Mariana

by Susanna Kearsley

  “Nice to get back to town for a bit?” Vivien was asking me, tapping into my thoughts with uncanny accuracy.

  “Do you know,” I said slowly, “I was just thinking how nice it is to be out of London. To be home.”

  She nodded her understanding. “Live here long enough, and London starts to seem pretty unreal. People are so tense there. I often wonder how anyone can sustain that kind of tension, day after day. What do you think, Iain?”

  I started in my seat, and turned. As always, I had not heard his approach.

  “Me? I’ve no fondness for London,” Iain Sumner said, leaning an elbow on the bar and crossing one heavily booted foot over the other.

  “You move like a damned cat,” I accused him peevishly, my nerves raw from lack of sleep. He turned his head to look at me, raising an inscrutable eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry,” he said evenly. “D’ye want me to whistle, or something, to let you know I’m coming?”

  “It’d be a thought.” Vivien laughed, her blue eyes dancing. I had the distinct impression that she liked Iain Sumner very much. “You want your usual poison?”

  “Aye.” He nodded, watching as she poured him a foaming dark pint of bitter. He drew a crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt, shook one loose, and looked enquiringly at me. “D’ye mind?”

  “If you smoke, you mean?” I shook my head. “Not at all.”

  “Thanks.” He lit the cigarette, cupping the match in his soil-stained fingers and ignoring Vivien’s disapproving look.

  “I thought you gave that up,” she said.

  “Aye. So does my mother.” He met her eyes innocently. “I’m on an errand, as it happens, from the Hall. Geoff says he’s found all the papers you were asking about, the ones he used to research the manor’s history, and would you like to invite him over for coffee this evening, so he can show the stuff to you and Julia, here.”

  “Would I like to invite him over? Of all the cheek!” Vivien smiled broadly. “What, are peasants not allowed up to the Hall on Sundays?”

  Iain raised his pint and shrugged. “More likely the cleaner’s not been in lately. You know Geoff. And he made quite a mess hunting about for those papers.”

  “All right,” Vivien capitulated, “tell him to consider himself invited. That is, if Julia’s free this evening. Are you?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Shall we say seven o’clock? Iain?”

  His eyebrows rose again. “Am I invited as well?”

  “You’re always invited,” she told him.

  “You’d best be feeding me, then.”

  “I’ll make sandwiches,” Vivien promised solemnly. “By the way, does the name Mariana mean anything to you?”

  “Shakespeare,” was his instant, and unexpected, response.

  “Shakespeare?” I echoed, and he nodded.

  “Angelo’s sneaky fiancée in Measure for Measure.”

  “Oh.”

  “Should it have meant something else?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” I said. “I just came across the name in a… letter, when I was cleaning up, and wondered if anyone knew who she was.” No one noticed my little stumble over the lie.

  “Well, I’m probably not the best person to ask about things like that,” Iain conceded, with a slight smile. “Your Aunt Freda might know,” he told Vivien. “Or one of the lads.” He nodded towards the empty table in the corner.

  “It’s really not important,” I said again. I was almost sorry that I’d asked Vivien about it in the first place. After all, my strange experience in Blackfriars Lane last night might simply have been the product of too much drink, or too much stress… or some latent thread of insanity that was woven into the fabric of my ancestry. Either way, the chances were slim that the young woman Mariana and her fussing Aunt Mary had ever existed. At least, I preferred to think so. Because if there really had been a Mariana, then that would mean that I…

  “Right.” Iain set his empty glass down on the bar with a satisfied thump, interrupting my thoughts. “I’m off.”

  “You won’t forget to deliver my message to Geoff?” Vivien asked, and Iain turned at the door.

  “No, I won’t forget to deliver your message to Geoff. You know,” he said dourly, “one or the other of you might learn to use the telephone, and save my aching legs.”

  “The walk’ll do you good,” she shot back.

  “No doubt. I’ll see you both tonight, then.”

  “He’s really a wonderful guy,” Vivien said, as the door banged shut behind him.

  “And he reads Shakespeare.”

  “That surprised you, did it? Iain read English at Cambridge, believe it or not. That’s how he and Geoff met each other.”

  “Really? And now he keeps sheep?”

  “Mmm. He’s a farmer at heart, is Iain. He could have done a lot of things with his life—I mean, he’s fairly well set financially, and he’s bloody brilliant, when he wants to be. But I think he’s happiest mucking around in the dirt.”

  “And what did Geoffrey de Mornay study at Cambridge?” I asked her, with what I hoped was the right degree of nonchalance.

  “Politics, I think. Not that he needed to. There never was much question where Geoff’s future was concerned.” She smiled. “His grandfather started Morland Electronics.”

  “I see.” It was a bit of a jolt. The bloodred Morland logo was nearly as recognizable as the silhouette of Stonehenge, and almost as awe inspiring. From a small wartime company producing radio equipment, Morland had grown into one of the largest of Britain’s multinational firms. Its annual earnings, I guessed, must amount to billions of pounds.

  “You haven’t met him yet, have you?” Vivien asked.

  “Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. Last Thursday evening. We sort of bumped into each other in the lane behind the church.”

  “Did you, now? Funny he didn’t mention it.” She eyed me curiously. “Damn good-looking, isn’t he? I often think it isn’t fair, one person having all that money and a face like that.”

  “I imagine he’s got every girl in the village chasing after him,” I said. It was a shameless fishing expedition, and Vivien smiled again.

  “I chased him, myself,” she admitted, “when I was at school. You think he’s something now, you ought to have seen him then. He’d been five years in California and he had a smashing tan, even spoke with a bit of an American accent.” She half closed her eyes, appreciatively. “But of course, he lost that rather quickly. Cambridge knocked it out of him.”

  “California?” That surprised me. “What was he doing there?”

  “Geoff’s parents divorced, when he was eleven. His mother went off with someone else, and Geoff went to America with his father. Morland has a big office there, I gather, near San Francisco. Anyway, Geoff was sixteen when they finally came back. Bit of an adjustment for him, that was,” she said, with another smile. “He still hasn’t made peace with the class system here, and he was even worse back then—he’d mix with anyone. Even me,” she added, grinning. “Mind you, we were living under the same roof at the time, so it was only good manners, but it did raise some eyebrows. Still does, on occasion.”

  I frowned a little, trying to follow. “You lived at Crofton Hall?” I asked. “When you were younger?”

  “Yes. Sorry, I forgot you wouldn’t know.” She flashed a quick, self-conscious smile. “I do rather have to keep reminding myself, you know, that we’ve only just met. It sometimes seems like we’ve been friends for years, do you feel that? Anyway, yes, I did live at the Hall, when I was a little girl. My aunt kept house for Geoff’s dad, you see, and I lived with her. My parents,” she explained, before I asked, “died in a train crash, years ago. I barely remember them. Aunt Freda brought me up, and did a marvelous job, considering, though I’m sur
e I gave her every gray hair she has.” She smiled at the memories. “One night she found out I’d been to the pictures with Geoff, and that was that. She marched me right across the road to my gran’s house, with my suitcases. No niece of hers was going to be a topic of village gossip. Poor Aunt Freda.”

  I traced an idle pattern on the bar with my glass. “Then you and Geoffrey de Mornay were…”

  “Oh, heavens, no. It was nothing serious. There’s never been anyone serious, with Geoff, come to that.” Vivien’s smile grew broader as she met my eyes. “Not yet.”

  I colored slightly and took a quick drink from my glass of juice.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something stronger than that?”

  “Quite sure,” I said, turning my wrist so I could see my watch. “In fact, I ought to be heading home. I still have to finish setting up my studio, and then if I’m lucky I can get a couple of hours’ sleep before tonight. I didn’t sleep well in London.”

  “You do look tired,” Vivien said. “We can always reschedule the history lesson, if you like.”

  “Oh, no, I’ll be fine. Seven o’clock was it?”

  She nodded. “Just come round to the back door. That’s my private quarters. Ned can look after the customers by himself for one night, can’t you, love?”

  At the other end of the bar, Ned flipped a page of the sports section. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

  Something must have shown on my face at the thought of Ned tending bar by himself, because Vivien laughed out loud.

  “You see the impression you’ve made on the girl, Ned?” she told him. “She can’t even picture you working.”

  “She hasn’t seen me in action,” Ned replied with a casual shrug.

  Vivien lowered her voice and jerked her head in the direction of her co-worker. “Ordinarily, we just keep him around because he blends so well with the decor,” she confided. “But he actually does shift position every once in a while. It’s quite exciting.”

  “Keep it up,” the barman dared her calmly, “and it’ll be open taps this evening, love. Drinks on the house.”

  I laughed. “Do you want me to bring anything tonight?”

  “Just yourself. You’re sure you feel up to it?”

  “A couple of hours’ sleep and I’ll be right as rain,” I assured her.

  I was feeling exhausted. But for some reason, instead of going straight home when I left the Red Lion, I found myself turning to the right and wandering back up the High Street towards the church.

  It had obviously been raining here the night before, as it had been in London. Apart from the telltale overcast sky, the pavement was still damp, and the smell of earth and wet grass and rain-soaked flowers hung heavy in the afternoon air. You could have shot a cannon up the street without hitting a soul, the village was that quiet, but here and there the smear of muddy footprints on the cobbled walk provided evidence that some people, at least, had roused themselves early enough to attend the morning church services.

  There were footprints, too, heading up the shaded lane that led to the manor house. Iain Sumner’s footprints, I deduced, as there were two sets going in and only one coming out again. On impulse, I left the street and started up the lane, my shoes squelching a little in the drying mud. It was only idle curiosity, I told myself. I hadn’t really taken a good look at the house on my last visit, and I doubted whether Geoffrey de Mornay would mind if I just had a peek around.

  The lane was quiet and deserted. On my left, through the closely planted trees, I could just glimpse the outline of the church, its yellow stone walls flatly dull in the absence of sunshine. The path hugged the churchyard around a smoothly curved corner, straightening out again for its approach to the manor house. Ahead of me loomed the garden pedestrian gate leading to the Hall’s north entrance, a free-standing doorcase carved of pale limestone, surmounted by an ornamental cornice and ball. A sign posted to one side of the gate stated politely: “Welcome to Crofton Hall. This wing is private. The public is requested to use the East Entrance, which may be reached from the High Street.”

  Rather a nice way, I thought, of telling people to get lost.

  Nor would they need to go through the bother of retracing their steps. A little swinging gate set into the low stone wall on my left led into the churchyard, offering a ready shortcut back to the High Street.

  To my right, a long, low building with a stone-tiled roof stretched out level with the front of the imposing garden gate. The pleasantly pungent smell that drifted through its wide-open doorway identified it immediately as the stables for the Hall. My hesitation was only momentary. I never had been able to resist the almost magnetic lure of the presence of horses. Forgetting all about the manor house itself, I wandered towards the big boarded doors, swatting idly at a fly that buzzed about my ear.

  The stables were unmistakably old, built of rough gray stone that looked identical to that used to build my house. Sarsen stone, Vivien had called it. The fly buzzed past again, louder this time, and again I brushed it away. Inside, the stables were warm, and fragrant, and I paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting.

  There were seven window bays, and most of the two-light timber windows held the original leaded glazing, with blue flies humming contentedly against the glass. Of the nine straight stalls, six contained horses, ranging in color from a pure midnight black to a sleek golden chestnut. But it was the gray horse, in the far corner stall, that caught and held my attention.

  It was a stallion, standing fully sixteen hands high, with a proudly arched neck and regal face that spoke of blistering, windswept sands and the far-off kingdoms of the infidel. As I drew closer, the gray turned his head towards me, his dark eyes mildly inquisitive, and snorted softly. I reached out a hand to rub his velvet nose, and the finely drawn nostrils quivered slightly in response, inhaling my scent.

  “Hello, Navarre,” I greeted him lovingly, “you beautiful thing.” The stallion nuzzled my hand, searching for an illicit treat. And he might have received one, had I not at that moment heard the sound of footsteps approaching—heavy, confident footsteps accompanied by a cheerful and tuneless whistling. I spun round guiltily, and stood facing the doorway with my hands held behind me like an errant schoolgirl.

  But no one came in.

  The flies sang more noisily in the windowpanes, drowning out the sound of my rapidly beating heart as I blinked my eyes against the suddenly bright electric lights that had not been there a moment ago. Gone were the leaded windows, replaced by energy-efficient double glazing. Gone, too, were the straight stalls, and in their place were five larger, immaculately kept box stalls. And the horse behind me, when I summoned the courage to look, was no longer a gray, but a dark cherry bay, eyeing me curiously from the safety of the far wall.

  I did not take time to analyze what had just occurred. I ran. I ran out of the stables, across the lane, and through the swinging gate into the silent sanctuary of the churchyard, and if I hadn’t caught my foot on a snaking tree root, I would very probably have kept right on running.

  As it was, I fell in a sprawling, inglorious heap among the tangle of weeds that grew against the churchyard wall, knocking the breath from my body so that I was forced to lie quite still for several moments. And as I lay there, gasping, hoping against hope that no one would see me in this undignified position, my gaze fell wildly on a weathered headstone a short distance from my hand.

  It was an old stone, set at an impossible angle and thickly wreathed in ivy, the vine having encircled the stone so completely that one could only read the first name of the person who lay buried beneath it:

  Mariana…

  Chapter 7

  The approach to Vivien’s private rooms at the back of the Red Lion wound through one of the loveliest gardens I had ever seen—the sort of garden one comes across in the travel brochures above the caption “An
English Country Garden.” Or at least it would be that summer, in full bloom. Even now, in the middle of May, the garden was deliciously twisted and tangled, with tiny flowers clinging to every crevice of the old stone wall surrounding the yard. I stood on the back step for a moment, loitering in silent admiration.

  “Coming up behind you,” Iain Sumner announced from several yards away. “There,” he said, joining me on the steps, “was that better?”

  Laughing, I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but no. I still jumped.”

  “Ah, well,” he sighed, “we’ll think of something. I’d not want to give you a coronary.”

  “Hullo!” Geoffrey de Mornay came round the corner of the house, looking oddly elegant in denim jeans and a casual shirt. His greeting was directed at Iain, but his smile, I fancied, was for me.

  “Why would you be giving her a coronary?” he asked.

  Iain grinned. “I move like a damned cat.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He keeps sneaking up on me,” I clarified.

  Iain took offense at that, raising both eyebrows in mock indignation. “A Scotsman,” he informed me, “never sneaks.”

  “Well, whatever. I never hear him coming.”

  Geoff frowned. “You could wear heavier boots, I suppose,” he suggested, but Iain shook his head.

  “Can’t get much heavier than these.”

  The three of us looked down at Iain’s mud-splattered boots, our expressions contemplative, until the sound of a throat being ponderously cleared brought our heads up in unison.

  “Hello.” Vivien smiled at us brightly from the open doorway. “Would you three like to come inside, or should I join you out there?”

  “Hullo, Viv.” Geoff leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  He brushed past her into the house, with Iain and me trailing after him. Vivien closed the door behind us, shaking her head. “What on earth were you all doing?”

  “Looking at my boots,” Iain supplied, kicking off the articles in question and strolling into the little kitchen in his stockinged feet. He, too, was wearing jeans and a flannel work shirt, and I might have felt overdressed in my skirt and sweater had it not been for the fact that Vivien was wearing a dress, a nicely cut navy-blue dress that set off her fair hair to advantage.