The Silver Swan (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 2)

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Did he have power?’

  ‘No, he was a wit and a courtier to Queen Elizabeth. Though I have heard it said that he was besieged at Calais and fought bravely for Queen Mary belying his foolish manner.’

  ‘I was born in Calais,’ said Matthew softly.

  ‘Yes, I know. An ancestor of Melior Mary’s also fought in the citadel when it went under siege. That was Henry Weston. Perhaps all our forebears were acquainted one with the other.’

  ‘If they were I shall never know of it for I believe myself to be a bastard. I only have the name Banister by courtesy of the family who raised me.’

  ‘Perhaps your awakening perception will help you. Perhaps you will one day know the truth.’

  ‘I hope so — and yet I dread it. I have the feeling that if ever I do learn, it will not be what I want to hear.’

  Sibella turned back to look at him.

  ‘I think that you are destined for God, Hyacinth.’

  ‘What do you mean? That I am going to die?’

  ‘We are all going to do that. No, I meant to study closely the true meaning of things.’

  In the dim light of the stable they stared at one another, Hyacinth’s hair a glowing ember in a shaft of the dying sun.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he said.

  ‘No. I have often asked but for some reason the answer is never given. You are a man of mystery.’

  Hyacinth looked at her closely.

  ‘Do you love Joseph Gage?’

  ‘I always did. And yet I love you. But you know that.’

  He nodded his head.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have no explanation for it. I would follow you to the end of the earth if you called. How else can I describe it? It is like two souls living in one body.’

  ‘Exactly,’ He turned away abruptly. ‘It tortures me constantly because of Melior Mary.’

  Thinking of the reflection in the blinker he added very suddenly, ‘But, when you are married we must not cross each other’s path. You must keep to your own life, Sibella, and I must keep to mine. If this strange affinity is not broken there is danger for all of us.’

  ‘For Joseph and Melior Mary as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She took two paces towards him.

  ‘Will you kiss me?’

  And how well-known was the feel of her body in his arms, the brushing of that gold-pink head against his shoulder, her lips upon his neck. He had kissed her once before and felt their souls unify. Now he kissed her to break the enchantment. Whatever it was that plighted them one to the other must be shattered into a million fragments.

  He pushed her away abruptly, the jaw and mouth that were so at odds with his gentle beauty suddenly hard.

  ‘Go to your wedding, Sibella. Too much is at stake here.’

  She straightened herself, the clear eyes losing their faraway expression.

  ‘I pray that no ancient magic will threaten us,’ she said. ‘It must first overcome me,’ he answered grimly.

  *

  Sutton Place was alive with the sound of bells as peal upon peal from the Church of Holy Trinity, Guildford, told all the county of Surrey that, following ancient tradition, a bride was to go from the great house that day. And, just as two hundred years before when Ann Pickering — known as Rose — had married the son of the house, the mansion had been bustling since long before dawn as the Great Hall was once again bedecked with all the flowers that the June garden could provide. Roses tumbled upon garlands of gillyflower, jasmines scented the air; the subtle blue of forget-me-nots wove amongst silver-grey lavender and the rare and exquisite morning glory had opened its bells in an indoor arbour created by the head gardener.

  In the kitchen, as always with a family wedding, the cooks had worked all night and the great cake, iced and shaped — by the clever use of wired and cascading crystal beads — into the appearance of a tiered fountain, rested on its own table covered with gauze clothes. At the last moment, just before it would be carried in at the end of the feast known as the wedding breakfast, the chief cook would spray sparkling wine onto the baubles to heighten the effect.

  The musicians’ galleries had been cleaned and now, even though it was still an hour before dawn, the players were getting their instruments and music stands into place. Gone the sackbuts and crumhorns of two hundred years ago and in their place French horns, German flutes and English trumpets, mingling with viols, basses and a harpsichord. The sheet music of Mr Handel’s Water Music was being put on the stands. Mr Joseph Gage, the bridegroom, had apparently attended the famous Water Music party the year before when George I and his Court had taken to the Thames in a flotilla of sound, and the exquisite notes had drifted into the night sky until dawn streaked the river. So impressed had he been with the glory of the evening that now he had requested the music especially for his wedding day.

  In the upper apartments the serving maids worked on the dresses of the ladies of the house; frill upon frill, flounce upon flounce, painstakingly pressed by a chain of stove-warmed irons brought up from the kitchens wrapped in thick cloths to keep the heat in. In pride of place hung the bride’s gown — lace from Valenciennes formed the rhinestone embroidered petticoats, while the gown itself swept to the floor in a swathe of rustling white satin. Beside it hung the embroidered veil brought into the family by Dorothy Arundel — kinswoman of the Duke of Norfolk and wife of Henry Weston — and worn by the brides of the house ever since. And to crown all was a sparkling diadem that had once adorned the head of a Hungarian Princess. Unable to buy the jewels of Poland Joseph had settled for another ancient symbol of wealth and power. To match it were a necklace and ear droplets that flashed out their splendour even in the pale morning sun.

  And, as dawn rose over the mansion house, the army of gardeners and boys sallied forth to sweep the upper drive and the quadrangle to make all clean for the troop of carriages that would come from every part of the county, and even from London itself, as the most brilliant wits of the day rubbed shoulders with squires and country-folk, all in order to celebrate the marriage of the great rake Joseph Gage and John Weston’s ward, Sibella.

  And in like manner the stables and the coach house shone and the horses and carriages gleamed, that they may not be dull in comparison with the equipage and steeds of the visitors. Overseeing this was Matthew Banister. He stood among the shining coachwork, his spectacles magnifying his eyes to a blue haze, as he sought for an offending speck of dust, a mane not perfectly brushed, a piece of straw out of place. He had come from Calais in mystery to an English manor house that had taken over his life; he had found love and pain, beauty and despair, and with the ancient knowledge that was growing inside him he knew that somewhere in Sutton Place lay the answer to everything. The key to his destiny was enclosed within its walls.

  At exactly ten o’clock the major domo, resplendent in his scarlet livery, threw open the Middle Enter and at that signal the carriage that was to take the bridegroom to church drew up outside. The private chapel at Sutton Place had fallen into disuse at the time of the persecution of papists and, though mass was still celebrated within its walls, so great a crowd as would attend must go to church like countryfolk if they were to see the couple wed.

  Standing waiting for his master, wearing golden robes and a turban in which flashed an emerald the size of a humming bird, was Sootface. And as Joseph appeared in the great doorway — the doorway that had seen the arrival of Ann Pickering as a bride, had welcomed in Elizabeth, the queenly daughter of Henry Tudor and Anne Boleyn, had marked the passing of Sir Richard Weston’s body to Holy Trinity — the destination of the wedding party at this moment — the mighty black man did something that he had not done since Joseph had found him as a beggar-child in London. He bowed before his master and, as Joseph gave him his hand to help him into the carriage, the Negro kissed the bejewelled fingers and said, ‘Till the end of my life.’ And then he was up onto the coachman’s seat with the two little flunkeys jumping up behind. Inside the h
ouse the musicians struck up the grand overture of the Water Music and with a crack of the whip Joseph was off.

  And after him went the carriage carrying the family until nobody was left except John Weston and Sibella. Standing at the bottom of the West Staircase and looking up to where she descended, her servants holding her hooped skirt on either side to make her passage easier, John sensed somebody watching them both from the shadows. For a moment he did not recognize Hyacinth for he had changed from his work clothes into a fine suit of velvet and his thick curled hair, though not bewigged, was tied back with ribbon.

  ‘Matthew!’ he said.

  But Hyacinth did not hear him. He was gazing up the stairs at Sibella with a look that struck John to the soul. For everything of tenderness, of kindness and of cherishing was written on his face. That the young man loved his ward John had no doubt for the pride of a father, the companionship of a brother and the obedience of a son were also in that long all-embracing stare.

  And then as the bride of Sutton Place reached the bottom stair Hyacinth stepped forward. From behind his back he took a sweet-smelling bunch of morning roses, scattering them beneath her feet all the way to the Middle Enter that she might leave the house on a carpet of flowers. She said nothing, putting her hand into John’s as if she were still the child who had first come to them in poverty. But in the doorway she stopped and turned back to Hyacinth.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  And then she stepped into the bridal coach, her flowing train of satin helped in by her servants. Hyacinth made no reply as he got into the small carriage behind hers and sat down opposite John. And the Lord of the Manor obviously had no wish to speak for he immediately called out a command and, simultaneously, the two coachmen cracked the reins over the horses’ backs and the little cavalcade went off at a trotting pace down the drive, out through the great gates and away to Guildford in the sunshine of that sun-filled June morning.

  And at the church what merriment, as the bride’s carriage and that of John Weston were brought to a halt in the town by the large crowd. For every worker — man, woman, child and infant — that lived on the estate had joined in a great procession numbering over eighty couples, all hand in hand and all wearing blue cockades to mark the occasion. In front of them, half dancing as they went, proceeded three fiddlers and a bagpipe player, scraping and blowing with all their might. And this, added to the cheers of the entire population of Guildford turned out to watch, practically drowned the merry carillon of marriage bells that rang out from the steeple of Holy Trinity.

  Women in the crowd pressed forward to see the bride, men shouted congratulations for the sake of hearing their voices, children shrieked as they were pushed to one side. A fist flew somewhere and there was a scream as a hand cart bearing fish was turned over. John leaned out of his carriage window and used his walking cane on the shoulders of those pressed closest. Abuse was hurled and whips cracked in the air but finally they moved on and with the sound of the organ swelling out to greet her, Sibella alighted.

  Pushing and shoving the estate workers heaved their way into the church where they stood, hats in hands and feet shuffling, at the back of the pews behind the grand assembly of London socialites who sat — powdered, patched and heavily perfumed — chattering like magpies and irreverently unaware of their solemn surroundings. And yet in all that glittering assembly there was one face above all others that stood out in beauty. In a dress the colour of damask rose and a hat of tumbling ostrich feathers, Melior Mary awaited the arrival of her adopted sister. And who could tell what emotions beset her as her black-lashed eyes searched the congregation for Brother Hyacinth who lingered a moment before he, too, swept off his hat and walked into the shadowy and history-filled atmosphere of Holy Trinity.

  But there was no time to look at him for an unspoken murmur was going through the congregation. Joseph Gage had risen and, flouting convention, had turned to face the church door. As he lifted his gold-handled lorgnette to his eyes the diamonds on his hands were only equalled by those that blazed from the throat of Sibella Hart as she walked along towards him.

  In the sudden silence only the thin voice of the old cleric piping the opening words of the ceremony could be heard and, as the couple knelt before him and in God’s sight were joined to one another for the rest of their lives on earth, the tears of Matthew Banister passed unnoticed amongst all the others that were shed that day.

  10

  As the graceful trading ship, with the coat of arms of the house of Gage fluttering at its masthead, slipped from its moorings at Dover a skittish wind billowed all the sails so that she took to the water like a swan. And, standing on the deck and looking up to where the white canvas stretched joyously towards the morning sun, Sibella laughed and clapped her hands. She was a woman and a child in one, her eyes bright with excitement, her mouth sensuous with the love it had already experienced at the hands of her bridegroom. And he, exquisite as ever in a rose-lined purple cloak, laughed with her, seeing everything afresh through her eyes.

  For, for all his rakehell reputation and mad wild ways, he loved her even more than before. That there would ever be a Mrs Joseph Gage, London society had thought unlikely, but that she should be an unknown sixteen-year-old girl from a remote estate in Surrey, they would have deemed impossible. Yet Joseph cared nothing for their opinion. He knew where his heart lay and as far as he was concerned if she had been a street urchin he would have done the same thing.

  Softly he said, ‘Sibella, know that I will do my best for you.’

  ‘You already have.’

  And she turned in the sunshine so that part of his wedding gift to her — a great glittering zircon from Siberia set in a nest of pearls, a ruby ring from India clasped by claws of gold and emerald earrings from Turkey hung about with diamonds — flashed magnificently.

  ‘My dear, bedecking you with jewels is not enough. That merely satisfies the whim of a wealthy man. No, I meant that I will serve you as a person.’

  His green eyes had lost the languid air which usually disguised what he thought and shone at her like the gems he had bestowed.

  ‘Sibella, do you love me? For I was determined to have you though the world go to Hell in a casket.’

  For answer she slipped her arms round his waist, feeling the embroidered brocade of his waistcoat scratch against her skin. With her cheek against his chest she answered, ‘I would like to stay forever like this, protected and safe from everybody.’

  The expression on Joseph’s face was unreadable as he said, ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I am sometimes afraid of the future.’

  ‘Because of the second sight you claim to have?’

  ‘I do have that gift, Joseph! It has always been there.’

  His smile seemed cynical as he held her away from him looking with scrutiny into her face, but saying lightly, ‘So what are my prospects? Tell me that?’

  For answer she snatched up his two hands and turned them, palms uppermost, towards her. Then, just as suddenly, she released them and went once more to the ship’s rail where she stood, her lips trembling, gazing out to sea.

  ‘Well? What did you see?’

  ‘I saw great sadness, Joseph. I saw you frightened and alone.’

  She had buried her head in her arms so that she never saw the resolve that crossed the face of that supposedly most languid of gentlemen, Joseph Gage.

  ‘Then your gift is at fault, my darling, for you are seeing my past.’

  ‘Your past?’

  ‘Yes. For though I may have seemed to the world the happiest of men, blessed with a great fortune and freedom to spend it as I chose, in fact I was afraid and lonely. A man will squander his youth on wine and doxies and think nothing of it. But when he passes a certain point that is not enough.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because no-one wishes to die alone, Sibella. Every mortal creature must have a companion for those last declining years.’

  ‘But you are not declining. Why, you’re not
yet thirty-four!’

  ‘Exactly the time when one tires of games and gaming and looks to leave an imprint of oneself behind.’

  ‘You mean a child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes were warm again and he pulled her to him, putting one hand on her waist and with the other caressing the tumbling rosy hair that fell to her shoulders in disordered curls.

  ‘Will you give me a son, Sibella?’

  He bent to kiss her and as he did so the ocean breeze caught his purple cloak, whipping it out behind him so that he looked a fairy tale prince stepped straight from the rainbow. But the embrace was mortal enough, his lips warm on hers, his hands slipping over the curve of her breasts. As they turned towards the beautiful cabin which Joseph had furnished as finely as any bedroom in his London house, he held her lovingly under the chin looking deep into those light translucent eyes.

  ‘I’ll have no more of your mysteries,’ he said. ‘It is sometimes better not to know too much. Have faith in me, my sweetheart, and seek not to examine that which is to come.’

  Sibella was glad to snuggle against him like a daughter and feel safe from all dangers whether they be those of the known universe — or something a little more intangible.

  *

  On the day that Joseph and Sibella sailed for France, Melior Mary rose an hour before dawn and dressed herself in a riding habit of gun-metal taffeta. On her head she put a fine plumed hat and then, drawing on her gloves and picking up her riding crop, she left Sutton Place by a small, quiet side door that brought her out almost opposite the stables. In the darkness she crossed the cobbles swiftly, and noiselessly lifted the big wooden latch on the heavy door. Immediately the smell of hay and horsehair, the jingle of harness and the restless clip of hooves as the occupants moved in their enclosures, told her in the blackness that she was at her destination. And, reaching down with hands that had repeated the action many times, she lit the lantern that she knew always stood just within.

  In the soft orange glow the outline of the stalls and the rumps of the pride of John Weston’s equine collection were suddenly visible and Fiddle — used to this ritual over months — let out a whinnying sound. Rather guiltily, for she knew that Hyacinth slept in the rooms above, Melior Mary went to fetch her horse’s saddle. It was not that she did not love Matthew Banister that she chose to ride alone. But the fact remained that somewhere within her was an urge for certain solitary hours during the day and past experience had taught her to rise while Sutton Place slept.