Its rider was no less disturbed – his face dark with angry blood under smears of mud, his eyes sparking fury. I had a feeling he had deliberately made the horse rear to frighten me.
‘Did you see my wife?’ he demanded.
‘She was up with the huntsman. They’re in Poacher’s Wood.’
Gritting his teeth on a silent curse, he spurred away with the others, down the lane and away.
Having ascertained that his beasts were unharmed, Benstead came stumping back across the lane. ‘That old fox have larned a few smart tricks,’ he said. ‘He’ve led them hounds a dance this past three year and more. Gamekeepers, too. He know all their ruses.’
‘Yes, well, I hope he doesn’t come back in this direction.’
‘Benstead!’ Narnie called impatiently. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘I’m now comin’,’ said he.
In the kitchen, I found the servants chattering excitedly about the hunt, recalling small incidents witnessed when they left their work and went out to watch.
‘Pull you the other one!’ said Swift in scorn.
‘That was!’ Howlett insisted.
Swift turned to me for confirmation. ‘Is that right, Miss Rose? That lady in the plum-coloured riding habit… Was that Mrs Devlin?’
‘Yes, it was.’
She shook her head in amazement. ‘Well, I never.’
‘Told you, see,’ Howlett said, and exchanged a knowing look with Mrs Benstead, who nodded sagely.
‘Why, wh
at’s this?’ I enquired. ‘What about Mrs Devlin?’
‘Oh, that’s nothin’, Miss Rose,’ Mrs Benstead replied. ‘Prob’ly just a load of old squit. Howsomever… since you ask, that young lady have been causin’ some specalation roundabout, on account of her havin’ taken to ridin’ so wild. Takin’ leaps over fences and ditches that most of ’em think twice about – even Mr Geoffrey, and that’s sayin’ something. They’ve had words about it. Mrs Cary heard ’em as they rode by her cottage. He say to her, “You’ll kill yourself,” he say, and she say, “So what if I do?” There. What do you make o’ that, Miss Rose?’
Swift had been taking all of this in with wide eyes. ‘Maybe it’s not herself she’s tryin’ to do away with. Maybe it’s the bairn she’s carryin’. Maybe that’s why Mr Devlin gets so angry at her – ’cos she’s tryin’ to kill his child. I heard about a lady what done that. In the end, her husband strangled her!’
This melodramatic pronouncement was greeted with a shocked silence into which I said firmly, ‘I think you’re right, Mrs Benstead – it’s a load of old squit. And I’ll thank all of you not to repeat such gossip about our neighbours. Now, isn’t there any work to be done?’
I heard later that the hunt had no luck that day. The fox led them all the way to the marshes, and there he vanished amid the flooded ditches. I felt a certain sneaking respect for him. But what remained with me, bothering me for months, was the kitchen gossip, and the memory of the expression on Lucinda Devlin’s face, and on Geoffrey’s. Something was badly awry between those two.
But one thing became clear with time. Lucy Devlin was not expecting a child.
* * *
Business continued to take my husband away, to Lynn or to Hunstanton for a day, or overnight, and occasionally he would be gone for longer periods, off to London or somewhere. He owned properties here and there, such as a tenement in Norwich, Fenny Jakes’s place at Onion Corner, and the boarding house in Hunstanton which he and Victor had built as an investment. As landlord, Basil had to pay regular visits to all his properties to collect the rents and see what repairs were needed. He acted as agent for other landlords, too, and ‘did a bit of buying and selling, as and when’, as he put it.
With the holiday trade booming, thanks to the coming of the railways, Hunstanton had grown from a hamlet to a thriving town, and in summer the beach was crowded with bathing huts and children with spades. Once or twice Basil took me for a day out to Hunstanton when business called him there, or we might travel together if his business coincided with market day, or one of the cattle fairs in Lynn.
When he was at home he helped to amuse Mama. And he indulged her, to the extent of hiring, for the summer months, a carriage and an extra man to act as coachman and general hand. The luxury delighted Mama and she often went visiting, accompanied by Ellen Earley.
For me, Basil bought a spanking new trap to replace the ancient, heavy dogcart. He still thought that he could make me happy by spending money on me, but I suppose he meant well. I did appreciate the trap. I had it painted red, with lines and curlicues in black and white, and when I drove out behind a smart black pony I felt as grand as the Princess of Wales.
Though I did visit the Grange now and then, more often it was Felicity who came to me, alone or accompanied by one of her sisters. Their visits helped to divert Mama and, to give Basil his due, if he was there he played host with diffident charm.
‘I must admit I did have my doubts about your marriage,’ Felicity confided. ‘But Mr Pooley can be quite… quite disarming, in his way.’
She might not have been so generous if she had known how bored Basil was by her visits. ‘That frumpish old maid,’ he called her. ‘What Victor ever saw in her I shall never know.’
* * *
My first nephew, Grace’s son, Thomas William Turnbull, was born on 19 May that year of 1869. His mother had, so she assured me, scarcely had time to lie down before tiny Tommy was born. ‘Like shelling peas!’ So relieved was she that she invited Mama and Narnie to stay for a while and share the joys of the new baby.
Basil and I went over for the christening, a joyous occasion that helped to lighten some of our gloom, though we were all sad that Father couldn’t be there to see his first grandson.
‘The first of many!’ Grace predicted as she and I bent over the crib one evening to admire the sleeping heir. Her glance slid sidelong at me, surveying the state of my waist. ‘Your turn soon.’
‘Not yet a while. In spite of rumours.’
She cast me an uncomfortable look. ‘I never believed that was why you got married. I didn’t, Rose.’
That was probably true. My sister never did understand how any decent woman could do what she called, with delicate distaste, ‘that’ without being obliged to it by vows of marriage.
* * *
In Dersingham, Pam Chilvers was awaiting her fourth confinement, afflicted with fainting spells, backache and an ulcerated leg. Her younger sister was staying at the carpenter’s cottage to help, but her task was difficult, with old Mrs Playford ailing and lively children about the house. Annie, who was now six, attended school, but little lame Alice, and her brother Benjamin, aged respectively four and three, remained at home, constantly being chided to be good and to be quiet. One day I took it upon myself to rescue them and take them back with me to Orchards, where they played happily under the apple trees until their father came by in his wagon to fetch them.
After that their visits became a regular occurrence, for my husband too adored them. Benjamin with his gap-tooth grin was Basil’s darling, but it was Alice whose small, bright face caused my own heart to melt. Watching her, I wondered about my own daughter. What had they called her? What did she look like? Knowing that I would never know the answers was a continuing sadness deep inside me.
My concern for the Chilvers family came to the notice of the Sandringham rector, who told me I was ‘most kind’ to take an interest. Mr Lancaster was a gentle, kindly soul not much older than myself, who lived at the rectory with his aged mother. Quiet as he was, I found him disconcertingly perceptive and I had always tried to avoid him. He was concerned that I no longer attended church.
‘I haven’t been made to feel very welcome at Sandringham church lately,’ I said.
‘I’m aware of that. Things have been difficult for you.’
To my own surprise, I found him easy to talk to. Perhaps I needed such a friend at that time. We had long discussions – that is to say, I talked and he mostly listened – about my father and my aunt and Cassie, about my faltering faith, about my quarrel with the prince and the gossip that hounded me.
Being domestic chaplain to Their Royal Highnesses at Sandringham, Mr Lancaster promised to try again to improve my relationship with the big house, though I privately doubted his ability to do so. However, it was good to know I had found another friend and ally.
I started going to church again, and on the second Sunday of my return to the fold the gentle rector preached a sermon about the evils of gossip, so pointed that half his congregation shifted uncomfortably in their seats and cast covert looks to where I sat with my husband beside me.
* * *
Another hint of lightening skies came when the gamekeeper, Pyke, arrived at the back door of the farm bringing a box in which lay curled four small fox-cubs.
‘They say you raised some cubs once,’ Pyke said. ‘Mr Beck wondered if you might agree to do it again.’
‘Mr Beck did?’ What was this – another clumsy attempt to put me out of favour? Foxes were not welcome at Sandringham; the prince’s keepers waged constant war against anything that threatened their rearing of game birds. ‘Why?’
Pyke said that the previous year, while out with the West Norfolk, His Royal Highness had directed the master to the Sandringham woods, where good sport was sure to be found. Since his zealous keepers had made sure that no foxes remained at Sandringham, His Royal Highness was proved wrong, which annoyed him. He ordered Mr Beck to see to it that another time when h
e offered a neighbour sport there was sport to be had. Poor Mr Beck. The prince never appreciated the work and worry his contradictory orders caused for his servants. The desired cubs had been found but, when Beck looked round for someone to raise them, no volunteer was forthcoming. And so he had thought of me.
It was an imposition and I almost refused. However, the cubs regarded me with huge fearful eyes, beautiful creatures, slender and agile. Too young yet to have acquired the familiar red coat, their fur was brindled, sand and black, their chests and throats downy white, their shoulders a darker, ragged brown, their huge ears cocked alertly… Their raising might help to dispel the shadow of royal disfavour.
I housed them in an old shed, and hand-fed them with the help of Jack Huggins until they were old enough to start taking mice and pieces of meat. They caused me a deal of extra work and a deal of annoyance, constantly trying to dig out of the shed and escape my loving care. But Alice and Benjie Chilvers adored them.
* * *
Sadly for the carpenter and his wife, their fourth child was stillborn. Pam Chilvers herself lay dangerously ill for days during which Basil and I kept the children with us. We might have kept them longer had not their grandfather, Amos, come blustering to fetch them away, accompanied by Pam’s brother, Davy Timms, who stayed in the cart with a slouch hat pulled low over his ruined face.
‘Bloody Hamiltons!’ Chilvers muttered. ‘Our little ’uns want no part o’ you. They’ve family of their own that’ll do better by ’em.’
‘Watch your tongue, Chilvers!’ Basil returned.
‘And you’re no better, Pooley! Right nest of scorpions here.’
Amos Chilvers’s charm was undiminished by the years.
Later, Ben Chilvers came to our door. Hat in hand, head festooned in trailing fronds of honeysuckle that overhung the back porch, he apologised for any offence his father had caused. ‘Don’t think it was the missus and me that sent ’em, Miss Rose. Him and Davy did it off their own bat. Whatever they said, I’m sorry for it.’
