by Sandra Heath
“R. Please do not leave for the country today as planned, for I must see you tonight. Je t’adore avec tout mon coeur. A.”
More tears stung Marigold’s eyes. Would he respond to this entreaty? Yes, of course he would.... Suddenly a gust of wind got up from nowhere. She shivered as from a perfectly still morning, a strong draft of almost chill air stirred over Mayfair. Her gaze was drawn up through the branches toward the golden bough of mistletoe as it swayed seductively. Then there was a fluttering sound, and the robin came to perch close by. The wind died away again as swiftly as it had arisen, and he gave a little warble, and puffed out his red breast.
“What shall I do now, Robin?” she asked him. He chirruped, then suddenly flew down to the hand that held the note. He was so light she hardly felt him as he began to peck angrily but ineffectually at the paper, as if it offended him too.
She smiled sadly. “I think you know how I feel, don’t you?” she murmured. He looked intently at her, as if urging her to something, and gradually an idea began to come to her. She had parted Rowan from Alauda last night at Vauxhall Gardens, and she’d keep them apart again now! And since Alauda thought it was clever to resort to forgery, her lover’s new wife would take a leaf from the same unethical book! The robin flew off with a defiant burst of song, and Marigold gathered her skirts to hurry back to the house, again being careful that no one saw her.
She went to Rowan’s study, and searched for paper that resembled as closely as possible that which Alauda had used. Then she smoothed out the original note, and sat down to fabricate one of her own, copying Alauda’s writing. It took several attempts, but at last she achieved a satisfactory result. “R. Do not alter your plans after all, for F. has announced we are to attend Holland House tonight. Remember always that I love you. A.”
Marigold studied it for a long moment. Was it convincing? Yes, the more she read it, the more she felt it would perform the necessary task. If Rowan received this, he would still leave for the country, and Alauda would wait in vain tonight. And serve the doxy right!
Smiling a little wickedly, Marigold returned to the garden to put the original note back where it had fallen, so that Rowan wouldn’t know it had been found. Then she made her way back to the house with her forgery, but when she reached the kitchens this time, she made her presence known. The servants were still seated comfortably around the table, enjoying an overlong breakfast in their master’s absence, and they started guiltily as she appeared in the doorway. The butler hurried to her. “My lady?”
“I was just about to walk in the garden, when someone’s footman arrived that way with this note for his lordship. Will you see he gets it the moment he returns from his ride?”
“Er, yes, my lady.” The butler glanced down at the note. He clearly suspected from whom it may have come, for his face went distinctly red and uncomfortable.
She feigned a little puzzlement. “Isn’t it a little unusual for footmen to deliver notes to the rear entrance?”
“It, er, does happen occasionally, my lady,” he replied awkwardly.
“I see.” She turned to go, but then hesitated. “I’ve changed my mind about walking in the garden, and wish a hot bath to be prepared.”
“Certainly, my lady.”
With a serene nod of her head, she walked away.
* * *
Marigold sank into the rose-scented water. Her hair was twisted up loosely on top of her head, and she leaned back against the soft pink cloth which was draped all around the shaped bath. She was being attended by her new maid, Sally, a dainty, dark-haired girl, half French, and very clever indeed with hair. To Sally, the new Lady Avenbury appeared the picture of relaxed contentment, but Marigold’s heart was pounding nervously. She knew Rowan had returned from his ride, but she had yet to see him. Had he received her forged note? Had it deceived him? Maybe he’d realized whose hand had really penned it... !
His tread was at the door. He knocked. “Marigold?”
At her nod, Sally hurried to answer. She bobbed a quick curtsy to him. “Please come in, my lord,” she said, then went out, closing the door behind her.
Hardly daring to meet his gaze, Marigold sank a little lower in the water. Suddenly her apprehension moved on two levels, for apart from her sleight of hand with the notes, she was self-conscious about last night. As he crossed the room toward her, she couldn’t tell anything from his face.
His hair was windswept from his ride, and he loosened his neckcloth as he halted by the bath. “Good morning, Lady Avenbury.” His tone conveyed nothing.
“Good morning, Lord Avenbury,” she replied, wishing she could read his face more than she could, but in spite of their night together, he remained closed to her.
“I trust I find you well?”
How stilted and formal the words sounded. Were they the prelude to an angry confrontation? Her heart quickened uneasily, but somehow she managed to reply lightly. “As I hope I find you?”
To her relief he smiled. “Then may I presume you are ready to face our journey to Wiltshire?”
Triumph coursed invisibly through her. “You may indeed, sir.”
“I felt the urge to ride in Hyde Park. I hope you didn’t mind me leaving you asleep like that?”
“Why should I mind?”
“Because it may not have seemed appropriate for you to awaken alone.”
She lowered her eyes. “I do not expect you to behave like an adoring husband, sir, for I realize this is a marriage of convenience.”
“So it is.”
“I still intend to defeat the curse by being your wife this time next year,” she said determinedly.
“You expect in vain, as you will realize when you arrive at Avenbury Park. There are portraits of every Lord Avenbury, and each one is a young man because none of them survived long enough to be painted in middle age.” He anticipated her next question. “I swear to tell you everything as soon as we get to Avenbury.” Then he turned to go, but hesitated at the door. “Breakfast will soon be served. I would like it if you joined me.”
The change of subject was so deliberate, that for a second she couldn’t reply. But then she found her tongue. “I would like that too.”
“Good.”
She couldn’t let him leave without saying more about the night they’d shared. It was foolish to feel so embarrassed about it. He was her husband now, and she was no shrinking virgin. “Rowan, about last night...”
“What about it?” he asked, returning to her.
She looked up into his eyes, and then quickly away again in dismay as her brief surge of courage faded. “I was a little abandoned. You must forgive me, I—I fear champagne goes to my head,” she said feebly.
He smiled. “I certainly will not forgive you, in fact I sincerely trust it wasn’t just the champagne. Marigold, I found it exceeding agreeable to have such an ardent wife.”
She colored. “You are a very skillful lover, sir. A woman would need to be oddly cold not to respond,” she said. A codfish, in fact, she added silently.
“It wasn’t the champagne, and I think you know it.”
Her cheeks were very pink. “Yes, I do.”
“You thoroughly enjoyed our wedding night, did you not?”
“It would be pointless of me to deny it, when every minute last night proved otherwise.”
“As it would be equally pointless of me to deny that I find you one of the most perfect lovers I have ever known.”
“I—I am?” Her eyes widened.
“Why are you so surprised? Surely you sensed as much?”
She longed to know how she compared with Alauda, but knew it would not be wise to ask. Besides, why remind him of his mistress at a time like this? Picking up her sponge, she squeezed warm, rose-scented water over her shoulders and breasts. “You forget how long it had been since I last shared Merlin’s bed,” she said then.
“I’m certainly reaping the benefit. What a fool Merlin Arnold must have been,” he added, watching the water trickle ov
er her skin.
“He didn’t make me feel as wonderful as you did last night,” she said frankly, her courage returning a little.
He bent down to draw a fingertip across one of her nipples. “You’re very tempting right now, Marigold,” he said softly. A thrill of anticipation warmed her, and her nipple tightened at his touch. He went on. “Have you ever shared a bath?”
“Shared ... ? No, I haven’t.” But I’d like to, oh, how I’d like to.
“It’s very pleasing, very pleasing indeed,” he murmured, pulling off his neckcloth, and then sitting down on a nearby chair to take off his footwear.
“But what of the servants? Sally may return!”
“Every servant in London knows better than to open a door behind which newlyweds may be ensconced.” He tossed his coat, shirt, and waistcoat aside, and then undid the buttons of his riding breeches.
It was not long before he stepped into the bath with her. The scented water splashed over the sides as they made love again, and at the ultimate moment, Marigold was so swept away in ecstasy that she cried out.
A maid who was feeding the birds in the garden glanced up at the window, then giggled and ran inside.
Chapter Fifteen
The journey from London had been tiring. Now it was late evening, and sunset’s long shadows stretched across the countryside. Marigold’s head lolled against the carriage’s rich green leather upholstery as she gazed out at nothing in particular. She wore a forget-me-not blue velvet spencer over a white muslin gown, and an artificial knot of the same flowers adorned the underbrim of her straw bonnet. Blue ribbons were tied beneath her chin, completing a fresh but fashionable appearance of which she was very well pleased. Privately she again thanked the capricious lady of fortune and fashion who had so providently canceled her order.
Opposite her, Rowan lounged on his seat. He wore a dark mustard coat and beige breeches, and a brown silk neckcloth burgeoned above his brown-and-beige striped waistcoat. His top hat and gloves lay beside him as he too gazed out of the window with a faraway look in his eyes. They had talked a lot at the beginning of the journey, and had eventually fallen into a companionable silence.
The Wiltshire scenery was now one of sweeping chalk escarpments, almost bare of trees, and rich river valleys, like the one through which they now drove. It was very beautiful and mellow, and not at all the place for anything so dark and wicked as an ancient druidic curse. The carriage negotiated a bridge, then the road swept sharply away to the north, skirting the eastern end of an escarpment toward a neighboring valley. The escarpment now blocked the sun’s fading light, and everything became suddenly more dark.
Rowan glanced out as if looking for something. At last he saw it. “The gates of Romans at last. It’s only another two miles now.”
She looked out too, and saw a sharp turning between high hedges. She caught a glimpse of plain stone-pillared gates, then the carriage had driven on too far. “Romans is a rather odd name,” she said.
“There are remains of ancient fortifications on the escarpment, and it has always been believed that they are the remains of a Roman fort. The house is just below the summit, and the eastern reach of the lake is at the foot of the hill. The lake is about two miles long, and curves around the foot of the escarpment from Avenbury Park.”
“It must be a very isolated house,” Marigold said, thinking of the escarpment.
“Yes, but originally it was just a hunting tower for the Norman lords of Avenbury, then in later medieval times a house was added. About thirty years ago my father decided to improve it into a gentleman’s residence, but due to the construction, a rather awkward feature had to remain. The only internal staircase is very steep, narrow, twisting, and unsafe, especially for ladies, and the only solution that didn’t involve tearing the whole place down was to construct a great balcony around the upper story, with an external staircase at the back.”
“You mean, that’s the only comfortable way upstairs or down, even in winter?” Marigold asked in astonishment.
“So it seems. It’s inconvenient, but although all tenants are informed, it doesn’t seem to deter them. They take the place because of its situation.”
“Does Romans belong to your estate?”
“Yes.”
“Who lives there?”
“No one, it’s been empty since the last tenant left in the autumn.” He sat forward to look up toward the shadowy escarpment. “That’s odd, I could swear I saw lights.”
She craned her neck to look. Romans itself was impossible to make out, but the faint glow of lighted windows gave its position away. “Yes, I see them too.”
He sat back. “My agent must have found a new tenant.”
The carriage descended into the new valley, where the sun’s last rays lay in banded lines. Marigold’s first glimpse of Avenbury village could only be described as eerie. She was ready to see the famous standing stones, but wasn’t prepared for the reality of a place so steeped in mystery it was second only to Stonehenge.
The light was strange, sometimes rich beams of crimson and gold sunset, sometimes deep shade, and Marigold felt almost spellbound as she gazed out of the carriage window. A summer mist was beginning to rise, adding so much to the air of mystery that when she saw a strange tall shape at the roadside, her imagination carried her away into thinking it was a very tall man shrouded in a long cloak. The form loomed so suddenly out of the gathering shadows that her instinctive fear was of a highwayman, but then she saw it was a standing stone, and a primitive shiver of fascination ran through her.
Rowan’s voice made her start. “Behold the first sentinel of Avenbury.”
“It—it gave me quite a shock,” she said, thinking how foolish she must sound.
Rowan smiled. “The stones are carved from local sandstone. There are boulders of it scattered all over this part of the world, and they should properly be called sarsens, but because from a distance they resemble flocks of sheep, they’re called graywethers.” He smiled. “Yet another piece of useless information from my endless store.”
She smiled too. “It isn’t useless information, I find it all very interesting.”
The carriage drove on, and another stone appeared, taller and more lozenge-shaped than the first. It stood on the inner bank of a water-filled moat about twenty feet wide, and curving away into the mist beyond, all lining the moat, stretched more stones. She had been told the henge enclosed the village and much of Avenbury Park, as well as the small common that stood at the actual center of the circle, and as the carriage drove on, she saw this was indeed so.
When the common came into view alongside, she saw ghostly sheep grazing on the close-cropped, lawn-like grass. There was a mystical atmosphere, as if echoes of the far-forgotten past were still sounding faintly in the modern air.
Rowan spoke again. “I see Avenbury already begins to exert its mystery upon you.”
“Yes, it does.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I had quite a shock when I saw that first stone. I thought it was a highwayman.”
“Something so modern? I would have thought that at the very least you’d expect a druid.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“How very pragmatic you are.”
“That’s the nature of this particular beast,” she replied.
“And a very agreeable nature it is too,” he murmured.
Smaller stones now lined the road as if it were a processional way, and then she saw cottages, a steepled church, and an inn, with a lantern hanging outside. The village had grown around a crossroad, at which the carriage turned west. Almost immediately, Avenbury fell away behind, and the common land appeared again. Marigold gave a start as Rowan reached up with his cane to rap loudly on the carriage roof. The coachman immediately applied the brakes and reined the team in.
Donning his top hat and gloves, Rowan flung open the door, and alighted. The mist swirled around him as he turned to extend his hand to her. “Come, it’s time to answer all your questions.”
>
She slipped her fingers into his, and stepped down. About one hundred yards away, in the very center of the henge, was the ancient oak tree Rowan had mentioned. It was surrounded by an almost protective inner circle of much smaller stones, which were blue instead of the gray of the great circle, and its leafy shadow was so dark and long that it disappeared into the mist that rolled very slowly in from the moat and the lake at Avenbury Park. Someone whistled, and she turned. A boy and his dog were rounding up the sheep, to drive them into shelter for the night.
Rowan began to lead her toward the tree, but then she halted as a duck flew overhead. It quacked several times, and she gasped. “I’m sure that was Sir Francis! He makes a very distinctive noise.”
Rowan raised an eyebrow at such a fancy. “Marigold, the lake in the park is full to the brim with ducks of every shape and size, and I promise you that one mallard sounds exactly like another. Besides, why on earth would Sir Francis come here?”
“I don’t know, but I still think—”
“Please, Marigold, right now ducks are the last thing on my mind.”
He pulled her hand over his sleeve again, and they walked on. The grass was soft beneath their feet, and as they passed through the small circle around the oak, the leaves rustled as a breath of air swirled the encroaching mist. She was reminded of that moment by the cherry tree, but this time there was no sign of Robin.
Rowan halted beneath the outspreading branches, then leaned back against the tree trunk. “First, I’ll tell you all I know of the curse. It commences with a legend. Before men, there were birds, who were all under the protection of Taranis, the god of thunder—”
“Taranis?” Marigold interrupted. “Why, that’s the god Perry and Bysshe were trying to raise.”
“No doubt because of Bysshe’s dratted volume of Stukeley.”
“Yes, I think it was. Anyway, forgive me for interrupting. Please go on.”
“Right. One day Taranis grew bored, and to amuse himself he turned some of his birds into people. That is how the human race is supposed to have begun. Anyway, in the sixteenth century, long after Taranis had faded into folk memory, a man came here to Avenbury who, with a dozen followers, secretly celebrated the old god’s rites again. This man was named Aquila Randle, and he was a doctor, philosopher, alchemist, and druid. His druidic power is said to have come from his possession of a potent talisman known as the anguinum, through the use of which the entire village fell under his influence.”