The
Crimson
Bed
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Long Shadow
The
Crimson
Bed
LORETTA PROCTOR
Copyright © 2010 Loretta Proctor
Loretta Proctor is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
5 Weir Road
Kibworth Beauchamp
Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK
Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical figures and minor factual details concerning their life histories, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1848762-886
A Cataloguing-in-Publication (CIP) catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
The Crystal Ball 1902 by John William Waterhouse 1849-1917
© Christies Images Ltd.-Artothek
Typeset in 11pt Book Antiqua by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK
Printed in the UK by MPG Biddles, Kings Lynn, Norfolk
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
To my daughter Thalia
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible Worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has sought out thy bed
Of Crimson Joy
And his dark, secret Love,
Doth thy Life destroy.
William Blake
‘The Sick Rose’ Songs of Experience
Belgrave Square, London 1839
Ellie pretended to be fast asleep. Sally, the nursemaid, shivering in her nightshift, waited a few minutes. She stared at her charge with suspicion but the child’s eyes were shut, breath as light as thistledown stirring her small slender frame. Satisfied, Sally stretched her arms, and sighed.
Ellie could see perfectly well what was going on. She watched through lash-fringed slits as Sally struggled to put on her clothes in the chilly light of dawn, blowing on cold fingers to make them move around buttons and hooks. The young girl’s breath hung in the air like a ghostly vapour and Ellie knew that when the curtains were drawn back she would see that Jack Frost had drawn his icy fingers over the windowpanes, leaving swirls and leafy patterns on them. Next, Sally would go and collect the big white jug the kitchen maid had left outside the nursery room door, water already cool after being brought up four flights of stairs. This was going to be for Ellie’s wash. Dragged from a warm bed to be laved with tepid water: horrible, horrible! She shivered at the thought.
She had better ideas in mind. Rising while the water was lapping into the basin, the sound covering the soft rustle of the sheets, she slipped out of bed, through the half-open door and down the narrow stairs that led from the nursery. On the upstairs landing she paused as always to listen to the servants busy in the breakfast room below. The murmur of their voices was comforting and the aroma of cooking delicious. There was an odour of fishy kedgeree and the peculiar smell of a dish Sally had told her were ‘devil’s kidneys.’
‘What are “kidnees”, Sally?’
‘They’re things wot you get from inside animals, Miss Ellie.’
‘So why does the Devil want them? What does he do with them and why does Papa eat them for breakfast?’
‘Not Devil– devilled, miss. They call ‘em that because they’re hot as hell.’
Ellie thought this dish sounded intriguing but knew that she could not partake of it, as it was unsuitable for a child. She would have salted porridge for breakfast in the nursery later on. She pouted, sulky at the idea of not being old enough to join Mama and Papa at their feast.
She did not linger long on the landing. Hearing an indignant Sally call her from above she ran for refuge to Mama’s room, the beautiful crimson room with the crimson bed. Her mother, whose name was Maria, was seated in this wonderful bed, a lacy white shawl thrown about her shoulders, the little nightcap atop her head tied beneath her chin. From beneath the cap dark hair spilled out over the pillows. On her lap was a small silver tray with a white doily and a long glass cup full of chocolate which she stirred with a silver spoon and then sipped slowly and pleasurably. There was always a single blossom laid on the tray, no matter what time of year.
Ellie ran up, clambered onto the huge four-poster, and snuggled under the sheets, leaning back on the soft feather pillows with a deep sigh of content, snuffing the distinctive scent of her mother.
‘Take care. You’ll spill my chocolate, you naughty wee thing! What are you doing, running down here again?’
‘Can I have some chocolate, Mama?’
Her mother, always indulgent, let her have a sip and it was the most delicious thing Ellie had ever tasted.
‘I want more!’
‘Oh, you always want more, little greedy-puss. There, another spoonful then – but that’s all now.’
Sally tapped on the door and put a head round, looking frightened at having lost her charge yet again. Mama laughed and said, ‘It’s all right, Sally, she can stay a few more moments before
you take her back to the nursery.’
‘She’s that clever, mum, she always gets away when my back’s turned,’ the young girl said and dipping a respectful curtsey, disappeared to wait in the corridor for her troublesome young charge.
Ellie was in no mind to leave too soon. First of all there was the vision of her beautiful mother in her lacy shawl; the sight of that glorious, shining hair never seen during the day when it was dressed upon her head with pins and combs. Then there was the room itself, its walls painted a soft crimson with black and gold edgings around the doors and windows and picture rails as if encasing everything in a frame. At the square-paned window hung heavy red velvet curtains that blocked out most of the light even in the daytime. Dark religious pictures with carved gold frames gave an air of antique gloom. A grand mirror hung over the table where Mama sat to have her hair dressed by Mulhall and there she would select her jewellery. Ellie was sometimes allowed to sit and watch this wonderful operation taking place, allowed to see the contents of the jewel box. Mama would point out the special garnet necklace and earrings Papa had given her when they were in Venice on their wedding tour.
In the centre of this dark room was the crimson bed.
It was a tall, wide four-poster which some said went all the way back to the days of Queen Elizabeth and had been made for one of the ancestral grandmothers as a wedding gift. Ever since then it had been passed down in the Templeton family to the first bride as her marriage bed. Made from solid oak, it had darkened with age so as to be almost black. It was carved all over with scrolls, animals and acanthus leaves. As Ellie sat in the bed and stared at the carvings it seemed to be alive and rustling with leaves, birds and creatures as if she wandered in some dark, dense forest.
At the headboard was a carving depicting a wedding. The bride in her voluminous clothes and little hat with a feather looked most demure: eyes downcast, face turned slightly away. The gallant groom, who bowed and held her hand in his, had elaborate
frills round his neck, wore puffed out trousers and hose that showed a sturdy leg; he was a dashing fellow. She liked the groom but thought the bride looked prim and foolish. Round the other three sides of the bed were hangings of rich red velvet and the counterpane was made of crimson-dyed wool on which were embroidered small cream flowers and dark green leaves.
Her mother often told her, ‘Our great-great ancestor, Eleanor Mary, made and embroidered this.’
Ellie knew she had been named after this long-ago grandmother whose portrait was not only on the bed-head for all time but also looked down on her from the hallway as she went downstairs; a dark stern-looking lady with black, puritanical clothes and a stiff white ruff about her neck. That old lady, with eyes that followed one about accusingly, was frightening and yet she had made this wonderful rich bedspread and slept in the crimson bed when she was a young bride.
Ellie never wondered why Papa was seldom to be seen in this room. He had his own room and his own big bed. This was a room sacred to the Feminine. Men had no place in it at all. She had sensed too a part of her mother that was private, alone and, for some reason, immensely sad.
Chapter 1
Oreton Hall, Hertfordshire: October 1850
‘Alfie! Wait for me… wait for me!’
Alfie laughed at her and ran along the path that led round the riverside towards the woods. Eleanor Farnham stopped and got back her breath – then, picking up her skirts, ran after him again. Oh, skirts– they were so annoying! Once she could have beaten him with ease, being smaller and lighter, but now she had turned sixteen, she had to wear volumes of bodices, drawers, corsets, petticoats and skirts that weighed her down and made her breathless. The arms of her bodice were so tight that they would rip if she wasn’t careful. Fiddlesticks to growing up. Why were girls suddenly supposed to stop having fun and slow down and become ladylike and boring?
Her parents had always allowed her to run about on the Oreton estate with Alfred Eustace Percy Dillinger – to give him his full, exquisite naming – and his siblings since they were small children. Those were the happy days of freedom. Bundled up with clothes as she had been even as a small child, at least she had not had to wear corsets. In those days, she used to shed clothes as she went along in order to free herself from restrictions and run as fast as Alfie and his younger brothers, but she certainly couldn’t do that now. Getting in and out of clothes was a tedious and lengthy concern.
She dropped her skirts and with a sigh began to walk along with more decorum. Alfie had reached the woods and she could hear his feet crunching over the fallen leaves, snapping on twigs and branches. He was still so carefree in every way; so happy and unrestrained. Yet she knew that things were changing for him too. He was studying at Oxford, but would be leaving in another two years and she knew that he was determined to find the kind of career that would suit his energetic nature. As the eldest son of Lord Percival Dillinger, he would eventually inherit these estates but it seemed unlikely he would ever settle to the quiet life of a country gentleman, any more than his father had done.
She came upon him, as she knew she would, in their favourite place in the woods. This was under an ancient oak tree some way into the depths. There at its mossy base he waited for her to catch up. He had thrown aside his jacket and waistcoat and sat now in his shirtsleeves, staring around at the trees, riffling the crackling leaves through his fingers.
‘Poor Ellie,’ he said, laughter in his dark eyes, ‘you’re puffing and panting like an old carthorse!’
‘So would you if you had to wear all these foolish clothes!’
Taking her hand, he helped her to subside on the ground beside him, skirts spreading out around her like a fan. She wore a pretty dress and knew that she looked elegant and charming in this pose. Ellie surveyed the hated skirts with sudden satisfaction and pulled a ribbon into place.
‘Women!’ said Alfie, looking at her. ‘Silly creatures you are, with all your frills and furbelows.’
‘Men!’ she retorted. ‘Silly creatures you are with your swords and guns.’
They both laughed with the ease of familiarity. Neither of them could recall a time when they were not aware of each other’s existence. Ellie’s first memory of Alfie was beside her on a rug on the lawn when they were both babies, he kicking and moving and restless. He turned and rolled over so much at the time that he had landed on top of her, setting her off wailing and screaming. She liked to remind him of this now and then, scolding him.
‘You can never be still, can you? No matter what happens – no matter what gets in your way!’
‘I don’t believe that ever happened. How could you remember such a thing? You’re imagining it, Ellie.’
‘It did happen. I remember it distinctly. I have a very good memory.’
Just now there was an air of quiet about him that pleased her. Such moments of peace together, times when they managed to elude parental supervision, were rare these days and she delighted in them when they happened. She watched his face, saw the chasing of thoughts across it and the movement of his eyes as he glanced here and there. It was like watching a cloud-filled, storm-tossed sky. Even when his body was still for a brief moment, his mind was moving and ideas tumbling over each other in his head.
‘I love these woods,’ he said, leaning back against the hard, ridged trunk.
Ellie sighed and touched the tree with her fingers, running them over the knobbly, scarred wood as if trying to communicate with the tree in some way. ‘I love them too. We’ve played so many games in here, haven’t we? Isn’t it sad that we are supposed to be grown up now and can’t play any more?’
He looked at her. ‘Why shouldn’t we play one last game of hide and seek? We’ll call it our Last Game, shall we? A celebratory last game – then we can officially declare ourselves Grown Up.’
‘What a mad idea! How on earth can I hide anywhere when these skirts are going to poke out on all sides of me and you’ll see me a mile away?’
‘I’ll pretend I haven’t seen you. I’ll let you win as usual.’
‘Oh, yes? That’s a new notion. You want to win. You’re a very bad loser, Alfie Dillinger. I’m the one who’s always let you win.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘No, it isn’t!’
‘Oh, come on, Ellie… one last game?’
‘All right. You’re being silly, though.’
‘It’s the practice at Oxford. You have to be silly there.’
‘So I gather. And to think the country’s leaders are meant to arise from those hallowed halls.’
He helped her to rise again and she dusted herself down a little.
‘I’ll have to take care though,’ she pleaded, ‘this is a new dress. I mustn’t tear it.’
‘Oh, Ellie, your father likes to spoil you, you know that. He’ll love the excuse to let you have another. Take it off if you’re so bothered.’
‘Heavens, Alfie, I can’t do that!’
‘I’ll help you. Come on… have a last moment of freedom.’
She stared at him and suddenly they looked deep into each other’s eyes. A sense of something important was in the air. They felt it between them. Childhood was slipping, had slipped away; they were now man and woman. It frightened them both a little. Ellie turned and he began to unhook her dress and eventually between them they undid the bodice and laid it aside and then did the same with the skirts and some of the petticoats and put them carefully on top of a bush, spread out to avoid being crumpled. She was now down to the camisole, which covered her corset and chemise and her last fine, cotton under-petticoat, her stockings and little buttoned-up boots.
‘The things you women have to wear,’ said Alfie in some disbelief, ‘how can you bear it?’
‘If only we didn’t have to. But I wouldn’t dare say that to anyone else but you. My cousin Anne thinks I am shocking even to think of such a thing. She considers it wonderful to cover up from head to foot and be properly ladylike. Oh, Alfie, this feels splendid. So free… yes, let’s
have our last game…our last game!’
She suddenly turned and ran off down a path, calling over her shoulder, ‘I’ll hide… you find me if you can.’
Ellie ran amongst the trees and laughed to herself with the sheer joy of youth and foolishness. She wondered where to hide and tried to remember favourite places used before. It was such a long time since they’d played this game here in the woods. She was a lot smaller then and could hide in places that no longer concealed her. Where to go? Hearing Alfie in hot pursuit, she doubled back and ran to where they had begun by the oak tree, hiding herself behind its enormous trunk. Always a quieter creature of the woods than Alfie, who still crashed around unceremoniously, she giggled to herself to hear him in the distance, sending the birds flying upwards in alarm, rabbits scuttling off before him down the paths. He was hopeless at the pheasant shoot because he shouted and whooped so much he alarmed all the birds and his father had been angry and forbidden him to join in until he learned to behave.
‘I do it on purpose,’ he admitted, ‘it gives the poor birds a chance, you know.’ She, however, knew him too well. He simply liked to create a stir and disrupt everything; he had a talent for it. She smiled to herself indulgently. Despite his faults, Alfie was full of charm and good humour and everyone always forgave him his high spirits.
The crashing about had ceased. Alfie had become quiet and she listened hard. No sound. Ellie waited, heart pounding.
She screamed as he came up behind her all of a sudden and seized her in his arms.
‘Got you! Got you, young lady!’
She felt his arms slacken around her and her heart beat wildly. His hands moved over the hard bones of the corset under her camisole as if they were a barrier through which he strived to feel her soft flesh. It was a pleasant sensation, making her quiver inside with excitement. Now she felt fear and confusion. She understood what it all must mean, yet at the same time understood nothing and was afraid. They turned round to face one another. They were transfixed with one another’s eyes for a long, long time. Alfie, closing his own eyes as if he dared not look, bent towards her and gave a swift kiss, then again, firm and lingering. Holding her tight with one arm, lips still on hers, he began clumsily to unbutton his trousers. They sank down together upon the soft pile of autumn leaves.
Loretta Proctor Page 1