Susan Speers Page 2

  “Madison drew endless maps and plans for Hethering,” Jem told me. “Some are fanciful, some are not.”

  “I want to see them.” I knew it was hopeless. Father’s permission had not been granted to me. I was unimportant, a female. He might educate me, but he wouldn’t encourage me.

  “Never mind, Clarry,” Jemmy promised, taking my hand in his warm brown fingers. “I’ll find a way.”

  *****

  On one of our happy tramps across Hethering, we emerged from Marchgate Wood at the top of the long grassy hill that led down to Willow’s cottage.

  “We’re in time for tea,” I nodded at the curl of smoke rising from her chimney.

  “You can go if you like,” Jem told me, “but I will keep on.”

  Jemmy only tolerated Willow, while I wanted to spend a part of every day in her magical parlor. With great patience, she taught me to embroider, to create the rainbow clusters of flowers that adorned nearly every cloth in her cottage, and I came to share her love of the bright colored silk threads.

  Outdoorsman Jem was uncomfortable in cozy feminine confines and Willow’s mercurial nature made him nervous. Miss Juniot and I often exchanged anxious glances during his visits, afraid his impatience would hurt Willow’s feelings, but she seemed serenely indifferent.

  That afternoon I stayed with Jem, and we crashed through the unknown forest on the far side of Willow’s meadow to find a field rarely scythed. Its coarse grasses grew long and thick. Jem had got ahead of me, out of sight.

  “Halloo!” I called again and again, hoping he would return. Instead, another figure appeared, a boy closer to my age than Jem’s, with ruddy cheeks and wild brown hair. His rough sewn shirt and wool britches placed him as a laborer’s child. He might have been a laborer himself, for his face and arms were brown and the skin on his hands was broken and rough.

  “I was looking for my cousin Jeremy.” I was sorry to take him from his work, times were hard for the poor.

  “Well, I’m Dickon,” he told me. “S’pose you were visiting the daft’un.”

  “Willow’s not daft,” I cried. “She — she’s special. I won’t let you call her names.”

  “Queer or not, I don’t mind.” He didn’t take offense. “She’s kind and gives me cakes.”

  “Me, too.” We exchanged shy smiles until he ducked his head. Many a friendship has been forged sharing the love of food.

  Jemmy’s long shadow fell across us and he came to stand between me and Dickon.

  “Is this boy bothering you Clarry?”

  “This is my new friend,” I placated Jemmy. I feared a display of his temper.

  “What’s your name, boy?” Never before had I heard Jeremy exercise his privilege. Jem’s resemblance to my father dismayed me.

  “Dickon Scard.” The boy’s face flushed a deeper red at the bite of Jeremy’s voice, but he didn’t lower his eyes or doff his cap. “What’s yours?”

  Jeremy eyes narrowed at the challenge. “Marchmont,” he pronounced. “You’re on my land.”

  “I’m not,” Dickon protested. “Marchmonts don’t own every acre hereabouts.”

  “You’re ignorant.” Jeremy dismissed Dickon. “Ignorant and insignificant. Come along, Clarissa.” He pulled me by the hand. I had only a moment to smile at Dickon, before Jemmy dragged me back into the woods, away from the friendly boy he termed an intruder.

  *****

  I spent more hours at Willow’s little cottage every day. Jeremy’s quest began to exhaust my good nature and his obsession frightened me a little. Our tramps had only one purpose now. He ignored Hethering’s other riches. Willow welcomed me kindly and would not hear a cross word against him.

  “He’s afraid he’ll be sent away before he finds it,” she told me. Daft or not, Willow had a fey wisdom that often saw what others missed. She poured more tea into my cup and passed a generous plate of cakes.

  “I don’t think the lost folly exists.” Several helpings of pastry had not dimmed my resentment.

  “I think it may exist,” she said, her green eyes closed to slits, “but not where he expects to find it.” She said no more despite my sudden plague of questions. If we found the fifth folly, Jem would be at peace, and things could return to normal.

  One lazy afternoon, I played with Belle on my bridge, humming a little tune, lost in the slow buzz of dragonflies and the heated torpor of the air. Jem had unearthed crates of forgotten papers and could not be enticed away from library. I wondered if he cared more for the hunt, now, than the prize.

  “Cla — ri — i — ssa!”

  Jeremy’s shout broke into my reverie about a dark prince’s who rescued me from peril. His footsteps pounded across the bridge. I left Belle to sun her linen clad body on the wide rail and waved. Jem was quite a sight. Dust matted his black hair and grimed his face. His clothes were filthy, but his expression held pure joy and I smiled at his happiness. His smiles were so rare and so sweet.

  “Jemmy, what?”

  He thrust to catch his breath and thrust an old pasteboard folder at me. There was a wisp of cobweb stuck to its string and I backed away.

  “Clarry, there’s a map,” he gasped, and pushing me aside, opened the folder, shoving its length along the rail in front of me.

  I had only a moment to appreciate the delicate watercolor images of a long ago Hethering, when he jogged it impatiently with a grubby finger. “Look here,” and disaster struck.

  The folder’s edge knocked Belle from her perch and I screamed “No!” as she plummeted. I threw my body over the rail to grasp at her skirt. Jemmy saw me lose my balance and dropped his precious find to grab my waist. In a slow, terrible motion, the maps slipped from their folder, and they wafted down on the thick air into the water.

  Belle’s splash didn’t alert the under gardener, but my scream and Jeremy’s anguished howl did. By the time Jem launched the rickety rowboat and dived off it into the weedy depths, our butler informed my father.

  I was running back and forth at the pond’s edge, screaming after Jem, certain he would drown. He surfaced over and over, tiring from his lengthy dives and struggles to kick free of the weeds. Belle had sunk like a stone and the maps, heavy with water, disappeared before he could reach them. I’ll never forget his last dive. He was so long under water I was certain he’d been caught and was drowning.

  I stripped off my shoes and stockings in a panic. I wasn’t a good swimmer, but I was going to plunge in after him.

  Then there was a ripple in the water, and hand over hand, Jemmy pulled himself through the weeds to the shallows, where he lay on his back gasping for breath, a sodden bundle at his belt.

  He’d saved the maps.

  Tears blinded me as I pulled him up out of the muck. My throat was as raw as if I had fought for every breath with him.

  “Oh, Jemmy.” I knelt beside him when his legs gave way. Thank God he was alive.

  “Here,” he offered the muddy bundle to me. I shook my head. What good were maps if Belle was lost?

  “Clarry,” his voice was weak. “Take her”

  I couldn’t believe I held Belle’s dear form in my hands, covered in the slimy wreck of her costume. My beloved friend, my last memory of my mother. In that moment, my love for Jeremy filled my heart. That rich, sweet love for him has never left me. When he saw my love for him bloom, his face relaxed, weary, but filled with love for me.

  I could not stop weeping that I nearly lost him, with sorrow for his loss, that he saved Belle, that he lost the precious maps. He held me close and patted my back.

  “Why Belle?” I asked him, when I could speak.

  “I saved what mattered.” I held him tighter and dropped my head on his shoulder. In his arms, I felt cherished and protected. I saw my happy future. Jeremy would keep me safe forever, and our children would inherit Hethering.

  “You know now, don’t you, Clarry.” Jeremy’s voice was deep and true.

  “I know.” I closed my eyes when he kissed me.

  I opened th
em to see my father stare at us from a short distance away. Two high spots of color blazed on his face and the expression in his cold eyes frightened me. He turned on his heel and stalked back to Hethering without a word.

  Chapter Three

  The blow fell swift and final. The morning after Belle’s accident, Jem and Mr. Pickety did not appear for lessons. Miss Prinn sent a note to Leighton House and its reply left her pale with shock.

  “Jemmy —Jeremy,” she corrected herself, “leaves for the Darby School tomorrow morning.”

  In an instant I was as pale as she, then my face stung with heat as if slapped. “My father did this.”

  “We knew this day would come,” Miss Prinn began.

  “Not like this. This is wrong, this is punishment. I want to see Jeremy, I have to.”

  She hesitated. “He damaged a valuable document?”

  “That was my fault. He musn’t be punished for it, for the sake of some old maps. He’ll be lost without Hethering.” I’d be lost without him.

  I ran from the schoolroom, down countless flights of stairs, through endless miles of corridor, my footsteps muted by thick carpet, my progress witnessed by a series of fish eyed portraits. I beat my fists on Father’s heavy study door.

  His secretary admitted me, taken aback by my angry, disheveled appearance. Father dismissed him, then came to the other side of his desk to fix me with a gimlet stare, but I stood my ground and glared up at him,

  “I’m the one to blame.” My voice rang in my ears. “I knocked the maps into the water. Jem tried to rescue them.”

  “Tried and failed. Chose to fail.” So Father knew it all.

  “Punish me instead.” His slight smile told me he would punish us both.

  “Jeremy has been granted the freedom of this estate for too long. I indulged him because he is heir, but my trust was abused.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “One I’ll not allow a second time.”

  “I want to see him.” I would beg if necessary.

  “Christmas holidays will come.” They were months away and I had not lived one day of my life without Jem. I opened my mouth to protest, but Father’s words stopped mine.

  “Your good behavior will earn Jeremy’s holidays at Hethering. Otherwise he’ll remain at school.”

  Father’s secretary escorted me back to Miss Prinn’s care. I put my head down on my folded arms and remained so for the rest of the day.

  I didn’t sleep that night. The moon hid behind rolling black clouds. The hall clock chimed two, then I heard a scrabbling sound against my windowpane. It came again. I raised the sash, then ducked to avoid a third shower of pebbles. Jem stood below.

  “The Tower,” he said. The folly on the hill.

  I dressed quickly and ran through the night to meet him.

  He stood, stiff with misery, waiting in the darkest shadows of the tower.

  “Jemmy.” I wept, panting from exertion.

  “Don’t cry, Clarry, I can’t bear it.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “Uncle wills it, but I’ll return.”

  “Will you write to me?”

  “He won’t permit letters, but I’ll find a way.” Jeremy kissed me, awkward with youth, then ran away into the night.

  *****

  I could not eat. I could not sleep. Nurse didn’t scold, but her face grew more and more anxious until she shed the tears I couldn’t, as meal after meal returned to the kitchen untouched. After two days, she marched downstairs to Father’s study, but returned defeated and glowering.

  The following morning, Miss Prinn, in despair over my abandoned schoolwork, paid Father a visit. The next day, Mr. Pickety arrived for an interview, and the day after that the vicar came.

  Within a week, I was too weak and despondent to rise from my bed. I heard frantic whispers outside my bedroom door. Dr. Hazzard’s name was invoked.

  At the stroke of twelve noon, my door opened and Father entered carrying a tray of food. He set it on the table beside my bed and sat in the chair where Nurse kept vigil. The rich smell of eggs basted in butter, freshly baked bread and cured bacon assailed me. My healthy body rebelled and my mouth began to water.

  “Well, Clarissa.” Father was resigned rather than angry and there was a glint of amusement in his cold blue eyes. “One small girl has reduced my household to chaos. My obedient servants are close to mutiny. It seems the parish will be next.”

  I swallowed but could not speak. The smell of the food overwhelmed me, and I could think of nothing else.

  “I believe you are more stubborn than I. I believe you are near as stubborn as your mother.”

  “She was not stubborn.” The words tore from my lips past any defiance.

  “You will allow me, I think, to know her nature better. I knew her many years longer than you.”

  I turned away from him and away from the food. I would not let him see me cry.

  There was only silence. The he sighed. “I see.” I heard the tink of silver cutlery against china, and smelt the rich egg anew.

  “Let us strike a bargain, Clarissa,” my father said. “Should you eat your meals and learn your lessons and comport yourself in the manner of a well behaved young lady, we will dine together once a week and we will discuss your mother. It’s time that you knew her better.”

  My body turned back to him of its own volition and my mouth fell open. He fed me every bit of food on the tray and sat with me until I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When I woke, Miss Prinn sat by my bedside with another tray. In the evening, Nurse supervised my supper. The next morning, I obediently ate my breakfast and returned to the schoolroom.

  I was not yet myself. My appetite was poor and my schoolwork dreadful, but day by day, bit by bit, I improved. I had two sparks of hope. One day Jeremy would return, and until then I would begin to know my mother.

  *****

  My first dinner with Father was a quiet affair. I was brought to Hethering’s small dining room by our butler, Henry. Small or no, the table’s gleaming linen was daunting. Father was seated at its head, with my place setting to his right.

  Father stood and Henry held out my chair. When I was seated, Father sat down again. Large bowls of clear soup were set out before us. I knew how to navigate the array of cutlery, china and crystal because of Miss Prinn’s constant drilling.

  “Good evening Clarissa,” my father’s voice was deep and rich but held no emotion.

  “Good evening, Father.”

  We ate in silence. Cook must have consulted Nurse because each course contained my favorite foods. Despite my nerves, I could eat a little.

  I fretted over our lack of conversation. How would I learn about my mother in this velvet blanket of quiet? The only sounds were discreet touches of heavy silver cutlery on translucent china.

  After the main courses were cleared away, and pudding was eaten, Father placed a small triangle of blue veined cheese on the plate that remained in front of me. He smiled a little at my look of suspicion.

  “Try the smallest bit, Clarissa,” he advised. “It may taste better than you imagine.”

  I didn’t want to admit he was right.

  He took a pair of molded silver shears and cut a branch of grapes. “Some fruit, Clarissa?”

  When I nodded, he put them on my plate and asked in the same tone of voice “Would you like to ask me a question about your mother?”

  I wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but it seemed he would serve me what I craved morsel by morsel.

  “Was she beautiful?” The question tore from my throat. Her portrait had been taken down after her death, and I had no memory of it. I was a gawky sort of girl and often wondered, peering into my glass, if I would ever be pretty. I couldn’t ask Jeremy about it — he disdained such matters. Miss Prinn was of the regrettable ‘pretty is as pretty does’ opinion, and Willow looked confused when I asked.

  Father snipped a larger branch of grapes, set them on his plate, and never tou
ched them again. “Your mother was beautiful,” he said. He looked down at his hands as if they were useless and put them in his lap. “Marissa was a very beautiful woman. “ He looked at me and saw another question in my eyes. “You resemble her a little now. More later, I think.”

  A network of fine lines surrounded his shuttered eyes. “I met her on Midsummer’s Day. The freshness and beauty of that June morning could not rival hers.” These were more words than I ever heard him say at one time.

  Father closed his mouth and folded his napkin. Under his commanding gaze, I did the same. Our dinner was over.

  Chapter Four

  My days were and drab without Jeremy. Weekday mornings, Miss Prinn and I met in the schoolroom. I tried my best, but only produced lackluster results. When Mr. Pickety arrived for Latin and mathematics instruction. I had little heart for them without Jeremy.

  Miss Prinn excused me early so that I could visit Willow. She’d seen samples of the unique embroidery and use of colored silk thread I learned from my special friend and agreed there was artistic merit in the work. She and Mr. Pickety enjoyed afternoon strolls through Hethering’s gardens.

  On Sundays, I sat in the family pew between Father and Uncle Paul, where Jeremy and I once sat side by side sharing a hymnal and speaking looks. We never dared whisper or snicker. Sometimes Mr. Pickety would speak the homily, his face quite pale as he watched for Father’s nod of approval.

  One Sunday, I saw Mr. Pickety greet Miss Prinn after service, then they were joined by the vicar for earnest conversation. Father was with them, he nodded once or twice.

  The very next morning as Miss Prinn began our history lesson, there was a brisk tap at the schoolroom door. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Cuttle, entered, followed by a small girl with yellow hair.

  “Here is Miss Marguerite,” Mrs. Cuttle announced.

  “You are very welcome to join us, Marguerite,” said Miss Prinn.