‘Fear not, my lady,’ he murmured. ‘My consort will attend you as I have. She is eager to meet you and tend you. She will be a mother to you. It is a wife’s duty to love all that her husband loves.’
The sun rolled behind the first black cloud of the approaching storm, and stayed there. First the Damozel, then her hand-maidens, slowly bowed their heads once more and stared at Samuel with the blind eyes of their velvet hearts. He had never lied to them before.
Samuel did not bother to make any special effort over his appearance to greet his new wife. He spent a few hours tending his plants, then, pausing only to wipe his hands on a dirty rag, bound back his long hair with a piece of twine, and positioned himself in his gloomy study to await Xanthe’s arrival. His eyes skittered with discomfort over the disarray in the room, as if becoming aware of it for the first time. Perhaps he should have hired a team of cleaners to prepare the house for her arrival, but it was not his habit to fuss about his environment. After the last of his parents’ retainers had left, complaining the house was too large for so small a staff to cope with, he had never engaged anyone but Hesta, who in fact did very little for her money. Still, domestic matters would be Xanthe’s province. He smiled to himself. Previously, he had not considered that particular benefit of taking a wife.
After Xanthe did not arrive at the expected hour, Samuel started to feel impatient. Rain began to fall heavily upon the garden, which did not improve his mood. Hesta presented herself at the doorway of his study. She was a large woman with resentful eyes. ‘Is she here yet?’ she enquired rather disrespectfully.
‘No,’ Samuel answered shortly. ‘Prepare a cold supper and leave it in the kitchen.’
Hesta grunted and departed, perhaps relieved she would not be required to stretch her culinary talents for the benefit of a new wife.
Samuel waited for the storm to pass, then went outside, where the air was cool and damp. He resolved to walk down the long, winding driveway and if Xanthe had not made an appearance by the time he reached the road, he would lock the gates. It was as if the events of his recent holiday had been a dream, a pleasant dream, but one ill destined to continue. Now, it seemed inconceivable that Xanthe, with her foreign air, would settle successfully in his home. He must have been bewitched in Mewt; lulled by the hot, perfumed air and the long, lazy nights.
At the gates, Samuel put his hands upon the wet, rusty rods and peered down the road that led to the nearest town. He saw her then, walking ahead of a wagon like a common farm girl. She wore a sun-coloured, loose dress that brushed her ankles, and her face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. She walked languorously, clearly in no particular hurry to reach her destination. Sometimes, she paused to sniff a road-side flower or turned to say something to the wagon driver. Not until she’d nearly reached Samuel’s gates, did she look ahead, notice him and raise a languid hand to wave.
‘You are late,’ Samuel said churlishly.
‘Yes,’ she agreed and came forward to lay a cool hand on his arm. ‘Open the gates then, Samuel, so the wagon can carry my effects to the house.’
The wagon heaved past them; it was not heavily laden. Xanthe hooked her hand through Samuel’s arm and they strolled up the driveway behind the wagon. Their feet crunched upon gravel that was softened by clumps of dark moss. ‘This is a rich and fertile land,’ she remarked, ‘but I trust it is not too cold in winter. I thrive only in heat.’
Samuel ignored these words and snapped. ‘You are now the lady of this house, Xanthe. You should have hired a proper carriage in the town, rather than arrive here on foot like a slattern.’
Xanthe laughed and squinted at him sidelong. ‘Why, Samuel, you look like a farm-hand yourself. There are seeds in your hair and dirt beneath your nails. Cheer up. Don’t be irritable just because I chose to enjoy a walk and acquaint myself with the land. I am here now.’ She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Her touch kindled heat within him. ‘This is your home now, my love. We shall be happy here.’ The dream took on flesh once more.
Xanthe uttered an appreciative murmur as the house appeared around a bend in the drive. The garden at the front was rather neglected; a sweep of waving grasses, hedged by willows. The house itself lay like a sleeping lizard in its grounds; a grey sprawl of wings, buttresses and towers that had formed over the generations, from architectural additions by Samuel’s ancestors. It was scaled with a myriad tiny windows and its walls were lazily uneven, corseted with immense wooden beams. The late afternoon sun, still watery from the storm, washed the lichened walls with rusty light and gilded the window panes. ‘So warm,’ Xanthe breathed. ‘So warm.’
The heat of summer, however, seemed not to have penetrated the hall of the house, and here the air felt uncomfortably cold and damp. The house smelled of its own age - once a familiar, comforting odour to Samuel, but now somehow repellent. He noticed his wife shiver a little. ‘The place needs a good airing,’ he said lamely. ‘It was shut up while I was away.’
Xanthe glanced at him, but made no comment, even though Samuel could guess she thought the house had been neglected for rather more than a month. The wooden panels of the hall, which once had burned with the sheen of bees’ wax, now looked dull and sticky. The floor tiles were obscured by years of accumulated mud, trampled in by Samuel from the garden. Xanthe ventured forward cautiously, apparently to examine her surroundings.
Samuel called, ‘Look out,’ but it was too late. Xanthe had stepped into a tray against the wall and had scattered its contents.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve spilled all your seeds,’ Xanthe said, adding pointedly, ‘I didn’t see them.’ She bent to brush them up but Samuel hurried to her side and stopped her hand.
‘Don’t touch it, my love!’
Xanthe frowned. ‘Why not?’
Samuel took her hand in his. ‘It’s poison. A hazard of living in the country, I’m afraid. We have a problem keeping these old places free of vermin.’
‘Vermin,’ said Xanthe, flatly, straightening up.
‘Mice,’ Samuel explained. ‘Even rats - not that they often come this far into the house, of course, but the cellars, the old larders... I have to keep poison down.’
Xanthe raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry. Rodents don’t scare me. They are too small to inspire fear.’
Samuel smiled at her. What an admirable quality in a woman, this fearlessness where vermin were concerned. He’d always believed women screamed and fainted at the mere mention of them. He led her through the dark passages of the house, into the old kitchen, where he suggested she should wash her hands. Xanthe went to the great, white sink - which was not as white as it could have been - and turned on the cold water tap. ‘Poison is dangerous,’ she said. ‘We might have children one day, Samuel. Why haven’t you got a brace of good cats to deal with the problem?’
Samuel did not wish to mention that the poisons growing in his garden were lethal to dogs and cats, while at the same time oddly attractive to them. The thought of children made him go momentarily cold. He imagined little hands reaching for the tempting, deadly fruits. He laughed too heartily and made a feeble joke that animals did not like him.
‘Do they not?’ Xanthe said coolly, looking for something on which to wipe her wet hands, and finally opting for the front of her dress.
As the sun sank, they went into the dark, dusty dining-room and there consumed the modest repast that Hesta had left for them; cold meats, cheese and thick, heavy bread. Samuel had found a bottle of wine that had not gone off, but it was thick and red - nothing like the light, acid wines he had enjoyed with Xanthe in Mewt. Afterwards, Samuel showed Xanthe around the more habitable areas of the house, finally leading her to his bedroom. Xanthe’s nose wrinkled fastidiously, but she seemed relieved to discover that at least the sheets were crisp and clean. Spiders bred in the dusty, faded folds of velvet drapes around the bed, and the windows were opaque with grey-green grime. Samuel had made a small effort at decorating the room, however, and had filled a number of hug
e, antique vases with garden flowers - not the children of his ladies, but some lesser blooms left over from the days when his mother had tended the estate. Xanthe sat on the bed and said, ‘I may have to make changes here, Samuel.’ She leaned back on stiff arms and looked around herself. ‘You’ve had dire need of a homely touch, it seems.’
‘You may do what you like to the house,’ he replied.
Xanthe nodded and silently smiled. Standing, and fixing him with her slanting eyes, she peeled away her dress. Samuel went to her, eager to touch her smooth skin once more, to breathe in her intoxicating scent. Pulling away from him, she walked, naked, to the window and wiped the glass. The moon was rising above the trees, sailing high. Xanthe struggled to open one of the windows and, at last, with a scraping creak and a fall of dead insects and spider webs, it released its hold on its frame. Xanthe stood tall, taking deep breaths. Samuel put his hands upon her smooth, bare shoulders and kissed the cool flesh. She buried her fingers in the thick velvet drapes and sighed like the night.
Below them, in the pale moonlight, the flowers had turned their heads towards the ground. But for the rustling of rats in the grass, the gardens were silent.
The following morning after breakfast, Samuel took his new bride into the garden behind the house. He had decided there was no point in delaying a certain crucial introduction, although his heart beat fast.
Xanthe stepped down the shallow steps led to the lawn and shaded her eyes. ‘It is so bright out here after being inside. The house needs light, Samuel.’
Samuel took her elbow in a firm yet gentle grip and ushered her over the grass to the first walled garden. Herbs grew here, surrounded by granite pathways. In the centre, was an ancient grey sundial, almost like an altar. Beyond the herb garden, steps led down into a shaded avenue of stately poplars, with lawns to either side, bordered by mature roses of dark red and startling white. Behind them, lush green ivy tumbled over crumbling walls.
Xanthe examined her surroundings with apparent pleasure, complimenting Samuel on the variety of the plants and the secluded mystery of the linked gardens. ‘Is that water I hear?’ she asked. ‘Oh, Samuel, do you have a water garden?’
Breaking away from him, she ran down a path-way, her swift body dappled by sun-light. Samuel was forced to run to keep up with her, slightly annoyed by her wilfulness.
He found her by the fountain, where a voluptuous stone mermaid held up her hands to release a stream of cold, clear water. The pond was greened with the leathery saucers of water-lilies. It was surrounded by a circular path, around which grew a tall juniper hedge. Samuel once again slipped a hand beneath Xanthe’s elbow. His voice was hushed. ‘This way.’ He put a finger to his lips.
Xanthe frowned quizzically, but did not speak. She went compliantly into the yew walk that led to the court of the queen. Samuel saw her studying the strange plants that grew in the gloom, some with long, white heads like trumpets and others with purple spikes. Later, he would regale her with their secret histories. Then, the narrow opening in the hedge was ahead, and he allowed his new bride to go before him.
Night’s Damozel reared imperially in her green bower. Xanthe paused at the entrance to this hidden garden, and Samuel heard her draw in her breath. She seemed almost shocked. He hurried past her, smiled encouragingly and urged her forward. ‘Come, come, this is who I’ve been waiting to show you.’
Xanthe’s eyes were wide; it made her look peculiarly sinister. ‘It is a creature of enchantment,’ she breathed, and then flicked him a narrower glance. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘A corner of the world,’ Samuel whispered, ‘but hush. Stand before her, but not too close. Her pollen is toxic.’
So the new bride was introduced to the queen. Their beauty seemed to complement each other; both so tall and still. Samuel could not detect any sense of rivalry or pique in the Damozel, but perhaps the presence of another human being stifled his communication with the flower.
‘I can see,’ Xanthe said softly, ‘that all other flowers in your garden are but a screen for this priceless bloom. You keep her secret, of course.’ She nodded gently to herself. ‘But that is only right.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say...’
‘No!’ Xanthe interrupted. ‘I can see the truth of it. Thank you for bringing me here.’
Samuel felt oddly uneasy. He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected from Xanthe, but it wasn’t this.
As they walked back to the house, Xanthe was silent. Samuel asked her what she thought of his garden.
‘It is a wonderland,’ she said. ‘Your haven of myth and dream.’ A certain gleam in her eyes made Samuel wonder whether she’d divined the nature of his relationship with some of the more narcotic plants. He did not like her thinking that. She seemed to be laughing at him.
It is my hobby,’ he said stiffly. ‘I have spent a lot of time on it.’
She smiled. ‘Oh yes, I can see that. I have some small knowledge myself, for my father is something of a horticulterer.’
‘Really.’ This was news to Samuel.
‘Indeed. I think I can say that although you cultivate many rare species, there is only one of true value - your maiden of the night. The others may be seen commonly in many Mewtish gardens.’
‘Is that so?’ Samuel felt nettled, annoyed that someone, who herself had confessed to having ‘small knowledge’ would dare to comment on the value of his collection. It would take some getting used to - living with someone else, who was full of opinions of their own. Still, she was indeed beautiful, and he was gratified she shared his respect for the Damozel. He bent down to pluck a delicate blue flower, a species of orchid. ‘This reminds me of you. It is named Velenia, after a bewitching woman. This flower is yours, my love.’
Xanthe took the bloom and stared at it bemusedly. ‘It has thorns, tiny thorns,’ she said, twirling it in her fingers. By the time they reached the sundial, her fingers had begun to itch and sting. She dropped the flower on the lawn.
At mid-day, Hesta arrived for work, and disappeared with Xanthe into the kitchens. Samuel felt strongly that he was excluded from their domain, but was relieved that Hesta seemed not to resent his new wife. Later, he questioned Xanthe on how Hesta had behaved. ‘We will have an understanding,’ Xanthe replied. ‘She is a strong-willed woman, who expected trouble, I think, but I trust she is as pleased with me as I am with her.’
This answer seemed ambiguous, but it was clear Xanthe did not intend to expand upon it. Samuel, a stranger to the ways of women, reluctantly accepted that it was beyond his comprehension.
On the morning of the second day, Samuel said to Xanthe, ‘You have brought the sun from Mewt with you.’ By ten o-clock, the gardens had begun to simmer in the heat.
‘Aah, this is the weather I like,’ sighed Xanthe, padding on bare feet out from the house to the lawn.
Samuel glanced at the sky. A heat-wave, or worse, a drought, would mean a lot of work for him in the garden. All the plants would need to be kept watered. He felt exhausted. Tonight, he must try to get more sleep.
Xanthe on the other hand seemed full of energy. She made her way to the sundial garden and there composed herself on the ancient grey flag-stones, fanned by the scent of baking herbs. At noon, Hesta stamped out from the house, carrying a tray of refreshment. Samuel, working on a flower-bed nearby, saw her disappear into the herb garden. She did not come out for some time. It was strange how Xanthe seemed to have cultivated a friendship with the dour Hesta so quickly. They seemed unlikely companions.
As the weeks passed, this friendship developed. Xanthe apparently encouraged Hesta into cleaning some of the rooms, because the house became a lighter, airier place that smelled of scent and polish. Xanthe seemed to respect that Samuel needed time alone with his ladies, for she rarely went into the garden after sundown, having spent most of day sunning herself by the sundial. She really was quite a lazy creature, but her presence inspired Hesta to work hard, despite the uncomfortable heat, which seemed now t
o have invaded even the shadiest corner of the house.
Samuel was concerned by the persistent lack of rain; the more delicate of his plants were already beginning to suffer the effects. Fortunately the shady bower of Night’s Damozel seemed to suffer the least, and it was here where Samuel concentrated his greatest efforts at keeping the soil moist. He always watered the Damozel in the sultry evenings, and after his task was complete, disrobed himself, confidant he would not be disturbed. Then he would lie down on the drenched leaves of the Damozel, while a mist of dream dust shimmered down from her open hearts. Sometimes, in his intoxicated state, Samuel could almost believe that the Damozel was indeed a female of flesh and blood. A spirit lived within her, who manifested into his dreams as a soft-fingered lover. It was as if he had two wives; one of the sun and one of darkness. The night was so serene and comfortable, whereas the scorching day made him irritable and anxious. In these tranquil moments, Samuel found uncomfortable thoughts forming in his head. Had he made a mistake in bringing Xanthe here? She was lovely, but a foreigner, and despite their weeks of passion in Mewt they had very little in common. She was here now, installed. He would have to live with her forever. Yet she was compliant, soft-footed and unobtrusive. The only changes she had made to his life had to be seen as positive. Why did these doubts come to plague him? All the while, a soft drift of pollen fell from the blooms of the Damozel, like words into his ears.
As the summer scorched the lawns, Xanthe basked in the herb garden, while Samuel toiled to keep his ladies alive. The work was really too much for him, the garden too large. At first, as he struggled around his domain carrying heavy buckets of water, he thought Xanthe might offer to help, but when no suggestions were forthcoming, he stomped over to the herb garden, intent on complaining. Wasn’t a wife supposed to assist her husband in all his duties? He found her lolling prostrate in the sun, soaking up its heat like a reptile. At his approach, she rolled onto her back on the flag-stones and squinted up at him. Her dress had fallen from her shoulders, where her skin was dry as paper and studded with tiny pebbles and strands of moss. ‘You are sweating on me, Samuel. What is it you want?’
The Thorn Boy Page 24
