The Silver Swan

by Deryn Lake

  For a long moment she stood in danger of her life as the blood drained from Hyacinth’s face and his hand raised the hunting crop above her head. Then, with a gasping sob, he threw her from him.

  ‘Get hence. Go on. I never want to see you again.’

  ‘You were afraid to do it.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered, his head in his hands. ‘I was afraid because, God help me, I love you still, for all your unkindness.’

  It was the hunch of his back that made the burning tears flow. But still she would not be humbled, preferring to turn away rather than let him see her weep.

  ‘Go away,’ he said again.

  ‘No, I will not. I cannot. I pledged my life to you when we first met. It was no whim, no child’s play on the part of some spoiled chit. I truly loved you — and that is why I hated you for what you did.’

  He lowered his hands.

  ‘You love me still?’

  ‘Love, hate — everything; all confused.’

  ‘Then if you love me, forgive Sibella.’

  ‘That I can never do.’ She had turned round to look at him and her eyes were the flash of distant storms. ‘I once told you that there is that in me that cannot share. It is true. And yet I hate it for I know it will bring me no happiness. But if I forgive you...’ Her voice broke and her lips trembled and the tears came gushing too quickly to hide. ‘...then I can never pardon Sibella. Don’t you understand that to justify your acquittal I have to blame her? Oh, it is such a terrible thing to be as I am, Matthew. I swear that only you and Sutton Place know the dark corners of my soul.’

  ‘But if she dies?’

  ‘Then die she must.’

  ‘But the child — surely you will not hate the child?’

  Despite all her suffering Melior Mary was still aware of the strangeness of the remark. Not in the words spoken but in the way in which they were said. It occurred to her with immense clarity that Hyacinth did not know the truth about Garnet’s parentage.

  ‘Well?’ He waited for her reply.

  She stood very still, her mind darting like a caged mouse. She knew that she could break him now, finish him and be avenged for all the hurt he had given her. But why? She wanted him and somehow — however hard she must fight, however great the cost — she would make him master of Sutton Place. It was better by far that he never knew the sickly babe was his. Let Sibella’s deception hold sway.

  ‘I shall love the child as my cousin,’ she said. ‘He has come into the world innocent when all’s said.’

  She took a step towards him. She had gone very pale but her expression was one of the great determination as she said, ‘Hyacinth, in June — on my eighteenth birthday — I want you to marry me. We shall elope and let the world go hang. Will you do it?’

  ‘But I have no family...’

  She stamped her foot.

  ‘God’s life! You will drive me to insanity yet. There’ll be family enough when you take on me. Now, will you have me or not?’

  There was no need for him to answer. The storm bird was in his arms where she had always truly belonged. And oh the precious feeling of her! The sweet body, so delicate and yet so strong; the hair rippling like silver satin; the sweep of the great lashes against his cheek.

  ‘Oh, my darling,’ he said, ‘forgive me.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive. I have already forgotten the past.’

  ‘Nothing — and nobody — shall ever come between us again. Melior Mary, my love, my joy — Queen of Beauty.’

  Their kiss was the plighting of a lifelong troth; a bond that would last forever.

  *

  Past the musician’s gallery, down the staircase, into the small hall and finally into the Great Hall, came the tiny procession. First Sootface, dancing a little as he went; then Mrs Thacker, a tiny bit stiff, a little highly starched, a fraction too much of the goffered cap and crinkly apron, but for all that bearing aloft, in a mass of swaddling, Garnet Gage.

  ‘He’s alive!’ said Joseph.

  ‘Yes, sir. He saw out the night vigil and he’s fit to come and greet you — but only for a minute. He must be kept warm at all costs.’

  The rakehell bent over the tiny creature held high for his inspection. One long finger, decked with a rainbow opal, reached out to touch the slumbering cheek, the long fair lashes.

  ‘My son,’ he said.

  ‘Yes sir, if you please.’

  ‘He shall have everything that I can possibly give him. But more than that — he already has my love.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘If you can guarantee he survives I shall give you a pension for life.’

  ‘Nobody can guarantee mortality, sir.’

  Joseph could not answer her. His heart was too full of the old, wild love of father for son; at the joy of creating a creator. He was fulfilled; a man through his boy.

  ‘Here are five gold guineas, Mrs—’

  ‘Thacker, sir.’

  ‘Cherish him until he is big enough to deliver into my arms. I am the proudest father in the land.’

  Mrs Thacker’s eyes were turned to the floor as she curtsied and said, ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’

  *

  It was May time again. May, so great with joy and sadness for the House of Weston and the Manor of Sutton. On May 21, 1509, Sir Richard Weston had first been honoured by Henry VIII — and made Keeper of Hanworth Park and the Manor of Cold Kennington; Steward of Marlowe, Cookham and Bray; Captain, Keeper and Governor of Guernsey, of the castle of Cornet, and the isles of Alderney and Sark. And all to celebrate the young King’s coronation.

  Then on May 17, 1520, the Duke of Buckingham had been executed at the Tower and Sir Richard granted the Manor of Sutton as his sinister reward. In May, 1530, Francis had been married to Rose and three years later — again in May — made a Knight of the Bath at Anne Boleyn’s coronation. And then the springing of the trap. On May 17, 1536, Francis had been beheaded on exactly the same spot at which Buckingham had died. Sir Richard’s prize had turned to ashes. Old evil, old violence, had reached out over the centuries. And now it was time again. There had been no blood sacrifice since the death of John Weston’s infant son. Reparation must be made.

  But none of them knew how close they all were, how only a few hours lay between them and the end of their way of life. Only Sibella, wondering how she had escaped the death which she was certain had been lying in wait for her, felt cold as the doctor — returning to Sutton Place from his London practice — pronounced her fit to travel home; felt that it was not her destiny to escape like this.

  Yet what could be wrong? Joseph, in a state of exaltation, had been refurbishing and redecorating their house in Berkeley Square, buying solidly into the South Sea and Mississippi companies, all to give the child he believed his own an inheritance worthy of a prince. Melior Mary had not seemed so joyful in a year — though she had yet to look Sibella direct in the eye — and with the lightening of her mood, catalyst that she was, the atmosphere of Sutton Place grew cheerful. All of them, all of the family, were in their own kind of peace.

  So, putting her fears aside, Sibella Gage at last rose from her childbed and allowed Dawkings to dress her in a travelling gown of green and leaning on Joseph’s arm — for her legs were as weak as water — she had come slowly down the staircase and into the Great Hall.

  They were all there waiting for her; every character in the scene that must shortly be enacted. On either side of the fireplace stood John and Elizabeth, as pleased and as proud as if this were Melior Mary’s child that was being carried down to them by his nurse. And, seated on a chair near to them, Melior Mary herself made a pretty picture in the afternoon sunshine. Hyacinth stood in the entrance leading to the Grand Staircase and Sootface bowed before Joseph’s advancing feet. Only Mitchell was missing but, even as she thought this, Sibella saw the Scotsman’s scarred face and brilliant dark eyes in the shadow of the small hall. They were all in place.

  And at that moment fate could have gone two ways. It w
ould have been possible for Joseph and Sibella to bid farewell to the others, to take Garnet and put him in their travelling coach, and for them to leave Sutton Place with no more than a wave of the hand. And then they could have gone on to another life. Sibella would have borne more children, Joseph would have turned his attention to his speculations and seen the deep water into which he was getting, and the whole history of the House of Gage, and the great rake who led it, would have been different.

  But the circles of life were poised and the happiness that could have been theirs teetered on the brink, as a moment of destiny was enacted. Melior Mary said, ‘May I see the baby?’ It was as simple as that. There was no malice, no recognition of what might lie ahead. The heiress spoke in love, with no thought of her old mad anger.

  Afterwards — ever afterwards — she relived that moment a million times. She saw the nurse turn to Sibella for permission, saw her adopted sister nod her head. Saw Joseph’s adoration of his wife and child, saw John and Elizabeth’s indulgent exchange of glance. Might it be that their own wild child was feeling the first instincts of motherhood, they seemed to be thinking.

  And then the little bundle was in her arms and she was gazing down into that tiny face complete with Sibella’s nose and mouth and hair of a reddish, pinkish shade. But then he opened his eyes and Melior Mary knew she had never seen anything so beautiful.

  ‘Why,’ she exclaimed with joy, ‘he is the most perfect child in the world. Have you seen the colour of his eyes, Mother? They are the blue of wild hyacinths.’

  A great black spiral was at her feet and she was falling down into it. She would have given anything then — even Sutton Place itself — for those words never to have been spoken. She saw Elizabeth frown at John, saw Sibella go white to the lips, heard Hyacinth gasp behind her, saw the roll of Sootface’s eye and the step forward of Mitchell. But it was on Joseph that there was the most profound effect of all.

  She observed him realize the truth. He turned to look at Sibella and then at Garnet and then, over her head, to where Matthew Banister stood. Then he lost all colour and for one moment she thought he was going to drop where he stood. But he recovered and in a voice completely unrecognizable as his own hissed, ‘Kill him.’

  The cruel bladed knife was in Sootface’s hand instantly and the Negro was running forward, pushing aside John as he went. Melior Mary rose to her feet to throw herself in his way, but too late. The blackman had reached the bottom of the staircase and if Hyacinth had not turned and sprinted up them and into the Long Gallery, he would have been dead.

  Melior Mary could only think of one thing to do.

  ‘Mitchell, for God’s sake save him,’ she screamed.

  She had never seen anything happen so quickly. As if her voice had been a starting gun everybody started to run in different directions; Joseph, Mitchell, John and herself up the stairs; the nurse and the baby out of the Great Hall; Sibella towards the Middle Enter, followed by a slower Elizabeth.

  But Hyacinth, with just a second’s start, was making for the hidden door behind one of the four fireplaces and the priest’s staircase that led to the grounds below. Yet he was not quite fast enough. Sootface’s great hand had him by the collar and the knife flashed in the air. Then in that echoing gallery there was a cry, a scream — and a shot. Mitchell’s voice rang out, ‘If any one of you moves I’ll blow your brains across the ceiling.’ There was total and utter silence.

  *

  They found Sibella in St Edward’s Well, looking such a sad tiny little thing. It was Joseph himself who went down to get her, lowering six feet to where she had drowned in the deep tunnel. Her golden pink hair floated like weed upon the surface, her face just below the level of the water, her eyes open and staring to the sky below.

  He had carried her all the way back to Sutton Place in his arms and it was he who had laid her on the bed in which Garnet had been born. And then he had gone. He had simply picked up the child, called out to Sootface to follow him and jumped into his carriage. There had been no word for Elizabeth, no backward glance, no attempt to seek out Hyacinth — nothing. The curse of the manor had taken away everything he loved and had pride in. He was never to see the house again.

  15

  On the night before her body was due to leave Sutton Place Sibella came and stood outside. Her sightless eye seemed to gaze at the mansion that had loved and killed her, her immobile stance undeterred by the savage rain that lashed at her dress and turned her hair to strings. She continued this ghastly vigil for an hour and in that time Melior Mary, who saw her from her window, gave a scream that sent a shiver through all those who heard it; and Matthew Banister, who glimpsed the phantom as he walked alone and aimless in the grounds, seemed to lose his reason and went running through the dusk shouting Sibella’s name over and over again.

  They brought him in at midnight, semi-conscious. Mitchell had found him at St Edward’s Well, white and shaking and saying something of a woman who had writhed at his feet. But despite all this, despite the fact that his spirit was almost done for, Elizabeth and John waited for him and asked him to speak to them alone. He knew that he was about to learn what he had always wished and always feared — the truth about his parentage.

  John, his face dark and savage, was the first to speak.

  ‘Matthew, in view of what has happened you must go from Sutton Place and it is my wish that you never return.’

  He had turned to face them both so bravely as he could.

  ‘Mr Weston, madam — you must believe I did not know, until Melior Mary spoke, that Garnet was my child. And you must further believe that Sibella did nothing that she could help.’

  Elizabeth drew in a breath.

  ‘If anyone else uttered that I would scorn them but in a way I credit what you say. Matthew, to a certain extent I take responsibility for what happened. I should have foreseen it years ago and spoken out. But you see, I had given my word never to divulge the secret.’

  John shifted from foot to foot and said, ‘We were wrong not to tell you, Banister. It put you in great moral danger. But here is the fact and take it like a man — you are Sibella’s brother.’

  Everything in place! The strange bond that stirred ancient memory, the love so different from that for Melior Mary. But, oh God, what terrible consequences.

  ‘Then I have broken God’s most basic law,’ Hyacinth said, in despair. ‘I have committed incest and Garnet is the child of brother and sister.’

  Elizabeth burst into tears.

  ‘Dear Jesus, to hear you speak those words is like a knife in my heart for I could have warned you. But I had sworn to protect a good name. You see I had a friend — many years ago — Amelia FitzHoward. When she was just a girl she ran off with a soldier and he left her with child. Her family were in deep shame and sent her to Calais, where there was another branch of her family descended from Zachary FitzHoward and his mistress Rosalind Banastre. I speak of two centuries ago, Matthew, but it had always been family pride that they had such an ancestor. You were born there and given the name Banister — which is how it changed in time — by your cousins. But when she died Amelia left instructions to Mr Pennycuick, her lawyer, and asked that you should be sent here that I might take care of you. And she also requested me to bring up Sibella. I had both her children under my roof — one a bastard, the other by her husband Richard Hart — and it was written in her last letter that I should never tell either of them. And now look what tragedy has come out of it.’

  ‘And Sibella never knew? She died without realizing?’

  ‘As far as I am aware.’

  With the knowledge that in the cool of midnight when the sun begins to die, he and his sister had created a child, Hyacinth saw himself for what he truly was. An instrument of some greater destiny. He had loved life so much to start with, would have enjoyed its light and shade so greatly. But really all that had been required of him had been to father Garnet. He and his wishes had counted for nothing.

  He turned in the door
way and said, ‘I bid you both goodbye. I shall never return. All I ask is you tell your daughter I will love her forever.’

  But even as he said it he knew that they would not. Would rather let the wild grieving creature that lay upstairs, sobbing upon her bed, grow to hate him. Would believe that time would heal her passion and that she would make a safe, comfortable marriage that would secure Sutton Place and the Weston line for centuries to come.

  A thought struck him and he turned back again. ‘It is the curse on the heir, isn’t it? Melior Mary is to be deprived of her true love.’ Just for one burning second, for the very last time in his life, his clairvoyance came back. ‘All these events have led to one thing. Melior Mary will never marry. The direct line from Sir Richard Weston is to die out.’

  John said, ‘It is best you go. You have caused enough trouble here. You will never set foot in Sutton Place again.’

  ‘Be sure of that. The house has seen me out and it has seen Joseph Gage out and it has caused Sibella’s death. I wish you joy of it.’

  He was so bitter as he left them. He who had had so much exuberance and gaiety to offer the world was finished at twenty-one years of age.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  It was Elizabeth that spoke.

  ‘God knows. To try and find peace — whatever that may be.’

  The short-sighted eyes were a blur of hyacinth blue, the damson curls were deep about that archangel head.

  ‘I will pray for you, Matthew Banister.’

  He gave a despairing empty laugh — and was gone forever from their sight.

  The next day saw the black-plumed cortege leave Sutton Place for its wearisome journey to the home of Viscount Gage — the family seat where Sibella would be laid to rest within the vault. But though Melior Mary — who had not spoken a solitary word since the day they had brought Sibella in — had allowed Clopper to dress her in starkest black, now she refused to leave her room. Elizabeth and John could do nothing with her and finally, in desperation, they sent Mitchell — dark as a rook in his mourning clothes.