by Anya Seton
Richard’s answering laugh held a shade of constraint. “In general, no. But I’ve played polo at Cowdray, and it is referred to in the Marsdon Chronicle. I was curious.”
She felt a quiver of delight. After a rootless girlhood, what joy it was to belong to an ancient established family, though this consideration had never occurred to her until after their precipitate marriage; nor had she grown accustomed to being a baronet’s Lady; an elevation brought about some weeks ago when old Sir Charles finally died in a nursing home. Before her marriage she had not even been sure what a baronet was.
“There are the ruins of Cowdray Castle,” observed Richard. “I think we’ve time for a quick look.”
They turned left through a gate and down an avenue of horse chestnuts towards the fire-gutted shell of a Tudor castle. They passed a fourteenth-century granary, mounted high on toadstool legs to discourage rats; past a row of cottages where yellow light shone through small windows, to the entrance of the ruin.
“It’s getting too dark for seeing much, but do you want to have a look? We’ve got a torch.” Richard stopped the car.
Celia followed her husband into shadowy roofless rooms. Floorless, too, and they groped their way over lumpy grass.
“The chapel was here to the right, as I remember,” said Richard, leading her by the hand. “And here, the remnants of the Great Hall. Mind the fallen stones!”
She stepped over a threshold and stood in the ruined Hall looking up at a huge stone window of sixty lights—but the glass had long ago vanished.
Her hand clutched Richard’s. “I feel sort of queer,” she said, “as though I’d been here before. Is that the minstrels’ gallery up there? And see those wooden stags—bucks, I mean—high on the walls?”
He did not answer as he shifted the flashlight beam hastily. There were no figures now on the ruined walls, but during a previous visit the caretaker had told him that this used to be called the Great Buck Hall, from the eleven statues of bucks representing Sir Anthony Browne’s crest.
Richard spoke reprovingly from the darkness. “One gets queer feelings from old places. Strong vibrations of the past, or I suppose your mother would say that you had been here before, in another life. Actually, the psychologists explain it as déjà vu, the illusion of having already experienced something.”
She was not listening. “I’ve been here before,” she repeated, in a dreamy voice. “The Hall is crowded with people dressed in silks and velvets. There’s music from viols and lutes. The smell of flowers, thyme and new green rushes. We are waiting for someone, waiting for the young King.”
“You’re too suggestible, Celia,” he said, shaking her arm. “And you devour too many historical romances. Come along, the Holloways will be wondering.”
“I’m very unhappy because you aren’t here,” said Celia unhearing. “You’re nearby, in hiding. I’m afraid for you.”
Richard made a sharp sound. “Come along!” he cried. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you!” He dragged her from the castle and out to the car. At once the impression of a dream which was not a dream evaporated. She felt dazed and a little foolish. She settled on the front seat and fished a cigarette out of her handbag.
“That was funny,” she said laughing shakily. “For a moment in there I felt . . .”
“Never mind,” he snapped. “Forget it!”
She was puzzled, a trifle hurt by his vehemence, which was almost like fear. The odd experience seemed important to her, though she scarcely remembered what she had said.
They entered Midhurst through winding shop-lined streets, crossed the market square, and parked in the courtyard of the Spread Eagle Inn. Celia was interested in the polished black-oak staircase, the passage with a man-sized armored knight standing near an entrance; but as she entered the low-beamed bar and greeted the Holloways, she was again conscious of something. A twitch, a prick of awareness. Nothing as marked as her feelings in the Cowdray ruins, yet she had to give it momentary attention before shaking hands with John and Bertha Holloway.
“Frightfully sorry we kept you waiting,” said Richard. “We stopped at Cowdray to show Celia the ruins. She doesn’t know this part of Sussex, of course.”
I feel as though I do, Celia thought, knowing that even that trite remark would mysteriously annoy Richard.
“Oh, my dear Lady Marsdon,” cried Bertha Holloway, her plump, earnest face beaming, “John and I have been so eager to meet you. I can’t tell you how startled we were when we heard that Sir Richard had married an American.” She gulped, apparently feeling that this remark needed amending. “I mean . . .” she pushed back a straggling strand of mousy hair—“I mean, not so surprising that he married an American, lots of people do, but that he married at all, he always seemed a confirmed bachelor, though that’s silly since he’s still quite young, but so many girls have tried . . .”
Her husband removed his pipe from his mouth, put down his Scotch, and said, “Bertha . . .” in a tired voice.
She flushed and subsided, her pink silk bosom heaving. John had told her not to talk too much. Not in any way to put her foot in it. Now that Sir Richard had a rich American wife he was gradually buying back the heirlooms old Sir Charles had been forced to sell.
John Holloway was a prosperous antique dealer who had, over the years, acquired several of the Marsdon treasures, and who had also been a friend of the late Baronet’s. In the Holloway showrooms on Church Street a splendid Elizabethan court cupboard from Medfield Place remained unsold. John had sent a tentative letter of inquiry; Sir Richard had replied, showing interest. A thumping big price might be got, particularly as an American museum was angling for the gorgeously carved piece.
John Holloway glanced at Celia, who was gulping her martini very fast and smiling absently as though she had not heard Bertha.
Somehow not the type one would expect Sir Richard to settle for, John thought. Rather plain little thing. Small and dark, nice eyes of a shining crystal gray, smart rose wool frock but no curves to fill it out. Good ankles, though, like most American women, yet nothing striking or impressive. Of course, there was the money. John shook his head imperceptibly; his business had made him an excellent judge of character, and he knew that Richard was no fortune hunter.
Marriages were ever inexplicable. His sharp gaze rested a moment on his wife, who had recovered and was chattering away about church bazaars, garden clubs and the Woman’s Institute to a vaguely attentive Celia.
“Another round before we feed?” John asked Richard, who shook his head, smiling.
Celia started. “I’d like one,” she said in her low voice with its slight American tinge. “A real martini, plenty of gin. After all, it’s Hallowe’en, we ought to celebrate or something.”
Richard’s heavy black eyebrows rose a trifle as he laughed. “I assure you that this is unusual,” he said to the Holloways. “I’m not really wedded to a tosspot. This round’s mine, please.” He went to the bar, and presently returned with the drinks.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering dinner,” remarked John, who had not wanted another Scotch. “Dover sole and Aylesbury duckling. They do them rather well here. I hope that’s all right, Lady Marsdon?”
Celia jumped again, her gray eyes slowly focused on her host. “Oh, of course,” she said. “I simply adore . . . uh . . . sole and duck.” She drained her glass and lit another cigarette.
What’s the girl so nervy about? John thought. Have those two had a row? If so, the time was not auspicious for bargaining about the court cupboard. He prodded Bertha, who obediently rose. They all filed into the dining room where the Italian waiter bowed them to a table and produced a vintage Chablis.
Once out of the bar, Celia’s unease began to fade. She listened politely to Bertha’s breathless account of a committee on which she had served with Lady Cowdray; she listened to a general discussion of antiques between Richard and Mr. Holloway. Finally, during a lull, she remarked that Midhurst seemed a charming town, obviously of grea
t historical interest.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” agreed Bertha rather blankly. “I’m a Londoner, myself, but John knows all about the old days here. There’s a funny hill, just past the church—the locals think it’s haunted, and I admit I shouldn’t care to go up there myself on a dark night.”
“A funny haunted hill?” Celia asked. “That sounds exciting.”
Did she feel or imagine a sudden strangeness in Richard. Across the table he was skillfully dismembering his half duckling, but she thought that the long sensitive hands which she so loved grew tense. She ignored a faint interior warning and said, “Oh, do tell me about the haunted hill, Mrs. Holloway!”
Bertha nodded towards her husband. “John knows all that sort of thing. I’d get it muddled.”
Holloway smiled, pleased that his guest had come to life. “You Americans do love a ghost story, don’t you! As a matter of fact. St. Ann’s Hill has a rather peculiar atmosphere. I’ve trudged up and over it many times when I was a boy. The footpath’s a short cut from the town, down to the River Rother, and thus to Cowdray Castle.”
“Was there once a castle on that hill, too?” Celia asked involuntarily, still ignoring the prohibition which came partly from inside herself, partly from Richard who kept his intent gaze fixed on the duckling.
“Oh, yes,” answered Holloway, faintly surprised. “What a clever guess. Though I suppose there’s hardly a place in England which hasn’t seen human habitation. For centuries, until early Tudor times, an ancient family called the de Bohuns had a stronghold on ‘Tan’s Hill,’ nothing left now but rubble and bits of wall. And they say that long before the Romans came there was a Druid temple up there, too.”
“Fascinating,” said Celia, gulping down her Chablis. “And what about the ghost?”
John Holloway laughed. “Several have been reported by frightened kids and credulous old women. The most popular one is the ‘black monk.’ My great-aunt claimed that when she was a girl she saw the monk gliding down the hill into the town on a mid-summer’s eve.”
“Why black monk?” asked Celia, smiling.
Holloway shrugged. “The Benedictine habit, I suppose. There’s some theory that this ghost was once private chaplain at Cowdray, and got tangled up with a village wench. Sort of scandal folks love to hand down through generations.”
Richard pushed aside his knife and fork. He raised his head and said sharply, “England abounds in ghostly black monks and gray ladies. They come sixpence the dozen. Holloway—if I’m to examine the court cupboard, I think that after coffee we should go directly to your showroom.”
Celia lay quietly with eyes closed, in the lounge chair by the swimming pool at Medfield Place, forcing herself to remember what happened next, though it was painful.
I don’t know what came over me. I insisted on exploring St. Ann’s Hill then and there. The others didn’t want me to, but Mr. Holloway, in passing through the Market Square, pointed to where it was. I escaped from the showroom while Richard was inspecting the court cupboard. I ran down an alley, past the church, and slipped between the short poles that bar the way to cars. I climbed the muddy footpath, and mist swirled around me. I couldn’t see much except big dark trees high against the gloomy sky, yet I knew my way.
On top I turned right and clambered up a sharp rise. The holly pricked me, I was stung by nettles. I reached some moss-grown stones, and knew they had been part of a wall. Something stopped me from climbing over the stones. I couldn’t. I was frightened yet excited. Then beyond, inside the wall, I saw a wavering yellow light, like a lantern. A tall dark shape stood by the lantern. I cried out to the shape with wild longing. But, it disappeared. I began to cry, and floundered back down the hill. I must have run to the Spread Eagle, for there the others found me in the bar. I was still crying by the great fireplace when Richard and the Holloways rushed in. They had been looking everywhere for me. The Holloways laughed uncomfortably as I stammered out what I’d done.
Richard said nothing, but his face went grim and his eyes blazed with anger I had never seen before, or guessed possible. He bundled me into the car. He said cruel things to me on the way home. That I was drunk, that I was hysterical. That I had seen nothing on the hill. And that night he did not sleep with me.
Her heart gave a physical lurch and her mouth went dry. Dear God, it’s been seven months of excuses. He said he had a back pain, a slipped disc. He said he was going to an osteopath, but wouldn’t answer my questions. Lately, I’ve no longer dared ask. He moved to the dressing room. We’ve never mentioned Midhurst, yet the night before we had known such bliss in each other.
She opened her eyes at a stirring by the poolside, and saw that Dodge, the butler, was approaching from the garden door of the manor house. Dodge bore a tray of whiskies, pink gins and sherries. He was large, pompous, very correct. Exactly the kind of butler they kept saying here in England that one couldn’t find any more. But one could. With American dollars. One could find an adequate staff even to run a lovely but inconvenient house in the country. There was Mrs. Dodge for cook. There was a housemaid and daily help from the village. If necessary, and it had not been yet, there was Richard’s old nanny, who inhabited the empty nurseries.
I should have got pregnant right away when Richard wanted me to, Celia thought, and felt a clutch of confused panic. She had been afraid of pregnancy.
“What’s the trouble, Lady Marsdon?” asked a fluting, faintly malicious voice beside her.
Celia started and turned her head. It was Igor, the new dress designer all London was flocking to. He was a beautiful young man with a helmet of golden hair. There was a faint trace of cockney in his voice.
Igor, thought Celia, thankfully reverting to banality—probably something like Ernie or Bert to begin with. Oh, well.
“No trouble,” she said lightly. “Have you gone all ESP and fey? I’m sleepy from the swim is all.”
“You know, I do feel things,” said Igor, calmly sitting down on another chair and sipping a pink gin. “I’m sensitive to mood, and when I see my charming hostess looking absolutely dire—like Melpomone, the tragic muse, or whatever she was, or possibly Deirdre of the Sorrows . . .”
“How frightfully intellectual you’re getting,” snapped Celia, her usual tolerant fondness for Igor suddenly cracking. “And you, darling, are the quite poisonous product of decadence, designing clothes for women to make them look hideous. Oh, quite subtly I grant you, but that purple tent you made for me—really, Igor, I’m not such a fool as you think.”
He rose gracefully and made her a little bow. “I’ll design you something which will utterly seduce Richard, I promise.” He spoke with sudden gentleness, almost sympathy.
She quivered inside. Her mouth tightened. “I think, Igor, that I’m in no need of your assistance in regard to Richard, and in the words of my rich American father—” she was interrupted by Dodge, who had come back to announce, “Luncheon is served, my lady.”
She bent and strapped on her sandals. Her indignation faded, and she felt beaten, helpless. What would Amos B. Taylor have said? The scarcely known father who made millions in synthetic textiles after the war, who had died of cancer seven years ago when she was sixteen—most probably he would have said, “Oh, talk to your mother, Baby. I wouldn’t know what advice to give a girl. Now if Lily and me’d had a son . . .”
He never realized how often he said that, nor how much it hurt her. Celia left Igor, and walking along the poolside marshaled her guests. “As you are,” she said. “In the garden room. Dodge simply won’t serve out here, it upsets his dignity.”
Myra laughed. “You’re learning fast, my sweet. I live in positive terror of my butler, and he isn’t nearly as formidable as Dodge!” The laugh displayed flashing white teeth, possibly false despite Myra’s comparative youth. People in England seemed to think nothing of false teeth, even when they got them from the National Health.
Celia smiled gently. Her American teeth were her own—small, pearly, and the product of expensive
years in braces. She noted that even as Myra spoke, the long green eyes turned again towards Richard.
You’ll get no place in that quarter, Myra dear, Celia thought. Nor will you—she glanced cynically at Igor, who was also staring at her husband. You don’t begin to understand Richard, nor do I, but I know that much. She swallowed hard against constriction in her throat. Like a lump of food which had stuck. Crazy, she said angrily to herself, and led the way to the garden room.
She paused at the foot of the long glass table to review the seating. There were places laid for ten, seven guests plus Lily and themselves. The usual number for a weekend party. Richard enjoyed hospitality and the use of his ancestral home which had been empty and decaying for so long.
On Richard’s right went Myra, of course; next to her, Igor; then Sue Blake, a dazzled, distant cousin from Kentucky. Sue was sixteen, she had long, taffy-colored hair, a piquant face devoid of make-up, and was inclined to bubble, either from nervousness or from genuine rapture at finding herself living “like a fairy tale,” as she kept saying. She came from a modest suburban home outside Louisville, and this was her first trip abroad.
Next to Sue, on Celia’s left she seated George Simpson. He was Richard’s London attorney, a small, middle-aged man with a squeaky voice which made everything he said slightly ridiculous. Between wrinkled lids his pale eyes shifted anxiously. His legal firm had served the Marsdons for three generations, but George Simpson had never before been invited as a house guest to Medfield Place.
Since Richard disliked London, and had a good deal of lingering business to attend to as a consequence of his father’s death, Celia had suggested that they ask Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. Richard—more flexible than his father—indifferently assented. “Though,” he had added, “I haven’t a clue what the wife’s like—I suppose Simpson has a wife. No matter, this weekend looks to be a mixed bag anyhow.”
Mixed enough, thought Celia, smiling at Lily and the Hindu doctor as she gestured them to their seats. Then, to balance off Myra there was the divorced Knight Sir Harry Jones, who had once been a Conservative M.P. for some place in Shropshire. He was handsome in a ruddy, jovial way and had a bold, admiring stare. Twenty-three years ago he had made a brilliant war record—Celia kept meaning to look him up in one of the stud books—but she was pleased, as were all hostesses, to have secured him as an extra man. He was in great demand. Myra’s presence had been the lure, though that he and Myra were lovers, as commonly reported, she felt to be unlikely. Myra treated Harry with light indifference. Just in case, however, Celia had allotted them adjoining guest rooms.
