Seven for a Secret (9 page)

1 went there often after that. It was so near. I would sit, contemplating the graves and marvelling that the people lying beneath had been there since before the birth of Jesus Christ. In summer the trees shut in the burial ground. In the winter one realized how close it was to the road.

One day when I was there I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs on the road. I went to the edge of the copse and looked out. Crispin St. Aubyn was riding by.

There was another occasion when I encountered Mr. Dorian there. He came walking towards me and I felt numb with horror at the sight of him.

When he saw me, a strange look came into his face and he hurried towards me. I had an immediate urge to get away from him as soon as

poss ibie. In this strange place he seemed more menacing than he had in the Bell House.

“Good day,” he said, smiling.

“Good day, Mr. Dorian.”

“Admiring the barrow?”

He was getting very close.

“Yes.”

“Pagan relics.”

“Yes, I have to run. My aunt is waiting for me.”

And I ran, my heart beating wildly with incomprehen-H sible fear. J I reached the road and looked back. He was standing atj the edge of the wood looking after me, watching me. f I ran back to The Rowans, triumphant because I hadf escaped.

I was thinking a great deal about Flora Lane. Perhaps one of the reasons was that I believed the doll she cherished was Crispin St. Aubyn, though it was hard to imagine he was ever a baby.

He was often in my thoughts. He was arrogant and rudej and I did not like him, but I found myself making excuses for him. His parents had not loved him. Well, they hadn’U loved Tamarisk either. I supposed there was a strong resemblance between brother and sister. They both thought:! everyone should do as they wanted, i Mr. Dorian also forced his way into my thoughts. There had been occasions when I had dreamed of him. Vague dreams they had been, with no real meaning to them, bu I would wake up thankful to have left the dream, for wit! them came an indefinable feeling of fear.

Then I was by nature curious and interested in the lifi of Harper’s Green. I often found my footsteps taking m< in the direction of the Lanes’ cottage. I had the impressiol that Flora liked to see me. Her

face always lit up witi pleasure when 1 called good-afternoon. I made a point of passing the cottage whenever I could not after lessons, of course, because I had to go home to the luncheon Lily would have prepared, but when I walked in the afternoon I often did.

I would approach the cottage from the back and look over the wall. If Flora were sitting there in her usual place I would say good-afternoon; she would always answer me, and only on one occasion had she looked away, as though she did not want to see me. Then I went on, but usually she would imply that she wanted me to come in.

I soon discovered that when I was not welcome was when Lucy was at home. I had quickly gathered that Lucy did not want me to talk to her sister. Flora knew this too. There was a certain cunning about her.

She wanted to talk to me but she did not want to offend Lucy; so therefore my calling must be done when Lucy was out.

On this particular afternoon when I passed, I was invited to come in.

We sat on the seat, side by side, and she smiled at me in an almost conspiratorial way.

She talked for a while. It was a conversation I did not entirely understand but she was very pleased to have me there.

It was mainly about the doll, but more than once she referred to the mulberry bush and kept insisting that there was nothing there.

Then suddenly she said that the baby was fretful that afternoon. It could be wind. He was sniffling a little too and there was a chill in the air.

“I’d better take him in,” she said.

She stood up. I did the same and was preparing to say goodbye when she shook her head.

“No … you come.”

She pointed towards the cottage.

I hesitated. 1 wondered whether 1 ought to go in. Lucy

was certainly not at home or she would have been out by now.

I could not resist. After all, I had had an invitation to enter.

I walked beside her as she pushed the pram to the back door and we stepped into the kitchen.

Gently she took the doll out of the pram murmuring, “There, there.

It’s a nasty little cold, that’s what it is. He wants his cot. Yes, he’ll be more comfortable there. Nanny Flora will see to that. “

It was more uncanny in the cottage than it seemed out of doors, and I felt excited as I followed her up the stairs.

There were a nursery and two bedrooms. The cottage was large as such cottages go. One of the bedrooms was for Lucy, I presumed, the other for Flora and the nursery of course for the doll.

We went into this nursery and she laid the doll tenderly in the cot.

Then she turned to me.

“He’ll be better there, little angel. They get fratchety when they’ve got a cold hanging about.”

I was always embarrassed when she talked about the doll as though it were living.

I said: “It’s a nice nursery.”

Her face lighted up with pleasure and then a puzzled expression crossed it.

“It’s not like the one we used to have.” Now she was looking a little frightened. I guessed I must have reminded her of the one at St. Aubyn’s, where she had nursed the real Crispin.

I tried to think of something to say. Then I noticed the picture.

There were seven birds and they were sitting on a stone wall. It looked as though it had been taken from a book and framed.

1 took a step closer and read the inscription beneath it.

“Seven for a Secret,” 1 read. Then 1 cried: “Why! It’s the seven magpies!” ‘:

She was nodding enthusiastically. She had forgotten that this nursery was not like the old one at St. Aubyn’s.

You like it? ” she asked.

“It must mean the seven magpies in the verse. 1 learned it once. What is it now? I think I can remember:

“One for sorrow, Two for joy.

Three for a girl, Four for a boy.

five for silver, Six for gold, And seven for a secret. “

She watched my mouth as I quoted the verse, and finished with me: ‘. never to be told. “

“That’s it,” I said.

“I remember now.”

“Lucy made it,” she said and touched the frame lovingly.

“She framed it, did she?”

She nodded.

“Seven for a secret never to be told,” she said.

“It must never be told.” She shook her head.

“Never … never … never.

That’s what the birds are saying. “

I examined it closely.

“The birds look rather evil,” I said.

“That’s because it’s the secret. Oh dear, he’s waking up.” She went to the cot and picked up the doll.

The room seemed to assume an un canniness I was filled with an eagerness to know more of her and to probe what was behind this strange delusion. I wondered whether, if she could be made to realize the doll was only a doll and that the baby she believed it to be was now a grown man, she might return to normality.

Then I was overcome by a desire to get away and I heard myself say: “I think I should be going now. I’ll let myself out.”

As 1 was about to descend the stairs I heard the sound of voices below. I was dismayed. I had not heard anyone come in.

“Flora!” It was Lucy’s voice. She came out and was clearly astonished to see me descending the staircase.

“I’ve been with Miss Flora upstairs,” I stammered.

“Oh … she invited you up here, did she?”

I hesitated.

“She has been … er … showing me the nursery.”

Lucy looked rather angry. Then a man came into the hall. It was Crispin St. Aubyn.

“This is Miss Cardingham’s niece,” Lucy said.

“Flora asked her in.”

He nodded in my direction.

“I’ll be going,” I said.

Lucy took me to the front door and I went out.

I sped away.

What a strange afternoon that had been! I could not stop thinking of the seven magpies. They were rather sinister-looking birds. Lucy had evidently cut out the picture from a book and framed it for Flora.

Could it be to remind her that there was some secret which had to be kept? Flora’s mind was like that of a child. She might have to be reminded often of certain things. Perhaps the picture was just from a book she had loved in her childhood and Lucy had framed the picture for her.

In any case, it was very interesting, I was thinking, as I sped home to Aunt Sophie.

It was a few days later when I discovered a side to Aunt Sophie’s nature which I had not suspected before. At The Rowans there was a small room which led from her bedroom. It must have been a dressing-room, but she used it as a little study.

1 wanted to speak to her about some trivial matter and Lily told me she thought she was in her study tidying a drawer, so I went up. I knocked on the bedroom door and, as there was no answer, I opened it and looked in.

The study door was open.

“Aunt Sophie,” I called.

She came out and stood in the doorway.

There was something different about her. She looked sad, as I had never seen her before, and a tear was glistening on her eyelashes.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment and then said: “Oh no … nothing. I’m just a silly old fool. I’ve been writing to some one I knew in the past.”

“I’m sorry 1 interrupted. Lily said she thought you were tidying a drawer.”

“Yes, I did say I was going to do that. Well, come in, dear. It’s time you knew.”

I went into the study.

“Sit down. I was writing to your father,” she said.

“To my father?”

“I do write to him now and then. I knew him very well, you see … when I was younger.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in Egypt. He used to be in the Army, but he left all that. I’ve been writing to him over the years. It goes a long way back.” She looked at me as though she were not quite sure of something. Then she seemed to come to a decision.

She went on: “I met your father first … before your mother did. It was at someone’s house party. We were very friendly from the start. He was asked to Cedar Hall. That was when your mother came home from school. She was eighteen then and really beautiful. Well, he fell in love with her.”

“But he left her!”

“That was some time after. It didn’t work. He wasn’t fitted to settling down. He was a very merry person. He liked the social life.

He drank a little . not too much, but perhaps verging on it. He gambled. He liked the ladies.

He is not a very serious person. Well, they parted about a year after you were born. There was a divorce, as you know. There was another woman. He married her, but that didn’t turn out very well either. “

“He doesn’t seem to be a very reliable sort of person.”

“He had lots of charm to make up for it.”

“I see. And you write to him.”

“Yes. We were always good friends.”

“Do you mean he might have married you instead of my mother?”

She smiled rather ruefully.

“He clearly preferred to marry your mother.”

“You might have been my mother,” I said.

“I suppose if I had been you wouldn’t be who you are. We wouldn’t want to change that, would we?”

She was laughing at me . her old self again.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so plain.”

“Oh nonsense! Your mother was a very beautiful woman. I was the plain sister.”

“I don’t believe you were.”

“Let’s forget about this plainness. I just want you to know that your father writes to me and he always wants news of you. He knows that you are here with me and he is very pleased about that. He is going to help with your education, which may be a little expensive if you go to that school with Tamarisk and Rachel, which I hope you will be doing in a few months.”

“I’m glad he’s doing that,” I said.

“I would have managed somehow, but it is a help and it’s good of him to offer.”

“Well, he is my father.”

“He hasn’t seen you since he left, but, Freddie, he would have done so if your mother had let him. Perhaps now …”

“If he were to come home, you mean?”

“I don’t think there is any sign of that just yet. But of course, he may.”

Does it make you sad to write to him? “

“People get sentimental sometimes. I remember the days of my youth.”

“You must have been very unhappy when he married my mother instead of you.”

She did not answer and I put my arms round her.

“I’m sorry,” I cried.

“I wish he had married you! Then we should all have been together. He would have been here with us.”

She shook her head.

“He was not the sort to settle. He would have been off.” Her lips curled into a rather tender smile as she went on: “And you are mine now, aren’t you … just as though I were your mother.

My niece . his daughter. That’s what I like to think. “

“Do you feel better now that I know?” I asked.

“Much,” she assured me.

“I’m glad you know. Now let’s start counting our blessings.”

I knew I had plenty to count, especially when I compared my fate with that of Rachel. I often did that, because what had happened to us was similar. I was with my aunt and she was with an aunt and uncle. I had always been aware of my good fortune, but I did not realize the extent of it until I discovered something from Rachel.

I had always known she was afraid. She never actually said she was, for she rarely talked about her life at the Bell House, but I sensed there was a great deal to tell.

She and I were far more friendly than either of us was with Tamarisk.

I felt protective towards her and I think she regarded me as a true friend.

She often came to The Rowans and we would sit in the garden and talk.

I had for some time had the feeling that she wanted to tell me something and was finding it difficult to do so. I noticed that when we were laughing together and there was some reference to the Bell House a change

would come over her, and I could not help being aware of her reluctance to leave me when we drew near the place and it was time for her to go home.