by Deryn Lake
‘Lady Gunn?’
‘She has married Sir Roly Gunn — a bachelor of strange reputation — whose horse threw him outside our very front door.’
Jackdaw stared astounded and John Joseph took up the story.
‘It was quite the most incredible thing. This beastly old man — all of fifty and with a fierce reputation for seductions ... begging your pardon, Mother. I do realize the girls are present ... limped in here all battered and bruised. And within twenty-four hours he had proposed to Huss. It was just as if he were bewitched. The old lecher ... sorry, Mother ... was positively seething with passion. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Spellbound. Quite,’ said Mr Webbe Weston. ‘Extraordinary. Rum really.’
‘Good Heavens. I can’t imagine Miss Huss as Lady Gunn.’
‘From fish to armament in one magic stride,’ said John Joseph — and they all laughed.
But later as they trotted towards Sutton Place to call on Mrs Trevelyan, John Joseph said, ‘Do you know it really was a strange affair — the governess and Roly Gunn. If she hadn’t been who she was I would swear that she’d used a love potion on him. He was such a stinking old ram. The last person to fall for a bag of bones like Huss. Mind you, she had a funny look in her eye, didn’t you think so?’
‘No,’ said Jackdaw. ‘I didn’t. But then I was very young at the time and not nearly as worldly as you.’
‘It was a feverish expression. Ah well, perhaps she and Roly are having a fine time between the sheets.’
They rode on pleasantly together in the dapple of early evening, watching a heron swoop down over the River Wey to seize a lively fish and a lark ascending to the limits of the sky.
As always when he glimpsed Sutton Place Jackdaw found himself breathing a little faster. John Joseph, seeing this, said, ‘It moves you, doesn’t it, that great heap?’
‘I find the house very profound, yes.’
‘Will you buy it off me when you’ve amassed a fortune as a spy and risen to the rank of Field Marshal?’
The ‘no’ was out of Jackdaw’s mouth a little too fast.
‘I thought not — for all your admiration of it you wouldn’t want to own the wretched place.’
It was undeniably true so Jackdaw said nothing. Once again a feeling was nagging at his spine, a feeling that trouble lurked somewhere — and not too far away at that. He wondered if perhaps the arrival of Mrs Trevelyan into the dull lives of the Webbe Westons was potentially dangerous and hoped that perhaps his sixth sense would give him the answer. But as he followed John Joseph and a pompous butler into a small salon that — so he believed — had once belonged to Elizabeth Weston, the mother of Melior Mary, his old clairvoyance still eluded him.
‘If you would take a seat, gentlemen. Mrs Trevelyan will join you in a moment.’
John Joseph stared round in amazement. Something of the old style had returned to the mansion house — or to this room at least. At the mullioned windows, which looked out over both the courtyard and the Park — exactly the same view as that from the Long Gallery but in the other wing — the new tenant had hung powder-blue velvet curtains. For light fittings she had chosen shell pink and a white jardiniere, beside a cherry-wood desk, was tightly packed with ferns and indoor flowers. What had been rotting but a short month before was now revived. Mrs Trevelyan had transformed her sitting room into a deliciously feminine retreat.
The heir was just about to remark on the change in the manor house when a rustle in the doorway told him that they were no longer alone. He stood up and bowed his head slightly and then, on looking up, found himself gazing into the eyes of the new tenant of Sutton Place. She smiled briefly and then decorously cast her glance to the floor. Beneath the harsh material of his riding jacket John Joseph felt his heart-beat getting faster.
Marguerite Trevelyan, as befitted her widowed status, was wearing purple — only this or black being considered good taste. But what a colour it was! She stood, the evening light falling softly upon her, as beautiful as a Parma violet, her thick honeyed hair decorated with flowers of the same name. In her long tapering fingers she carried a tiny fan of lace, and satin shoes of a matching shade encased her narrow feet.
‘Gentlemen, do sit down,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘I am Marguerite Trevelyan. Mr Weston?’
She advanced towards Jackdaw with her hand outstretched. They were the same height to the last fraction of an inch and their eyes met fully. Instantly he did not trust her. There was something in that pale blue look that gave him a lurch of unease.
He made, for him, a very formal bow.
‘No, Ma’am. John Wardlaw, at your service. I took the liberty of calling with Mr Webbe Weston. I stayed at Sutton Place during my boyhood and have fond memories of the place.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw John Joseph look slightly startled at the stiffness of Jackdaw’s speech. But, more tellingly, for a split second he saw relief pass over Mrs Trevelyan’s face that he was not her landlord. She had taken as instantaneous a dislike to him as he had to her.
She turned round then and laid her hand — very, very briefly — in that of John Joseph. Jackdaw noticed that, quite involuntarily, his friend’s fingers fractionally tightened before Mrs Trevelyan withdrew hers, fluttering as delicately as any bird.
‘Please,’ she said again, ‘do sit down. I am so delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Webbe Weston. I was going to make a point of calling upon your Mama in the morning and inviting you all to dine with me.’
He recaptured her hand and brushed his lips against it.
He was trembling very slightly as he said, ‘It will be our pleasure to do so, Mrs Trevelyan. Please be assured that we will be your servants in all things.’
6
‘Well, I’ve never seen such a to-do,’ said Caroline Webbe Weston, pushing a straying curl from her eyes as she wrestled with Mary’s gown. ‘From the way you’re all going on anyone would think you were to dine with the King. I only thank Heaven that Mama turned the invitation down. We would never have got her dressed, never!’
She was kneeling on the floor, struggling to make her sister look presentable in an evening frock that had once belonged to their aunt, and which had been renovated in a panic during the twelve hours since Mrs Trevelyan had called with her invitation to dinner.
‘Thank goodness Matilda and I were considered too young to be included. God alone knows what we would have worn — old curtains I should think.’
‘It is awful,’ Mary agreed, swaying round to see her reflection in a long mirror. ‘Aunt Bridget is practically flat-chested and here am I squeezed in like a sausage. Oh Caroline, I know I look a sight and Mrs Trevelyan is so terribly beautiful.’
‘I think she is insipid.’ Caroline’s voice was muffled as she now had her head beneath Mary’s hem, doing some last-minute stitching. ‘Not all men like thin women. Jackdaw, for example, admires your breasts.’
Mary went the colour of a poppy. ‘Caroline, what an awful thing to say. How could you!’ There was a slight pause and then she added, ‘What ever makes you think that?’
‘I’ve noticed him looking.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Mary, you’re quite red. I believe you’re in love with him. I wondered why you were making such a fuss at not being able to have a new dress.’
‘Only because I didn’t want to look shabby in comparison with Mrs Trevelyan.’
‘Hum. Well, whatever the reason, you needn’t worry about her. She’s in mourning.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary — unconvinced.
But mourning or no mourning, as the three guests — John Joseph, Jackdaw and Mary — sat expectantly in Mrs Trevelyan’s saloon, there was not one of them who did not stare in amazement at the vision that rustled in a minute or two late, a favourite trick of hers.
She had, for this night, pushed purple — a widow’s only second choice of colour — to the very limit of its shading. Her taffeta gown, scooped so low at the front
that her shoulders were bare, was a delicate shade of lilac, and strewn all over the skirt, as if she had been standing in a shower of petals, were a hundred little violets. The same flowers bedecked an ivory comb that secured her Grecian hairstyle and her honey-coloured curls were tied with satin ribbons the colour of lupins. She was entrancing, reducing Mary, in her aunt’s cast-off salmon pink, to the status of a frump.
‘My dears,’ she said, ‘how wonderful that you could come. But I am so sorry that your Mama and Papa were unable to be with you.’
John Joseph, who had risen politely, said, ‘They go out very rarely. Mother has suffered with her nerves somewhat of late. They send their deepest apologies.’
Mrs Trevelyan gave a brilliant smile and addressed herself to poor Mary who sat, her hands in her lap, staring at her hostess.
‘Then we shall just have to entertain these two handsome gentlemen on our own, won’t we my dear? Come, let us have some refreshment before we dine.’
The pompous butler was through the door as if he had been waiting for the summons and they all found themselves with an excellent sherry in a crystal glass, served somewhat colder than any of them were used.
‘My late husband always liked his sherry chilled,’ Mrs Trevelyan said by way of explanation. ‘I believe he got the idea whilst living abroad. I miss him sorely, of course. But then he was very much older than I.’
She gave a courageous smile and John Joseph longed for nothing more, at that moment, than to take her hand and comfort her. Yet, at the same time, he was glad to hear that the late Augustus Trevelyan had been of declining years. The thought of all that fragile loveliness subjected to the rough ardour of a young man made him hot with emotion. Yet, contradictorily, neither could he bear the thought of old decaying hands fondling Mrs Trevelyan.
Staring at her, at the tiny waist enclosed in its sheath-like bodice, seeing the top of the little pear-shaped breasts peeping over a froth of violet embroidered lace, he felt his heart quicken again. He had never been so aroused. The totally outrageous thought of sinking his shaft within her came to him unbidden, disturbing him so much that he blushed red as his sister.
He realized that his hostess had been saying something to him and, gulping like an idiot, answered, ‘I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.’
‘My goodness.’ Her silvery little laugh tinkled. ‘What a brown study! I was just saying to Mary that I thought gentlemen might find this room too feminine in its decoration.’
‘It is charming in my opinion.’
He knew he was being flattering, trying to earn himself good points, and he felt Jackdaw’s eyes fix on him. He caught the look and was angry to see that it was one of amusement. He felt highly irritated with his kinsman and half turned his back on him.
Mary cleared her throat. ‘I do hope my mother will feel well enough to visit you soon, Mrs Trevelyan. You really have improved poor Sutton Place enormously.’
‘She shall come to tea as soon as she is up to it. And later on I will show you round — if I may — so that you may see one or two small alterations that I have made.’
In the doorway the butler announced, ‘Dinner is served,’ and John Joseph was bowing before Marguerite and offering her his arm.
‘I do want you to still consider Sutton Place your home,’ she said as they descended the West Staircase, Jackdaw and Mary just behind them. ‘You may call whenever you wish.’
She smiled up into John Joseph’s eyes and all he could think was that emotion had gone mad; for he wanted to cherish her, ravish her, enslave her and put her on a pedestal, all in one.
The wood-carved dining room in the West Wing to which they now proceeded had, in the days of Sir Richard Weston, been nothing but a buttery. But over a hundred years before — in 1724 — John Weston, the last male of the direct line and father of Melior Mary, had had it restored and panelled in oak.
Tonight it lay — candlelit and beautiful — beneath the auspices of Mrs Marguerite Trevelyan: the massively long wood table polished by a hardworking pair of hands — John Joseph suspected Cloverella’s — until it shone like iced mahogany. And this theme of things wintry and glistening was continued all around the room. The candles gleamed in fluted glass holders; the napery shone like newly-fallen snow; the cutlery sparkled clear as a winter moon.
And, like springtime in frost, there were flowers. Crowding the dinner table, jostling in shallow jardinieres, transforming John Weston’s eating place into a veritable hot-house, was a profusion of all the blooms the garden could provide. And some brought from outside Sutton Place, Mary thought; for Mrs Trevelyan’s favourite gardenias — one of which was pinned above the delicacy of her bosom — pervaded the atmosphere with their insistent and sensuous aroma.
‘Oh Mrs Trevelyan — it looks lovely! The house is much nicer than when we lived here.’
‘Thank you, Mary. I do hope you will come often with John Joseph — and your dear parents of course — to visit me.’
‘I should love to.’
‘Splendid, my dear. I am rather solitary these days. I pray you won’t find me and my humble board dull.’
As the ‘humble board’ consisted of consommé, filets de sole en coupe à la Venitienne, a dozen partridges à la Roi Soleil, a carved ice swan bearing a fruit salad on its back, cheeses, cakes of every imaginable shape and delicacy and little sweets shaped like flowers, it was difficult to make any sensible reply. Mary contented herself with lowering her eyes to her plate and eating everything put before her, only stopping to steal a glance at Jackdaw from time to time, as if for reassurance.
He, however, remained unusually quiet, contenting himself with listening to John Joseph and Mrs Trevelyan discussing the rival delights of various plays and operas they had visited in London.
At one point Mary sighed and said, ‘I do wish that I had seen those things. It is so difficult to keep up with the events when one lives in the country.’
And it was then that Jackdaw said, ‘I would be honoured if I might escort you to the theatre. I have another week before I have to report to barracks.’
As Mary blushed and muttered that she would have to consult her mother, Mrs Trevelyan said, ‘Barracks? Are you going for a soldier, Mr Wardlaw?’
There was a curious expression on her face; if John Joseph had not known that she was the sweetest woman alive he might have thought her faintly mocking.
But when Jackdaw answered her it was with a laugh. ‘Yes, can you imagine! Even mice have their place in military life, it would appear.’
John Joseph cut in with, ‘Jackdaw can speak ten languages, Mrs Trevelyan. He is needed for his special ability.’
And Mary added rapidly, ‘He is a very clever man.’
Mrs Trevelyan replied coolly, ‘I did not doubt it for a second. Shall we retire, Mary, and leave the gentlemen to their port?’ She paused in the doorway, the smell of gardenias all about her. ‘We shall be in my sitting room when you have finished, John Joseph.’
The very way she spoke his name had almost a conspiratorial manner about it; as if he were playing the role of host not guest. But once seated in her room she patted the place beside her on the sofa and said, ‘Come, sit here Mary, and tell me all about yourselves.’
‘There is little to tell. We are a very boring family who have fallen on hard times and have been forced to let our only asset — Sutton Place — to tenants in order to make ends meet.’
‘Yes, that is most sad for your parents. But what of you children? There are four of you, are there not?’
‘Yes. We have two younger sisters — Matilda and Caroline.’
‘And John Joseph is the eldest?’
‘Yes, he is twenty and I eighteen.’
Mrs Trevelyan smiled. ‘Ah youth, youth! A bird that can never be recaptured once it has flown.’
It was half in Mary’s mind to say that her hostess did not look old and, in fact, was probably little over thirty, but the guest felt that this would be going beyond the limits of
good manners. Instead she said, ‘You are very beautiful, Ma’am, if it is not impolite of me to say so.’
Mrs Trevelyan laughed and pinched Mary lightly under the chin.
‘Sweet child. And has Sutton Place been long in your family?’
‘Yes and no. We are not directly descended from the line of Sir Richard Weston the builder. We have two links with him — one through marriage and the other through distant cousinship. My grandfather — John Webbe — took the name of Weston in order to inherit from his kinswoman Melior Mary Weston.’
‘I see. Had she no children of her own?’
‘She never married.’ Mary shifted position very slightly, the pink dress falling in more attractive folds as she leant forward. ‘There is supposed to be a curse on Sutton Place, you know.’
The room went very quiet, the only sound Marguerite Trevelyan’s intake of breath.
‘Really? Tell me of it.’
‘The Lord of the Manor of Sutton has no good luck — or so they say. Right from before the Norman Conquest it has been a doomed place. It is the legend that the Queen of England herself put on the malediction.’
Mrs Trevelyan opened her little reticule and dabbed her lip with a lace handkerchief.
‘How interesting. Which Queen would that have been?’
‘Queen Edith — the wife of Edward the Confessor. It’s an old story. I don’t know if there is any truth in it.’
‘Has the house proved unlucky?’
‘Yes,’ said Mary slowly. ‘I think it has. The first heir died on the block accused of adultery with Anne Boleyn. I do hope it does not offend you to speak of it?’
Mrs Trevelyan shook her head.
‘And since then nothing has really gone right here. Of course we haven’t died or anything like that but my father has lost his fortune and come right down in the world.’
‘And could the curse affect me?’
Mary gazed at her with serious eyes. ‘I don’t know. You would have to ask Jackdaw.’
‘Jackdaw?’ Mrs Trevelyan looked incredulous. ‘You mean John Wardlaw, your friend?’