70 A Witch's Spell Page 6

  “Forget it! At the same time, because I am interested, I would like to know what you did with the guinea I gave you.”

  “I wanted to throw it away!”

  “But instead you kept it?”

  “Certainly not! I put it in the poor box. When Papa finds it, he will be able to help a great number of people who at this moment are desperately in need of his help.”

  “Why at this moment?”

  Hermia looked at him in surprise.

  “Surely you are aware of the suffering there is in the country as an aftermath of the war?”

  He did not speak and she went on,

  “The farmers are having a desperate time after the bad harvest of last year and because of the cheap food that is coming into the country from the Continent. They cannot afford to take on more labourers and with so many men coming out of the Services there is terrible unemployment.”

  She thought the Marquis looked at her in surprise and he certainly raised his dark eyebrows before he replied,

  “I should have thought that your uncle was rich enough to see that there was no unemployment on his estate.”

  Hermia was silent.

  She knew that her uncle had refused, despite her father’s pleading, to take on a number of young men in the village who had either returned from the war or who were now grown up and required work.

  In fact they had had several angry arguments about it quite recently and the last time the Earl had roared at his brother,

  “Whatever you may think, I am not a philanthropic society and the sooner you get that into your head the better.”

  Her father had come home very depressed and said,

  “If only I could employ them all myself, but you know I cannot do that and I hate to tell them I have failed to find them work.”

  “You have done your best, darling,” her mother had said, “and no man could do more.”

  “I know, I know,” her father replied, “but, if I had the running of the estate, I could quite easily take on several dozen more men and give them work that would eventually pay for itself.”

  He had been depressed the whole evening and it had taken her mother a long time to coax him back into his habitual good humour.

  Now it occurred to Hermia that if the Marquis was as rich as Marilyn had said he was, he could take on extra workmen on his estate and might even persuade her uncle to be more generous.

  Without thinking, speaking in the same way as she talked to her father and mother as if she was their contemporary, she said,

  “Surely you must be aware, as you too are a landlord, that, if you developed new industries, it would create work for men who otherwise would starve or take to stealing.”

  “What sort of industries are you thinking of?”

  Hermia was sure that he was sneering at her behind the drawling words, yet, because she was determined to make him understand, she responded,

  “I have no idea of what your land is like, but here, for instance, if Uncle John would only listen, there is so much timber ready to be felled that he could employ at least two dozen workmen in a new timber yard.”

  She knew that the Marquis was listening and went on.

  “There is also a gravel pit which was not worked during the war, which could be re-opened, and at the far end of the estate there is an ancient slate quarry and slate is always needed for the building of new houses.”

  “I see you are remarkably well informed,” the Marquis remarked. “Are these your ideas or your father’s?”

  “They should be the ideas of great landlords like yourself, my Lord,” Hermia retorted.

  Then because she felt it was a mistake to antagonise him she said,

  “Please, if you get the chance, will you speak about such ideas to my uncle? I feel sure he would listen to you, even though he will not listen to Papa.”

  “I very much doubt if he would listen to me,” the Marquis replied, “but, if I do what you ask, will you forgive me my sins?”

  “I think, my Lord, it would be best not to talk about them, but to let me show you the way to The Hall.”

  She thought as she spoke that she had spent far more time with the Marquis than she should have done and, if Marilyn was aware of it, she would be very angry.

  “Please – ” she said. “I must go to my cousin. She will be – expecting me.”

  “Very well,” the Marquis said, “but before you ride ahead to show me the way, suppose you tell me your name?”

  “It is Hermia!”

  “I imagine when you were christened your parents were thinking of you as a female version of the Messenger of the Gods!”

  For the first time since they had been talking Hermia gave a little laugh.

  “It is clever of you to be aware of that. Most people merely exclaim, ‘What a funny name,’ and expect me to be called ‘Jane’, ‘Anne’, ‘Sarah’ or ‘Mary’.”

  “Why those names in particular?” the Marquis enquired curiously.

  “Because they are what is considered suitable for a Vicar’s daughter,” Hermia replied demurely.

  “You mean it would be very much out of character for your parents to be thinking of Olympus! Well, shall I tell you that at the moment you look much more like Persephone, leaving Hades to bring Spring back to the world.”

  He spoke in his dry sarcastic voice, which did not make his words sound like a compliment, but again Hermia laughed and it was a very happy spontaneous sound.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  He had drawn his horse up beside her on the path and as he did so she glanced at him.

  Then without thinking that she was being impertinent she replied,

  “You must be aware who I thought you were after you left me!”

  “Oh, now I understand!” the Marquis said. “Very well, lead the Devil out of Hades!”

  Hermia did not reply, but she thought that Bluebell Wood was not her idea of Hades.

  She was riding ahead of the Marquis and she thought that, if Marilyn was ever aware that she had lingered and talked with him for so long, she would be very very angry.

  Only when they reached the footpath that led out of the wood into the Park did she hesitate for a moment.

  She had intended to go back the way she had come through Bluebell Wood, but that she knew would take longer than if she rode into the Park with the Marquis.

  While he went on to The Hall, she would ride in the opposite direction towards the village.

  She felt that he would not suggest accompanying her, but if he did she must try to find some excuse to prevent him from doing so.

  As she made up her mind, she rode ahead and a few minutes later they could see the Park in front of them and in the distance The Hall, looking very large and very impressive in the sunshine.

  As the path came to an end, Hermia drew Bracken to a standstill.

  “You can find your way back from here, my Lord.”

  “I realise that,” he replied, “and I should thank you for performing your task so efficiently.”

  The way he spoke made Hermia nervous that he was making it clear that he did not for one moment believe that she had summoned Marilyn to a deathbed.

  Then she told herself that she being needlessly apprehensive.

  Why should the Marquis not believe what he had been told? But even if he did, she had the feeling that it would not make him wish to marry Marilyn without having many other far better reasons for doing so.

  He drew his horse alongside hers and sat looking at her with an expression on his face that she did not understand.

  It was as if he was appraising her in a manner that was vaguely insulting and yet at the same time, because he seemed so cynical and bored, complimentary.

  She did not know why she thought this and yet she was sure it was true.

  He did not move and after a moment Hermia said,

  “Goodbye – my Lord!”

  “Goodbye, Hermia!” the Marquis replied. “I shall be looking forward, as of
course the Devil expected, to seeing you again.”

  Hermia smiled and he saw the dimples in her cheeks.

  “As I am not Persephone,” she said, “that is very unlikely, unless, of course, the Gods have a special message for you, which is again unlikely.”

  She did not wait for his reply, but started Bracken moving quickly away from him and being careful of the rabbit holes and the low boughs of the trees.

  She did not look back, but she had the feeling the Marquis was watching her go.

  Only when she had reached the very end of the path and was nearing the gate that would take her out onto the road leading to the village did she look back towards The Hall.

  She could see him in the distance riding slowly across the top of the path and felt glad that he had not followed her.

  She rode out onto the dusty road and trotted home, thinking it would be a very long time before she had the chance of riding Bracken or any horse like him again.

  At the same time it had been an exciting morning and very different from the monotony of other mornings when for months nothing unusual happened.

  She put Bracken in the stable and Jake took off his bridle and saddle.

  “If Bracken is not fetched before this evening,” Hermia said, “I shall ride him again this afternoon.”

  “You do that, Miss Hermia,” Jake agreed. “It be a cryin’ shame anyone as rides as well as you do shouldn’t ’ave an ’orse.”

  “I enjoyed myself this morning.”

  She reluctantly said goodbye to Bracken and left the stable to go into the house.

  She was thinking quickly what she should say to her father and mother and, when she entered the dining room where they were having breakfast, her mother said,

  “Nanny told me you went riding early this morning on a horse that came from The Hall. Surely that is a most unusual thing to happen?”

  “Very unusual,” Hermia agreed, kissing first her mother then her father, “but Marilyn wanted me to do something for her.”

  “Marilyn?” Mrs. Brooke exclaimed. “But you have not heard from her for months!”

  Hermia sat down and started to eat a boiled egg, which was waiting for her covered with a little woollen cap to keep it warm.

  Instead of answering her mother, she said to her father,

  “Tell me, Papa, have you ever heard of the Marquis of Deverille?”

  “Deverille?” her father replied. “Of course I have! ‘Deverille the Devil’ is famous in the sporting world.”

  Hermia stared at him in astonishment.

  “What did you call him?” she asked.

  “It’s what they shout on the Racecourse when his horse wins,” her father explained. “He is always said to have the Devil’s own luck, so it is obvious that the racing crowd who never miss a trick should call him ‘Deverille the Devil’!”

  “That is exactly what he looks like!”

  “I heard he was staying at The Hall,” her father said. “When did you meet him?”

  Hermia realised that she had made a slip and said quickly,

  “He was riding with Marilyn – ”

  “And she asked you to ride with them?” Mrs. Brooke asked with astonishment. “I cannot understand why she should do that!”

  Hermia knew it was impossible to explain and she merely said,

  “Marilyn came here yesterday, Mama, and she was very pleasant. She asked me to meet her this morning in the Bluebell Wood and the Marquis was with her.”

  “I am astonished!” her mother answered. “Perhaps now, darling, they will ask you to The Hall again.”

  Hermia knew this was very unlikely, but there was nothing she could reply except, “I hope so, Mama”, and go on eating her egg.

  “Deverille is an extraordinary chap!” her father remarked in a voice that told her he was following his own train of thought. “He is an exceptional rider. He is the foremost Corinthian in the ‘Four-In-Hand Club’ and I have always heard that he is an exceptional pugilist besides other accomplishments. Yet he always looks as if he has lost a florin and found a fourpenny bit!”

  “Do you mean he looks bored, Papa?”

  “Exactly!” her father replied. “Bored and cynical. There have been many cartoons done of him and they always depict him looking like the Devil who is down on his luck!”

  He laughed before he went on,

  “That certainly is untrue to life. Deverille is rich, important and as we used to say at Oxford ‘riding high’! So there is nothing in his life to make him look so gloomy.”

  “There must be some reason for his attitude,” Mrs. Brooke commented.

  “I heard John say once that he was crossed in love when he was a young man and it turned him sour. I suppose if he is staying at The Hall the Countess has decided to try and marry him off to Marilyn.”

  “The Marquis does not sound as if he would make her happy,” Hermia suggested.

  She saw the expression on her father’s face and knew he was thinking, as she did, that all the Countess was interested in was the position that Marilyn would occupy as the Marquis’s wife.

  Neither she nor the Earl would be concerned whether she would find him someone she could love and who would love her.

  But it was not the sort of thing her father would say and, even while Hermia was sure he thought it, her mother gave a little sigh before she said,

  “Perhaps once Marilyn is married your brother will allow Hermia to ride again. You know how she misses it.”

  “It was lovely riding this morning,” Hermia said, “and I went for a long ride beyond Witch Wood before I joined Marilyn at the time she told me to.”

  “I am glad you enjoyed it, but you may be stiff tomorrow,” her father said,

  “If I am,” Hermia replied, “Mama has concocted a new salve for stiff joints which all the village is begging her to give them.”

  “It is in such demand that I shall have to work for hours to make enough,” Mrs. Brooke said. “And that reminds me, was Mrs. Buries pleased with the cough mixture you took her?”

  “I think she was, Mama,” Hermia replied. “At the same time she is growing very old and senile. She went rambling on about her son Ben and is obviously very fussed about him.”

  “A regular ne’er-do-well,” the Vicar exclaimed, “and not quite right in the head. At the same time the boy is often hungry and nobody will give him any work when there are far better and stronger men in the village sitting about with idle hands.”

  He spoke bitterly and Hermia wished the Marquis could hear him and understand how depressing it was for strong and healthy men to be idle through no fault of their own.

  “The trouble with Ben,” Mrs. Brooke said in her soft voice, “is that he has never really grown up and he is into every sort of mischief he can find. But, of course, that does not help his mother.”

  “She is very old,” Hermia said. “Instead of giving her cough mixture, Mama, what she really needs is an elixir of youth!”

  Mrs. Brooke did not laugh.

  “I only wish I could find one! It is what half the people here in the village want, although I have a feeling if they had enough food most them would look twenty years younger in a few days.”

  “I spoke to John about it the day before yesterday,” the Vicar said, getting up from the table, “but as usual, he would not listen to me!”

  There was a note of disappointment and frustration in his voice that made his wife watch him with anxious eyes as he left the dining room.

  Then she said to Hermia,

  “I know what I will do, darling! I will make up a bottle of my soothing syrup and you shall take it to Mrs. Buries. Perhaps that will make her feel a little better.”

  “She was very depressed, Mama, and I know she will be delighted with anything you give her and believe that every spoonful is full of magic. In other words you are a witch!”

  Mrs. Brooke laughed and Hermia said jokingly,

  “You will have to be careful, Mama, that they do not become fr
ightened of you as they were of the poor old woman who lived in Witch Wood.”

  “You surely are not old enough to remember Mrs. Wombatt?” Mrs. Brooke asked.

  “I don’t remember ever seeing her,” Hermia answered, “but, of course, in the village they believe she still haunts the wood and that Satan dances with her ghost as he used to dance with her when she was alive!”

  “I have never heard such nonsense!” her mother exclaimed. “The poor old thing was about ninety when she died and too old to dance with anybody, let alone Satan!”

  “They make it sound exciting when they tell me stories of how when she cursed people they withered away or some terrible accident happened to them or when she gave them one of her magic charms everything went right.”

  “Then I wish she could give you one,” Mrs. Brooke smiled. “For I would love you, my darling, to have a magical horse, some magical gowns and a wonderful magical ball at which everybody would admire you!”

  “Thank you, Mama, that is just what I want for myself,” Hermia replied, “and if I tell myself stories when all that happens, perhaps it will come true.”

  She was laughing as she carried the empty plates from the dining room into the kitchen and she did not see the look of pain on her mother’s face.

  Mrs. Brooke knew that loving and sweet though her daughter was, there was nothing for her in the future except a very restricted life in Little Brookfield.

  She was barred from the parties that took place at The Hall and even from riding her uncle’s horses.

  ‘It’s not fair!’ Mrs. Brooke said to herself.

  Then, because she could never be parted long from the husband she loved so deeply, she hurried from the dining room to find him in the small study where he had started work on the sermon he would preach on Sunday to the few villagers who came to Church to listen to him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Reluctantly Hermia walked towards Mrs. Buries’s cottage, which was at the end of the village carrying the tonic her mother had made.

  She always found Mrs. Buries exhausting.

  Sometimes she was more or less sensible, but at other times her mind wandered and she talked on and on, really not making sense.

  There had been quite a lot of things to do in the house after luncheon, and Hermia had then hurried to the stables to see if there was a chance of having one more ride on Bracken.