“A bundle of some kind,” she said. “A wallet, maybe. Or, no — ”
She withdrew her hand. She was clutching a roll of brown leather, tied with twine.
Wordlessly, Imogen pulled her shears from the pouch at her waist.
Jo cut the bundle free. It dropped at her feet like a severed hand.
“A garden glove?” Peter crouched beside her.
“There’s something inside,” Jo said.
Chapter Forty
IT WAS A ROLL OF PAPER, TIED WITH MORE TWINE. Fingers shaking, Jo slipped the string from the roll.
“Careful,” Margaux said sharply over her shoulder. “There’ll be damp.”
There was damp. The pages — each no bigger than the palm of Jo’s hand — were closely scrawled in lead pencil that had faded over the years. She played the penlight’s beam over them — it was now quite dark — and said, “It looks like Jock’s handwriting.”
“Let’s go inside,” Imogen said brusquely. “You can’t read that out here. Ter, take care of the Virgin, will you?”
Peter helped right the statue before they left the White Garden. Jo waited; it did not seem fair, after their long hunt, to steal a march on Peter. She kept the bundle of paper swaddled in the ancient glove as they trekked back to the Powys Wall.
Terence parted from them at Imogen’s office. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be off.…”
“Go on, then,” Imogen ordered.
Jo reached for him impulsively and hugged him. “If you ever give up your dream of L.A., I’d be happy to see you in Delaware. And thanks, Ter. For all your help.”
“S’nothing. Come by the pub later and we’ll pull a pint.” He grinned at them and disappeared in the direction of the greenhouses.
Jo set the garden glove carefully on the staff table. Peter peered at the bundle.
“Cigarette papers. Can you believe it? Must’ve been the only paper he had. Did your grandfather smoke?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Everybody rolled their own during the war years. Even Vita,” Margaux observed. Then her expression changed. “My God — I bet those are Vita’s cigarette papers.”
“ — The habit of stealing being one that runs in the Bellamy family,” Imogen said dryly. “But don’t admit it too loudly. You’d have to hand over that packet to the Trust.”
Peter glanced at Jo. “You can decipher the script. Why don’t you read this aloud?”
“I’ll make tea,” Imogen suggested. “It’s downright cold now we’ve turned the corner to November. Sorry I’ve nothing stronger.” It was a peace offering; and she seemed remarkably unconcerned about setting limits on their access, now they’d actually found something in the Little Virgin.
Jo drew out a chair and took the first small sheet between her fingers.
2 April 1941
The worse bit about living on your own is that there’s nobody to talk to. If it were home, I’d say, Da the Lady’s come and asked me to keep something for her, and he’d say, Give it here, then, Jock, there’s a good lad, and that’d be an end to it. Or Mum would say, Poor old dear, she’s a bit wanting in the upstairs, isn’t she? You’d best tell Miss Vita. And so I’d go and do that. But there’s no one. I could write to Mum and ask but I’d never write to Da; he’d be that put out at me acting foolish. When you’re man enough to work and live on your own among the gentry, you’re man enough to know what to do with the puzzles they put in your hands.
Besides, I like the Lady. She’s daft, right enough, and she looks like a walking skeleton when you see her across the garden, but there’s a look in her eyes when she talks that makes you listen. I was asleep when she came to the barn door tonight but I got up and pulled my trousers on because it seemed like she needed help. That’s the other reason I don’t like to write to Mum — she’d call it indecent, the Lady looking for me like that, after the Family’d gone to bed. If I can’t write to Mum I might as well write to myself, so says I. Maybe then I’ll sort it out.
Jock, she says, standing at the foot of the hayloft stairs with her hair all wild and her fur coat on, will you drive me to the station?
At this hour, ma’am? I says. It’s gone past ten, and there’ll be no trains till morning.
She looked around her then like all the demons of hell were after her, and ran out of the stable. That’s when I pulled on my clothes and went after.
She was hurrying down the drive to the road. I’d no business telling the gentry what to do, but I didn’t like the look of her, nor her being all alone in such a state, and I reckoned Miss Vita would be angry if I said I’d seen the Lady go and lifted not a finger to stop her. I caught her up and said, Now, ma’am, can’t it wait till morning, and she said I’ll be lucky if they don’t find me before then. I said, Who? But she didn’t answer, just turned round wild-like and clutched my jacket with her hands. Jock, she says, Don’t ever trust the men of Westminster, no matter what they offer. Westminster men lie.
Do they now, I says, as though she’s talking how deep to plant bulbs before the first frost. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. But it’s five mile and more to Staplehurst, and a long enough wait for the first train. Do you stay warm inside, ma’am, and I’ll come find you at first light. You’ll be much more comfortable in the pony trap, or Miss Vita’s car.
Why do you call her that? she asked. Not Mrs. Nicolson, but Miss Vita?
It’s what we all called her at Knole, I says. I’m a Knole lad, born and bred.
She’s not to know, the Lady said, nearly in tears. She’s not to know. It was a terrible mistake to tell Harold. I’ve written it all down.
She tapped something she had under her arm, and I saw it was a copybook, like we used in school.
That’s all right then, I told her, like she was a little child. If you’ve wrote it all down. That’ll keep till morning.
I made so bold as to take her by the arm, and turned her towards the house, thinking that if I talked to her gentle-like she might come back the right way so I could settle her and get Miss Vita to call Doctor. But she dug in her heels and shook her head and said I can’t stay in this place, I’d be a fool to stay here now Harold’s gone.
What, I says, with me and Hayter and Miss Vita what can handle a gun, and that Home Guard fellow posted in the tower? You’re safe as houses, ma’am.
Don’t lie to me, Jock, she says too quiet.
I put my hand on her arm again. If you go I shall have to rouse Miss Vita. It’s as much as my place is worth, you leaving and me saying no word.
She seemed to fall in like a wilted flower at that, her shoulders hunching and her head drooping on her thin neck, and I was afraid she’d started to cry. I asked if she was all right and she said in a kind of whisper My head aches so, it’s the voices clamouring, every hour, they never stop no matter how much I plead.
That sent a chill up my spine and I said, I’ll get Miss Vita. But the Lady swayed where she stood and I had to reach for her, sure enough, before she swooned. Come along, I said, trying to keep the scared out of my voice. You have a liedown and we’ll set you to rights.
A slow walk back to South Cottage, me holding her upright and her breathing hard. I looked at her face once and it was dead pale, shining like a ghost in the night, though there was no moon. When we reached the door I rapped on it, hard, and rapped on it again.
Jock, she says faintly, I’m not well. Take the book, Jock. Keep it safe.
She fainted then right enough. But it was Miss Vita who put the Lady to bed, and Miss Vita who kept the book, sending me about my business once I’d helped her carry the Lady upstairs.