Wyrde and Wayward

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Exactly!’ said Clarissa.

  ‘Such exquisite manners these Werths possess,’ said Charles from somewhere behind. ‘I am quite put to shame.’

  ‘Why,’ said Gussie, ‘I think it even possible that my aunt has never abducted anybody in her life. The thought has never even crossed her mind.’

  ‘A pattern of good breeding, to be sure,’ said Charles — no, it was not Charles. Clarissa had, by this time, propelled her along the somewhat dark passage leading off the hall, and through a white door standing ajar. On the other side of it was a pretty receiving-room, all decked in frothy gauzes and silk upholstery, and the room proved to contain two occupants.

  The Dowager Viscountess occupied the best of the chairs. The majesty of her posture, together with the sumptuary she wore, identified her at once. She sat in a pool of sunlight filtering through a great window, the frondy vegetation of a shrubbery visible beyond. The light turned her grey hair silver, and glittered upon the heavy jewels she wore.

  The one who had spoken must be Lord Maundevyle, the third of the peculiar Selwyn siblings. He stood before the window, previously engaged in looking out over his domain; but he had turned his head to observe Gussie’s entrance, and stood regarding her, rather expressionless. He was as tall as his brother, and had a similar colouring; only his hair was darker, and he had the appearance of a man several years older. He was dressed expensively, but soberly, in a dark blue coat and plainly tied cravat, and wore no ornaments about himself at all.

  ‘Mama, Henry,’ said Clarissa, drawing Gussie forward. ‘Look! We have brought you Miss Werth!’ She spoke like a small child, eagerly showing off its latest accomplishment, in the happy expectation of receiving great praise.

  ‘I hope you were not put to any great inconvenience by the journey, Miss Werth?’ said Lord Maundevyle.

  Gussie blinked at him in astonishment. ‘Not the smallest inconvenience, I assure you,’ she answered. ‘Indeed, how could I be so ungrateful as to be aware of any?’

  He frowned slightly, and said no more.

  ‘Miss Werth,’ said the dowager, and everything that was forbidding in her appearance melted away as she smiled. ‘We are greatly honoured by your visit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gussie coolly. ‘I am very sensible of the honour of your… invitation, I am sure.’

  The dowager rose, and came forward, hands extended to take Gussie’s. ‘I trust you will forgive us,’ she said. ‘It was unconscionable treatment, and I sincerely beg your pardon. But it was a matter of such very great importance, you know. I quite thought your dear aunt would sympathise, but I could not help fearing the reverse.’

  ‘I believe she was concerned for me,’ said Gussie. ‘Not, it seems, without good reason.’

  The dowager’s eyes opened wide. ‘But you shall not come to the smallest harm at Starminster! You shall not do anything that you do not like, and we shall all be quite devoted to you.’

  Gussie, rapidly learning where Clarissa had got her extravagance of manner, permitted herself a small smile. ‘Nothing I do not like? And if I do not like to stay, ma’am?’

  ‘Then of course, you shall go home,’ said the dowager soothingly. ‘But will you consent to give us a trial, first? A day, perhaps two? If you find you truly cannot like us, then we shall not stand in the way of your going.’

  ‘How obliging.’

  Lord Maundevyle spoke. ‘Am I to understand that Miss Werth has arrived here against her will?’

  Clarissa looked daggers at her brother, and drew herself up. ‘Anyone would think it a punishment to be here, the way you are all carrying on! Do not you know how many there are who would kill to spend a week at Starminster?’

  ‘Miss Werth, however, does not appear to number herself among them,’ said Lord Maundevyle. ‘Mother, you cannot have condoned this.’

  ‘I am afraid it was all my idea,’ said the dowager. ‘Do not blame Clarissa, Henry.’

  Unable, or unwilling, to take his mother to task in front of a guest, Lord Maundevyle subsided into glowering silence.

  Gussie’s attention being at that moment distracted, she missed whatever passed next among the Selwyns. A flicker of movement attracted her notice, much as she had thought she’d seen upon the journey: a fleeting, whisking movement, and perhaps an unusual depth of shadow in a corner of the ceiling. A glimpse, even, of granite?

  Did she deceive herself?

  Nothing more occurred, and she returned her attention to the dowager. ‘Why, ma’am?’ she said, interrupting Charles in the middle of some drawling speech.

  The dowager blinked, her mouth slightly open. ‘Why?’ she repeated. ‘Why what, Miss Werth?’

  ‘Why was I brought here? Neither Miss Selwyn nor Mr. Selwyn has seen fit to explain it to me, and I do believe myself entitled to an answer.’

  The dowager looked at Clarissa, then at Charles, the latter of whom shrugged.

  Some silent communication passed between the group of them, but Gussie could not read it.

  Then Clarissa said, in a whisper meant to be beneath Gussie’s comprehension: ‘She does not appear to know, Mama.’

  The dowager reeled back, as if struck a physical blow by surprise. She said nothing more for a moment, but her eyes widened, and then narrowed, as she visibly thought something through.

  ‘And nothing… happened, upon the journey?’ she said. ‘Nothing — untoward?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever, Mama, as you see.’ Did Gussie imagine it, or was Clarissa’s tone one of disappointment?

  The dowager’s smile returned, if a forced one. ‘Ring the bell for tea, Clarissa,’ she said. ‘You must all be parched with thirst, after your journey.’

  The conversation following being little to the purpose, Gussie finally left the dowager’s presence burdened with a renewed sense of frustration. Whatever her aunt had been so reluctant to tell her was known to the dowager and her children, and yet still eluded Gussie.

  Having successfully requested letter-paper and a pen from her hosts, Gussie returned at once into her own rooms, and sat down to write to her aunt. In her letter, she outlined the whole, strange sequence of events that had led to her taking up her abode at Starminster, knowing that in so doing she would be contradicting whatever had been the contents of the fake letter sent in her name.

  I trust you are will not be too angry with me, Aunt, she continued. Though I had, I own, considered defying your authority, I had not finally resolved upon doing so. In fact, that choice was imposed upon me.

  I now find myself in a situation of some difficulty. I cannot but be perfectly aware that there is some mystery surrounding myself, the solution to which is most likely known to you. Also, it appears, to the Selwyns; and whatever it is must be of great interest to them. They want something from me, and I cannot doubt that you know exactly what it is.

  I cannot know your reasons for keeping this secret from me, but I must beg you to share it now. One way or another, Aunt, I will get to the bottom of this. If that means I remain at Starminster until the matter becomes clear, so be it. But I had far rather hear it from you.

  I remain, your affectionate niece, etc,

  G. Werth

  PS: If Great-Uncle Silvester is discovered to be missing from his customary perch, you may rest assured that all is well, for he is (I think?) with me.

  This letter she placed into Lord Maundevyle’s hands, in the hope that he might be prevailed upon to send it. She encountered him on his way out into the park; destined for one of his long walks, she supposed, for he had donned a wide-brimmed hat to keep off the sun, and a lively hound frisked about his ankles.

  ‘May I rely upon you to serve me in this errand?’ said Gussie, having explained her request. ‘For my aunt and uncle have been deceived, and they must not be longer left in ignorance of the true circumstances of my absence.’

  Lord Maundevyle bowed. ‘It shall be as you say,’ he promised. ‘I shall see that it goes to the post without delay.’

  With this Gussie
had to be satisfied. Seemingly indisposed for further conversation, his lordship made his polite excuses, and left. The dowager having retained her state in her receiving-room, and Charles and Clarissa being departed to unknown parts upon mysterious errands of their own, Gussie considered herself fully at her own disposal.

  She instantly resolved upon making free with the contents of so fine a house, by conducting an exhaustive exploration of it. Who knew but that somewhere in the building, there may not be some clue to be gleaned as to the mystery that so weighed upon her?

  Off she set at once, and spent a happy hour in rambling up and down stairs, through galleries and salons, drawing-rooms and libraries. Unmitigated opulence met her eye everywhere she stepped: marble and gilt, velvet and silk, mahogany and jewels, there seemed no end to the perfections and delights that only great wealth could bring. Gussie might have imagined herself cowed by such majesty and splendour, or likely to be so, for the contrast could hardly be the greater, between her own ordinary self and the extravagance of Starminster. Such a person might feel herself diminished to nothing amidst such an array. Gussie found herself quite equal to it, however, and even forgot her quest, for some little time, in her frank curiosity about everything she saw, and the composition of a few amusing daydreams, in which she was not merely a poor scion of a grand family, but a great lady in her own right, walking through luxuries of her own possession.

  She was adrift somewhere upon the upper floors, her legs growing weary from so much upping-and-downing of stairs, and beginning to think of returning below, when a pronounced scraping sound interrupted all thought of refreshment, and caused her to look sharply up. She knew that sound: it was the grinding, unpleasant scrape of rough granite against some solid surface.

  Halfway down a wide passage was she, passing yet another long window framed in silken drapes, the ancient wooden floors creaking under her feet. Ahead of her, something swooped and dived, wings akimbo, and there she beheld the coarse, grey form of Great-Uncle Silvester.

  ‘Uncle!’ she cried, delighted and relieved. ‘I thought I had seen you before now, but I could not be sure.’

  ‘Hush,’ said the gargoyle, the one, gravelly word all he seemed inclined to utter for the present, for he perched but briefly atop the nearest doorframe, and then took off again. Gussie interpreted his movements as an invitation to follow, and did so with alacrity, trotting eagerly in his wake through a series of passages and rooms she had not yet explored. A final corner was turned, and in stepping through another door Gussie beheld a long gallery, the ceiling rising to great heights above. Polished floorboards bore a set of carpet runners unspooled all the long way down the room, and wherever the walls were not lit with windows, there hung paintings. So closely crowded were they, and in so great a quantity, that little of the figured wallpaper behind them could be discerned.

  This, it appeared, was what Great-Uncle Silvester wanted her to see, for he flew straight up towards the ceiling, and took up a perch at the top of the doorframe. Gussie turned, saw him hunched over her head in his customary crouched posture, his large ears twitching but his ugly face otherwise stone-still.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle,’ she said.

  One long, stone ear quivered.

  Gussie returned her attention to the gallery, and began a slow perusal of the portraits upon the left-hand wall. These were the oldest that the family possessed, she judged, for they were age-begrimed, and hung in heavy, carved wooden frames that could only belong to a bygone era. Immediately her attention was arrested for, having passed two unremarkable paintings of long-dead ladies in elaborate headdresses, the third stopped the breath in her throat, and held her motionless in shock.

  Whether the gentleman depicted there was the first Lord Maundevyle was not indicated, but Gussie guessed that it must be so, for he had all the arrogance of an aristocrat, and his attire was so replete with velvets and jewels as to indicate that the Selwyn wealth was of no recent date. What interested her far more than any of these things, however, was the fact that this early Lord Maundevyle was unmistakeably Wyrded.

  It was his eyes that first gave her the clue, for they were too pale, and as hard as ice. His complexion, too, was bloodless and pale; he looked, she thought, as though he might be quite dead, only that he bore too much animation of expression for that to be possible. She could not tell from the portrait what manner of Wyrde he possessed, but that he was no mere ordinary mortal was apparent enough.

  Gussie passed on to the next portrait, and the next. Not every painting showed a Wyrded Selwyn, but many did. She saw a lady in red velvet, a multitude of birds nesting among her garments and in her hair; another lady in a great ruff of a collar, a living flame erupting from her raised palm; a gentleman who might, she thought, share the same Wyrde as Theo, judging from the prominent fangs revealed by his rather sinister smile. One Selwyn ancestor had a head full of snakes, like Lizzie; another had the claws of some great beast, and the teeth to match, and looked caught in the process of some transformation.

  Gussie walked on and on, until she had reached the end of one wall, and begun upon the next. The same array greeted her wondering eyes, the portraits becoming more recent as she progressed. And, she realised, more unobjectionable, for by the time her weary feet brought her near to the entrance once more, and the Selwyns depicted displayed the fashions of only the preceding century, the signs of the Wyrde faded. The last portraits were of the Dowager Viscountess and Lord Maundevyle himself; like the four portraits immediately previous, they bore no signs of Wyrde whatsoever. These pictures might take up their place in any great house in the country without occasioning any comment, even those who detested and feared the Wyrde.

  Paused in thought, Gussie let her eyes wander, half-seeing, over Lord Maundevyle’s composed features. He, then, was just a man, as had his father been before him.

  The Selwyn family, the Lords Maundevyle, had once been as liberally touched by the Wyrde as the Werths. But something had changed, and they were not now.

  That explained Lady Maundevyle’s close friendship with her aunt, to a degree: with such ancestry, her ladyship could never have been among those who scorned acquaintance with so peculiar a family. But it explained little else.

  Was it that they welcomed the change in their lineage, preferring their unWyrded status? Might that be the reason why they had so singled out Gussie, when they might have had any number of Wyrded Werths to stay?

  But, no. The explanation was insufficient, for why had they invited any Werth to Starminster at all? What advantage did they expect to derive from having done so?

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Well found, Uncle Silvester,’ said Gussie. ‘Though I confess myself unable to understand the import of all this, just yet.’

  The grinding rasp of stone against stone answered her. The gargoyle rumbled, from some undetectable spot in the gallery: ‘Little Bella Selwyn. Charming girl. Turned into stone when she was vexed, but I always thought that rather an advantage to George.’

  Gussie searched the ceiling for some sign of her great-uncle, but found none. ‘I do not understand your meaning, Uncle,’ she said. Silvester was not much given to coherence, it was true, but such a pronouncement defied all comprehension. ‘Who is Bella Selwyn?’

  A shadow shifted on the far side of the gallery. Gussie saw a dark, whip of a tail hanging down in a curl, partly obscuring the tall hair worn by a grand lady in a portrait there. She approached, and beheld again a picture she had only briefly glanced at before: a lady long dead, having lived rather more than a century before. She had a lively expression and a great many jewels, and her eyes looked shaped from sapphires. ‘Is this Bella?’

  Great-Uncle Silvester, crouched atop the frame like a pint-sized curse, swished his tail. He did not answer in words, but Gussie took this for assent.

  ‘And who is George, if you please?’

  ‘Used to put frogs in my boots,’ ground out Silvester. This memory did not please him, for his claws tightened upon the frame,
and the wood groaned in protest.

  ‘That sounds like something a mere child would— oh!’ Gussie saw it in a flash. ‘You grew up with George, did you? Why, then he must have been your brother. And if Miss Selwyn’s proclivities had the power to affect him in particular, why then, there must have been some enduring connection between the two. They were married, were they?’

  Great-Uncle Silvester’s granite tail swished, swished.

  ‘So the Werths and the Selwyns have some long-ago connection,’ Gussie said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose they must have, if both families were among the more Wyrded in the land. Such an alliance must have been reckoned as sound good sense.’

  A horrible thought then occurred to her. Was she, Gussie Werth, invited here because Lady Maundevyle sought to renew this age-old family connection? Was she chosen for being unwed, and intended to pledge herself to one of the Selwyn sons?

  Hideous thought! For Henry was cold, and Charles cruel, and while Clarissa could be engaging, Gussie did not relish the thought of a madwoman for a sister-in-law. All the innocent pleasure she had taken in her daydreams of an hour or so before now returned to reproach her. Delightful and splendid the house may be, but she did not in the smallest degree wish to possess it on such terms as that! Or any terms at all. She missed her cottage, and Miss Frostell, with a sudden fierceness, and experienced a moment’s regret at being lured beyond the doorstep at all.

  But, no. She had wanted to travel beyond Werth Towers, and now she had; and what did it signify, if the experience brought its own dangers? She was equal to any matchmaking scheme of Lady Maundevyle’s.

  Gussie drew herself up, lifted her chin, and swept towards the gallery’s doors. ‘Thank you, Great-Uncle,’ she called back — and a moment later regretted it, for standing just beyond the door’s frame, on the point of entering the room, was Lord Maundevyle.