Jessie had been used to getting what she could from her admirers; it was her profession; but she had never before been engaged in criminal intrigue.
She had been frightened by the ghost and I discovered who the ghost had been. Dickon, of course, who had found some of Uncle Carl’s clothes and dressed up in them. He had thought it might be useful, he said modestly; and indeed it had for it had sent Jessie to mark the grave with her crucifix.
Amos was dead. Jessie had decamped with her two actor friends—the bogus Dr. Cabel and Lord Eversleigh. We recovered many of the valuables which were in Carew’s house and some which Evalina gave up, protesting that she had been under the impression that they had been given to her mother.
Rosen, Stead and Rosen took over the management of everything; Uncle Carl was given decent burial in the Eversleigh mausoleum and I became the new owner of Eversleigh.
Dickon and I returned to Clavering. Dickon was very pleased with himself. It was agreed unanimously that he was a hero. True, he had killed a man but the slaying of highwaymen was regarded as a service to humanity. Moreover, he had been very astute—more so than I had been—and his prompt action had foiled the criminals as well as saved my life.
When we arrived home my mother and Sabrina were in a state of great jubilation. They had to hear that story of our adventures over and over and over again.
“It is an extraordinary story,” said my mother.
“What would have happened but for Dickon!” cried Sabrina.
“We are so proud of you, Dickon my dear,” they said in unison.
Dickon basked in their admiration, watching me with that quizzical look in his eye.
“You’ll have to like me now, Zipporah,” he said. “You must never forget I saved your life.”
“I sometimes wonder why you went to such lengths to do so.”
“Shall I tell you,” he said, coming near to me and whispering. “If you had died, heaven knew who would have got Eversleigh. He wouldn’t have left it to Sabrina because then it would come to me … son of a damned Jacobite. Your mother, no … because she might have left it to me, too. Who then? Some remote connection of the family perhaps. You had to have Eversleigh to keep it in this branch of the family … and when you have it I shall have Clavering. You see, that makes it all so neat. There was another reason.”
“What was that?”
“You won’t believe me but I do rather like you, Zipporah. You’re not quite what you seem … are you? I like it … yes, I do.”
I looked at him steadily, his lips turned up at the corners mockingly.
I knew he was telling me that he knew about my love affair with Gerard.
I ought to have been grateful to him—but I couldn’t be. I disliked him as much as ever.
Mistress of Eversleigh
IT WAS EARLY IN the New Year when we went to Eversleigh. I knew that Jean-Louis did not really want to go. He had been brought up at Clavering and it was home to him; he loved every acre of the place, but he realized that we must go and that Eversleigh, the home of my ancestors, was a property of far greater value. Moreover, he knew that my mother and Sabrina were delighted because Clavering could now reasonably go to Dickon.
“It’s the sensible thing to do,” said my mother, “and I am sure that Zipporah agrees with us.”
I did. One of the reasons why I was pleased to leave Clavering was because I should not have to see Dickon.
I was a considerable heiress for Eversleigh was a wealthy estate, and although Amos Carew and Jessie had stolen a few valuables there was so much left that their loss was scarcely missed. Then a great many articles were brought back from Amos Carew’s house. They had been stored in his attic as he had had to go very carefully in the task of disposing of them. The prime villain in the scheme was dead; his accomplices had disappeared and eventually efforts to trace them were dropped.
Lottie was excited by the move. She was now eight years old—a lovely creature, impulsive, affectionate, volatile, in the highest spirits one moment and the depth of depression the next. She had violet-colored eyes with thick dark lashes and abundant hair—almost black, a rare combination and invariably beautiful.
My mother said of her: “I think she must be the image of her great-grandmother. She’s not like you or Jean-Louis. You were always such calm, sensible little things even when you were babies. It’s like Carlotta born again. Strange that she should have been called Charlotte. You’ll have to keep a watch on her, Zipporah.”
I said I intended to.
“I often wonder how you feel about going to Eversleigh … after all that happened there,” she said.
“Well,” I replied, “it seems that everyone thinks we should go.”
I looked at her a little wistfully. She was ashamed that her love for Dickon was greater than that which she bore me. She had been obsessed by that adventure of her youth when she had loved Dickon’s father and the fact that his child was Sabrina’s made no difference to her love for the boy.
Sometimes I wondered whether people who were predictable like myself—apart from that one lapse—did not inspire the same affection as the wayward ones. Carlotta had evidently made a great impression on everyone and yet her life had been far from orthodox. Dickon inspired love such as I never could, although he acted in a manner which even those who loved him must admit was by no means admirable.
“What Lottie wants is a brother or sister,” said my mother. “It’s a pity …”
“At least,” I said, “we have a child.”
That was a phrase I often used to myself. Whatever wrong I had done, it had given us Lottie.
So we prepared to leave. Dickon was to live in the house which we had occupied. There had been protests about that from my mother and Sabrina. Why did he want his own house? Why couldn’t he go on living at the hall?
“It’s the manager’s house,” said Dickon. “I am the manager now.”
“My dear boy,” said Sabrina, “how can we be sure that you will be properly looked after?”
I remember the way Dickon grinned at me. “I think I’ve proved that I can look after myself,” he said.
Of course they couldn’t go against him. He wanted to live in the house so he did.
I tried not to mind that he would be in that house where I had been happy with Jean-Louis. Jean-Louis understood. He said: “It will no longer be ours. We’ll forget it.”
As we journeyed to Eversleigh—Lottie seated between us in the carriage—I thought how tired Jean-Louis looked, and a little sad; and I was filled with tenderness toward him. I had wronged him in the most cruel way a woman could deceive a man in making him believe he was the father of a child who was not his. I must make up for what I had done. I think I had in a way. Looking back, my affection had been at least more demonstrative since Lottie had been born.
She was calling out excitedly and jumping up and down to call our attention to landmarks. Jean-Louis smiled at her. Poor Jean-Louis, he looked rather exhausted. It was a good thing that we had made the journey by carriage. He would never have been able to do it on horseback.
The house looked different. I suppose that was because it was mine and I couldn’t help feeling a glow of pride to think of all my ancestors who had lived here before me, and now here I was taking possession.
We alighted from the carriage and I stood for a moment looking up. It was some two hundred years old, having been built in the days of Elizabeth, so it was in the familiar E style with the main hall and the wings on either side.
It was comforting to see old Jethro come hurrying out from the stables.
“I heard the wheels of the carriage,” he said. “So I knew you was here.”
“This is Jethro.” I said to Jean-Louis. “The old faithful retainer.”