70 A Witch's Spell Page 9

  Looking down at him Hermia thought that he was not the grand, much-acclaimed Marquis, but merely a young man who had been hurt and who would doubtless tomorrow suffer a great deal of pain.

  “There is nothing more we can do for him tonight,” she heard her mother say.

  “Then you go to bed, my darling,” her father answered, “and I will sit up with his Lordship in case he wakes. As soon as it is light, I will go to The Hall, send a groom for the doctor and tell John that his visitor is safe but somewhat the worse for wear!”

  Mrs. Brooke moved towards the armchair, an old and dilapidated one, and put on it a spare pillow that she had taken from the bed and she arranged it so that her husband could rest his head.

  “I will get a stool for your feet,” she said, “and a blanket to cover you. I don’t expect he will recover consciousness for several hours.”

  “You are spoiling me,” the Vicar teased.

  “You know I hate you to be uncomfortable, darling,” his wife replied, “and as I have a feeling that tomorrow will be a busy day, you will need all the sleep you can get.”

  “You are quite right, as you always are,” the Vicar said. “I will fetch the stool. Where is it?”

  “In front of my dressing table, where it always is!”

  The Vicar smiled as he went into the next room to fetch it.

  Her mother put her arm around Hermia’s shoulders.

  “What made you look in old Mrs. Wombatt’s house?” she asked.

  “I was quite sure that no one would dare to look for him there,” Hermia replied, “and something told me that that was where the men who had attacked him would hide his body.”

  As she spoke, she gave a little cry.

  “Mama!” she exclaimed. “I know now who told them where to hide the Marquis!”

  As she spoke Mrs. Buries’s conversation came back to her.

  “It was Ben!” she said aloud. “Ben knew that no one in the village would go into the witch’s cottage for fear of being cursed!”

  She was quite certain this was true and she added,

  “But why should Ben be involved in this. And why should the Marquis be attacked in such a horrible manner, even if Papa is right and it was his heir who hates him?”

  “I don’t understand it either,” her mother declared, “but, if you are right and Ben is mixed up in this, it will not only get him into trouble but will make things very uncomfortable for your uncle John because one of his people is involved.”

  “Perhaps I had better say nothing about it.”

  “I think that would be wise, dearest,” her mother answered, “at least until the Marquis himself can tell us what happened.”

  “Yes, of course, Mama, the best thing we can do is to wait,” Hermia agreed.

  She kissed her mother and went to her own room.

  She thought as she undressed, her arms and shoulders aching from the weight of the Marquis’s body, that tomorrow they would be able to learn the truth of the whole mystery.

  In a way it would be very exciting.

  Then she realised that, when Marilyn learnt that the Marquis was in the Vicarage and that she had saved him, she would be very angry.

  “It’s not my fault!” Hermia said aloud, as if Marilyn was accusing her.

  Then she could almost see the anger in her cousin’s eyes and knew that whatever she might say in her own defence she would not be forgiven for interfering.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was strange, Hermia thought, what a difference it had made to the Vicarage having the Marquis there.

  For two days he lay unconscious, only occasionally murmuring nonsense and turning restlessly from side to side.

  The doctor, who was an old friend and came from the nearby market town, said,

  “Let him rest and Mrs. Brooke’s magic potions are far better than anything I can prescribe.”

  He laughed as he spoke and Hermia was aware that her mother’s fame for the herbs and natural ingredients she put together to cure almost every ill had spread all over the county.

  He confirmed what Hermia already suspected, that the Marquis had fought violently against his assailants, only succumbing when they had hit him on the head with a heavy stick or perhaps a piece of wood.

  Her mother’s salve and the skilful way she bandaged him ensured that every day the wound got better.

  That also applied to the Marquis’s broken knuckles, the huge bruises on his body and, as the doctor suspected, a fractured rib.

  The Marquis’s valet had come from The Hall and, although Nanny had exclaimed disagreeably that if they housed any more people the Vicarage would burst at the seams, Hickson had proved to be a real asset.

  As he had the same original but somewhat caustic outlook on life as Nanny they got on famously.

  He also demanded things for his Master that neither the Vicar nor his wife would have thought of asking for and could not afford.

  Legs of lamb, beefsteaks, chickens and fat pigeons came into the house every day.

  Although the Marquis at first could not eat them, Hermia thought even her father looked less harassed and her mother more beautiful because the food they were eating was so good.

  Mrs. Brooke had at first remonstrated with Hickson saying,

  “I cannot accept all this lovely food from The Hall.”

  “Now you leave it to me, ma’am,” Hickson replied. “It’s what ’is Lordship’s used to, and if he was a-stayin’ there ’e’d ’ave the best.”

  Mrs. Brookes knew that this was true and when Hermia saw the huge peaches from the greenhouse and large bunches of Muscat grapes, she thought that the Earl might occasionally have remembered how poor his brother was.

  Her uncle came in and out of the Vicarage like a fussy hen who had lost a particularly prized chick.

  Hermia suspected that it was Marilyn who urged her father to insist that the Marquis came back to The Hall, but when he recovered enough to think and talk he refused point blank to be moved.

  “I am very comfortable here,” he said, “and Dr. Grayson has made it quite clear that I am to move as little as possible in case it affects my head and I become a lunatic!”

  It seemed strange that he should prefer Peter’s small bedroom to the very grand state room where Hermia knew he would be sleeping in her uncle’s home.

  He lay looking at Peter’s trophies, many of which were hung on the wall and appeared to find everything to his liking. In fact he did not complain about anything.

  When he was well enough to talk, he told the Earl and the Vicar exactly what had happened to him.

  The Vicar related it to his wife and daughter that same evening.

  “It seems even more incredible than we had imagined,” he said, “except that it fits in with the despicable reputation enjoyed by de Ville.”

  “We are filled with curiosity, darling,” Mrs. Brooke smiled.

  “I will tell you everything,” the Vicar replied, “but, of course, it took some time to extract it all from his Lordship because he had lapses of memory and we had to wait until he could think clearly again.”

  What Hermia and her mother learnt was that after the Earl had been summoned back to The Hall on what he now knew to be a pretext to inveigle him away, the Marquis had ridden on alone.

  He rounded the end of Witch Wood to go in the direction where his host had told him the yearlings were to be found.

  He was not hurrying and it was therefore easy for three men to spring out at him from the bushes and before he realised what was happening to drag him off his horse.

  Thinking they were footpads he fought violently, until they overpowered him and dragged him just inside the wood.

  There was another man there who looked younger than the other three, but he did not see him very clearly before they forced him down onto the trunk of a fallen tree.

  “Two of the men,” he related to the Vicar, “might have been foreigners or gypsies, the third seemed a superior type and better educated.”

/>   It was that man who produced a letter written on a piece of the Marquis’s own writing paper stolen from his house in London.

  Because he had already been knocked about quite considerably the Marquis had a little difficulty in reading it, but he soon found it consisted of instructions to his trainer to withdraw his horse from the Gold Cup race at Royal Ascot.

  Knowing his horse Firefly was the favourite and, having no doubt that with his usual luck he would win the Cup, he refused to sign the letter.

  However, the men then began to punch him systematically until, knowing he had no chance against three of them, he agreed to do what they wanted and wrote his signature at the bottom of the letter.

  The minute he did so he felt something strike him on the back of his head, there was a blinding pain and he knew no more.

  “There was no doubt,” the Vicar said as he related the story, “the whole plot was set up by Roxford de Ville for the simple reason that he owned a half-share in the horse that won the Gold Cup quite easily when the Marquis’s did not run.”

  “I suppose he had it backed for a large sum,” Hermia remarked.

  “Of course!” the Vicar replied. “But in fact the plot was even more crooked than it appears, because the owners ran also another horse which they told everybody was better than the one that actually won!”

  “Surely that is illegal?” Mrs. Brooke exclaimed.

  “No, only unsportsmanlike,” the Vicar replied. “The horse they tipped to all and sundry was unplaced, while the one that did win romped home at sixteen to one!”

  “They must have made a fortune!” Hermia exclaimed.

  “That is exactly what Roxford de Ville intended,” the Vicar said, “but he was not so stupid as to give instructions that the Marquis should be murdered outright.”

  “Murdered!” Mrs. Brooke cried.

  “Instead,” the Vicar continued, “they carried him into what they had been told was the witch’s cottage and flung him down on the floor!”

  He paused then he said slowly,

  “They had already learnt that nobody from the village or the estate ever dared to visit old Mrs. Wombatt’s cottage.”

  “I suppose anyone could tell them that,” his wife exclaimed.

  “It was murder by intent – a very difficult charge to prove,” the Vicar said sternly, “for, if Hermia had not been clever enough to think that was where the Marquis would be, he might easily have died during that night or would certainly have done so in two or three days’ time!”

  Mrs. Brooke gave a cry of horror.

  “It was a diabolical plot! What will the Marquis do about it?”

  “John has been talking to the Chief Constable and they are considering if any charges can be brought against Roxford de Ville. Unfortunately it will be very difficult to prove that he was actually involved with the three men, who have, of course, disappeared, having doubtless been well paid for their services.”

  “But if Mr. de Ville has failed – to murder the Marquis – this time,” Hermia said, “he will surely – try again?”

  “That is a possibility,” her father agreed. “But in the meantime we must be concerned with getting the Marquis back on his feet. He is so healthy that I don’t think it will take very long.”

  Having learnt from Hickson that the Marquis was not only better but in the valet’s words,

  “Bored to his ’igh teeth, miss, if I may say so,”

  Hermia went to see him.

  It was late in the morning and her father and mother were both out and Nanny had gone shopping in the village.

  She knocked tentatively on the bedroom door and, when there was no answer, she went in.

  The Marquis was in bed, propped up against several pillows.

  Although the bandage had been removed from his forehead, there was still a pad at the back of his head.

  He looked thinner and somewhat paler than she had last seen him.

  But she thought when he glanced towards her that his eyes were still as penetrating as they had been before and made her feel shy.

  “Come in, Hermia!” he suggested. “I was wondering when you would have time to visit me,”

  “Of course I had time and I wanted to do so before,” Hermia replied walking towards the bed, “but you had to be kept quiet and you were not supposed to talk to anybody.”

  “I am sick of being quiet!” the Marquis said petulantly. “And I want to talk to you!”

  “I am here,” Hermia smiled, sitting down on a chair by the bed, “and I thought perhaps you would like me to read to you.”

  “Later,” the Marquis replied. “At the moment I should first thank you for saving my life.”

  She did not speak and after a minute he went on,

  “Your father told me how in the middle of the night you went to what is called Witch’s Wood and looked for me where nobody else would have dared to go. Why did you do that?”

  “It – it is difficult to explain,” Hermia replied, “but I was sure with a feeling that could not be – denied that it was where I would find you.”

  “I am very grateful.”

  He spoke rather dryly and she felt somehow that he was being cynical until he asked,

  “Hickson tells me the whole village speaks of ‘Witch Wood’, as they call it, with horror. Were you not frightened of going there alone at night?”

  Hermia shook her head.

  “I have loved the woods ever since I was a child and I did not at all believe the stories that Mrs. Wombatt, who built the little cottage, really used to dance with the Devil.”

  “But you thought it was an appropriate place for me!” the Marquis remarked again in his mocking voice.

  “I did not think of your nickname at the time,” Hermia replied, “and I was not frightened until just before I opened the door!”

  “Then what did you do?”

  Because she thought that the conversation sounded so serious and almost as if he was interrogating her, she replied lightly,

  “If I had thought of it, which actually I did not, I would have repeated the Cornish Litany which Mama taught me when I was a little girl.”

  She saw that the Marquis was listening and she therefore recited,

  “From Witches, Warlocks and Wurricoes,

  From Ghoulies, Ghosties and Long-leggity Beasties,

  From all things that go bump in the night –

  Good Lord deliver us!”

  When she finished, the Marquis laughed.

  “I can see that would be very effective, but as you did not say it, I presume you prayed that you would be safe and not shocked by what you found?”

  “What really happened,” Hermia said, “was that when I finally managed to remove the bar across the door, I put out my hand to open it and suddenly I felt frightened of what I would find inside.”

  She gave a little shudder as she remembered what she had felt.

  “It was a nasty feeling, but then I heard an owl hoot in the trees and I knew that there was no reason to be afraid for the animals in the wood would not be there if there was anything evil about.”

  She was silent for a second before she added,

  “Also the fairies and elves have always protected me ever since I was a little girl.”

  She spoke naturally without thinking who she was speaking to, then because she thought he would think her foolish she felt herself blush and added quickly,

  “I found you and now you are safe.”

  “I can hardly believe what your father tells me, that you supported me all the way through the wood to the wall that borders the road!”

  “You were very heavy,” Hermia replied, “and if I have a crooked shoulder for the rest of my life, it will be all your fault!”

  Again she was trying to speak lightly, but the Marquis unexpectedly put out his hand towards her, laying it palm upwards on the white cover on the bed.

  “Give me your hand, Hermia,” he ordered.

  Obediently she did so.

 
As his fingers closed over hers, he said,

  “Words are very inadequate to thank anybody for saving one’s life and I am just wondering how best I can express what I feel.”

  Because there was a deep note in his voice that Hermia had not heard before, she felt a strange feeling she did not understand and her eyelashes flickered as she replied,

  “Please – it would only make me very embarrassed and really it is Mama you should thank for using her herbs and honey on you so cleverly that in – a day or two you will be as good as new.”

  Once again, because the Marquis was making her feel so shy, she was trying not to sound serious.

  His hand tightened on hers and then he released her.

  “Now,” he said in a different tone, “tell me what happened when they first realised I was missing.”

  Because she thought it would amuse him, Hermia described what a flap there was at The Hall, her uncle’s agitation and how Marilyn had retired to bed.

  “When Papa came home at eleven o’clock that night,” she said, “Uncle John was planning a military operation to search for you and I think, if the truth were known, rather fancying himself as a strategist!”

  “But Marilyn retired to bed,” the Marquis observed slowly.

  “She was very upset,” Hermia said quickly, “and I know she hopes that you will go back to The Hall as soon as you are well enough to be moved.”

  “I am sure she does!” the Marquis remarked.

  There was a little silence as Hermia wondered what to say next.

  Then he asked her,

  “How fond are you of your cousin?”

  “I had a lovely time with her when we were young,” Hermia answered. “We shared the same Governess, the same teachers and, of course, it was marvellous for me to be able to – ride Uncle John’s horses and use the – library at The Hall.”

  She had no idea how wistful her eyes looked as she remembered what those two activities had meant to her.

  “Then what happened?”

  It flashed through Hermia’s mind that he was perceptive enough to guess that she had been exiled as soon as Marilyn was grown up, but, because she thought even to talk of it would be humiliating, she said quickly,