by Deryn Lake
‘I shall go to law.’
He laughed again.
‘Do, do. You’ll find they are not over fond of adulterous women.’
He let go of her, throwing her down onto a chair as he did so.
‘If I never see you again I shall be pleased,’ he said and was gone from the house, his booted feet stamping in triumph. Once in the coach he laughed with pure achievement. He had put it right in one stroke. The heiress was on her way home and nobody would ever again get the better of John Weston. He was reckoning without a force so terrible that even he could have no control over the events that were destined to follow.
3
The night was like a fever — hot and seething with an indefinable tension that made sleeping difficult and dreams strange and shadowy. Outside the land was bathed in light radiating from a sickly moon which veered amongst racing clouds. And within Sutton Place that same light fell on the face of John Weston where he slept alone in his large bed in the master’s bedroom, dreaming of the chase.
In his red coat he galloped on a black horse with bolting eyes which had left the rest of the hunt behind and followed a fox into a wood. But when he came up close to the animal, it was to see a vixen sitting there, brushing its tail with a small hand-like claw. And then the vixen looked up at him and he saw that it was Elizabeth, with furry pointed ears and sharp bright eyes, yet with her own legs ending grotesquely in black fox’s feet.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘you hunt me but could you kill me?’
‘Yes,’ he said and raised his whip but could not bring himself to strike the cowering animal. And realizing his weakness the vixen fled off, loping through the forest — obscene on her long human legs. And as she disappeared from sight she let out a cry — a cry so distressing speaking as it did of terror and night-fright — that the horse reared and John felt himself falling...falling...
He woke up to find that he had actually thrown himself out of bed and was lying face down on the floor, one of the massive curtains of the four-poster wound round his neck like a rope. And it was as he struggled to free himself that he heard it again. From somewhere deep in the house that awful sound rang out once more, chilling his blood and making every hackle on his body rise.
With trembling hands John untangled himself and lit the candle that stood by his bed. He was not a nervous man, in fact he was what some people would have termed brave, but that terrible sound unnerved him bringing back to his mind something that he had long ago dismissed — the legend of the curse of Sutton Place.
He had heard it as a boy — and had laughed with contempt. It was a family story that centuries before a Viking Queen — Edith, daughter of Earl Godwin and wife of King Edward the Confessor — had called on the old Norse gods and put a curse on the manor of Sutton and its Lord for all time to come. And since then down the ages there had been nothing but a chain of disasters. Two manor houses had been built — the newer, Sutton Place itself — and nobody had thrived in either of them. Death and madness and consistent ill luck had been the fate of the occupants. John had thought it so ridiculous that he had said, ‘Sir, do you truthfully expect me to believe that a curse laid in 1084 could still be at work?’
His father had looked at him very directly.
‘My son, a lot depends on one’s deep feelings. There is a theory that each tragic event feeds the malediction so that instead of losing power over the centuries the reverse takes place — it gains in strength.’
‘And how has this curse ever affected you?’
To John’s surprise his father Richard Weston — the fifth member of the family to bear that name — had grown pale.
‘There are things of which I never speak,’ he had answered — and he had left the room abruptly.
John had dismissed it all — never given it another moment’s thought in fact. But now he was frightened. Something in his house was terrified in the darkness and he must go and find it — whatever it was — and look it in the face. Furious with himself for being so afraid he left his room, moving into the corridor and standing in silence.
From the Great Hall, below on his right, there was total stillness but by moving cautiously he managed to get himself into one of the musicians’ galleries and look down. There was nothing there, only the moonlight playing on the stained glass. And then, rather guiltily, he thought for the first time of Melior Mary and wondered if she could have made that ghastly sound.
But the idea was so out of character. In the three years since he had brought her home and re-established her in his care she had been a model of good behaviour. Never speaking out of turn — in fact rarely speaking. Doing her lessons, eating her meals, never mentioning her mother — a trouble to no-one. But now he thought of her in that strange moonlight and for the first time his conscience troubled him. Had she been too well-behaved? Was the quiet way she had hiding something else? After all she would soon be twelve with the threshold of womanhood upon her.
He left the gallery and headed towards Melior Mary’s bedroom which had once belonged to Catherine, one of the daughters of Sir Richard, the founder of Sutton Place. There was a portrait of her in the Long Gallery — round blue eyes and golden hair — next to that of her husband Sir John Rogers. He was very dark and naughty-faced, sporting a diamond earring. Their great grand-daughter Elizabeth had married into the peerage — Charles Stuart, sixth Duke of Lennox and third Duke of Richmond. John wished briefly that his part of the family had done as well — he never had, and never would, recover from the shadow that his inn-keeper grandfather had cast upon them. But he had no time to think of that now for he had reached Melior Mary’s chamber and was quietly opening the door.
He saw at once that a candle was burning and that the curtains of the bed had been thrown back but whether the mound beneath the coverlet was his daughter or a pillow he could not be certain. He hurried forward and then from the corner of the room she spoke in a frenzied whisper.
‘Don’t go near it, it’s knocking.’
His chest went tight with fear. It was the underlying menace in her hushed tones that terrified him rather than the words themselves. He spun round and saw her sitting huddled in a corner, her knees drawn to her chin, her eyes enormously dilated.
‘Melior Mary, what is it?’ he said, his voice sounding overloud in the sleeping house.
‘Knuckles are rapping on my bed.’
‘Whose knuckles? Who has been in here?’
‘Nobody, there’s nobody there. I lit the candle but the sound went on. There’s something in here that we cannot see.’ John wanted to tell her not to be silly, that she was too old for childish fears but a look about her pinched face prevented him. Instead he said, ‘One of the servants is playing tricks — or one of the farmer’s brats.’
She stared at him in disbelief.
‘Come search with me, Melior Mary. My stick will be across their back when I find them.’
But though they looked everywhere it was obvious that there was no intruder in the room.
‘Gone,’ said John. ‘Slipped out of the door as I came in. Go back to bed, my child.’
He put his arms round her to pick her up and felt that she was trembling.
‘I don’t want to. Let me sleep with my governess.’
‘No, Melior Mary. There is nothing here. You can see that for yourself.’
But the incident had shaken him more than he would admit and he decided to take a turn in the Long Gallery before trying to sleep again. The windows were flooding with light giving it that strange flame-lit appearance it sometimes had. Since the fire which had broken out in Queen Elizabeth’s reign destroying the huge Gate House Tower, most of the Gate House Wing and the part of the Gallery that connected with them, superstitious servants had said they could smell burning or hear the sound of flames and tonight even stolid John had to admit that it was suffused with bright light. Still he walked to what would have once been the half-way point, now boarded up for the sake of safety. And then for the second time that nig
ht his scalp seethed with fright. From beyond the partition, from some point that he could not see, John distinctly heard the sound of sobbing. Something was keening its anguish in the ruined Gallery, something that he felt sure could not be mortal. Turning abruptly about John made for the safety of his own bedroom without looking behind him.
*
Elizabeth had had an impossible three years since Melior Mary had been taken away, begging all her friends of influence to intercede with John that her daughter might be returned to her. And Pope so earnestly doing likewise that his reputation had been ruined, and he had been accused by the Catholic set of seducing John Weston’s wife. The final stroke to them both had been delivered by Mrs Nelson who had made it her business to call on everyone concerned — especially Elizabeth.
‘My dear I feel it is my duty to tell you...’ she had started, settling herself in a chair and adjusting her lips into the tight smile that she considered a necessary adjunct to those who sit in moral judgement.
‘What?’ Elizabeth had asked innocently.
‘I feel so sorry for you, my dear,’ Mrs Nelson had replied, changing her tack.
‘You have seen John?’
‘I have, indeed I have.’
She fixed her darting brown eyes firmly on Elizabeth and her chin, slacking with the unlovely onset of middle age, wobbled with delight as she said, ‘You do realize do you not, my dearest Elizabeth, that you have sacrificed your life for a worthless philanderer — a cruel jester that makes mock of human souls?’
Elizabeth looked at her blankly.
‘You speak of John?’
Mrs Nelson smiled serenely.
‘No, I speak of that trifler — Alexander Pope.’
In her youth Jenny Nelson had been very pretty — young, fair and slim — but her addiction to the wearing of two masks, to the power of holding contrasting confidences, to the placing of metaphorical daggers in the backs of unsuspecting friends, had not served her well. The light hair had grown thin, the body thick, the nose and mouth sharp, the eyes hard. But nonetheless she could still turn a neat ankle and considered herself, in her widowed state, a good match for any man. So the festering jealousy that she had always felt for her own sex — especially for any prettier or cleverer than she — had not been allayed with the passing of the years. So to discredit, to spoil, to disrupt was her creed and her victims the trusting, particularly any who threatened her own chance with a lover.
So now she turned her attention to the putting down of Elizabeth, for had not Pope been her — Jenny’s — particular pet? The little poet had said kind things about her own literary efforts and had smiled knowingly — or so she thought. And what mattered his lack of stature? Jenny Nelson was secretly a lewd woman and was not beyond daydreaming about a man’s potential on a lust-hot couch. Where, she had convinced herself, Pope would not be lacking in all respects.
‘What do you mean exactly?’ Elizabeth had asked. Clopper’s entrance with the silver tea tray had given Mrs Nelson time to collect her thoughts.
‘Pope has used you vilely,’ she said as the door closed behind the servant. ‘He is a rake of the worse type. Both the Blount sisters, Betty Marriot, Patsy somebody and they say he is mad for love of Arabella Fermor.’ She paused just the correct amount of time ‘...and then of course there is myself.’
‘You?’ Elizabeth repeated.
‘Yes, I. He cruelly misled me about his intentions until, frankly, Elizabeth, you came upon the scene. And to think you have sacrificed your poor child for this monster.’
‘I see.’ Elizabeth sat very still. ‘And you say that he takes all these ladies intimately to him?’
‘Please!’
‘Why should I mince words, Mrs Nelson? You do not.’
‘In that case I presume he does.’
‘And yourself? Did he take your honour in exchange for a promise of marriage?’
Before Elizabeth’s direct gaze Mrs Nelson’s eyes fell.
‘Of course I would not let him have his way despite sweet words.’ She looked up again and straight at Elizabeth. ‘But then not everyone has my strength of character.’
Elizabeth smiled.
‘Marry come up, Mrs Nelson! It’s surprising Pope found time to pen a line with all this lechery. But I am glad for you that the respectability of widowhood remained invulnerable to the serpent and his whisperings.’
‘And what of you, Mrs Weston?’
‘Whatever I answer will not be believed. There lies the unhappy choice of the so-called fallen woman. If she admits a second’s guilt the happy gossips of this world will clap their hands and cry “Ah! It was written all over her face.” If she denies everything she will either be branded a liar or worse — too unattractive to be asked to join in the adulterous lustings that she supposedly indulges. I do believe you have finished your tea, Mrs Nelson. May I bid you good day?’
But despite her strong stand Elizabeth was upset and the great argument between herself and Pope had started. For three weeks she would not receive him and then finally they came face to face in the street. And he had been forced to admit that he corresponded with various ladies, joking with them of his love and admiration.
‘But don’t you see, Elizabeth, that it is all for the salvation of my soul? I know I am but a pygmy and so I am blessed a hundred times that you love me. I pretend friendship — no that is not true — courtship with these others merely to make myself more the man in my own eyes. Do you understand?’
Oddly enough she did. It was over three years since they had first fallen in love and she knew how his mind worked. It was typical of Pope that he would pursue other women with words while remaining faithful to her.
*
The scream and the rushing wind became as one and in the height of an ice cold midnight Melior Mary woke to terror. The candle which nowadays she kept constantly lit beside her revealed nothing. Yet next to her own warm body something cold sat on her bed and watched her. The air in the room was so chill that her breath fluted into frost and as the wind grew to a roar the knocking began its relentless tattoo on the four-poster’s wooden frame. The malevolence was here again to turn another of her nights into agony.
She heard a thin voice which she recognized as her own cry out, ‘Christ have mercy on me! God have mercy on me! Leave me in peace!’
For reply the knocking increased in power, beating above her head as if it would mince her skull to baby’s bones. With a sob of agony Melior put her head beneath the pillows and thrust her fingers into her ears.
On that first night — the night her father had heard her scream — the rapping had continued until dawn, long after he had returned to his bed. Then it had gone away as quickly as it had started. But after that it had taken to knocking both morning and evening for hours at a stretch. And always that moment of wakefulness before it began, that moment of frenzied anticipation before the knuckles of the unknown started their incomprehensible message.
But after that first terrible week it had grown even worse. She would hear it coming to her when she was alone, hear that sound like all the winds from every land that had never known the step of man, howling together and rushing, rushing to get at her. And then when they reached their peak she would know it was in the room for the atmosphere would suddenly become as cold as death and then that terrible thing without form or shape would sit on her bed and she could feel it looking into her face with its non-existent eyes.
She had lost her only friend through it. Her governess — a shapeless, ageless woman of indeterminate brain — but nonetheless a constant companion, had fled from Sutton Place the night after the most terrible happening of all.
Melior Mary had gone to bed as usual, the midnight rushing had begun and then the thing had gone out of control. Downstairs in the Great Hall she had heard it unleash its fury as objects went hurling and crashing. Something was thrown repeatedly against the stained glass and she heard the splintering of the panes as they cracked beneath the onslaught. Furniture was bein
g pulped to fragments as it was flung violently against the floors and walls. She had leapt out of bed and started to run and run and her feet had taken her into Miss Bronwen’s room and she had woken the slumbering figure with her wild, uncontrollable crying.
‘What is it, Melior Mary? For Heaven’s sake be quiet!’
‘The Great Hall is being ruined. Can’t you hear it? Miss Bronwen, help me.’
John had been roused, the servants had been roused, the candles had been lit. There had been nothing — absolutely nothing. Her horrified eyes had widened as she had seen that everything stood in its place, the windows not even cracked, not so much as a chair moved. John’s pupils had grown black as he had turned his gaze on her and said, ‘I’ve had enough of this trickery, Melior Mary. I’ll deal with you in the morning.’
But she had been saved the stick by Miss Bronwen’s dramatic exit.
‘There are such things as evil spirits that haunt children, sir. I’ve heard of it before. I’ll not spend another night in this house.’
John had roared, ‘Miss Bronwen, you are a totally brainless woman. You heard nothing, I heard nothing, the servants heard nothing. It stands to reason that the wretched child is merely drawing attention to herself.’
‘Insult me as much as you wish, Mr Weston. I am leaving this place forthwith.’
On the night of the governess’s departure with only an old and silly servant to protect Melior Mary the malevolence had started its next stage. At about two o’clock in the morning the sleepless child had heard the Middle Enter swing open of its own accord and then crossing the Great Hall with a terrible, shuffling gait the sound had started to come up the West Staircase towards her room. Down the passage, with the noise growing louder and ever louder, she had heard its progress and then the handle of her door had turned and she had watched aghast as it had slowly opened and closed. The temperature plummeted, then something sat on her bed and she knew that she was again in the presence of evil, but that now it was walking, was growing stronger.