by Deryn Lake
‘I must say, Grandpapa, that you’re got up very grand,’ said the twins — almost in unison.
They were dressed, very dully in his opinion, in breeches and cambric shirts and — with no sense of style — had taken off their shoes. But for all their lack of fashion sense he adored them. Not quite as much as Pernel, of course, and certainly not as much as Garnet — but nonetheless a great deal. They were dark-haired, with those grape blue eyes that had singled Matthew Banister out, and they stood very similar in build to their true grandfather. They had entered the Spanish Army together — as was now the family tradition — and had both been made captain during the previous year. But, unlike Pernel who had married Brig Linden — another Jacobite exile — they were still single. Joseph sometimes thought that it would be difficult for any two girls to take them as husband. Was it fanciful of him to believe that the brothers shared the same soul?
Jacob — the elder by five minutes — was putting out a folding chair that had been carried down the beach by a servant, and Joseph sank into it with a groan.
‘I’m getting old,’ he said.
Together the twins said, ‘You will never be old, sir.’
And James added, ‘The great rakes of this world are always young.’
But as he sat in the sun Joseph knew that he was, in truth, at last ready to leave behind him the cavalcade of his incredible life. He had been born when that merry man Charles II had sat on the throne of England and he had lived through seven reigns — eight if one counted William of Orange’s solitary rule. He had seen the Stuarts banished forever and the House of Hanover take their place; he had seen the English way of life alter to an age of elegance; he had seen the American Colonies take up arms against George III and Spain join the war against England. In fact Major Garnet Gage was out there fighting now and the twins were soon to join their father.
Joseph poked his face further into the warmth like an old tortoise: he had been called Fortunatus twice in his own lifetime; he had taken on another man’s child and through him had founded a dynasty; he had conquered despair and poverty and returned in triumph. Of the many remarkable men that the eighteenth century had produced, Joseph Gage ranked amongst the leaders.
In his ears was the laughter and joy of little Joseph and his sister Elizabeth — Pernel’s two children; in his nose the sweet harsh salt of the waves; in his mouth the taste of a honeyed comfit he was nibbling. He was perfectly content. The circle of his life had just swung into place. He was ready to go, in the sunshine.
He opened his eyes. Standing in the water — bare legged and with her skirt tucked into her sash — a young woman stood with her back to him, bending over, like as not to look at a shell. Her blonde hair seemed almost pink in the sunshine and when she turned in his direction it became a dazzle about her head. So much so that he could not see her face. But she knew him all right for she waved her arm in a friendly manner.
A little wind had come from nowhere and was ruffling the tiny white froth that lapped at the very edge of the sea. Pernel felt it and looked up, where she knelt on the sand building a castle for her son and daughter. She saw that her two brothers were also propping themselves onto their elbows from their recumbent slumbers in the sun. Garnet’s children looked at one another, Pernel’s clear-water eyes enquiring from the identical blue of the two boys.
‘Yes,’ said Jacob. ‘He’s dying.’
‘Should I go to him?’
‘No. Watch.’
‘Is it Sibella?’
James said, ‘Yes it is. It’s our grandmother.’
Pernel said wonderingly, ‘Look, he’s getting up out of his chair.’
‘And he’s young again. See him stride out.’
Joseph did not notice how strong he had become. All he could think about was that the girl was waving her hand in a beckoning motion and — though he still could not see her face — he knew that she was smiling. His pinchbeck heels were a nuisance so he kicked them off and walked into the waves but the sea did not strike him as cold or wet.
‘Hullo Joseph,’ said the girl.
‘Who are you?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘I can’t see your face.’
‘You will in a moment. Here, put your arm round me. I want to walk with you on the beach.’
The three magic descendants of the house of FitzHoward hardly breathed as they saw the great rake encircle Sibella’s waist and begin to strike out towards the sun.
‘He’ll never be forgotten,’ said Pernel.
‘Oh no. The name of Joseph Gage will go into the history books now. He will be known as one of the mighty English eccentrics.’
‘I suppose he’s the last of those connected with that great house in England. The one where Father was born.’ This from Jacob.
‘No,’ said Pernel slowly. ‘There’s one left. A woman. One day we must go to her.’
‘He’s almost vanished now.’
A sea mist was blotting out the sunshine.
‘I love you, Joseph,’ said Sibella. ‘There’s no need to explain any more, is there?’
‘No need at all,’ he said.
‘Then hold me tightly.’
He had never been happier than at that moment. Behind him he could see his family on the sand and beside them an old man sitting motionless in a folding chair. But he did not want to return.
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
And holding Sibella closely in his protective arm, he walked with her out of life and into legend.
23
So at last the web — the threads of which had been gradually enclosing Melior Mary Weston since the minute of her birth, as it must all those singled out to inherit or own the ill-starred Manor of Sutton — had her almost enmeshed. Every actor in her strange, sad charade was gone: Sibella in the morning of her life, Brother Hyacinth restored merely for a moment to himself, Mitchell full of savage unrequited love. Only Joseph and Sootface had finally escaped the strands that had threatened their existence. They had cut loose from Sutton Place and — refusing to set foot in the place again — had avoided the evil that threatened those closest to the heiress.
But now the sand of Melior Mary’s own life was running out fast. And she, growing weaker, did not care. Every day of her existence was a prison; she had known madness and despair as had been predicted.
But nonetheless she prayed before the altar in the ghastly, rotting chapel that had once been the Long Gallery.
‘Hail Mary, Full of Grace, look upon your unhappy servant who fears dying solitary. Send someone to hold me at the last, to give courage for the journey to you. Help me I beg you. I am all alone with my enemy — Sutton Place.’
And the sad and terrible thing was that she had forgotten why she hated it so much; why her entire life was devoted to the destruction of her mansion. She did not know any more the reason that caused her to neglect Sir Richard Weston’s beloved dwelling in order that it might collapse before she did.
‘Help me!’ she said as she turned away from prayer. ‘Please — don’t leave me by myself much longer.’
And, as it does in every situation, the counter balance began to swing. The Law of Libra — ever present, ever watchful, demanding only some effort on the part of the person in need — took command. The scale quivered and then began slowly to rise in favour of Melior Mary. And with it came enormous power — power that could defy even a curse born seven centuries before. The force for good was about to challenge that of blackness.
And — just as their ancestors had done two hundred years ago — the magic descendants of the house of FitzHoward heard the call. The power of Sibella Hart and Matthew Banister — which had skipped their son Garnet Gage — was fired in all three of Garnet’s children. Without the aid of ancient glass or cards, they knew what they must do.
‘We must go to our cousin Melior Mary,’ said Pernel to her father.
He looked at her very surprised.
‘Why do you say that? You have never met her — y
ou know nothing of her.’
‘She is dying.’
The twins also stared at him; two identical pairs of eyes fusing in force.
It’s true, Father. She is alone and afraid. Let us go to her.’
Brig Linden, Pernel’s husband — who was as sturdy and sweet as his name — said, ‘They must go if they feel like this, sir. They are never wrong.’
He had not lived with his magic wife nor shared hours with his extraordinary brothers-in-law without realizing that there were great unseen strengths in the universe.
And Sarah, Garnet’s wife and mother of them — still bearing the assurance that had singled out all the Missetts — said, ‘Come, come Garnet. You know your heritage. If the children feel this so strongly, you must agree. For did Cousin Melior Mary not befriend my mother Tamsin, when together they rescued Queen Clementina? Why, it was told me, that she put out her hand and welcomed me, where I danced in my mother’s womb.’
They all turned their gaze on him and he was lost.
‘Very well — though I believe it to be foolishness. Brig and the grandchildren shall stay here and you may go. You will find her in a great house near Guildford called Sutton Place.’
‘We know,’ said Pernel.
And so they had left Spain and gone first to London on the business of Garnet, who had inherited the silver mine from Grandee Joseph, and there they had wandered in the sweet clean June rain and looked at the names of Melior Street and Weston Street which lay to the south of Southwark Bridge.
‘Once she owned all this,’ said Jacob.
‘Yes. She was the Belle of London and a vast property dealer.’
‘What happened to stop her?’
‘She loved unwisely — but then what human being does not? No more than that — the curse which lies on her land caught her up and she was forgotten.’
‘But Melior Street will be there long after she is dead,’ said Pernel. ‘A constant reminder.’
But the twins did not answer her. They had already turned their horses away from the city. The time was beginning to run fast.
Every day of her life Melior Mary would rise, dress, and breakfast alone. She would walk in the gardens, she would pray. She would keep vigil at the window of the chapel — which had once been the Long Gallery — watching for...she could no longer remember. But nonetheless she would do it. Staring out into the twilight...waiting.
But this night when she was so weak that she could scarcely crawl, there was somebody riding through the home park. Threading through the trees, horsemen approached Sutton Place. Melior Mary’s eyes were anxious knots of violet as she stared beyond the splashing arcs of the summer shower to a flash of brown velvet riding habit, a glimpse of lace. A woman with two outriders was on her way.
Her poor tired heart beat faster. Her prayers had been answered. In the five years that had passed since Anna Seward’s visit not one person had called on her. But now hooves crunched in the quadrangle. The visitors had pushed their way through the rotting planks which sealed up the Gate House arch and were waiting impatiently before the Middle Enter. Somewhere in the depths of the dying house a bell rang.
There was no servant to answer. Squinty Tom had died of quinsy and Bridget Clopper had finally gone at a ripe old age. And that had seen the end of her son Sam. He had stuffed a handkerchief with hunks of cheese and headed off through the forest. Only a farmer’s wife from the estate came in to feed Melior Mary now — and then bolted back to the comfort and cleanliness of her own kitchen.
And yet — to her amazement — with nobody on the inside to unbolt it, Melior Mary heard the Middle Enter swing open and footsteps traverse the Great Hall. She crouched back against the altar, afraid of what might be coming towards her.
And then a woman’s voice called out, ‘Cousin Melior Mary — where are you? We are Garnet Gage’s children. Do you remember Garnet?’
The inexplicable fright caused her to freeze where she stood.
‘No,’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know him. Go away!’
But too late. Three figures stood at the top of what had once been the Great Staircase. And, as they drew nearer, even in the shadows of the ivy cloistered windows, she saw the gleam of curls beneath a veiled riding hat and the smile of clearwater eyes.
‘Sibella?’ she said uncertainly. ‘Sibella, is it you?’
But the woman was close to her now and she saw that the hair was black. And then her gaze was pulled to the two men who looked at her from identical faces. She saw the dark-fringed eyes, the blaze of wild hyacinths. She began to cry in that raking, tragic way that old people have — her fingers wiping piteously at drawn cheeks, her hair wisping into her mouth.
‘Don’t weep,’ said the woman. ‘Come Melior Mary — put your hand into mine.’
And one of the two men kissed the feet of the altar’s crucifix muttering an inaudible prayer, while the other said, ‘Great Force, let our cousin not die in sadness. Let the magic of the house of FitzHoward challenge old, wild power.’
There was a sudden hush after that broken only by the sound of Melior Mary’s sobs — and then from downstairs in the Great Hall the lone voice of a fiddle struck up. She looked at her cousins in amazement — the Long Gallery was ablaze with five hundred candles. Before Melior Mary’s tremulous feet a Fool danced; the rotting chapel had vanished — and all the while the sweet sad voice of the violin cajoled.
And then, when she looked into a full-length mirror — its frame candle-lit — she saw that she had been mistaken about herself. She had not grown old at all. The Beauty before whom Beau Nash had gasped — she who had conquered not only Bath but London — stared back. The silver hair was piled ringlet high, crowned by a triumph of ostrich feathers; the eyes were violets from a springtime brook; the gown sparkled with a thousand million crystals. And on her fingers and throat the Weston diamonds blazed like glittering rainbows.
The Fool knelt to kiss her shoe.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘Giles, my Lady. I’ve seen you a hundred times — but never as beautiful as tonight. Shall I play my lute?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, clapping her hands. ‘And I shall walk down the staircase between the two twin boys — and you shall follow behind.’
And so they proceeded — but when the little cavalcade rounded the bend in the stairs she saw such a sight. A fire blazed in the hearth of the Great Hall before which slumbered two of John Weston’s mastiffs, regardless of the chattering throng that clustered about them. It seemed that peasants and gentry rubbed shoulders alike for she saw her fat cousin William chattering to a farm girl, and her parents — John and Elizabeth — talking to Tom of the squinting gaze.
‘But I thought they were all dead,’ she said to Jacob — upon whose left arm her fingers rested while those of her other hand rested on James’s right.
‘Death, life — past, present,’ he said, ‘there’s only a curtain between — thin as veil — and tonight you can see through it.’
‘Then who is that man in dress of long ago? He with the eyes spaced wide.’
James laughed.
‘That is your ancestor, Richard Weston. See, dancing over there to the fiddler, is his son Francis.’
There was no need to ask the identity of the girl who twirled in Francis’s hold, giggling as her headdress slipped to reveal a flying mass of red curls.
‘It’s Rose,’ she said.
‘Yes — they’re all here.’
And they all were! Even people in clothes of another time. A man who muttered to himself that he could not sleep and whom a servant addressed as Lord Northcliffe; an old man named Getty with a wintry one-sided smile, surrounded by fawning artificial women; a Duke in a lounge suit who laughed a lot; a host of young men in the uniform of Hussars; a girl with apricot hair and jade green eyes who whirled a curtsey in Melior Mary’s path and said, ‘Lady Horatio Waldegrave at your service, ma’am.’
She saw the old fiddler who had played at the Christmas barn dance whe
re Hyacinth had held her in his arms — and who had led the people of the estate to Sibella’s wedding at Holy Trinity — scraping for dear life, seated upon a high stool. He had a black hood masking his face, yet he must have peeped round its folds as he saw Melior Mary coming down the stairs, for he changed his tune to ‘Sir Roger de Coverley’. Everybody looked up to where she came and there was an exclamation and then a burst of clapping.
‘It’s the Beauty,’ said somebody — and others took up the cry.
She stood on the bottom step and smiled at Sir Richard, at Francis and at Rose. She nodded her head to the Duke, to Northcliffe and to Getty. She extended her hand to the brilliant young soldiers, to her Cousin William, to Lady Horatia. But all the time her eyes were searching. The people she most wanted to see were not there.
As if knowing what she thought Jacob said, ‘Be patient’ — and took her in his arms to join the dancing throng. Accidentally one of the Hussars bumped into her. ‘Captain John Joseph Webbe Weston, ma’am. Imperial Austrian army.’ He clicked his heels. ‘May I have the pleasure of the next dance?’
And just as she was smiling at him she heard Mitchell’s voice announcing from the Middle Enter:
‘Miss Sibella Hart and Mr Joseph Gage.’
Her head spun round and she ran with arms outstretched. The two of them stood laughing in the doorway — Sootface just behind them. Joseph was examining the assembled company through a quizzing glass but Sibella had smiles for only one person — for her, for Melior Mary.
‘Oh my dear, dear friend,’ Sibella said. ‘I shall not leave you again.’
‘Then I will never be lonely?’ answered Melior Mary.
‘No — not any more.’
‘But where is Brother Hyacinth?’
‘Oh, he’s somewhere in the crowd. But you will have to look carefully.’
