The House at Bell Orchard Read online

  The riders made their way through the park to the coast, intending to ride along the shore as far as the river mouth, and then upstream to the ford and so to Wychwood Chase, where they would take some refreshment before returning to Bell Orchard. Dorothy seemed unusually listless, and once or twice pressed a hand to her forehead as though the glare of the sun on the sea was more than she could bear. At last, with the air of one who, though reluctant to spoil her companions’ pleasure, was suffering too much to endure it any longer, she confessed to a severe headache, which had, she said, been troubling her ever since she woke that morning.

  The admission was made just as they were passing a farm which stood back from the shore in a fold of the ground, and she followed it up with a suggestion that she should rest there while the others continued their ride. Charmian started to protest, but Piers, looking rather hard at his sister, said dryly:

  “That is an excellent notion! Mrs. Channock will look after you, and I can come back to the farm when I have escorted Miss Tarrant home.” He saw Charmian’s doubtful expression and smiled faintly. “Do not look so disturbed, ma’am. The situation, I believe, is one in which convention may be set aside a trifle.”

  She was not entirely convinced, but since Dorothy was plainly far from being her usual sprightly self, she felt that it would be unkind to raise any objection. So Miss Wychwood was duly escorted to the farm and handed over to the care of its kindly and much concerned mistress, and Charmian, having seen her comfortably settled in the parlour, went, still with some reluctance, to rejoin Piers. They crossed the fields again to the shore, riding in silence until Charmian said diffidently:

  “I think, sir, that it will be best if I do not come to Wychwood Chase today. It is certain to cause Lady Wychwood concern when she learns of your sister’s indisposition, and besides, it would be unkind to leave Miss Wychwood alone at the farm for so long.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Miss Tarrant,” he agreed pleasantly. “We will cut back through the woods, then, to Bell Orchard, though I hope that we may have the pleasure of entertaining you at the Chase in the near future.”

  She thanked him, and assured him rather shyly that she shared that hope, and they rode on along the sunlit shore until they reached the outskirts of the cluster of fishermen’s cottages about the river mouth. Skirting the edge of the hamlet, they turned inland along a track which followed the winding course of the lazy stream. The sand-dunes gave place to rough pasture where sheep grazed, and then to more fertile meadows, and at length they passed into the welcome shade of the woods.

  Piers had been chatting pleasantly as they rode, but though Charmian responded to his remarks, her thoughts were not wholly upon them. In spite of her defiant words to Lavinia nearly a fortnight before, she had never spoken to the Wychwoods of her father’s death, for a suitable opportunity to do so had never seemed to present itself, and she had been secretly glad of the fact. Now, however, that excuse for what she knew to be cowardice was no longer valid, and she was trying to nerve herself to broach the subject. They were well into the woods before she finally summoned up sufficient courage, but at length, with a kind of desperation, she said jerkily:

  “Sir Piers, there is something I have to tell you, something which it is only right that you should know. It concerns my father.”

  She paused, shrinking even now from putting into words the thing which still had the power to leave her sick and shaken whenever she thought of it, and Piers regarded her compassionately. He had known from the first that some trouble weighed heavily upon her, something other than her natural grief for her father, and he had hoped that in time she might bring herself to confide in him. That was why he had agreed so readily to leaving Dorothy at the farm, even though he felt some doubt as to the reality of her indisposition.

  Charmian was staring straight ahead, her face white and strained as she tried to find the courage to continue.

  Piers leaned across to grasp her horse’s bridle, bringing both animals to a halt.

  “Miss Tarrant,” he said quietly, “if you are about to tell me of the manner of your father’s death, I beg that you will not harrow your feelings by speaking of it. I am aware of the circumstances.”

  “You know?” Charmian’s head jerked back towards him; her eyes were wide and startled. “But how?”

  “From my aunt, Lady Corham, in London. She and my mother correspond frequently.” He paused, gravely studying her troubled face, and then added gently: “It makes no difference, you know!”

  Charmian’s lips trembled. “It caused a great scandal,” she said unsteadily. “I do not think it will ever be quite forgotten.”

  “Idle tongues can be cruel,” Piers agreed slowly, “and malice makes sorrow doubly hard to bear. Try to believe, though, that there are those who wish to be truly your friends.”

  “I do believe it, sir,” she replied softly. “You have made it possible for me to do so.”

  “I am glad of that,” he said seriously, “for I would not wish there to be any misunderstanding between us.”

  A little silence fell, broken only by the sleepy gurgle of the river, and the jingle of harness as one of the horses tossed its head. Charmian hovered on the brink of further confidences, of disclosing to Piers the secret of Bell Orchard and her own uncertainties and fears, but still conflicting feelings held her back. Would she be able to convince him? Colonel Fenshawe was too clever to let any whisper of his activities leak out, for their success depended upon his remaining above suspicion. She had only her word to offer, and Piers might not accept that against a family whom, however little he might like them, he had known all his life.

  His gaze was still fixed upon her face, and the blue-grey eyes held a warmth which set her heart beating faster, and made Jacobite conspiracies seem suddenly distant and unimportant. In breathless confusion she looked away, past him to the river sparkling a dozen yards beyond. Then a movement at the water’s edge caught her attention; she looked more directly towards it, her heart gave a lurch of alarm, and she was obliged to stifle a dismayed exclamation. On the very brink of the river, so absorbed that he was unaware of the riders, was a tiny boy, a black-haired baby in a homespun smock. Squatting on his heels, he was beating at the water with a long twig, obviously delighted by the splashes and innocent of his danger.

  Piers turned in the saddle, his glance following the direction of her pointing hand, and then without a word he dismounted and handed his horse’s rein to her. She watched, holding her breath, as he went slowly and carefully towards the river bank, for she knew that any sudden sound might startle the child and send him tumbling headlong into the water. An eternity seemed to pass before Piers reached him and bent to sweep him swiftly and surely out of danger.

  He came quickly back to the path with his prize now kicking and screaming with fright, and Charmian dropped the reins of both horses and stretched out her hands, saying impetuously:

  “Oh, poor mite! Give him to me, Sir Piers!”

  He obeyed with considerable relief and she clasped the struggling infant in her arms, holding him close and soothing him until his yells subsided into sobs. Then, looking again at Piers, she said indignantly:

  “What can his mother be thinking of, to let him wander into such danger? Do you know who he is, sir?”

  There was a hesitation, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, before he replied, “It is Amy Godsall’s son,” he said briefly.

  “Godsall?” Charmian knitted her brows. “Martha Godsall is housekeeper at Bell Orchard.”

  Piers nodded. “Yes, I know. The family has served the Fenshawes for generations. Jack Godsall, who is Martha’s brother and father to Amy, is keeper on the estate. His cottage is a little farther on, a short way back from the river. The boy must have strayed from there.”

  Charmian looked down at the baby in her arms. He had stopped crying and was staring up curiously into her face, a remarkably handsome child in spite of the dirt and tears staining his small countenance. As she wiped th
em away with her handkerchief, there came into her mind a picture of the beautiful girl who had curtsied so mockingly as the Fenshawe coach went by, a girl who had held this sturdy lad in her arms.

  “We must take him home at once,” she said. “If he has been missed, his mother must be half-crazed with anxiety.”

  Again Piers hesitated, and she had the impression that he was seeking some alternative course. None offered, and with a slight shrug he swung into the saddle again and they went on their way.

  A short distance farther on a path branched away to the right, climbing a gentle slope, and as Piers led the way along it they heard a woman’s voice calling anxiously somewhere ahead of them. Then they emerged from beneath the trees into brilliant sunshine, and Charmian found herself looking across a clearing at a cottage, an ancient building with thick walls veined with massive beams, and tiny windows which peered like knowing eyes from beneath shaggy thatch.

  It should have been a pleasant place, a picturesque homestead set in the heart of the summer woods, and yet there hung about it an indescribable aura of evil. Even on that bright morning it seemed to exude darkness, as though the ancient walls had looked upon black deeds, and knew secrets which could not be whispered even in the dead of night. Charmian felt her skin prickle with primitive, unreasoning dread, and her clasp on the child tightened so that he gave a protesting cry.

  An aged crone who was crouched, wringing her hands, on the bench by the cottage door, looked up sharply, revealing a wrinkled, vulturine face, and on the far side of the clearing, where she had been searching frantically in the undergrowth, Amy Godsall spun round towards the newcomers. For an instant she stared, her eyes enormous in her pallid face, and then, with a cry, came flying across the little garden to snatch her baby from Charmian’s arms and strain him to her breast in an agony of relief.

  “You should keep a closer watch upon the boy, Amy,” Piers said sternly. “Had Miss Tarrant not caught sight of him down by the river, he might well have drowned.”

  Amy looked quickly up at him and then at Charmian, who was struck afresh by her extraordinary beauty. She said in a low, passionate voice:

  “Then God bless ’ee, miss, for ’twould break my heart if any harm came to him. I left him wi’ Granny yonder and she fell asleep in the sun, being old and weary like. It be main hard keeping watch on him, he be that venturesome.”

  “I am sure it must be,” Charmian replied gently, “and I am thankful that we found him in time.”

  She broke off as a man came quickly round the corner of the cottage, a tall man, hatless and coatless, his shirt open at the throat. He stopped short at sight of the newcomers, but Amy turned eagerly towards him.

  “Our boy be safe, Harry!” she exclaimed joyfully. “Sir Piers and the young lady brought him home. They found him down by the river.”

  “Did they, b’Gad!” Harry Fenshawe strolled forward, apparently in no way abashed by the situation. “Then we are devilish grateful to them.”

  “Come, Miss Tarrant,” Piers said quietly. “There is no need for us to linger here.”

  “One moment!” Harry laid his hand on the bridle of Charmian’s horse; his voice was mocking. “Amy, take the boy indoors!”

  She hesitated, looking quickly from one to the other, and then turned and went into the cottage. The old woman got up from the bench and hobbled after her.

  “So Sir Piers and the young lady brought the little devil safely home,” Harry said softly. “And why, may I ask, are Sir Piers and the young lady riding through the woods alone? Dorothy must be a most accommodating chaperone!”

  ‘Neither matter is any concern of yours!” Piers was making a praiseworthy effort to hide his anger, but his voice had lost some of its normal calm. “Be good enough to stand aside.”

  “It is very much my concern,” Harry retorted with a grin. “Miss Tarrant is in my stepmother’s care, so I stand now in much the same position as you did when you objected so strongly to me riding with your sister. You, my friend, should practise what you preach!”

  “If that is meant for a jest,” Piers said contemptuously, “it is in very poor taste, but I will give you credit for not intending it seriously.”

  “Obliging of you!” Harry replied derisively. “Of course, Piers Wychwood is to be trusted, and that rake, Harry Fenshawe, is not! Well, perhaps that is true, though devil knows you used not to be so curst righteous!” He released Charmian’s horse and stepped back, indicating the path out of the clearing with an airy flourish of his hand. “Ride on, Miss Tarrant! I am persuaded that neither your reputation nor your virtue is in danger.”

  She was glad enough to escape, and spurred past him with colour blazing hotly in her cheeks. As she rode down the slope towards the river she heard Harry’s mocking laughter pursuing her, and urged her mount to a swifter pace. After a moment Piers drew alongside her and said abruptly:

  “I must ask your pardon for that incident, Miss Tarrant. Had I known that Harry was at the cottage, nothing would have persuaded me to take you there.”

  “It is of no importance,” she replied, not looking at him. “The child had to be returned to his mother.” She paused, and then added irrelevantly: “She is very beautiful.”

  “Too beautiful for her own good,” Piers replied quietly. “One should not blame her too greatly, I suppose, for her mother died when she was born, and her father is a harsh, overbearing fellow. He kept her almost a prisoner in that cottage, and would let no man come near her.”

  Charmian turned her head to look at him with a puzzled frown, embarrassment overcome by curiosity. “But Mr. Fenshawe—” she said doubtfully.

  Piers shrugged. “Jack Godsall is dependent upon Colonel Fenshawe for his home and his livelihood,” he replied dryly. “He could not send the Colonel’s son about his business as he had sent the village lads. To give Harry his due, I believe that he is sincerely attached to Amy, and it is certain that since he took her under his protection, her father has been obliged to treat her less harshly.”

  He paused, regarding Charmian with some concern, for she was very pale now. He attributed this to the shock of what she had just discovered, and reproached himself for allowing her to dwell upon it.

  “I am a thoughtless fool!” he said abruptly. “This matter has distressed you.”

  “No!” Charmian turned quickly to look at him. It seemed of immense importance for him to understand that Harry Fenshawe did not matter to her in the least. “That does not concern me at all. It was that place, that cottage! You may think this absurd, but to me it seemed to reek of evil.”

  Piers gave her a curious look. “I wonder why you should think that?” he said musingly. “Have you, perhaps, been listening to the tales the villagers tell concerning old Granny Godsall?” The bewilderment in her face answered him, and he shook his head. “No, I see that you have not! They say, Miss Tarrant, that she is a witch.”

  “A witch?” Charmian shivered, remembering the old woman at the cottage, her face with its beak-like nose and wrinkled, parchment-coloured skin, the eyes bright and hooded as a snake’s. “She has the look of one!”

  “The looks and the reputation,” Piers replied calmly. “The one built largely upon the other. No, that is not entirely true! She certainly has an extraordinary knowledge of herbs and their uses—my father was used to say that Granny Godsall knew more of such matters than many an apothecary—and the country folk go to her for cures for all ailments, both for themselves and for their animals. I know that she transacts such business with all the trappings of black magic, and I suspect that she is not averse to adding to her profits in less innocent ways. A love-philtre or a waxen image of an enemy must command a far higher price than a mere draught of medicine. It is not surprising that she is thought to possess the evil eye.”

  “Perhaps she does,” Charmian said in a low voice. “That place breathes the very spirit of terror and despair.”

  Piers laughed. “Miss Tarrant,” he said firmly, “I shall not permit you to indu
lge in so morbid a fancy! The cottage is very old, and doubtless there are dark pages in its history as there must be in the history of any ancient building, but I assure you that there is no witchcraft there.”

  She smiled, knowing that he was right, that such superstitions were for credulous country folk, to be mocked at by people of education. Yet she could not cast off the impression the cottage had made upon her; even to think of it brought a cold feeling of dread, and she hoped fervently that she need never see the place again.

  The feeling continued to haunt her even after her return to Bell Orchard. Piers took his leave and rode away, having promised, in answer to her anxious insistence, to keep her informed of the state of his sister’s health, and Charmian went up to her bedchamber to change from her riding-habit into a gown. The events of the morning had given her a good deal to think about, and when she had changed she sat down on the window-seat, feeling disinclined for Lavinia’s company.

  Amy Godsall’s defiant attitude was now explained, and so was the insolent familiarity with which the housekeeper, Martha Godsall, occasionally treated her mistress. It was small wonder that Lavinia, with her exaggerated sense of her own importance, found the situation infuriating.

  Charmian recalled Mrs. Fenshawe’s broad hints of hopes for a marriage between Harry and herself, and wondered whether Amy was the reason for his refusal to consider it. It did not seem likely. A man might keep a mistress, and even be deeply devoted to her, but he did not on that account refuse to marry a wealthy woman of his own class. Such marriages were usually matters of arrangement, and a wife was expected to turn a blind eye to her husband’s other attachments.

  She sighed, and got up again to study her reflection in the mirror. She knew that she was accounted a pretty girl, but the face that looked back at her now seemed plain and commonplace. Black did not become her; it made her look too pale, and brown hair and eyes were not flattered by it; one needed Lavinia’s cool, blonde colouring, or the red-gold hair of the girl at the cottage, to wear it to advantage; and it would be a year before she was able to appear in colours again. She unpinned the veil of fine black crepe which fell from the top of her head to behind her shoulders, and replaced it with a little cap of lace and ribbon, but could not feel that she had profited much by the change.