Chapter 4 #2
“I walked. Couldn’t risk going near Rochester, nor Gravesend, so I kept to the country lanes and rested in the woods when I couldn’t walk no more, and drank from streams. And I went south and west and on the second day I met a cove who agreed to bring me some old clothes and some boots if I gave him the half-crown I had in my belt.
Poacher, he was, I reckon. And he took my sailor’s rig and gave me this hemmed pedicular jacket along with a pair of boots which don’t fit and a heading for Sevenoaks, and here I am. ”
My heart was beating like a drum. He was hardly hidden, here in my stables. And while we had had no callers since he had arrived, all manner of people came to the rectory all the time. And I had not told my folk not to say anything about him. I had not known I ought to.
“But will anyone be after you? Will we get in trouble?”
He shook his head. “I ain’t that important.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain sure.” He glanced at me in the dark, and his tone was familiar, one boy to another. “Don’t you worry, Master Willie. Wouldn’t have come if I’d thought it’d make trouble for you.”
My breathing slowed. He had never lied to me about such things and indeed had more than once taken a beating upon himself to save me one.
“Well, that is all right then,” I said.
“But I do need a place. And I cannot go to port towns, nor Marshing neither, for someone might recognise me and know me for a sailor. And I dursen’t go back to sea, Master Willie. I can’t. Would kill me to do so, I expect.”
“Did you see battle, Jem?”
“Aye.”
His voice was so low I could barely hear it. I wanted to ask him a hundred questions: where and when and which ships and under whose command and what it had been like, but something in his voice stopped me.
Instead, I said, “Will you tell me about it?”
He shook his head. “Begging your pardon, but I don’t like to, see? Brings it all back. All I want is to forget it. I want to work in a garden again and live quiet. Should never have run away. Boy’s dreams. Dangerous. Didn’t know when I was well off. You know…”
He fell silent and I said, “Yes?”
“Do you remember—” he spoke as if dredging the words up from some very deep place, “—that place behind the raspberry canes in your Pa’s old garden? In Marshing. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. There was moss in the grass, and the hazel trees just there, weren’t they, so the raspberries had some shade but could lift up their heads to the sun. Often went there, didn’t we? Couldn’t be seen from the house, there, nor from the road neither. Half-way secret, it was.”
“I often remember it,” I said. “I thought of it today because it was where we met. We ate raspberries there, from your hands.”
“That we did. Well, I used to think of that place, at sea. I’d bring it all up, like, in my mind, and try to remember whether there was speedwell or self-heal at the edges, or both, and whether it was a thrush singing or a lark.
And you was with me and it was safe, see, because you was keeping a lookout.
And then I could go to sleep. Kept me going, that place.
And I know I shall probably never see it again, but there are other places like it around these parts, I’ll lay, if you will let me stay. ”
“Let you stay?” I frowned in the dark. “But it is already all decided, is it not?”
“Don’t change nothing? What I have told you?”
“Of course not. Why should it?”
“You always did have your own opinion of the world, Master Willie.”
I could hear the smile in his voice. I liked to hear it, but it worried me too, because there was something here I had not understood.
“Doesn’t everyone?” I said.
“Well, aye, but you know what I mean. Always had your own way of seeing matters, different from the common view. Or you did. I did wonder, being as how you’re a parson now and a man grown besides, that you might be different, but that was my mistake.”
His words frightened me, for they made me realise a fresh danger with him in my household.
“No, no,” I said, rather desperately, “Your mistake is otherwise. You must understand, I have a position to uphold. I am the rector of Hunsford. My opinions are not different or unusual. I comport myself always in a manner fitting for a rector. I am respectable and hold only those opinions that are fitting for a rector. Lady Catherine expects it. As do my parishioners.”
There was a short pause, then he said, slowly and seriously, “I see. Of course. Beg pardon, Master Willie, sir. You are quite right and I was mistook.”
“I do not see things differently from the common view,” I said, desperate to make sure he understood.
“No, no. I beg your pardon. I would unsay that, if I could.”
“I am the rector .” It was essential to impress this point upon him. Essential.
“I understand. Certain sure.”
There was some deep sympathy in his voice that blunted the edge of my fear. All the same, I added, “Jem, you must never say to anyone that I have unusual opinions or do or say anything unusual. Do you see? Not even to Milly or Mrs Fowke or George. Or anyone.”
“Never give you away, I won’t. Never. ‘Tis all right. You mustn’t worry.”
“It’s important. I have to be the rector.”
“Aye. I know. I promise.”
We sat for some moments in silence, for which I was very glad as I needed time to recover my equilibrium.
Presently, he said, “I can see a star. Moon’s that bright I thought we wouldn’t.”
I looked up. “I can see several.”
“That one—” he pointed, “—they call the harp.”
“I always look for the hunter.”
“Ah, we shall not see him tonight. Too early in the year.”
“I know. But he’s my favourite. Because of his dog. And the rabbit at his feet.”
“Aye. Used to look for him at sea.”
We sat a little longer in contemplation of the heavens and my mind began to thaw and I could think again.
“But, Jem, will you not explain why what you have told me should change anything?”
“Well,” He spoke reluctantly, “Some folk would say I should go back and do my duty.”
Now he had set it out, it was obvious, though it also seemed unreasonable that he should be asked to stay forever doing something so dangerous and so inimical to him.
“But you have done your duty for long enough, surely? You did it nine years or more.”
“Aye, but some might name me a coward, sir. When we are fighting for our freedom because old Boney will not stop at home.”
I could see this was a strong argument. What were the desires of one man, when set against the needs of a nation at war? What even the desires of two men? Because I certainly did not want him to go back to die in some blue Spanish sea.
My thoughts grew thick and slow again. Trafford would have helped me produce a stirring speech; something about how Jem should place his hope in the protection of Heaven and remember the pluck of our jolly Jack Tars, and so on, but for some reason I did not want to turn to Trafford with Jem.
In fact, the idea was so distasteful, I shuddered.
“Cold, ain’t you?” Jem said. “I’d give you this jacket but you don’t want what comes along of it.”
“I’m not cold. Listen, you have given nearly ten years to the navy.
Surely you are due some time on land? If the French invade, we are but twenty miles from London, and they will doubtless overrun all Kent.
We have already lost a lot of men hereabouts to the war.
There are more than twenty widows in the parish and some of them have lost sons too.
Though it is true not all of them are war widows.
Mrs Watt’s husband was kicked in the head by a horse, for example, and Mrs Lambard’s died of a very violent stranguary, but her son died at Walcheren so she has very little, you know, having lost the farm.
And there are three widows in the alms-houses who may not be relevant to my argument because they are very old and I don’t know how their husbands died.
But my point is that there are fewer men than there were.
And you could join the local militia, if need be.
They are all just local men, from Rosings and the village, and Mr D’Aubney drills them three times a week, though not at harvest time because then everyone is needed in the fields.
Also, growing potatoes at the parsonage is important too.
” Speaking of the widows had reminded me.
“Because people are hungry, even in times of war, or perhaps especially then. I am hoping to have plenty of potatoes this year so we may give a lot away.”
“So, I may stay then?”
“Of course!”
He put a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. His voice wavered. “Should have known you would not turn me away. You always were loyal. Always good to me. Always.”
“I want you with me.” My words were plain truth, but somehow they seemed to linger in the air, as if I had said something more meaningful than I knew.
“Aye.” He cleared his throat. “Aye.”
The stable wall had cooled and although I had said I was not cold a moment ago, I was growing cold now. Jem yawned suddenly and I found myself yawning too.
“I should go to bed,” I said.
“Aye.”
“I’m glad you have told me everything.”
“Me and all.”
I shifted forwards on the bench, but as I did so I turned to look at him and he spoke again.
“Strange, ain’t it? Some lies rest easy in the heart.
Don’t matter, they don’t, and I’d tell them again.
Like telling the pressers I’d go with them.
Don’t feel like a lie, that don’t, because them as who you’re telling would do you harm if you told the truth.
But some lies just rub and rub and won’t give you no peace.
I should have known I cannot lie to you.
Anyway, I shall sleep now. Thank you, Master Willie. I shall do my best for you. Always.”
“Good night, Jem,” I said.
“Good night.”
With that, I made my way back through the cool of the garden. I suppose I barred the door and that I was careful on the stairs. I must have undressed and put on my nightshirt, but the next thing I noticed was the pillow beneath my cheek and sleep overtook me.