He smiled. 'Forgive me.'
'For what?'
He shrugged. 'Impatience?'
That embarrassed her, but she knew the proper response. 'That's very good in a husband to be, yes?'
'I don't know, I've never been one.'
It was done then, she thought. It had been, she decided, about as bad as she had expected it to be. No worse, but no better either. It had felt odd to be kissed by him, odder still to feel his hand pressing on her body. It was all odd, all rather embarrassing, and all tempting her to unseemly laughter. She wondered whether any of the custard from his moustache was on her mouth, but thought it would be rude to be seen wiping it with a napkin. She looked at him. 'I'm very happy, Lewis.' She said it as a test, to see if it was true. She was not sure that it was, but perhaps happiness, like the magic of love, was something that came with time.
'As you shall ever be.'
She stared over the water, wondering if her father watched them from the window by his bed. She did not know what to say. The wind ruffled the lake and died. Coots swam red and black by the reeds. She remembered a question that was important on these occasions and smiled at him. 'When?'
He smiled back. 'I'm impatient. Soon?'
She blushed. 'There must be preparations.'
'Preparations?'
'The tenants have to be fed. Musicians.' She shrugged. 'The usual things. A betrothal party to make it proper.' She laughed. 'We can have the betrothal party when you come back from London. You can take the invitations with you.'
'Dear, practical Campion.'
She wondered if she would ever enjoy being kissed, but at least he had been gentle. She had rather feared that making love would be like a prizefight.
The boat unexpectedly lurched, sliding on the shelving mud, and Campion gave a cry of alarm. 'Lewis!'
He laughed. 'We're shipwrecked.'
'My God, we are!' The barge was canting and moving, sliding into deeper water and she could hear the gurgle of the lake coming between the sprung planks. 'We'll have to swim!'
'I'll carry you.'
'You can't!'
He could. Every movement seemed to lurch the pretty barge further into the depths, but he made her crawl out from the pavilion and then he carried her carefully forward, over the newly painted thwarts, until he could put her feet on the forward seat. The barge seemed to be still again, but half its width was under water. He jumped over the gunwale.
He shouted with surprise as he sank into the mud, the water bitterly cold and up to his thighs. 'Come on!'
'You'll drop me!'
'Never! I'm rescuing you again!'
She laughed, put a hand on the great, surging prow, a foot on the gunwale, and then half sat, half dropped into his arms. She was laughing, he was laughing, and then he turned, sucking his boot out of the clinging mud and forcing it into the roots of the tall reeds.
'You're dropping me!'
'I'm not!'
'Careful!'
He pulled his other boot free. 'Stop laughing! You're shaking me!'
'It's fear, not laughter.'
He forced his way up the bank, through the reeds, stumbling at the very last to fall to his knees, making Campion laugh and shout in alarm, and then he stretched himself out to drop her, almost gently, on the very edge of the park's grass where it met the swampy bank.
Behind him, half hidden by the reeds, the gorgeous barge tilted in the water.
She laughed at him. The front of his clothes was soaked by thick mud. 'It's very romantic, my Lord.'
He smiled down at her. They were hidden from the house by the tall reeds. He bent his head, kissed her, and before she knew what was happening, his left hand ran strongly down her body from her breasts to her knees, and the shock of it made her gasp and his tongue was between her teeth and then, as swiftly as he had stooped down to her, he lifted his head. His hooded eyes were dark above her. 'You will make me very happy, my love.'
She nodded. She found it hard to say the expected words. 'And you me, my Lord.'
It suddenly did not seem funny any more. The kiss had been too savage, too quick, too suggestive of that bigger hurdle which lay beyond marriage. She sat up, shivered, and suddenly went utterly still, her eyes huge and fixed on the Castle.
'What is it?' Culloden frowned. Campion had gone white. She sat, one hand at her breast, staring across the corner of the lake as if a ghost walked the Castle's forecourt. Culloden could only see a groom exercising a horse. The man was tall, dressed in black, with long black hair. The groom, Culloden noted with a cavalryman's eye, rode superbly. He looked back to his bride to be. 'What is it?'
'Nothing.'
Culloden squeezed her hand. 'We should tell your father.'
'Yes, my Lord.' She knew the Gypsy had seen her. He must have brought Toby's letter, she thought. She could see his face, a hundred yards away, turned towards them, then the horse pranced, he put his heels back, and rode towards the stables.
She stood slowly. He was there, and suddenly she knew there would be no happiness for her so long as the tall horseman hovered at the edge of her life. Lord Culloden still frowned at her. 'You're well, my dear?'
'Yes, my Lord.' She sounded subdued. 'I'm well.'
They walked about the lake, engaged.
—«»—«»—«»—
It rained that night. It started slowly, a mere mist that beaded the windows. By nine o'clock the wind was lashing water at Lazen, a seething storm that crashed on the forecourt's gravel and rattled the doors of the Castle.
Campion and Lord Culloden dined with the Earl. She made herself happy. She told herself that the art of marriage was to fashion contentment from the flawed cloth. She laughed at her father's familiar stories, smiled at Lord Culloden, and tried to forget that single glimpse across the lake's corner of the mysterious horseman.
'The lake will be flooded,' the Earl said. He was drinking brandy with Lord Culloden.
Campion stood. She went to the window and stared into the turbulent darkness. A shaft of lightning made her jump. It splintered, blue-white, down to Two Gallows Hill and outlined the horror hanging at the gibbet.
'Can you see the lake?' her father asked.
But she was not looking. She was staring at the corner of the Long Gallery. She knew that the gallery was unused this night, that its fires were dead, its candles cold, yet a single flame showed in the western window.
'Campion?'
'No.' She let the curtain drop, turned, and smiled at her father. 'It's too dark.'
'Dirty bloody night.' Her father took another glass from Lewis Culloden. 'A night for dirty, bloody business, eh? Broomsticks and cauldrons.' He raised the glass. 'Your happiness, my children.'
Campion smiled. She was nervous again, frightened and excited. A hundred hundred times since Christmas she had told herself she was glad that the Gypsy had not been in the gallery that night, told herself she was fortunate to escape, yet now, beckoned by the candle, she forgot the relief. 'You'll forgive me if I retire, father?'
'So you should, dear. Leave us men together.' He smiled. There were patches of colour on his sunken cheeks, put there by the liquor. She kissed him.
'I'll ring for your girl?' Culloden asked.
'No. She'll be waiting for me.' She gave her betrothed her hand. He kissed it, his moustache prickly.
Thunder hammered at the Castle, rolling over the sky like hogsheads trundled in an attic. Crossing the bridge between the New and Old Houses Campion saw the lightning flicker to ground, showing in its sudden glare the seeping, spreading lake water.
She passed the door to her rooms. She blushed. She knew she blushed. She should have gone to her rooms and let Edna help her to bed, instead she went to the upper lobby and turned to the Long Gallery's main door.
Perhaps Edna had lit the candle. Perhaps a footman had come to fetch something and left the solitary flame burning. The door handle was cold. She pushed it down and went into the room.
And through her, as sudden and
bright as the lightning on the lake, went relief. The Gypsy was there.
He stood before the Nymph portrait. He turned to look at her and, as if her entrance meant nothing to him, he turned back to the portrait. He had drawn his hair back and tied it with a ribbon.
She stood watching the Gypsy, her hand on the door handle. She knew she should say something, demand an explanation for his presence, but she seemed dumb.
He turned to her again. The candle flame was reflected in his oddly light eyes. 'Should I be here, my Lady?'
'No.' They spoke in French.
'Then I hope my presence doesn't offend you.' He spoke comfortably, as if to an equal. She did not reply. He stepped back from the portrait and gestured at the western door of the gallery. 'Isn't that room haunted?'
'So they say.' Still she did not move.
He smiled. 'Your brother says a man was murdered there.'
'I've heard it, yes.'
'But you don't believe in ghosts?'
'Do you?' She said it defiantly. She knew she should send him away, she knew she must play the great lady, but she wanted to talk with him, she wanted to see the candlelight on his thin, superb face, she wanted to hear his voice in her ears.
He smiled again. 'Yes.' He gestured about the room. 'I think that everybody who was happy here and everyone who was sad here left part of themselves, don't you? Would the room be the same if it had been built yesterday?' She said nothing. He half bowed. 'I hear I must congratulate you, my Lady, on your own happiness.'
'Thank you.' She wondered how it was possible to have a conversation like this. She let go of the door handle and walked a few paces towards him. 'I think you should go.' It seemed an extraordinarily hard thing to say.
He stared at her. His smile seemed to suggest that he knew what she had wanted to say. 'Yes.'
Neither moved for a few seconds. If he stepped towards her, Campion thought, then she would step towards him. If he lifted a hand she would lift hers. If he opened his arms she would go to him, and she waited, expecting it, wanting it, and almost moved towards him when his hand did move.
He picked up the candle. 'My Lady?' His voice was soft as velvet, dark as the night. He sounded so strong to her. She said nothing. She was trembling like a colt feeling the bridle for the first time.
He turned towards her, smiling, and he saw that her lips were parted, her eyes bright, and he thought that at this moment she was even more beautiful than the splendid, smiling woman in the Nymph portrait. He stepped one pace, his own heart beating with the fragility of the moment, when the door opened.
The Gypsy smothered the candle flame with his hand instantly.
Edna stood in the light that opened from Campion's bedroom into the gallery. The light of a dozen candles flooded from behind her. 'My Lady?'
'Edna?'
The maid was sleepy. 'I thought I heard voices.'
'I came to find a book.'
'In the dark?' Edna laughed. 'I'll fetch a candle. Raining something terrible, isn't it?' She turned back to the room. Campion, like a conspirator, looked to gesture the Gypsy into hiding, but the gallery was empty. Like a cat, like a shadow in a shadow, silent as a dark thing in darkness, he had gone. In less time than a heart fills and empties, he had gone. She felt a sadness, as if he had spoilt a game, and then Edna came back with a flickering candle and asked what book Campion sought.
'Red leather cover. I'll manage.'
But the maid had frowned. 'I know I shut that door!' She walked to the gallery's end where the last door, the door to the haunted room, let in a draught. 'It must be the ghost, my Lady'
'Yes.'
'I know I shut it before!' She pulled it hard closed. 'There. You've got your book, my Lady?'
Campion had picked a book at random from one of the tables. 'Yes.'
Edna smiled nervously. 'You look as if you saw the ghost!'
Campion smiled. 'To bed, Edna.' Campion went to her room with thoughts of what had happened this day and what had not happened. She went in sadness. She wondered what kind of man it was who called himself a horse-master, yet moved like a ghost in great halls. In one second more, she knew, she would have forgotten her place, would have forgotten the marriage that was now arranged, and would have been in his arms.
She dressed for bed, and even in her room she could hear the wind savaging the great house. It came from the north-west, a wind from the ocean beyond Wales, and it was made turbulent by the hills and heavy by the storm water.
It hammered at the Castle windows, blew boughs down in its woods and lifted thatch from the cottages.
It took the barge, the pretty pleasure craft, and lifted it in one last voyage from the mud to topple and float and slowly sink. The cushions floated free. Three empty bottles bobbed unseen on the dark lake. Uneaten food, the crystal, the silver forks and knives, the white linen, all slid from the table and then, unnoticed in the storm's anger, the barge sank.
In the morning, on a lake littered with twigs and timber broken from the park's trees, only one corner of the shining pavilion roof was above the grey water. Campion saw it then, saw the light reflected bright from the white paint, but she spoke to no one of the barge's fate, preferring it to be unsaid, just as the word love had been unsaid the day before. The die was cast, her promise given, a man to be forgotten, and a life to be lived. She would be married.
Chapter 9
On the day before Lord Culloden left for London the bones that had hung on Two Gallows Hill were brought to the Castle. They were pounded in a stone trough and, true to the Earl's word, the sieved powder was mixed with the feed of the Home Farm pigs. The Earl declared that he wonderfully looked forward to the bacon. Campion, busy answering letters of congratulation, tried to ignore the jubilation that attended the final destruction of her attacker.
The next day, the day on which Lord Culloden would leave, brought her the pleasure of a new phaeton that she had ordered from London. It was even more dashing, more dangerous than the old vehicle. Simon Burroughs looked suspiciously at the gleaming, fragile carriage that had been brought on a great wagon and unloaded down wooden planks to the forecourt. 'Looks like a crow's nest on wheels, your Ladyship.'
She laughed. 'It looks fast, Simon!'
'Oh fast! It looks fast,' he said dubiously. 'But you hit one stone in that, my Lady, and it'll just be tinder for next winter's fires.'
She insisted that the bays, their coats clipped and gleaming, should be harnessed to the carriage. Burroughs, as the horses were backed into place, was relieved to see Lord Culloden strolling towards them. His Lordship touched his moustache ends with his gloved fingertips and walked round the new carriage. 'Marvellous! Marvellous!'
'You'll take her Ladyship out, my Lord?' Burroughs said hopefully.
'Of course! Why not?' He smiled at her. 'Rattle down to Periton, my love?'
Campion, who had ordered the carriage herself, had wanted to be the first to drive it, but she succumbed with good grace. The sad truth was that Burroughs, like every other man in Lazen, did not believe that a girl could drive as well as a man.
Lord Culloden gave her his hand and she climbed to the buttoned leather seat and felt the vehicle sway as her betrothed climbed up beside her. He gathered the reins, pushed the whip into its socket, and shouted at Burroughs to let go of the offside leader's head.
They went slowly over the town's cobbles, the hooves sounding crisp, and then they gained the dry, earth surface of the Shaftesbury road and Lord Culloden let the bays go into a quick trot. The wind tried to lift her skirts and she had to tread on their hems. She laughed with the speed of it, the marvel of the light carriage's motion.
To her right the Castle was spread in the spring sunshine, the vast banner of Lazen lifted over the Great House. She saw, on the sun-sparkled surface of the lake, the small white patch of the sunken barge's roof, and then the road dropped into a grove of beeches and hid Lazen from her. The manes of the bays were bouncing with the speed, the bright new leaves of beech seemed to wh
ip past in a blur of light and shadow. She laughed.
'You're happy?' He smiled at her.
'I'm happy, my Lord.' They both had to shout over the noise of hooves and wheels, and then he handed her the reins and she let the horses run where the road bordered the Lazen stream.
Two miles from the Castle she slowed the horses and turned them over a stone bridge that led to stone gateposts. The gatehouse, no bigger than a toll cottage, was empty. She trotted the horses up a drive that curved between thick laurel until the gravel opened out before a large, white painted house. It had been rebuilt in the fashionably classic mode, its lines severe, its windows regular.
She let the horses slow and stop.
Lord Culloden smiled. 'Shall we go in?'
She shook her head. The plaster inside was still damp and smelling, indeed, would not be dry, the builders said, for three more months; longer if the spring was wet. Then, when all the alterations were complete, and the plaster dry enough to take the paint and gilt, this would be their marriage home, Periton House. Stacked on the forecourt, amidst a litter of timbers and ladders, were bales of horsehair and barrels of lime, the ingredients for the plaster that still had to be put into the big reception room.
Lord Culloden frowned. 'There's no one working!'
'It's the Spring Fair at Shaftesbury,' she explained. 'Father said they could go.'
He grunted in apparent disapproval.
Behind the house the hill climbed steeply, thick with beeches, while before it a great lawn sloped to the Lazen stream. In the trees that edged the lawn she could see the haze of bluebells that would thicken in the next few days.
Lord Gulloden was leaving this day. He travelled to London in one of Lazen's coaches, going to his regiment to sell his commission and wind up his affairs, and when he returned they would be married. First there was to be a great party, a celebration before the event, for which musicians were coming from London and fireworks from Bristol. The wedding, two weeks later, would be a quieter affair, as the fashion was; merely the Bishop, a few score guests, and a meal in the Great Hall that evening. The Earl, whose disease was wasting him and drawing ever deeper lines on his ravaged face, had sent to Lord Paunceley demanding, even ordering, the return of Toby for the celebrations.
A Crowning Mercy 02 Fallen Angels Page 15