Shaman of Stonewylde (30 page)

‘Yes, but what about this photoshoot where they want to use our girls for models?’ said Rowan. ‘When will we know if they’re doing that? How will they choose which girls they want?’

Sylvie shrugged at this, guessing the reason behind Rowan’s interest.

‘I have no idea, although if it’s for their new season’s range I imagine it would be very soon. No reason why it should just be girls – it could be boys too, as Aitch do both men’s and women’s fashion. But honestly, I don’t really know any more than I’ve already told you all. And I’d like to point out that this is all thanks to Harold and his negotiations.’

All eyes turned to him and he blushed, jerking his wrists in his jumpy way. Yul sighed elaborately and squirmed in his seat. The stifling heat could only get worse as the sun climbed higher.

‘What do you think of this mad scheme?’ he asked Martin, who’d sat in grim silence so far, with his arms folded and a sour look on his face.

Martin shrugged and turned his face from Yul, as if the very sight of him was more than he could bear.

‘Makes no difference to this Council what
I
think, does it? Folk know my thoughts on how Stonewylde has fallen back into the mire and how we should put it right again. I made myself clear many a time.’

‘Well, I want to make it known now how I feel about this fashion thing and supplying them with goods,’ said Yul firmly. ‘I don’t like the idea of it and if I’d been consulted, I’d have said no.’

‘But why?’ asked Sylvie. ‘We all know how desperate the financial situation is and they’re paying good money. Why are you so against it?’

‘Because it’s mixed up with Rainbow,’ he replied. ‘And you of all people, Sylvie, should understand my unease. You were the one who didn’t want her here at all.’

‘Yes, and I was over-ridden on that. And this isn’t mixed up with Rainbow, so there’s no need to worry on that score. We were just very lucky that she knows some people in the fashion world and happened to show them some photos of Stonewylde. I never wanted Rainbow here – you did. But now, with this Aitch business, at least one good thing will have come out of her visit after all.’

She glared at Yul and he looked down at his hands, his face hidden by his hair. She was glad he had the grace to look guilty.

15

S
ylvie was surprised when Miranda ushered her upstairs into her rooms in the Tudor Wing later in the day. She’d been about to leave the Hall for the Village for a quick supper and to collect Celandine, having promised her eldest daughter that they’d moondance up at Hare Stone tonight for the Hay Moon of July. This year it fell very early in the month, which meant that there’d be a Blue Moon right at the end, on Lammas Eve. Sylvie had arranged with Leveret to take Bluebell up to the tower for the evening so she wouldn’t feel quite so left out, as there’d been tears at the breakfast table that morning. Sylvie had no idea whether Yul would turn up at Hare Hill or not, but she was determined it wouldn’t make any difference to her plans either way. He’d been avoiding her since the Solstice and she wished he’d get over this silly sulking about the painting. It had got to the point where if he bumped into her, he’d actually avoid looking her in the eye. She thought sadly of her hopes for reconciliation; this seemed further away than ever.

‘I can’t stay too long, Mum,’ she said as Miranda sat her down in an armchair and quickly made a pot of tea.

‘Just a cup of tea and a brief chat,’ promised Miranda. ‘Rufus is down with Maizie and the girls I believe, so at last I’ve got you to myself.’

‘They do love his visits – it’s funny how they’ve all become so much closer since we moved down there, isn’t it?’

‘Sylvie, I need to tell you something,’ said Miranda, pouring
their
tea and setting the two cups and saucers on a little table between them. She looked across at her daughter and thought how much better she seemed recently – brighter eyed and in much higher spirits.

‘Sounds intriguing!’ laughed Sylvie.

Miranda hesitated and almost decided not to proceed.

‘I want to ask your advice. It’s . . . the thing is, I’ve received a letter from my mother.’

Sylvie’s eyes widened with shock and she carefully placed her cup back on the saucer.

‘
Your mother?
’

Miranda nodded, and Sylvie saw the strange conflict of emotions in her eyes.

‘After all these years, she’s got in touch with me. I can’t believe it either.’

‘But you haven’t had any contact with her since . . . I don’t know when. My birth? How did she know where to find you?’

‘When we lived in the flat in London, she – both my parents – had that address. We moved there when you were tiny and I made sure they knew where I was. Not that I wanted to see them, but from a sense of duty really. Stupidly, I thought that one day they may want to apologise. I’d hoped to give them the means to make it possible.’

‘But they never did.’

Miranda shook her head, and Sylvie saw very clearly the bitterness in her expression, even after all this time.

‘I’ve neither seen nor spoken to them since they told me in the hospital, in no uncertain terms, that unless I gave you up for adoption and pretended to all their friends that you’d never even been born, they’d never see me again.’

‘It really is unbelievable,’ said Sylvie sadly. ‘How anyone could treat their daughter that way . . .’

‘Well, they were the sort of people who cared more about their standing in society than they did about a sixteen-year-old daughter who’d been unlucky enough to get pregnant. It was the sort of scandal that would’ve been so humiliating – they’d
never
have been able to hold their heads up again in their social circle.’

‘I don’t know how they could sleep at night, kicking you out like that with a newborn baby.’

‘They supported me financially until I was eighteen, all arranged through their lawyer so they need have no direct contact. I suppose they thought by giving me money – and it wasn’t much – until I reached adulthood, they’d done their duty.’

‘As if you were able to cope alone at eighteen with a toddler!’

‘I know, but they were completely unrelenting. I remember in the hospital when I said that I couldn’t give you up, my father saying that I’d made my bed and now I could lie in it. I can picture his face now, as he said that . . .’

‘So you told them we were moving here?’

‘Yes, I thought I should. By then, of course, I knew they’d never want to be reconciled and I didn’t want that either, so many years on. But I thought they should know where I was . . .’

‘Have they ever been in touch?’

‘No, and they don’t even know Rufus exists. Nor their great-granddaughters. But that’s their loss – and now it’s too late.’ She gazed out of the window and sighed.

‘What’s happened, Mum?’ Sylvie asked gently.

‘My father’s dead. He died a couple of years ago apparently, and now my mother’s been told she doesn’t have long to live. And guess what? She wants to see me! I expect she’s terrified of the reception she’ll get at those pearly gates she believes in so fervently.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

Sylvie rose and sat next to her mother on the sofa, putting her arms around her. Miranda’s deep red hair, now a little silver at the temples, fell onto her chest and Sylvie felt her shudder with silent sobs.

‘Don’t be upset, Mum,’ she said. ‘It’s just not worth it.’

‘I know,’ whispered Miranda. ‘Why it still hurts, even after twenty-nine years, is beyond me. But it does. It’s the thought that all those shallow, braying friends of theirs, all the philanthropic
charity
dinners and lunches and cocktail parties and golf tournaments – all that ghastly social life and their holier-than-thou friends meant more to them than I did. Stupid, I know.’

Sylvie held Miranda close for a moment, and then released her to look into her face.

‘So are you going to see her?’

Miranda shrugged and took a deep breath. She picked up her tea, sipping it thoughtfully.

‘I just don’t know, Sylvie. I don’t know what to do. I wanted to tell you and get your reaction. I’m completely torn. I’d love to just ignore the letter as she’s ignored me since I was sixteen. But this is probably my last chance to see her again. What if one day I regretted not having made up with her? I just don’t know . . .’

‘I need to think about it,’ said Sylvie. ‘I can’t give you any advice until I’ve had a think. There’s nothing else is there? No hidden agenda? She’s not about to leave you a fortune or anything?’

‘No!’ smiled Miranda. ‘The letter was short and formal, and actually came from her lawyer. He sounds like some stuffy old codger – just the sort of family lawyer they’d have. He said he was writing on behalf of my mother, at her instruction – that my father had died almost three years ago and my mother had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and was anxious to make her peace with me before she died. He made a point of saying that their Wills and Estate had been successfully tied up long ago, and I should be under no misapprehension that I’d be a beneficiary. It was only on that understanding that my mother wished to see me. In other words, if I were just gold-digging, forget it!’

‘How very rude!’ said Sylvie. ‘As if you’d want their money anyway.’

‘Exactly! But that’s the sort of people they are, always imagining the worst of everyone. So, my dilemma is – do I go to London and see my mother, or don’t I?’

Whilst Celandine and Sylvie prepared to go up to Hare Stone to dance with the hares, Leveret spent a lovely evening with
Bluebell
and Magpie. Clip had gone to the Dolmen as usual, but had been particularly quiet for the past few days. Leveret was worried about him as his appetite seemed to have withered to nothing, but as ever he brushed her concerns aside. He took the remedy she’d prepared for him with good grace, but she knew he was only humouring her.

During the warm evening Leveret had taken rugs, cushions and a little picnic up to the roof of the tower, wanting to make it special for Bluebell. Sylvie had explained that she was feeling very hard done by at being excluded from the moondancing. The three of them sat on the roof, watching the swifts and the swallows arcing in the soft blue skies, and drinking “magic” strawberry elixir. Leveret told Bluebell she’d made it so that they’d all be able to see the moonbeam faeries later on, when they walked back to the Village. The three ate some little white-currant tartlets that Marigold had baked when she’d been told about Bluebell and Magpie coming for the evening – they were meant to look like little full moons, and Leveret explained that they helped your magic wings to grow new feathers so that your moondream flying would be better.

Hare lay on the rugs with them and Bluebell wriggled happily against her cushion, trying to feed a bit of her tartlet to the unreceptive creature. She hoped that perhaps Hare would grow magic wings too, and they could fly together in their moondreams.

‘Actually, Auntie Leveret, this is better than going to Hare Stone,’ she said, sipping at the sweet strawberry drink and licking her lips in delight. ‘Poor Celandine’s only got dancing and all that long walking. I’ve got this magic feast and Hare too!’

Leveret smiled at her and patted her little arm. Bluebell laid her blonde curly head against Leveret and sighed.

‘And I don’t like the man up there.’

Leveret frowned at this and glanced down at her niece, who was picking white-currants out of the tartlet.

‘What man?’

‘The one who was watching us last time.’

‘There wasn’t a man there, Blue. Only Magpie.’

‘Oh Auntie Leveret! You know who I mean. He’s the same man from our rooms in the Hall and I don’t like him. I don’t like his eyes and his staring at Mummy.’

‘Is Starling coming back tonight?’ whined Vetchling.

Both crones sat in their chairs by the dead hearth. In the kitchen the range was out so they couldn’t even make a hot drink, but they had a bottle of mead and shared this in their filthy mugs.

‘ ’Tis not likely, sister. She were here earlier when you was sleeping and she’s left us some bread and cheese, but ’tis Hay Moon tonight.’

‘Dratted girl don’t care for us no more,’ said Vetchling. ‘Now she’s got her man, she can’t be doing with us old ‘uns. How will we live, Violet?’

Violet took out her pipe and tamped a pinch of her herbal mixture into the bowl. Vetchling glared at her, the seams and wrinkles in her gaunt face black with grime. Violet ignored the look and, before lighting the pipe, hawked into the fireplace that bore evidence of much previous throat clearing.

‘I ain’t stopping me pipe just ‘cos you have,’ she muttered. She drew on the pipe and took a toothless sip from the mug, smacking her lips in appreciation. ‘Aye, that Starling o’ yours is no good. I told you a man were a bad idea.’

‘Aye, you did, sister,’ said Vetchling sadly, her voice rasping horribly.

‘Can you fetch the bread and cheese, my dear?’ said Violet. ‘I dropped the bread yesterday on account o’ my poor back. I just can’t stand straight no more.’

‘ ’Tis your old bones all bent up,’ said Vetchling sympathetically. ‘You’re like a sea-blown hawthorn, sister. Aye, I’ll get the supper in a minute when I got my breath. But I wish ’twere a nice, soft rabbit stew. I can’t eat that bread and cheese much with my sore mouth and no teeth.’

‘Aye, but that lazy good-for-nothing Starling can’t be bothered to cook for us no more,’ Violet mumbled. ‘She don’t care about
us
, now she’s with that Cledwyn and his kin. Forgot us she has, leaving us to rot.’

‘Maybe your Martin’ll drop by to help us?’ wheezed Vetchling. ‘He’s always been a good man, your Martin. Soon be his time, right enough.’

‘Aye, sister, you speak true. Time enough soon for our Martin. But not that Starling – oh no! She’ll rue the day she made me cast for her, you mark my words. Starling’ll be squawking loud by and by, and we’ll just laugh, you and me, for ’tis her own fault. Always was greedy as a weaned pig, that one, and now she’s got herself more than even she can swallow.’

In a corner of the Jack in the Green, tucked into the ancient wooden settles with their tankards on the battered table between them, sat Kestrel and a group of friends. They’d long finished their exams for the summer and many had now finished college altogether. The freedom from study meant that they now worked on the farms and in the Village industries, even students such as Kestrel, who’d be leaving in the autumn for higher education.