by M C Beaton
Both stared at each other in silence, Lord Peregrine in greedy cruelty, Mary wide-eyed, almost numb with fatigue and shock.
Above and below them pounded the tumult of the storm. The boat plunged and reared, riding and tossing and straining at anchor like a nervous thoroughbred. The gale shrieked and hissed and moaned in the shrouds. A flicker of apprehension appeared in Lord Peregrine’s eyes. Perhaps he had been foolish to allow his crew to spend such a night ashore.
Something broke loose on the deck above and set up a wild, rhythmic thudding.
There was another great heave and lurch and both staggered trying to gain their balance. Then with a great crack, The Avenger struck against the side of another boat. Lord Peregrine started in alarm and Mary began to hope again that there might be some way of escape. But Lord Peregrine’s greed for revenge was too strong. He moved closer to Mary and put a large, beefy hand on her neck. “Plead for mercy, Mary,” he laughed. “Plead for mercy and I might let you live!”
Mary stared up into his gross brutal face and all the fight left her. “Hubert,” she said with a weary sigh and closed her eyes. She heard his excited labored breathing and waited for the feel of that awful, brutal mouth against her own.
There came a loud report and the sound of splintering wood. The cabin door flew open and Lord Peregrine abruptly released Mary and stared in alarm.
Lord Hubert Challenge loomed on the threshold. He held a smoking pistol in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. The door with its lock shattered from his shot swung wildly on its hinges as the boat plunged and heaved in the storm.
“Leave the cabin, Mary,” shouted Hubert. “Get behind me!”
Lord Peregrine stood swaying, his face black with rage, his hands fumbling to fasten his breeches. His eyes never left Hubert’s face as Mary, holding her hands to her face, scurried behind her husband and stood at the foot of the companionway.
“Your sword, Lord St. James,” said Hubert in a voice like ice.
A gleam lit up Lord Peregrine’s eyes. He would normally be no match for Hubert’s swordsmanship, but in this reeling, plunging cabin he might have a chance.
Mary sat on the bottom step of the companionway as the rain lashed down on her and buried her head in her hands and prayed.
The two men began to thrust and lunge and parry, ducking their heads to avoid the swinging oil lamp which threw grotesque shadows on the cabin walls. Lord Peregrine fought with a mad courage born of desperation and once he slipped under Hubert’s guard and his sword point pinked him on the shoulder. The sight of Hubert’s blood drove Peregrine to further efforts. He thrust his sword point up through the glass of the lamp and plunged the cabin into darkness. He could just make out the doorway of the cabin as a sort of lighter blackness.
He heard a noise over to the left of him and made a dash for the doorway, throwing his great bulk directly ahead to freedom.
He ran full headlong into the point of Lord Hubert’s sword.
Lord Hubert pulled his sword clear and backed out of the cabin, fumbling behind him to find Mary and then pulling her to him in a strong grasp.
Lord Peregrine’s heavy, dying body reeled blindly around the darkness of the cabin like some great moth looking for the light. At last there was the sound of a heavy fall, and then silence.
“Come, Mary,” said Hubert urgently. “The boat has been holed. The water’s coming in already.”
They struggled up the companionway and up onto the deck, gasping as sheets of icy rain struck their faces. They ran along the plunging, reeling deck to the gangplank only to find it had been wrenched from its moorings and lay shattered like matchwood below them on the quay.
The air was full of rain and screaming wind and the smash and rattle of ships being battered at anchor. Great masts danced and dipped and bowed before the storm like some demented forest.
Hubert cupped his hands to his mouth. “John!” he yelled to his groom, who was standing guard on the quay. There came a faint answering shout above the storm.
“John, catch my lady. She’s coming over.” The white face of the groom suddenly appeared directly below them on the quay.
“Mary,” said Hubert urgently. “I’m going to throw you over. John will catch you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Mary, dazed, and battered and buffeted. Would this ordeal never end?
He picked her up lightly in his arms. “Ready below?” he called, and, at John’s answering call, he tossed her over.
Mary was expertly caught by John and placed on her feet. She stared upwards, seeing the black bulk of her husband leaping down towards her from the ship.
“She’s a-going, my lord,” said the groom, jerking his thumb in the direction of The Avenger. “She’s been holed.”
“Let her sink,” said Hubert indifferently.
He huddled Mary close to him and began to run. “I have to find us rooms and shelter,” he shouted above the storm. “It won’t be very long now.”
It was well that Lord Hubert was known at that famous hostelry, The Blue Anchor, or the landlord would certainly not have unbarred his doors on such a night.
Mary was hustled into a warm bedchamber, sleepily clutching hold of her husband as he removed her sodden clothes. He shook her gently.
“Did I arrive in time, Mary?” And Mary could only dumbly nod, weak tears of relief beginning to pour down her face.
“I must go and report this to the authorities,” he said quietly. “Sleep, Mary. You need no longer be afraid. Peregrine is dead.”
But Mary had already fallen asleep in his arms. He picked her gently up and carried her to the bed, stroking her hair back from her white face.
“Thank God she is alive,” he murmured. “I will never raise my voice to her again.”
Chapter Eleven
“I said we are going to the Duchess of Pellicombe’s ball and let that be an end of it,” shouted Lord Hubert Challenge at his wife, Mary. “Those damned, gossiping, tattling Witherspoons must be put a stop to. They have been having a tremendous time while we have been gone, planting and sowing all kinds of disgraceful rumors. You have had a full fortnight to recover from your ordeal, madam, which is more than is granted to any soldier.”
“I am not in your regiment,” snapped Mary, her eyes bright with tears. Men were so boorish, so stupid. How could she ever have believed she loved him. He was as insensitive as an… as an… as an ox. It was too good a piece of imagery to waste.
“You are as insensitive as an ox,” said Lady Mary.
“You shall answer for that piece of impertinence later,” said her husband grimly, winding his military sash round the waist of his red and gold dress uniform.
Mary turned and stared out of the window. She had hardly been able to believe her ears when Biggs had brought her a curt note from her husband, telling her to prepare herself for the Duchess’s ball. She had reluctantly arrayed herself in a pretty silver-spangled gown and had sent for the hairdresser to tease her lengthening curls into one of the fashionable Grecian styles. But she could not resist walking along the corridor to her husband’s rooms to protest at his accepting the invitation.
She had lain in the Dover inn for a week after her ordeal, feeling nervous and weak and shaken. On the seventh night Hubert had tried to share her bed and she had shrunk away from him with a cry of alarm as Lord Peregrine’s brutal features seemed to be suddenly imposed over those of her husband.
He had brought her back to London where she had kept to her rooms, eating her meals from a tray. All her old timidity had returned and she shrank from seeing anyone, even Hubert.
But now her unfeeling husband was dragging her out into the world again.
She maintained a chilly silence all the way to the ball.
The Duchess of Pellicombe greeted them rather nervously. Really! One no longer knew what to expect from the Challenges. Or from anyone, for that matter. Clarissa had arrived with not a thread of mourning on her. The affair of Lord St. James had been hushed up but
one knew. So many whispers and the Witherspoons appeared to be an endless source of fascinating gossip.
Lady Clarissa was the first guest to welcome the Challenges. She looked magnificent. She had lost weight and used more water than ever to damp her gown, hiding hardly an inch of her superb figure from the interested gaze.
She did not mention Lord Peregrine. It was as if the monster had never existed, thought Mary, hanging rather sulkily onto Hubert’s arm. Clarissa rattled and chattered very amusingly and at a great rate, her beautiful face animated.
Hubert was at first all chilly condescension. But at last his eyes began to light up in a smile of appreciation at one of Clarissa’s naughtier stories and Mary, unaware that her husband now cordially detested Clarissa but wished to punish his wife, heard him asking Clarissa for the next dance.
As they moved away together, Mary saw one of her former dancing partners approaching and hid behind a pillar. The ballroom was very hot, illuminated as it was with the light of hundreds of wax candles. The windows at the end of the room opened onto a terrace from which steps led down to a pleasant garden.
Mary made her way there and leaned over the balustrade and looked down. The Witherspoons were holding court beside a lily pond. Mrs. Witherspoon’s feathered headdress nodded back and forth. There were excited oohs and ahs from their listeners. Suddenly the music behind Mary ceased, and Mrs. Witherspoon’s voice rang out loud and clear, “I hear Lord Hubert’s dancing with Lady Clarissa. That pair have no shame. His poor little wife…”
Not stopping to think, consumed by hurt and a burning rage, Mary ran down the stairs to the garden and straight up behind Mrs. Witherspoon who stood facing the pool. Raising one little slippered foot, Mary kicked out with all her might and Mrs. Witherspoon sailed into the lily pond, face down in the water. Mr. Witherspoon turned round and his large ingratiating face with its permanent leer was too much for Mary. Still panting with rage and exertion, she kicked him in his well-stuffed stomach, and he toppled backwards to join his wife.
Lord Hubert, who had stood amazed on the terrace with Clarissa, watching the antics of his wife, ran down into the garden and swept Mary into his arms and gave her a kiss that left her breathless.
“Oh, my joy,” he laughed. “I could not have done better myself. Mary, Mary, when you are cold with me, you make me behave so badly. What will you do with me?”
Mary clutched hold of him. “Take me home, Hubert.”
He looked down at her blushing face and kissed her very tenderly. “Home it is,” he said, leading her gently from the garden.
The Witherspoons sat in the lily pond and saw their social ruin in the disdainful faces looking down at them. Fickle society admired Mary’s spirit, and now stood united against the upstart Witherspoons and their malicious gossip.
“Laugh!” said Mr. Witherspoon, poking his wife under the water. “Laugh as hard as you can.”
Mrs. Witherspoon stared at her husband as if he had gone mad, but she dutifully began to laugh as hard as she could, joined by Mr. Witherspoon who bellowed with mirth as hard as he could.
The guests, who had been turning away, turned back and stared at them in amazement. Even mock laughter is infectious, and soon one joined in and then another until the Witherspoons were surrounded by a circle of guests howling with mirth.
One intoxicated young man became so carried away that he hurled himself into the water with a tremendous splash. Soon all sorts of people were leaping into the pool and tipsily congratulating the Witherspoons on their party spirit.
Mr. Witherspoon exchanged a covert wink with his wife. They were still in society—for the time being anyway.
The Duchess of Pellicombe stared into her garden as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. What a rowdy disgrace! What had happened to all the ladies and gentlemen? She closed her eyes firmly and turned around and then, opening them again, marched into the ballroom. If she did not watch the disgraceful goings-on, perhaps they would simply go away.
But the Duke had already seen the pool party. “You know,” he confided to his wife, “there are some curst rum touches around society these days.”
And the much-plagued Duchess of Pellicombe burst into tears.
Lord Hubert’s carriage wound its way through the country lanes at a leisurely pace. Mary sat beside her husband with her hands tucked into her muff, for the sunny day was unusually cold for early autumn, and tried to fight down an attack of nerves. She was finally going to see Hammonds, and felt as nervous as if she were going to meet a rival. The wooded countryside grew more open and rolling and a stiff breeze sent a small hail of beech nuts rattling into the carriage roof. A field of grass stretched out to her left, rolling and turning in the glittering yellow light of the setting sun.
A pheasant, startled by the rumbling of the carriage wheels, rocketed up clumsily and disappeared over the hedge. A flock of starlings whirled and chattered against the lemon yellow sky.
Her husband was asleep, his body moving easily on the seat to the lurching and swaying of the carriage. Mary pressed her hand against her stomach. She was sure she was pregnant. Would her son—for she was sure to have a son—be worthy of this country estate she was at last going to see? Would she?
The carriage slowed and turned and swung through an ancient pair of moss-covered gates. Hammonds!
Her husband awoke and smiled at her sleepily. “Nearly there,” he yawned. “Biggs has been there all day, marshalling his troops so we should have a comfortable night.”
Mary smiled at him weakly, feeling increasingly nervous. Soon the carriage left the brown and gold fields of stubble behind and began to roll through wooded parkland where deer flitted silently through the trees, as fabulous and romantic in the flood of late golden light as unicorns. Everything seemed to be a rich blaze of green and gold as if a Gobelin tapestry had come to life.
“Hammonds!” said Hubert with a deep note of satisfaction in his voice.
The carriage had left the woods and was bowling through open parkland.
Hammonds nestled in the foot of a small fold in the landscape—or rather it crouched.
It was one of the nastiest houses Mary had ever seen. If a house could be said to grumble, then it certainly did. Heavy ivy hung over the windows, giving the ludicrous effect of heavy lowered brows. It was a jumble of roofs and fantastically twisted chimneys. It had been built in Tudor times out of a singularly repellent yellow brick. Some ancestor had tacked on a wing in a florid Gothic style, which sprang away from the main building at an awkward angle.
It will be charming inside, thought Mary, fighting down a feeling of disappointment.
Biggs stood on the worn steps, his large face looking strained and creased. But summoning up his best manner, he clicked his heels smartly together and said, “Welcome my lord, m’lady.”
He turned about and led the way into a low dark hall where a great fire sent acrid puffs of smoke up to the already blackened beams. The whole place smelled of damp and dry rot and, despite the fire, had an all-pervading chill.
“Begging your lordship’s parding,” said Biggs, clearing his throat. “But was your lordship intending to make a long stay of it?”
Hubert smiled warmly round the decay of his family home.
“For the rest of our lives,” he said.
“Blimey.”
“I beg your pardon, Biggs.”
“I said I was going to show you to your room, my lord.”
“I can find my own way, Biggs,” said Hubert, throwing his butler a suspicious look. “Come, Mary.”
Mary obediently took his arm and allowed him to lead her up the stairs, which creaked and groaned in protest.
He led her down a low corridor on the second floor and down a small flight of steps to a low door at the end. He flung it open. “Our bedroom, my love,” he said.
A small fire crackled on the hearth, hissing and spitting and sending vicious little puffs of smoke into the freezing air. One of the servants had left the small windows wide o
pen, no doubt in an effort to dispel the smoke. A vast great four poster bed dominated the room. Its dingy, threadbare hangings moved in the breeze from the open windows. A smoke-blackened tapestry covered most of one wall. It depicted a deer being disembowelled in splendid clarity. There were no carpets on the floor. An enormous wardrobe which looked as if it could house a whole army of ghosts loomed from the gathering shadows.
“What do you think of your home, Mary,” said Hubert, standing with his back to her and looking out of the window.
“It’s awful,” said Mary in a choked voice. “And you married me to save this… this… crumbling, smelly heap of decay.”
Hubert swung around. “You must be mad,” he said slowly. “Of course, it is hard for you to appreciate a real family home when one takes into account that prissy, prim, soulless box of a place you were brought up in.”