by May Woodward
‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that Clemence went outside to give Jenny her dues?’ said the mistress. ‘I expect she diverted one of the domestics from his or her more pressing duties to make that floral display on the lake.’
‘I imagine so,’ Richard said.
‘Why don’t you just push her out and shut the door on her? She’d soon snap out of this silliness.’
‘Because she’d die!’ he replied in thumping tones. ‘She stops breathing, Amathia! Don’t imagine that crude attempt at a cure wasn’t tried in the past.’
‘Then she should most definitely be married, Dickon. That will stop her moping. I shall consider some suitable candidates.’
‘Some sham duke on the verge of bankruptcy perhaps?’ He went on staring at the print.
She felt the sting as if she’d been slapped.
Well, my ignoble baronet… she narrowed her eyes. Now you mention it, I believe I know just the man.
What woke Clemence?
It must be the dead of night. The house lay silent around her, the moon high above the casement.
An unnatural kind of light was flickering on her coverlet. Moonbeams didn’t flit like that. Rather, the orange tongues leaped and pranced.
The young woman sprang upright, staring towards the curtains.
Out from her bed, her bare toes padded across the rug and floorboards.
Holy God, it seemed to be in the village. One of the cottages must be alight. How many times had Dickon, curse him, been told that old thatch was a hazard?
What are you thinking, Clemence Somerlee? Here was she – looking on, shaking her head over her brother’s failings as a landlord? Lives might be lost.
She grabbed a shawl. Sprinted from the room. Scurried down the north stars. Into the passage which separated Richard’s study from the great hall. He’d dumped a pair of black leather bluchers outside the door: Clemence slipped her little feet inside, and then galumphed in them across the tiles.
Her hand was on the three great locks across the main exit when it hit her: God… she couldn’t go.
She was stuck inside and couldn’t leave.
What can I do? How can I get help? Why am I so useless… useless?
She’d roused two of the dogs; they bounded about her, yapping; but no-one else was yet stirring that she could hear.
One glance up the grand stairwell. No, Richard would not show himself. He had left for London in the afternoon. Flitcroft and the male servants were far away on the topmost floor and attics. No time was there to reach them.
Clemence stared at the massive front door again. The butler barred it every night. She knew how to unfasten the bolts. At least in theory. In practice, the fastenings were stiff and old. To reach the topmost one, she had to drag a pier chair across the vestibule, then stand on the velvet upholstery in Richard’s outdoor footwear.
No time to think what she was doing… one fraction of a second, that was all which flashed by, and… Swung the master’s boot at the great portcullis. Open it yawned. In flooded the night air.
Clemence retched as if she was going to heave up her dinner. Frog-sounds in her windpipe.
It was like a vortex spinning around and around and around… sucking her down into oblivion. All colours blurring… like all those scattered, jumbled-up bits when you look inside a kaleidoscope.
Barking dogs… parkland trees… the flamelight flickering through the trees… timbered beams and sculptured, plaster ceiling of the great hall… Sir Alois Somerlee’s framed painting gleaming in the nightlight… gargoyle banister heads of the grand stairwell with their toothy mouths gaping… Jacobean screen… eight-day clock… hanging lanterns… longsword… fireguard…
Where was she? Cold beneath hands and cheek. The tiles of the vestibule. Had she passed out? Paws of one of the dogs pressing upon her spine. He licked her ear, and that woke her properly.
She could, now, hear calls and slamming doors in the far parts of the house.
But there was still no time. She must get out.
Beside her lay the chair – upturned, on its side. It had tumbled down with her. Its clattering must be what had roused the sleepers upstairs.
Had she knocked her head on the floor? The dull pain had just become manifest.
Clemence eased the dog off. She heaved herself onto her back so that she was facing the door. The black void beyond seemed to rush towards her. As if it was going to smother her in its suffocating folds.
Sucking out all the air which there was in Eardingstowe. Squashing, squeezing – as if the walls were closing in and crushing her. Clemence choked, retched; wetness spotted the hands which she clasped to her mouth.
No, she would not turn back. If she was to die… might as well be in the attempt to save others.
She swung her legs around. Rose to her feet stage by stage. One huge lungful of the remaining oxygen. Then she lunged across the threshold.
FOURTEEN
A footman carrying a drinks tray was weaving a path through the guests. The assembly was gathered in Eardingstowe’s Great Drawing-Room before going in to dinner.
The baronet took two glasses and handed one to the man he was talking to.
‘Any thoughts on how it might affect you, eh, Dickon?’ Lord Tewksbury asked. ‘Probably weren’t expecting it, were you – Palmerston down over that Conspiracy to Murder Bill?’
‘No. I’d not have thought Pam would tumble.’
‘But he has. And Derby is in the ascendancy, eh? Well, who’d have thought it? Suppose you’re hoping for office, what? You’ve been one of his stalwarts.’
‘Yes… could be the biggest squabble since the Repeal of the Corn Laws!’
‘Oh, you get all the bluster in the Commons, my dear chap,’ said His Lordship. ‘Rarely much excitement in the Lords.’
‘Yes, the House can be lively,’ Richard mused.
Still, he’d settle for snoozing in the Lords if it meant a peerage.
Richard was moving gradually from dinner-party guest to guest, sipping his wine as he went. A smattering of Whigs was among the company as well as Derby’s followers. Never hurt a chap to be sensible.
Through the open door which led into the passage he could see the State Dining-Room done up in splendour. It was only used for formal entertaining. For daily eating, the family used the more modest dining-room on the first floor.
As this was a special occasion, a small orchestra had been engaged to play during the meal. The drawing-room windows had been thrown wide open to show off the beautiful Crystal Garden whose parterres and walkways were lit with multi-coloured Chinese lanterns.
His wife was talking with the wives of two men he was keen to get on his side, he was glad to see.
His sister, however, stood alone by the Jacobean fire-screen. Clemence still wouldn’t go near the window – because the glass was open, he assumed. She also kept her back to the people in the room. But at least she’d made an effort to look well, in a lime-green silk crinoline and ivory-lace fichu and wearing their mother’s daisy-chain pearls.
‘Thank you for turning out so prettily, Clemence,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘I understand Viscount Van Schalten has been asking who you are.’
‘Has he?’
Yes… who’s the freak who looks as if she hasn’t been out of doors for a year?
‘Van Schalten’s a distant cousin of Derby’s. And quite a handsome chap, wouldn’t you say? Considered quite a catch I’m told,’ Richard went on. ‘You have more admirers than you think, Clemmie. You really look quite personable when you try.’
‘Thank your wife,’ she replied. ‘My dress and hair are the work of her mantuamaker and coiffeuse.’
‘Please be polite, won’t you? There’re a lot of people here tonight who might just put in that good word I need with Derby.’
‘You know I don’t like cro
wds.’
‘Just try and be pleasant,’ he muttered, around a smile which he was forcing out for a passing junior minister. ‘And anyway, I thought your heroism of last week might have shaken you out of this nonsense.’
Clemence raised wide eyes to him.
‘I reacted in a dangerous situation – that is all. We can all be heroes in a crisis, Dickon!’
‘Just so.’ He took a few sips from his glass. ‘Actually, I haven’t really had a chance to thank you yet, have I? Getting to Constable Shankly’s house and rousing him like that? You probably saved Bob Shiner, and his wife and children. He’s a good carter. I’d have been sorry to lose him.’
‘At least it’s forced you to do something about those cottages, Dickon!’
‘Yes, you’re right, Clemence. Too busy thinking of Parliament these days. Neglecting my duties at home. I stand rebuked.’
Still, he thought, she must be getting over her icky spell, whatever she believed to the contrary. Gazing out of doors now and then, wasn’t she? Her little adventure on the night of the fire probably had been the kick up the rear she needed. So, everyone was a winner; Shiner got a new cottage, and Richard got back a marriageable sister.
‘Well, anyway, you do look nice, dear.’
‘Your wife outshines us all of course,’ Clemence sighed. ‘Even in her mourning black, Mathy must be one of the most charming women here tonight. You’re quite envied, you know, Richard.’
‘Am I?’ He took a gulp of wine.
‘Well, you are happy in your marriage, aren’t you?’
‘Do I not look the picture of happiness, and health?’
‘No, Dickon. You’re putting on weight. You ought to be careful. You won’t be a young man much longer.’
‘Poppycock, woman! The pater ate birdseed like you, was as thin as a stick like you, and the consumption bore him off before he saw a half century! I think marriage and fatherhood agree with me.’ He finished his drink in two mouthfuls, and then clattered the vessel onto a passing footman’s tray. The way she eyed him, though! ‘God, Clemence, sometimes I wonder if you can see into my mind, do you know that? Our remote ancestress St Laurey was supposed to have the second-sight, you know. I wonder sometimes whether you possess just a smidgen, maybe?’
Before she could answer, however, Clemence drew in a sharp breath. She was looking beyond his shoulder. He turned to see. Lord Fanshawe had just entered, arm-in-arm with his bride.
‘Look well, don’t they?’ Richard said. ‘Just returned from their honeymoon in Venice. I once entertained hopes of you and Fanny, you know,’ Richard went on. ‘Yes, I did indeed! But you knew your mind, of course. You couldn’t have known your chosen one would fall in the biggest military disaster this side of Actium.’
‘Oh, you can be tactless, Dickon! And what’s more – how could I care for someone like Fanny Fanshawe who used to pull my ringlets? In fact, I quite resent him!’
Good Lord, he’d touched a nerve there. He was about to retort that, really woman, how can you expect to marry for love these days… what romantic nonsense! What about your duty to me, the brother who’s clothed and fed you all these years, and so on, and so on… But, actually, he ended up having a quiet chuckle to himself. Sometimes you could read females like books.
‘Ah, well.’ He glanced over at the newlyweds. Fanny was introducing his lady to Lord Tewksbury. ‘What do you think of Phyllis? Lovely, isn’t she?’
Blisteringly winsome the former Miss Guilfoyle was. White rosebuds in her Grecian coil of dark brown ringlets.
‘I don’t yet know Miss Guilfoyle well – Lady Fanshawe, I mean – but she is truly handsome. I trust she makes Fanny as happy as Amathia has made you,’ Clemence added with a sly glint in her eye. And he’d thought she’d left her spirit in Balaclava.
Flitcroft arrived to announce dinner was served. The party began to make moves. The Duke of Beaufort as the highest-ranked guest would be leading the company into the dining-room. Which gentleman-guest had Amathia paired her with, Clemence wondered?
‘Dickon, who will be accompanying me to dinner?’
It might be Brandon Fanshawe! Or some other charming, handsome young fellow.
‘I believe you are with Colonel Cumberpatch. Talk to him about the Crimea, my dear. He so regrets he wasn’t able to take part since his leg was shot off at Waterloo. But his grandson died at Lucknow – so India’s probably a topic of conversation to avoid.’
Richard gasped when he opened his first statement from the Smoky Mountain Mining Company. The modest five pounds’ worth of shares he had purchased to test the water had returned a profit of twenty.
He sent, at last, for his notary.
‘Mr Boscawen, I wish to invest in this company, Smoky Mountain. A gold mine in South Africa. I know the Director, Sir Roger Cormorant. I had dinner with him after the opera recently – most splendid company, he was. He’s a Wykehamist like me. We tested each other on our notions; he caught me out a few times! Anyway, the company’s quite sound, I assure you. Open up an investment portfolio, would you? I will commence with one thousand pounds’ worth of shares.’
‘But, Sir Richard!’ The solicitor was taken aback. ‘I have never heard of this company!’
‘Then you obviously don’t read your Times very thoroughly.’ Richard showed him the two editions with the relevant articles.
‘Well!’ spluttered Boscawen. ‘I thought I did read my Times, but clearly I skipped on these days. I cannot argue with the wisdom of The Times of course.’
‘As you see, Lord Spuffington had no qualms about investing in the company. And has done very well for himself out of it so far by the look of things.’
‘I know you and he are not close, Sir Richard, but I am acquainted with Lord Hubert’s man-at-law. I am rather surprised he did not mention this venture to me.’
‘Professional loyalty, man! Surely you see that? I would not expect you to blab about my financial affairs to every other man-at-law in the shire!’
‘No! Naturally. That makes sense…’
‘You will make the purchase then?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Clemence gazed across a waterway teeming with ornate barges. The water their prows were ploughing before them was making cascades of shimmering sunshine.
Some were almost like little houseboats, festooned with trellis vines and flower-garlands. The people on board were waving to those on shore. Men wearing boater-hats. Women all in white from hem to lacy parasol. All of fashionable society was gathered at the Henley Regatta.
I guess Dickon was right, she thought. It took an almost tragedy to cure her of her latest bout of strangeness. Her kick up the rear as he’d so delicately put it. Whatever ailed her didn’t have a name. Terror of the outdoors? Fresh air sickness?
‘Clemmie! We’re about to start the picnic!’
Her sister-in-law was hailing her. Amathia was seated beneath a parasol in the shade of the willows, Richard beside her. They had a luncheon spread out on a cloth. The children, Margaret and John, and baby Caroline were here too, playing with the nurse.
‘I’m not hungry yet, Mathy. You start without me. I want to look at the boats from the bridge first…’
‘Don’t wander too far,’ Richard called.
Bless them. They thought her tetched, of course. Everyone who’d ever seen her when she was confined to the house thought so. And treated her as such. By don’t wander too far, they meant, don’t be doing anything to show up the family, strange one.
Well, she was well and truly outdoors now, and meant to stay.
The day after the dinner-party, she had looked on the view from the library. The coralberries were in full bloom. She could see as far as the hills. That was where she should be. Not moping in here, letting her broken heart freeze into ice, making dirges out of Bach’s livelier sonatas on the ivory.
Clemen
ce wandered down to the waterside through the many picnicking groups. Laughter and song was all around. As was the scent of lavender and buzz of bees. The field was covered with white campion, elderflower and meadowsweet. Children playing with balloons and hoops.
It was the height of the London season. Dickon and Mathy must be hopeful they could yet find her a match. The eligible partis they were introducing her to, though, at the balls and kettledrums they were attending were increasingly less wealthy, connected or youthful. Clemence’s desirability was ebbing as she gathered dust on the shelf, and rumours of her instability spread.
Sunbeams were dazzling Clemence… swelled the water sparkles into glowing moons… cast into bronze all the trees and folk on the far bank, and the fancy vessels as past they glided…
In all that strange light, her brother Aubrey’s features seemed to smile from behind the pole of the passing punt. James was sitting beside the gunwale, trailing a hand in the ripples. Captain Nolan perched in the prow. He waved to her. We are leaving. Don’t miss the boat. The boat of no-return…
Would they let her go? If she slipped into that beckoning water? Drift into a cool, timeless republic?
The sound of a lady’s gay, silvery laugh snapped her mind back to the present.
‘You look pensive, dear coz.’
Clemence looked up to see a young, male figure perched astride a magnificent chestnut hunter.
Amathia’s brother, Philoctetes Consett, Duke of Ardenne, wore a hat with a black silk band, belted Norfolk jacket and peg-top trousers. He was twenty-four years old, had come into his dukedom on the death of his father five months ago.
‘Do I not get a greeting?’ Philoctetes asked, patting his horse’s neck. ‘Some commonplace at least? Like, how are you enjoying the meet, Philo?’
The sunlight was behind both horse and rider and was for a moment blinding. She shielded her eyes.