The Marquis of Westmarch

by Frances Vernon

  “No, indeed. Yes, I suppose I have been lonely very nearly all my life, as you have been — except that is in the last few months of my marriage, before she died.”

  “Your wife, sir, Maid Clorinda? What was she like?”

  “Delicate,” he said briefly. “She made me feel clumsy as the devil. At first, I was afraid to approach her for days for fear I might break her in two, or some such nonsense.” Auriol slowly tore a piece of bread to pieces with his large handsome hands. There was an unhappy smile on his face.

  “Did she wish to marry you?”

  “No, our parents made the match, her own wish was to enter a Female College — or so she used to say.”

  “Was it! My own greatest fear — I should not object in the least to being garrotted if ever I were found out, but the thought of being confined in a college as Juxon says is a deal more likely — and so she was bookish, I collect?” said Meriel, returning with difficulty to her friend’s affairs.

  “Yes, she was. Well, we grew to be fond of each other — in alliance against my father and my brother, I think. I never was in love with her, but she was a friend,” he said.

  As I am, thought Meriel. “I see. She died in childbirth, I think you once told me?”

  “She did and the child with her.”

  “A hateful thing.”

  “Here,” said Auriol, “I have her miniature inside my watch.” He took the watch out of his pocket, opened it and handed it to Meriel. Both had a rest, while Meriel examined the little oval face depicted on the inside cover.

  Clorinda Blandy Wychwood, she thought, must have been a stern, determined woman, for all her fragility. Her miniature showed hooded grey eyes, a thin nose, a square jaw, and an unusually high forehead, all surrounded by wispy, curling, flaxen hair which did not seem to match her features. She looked like a wise child.

  “She was determined to hate me at our first meeting,” said Auriol reminiscently, rubbing his chin. “The Blandys had tried to marry her off twice before but she would have none of it, so they forced her into this vastly inferior match with me. I remember we avoided each other whenever possible for weeks — I was a young fool in those days, wanted nothing so much as to marry the innkeeper’s daughter.”

  “The innkeeper’s daughter?”

  “Oh, you see, she was the first woman ever to take a fancy to me, something I had not thought possible. It prejudiced me at once in her favour. She was a deuced pretty girl, too, with an excellent figure — famous frontal development.”

  “Oh.”

  “Though I am not sure but what I don’t prefer slenderness in women — have always done so.”

  “Indeed?”

  He smiled a little. “I had not meant you — that is, I had, but I was not thinking of you just at that moment.”

  “Why, sir, was it necessary for you and your wife to form an alliance against your father and brother?” said Meriel, handing back the watch.

  “We all lived together,” he replied after a moment, winding it and putting it away. “We were forced to do so for lack of money — my marriage was intended to put things to rights but no such thing, Blandy took one look at my father and tied up all Clorinda’s fortune, which was not great in any case, I was no match for an heiress. A better one than either of them, though,” he added. “I must have told you that they were both of them gamesters, my father and Chrysander — needless to say they detested country life.”

  “I see. Yes, I can picture the scene.”

  Auriol continued, swinging the wine in his glass. “They tried to make me break the entail on Wychwood. Matters were so arranged that the thing could not be done without my consent — which I would not give.” He paused and shrugged. “Well, it was after that they insisted on my marrying. I was not yet twenty, Chrysander was ten years my senior — I think you can imagine what kind of pressures were brought to bear on me.”

  “And I daresay you was big enough even then to floor the pair of them with one finger, Wychwood.”

  “Oh, yes, they detested me for that! Though I was by no means so strong as I looked to be.”

  “But you did not submit.”

  “No, not to that, but it was a damnable life,” said Auriol, pouring himself more wine. “Do you know, they all died within a year, and I never expected any of them to die, thought they’d live forever to plague me — not Clorinda, I mean, she was a good girl as I said. Yes, it was Clorinda in Month of Flowers if I remember, my father’s apoplexy in Fruit, and then Chrysander was killed only two days later, a most extraordinary thing. Drove into a tree when he was foxed and broke his neck with the jolt, so I was told.”

  The deadpan way in which he told his story made tears come to Meriel’s eyes. Auriol noticed this, and was mildly pleased, but he did nothing about it, did not touch her sleeve as it occurred to him to do. It gave him triumphant pleasure now to contemplate the miserable youth from which he was free, and it was because he treasured his old memories that, strange as it seemed to him, he did not really want to tell Meriel everything or to speak of them in the tones they deserved. But to remember the past made him feel deep down that he would be happy now with the incredible woman who loved him, and who had finally rescued him from isolation, from rustic boredom, and from the sense that he was ordinary. The friendship of the young, male Marquis of Westmarch had done a great deal for him and this, now, must do very much more.

  “You hated them both?” said Meriel. “Always?”

  “No, not when I was a child, before my mother died. She had a measure of control over both of them, and besides, in those days, before my father was rolled-up, he lived very largely at the Island Palace, not with us. Yes, my mother was an admirable woman.”

  “You told me once you lived all your life down at Wychwood until your brother died. Did your father not take you even once to the Island Palace? I can scarcely credit it.”

  “Oh, my dear Westmarch, he considered that the world of Fashion would do very well without me, and besides that in any case, I should not enjoy the life! In which he was quite right, a most irritating circumstance — naturally I had not liked being considered a boorish gapeseed, I even tried to turn myself into a dandy when I was sixteen or so. I blush to remember it — I was a little wiser, thank God, by the time I did go up to Bury Winyard!”

  Meriel laughed. “Ay, you must have looked a figure of fun.”

  “That is what I always felt myself to be,” said Auriol quietly, turning towards her.

  “Of all things in the world you are least — Are you happy now?” she said with equal seriousness.

  “Now? I — I think I am going to be. And I hope, so are you.”

  Meriel found his shyness and awkwardness enchanting, though she herself was no more at ease. They were both of them blushing. “Damn it, yes, indeed, I hope so, though it is the most hideous coil and I know I ought never to have told you.”

  “I must leave you, only for a moment,” he said, and pressed her shoulder as he rose, harder than he knew, so that it hurt her.

  When he came back, the sight of Meriel gave him a shock. Unconsciously, he had expected to see her looking more female and beautiful than ever, perhaps even wearing a dress; but instead, she had rung for a clay pipe in his absence, and was now smoking it with her boots crossed on the fender. One hand was dug into her coat pocket, and her well-padded shoulders were hunched up so that they looked very large. Auriol, who in less than an hour had grown used to thinking of the Marquis of Westmarch as an enchantress, thought sickeningly that Meriel’s story could not possibly be true. It was just the same face he remembered, glowing red there in the shaky firelight, but now it seemed undoubtedly the face of a boy. He managed to say, “You do not look like a woman.”

  “I hope I do not,” she said, turning, and looking no more feminine than before as she did so.

  “I begin to think I must have imagined the whole.”

  “No, you did not.” Meriel smiled slightly.

  His eyes became accustomed to the s
ight of her and he sat down, reminding himself that her new attitude was in fact familiar. “You are extraordinary, Westmarch!”

  “Well, what do you expect, of course I am.”

  “Do you know,” he said, “for a moment just then I felt positively murderous — not certain whether it was you I wanted to murder, or myself, thinking it was all untrue.”

  “The devil you did!” said Meriel, unable to cope. “Come, blow a cloud with me, Wychwood, I had the waiter bring a pipe for you.”

  Auriol obeyed her and for a long time they remained smoking by the fire together, in silence. As they sat there, purposely immobile, watching the logs burn away before them, their minds each developed a calm, tough surface. Underneath there were feelings, shared, but not experienced always at the same moment. Waves of suppressed panic passed over them from time to time, and yet often, there seemed to be no tension in the room at all, not even a prospect of joy. They neither dared nor wished to speak, but sat on, smoking, like a peaceful old couple.

  At length the clock struck ten. Auriol roused himself and his chair creaked as he moved and studied the clock-face.

  “We can’t ride back to Castle West tonight,” he whispered, as though there were someone to overhear, and they were talking scandal. “Only see how late it is, they must give us rooms for the night.”

  Meriel collected her thoughts. “The Senior Member is to wait on me at nine tomorrow, sir.”

  “Then we must be up at five and go to bed directly.” Auriol raised his voice to normal level at this mention of her governmental life.

  “We ought to ride back, you know we meant to do so.”

  “I am too tired, and so ought you to be. Surely no one will think it odd in us, suspicious, if that’s what you fear. Will they?” he said.

  “Very likely not. Ring the bell, then.” Meriel, having listened to his appeal, left her chair and stood up in front of the fire.

  Presently the landlord came to attend them, but it turned out that none of the bedchambers was to be had.

  “I’m sure I’m very sorry, my Knight, your honour, but the house is as full as it can hold. I’m sure I wish I could oblige you.”

  “You have no rooms at all?” said Meriel.

  “If it is necessary we will share a bedchamber,” said Auriol. Meriel put her hands behind her back and looked grim, at this. Her stomach was fluttering.

  “Surely you have an attic or some such thing?” said Auriol. The landlord waved his hands.

  “Well your honour, the only room I might offer you ain’t by any means fitting for such a gentleman as yourself! Indeed your honours would both of you be more comfortable at the Oaktree, they’ll have beds aplenty to spare, I’ll warrant.”

  “My friend has taken a chill and I’ve no fancy myself to ride out at this hour.”

  “Ay, where is this room?” said Meriel.

  “It’s above the stables, sir, and just the one bunk, though it does have a feather mattress, that I will say. A common-sized bunk,” he added, turning to Auriol. “But if your honour would not object to sleeping on the floor …”

  “I would not.”

  “Very well, sir, I’ll have blankets taken up and I hope you will be comfortable enough.”

  “Thank you,” they said together. They exchanged no words when they were left alone.

  *

  The bedchamber over the stables was cold but clean, lit by wax candles which the landlord had had quickly taken up to replace the tallow ones whose smell still lingered in the room. There was a warming pan in Meriel’s bunk, and a straw mattress on the floor had been provided for Auriol.

  Meriel and Auriol began to undress, the Marquis throwing her clothes on the floor as she did so, and Auriol placing his with unnecessary care on top of a rickety table. When they had stripped down to their shirts and breeches, they faced each other, and Meriel held out her hand. “Goodnight, sir,” she said. Her skin was dark yellow in the light of two candles.

  Auriol shook her hand, but dared not kiss it reverently as he would have done a lady’s, though he wanted very much to do so. He was a little hurt, thinking she did not need him, but at the back of his mind he knew that at another time, if things had been only a little different, he would have wanted to smile at Meriel’s attitude.

  Each blew out one candle, and they climbed into their beds in the dark. Auriol lay stretched out on his back with his eyes open; he did not believe he would be able to sleep, and he did not mean to try. Meriel curled up in her bunk, and pulled the covers right over her head.

  Five minutes later, she began to cry. She tried to remember who she was, but she could only sob and not let out the noise, as she had never let out any noise, until today. No sound came from under the bedclothes, but Auriol guessed. His eyes had grown accustomed to the faint light which came through the window from the other side of the inn’s courtyard, and when he slowly rolled over and stared at the bunk in the wall, he thought he could see the blankets shaking. For a few moments, he was unable to move, not knowing whether to ignore it, or to go to her. He knew that either way his decision might be of great importance, that Meriel might take his doing nothing as cowardly neglect, or might on the other hand be thankful for his not disturbing her. She might think that he meant to attack her, if he came near now. But when he consulted his own wishes, and realised that his pity was deep and he longed to comfort her and to receive comfort from her, he got up, and very nearly knocked over a chair.

  As he looked fearfully down at the bunk, Auriol wondered whether these were tears of rage, despair and terror such as she had shed on the beach, or of sorrow, relief and hope. He thought he would never find out; then he lifted the bedclothes from Meriel’s head.

  “Westmarch,” he said quietly, before there was a response. “Meriel, why are you crying? My dear, don’t — I can’t bear it.” He could not have said this if he had been able to see her, or she him. “I can’t bear you to cry.”

  “I never meant you to hear,” she said, her voice just audible. “Never, d’you hear?”

  On impulse, Auriol threw off the blankets, picked Meriel up, and held her body against his chest. Immediately he wondered at his own boldness, but he did not release her when she choked: “Leave me, damn you, let me go. Oh, Wychwood. Oh God in heaven what have I done! Let me go, I tell you.”

  She is clinging to me, he thought, aware simultaneously of quite how thin she was, of how little her bones were, how her hair smelt of tobacco smoke, and of how cold were his own feet on the splintery floorboards.

  “I won’t leave you. I won’t hurt you. I promise,” he muttered. “Little one, little Marquis. You’re so warm.” Auriol’s eyes began to water and Meriel, gripping his shoulders, gave a low wail.

  “Meriel, Meriel.” Wrapping his arms more sternly around her, he lowered himself and her on to the bed, which sank under the weight. When she raised her face to shriek, he pressed it into his shoulder. “No, no, darling, others will hear.” She was shrieking for her Marquisate.

  “Ah, God. Ah, I love you.” She gave a cry, and coughed wretchedly. “Thank G-God it was you I chose.”

  “Ay, that was well done in you!” he whispered, weeping freely but silently himself.

  “I wish I were dead. I do.” She scratched him on the neck. “I do wish — it.”

  “No, no. Eh, don’t cry. No, cry if you wish. I am here. So are you.”

  When Meriel tried to wriggle out of his hold, he would not let her, and she soon abandoned the physical struggle. She cried on, in an ugly way, for some time more. After a while, the quality of her tears did alter, and Auriol noticed it at once; though, afraid of gentle but penetrating sadness, she tried to regain her rage, because it was explicable and familiar to her as open sadness was not.

  But at last, Meriel found herself quietly weeping away the friendlessness and silence of a dozen years, into his chest which she could not see.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Marquis’s Return

  Auriol Wychwood was not the M
arquis’s first love. Since she was fourteen, she had suppressed passions for three different men: a second footman at Longmaster Wood, Mr Everard Salamon, and Mr Justin Quennell. They had all been little, willowy, pretty, clever, rather effeminate darlings, all extravagant, impractical, and emotional men. It had been impossible to befriend them. Love-stricken as soon as she had heard their first words (for a soft voice in a man was important to Meriel), she had avoided them for fear of betraying herself, and simply watched them from a distance, feeling ill. It had never occurred to her to trust them with her secret; she had only imagined over and over again what it would be like to rule and cherish them if she were really a man, and able to tell each one how vilely she adored him.

  Her love for Auriol had been a comparatively slow growth, for when he was first introduced to her she had thought he looked amiable, stupid, and plain. His voice, though light, was hoarse, and marred by a disconcertingly strong Southmarch accent. He lacked all the qualities which she valued in her love-objects: wit and elegance and grace and ease, and seemed to share many of the qualities which she disliked in herself, except bad temper. At first this had shaken her, gradually it had intrigued her, then she had found a friend, and now it seemed impossible that love could have anything to do with the attraction of opposites, a theory in which she had always believed. Love was the friendship of true equals, that was all, something no man and woman could ever have. She and Auriol were not man and woman, but two people.

  For weeks after she had begun to love him, Meriel remembered, she had found Auriol physically disturbing, rather than attractive. The memory of this delighted her now, because it proved to her that her vision was not obscured by lust, and that Auriol really was what she thought him. His size had frightened, even repelled her, and she had thought it quite impossible to make love to a person so much larger and stronger than herself, whom she could not crush in her arms and throw down on a bed. Meriel’s fantasies, though extravagant, never departed entirely from the possible, and she could not pretend, even when alone at night, that she would be capable of playing the man to Auriol’s woman quite to that extent. But in time she had come to think that even his weight was no obstacle. She could climb and subdue a mountain, though she could not knock it down.