The Adulteress

A Cry for Help

IT HAS ALWAYS SURPRISED me that people who have lived conventionally, observing all the rules laid down by society, will suddenly appear to change their entire personality and act in a manner alien to everything they have been before. That I should be one of them was as great a shock to me as it would have been to those who knew me well—if they ever discovered it; that was why it was absolutely necessary to keep it secret; there were, of course, other, more practical, reasons for doing so.

I have often tried to understand how it could have happened to me. I have tried to make excuses. Is it possible for people to be possessed? Some of the mystics of the past declared they were. Was it some inner force? Was it the spirit of one long departed which had entered my body and made me throw aside the principles of a lifetime and act as I did? What is the use of trying to placate my conscience? The rational explanation can only be that I did not know myself until I came face to face with temptation.

It really began on that spring day which was just like any other day in my ten-year marriage to Jean-Louis Ransome. Life had flowed smoothly and pleasantly for us. Jean-Louis and I agreed on most things; we had known each other since childhood and had been brought up in the same nursery, for my mother had taken charge of him just before I was born when he was about four years old. His own French mother had left him in my mother’s charge when he had shown so determinedly that he did not want to go away with her and her new husband.

Ours had been one of those predicted marriages which pleased everybody. Perhaps it had been too easy, and because everything had fallen so neatly into place we had become the ordinary conventional people we were.

So there was I in the flower room, I remember, arranging the daffodils I had picked a short while before from our garden which merged into the woods and which we agreed we would keep a little wild because we both liked it that way. At this time of year the daffodils seemed to spring up everywhere. I loved their subtle scent, their bright yellowness the color of sunshine and the way they proudly held up their trumpets as though proclaiming the coming of summer. I always filled the house with them. I was the sort of person who quickly formed habits and went on with them mainly because I had for so many years.

There was a sink in the flower room and I had filled my containers with water and was enjoying the arrangements in an epergne of pale green glass which set off the yellow flowers perfectly when I heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the gravel and then … voices.

I looked up a little ruefully. I enjoyed visitors but I wished they had waited until I had finished with the flowers.

Sabrina and Dickon were coming toward the house so I reached for a cloth and dried my hands, and went out to meet them.

Sabrina was my mother’s cousin—a rather strikingly beautiful woman to whom dramatic things had happened a long time ago. She was about ten years my senior, which meant she must be forty years old at this time. She didn’t look it, though there was often a haunted expression in her eyes and sometimes one caught her staring into space as though she were looking back over the years. Then she would look really sad. She had always been a member of our household, and my mother had been a mother to her. Dickon was Sabrina’s son, on whom she doted rather more than was good for him, I fancied. He had been born after the death of her husband.

“Zipporah!” cried Sabrina. I had often wondered why I had been given such a name. There were no other Zipporahs in the family. When I asked my mother why she had chosen it, she said: “I just wanted something unusual. I liked it, and your father, of course, made no objections.” I discovered that it came from the Bible and was disappointed that the life of my biblical namesake had been no more exciting than my own. All she appeared to have done was married Moses and borne a lot of children. She had been as insignificant as I was, except of course that in the whole of my marriage—to my sorrow and that of Jean-Louis—we had not been blessed with offspring.

“Zipporah,” continued Sabrina, “your mother wants you to come over to supper. Could you and Jean-Louis manage this evening? There’s something she wants to talk about.”

“I should think so,” I said, embracing her. “Hello, Dickon.”

He acknowledged my greeting coolly. My mother and Sabrina had made him the very center of their lives. I sometimes wondered what Dickon would grow up like. He was only ten years old now, so perhaps he would change when he went away to school.

“Do come in,” I said, and we went past the open door of the flower room.

“Oh, you were doing the daffodils,” said Sabrina with a smile. “I might have known.”

Was I so predictable? I supposed so.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt the ritual,” she added.

“No … no. Of course not. It’s lovely to see you. Are you out for a ride?”

“Yes and called in … only for a moment.”

“You’ll have a glass of wine and some of cook’s biscuits.”

Sabrina said: “I don’t think we’ll stop for that.”

But Dickon interrupted her: “Yes, please,” he said. “I should like some biscuits.”

Sabrina smiled fondly. “Dickon is very partial to those wine biscuits of yours. We must get the recipe, Dickon.”

“Cook is very jealous of her recipes,” I said.

“You could order her to give it to our cook,” retorted Dickon.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” I said lightly.

“So, Dickon, you will have to wait until you visit Zipporah for your wine biscuits.”

The refreshment came. Dickon hastily finished all the biscuits, which would please cook anyway. She was very susceptible about her food and lapped up compliments. A good one could put her in a very pleasant mood for a whole day; while the faintest hint of criticism could, as one of the maids said, make life in the kitchen a hell on earth.

“It sounds as though something important has happened,” I said.

“Well, it could be. It’s a letter from old Carl … you know, Lord Eversleigh.”

“Oh … yes of course. What does he want?”

“He’s worried about the Eversleigh estate. Because he has no son to inherit.”

“I suppose it would have gone to the general, if he hadn’t died.”

“Strange really to think there is no one in the direct line … no male, that is. Everybody seemed to have girls. A pity old Carl didn’t have a boy.”

“Didn’t he have one who died at birth?”

“Oh yes … long ago … and the child’s mother died with him. That was a terrible blow. He never got over it, they said. He never married again, although I believe he had … friends. However, that’s past history and the old man is now a bit anxious and his thoughts have settled on you.”

“On me! But what about you? You’re older than I.”

“Your grandmother Carlotta was older than my mother, Damaris, so I supposed you’d come first. Moreover, I wouldn’t be considered. I’ve heard that he talked about my marrying that ‘damned Jacobite.’”

“I think Jacobites were brave,” put in Dickon. “I’ll be a Jacobite if I want to.”

“Thank heaven all that nonsense seems to be over now,” I said. “The ’Forty-five finished it.”

Then I was sorry I had said that because Sabrina had lost her husband at Culloden.

“We hope so,” she said quietly. “Well, the fact is old Carl wants to see you, doubtless with a view to making you his heiress. He wrote to your mother, who would come before you, of course, but she is the daughter of that arch Jacobite, Hessenfield.”

“How they seem to clutter our family,” murmured Dickon.

“That leaves you,” went on Sabrina. “Your father was a man Uncle Carl highly approved of, so the Jacobite strain is far removed and possibly wiped out, particularly as your father once fought for King George. So you are redeemed. The point is your mother wants you to come over so that we can discuss it all and decide what should be done.”

“Jean-Louis couldn’t leave the estate just now.”

“It would only be for a short visit. Anyway, think about it and come over today.”

“I’d like to go to Eversleigh,” said Dickon.

His mother smiled at him fondly. “Dickon wants everything that’s available, don’t you, Dickon? Eversleigh is not for you, my son.”

“You never know,” said Dickon slyly.

“Talk about it with Jean-Louis.” said Sabrina to me, “and we’ll go into it thoroughly. Your mother will show you the letter. That will put you in picture.”

I saw them off and went back to the daffodils.

Jean-Louis and I walked to Clavering Hall from the agent’s house which had been our home since we had married. I had told Jean-Louis of old Carl’s desire to see me and he had been a little disturbed, I think. He was very happy managing the Clavering estate, which was not large and where he had everything working peacefully and in perfect order. Jean-Louis was a man who did not change.

We walked arm in arm. Jean-Louis was saying that it would be difficult for us to leave Clavering just at this time. He thought we might go later when there was less to do on the estate.

I agreed with him. We rarely disagreed on anything. Ours was a very happy marriage. That was what made my actions all the more incomprehensible.

The only real cloud on our happiness was what appeared to be an inability to have children. My mother had spoken to me about it for she knew it grieved me. “It is sad,” she admitted. “You would have made such good parents. Perhaps in time, though … perhaps a little patience …”

But time went on and still we had no child. I had seen Jean-Louis look at Dickon sometimes, with that rather wistful look in his eyes. He, too, was inclined to spoil the boy. It might have been because he was the only child in the family.

I did not take to Dickon in the same way and I never tried to analyze my feelings until afterward, when I started to become introspective—looking for reasons and finding only excuses. Could I have been jealous of him? My mother, whom I had loved only slightly less than my glamorous father, cared greatly for Dickon … more, I suspected, than she did for me, her own child. It was something to do with that long-ago romance with Dickon’s father, but it was Sabrina who had had his child.

Our moods and emotions—Jean-Louis’s and mine—were woven together in an intricate web and at this time I was not concerned with them. I was still the old Zipporah—quiet, unassuming, above all predictable.

When we reached the house my mother was waiting for us. She embraced me warmly; she was always tender toward me, but I think because she was so sure I would always do what was expected, and she would have no need to worry about me, she could dismiss me from her thoughts.

“It was lovely of you to come. Zipporah dear. And you too, Jean-Louis,” she said.

Jean-Louis took her hand and kissed it. He was always very grateful to my mother and had never stopped showing it.

That was because she had kept him when he was a very young boy and had been terrified of being taken away to go off with his own mother, who could not have been a very pleasant person because she had been involved in some murder mystery. But that was years ago.

“I want to show you Lord Eversleigh’s letter,” she said. “I don’t know what you’ll think about it. It will be strange if he should leave Eversleigh to you, Zipporah.”

“I can’t think he will. There must be someone else.”

“We seem to have lost touch since your great-grandparents died. Yet Eversleigh used to be the very heart of the family. It’s strange how things change.”

It was indeed strange. Things had certainly changed when my father had disappeared suddenly from my life. Although my life had been so uneventful, there had been a time when I had lived on the fringe of great events. I should never forget my father; after all, I had been ten years old when he had gone. That was twenty years ago, but a man like him could never be forgotten. I had loved him more than anyone. He never cosseted me as my mother had done. He had laughed a great deal, had smelt of sandalwood and had always been exquisitely dressed, being what was known as a dandy. I had thought he was the most handsome person in the world. It was unfair—I knew even then—but I would have bartered all the loving care and attention of my mother for five minutes with him. He had never asked how I was getting on with lessons; it had never occurred to him that I might catch cold. He used to talk to me of his gambling feats. He had constantly gambled and he had made me feel the excitement which gripped him. He had treated me as though I were one of his cronies instead of his little daughter. He used to take me riding. We would race together and we had made little bets. He would bet I could not throw a conker a certain distance; he would wager things carelessly—the pin in his cravat, one of his rings, even a coin … anything that was to hand. My mother had hated it. I heard her say more than once: “You will teach the child to be a gambler like yourself.”

I had hoped he would. There was nothing I wanted so much as to be exactly like him. He had gaiety and great charm which came from a certain carelessness toward life. Nothing had ever appeared to perturb him; he had shrugged his shoulders at life and later he had had the same attitude toward death. I did not know how he went to his death on that early morning—but I could guess.

That event devastated our household, though there had been rumblings of disaster before it happened. I couldn’t help overhearing certain things. I knew that he had died—as the servants said—defending my mother’s honor. This was because a man had died and in his bedroom had been found something belonging to my mother that indicated she had been with him at the time of his death.

It had been the end of a way of life—deeply upsetting to a girl of ten. We had gone to the country—not that that was new to me. We had always spent some part of the summer at Clavering Hall because it was part of my father’s country estate.

Terrible days they had been, and made more so because I knew only half the story. Sabrina was involved in it. I heard her once say to my mother: “Oh, Clarissa, I am to blame for all this.” And I knew that she had been the one in the dead man’s bedroom, though everyone had thought it was my mother, and my father had died for that reason.

It had been bewildering, and when I asked questions I was told by Nanny Curlew—whom I had inherited from Sabrina—that little children should be seen and not heard. I was careful, for Nanny Curlew could relate gruesome stories of what happened to naughty children. If they listened to what was not intended for them, their ears grew long so that everyone knew what they had done; and those who grimaced or scowled or put out their tongues—unless told to by nurse or doctor—were often “struck all of a heap” and stayed like that for the rest of their lives. Being a logical little girl I did say that I had never seen anyone with enormous ears and a tongue hanging out. “You wait,” she had said darkly, and looked at me so suspiciously that I hastily went to a looking glass to make sure that my ears had not grown and that my tongue was still mobile.

Somebody said that time is the great healer, and that is certainly true, for if it does not always heal, it dims the memory and softens the pain; and after a while I became accustomed to my father’s absence; I settled into the country life at Clavering. After all, I had my mother, Sabrina and Jean-Louis as well as the redoubtable and omnipotent Nanny Curlew. I accepted life. I did what was expected of me; I rarely questioned why. I once heard Sabrina say to my mother: “At least Zipporah has never given you a moment’s anxiety, and I’ll be ready to swear never will.” At first I was delighted to hear this but later it made me ponder.

Then I was of age and there were dances and at one of these Jean-Louis showed himself capable of jealousy because he thought I was too interested in one of the sons of a neighboring squire. Then we decided we would marry, but Jean-Louis didn’t want to do it while he was still under my mother’s roof. He was proud and independent. He was working on the estate and doing well. Tom Staples said he didn’t know how he’d manage without him; then Tom Staples suddenly had a heart attack and died. The estate manager’s job and house became vacant, so Jean-Louis stepped into his shoes. He managed the estate and took over the house which went with the post, and there was no reason then why we shouldn’t be married right away.

That had happened more than ten years ago in the fatal year of ’45. Drama touched us then in the return of the love of my mother’s youth who had been transported to Virginia thirty years before for his part in the ’15 rebellion. I was so immersed in my own marriage at the time that I only vaguely realized what was happening and that the returning Dickon was the young lover of whom my mother had dreamed all through her life—even when she was married to that most desirable of men, my father. Alas, for her, the lover of her youth fell in love with Sabrina, married her, and young Dickon was the result.

My poor mother! I realize her sufferings far more now than I did then. Sabrina came back to my mother after Culloden. Then Dickon was born—that was ten years ago—and Sabrina and my mother lived together in Clavering Hall, and I know now—understanding people’s emotions so much more than I did before my own adventure—that they saw in him the Dickon they had both lost. Perhaps that brought them some consolation. But I was beginning to believe that it was having an adverse effect on Dickon’s character.

So Jean-Louis and I were married, and he was a good husband to me; ours was the typical country existence; we went on, untroubled by outside events; there might be wars in Europe in which the country was involved but they affected us very little. We went from season to season, from Good Friday gloom to Easter rejoicing, to summer church fêtes on the lawn if the weather was good and in our vaulted hall if it were bad, to harvest festivals when everyone vied to produce the finest fruits and vegetables for display, to Christmas and all its rejoicing. That was our life.

Until this day when we had the message from Eversleigh Court.

My mother was pleased to see us as she always was.

“I’m so glad you could come today,” she said. “I do want to talk to you about poor old Carl. Sabrina has given you an inkling, hasn’t she? I am so sorry for him. He sounds so pathetic in his letter.”

She slipped one arm through mine and the other through that of Jean-Louis.

“I thought just a family party so that we could really talk. Just Sabrina, myself and the two of you. Jean-Louis, dear, I do hope you will be able to manage to go with Zipporah.”

Jean-Louis then began to launch into a description of the problems of the estate. He loved talking about them because they were of such paramount importance to him. He glowed with enthusiasm and I knew it would be a great sacrifice for him to spare time from it.

We went into the hall—which was very fine and, as usual in such buildings, the central feature of the house. It was a large house—meant for a big family. My mother would have liked Sabrina to marry again and live there with her children; I am sure she would have liked Jean-Louis and me to come there and have a family. That was what she wanted to be, the center of a big family; and all we had was Dickon.

It seemed now that Sabrina would never marry again. My mother might have done so too because she had been quite young when my father was killed. But they had both set up an image which they worshiped: Dickon—the hero of my mother’s youth, whom she had adored through her life and who must have clouded her relationship with my father. It was ironic that she should still go on worshiping him even when he had proved faithless and turned to Sabrina. If he had not died a soldier’s death at Culloden would he have remained on his pedestal? Those were the questions I began to ask myself afterwards. … Looking back it seemed to me that I saw life with the unpleasantness discreetly covered; I saw all that people wanted me to see, and I never attempted to lift the cloth of conventionality and look beneath.

Young Dickon had come as a salvation to those two bereaved women, and this boy—Dickon’s son—had, so they believed, given them a reason for living. Planning for him, they had subdued their grief; they had found a new object for worship.

The house was as much home to me as the house which I had shared with Jean-Louis for the last ten years. Here I had grown up among the elegant furniture and tasteful decorations—the result of my father’s love of beautiful things.

I stood in the hall and looked at the two elegant staircases winding upward—one to the east wing, one to the west wing. Such a large house for so few people! My mother often thought that, I knew, and she was grateful that she had Sabrina to share it with her. I had said to Jean-Louis that if ever Sabrina should marry and go away we should have to go to the hall to live. Jean-Louis agreed, but I knew he so cherished his independence and he loved our house because it was a symbol of that. He never forgot that he had been left to my mother rather as a changeling child. There was something very noble about Jean-Louis in a quiet way which makes my conduct all the more reprehensible … but I must get on with my explanations as to how it came about.

There we were at supper in the dining room. The house had been left as my father had made it, and my mother would never willingly have it altered. Even the card room—the most important in the house—was left as it had been in his day, although there were no gaming parties nowadays, only a quiet game of whist occasionally when neighbors came in to join my mother and Sabrina—and of course there was no play for money. My mother was very much against that—puritanically, so some said, but of course we understood why.

Now we sat on the carved japanned chairs with their gilt decoration, which had been in the family for the last hundred years and of which my father had been rather proud, at the oak table with the apron of carved features imitating a fringed hanging which I remember my father’s telling me had been made in France for someone at the court of Louis XV. He would often throw out information like that in the midst of light bantering chatter, which, I think, was perhaps why I had always found him so fascinating.

The butler was at the sideboard ladling out the soup which one of the maids was serving when the door was opened and Dickon came in.

“Dickon,” said my mother and Sabrina simultaneously in those voices I knew so well, a little shocked, remonstrating and at the same time indulgently admiring his audacity. It seemed to say. This is wrong but what will the darling child do next, bless him!

“I want to have supper,” he said.

“Dearest.” said my mother, “you had your supper an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?” said Sabrina. “It’s bedtime.”

“Because,” said Dickon patiently, “I want to be here.”

The butler was looking into the tureen as though it held the utmost interest for him; the maid was standing still holding a plate of soup in her hand; uncertain where to put it.

I had expected Sabrina to send him back to bed. Instead she looked helplessly at my mother, who lifted her shoulders. Dickon slid into a chair. He knew he had won. In fact, he had no doubt that victory would be his. I was fully aware that I was seeing a repetition of a recurring scene.

“Well, perhaps this once, eh, Sabrina?” said my mother almost cajolingly.

“You really shouldn’t, darling,” added Sabrina.

Dickon smiled winningly at her. “Just this once,” he said.

My mother said: “Carry on serving, Thomas.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Thomas.

Dickon threw me a look which held triumph in it. He knew that I did not approve of what had happened and took a delight not only in getting his own way but in showing me what power he had over these doting women.

“Well,” said my mother, “I must show you Carl’s letter. I think then”—she smiled at Jean-Louis—“you will make a special effort to go … soon.”

“It’s a pity it is rather an awkward time of year.” Jean-Louis frowned a little. He hated disappointing my mother and it was quite clear that she was very eager for us to go to Eversleigh quickly.

“Well, young Weston is quite good, isn’t he?” said Sabrina.

Young Weston was a manager we had. He was certainly showing signs of promise but Jean-Louis cared so much about the estate that he was never very happy when he was not at the head of affairs. His desire never to leave Clavering had worked out well because we none of us wanted to go to London as my father used to. He had generally come to the country rather reluctantly and then only because of the card parties he gave; he had much preferred town life and had left everything in the care of Tom Staples and men like him. We had had several agents since Tom Staples’s death but Jean-Louis was never entirely satisfied with them.

“He’s hardly ready yet,” said Jean-Louis.

My mother reached over and pressed my husband’s hand.

“I know you’ll manage something,” she said. And of course he would. Jean-Louis was always eager to please everyone, that was why … But I must stop reproaching myself in this way.

Now that she knew that Jean-Louis most certainly would take me to Eversleigh my mother went on to reminisce about the old place.

“So long since I have seen it. I wonder if it still looks the same.”

Sabrina said: “I daresay Enderby hasn’t changed much. What a strange house that was! Haunted, they said. Things did seem to happen there.”

I knew vaguely something of Enderby. It was nearby Eversleigh Court and the two houses had been connected because my grandmother Carlotta had inherited the place. There had been a tragedy before that. They weren’t our family, but someone had committed suicide there.

Sabrina shivered and went on: “I don’t think I ever want to go to Enderby again.”

“Are there really ghosts there?” asked Dickon.

“Common sense,” I replied.

“I like ghosts,” he said, dismissing me and my common sense as he was prepared to dismiss anyone who interfered with his pleasure. “I want there to be ghosts.”

“We must arrange it then,” said Jean-Louis.

“I was happy in Enderby,” said my mother. “I can still remember coming home from France and how wonderful it was to be in the heart of a loving family … something I shall never forget … and it was my home for a number of years … with Aunt Damaris and Uncle Jeremy.”

I knew she was thinking of those terrible early days in France when her parents had died suddenly through poison, it was said—and she had been left in the care of a French maid who sold flowers in the streets when the house was disbanded.

My mother had spoken of it often. She remembered her mother, Carlotta, the great beauty of the family, wild Carlotta, with whom I was later to become obsessed but who was at that time just a dazzling ancestress to me.

“You will be interested to see it all, Zipporah,” she said.

“It won’t be necessary to stay more than a few weeks, will it?” asked Jean-Louis.

“No, I shouldn’t think so. I think the old man is very lonely. He will be so delighted.”

Dickon listened avidly. “I’ll go instead,” he said.

“No, darling,” replied Sabrina. “You’re not invited.”

“But he’s your relation too, and if he’s yours he’s mine.”

“Well, it is Zipporah he is inviting.”

“I could go to be her companion … instead of Jean-Louis.”

“No,” said Jean-Louis. “I have to be there to take care of Zipporah.”

“She doesn’t want taking care of. She’s old.”

“All ladies need taking care of when they make journeys,” said my mother.

Dickon was too busy consuming cold venison to answer that.

Jean-Louis said that he thought the best time would be in three weeks. He could then make the necessary arrangements, providing we did not stay for more than two weeks.

My mother smiled at him. “I knew you’d make it possible. Thanks, Jean-Louis. I will write immediately. Perhaps you could send a note at the same time, Zipporah.”

I said I would and we finished dinner.

Dickon was yawning. It was long past his bedtime, and when Sabrina suggested he might like to go to bed he did not protest.

I went with my mother to write the note, leaving Sabrina and Jean-Louis together making desultory conversation. There was a bureau in the old card room and I said I would do it there.

“Wouldn’t you like to come to the library?” my mother asked. “It’s more comfortable there.”

“No, I always like to be in the card room.”

I went in and sat at the bureau. She stood beside me and touched my hair. “You were so fond of your father, weren’t you?”

I nodded. “You look rather like him,” she said. “Fair hair … almost golden, those blue eyes … startlingly blue; and you’re tall too, as he was. Poor Lance! What a wasted life.”

“He died nobly,” I said.

“He would … He squandered his life as he did a fortune. … It was all so unnecessary and it could have been so different.”

“It is so long now.”

“Memories linger on for you, and you were only a child when he died. Only ten years old.”

“Old enough to know him and to love him,” I said.

“I know. And you feel close to him here.”

“I remember him here. … He was happier here in this room than anywhere else in the house.”

“Here he had his gaming parties. They were the only thing that made the country tolerable to him.” She frowned, and I turned to the letter. It was brief. I thanked my kinsman for the invitation and told him that I with my husband would be visiting him in about three weeks. We would let him know the date of arrival later.

My mother read what I had written and nodded her approval.

Shortly afterward Jean-Louis and I left for home.

We had fixed the date of arrival for the first of June. We should go on horseback with two grooms for company and another to look after the saddlebags.

“Carriages,” said my mother, “are far more dangerous, with so many highwaymen about. It is so much easier to attack a cumbersome coach; and with the grooms and Jean-Louis you’ll be well protected.”

There was another letter from Lord Eversleigh. He was almost pathetically pleased. When Sabrina read it she said: “One could almost think he was calling for help … or something like that.”

Calling for help! What an odd thing to say. I read the letter again and could not see that there was anything in it except that an old man who had been separated too long from his relatives was eager to see them.

Sabrina shrugged her shoulders and said: “Well, he’s delighted you’re going.”

I felt rather glad. Poor old man, he was clearly lonely.

It was a week before we were due to leave. I was sitting in the garden working on a square of tapestry for a fire screen when I heard the sound of voices. I recognized Dickon’s imperious tones, and on impulse, putting down my tapestry, I went to the edge of the shrubbery and saw him. He was with another boy, Jake Carter, son of one of the gardeners, a boy who worked in the gardens with his father now and then. He was about Dickon’s age and Dickon was often with him. I believe he bullied the boy shamefully and was not at all sure that Jake wanted to be with him. He had probably received threats if he did not comply, and indeed so besotted were my mother and Sabrina with Dickon that they might have listened to any complaint he made about a servant if the boy showed his displeasure if they refused to.

The boys were now some little distance off, but I could see they were carrying something which looked like a pail, and Jake was holding a paper which seemed to be crammed full of something.

I watched them disappear in the direction of Hassocks’ farm which bordered on our grounds. The Hassocks were good farmers of whom Jean-Louis heartily approved. They kept their barns and hedges in good order, and Farmer Hassock was constantly in discussion with Jean-Louis about methods of improving the yield of the land.

I returned to my tapestry and after a while went indoors and up to my still room, where I set about preparing the containers for the strawberries, which I wanted to have picked and preserved before I went away.

It must have been an hour later when one of the servants came running up to me.

“Oh, mistress,” she cried, “there’s fire over at Hassocks’. The master has just ridden over. I thought you should know.”

I ran out and saw immediately that one of the barns was blazing. Several of the servants had come hurrying out to join me and we all went together across the gardens into the Hassocks’ field and toward the barn.

There was a lot of commotion. People were running about and shouting to each other; but I saw that they were getting the blaze under control.

One of the maids gave a little cry and then I saw Jean-Louis. He was lying on the ground and some of the men were trying to lift him onto a piece of wood which looked like a shutter.

I dashed over and knelt beside him. He was pale but conscious. He smiled at me wanly.

One of the men said: “Master have broken his leg, we think. We’ll get him to the house … and perhaps you’d send for the doctor.”

I was bewildered. The barn was smouldering black and scarred, with now and then a flame jutting out. The acrid smell of burning made us cough.

“Yes … quickly …” I said. “Get him to the house. One of you go for the doctor … at once.”

One of the men servants dashed off and I turned my attention to Jean-Louis.

“Bit of mischief … looks like,” said one of Farmer Hassock’s laborers. “Looks like someone started a fire in the barn. Master were first in. The roof fell on him and got his leg. … A mercy we was working close by and got him from under.”

“Let’s get him into the house quickly,” I said. “Is he all right on that shutter?”

“Best for him, mistress. Doctor’ll soon put it to rights.”

I noticed that Jean-Louis’s leg was in a strange position and guessed there was a fracture. I was the sort of woman who could be calm in a crisis, suppressing my emotions and fears and putting all my efforts into doing what was necessary.

I knew that we had to set that fracture in some way before moving him and I determined to make an effort to do so, although I was inexperienced of such cases. I sent the maids running into the house for the tallest, straightest walking stick they could find and something we could use for bandages.

They had placed Jean-Louis very carefully in his improvised stretcher and I took his hand. I guessed he was in pain but it was typical of him that he should be as concerned about my anxiety as his own suffering.

“I’m all right,” he whispered. “Nothing … much …”

Then the walking stick, which I could use as a splint, and the torn-up sheets arrived. Carefully my helpers held his leg in place while I very gently bandaged the limb to the stick. Then Jean-Louis was carried into his bed, by which time the doctor had arrived.

It was a broken leg—nothing more—said the doctor. He complimented me on my prompt and right action in setting the bone at once—so saving a simple fracture from becoming a compound one.

I sat by his bed until he slept. Then I remembered those agonizing seconds when I had thought he might be dead and the terrible desolation which had swept over me. Dear Jean-Louis, what should I have done without him? I should be thankful for all the happiness we had together; I must not feel a slight resentment against a fate which had made me barren.

Jean-Louis had scarcely fallen into his sleep when my mother with Sabrina and Dickon arrived.

The two women were very shocked. They wanted to hear all about it.

“To think that Jean-Louis might have hurt himself seriously … and all for Hassock’s barn!”

“Seeing a fire, he just naturally attempted to put it out.”

“He should have called for help,” said Sabrina.

“You may be sure,” I said, “that Jean-Louis did whatever was best.”

“But he might have been killed!”

“He wouldn’t think of that,” said my mother. “He would just go in and try to put the fire out. And if he hadn’t, it could have spread into the fields and Hassock could have lost his corn.”

“Better Hassock’s corn than Jean-Louis,” said Sabrina.

“Is there any idea how it started?” asked my mother.

“They’ll find out,” I said.

She looked at me steadily. “This will put an end to your plans for Eversleigh.”

“Oh … yes. With all this happening I’d forgotten that.”

“Poor old Carl. He’ll be so disappointed.”

“Perhaps you could go in my place, Sabrina,” I said. “Take Dickon.”

“Oh yes,” cried Dickon. “I want to go to Eversleigh.”

“Certainly not,” replied Sabrina. “We shouldn’t be welcome there. Remember, I’m the wife and you’re the son of that damned Jacobite.”

“Well, we shall have to see,” said my mother. “What we have to do now is get Jean-Louis’s leg mended.”

“It will take the usual time,” I pointed out.

“And if this fire was started wantonly … ?”

“Who would?” I asked.

“Someone for mischief, perhaps,” said Sabrina.

While we were talking, two of Farmer Hassock’s laborers came in. They were carrying what looked like the remains of a tin pail and there were some pieces of charred beef in it.

“We know how it started, mistress,” he said. “Someone—who didn’t know much about such things—was trying to cook some meat by making a fire in this old pail; there’s some grid here … that were cooking it on … over the pail, seems like as not.”

“Good heavens!” I cried. “Surely not a tramp?”

“Oh no, mistress. Tramps ’ud have more sense. One who did this ’adn’t much. But that’s how it started. They must have made a fire in the pail and it got out of hand. They got frightened and run for it.”

“What about the pail? Where did it come from? Do you know?”

“No, mistress, but we’m going to find out if us can.”

I had an uneasy night. I slept on the narrow couch in the dressing room adjoining our bedroom with the door open so that I could hear Jean-Louis if he awoke. He lay in our big bed with his leg in splints and I should have been relieved because there was nothing wrong except a broken leg which would heal in due course.

I was rather surprised to feel an acute sense of disappointment because I should have to cancel my visit to Eversleigh … for quite a long time, it seemed, for even when the bone set I doubted whether Jean-Louis would be fit for some time after to make the long and rather exhausting journey.

I had allowed myself to think a great deal about Eversleigh Court and I longed to take a look at Enderby, that house which had played such a big part in our family story. I had not realized how very much I had been looking forward to the adventure; and now it was postponed … for a very long time, I should imagine.

I dozed fitfully and in the middle of the night I woke up. I wondered what had wakened me. I listened. All was quiet in the bedroom. Then I knew. It was a startling idea. Why should I not go alone?

The more I pondered it, the more feasible it seemed. There would be a great shaking of heads. Young women did not travel alone. I was not such a young woman. I didn’t propose to go quite alone, of course; I could take the two grooms and another for the packhorse just the same. The only difference would be that Jean-Louis would not be with me.

I was too excited to sleep after that, but lay in bed making plans for going to Eversleigh even though Jean-Louis would not be able to accompany me.

There was a great deal of excitement the next morning because the pail was traced to our garden. A pail was missing from one of the sheds, and in spite of its buckled and scarred appearance the one found in the barn was undoubtedly that one which was missing.

That dispensed with the tramp idea. It was one of our people who had caused the fire.

Farmer Hassock had declared that he’d beat the daylights out of the culprit when he found him, for this bit of mischief would cost a pretty penny.

Having discovered the identity of the pail the search for the culprit was a simple one. In the early afternoon Ned Carter came to see me—as Jean-Louis’s deputy—dragging with him his son, Jake.

Jake’s face was white and frightened and there were tear stains on his cheeks.

“This is the young imp of mischief, mistress,” said Ned Carter. “I got it out of him. It was him what took the pail … to cook some meat, he said. And where does he get the meat? I ask. That’s something I can’t beat out of him. Though I will. When he has another taste of my belt! I’ll find out. Well, it was him, see. It was him that had this wicked notion to steal the pail and take it in the barn where he tries to cook the meat what he got from who knows where. I tell him it’ll be transportation for him or a gibbet fore long.”

I felt sorry for Jake Carter. He was only a boy—a nervous child overcome with terror.

Memory stirred in me. I remembered the last time I had seen him and he had not been alone. Of course! It was an hour or so before the fire had started.

I knew then that the idea of taking the pail and the meat would not have been Jake’s. He would have been ordered to do so and join in the expedition.

I said: “Jake, was somebody with you when you went to the barn?”

Jake looked more frightened than ever.

“No, mistress, ’twas by myself, I was. I didn’t mean to do no harm. … There was this bit of meat like …”

“Where did you get the meat?”

He was silent. Of course I knew. I could picture how it happened.

“Answer mistress,” said Ned, giving the boy a blow at the side of his head which sent him staggering across to the wall, which saved him from falling.

“Just a minute, Ned,” I said. “Don’t be hasty. Please don’t hit the boy until I have made some inquiries.”

“But he’s done it, mistress. Good as said so.”

“Just a minute. I want to go over to the Hall.”

Jake looked as if he were preparing to run and I was more convinced than ever.

“Come,” I said, “we’re going now.”

My mother was surprised to see me marching in with Ned Carter and his terrified son.

“What’s the trouble?” she cried.

“Is Dickon here?” I asked.

“He’s out riding with Sabrina, I think. Why?”

“I want to see him rather urgently.” It was fortunate, for at that moment they came in flushed from the ride. It couldn’t have been more convenient.

Dickon betrayed himself in the first seconds, so taken off his guard was he to see the Carters there.

He turned to the door.

“I’ve forgotten my …”

He paused, for I was barring his way.

“Just a minute,” I said. “Jake has been accused of starting the fire at Farmer Hassock’s barn. But I don’t think he was alone.”

“I reckon he was,” said Dickon.

“No,” I said, “I reckon he had a companion, and that it was you.”

“No,” he cried. He strode over to the cowering Jake. “You been telling tales.”

“He has not mentioned you,” I said.

“Oh, Zipporah dear,” said my mother. “Why bother with all this? How is poor Jean-Louis?”

“What is bothering me,” I said with unaccustomed firmness, which the thought of any injustice could arouse in me, bringing me out of my mildness in a way which once or twice in my life had astonished people, “is that Jake Carter is being blamed for something which he only did because he was forced to by someone else.”

“No … no …” said Jake. “I done it. It was me that lighted the fire in the pail.”

“I’m going out to Vesta,” said Dickon. “I reckon her pups are just ready to be born. She might have them by now.”

“You can wait a little while before you go to see them,” I said. “For instance, after you have told us who took the meat from the pantry and who made Jake take the pail and accompany him to the barn where the fire was made and got out of hand, and then ran away with Jake.”

“Why do you ask me?” he said insolently.

“Because I happen to know the answer and that you were this culprit.”

“It’s a lie,” he said.

I took him by the arm. His glare was venomous. It shocked me to see such a look in one so young.

“I saw you,” I said. “It’s no use denying it. I saw you with the pail. You were carrying it … Jake had a bundle of something. I saw you making for the Hassock farm.”

There was a deep silence.

Then Dickon said: “It’s all silly. It was only a game. We didn’t mean to set fire to the old barn.”

“But you did,” I said. “And you made Jake go with you. And then you left him to take the blame.”

“Oh, we’ll pay for the damage that was done to the barn,” said Sabrina.

“Of course,” I replied, “but that doesn’t settle the matter.”

“It does,” said Dickon.

“Oh, no. You have to tell Ned Carter that his boy was not to blame.”

“Oh, what a silly lot of trouble about nothing,” he said.

I looked at him steadily. “I don’t think it is nothing,” I said. I went on: “Ned, you can go now. It was not Jake’s fault, remember that. He was led into this. I am sure my husband will be very upset if he hears that you have punished the boy. He only did what he was ordered to do. You can go now.”

There was a silence in the Hall after they had gone.

Sabrina and my mother were very upset. Dickon came over to me and looked at me through narrowed eyes. He said in a very low voice: “I won’t forget this.”

“No,” I answered, “nor shall I.”

He ran out saying he was going to the stable to look for Vesta.

Sabrina said: “Of course boys do get up to these pranks.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “They do. But when they are caught good boys do not stand aside and let someone else take the blame, particularly someone who is not in a position to defend himself.”

They were shocked into silence. They could not bear criticism of their beloved child.

Then I said quite suddenly so that I surprised myself:

“I’ve decided to go to Eversleigh as we arranged.”

They were startled. “Jean-Louis …” began my mother.

“Cannot go, of course. He is well looked after here. I shall wait a week or so, of course, and when I consider I can leave him I shall go as arranged. I am sure Lord Eversleigh would be very upset if I didn’t go and I shall only be away for a short while.”

It was as though my other self was preparing to take possession.

There was a great deal of opposition to my proposal to go to Eversleigh without Jean-Louis. My mother said she would not have a moment’s peace until she had heard that I had arrived safely, and after that there would be the journey home again to be undertaken. Sabrina added her voice to my mother’s. There had rarely been so much highway robbery as there was at this time, she informed me, and those dreadful villains stopped at nothing.

Dickon added: “They shoot you dead, you know, if you won’t hand over your money.”

I felt he would be quite amused if such a mishap overtook me, for our relationship had not improved since the discovery of the cause of the fire in Farmer Hassock’s barn.

Jean-Louis’s reaction was as I expected it to be. One of resignation and determination that my desire to go should not be thwarted. He was hobbling round the house and was able to go round the estate in a kind of go-cart, which was a great relief to him for the frustration of being cut off from his work would have been hard to bear.

“You see,” I explained, to him, “I have a feeling that I must go. That second letter from the old man … there was something about it. Sabrina said it was like a cry for help. That’s rather fanciful, I suppose, but on the other hand, there did seem to be something in it … in a strange sort of way.”

“What worries me most is the journey,” said Jean-Louis. “If I could feel that you would be safe …”

“Oh, Jean-Louis,” I cried, “people are making journeys every day. We don’t hear of the thousands who arrive safely. There is always such a lot of talk when there is a mishap.”

“Some parts of the road are very dangerous … notorious haunts of highwaymen.”

“We shall avoid those and I shall have protection.”

“Your mother is very much against it.”

“I know. She was in an accident when she was a child and has never forgotten it. I’ll be all right, Jean-Louis.”

He looked at me earnestly. “You very much want to go, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have a strong feeling that I should.”

“I understand.” He did understand. He was a quiet and thoughtful man and often understood my thoughts before I had expressed them. I believe now that he was thinking that life was beginning to pall; that I was looking for excitement. He did not want me to grow vaguely dissatisfied, which perhaps I was doing without realizing it. However, being Jean-Louis he was constructive rather than destructive; instead of deciding that the journey was impossibly dangerous, he set about planning how to make it as safe as possible.

“I think you should have six grooms,” he said. “They can return as soon as you are safely delivered; and then come back for you when you return. Those and one more for the saddle horse and you will be a considerable party.”

I kissed him. I felt brimming over with love.

“Well?” he said.

“I think I have the best husband in the world,” I told him.

It was typical of him that he should hide his apprehension from me; he seemed to grow quite excited about the preparations as I discussed with him what I should take and the route we should travel.

It was on a lovely morning when we set out—a typical June day with the sun newly risen to give us a pleasant early morning warmth and the promise of a fine day. We made good progress and the feeling of expectation was growing. Every thing seemed to be more vivid than usual. Butterflies the purest white against the purple buddleia, the hum of the bees at work on vivid blue borage and clover, moon daisies in the fields with the buttercups and cowslips and the glimpse of the scarlet pimpernel on the edges of the cornfields—these miracles of nature, which I had taken for granted all my life, seemed especially wonderful.

We should have two stops on our journey and the arrangements at the inn had been most carefully made so, as expected, there was no difficulty about accommodation when we made our first stop in good time.

I did not sleep very well. I was too excited, and the next day, as soon as the first streaks of dawn were in the sky, I was getting ready to pursue our journey.

The morning passed swiftly and equally without untoward incident and then we were soon on the last lap of our journey.

We planned to reach Eversleigh by about four o’clock in the afternoon, but unfortunately, when we stopped at an inn for refreshment just before midday, we discovered one of the grooms’ horses had cast a shoe. This would delay us a little, and we wondered whether we should leave the groom to wait for his horse and go on without him or all remain until his horse was fit for the road.

I was uncertain, but my mother had made me promise that I would not ride without all the grooms in attendance, and after some deliberation I decided that we should wait for the horse to be shod and then all go together, which should not delay us very long.

It did, however, take longer than I had at first thought it would, for the blacksmith was not in his forge; he had had an urgent call to go over to a nearby mansion where the squire had some commission for him. We were assured that he would return within a very short time. The short time grew into a long time, and I began to wonder whether it would have been wiser to go on without the groom. After all, we should only be one man short.

It was then four o’clock and we had planned to leave just after midday, and as I was deciding that we should go on, for we had no reservation at an inn for the night and did not know where we should find one, the blacksmith returned.

He would get the work done right away, he said, and the horse would be fit for the road before we could say “God bless the king.”

It wasn’t quite as speedy as that but eventually we were on the road. Thus it was that by the time we reached Eversleigh Court it was growing dark.