The Dandelion Seed (30 page)

Chalky told Thomas of how he had come back to the inn cold and hungry to find his father gone and Betsy his mistress in charge.

Thomas raised his eyebrows and looked very thoughtful. So this was old Sam’s son, after all. And since it had been Thomas’ own sword that had ended old Sam’s life, Thomas knew that he had to approach this subject very carefully.

‘Down in the cellar, in an old jar, that was,’ said Chalky, eager to seem helpful. ‘There was letters too. But I burnt them. Written in French, they were.’ He chatted on endlessly.

Thomas was getting desperate. ‘Chalky, I must appeal to your honour. I have lost my wife and child. Think, man, how would you feel if the same happened to you? You must try to be honest with me. Did Betsy ever talk about Marcelle?’

Chalky scratched his head. ‘Wait a bit. There was something, the day she died. She made me write a postscript to the letter, something about seeing Marci.’

Thomas produced the letter. ‘Is this that letter?’

‘Yes, that’s it! I wrote on the bottom of it,’ Chalky added proudly.

Thomas picked up the locket and stared at it. ‘This must have belonged to Marcelle’s mother,’ he said.

With his lank hair hanging in his eyes, Chalky bent over to look at the little girl in the picture. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘She ain’t half like some poor soul I once saw in the churchyard last summer. Was on her last legs, she was. I got milk and bread for her but where she went, Gawd knows. I think I did see her again once, but I’m not sure.’

But Thomas was reading Betsy’s letter again. There was nothing new to see, but he looked again at the scrawl at the bottom of it: ‘Saw Marci near the brook.’

‘Where is the brook?’ he asked Chalky.

‘Just down the bottom,’ he pointed out the back door. ‘It runs from the Lea past the inn, through the grounds of Brook House.’

‘Come on,’ said Thomas. ‘Let’s go and look.’

They walked beside the swift flowing brook which rippled and ran through the green meadowland. They followed its path until they came to the wooden stile from which the magnificent green parklands stretched out before them. They could see a house in the distance in the valley but the little brook left it behind, wandering on through the woodlands until it met the River Thames.

‘What house it that?’ Thomas asked.

‘That’s Brook House, sir,’ replied Chalky. ‘Posh place, it is, and a lot of royalty lived there.’

Thomas nodded. ‘Yes, of course, I know it,’ he said.

The November mist swirled about them and the air had suddenly become chilled. Thomas looked over the immense park towards the house, and a shiver came over him as if he were catching a chill. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘There’s no sense hanging about here in this cold air.’

Both men looked despondent as they returned to the warmth of the inn. Katy prepared spiced drinks for them and they drank these sitting by the fire. Rolly and Thomas remained very quiet when Chalky left to serve at the bar.

‘Got to go, mate,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an awful lot of customers to see to, I have. I hope you will decide to stay the night.’

Thomas was uncertain about staying. He had almost decided to leave that evening, having decided to make for France. It was possible that Marcelle had found her own family in France. Perhaps there was a chance that she had returned there. But he felt very tired and, besides, there was a fog coming up. It would be better to start early in the morning, he decided. ‘Come on, Rolly,’ he said with a yawn. ‘Let us retire and make an early start tomorrow.’

So the two men left the warmth of the fire and went up to bed. Another day had been wasted and there was still no real hope of finding Marcelle.

15

Alone at Brook House

The long warm summer weather had been kind to Marcelle; the outdoor life she spent in the gardens with the children had brought her back to good health in every way. The strength of her religious feeling gave her peace of mind and the love of the children brought great happiness. Yes, Brook House was her Garden of Eden while she was in the company of the son she loved so much – little Roger, so sturdy and strong – and young Elizabeth who clung to her skirts so lovingly. There was an affinity between the golden-haired Elizabeth and her beloved Miss Mouse. The rest of the household agreed that little half-blind protégée of the Brook family had never been so happy.

Mrs Powell had informed Marcelle that the disease that Elizabeth had been born with, and which had destroyed her precious sight, would also eventually kill her. Many doctors, including the royal physician, had examined her but they were all of the same opinion that she would not reach maturity. And the fact that the disease was hereditary was not discussed because of the mystery of Elizabeth’s birth.

One evening, shortly after her entry to the big house, Marcelle discovered how Roger came to be there. She was sitting in the large kitchen with Mrs Powell and the tall, prematurely white-haired Ralph, the master’s personal servant, who talked of the children – of Robert, now away at school, who was Sir Fulke Greville’s nephew and heir to the estate, and of Popsi, the mysterious child who had been brought to the house by Lady Elizabeth Howard, who was now travelling abroad.

Marcelle listened quietly and keenly. So, she thought, it was the fair countess who had stolen her child. Her eyes widened but her lips remained sealed. And it was Frances Howard, who was responsible for this present state of affairs . . .

As Marcelle’s relationship with the young Elizabeth grew, the girl became more and more dependent on her, especially as her eyesight faded. ‘Stay, Miss Mouse,’ she would say. ‘Tell me what colour the Virginia creeper in the courtyard, is this morning.’

Marcelle would then describe the gold and orange of the creeper which adorned the old stone walls. She would brush Elizabeth’s golden hair and smooth it with her fingers. Every comfort and need Marcelle gave to this lovely, sick girl, including her morning prayers in the little chapel. There was no longer a priest but Marcelle would light candles and decorated the altar for the two of them.

Sometimes it seemed to Marcelle that in this old historic house the spirits from another world reached out to touch her. But she was not afraid; she had defeated the evil one and these were her friends. One evening at twilight on a day when Elizabeth had been quite ill, Marcelle knelt to pray to the Holy Mother to help this afflicted little one. Suddenly she became aware of a white-haired lady kneeling beside her. Marcelle made no movement but she knew the lady was there. Then as Marcelle left the chapel, the lady stood up, tall and majestic. She wore a Spanish black lace mantilla on her white head, and in a voice that was not really a voice but seemed to be inside Marcelle, she said: ‘I have known much sorrow in the world, too. Here you will find peace, little one.’ With that, she disappeared as if she had faded into the old grey walls. Marcelle was not afraid, and when she told Mrs Powell about seeing this lady, the housekeeper did not seem a bit surprised.

‘That was Lady Lennox, the Scottish Queen’s mother-in-law,’ said Mrs Powell. ‘She died here. Some say that Lord Leicester poisoned her. Well, you are favoured indeed. She only appears to the family, as a rule,’ she smiled. ‘Don’t let it worry you, dear. I’ve lived here for many years and I have never seen any ghosts. But I do know there are plenty about, as I’ve often heard about them.’

Marcelle smiled gently, and after that day, she would include poor Margaret Lennox in her prayers, acknowledging the fact that although King James had taken her bones from Hackney to Westminster, her spirit remained at Brook House.

Towards the end of the summer a serpent arose in Marcelle’s Garden of Eden. It concerned the two servant girls Agnes and Elsie who were always quarrelling and whom Mrs Powell only tolerated because their parents were old family retainers and lived in cottages on the estate. The trouble had started seven years earlier when a good-looking young man had made love to both of them, and then gone off and got killed in France. The girls did not marry, but continued to hate each other from then on.

But this summer, Mrs Powell’s patience ran out. Unable to stand their bickering any longer, she persuaded Sir Fulke to get rid of Elsie who was getting lazy in any case. But the rejected Elsie became vindictive. She accused Agnes of stealing her betrothal ring and brought the law to investigate. It turned out that Elsie was telling the truth. Poor Mrs Powell who was forced to admit that the ring was Elsie’s property, so they took Agnes away and hanged her. Poor Mrs Powell was so distressed by the whole incident, for which she blamed herself, that her health deteriorated. Her legs became very stiff and she was no longer able to cope with the great house. The bother of keeping servants in order became too much for her, so it was decided to close the house up and move the household to Alcaster House, the family’s country home in Warwickshire. Sir Fulke was very keen on the idea as he found that maintaining an extra house in London was too much since he had become the Speaker of the House.

It was Ralph who brought the news that Brook House was to be let to strangers, that all the best pictures were to be taken down and the richest of the tapestries taken to Warwickshire. Marcelle and Elizabeth looked sadly at the walls, which were now bare apart from the fine religious wall paintings which had been done a hundred years before by the monks that used to reside there.

‘Tell me, Miss Mouse,’ said Elizabeth, ‘is St Augustine still there? He has not faded, I hope.’

‘No, dear,’ replied Marcelle. ‘His hands holding the cross of gold are as bright as ever.’

Suddenly Elizabeth threw herself into Marcelle’s arms. ‘Oh, Miss Mouse!’ she screamed hysterically. ‘I won’t go! I won’t leave my lovely home!’

Cuddling her with soft gentle arms, Marcelle tried to calm her. She led her to the doorway and they sat on the wide stairs together. ‘It is beautiful country up in the hills, so Ralph says,’ said Marcelle reassuringly. ‘Perhaps you will like Warwick as much as you like Essex.’ She tried to calm the little girl but she could feel her own fears mounting as she wondered if they might separate her from Roger.

‘What about you, Miss Mouse? I will not go without you and Popsi,’ insisted Elizabeth.

‘Don’t fret, darling, we may not have to go.’ And a very strange feeling told her then she would never leave Brook House again.

Marcelle had failed to reassure Elizabeth about the move, and soon the girl was having nightmares and tantrums about it. Her screaming fits were very disturbing and she often refused to eat, or would smash the fine china in a screaming rage until at last it was decided to let Elizabeth, Roger and Marcelle stay on for a while more. One wing of the house was to remain open – the south-west wing, which opened out to the courtyard where the white doves flew up and down from the picturesque dovecot and the Virginia creeper climbed the walls. This courtyard was Elizabeth’s favourite spot, and Marcelle was delighted to be staying on to take care of the children. The stables were to remain open and maids would come in daily to cook and clean.

Once the final arrangements had been made, Elizabeth settled down. ‘We will have a lovely time on our own, Miss Mouse,’ she said. ‘With just you and me and little Popsi.’ She snuggled up to Marcelle, who stroked her golden hair and sent up a prayer of thanks that she did not have to leave this safe haven so quickly after all.

In October, when Ralph came with a carriage to take Mrs Powell to Warwick, the poor woman wept continuously. With her bonnet and black shawl and a little basket of provisions for the journey, she limped down the drive, with only one pathetic glance back. She knew she would never see her old home again.

‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she kissed Marcelle. ‘God will reward you for the care and love you give these helpless babes. Take care, Elizabeth, don’t wander, will you, dear?’

‘No, I have got Miss Mouse and Prince, haven’t I?’ Elizabeth put her hand on the head of the great hound who was always at her side.

The horses sped off down the drive and Marcelle was left alone, more or less mistress of this lovely house. With an arm over each child, she said: ‘Come inside, and we will think of a nice game to play.’

Chalky was feeling very unsettled. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he screwed the taps more securely into the large wine vats and lined up the pewter pots under the barrels of beer. He was getting ready for the big rush; it was Saturday night and soon the bar would be full of customers.

‘Been quite a day, ain’t it?’ he spoke to Katy who sat with the child on her lap, her legs spread wide as she watched her husband with fond amusement in her lovely dark eyes.

‘Gawd, Katy,’ said Chalky. ‘I dread this bloody lot tonight. It’s Guy Fawkes Night, the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot, and they go bloody mad.’

‘They don’t bother me,’ said Katy, ‘so long as they pays up.’

‘Believe me, Katy, I’d sooner have a nice young gent who likes a bottle of wine and a bit of the other than this scum.’

‘Don’t let them bother you,’ said Katy, placidly getting up to take the sleeping child to bed.

In fact, the crowd did not bother Chalky much that night; mostly it was Holkin, a big brute of a man who had once worked for Topcliffe, the evil agent who had hanged and tortured the Catholics who did not pay their fines. Chalky had no religious beliefs but the stories of persecution he was forced to listen to made him sick.

That evening Holkin with his two companions, Welkin and Jenkins, were standing at the bar talking very loudly as usual. Holkin was in his element, having got on to the subject of his late master Topcliffe. He held forth with lewd stories about the late Queen Elizabeth. With his mouth opening and shutting like that of a fish and his blue bulbous nose and mop of greasy hair shining, he shouted out to all and sundry. ‘Showed him her arse, she did, dirty old cow.’