A Traveller in Time (24 page)

“'Tis said that tree grew from a walnut dropped from the pocket of Mister Anthony Babington, when he came to see the queen, all secret,” continued Mrs. Statham. “We make lots of walnut-pickle from it, and I'll send a pot to your aunt, when you go home, seeing as the walnut-tree sprang from one of your own nuts, long ago. Now you look round and don't climb up, for it isn't safe. When you've finished come back and have a sup of tea, for I'm getting it ready for your uncle and Mrs. Cameron.”

I went outside the gateway and stood there thinking of the arrival of the Queen of Scots, on that September day of 1584. I went through the ivycovered arch into a courtyard covered with short grass, and stared up at the walnut-tree which hung over part of the ruin, and dropped its green-husked fruit on the grass. I walked across and hunted in the drifts of leaves for the nuts, for now the manor was destroyed there was nothing of interest. The great oriel was broken, the walls were splitting and trees were growing out of the stones. There was nothing more to see, it was all over, the place was steeped in sorrow. I was filled with deep chagrin, as I turned the leaves aside, and broke the husks from the heavily scented nuts. I had come to see panelled rooms and a great stairway and a secret tunnel, and something else, and there was nothing but a ruin.

My head was bent to the ground, as I searched and filled my pocket. When I had finished I looked up at the windows above me, where a few minutes before I had seen the long, empty stone frames with ivy tendrils climbing through, and the sky beyond. Now they were changed, glass was in the windows, tapestry curtains hung there, and on the wall bloomed late red roses, smelling very sweet. The air was colder, the year had advanced, and I shivered in my thin clothes as the wind came sweeping down, crackling the leaves and swirling them round me.

Then I saw through a window a lady, quite near me. She was holding her needle to the light as she threaded it with fine gold thread. On her black velvet sleeve hung a bunch of coloured silks, and on her lap was a red velvet prayer-book cover. I was so close to the pane I could see the embroidery she was making, a gold fleur-de-lis and a cross. On the table by her side was an inlaid workbox, with gold clawed feet, and inside the raised lid I caught a glimpse of ivory and gold fittings, all delicate and small, scissors and thimble and needlecase.

All these things I saw in a flash, the interior of the room, with its tapestry-covered walls, and the couch and a fire glowing in the stone fireplace. But it was the lady who interested me, for I recognized her at once as the captive queen.

Mary Stuart took up her work in her long white fingers and smoothed it out. She bent over it and put in a few even stitches. She sighed and dropped it on her lap, and raised her head with a tragic gesture. She looked up at the fiery sunset, her red lips half open, and I saw her strange passionate beauty, undimmed by years, the dazzling pallor of her cheeks with a faint flush like a wild rose. Her loveliness was increased by the plain black dress she wore, so that she seemed the figure of exquisite grief. Her eyes, wide apart and calm, looked away into the depths of the ether, as if she saw the Queen of Heaven seated there in glory.

I stepped forward close to the window with hand uplifted, carried away by the sight of her. “Take care!” I cried. “Oh, take care! They read your letters. They find out!”

Her bright eyes looked into mine and she gave a start of surprise, and made some remark to a lady behind her who came across the room and looked out.

“There is nobody there, Your Grace,” I thought she said as her lips moved and she shook her head.

I stepped quickly back against the wall, and leaned against the stones, dazed. I knew I had no right to be there, spying through the windows, shouting warnings which could do no good.

A door opened and the queen came down to the courtyard. She stared about as if seeking me, but her glances passed without resting upon me, and I knew I was unseen. Her three little spaniels ran before her, and she picked one up and pressed her cheek against its silky head. Then she dropped it gently to the ground and they all ran yapping over the flower-borders.

“Flo, Tiny, Tray,” she called in a voice so full of music, low-pitched and clear as a bell, I held my breath, for I had never heard so sweet a voice. She passed close to me, and I looked at her lovely eyes which no longer saw me, I saw the shining braids of hair with their silver strands under the stiffened wings of the velvet cap, which in turn was covered with a black lace shawl. Her black dress was pleated over a quilted kirtle of satin, and at her neck was a lace-edged collar with pearls dropping from it. She wore a gold chain with a cross of Jesus, and from her girdle hung a rosary of gold beads. Her shoulders were covered with a long black cloak unfastened, which she held loosely, and I could see that her fingers were swollen and hurt by constant chills.

One hand went up and touched the cross on her breast, as she looked about her.

“It is pleasant here after Sheffield, Seaton,” said she, holding her face up to the sweet-scented roses, as yet untouched by frost.

“The rooms are smaller, and more homely, Your Grace,” said the attendant lady. “It is warmer and happier here. I pray we shall not be moved for a time.”

“Nowhere can I breathe, for there is no freedom anywhere,” said the queen with sudden passion. “Always I am caged, and around in the villages of England are those who can walk without question, who love and marry and beget children. Children! I had a son. What lies they have told him! I sent him a toy, the gold guns, and my picture in miniature, but no reply has come. The years go by, and all that I have or may ever look to have in this world is forfeit.”

“Madam, do not distress yourself. Here you will get well and strong again. Mr. Babington came a short time ago, with flowers, but Sir Ralph is keeping them back lest there should be any message.”

“Did he bring letters? I want news, news, news of the world where I belong, where I am rightful queen. They keep back all the news of Scotland and France from me, Seaton.”

“Nay, Madam, he brought no letters, or if he did he could not deliver them, for he was not allowed entrance.”

The little dogs gambolled at my feet and I softly stroked them, whispering, “Flo, Tiny, Tray”, and I gave the little alluring call by which I always made my uncle's dogs leap joyously to me. These little creatures fled with terrified howls as my fingers touched them, and they crept close to their royal mistress's skirts, trembling and whining.

“What ails them?” she asked. “Have they too seen a ghost? I thought I saw a dark-eyed girl in the garden, dressed in strange, foreign garb, standing under the window looking at me sorrowfully as if she read my fate, and would warn me. A phantom she must have been, for you didn't see her, and now she has faded away. The world is full of ghosts for me. There is no peace or happiness left.”

She stroked and soothed the whimpering dogs, and her face was drawn and white. Then she sat on a seat and drew her cloak close around her.

“Oh, Madam,” said her lady. “There may be freedom and happiness for Your Grace. Who knows? A new year is coming. Your cousin's heart may be softened by your sufferings. She is old, and she may change.”

“Sooner the rocks in this wild corner of Darbyshire be softened by the streams which fall from the hills than the heart of Elizabeth be touched,” said the Scots queen bitterly.

I slipped away, past the sentry who guarded the gate, into the neighbouring field. The walls dissolved, the windows were broken and vacant, and the great walnut-tree spread its branches over the queen's windows and dropped its ripe fruit to the grass.

With head bent and tears starting to my eyes I went back to the farmhouse.

“Here's Penelope,” said my mother to Mrs. Statham as I entered. “Penelope's a dreamer. I am sure she has been thinking of the Queen of Scots.”

“They don't all dream of her as comes here,” said Mrs. Statham tartly. “I wish they did. Some of them behaves as if they owns the place, talking lightly and disrespectfully, shouting and leaping from the walls, and carving their names. I have my work cut out to keep them in order. They drive the calves from the courtyard, and laugh and carry on ever so.”

I sat in the warm kitchen, and drank my tea from the old blue china, and I listened to the talk of visitors in the parlour close by, speaking in high-pitched voices, admiring the oak dresser in the hall and the carved chests and the grandfather chair in which Mr. Statham sat to take his meals. They asked if they could buy the chair as a souvenir of England, for they were Americans and could pay any price within reason.

“There is no freedom. Always I am caged,” I heard another voice murmur in tones soft as a sighing wind, and two white hands holding a skein of coloured silks moved in the corner by the shadowed wall and then dropped gently as leaves fluttering to the grass.

We were very quiet on the way home, I because I was thinking of Mary Stuart, and my heart was aching for her. Mother perhaps was thinking of her also, for she sighed and whispered: “Poor thing! Poor thing! To come to such an end, and so great and beautiful a lady.” Uncle Barny was occupied with Sally who was restive and excited. She shied at the flickering pools and darted sideways at reflections, so that Uncle had to hold her tightly as she galloped and pranced. Perhaps she too had seen something, for horses have delicate senses and see and hear more than human beings. I was glad when we got back to our own valley with its welcoming brook and the green slope where Thackers stood serene under the shadow of the protecting church, unmoved by all the troublous times it had seen.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Penelope?” asked Aunt Tissie as I climbed down from the trap and went indoors.

“Yes, very much thank you,” I replied. “But Aunt Tissie, it was all different from what I thought, all broken, and I never knew. Nobody ever told me it was a ruin.” My lip trembled, I could not forget the lovely face I had seen, when I had stepped to the borderland of that past time.

Aunt Tissie must have guessed something was wrong, for she talked hard all the time, calling to Uncle to bring in the rug, and giving me the sugar for the mare's reward.

“It's not good for her to imagine so much,” I heard her murmur to my mother, and they had a whispered conversation.

But my day wasn't ended. I threw my hat and coat on a chair, for I didn't want to go upstairs. I couldn't bear to see Anthony's sorrow, to see his anxious face as he sat in his room, staking his life to save one who could never be saved.

I went to the table and took my place, between Alison and Uncle Barny, and I listened to my uncle tell about the Americans who tried to buy the farmer's chair.

“And did they get it?” asked my aunt.

“Nay!” and Uncle Barny said the word with a long, slow drawl, giving it as much meaning as a dozen words. “Nay! Eli Statham wouldn't get shut of that piece of old oak where old Andrew Statham hisself sat time back an 'unnerd years, and his grandfeyther afore him, as was found dead sitting in it, many a year agone, and where Eli hisself was dandled, and cosseted when he was a babby. Nay! That chair's got lead in the back where Eli's feyther's blunderbuss went off, and there's a secret panel in the front, and the seat lifts up and holds all his farm papers. Eli was tied to the leg of that chair, to be kept out of the way when they were all in a swither over the squire's visit with a shooting party, and he up and said Boo! to the Duke hisself, as came with the squire. Now the dogs lie there, and they'd be happy nowhere else. Nay, Cicely Anne, he won't sell his old chair.”

“I should think not,” said Mother, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “What a romantic chair, Uncle Barny! I wish I had known all those things about it when we were at Wingfield.”

I, too, wished I had seen the chair, but Mr. Eli Statham had been sitting in it, with his arms along the two carved sides, and his head against a cushion which hid the back. I had seen a dog lying underneath, eyeing me in a pleasant way I found attractive after the fear of the spaniels in the courtyard.

“What happened to Mary Queen of Scots when she was imprisoned there?” I asked. “Did she escape?”

“Now you're axing me,” said Uncle Barnabas, reproachfully. “It's a longish time ago, and I know the underground passages were made. Mrs. Statham knows about them, too, but whether the queen ever ventured along 'em I don't rightly know. She was executed, wasn't she, so she couldn't have escaped very far? Isn't that right, Cicely Anne?”

Aunt Tissie nodded. “Yes, and poor Master Anthony was hanged, drawed, and quartered, and his young wife was left with a baby daughter, who died. But it wasn't anything to do with us or Wingfield, or our plot, but something else later, much bigger, something about Queen Elizabeth, as Master Anthony plotted against, and it was found out. No, it wasn't our little plot here. But don't think any more about it, Penelope. Don't you worry your head. It's long since, and what's done, 's done, and there's an end to it.”

“It may be happening now,” said I slowly.

“Off you go to bed if you say such nonsense,” snapped Aunt Tissie, severely. “I've promised your mother to take care of you, and here you go talking about happening now!” She glanced across to Mother who sat silently listening.

“You do take care of me, you do,” I cried, hugging her tightly so that she squeaked, and her frown turned to a smile. Then I helped myself to another baked apple, pouring thick cream over it till it was like a snowball.

I was restless, wanting to see Francis Babington, to hear the news of work in the tunnel; but it was evening, and I didn't wish to leave the lamplight and warm cosiness of the fire, with Mother there, and Aunt Tissie reading
Pickwick
aloud, to wander with a dim rushlight in another century. But, greatly daring, I went upstairs to my bedroom. I waited on the landing. There was the same wall, with no trace of mystery, no sound of voices except those of our own family. Somewhere I knew they were talking and working, meals were served in a panelled hall, Francis was training his falcons, Anthony was perhaps away in London, and Mistress Babington was sitting anxious, wondering what would be the result of all his striving. Her fingers worked at her embroidery, the strip which I had seen, stitching the golden sheaves of corn, and the sun in the sky and the green trees bordering the field, but her thoughts were on her beloved Anthony, whose life was caught in diplomacy and intrigue, entangled in the snares of Walsingham and his spies. He was too trusting a countryman for the treacherous times. How could a plot be hatched at Thackers, with its security and sweet peace?