Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

He took her hand, kissed her fingers. ‘No, manushi, I’m not laughing … see, we gyppos, when we marry we don’t need no church, no service. Some of ‘em have ‘em, but most place hands to hearts … when they beat as one, well, then they’re married.’

She didn’t know whether he was serious or not, because he had such a strange smile on his face. But she could feel the imprint of his hand on her breast, as if her heart were on fire. She looked into his eyes, and he drew her gently to him. His kiss was so sweet, his lips hardly brushed hers, and it was Evelyne who reached for him, pulled him to her … the burning in her heart spread through her whole body, and she clung to him.

He reached over and slowly undid each button of her blouse. She didn’t resist, but lay still until it was undone completely, and he pulled it gently away from her breasts. Her skin was white, white, her breasts had the palest pink nipples he had ever seen … He bent his dark head and kissed each nipple in turn, then lay his head on her breast and felt the pounding of her heart.

He whispered, ‘Manushi, my manushi…’ Gently, unhurriedly, he slipped her boots off, untying each lace and easing them away from her feet, kissing her toes, light, featherweight kisses. He unhooked her skirt, and she did nothing to assist him, lying with one arm across her face, eyes closed. He lifted her in his arms and pulled the skirt from beneath her until she was naked, and then he laid her down on her skirt. She was frightened, afraid to open her eyes, to see him, see his face. He stood up and slipped out of his trousers until he too was naked, and stood looking down at her for a moment. Then he lay next to her, she could feel his heart and she waited, but he didn’t touch her. Her whole body was burning, her mouth dry, her heart pounding as if it were going to burst through her breasts.

She lowered her hand from her face and let it rest at her side. She could feel his skin. Slowly turning her body to face him, looking into his eyes, she put her hand to his heart. He smiled and laid his hand on her heart.

He made love to her gently, guiding her, making sure he didn’t hurt her or make her afraid, and when he was sure of her, knew by the movements of her body that she was ready, he let loose his passion. Evelyne rose with him, moved with him, and they were insatiable, their greed for each other consuming. She made love with a rage, until she was released by an explosion inside her body that in turn released her mind. It was such an exquisite emotion that she wanted it over and over again.

She slept safe in the crook of his arm. He studied her face. She sat at peace now, and she was his. He would never let her go, she was his manushi, his wife.

She was shy at first when she woke, covering her naked breasts with her hands. He made her take her hands away, telling her she was more beautiful than any wild-flower they could see. To assure her of this, he gathered wild cornflowers till his arms were filled with them and laid them over her body.

‘Oh, these were my Ma and Da’s favourite.’

There was no pain when she said their names. Her grief had gone as her loved ones had been embraced and kissed goodbye. Then together they laid cornflowers on the grave.

‘Now, gel, which way would you say London was?’

‘London?’

‘Aye, I’m to be a champion boxer, I signed a contract. Sir Charles said he’d give thee work … Come, give us yer hand, gel.’

Freedom had made a crown of cornflowers. She laughed when he set it gendy on her head! Then arm in arm they walked down from the mountain, away from the grave. Evelyne’s gentle, delighted laugh echoed back to them, like the soft whisper of Mary Jones …

‘Leave the valley, Evie, promise me …’

SIR Charles Wheeler’s estate was twenty miles from Salisbury, After passing through Andover, the route then wound through mile upon mile of country lanes. Eventually, small, white, hand-painted wooden signposts directed the traveller towards ‘The Grange’ and along lanes only wide enough for a single vehicle, so that it seemed as though The Grange might be only one of the numerous farms buried among the fields and woods.

The arched stone entrance, with gates twenty feet high, set in six-foot stone walls, gave no indication of what lay beyond. The driveway was of gravel, raked smooth, and showed no tracks, but the hedgerows and the profusion of rhododendron bushes with their bright pink and purple blooms gave a hint of what lay beyond. The bushes gave way to a stretch of oak trees half a mile wide, their thick trunks and massive branches joining in an arch, and still the driveway continued.

After a further mile through the magical bower, The Grange itself was still not in sight until, rounding a curve, there it was, standing in such splendour it took the breath away. Hundreds of rose bushes covered immaculate sloping lawns which bordered the horse-shoe drive. A vast fountain sprayed fans of water twenty feet from the open mouths of marble dolphins. Glittering mermaids rode on the creatures’ backs, hands outstretched to welcome visitors. But dominating it all was The Grange, a majestic, overpoweringly beautiful house. Six white pillars flanked the fifteen marble steps to the arched entrance. Three storey high, built in white sandstone, the house was awe-inspiring in its size and architectural proportions.

On each side were more lawns and gardens, with lily ponds and statues. Paths led to the outhouses, stables, barns and, hidden behind a bank of trees, a farm with sprawling, well-kept fields. Behind were more gardens, a man-made lake, and mile upon mile of forest and sloping hills. The Grange dominated the thousand acres surrounding it with such power that any onlooker bowed to its presence.

Also behind The Grange were staff quarters for those who worked the land. In comparison with the house, their cottages were like rows of dolls’ houses. The stables were more splendid, with vast paddocks containing a herd of the finest hunters, groomed by a score of stable boys. The ground staff numbered thirty-five; gardeners, gamekeepers, huntsmen. In addition, there were more than twenty full-time staff employed to run the house. Cooks, butlers, footmen, pantry-maids, valets; all quartered on the very top floor of The Grange … the personal estate of Sir Charles Wheeler.

Rawnie blew a circle of smoke from her hand-rolled cigarette. It drifted and curled above her head in a blue haze. She closed her eyes. She stood high on the brow of a hill overlooking The Grange. Next to her stood Jesse, chewing a long piece of grass, as handsome as ever. He shaded his eyes to look down into the paddocks below.

‘Do ye see him?’

‘Aye, it’s him, cross the paddocks, running like a hare … Mun runs for ‘em like one of their grys … look at.’im.’

Way below her Rawnie watched the running figure of Freedom. Behind him was a motorcar, and they could see a boy standing on the running board, shouting and waving his arms at Freedom.

With one eye on his stopwatch and the other on the road, Ed Meadows swerved the car, almost knocking the boy off the running board. He put his foot down on the accelerator, and closed the gap between the car and Freedom. ‘Tell ‘im to ease off, that’s enough for today.’

The boy shouted, but Freedom continued to run. If anything, he picked up speed.

‘Jesus God, ‘e’ll run ‘imself ter death.’

Ed tooted the horn and drove alongside Freedom. ‘Hey, hey, that’s it, — Freedom … come on, lad, ease yerself down.’

Freedom turned his head towards Ed, but ran on. He had a look on his face that Ed had become accustomed to, a strange, defiant stare. Eventually Ed drove in front of Freedom and turned the car across the lane, got out and shouted at him in a fury, hands on hips. ‘When I say you’ve ‘ad enough I mean it. You’ve run more’n fifteen miles and we got to go an’ work out, you tryin’ ter kill yerself?’