"Chagnon" he read aloud.
At the sound of this name the Count suddenly became agitated. He started to flail about and his mutterings grew louder. Sylvia drew away from him and turned eyes of dismay towards Lord Farron.
"There is an address here too," continued Lord Farron. "20 Rue de Vieux Tolbiac, Paris."
"Paris!" echoed Sylvia. She did not remember the Count ever mentioning a sojourn in Paris. What else was she to discover about her fiancé? She stared down at him, lying there beneath her, his moustache damp with a mixture of water and blood, his thin red lips parted to reveal small white teeth, his arms dangling at his side.
One day those thin lips must meet hers…those arms must enfold her! The idea of such contact with him struck her like a blow. She let fall the flannel and pressed her palms to her eyes.
She suddenly felt so tired, so defeated. Her legs began to buckle under her.
"Can we…go now?" she asked tremblingly.
Lord Farron did not reply. He stood examining the cloth. He read what was written there again, a frown on his features. Then he turned the cloth over and his frown deepened.
On the other side, written in blood, was a single word, which he murmured aloud in surprise.
"Belham."
CHAPTER NINE
Jeannie gave a light tap on Sylvia's door and entered without summons. The young mistress was probably still fast asleep, the maid thought. She had arrived home so late last night, well after the Duchess. The whole house had been locked and bolted, as if the Duchess wasn't expecting her step-daughter home at all.
It was lucky that Jeannie was up and about. It was her first time in London and she was finding it hard to sleep at night with the excitement.
She was in the kitchen making herself some hot tea when she'd heard a carriage draw up outside and someone with a light footfall get out and cross the pavement. She'd gone out on the front steps – in her night-robe and shawl, what would they say back at the castle! – and there was Lady Sylvia, just about to ring the bell.
Lady Sylvia was that tired and pale – and that pleased to see Jeannie – she'd burst into tears right there on the steps. The carriage that had brought her home started off and poor Lady Sylvia, she'd given such a longing look after it, Jeannie thought it must be her fiancé driving away. Jeannie wondered if they'd had a quarrel.
She hummed quietly to herself now, as she deposited the breakfast tray she was carrying on to the table at the foot of the bed and went over to open the curtains. Most of the staff in the London house had been dismissed when the family left for Castle Belham and she was having to undertake duties that would not normally be her lot. But she didn't mind one bit. It made life all the more interesting.
She turned back to the tray and gave a start.
"You're awake, my lady."
Sylvia was already sitting up in bed, wrapped in a pale blue shawl. Her gaze slid by Jeannie and settled on the grey square of sky on the other side of the window.
"Yes, I'm awake."
"Well, there's some lovely fresh rolls here, and damson jam. The jam's from Belham. I brought a few jars with me in a basket. I thought to myself, they won't get jam as good as this in London, so they won't. Shall I butter the rolls for you?"
Without answering, Sylvia threw back the bedclothes and felt for her slippers.
Jeannie stood poised with the butter knife. "Is there something else I can get for you, my lady?"
"No, thank you, Jeannie. I don't want any breakfast. Thank you."
Jeannie was left speechless as Sylvia flung on a dressing gown and hurriedly left the room.
"Well!" she said after a moment. She looked at the butter on the end of the knife and, thinking waste not want not, licked it cleanly off the blade herself.
Sylvia hurried along the corridor, her mind in turmoil.
She had felt so faint those last few minutes at the Count's lodgings that she had barely registered Lord Farron reading the name BELHAM on the cloth. She had barely registered him copying the words from the cloth onto a piece of paper, which he then folded and put into his waistcoat. She dimly remembered that they had left the Count comatose but comfortable on the couch – she had done as much as duty demanded – and had descended the unlit stairway together.
Lord Farron had not taken her hand to guide her and she had been glad of that, yes, glad, for his touch was so like a fiery brand on her skin, she might have cried out.
Lord Farron had not spoken as he brought Sylvia home. When at last they drew up outside the Belham house he had merely inclined his head in acknowledgement at her "good-night and…thank you."
His mind – his heart – had seemed elsewhere.
He had become as distant to her as the stars in the sky.
Sylvia reached her step-mother's boudoir and stood outside the door for a moment, her heart hammering. Then she lifted her hand and knocked. There was a sleepy moan from within and Sylvia pushed the door open.
The Duchess was in a semi-recumbent position, propped up with pillows. She did not like to sleep flat on her back as this meant her mouth fell open during the night and noxious vapours might get in. Never mind the odd insect.
Sylvia crossed to the end of the bed.
"Mama?"
The Duchess lifted an eyelid and closed it again with a low groan.
"Mama! Please wake up. I have something to tell you." Sylvia waited patiently for a moment and then went on. "Mama, listen. I cannot marry the Count."
Two eyelids flew open at this. "What? What was that?"
Sylvia did not falter. "I cannot marry the Count."
The Duchess struggled to an upright position, clutching at the canopy around the bed for support.
"What am I hearing? What nonsense is this?"
"The nonsense, Mama, is for you to expect me to marry a man I detest and despise."
The Duchess clasped her breast in dismay. "Oh! It is too early in the morning to distress me so. How can you say such things about a man you barely know?"
"That is exactly it," said Sylvia as patiently as she could. "I barely know him. None of us knows him. If you had been with me last night…'
"Last night?" shrieked the Duchess. "Last night you hardly spent a minute with him. You went home early with your sister."
"I did not go home with my sister. There was a mistake and I was left behind. I found myself much later having recourse to the…protection of the Count. He took me to…a place that no lady of repute should ever be taken to. No true gentleman could ever behave in the way he did. He was drunk, mama, drunk!"
The Duchess was listening in alarm. She could see the promised improvement in the Belham family fortunes vanish like a mist.
"Drunk? Pooh!" she cried. "You will have to get used to that in men, my girl. Even your father has had to be carried home from his club on one or two occasions. The Count no doubt is getting nervous about the forthcoming marriage. After all, you hardly encourage him with your behaviour. You betray no affection for him whatsoever."
"That is because I feel no affection!" said Sylvia with steely calm. "His behaviour to me last night was insulting in the extreme. If it had not been for the intercession of Lord Farron, I do not know what would have happened to me."
At the sound of that name, the Duchess almost leapt from the bed in fury. "Ah! Now I understand! This is nothing to do with the behaviour of the Count and everything to do with the behaviour of Lord Farron. He had the impertinence to call here one afternoon asking for you but I soon sent him packing."
Sylvia stared at her stepmother. She remembered the day Lord Farron had called at the house and not even been admitted.
"W..what did you say to him?" she asked in as calm a tone as she could muster.
"I said nothing, my dear. I had one of the servants take him a note explaining that you were indisposed and would remain so as far as he was concerned."
Sylvia tried to keep her voice steady. "Was it clear the note…was from you?"
The Duchess for the
first time looked a little uncomfortable.
you."
"He may have been – led to believe – that it was from Sylvia was beginning to feel faint. "From…from The Duchess drew herself up quickly. "I did what I me?"
believed was the best thing in the circumstances. I could not allow you to be distracted by this young man."
Sylvia felt for the arm of a chair and sat down. Now she understood why Lord Farron had grown so cold towards her. He had every reason to believe she had grown cold towards him.
"You had…no right to do that," she said tremblingly.
"No right? I had every right. I was protecting the interests of my family. And what is more I was protecting you. And I will go on protecting you. You have got some silly notion into your head about the Count, comparing him unfavourably to this – Lord Farron – a man who doesn't even own a full set of Chippendale! You have made your promise to the Count and you will keep that promise. Everything depends on it."
Sylvia rose to her feet in a daze. "I see I must go to Papa."
The Duchess threw up her hands. "Oh, do, go to him,
why don't you! Distress him, why don't you! He's only recovering from the prospect of bankruptcy and death. He'll welcome your change of mind with open arms, I'm sure."
"He would never wish me to be unhappy," said Sylvia, moving towards the door.
"Happiness!" shrieked the Duchess. "Happiness is for puppies and – and parrots! It is most certainly not for married women!"
As Sylvia closed the boudoir door behind her, she heard the Duchess ringing furiously for her maid.
*
Tompkins was astonished to open the door of the Belham coach and see only Sylvia preparing to descend.
"You are alone, my lady?" he asked, peering beyond her into the coach, as if the Duchess might at any moment pop up from under the cushions.
Sylvia took his hand and stepped down from the coach. "Yes, Tompkins, I am."
"Oh," said Tompkins. "Only when the message came asking for the train to be met, I thought you were both coming home."
"No. Only myself."
"Well, you're right welcome, my lady. The Duke is looking forward to seeing you."
"How is my father?"
"So much better, my lady. You'd hardly believe it."
Sylvia felt a surge of relief. "I'll go straight up and see him," she said.
The door to her father's room was ajar. She stood there for a moment, looking in.
Her father was sitting up in bed. Across the counterpane were strewn various papers, one of which he was examining through a magnifying glass. He looked up with delight when he heard Sylvia's gentle "Papa!"
"My dear! Come, come sit here on the bed. Oh, how I've missed you and your mama!"
Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed, scanning her father's face as she did so. Colour had returned to his cheek and his eyes were lively again.
"You must tell me all about London!" he said. "How's the house? I'm not going to have to sell it now, you know. Your mama can keep all her treasures – keep up her society life. All thanks to the Count."
Sylvia drew in her breath. "Ah, yes. The Count. Papa, I want to…"
"You're marrying a generous fellow, my dear."
"Generous, maybe, but..."
"He's said he'll even pay for us to keep the Riveria property.'
This was the first Sylvia had heard of this and her heart started to sink. The more the Count offered, the more was lost by her decision not to marry him.
Her father went happily on. "I'm happy enough just keeping Belham, as you know. The Count has said I am absolutely to return here to live, once all the repairs are effected."
"The repairs, yes," murmured Sylvia.
"You and he, of course, will be off then to his estates in Bavaria." The Duke turned down the corners of his mouth. "Can't say as I shall like that much. Bavaria might as well be the Orient. Too far for my old bones to travel, eh?"
"Too far," echoed Sylvia.
She should speak. Now, before this conversation went too far. She should speak.
"Papa," she began, reaching for his hand. "I have something to tell you."
"Have you, my dear? About your trousseau, I'll be bound. But look – just look here. Just one second. Do you know what these papers are? They're blueprints, plans! The Count – oh, you've got a prize there, you have – he told me to set about organising what needs to be done here. I went around on Tompkins' arm – now don't look at me like that! I only did an hour here, an hour there – but I saw enough. I found the original floor plans in the archives, would you believe! I've been able to work from those."
The Duke's eyes were flashing with pleasure. He was more animated than Sylvia had seen him for a long time. He was not slurring his words and his hand was steady. He was better, yes, better. Because his life was better. Because his beloved Castle Belham was to be saved, because his beloved family name was not after all to fall into disrepute. He was not going to be made a penniless bankrupt.
Slowly, Sylvia drew away her hand from his.
It was her sacrifice that had wrought this miracle. How could she now take away what she had given?
"I must…go to my room, Papa," she said, rising to her feet.
"What? Oh, of course. You must be exhausted."
Sylvia nodded absently. The Duke now put down his magnifying glass and gazed at her, just for a moment distracted from his new found pleasure.
"You – fighting fit, my girl?"
"Fighting fit, papa."
"And – happy?"
Sylvia lifted her head. There was a long pause and then at last she gave a nod.
"Yes, Papa," she said.
Happy!
*
The next morning, after a somewhat sleepless night, Sylvia went down to the stables to see Columbine.
Columbine thrust her brown head over the top of her stall and whinnied with pleasure.
When the Duchess had so hurriedly fetched her stepdaughter away from Farron Towers, poor Columbine had been left behind. Since Sylvia and the Duchess left for London the very next day, it had been over a fortnight since Columbine had seen her young mistress.
Sylvia stood stroking the horse's velvety nose.
"Who brought her from Farron Towers?" she asked the stable boy.
The boy was sweeping out Columbine's stall and stopped to lean on the broom, which was almost as tall as he.
"The gentlemen hisself."
"Lord Farron?"
"That's right. He rode his own horse and led Columbine on. There was roses on her head."
Sylvia creased her brow. "What do you mean?"
"Tucked into her halter. Pink roses. I put them in a jar over there. See?"
Sylvia turned. There by the stable door was a cracked jar containing a bunch of faded flowers. The roses Lord Farron had sent to her in her room at Farron Towers.
"They're dead," she said sadly.
"That's right, miss. Dead as jackdaws."
Sylvia gave a wan smile. She knew the boy had been shooting at jackdaws, as they had been killing some of the smaller birds in the woods.
The stable boy resumed his sweeping.
Sylvia went slowly back towards the castle. She raised her head as she heard a commotion at the front entrance. The Belham coach stood there, the horses steaming, Tompkins and Jeannie and a couple of other servants hauling packages from the rack.
The Duchess was issuing orders, one hand clamped to the top of her hat to keep it on in the fresh breeze. When she saw Sylvia she gave a squawk and hurried over to her. She came to within an inch of Sylvia and fixed her with her green, enquiring eyes.
"Well?" she said meaningfully.
Sylvia stared at her step-mother. "What do you mean by 'well', mama?"
The green eyes were screwed up until they were the size of peas. "IS IT ON OR IS IT OFF?"
Sylvia had known perfectly well what it was her stepmother wanted to know. Now she felt her teeth clench behind her lips, as she repl
ied. "It..is…on."
The Duchess beamed. "I knew you'd see sense! I've brought your whole trousseau down. A step-mother's intuition!"
She bustled back to the entrance steps where the heap of parcels, hatboxes, and trunks retrieved from the coach was growing by the minute.
Sylvia followed. She stepped around the pile and into the castle, where she went up to her room and lay on her chaise longue. She felt numb with misery. Since she had arrived home yesterday and seen her father, she had barely lifted a finger to do anything.
She had, however, managed one constructive task since her return. She had sent a letter to Charity Farron. She wanted Charity to know that it was not she, Sylvia, who had turned Lord Farron from their London house, but the Duchess.
Let Lord Farron and Charity think anything of her but that she had spurned their friendship.
That afternoon Jeannie knocked breathlessly on Sylvia's door.
"It's your fiancé, my lady. He's paid a call."
Sylvia rose reluctantly and descended to the drawing room.
She had not heard from the Count since the evening of the Black Garter Club. She had imagined he would wait a day or two longer, like a fox outside a coop, to see what Sylvia would do. Yet here he was!
She stood at the entrance to the drawing room looking in. The Count was pacing the floor in a state of some agitation. He suddenly stopped and wheeled round as if sensing her presence.
Their eyes locked and Sylvia was startled to see as much dislike in his gaze as she imagined was evident in hers.
"No doubt you are expecting an apology?" hissed the Count.
"I do not believe, sir, that it is…within your nature."
"Ha! You think you know me so well, do you?" jeered the Count.
Sylvia bent her head in silence.
The Count stared at her, chewing his moustache nervously. "So how much – did you tell your step-mother?"
Sylvia raised her head. "Do you think that if I had told my step-mother anything at all of what happened, you would have been admitted to Castle Belham this morning?"
The Count shrugged. "I think I'd be admitted as long as the Duchess wanted new curtains and a box at the opera."
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