by Deryn Lake
And again, the first to act was John Joseph. He got on a train bound from Dover to London and then boarded another train to Woking. It was Sunday morning and, without even so much as leaving his baggage in a nearby hotel, he took a hansom cab to St John’s Church. There he sat in the back pew watching for the arrival of Lady Dawe.
Cloverella, forewarned of his visit by letter, had, that very morning, drawn the last hair from the waxen heart of his image, and now sat back to await events, Jay playing at her feet.
Horatia, meanwhile, got up on the same day, had a small Sunday breakfast and went walking with Ida Anna — she whose bootbutton gaze had grown sharper with every passing year — in the lush green splendour of St James’s Park. And after a while, walking correctly along beneath their shady, wide-brimmed bonnets, the sisters were caught up by their mother and stepfather. Then the quartet took a leisurely walk — there being plenty of time before luncheon — to the home of Caroline and Francis Hicks. It was a serene day. It was warm April, it was 1847. The young Queen — now a happily married mother of five children — ruled a Britain that had never been greater, never basked in greater glory of Empire, of strength, of everyone in their accorded place. To them it seemed like paradise — except for the aching of Horatia’s heart.
Yet over luncheon Caroline said, ‘He’s back, you know. My brother, John Joseph. After a five-year tour of duty. What a time away!’
Anne asked, ‘Will he stay here now?’
And Caroline answered, ‘No, he sees no future for himself unless he remains in the Austrian service. Poor John Joseph, he is trying so hard to bring the property round.’
At that Mr Hicks had boomed, ‘I love Sutton Place. I really do. I wouldn’t mind living there, you know.’
There had been one of those tiny, very important, frozen silences and then Francis had said, ‘Why don’t you? I believe it’s up for leasing at the moment. I think that would be a splendid idea.’
Algy had puffed and said, ‘What about it, Anne?’
And very surprisingly she had answered, ‘I am bored with London and close quarters. Why don’t you investigate, my dear?’
Another little wheel had just started to circle in infinity.
At that very same moment — service being late in St John’s — John Joseph was watching Marguerite Dawe, the woman who had been his idée fixe for what seemed like for ever, taking her place in the family pew. She was a widow again, dressed from head to foot in black taffeta, with a feathered black hat swathed over one eye. She was as beautiful as always, though time had taken its natural toll with a fine tracery of lacy lines now clearly visible on her cheeks and at her eyes. Beside her sat a boy of ten or eleven, the younger Lord Dawe. The boy sired by the coachman if Mary’s gossip were to be believed. But if his father were truly base-born, nothing of it showed in him. He sat ramrod straight, having handed his mother into her seat, his eyes to the front, his cap upon his knees. Every last inch of him breathing aristocracy and breeding. He was an admirable young person.
John Joseph sat quite still and looked at the two of them — his mistress and her fair-haired son. And it was then that he knew — with an awful lurch in his stomach which told him an era had just ended — that he had been mistaken. That he had wasted twelve years of his life in a dream; that Marguerite meant nothing to him — and never had. That lust had blinded his eyes and he — foolish, idiotic, unrelinquishing he — had never been in love at all.
He rose to sing a hymn with legs that were weak beneath him. He felt then that he was incapable of emotion, that he was an empty vessel only able to sound in the theatre of war, merely capable of taking hired women. His soul plunged into desolation, there in God’s house. He loathed himself, he abhorred the wasted years — and then Marguerite very slowly turned to look at him.
Whether she had recognized something of that light baritone voice singing behind her, whether she instinctively felt his presence, he was never to know. All he could say was that they were suddenly in full eye contact, pupil staring into pupil, with no pretence at manners or averted gaze. Quite openly and boldly, there in church, they stared one another out.
After an age, in which he grew cold as death and she — with all her years of training — masked her feelings, she allowed a faint smile to hover round her lips. He gaped at her all the more. Where was his response? Had he been frozen to the marrow? A million questions danced in his brain as he realized he was indifferent to whether she laughed or frowned, lived or died. Feeling himself a man of straw he made her a formal bow, then turned where he was and — with the congregation in full voice looking at him as if he had just turned lunatic — strode from the place without looking back.
He had wasted his life on a falsehood. He had as much sense as that sweet mad Emperor with whom he played war games. Knowing what he must do, John Joseph got into the cab that still waited at the church gate and directed the driver to Woking station.
*
In the gentle afternoon that followed the tearful April morning Horatia strolled with her family back to Duke Street, half listening to her mother and stepfather discussing — with growing excitement and belief — the possibility of renting the manor house in Surrey that John Joseph once had told her was cursed. But she could not concentrate on anything — not their excited talk, nor the blueness of the sky, nor the children playing in the park, nor the military men in their scarlet-and-golds. All she could think of was one soldier in particular. For the man who had captured her wild little heart was back in England.
She knew — for sure and without any gypsy gift — that he would come and see her. Felt she still had a chance of his loving her, for surely Caroline would have said something had he been betrothed or his affections engaged elsewhere. And this made her so happy, so bright, that she ran home ahead of the others and arrived glowing and panting to whirl in past the butler and straight into her mother’s reception room, hardly noticing the card that lay on the silver tray in the hall.
That John Joseph was sitting there, very correct and upright, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword, tilted straight before him, was in some ways the biggest shock she had ever had — and in others no surprise at all. He stood up and bowed as she came in, staring at her as if he had never seen her before.
‘Lady Horatia,’ he said. ‘I was just passing and thought I would present my compliments.’
The lie was transparent, hanging in the room about his head.
‘Oh,’ she said, feeling an utter fool, ‘oh! My goodness, I can’t think it has really been five years. You haven’t changed.’
‘You have,’ he said. ‘I did not think that you could grow more beautiful — but I was wrong.’
There was a silence during which they regarded one another properly for the very first time. She saw him — as it were — stripped. Gone the military fineness and bravura and in their place, visibly, a saddish man, a man who had been driven into situations he did not relish. But also a determined man. For there was a look in John Joseph’s eye that Horatia had never seen before. A look that excited her beyond words.
He saw beauty — and rare beauty at that. A beauty made possible by the illumination from within. For Horatia had taken the best of the Waldegraves — their brand of courage, their lack of convention, their scorn of hypocrisy — and had developed into an unusual woman; a woman who could be fiercely loyal to those she liked on one hand, and yet, on the other, would not bother to cross the room to speak if she did not.
The pause continued until John Joseph said eventually, ‘You know why I am here, don’t you?’
She pulled her bonnet from her head and threw it on to a chair, one of the blue ribbons trailing for a moment between her fingers.
She did not answer him directly but said instead, ‘I had not quite thought it would be like this. I imagined there would be courtship, lovemaking even.’
‘I don’t have time,’ he said bluntly. ‘I have eight weeks in England — and that only granted because I have served five
years without leave long enough to return home.’
Outside a blackbird trilled a song of springtime revisited.
‘This is not very romantic,’ said Horatia — and then suddenly laughed. The day seemed to grow even brighter and, after a moment, John Joseph found he had to smile.
‘You wretch,’ he said, ‘you haven’t changed a bit.’
‘Why are you not on one knee?’ she answered. ‘I knelt for you.’
In the hall could be heard the sound of the butler opening the front door to Lady Waldegrave, Mr Hicks and Ida Anna.
‘May I take you to dine tonight?’ John Joseph said without moving. ‘Perhaps your Mama will permit now that we are engaged to be married.’
‘This,’ said Horatia, ‘is quite the worst proposal I have ever endured. I have a very strong mind to say no — and be damned to the fact that I love you so much.’
The words thrilled him, inadequate character that he felt himself to be.
‘Do you love me?’ he said. ‘Like that? Very much?’
‘You know I do. Why, I would die in battle for you.’
The words had a chilling ring, reminding him suddenly and vividly of his childhood dream.
‘Do you love me?’ she asked.
He looked at her and knew that he did not, knew that he was incapable of anything more than self-delusion. For twelve years he had yearned for Marguerite — only to find cold ashes in his mouth. He was aware now, and terribly so, that such powerful emotion was beyond him.
He hesitated in his reply and was saved by the opening of the door. The Dowager Countess stood framed in the opening, her astonished face gazing at them. John Joseph forestalled anything sharp she might have had to say by clicking his heels and giving an extremely formal bow.
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I have come here to pay my addresses to the Lady Horatia. I wonder whether I might speak to you and Mr Hicks privately.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Anne, totally knocked off her balance and behaving with utter lack of decorum. ‘Are you proposing to my daughter?’
John Joseph looked faintly surprised at this uninhibited response but answered, ‘Yes, Lady Waldegrave, I am.’
‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ said Anne roundly. ‘The little wretch has been pining for you for years. I quite thought I was going to have a fully fledged spinster on my hands.’
And with those words the betrothal of John Joseph Webbe Weston and Lady Horatia Waldegrave was formally begun.
*
That night they were allowed to go out alone, despite the rigid rule of chaperoning. Mr Hicks — leaping about enthusiastically — had opened champagne and lent them his smartest carriage, and then they were given permission to go to the theatre and follow this with dinner, providing that Horatia was returned home by midnight. In view of everything John Joseph considered the arrangement lenient.
‘It is only that they fear I will turn into a pumpkin should twelve o’clock strike,’ said Horatia, and laughed, leaning back against the plush upholstery of the brougham.
‘And will you?’
‘Very probably.’
Her profile was lit momentarily by a street lamp as she said this and John Joseph revelled, then, in his newfound position.
‘You’re delightful, Horatia,’ he said, and raised her fingers to his lips.
She had chosen apple green for her betrothal night, the material swished and frilled into a full skirt, the bodice swathed tightly over her high and pretty breasts. And as she moved a musky scent came from her hair and skin, filling his senses with old familiar urges. He slipped his arm round her waist, letting his hand cup — just for a second — her bosom.
‘I’m innocent,’ she said in the darkness, ‘quite.’
‘I had hoped so.’
‘Don’t be predictable,’ came the sharp retort. ‘It is merely that nobody asked me — and anyway I have had scant opportunity. My brothers — poor dead things ...’ her voice went very quiet but after a moment regained its usual tone ‘... sowed wild oats everywhere, but we girls were watched like crown jewels.’
‘That is how it should be.’
He was being deliberately pompous and he smiled to himself. She nudged him crossly.
‘I am not so sure that we will make a match,’ she said.
‘Horry, I am teasing you. You are a scamp. A prim woman would not do for me, for how would she put up with life in a foreign country, serving a foreign Emperor?’ He added as an afterthought, ‘Do you speak German?’
‘Not a word — but I shall quickly learn.’ She paused, then said, ‘You won’t leave me behind when you go to the front, will you?’
‘There is no front at the moment — there is no war. But no, you shall accompany me when I go to the garrison towns. That is if you wish. Many Army wives prefer to remain behind in Vienna where there are shops and theatres and Johann Strauss.’
‘I shall go with you. I do not see much point in marrying you if I stay away.’
‘And you really do want to? Marry me, that is.’
She turned into his arms for answer. They had never kissed before, not even a formal greeting on the cheek, and John Joseph was surprised by the way she parted her lips beneath his. She was a natural mistress, a courtesan, a wanton.
She clung to him breathlessly as their mouths drew apart, a little afraid of what she had discovered in herself.
‘Do you love me?’ she asked. ‘You did not answer before.’
Once again he hesitated.
‘I sense that you do not.’
‘Horatia, to be blunt, I am not sure what love really is. I thought I knew, until recently. But now I realize I know nothing. Only that there is something lacking in me.’
‘But you have mistresses.’
It was a statement, that was all. There was no hint of criticism in her voice or attitude.
‘How did you know that?’
‘By the way you hold me. John Joseph, can I ask you one thing?’
‘What is it?’
‘Do you intend to be faithful to me — love or no love?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘utterly. There is no reason for marriage otherwise.’
‘Then in that case I will teach you to love me by some daring plan.’
He laughed. ‘I would put nothing past you,’ he said.
*
The letter, in handwriting simultaneously familiar and strange, was brought by Jackdaw’s batman just as the Major was hurrying from his room to attend Church parade and was left, lying on a silver tray until the following day. It was with both shock and delight, therefore, that he saw at breakfast that John Joseph was not only to be married but wanted him to act as best man.
‘... a wonderful girl,’ he read, ‘whom I have known slightly for some years. She is actually a connection of Caroline’s through marriage.’
No name given, Jackdaw noticed — and felt a first faint prick of apprehension.
‘So,’ he read on, ‘it would be a great privilege and pleasure if you could see your way to acting as my best man. Because of the shortness of my leave the wedding will take place three weeks from now, on Friday, May 17 ...’
Why did that date strike a chord?
‘... and my fiancée and I ...’ still no name ‘... will be staying in Guildford with my mother to establish residency. There is to be a Catholic ceremony in the Chapel at Sutton Place, as well as an Anglican at St Nicholas. If you could, therefore, address your reply to St Catherine’s Hill, Guildford, I would be most obliged.’
‘Well, well, well,’ Jackdaw thought, ‘after all this time. I wonder what finally persuaded him away from Lady Dawe.’
Despite his pleasure something was amiss, he knew it. And yet even his heightened perception could not — or would not — tell him what it was. He picked up the letter again.
‘... great family reunion. I have written to your parents and to Rob and Violet to invite them. I intend to use the Great Hall in Sutton Place for the breakfast. Also the house itself as
a place for overnight guests, so if you can get a short leave, so much the better. With very great affection, Your friend, John Joseph.’
So his boyhood hero was to become a married man. And Sutton Place, which had known so many brides and grooms in its long and strange history, was to see the sole heir — the last of the Webbe Westons — take his first step to continuing the line.
Jackdaw pushed the remainder of his breakfast aside and lit a cigar — a luxury he occasionally allowed himself at this hour of the day. Leaning back in his chair he began to puzzle out why the date May 17 seemed significant. And then it came to him in a flash — the recurring date! The date when greatest evil fell on the house of Weston and its kin. John Joseph himself had told him the story years ago. On May 17, 1521, Sir Richard Weston had been granted the Manor of Sutton by Henry VIII and had gone on to build the mansion house; on May 17, 1536, his son Francis had been executed for high treason, accused of adultery with Queen Anne Boleyn; on May 17, 1754, the Young Pretender had come to Sutton Place and taken Melior Mary Weston on the first step to madness. It was a sinister pattern.
He wondered if his friend realized and knew at once that he did not. The date had been picked in haste, probably the day when the ministers of both Catholic and Anglican churches could perform the ceremony. Then Jackdaw thought about warning him. And promptly realized how foolish he would sound. Best to remain silent.
He went to his desk, picked up a pen and wrote in a bold, flowing hand.
My dear Friend,
May I say how honoured and delighted I shall be to act as your best man. It seems so many years since I have seen you but I cannot think of a more splendid way of meeting again. I look forward not only to the grand family reunion but to being presented to your bride. (I have to be formal as you omitted to tell me her name.)
I shall arrive in Guildford on May 16, and after taking a room at The Angel will come straight to St Catherine’s Hill to receive your instructions. Until then be assured of my every good wish to you both.