by Deryn Lake
Kissing Sibella on the cheek she broke away from her and began to thread herself a path through the twirling dancers, peering into their faces as she passed them. The identical twins were suddenly at her elbow.
‘If you find him he’ll want you to go with him,’ said one of them.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘However far the journey?’
‘However far.’
‘Then look over there.’
She stared to where the magic trio pointed — for Pernel had come to stand by them — but could see nobody. ‘There’s only the old fiddler.’
‘Look again.’
She gazed once more and saw that the cowled head was staring in her direction.
‘Play “Haste to the Wedding,”’ she called.
‘Certainly, my Lady.’
His bow swirled onto the strings fiercely kissing out the sound. She walked towards him and as she did so the concealing hood fell back. She saw the halo of damson curls, the finely made nose, the grape blue eyes — and just for a second it did not occur to her at whom she was gazing.
Tremulously she whispered, ‘Hyacinth?’
His head went back, the exuberant laugh filled the room.
‘Do you not know me? A fine welcome!’
‘Oh my darling,’ she shouted and hastened towards him, people scurrying to the right and left of her as she pushed her way down the length of the hall. And he, in his turn, jumped from the high stool and threw down his violin that he might catch her to him. At last they were together — friends, lovers, childhood companions.
‘Dance,’ he said. ‘Dance with me.’
She knew then that this would never end. That she and Hyacinth would spin through eternity — bright as any star.
‘You’re not afraid?’ he said.
‘Is the circle done?’
‘Yes, my storm bird, it’s done. Fly free, wild girl.’
Her laugh was a cry of joy, a song of esctasy.
‘Then we shall never leave Sutton Place shall we? It will always know the strange story of Melior Mary Weston — and her beloved Brother Hyacinth.’
‘Always,’ he said — and they smiled at each other as the curtain finally closed.
Epilogue
‘But it’s a ruin,’ said John Webbe Weston despairingly. ‘It’s too far gone. I shall pull it down and start again. It’s the only way.’
He stood with his wife Elizabeth, his two-year-old son and baby daughter, in the crumbling quadrangle of Sutton Place, staring round grimly at his newly-inherited manor house.
‘But John, you cannot,’ she answered. ‘It is of great historic interest. It was the family seat for two hundred years and more.’
‘Damn the family,’ said her husband shortly.
He felt no sentiment for the Westons at all. He was no blood relation whatsoever. He was descended from the sister of old William Wolfe who had married John Weston’s sister Frances. He was a Webbe — through and through. In fact he couldn’t think why his remote and lunatic connection, Melior Mary, had left him her fortune and estates. She had been far closer to the Gages. In fact, she had died in the arms of those frightening identical twins, who had been calling at the time with their sister — or so they said!
He had not taken to them at all. They had not even stayed to attend the funeral which he had arranged with no thought to expense. Nor had they seen the fulsome monument which he had had erected to Melior Mary in the family vault at Holy Trinity.
‘She was the last immediate descendant of an illustrious Family which flourished in this county for many successive generations, and with the ample possessions of their ancestors inherited their superior understanding and distinguished virtues.’
He had thought her a crazy old woman living in squalor but it had showed him up in a good light to raise that stone, John Webbe Weston of Sutton Place — gentleman and respecter of the dead.
‘Shall we go in?’ his wife was saying.
‘Yes — it cannot be any worse than outside.’
But it was. Damp rotted the air with its stench, woodwork crumbled beneath his touch.
‘Dear God,’ he said. ‘And I had to adopt her name just to inherit this?’
‘But there is the money as well, John. I know we had hoped to move straight in but we can afford now to make do with something else while the new house is built.’
‘So you agree Sutton Place must come down?’
‘Quite definitely.’
‘I think I shall consult that Italian architect — what’s his name...?’
‘Bonomi?’
‘Yes, that’s the fellow.’
‘Wouldn’t that be very expensive?’
John squeezed her arm.
‘That is not of paramount importance these days, my dear.’
They had traversed the Great Hall, glancing cursorily at the stained glass, and were ascending the dilapidated staircase that led up to a dim and depressing chapel.
‘What a terrible, terrible house,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It is almost as if she was insulting us in leaving it to you.’
John laughed shortly and kicked a crumbling floorboard which fell apart beneath his touch.
‘When I was a small boy some old relative talked of it being cursed. That was when Melior Mary had left it to the Wolffes.’
‘Strange how they all died.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps there is something in it.’
John laughed again.
‘We’ll see how a curse gets on in an Italian villa — that’s what I fancy. Somewhere with classical columns and pediments.’ He turned to his wife enthusiastically. ‘We could convert that monstrous Great Hall into two stories — full of small modern chambers. What do you think of that?’
‘A wonderful plan. And what about this dreadful gallery?’
‘Oh, it will have to come down with the rest of the wings.’
They stood gazing about them with distaste.
‘It’s very cold, isn’t it?’ said Elizabeth — and at that both the babe she carried in her arms and her toddling son burst, for no apparent reason, into tears. Behind them there was a noise like a stick being rattled along the wall.
‘What was that? Be quiet, John Joseph.’
‘A bird in the chimney I expect. Come along, my dear. I’ve seen enough.’
Elizabeth followed her husband’s stolid form down the Gallery.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think it’s hateful. It should be pulled down — every last brick of it!’
Her words died on her lips. Behind her a voice like a million sighs said, ‘Wait and see!’, and a cold little hand seemed to paw at her shoulder. She spun round but there was nothing there. Nothing, that is, but the house looming round her like a vast and relentless shadow. Elizabeth Webbe Weston was glad to hurry into the comfort and apparent safety of daylight.
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Author’s Note
Although — as in Sutton Place — the characters and events in The Silver Swan are presented in fictionalized form, most of the happenings are based on historical fact and the principals actually lived as described.
Bibliography
The Wandering Prince, L. Dumont-Wilden; Prince Charles Stuart, A.C. Ewald; Annals of an Old Manor House, Frederick Harrison; Alexander Pope, The Letters of; Alexander Pope, Peter Quennell; The English Scene in the 18th Century, E.S. Roscoe; England and the English in the 18th Century, William Connor Sydney; Ghosts and Poltergeists, Father Herbert Thurston; English Men and Manners in the 18th Century, A.S. Turberville.
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