by Jane Jakeman
“Why, Miss Anstruther is in the parlor, through there.”
Surprised at my request, Lady Jesmond indicated a door on the right of the hallway, and stepped back to allow me to pass. I was across the hall and in the parlor in two strides.
Elisabeth looked up suddenly from a chair at the side of the fireplace, and the relief that rose up in my heart somehow propelled me across the room and I took her in my arms.
I heard somebody—presumably Lady Jesmond—gasping in the background but, like everything else in our surroundings, it seemed at that moment to be faint and distant.
I was aware of a coughing from somewhere behind me, and a murmured few words, “I’ll just see about some—some refreshments!” and the scurry of feet pattering away into the depths of the house.
I did not lose my chance.
“Come back to Malfine! There may be some danger here and I do not want you to run the slightest risk of it!”
“No, I cannot. Not yet, Ambrose. I cannot leave Lady Jesmond—she has no other friend here.”
I tried further to persuade Elisabeth, but my lady herself slipped back into the room, followed by a middle-aged woman wearing a plain dark dress, full-skirted and rustling heavily, and with an apron tied round her waist and a stiffly goffered mob-cap. She was heavy-set and her plump, pink face was inexpressive, almost mask-like in its lack of suggestion of any feeling. This was the more noticeable as it seemed so much at odds with the full, round countenance and the still-thick gray curls bunched around it. Nature seemed to have intended her to be a warm-hearted motherly sort of personage, but her face was as smooth and featureless as a well-set junket pudding, as if she had pressed out all expression.
The two women were bearing the tokens of hospitality. The older was carrying a tray laden with tea-things; Lady Jesmond trotted ahead bearing a silver tea-pot and water-jug, having evidently adopted that curious English stratagem of pretending that nothing at all is the least out of the ordinary, not even discovering one’s paid companion being passionately embraced. Indeed, I thought I almost caught a glance of complicity and a little sideways smile that indicated Lady Jesmond was not averse to intrigue. Certainly, she seemed disinclined to reproach.
When she spoke, I noticed the West Country roughness had almost vanished from her voice, which was now, after the moment of fear had passed, under control and remarkably clear and deliberate. It reminded me of something, but what that was I could not then recall, for it did not seem to have any importance. Later, I reflected upon it, and should perhaps have seen a certain indication at our first meeting, but so often we overlay our memories with present knowledge, so that we cannot discern the limitations placed upon our understanding by past circumstances.
“Lord Ambrose, you will not refuse to take tea with us, I trust? This is our housekeeper, Mrs. Romey.”
It was somewhat unusual to go to the trouble of introducing a servant to a guest. I recalled Elisabeth’s story of Sir Antony’s insistence on observation of the proper forms and this seemed a departure from them, but one for which I liked Lady Jesmond.
Mrs. Romey nodded her head politely in my direction as Lady Jesmond mentioned her name, and began to set the things out on a small table. Then she left the room, as Clara Jesmond sat down, poured out our tea and busied herself with sugar and so forth. Elisabeth had taken a chair opposite her, and I, seeing that there was little point in protesting, sank into another.
“I will be frank with you and say, Lady Jesmond, that I had hoped Miss Anstruther would return with me to Malfine. She may consider it always as her home and I wish it to serve the purpose of sheltering her whenever she may need it.”
Clara gave me a rapid look out of those large blue eyes, and I was aware of a kind of shrewdness that I somehow had not expected. Yes, she was pretty, yes, she was dearly distressed by the events which had occurred—and no, she was not entirely without resources, such as estimating the likelihood of assistance from a stranger who had chanced into this stricken household. She was a more interesting personage than she had at first appeared, this Lady Jesmond. She answered me clearly enough.
“Yes, I was aware that Malfine was Miss Anstruther’s home before she came to Jesmond Place, and of course, she is free to return whenever she wishes. But I confess I would be sad indeed to lose her company. I am afraid we are not a very cheerful house at the moment, Lord Ambrose, and my husband is so wrapped up with his work. Miss Anstruther is such a kind companion and it would make Jesmond Place gloomier still if she were to depart. And there is surely no cause for alarm—the death of Dr. Kelsoe was a very sad accident, but dreadful things do happen, Lord Ambrose, and we must try not to be overcome by them.”
Then why, thought I, is your hand trembling as you pour my tea? A curious lady, in whom fright and philosophical platitudes thus intermingle!
“I do not think it necessary to leave Jesmond Place,” said Elisabeth. “At any rate, not for the present. It is very good of you to wish to take me back to Malfine, but I have engaged myself to be Lady Jesmond’s companion and that duty I wish to fulfill.”
I turned toward her and my eyes were trying to say, “Do not be so stubborn! Come away now, while you are safe.”
But she gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I know my Elisabeth, or at least, since one can never truly say that of any human being, not even of oneself, I know one thing about her. She experiences fear, certainly—yet she has that cursed stubbornness that will not give way to it. She had sent for me to come to Jesmond Place because she was alarmed, yet she would not desert her post!
My only course appeared to try and stay near here so that I might be on hand to anticipate any dangers that were brewing in this strange household—gloomy even for one where a promising young life has just come to a singularly meaningless and painful end. My mind was coursing round trying to find some way of prolonging my visit when Lady Jesmond spoke again.
“At any rate, Lord Ambrose, you cannot yourself return to Malfine now. It is getting too dark, and the edge of the moor is treacherous unless you know the way. I am sure my husband will wish you to stay to dinner. It will be a simple affair, but you will be most welcome at our table.”
There was something charming in the way she said this; privately I did not think Sir Antony would be in the least enthralled to have me as his dinner guest, with my reputation for uncovering skeletons in cupboards and rattling the bones loudly. But it would afford me an opportunity of investigating this odd galère, and of staying close to Elisabeth, this annoyingly independent woman whom I had never been able to forget, even when we parted for long stretches of time. Her low voice, her way of moving, the long length of her body, the scent of her thighs—none of these could I obliterate from my memory, even though I might curse at their recollection, which chained me so.
“Why, Lady Jesmond, that would be most kind.”
“Good, it is settled then.”
CHAPTER 5
Dinner at Jesmond Place could not be exactly described as cheerful, though that was perhaps natural under the circumstances. We dined in a long, paneled room, with a plaster ceiling that was yellowed and dark from candle-smoke. Portraits of long-dead Jesmonds, mostly painted by country daubers, gazed down upon us.
I never cease to thank fortune that my grandfather, old Hedger, was a rich upstart. My father’s family line—at least, that section of it which aspired to any kind of portraiture at all—began with that shrewd old devil, which meant that Malfine is not burdened with acres of muddy canvas celebrating my ancestors. Furthermore, those few paintings which adorn its great rooms are by accomplished artists—the Reynolds portrait of my mother, for instance, which conveys her exotic Greek looks and her natural disordered charm, her dark hair straying down over the muslin upon her shoulders, the warm tones of her flesh glowing through the thin fabric.
But Jesmond Place was as full of ancestor-worship as any palace in Peking. Apart from the lifeless long-nosed Jesmond antecedents hanging upon the walls, the room
was full of heavy old furniture, much of it black oak and sadly battered with wear. It made an incongruous background for Clara Jesmond; her temperament would, I guessed, incline naturally to a boisterous gaiety, for although she had changed for dinner into a somber dress of a deep blue, smiles kept breaking out as she seemed at moments to forget the sad circumstances in which the household found itself. Evidently she was recovering well from the fits of weeping which had overtaken her at the young man’s death. Her hair was piled high on her head in heavy yellow coils, and smoothly parted over her brow in a nunnish simplicity, at tantalizing odds with the décolletage of her gown. This was again low over her bosom which looked to be fine still, plump and white, and we were spared little of its charms as she leaned about the table, first in one direction and then in another.
To Lady Jesmond’s bosom we owed the only liveliness apparent at the dining-table. Sir Antony joined us, having evidently been forewarned of my presence by his spouse, for he gave a stiff nod and murmured, “Malfine!” in my general direction, I suppose as a species of greeting. He sat in the old black oak chair at the head of the table, facing my lady, with Elisabeth and I between them on opposite sides. There was an empty seat next to mine, though the place was laid, and Lady Jesmond, noticing it with surprise, was about to raise some inquiry, I think, as the dining-room door opened again.
It turned out that there had been another person beneath the roof of Jesmond Place on the night of Dr. Kelsoe’s death—a man of whose presence Elisabeth, as I afterward ascertained, had been quite unaware. He entered the dining room now—a small man, bent forward yet youngish, with a pale serious face. He scuttled to his place like a beetle and, hanging his head, muttered apologies to his hostess, who seemed quite amazed at his appearance, looking to her husband for an explanation.
“My dear, this is Mr. Charnock. Malfine, Miss Anstruther, this is my assistant, Charnock.”
Then Sir Antony turned. “Why are you late coming down to dine?” This was said quite fiercely to the newcomer.
“I was immersed in my task, Sir Antony. Madam, I must beg your forgiveness. I was quite absorbed, you see.”
He turned apologetically, bowing up and down the table so low he almost toppled from his chair, issuing further squeaks of regret and greeting, but did not engage to give us any further information.
Lady Jesmond was still looking taken aback. “When did this gentleman arrive?” she demanded. Mr. Charnock’s entry had apparently upset her composure and she tearfully blotted her eyes with her handkerchief. “I did not even know we had a stranger in the house.”
This last seemed rather discourteous, spoken as it was in front of the man himself, but Charnock appeared not to take offense. Perhaps, as a paid attendant, it would not have been in his interest to do so, though he looked up with his narrow face tilted toward her ladyship. I noticed that he had a quick, observant, hazel eye—that of a scholar, 1 would have said, with the pale face and stooping back that accompanies library study: the characteristic air of shabbiness, too, his black suit of clothes much worn and dusty-looking. Yet Mr. Charnock was little more than a boy. His hair was stringy; he had big hands which seemed somehow uncomfortable amidst the silver cutlery. He gave a rapid birdlike look along the table from time to time, while striving to appear to attend only to his plate.
“Oh, Mr. Charnock arrived the night before last,” replied Sir Antony. “I’m sorry, my dear—I meant to give you warning, and then this dreadful business with young Kelsoe quite drove it out of my mind. The truth is that I wanted someone to set my books and papers in order—Charnock here is to be my assistant. Young Kelsoe might have been useful to me, but this man is more knowledgeable. I wished merely to keep disorder at bay! I was thinking entirely of you, my dear, and of Mrs. Romey also. I undertake he will be no trouble to you.”
The subject of this exchange murmured his agreement. “No, please be assured, Lady Jesmond—no trouble at all, I assure you.”
I confess that it did seem odd to me, and I was uneasy that Sir Antony should have been so far heedless as to introduce a perfect stranger into the household without so much as mentioning it to his wife, let alone consulting her opinion before he acted. But she did not seem greatly perturbed thereby. Perhaps after all she was sufficiently distressed by the sudden decease which had taken place, so that having an unexpected personage at the dinner-table scarcely made an impression. Evidently her husband acted in a somewhat erratic fashion and was accustomed to pleasing himself as to who should come and go at Jesmond Place.
But, even granted Sir Antony’s perfect right to bring whomsoever he wished into his ancestral home, and given that Lady Jesmond was unlikely to have taken much interest in the personage appointed to sort out her husband’s papers, it did seem peculiar that Charnock should apparently be continuing calmly with his tasks. The Jesmonds might not be formally in mourning for young Kelsoe, but surely mundane matters could have been laid aside for a few more days.
As if to emphasize this point, Lady Jesmond mentioned the subject. “Lord Ambrose, you have perhaps heard that we have had a tragic accident here. The young doctor who was to have assisted my husband…”
“Yes, Lady Jesmond, pray do not distress yourself. I have heard of the unhappy event.”
The housekeeper, Mrs. Romey, entered at this point. Sir Antony coughed and seemed to feel the need to say something appropriate. “A talented young fellow, Kelsoe. A sad business—still, I have made all suitable arrangements. The funeral will take place tomorrow.”
At this, the conversation fell silent. Various dishes were now set on the table, Mrs. Romey going to and fro to fetch them, and we served ourselves, our hostess occasionally pressing us to take some choice tidbit, in the generous country custom. The food was plain, heavy stuff: capons, a roast of mutton, an apple custard, washed down with drafts of a dull Rhenish. I noticed that Elisabeth, whose family were wine importers and kept a fine cellar, sipped cautiously at her glass.
Somehow, though my lady attempted to make one or two sociable remarks, the atmosphere grew duller and duller, till it weighed on our spirits like lead and dampened all Lady Jesmond’s efforts to converse.
I wondered where young Kelsoe lay this night, the last before his funeral among strangers, his final night above this earth.
Sir Antony excused himself as soon as he had finished his meat, adding, “The funeral is arranged for noon tomorrow. Malfine, will you attend?’’
A human touch appeared to be overtaking Sir Antony, for he concluded, “There will be few enough mourners. It would be a kindness if you would stay.” There was no desisting from such a duty, and I murmured my willingness to grace the obsequies. Sir Antony seemed satisfied, nodding his head in my direction, and the little fellow followed him hastily as he left the room.
Lady Jesmond said politely, as if to ignore the sad subject and attempting to make up for her husband’s abruptness, “You will stay the night, Lord Ambrose, of course, in any case. You could not possibly leave for Malfine at this hour—and it is very misty outside.”
I made the appropriate noises, first demurral, then acceptance, followed by thanks. When dinner had been concluded I briefly visited the stables to assure myself that Zaraband was well-tended, listened to her comments and reproaches, left the soft animal-smelling warmth of the stall and returned to the dark old bulk of the house.
The housekeeper showed me to my room, which featured a great four-poster with a lumpy mattress, but who was I to behave like the princess with the pea? Someone had at any rate lit a fire in the chimneyplace and thoughtfully put a heavy woolen robe to warm in front of it—Mrs. Romey, probably.
Elisabeth’s room was easily enough found, from the descriptions of the house she had given in her letters. I do not propose to describe our passion here, save to mention that we had been apart for some time and our desires were correspondingly greater. With any other woman I might say that I enjoyed the usual pleasures, but there is no woman like Elisabeth, which is why I am always hungry f
or her as for no other.
It was therefore well into the small hours of the next morning when we became aware of the world beyond the flickering candles of her room, as the sound of galloping hooves awoke us.
From below Elisabeth’s window came the gasping of a tired horse that can scarce have needed reining in. There was a jingling of harness, the sound of the animal being led away, presumably to the stables at the rear of the house, and then followed a torrential hammering on the great oak door of the house and a hollering below.
Elisabeth’s window was at the front of Jesmond Place, on the same floor as Lady Jesmond’s, but on the other side of the staircase from it. Next to my lady’s was the chamber of the master of the house.
The principal personages in this drama were therefore all roused by the banging and shouting, and I flung on my robe and slipped quickly out of Elisabeth’s room, starting immediately down the stairs, so that, as was my intention, it was taken for granted that I had innocently emerged from the chaste bachelor’s bedchamber allotted to me, in order to investigate the clamor.
Sir Antony was up already, clad in his nightshirt with a heavy gown thrown over it, but he seemed unalarmed at the pounding to which his house was still being subjected. Indeed, he seemed quite unsurprised, and hastened down the staircase without hesitation, scarcely acknowledging me as he passed, and scurried along the hall to the entrance. I formed the rapid impression that husband and wife had occupied different beds: my lady was still in her room.
Heigh-ho, if our host and hostess did not enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, then at least they had not hindered their guests, thought I with some satisfaction.
Now I could see the housekeeper, Mrs. Romey, a ribboned nightcap on her head and a wrapper thrown around her person, trotting along and calling out the while, “All right, Master Cyriack, all right, I’m opening the door!”