An enthralling historical romance played out between North Devon's wild coast and moors and the mountains and river-crossed plain of Alsace.The beautiful, red-haired Sarah Durrant is an uneducated servant who takes the place of her mistress when she suddenly dies at Lynmouth, as they are travelling to Ilfracombe across the remote wilderness of 18th century Exmoor
Excerpt:
He was introduced plainly as Jean Luc de Delacroix, a member of the Royal Society, whose studies were following in the path already trodden by Mark Catesby. She was aware of a ripple of anticipation going through the audience, which had become so numerous that people were having to stand at the back. She realised it was now too late to escape and sat in resignation, angry at her own recklessness.
His voice was strong and clear and, in spite of her agitation, she felt herself drawn almost hypnotically into the world he was describing; his years of travelling distilled into an eagle’s eye view of a vast, river- scored land, lake-jewelled and mountain-ridged. A tree-quilted countryside; spruce, firs and pines, dark green against glittering ice and snow; woods of sweet gum, cedar, red oak, maple and walnut; red, white and black mangroves sinuously emerging from brackish, southern swamps; and everywhere embroidered with flowers, whose very names were colour-rich; black eyed Susans, purple fringed orchids and golden rod.
She saw flocks of passenger pigeons, so numerous they blackened the sky, blotting out the sun, making oak tree boughs break under their weight. She saw the wood bison in the Appalachian forests and felt the earth shudder beneath migrating herds of caribou. Exotically plumed birds flew around her and she marvelled at the Carolina parakeet and the pintera, a wood pecker with a beak like ivory. Rattlesnakes, copperheads, water moccasins, scorpions and tarantulas made her shiver, and the sing-song quality of native words like ‘Cherokee,’ ‘Okeechobee’ and ‘Pahayokee,’ all added to the beauty and strangeness of the picture in her mind. He spoke quickly, almost without pausing for breath, often looking in her direction, and she noticed that his clothes appeared to have taken on a life of their own. His cravat was askew, his coat hung oddly, his hair had escaped from its tie and was hanging, dark and thick, onto his broad shoulders. She felt an over-riding urge to straighten his garments and present him, perfectly attired, to this gathering of sombrely dressed men, every one of whom was
wearing the customary wig.
“And now may I show various specimens of plants to you from the New World, and one very special creature,” he concluded his talk and watched as footmen carried in plants in tubs of earth and a small crate.
“Can I ask how many men died in your travels? Was it a very dangerous undertaking?” a man enquired.
“We did have to take many risks in the wilderness, it’s true, but no one died as a result. Two men were killed in battle and another man died from the smallpox.”
At the suggestion that he and his men had been engaged in fighting, she noticed that the room grew quiet. She could feel the hostility directed towards him that she had encountered at the Vinnicombe’s and suddenly understood her naivety. He had been fighting on the wrong side, she realised. He was partly French and had been fighting against the English. She was
horrified and her spirit was almost at one with the general sentiment in the room. He, however, completely ignored any undercurrent in the gathering and walked over to her.
“Madam, I hope I have entertained you. May I now reveal my surprise.”
He held out his arm and she was forced to accompany him to the wooden crate. He carefully opened the side and she looked in amazement at the largest spider she had ever seen. Its eyes were protruding, its segmented legs were long and hairy and it could only be described as indescribably ugly.
Speechless, she stared at the monster, which was about the size of a sparrow.
“Do you like it?” he asked, smiling like a father at his new-born child. “I thought you might.”
“Yes,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes off the fascinating creature. People crowded round, jostling and pushing. Gasps of astonishment could be heard, followed by a hushed silence.
She had a vision of Miss Vinnicombe and the snake, and in a moment of premonition knew exactly what was going to happen. The next second, several ladies, and one gentleman, screamed so piercingly that the windows rattled. Pandemonium ensued. Handkerchiefs were frantically flapped to give air to the hysterically affected ones and in all the commotion she saw the black boy sidle up to the crate, then poke its occupant with a jewelled pin he
extracted from his turban.
“No!” she shrieked, but it was too late, as the spider was propelled out of his home and landed awkwardly on the floor. People dashed out of its way, opening a path for it, somewhat in the manner of Moses and the Red Sea. Jean Luc lunged forwards, but it skittered sideways through peoples’ legs, making a clattering noise as it ran over the wood floor.
She had never seen a room in such an uproar and she looked crossly at the black child, who had taken refuge behind his master. The obese lady had fallen to the ground and lay twitching, her canary-yellow stomach protruding like a mountain, high above the rest of her body.
She ran to the door as that had seemed to be the direction in which the spider had been heading. The air was cool and fresh on her face and she gulped it in gratefully. A quick scrabbling movement of black by the sheep pen attracted her attention and she thought she could see the spider. Then, to her amazement, one of the blond horsemen who had accompanied them and who was standing by the wicker fence, gave a strong kick with his booted foot and sent the object flying among the sheep.
She ran up to him. “What have you done!” she screamed, beside herself with anger.
“How dare you!”
He looked insolently down at her and she realised that Jean Luc de Delacroix might well be the only person in his entourage who was happy to travel with snakes, spiders and raccoons. His iron-grey eyes looked familiar. His strong, large body blocked her view of the sheep pen and it suddenly came to her that she was looking at a younger version of Heinrich Scheyer. Her fear of him made her wary of challenging the man any further. She pushed past and with a complete disregard for her silk dress, plunged into the mud-caked, evil smelling flock of sheep who scattered in panic and huddled against the far side of the pen.
In the earthen space now left bare, she could see the forlorn, trampled on body of the spider. It was clearly dead. Its legs were twisted oddly and it had lost an eye. She picked it up, cradling it in her hand and left the enclosure, glaring at the Alsatian soldier as she did so.
Carol Anne Dobson
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