by Deryn Lake
The train entered a tunnel and Horatia closed her eyes, trying to conjure behind her lids the image of her husband as he had been on their wedding day. But somehow his face would not come to her and she could only remember Jackdaw turning round and staring at her from the altar as if, as far as he was concerned, she was the source of all light.
She was too numb and too hurt to think — as a woman in full possession of her wits would have quickly done — that he obviously loved her. That he had kissed her as Jackdaw and not a member of the Hungarian high command, that he had never stopped caring for her from the second he had first seen her in her carriage at Hastings. And long before then — though that was something she would never know.
Instead she prayed most innocently — there with her eyes closed — that her husband’s friend was still alive, that they might speak of John Joseph together and share dear and cherished memories. But the second that she set foot on the platform at Waterloo station she knew that this was not so. One look at Caroline’s set face was enough. Horatia was not even to be granted the consolation of Jackdaw’s friendship.
She said without preamble — even before hugging Caroline — ‘It’s Jackdaw, isn’t it? He’s been killed.’
‘Yes,’ answered her sister-in-law. ‘I’m afraid so. Helen says they’ve given up hope of his being found. There is to be a memorial service for him at St Mary-in-the-Castle, Hastings, later this week. Did she write to tell you?’
‘No,’ answered Horatia. ‘But I know. You see, I have seen his coffin.’
The rest of her words were drowned in such uncontrollable weeping that it never did occur to Caroline to ask what this strange remark could possibly mean, but this did not stop her recounting the words to Francis that evening.
‘She is having morbid fantasies. Caroline, I would strongly advise against her going to that service.’
‘But she is insisting. Francis, surely you could give her some kind of opiate. And anyway you will be there.’
‘I can’t stop her taking an hysteric.’
‘Oh she won’t do that,’ answered his wife. ‘She is too proud. She would feel that she was letting both of them down — both John Joseph and Jackdaw.’
But nonetheless, despite the draught that Francis had given her, and despite the fact that her brother and sister-in-law were sitting on either side of her in the carriage, virtually holding her up between them, Horatia went dramatically white to the lips as the equipage turned into Pelham Crescent.
‘Are you feeling ill?’ asked her brother-in-law, very brisk and professional, not daring to be kind.
‘No, no,’ she murmured, dabbing at her mouth with a handkerchief. ‘It’s nothing — just a moment’s faintness.’
But her head reeled. She had recognized the chapel instantly. All those strange dreams where she had wandered the long beach or the headland, always with the same two shadowy men and always seeing a church that nestled beneath the cliffs. Obviously that had been a glimpse into the future; for now here was Jackdaw’s memorial service, which could so well have been that of John Joseph, being held in the very place. The circle had just clicked into position, the pattern of her destiny was clear.
And yet — was it? For as she set foot within the building which had once been St Mary’s Chapel but which had since 1828, when the church had opened for public worship, been called St Mary-in-the-Castle, Horatia’s heart suddenly lifted.
It was inexplicable. The beauty of the place — cut in a semi-circle into the very heart of the great cliffs — could not account for the sudden uprush of spirits. Nor could the substance that Francis had given her, for that — so he had said — would make her quieter, calmer.
As Horatia sat in one of the church’s huge galleries, all of which rested on a ledge in the cliff, she grew more and more uplifted. Her eyes, taking in the coat-of-arms of William IV over the clock and the large marble font — fed by a spring of never-failing water that issued from the cliff itself and which flowed into a little grotto covered in greenery — began to resume some of their old sparkle. And as the preacher took his place in the pulpit, she leaned forward almost expectantly, her chin cupped in her hand.
‘Dearly beloved,’ began the sonorous voice, ‘we are gathered here together today to honour the memory of one of the sons of the town of Hastings — Major John Wardlaw — cut down in the prime of his sky-blue youth ...’
It was then that Horatia turned to Caroline and said, quite loudly and distinctly, ‘Oh no, I don’t think so. I really don’t think that is true,’ before she fainted completely away at her sister-in-law’s feet.
And before she fell into unconsciousness she smiled. For quite distinctly, right into her ear, she had heard John Joseph whisper, ‘Horatia, have faith. Jackdaw lives, my darling. I promise you he lives.’
23
‘No,’ said Uncle Thomas Monington. ‘No, Lady Horatia. I simply won’t agree to it. Sutton Place is to remain in the family and that, as far as I am concerned, is that.’
‘But, Sir ...’
‘But me no buts if you please. The terms of your late husband’s will are quite clear. Sutton Place was left to you until you marry again or die. Upon either of those events the house and estate become mine for life. However, as you know, if you remarry your husband granted you a jointure or allowance of one thousand pounds a year payable from the estate ...’
‘But Uncle Thomas, why can’t we break the entail? You already have Sarnesfield Court and no heir. What do you want with Sutton Place? Why can’t I sell the house and divide the money with you?’
‘No!’ he answered loudly, giving Horatia a look that could only be described as poisonous.
He was a horrid old man, long and spindly like a ginger spider. He had, in his youth, had orange hair but this had now turned pepper and salt, and his freckles, in sympathy, had merged into a whole giving him a leathery aspect. From his nose — the nostrils of which moved rapidly like bellows — descended great light hairs and his hands, covered with whiskers, constantly shook. His teeth, patently false, seemed ill-fitting in a mouth which salivated vastly as he spoke. Horatia hated him and wished him on the moon.
But it was not just his disgusting appearance that repelled her; his nature too, was scuttling and furtive. Even in childhood, realizing that his elder brother — John Joseph’s late father, whom Thomas resembled not at all — would inherit the Manor of Sutton, he had set about wooing his ancient kinswoman Anne Monington. He had been the little angel who had fetched and carried her salts and her gloves, who had exercised her ghastly dogs and who had given her sweet-smelling, hand-picked posies. His concern had not gone unrewarded. At a very early age he had inherited Sarnesfield Court in Hereford on the condition that he adopt Miss Monington’s name.
It struck Horatia as strange that both John Joseph’s grandfather and uncle had inherited vast estates from maiden ladies with the condition of a name change. Old John Webbe had added Weston and been rewarded with Sutton Place from mad Miss Melior Mary; his son Thomas had dropped Webbe Weston in favour of Monington and had acquired Sarnesfield Court, where he had lived as a gentleman ever since he had been twenty-one, and seemed now equally determined to see Sutton Place remain in the Webbe Weston family, though he himself had not a single child.
Horatia tried again. ‘But why, Sir?’
‘It was clearly your late husband’s intention —’ he never said John Joseph’s name ‘— for you to live in Sutton Place in the event of his death and manage it as it should be managed. It seems to me — to put it very bluntly indeed, Lady Horatia — that you have flouted his wishes at every turn. But in this one respect, as a named heir, I can overrule you — and overrule you I will.’
He sneered triumphantly and Horatia had an overwhelming urge to hit him in the face. She was on the point of telling him John Joseph’s last words — if they had, in truth, been his last words and not just a dream — but bit her tongue. Why should she discuss with this soulless wretch the innermost secrets of her heart?
Instead she stood up and said, ‘You may think what you wish, Mr Monington. I have my private reasons for not wishing to live in Sutton Place — and I also have my private reasons for wishing to dispose of the Estate.’
He sneered again, his face bending like india-rubber as he did so.
‘Surely —’ A fountain of saliva went splashing in the sunlight. ‘Surely you do not believe the story of an ancient curse? I would have thought a woman of your background would have known better. But then of course there is no accounting for female fancies.’
Horatia looked him squarely in his runny blue eye.
‘As a matter of fact I do believe the legend and — though I have no intention of discussing him with you — so did John Joseph. He always wished to put as much distance between himself and the manor as possible. Therefore, as you have been frank with me, I shall be frank with you. Though you may thwart me so far as selling Sutton Place is concerned, where I choose to live is none of your affair. So I shall say good day to you, Mr Monington, and inform you that I intend to stay here in Leamington and leave Sutton Place as it is — rented by my mother and stepfather.’
His leathery face contorted like a mask and he stood hissing into his teeth for a moment. Then a totally unreadable expression crossed his eyes and he said, more lightly, ‘Do you know your late husband’s first cousin? My nephew Francis Salvin, I mean.’
Horatia stared at him blankly and answered, ‘Of course. I know him and his family well. Why?’
‘I thought of inviting him to Sarnesfield Court — and you as well. You see I am not without an heir, Horatia. Sutton Place will pass to him when you and I have finished with it.’
She could think of nothing more intelligent to say than, ‘Oh!’
Mr Monington’s whole tone had altered and he looked as near to pleasant as was possible for him.
‘Then I shall ask my wife to issue an invitation shortly. You may count on it. Good day to you, Horatia.’
And with a bend of his scrawny body he was gone, leaving his niece by marriage staring after him and wondering what the rapid change in his tactics could possibly signify. Perhaps he thought Cousin Francis could soften the blow now that her plan to dispose of the manor house had been finally thwarted.
Horatia sighed, shook her head, and picking up two dog leads called for Lulie and Porter — the terrier pup Francis Salvin had raised for her. Then, pulling a shawl about her shoulders, she stepped out into the afternoon.
It was May. Everywhere blossom swirled in the air as a warm west wind shook the laden branches and sent pearl-white clouds scurrying across a sky blue as harebells. And borne on that breeze she heard the murmuring sounds of early summer; the bumble of bees blending melodiously with the cuckoo’s distant voice.
Horatia’s spirits, dampened enormously by Uncle Thomas Monington, lifted again. Everything had happened to her over the past eighteen months just as Francis Hicks had predicted, though she — sweet thing, playing with her dogs in the sunshine — had hardly been aware of it. At last she had found herself able to think about John Joseph without crying, and was able once more to take an interest in her surroundings. She had begun to enjoy living again and — despite dreadful opposition from her mother — had rented a house in Leamington which she now occupied with only a small staff for company.
But one thing had been a bitter blow. She realized, now that so long a time had passed since anyone had heard from Jackdaw, that she had had an hallucination in St Mary-in-the-Castle — brought on, no doubt, by the opiate Francis had administered.
She could have sworn, at the last second before she fainted, that John Joseph’s spirit had stood beside her and spoken within her inner ear. But she had been wrong. Jackdaw was dead and she would never see him again.
Not that she lacked male company. Mr Colquhoun — the English Consul in Bucharest who had released her from her second imprisonment in Carlsburg — had called on her in Leamington. And then, for a year had passed since her husband’s death as polite behaviour decreed, he had polished his monocle, dropped on one knee before her and told her that he had fallen in love with her at first sight. Even there, in that horrid place, and with the Captain right beside her.
‘You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen,’ he had said.
Horatia had refused him, of course. But Mr Colquhoun was made of stern diplomatic stuff and had returned in December to continue his courtship. He had then taken great exception to the presence of Cousin Francis Salvin, who was there on a Christmas visit with his sister; decided that Francis was also pursuing Lady Horatia and had refused to call further.
The widow had giggled helplessly when Mr Colquhoun’s letter had arrived. That anyone could take Cousin Francis seriously seemed, to her, quite beyond the bounds of possibility. Not that he was bad-looking — though inclined to put on weight; it was simply that he was so hearty and hale, the absolute epitome of an English country gentleman. His conversation centred mainly on hawking, cormorants and birds in general — on all of which he was an authority — or otherwise killing something. He had always, without fail, just been fox hunting, or shooting a pig, or bagging game birds.
But Horatia liked him for all that. He was kind and affable and in some ways artistic. He had done a lifelike and compassionate sketch of Lulie — plumed tail wagging again now that her ordeal in the war was over — when Horatia had stayed with his family in the Pennines. And he also excelled at burning pictures into wood — his favourites being dogs’ heads, of course.
With his strangely mixed nature — cruel sportsman, bird lover and artistic soul — he reminded Horatia of a great gruff bear; fishing with his paw, dancing for children, lying on his back in the sun. It would also seem — with his total lack of interest in the ladies — that this particular bear did not require a mate.
Thinking about him now made Horatia smile and she hummed a tune into the May breeze. Then she thought, ‘I must ask John Joseph ...’ and pulled herself up short. She had done it a million times since he had died; her brain a fraction of a second late in giving her the correct information. She had been going to enquire of her husband whether Cousin Francis reminded him of a cuddly bear too. And she had also been going to ask what to do about Uncle Thomas Monington and the future of Sutton Place. But then if John Joseph had been alive the future of Sutton Place would not have been in question — and Uncle Thomas Monington would have had no say in the matter whatsoever.
*
‘So you see, my dear Countess, this matter concerns me greatly and I do not come here today in a spirit of interference but in one of anxiety — and if I may so phrase it, caring.’
Uncle Thomas Monington and the Dowager Countess Waldegrave sat in one of the smaller drawing rooms of Sutton Place looking out to the distant orchards from which the sweet smell of blossom blew towards them on a light west wind.
‘I’m sorry ...?’
She stared at him a little blankly, wondering what he was trying to say to her. She hardly knew the man at all, having seen him only once since Horatia’s wedding, but now, sitting opposite him in the sunshine, finding him rather nasty. He leant forward a little to speak again and sprayed so much that she recoiled. From somewhere in the back of the room Mr Hicks made a curious sound.
‘I have obviously not made myself clear, dear lady.’ Uncle Thomas flashed his false teeth. ‘I have been to Leamington recently and seen the Lady Horatia. We had a friendly chat indeed — though she did have some foolish notion of selling Sutton Place which, of course, she cannot do because of the entail. However, it seemed to me — without wishing to alarm you in any way whatsoever, my dear Countess — that your daughter has been on her own too long. It is sad, but the Lady actually admits to disliking Sutton Place, and I feel it would be of great benefit to her if she were to marry again.’
He paused for dramatic effect and Anne gazed at him.
‘And into the Webbe Weston family.’
There was a stunned silence and then the Countess said, ‘But she is alrea
dy a Webbe Weston. What do you mean, Mr Monington?’
‘I mean, Madam, that with one neat stroke all Lady Horatia’s problems could be solved. And that stroke is —’ he cleared his throat ‘— marriage with my nephew and heir Francis Salvin.’
‘Good gracious!’ said Anne. ‘What does Horatia feel about all this? Does she like the gentleman?’
Mr Monington sprayed furiously. ‘They spent last Christmas together, Madam. Need one say more?’
‘I spent last Christmas with my brother,’ growled Mr Hicks from the back of the room. ‘But I have no intention of marrying him.’
Uncle Thomas gave a most reproving stare and the Countess said, ‘Algy, there is no need for frivolity. That was a silly remark. I am quite sure that Mr Monington has Horatia’s best interests at heart.’
Mr Monington gave a repellent smile.
‘Oh dear, dear lady — how wise you are! Such a match would not only end Lady Horatia’s tragic widowhood, but also secure the future of Sutton Place for ever.’
Anne looked thoughtful. ‘I must confess that she has written little of Mr Salvin in her letters to me — except to say that she found him amusing.’
Uncle Thomas pressed his fingertips together ecstatically and Algy — who was in a very strange mood that morning — said, ‘Well, that is good news. At least she can laugh as she hands over her inheritance.’
Mr Monington looked very pained, which was really quite the most frightening sight, while Anne rose from her seat and paced back and forth.
‘I am not sure, Sir, that my daughter is seriously entertaining the idea of remarriage. She has already turned down one extremely good offer from Mr Colquhoun, the English Consul in Bucharest.’
‘Possibly because her affections were engaged elsewhere.’
‘She never hinted such.’
The Countess stopped pacing, ignoring her husband who was grimacing in the background, and turning to face Mr Monington, who rose from his chair like a skeleton on wires, said, ‘Very well, Sir. I shall do my part. I shall invite Mr Salvin to Sutton Place when Horatia is here. After that the matter is in the hands of fate, would you not agree?’