Виктория Холт - The Pride of the Peacock

I was so excited I could scarcely thank him.

Later I thought it would be the end, for we couldn’t possibly keep my visits a secret. But I had a whole week to anticipate it.

That week seemed a long time in passing for I was eager to hear more of Ben Henniker, who had shown me in our two meetings a different kind of world and made my own life seem colourless in comparison. I was not sure whether it was what he had to tell me or his manner of telling which made it so vivid to me, but I could picture myself in a calico tent fighting off the flies in the heat of the sun, wading through the mud and panning in the creeks. I could feel all the frustration of failure and the wonderful excitement of success. But that was gold. It was opal that I should look for. I could picture myself holding my candle, peering into crevices, gouging out the opal-the beautiful iridescent stone, the lucky stone which gave the gift of prophecy and which told a story, nature’s story.

I never stopped congratulating myself on being at the stream that day when the chair came hurtling along and I had been able to save Ben Henniker from an accident which I had already convinced myself would have been certain death. I could have liked him for that alone and he would have liked me for saving his life, but there was more to it than that. There was something in our natures that matched each other.

That was why it was so irksome to wait.

I would sit by the stream and hope he would come in his chair.

“I know it was next Wednesday we were to meet,” he would say, ‘but to tell the truth I thought it was too long to wait. “

Then we would look at each other and laugh.

But it didn’t happen like that. I just sat at the stream and nothing happened. I could see him so vividly, for his conversation had conjured up one image after another; I thought of the sun’s beating down on him and what would have happened if the rock which had fallen on him had been a little heavier and had killed him.

Then I should never have known him.

That started me thinking of death, and I was remembering the graves in the churchyard and they reminded me of the raised earth in the Waste Land where the archangel grew. Was it really a grave, and if so, whose?

It was no use sitting and staring across the stream. He wouldn’t come.

He had visitors who would perhaps be people who had come to buy or sell opals. I pictured them with a decanter of wine or whisky between them, filling then-glasses as soon as they were empty (for I was sure Ben Henniker drank heartily). He was the sort of man who would do everything with a special gusto. They would talk together and laugh a great deal and perhaps discuss the opals they had found or bought or sold. I wished I were with them. But I had to wait until next Wednesday and it was a long way off.

Sadly I stood up and wandered, aimless, along the stream and so I found myself in the Waste Land kneeling by the grave.

Oh yes, it was a grave. There was no doubt of that. I started to pull up the weeds which grew there and after I had worked for a while it was clearly revealed. It was not a dog’s grave. It was too big for that. Then I made a startling discovery. A stake protruded slightly from the earth, and when I seized it and pulled it up, I saw that it was a small plaque and on it was a name. I knocked off the earth and what was revealed made me feel as though icy water were trickling down my spine, for on that plaque was my own name-Jessica-simply Jessica Clavering.

I sat back on my knees studying’ the plaque. I had seen such used before on the graves in the churchyard. They were put there by those who could not afford the crosses and angels holding books on which were engraved the virtues of those who lay beneath them.

In that grave lay a Jessica Clavering.

I turned the plaque over and there I could just make out some figures.

‘1880’ and above it “Ju …” the other two letters were obliterated.

This was even more disturbing. I had been born on the 3rd of June, 1880, and whoever lay in that grave not only bore my name but had died at the time of my birth.

Momentarily I had forgotten Ben Henniker. I could think of nothing but my discovery and wonder what it meant

I found it impossible to keep this to myself and as Maddy was the obvious one to approach, I waylaid her as she was going into the kitchen garden to cut curly kale for dinner.

“Maddy,” I said, deciding to come straight to the point, ‘who was Jessica Clavering? “

She smirked.

"You haven’t far to look for that one. She’s her who asks too many questions and was never known to be content with the answer.”

"That one,” I said with dignity, ‘is Opal Jessica. Who is just Jessica?”

“What are you talking about?” I began to notice the signs of agitation.

“I mean the one who is buried in the Waste Land.”

‘now look here. Miss, I’ve got work to do. Mrs. Cobb’s waiting for her curly kale. “

"You can talk while you’re cutting it. “

“And am I supposed to take orders from you?”

"You forget, Maddy, I’m seventeen years old. That’s not an age to be treated like a child. “

"Them that acts like children gets treated as such. “

“It's not childish to take an interest in one’s surroundings. I found a plaque on the grave. It says ” Jessica Clavering” and when she died.”

“Well, now get from under my feet.”

“I’m nowhere near them and I can only presume that since you behave like this you have something to hide.”

It was no use talking to her. I went to my room and wondered who else would know about the mysterious Jessica, and I was still thinking of it when I went down to dinner.

Meals were dreary occasions at the Dower House. There was conversation, but it never sparkled. It usually centred round local affairs, what was happening at the church and to people of the village. We had very little social life and that was entirely our own fault for when invitations came they were declined.

“How could we possibly return such hospitality?” Mama would cry.

“How different it used to be! The Hall was always full of guests.” At times like that I would find myself watching my father, who would pick up The Times and cower behind it as though it were some sort of shield, and often he would find an excuse to get away. I once pointed out that if people invited guests they didn’t necessarily ask for anything in return.

“You are socially ignorant,” said Mama; then with resignation: “How could we expect anything else after the manner in which we have had to bring you up.” And I would be sorry I had given here another opportunity for reproaching my father.

On this occasion we were seated round the table in the really rather charming dining-room. The Dower House had been built at a later period than Oakland Hall, for it had been added in 1696 and there was a plaque over the porch to confirm this. I had always thought it a beautiful house and it was only when compared with the Hall that it could be considered small. It was built of brick with stone dressings, and the roof sprang from a carved cornice which, with the mullioned windows, gave great charm. The dining-room was lofty, although not large, and from its long windows we had a view of the lawn, which was Poor Jarman’s pride.

We sat at the mahogany table with its cabriole legs, which had once been at Oakland Hall.

“We were able to salvage some pieces,” Mama had said, ‘but to bring all the furniture from the Hall to the Dower House was impossible so we had to let some of it go. ” She spoke as though they had all been sacrificed, but I reckoned Mr. Henniker had paid a high price for them.

My father was at the head of the table saying scarcely anything; my mother at the other end kept a sharp eye on Maddy who had to serve at meal times in addition to her other duties a fact which Mama found more distressing than Maddy ever did and on my mother’s right hand was Xavier and on one side of my father Miriam and on the other myself.