by Deryn Lake
He put his finger to his lips.
‘It is not our wish that you speak of it again, ma’am. We all of us grow older from nine months before our birth. Age is of the heart. Some people are old when they are but five years; I have met them, tough little Highland children who are already small adults. Others, like a chieftain of ninety whom I also came across in the ’45, are sparkling with the joy and eagerness of true children. You are in this last category. Because of your beauty and your wit if you were twice my age, you would still be younger than I am.’
Prince Charming! Her heart was thudding with joy. What greater compliment could she have ever been paid?
‘Thank you, sir.’
She was at a total loss for words and lowered her eyes and gazed at the floor like a tongue-tied girl. And he, who had been taught the art of love by older women, read the signs aright and most cleverly changed the subject that she might regain control of herself — and be forever in his debt as a result.
‘Madam,’ he said briskly, ‘I am in England on the business of King James. There is a plot to bring down Hanover George.’
She looked up, startled. ‘There is to be another rising?’
‘In a way. Even as we speak Macondonald of Lochgary and Dr Archibald Cameron are in Scotland to raise the Highlanders.’
‘And will they march south?’
For a moment the Prince looked a trifle fox-like.
‘Er — no. They will be there as a back-up force, should it be needed.’
‘I am afraid I do not quite understand, Highness.’
He grinned, as cheerful as a boy again.
‘Oh tis a great scheme, ma’am. Alexander Murray — he is Lord Elibank’s brother — dreamed it up with me in Paris. He is to raise a company of one hundred loyal men in London. I am to lie low at Lady Primrose’s house in Essex Street and then, when the time is ripe, he will march into St James’s Palace and take the Hanoverians prisoners — and I will proclaim myself.’
Melior Mary stared at him incredulously.
‘And that is the entire plan?’
‘Yes. Do you not like it? Where is the flaw?’
A cloud had gone over his face, in fact he suddenly seemed fractionally cross. Melior Mary found it almost impossible to make an answer. She knew already that he would alter the rest of her life, even if he went from Sutton Place this very night, never to see her again. He had melted the frost that had possessed her, had rekindled the bright ember that had once been the reckless spirit of Melior Mary Weston.
‘Well, madam?’
‘Highness, is Lord Elibank sure of his ground? Can a hundred men be raised in the capital?’
He rose from his chair with an impatient movement and began pacing up and down, his full skirted coat swishing as he walked.
‘What! Are there not a hundred loyal hearts and true in the city that should be mine? Tis a poor day for the House of Stuart if that is the case.’
Melior Mary rose to her feet also.
‘Oh sir, there are! You know how well you are loved. It is only that I fear for you. The army are organized and true to George. I think your gallant band might be slaughtered and you along with them. Butcher Cumberland would sacrifice much to see you dead.’
The Prince stopped in his tracks and gave her a forceful stare.
‘Ah, Melior Mary,’ he said, ‘you don’t know what it is like to be in exile. You don’t know what it is to live every day with discontent eating at your heart and at your guts. I would say this to no other person alive but you — my father has lost heart. It is I who am Regent of England; it is 1 who risked my life to regain the throne; and now it is I who plot and scheme and bear depression’s cold hand when I am thwarted.’
She saw him finish his glass of wine in one swallow. It was a gesture typical of him. Drink fired him when action could not. It was a habit that would eventually bring the hero of the ’45 to ruin and despair. But now neither of them could envisage such a thing and she automatically poured out another glass.
‘My Prince,’ she said, ‘do you need funds? I know I can be of little help in this latest enterprise but your men will need paying, will they not?’
The large eyes twinkled a little ruefully.
‘Madam, have I ever not needed contributions to the royal exchequer? How tired you must be of it.’
For answer she snatched off the diamond necklace she wore and put it into his hands.
‘My ancestor, Sir Richard the agriculturalist, brought these into the family from Holland. I believe they once adorned a Queen. Now let them serve a Prince.’
He bent to kiss her fingers and when he looked up she saw that his eyes held that same lazy expression with which he had regarded her earlier.
‘Of all our subjects,’ he said, ‘I can truly say that you are the most beautiful and the most loyal. May I salute you with a Prince’s true kiss?’
The lashes swept down as he put one hand beneath her chin and drew her mouth to his. And as the warm sensual lips tasted hers he drew her into his arms. She knew then why women fell in love with him wherever he went; for he kissed her as if she was the most precious creature on the earth. He had in him the art of making a woman feel delicate, cherished, a thing of beauty and fragility.
And there was no hope for her. She who had been without love for so long was more vulnerable than most. The Queen of Ice was melted and banished as the moving lips brushed her neck like a butterfly.
‘Melior Mary Weston,’ he said quietly. ‘Tonight I must leave you, for there is much to do in London. But I shall think of you while we are apart. Will you wait for your Prince?’
‘Sutton Place and its owner are your servants,’ she said.
And it was only time and the breaking of the dawn that brought their conversation to a close. She walked to the Middle Enter with him — for she was determined that he should leave by the door through which so many of the Kings and Queens of England had trodden. Outside a wintry sun blazed over the glittering snow and there was a dark excitement about the land. The Prince of the House of Stuart was astride his black horse, furs wrapped about him, his eyes bright in that stirring daybreak.
‘I shall return — and soon,’ he said. ‘But even if I am delayed, remember me.’
And then with a wave of his hand he was gone, and she turned back into a sleeping Sutton Place and did something that she had not done since the day Matthew Banister had also ridden off into the harsh and remorseless light of morning. Standing in the engulfing embrace of her mansion house, she wept.
18
There could be no doubt that the ball at the London home of Lady Suffolk was a great success. The young Prince of Wales was there, masked and wearing pink clothes and a pearl embroidered waistcoat; Mr Pitt had been in, run a beady eye over the assembly, and gone again; the Duchess of Marlborough’s daughter had grown quite giddy through dancing and had been forced to sit out amongst the older ladies; and Miss Melior Mary Weston, looking as youthful as ever and clad in midnight blue and a mask of silver satin stood, surrounded by admirers, holding her own private court.
But, as far as the men were concerned, the height of elegance was achieved by two gentlemen who arrived late — though not late enough to cause embarrassment to their hostess — for they outshone all as to the manner of fashion. The old man, clad in deepest burgundy, wore thin shoes with pinchbeck heels and on his breast bore the twinkling order of a Grandee of Spain; while his son, tall and well-made and with a glimpse of dark-red curling hair beneath his wig, wore gold encrusted powder blue and covered his face with a mask sewn with brilliants. And when they saw Miss Weston it was as if she had met them before — or at least the elderly gentleman — for she embraced him and then stood, quite still and staring, at his masked son.
‘Garnet — at last!’ she was overheard to say.
And he replied, ‘Cousin Melior Mary! You are far more beautiful than I expected.’
And then the trio had become quiet and had just stood looking at one another as
old memories had been allowed to flow free, for Joseph was seventy-one now and Melior Mary fifty, while Garnet had recently celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday. Yet the great rake’s eyes were as bright and alert as they had been the first time he had seen Sibella, while his niece still held the secret of eternal youth. As for Garnet he was, without doubt, a remarkable man.
He stood taller and broader than Matthew Banister had been, harking back in looks to the Duke of Norfolk — the founder of the FitzHoward line — and also, though none of them knew this, to the soldier who had run away with Amelia FitzHoward and left her shamed and desperate. In the way of nose and mouth he had a strong look of Sibella, but the lustrous eyes and hair could leave no doubt at all as to whom his true father had been. It was almost painful to Melior Mary to see him, so much did he stir in her of old love and sadness. She wanted at once to embrace him and yet run away. But feeling her uncle’s eyes watching her sharply, she finally made a curtsey and said, ‘I hear you married Tamsin Missett’s daughter Sarah. I knew her — in a manner of speaking. Tamsin was with child when we took part in the Queen’s rescue — all those long years ago.’
Beneath his mask Garnet smiled.
‘Yes, my mother-in-law speaks of you still.’
‘She is alive?’
‘Yes, and Colonel Missett also.’
‘There is a great colony of us in Spain,’ said Joseph quietly, for even now it did not do to speak aloud of the old Jacobite days.
‘Sir Charles Wogan?’
‘Alive and merry. And I have three grandchildren, Melior Mary. The houses of Gage and Missett have been united forever.’
She looked just like a sad little girl as she said, ‘How much I would enjoy seeing them. I always wanted to have children, Garnet, but I decided — when I was young and prone to that sort of thing—’, she gave a humourless little laugh, ‘—never to marry unless it was to a man who would love Sutton Place as I did.’
Garnet said, ‘Sutton Place?’ and Melior Mary gazed at him aghast. It was incredible — but he did not know what she was talking about.
‘My home. My mansion house.’
Smooth as silk Joseph said, ‘I don’t think I have ever spoken of it to Garnet. It never really came into the conversation. You will think us most parochial.’
She wanted to say, ‘How could you? That was where his mother was brought up. But you hate the house and because of that you have never even told him it exists.’
And not without malice she said aloud, ‘You must come and visit me, Garnet. It is a beautiful place. Your mother and I spent many happy hours of girlhood within its walls.’
The masked face turned to her intently and she felt Joseph stiffen with anger.
‘Of course! It is the house I was born in! My father did speak of it — once.’
Garnet patted Joseph’s arm to remind him and Melior Mary marvelled for a moment at the great love and concern that Matthew Banister’s son had for a man with whom he had not an ounce of shared blood.
‘We do not mention it because my mother died at my birth. But you know that,’ he added in an undertone.
Beneath his visor Joseph’s face was closed and still but Melior Mary knew that he was looking at her with a gaze like stone. Just for a moment she re-lived that scene long ago. Sootface leaping the staircase like a cat; Hyacinth running for his life; the screams of herself and Elizabeth; the smell of gunsmoke; and poor sad Sibella making for the Middle Enter and for the end of her life.
She hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Yes — she died when you were born. It was a black day for all of us.’
She felt Joseph relax once more and turning to him Melior Mary, in order to change the conversation and speaking in little above a whisper, said, ‘And what of His Highness? What’s afoot?’
This apparently non-committal question, that any Jacobite might ask another, hid a multitude of emotion. She had not clapped eyes on Charles Edward since the Christmas before last, when he had ridden from Sutton Place to London in the dawning — and to another hope of the crown. But of course the preposterous scheme of Lord Elibank’s brother had faded to nothing and, after staying in hiding at Lady Primrose’s house for a while, the Prince had slipped quietly across the Channel and into obscurity. It was rumoured that he had been seen in Paris, heavily disguised — his face painted red, his eyebrows black and a handkerchief obscuring his countenance — but after that, nothing.
A source close to Sutton Place had whispered to Melior Mary that the Prince had been drinking too heavily and that he had taken up with a woman — Clementina Walkinshaw — whom he had met in the ’45 and who had followed him to Europe. Melior Mary had wondered at the time why she had taken this remark so badly. In fact a feeling of fury had possessed her and she had gone to the stables, saddled up her horse, and ridden off into the forest — just as she had done when she was a girl.
It had only been when she was too close to St Edward’s Well to stop, that she had realized what she had done. She had not been near the place in over thirty years — since the day Sibella had died in fact — and now it was a horrid shock. There it was — just a crude hole in the earth — but she noticed that someone had rolled a great stone over the opening, presumably as a safety measure. The temptation to push it back, kneel down and peep into the narrow tunnel that plunged darkly into the earth, was overpowering. And she had been just about to dismount when her horse had reared suddenly and she had had difficulty in bringing him under control. When she had looked again it had seemed to her over-active imagination that the stone had moved slightly — as if something were coming up out of the well to stare at her — and she had given a wild scream and headed for home. And that night it had started to rain and Sibella had come to Sutton Place to look for Garnet and maintained her sightless vigil for what seemed like hours on end.
Even now, even here, at the warmth and gaiety of Lady Suffolk’s rout, Melior Mary shivered and Garnet, totally misunderstanding, said, ‘Do not be afraid. All is well with the Prince. He is here in England.’
Melior Mary gasped. ‘Here?’
‘Keep your voice low, Cousin. He has several plans afoot—’ Garnet smiled affectionately, ‘—you know what he is like for schemes! He intends to use me as his aide-de-camp for I can pass freely about the countryside where he cannot.’
‘And he?’
‘Will stay somewhere. Perhaps at Sutton Place. He speaks of you with great affection, Cousin.’
The hot blood was uncomfortable in her cheeks. She knew that both Garnet and Joseph were looking at her and was only glad that the mask hid her face.
‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘I expect it is because I knew his mother.’
Garnet put his head back and let out a great roar of laughter and in that movement, in that sudden burst of exuberance, the young Matthew Banister was in the room and stood beside her as he once used to do, before his vital spirit had been thrust from him by life’s cruelties.
‘I hardly think that is the reason,’ said Garnet. ‘I believe he has purloined his father’s portrait of you and that it hangs to this day in his bedroom. Would that be out of loyalty to his mother, do you suppose?’
She could not help herself, she was not thinking. She said, ‘Oh, Matthew, do not tease me so.’
*
In his tiny cell the Little Monk stirred in his sleep. He had been dreaming such a strange dream. It seemed to him that he was walking in a parkland and that in the distance he could see a great house that loomed over all. It had been a warm, amber-bricked house with many mullioned windows and yet it had a huge gate house tower that soared eighty feet into the air, dominating the countryside and giving a sinister impression that detracted from the rosiness of the brickwork.
It also seemed to him that the house was watching him, sometimes approvingly and sometimes with a frown, and he supposed this to be caused by the shadows of the clouds that played sportingly with the small high sun. But what he did not like was the way in which — turn away and take a
new path through the trees as often as he might — the house always lay before him. He could not get away from it and with each renewed look he became more and more aware of a yawning arch in the gate house wing, and another that lay behind it like a dark mysterious pit. The great door was open and lying in wait for him.
How strange are dreams! In his night mind he gave a little whistle and thrust his hands into the sleeves of his habit to show the place that it could not frighten him. And then it laughed at him. Quite distinctly he heard it laugh. It had neither a man nor a woman’s voice but more a roar, like that of a lion’s. But a chuckling lion. And then a girl said, ‘It is very naughty of you not to come inside. But then you always did tease me so.’
And with that — with that unknown and invisible female sounding quite mutinously cross with him — he woke up and peered round to see where he was. But the putting on of his pebble glasses — which made him look silly in his mind but only sad and gnome-like in reality — revealed nothing but his stark little cell and the crucifix beneath which he always slept.
*
The letter was waiting for her when she returned from London. It was dated May, 1754, and read as follows:
‘Madam,
I have come once more to England on matters with which I would speak with you but must not write. I have been at Meath House, Godalming, these two days past and would care to visit you on the morrow, after nightfall. The rider awaits your reply.
Charles P.’
Picking up her quill she wrote:
‘From Sutton Place,
May, 1754
Highness,
My home and I are, as ever, yours to command. I hope that you will honour me with your presence to dine tomorrow.
Assuring you always of my loyalty,
Your devoted Subject,
Melior Mary Weston.’
She folded the paper and pressed her signet ring into the hot wax so that the Weston crest — the Saracen’s head and the words ‘Any Boro’ — stood out clearly, then she took a pinch of snuff, a habit of which she had grown fond of late, and despatched the letter back to Godalming.
