He drew a silver-framed portrait from a drawer as he spoke and slid it across the desk to me. I studied it in silence. Apart from the fact that the man it depicted had a narrow scar marring his left cheek, it could have been my Uther. In their perfect, arrogant masculinity, they were identical. Wordlessly, I passed the portrait back to Tristan. I wished Rudi had been there to listen to this story. The mystery of the Uther we saw as children was explained. There were two Uthers, both with the same face. The man I was going to marry was not, after all, the ogre who had haunted my childhood. So where was the sense of relief I should have felt?
“Uther’s dark deeds did not end there. Between them, he and his sister, Demelza, hatched a plan to make it appear that Tynan was mad. Demelza was slowly poisoning him. But Uther was not prepared to let the Jago name die out, so they brought Lucy, who was a distant relative and alone and penniless, to Tenebris. They planned to marry her to Tynan and, once she was carrying his child, they were going to kill Tynan and make it look like he had taken his own life.”
“Tristan, this sounds very much like the plot of a Victorian melodrama!”
“For the Jagos it is quite tame,” he assured me. “If you look back into the family history, there have been far worse villainies.”
“How were Uther and Demelza prevented from carrying this plan through to completion?”
“Uther’s own grip on sanity was tenuous. He became obsessed with Lucy. There is a Jago legend about an evil ancestor, Arwen Jago, who fell in love with a beautiful young girl called Lucia.” There was that name again. New to me and yet so darkly familiar. I recalled Uther’s words about Arwen Jago and the “true line” of Athal. It was as if I was being reminded of these things rather than hearing them for the first time. “Uther always considered himself to be the reincarnation of Arwen, and he started to believe that he had finally been reunited with his Lucia. Lucy herself, however, had fallen in love with Tynan. They were married on his twenty-first birthday and planned to run away together. Uther had Tynan imprisoned in the dungeons and planned to take his place in the marriage bed. Demelza found out and, in a fit of jealousy—for she and Uther were incestuous lovers—killed him and set fire to the castle. Demelza died in the blaze, but Lucy and Tynan escaped.”
I shivered, gazing around me. I was seeing the beautiful, mellow house in a different light now that I knew the tragic story of its birth. “And despite all of that, they went on to live happily here?”
He looked out of the window, toward the cliff and the soaring ocean beyond. I felt he was staring back into another time. “In many ways, I think they did. But the past never completely let them go. There were always rumours that the ghosts of Uther and Demelza lived on, even in this new house. Tynan and Lucy had three children. Eddie, Charles—who was always known as Cad—and Eleanor. Eleanor is, of course, the only surviving member of the family. Cad used to joke that he was cursed because he had inherited Uther Jago’s face. The locals said he was Uther born again because he looked so like him. He even had Uther’s devilish smile.” I shuddered slightly at the thought of my own Uther’s smile, so impish and full of mischief. “I think even Lucy and Tynan worried sometimes that Uther really had found his way back from the grave, particularly as Cad was rather wild before he met Bouche.” He turned his head, as though remembering my presence. “I’m sorry, my dear, these memories are making me feel woolly-headed. Do you think we could go for a stroll?”
We collected our coats, and although the wind was brisk, the sun peeped from behind the clouds and did its best to cheer us. In my case, at least, it did not succeed. The dark Jago history had made me feel restless and uncomfortable. Leading me along the cliff path, Tristan continued with his story.
“Eddie and Cad never got along. In fact it would be fair to say they hated each other in spite of Lucy’s efforts to pour oil onto the troubled waters of their relationship. When they grew up, they went their separate ways. Eddie was artistic and he went to live in Paris where he indulged his passion for painting. Cad, though labelled the ‘wild son,’ supported Tynan with the management of the estate. Between them, they built the Athal estate into a huge business empire. When it was deemed time for Eddie, who was actually the heir to all this wealth, to return and learn the ropes of the business, the gulf between the brothers was at its widest. Eddie came back to Tenebris with his fiancée, a stunning Hungarian beauty called Dita Varga. You may have heard her being referred to by her famous nickname—Bouche?”
I felt my brow wrinkle in consternation. “But Bouche married Cad, didn’t she?”
“She did indeed marry Cad. They were deeply in love and very happy. In truth, she and Eddie were never actually engaged. Bouche, or Dita as I knew her when I first met her, was on the run from a dangerous brigand who viewed her as his property. She and Eddie were friends, nothing more, but he relied heavily on her for moral support. So, when he had to come back here and face his demons, he wanted to come with her at his side. It suited them both to pretend they were betrothed.”
“His demons?”
His face was sad. “I’m not sure any of us will ever know Eddie Jago’s full story. There was a series of dreadful murders of young girls during the time Eddie was in Paris and here at Athal when he returned. They stopped when he disappeared.” We had reached an arrowhead-shaped point in the cliff top so that we appeared to be standing on the very edge of the world. “For many years it was assumed that he had killed himself, jumped to his death from this very spot.”
“You seem to be suggesting that he did not,” I said, gazing down into the churning abyss.
“It is possible that he did not die,” he said. “There is a chance—awful though it is to contemplate—that he survived and went on to commit the infamous Whitechapel murders of 1888.”
“You mean that Eddie may have been the killer known as Jack the Ripper?” I was aghast at the thought.
“The similarities between those murders and the ones that took place here and in Paris make it a possibility.”
“Liewe God! What is this family that I am marrying into? I notice that Uther made quite sure of my answer before he let me hear any of this,” I laughed, although there was no humour in the sound. “Although, to be fair to him, I don’t think he knows any of these stories. Thank goodness what you are telling me is all in the past!” Tristan regarded me thoughtfully, then, with gentle courtesy, offered me his arm. We began to walk back toward the house. “Why was she called ‘Bouche’?” I turned my attention to the Jago family member who interested me most of all.
“It was Cad’s name for her.” An affectionate, reminiscent light touched his eyes. “She was extraordinarily beautiful and had a lovely mouth, so he called her his belle bouche because of it.”
“I think you were very fond of her,” I said, observing his softened expression.
“I was fond of them both. They were good to me.” His handsome face was sombre when he turned to me. “They welcomed me into their home and brought me up alongside their sons, and they need not have done. Because not only was I illegitimate, I was born of another incestuous relationship. Eddie Jago was my father and Eleanor, his sister, is my mother.”
∗ ∗ ∗
The story of Lucia’s Glade was enshrined in Jago legend. Intrigued, yet oddly repelled by it, I asked Tristan to take me there. I was relying on his storytelling prowess to bring the tale to life. What started out as a quiet walk for the two of us became a major expedition, however, with the whole family—except Nicca, who looked faintly bored and vetoed the suggestion, and Eleanor—involved. At Finty’s prompting, Mrs Winrow provided a picnic lunch, which was packed into a basket the shape and approximate size of a coffin. This impressive item was transported into the forest by two sweating footmen, who had gone on ahead to set up a trestle table and chairs.
“I only wanted to come for a stroll to see the place where such a fascinating story started,” I whispered apologetically to Tristan as we followed a narrow, mossy path. It led us away from the
ocean and into the eerie silence of the forest.
“Lucia’s Glade has its own particular grip on the heart of the Jagos,” he explained. “So perhaps we are inclined to overrate its charms and elevate its status.”
The trees gave way abruptly to grass the vivid green of an envious heart. The beauty of this small clearing bloomed for the most part unseen. I looked around at the way the light stole through the surrounding trees and played a symphony on crystal droplets of untouched dew. Thick clover covered the budding ground and dried potpourri mounds of leaves filled each nook and hollow. This should have been a place of peace and enchantment. It wasn’t. Had I been alone I would have turned and run. Lucia’s Glade, like her name, filled my very soul with dread.
“Isn’t it delightful?” Finty asked in between directing the footmen to set out the picnic. It would have been too much to say that Rudi shared the same depth of feeling I was experiencing, but he nonetheless appeared uncomfortable. He looked about him as though expecting to see something abhorrent emerging from the leafy shadows. Even Uther was restless, his golden eyes cautious and the brightness of his smile somewhat dimmed. Only Finty seemed to still feel the outing was celebratory. Her eyes sparkled with excitement and she took an almost proprietorial pride in ensuring we were all comfortable. She had turned the picnic into a bizarrely formal arrangement with cut-glass flutes of champagne and bone-china plates among the ancient trees, new weeds and stealthy creeping ivy. I wondered at the flimsiness of Finty’s emotions. Could she really be unaware of the undercurrents that affected the rest of us?
“What is the story of this place, Tristan?” Uther asked as we took our seats at the table.
“You have heard me speak of Arwen Jago, who, at the time of the restoration of King Charles the Second was the incumbent of the parish of St Petroc. He was the younger brother of the earl and had already earned himself a reputation for wildness. When his brother died, it was widely believed that Arwen murdered him.”
“But it wasn’t proved?” Uther asked.
“It seems not. Original records from the time did not survive the fire that destroyed the castle, but there does not appear to be any concrete evidence against Arwen. Rather, his subsequent notoriety and the balance of probability suggest that it was highly likely that he had a hand in his brother’s demise.”
“So Arwen went on to inherit the title unchallenged?” Rudi asked. He looked wan, I thought, and rather uncomfortable. It was a feeling with which I had every sympathy.
“He did. And, by all accounts, he proved to be a better earl than his brother, who was a weak man. The estate was in some turmoil following the parliamentarian period and Arwen, through strong—albeit cruel—rule, restored its fortunes and brought stability to Athal. He had a fierce pride in the family name and was ruthless in enforcing it. He believed that future generations of Jagos were destined for greatness and that it was his job to make sure that nothing could stand in their way. A gatekeeper for what was to come, if you will.”
“Oh, Annie, are you feeling quite well?” Finty asked in some alarm as I slumped slightly in my chair. “You do look dreadfully pale.”
“A slight headache, that’s all,” I explained, returning the pressure of Uther’s hand as he turned to me with an expression of concern. How could I possibly describe to another the insidious feeling that, just beyond my conscious sight, something evil was taunting me? Or the persistent, crawling conviction that I had been here before? I stared at the plate of food a footman placed in front of me. Dainty sandwiches, cold meat, boiled quail’s eggs and brightly coloured salads made an attractive display. But just beneath the veneer of reality something rotten squirmed. I sensed that if I plunged my fork into Mrs Winrow’s carefully prepared feast, it would ooze forth and pour its putrid essence over my hands. My stomach lurched in violent protest, and I turned my face away.
The picnic seemed destined to go unappreciated since Rudi pushed his food around without touching it and Uther managed only a few mouthfuls. Even Finty seemed to finally have assimilated the mood.
“And so, on to the story of this glade,” Tristan continued. “Arwen was out hunting one day and his pack were in pursuit of a deer. The trail led them here to this clearing, where they encountered an incredibly beautiful young woman called Lucia.” The feeling of something cold and alien squirming in my stomach intensified at the mention of that name. I did not understand why. According to the legend, Lucia was a pure and good character, yet her name affected me in a way that evil Arwen’s did not. “This is where an element of fable takes over and we must suspend disbelief, because it seems that Arwen, already married and with several children—legitimate and otherwise—tried to persuade Lucia to become his mistress. She resisted, and he returned to the glade each day to renew his protestations, each time offering her greater incentives. In the end, in true fairy tale–villain style, Arwen threw her over his saddle and carried her off to Tenebris, where he kept her imprisoned and forced her to submit to his will.”
“One wonders what his wife thought of all this,” Uther said. “Are you afraid I’ll subscribe to this particular family tradition, my sweet?” I shook my head and attempted to return his smile. How did I know, beyond any doubt, that the story Tristan was telling was wrong in some essential details?
“Over time perhaps Arwen tired of Lucia or grew complacent. Anyway, she escaped and returned to the glade. When he caught up with her, Arwen’s anger was so great that he murdered her. He drew his crossbow and fired it straight into her eye.”
“No!” I rose shakily to my feet, holding a serviette over my mouth and looking at the clover-strewn spot where I knew—just knew—Lucia had fallen.
“Annie, my dear.” Tristan’s face reflected the shock that the others were evidently feeling: that tough-as-Africa Annie should be so affected by what was effectively a child’s fairy story. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Finty hurried over to me, but I backed away from her, shaking my head. “No, don’t touch me.” Her dainty features froze into an expression of shock. I saw something else in her eyes then, something I had not thought her capable of. A flash of pure fury lightened their grey depths. It was so brief I might have imagined it. Uther moved her aside and put his arms around me, drawing me close. “That’s not why he did it,” I muttered into the curve of his neck.
He slid a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. “How do you know that?” The deep gold of his eyes was like a storm-scattered sky here in this shadowed place. There was something—someone—in their tormented depths that I didn’t want to see, and I chose not to answer his question. Instead, I rested my head against the warmth of his shoulder once more. “I’m taking Annie back to the house,” Uther told the others. “Her headache seems to be getting worse.”
As he slid an arm about my waist and led me away, I looked back at the sleepy hollow. At Rudi and Tristan, who both watched me with concern. At Finty, who stood slightly to one side, her petulant burst of temper over now and her expression a forlorn reflection of the outcome of her expedition. It was just a harmless forest glade. Was it my imagination, or a trick of the light, that made it appear as if the clover was drenched and dark now with blood? Even though nearby Tenebris was to be my home, I made a promise to myself that I would never return here.
Chapter Six
“How did your parents choose your name?” I asked Uther as we strolled in the gardens in the slumbering sunset. An earlier downfall had given way to a rainbow-spattered landscape and the skies were watercolour vivid. The light was over-bright, and daylight’s final rays of gold invaded my eyes as well as my heart.
He looked down at me in surprise. “I don’t know. I’ve never given it any thought, but since our father was Cornish, and Nicca and I have Cornish names, I expect he may have been influenced by his Jago heritage.”
I told him Tristan’s story of his unsavoury namesake. “So your father knew nothing of this other Uther?” We stepped back into the parlour through t
he open French window.
“If he did, it seems in rather bad taste to have named me after him, don’t you think? He may have chosen the name because of an entirely different Uther, of course. The legendary Uther Pendragon was King Arthur’s father. It seems more likely, however, that he dredged up a couple of names from the family tree without making any enquiries about the background of those who bore them last. It sounds like just the sort of thing he would do.” Further information from Tristan had elicited that there had also been a Nicca Jago in the family’s history who had, coincidentally, been an equally bloodthirsty, lecherous murderer. There was a distinct, recurrent theme in the Jago past, I reflected. I was not marrying into a family noted for its heroic deeds and services to mankind. “Are you going to cry off now you know the truth about my disreputable ancestors?” he asked, catching hold of my hands and swinging me to a halt so that I was facing him.
“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” I said, stepping closer and burrowing my face into his chest. Since that first moment of meeting, it was as if we had been as one. No, I corrected myself. Since the moment we viewed Tenebris together for the first time, we had belonged to each other. I had become convinced in that moment that nothing could ever change that fact. An apologetic cough signalled Winrow’s arrival with the tea tray.
“It’s like living in a bloody goldfish bowl,” Uther muttered irritably. “I never get a chance to be alone with you.” He glanced around the parlour with distaste. “And I’m tired of looking at pictures of saintly dead people. Winrow, get rid of these old photographs, will you?”
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