A New Dawn Over Devon (3 page)

1629–1789

Construction on the stately grey mansion known as Heathersleigh Hall began in 1629.

Its original owners, a certain Jeremiah and Mary Rutherford, were in fact a relatively simple man and woman of deep spiritual convictions. An older cousin of the Scots minister and covenanter Samuel Rutherford, Jeremiah migrated south from Scotland to England as a young man—bringing with him a reminder of his native land, a variety of heather plants which he determined would always bloom wherever he lived.

There his strong religious beliefs led him into association with the Puritans, resulting in his meeting and later marrying his wife, Mary. When the migration of Puritan separatists began to Holland and Massachusetts in the late 1620s—at about the same time Jeremiah's cousin was graduating in divinity from Edinburgh and embarking on the preaching and writing career that would bring him fame—Jeremiah and Mary Rutherford made the decision to not join the exodus of Pilgrims across the sea, but rather to live out their own “separation” from the world in the rural wilds of Devonshire.

To this end they purchased an enormous tract of land, prayed and dedicated it to the glory of God and his purposes, and then set about designing the edifice that would become their home and would house the generations of these English Rutherfords for centuries to come.

When the site for the building was established, even before a stone had been laid, Jeremiah next decided on the location to grow the wiry reminders of his beloved homeland. He proceeded to set his heather plants in the ground just east of where the house would soon rise,
asking God, still on his knees as he lovingly patted down the soil, to cause them to flourish, then rose with a smile and turned to his wife.

“Mary,” he said, “I think the Lord has just given me the name for our new home. We shall call it Heathersleigh.”

————

The initial building of what came to be known as Heathersleigh Hall was personally overseen by Jeremiah Rutherford and lasted eighteen years. He and Mary and their young family, however, were able to take up residence in their new home in 1631 while the rest of the building progressed slowly about them. In time Jeremiah and his three sons completed most of the later work themselves. Mary and her two daughters, meanwhile, cultivated and developed the surrounding landscape, planting lawns and hedges, flower gardens and ornamental trees, and enlarging the original heather garden with many new species.

By the time the structure was at last completed in 1647, Heathersleigh had become one of the stateliest and most beautiful estates in Devon.

Even as mortar on the final stones was drying, the sixty-four-year-old visionary whose dream this had been from the start—head grey with the wisdom of obedience, hands rough with years of hard labor, and heart tender from a lifetime spent seeking his Master's will—gathered his family about him with a smile of weary contentment. He shook each of their hands, after which numerous hugs followed, and tears flowed from the eyes of father and mother as they stood in the great open meadow to the north and gazed upon what they had accomplished.

“You did it, Jeremiah,” whispered Mary.

“No, Mother,” he replied, “
we
did it . . . with the Lord's help, we all did it together.”

He sank to his knees on the sun-warmed earth and was soon joined by wife, sons, daughters, two daughters-in-law, a son-in-law, and seven grandchildren.

“Gracious heavenly Father,”
he prayed,
“thank you for your faithful provision, and
for carrying out your work in the raising of these beautiful stones. Thank you for giving us strength to do
what you gave us to do. May your will be
done in this place, and your purposes fulfilled. May this
home and all who inhabit it live to your glory, their lives a light, a witness, and a testimony to your goodness. May
your Spirit never depart from this land
and this home that you have provided, and may all who dwell here be given life by that Spirit. May
that life deepen and spread and draw many to you.
As the years go by we pray that Heathersleigh will be a place where men and women, boys and girls, all whom you lead, will find faith, hope, and love through those of your people who make this their home.
Amen.”

Soft “amens” followed from all the rest. Slowly they rose.

“Well, Mother,” said an exuberant Jeremiah, “what have you and the girls prepared as a celebration feast for this family of hungry laborers!”

————

Throughout England's tumultuous seventeenth century, Heathersleigh Hall became an oasis of light and spiritual refuge for many. Jeremiah and Mary's eldest son, David, added the east wing to the Hall between 1661 and 1678, and moved the family's quarters to the new wing. Much of the ground floor of the vacated north wing was thus converted from living space and made suitable for more formal use. A sizeable gamekeeper's cottage was added at the northern edge of the estate in a wooded region between the Hall and the village in the 1730s.

But in the mystery of the generations and a divine plan that is difficult to apprehend amid life's heartaches, sons and daughters and those who come after them do not always follow the dictates of their parents' consciences, the convictions of their faith, or even the principles they have been taught. Surely it would have been a grief to this patriarch and matriarch of the Rutherford clan of Devon to see what weeds would later grow in the family garden as the centuries advanced, and what greedy motives of self would come for a time to dominate this place.

Their prayers, however, would not die out altogether, but would return after many years. Indeed God's will would be accomplished again at Heathersleigh as it had been during their own time, and during the years of their sons and grandsons.

The title “Lord of the Manor” was first bestowed on David's son Nathan Rutherford in 1710, and was then passed down from father to son. The peculiarities of the unique appellation dictated that both title and property would always pass to a following generation at the
death of the titleholder—son, daughter, even nephew or cousin—but never transfer laterally to a spouse.

Anxious to make his own personal stamp on the Hall, and without wife or family to consume his time, Nathan's great-grandson Broughton Rutherford, shortly after his assumption to the title, began work on the third and final portion of the great house, the west wing. There was little need to add to the already massive structure, for by then the family in residence had dwindled and the number of workers and servants was in decline, and most of the new rooms added would sit vacant throughout the year. But Broughton was fond of an occasional party of lavish proportions, inviting half the gentry and aristocracy of London and southern England, and thus always felt cramped for space.

Meanwhile, his younger brother, Robert, married and had a son, Henry, in 1783.

A freak hunting accident took Robert's life suddenly and prematurely just six years later. His wife, Wallis, never entirely recovered from the shock of his death and, as she had no means of her own, retired to live out the remainder of her days at the Hall in relative seclusion with her young son. Broughton Rutherford, therefore, became the male guardian for his nephew, a wild boy whom the passage of years did little to tame.

As the generations of a legacy ebb and flow according to the character choices made by its members, the family Rutherford now entered a murky era, when secrets, rather than the light prayed for by old Jeremiah Rutherford, came to predominate the spiritual mood within Heathersleigh's walls. Weeds, therefore, began to grow in the soil of the Rutherford family garden, gradually covering over and forcing into dormancy the seeds of light and truth planted by its founders.

The prayers of the old patriarch would be heard again in the fullness of time, though much darkness would have to be endured before the Son of Truth would again rise over the estate of Heathersleigh.

1799–1854

Broughton Rutherford, now Lord of the Manor of Heathersleigh Hall, climbed the stairs to the garret and looked around. The year was 1799.

Yes, this would be perfect, he thought. He had explored these upper regions of the house as a boy. Now he would put them to good use for his own protection.

The old metal box had haunted him for thirty-seven years.

Rumors abounded throughout the region, and he had been tormented since his youth with a fear that the pirates and their smuggling associates had never given up their search for him. He became obsessed with the idea of having to make an escape from their clutches at a moment's notice, convinced that the day would surely arrive when they would come for him. Thus, he remained ever on the lookout for new and cleverer means that would enable him to hide and elude their grasp. He had to find a place to stash the box and its contents where he would have access to what it contained should he need it, but without his being seen. The Hall's upper regions were perfect.

To this end, as the west wing grew, he devised various cunning doors and intricate passageways to include in its construction, eventually leading into the other two wings as well. If ever he saw unfriendly faces approaching, he would be able to take refuge behind walls and in secret chambers and then get completely out of the Hall and to safety while they were still busy searching his quarters.

Secrecy remained imperative. His nephew Henry was not one he could trust with the knowledge of what he was doing. He had a loose tongue and was a braggart. If he knew the secret, it was only a
matter of time before the young fool let something slip. They could all wind up dead just like Rufus Powell. Later, when the boy was older and in a position to inherit, perhaps then Broughton would tell him everything.

In the meantime, he would again employ Webley Kyrkwode from the village for his new garret project. The man was a hard worker, possessed skills with unusual mechanisms, and had always proved reliable. But he would have to keep Henry away from Kyrkwode's daughter, Orelia. He didn't need that kind of a scandal to go along with his other troubles.

————

Broughton Rutherford's fears did not materialize. He never saw pirates around Heathersleigh. Nor did he ever confide his secrets to his nephew. When he died suddenly of a heart attack in 1801, the west wing not yet complete, his brother's now eighteen-year-old son became lord of the manor.

Though rumors of amorous affairs circulated for years concerning Henry, he neither married nor produced offspring during all the years of his youth and young adulthood. He became more interested in the Hall itself as he grew into adulthood, gradually resuming construction of and eventually completing the west wing. With Kyrkwode's help, he discovered and added to many of the secret passages contrived by his uncle. But though he had long suspected his uncle the possessor of something of enormous value, the garret's secret forever remained a sealed book to him.

When at thirty-nine years of age he married Eliza Gretton in 1822, he was already becoming frantic to sire a son. When she did not give him one within a year or two, his rage toward her mounted.

Then came the fateful night of February 11, 1829, when suddenly the barren womb of Lord Henry's wife burst into fruitfulness with
two
Rutherford heirs, giving Henry the son he had so long desired.

Alas, poor Eliza did not live the night.

Local midwife Orelia Moylan, who had known Henry all her life and, in spite of her God-fearing heart, despised him, tended both the births and the death, and witnessed the transaction between the lord of the manor and the parish vicar, one Arthur Crompton, who was paid for his silence as she watched from above.

But Orelia's conscience would not let her rest with what she knew. Two weeks later, in the dead of night, she sneaked back into the Hall. She knew its passages and corridors well from much time spent here when her father was under the employ of old Lord Broughton.

She crept into the tower, where she had often played with one of the young maids. She knew where the keys were hidden and also about the secret passage her father had helped build. Using both, and creeping through the blackness with care, she made her way through the narrow hidden corridor to the library on the second floor of the east wing.

It was but the work of a minute or two to locate the large family Bible on the sideboard. She opened it and added the clue she hoped would one day bring the events of recent days to light.

To hide the Bible, her father's craftsmanship again came to her aid. Soon the great book was resting in the secret chamber of the secretary her father had made to match the one in their own home.

She closed the secret panel, slid in the drawer that hid its lock from visibility, then pocketed the key, took it with her as she left the library, and returned through the secret passage to the old stone tower, where she placed it on the ring with the key to the door into the passageway she had just used connecting the two regions of the Hall.

Returning home, she added similar clues to the pages of her own Bible that hopefully one day would lead curious eyes to retrace the very steps she had taken this night. In the margin of Mark 4, next to the words
To you is given to understand the mystery of the kingdom
, she made the notation “There is a mystery, and the key is closer than you think. The key . . . find the key and unlock the mystery.” Beneath them, in tiny letters, she added the reference “Genesis 25:31–33.”

Only a few more clues remained to be noted. She turned to the familiar passage in the holy text's first book, and beside the thirty-third verse, she carefully noted in the margin “Proverbs 20.” This she followed back and forth through her Bible, with no little work, to locate the appropriate selections, until the message was complete.

The references made, she could now rest.

————

The passage of years proved more fortuitous for Vicar Crompton than for either the lord of the manor or Orelia Moylan.

Crompton rose in the Church to the position of bishop, while Henry Rutherford's financial affairs went from bad to worse. Knowing nothing of his uncle Broughton's secret, he was forced to take extreme measures to save himself from bankruptcy.

A certain highly lucrative but questionable scheme kept him from ruin. His invisible partner in the affair, however, was none other than Crompton himself, who promised continued silence regarding both matters in exchange for the donation and sale of the gamekeeper's cottage his uncle had built half a century earlier. Though he was reluctant to part with it, his finances and threat of exposure gave him little choice. His son Ashby's standing, in addition, must be preserved. The transaction was consummated in 1849.

It was when aging Bishop Crompton happened upon old Orelia Moylan in the streets of Milverscombe two years later that the fateful encounter took place that would add still more mysteries to the growing string of rumors surrounding the Heathersleigh estate, and would perplex many local inhabitants for decades to come.

The former midwife was now sixty-five and her own daughter Grace had two children—the eldest a thirteen-year-old daughter by the name of Margaret—and was even then with child in preparation for a third.

The two now elderly former colleagues in Henry Rutherford's deception both recognized one another as they walked along the street near the old stone church where Crompton had once presided as vicar. They had not seen each other since that fateful night at the Hall.

Already Crompton's conscience had begun to whisper to him concerning many things he had done, as well as the manner of man he had been. A gradual decline of his health contributed to this waking. The unexpected encounter deepened the force of those pangs. Yet he could not quite bring himself to answer them. The voice of conscience, when heeded, makes one humble and one's manner tender. That same voice, while yet its demands are resisted, makes one surly. With a stiff nod of acknowledgment, therefore, he tried to continue on past her.

But Orelia, who had been thinking of that night more frequently of late and asking God what she should do with what she knew, stopped and spoke to him.

“I know why you are in Heathersleigh Cottage,” she said.

Crompton now paused as well, then turned.

“Yes, and what is that to me?” he said. His unease, in the absence of steps yet taken toward restitution, caused him to vent his anger at himself on the woman, whose sight goaded his conscience all the more.

“Just that there you are with plenty to eat, while me and mine have nothing but gruel to keep us alive,” she rejoined. “You received fifty pounds and the house. What have I got to show for my silence?”

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“I have a married daughter who now has two young ones of her own, and another on the way. It's all any of us can do to put food down our throats. These are evil times, Vicar, especially for one who knows what I know. Surely a man such as yourself is not beyond feeling compassion for the likes of us.”

Squirming behind his collar, Crompton managed a few moments later to conclude the awkward interview.

But for weeks the woman's words plagued him. He could not deny them to be true. He had all his life enjoyed plenty. She, whose need was greater, possessed next to nothing.

Yet what could he do?

Perhaps, he said to himself, the question ought to be, what
should
he do?