by Ellen Datlow
“Oh, yes. Ages ago. She is a grandmother now.”
“I cannot imagine it,” said Seeley, shaking his head.
“No, I suppose not,” said Gordon. “It’s odd, isn’t it, how people we have not seen for a long time remain unchanged in our imaginings. We know the years pass. We see time’s effect on our own countenances in the mirror, but still we picture absent friends as if they were immune to time. Why, seeing you was a bit of a shock, Seeley, for you have been twenty in my mind’s eye lo these many years.”
Seeley scarcely seemed to be listening. “So she is old now,” he murmured.
“Up in years, but not frail. Why don’t you come along and see for yourself, Seeley? I’m sure she’d be delighted to have you turn up. I am here on a matter of business, but our meeting will not take a great deal of time, and she always has me stay to supper afterward. Do say you’ll come along. It’s always pleasant to meet old friends. I know she would agree.”
“I might bring back unpleasant memories …”
“You can hardly think she needs reminding of them. And there have been more horrors since then. The War, you know … she lost her son and I lost mine. We will talk of happier days.”
“I will come,” said Seeley. “If you are certain that my visit will not be a burden to her in any way. Er … perhaps I ought to dine elsewhere?”
Gordon laughed. “Sarah will hardly grudge you your cutlet, Seeley. She is rather well-off, even in these uncertain times. There was an inheritance from her mother’s family, and then she married well—an older man of private means. He was wealthy enough to do whatever he fancied in life, and he chose to pursue his muse, which was poetry, at the university. He was, as I said, a good bit older than she, and he died three years ago, but Sarah has been fortunate enough to keep her health, and there is sufficient money to keep her in comfort, so I should not call her life a tragic one at all—mindful of course of what the Greeks said.”
“Eh—the Greeks?”
“The ancient ones, Seeley. They said: Call no man happy until he is dead. We learnt that in old Brunson’s class at Winchester, you know.”
“Oh, that. ‘Course we did. Couldn’t think what you meant at first.” Seeley gave him a tentative smile. “Imagine Sarah still being at Oxford. Been there all her life then.”
“Well … she went away for a bit, you know, after the inquest. I believe it was during her stay with relatives in Cornwall that she met Sir Alfred. She is Lady Beldon now. I’m afraid people made rather a joke of the name at first. One of the picture papers printed her photograph with the caption The Beldon Sans Merci … They were still angry, of course.”
“Angry?”
“That she had not been hanged.”
RIPARIAN, THE HOME of the widowed Lady Beldon, lay well beyond the outskirts of Oxford, amid wide lawns and well-tended gardens that sloped down to a grove of trees on the banks of the Thames itself. From the low wall that separated the property from the lane, one could see an expanse of lush green grass, and on a rise beyond that stood the long, low Queen Anne house of mellowed rose brick, its rows of French windows opening out on to a flagstone terrace. The windows caught the light of the early afternoon sun, and the old bricks shone in the heat of the September afternoon, giving the scene a warm and drowsy air. Just beyond the property, the road ended in a dusty circle at the edge of a wood.
“End of the lane,” said the taxi driver, nodding toward the house. “Lovely place, innit? Looks right out over the river at the back, lucky souls. Enjoy the day while you may, gentlemen. Clouds coming in afore dark.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Gordon, counting the coins out into the driver’s outstretched hand. “I don’t doubt you’re right.” He was relieved to know that the local people had forgotten the Darcy tragedy, as the case was called then. It was natural enough, he supposed. The taxi man had not even been born when those events occurred. But Sarah herself had not forgotten. The windows of her sitting room on the back of the house were heavily curtained, and even in high summer they were never open to the view of the river. He turned to Seeley. “Let’s go along in,” he said. “And, Mungo, do try to be cheerful.”
Seeley wondered later just what he had been expecting when he met Sarah Darcy after all these years. Despite what he had said about being unable to imagine her old, he had imagined being ushered into the presence of a stooped and gaunt old woman, wreathed in black mourning clothes, and somber with the weight of that old tragedy bearing down upon her spirit. But he had been wrong.
As soon as Gordon and Seeley set foot upon the checkered marble floor of the entrance hall, they were met by a smiling woman whose hair seemed more blonde than gray, and whose elfin manner was as sunny as the primrose tea gown she wore with such careless elegance. The years had indeed been kind to Sarah Darcy. She was no longer a girl of nineteen, it was true, but she carried the decades lightly with no trace of sorrow for herself … or for anyone else. Before Seeley could dwell on that last thought, she had enveloped him in a brisk hostessy hug, brushing his cheek with her lips, and exclaiming, “But it’s dear old Mungo! I cannot believe it. Neville, you are an absolute wizard! Where on earth did you find him?”
Gordon smiled. “I can take no credit for that conjuring trick, I’m afraid. He turned up in my compartment on the train, and I insisted that he come along with me. I knew you’d be pleased.”
Her smile flickered only for an instant. “Why, of course!” she said. “I’m too delighted to see you both, and you must promise that you will stay to dinner and tell me every single thing that you have been doing since I last saw you.”
Mungo’s tanned face turned a deeper shade of red. “That shouldn’t take long to tell,” he said gruffly. “Been a soldier for most of the time. Knocked about the world a bit. Never married, y’know. Just me now.”
Sarah nodded.“Just me,” she said with a trace of sadness in her voice. “It all comes down to that in the end, perhaps.” She turned back to Gordon. “You mustn’t mind me,” she said, tapping him playfully on the arm. “Just a sad moment. But we have things to attend to, and it will be better to have it over with, so that I can enjoy your visit.”
Gordon nodded. “We shan’t be long.”
“Well, perhaps a bit longer than usual,” said Sarah. “I have some papers for you to look over, concerning the Beldon properties in London.”
Gordon nodded. “Of course. We must go over those as well as … the other. Perhaps Mr. Seeley will excuse us for a bit.”
“Yes, that would be best,” said Sarah, tugging at a bell pull. “Cunningham will show you into the library, Mungo. I know how much you’ve always loved poring over musty old books. And we shall be out to take tea with you before you know it.”
A tall, sepulchral manservant arrived as if on cue to conduct Seeley away to the library. As they left the marble entrance hall, he heard the drawing-room doors close behind Gordon and Sarah. It occurred to him then that the lawyer had not carried a briefcase with him. “He hasn’t got any papers with him,” Seeley said aloud. “How can they be conducting legal business?”
Cunningham permitted himself a discreet cough. “It is not my place to comment upon the mistress’ affairs,” he said. “But perhaps Sir knows about the ritual imposed upon her ladyship many years ago at the … er … um … the trial.”
Seeley stared. “The trial. Of course. I remember … but that was forty years ago. Surely they abandoned all that ages ago?”
“Oh, no, Sir,” Cunningham intoned. He had stopped in front of a carved oak door, almost black with age. “The judge’s instructions were quite specific on that point. Miss Sarah must always wear the hangman’s noose about her neck, and upon the anniversary of the tragedy, her compliance with the order must be witnessed by an officer of the court. If she should ever have neglected to carry out this directive, she was to be hanged.” He paused and flung open the door. “The library, Sir.”
SEELEY SAT IN the leather armchair beside the unlit fireplace, sunk in the gloom o
f the dimly lit room, with its musty smell of unread books. Apparently the library had been her husband’s refuge, and no one had taken an interest in it since his death. Above the mantel hung a full-length portrait of the young Sarah, resplendent in a low-cut blue gown whose color matched her eyes. It had been painted before the tragedy, then, for she was never to wear low-cut gowns thereafter. The painted image of her loomed over him, flaxen-haired and impishly smiling, with the gold necklace of Burmese turquoise shining against her pale throat.
They had found the necklace clutched in Jack Rhys-Taylor’s clenched fist.
Seeley glanced up at the portrait for a moment, repressing a shudder, and then at random he pulled a volume of Tacitus’ histories off the shelf and began thumbing through it, scarcely taking in the sense of the words on the page. He had not looked at a line of Roman history since his school days, but still, it was something to keep him occupied while Gordon and Sarah performed the bizarre ritual that had saved Sarah from the gallows. It had been so many years now that he had nearly forgotten the details of the judge’s edict: the hangman’s noose perpetually worn. The peculiar penance in lieu of execution or a prison sentence had been much remarked upon at the time. Some people had approved of the mercy implicit in the sparing of the prisoner’s life, but there were newspaper editorials questioning the mental fitness of the judge, who had indeed retired before the year’s end, but despite the comments, his curious ruling was left to stand. The consensus was that the deaths caused by the accused were the result of folly, not deliberate malice, and that Sarah would never be a danger to society. The authorities seemed to think that as a well-born young woman, she would suffer as much from the prolonged symbolic punishment as a lesser mortal might feel at the gallows itself. In his later years, Seeley might have questioned the arrogance of such a verdict, but at the time, his own regard for the defendant had made him grateful that her life was spared.
He wondered what it had been like all these years—to wear the hangman’s noose about her throat. Because of her rank—the granddaughter of a duke—rather than out of consideration for the fact that she was a woman, Sarah was permitted to wear a silken rope instead of the coarse hemp actually used in hangings, and she was permitted to conceal the silken rope beneath her clothing. The court had not deemed it necessary for the rope to be visible to all and sundry, but Sarah had been made to give her word that she would wear it always. Because she was a member of the aristocracy, the authorities assumed that she would be honor-bound by that promise, and presumably she was.
Seeley recalled that Sarah had taken to wearing blouses of high-collared lace, or brightly covered scarves about her throat, to conceal the ever-present gallows necklet. Unless people knew who she was and what had been her penance, they might never suspect that she wore the rope at all. Seeley supposed that the punishment was gentle enough, and the judge’s trust had been repaid, for indeed Sarah had led a blameless life ever since. Seeley had been away from England for many years, but the newspapers and society gossip followed the British armies to the most far-flung outposts of the Empire, and had there been a breath of scandal connected to Sarah’s name, he would have heard.
“Hello! I’m sorry. Did I startle you?” The young woman in the doorway seemed at first an apparition to Seeley.
When she appeared in front of his chair, he gave a cry of alarm, and the copy of Tacitus tumbled from his lap and lay facedown and forgotten upon the hearth rug.
I am dreaming, he thought. I had nodded off in this chair, waiting for Sarah and Gordon, and now I find myself transported back before the war. Or perhaps he had dreamed everything that had transpired since those days of his youth. How wonderful it would be to wake up and find himself still young and Sarah untouched by tragedy after all, to find that the Great War that had been such a nightmare for the world had in fact been only a private nightmare of his own … . In the time it took to form those wistful thoughts, Seeley’s mind righted itself to full alertness, and he realized the war and the present were unchanged, and that the fair-haired young woman in the doorway was not a ghost, nor was she Sarah. The resemblance was familial, not phantasmal.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I’ve startled you. I had not realized that anyone was in here.”
Seeley struggled to his feet and stammered a hasty introduction. “I am an old friend of your … of … of Lady Beldon … .”
The vision of the young Sarah smiled at him. “I am Lady Beldon’s granddaughter. My name is Marguerite, and so of course everyone calls me Daisy.” She nodded toward the portrait. “I look rather like her, don’t I? I can see that it must have given you a shock to wake up and find me standing over you. It must have been some time since you had last seen her.”
“Ages,” said Seeley. “How ever did you know?”
“Well, your reaction, for one thing. You still think of my grandmother looking as I do now, and that has been quite a while ago. Besides, I have been living here for several years now, ever since my mother died of influenza at the end of the war. I should have recognized you if you had visited us since then. I do hope you’ll join me for tea?”
Seeley nodded. “I should be delighted,” he stammered.
“Oh, good. Grandmere’s lawyer has come down for his annual visit. They shut themselves up for ages, talking business, I suppose. They emerge in time to change for dinner, but hardly ever in time for tea. So I am glad that they provided me with company for a change. I can’t think what is taking them so long!—Well, I can. Grandmere said that she had some questions about the London properties to put to Mr. Gordon, but still, it is tiresome of them.”
She does not know, thought Seeley. He was shocked that this should be the case, but a moment’s thought told him why this should be so. Of course the secret of her grandmother’s tragedy would have been kept from a small child, and the girl’s parents had died before they thought her old enough to be told the story. She must be now about the same age that Sarah was when the whole thing happened. It did not seem long ago at all.
There had been a party in Oxford that September evening … . Seeley could no longer remember the details of that. Later events had swept the memories of the early part of the evening right out of his mind. Seeley had taken the train up from Sandhurst, on the pretext of visiting old school chums, but really to see Sarah. They had all been moths hovering around the flame that was Sarah Darcy. She was a golden girl, as elusive and insubstantial as a will-o’-the-wisp, and they were all in love with her, or at least infatuated beyond all reason.
In those days, Mungo Seeley was a tall, awkward boy from a Glasgow military family, bound from the cradle for a soldier’s life, and he knew that Sarah Darcy would never consent to be an army wife in some outpost of the Empire, but from the moment he met her, Seeley had refused to consider the impossibility of a match between them. Willingly he had joined the throng of her admirers.
How had he met her?
Through Jack Rhys-Taylor, he supposed. Or perhaps it was Albert Candler or Tom Spenser. He had been at school with all of them, and when they went up to Oxford, he often visited them, allowing himself to be hauled along to dances and party suppers with that careless, laughing crowd of young people, and the beautiful Sarah Darcy was foremost among them. She was not a student, of course, but her father was the dean of one of the colleges, and she had drifted into the world of the revelers as naturally as a bee finds a rose garden.
That fateful night, after the early evening dance had become too tame for them, they had all converged on the riverbank for a late evening of punting on the Thames. The party consisted only of Sarah and her swains. Surely her prospective suitors had danced with other girls that evening, but if so, the ladies were overshadowed by Sarah’s golden radiance, and they were left behind in the headlong dash to the river’s edge. Amid laughter and shouts of encouragement, the boys and Sarah had piled into three of the small punts belonging to the nearest college—not that they asked anyone’s permission to take them. They cast off in the moonl
ight, a flotilla of boisterous, drunken youths, determined to impress their fair lady with song or seamanship, according to their lights.
Sarah had been in the boat with Jack, Tom, and two fellows from Trinity—Robbie Graham and Arthur Laurie. Arthur poled the first punt up river, while Sarah leaned back against the bow, trailing her hand in the water and smiling lazily at her fleet of admirers. From time to time, she would call out to the other boats, or join them in the chorus of a song as they drifted along the dark ribbon of water. Neville Gordon, who was steering the second craft, kept shouting to his two passengers to pipe down and stop rocking the boat before they all ended up in the river. Seeley, the visitor from Sandhurst, rode in the third punt with a shy and spotty divinity student from Merton. They took turns poling the craft, and Seeley was regretting that he had not had more to drink, because he felt suddenly cold on the dark river, and the raucous singing of the others only served to remind him that he was an outsider. The boat had drifted along well astern of the other two punts, perhaps because neither he nor the Merton chap had been industrious in their poling. They knew that they stood little chance of being noticed by Sarah, and now the whole idea of the expedition had begun to seem silly.
Seeley was just thinking to himself that he would asked to be put ashore so that he could walk back to his lodgings, when he heard a great splash and then shouting.
“Anything wrong?” someone called out.
“Only Jack being a hero!” someone called out in the darkness. “Sarah has dropped her necklace in the water, and he’s gone over the side to fetch it!”
“What, in the river?” said the divinity student. “It’s pitch-black down there. He’ll not find it.”
“No, I shouldn’t think he would,” Seeley agreed. “The weeds seem quite thick here as well. It’s like poling through a hedgerow. Perhaps it’s clear where the others are.”