by Angela Arney
Liana shivered. How cold the wind was now. How difficult it was to breathe; she had to fight to drag the frosty air into her lungs. The impossible had happened; she had been found out. But why now, she wanted to cry out. Why now? She clenched her fists, and faced William, I have to keep calm. I must. For James’s sake I must deny it. The thought of James gave her courage. Whatever deception there had been in the past, her son was not part of it. He was the one perfect thing she had given Nicholas, a child who was totally innocent. Nothing must be allowed to harm him. James was without blemish because he had no part in the past.
Facing William, she scornfully denied his words. ‘There must be some mistake. The old woman was probably senile.’ Her voice was harsh, defensive.
‘There is no mistake. You are a fraud. A peasant.’ William spat out the word with soft venom.
‘I am not. How dare you insult me.’ Deny it, deny it, she thought grimly. Keep on denying it. His word against yours. No-one will ever believe him.
‘Not only a peasant,’ he sneered, ‘but a common prostitute.’ He did not miss the sudden sharp intake of Liana’s breath, and laughed. ‘Oh yes, my fine lady. A gutter prostitute, passing herself off as a marchesa.’
How did he know? Oh, God, how did he know? Keep on denying it, instructed her subconscious, don’t let him frighten you.
‘You are making this up.’ Liana forced herself to keep calm.
‘Oh no? The old woman knew well enough. You went down into Naples and returned with food. The villagers didn’t have food. And there was only one way a girl could get food in Naples – prostitution.’
‘You are being quite ridiculous.’ White-faced and trembling, Liana still stood her ground.
‘Oh, no.’ The words were so low she could hardly hear him. ‘You fucked them to get what you wanted, and you fucked my brother to become a countess. It’s the same thing.’
‘You are disgusting.’ But even as she spoke, the truth seared into her mind, burning, scarring; a branding iron plunging into her soul. PROSTITUTE. FRAUD. PEASANT. Mind reeling in shock and confusion, she was suddenly aware again of James chuckling as he played with William’s scarf. James; he should not be here. He did not belong in this sordid scenario. Why did William have him?
William began to laugh. ‘You should see your face. If ever I needed proof, you’ve just given it to me.’ Then he stopped laughing and became deadly serious. ‘But strangely enough I don’t care about all that. What I do care about is the way that you have taken over Broadacres, you and your two brats.’ His voice rose sharply and he shook James with a sudden vicious movement.
The sharp movement hurt James and he began to cry, sensing that something was wrong. ‘Mum, mum, mum,’ he babbled, holding out his arms now towards Liana.
Instinctively Liana moved towards the baby but William lashed out at her with the boat hook, keeping her at bay. Then he walked towards the bridge nearer the culvert where the ice was thinner. ‘Eventually,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘I shall get rid of you all, even my brother. But as his son is here, we might as well start with him, the dear little son and heir, Viscount Hamilton-Howard.’
With one swift movement he plunged the boat hook with crashing force into the thin ice. It made a hole the size of a small window. For a moment, Liana could not imagine the full horror of his intention, but as he lifted James high in the air, she knew with a terrible certainty what he was going to do. With a scream that almost tore her throat out, she flung herself forward. But it was too late. William dropped the baby through the hole.
Liana screamed and screamed and screamed, retching and choking, hardly aware that she was screaming, and pleading with William, asking him to kill her, to do anything, anything, but please save James. ‘My son, my son!’ Unable to tear her eyes away from the ghastly sight, she watched her beloved son, her love, her life, float out beneath the ice. His hat was off, the long blond hair floating around his face like an angelic halo; his mitten-clad hands pressed up to the frozen surface as he stared through, his blue eyes open wide; a tiny angel in a stained-glass window.
With a terrible cry of vengeance, pain, and anger Liana launched herself at the hole in the ice. Whatever the cost she had to get James. William lashed out with the pole again, preventing her from reaching the life-saving hole. Through the long-distant years, Liana heard her own voice saying, ‘I could kill if I had to,’ and she knew that now the time had come. With William alive, she would never get near James.
Suddenly she was imbued with all the ruthlessness and the calculating cunning of a born killer. She must get William off balance. She feigned a movement towards him, and he swung at her again with the boat hook, but she had made sure she was too far away so that in trying to reach her he lost his balance. The artificial limb twisted beneath him, and before he could recover, Liana flung herself on top of him and wrenched the boat hook from his hands.
Superhuman strength flowed through her body. She knew what to do and how to do it. She would break his neck with the pole, kill him the way she had seen Wally kill the farmyard chickens. William was frightened now, she could see that, and it spurred her on. Death is too good for you, she thought, ramming the pole up under his chin, forcing his head back. He started to choke. Liana pushed the pole down harder, wanting to hear his neck snap. Struggling they slid across the ice towards the hole, and suddenly William’s head went back over the edge and into the black icy water. He thrashed and struggled, arms flailing, hands tearing at her clothes, but she held on to the pole, pushing harder, harder, harder. Then it was all over, he gurgled and choked, his limbs gave a few spasmodic jerks then were still. Exhausted, Liana let go of the pole, and William’s lifeless body slid into the hole and down into the darkness of the water.
Liana’s attention turned back to James. He was still visible. Down into the water she plunged, smashing frantically at the edge of the ice in a vain endeavour to clear a channel through to him. The edge of the frozen lake was as sharp as glass and cut her hands and face. Great crimson blotches stained the ice. Unaware that she was bleeding, Liana beat at the ice in desperation, trying to break a way through. But the ice was too thick. He was floating away, farther and farther out into the middle of the lake.
‘James, James!’ The harrowing cry was heard up at the house.
Without a second thought Liana took a breath and dived downwards into the dark water. Eyes open, she swam beneath the ice, drawn onwards by the sight of James’s hair. It was so beautiful, like golden seaweed. My darling, darling son, my beautiful son, don’t be afraid now. Everything will be all right; your mother is here. She reached him. At last she held him in her arms, blue eyes open wide and unwinking, baby mouth curved in a smile. His beauty was exquisite, absolute perfection. Perfection.
When they hauled them from the lake, it was Liana’s face that had the look of death.
*
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’
The words fell like pebbles into a pool, rippling outwards in a sigh of sorrow through the grieving congregation packed into Longford Parish Church. ‘Shall never die.’ No-one believes that, thought the young priest sadly. Why are they putting themselves through the agony of another funeral service, when I could have officiated at a double one? But there had been no question of a double service. As soon as the coroner had formally released the bodies for burial and set a date for the resumption of the full inquest, the Earl of Wessex had summoned him to Broadacres and made the necessary arrangements. He had been absolutely adamant. His brother’s funeral service would be two days before that of his son. His brother was to be interred in the family vault; but his son was to be buried separately, outside in the churchyard.
‘We want James to be able to see the sky, feel the sun,’ he said.
The vicar, new to the parish, did not understand. Neither did he understand why so few people had come to
William’s funeral, except for the press who trampled through the snow eager to photograph the family of the Earl and Countess of Wessex. The tragedy of the double drowning had made front-page news. He looked down across the bowed massed heads of the mourners. How different it was today. Everyone who could had come. The difficulties encountered by roads blocked with snow counted for nothing. All those who could possibly reach the little Norman church at Longford had come to the funeral of James, Viscount Hamilton-Howard; and the grief filling the church was so real the vicar felt it should be visible. The brilliant, sparkling sunlight slanting through the narrow windows was an intrusion, an intrusion of the outside world into the grim pool of mourning inside the church.
His gaze switched to the family sitting immediately below him in the front pews. Their faces resembled the marble effigies of their ancestors buried in the churchyard. Hamilton-Howards had worshipped, married, grieved and been buried in this place for centuries. ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’ How true that was. But each grief was new and hard to bear, and the death of a young child was always the most harrowing for those left behind. The young priest bowed his head, knowing the familiar words of the burial service were of no comfort to them. He wished he could help but he had no words of his own either. They would endure their pain, each in their own way. Only the youngest daughter was openly showing her grief, weeping, weeping, silently weeping, the tears coursing non-stop down her cheeks. The mother, the countess, looked like the Angel of Death herself, black clothes, black hair, black eyes in a white, expressionless face. What was she thinking? Why didn’t she respond when her daughter laid her hand upon her arm?
The truth was Liana did not feel Eleanora’s hand, did not hear the words of the service. She was conscious of only one thing, the small white coffin with the tiny cross of freshly picked snowdrops on the top. Inside lay James, dead, quite dead, his constant laughter silent now for ever.
She would get used to it. Of course she would. Death was no stranger; loved ones had been snatched away from her grasp before and she had survived. But this time, this time, she had been so sure, so certain that the light of life would shine for ever. But then, she remembered, she had been sure before: sure that Eleanora would live; sure that Raul would be with her for always. But death, treacherous death, always held the trump card. The shadowy figure invariably outwitted her just when she relaxed, thinking she was safe. Fleetingly, in the days since James’s death, she had thought of confronting the spectre of death herself, face to face. Better perhaps to join those she loved in everlasting darkness. But her courage failed her. Fear of the unknown prevented her from going on. At least she knew the darkness of this world, and perhaps that was how it was meant to be, a living death. To be bound by life to a world without light was the same as dying.
Nicholas took her arm as Bruno and Wally carried the small white coffin aloft through the carved Norman arch of the north porch and out into the churchyard. A mêlée of photographers clambered over gravestones in their eagerness to get pictures, brash, intrusive, impervious to the anguish around them; intent only on getting a picture worthy of the front page. Vultures picking over a carcass, thought Nicholas in revulsion. He squeezed Liana’s arm comfortingly but she did not notice the photographers or Nicholas. Her eyes were fastened all the time on the casket carrying the body of her son, their son, hers and Nicholas’s. In slow procession they followed the coffin to the south side of the churchyard. Winter sunlight glistened on the snow, stretching long fingers of light through the black branches of the ancient yew, planted by their Saxon forebears a thousand years before.
Eleanora shivered and hung on to Peter for support. She hated the photographers and wanted to scream at them to go away. Why couldn’t they leave them alone? But like the others she ignored them. The years of training as an English aristocrat had taught even impetuous Eleanora that in times of great emotion, the face one presented to the world was impassive. Even so, she could not be completely impassive, could not stop the bitter, scalding tears still cascading down her cheeks.
They came at last to the freshly dug grave, a black, gaping mouth against the stark whiteness of the snow. To Eleanora it seemed obscenely hungry. Unable to watch the coffin being swallowed up by the ugly black hole, she watched her mother. Every fibre of her being longed to reach out, to cling and touch, ask her mother for the comfort she needed so desperately. She wanted to say I love you, and I need you, too. She wanted to cry with her mother in anguish at the injustice that had taken James from them. But she dare not; nor, she knew, did her father. Liana was unapproachable. She stood there, completely still and beautiful, but terrible to behold, as if carved out of ice herself. Only her eyes moved, following the tiny coffin as it was lowered out of sight for ever into the darkness of the grave.
‘Why won’t she look at me?’ Eleanora whispered to Peter.
Margaret overheard her. Shrunken and aged twenty years overnight with grief, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, she fumbled for Eleanora’s hand. Finding it she held it tight, willing what little strength she still possessed to flow through her into her granddaughter’s soul. Comfort her, dear God, she prayed, comfort her until her mother can turn to her once more.
‘She will, my dear,’ she said. ‘She will. Give her time.’
‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’
Nicholas dropped the ritual handful of earth into the grave. Frozen hard, it fell with a heavy finality on to the coffin. The rest of the family followed suit as custom demanded, but not Liana. Nothing could persuade her to scatter hideous black earth on to her beloved son, even though she knew he would soon be hidden from human eyes by the mound of black earth at the side of the grave. The gravediggers were already waiting, standing back at a discreet distance, leaning against the flint wall of the churchyard.
It snowed hard again that night. Next morning there was no sign of the new grave. All was covered in a fresh white blanket. Liana walked alone to the churchyard. The family protested she ought to have someone with her.
‘Let her go,’ said Donald Ramsay. He and Dorothy had temporarily moved into Broadacres since the deaths of James and William. ‘Let her go. Grief is not pretty when it finally erupts. It can be ugly, gut-tearing, but that is just what she needs. Maybe if she is alone she will be able to let it loose . . . maybe.’ He was not hopeful, but it was worth a try.
When Liana reached the churchyard, she stood for half an hour just looking. It seemed significant there should be no sign of James now, no sign at all. But she knew he was there. He was sleeping peacefully now beneath the snow-white blanket and would sleep on for ever, gone from their world, requiring nothing more from anyone, not even from his mother. A single tear slid down her cheek. Not even from me, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. I can give you nothing now, so sleep, sleep, darling James.
Perhaps it was true, the saying that only the good die young. There was Raul, taken at the prime of his youthful manhood; he had been good to her; and Eleanora, too, so kind and gentle, endowed with a spiritual saintliness. Both too good to be allowed to live. And now James. James was an angel, too young to even think of sin let alone commit it; too perfect for this imperfect earth. The sun slid behind a rumbling snow cloud, causing sunbeams to reach down to the earth like the spokes of a wheel.
‘The souls of innocent babes ride the sunbeams. It is their own special route to heaven.’
Without warning her mother’s voice came to her across the years. How long was it since she had thought of her mother? She could not remember. What superstitious nonsense her mother had believed. But it was a comforting thought, a special route to heaven, only comforting, though, to those who could believe in such things. For the first time in more than twenty years, Liana found herself wishing she had faith. But she did not, and nothing could retrieve it.
For her there was only one road to any kind of salvation. She had to get on with the business of living and working; and that meant work, work, work. On the way back to
the house, her step was brisker and she looked straight ahead. She knew what she had to do. She had done it before. Drowning in grief herself, she was incapable of pity or compassion for others. Nicholas, Eleanora, Margaret, all of them, they would have to survive this agony as best they could, God help them. God help them! What a meaningless expression. How much good was their God to them now? But she, Liana, could do without God. There was plenty to occupy her mind. She would lose herself in work. It was the only way she knew to combat grief.
*
When the full inquest on the drownings was resumed by the coroner three weeks later, Winchester City Guild Hall was full. The whole Hamilton-Howard family attended, many of the estate workers and a large contingent of the press.
‘I hopes they’re not thinking they’ll be getting a juicy front-page story out of this,’ muttered Mary Pragnell to Wally, glowering at the press corps. In common with many others on the estate who had known William for years, she wondered whether in fact it had all been an accident.
But she need not have worried. The story that emerged was one of heart-rending tragedy.
The pathologist’s report was quite straightforward: death by drowning. William’s body had been bruised on the arms and neck, obviously where he had attempted to free himself from the thick ice. Lady Liana herself had suffered bruising and cuts for the same reason. But baby James, being so small, had suffered no bruising. Because of his age and size, unconsciousness caused by the freezing temperature of the water was almost immediate. He had no time to struggle.
The coroner asked as few questions as possible, mindful of the family’s great loss. The village policeman, PC Thomas, took the stand. He read slowly and laboriously from his notes.
‘By the time I arrived at the scene, sir, the family, who had heard the countess screaming as they returned from feeding their cattle, had got the bodies out of the lake and were taking them back to the house. Doctor Ramsay then arrived and informed me that The Honorable William Hamilton-Howard and Viscount James Hamilton-Howard were both dead, but that the Countess of Wessex, although still unconscious, was alive. I went to the scene of the drownings and took a piece of bloodstained ice. Forensic tests showed the blood to be of the same type as that of the Countess of Wessex, and as you know, sir, she was badly cut on the hands.’