The Chevalier

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Now it was out. Davey straightened up and looked at Matt, and saw the pain and fear and indecision in his eyes. An operation involving cutting involved great suffering for the victim, and a good chance of death. And Matt loved Clover - Matt who was so tender he did not even like to think of his sons being birched for their sins. But what could Matt do? He could not interfere between man and wife.

  ‘Have you spoken to Lord Ballincrea, sir?' Davey asked. ‘No. I don't know if I can. Davey, what should I do?' ‘Perhaps you might talk to Lady Ballincrea?' he suggested. Matt's anguish deepened.

  ‘But I don't know if she knows yet. If they haven't spoken to her, it will be a shock to her.'

  ‘I think perhaps you might speak to Lord Ballincrea -without the mistress's knowing. She would not like to think you were going against her.’

  Matt offered to speak, and stopped. It was difficult for him to accept that Davey knew how India ruled him, even though Davey made no criticism of him for it, not even by so much as raising an eyebrow. He hesitated a moment longer, and then nodded briefly to Davey and left.

  Davey never knew whether Matt had done anything or nothing in the matter; but whether or no, it made no difference to the outcome. Arthur was, by the end of Christmas, so set on the idea that he took Clover to London from Morland Place to see the surgeon, and commissioned him to perform the operation at once. It took place in the surgeon's own house on 20 January, and involved the use of a new instrument which, the surgeon said, 'would reduce what used to be an age of torture to but one minute'. Clover endured the cutting and probing with great courage, permitting no complaint, and only the occasional involuntary groan to escape her, and the surgeon pronounced that she had survived the operation very well and that he had every confidence of success. The following day she was very low, which was said to be from the shock of the execution; but the subsequent morning she woke with a fever, which gradually increased through the day. For two days she tossed in delirium, and in the early hours of 24 January she died.

  Arthur was devastated. No one had supposed he had any particular love for his wife, since their marriage had been arranged for financial reasons, but he had grown up with her as much as had Matt, and had been married to her for more than six years. He rode hell-for-leather from London to Morland Place, without even leaving any orders for the disposal of the poor corpse, burst in upon the family with his news, and cried out that it was all India's fault, that she had persuaded him to the thing, and that she had done it out of spite and for revenge against Clover. India turned pale and looked about to faint at the horrible accusation, and when Arthur had stopped ranting for a moment, Matt jumped up and pulled him from the room, and thrust him into Davey's arms.

  ‘Give him aquavit - give him laudanum - anything. He is beside himself. He is out of his wits. I must get back to my poor wife.’

  Davey took the sobbing, fainting Arthur upstairs, and ministered to him, and when he started raving again, Davey sent all the servants away out of earshot, for fear of what Arthur might say. Afterwards, he was very glad that he had done so, and when, several hours later, he finally got Arthur quiet and into a fitful sleep with the aid of a quantity of brandy, he looked very thoughtful.

  It was at this time, more than any other, that Matt was glad he had found Davey, for Davey proved his worth over and over. As well as the problem of India and Arthur, Matt had his own grief to deal with, and the guilt he felt at not having interfered over the operation - though in truth there had never been anything he could have done. It was Davey who managed Arthur, keeping him away from India and from the rest of the household until he had argued him into a calmer frame of mind; Davey who persuaded Arthur that he would be better off at home in Kendal, and arranged for Clement to escort him there; Davey who travelled to London to make the arrangements for Clover's funeral; Davey who wrote the letters informing the rest of the family of the tragedy.

  If, back at Morland Place, Davey was more quiet and thoughtful, less inclined to social intercourse than ever, it was not noticed in the prevailing gloom. Matt hung the house with black and had Father Cole say a Requiem Mass, and the tender sympathy of his wife, who never left him alone for a moment, was his only comfort. Davey watched from the background, resolved to bide his time until the period of wifely devotion was over, and the leopardess revealed her true colours again. Meanwhile he listened more closely to the servants' gossip, and by a discreet question or two managed to guide their meaningless chatter towards the things he wanted to know.

  *

  Matt was sitting up late after his supper at the Crown in Wetherby when Davey came in. Matt had arranged to stay the night in Wetherby, not because it was too far from home to travel back, but because he had several pieces of business to conduct on consecutive days at Wetherby, and India had said that there was no use in his tiring himself out riding back and forth, when there was a perfectly comfortable inn to stay in. It was one of the ways in which she displayed her thoughtfulness and concern for his welfare, and he loved her for it. There might, of course, have been many reasons for Davey to ride across and seek him out, but Matt's mind flew immediately to India, for she suspected herself pregnant, and he had been uneasy about leaving her alone, despite her gentle chiding that she ought to be well enough used to it by now.

  He jumped up so fast on seeing Davey that he struck his knee painfully against the edge of the trestle, but he did not even notice the pain.

  ‘Davey, what is it? Is something wrong?’

  Davey's face was grave. 'Master, I want you to come back to Morland Place with me at once.'

  ‘The mistress is ill!' Matt cried, pushing back the stool and fumbling for his purse. 'I knew I should not have left her.'

  ‘No, master, no one's ill,' Davey said.

  ‘The children -'

  ‘No one's ill.'

  ‘Then what . . . ?'

  ‘I want you to come back with me at once, and alone. Leave your man here, and ride with me.’

  ‘But what's happened?' Matt insisted in considerable anxiety. Davey leaned on the table and looked at him steadily.

  ‘There's something at Morland Place that I think you ought to see. You ought to know about. No one is ill, I promise you.'

  ‘Then why won't you tell me -'

  ‘Master, please trust me. I can't tell you, because you wouldn't believe it, but you must see for yourself. There is something going on - an injustice, call it - which you must deal with. But it is not a thing I could tell you about. Matt, please trust me.’

  The use of his name, the steady voice, the urgent appeal in the eyes, worked on Matt. He thought of injustices, and supposed that a servant was perhaps bullying another, or stealing - but he could not think why Davey could not tell him about something like that. But Davey was his friend. He picked up his hat and said, 'Very well. I'll come.’

  Davey took him across the fields, and fast, and it was less than two hours' ride that way. But when they got near Morland Place, he made Matt dismount and tie the horses in a copse, and they proceeded on foot, circling the house and coming to the back door. There Davey cautioned him.

  ‘Step softly, master. No sound. We must not alert them, or they'll be gone before we can catch them.’

  Matt pulled back. 'I don't like it. It's trickery. Why can't we face them in the morning with a proper accusation? I don't like this underhand business.’

  Davey faced him squarely. 'Master, they have been underhand. They have tricked you. The only way to force them to admit it is to find them out in the act. Please. It is necessary.’

  And reluctantly Matt allowed him to go on. In silence the men entered the back door: Davey must have oiled the lock and the hinges, for the key turned and the door swung open without a sound. It was dark inside the passage, and when he had relocked the door, Davey groped about and found Matt's hand to lead him. It was damp with apprehension; Davey's was dry and firm. In a moment they had passed through the inner door and into the central courtyard, called Eleanor's Garden. H
ere, by contrast to the absolute blackness of the passage, there was a glimmer of light from the stars overhead. The house was in darkness, no lights shewing anywhere. Everyone must be asleep, Matt thought. What perfidy was it that needed the cloak of night to cover it? Along the east side of the garden; past the drying rooms and store-rooms. The last section of the east wing, next to the chapel, was the vestry, which had no entrance from the garden. At the penultimate store-room, Davey stopped, placed his finger to his lips, and crept close to the door. Matt did likewise, and pressing his ear to the door heard at first nothing, then a rustle and a murmur which might have been a voice, or voices, or might have been his imagination. He felt Davey tense himself, and felt the sweat start up along his backbone. Then Davey moved.

  The door was flung open; there was a startled gasp, but in the darkness of the store-room, Matt could see nothing. It was used for storing odds and ends of dry goods, and Matt could smell oiled wool and candles and soap and wood, evoking childhood and games of hide-and-seek. The person within could see him, however, framed in the doorway, and as Davey began to strike a light, Matt heard a woman's voice, a muffled shriek, 'No! No!' A rustle of more determined movement. Davey's voice, dark with threat, 'Oh no you don't!' and then the spark caught, the small glow blossomed round Davey's hands, and leapt into flower at the candle's wick. He had brought all these things with him, Matt thought with dull shock. He had planned every detail. Shock, because he already knew what he was going to see. Like the victim, he could have cried no, no, had he not been so numb.

  The leaping candlelight flung the store-room into existence before him. India shrieked 'Oh! Oh!' more in rage than fear. She was sitting up on a heap of blankets, naked, except for the shift she had snatched against her at some time before the light was introduced. Beside her Father Cole disdained to cover his nakedness. He looked down at his hands, resting on his bare legs, like someone awaiting execution. Matt felt the dull, inevitable pain, like the knife in the vitals which carries the foreknowledge of death without the sensation. India's face looked strangely smeared, as if it were made of some soft substance which could be smudged just as her hair could be ruffled; but even in this moment, Matt could admire her spirit, for she did not weep and wail, or crawl for mercy. Her spirit acknowledged no guilt, only sheer fury at being so surprised. Her first action had been to cover herself, but her second exposed her again, for she dropped the shift to grab for the nearest solid objects that would do for missiles, and still shrieking she began flinging them at Davey.

  He ducked this way and that, the candle dipping wildly with the movement, and the missiles thudded solidly against the door and, now and then, against him. She did not look at Matt - he wondered whether she had even registered his presence.

  A feeling of nausea was growing in him, and he pulled back from the door, and said to Davey, 'Come away. For God's sake come away.’

  Davey obeyed him instantly, following him out and shutting the door, against which a last projectile thumped in departure. The candle flame ducked and went out, and the darkness pressed suddenly close, and Matt felt its safety with gratitude. The nausea was rising in him. He made a choking sound, and then reeled about and vomited into one of the flower-beds. Davey came after him; he felt the strong, warm hands on his upper arms. He tried to push him away, but ineffectually. When the retching was over, he straightened up, and became aware of the quietness.

  Abruptly he thrust himself away from Davey and went towards the garden door. Outside there was the close, sweet-smelling darkness of the land, acres of it, enough dark to hide him, to hide his grief and humiliation and shame. He knew it all, all in one brief flash like lightning, that illuminated a whole country in vivid, unforgettable detail. It was not just now, not just Father Cole in the store-room this one night. As he stumbled away, running faster to tryto get away from Davey, away from Morland Place, away from himself, the memories came crowding in like people come to gloat over a felon's corpse.

  How long? Always? Since the very beginning? The other priest, the one she had accused of making improper advances to her. He remembered her words, her report of the alleged interview. She had probably told him the exact truth, except that she had put her own words in the priest's mouth, and his into hers. She had petitioned, he had rejected, and in anger she had come to Matt, and Matt had avenged her, dismissed the man who rejected her.

  Did the servants all know? Had they been watching, laughing at him? All the times she had gone away, into the city, to Harrogate - dear God, to Northumberland! He had always been surprised at her sudden affection for Sabine. It wasn't Sabine that attracted her to Emblehope. Little fragments assembled themselves of their own volition in his mind, making a picture that would not be ejected. Jack Fran-comb. A look, and smile over the shoulder, a gesture of the hand. Riding at the hunt. Dancing with him that Christmas - was that the beginning? He had watched her dance with him, and thought her kind.

  Had Sabine guessed? And before Francomb, who? Between Francomb and the priest, who? In retrospect he heard the falseness of her voice, the hypocrisy of her declarations of love and care for him. In retrospect her touches were loathsome; the memory of their love-making brought the hot bile to his throat. Now he saw so clearly why she had regulated their marital life. The long abstinences between lovers, the 'uncontrollable' passion that led her to break their fast-when she had a new lover.

  And that brought him to another thought, a thought so monstrous and painful that he cried aloud, and put his hands up as if he could fend it off. Davey caught up with him, tried to restrain him. Matt turned. hit out at him.

  cried, 'Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Haven't you done enough?'

  ‘Master - Matt -’

  Matt bared his teeth like a cornered, wounded fox. ‘Leave me be!’

  Davey reached out his hands again, and Matt struck him with a closed fist on the side of the head, hard enough to knock Davey down, though he was bigger and heavier than his master, and stun him. Matt ran away into the concealing darkness before Davey could get up again, ran blindly, as if in panic, heading for the trees of the copse where they had left the horses, and once in the trees flung himself headfirst into the thickets, an arm up to defend his eyes, until the tangle of undergrowth slowed and finally halted him, and he went to ground, exhausted and panting, in a tangle of brush and weed and fern.

  The thought he had run from found him again, silently and brutally, as he hunched, panting, amongst the night-fragrant plants.

  The children. The children.

  How long? Since the very beginning? Since before Jemmy? Jemmy and Rob and Edmund, George, little Thomas, and baby Charles. Were they none of them, none of them, his own? A murderous rage rose up in him, and he saw himself going home, dragging them out from their beds and drowning them pitilessly like unwanted whelps, like the litter of the prize bitch who had gone running off with a mangey, louse-ridden stray. Jemmy, and Rob, and all the others. His children. His sons. The tears came at last, and he lay down on his face, and covered his head with his arms and wept like a child.

  *

  When he knew he had lost Matt, Davey turned at once back towards the house. Miraculously, it was still quiet. What would she do, he wondered? She would not raise the house. Secrecy and darkness were a habit with her now. She would be planning, planning, sitting at the centre of her web like a spider. In the bedchamber, thinking out what she would say to Matt. She would not be despairing, not yet. Her reaction had been anger; fear would follow, and apprehension, but she would not believe it was all over with her. She would still believe she could win him back. And why should she not? In nine years of marriage she had manipulated him like a puppet. She would weep, and blame herself; how could she so hurt her beloved husband, who had always been so good to her, whom she loved so much? It was but one, foolish, unimportant lapse. It would never happen again. She was so sorry.

  And Matt, gripped by the habit of loving and trusting her, would forgive her and take her back. Davey's face was grim as he
let himself back into the house, and trotted silently up the stairs to the great bedchamber. She was there, already in bed, in her nightgown, sitting up waiting for Matt. Her hair was brushed out smooth, her face composed into an expression of humility and regret over a shining, childlike innocence.

  ‘Very touching,' Davey said. Her expression lasted for a fraction of a second before it changed to murderous fury.

  ‘Pi have you whipped!' she hissed. 'I'll have you skinned and burnt alive. I'll poison you!’

  Davey wrenched his face into a parody of hers. 'Oh husband, forgive me!' he whined. 'It was a moment of madness! It is you I love!'

  ‘Get out!' India cried. 'Get out of here!'

  ‘Not yet, mistress, not yet. There is a little business we must transact first.' He took a step towards her and fear doused anger like a light.

  ‘I have no business with you,' she said, clutching the bedclothes for protection. 'You had better get out before my husband comes in, or it will be the worse for you.'

  ‘No, mistress. That's all over. You won't impose on him again. Because I know about all the others, too, and I am going to make sure he does.'

  ‘You! He won't believe you!' she said scornfully, but her eyes were watchful.

  ‘Oh yes he will. After tonight, he'll believe me. And besides, I have witnesses. You weren't as discreet as you thought. Arthur told me about you and him, and about Jack Francomb. And Clement knows. Lots of the servants know, but they could not tell the master before - he would have thought them mad. But now he has seen for himself -'

  ‘Arthur wouldn't -' she began, but fear began to dawn in her eyes.

  ‘Arthur would - Arthur did. After you killed his wife -’

  Now she began to cry. 'That was not my fault. It was nothing to do with me! It was his decision. I didn't want her to die. Why should I?’