White Water (23 page)

‘You could charm your way out of a barrel!’ she said. ‘I shall miss you when you leave for Romney House.’

‘’Twill be a mutual sadness. I shall have to console myself with Felicity and if she won’t have me — why then, ’twill have to be the cook.’

They rode on, amused by their conversation, enjoying the splendid views and the warmth of the sun on their faces.

‘I will show you the true Dartmoor,’ he promised. ‘The sweep of the hills, the purple heather, yellow gorse and orange rowan. There to your left, below the bridge — an old moor house where the tinners used to live while they were streaming tin. Further over the old ruined priory … beyond that Maudesley, now empty and decayed. A pity! They say ’twas a fine house once … There, just completed, Bucher’s cottage and to the east of that you can just see the Heron mine.’

‘And all this is Heron land?’

‘Aye, even the priory tho’ ‘tis of no value now. We rent out the fields to sheep.’

‘And if the mine fails?’ she asked seriously.

Martin shrugged. ‘Then Allan will be a poor man,’ he told her. ‘He’ll be forced to sell land or rent it. Or go in for sheep, himself.’

‘But it won’t fail.’

‘I trust not.’ He held up crossed fingers. ‘Here’s to their success in London.’

‘I second that!’

Another half an hour passed and they diverged from the main track and took what Martin described as ‘a prettier road’. After another half an hour he professed himself ‘unsure of the direction’ and later still he admitted that they were lost.

‘Lost?’ echoed Eloise. ‘But I thought you knew every nook and cranny. Or so you boasted.’

‘And now I’m proved wrong — but we’ve plenty of daylight left.’

‘I trust there is, Martin Kendal. I’ve no plans to spend the night cold and dark in a moor house.’

He winked at her impudently. ‘You might find my company compensates for the dark and, as for the cold, why, I would keep you well warmed.’

‘Another boast! You are quite incorrigible.’

‘And you are very desirable,’ he said softly. ‘Mayhap I shall steal you from Allan on the very eve of his wedding and gallop away with you into a golden land where — ’

‘Martin, we are lost and you spend your time rhapsodizing! May we, I beseech you, search for a path of some kind or a familiar landmark.’

Martin assumed a deeply injured expression which made her laugh again. ‘But you are right,’ he told her. ‘We’ll ride on with the sun over our right hand — or is it left?’

‘Martin!’

‘Follow me and all will be well. Now ’tis rather steep here. Let me take the rein and lead your horse.’

Five minutes later they rounded a bend in the overgrown track and found themselves outside a rough hovel. The old walls were cracked and the turf roof sagged alarmingly in the middle. There was a hole in the wall and a low doorway. Outside two children played on the bare earth. A skinny goat wandered freely and a sheep, tethered by its hind leg to a post, had no grass within its reach, having eaten its immediate circle bare. A small terrier ran out of the doorway, barking-furiously, and the oldest child threw a clod of earth at it and missed. A woman appeared with a baby sucking at her breast. Her hair was wild and tangled and she was very dirty. She looked at Eloise and Martin with a mixture of suspicion and loathing. The child cried fitfully and she pulled her other breast free of her blouse and offered it to him.

‘Who
are
you?’ she demanded. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘This is Eloise Ballantyne and I — ’

‘Aren’t you one of those dratted Kendals?’

‘Aye — and proud of it,’ he said coldly.

‘And you have the impudence to show your face around here.’

‘Why not?’ Martin asked.

Eloise backed her horse slightly, embarrassed by the woman’s hostility.

‘Because ’tis you Kendals is making beggars of honest folks!’

‘I deny it. What is your name?’

‘Joan Gillis.’

‘And your husband is — ?’

‘Jake Gillis, if ’tis any of your business.’

At the name Gillis, Eloise moved back further but she could not tear her eyes away from the woman and child. This creature was a Gillis. This wretched scrap of humanity was related to Allan — and would soon be to her! Her stomach knotted with a revulsion which was touched with pity.

‘And he does what?’ asked Martin peremptorily, all his banter gone.

‘He cuts turf,’ she told him sullenly. ‘He’s an honest man.’

‘I doubt
that
,’ said Martin. ‘Who was his father?’

‘Donald Gillis but — ’

‘And he does what?’

‘He’s dead. He was a tinner at the Maudesley mine.’

‘And his father?’

‘How do I know?’ She was becoming nervous under Martin’s questioning and his brusque manner frightened her.

‘You know.’

‘I have forgotten,’ she muttered.

‘Then we shall wait here patiently until you remember.’

Her face hardened. ‘My husband’ll be home.’

‘Not yet awhile. Now — your father’s father? Who was he?’

She swallowed and her hands tightened round the child. ‘William.’

‘What was he to Marion Gillis, the witch?’

The woman’s eyes widened with fear as she thought she understood the line of his questioning. ‘I’m no witch!’ she gasped. ‘I’ve never harmed anyone. I’ve never so much as miscalled a living soul. You ask folk.’

‘Hold your tongue and answer my question. What was William Gillis to Marion?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Cousin? Brother-in-law?’

‘I swear I don’t know! For pity’s sake, leave us alone. Haven’t you done the Gillises enough harm. We’re despised and feared. Even now, after all these years, folk use us spitefully.’

‘I have done you no harm,’ said Martin. ‘In God’s name stop whining.’

‘What d’you want with us?’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t touch my children, I beg you. They’re innocent of anything but a bad name!’

Eloise could bear it no longer. She now saw with great clarity the purpose of the ride and saw how cleverly it had been accomplished and she was very angry. Suddenly she urged her horse forward. ‘We’re lost,’ she said. ‘That is all. We came to ask directions. We’ve no quarrel with you or your children. Which way to Heron?’

The woman stared at her, began to speak and changed her mind. She pointed and mumbled something which Eloise did not catch but it was not important. Martin knew the way home. He had always known it.

‘My thanks to you,’ said Eloise. She took a few coins from her purse and tossed them on to the bare earth where the children fought each other to pick them up. Without another look at Martin, Eloise turned her mount towards Heron and urged it into a canter.

Martin rode after her and, putting out a hand, took hold of the reins of her horse.

‘Eloise, I beg you. There’s no need — ’

Her eyes blazed with suppressed fury as she turned to him.

‘That was despicable!’

Bringing up her riding crop she slashed at his hand with all her strength. He winced with pain and snatched his hand away. She rode furiously but he kept pace with her and so they continued, side by side, until they reached Heron. Despite Martin’s attempts to make amends, Eloise did not utter one more word.

*

Later in the day Maria found Eloise weeping in her bedchamber and insisted on knowing everything that had taken place. She, too, was furious and a stormy scene followed between her and Martin. It ended with Maria’s decision to ride at once to Appledore taking Martin with her. He had finished at school and could take his place at Romney House for the time being. More and more young men in his position were being sent abroad to finish their education, and Hugo and Maria had been considering the idea for some time without reaching any firm conclusions. To travel France or Spain for a year was not expensive for a young man — eighty pounds would cover his own expenses, but if he took a servant and a house the figure would be nearer a hundred and fifty. That would allow for clothes and entertainment — even fencing lessons — but the Heron fortunes were at a low ebb and there was nothing to spare. All their resources were needed if they were to save the mine and Martin’s year abroad would almost certainly be delayed or sacrificed entirely.

Maria told Martin in no uncertain terms that this behaviour had been inexcusable, and since he was obviously determined to make mischief between Eloise and Allan he must stay away from them, at least until the wedding, which had been set for the last day in September. At Appledore Martin could ‘cool his heels’ and reflect on his disgraceful conduct.

Matt went with them and the first day passed in an uncomfortable silence. Maria and Martin had nothing to say to each other and Matt’s attempts at conversation were met with ill-concealed irritation. Finally, he, too, fell silent and rode behind them, muttering disconsolately to himself from time to time. Fortunately, on the second day they overtook a large family returning from a wedding and in their cheerful company it was impossible to remain churlish. Matt and Martin were immediately drawn into their lively conversation and only Maria chose to ride alone, busy with her thoughts.

As they neared Sevenoaks they passed a lone rider. Among other things, he carried a letter from Felicity to Heron with news of Ruth’s death, but they were unaware of this. They therefore reached Romney House much earlier than Felicity had dared to hope, only hours, in fact, after the old lady had closed her eyes for the last time. Maria was immediately plunged into preparations for the funeral. There was so much to be attended to. Friends to be notified; a date fixed for the funeral; a coffin to be measured and made. The family lawyer was notified; a small funeral feast was prepared and the black ribbons and drapes which had served Harold were once more brought out of the chest. Matt and Martin wore black ribbons on their sleeves. Maria and Felicity went into Tenterden and seven yards of black silk was purchased and hastily made up by a local seamstress.

Felicity’s grief was very real. She had grown fond of Ruth and had found a kind of fulfilment in caring for her, almost as a mother cares for a child. The old lady had been dependent on her and Felicity had enjoyed the knowledge that she was needed and had a purpose in life. Suddenly, that purpose had been taken from her and she felt lost. The tears she cried for Ruth were partly for herself also.

Her grief was sincere and her dark despair made her vulnerable. Maria comforted her as well as she could and kept her busy in an effort to distract her thoughts, but the grim reality of death could not be ignored and Felicity suffered deeply. Martin, genuinely regretting his cruelty towards Eloise, tried to make amends by treating Felicity with great kindness and consideration. Maria, seeing this, was grateful, for it allowed her more time for the many pressing matters requiring her attention. Martin could be gentle, understanding and sympathetic and Felicity clung to him for support during the days that followed. He felt protective towards the shy, grief-stricken girl and it pleased him to help and comfort her.

At the funeral they stood together and his arm was round her shoulders. During the meal that followed he made her eat, although she insisted she was not hungry. He fetched wine for her and talked cheerfully when her eyes filled with tears and his nearness made the day bearable.

‘She is with her beloved brother,’ he told her. ‘She had a long life and a happy one. She adored Harold and now they are together, and at peace with God. You must be happy for her — for both of them. And you can rest easy in your mind for you made her last years happy.’

‘Oh, I do hope I did!’ said Felicity.

‘But you did, most certainly. You fed her, read to her, talked with her — ’

‘I was impatient sometimes.’

‘But did you let her know that?’

‘I tried not to.’

‘Then I dare say she was quite unaware. But even if she knew ’tis of no importance. I’ll wager she was sometimes impatient with you!’

‘Aye.’ Felicity smiled faintly. ‘At times she was.’

‘And did you love her less for it?’

‘No. I understood the reasons for it.’

‘Then wouldn’t she also understand
your
reasons? I warrant she did. None of us is perfect. Not you, not me, not Ruth. You need not fear your conscience, Felicity. I believe you were a kind and loving companion to her. Without you she would have been very lonely.’ He smiled gently. ‘I know you must mourn for her but don’t reproach yourself needlessly. She would not wish it. She loved you in her own way. I’m certain of it. Now, another glass of wine to put some colour back into your cheeks. You are so pale. No, I’ll brook no arguments so waste no words. Another glass of wine — there we are — and mayhap a cinnamon biscuit?’

*

The will was read at ten-thirty the following morning. Samuel Hessop read it very slowly in a deep mournful voice and Maria, Felicity and Martin sat along one side of the table and the cook, the gardener and Matt sat along the other. This, Samuel Hessop had assured her, was the proper way to do it. He stood at one end of the table so that he was silhouetted against the bright sunlight — a short stout figure with a floppy velvet hat covering his balding head.