Fortune's Soldier (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 3)

by Deryn Lake

  Inside himself John Joseph felt sick; his soul wounded and angry with his personal failure. He detested the fact that his once great family had become destitute, had been forced to give up an ancient heritage and live like mice on their own estate. He detested even more that he had no decent living, was nothing but a grubby agent collecting rents and demanding dues. But most of all — bitter, bitter indeed because it was what he craved and yet would have so gladly put aside — he hated his dependence on Marguerite Trevelyan. He longed to shake off the sickness within him that laboured under the name of love.

  So when he looked now at his old friends Jackdaw, and his brother Rob, despite his early fondness for them he felt envy and a desire to belittle. And he was the last to walk forward to greet them behind his running sisters.

  He saw Caroline swing into Jackdaw’s arms and, over the top of her head, John Joseph felt his friend’s jewel eyes fix firmly on him.

  ‘Oh God,’ he thought, ‘the bastard’s reading my thoughts.’

  But he managed a smile and a handshake.

  ‘Jackdaw, what a surprise. And Rob too. Both on leave?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve been together in the Cape Colony ...’

  ‘The Kaffir War?’

  ‘Yes. So we’ve got some time off.’

  ‘Jackdaw’s so clever,’ said his sister Violet, quite stunningly pretty with little black curls and a face shaped like a flower. ‘He went all around amongst the savages speaking to them in their own tongue and disguised as a Spanish priest.’

  ‘How cunning.’ John Joseph’s voice had the merest edge to it. ‘And what of you, Rob? Are you a spy?’

  Rob’s big fair face cracked into a grin.

  ‘Good Lord no. Just a fighting man. Haven’t got the brains for anything else. Come on Jackdaw, let’s go and pay our respects to our hostess. Excuse us a moment.’

  They wandered off, after bowing to the three girls, in the direction of Mrs Trevelyan who was already engaged in conversation with the General and Helen; Lord Dawe had been abandoned at a tea table.

  ‘You should see your face,’ said Mary suddenly. ‘Truly, John Joseph, you look as if you would like to kill Jackdaw and Rob. Whatever is the matter with you? You can’t have fallen out with them. You’ve seen nothing of them since they joined up.’

  ‘I think,’ Matilda put in thoughtfully, ‘that you should take a commission abroad, John Joseph. You have seemed so unhappy these last two years.’

  Caroline’s light pupils flicked over her brother.

  ‘Cherchez la femme,’ she said.

  John Joseph rounded on her furiously.

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means look for the lady, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What are you inferring?’

  ‘That you’re crossed in love, John Joseph. I believe there’s a mysterious woman at the bottom of all your moods.’

  ‘I don’t have moods,’ snapped her brother, furious, and stalked off towards the mansion house without uttering another word to anyone.

  A side door in the East Wing was open and stepping inside John Joseph stood, in the sudden coolness, looking, on his right, at what had once been John Weston’s library. The family books were still there — his books in truth — and he felt sick at heart yet again that he had been cheated of everything to which he had been born. With an impatient gesture he turned towards the room and marched into it.

  Just for a fleeting second he had the impression that there was somebody there already. A skirt seemed to swish in the opposite doorway as a presence went out and he thought he saw a mane of silver hair. But when he looked again the room was empty. Taking a book from one of the shelves, he sat down.

  He must have dropped off to sleep because when he woke once more the light was beginning to fade. Outside, Sutton Place was floating in a lavender mist as the haze of a summer evening shrouded the old amber brickwork. And now there was somebody with him because a voice spoke from a shadowy corner, making him start out of his skin.

  ‘Do you know the legend of Sir Richard Weston’s portrait?’

  ‘Who are you?’ he hissed, frightened, in reply.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Do you know the legend?’

  ‘No. I don’t even know the portrait. Where is it?’

  He stood up, deliberately craning his neck to see who was addressing him, but could make out little but a dark shape like that of a man — or perhaps a woman — in a voluminous black cloak.

  ‘It hangs in the Long Gallery. It has been painted over. It now shows John baptizing Christ. You must have it restored.’

  ‘How do you know this? Who are you?’

  ‘A friend. Let me tell you about the portrait. It weeps — real tears — every May 17.’

  ‘May 17?’ John Joseph repeated uncomprehendingly. ‘Yes. Does that date mean nothing to you?’

  ‘No; no it doesn’t.’

  A terrible sense of panic was beginning to beset him and he longed to turn away but somehow could not leave that quiet, even voice that spoke neither loudly nor softly but on the same relentless and compulsive level.

  ‘It was on May 17, 1521, that Sir Richard was granted the Manor of Sutton by Henry VIII; on May 17, 1536, his son Sir Francis went to the blade; on May 17, 1754, the Young Pretender came to Sutton Place and broke Melior Mary’s heart. It is a wicked date in the history of the Manor of Sutton.’

  ‘Is that the date on which Queen Edith laid the curse?’

  ‘Who knows? It was so long ago, that its origins are buried in the mists of history. But May has always been great with weal and woe for the family of Weston. Be careful of it, my friend.’

  ‘Who are you? Let me see your face.’

  The cloaked figure shrank into itself. ‘Come no closer.’

  ‘Why? Are you afraid to let me see you?’

  ‘I am afraid for you.’

  John Joseph took a step forward.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ he said.

  ‘To tell you to leave Sutton Place. Go away — and when you inherit — sell!’

  John Joseph’s arm went out, his fingers ready to clutch the cowl off the hooded figure.

  ‘No,’ it said.

  Outside in the corridor a man’s voice called, ‘John Joseph? Where are you? Everybody’s going home.’

  He turned towards the door — and then back again. Where the figure had sat there was nothing but a blackbird; its bright eye anxious, its beak starkly yellow in the gloom. As John Joseph lunged towards it, it flew off, beating itself against the mullioned glass of the window.

  ‘Oh God!’ he said.

  Even he — unclairvoyant though he might be — knew what a bird trapped in a room meant. It was a messenger of death, of doom, of ill-tidings.

  ‘John Joseph,’ the voice called again.

  ‘I’m here, I’m just coming. I’ve been sleeping — and dreaming. God help me!’ he added in a whisper.

  *

  That evening all the Wardlaw family sat down to dine with the Webbe Westons in Pomona House. The big round table was packed — just as it had been at that Christmas long ago when they had first met. And now the children were grown up — Violet and Caroline, aged fifteen and sixteen, being the youngest. The conversation was fast and unrestrained as befitted such an attractive gathering and Mr and Mrs Webbe Weston sat back thinking themselves, for once, quite the most elegant host and hostess.

  ‘Of course the Kaffir Hordes were first-rate fighters,’ the General was saying boringly. ‘Quite unafraid for themselves and therefore a fierce and unrestrained enemy.’

  He looked at Helen for her approval and she smiled at him. He was ageing a little now — grey of whisker and creased of eye — but he worshipped her more than ever, as if she personified the passions of his youth and had become doubly precious to him.

  ‘It was my first taste of action,’ said Rob. ‘I found it exciting.’ He smiled his broad white-toothed smile. No two brothers could have been more unalike than he and Jackda
w yet they loved each other, for Jackdaw put his hand out and patted his brother’s sleeve.

  ‘Don’t let those words deceive you,’ he said. ‘Rob was commended for gallantry.’

  ‘I think it all splendid,’ said Caroline. ‘You must be very proud of your two sons, General Wardlaw. I can just imagine Jackdaw disguised as a Spanish priest.’

  She laughed. She was very pretty indeed with her wheaten locks swept up in a knot of curls.

  ‘Damn good,’ rumbled Mr Webbe Weston. ‘Fine boys. Envy that, Wardlaw.’

  John Joseph, who had been looking miserable all the evening, stared at his plate and swallowed a mouthful of food without enjoyment.

  ‘But John Joseph will turn up trumps, Father,’ said Mary kindly — making the situation much, much worse. ‘I’m sure he will join a foreign service and do extremely well.’

  There was rather an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘He will,’ said Jackdaw. ‘I feel it.’

  ‘Not one of your ridiculous premonitions, I hope.’

  It was the General speaking — but his words held a begrudging admiration. He had been forced over the years to acknowledge that his younger son was powerful in a way that he could not understand.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Jackdaw lightly. ‘One of my premonitions.’

  John Joseph looked up with a spark of interest. ‘Oh? So what’s going to happen to me?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later — a private consultation.’

  Matilda, adjusting her brown shawl round her shoulders, said, ‘Will you read all our futures, Jackdaw?’

  ‘Not tonight. But I’ll come over tomorrow if you like. We’re staying at the Angel.’

  ‘Oh yes please.’ Mary’s answer was a little too quick. She was twenty now and dying to be married and her feelings for Jackdaw had intensified on seeing him again.

  ‘So your gift has returned?’ It was John Joseph speaking slowly and almost reluctantly.

  ‘I don’t know — sometimes it is there and sometimes it isn’t. I am not as afraid of it as I used to be.’

  ‘And what does a bird trapped in a room mean?’

  ‘A bird is death,’ said Jackdaw. ‘All folk tales tell us that.’

  And later on when the ladies had retired and the General and Mr Webbe Weston sat plying Rob with questions about the Kaffir war, John Joseph and Jackdaw stepped outside into the summer night and spoke of it further.

  About them was the smell of high season and in the pear tree of Pomona House a nightingale sang.

  ‘I saw a bird in Sutton Place,’ said John Joseph. ‘I was dreaming. I thought it was a cloaked figure warning me against the curse. But when I woke up it was a trapped blackbird. What do you make of that?’

  ‘I think you must get away from here.’ Jackdaw gave one of his jerky bows in the direction of Sutton Place. ‘She’s dangerous, John Joseph. She’s not what she appears. But you know that.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you are saying. If you are asking me if I am in love with Marguerite Trevelyan, the answer is yes. If she would have me I would marry her tomorrow.’

  ‘But she won’t have you,’ said Jackdaw.

  ‘No — she says I am too young for her.’

  ‘Too young — or too poor,’ answered Jackdaw beneath his breath.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing important. John Joseph, I am going to take a turn about the parkland. I will see you tomorrow.’

  He loosened the collar of his mess jacket and strode off into the darkness thoroughly bored with his friend’s tedious love affair. But he had not gone more than a step or two into the night-scented air of the Home Park before a voice whispered into his ear, ‘Good evening, Jackdaw.’

  He whirled round and there was Cloverella giving him the sauciest grin imaginable beneath the flirtatious moon.

  ‘Well, hello cousin,’ he said. ‘How have you fared while I’ve been at the wars?’

  ‘Precious bad.’ She fell into step beside him. ‘I’ve had two years of Mrs Trevelyan — and that’s enough to send anyone to an early grave.’

  ‘I see she’s got John Joseph gasping like a hooked fish.’

  ‘As we predicted.’

  ‘Yes; though we had no need for second sight to do it.’

  She laughed and said, ‘I’m tired of John Joseph. It’s up to him to save his soul now. But what of your affairs — you’re a full-grown man these days?’

  ‘I would hope so. I’ve been two years in the Army.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  She danced ahead of him into the moonlight. ‘Did you ever hear tell of Giles the Fool?’

  ‘The one who haunts the Chapel?’

  ‘Yes. We heard him playing his tricks the night we found Sam Clopper.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘He died out here in the forest. And nobody ever found his body except — or so they say — that poor boy Matthew Banister who ran from Sutton Place when he discovered the true identity of Sibella Gage.’

  ‘I know little about that.’

  ‘I’ve only heard stories but they say that Melior Mary — who became an old maid and left Sutton Place to John Joseph’s grandfather — was mad for love of him. And then again she was in love with the last of the Stuarts.’

  ‘It sounds very complicated.’

  ‘I believe it was. But anyway she was the one who destroyed Sutton Place.’

  They had walked far enough now for the house to be visible through the trees and — in a most unearthly way — they heard Mrs Trevelyan’s laugh ring out.

  ‘Nobody will ever do good here,’ said Cloverella. ‘Not strangers nor family.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s cursed well and true.’

  ‘That seems beyond doubt.’

  They came to a halt, looking at the mansion dappled in the moonlight.

  ‘I think I’ll go and weave an enchantment,’ said Cloverella. ‘Go and talk to the tutelaries that Giles the Fool loved so well.’

  ‘Tutelaries?’

  ‘The fairies that look after families. Come on with me.’

  An irrational feeling swept Jackdaw in that teasing, fickle light.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To hell with it. Why not?’

  ‘There speaks a true descendant of Dr Zachary.’

  She was suddenly very close to him, her nut-brown cheek almost brushing against his as she sidled and laughed before him.

  ‘You are a pretty thing,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want to kiss me — cousin-like?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Not as a cousin. Give me your lips as you would your other lovers.’

  ‘What other lovers?’

  ‘You know damn well — John Joseph, all of them.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For answer she kissed him full on the mouth, her little tongue flickering around like a butterfly.

  ‘Shall I have you, Cloverella?’

  ‘Here in the moonlight?’

  ‘Yes, here.’

  ‘In the very sight of Sutton Place?’

  ‘Well perhaps,’ said Jackdaw — and he laughed out loud — ‘discreetly hidden behind a tree.’

  And with that the two descendants of Norfolk’s bastard son fell to grinning and chuckling and headed off, arms thrown about each other, into the darkness of the forest.

  9

  Out at sea — but not a quarter of a mile from the shore — a mist lay waiting, white as an empty shroud. And the passengers embarking on board glanced fearfully towards it and then longingly back, over their shoulders, at the mighty sweep of chalk cliff that represented England, solidarity and things familiar. There was not one figure swathed beneath bonnet and shawl, wrapped tightly round in caped coat, or hugged into Army weatherproof that did not, momentarily, wish itself off this vessel, straining at its ropes like a morning greyhound.

  Yet, despite this craving for home, feet pounded up the gangplank like re
morseless gunshot, the noise drowned only by the rumble of engines as they made up steam to take their cargo across the Channel to France.

  Standing at the ship’s rail John Joseph Webbe Weston — twenty-two years old, notably handsome, and with apparently everything in the world to live for — contemplated, just for a second, throwing himself overboard that he might land head first on the granite quay below and smash his brains out. And his sister Mary who, most surprisingly, had boarded at his side, sobbed drily and aloud, regardless of the fact that she was just twenty, round of breast and possessed of a most kind disposition.

  And as they set off — the engines booming and chuffing, the people on the shore waving strips of handkerchief or hats, the passengers shouting until the sound fell flat against the density of fog — brother and sister clung to each other and wept.

  ‘She’s done for me,’ said John Joseph.

  But Mary did not hear him and buried her face in his shoulder, not listening as she murmured, ‘Jackdaw. Oh, Jackdaw.’

  They were going; leaving England and Sutton Place and all the pain it had inflicted on them in their short lives.

  Three weeks before they had watched from the back of Holy Trinity, Guildford — John Joseph dressed all in black and sombre as a crow — as Mrs Trevelyan, clad in violet from head to foot and swishing satin as she swayed up the aisle, had taken Lord Dawe for her husband. She had not caught their eye as she left the church on her bridegroom’s arm and climbed into the brougham bearing his coat-of-arms. But just for a second, as John Joseph had swept off his hat and called loudly, ‘God bless the bride,’ her eyes had met those of brother and sister.

  The gleam in them had been without mercy. She had fought her way from Fish Street to a title and she cared not a damn who had been trodden beneath in the climb. In fact she had almost sneered at the world as the carriage had whisked her off to Lord Dawe’s great estate in Woking.