The Dandelion Seed (26 page)

Mrs Powell had noticed Marcelle’s swollen feet. ‘Have you walked a long way, dear?’ she asked kindly.

‘From Essex,’ replied Marcelle. ‘I have wandered for two days.’

‘Have you no home, dear?’ Mrs Powell asked.

‘No, I left home to find my son who was stolen from me. But I am content now. I have found him again.’ She smiled and put a protective arm about the baby.

Poor thing is a bit gone, thought Mrs Powell to herself, but she did save the boy, after all. Perhaps I ought to offer her shelter. ‘You may come back to the house to rest if you wish,’ she offered. The master is away but I am sure he will not mind.’ She rose and began to bustle about. ‘I could really do with a bit of help with these children now. Some days my legs are not as young as they used to be.’

The picnic was soon over and the little party made their way back over the green parkland. Marcelle carried Roger in her arms. Elizabeth skipped closely beside her. Behind them, Mrs Powell hobbled along very slowly with the sturdy Robert still clutching his net and helping Mrs Powell with the picnic basket.

So it was that a new nursemaid arrived at Brook House – Miss Mouse they all called her. The big house reverberated with the sound of children’s happy laughter as they played and were fussed over by their new nurse. The old oak beams took up the sound and echoed it round the old grey stone wall as Miss Mouse called the children.

‘Welcome to our home, Miss Mouse,’ it seemed to say.

Chalky wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Poor little cow,’ he said as he went towards the parson’s house. The street door with its brass knocker looked very imposing as it nestled under the creeper-covered walls. Chalky took a deep breath. He could handle most people but when it came to parsons and suchlike he was not so confident. Plucking up his courage he rattled the door knocker and waited. Seconds later, the door was open by a servant in a white apron who looked disdainfully at him.

Chalky looked her straight in the eye; he was not going to be thwarted. ‘I want to see the parson,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘It’s very urgent.’

The parson had heard Chalky’s voice and recognised it as belonging to the giver of a nice bottle of dinner wine on his last visit to the inn. He came forward, his bulbous nose glowing pinky blue. ‘Come in, young man,’ he said. ‘Come in and welcome.’

Chalky made much of wiping his feet on the rush mat and entered with much decorum, his hat in his hand.

‘How can I help you?’ asked the parson.

‘It’s me stepmother,’ said Chalky. ‘Died very sudden, she did.’

‘Oh indeed? I am so sorry,’ said the man of God. ‘I will pray for her soul.’

‘I’d like a bit more than that done for her,’ replied Chalky. ‘She was a most respected woman.’ He spoke softly and furtively as though expecting to be contradicted.

The parson, however, did not connect Betsy with Chalky’s stepmother. ‘Well, what can I do?’ he asked most obligingly.

‘I want her to have a slap-up funeral,’ said Chalky. ‘I ain’t short of money and I want a nice headstone. Will you see to that for me, sir?’

‘Of course – you have already approached the undertaker, I presume?’

‘Oh yes, and a damned nice coffin I’m getting for her, too, but I was thinking you might keep her in the church until she is buried.’ Chalky was very anxious to get Betsy out of the house.

The old parson’s eyes twinkled; he was beginning to get the picture. Still, it was not his business. ‘What sort of stone would you like?’ he asked. ‘A cross, or an angel, maybe?’

‘That’s it,’ said Chalky. ‘A nice angel with wings outstretched. She’d like that.’

‘Good, and how about the verse?’ said the parson.

Now this question really foxed Chalky. He screwed up his eyes for a moment and then said: ‘What about: “Here lies Betsy White. Died all of sudden on a Friday night.” ’

It was then that the parson’s big Adam’s apple went up and down in the most alarming manner and he started to cough as he tried so hard not to laugh.

Chalky banged him hard on the back. ‘Nasty cough you got there, sir. Here, have a drop of the old fire water to take it away.’ He pulled out a bottle and put it on the desk. ‘Straight from the continent,’ he said. ‘Ain’t been sold in England before.’

The beady eyes of the parson gleamed in appreciation as he looked at the bottle. ‘I’ll do what I can for you,’ he said. ‘Bring your stepmother into the church tonight and we will bury her tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Chalky, pumping the parson’s arm up and down like the village pump. ‘Oh, wait a minute,’ he said suddenly. ‘There’s another little favour you can do for me. I want to put the banns up for me wedding. Got to hurry it up a bit, if you knows what I mean . . .’ He gave the parson a knowing wink which nearly caused the old chap to choke. ‘And you wanna look after that cough,’ Chalky said as he went cheerily to the door.

As soon as the door was closed, the parson sank down in the hall seat and laughed until the tears ran down his face. ‘Oh dear, what a caution,’ was all he could gasp as his servant came running to his aid.

Chalky felt on top of the world as he hurried down the leafy path to the inn and his beautiful Katy. He looked around for the little wanderer but there was no sign of her. She must have gone on her way. But there was lovely Katy at the door to welcome him, her dark hair shining and the little bump beginning to show under the apron.

‘Katy, darling,’ he said gaily, ‘it’s all sealed and signed. Come on, give us a kiss.’

Moments later they were making violent love on the little day bed in the sitting room, while Betsy lay in a coffin upstairs, stiff and white.

‘Things ain’t turned out so bad, after all,’ remarked Chalky as he lay back relaxing, while Katy returned to her stall.

14

Homecomings

When Marcelle entered Brook House she had the wonderful sense of peace. She felt as though she had arrived home after a long absence. They entered by the south-west wing of the house, through a beautiful apple orchard where the trees formed cool archways and the heavy ripe fruit hung from the boughs. The children ran on ahead, laughing and prattling, and continued to laugh and chatter until they were all safely tucked up in bed by Mrs Powell and Marcelle.

Now Marcelle sat facing Mrs Powell in a wide, roomy kitchen lined with huge brass pots, which accommodated a stove that took up almost the entire side of the wall. Marcelle wanted to ask about the baby. She had undressed him and had seen the large crown-shaped mole on his bottom, and there was now no doubt in her mind that he was her baby. She waited to talk about him to Mrs Powell but was very wary of laying claim to him outright. The derangement of mind she had suffered had given her the astuteness she needed for such a situation. She so wanted to talk about Roger but she could anticipate what would happen if she did. They would say she was crazy and shut her up somewhere. No, she had to remain quiet and take her time, just like the mouse the children liked to call her.

Mrs Powell groaned as she bent to undo the bandage on her leg. Marcelle knelt down and with gentle fingers took off the dressing. Then she applied the cool balm to the ulcer on Mrs Powell’s shin.

‘Oh, thank you, my dear, that does feel better,’ Mrs Powell sighed with relief. ‘I ought not to be on my feet so much, but the children need me. You cannot trust the servant girls these days. Agnes and Elsie are always quarrelling.’ She put her leg up on the foot stool and sighed contentedly. ‘Oh, I am glad that this day is over.’

‘Are they your grandchildren?’ asked Marcelle, anxious to hear all about her baby.

‘Good Lord, no!’ exclaimed Mrs Powell.

‘Does their mother live here?’

‘No, love, none of them are related. They are the master’s adopted children. The eldest boy Robert is to be Sir Fulke’s heir and the lovely Elizabeth, well, that is a long story which I might tell you, if you stay long enough. But the oddest one is the baby. No one really knows where he came from. The master loves babies, so when Elizabeth Howard brought him here one dark night, the master welcomed him without hesitation and handed him over to me. I have taken care of him ever since. Ask no questions, you hear no lies – that is my motto.’

A secret smile crossed Marcelle’s face, and Mrs Powell looked curiously at her. What a funny girl, she thought, she looked as if she were in a dream all the time.

But Marcelle’s dream had come true. Roger was indeed her baby. Her prayers had been answered and her worried harassed brain was gradually clearing. She could see things in a more normal way at last. ‘Will you allow me to stay and work for you?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I would love to take care of the baby.’

Mrs Powell was puzzled. She knew nothing about this girl, but she did not look or speak like a common girl and there was an air of mystery about her. The way her head twisted to one side and her voice was deep and husky also helped to make this girl unusual. Mrs Powell was not one to take chances, but she pushed aside any fears she might have had.

Next morning, Mrs Powell dressed Marcelle in a black silk dress with a white collar and pushed her hair into a little white cap and sent her out into the little quadrangle to care for the children.

So began Marcelle’s reign at Brook House, during the happiest and fullest days of her life. The little girl Elizabeth loved Miss Mouse and in spite of her limited vision, she took Marcelle by the hand and guided her on an extensive tour of the grand manor house, for the child knew every nook and cranny in the place. She took Marcelle along the portrait gallery to the lovely carved balcony which held a great golden organ and looked down over the carved balustrade at the black-and-white squares of the immense hall in which Queen Elizabeth had first held court and her father Henry had entertained her mother Ann Boleyn.

Marcelle knew nothing of these great people but listened enthralled as little Elizabeth related the history of this lovely house and its previous owners.

Behind the great organ was a door leading to a small apartment in which an old Jesuit priest had hidden for many years, since the time when Lady Cobham had lived in the manor. In these small chambers were many books. Elizabeth introduced Marcelle to Father Ben who sheltered there. He was now so thin and frail but his gnarled, twisted hands could still draw lovely pictures to amuse the children. He scrutinized Marcelle very closely and then said. ‘Your mother was a good Catholic woman.’

Marcelle did not understand but she kept quiet, convinced that Father Ben must have mistaken her for one of the other servants. But it had been Father Ben who had buried the poor torn body of her mother whom the mob had drowned as a witch so many years before. Reaching out, he pressed into Marcelle’s hand a little gold medal of the Virgin Mary which he had found sewn into the woman’s clothing. ‘Take care,’ he whispered. ‘Do not let anyone see it.’

Elizabeth pulled impatiently at her hand. ‘Come on, Miss Mouse, there is more to see.’

So on they went to look at the lovely book-lined library, and then the elegant dining hall with its carved frieze and hand-painted ceiling, windows draped with blue velvet and cloth of gold, and massive walls covered by French tapestries. And on until Elizabeth had proudly shown Marcelle every little bit of her new home, and at every step they took, Marcelle felt happiness building up as she had not felt for so long.

Marcelle had been at Brook House several months before Mrs Powell eventually presented her to the master. Sir Fulke was in his study surrounded by many books and papers and he did not look up as they entered. His head was bent and the candle highlighted the aristocratic profile of his face with the long nose and sensitive lips of the great family of Warwick. Marcelle noticed too the pain lines on his face.

‘Come in, Poppet,’ he called, thinking that Mrs Powell’s knock was one of his adopted children. He called them all Poppet but with Roger it had stuck and become shortened to Popsi.

‘It is I, sir,’ answered Mrs Powell. ‘I want to introduce our new young nurse maid to you.’

Sir Fulke glanced at Marcelle without much interest. ‘Well, you take care of her, will you, Mrs Powell?’

The two women curtsied and left the room.

‘He is always like that lately,’ grumbled Mrs Powell. ‘He is very busy writing the life story of his friend Philip Sidney, and he does too much, what with being a Member of Parliament as well,’ she went on, defending her master’s ill manners. ‘Breastfed him as a babe, I did. Stinted my own babe to feed him.’

Marcelle was not very interested in Mrs Powell’s grumbling. She loved it too much here with Roger and Elizabeth to care about anything else. The boy Robert had disappeared for a while, back to his school in Shrewsbury. Marcelle’s cheeks glowed rosy from the daily walks in the big park. She no longer stuttered or stammered and her voice was no longer croaky, it was just low and husky. She was happier now than she had ever been in her life. In the mornings she knelt at the secret altar with Father Ben and cleared her soul of the dark misery that had hung over her in the past. She now felt as free and as happy as a bird. The stormy events of the world outside could not disturb or even interest Marcelle. In the peaceful sanctuary of Brook House it was almost as if she had entered a convent, the only difference being that with her was her beautiful sturdy son, a privilege that no nun could ever be granted. Surrounded by beautiful grounds that extended for miles, there was never any need to go outside the gate and no one could have persuaded her to. She had left the sad world outside behind to play in this beautiful garden with the children, her little Roger and the tall Elizabeth who walked so upright without ever complaining of her disability. Each morning Marcelle and Elizabeth with Roger by Marcelle’s side would kneel and pray in the old chapel which had served many generations of great Catholic families. The tattered banners hung overhead; helmets and swords lay upon the marble tombs. The Reformation had destroyed the religious glory of England for which these knights of old had given their lives.