Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'Get up!'

  He merely raised one eyebrow questioningly.

  'Get up? Why should I?'

  'I think you can scarcely mean to fight from an armchair.'

  As she spoke, she reached down another weapon and tossed it to him. He caught it automatically, incensing Marianne further. Drunk he might be, but not enough to make him clumsy. He lacked even the degrading excuse of sottishness.

  Francis was contemplating the bright blade with amused astonishment.

  'Fight? Who shall I fight?'

  'Me! Come, sir, get up! By making me the object of your sport you have offered me a deadly insult. You shall give me satisfaction. The name I bear does not permit an offence to go unpunished.'

  'In future you bear my name, and I have the right to do what I will to my own wife,' Francis cut her roughly short. 'You are mine, body and soul, you and your possessions. You are nothing – except my wife! So now, stop behaving like an idiot and put away that sword. You don't know what you are doing with it.'

  Marianne flexed the supple blade between her hands and smiled scornfully.

  'As to that, I invite you to be the judge, Lord Cranmere. Besides, the name that I alluded to was not yours. That, I have done with! I reject it utterly! It is the name of d'Asselnat I mean, That name, you have sullied and betrayed in my person. And I swear to you you shall not live long enough to boast of it.'

  Francis's mocking chuckle cut short her words. Marianne listened without flinching while he lay back in his chair, his eyes on the ceiling, opened his mouth wide and roared with laughter. The man she had seen in this last hour was so different from the one she had imagined that his behaviour no longer even had power to hurt her. For the present, she felt nothing at all. Suffering would come later. Just now, Marianne was still under the effect of the revelation and the anger it had brought. But Francis was chuckling:

  'You know, you're unbeatable? It must be your French blood gives you your taste for the dramatic. Anyone who saw you now, like Nemesis got up in green worsted, would die with laughing and refuse to believe their eyes. Come now, m'dear,' he went on carelessly, 'drop all these tragedy airs. They suit neither your age nor your sex. Go back to bed. Tomorrow, we have arrangements to make. Disagreeable ones, I admit, but unavoidable.'

  With a sigh of irritation, Lord Cranmere at last hoisted himself from his chair, stretched his long limbs lazily and gave vent to a prodigious yawn.

  'A damnable evening! That American had the devil in his fingers. Rolled me up like a bundle of dead leaves—'

  Marianne's voice cut through his words.

  'Lord Cranmere, I think you have not understood me. I will no longer be your wife.'

  'Do you see any help for it? We are properly married, you know.'

  'At first I thought of applying to Rome for an annulment, it would not be difficult for the abbé de Chazay to obtain one. But that would not cleanse the honour of my name. And so, I have decided to kill you and become a widow – unless, of course, you should happen to kill me first.'

  An expression of profound boredom descended on Francis's perfect features.

  'Are you still harping on that? Surely, the woman's mad. Where have you ever seen a man fight a duel with a woman? A woman? With a child! I have already told you, go to bed. A good rest will put such nonsense out of your head.'

  'I am past the age of being sent to bed! Will you give me satisfaction, yes or no?'

  'No! You may go to the devil, you and your ridiculous French notions of honour! Whatever possessed your mother to marry one of the damned frog-eaters! Truth is, must have been a bit mad herself, I heard the Duke of Norfolk offered for her and—'

  He broke off with a cry of rage and pain. Marianne's sword hissed with murderous fury and carved a long weal on Francis's left cheek. He sprang back, clapping his hand to his hurt face and drew it away wet with blood.

  'Coward!' She spat at him between her teeth. 'I'll make you fight me! Defend yourself or by the memory of my mother whom you have insulted, I swear I'll pin you to the wall!'

  A dark flush of anger swept over Francis's face. His grey eyes flamed. In that instant, Marianne read in them, naked and violent, the lust to kill. Seizing the sword which still lay on the table, he bore down on her, an evil glitter in his eye.

  'Have it your own way, damn you!' He muttered.

  With one swift movement, Marianne whipped off the long skirt of her riding habit which threatened to impede her movements and stood up in boots and breeches. In an instant, she was on guard. At the sight of those long, slim legs and hips, outlined with anatomical precision by the close-fitting silk, a twisted smile crossed Francis's face.

  'Gad, what a shape. And there was I thinking this marriage had nothing more to offer! Why, a moment ago I'd quite made up my mind to kill you. Now, damme if I won't be satisfied with disarming you – or perhaps pinking you – very lightly – just enough to make you properly submissive to the exercise of my conjugal rights. There's nothing like a taste of the whip to tame a filly without breaking her spirit. I like my mounts to have some fire in their veins!'

  Even as he spoke, he had engaged. A feverish flush was on his cheeks and a wild light in his eyes. For the first time, Marianne saw revealed the cruelty of that mouth from which she had looked only for kisses. As he fenced, Francis favoured her with a detailed description of what lay in store for her when he had her at his mercy. Confronted with the blazing contempt of this seventeen year old girl, all vestiges of shame or self restraint were stripped from him and sheer hatred made him determined, at all costs, to bend her to his will.

  Sunk in her own misery and loathing, Marianne heard without properly understanding, without even really listening to his words. The wonderful picture she had built up of Francis was slowly and finally crumbling away, leaving in its place only a half-drunk man, whose handsome mouth spat out a stream of obscenity. And, insensibly, implacably, overcoming disgust, there came the renewed desire to kill.

  But gradually, the odious voice fell silent and at the same time an expression of surprise replaced the anger on Francis's taut features, a surprise that was soon tinged with uneasiness. This slender, dark girl, with the defiant green eyes was fighting with the skill and address of an experienced duellist. There was no opening in that unwavering guard. The slender, bright blade seemed everywhere at once, multiplied a hundred, a thousand times by Marianne's supple wrists. The girl fought like a tigress, continually circling her opponent, changing her guard a dozen times. The foils rang together ominously, meeting faster and faster as Marianne forced Francis Cranmere to a killing pace.

  Like all the prince's circle, young Lord Cranmere was a keen sportsman and accounted an excellent blade. All the same, he had his work cut out to defend himself against the lithe green-clad figure darting into the attack from all quarters at once, yet never, for all that, failing to parry adroitly in defence of her own skin. Not a muscle stirred in the lovely face but Francis could tell from the fierce light in her eye how deeply she relished this moment. He had a disagreeable sensation that she was playing with him. At the same time, his throat constricted with sudden desire. She had never seemed to him so lovely, so desirable. The excitement of the fight had put colour in her smooth cheeks, a rosiness on her lips. Her fine linen shirt, soaked now with sweat so that it clung alluringly to her body, was open at the throat, giving promise of the rich swell of her breasts.

  Enraged to find himself thus held at bay by one he had regarded as no more than a pretty, love-sick goose and eager to make an end, the sooner to enjoy her, Francis lost his head and began to make mistakes. There was, in addition, the fatigue of a heavy night at cards and the fumes of alchohol misting his brain. Marianne saw this and redoubled her agility. Francis lunged, aiming for a decisive thrust. She parried by a hair's-breadth and then, slipping with a quick, snake-like movement under her adversary's blade, thrust home. Her point buried itself in Francis's breast.

  The young man's grey eyes widened with a look of enormous surp
rise. The sword slipped from his suddenly loosened grasp and clattered to the floor. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came, only a gout of blood which dribbled down his chin. He crumpled where he stood and, slowly, Marianne drew out her sword. She let it fall, without even thinking to wipe it, and went on her knees beside the wounded man. His eyes were already clouding. Her throat tightened and suddenly she wanted to cry. Her hatred had left her now that he was dying.

  'You did me a great wrong, Francis – I am avenged. Now, die in peace. I have forgiven you.'

  From beneath half-closed lips his eyes sought for her and his hand groped to touch her. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

  'A pity,' he murmured. 'I could – have loved you—'

  He closed his eyes with a groan. It was then, as she still knelt by him, Marianne heard a fearful shriek behind her.

  'My God! Francis—'

  Marianne turned quickly and was just in time to jerk herself backwards to avoid being knocked down by Ivy as she cast herself sobbing onto the lifeless body. She had not heard the door open or seen the other girl enter. How long had Francis's cousin been there? How much had she heard? Marianne looked down at the graceful form, prostrate amid the swirling folds of her white gown, and frowned, wondering at the violence of her grief. Ivy was clasping Francis's body and uttering whimpering cries, like a wounded animal, out of all proportion in Marianne's estimation with the natural grief to be felt for a mere cousin. But she had little time to wonder before Ivy rounded on her, her face streaked with tears and rendered unrecognizable by grief and malice.

  'This is your doing, I suppose,' she said fiercely. 'You found out at last that he did not love you, that he could not love you – and so you killed him! It wasn't enough for you to bear his name, to be his wife before the world, to have the right to serve him—'

  'Serve him? You are out of your mind!' Marianne's lip curled scornfully. 'The women of my house do not serve! As for this man, I killed him in fair fight! There are two swords—'

  'But only one has blood on it! You jealous little French slut, you knew it was me he loved and you could not endure it!'

  'He loved you?' Marianne was genuinely astonished.

  Ivy St. Albans's lovely face was transfigured with the fearful joy of flinging the searing truth in the teeth of her hated rival.

  'He was my lover! For months now we have been united, body and soul. He would have married me, but neither he nor I had money. Then you turned up, you and your old fool of an aunt. It was just what we needed, a pair of silly women who asked nothing better than to drop a fortune at his feet. It was child's play for Francis to win you. Everything went off as he had hoped, better even since the old woman had the sense to die and leave you everything! But then you guessed, didn't you, that he meant to keep you tucked away down here in the country while he lived with me in London, with me and your money! It was that you could not stand—'

  Marianne listened in amazement to this eruption of fury and hatred. Horrified, she saw at last the cynical calculation, of which she had been the object, and cold-blooded way in which these two had coolly set about playing on her own innocence and her aunt's goodness. Even more than the insult, which had already been wiped out, it was the contemptuous way this creature dared to speak of her aunt's memory that roused her anger.

  'You would not have enjoyed my fortune for long,' she said coldly. 'Your precious Francis lost it all tonight; the little of his own he had left and everything I brought him. The master of Selton Hall at this moment is Jason Beaufort!'

  The news struck Ivy like a thunderbolt. Her fine blue eyes dilated, her jaw dropped and a deathly pallor spread over her face.

  'All – the whole fortune?'

  'All! I have nothing left but my honour, and even that he dared dispose of. He deserved to die, you see! I could have shot him down, from behind, like a mad dog or stabbed him in the back. I gave him a chance. He lost. The worst for him.'

  'And for you, also. You killed him, you shall hang!' Ivy screamed, no longer able to contain her fury. 'I shall testify against you! You dared to strike him, you, who should have been too happy just to be his humble slave! But you are forgetting the Prince of Wales. The prince is his friend and he will not let your crime go unpunished. I am here and I will not rest until I have brought you to trial and then I will tell all the lies I need. And the day they put the rope round your neck I shall be there in the front row – to cheer!'

  Beside herself with rage, Ivy began calling loudly for help and ran to the hearth to pull the bell that hung there. But, quicker than she, Marianne was before her and as Ivy ran into her she clapped a hand across her mouth.

  'Be quiet you little fool! You will wake the whole house—'

  Biting savagely at the fingers clamped across her lips, Ivy wriggled herself free and said venomously:

  'I mean to wake everyone! Lord Moira will come and he will listen to me! You will be locked up until you can be brought to trial.'

  'My servants will defend me.'

  'Not against the prince. They are all loyal Englishmen and to them you are only a foreigner, a nasty little Frenchwoman, a papist who has killed her husband! They will believe me—'

  Marianne's brain worked quickly. But, though she tried to reassure herself, fear began to gain on her, whispering that Ivy was right. It was true. Respect for the tradition was strong at Selton Hall and for all her servants, except perhaps for Dobbs and old Jenkins, she would be only her husband's murderer. They would forget everything but her French blood and her Catholic faith. If Ivy screamed for help, then she was lost – and Ivy was going to scream, was screaming already—

  In her terror Marianne seized hold of the first object that came to hand which happened to be a long duelling pistol that lay on a chest. She grabbed it by the barrel and struck with the butt. The blow caught Ivy St. Albans on the temple and she dropped without even a sigh. But this time her rival wasted no precious seconds contemplating the prostrate figure stretched in its virginal drapery beside the lifeless form of Francis. She did not even pause to find out whether Ivy still lived. She had to escape, and escape with all speed. Already, it seemed to her that she could hear people stirring somewhere in the house. They would come and find her with the two motionless bodies, they might be coming even now – with a shock of horror, she seemed to see the shadow of the gibbet already looming over her.

  Without knowing how she did it, she almost staggered from the room, blundering heavily against the furniture, and dashed up the stairs to her room. There, she snatched up the pearl necklace that had been her mother's , the duchesse d'Angoulême's locket and a purse containing a little money and then, shrouded in a big, black hooded cloak, she hurried out again without a backward glance, slipped noiselessly along the darkened gallery to a small stairway built into one of the turrets. From there, she made her way to the stables without encountering a living soul.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Old Roots

  The wind had risen, bringing with it a cold, dense rain that whipped against Marianne's face where she stood, her eyes heavy with tears, gazing at the silent mausoleum where her ancestors lay at rest, but she did not feel it. The night was so dark that the dome and the white columns loomed up, blurred and ghostly, like a mist before her eyes. It was as though the tomb of the Seltons was already receding into the past, falling back into darkness and distance in spite of the girl's desperate efforts to impress each line of it upon her memory. She thought with pain and bitterness that this was all she had left in the world, this acre of land and the marble beneath which her ancestors lay.

  Driven by a compelling need to feel less wretched and alone, she pushed open the creaking gate and laid her cheek against the cold, damp stone as, when a little girl in need of love, she had run to hide her face against a grey silk skirt.

  'Aunt Ellis,' she moaned, 'Oh, Aunt Ellis – why?'

  It was the cry of a lost child, but there was no one to answer. Why had her quiet, sheltered life been sudden
ly transformed into this irretrievable disaster? Marianne felt all the incredulous terror of a passenger on board ship who suddenly exchanges the safety and comfort of his cabin for the icy tumult of the storm, finding himself snatched from his warm bed and plunged into the sea, clinging to a spar.

  But she might as well have tried to warm the cold marble tombs in her arms. All was still, cold and silent. And yet, there was an agonizing pain in trying to tear herself away. Going, she would leave behind her all her childhood and all the happiness she believed that she had known.

  But time was short. Back in the direction of the house, voices were already shouting. They must be looking for her even now. Then, suddenly a thick column of smoke rose above the trees and a long flame shot skywards. Marianne moved a few steps away from the mausoleum.

  'Fire!' She muttered. 'Selton is on fire—'

  What could have started it? Her first impulse, seeing the old house in danger, was to rush back but a sudden grim satisfaction made her pause. Let the noble old house burn rather than see it in the hands of the American! It was better so! Then there would indeed be nothing left of all her memories, nothing but the indelible scar she bore in her heart, and this white marble monument.

  Brushing away the tears that ran down her cheeks with an angry gesture, Marianne went to the place where she had left her horse and climbed wearily into the saddle. Her thoughts went back suddenly to her flight from the boudoir. She had no clear recollection of how she had got out of the room but she did recall hearing some kind of dull thud as of a piece of furniture overturned. The candles on the table! Had she knocked them over? Had she been the unwitting cause of the fire? A picture crossed her mind of the two still forms left lying in the room but she thrust them back angrily. Francis was dead. What difference if his body were reduced to ashes. As for Ivy, Marianne felt nothing but hatred for her.