Herald of Joy, page 55
part #2 of Wintercombe Series
The trite, stilted compliment brought a vivid wash of colour up under Rachael’s thin skin. She said, with some intensity, ‘You don’t mean it!’
‘I never say anything I don’t mean,’ said Tom, with perfect truth.
Rachael stared at him as if she disbelieved every word. Then she said, in a low, miserable whisper, ‘I suppose you’ve heard about…about what happened to Nick?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Tom said.
‘Aren’t — aren’t you going to say anything?’
‘No. It’s hardly my business, after all.’
‘You must have some opinion,’ said Rachael desperately.
‘Yes, I have,’ said Tom equably. ‘But for the present, I’ll keep it to myself.’
Rachael glanced around. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, though she could have sworn that Tabby had been looking her way just now. She had not intended to behave like this, she had thought that she wanted to forget all about her despicable behaviour. But it was not possible, for some devil sat on her shoulder and urged her to pick over the wound again, to make quite sure that this unassuming, friendly young man was thoroughly acquainted with the depths of her iniquity. She said in despair, ‘You must despise me so much.’
‘Despise you?’ Tom stared at her in genuine surprise. His face was tanned and lightly freckled, with a couple of bigger moles on his cheek, and his eyes were a surprisingly light blue under the thick, straight brown hair. Rachael, hating herself, gazed miserably back. ‘Of course I don’t despise you,’ he went on. ‘We all make mistakes — though, I admit, yours are a trifle more, er, dramatic than most.’ And he grinned.
It was infectious. The muscles around her mouth actually twitched before she managed to control them. She said, with some scorn, ‘Oh, yes — everyone has been very understanding.’
‘Would you rather they’d shouted at you?’ Tom dropped his gaze to his wine-glass, as if seeking inspiration, and then looked up. ‘Do you want me to despise you?’
‘No — no, I don’t,’ said Rachael, floundering in waters that were suddenly too deep for her.
‘But you feel that I should, is that it? That you deserve it? Well, that’s ridiculous,’ said Tom, with a light-heartedness that did not in the least disguise his sincerity. ‘I do not despise you, nor do I even dislike you. Mind you, I am, according to my sister Mary, as placid as an old ox, and very few things goad me into feelings as extreme as that.’ He smiled. ‘Strangely, Mary and I are not in the least alike. She is very quick-tempered, and before she married she always seemed to be in a rage about something or other, usually very trivial. And now, she’s almost as placid as I am — she’s happy, you see.’ He glanced at Rachael’s pale face, no longer seeming quite so taut and tense. ‘Your brother’s tale about climbing on the roof for a dare reminds me of the time when Mary said I wouldn’t be able to climb the tallest tree in the wood behind our farm.’
Tabby, watching with covert interest, saw her half-sister relaxing almost imperceptibly, as she conversed — if listening with hesitant interest to whatever Tom was saying could be called conversing. At least she did not appear to have been unforgivably rude, nor had she stormed out, nor had she hit him. It was all going very well, Tabby thought, with a certain satisfaction. Soon, she must put the next stages of her grand design into effect.
*
Rachael was brushing her hair before sleep, when Tabby entered. The yellow gown lay limp and discarded across the clothes-press, and Jude had lit the fire and put a warming-pan into her bed, for the night was clear, and would be chilly. She looked up as her half-sister entered, and said, without much interest, ‘Oh, it’s you. What do you want?’
The two girls, so different in temperament and interests, had never been very friendly. In her deepest, darkest heart, Rachael was envious of Tabby, of her loveliness and her musical gifts, and above all of the painful fact that everyone seemed to like her. Tabby would never betray anyone: Tabby, soon, would have men flocking to her, as they had never flocked around Rachael. Above all, Tabby seemed to have gained the confidence, the affection and the friendship of Nat, which should more properly belong to Rachael, his twin.
‘Just a chat,’ said Tabby. She supposed that she ought to be girlishly confiding, but such a pose was beyond her. Patience, who seemed to have as many different faces as the moon, would have slipped with ease into such a role, but Tabby knew that she would only feel awkward and ridiculous. She should have asked her aunt, or even Nat, to come in her place. If Rachael had emerged at all from her mood of black self-pity, then she might well be suspicious. Everyone knew that Tabby was hardly likely to confide anything to anyone, least of all Rachael.
‘A chat?’ Rachael’s brush had found a knot in her hair. Patience had been right, it was much improved. Tomorrow, she might even ask Jude to bring up some hot water and scented soap and lotions, and wash it. She pulled the tangled strands apart with impatient fingers. ‘What about?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Tabby. She sat down on the bed, and Rachael wondered how someone who took so little trouble over her appearance could still look so fetching. She did not realise that a large part of Tabby’s attractiveness stemmed from the fact that she was completely unaware of it.
‘It’s late,’ said Rachael, her manner discouraging. She put her brush down, and turned to stare at her half-sister. ‘What do you want?’
Tabby was beginning to realise that she should not have come. Rachael had never cared for her, and any attempt to push her in the direction she planned, would inevitably result in the opposite. She was not infallible, and if this lesser plan could fail, how much more vulnerable was the plot to free Nick. She seized at the first straw that passed through her mind. ‘Do you think…perhaps…I could borrow your yellow gown, sometime?’
Rachael stared at her with some astonishment. ‘My yellow gown? You? But it wouldn’t fit!’
‘I’ve grown since last year,’ said Tabby. ‘I’m as tall as you, now.’
‘It wouldn’t suit you either,’ said Rachael. She saw that her half-sister’s gaze had become somewhat fixed. For a moment, she wondered why, and then remembered. The loose nightgown which she had put on over her chemise, was unfastened and falling open. And the mark on her neck, now dark purple, must stand out like a brand.
Rachael saw the appalled expression on Tabby’s face. She said harshly, ‘Please go.’
The girl’s hazel eyes, so like her mother’s, filled suddenly with tears. She said in a whisper, ‘I’m sorry — I didn’t realise…’
‘Please go,’ Rachael said again, her voice suddenly hoarse with misery. ‘Go on — please, leave me alone.’
There was nothing that Tabby could say. All her small designs and childish scheming evaporated into the mist, when put beside the reality of what Rachael had suffered, and was still enduring. She got up and fled to the cosy welcoming warmth of her own chamber, and to the bitter and belated realisation that there were some tragedies that no amount of conspiracy, or well-meaning meddling, could avert, or alleviate. Trying to kindle an interest in Tom Wickham, in the immediate aftermath of Rachael’s agony, seemed all at once pathetically inappropriate.
She slept badly that night, wrestling with her conscience, and came down, heavy-eyed and pale, to break her fast. It was raining outside, a damp autumn day, and there was no chance of speaking to Tom privately in the garden, as she had originally intended. Rachael was there, wearing her usual black with a deep, lace-edged collar buttoned high above her neck, hiding the betraying rope-mark. Her eyes, bleak with unhappiness, glared at her half-sister, daring her to reveal what she knew. But that was not the sort of secret which Tabby would lightly confide to anyone. She gave Rachael a smile that she hoped would indicate her sympathy, and support, and turned away to address herself to frumenty and salt herring.
Tom Wickham, who had probably slept better than any St. Barbe, looked enviably refreshed and alert. He was a little surprised when Patience, who had placed herself next to him at the table, glanced around and then said, very quietly, ‘We have something we wish to discuss with you, Tabby and I. In the summer parlour, on the other side of the hall, when breakfast is done?’ And then, before he had had the chance to do more than nod in bemused agreement, she said loudly, ‘I hope you slept well, Tom.’
Nat had been looking at them too closely for her liking. Of all her sister’s family, his was the sharpest eye, the most acute and incisive intelligence. He was also the one whom, for a variety of reasons, she most feared, should he discover what was afoot. After all, it was his inheritance which she was risking.
But if it all goes according to plan, Patience thought, running through the details in her mind, worked out through the sleepless hours of two nights until she was sure they were perfect, then no one will ever discover that anyone at Wintercombe was involved.
First, however, Tom’s help had to be enlisted. His role was vital, and if he refused to take part, Patience did not know what she could do. Tabby had seemed very certain that Nick’s old comrade-in-arms would be eager to assist in his escape, but Patience was more doubtful. She liked Tom, but sensed his caution, his solidity and his essential ordinariness. She suspected that he would prove lacking in the spark of reckless imagination necessary for her scheme.
But she was wrong. Hardly had she shut the door of the summer parlour, having first carefully ensured that no one was lingering within earshot, than he said quietly, ‘Is this to do with Nick Hellier?’
Tabby and Patience exchanged glances. ‘Yes,’ said the older girl. ‘Yes, it is.’ She paused, uncharacteristically weighing up her words in advance, and then added, ‘We think we can free him, but we can’t do it without your assistance. Will you help us?’
There was a brief silence. The rain slid miserably down the window, from a dull and depressive sky. The ride to church, later in the morning, would not be a comfortable one. Tom Wickham smiled. ‘Of course. I’ll do anything that you want me to — within reason, of course.’
He had no idea what plan Patience had worked out. The scheme that she outlined to him, interposed with brief enlargements or explanations from Tabby, was bold and simple and might well work. It was also very shocking, and he said so.
Patience gave him her brilliant smile, strongly reminiscent of Kate in mischief. ‘All the better — then no one will suspect me. Well? Are you willing to help us? There is some risk, after all.’
‘I can accept that,’ Tom pointed out. ‘I used to be a soldier, remember.’ He looked at the two girls, one fair, one dark, all lit up like candles with their enthusiasm, and decided to introduce a note of caution into the proceedings. ‘But everything depends on you keeping your head — are you sure that you can carry it off?’
Patience laughed. ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said, with a certain brusqueness. ‘I wouldn’t be asking you to help if I was not, after all. From what Mally says, there’s little to fear from the gaoler. And anyway, there is no risk to you whatsoever, should my part miscarry. All you have to do, is to wait.’
‘And that,’ said Tom, with a certain grimness, ‘is what I’ve been doing for a large part of my life.’
‘Tuesday, then?’ said Tabby, and the other two nodded.
‘Tuesday,’ Patience declaimed, softly and exultantly. ‘On Tuesday, God willing, we’ll set Nick free.’
And they struck hands on it, like market farmers, to seal their pact.
*
After a wet and windy Sunday, the rain stopped that night, and by Monday morning the sun, rather shy and hesitant, peered out from behind light, swift, lacy clouds. The younger children were despatched to their lessons, complaining that they wished to go out, and Tom, feeling in need of fresh air, decided to go for a stroll in the garden before the weather grew once more inclement.
He saw Rachael at once, standing on the lowest terrace, gazing down at the orchard. There was something so mournful, so utterly dejected in the droop of her shoulders, that his heart was wrung. She had betrayed Nick to the soldiers, an act which, despite his heartening words to her, was something he could not understand. It was plain that she was smitten with desperate remorse, and he felt sharply sorry for her. And yet, he was certain that any display of pity would immediately antagonise her. Again, he remembered his sister Mary, in the depths of rage and grief because she could not marry the wastrel upon whom she had set her heart. His sister had eventually been transformed by a happiness which she had not suspected, and had found love with a man she had never even considered. Curiously, he wondered whether Rachael would be the same.
He walked down the steps to where she stood, leaning against the damp balustrade, the wind blowing her black hair into thin tendrils very different from the careful curls of Saturday night. He put his elbows companionably over the stone rail alongside hers, and looked down at the gnarled trees and wet grass below, the apples long since harvested for pressing into cider. ‘It’s very peaceful here,’ he said, after a while.
Rachael could think of no answer sufficiently offensive. Besides, there seemed to be little point in antagonising someone so determined to be pleasant. Like Jude Hinton, it seemed to be impossible to make him angry, or hurt, or to jolt him out of his cheerfulness. She said, after a pause, ‘Yes, it is.’
Tom said, choosing his words with great care, ‘This is not the first time that we have stood here.’
Rachael turned her head warily to study him, a marked frown distorting her brows, her blue eyes narrowed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It isn’t.’
‘You said that you did not want me here, as I recall.’ He saw no reaction in the thin pale face, and went on. ‘I was sorry for that, then, although I thought I could understand why my presence here might remind you of things you would rather forget. It would be good, now, to discover that perhaps you were disposed to be more friendly?’
The wind blew a black strand of hair across her face, and she brushed it back. Her eyes unhappy, she said flatly, ‘Perhaps.’
‘Then will you accept my apologies, for any hurt which I may have unwittingly done you, in the past?’
‘You haven’t done anything,’ said Rachael wearily. ‘So there’s no need for apologies.’ She took a deep breath. Somehow, all her rage and desperation seemed to have vanished, and that fierce angry girl who had been so unforgivably rude, for no good cause, seemed a stranger to her now. And she had vowed, in the long dreary hours of night, to try to be different. She said rather raggedly, ‘In fact, I should be apologising to you. I spoke very offensively to you, and I am very sorry now that I behaved so badly.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t think you were very happy, and that excuses a great deal.’
He had said the wrong thing. A brief spark of anger inflamed her face. She said with exhausted bitterness, ‘Does it? I don’t think so, Master Wickham — I don’t think so at all.’
‘I suppose you are the best judge of that,’ he told her mildly.
Rachael gave a sob of despair, and spread her hands wide. ‘Why are you so nice to me? Why does everyone try to be so kind? I have betrayed them, I’ve done terrible things and all they can do, and you, is offer excuses for me. Well, I don’t offer any excuses for myself — I have been evil, evil and wicked and proud and self-righteous, and yet no one will even reproach me for it!’
‘You sound as if you want to be punished,’ said Tom. He was in uncharted seas here, for nothing in his surprisingly varied experience had prepared him for this unexpected and passionate repudiation of forgiveness. But the strange, tormented girl standing here, pouring out her heart to him, was beginning to concern him greatly.
‘I do,’ Rachael muttered. ‘And yet I don’t — I’d do anything to unmake the damage, to set it all right, to go back in time and do it different — and I can’t!’ She stared at him, wild-eyed. ‘Captain Hellier is in prison, because of me. Nat and Mother nearly were, because of me. And I — I forced Kate to tell me where he was hiding, she’s only five and I hurt her, I made her tell, and when I went yesterday to say that I was sorry, she tried to hide from me, she was so frightened of me.’ She had begun to weep without realising it, the tears shining on her agonised face. ‘I even tried to kill myself, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t — I failed in that, too.’
Tom, shaken and appalled, stared at her in horror. ‘You — you tried to…?’
Savagely, Rachael ripped the high collar from her neck. ‘See? I tried to hang myself.’ She was trembling violently. ‘And I’ll wager not even you can stomach that.’
She pulled the kerchief back to cover the livid mark, and turned away. She had gone three strides before he recovered his wits sufficiently to grab her sleeve. Somehow, he must help her, undo the damage, draw this terrible burden from her. And yet, he had never encountered anyone so resistant to comfort. ‘Rachael!’ he said, more urgently than he had intended. ‘Don’t go — listen to me!’
But she shook off his restraining hand, and ran along the gravelled walk towards the summerhouse. Forgetting dignity, prudence, propriety in the face of her desperate need, he sprinted after her. Even hampered by skirts, she was surprisingly fast, and had almost reached the door before he caught up with her, panting. ‘Rachael! Rachael, please stop, I want to talk to you!’
Trapped, she leaned her head against the cool yellow stone and burst into tears. Tom had never felt so diminished, or so helpless. He tried the door. It opened inwards, upon a dim smell of apples and damp stone. He took her thin shoulders in his hands, feeling the shuddering grief coursing through his fingers, and guided her within.
For what seemed like hours, she wept into her hands, on and on, beyond all control. He had a kerchief in the sleeve of his doublet, and gave it to her. At least she did not push it away. Unsure of what to do, he sat beside her on the pile of dusty sacks, and waited for the storm to subside.
The sun was shining strongly outside, with the brightness of mid-morning, before she said, in a small voice quite unlike her usual strident tones, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve soaked your kerchief.’
