12

Simon opened his eyes with difficult. He was aware, first, of racking pains in all his joints; then that his head hurt. He moved, and groaned.

"Hush up, then, your Grace, my dearie," a voice exclaimed, just above his head. "Hush up a moment while Nursie changes the bandage and then you'll be all right and tight."

Simon hushed—indeed it was all he could do—and a pair of hands skillfully anointed his head with cool ointment and wound it in bandages. "That's better," the voice said, "isn't it now, your Grace? Now old Nursie's going to rub you with oil of lavender to keep off the rheumatics—lucky those jobberknolls brought some on the last shipment or it would have had to be cod-liver oil which, say what you like, is not so pleasant."

Without waiting for any reply the hands set to work, pummeling and massaging his aching body until he was ready to gasp with pain. But after a little he became used to the treatment, even found it lulling, and drifted asleep again. When he next woke he felt a great deal better. He raised himself on an elbow and looked about.

He was in a small, wooden, cabin-like room, one wall of which was almost entirely window. The room was neatly and simply furnished and the floor was covered with rush matting. A wood fire in a stone fireplace hissed and gave off green flames from sea wrack; the bunk in which Simon lay was covered with a patchwork quilt.

"I must be dreaming," he muttered.

"Dreaming? Certainly not. Nobody dreams in my nurseries. Get this down you, now, my precious Grace."

A firm arm hoisted him up and a cup was held to his lips. He choked over the drink, which was hot and had a strange, sweet, medicinal taste.

"What is it?"

"What is it? he asks. Doesn't know Nursie's own Saloop when he gets it! Best goat's milk, best Barbados (since those robbers won't bring me cane), best orris. You'll sleep easy after that, your Grace, lovey."

While she straightened his pillows Simon for the first time succeeded in getting a look at the person who called herself Nursie. She was a plump, elderly woman, enveloped in a white starched apron. She had a cheerful, rather silly face, and a quantity of gray-brown hair which she wore in an untidy bun on top of her head.

"Where's Dido?" Simon suddenly asked.

"Di-do-diddely-oh. Where's Dido? he asks, and well he may. Where indeed, for there's nobody of that name on this island, to my certain knowledge."

Simon's heart sank. "It is an island, then? Are there others?"

"No, my ducky diamond."

"Where did you find me?"

"Out there," she said, and lifted him so that he could see the sea. "We had a tiddely breath of a blow, yesterday, and when the clouds lifted a bit, Nursie looks out and what does she see? A lump of seaweed on a rock, she sees—only the seaweed has arms and legs and there never was seaweed on that rock before—so Nursie gets out the rowing boat and rows across to have a look. And there's his blessed Grace lying up to the knees in water—another half-hour with the tide coming in and you'd ha' been gulls' meat."

"Indeed I am very grateful," said Simon faintly "but wasn't there also a little girl called Dido, wearing a blue dress?"

"No, dearie," she said quietly.

"I must go out and look for her—and Justin too—" Simon exclaimed, struggling up. A spell of giddiness took him. With a disapproving cluck, Nursie laid him down again.

"Don't you worry your gracious head, my dearie. If the little girl's come to land, Nursie will know soon enough. The island's not so big. Why, there's only—"

Her words were interrupted by a timid knock at the door. She started.

"Well, there! Perhaps the boy wasn't dreaming. Unless it's the Hermit."

The door opened and a damp, miserable figure tottered in: Justin, with his soaked clothes in rags and his draggled hair dripping over a cut on his forehead.

"Fancy!" said Nursie. "If it isn't another of 'em. Well, you are a drowned pickle, to be sure!"

"Justin!" said Simon eagerly. "Have you seen Dido?"

"Oh, hilloo, Simon, are you there?"

Justin sank limply onto a wooden settle by the fire. "Dido? No, I've not seen her." He added listlessly, "I daresay she's drowned, if she hasn't turned up. I was, nearly. That wretched barrel broke on a rock. I think you might have found me something better."

His words were muffled, for Nursie had seized a large towel, enveloped his head in it, and was rubbing his hair dry. No sooner had she finished, and combed the hair back from his face, than she let out a shriek.

"Justin! My own precious poppet! My little long-lost lamb! My bonny little bouncing blue-eyed babby!"

She hugged Justin again and again.

"Hey!" protested Justin. "Who do you think you are? I ain't your blue-eyed babby—I'm Lord Bakerloo!"

"Oh no you ain't, my bubsy! You can't fool someone as has dandled you on her knee a thousand times. Why, I'd know that scar on your chin anywhere—that was where your pa dropped you in the fender—Eustace was always clumsy-handed—let alone you're as like him when he was young as two peas in a pod. And there's the mole on your neck and the bump on your nose. You're my own little Justin that I haven't seen since you was two years old."

"I'm not, I tell you! I'm Lord Bakerloo!"

"Dearie, you can't be," she said calmly. "He's Lord Bakerloo—him over there on the bunk—or the Dook o' Battersea if his uncle ain't living yet. How do I know? Because o' the Battersea tuft—I found it on the back of his head, plain as plain, when I was bandaging that nasty great cut he's got."

Battersea tuft? What did the woman mean? Was she mad? Simon put his hand up to his bandaged head in perplexity, and winced as he touched a tender spot. What tuft?

"You must be dicked in the nob," Justin persisted. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Who am I, my precious? Why, I'm your own ma, Dolly Buckle, that's who I am, and you're my precious little Justin Sebastian Buckle! Where's your pa, then, all these years, what's he a-doing now? I'll lay he's feathered his nest. Always a cold, cunning schemer was Eustace Buckle, planning on next Sunday's joint before this one was fairly into the oven."

"B-b-buckle?" stammered Justin. "You're trying to tell me he's my father? Oh, what a piece of stuff! I won't believe it! My father was Lord Henry Bayswater."

"Oh, no, he wasn't, dearie. And don't speak like that of Eustace. A good husband he may not have been, but a careful father he was. It was on account of that that I felt free to go off with Nat Dark (ah, and a snake in the grass he turned out to be, dumping me on this island because he said I talked too much). Oh, no, Master Henry Bayswater wasn't your father—who should know better than I, as dandled his lordship on my knee? He had two children, Master Henry did, or so I did hear, off in them Hanoverian parts, two children, a boy and a girl. You," she said to Simon, "you must be the boy, my precious lordship. What's your name?"

"Simon," he told her weakly.

"Simon? O' course it would be—after your dear Ma. Simone, she was, Simone Rivière, Lady Helen Bayswater's daughter, and own cousin to her husband."

"What? You mean I'm—But why should I—Oh, no, it can't be true," said Simon, sinking back on his pillow.

"Of course it isn't true!" exclaimed Justin angrily.

Nursie, or Mrs. Buckle, gave them a placid smile. "You'll allow I ought to know," she said. "I as is ma to one of you, and was nurserymaid in the castle when t'other one's Pa was a boy, until the black day I married Eustace Buckle."

"But I don't understand," Simon said. "If this mix-up happened—which I still can't believe—how did it come about?"

"Why, dearie, it's plain as plain. It's all along o' that scheming, artful Buckle. Always off on some plot or ploy, he was, leaving me lonesome with the babby. One time he goes off to Hanover. Well, my lad, thinks I, I'm off this time, too, so I goes on a cruise with Nat Dark."

"Leaving me?" exclaimed Justin in a voice squeaky with indignation. "Your own child?"

"Well, I couldn't take you on a ship, dearie. Puny little thing you were in those days. I left you in good care—with your Pa's sister Twite. Ah, I never did care for that shovel-faced Ella Twite," she added reflectively.

"So what happened?" Simon asked.

"Why, Nat Dark took a sudden dislike to me, dropped me on this island, and here I've been ever since. But what I'd guess happened to you is that Buckle got charge of Master Henry's children somehow—"

"Lord Henry died," Simon put in. "He and his wife both died in the Hanoverian wars." It seemed strange to think he might be speaking of his own parents.

"Eh, the poor young things! That'll be it, then. Buckle took the children, managed to cast 'em off somewhere (the hard-hearted villain, I'd tell him what I thought of him) and handed his own babby over to his Grace at Chippings Castle. But what happened to your sister, I wonder?" she said to Simon.

"I think I can guess."

"That Buckle, he's a deep one," she pursued. "Didn't he ever tell you he was your own father?" she asked Justin.

"No." Justin looked sick, as if, against his own wishes, he found himself forced to believe the story.

"I'll lay he would have when you got to be Duke. Then he'd have been in the driver's seat. Eh, would you ever believe such wickedness? Now I daresay you can do with a bite to eat, and you too, your lordship."

She bustled about, and presently fed them on ham and eggs.

"Mrs. Buckle," said Simon presently.

"Yes, my lovey? (Call me Nursie, do, it sounds so comfortable.)"

"Nursie, if Captain Dark left you on this island, what, fourteen years ago, how have you managed to live?"

"Eh, bless you, love, Nat Dark calls by from time to time on his way to Hanover, with a load of flour, or a pig, or a couple of pullets. I'll say this for him, he's a considerate rogue. But he always lies half a mile offshore and floats the things in on a raft for fear I'd scratch his eyes out if I caught him."

"I see," Simon said. He guessed that, once the conspiracy was under way, both Mr. Buckle and Captain Dark would have an interest in keeping the talkative Mrs. Buckle marooned for fear she should spill the beans.

"Is there nobody else on the island?"

"Only one other." Mrs. Buckle began to laugh. "Eh, he's a rum chap, if you like. I call him the Hermit. Captain Dark dropped him with the groceries last summer. I thought he'd be company, but, bless you! he's not one for a chat. Always painting, he is. 'Mrs. Buckle,' he says to me, 'forgive me, but you're interrupting my train of thought.' Eh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world."

Simon was on his feet with excitement. After the meal of ham and eggs he felt much stronger, almost his own self again.

"Where is he? Is he far from here?"

"Bless the lad, no, nubbut up at top of hill. But mind those legs, now, lovey, you're full weak yet—"

Clucking distractedly Mrs. Buckle followed Simon to the door, trying to fling a pea jacket around his shoulders. He hardly noticed. Behind the cabin was a heathery slope, grazed by a few sheep and goats. He ran up it, found it led to another, and that to a third, which ended in a high crag. At the foot of the crag someone had built a small shack—someone was sitting outside it, wrapped in a cloak, sketching.

"Dr. Field!" Simon shouted. "Dr. Field! Dr. Field! It's me—Simon! Oh, Dr. Field, I'm so glad to see you again! I thought I'd never, never find you!"