“That be true.” The valet nodded.
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” Lucian asked Alicia.
“I?” She regarded him with considerable surprise. “No more than I fear elves or fairies or fire-breathing dragons or man-devouring ogres.”
“Indeed? Then I trust you’d not be disturbed were you to hear the chanting of those monks who were turned out of the abbey during the Dissolution. ’Twas in the middle of a high wind such as battered us this afternoon. And ’tis said that when the wind blows from the north, you can sometimes hear them. And since their services began at midnight with the ringing of the matins bell, you can also hear that bell on certain stormy nights.”
“Really?” Alicia smiled. “And the clapper so rusted by now?”
There was a touch of asperity to his tone as he responded, “Nothing of the bell remains . . . only the sound.”
“Ooooh, milady,” Effie murmured.
Alicia had a comforting smile for her. “I beg you’ll not take fright, my dear,” she said calmly. “The Dissolution of the Monasteries took place at the command of Henry the Eighth in the fifteen-thirties. Is that not right, Lucian?” She bent an inquiring glance on him.
“Fifteen-thirty-six,” he amplified. “You seem to be well acquainted with history.”
“I have always enjoyed reading about the past. The Tudor period is particularly fascinating. Just think someone among our ancestors might have met and even walked with Shakespeare, but I must tell you, sir, that I am very skeptical regarding the phantom monks that appear at one or another ruined monastery throughout the length and breadth of England. I am sure that the poor souls sleep soundly while they await the trumpets of Judgment Day, but I should like to hear more about the abbey itself. When was it built and by which order?”
‘‘The ruins date back to the twelfth century.”
‘‘Would they be Cistercian, then?” she asked interestedly. “That was the period of a great religious revival—unless I am mistaken.”
“You are not,” he sounded almost sulky. “And the order was Cistercian.”
“Ah, then the abbey must once have been very beautiful. The Fountains Abbey and Tintem and, I believe, Kirstall were all Cistercian.” Her eyes brightened. “I shall want to sketch those ruins.”
“Oh, milady, you must,” Effie exclaimed, and then blushed, “beggin’ yer pardon, milady.”
“There’s no need to beg my pardon, my dear.” Alicia smiled at Effie.
“You are an artist, ma’am?” Lucian asked.
“Not an artist,” she demurred. “I sketch. All young ladies are taught to sketch, you know.”
He nodded, “Yes. Barbara’s governess often brought her to the ruins for that purpose.”
“Does she enjoy sketching?” Alicia inquired politely, privately bestowing a small curse upon that particular pedagogue.
“She has little talent for it,” he admitted. “But,” he added fondly, “she does have a most beautiful singing voice.”
Alicia bit down a sigh. She had steered the conversation into the wrong channels. She should have refrained from making inquiries about Barbara. She said merely, “That is a gift. I do hope, by the way, that some little part of the abbey ruins remain intact.”
“Some of the cloister, a bit of the church tower, and . . . But you will soon see it for yourself,” he said dismissively.
Alicia was not to be so easily discouraged. “I expect that some of its stones were used in the building of the house?”
“Some were, I believe,” he said shortly.
“And the house itself, is it Tudor?”
“Tudor and with some additions over the centuries.”
“Would these be Palladian?”
“In part.”
“And are there secret passages? But if your family benefited from the destruction of the monasteries, I doubt that they would be priest-lovers ... or did they change their faith to suit the times?”
The horses were slowing down and Lucian said thankfully, “There are books in the library and records in the muniment room that will tell you far more than I could.”
That marked rebuff did not discourage Alicia as much as it might have earlier, for, she reasoned, at least she had persuaded him to speak to her about matters other than those attendant upon their journey. She would use similar ploys in the future, she decided, for while he had been speaking, she had caught a tiny glimpse of the man she had once known. His voice had softened and she guessed that he had a fondness for this place, which he had designated as her prison. This notion brought her up short. Had he?
Yes, she was sure that his purpose in taking her so many leagues out of London was to, as Barbara had put it, “deprive you of a chance to queen it in town,” something she would not have enjoyed half so much as seeing the old house where he had been born. And furthermore, here in Yorkshire he would not be beguiled by the attractions to be found in London: the court, the balls, the routs, the clubs, the theaters. Also, it was far better for him to be here in the country, where he could rest and give his leg a chance to heal.
And perhaps the sight of the old buildings would help to jog his moribund memory. As for herself, she would have plenty to occupy her, getting the house in order, and perhaps in her spare time she could sketch. She might even try her hand at oils. Old Pierre de la Rocque, her teacher, had often urged her to try them, but oils were dear and she had never wanted to strain the family budget by purchasing them. Now she could afford to buy them and perhaps find a room in the house where she could work—even one that might overlook the ruins. She adored old ruins, of which there were some of note in Brussels, but she did have a preference for her native land, which she had not seen since she was a child. And maybe . . . But she would not dwell on that particular “maybe.” In that direction lay frustration, a frustration that could easily match that of her husband, for, if he were mourning a lost love, so was she! However, it was futile to think about that and she must continue to remind herself that Lucian was alive, not lying in some nameless grave.
It was dark when they finally reached the entrance to the abbey grounds. In the wake of the rain, there was a damp chill rising from the ground, and the wind blew cold. It was evident that Lucian was feeling the effects of his fall, for he was huddled in the comer of the coach and every so often he rubbed his leg. It was important that he get to bed as soon as possible. However, Alicia knew better than to make such a suggestion. Were she to mention that he must retire, he would remain on his feet as long as he could possibly endure the pain and general discomfort. She must use a different method. She could not like the light in which it would place her, but she must needs resort to it if he were to be made comfortable.
After negotiating a circular driveway, the coach stopped. Descending from the vehicle, Alicia felt as if her legs were about to give out. Facing her was a massive building that seemed uneven in outline. It had a pillared portico that she realized must be a later addition. She was glad to see lighted windows and a reflection of flames on a wall. There was a fire laid on inside and the warmth would be welcome. Even more welcome would be bed . . . But she could not think of that yet. She must see to her husband’s comfort and in a way that he would not notice it. Approaching the door, they had no reason to lift the massive knocker that centered it; the portal was opened by Church, who welcomed them with a broad smile that seemed to embrace them both.
“Oh!” Alicia exclaimed, glad that she did not have to pretend her approval of a huge entrance hall; the fire she had seen from the windows blazed on an immense grate set in a huge stone fireplace. Exchanging polite greetings with the butler, she hurried to warm her hands and beckoned Effie, who had hung back shyly, evidently overawed by her surroundings. “Come, my dear, you must be warm, too.” She longed to say the same to Lucian but did not, knowing instinctively that he would immediately deny any feelings of discomfort.
Gazing about her, Alicia was glad that there was no parade of servants to be greeted and to greet her, sh
e having met them all at the various inns where they had stayed. Possibly, there ought to have been such a gathering; it must certainly have been there had Barbara come thither with Lucian, but the less combined disapproval, she garnered at this moment, the better it would be. That word had already seeped among them, had been evident in their attitudes. She dismissed that memory and looked about her with considerable pleasure. The hall had architectural beauties she had not anticipated.
The ceiling, though only one story high as dictated by Elizabethan builders, was decorated with plaster panels and strapwork. The staircase was also Elizabethan: its short flight of six or possibly seven steps ended in a broad landing, and then another flight of steps made an angular progression to the second floor. Flanking the stairs were a pair of armored figures. One held a mace and the other seemed to be leaning on a sword. It seemed to her that they were staring at her through their headpieces. She impatiently shrugged that fancy away, fixing her eyes on the staircase again and noting its width. It had been made, she knew, for the wide farthingales of the period, and no doubt, it had been joyfully utilized by those females of her grandmother’s day with their hooped skirts. She decided that the stone fireplace was of an earlier vintage, and longed to study it more closely ... but now, of course, was not the time.
As she had anticipated, the fact that she had asked only Effie to join her at that roaring fire moved Lucian in that direction, and now it was time for her next stratagem. “Oh,” she gushed, “ ’tis all so beautiful. I hardly know where to look. I do hope you will take me through some of the rooms tonight, Lucian. I am aching to see my new home.”
She heard a gasp from the butler and she received a glare from Jacob as Lucian said stiffly, “I think you must wait until tomorrow. I find myself rather fatigued by the journey.”
She made a little moue of disappointment. “Oh, I see. Well, I expect the fall has tired you, but you will show me through tomorrow, I hope.”
“Tomorrow,” he agreed wearily. “But now I must leave you. The housekeeper will conduct you to your chamber.” With a brief bow, he added, “I must bid you good night, ma’am.”
“Good night, Lucian,” she said as brightly as if she herself were not drooping with fatigue. Waiting until he had gained the second landing, she turned to the butler, and pretending to be unaware of his disapproving stare, she said, “I will be pleased if you send the housekeeper to me now and I do hope there will be a place for Effie in my quarters.”
“There’ll be the servants rooms on the third floor, milady,” he responded.
“No, that will never do,” she protested. “Effie must be near me.”
She received another disapproving glance. “Well, I expect there can be a trundle bed made up in the dressing room, milady,” he responded.
“That will be satisfactory,” Alicia still spoke brightly. “And now, I believe that I, too, will retire. It has been a long day.”
“Yes, milady,” the butler said pointedly.
Due to the antiquity of the house, the rooms on the second
floor led into one another, and Alicia, following Mrs. Gibbs, the housekeeper, through a series of them, caught glimpses of paintings and fine wallpapers briefly illuminated by the flickering flame of the candle the woman was carrying—the which made her ache to see them by daylight. The room she was given was large, and there was an equally large sitting room adjoining it. Alicia wondered if, beyond it, lay Lucian’s suite of rooms. At the thought, she felt a lump in her throat and a hardness in her chest. She had no trouble divining his intentions. He would not crown what he must consider the ultimate folly of his life by resuming the duties attendant upon the marriage he had forgotten. They would live as strangers in this house and she must not let herself remember the six nights when they had been so joyfully together.
It might be that in time he would come to her—out of duty and in hopes of an heir—but it would be duty alone, untouched by love. She felt tears gathering in her eyes and blinked them away. If only . . . But she must not think of that either. There was a chance his memory would return, but there was an equal chance that it would not.
“Would your Ladyship care to retire for the night?” Effie inquired in a low voice that reflected her own weariness.
“I would that,” Alicia said with alacrity. “And may we not need to take so long a coach journey soon again.”
“Amen to that, milady,” the girl agreed. “ ’Tis a very big house,” she added.
“It is indeed and we shall enjoy exploring it, I’m thinking.”
“Oh, yes, milady!”
The bed to which Alicia eventually came was immense. It made her feel even smaller than she was, but it was soft and the linens were scented with lavender and there was a hot brick inside. She had expected to lie wakeful in the darkness, but when next she opened her eyes, there was a thin line of white light seeping through heavy damask draperies, which she had scarcely noticed the night before.
She felt better. Much of her weariness had gone and, with it, a portion of the depression that she had tried to keep at bay during the journey. It had been difficult. Lucian’s determined effort to remain as far from her as possible had hurt, even more than she had anticipated, as she contrasted his frozen manner with that of the young man she had known, alas, so briefly and loved so passionately. Yesterday, and on the preceding days, she had been weighed down by the situation in which she was placed . . . She hesitated in her thinking; she would have said “no fault of her own,” but of course, she did share some of that fault. If she had not insisted on her husband honoring his forgotten vows, she would not be here. She would be at home or, at least, what she had been forced to describe as home for the last decade. And would she have been better off there? The answer to that question slipped between her lips in a defiant and audible “No.”
“No,” she repeated. It was better to be with the man she loved than alone and pining for him while he, oblivious of her very existence, married Barbara Barrington and lived . . . happily?
No, that was part of her reasoning. He could not have been happy with her. She breathed duplicity—but to lie here brooding over those circumstances would avail her nothing. She was here in Yorkshire and she wanted to see all that fatigue had denied her the previous evening: the house, the abbey. Indeed she wanted to see the ruins even before she went through the rest of the house.
The sound of hooves broke into her cogitations. She sat up, listening in surprise. Who would be riding at this hour? Or was it as early as she imagined? Habit brought her eyes to the mantelpiece—but of course she was thinking of the one at home. She giggled at the sight of a mantelshelf in that same place and a clock, ormolu rather than the little wooden clock at home. The golden hands indicated a few minutes past six. The continued sound of the hooves worried her. Would it be Lucian out there in the cold? Given his troubled state of mind, she would not be surprised.
Slipping from bed, Alicia went to the window and pulled aside the draperies, which, in addition to being heavy, were also dusty. She grimaced. That was a condition that must soon be amended. Yet, those few servants they had sent on ahead had work cut out for them. Judging from the size of the rooms, they would need a small army to care for them properly. She sucked in a breath as, looking out, she found the distances nearly obliterated by a heavy mist. Yet, still she could make out a motionless figure on horseback. The swirling mist blotted out features and dimmed its shape to the point where it appeared almost insubstantial. The horse seemed restless and tossed its head frequently, the result, she thought, of a strong hand on the reins. Whose hand? The figure appeared burly, which, of course, ruled out Lucian. It, or rather he, was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. As she looked, the horseman suddenly turned and rode away.
Alicia stared after him, feeling vaguely disquieted. Who was he? And why had he been there so early in the morning, staring so fixedly at the house? Was he someone who worked on the estate? She doubted that. She had seen the vague outline of saddlebags on the horse. A
traveler? Travelers did not usually trespass on private grounds or, she smiled derisively, had he been one of Lucian’s ghosts? However, though it was early in the morning, it was well past cockcrow, and all reputable spirits, in common with Hamlet’s father, had fled to their uneasy habitations. She would have to mention him to Lucian. She sighed. The resolve came so naturally to her and yet she doubted that she would bring it to his attention. His attitude precluded confidences, at least from her. To Lucian, she was there on sufferance, and no doubt he, in his chambers, lay wakeful thinking of what might have been. Had Barbara occupied these apartments? But she would not have been here. They would have yet remained in London, awaiting the moment when they would be walking up the aisle of the St. James's Church to be married.
“If this were not wartime, I would have brought you to St. James’s, my darling,” Lucian had told her all those weeks ago. “I was baptized there ...” And, she thought unhappily, he would have been married there but for Octavia’s perusing of the Morning Post. She owed a great deal to Octavia, but to think of that was to make herself even more unhappy. Still, at the same time she was relieved, for what would have happened had they gone through with that marriage?
“I would have died,” she murmured, and frowned. With Lucian alive, it was hard to remember the despair that had wasted her body and robbed her of the glowing beauty that had attracted him in the first place—but that had not been all, he had told her.
“ ’Tis your kindness, your sweetness that shines forth; beauty is a magnet, but it is nothing without the rest.” And yet . . . and yet, he had been willing to ally himself with Barbara, whom he had known all of his life, and there was no kindness in her, surely. Alicia suddenly felt cold. Had Lucian been lying to her? Had he been attracted by her appearance alone? It did no good to indulge in such reflections. She had made her stand. She had accomplished part of her purpose, and Lucian had, after all, agreed to honor those vows that had been chains, binding him to a stranger.
The Forgotten Marriage Page 9