The Dandelion Seed (18 page)

‘But Marcelle?’ Annabelle called after him. ‘Is she all right?’

‘She will sleep for a while,’ Merlin replied. ‘No harm will come to her.’ With that he was gone again.

The sun shone down on the weeping willow turning its leaves to a golden yellow. The lower branches trailed in the cool green water of the pond as if trying to reach out and touch the cream velvet petals of the huge water lilies floating majestically on the surface. This was Marcelle’s favourite spot in the secluded garden of Craig Alva and on this bright summer morning she knelt trailing her fingers in the water and feeling at peace with all the world. Not far away, in the little crib hanging from the oak tree was her son, a quiet contented baby who had brought great peace of mind to his troubled mother. Marcelle was no longer a young girl and during the last three months she matured in many ways. Her figure was fuller, her hips were shapely and now her mind was as agile as her body was supple. When Annabelle and Abe left for Frances’ new house, Marcelle watched sadly from the window as they loaded the wagon with all of Merlin’s possessions. For he had refused to move without every one of his beloved maps, boxes and mysterious masks. It had been amusing to watch as Merlin kept darting back inside, his long wispy hair flying back over his shoulders in the wind and gesticulating wildly with his arms as Annabelle tried to hurry him. And all the while, Abe sat quietly and sadly in the front seat with the driver, taking a last look at his beloved home and farm animals. He was such a good and kind man. Tears streamed down Marcelle’s cheeks. She just could not believe that they were leaving. She had felt so alone and desolate.

Her baby had been only six weeks old when Annabelle had given her the sad news.

‘Listen to me, darling,’ she had said, hold Marcelle’s hand. ‘We have to go, all of us, I cannot explain why and I am just as unhappy as you over this move. I have made arrangements with your husband’s solicitors for you to rent the house. Everything is in order and you have nothing to worry about. Thomas has provided well for you and it will be a home for you and your son until he returns. The farm is let to a tenant, so it is no concern of yours. Wanda has offered to leave the dairy and live in to help you take care of you and your lovely baby.’ Annabelle was devoted to the baby, as was Abe. And even Merlin would poke a finger at him and say: ‘How is His Highness this morning?’

It was very hard to see them go and Marcelle knew it had something to do with the fair countess but she could not think what it was exactly. But why were Annabelle and Abe so unhappy about the move? And why did they not refuse to go? Such questions frightened her and made her head ache.

Wanda came up behind her and placed an arm over her shoulder. Her strong hand gripped hers. ‘Now, my love, don’t ’ee oopset ’eeself. Think on thy babe.’

‘I just do not understand it,’ Marcelle sobbed. ‘I love them like my own parents. I would have gone with them.’

‘Now doan’t ’ee be daft, gel, they be goin’ up London. The plague and ev’rthin’ is oop there, gor ’a think on little Roger.’

Marcelle nodded and smiled gratefully. She knew that Wanda had good sense.

Wanda was a big girl with a big moon face full of freckles and sturdy legs. Her personality was pleasant and she had a ready wit and good temper. Marcelle had found her a great boon in helping her to settle down at Craig Alva without Annabelle. Now it was August and the garden was a riot of colour, full of tall hollybocks, blue larkspur, golden marigolds and red rambler roses. Marcelle spent most days in the garden sitting under the oak tree with her baby while Wanda cleaned the house and got most of the meals ready. In the evenings they both sat in the porch until it grew dark. During these evenings Wanda would give a running commentary on the business of the folks in the village. Wanda visited her mother in the village twice a week, and it was she who was the weekly newsletter. It was on one of these cool evenings that Wanda mentioned that their old milkmaid Ruth, who had returned to the village with a child the same age as Roger. Wanda’s mouth moved in all directions as she poured scorn on the misdeeds of Ruth. ‘Our Mum ses that ’er husband’s bin drowned at sea. “Do’t ’ee be daft,” ses I, “she slept all night wi’ that Lord in the barn.” “Still,” ses me Ma, “she could be married.” ’

Marcelle glanced up at Wanda and then down again. Her face was flushed and she felt embarrassed by all this gossip. ‘Oh, do not be unkind, Wanda,’ she pleaded.

‘Well, a’right, my love, but ’ee be too soft. She were a slut, that girl,’ Wanda added unsympathetically.

Marcelle had gone very pale and quiet. ‘Let us go up to bed,’ she said, putting down her sewing and collecting her baby.

Nowadays Wanda slept downstairs where Abe used to sleep, while Marcelle and her baby still occupied the little room at the top of the stairs.

Wanda’s head had hardly touched her pillow that night when she heard Marcelle screaming. Dashing upstairs in her large flannel nightgown which flapped like a ship’s sail, she found Marcelle crouched on the floor looking very disturbed and crying out that he had come for the baby.

‘Oh, God, forgive me! Do not let him take my baby,’ she raved.

Wanda grabbed hold of Marcelle roughly as though she were a bag of beans, and dumped her back on the bed saying in a loud whisper: ‘Shut up! You will wake Roger.’

Marcelle suddenly sat up wide-eyed and scared. ‘What is the matter, Wanda?’ she whispered.

‘Matter!’ grumbled Wanda. ‘You was ’avin’ a nightmare and shoutin’ your head off. It was ’nuff to wake the dead.’

Marcelle shivered as she suddenly recalled her dream. ‘Light the candles, Wanda,’ she said, ‘and do not go yet. Stay with me a while.’

‘Tut! Tut!’ Wanda was feeling tired but she lighted the candles and sat on Marcelle’s bed. ‘Now what is wrong with thee? You’ve got no worries, and you’ve got plenty money. It should be me what’s getting nightmares – I ain’t even got a man.’

‘It is the man I see that frightens me,’ said Marcelle, looking from side to side.

‘Well, thee send ’im downstairs, then, I could fair do wi’ ’im,’ retorted the truculent Wanda.

Marcelle stared at the servant sitting there in her absurd-looking nightcap and enormous red flannel nightgown, with those queer blue eyes that sometimes looked green. Then she looked over towards Roger sleeping in his little cot, his curls just peeping over the top of his covers. Wanda was right, she had nothing to be afraid of, so why could she not forget the red-haired young man she kept thinking of as the devil? ‘Wanda?’ she asked timorously, ‘do you remember those three men who came late one night last summer?’

‘Course I do. Weren’t one out in the barn all night wi’ Ruth?’

‘But did you see the other two?’ queried Marcelle.

‘No, I never did. I were never allowed indoors them days, but Ruth do say that one o’ them was a royal prince, but then she were a bit of a storyteller and a liar as well,’ she added scornfully.

‘It is one of those men I see all the time,’ said Marcelle ‘and it frightens me. I keep thinking it is the devil.’

‘There be no such one,’ scoffed Wanda. ‘Wouldn’t catch me believin’ in ghosts and suchlike.’

‘But he walked in his sleep. I saw him then and I still do,’ insisted Marcelle.

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Wanda. ‘He be flesh and blood, I warrant you, if he be here. Move over, I’ll stay with thee, and perhaps he might fancy me.’

Wanda’s witty talk made Marcelle giggle and she felt comforted as the warm heavy body got into the bed beside her. How foolish she was! Wanda was right, she had this house, a husband and a baby. What was there to be afraid of?

From that time onward her nerves improved and she was no longer afraid to be alone. As Roger grew and he held out his little arms to her, his soft fingers clutching handfuls of hair, she would say to herself: ‘Now you have enough courage for two – until Roger grows up, at least.’

In the peace and beauty of the Essex countryside, amid the flowers in the lovely garden, Marcelle bloomed and blossomed, her worries and concerns disappeared. Until, that is, when one lovely morning she saw a stranger coming down the path, a middle-aged man dressed in grey. He swept his large hat off with a courtly gesture. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, have I the pleasure of addressing Mistress Mayhew?’

Marcelle blushed. No one had ever addressed her as a married lady before and she had been that for more than a year now.

‘I carry a letter from your husband, from the New World. My name is Mr Spencer, assistant to your husband’s lawyer at the Inns of Court.’

Marcelle flushed with pleasure. Thomas had written her a letter at last! Her heart beat fast with excitement as she invited the lawyer into the house.

In the small sitting room, which now looked quite bare without Annabelle’s little treasures, Marcelle entertained Mr Spencer. Wanda bustled in and out bringing them food to eat and wine to drink. Each time she came in, she flicked her sandy eye lashes and cast coy glances at the gentleman, while Marcelle sat quietly reading Thomas’ letter:

My dearest one.

I do hope this letter finds you well and happy. It is a strange life out here, but it is a very pleasant and fertile country with space for all to enjoy. It is my dearest wish to show this land to you, God willing, and all going well, it will happen. I will not distress you with the hazards of the voyage out here. It took almost a year, but as time passes the voyages out here must improve. This letter I am giving to the captain of a ship returning to England in the fervent hope it will reach you to find that you have had a bonny child and may God protect you both till I return.

By a strange coincidence I have made the acquaintance of a person whom you may recall. His name is Rolly, the strange child-like man who lived at the inn in Hackney where I found you, my love. Poor Rolly was press-ganged aboard but has settled down well. I have grown quite attached to him and have sent a letter to his sister at the inn to assure her that he is well.

Give my regards to Abe and Annabelle as well as to Will the minstrel. Take care of yourself, my love. I have enclosed the address of my brother so that you may write and tell him I am well. Goodbye for a while. Time will soon pass.

Your husband,

Thomas

10

Abduction

Rolly had been missing sometime now and an atmosphere of gloom had descended upon the Duke’s Head Inn. Betsy sat pale with weariness and anxiety. Beside her was a large bottle of strong sweet wine from which she repeatedly filled her wooden cup, commiserating with herself in between each long drink.

‘He’s never been gone this long before,’ she muttered morosely. ‘Something’s happened to him, I’m sure of it.’

Chalky stood with his hands in his pockets of the blue striped apron he wore, looking slyly down at the sawdust on the floor. ‘He could be in the fleet,’ he murmured softly.

Betsy turned her tousled head in Chalky’s direction and sniffed scornfully. ‘Well, he ain’t. I’ve been to all them stinking bleeding prisons. I’ve walked all day and there was no sign of him anywhere.’

‘I meant the navy,’ said Chalky.

‘Don’t be such a bloody fool!’ screamed Betsy, losing her temper. ‘You know how childish he is. He’d never think that one up on his own.’

‘Don’t have to think about it,’ replied Chalky gloomily. ‘They just grab you from behind. That’s how they got me,’ he added.

‘What do you mean, the press gang?’ Betsy demanded. But after a moment’s thought, she shrieked. ‘That’s it! They got him! Where else could he go? Because if he was still alive he would have come home by now.’

‘It won’t kill him,’ said Chalky nonchalantly. ‘He will come home when the ship docks.’ In a good few years, he thought, but did not say so to Betsy, who was crying. Big tears like raindrops ran down her cheeks.

Betsy had a constant love in her heart for that foolish brother of hers, and the thought that she might never see him again was too much for her to bear.

‘Never mind, love,’ Chalky seemed to be kindness itself, and he could never stand to see a woman cry. A very mixed character was Chalky. He filled up Betsy’s cup of wine. ‘There, now,’ he said kindly, ‘you go up and have a nice rest and I’ll keep the bar open. Then later, I’ll come up and we’ll have a nice bit of you know what . . .’ He laughed coarsely, tickling her under the chin.

‘You are a good chap, Chalky,’ said Betsy. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ She hoisted her tired body from the low stool and, still clutching the bottle in one hand and the wooden cup in the other, slowly climbed the steep flight of stairs to her bed.

Chalky’s sharp yellow teeth showed in an almost crafty grin as he watched Betsy’s plump thighs as she passed. When she had disappeared, he took off his striped apron, carefully dampened his hair and parted it on one side, and drew his hands across his neat waxed moustache. Then he crept out of the house, closing the front door quietly behind him, and made off towards the fields at the back of the inn.

Down where the little brook gurgled merrily over the stones, its clear water showing up a myriad of colours, sat Katy, Chalky’s new love. Pink bare feet dangled in the water, and beside her on the bank was a basket of fish which she had brought down to the brook to wash in the cool water before arranging them on the stall her father owned in the market. Katy’s hair hung down her back in dark plaits and the low neck of her red dress exposed most of her snow-white bosom. As Chalky hurried towards her, he licked his lips. Here was Katy, beautiful Katy, a peach, fresh and ripe for the plucking. He slid down beside her. ‘Hallo,’ he said pleansantly. ‘Washed your fish, I see.’