Black Hearts in Battersea (17 page)

"The train, ma'am? Won't his Grace be using the coach?"

"No, he thinks a train will be quicker. He has gone to charter it now."

Sophie was thunderstruck. She had never traveled on a train in her life—indeed the nearest station to Chippings was at York, over thirty miles away; for the Duke, who considered trains to be dirty, noisy things, flatly refused to have them running over his land.

Sophie struggled with her conscience. This seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to get their Graces away from
trouble, and she was excited at the prospect of the journey, but still it was her duty to mention Dido's letter. She showed it to the Duchess, who read it with astonishment.

"Dido Twite? Who is Dido Twite, my child?"

"Oh, she is a poor little thing that Simon has befriended, the daughter of his landlady."

"But why should Simon have been kidnapped? And why should Justin have gone with him? Depend upon it," said the Duchess, "this will turn out to be nothing but a Banbury story. Is this Dido Twite a truthful little child?"

Sophie was bound to admit that she hardly thought it likely.

"I have it!" declared her Grace. "You say this
Dark Dew
belongs to Captain Nathaniel Dark? Yes, and I remember him—a shifty rogue who tried to sell his Grace a shipment of abominable smuggled prune brandy, watered, my dear, and tasting of tar. His ships put in regularly at the port of Chipping Fishbury—be sure, those naughty boys have begged a sea passage in order to get to Chippings, and if we travel by train, like as not we shall be there before them. Yes, yes, my dear, I will show the note to his Grace, but, depend upon it, that is the solution. Now, run and pack the croquet things, and do not forget the billiard balls and my small harpsichord."

With a clear conscience Sophie ran off to carry out her Grace's wishes. Packing the water colors neatly into a crate with the harpsichord, she remembered that curious remark of Buckle's concerning herself: "Why did she have to pick that one, out of all the paupers at Gloober's—my heart's in
my mouth every time the Duchess looks at her." What could he have meant? Sophie's heart began to beat rather fast. Might it be possible that, all the time, she had relations somewhere? But why should Buckle know anything about it? Pray Sophie, do not be nonsensical, she admonished herself, and knelt to fasten the croquet mallets into their case.

An hour later they set off. The Duke, not very well-informed about trains, was indignant to discover that even when he chartered a special one it would not come to his door, but had to be boarded at the station. However, a pair of carriages transported the party across London with their baggage to the terminus, where a strip of red carpet running the length of the platform, a bowing stationmaster, and porters bearing bouquets and baskets of fruit restored his Grace to good humor.

Sophie learned with joy that neither Buckle nor Midwink were to be of the party. The first six hours of the journey passed peacefully. After a light luncheon they played billiards in the billiard car until the increasing motion of the train, as they entered more hilly country, rendered this occupation too hazardous. The Duke, having nearly spitted his lady with a cue, returned to the saloon coach, sighing that he wished they had Simon with them, for there was nothing in the world he would like so much as a game of chess.

"I can play a little, your Grace," Sophie said. "Simon has been teaching me. But I fear I am only a beginner."

His Grace was delighted, declaring that any opponent was better than none. "For her Grace can't be bothered to
learn the moves." Sophie unpacked the glass set from his valise and they played two or three games with great enjoyment, the more so as his Grace won them all. Then, unfortunately, a lurch of the train threw the black glass Queen to the floor and broke off her crown.

The Duke was greatly vexed by this, but the Duchess said placidly, "Do not put yourself in a pucker, my dear. If you recall, I had this set made for your birthday by the old glass-burner in the forest and, depend upon it, he will be able to put her Majesty to rights again. We can call at his hut on the way to Chippings."

"Ay, so we can, my dear," said the Duke. "What a head you have on your shoulders. Old Turveytop can do the business in a twinkling, I daresay."

Sophie became very excited. "Is that old Turveytop the charcoal burner, your Grace? Why, it was he who brought me up! I should dearly like to see the old man again—he was always so kind to me."

"Old Turveytop brought you up, did he? But you are not related to him, child?"

"No, ma'am. He found me in the forest when I was little more than a baby."

"But had you no clothes, child—nothing to indicate where you had come from?"

"Nothing, ma'am, except a little silver chain-bracelet with my name, Sophie, on a shield, and on the other side a kind of picture with tiny writing that was too small for my foster father to read."

"Have you the bracelet yet, my dear?" said the Duchess,
showing the liveliest curiosity. "I should so like to see it. Since we looked at that Rivière picture I have had the strangest feeling..."

Sophie's face had clouded at a sad recollection. "When I grew, and the bracelet would not meet round my wrist, my foster father put it away for me, your Grace. I am sure he will have it still—"

"Why did he not give it to you when they took you to the Poor Farm, my child?"

"He was not there at the time," Sophie said miserably. "He was away on the wolds cutting peat when the overseer came and took me away. I have so often wondered if he know what had become of me."

"Could you not write to him?"

"Mrs. Gloober would not allow it."

"Never mind, child, soon you will be able to tell him yourself."

Poor Sophie was to be disappointed, however. Night had come when they reached York, and they were obliged to rack up at an inn rather than undertake the dangerous journey across the wolf-infested wolds in the dark. They set out early next day in a pair of hired carriages, and, after several hours' brisk driving, had reached the outskirts of Chipping Wold, a huge, wild, and desolate tract of country, moorland and forest, which must be traversed before they reached the village of Loose Chippings. Sophie was on her home ground, here; her eyes brightened and she gazed eagerly about, recognizing every tree, rock, and tumbling stream.

"There! There it is," she presently exclaimed. "There is the track leading to my foster father's hut."

The Duke ordered the baggage coach to wait on the turnpike while the party jolted along the rocky track in the smaller open carriage. Soon they were passing among dark trees growing steeply up the sides of a narrow glen, and the driver whipped up his team and laid his musket ready on the box. After about half a mile the track widened, however, and they reached an open, sunny space where stood a small log-and-turf hut.

Sophie could restrain herself no longer. She tumbled out of the carriage, crying, "Turvey, Turvey! Are you there? It's me—Sophie! I've come back!"

The door of the hut opened and a young man came out. Sophie halted in dismay.

"Who—who are you?" she stammered. "Where's Turvey?"

"He's dead, miss."

"
Dead?
But—but he can't be! Who are you—how do you know?"

"I'm his nephew, miss. Yes, they found my uncle dead—it's ten days ago now—lying spitted with an arrow at his own front door."

By this time their Graces had alighted and crossed the clearing. Sophie turned, speechlessly, to the Duchess, with tears streaming down her face, and was enfolded in a warm and comforting embrace.

"There, there, poor child," said her Grace. "There, there, my poor dear."

"Oh, ma'am! Who could have done it?"

"Eh, it's a puzzle, isn't it?" exclaimed the Duke. "D'you reckon it could have been thieves?"

"It seems a random rummy thing," said young Turveytop, "for every soul knew Uncle hadn't two bits to rub together. But thieves it must ha' been. The whole hut was ransacked and rummaged clear—every mortal stick and rag the old man possessed had been dragged out and either stolen or burnt. There wasn't a crumb or a button left in the place. Yon's where the bonfire must ha' been."

And he stepped back, revealing a huge, blackened patch of grass behind the hut.

Simon opened his eyes with difficult. He was aware, first, of racking pains in all his joints; then that his head hurt. He moved, and groaned.

"Hush up, then, your Grace, my dearie," a voice exclaimed, just above his head. "Hush up a moment while Nursie changes the bandage and then you'll be all right and tight."

Simon hushed—indeed it was all he could do—and a pair of hands skillfully anointed his head with cool ointment and wound it in bandages. "
That's
better," the voice said, "isn't it now, your Grace? Now old Nursie's going to rub you with oil of lavender to keep off the rheumatics—lucky those jobberknolls brought some on the last shipment or it would have had to be cod-liver oil which, say what you like, is
not
so pleasant."

Without waiting for any reply the hands set to work, pummeling and massaging his aching body until he was ready to gasp with pain. But after a little he became used to the treatment, even found it lulling, and drifted asleep
again. When he next woke he felt a great deal better. He raised himself on an elbow and looked about.

He was in a small, wooden, cabin-like room, one wall of which was almost entirely window. The room was neatly and simply furnished and the floor was covered with rush matting. A wood fire in a stone fireplace hissed and gave off green flames from sea wrack; the bunk in which Simon lay was covered with a patchwork quilt.

"I must be dreaming," he muttered.

"Dreaming? Certainly not. Nobody dreams in my nurseries. Get this down you, now, my precious Grace."

A firm arm hoisted him up and a cup was held to his lips. He choked over the drink, which was hot and had a strange, sweet, medicinal taste.

"What is it?"

"What is it? he asks. Doesn't know Nursie's own Saloop when he gets it! Best goat's milk, best Barbados (since those robbers won't bring me cane), best orris. You'll sleep easy after that, your Grace, lovey."

While she straightened his pillows Simon for the first time succeeded in getting a look at the person who called herself Nursie. She was a plump, elderly woman, enveloped in a white starched apron. She had a cheerful, rather silly face, and a quantity of gray-brown hair which she wore in an untidy bun on top of her head.

"Where's Dido?" Simon suddenly asked.

"Di-do-diddely-oh. Where's Dido? he asks, and well he may. Where indeed, for there's nobody of that name on
this
island, to my certain knowledge."

Simon's heart sank. "It is an island, then? Are there others?"

"No, my ducky diamond."

"Where did you find me?"

"Out there," she said, and lifted him so that he could see the sea. "We had a tiddely breath of a blow, yesterday, and when the clouds lifted a bit, Nursie looks out and what does she see? A lump of seaweed on a rock, she sees—only the seaweed has arms and legs and there never was seaweed on that rock before—so Nursie gets out the rowing boat and rows across to have a look. And there's his blessed Grace lying up to the knees in water—another half-hour with the tide coming in and you'd ha' been gulls' meat."

"Indeed I am very grateful," said Simon faintly "but wasn't there also a little girl called Dido, wearing a blue dress?"

"No, dearie," she said quietly.

"I must go out and look for her—and Justin too—" Simon exclaimed, struggling up. A spell of giddiness took him. With a disapproving cluck, Nursie laid him down again.

"Don't you worry your gracious head, my dearie. If the little girl's come to land, Nursie will know soon enough. The island's not so big. Why, there's only—"

Her words were interrupted by a timid knock at the door. She started.

"Well, there! Perhaps the boy
wasn't
dreaming. Unless it's the Hermit."

The door opened and a damp, miserable figure tottered
in: Justin, with his soaked clothes in rags and his draggled hair dripping over a cut on his forehead.

"Fancy!" said Nursie. "If it isn't another of 'em. Well, you
are
a drowned pickle, to be sure!"

"Justin!" said Simon eagerly. "Have you seen Dido?"

"Oh, hilloo, Simon, are you there?"

Justin sank limply onto a wooden settle by the fire. "Dido? No, I've not seen her." He added listlessly, "I daresay she's drowned, if she hasn't turned up.
I
was, nearly. That wretched barrel broke on a rock. I think you might have found me something better."

His words were muffled, for Nursie had seized a large towel, enveloped his head in it, and was rubbing his hair dry. No sooner had she finished, and combed the hair back from his face, than she let out a shriek.

"Justin! My own precious poppet! My little long-lost lamb! My bonny little bouncing blue-eyed babby!"

She hugged Justin again and again.

"Hey!" protested Justin. "Who do you think you are?
I
ain't your blue-eyed babby—I'm Lord Bakerloo!"

"Oh no you ain't, my bubsy! You can't fool someone as has dandled you on her knee a thousand times. Why, I'd know that scar on your chin anywhere—that was where your pa dropped you in the fender—Eustace was always clumsy-handed—let alone you're as like him when he was young as two peas in a pod. And there's the mole on your neck and the bump on your nose. You're my own little Justin that I haven't seen since you was two years old."

"I'm not, I tell you! I'm Lord Bakerloo!"

"Dearie, you can't be," she said calmly. "
He's
Lord Bakerloo—him over there on the bunk—or the Dook o' Battersea if his uncle ain't living yet. How do I know? Because o' the Battersea tuft—I found it on the back of his head, plain as plain, when I was bandaging that nasty great cut he's got."

Battersea tuft? What did the woman mean? Was she mad? Simon put his hand up to his bandaged head in perplexity, and winced as he touched a tender spot. What tuft?

"You must be dicked in the nob," Justin persisted. "Who are you, anyway?"