up there—’ she pointed at the rambling ivy ‘—the sooner I’ll be back with you, safe and sound.’
To Deb’s relief, not another objection was uttered. She could sense Luke’s and Francis’s tension as she grasped the ivy and began to climb, but she turned round from her perch and gave them a cheerful nod. ‘Go, both of you. I’ll be fine.’
She saw them cross the lawns in the rain, then weave through the sodden shrubbery. Any minute, she feared she might hear the barking of Hugh Palfreyman’s guard dogs, or the shouts of his groundsmen, but, no; Luke and Francis made it to the wall and inwardly she cheered them on. Up and over. That’s the way.
Taking a deep breath, Deb pulled down her cap over her thick chestnut curls and pressed on with the scariest and most necessary climb of her life.
* * *
Triumph over adversity. That was an apt motto for the troupe of travelling actors who moved between fairs and country markets each year from March to December, with their old carts full of costumes and scenery. The Lambeth Players were Deb’s family and her life.
She’d initially resolved to complete her task today without telling a soul. But as ill luck would have it, sharp-eyed Francis, the senior actor, had spotted Deb saddling one of their horses outside the Angel Inn on the outskirts of Oxford where the Players were staying, and of course he wanted to know exactly where she was off to.
In the face of his determination—we swore to Gerald O’Hara that we’d take care of you and we will!—she’d been forced at last to tell him that she was riding to Hardgate Hall. That she was, to be precise, planning to enter Hardgate Hall in secret—though she refused to tell him precisely why. Glibly she’d dismissed the dangers—it would be an easy matter, Deb assured Francis, for her to get in and out of the house in no time at all.
But Francis’s face was a picture. In fact, he was horrified, and he made so much fuss that she at last consented to let Francis and Luke accompany her on the ride through the Ashendale Forest. And here she was; though she was beginning to have the sinking feeling that this whole idea of hers was a bad mistake.
And the rain didn’t help. What if she slipped, or the ivy gave way? It was a long way to fall. Or what if someone came round this side of the house? A gardener, or even a gamekeeper with a gun... Stop it. Stop it. Carefully finding footholds with the toes of her lace-up boots—don’t look down, whatever you do—she could only be grateful she was as wiry and nimble as a boy.
‘Why, there’s nothin’ to you, lass. You’re all skin and bone,’ the innkeeper’s wife had declared last night, slamming down a bowl of rather greasy stew before her in the shabby public room of the inn. ‘You need to put on a bit of flesh if you’re to catch yourself a man!’
Just at that moment, her own spouse—a surly creature who was over-fond of his homebrewed ale—had come in, and Deb thought, Catch myself a man like yours? No, thank you.
Deb didn’t want a husband. Her dream was to establish a theatre for the Players—a proper theatre, in London—instead of them having to tramp round the country every season. And after today, she would be able to concentrate on her dream once more. Hugh Palfreyman, you might be a Justice of the Peace. But you are nothing to me, she breathed as she clambered on up the ivy. And I will teach you that you interfere with the Lambeth Players at your peril!
At last, the small window was within her reach. Heaving it open, she hauled herself in, knowing that at last she was in the forbidden domain of her uncle—and not a sound pierced the silence, except for the thudding of her own heart.
* * *
Her mother had wept after that visit to Hardgate Hall sixteen years ago and Deb had crept into her arms ‘Mama? Mama?’
‘My darling girl.’ Her mother had hugged her tightly. ‘I shouldn’t have taken you there. But I’d thought—I’d hoped...’
Deb couldn’t understand how anyone could want to make her sweet mother cry. ‘Is he a bad man, that man in the big house?’
‘That man is my brother,’ her mother said quietly. ‘He is many years older than me and became master of Hardgate Hall when I was still a child. I thought he might have changed. I was wrong.’
‘But why was he so cruel to you, Mama?’
‘I think he is very unhappy. I think he always was. He was a solitary creature and used to go out for long rides alone, or lock himself away in a room upstairs for hours on end. I think he had secrets.’ She’d added, half to herself, ‘And what those secrets were, I never wished to find out.’
Deb heard her mother recounting the same tale to Gerald O’Hara months later. I used to wonder why he allowed no one but himself in that room up in the north wing. None of the servants ever entered it. The room was on the second floor; the door was locked and only he had the key...
Deb progressed steadily along the passageway, trying door after door; only to find that not one was locked, and each room she peered into contained nothing but old furniture shrouded with dust sheets.
And then—just as she was beginning to fear that she’d got everything wrong—she came to a door that wouldn’t open. Swiftly she pulled out her small, sharp-pointed knife, used it to slip the lock and stepped inside, alert and aware. In the centre of the room stood a big old mahogany desk, behind it a leather armchair. Heavy red-velvet curtains half-shrouded the windows and every wall was lined from floor to ceiling with books.
This was a private library, a secret library. But it wasn’t because her uncle Hugh Palfreyman was a scholar of the classics or some other clever subject. Far from it.
* * *
A little over a week ago Deb had visited the stall of a travelling bookseller at the Oxford market, for she was constantly on the lookout for any half-forgotten plays for her company to use. Comedies, tragedies, it didn’t matter which, as long as they kept the crowds entertained.
‘Aren’t you the young lady from the Lambeth Players?’ the bookseller had enquired. ‘I saw your lot doing that fight scene from Tamburlaine on the village green the other night. By heaven, it was a treat.’
‘I’m so glad you enjoyed our performance,’ said Deb politely. She glanced through a few more books laid out on his stall—no, nothing much of interest there—then went to investigate a box at the back. But the bookseller dived across to stop her.
‘Oh, no, missy. Those books in there ain’t for the likes of you. They’re—’ he coughed ‘—they’re some serious works of literature. For my private customers only.’
Deb had already glimpsed two of the titles. Serious works of literature? That was a joke. Artistic Treasures of Venus. Classical Collections for Gentlemen of Discernment... She would stake her life that every single one of them was packed with erotic prints and libidinous tales.
‘I’m sure you’ll get a very good price for them,’ she told the bookseller demurely and moved on.
But a little later, when she happened to be passing back that way, she saw the bookseller deep in conversation with someone else, and her heart began hammering against her chest. She’d been only six years old when she last saw him; but Hugh Palfreyman had changed very little, in Deb’s opinion, except that perhaps his beaked nose was more protuberant
