by Deryn Lake
He was deliberately separating his ward and his brother-in-law yet next day, when Joseph left Sutton Place hurriedly, John wondered if he was being foolish. But within two days the rake was back, a necklace of rare pearls in his hand. He clasped them about Sibella’s neck.
‘There — for you at Christmas. I would have bought you a doll, damme, but could see none that took my fancy.’
John frowned again but the next morning Joseph was off once more, his carriage sweeping round the quadrangle, allowing the watchers in the house a glimpse of his scarlet coat, his snow white wig curling about his shoulders, and the rubies that glinted from his fingers and sword. They were not to see him again for six months.
And during the following three years it was doubtful that he visited Sutton Place as often as a dozen times. Yet his appearances were always associated with great splendour — Sootface running ahead of the carriage, dressed in exotic robes or brilliant livery, a coach following behind that of Joseph full to the very doors with gifts from all corners of the earth. Then a flashing of jewels, a whiff of musky scent. And then gone again.
Between these brilliant interruptions life at Sutton Place appeared to resume the old calm tempo that it had enjoyed before Elizabeth’s departure. But this was a total deception. Not one of the Westons was the same person they had been before. And the presence of Sibella Hart — sweeter and kinder than Melior Mary, yet with a certain quality of survival in her character — changed the balance of personalities.
Of them all John was the least affected by the presence of his ward and yet he was, without doubt, the most altered. He had developed a certain secrecy, quite at odds with his earlier years when he would have shown his mood — whether good or ill — to anyone who happened to be in his path. Even more strangely he had taken to disappearing into his study for hours on end and sometimes, in the night, would receive visitors that no-one ever glimpsed.
It seemed to Elizabeth that the midnight waking, the wide-eyed listening to the sound of a softly turning carriage wheel, the muffled clip of a hoof, happened every night. And she resented the fact that he should be smuggling women — for what other explanation could there be? — into the house where she and her daughter both dwelled. But another emotion was growing within her; an emotion that quickened her heart, tightened her stomach and made her clench her fists.
One day Clopper said, ‘Why do you cry every time he—’ her head jerked in the general direction of John’s study, ‘—has late visitors? You know what he’s like. Why does it upset you?’
‘I don’t like his doxies coming here. Why can’t he go to them?’
Clopper chuckled.
‘It’s warmer here, Mrs Elizabeth. However well set up a Lady of Drury might be, she could never have a dwelling so fine as Sutton Place.’
‘I think it is insulting, don’t you?’
‘Aye, I do. He should have jumped into your bed a good twelve months ago.’
‘Clopper!’
But it was true. John had not truly forgiven her for leaving him. Since her return to Sutton Place there had been no intimacy of any kind between them. Elizabeth was paying dearly for her indiscretion.
Her attention was drawn back to Clopper.
‘I think it’s one of the maddest things. If I were you, Mrs Elizabeth, I’d have the law into my own hands, the very next time one of them comes here. You’re as dainty as a doll remember — and they are but ladies of the street. Be his love only eighteen years old she could not help but look a raddled doxy in comparison to you.’
‘Clopper, he would never forgive me.’
The servant looked thoughtful.
‘I’m not so sure. Perhaps he stands on ceremony with you. After all, being blunt madam, you left his bed for another’s.’
The truth was painful and Elizabeth was staring out of the window as she said, ‘Do you think it would reunite me with him?’
‘Who knows? But if it did it’s worth the venture.’
And so after that Elizabeth deliberately lay awake listening for the midnight visitors but — almost as if they knew — a week passed before she finally heard the sound of carriage wheels coming slowly and stealthily into the quadrangle.
Getting out of bed she crossed to the window and, sure enough, by peeping below she could see a woman’s figure, swathed in a hooded and voluminous cloak, and alighting from a chaise. With her heart pounding Elizabeth lit a candle. In its dim light she could see her anxious face reflected in the mirror. She thought of John’s eyes and how they turned black when he was in a rage. And then she thought of her longing to be true mistress of Sutton Place again. She forced herself to go down the corridor to his saloon and stand, without breathing, listening to the murmur of voices within.
The clink of a decanter against the rim of a glass, and the sound of John laughing softly, told her that he and the woman sat alone. She almost turned away again, but something of curiosity gave her the courage she needed to put her hand on the knob, turn it, and slowly open the door.
The scene which lay before her amazed eyes was one that she was never likely to forget. For the woman who sat straight-backed on the edge of the great wing chair was no street slattern. Nor, indeed, had she the over-painted charms of a gentleman’s doxy. No, here was a woman of aristocratic bearing, with silver-grey hair swept up beneath an expensive hat from Paris, and manicured hands haughtily grasping the silver handle of an ivory walking cane. John himself sat in a more menial chair, at a lower level than that of the grande dame, and they had both been at the point of raising their glasses in a toast.
There was a fraught and embarrassed silence as Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, finally broken by the stranger saying, ‘It would appear that you are being sought, Mr Weston.’
John, glaring furiously, snapped, ‘What the devil’s wrong, Elizabeth? What are you doing up at this hour?’
Some of her courage returned and she answered icily, ‘I might well ask the same of you?’
The finely pencilled eyebrows of the woman rose and Elizabeth was violently conscious of the low neckline of her nightdress and the bareness of her shoulders. There was another awkward pause, during which John glowered at his wife and the two women stared at one another. Finally the stranger spoke.
‘My dear Mrs Weston — it is Mrs Weston, is it not? — please do not concern yourself. I am old enough to be your mother and I can assure you that your husband and I are doing nothing more than talking business.’
‘At midnight?’
‘Yes, at midnight. It is business that we do not care to discuss in daytime.’
‘And what business might that be?’ said Elizabeth, in a voice undeniably hostile.
The woman looked surprised and said, ‘You do not know?’ meanwhile shooting John a look of amazement.
‘Elizabeth knows nothing,’ he answered abruptly and hunching his shoulders — a gesture so typical of him — stared into the fire moodily.
‘Oh!’
Elizabeth came into the room, closing the door behind her, and said with dignity, ‘I do not feel, John, that this treatment of me is fair. After all I was once mistress of Sutton Place and, willy-nilly, you have accepted me back as such. And I, in return, have up till now turned a blind eye to your nocturnal visitors for, after all, a man must be allowed to satisfy his lusts even if a woman cannot.’
Just for a second John caught her eye guiltily. Elizabeth found herself in good command of her words as she went on.
‘Despite my suspicions however, it would seem that you, madam, are of years too mature to allow any bad consideration to enter my thoughts. But I feel that in my position as John’s wife, and therefore your unwitting hostess, you owe me — by the very virtue of your rank and breeding — an explanation of your presence.’
Both the grand dame and John stared from one to the other. Finally John rose and said, ‘Lady Derwentwater, may I present my wife Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth curtsied slightly and Lady Derwentwater also rose, murmured, ‘H
ow dee do?’, and turning to John said, ‘Your wife has asked me for an explanation, Mr Weston. I feel that it is your place to give it — not mine.’
Both women stood looking at him expectantly and John after appearing to come to some sort of decision, said, ‘Lady Derwentwater, we were on the point of drinking a toast when we were interrupted. May I suggest that that toast continues?’
She looked at him very straightly, said, ‘I see,’ and raised her glass of claret.
‘And you, Elizabeth, will you drink with us?’
‘If the toast is one to which I can subscribe.’
He poured for her and then raised his glass.
‘Lady Derwentwater, Elizabeth. I give you the health of His Majesty. Long may he live.’
Very clearly Lady Derwentwater said, ‘Our King — James III.’
Elizabeth gasped. It had never dawned on her but the explanation, now that she had heard it, was crystal clear. John had become an active supporter of the Jacobite cause and his visitors, who came cloaked in much secrecy, were fellow activists. And then she knew why the name Derwentwater was familiar. In the failed uprising of 1715 — the previous year — when young James Stuart had landed in Scotland and tried to wrest the crown from the newly acceded George I, the Earl of Derwentwater had been his loyal man — and had gone to the block when the Rising failed.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you’re both for King James?’
Without saying a word, or even looking at one another, John and his aristocratic visitor closed ranks.
‘Yes,’ he said. And never had a single word held so much in it of defiance, of determination and, in a way, of threat.
Elizabeth raised her glass.
‘To James III,’ she said — and then she suddenly laughed. ‘And to think I had you — forgive me, my Lady — lost in lechery.’
John gave her a strange look and said, ‘No, you were wrong.’
Lady Derwentwater cleared her throat.
‘Mr Weston, I suggest that we leave our business until tomorrow. I am staying in Guildford and will return after nightfall. I regret any discomfiture I may have caused to you, Mrs Weston. You know, you should not fear other women. You are a fine beauty and, I suspect, well loved. Goodbye.’
And she was gone, turning sideways to sweep her hoops through the door. John held the candle for her and Elizabeth took the opportunity to hurry back to her bed and blow out the light. But her husband was not to be deterred by the darkness, for, after a peremptory knock, he opened the door and walked in, still holding the candelabra.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know the truth at last.’
‘Yes. Why did you not tell me of it before?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘The Jacobites are sworn to secrecy.’
‘Yes — but I am your wife.’
‘Are you?’ he said. ‘Are you really?’
‘You know I am.’
‘You betrayed me once before. Trust is not an easy flower to grow.’
‘No? Neither is love when it is daily trampled underfoot.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What I say. If you had shown me a modicum of affection in our early years then none of what followed would have taken place.’
‘It is pointless to go over that. What’s done is done.’
‘Yes. But if I am to be anything in this house — mother to the girls, mistress of daily events — you could at least do me the courtesy of keeping me informed. I have been in torment for months imagining you servicing doxies beneath my very roof.’
John looked at her very oddly, his dark eyes glistening with some concealed emotion.
‘And why should that worry you?’
Elizabeth sat up in bed, her nightgown slipping about her shoulders.
‘If you really want to know, I was jealous.’
‘Damn you, Elizabeth. Damn you. Do you think it has been easy for me? I never knew how to please before you left me — and after that I had my pride. What I would have given for you — just once in our married life — to speak to me of desire, of wanting, of lechery and lust. But you were always too delicate for those things, weren’t you?’
He gave a mad, wild shout.
‘Oh God! I don’t know if I love you or hate you. But I do know that I shall possess you now. Whether you want it or whether it makes you hate me forever more.’
He tore wildly at his clothing, rending it from him so that a good deal of him was naked.
‘There see me as I really am. A man — a man who desires you — despite all you’ve done. Are you afraid of what is going to happen to you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you must not force yourself upon me.’
But she was feigning. She had never wanted anything as much as she wanted John Weston at that moment, and she loved the feel of his great frame upon her and his relentless hardness pushing its way within.
‘You bitch,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay you back.’
But now he was acting too. He had always loved her. Had always wanted to ravish her, to rape her, in the marriage bed and had been too afraid of her delicacy. And now surprise was his reward for she panted and sighed, receiving him with wild delight and moving like a slut.
‘Elizabeth!’ he said.
But she was too near ecstasy to answer him and there was nothing further said until they both gasped, ‘I love you’, as together — and for the first time — they swept down passion’s cascade and into the pool of pure pleasure that lay quietly below.
6
The lawns of the mansion house were lit by the reflection of a thousand candles; the white peacock from Araby shook his great tail feathers to the full moon; the sound of music and laughter rang out beneath the star-glistening sky. Sutton Place was en fête.
It was the summer of 1717; the summer when George I and his Court took to the Thames and listened, for the first time, to the rapturous Water Music; the summer when Great Britain was secure in the newly-signed Triple Alliance; the summer when John Weston’s daughter was fourteen and to be presented, in all the radiant and unusual beauty that God had given her, to the county and to the Catholic community.
And as to who was the more pleased of the four — John, Elizabeth, Melior Mary and Sibella — who stood by the Middle Enter to receive their guests, it was impossible to say. The great landowner, with his tainted gypsy blood, calmed at last by the passion that his own wife had brought to him; Elizabeth, bearing the radiance of one who has succeeded, for had she not brought all the social set back at her feet, despite l’affaire Pope? Sibella the orphan, brought up in the direst poverty, basking not only in wealth and opulence but also the knowledge that the most fascinating man of his times — the great rake Joseph Gage — was in love with her.
But, probably, of that happy quartette it must be Melior Mary who reached the highest point of bliss; for sheer beauty had been her gift from nature. The combination of hair silver as a winter moon, eyes the colour of dewed lilac, lashes black as jet and lips like the wild cherry, were superb in her. She outshone everybody of her time. She was born to inspire men and artists. She was the creation of a smiling and generous god.
And all those who came to Sutton Place that night gasped at the sight of her. The Racketts, the Englefields, the Blounts — all of whom had gossiped cruelly about her mother — did homage in their different ways. Some with jealousy, some with wonderment, some with love. And then they turned their eyes to Sibella, who, with her sprite’s smile and strawberry hair, would have been considered the prettiest girl in the county — if it had not been for her adopted sister. And then they said that Miss Weston and Miss Hart must be the two greatest catches this side of London — and wondered if they were rivals.
They did not know, nor could ever guess, that Melior Mary loved Sibella with all her heart. For the heiress knew that — before Sibella came to Sutton Place — her soul had once been under attack from a malevolence that had frightened even the Stalking Priest. And she also knew that this quiet, smili
ng girl could keep ancient evils away; that the blood of old wisdom ran in her. That as long as nothing came between her and Sibella, nothing of harm could ever approach Melior Mary Weston.
They shared everything. Soon after the orphan’s arrival, the old apple lofts — once used by Lady Weston, the wife of the builder — had been converted into two bedrooms. Large bright windows and a cosy fireplace had been put within each, the door that adjoined them left open almost always, and only closed on the most bitter nights when they would lie, each girl watching the fire shadows dance on their individual ceilings, listening to the owls hooting frostily in the trees of Sutton Park.
But now, this night of the great rout at Sutton Place, Sibella — at fifteen — was considered ‘educated’ and Melior Mary, a year younger, was not. Nonetheless Sibella still joined in their daily lessons of ‘accompts’ — which would later on help them with their household and gambling money — and French, drawing and painting.
Their study of the ‘poetry of motion’, conducted weekly by Monsieur Croix, who journeyed from Guildford in a velvet coat and beribboned wig and who had very excellent ability in toe pointing and all the important dances and who, furthermore, accompanied himself on the violin, she also attended.
Similarly vocal and instrumental music — played upon the harpsichord — were also a weekly chore for both Sibella and Melior Mary. These lessons were taken by Signor Bussoni whose single claim to fame was that he had sung a small solo in the original production of Handel’s Rinaldo. After this grand opera had passed him by, and he had put on so much weight through depression, that it was now doubtful if any management would engage him. When he was not teaching he helped out in the milliner’s shop run by his wife, and would often arrive clutching sheets of music whilst, at the same time, anxiously balancing hat boxes on his enormous stomach.
As to reading and writing, the two girls were considered so advanced in these subjects that formal lessons had ceased and they were left to their own devices and allowed to wander freely in John Weston’s library. This, then, was their daily life but tonight — when not to be seen at Sutton Place on this grandest of occasions was considered a social disaster — they were the Belles of high fashion. Not little girls but sought-after young women.
