by Deryn Lake
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, I was in the house and was examining the damage to this piece. I was working silently and I don’t think they realised that I was in the room. Anyway, Arundel came in with his arms wound round the girl - tight they were - and she was weeping. Not boo-hooing but crying without sound, the tears pouring down her face. And as for him, his hands were caressing her - and I mean properly, like a man does a woman. Then I made a noise and he jumped and swore at me and left the room again. It left me with a ghastly impression.”
“You surely don’t think…?”
“Child molestation? I’m not sure. But the sight of it made me feel sick. I have a young daughter and I swear to you that I would never touch her in that way. Never.”
John stood stock still and felt a cold sweat break out on him. He had heard this kind of story many times, knew the depraved and terrible things that people did to the young. But he had never come across a case of it quite so close. Then his mind leapt to Coralie. Surely, before God, she could not know the truth. Then he got a grip on himself. Perhaps Dominique was exaggerating. Perhaps he was mistaken in what he had seen. But whatever the answer John felt sure that there was something odd about Lord Arundel and swore that come what may he would keep a close eye on any future developments.
Chapter Ten
Fortunately, John - loving high fashion as he did - had brought another set of night clothes with him and this time set off for the big house adorned in scarlet and silver, his waistcoat heavily embroidered with little flowers the colour of jet. He rode carefully in order not to spoil or crease anything and dismounted with equal caution. As the groom led his horse away he could hear the sounds of faint tapping coming from the outbuildings and knew that Dominique was still at work, which for some reason John found vaguely reassuring.
He entered the house as usual, this time some twenty . minutes before the hour to dine, and was ushered immediately into the red drawing room. It was empty and John crossed to the window to gaze out once more on that perfect view, then he spun round as a voice spoke behind him.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
He turned and regarded the woman who stood in the doorway. She seemed almost like a phantom, clad in deepest black as she was. A pair of chilly, arctic blue eyes stared at him and John could not help but notice that her hair, swathed in a head-dress of black gauze, was white as ice from that frozen country. Wearing no cosmetics, her colourless lips did not move as he answered, “Good afternoon, ma’am,” and gave a polite bow.
She bobbed the slightest curtsey. “I am Lady Juliana Bravo, sister of the Marquess of Arundel.”
The Apothecary stood silently for a moment, wondering who she was talking about. Then he realised that Bravo must be the family name of the Dukes of Sussex and that Lord Arundel was her brother. The thought that this cold creature was sister-in-law to Coralie fundamentally shocked him.
He tried gallantly to make conversation. “A pleasant afternoon, is it not?”
“Very. And who did you say you were, sir?”
John felt totally embarrassed. “Forgive me, madam. I forgot to tell you. I am the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, fourth son of the Earl of Cavan.”
“Irish,” was Juliana’s only comment, and taking a seat she picked up a newspaper that someone had left lying about.
John felt suddenly annoyed. If she had known who he really was she presumably wouldn’t have addressed him at all. But he curbed the sudden rush of irritation and said, “Yes, my family is Irish. I presume that yours came over with the Conqueror.”
She glanced up at him. “Yes, that is correct. The Dukes of Sussex are an ancient family.”
At that moment the door opened and the child Georgiana stood in the entrance. She curtseyed. “Aunt Juliana! When did you arrive?”
The woman’s face lit up from within. “Georgiana, my dearest girl. About an hour ago. Come, give your aunt a kiss.” The child walked sedately towards the chair but at the last minute broke into a little run and was scooped up into Lady Juliana’s arms with a great show of affection.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Georgiana continued. “I always feel at ease when you are present.”
The woman held the child at arm’s length and looked at her. “At ease? What a strange phrase to use.”
“But it’s true, ma’am,” Georgiana answered. “I know that you will look after me.”
“You are a quaint little creature,” her aunt replied, but John thought that her voice held a certain thoughtfulness.
It was at that moment that Coralie entered the room and stood hovering in the doorway a moment, taking in the scene of her sister-in-law and her daughter conversing. Both females, the old and the young, turned to look at her. Great actress that she was, it was only John who could tell that her smile was forced.
“My dear Juliana,” she said, coming forward, hands outstretched, “how very nice to see you. Are you staying long?” Juliana rose to her feet and gave Coralie an icy kiss on the cheek. “A few days. You know I am still in mourning for our sister Harriet.”
“Yes, of course. I’m afraid that Charles has left off his dark clothes.”
“He was never a one for following convention.”
“No, indeed,” Coralie answered, and John thought he could detect a certain bitterness in her voice.
But the conversation got no further. Lady Dashwood, accompanied by a grinning Betsy Avon-Nelthorpe entered the room. She stopped short on seeing Juliana.
“My dear Lady Juliana, welcome to my home.”
“Thank you.”
“May I present Mrs Avon-Nelthorpe?”
The look of disgust on Milady’s face was almost comical but fortunately Betsy appeared not to notice. She dropped a wobbling curtsey and said, “Charmed, your Ladyship. I am a great friend of your brother’s.”
“Really?” came the frosty reply.
Lady Dashwood went on in her boring voice. “Lady Juliana, this is Betsy Avon-Nelthorpe, wife of James Avon-Nelthorpe.”
“How dee do?” Juliana replied and turned away.
The little girl spoke up, addressing her remarks to Coralie. “Mama, may I dine with you? I do not wish to go upstairs at present. I should so enjoy it if you said yes.”
Coralie turned to Lady Dashwood. “My dear Sarah, would it be possible? The child has been very good and she loves her aunt so much.”
How anybody could be fond of that formidable creature clad in mourning was beyond the Apothecary’s comprehension. But then he reckoned that the only tenderness he had seen Juliana exhibit had been towards her young niece. He stood silently awaiting the hostess’s verdict.
“Very well. Georgiana may dine with us. She can sit next to Mr O’Hare.”
“That will be my pleasure,” John answered gravely, and made a bow to the child. He caught Coralie’s eye at that moment and read in it a look of gratitude. He made another small bow in her direction.
Sir Francis appeared with Lord Arundel at that second, followed by the carroty-haired James, who stood, very pink in the cheeks and swaying slightly. John guessed that they had been at the decanter before coming to escort the ladies in to dine. He offered his arm to the little girl who took it with an adult precocity and followed the procession going in to the dining room.
The meal was memorable for two things. Firstly came the downright lack of any kind of good breeding exhibited by Betsy, who chortled and giggled and nudged her dining companions, and bared her dagger teeth when she burst into gales of laughter. Secondly was the reaction of Georgiana to her father’s display of affection. Indeed she noticeably shuddered when Charles Arundel leaned across the table and covered one of her hands with his. John’s suspicions about his unnatural attachment to the child were doubled.
Eventually, though, Lady Dashwood stood up and led the other females out of the room at which Sir Francis passed the port and leant towards John.
“My dear Mr O’Hare,” he said, “I’ve been having a chat with my two comp
anions here and we think you look a likely type.” John raised his glass and saluted them, allowing a merry twinkle to appear in his eye. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“And we have therefore,” continued his Lordship, leering at the other two, “decided to ask you to join us tomorrow.”
“I would be honoured, Sir Francis. But to do what?”
“To come with us to Medmenham Abbey, which is a place I have some few miles away.”
“And what happens there?” asked John politely.
There was a low laugh from the other three.
“I run a club,” said Sir Francis. “It is called the Knights of St Francis of Wycombe - at least that is its official title. But it is better known as the Hellfire Club.”
“Really? How interesting. What is its purpose?”
“Mainly whoring,” said Sir Francis, and laughed a laugh so rich in humour that John could not help but join in. “So are you game to come along to a chapter meeting?”
“Count me in, Sir Francis. I’m ready for anything.”
“Good boy. You’ll have to put aside your Catholic sympathies however.”
For a second John was startled and then remembered that Fintan O’Hare, the Irishman, would undoubtedly belong to that particular religion.
“Why is that, sir?”
“We indulge in a little religious ceremony before we get down to work.”
“And who are the ladies might I ask?”
“They come from London, from Covent Garden mostly, nearly all brothel girls. Mind you, we have one or two better class of women as well. What we require is females of a generally cheerful disposition. And they must be discreet. Which reminds me that you must swear an oath that binds you to silence before you are admitted to the Order.”
“Of course. May I ask how the ladies get there?”
“Some come by coach, others by water. Others…” He gave a deferential cough, “…make their own way.”
Highly intrigued as to the identity of these women, John looked suitably impressed.
“And so, my friend,” Sir Francis continued, “the three of us decided that a young widower like yourself could do with a little cheering up. Were we right?”
“Utterly. It is quite some time since I attended a maiden in her bower, as it were.”
Sir Francis growled a laugh. “You can take your pick tomorrow night.” His voice changed rapidly at the sound of footsteps crossing the hall. “No, as I was saying, it seems you have quite a good social life in the city of Dublin.”
“An excellent social life, Sir Francis.” John winked his eye at his host. “Truly excellent indeed.”
They had joined the ladies and were now sitting in the Portico Room listening to Coralie playing the harpsichord. John, leaning back in a chair close to the fire - which had been lit despite the heat of the day - realised with a shock that he had never heard her play before and that she was reasonably talented. But then how could she be anything else, he thought, with her great career on the stage and her undoubted touch of genius. His mind wandered back to his first meeting with her — had it really been all those years ago in Vauxhall Gardens? — and he smiled fondly at the thought that she had been a friend of his ever since. Except, of course, for the time when they had broken up and had not spoken to each other for some years.
By natural progression his thoughts turned to Emilia and how sweet she had been. A perfect wife for him, whereas he and Coralie would never have made a match. And now, he considered with a sigh, he had recently loved that blackhaired tempestuous woman, Elizabeth di Lorenzi. So warm and passionate in his embrace yet so capable of turning him down on a whim. He wondered where she was and how the world was using her, for he had heard nothing from her since their last meeting in Cornwall two months ago.
His eyes slid round to Charles, Marquess of Arundel, and John thought he had never seen such a pale and desolate looking man. Tonight Milord wore full cosmetics, even having rouged his mouth slightly, and as a result appeared thoroughly debauched and terrible. Had he once been fine and upright so that Coralie, dedicated to the theatre, had fallen in love with him and given him her heart? Or had it simply been the temptation of the title and money that had finally wooed her away from the stage? And what was the relationship between him and his daughter? John could not help but wonder whether Dominique Jean had read more into what he had seen than was actually there. Yet he himself had quite definitely noticed a type of feverish preoccupation with the little girl. John made up his mind that somehow, however delicate the matter might be, he must speak to Coralie.
The music stopped and he applauded politely, Sir Francis rose to his feet and it was a signal for the party to break up.
“Come and have a final port with me,” he breathed into John’s ear.
As he left the room John noticed that Arundel had gone upstairs while Coralie remained below talking to Betsy and Lady Juliana, who retained her usual icy composure, Lady Dashwood had wandered from the room to speak to the servants, or so she said. This left John and James Avon- Nelthorpe to slip off quietly into a small dressing room which led from an imposing bedroom with an equally splendid bed in it, Sir Francis made a gesture in the bed’s direction.
“Don’t get much activity in there,” he said, giving a large grin. “But we’ll see some sport tomorrow.” He turned to James. “Is Betsy coming?”
“She would not miss it for the world,” came the totally surprising answer.
So John had been right. She had obviously done her stuff in Covent Garden before marrying well. But he still couldn’t help being totally astonished by the whole situation, for James, when all was said and done, obviously came from the upper echelons of society.
A quarter of an hour later John left the house, his horse ready and waiting by the front door, Sir Francis had insisted on a servant accompanying him bearing a lanthorn, and the two of them set off, taking a different pathway which ran through the grounds in the direction of the church, that was visible - along with the mausoleum - high above them. John looked up and once more shivered as he saw that nightmarish outline. Then he intook breath rapidly as a light appeared up there, bobbing its way round the various arches.
“What’s that?” he asked the servant.
There was a low laugh. “That’s old Bubb Doddington, Baron of Melcombe Regis. He left the money to have the place built. It’s his ghost wanders up there.”
“Oh, good heavens! What nonsense.”
“No, sir, that it ain’t. They say he still wants to go to the Hellfire Club like he used to when he was alive.”
“My goodness, such determination.”
At that moment the lanthorn dimmed in the mausoleum, then suddenly went out. Filled with sudden curiosity, John felt an overwhelming urge to search the place.
“I’m going up there,” he said.
“Oh, sir, I beg you don’t. There’s some things best left alone.”
“Nonsense, man. It’s probably a poacher. You can stay here if you like.”
“No, sir. If I do that Sir Francis will give me notice. Oh, my God!”
They left the path and started the steep, almost perpendicular, climb up through the trees and coarse scrubby bushes that decked the hillside. Looking upwards John saw that the mausoleum was now in total darkness and began to wonder whether he were on a fool’s errand, whether the quarry had flown. Beside him he could hear the groom’s teeth chattering.
Eventually they reached the top, the church looming like a dark shadow, the golden ball on its spire pale and almost luminescent in the moonlight. With a certain amount of trepidation John dismounted and entered the confines of that strangely shaped place of the dead.
“Is there anybody there?” he called out, his voice reverberating oddly in the emptiness.
There was total silence. And then the moon came out fully and he saw that something white was nestling in the far corner. Seizing his courage, the Apothecary walked towards it and then his heart nearly stopped as he drew close. Pale as a
ghost indeed, her head drooping downwards, her arms woven tightly round her knees, was the figure of Georgiana Arundel. The daughter of Coralie Clive had left West Wycombe House and was hiding alone in the darkness.
Chapter Eleven
John bent down till his face was on a level with Georgiana’s, then he spoke very softly.
“Georgiana, what are you doing here?”
She kept her head averted and would not look at him. Very gently John put his fingers under her chin and raised it so that she could not avoid his gaze. She immediately closed her eyes.
“Hawkes,” he called over his shoulder to the groom. “Bring the lanthorn here. There’s no ghost - it’s Lady Georgiana.” The servant approached cautiously, swinging the light high, and at that moment the moon appeared from behind a lacy black cloud so that John had a good view of the little figure before him. Her shoes and stockings were green with grass stains and wringing wet from the dew. She was also trembling violently in the chill night air. He immediately removed his scarlet coat and placed it round her thin and somehow anxious shoulders.
“Georgiana,” he said coaxingly, “won’t you speak to me?” She shook her head and remained silent. John stood up and addressed the servant. *
“We’ll have to take her back, Hawkes. We can’t leave the child sitting out here all night.”
“No, sir. She should be tucked up in bed. Whatever caused her to run away and hide herself amongst the dead folk?”
“I’ve no idea,” John lied expediently. He crouched down to Georgiana once more. “Come along, my dear,” he said, “it’s getting very cold. Won’t you let me take you home?”
Once again she shook her head mutely and before his eyes r seemed to shrink, drawing her arms and legs close to her body in a gesture of despair.
“Come now,” he whispered. “I promise to put you into the care of your mother and let no one else at all go near you. How does that sound?”
She started to weep, very quietly, almost silently, the tears rolling down from beneath her closed lids like a sudden summer shower. John felt every paternal instinct in him rise.