Mariana

by Susanna Kearsley

  He nodded at Geoff’s glass, trying not to smile at his friend’s crestfallen expression. “Drink up,” he advised solemnly.

  Geoff finished his pint reluctantly and rose to his feet, stretching to his full height of six foot something. “Ladies,” he said theatrically, “I take my leave of you.” Turning to me, he added, “Thanks for the company today.”

  “Thank you for the tour.” I smiled back at him. “I enjoyed it.”

  “Anytime.” The warmth of his look was tangible. “I’ll give you a ring this week sometime and we’ll get the arrangements for next Saturday sorted out, all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Well,” Vivien said, heaving a sigh of relief as the men departed, “at least he was smiling when he left. Iain, I mean. Honestly,” she told me, “that man and his moods. He was parked on that stool there for the better part of the afternoon, drinking and smoking and looking blacker than the devil. I was hoping Geoff would come in, to shake him out of it.”

  “They’re very good friends, aren’t they?” I mused. I was thinking, oddly enough, not of Geoff and Iain, but of a dark man on a gray horse, watching another man striding across the fields with an easy step, carrying a heavy traveling trunk on his shoulder as if it were a child’s toy. That’s Evan Gilroy, I heard Rachel’s clear voice saying. He lives at the manor…

  “The best of friends,” Vivien answered me, her tone emphatic. “You’d think they’d known each other all their lives, to hear them talk.”

  I frowned a little, tracing a pattern in the moisture on the side of my glass with one finger. “Your aunt Freda,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Why did Geoff and Iain call her… I mean, why do they both think that she’s…”

  “A witch?” Vivien finished for me, flashing a smile. “I don’t know. Perhaps she is one, after all. She’s always been something of a psychic, has my aunt. Always knew when I’d fallen out of a tree, or when I’d been up to something I shouldn’t have. She just seems to know things, somehow. Besides which,” she leaned on the bar again, tilting her head to one side, “she’s just a remarkable sort of woman. Earthy, if you know what I mean. She can heal wounded animals and birth a baby and talk to songbirds, and,” again the smile flashed, “she grows bigger tomatoes in her garden than anyone else in the village. For all I know, that’s what witchcraft is. Would you like another?”

  I looked blankly down at my glass, and shook my head.

  “No, thanks. I ought to be heading home, myself. I have some sketches to finish off, and my publisher will have a fit if I don’t send her something this week to prove that I’m still hard at it. It’s the country life,” I protested, stretching my shoulders. “It saps all my energy.”

  “It’s like I told you.” She nodded. “There’s no stress here to worry about. Not like London. Nothing ever happens in a place like Exbury.”

  I wouldn’t have said that, exactly, I thought to myself several minutes later, as I plodded slowly back up the road towards my house, past thickening hedges and earth-scented fields. No, I thought, smiling a little to myself, I wouldn’t have said that nothing ever happened here…

  A sheep, perhaps a truant member of Iain’s flock, had wandered onto the road and was busily devouring a young flowering shrub. It raised its head as I drew near and stared at me with placid, uninterested eyes. It made the perfect advertisement for Vivien’s picture of the pastoral village life—lethargic and simple and deadly dull.

  “You don’t fool me,” I told it.

  So much had happened to me in the past month that, had the animal stood upright and spoken back to me, I doubt I would have batted an eyelid. But it didn’t. It just stood there and went on munching, staring at me with that blankly supercilious gaze that sheep have, looking for all the world as if it thought I was daft.

  ***

  It rained all the next day—a steady, depressing rain that pelted tirelessly against the window of my little studio. I was grateful, at least, that there was nothing to distract me from my work—no gently beckoning breezes laden with the scent of spring flowers, nor twittering birds to lure me out of doors with song. There was only the rain, and a dark gray sky, and a wicked wind that rattled the windowpanes and set the trees to shuddering.

  By supper time I had finished painting my sketches for the Korean folktale, the thick pages boasting a kaleidoscope of watercolor tints. I rinsed out my brushes with cramped and aching hands, tidied my paints away, and went downstairs to the kitchen for a meal of cold meat and cheese. Carrying my tea into the library, I selected a favorite murder mystery and settled myself in the leather armchair for a relaxing evening read. I was asleep before the detective had even discovered the body.

  I woke before dawn, to a stiff neck and the almost painfully cold feeling that precedes the rising of the sun. The sky was still dark, and the east-facing window reflected my own image back at me, an eerie outline in the light of the small reading lamp beside my chair. My cup sat empty on the table beside me. Lifting it, I rose jerkily to my feet and made my way back into the kitchen, craving the comforting warmth of a whistling kettle and a fresh pot of tea.

  It was while I was sitting there, listening to the silence of the house with my cold hands wrapped around the steaming cup, that the idea first came to me. Since Saturday I had been worried by the fact that I could not control what was happening to me—that I could, in short, regress at any time, in any place, wandering around the village in full view of everyone but oblivious to all. The problem seemed to be that the “flashbacks” came at random, without warning, giving me no chance to prepare myself for the experience.

  But what if I could prepare myself? What if I could find some way of triggering the flashbacks myself, when I wanted them, and suppressing them when I did not want them? If I was in fact dealing with memories—with scenes generated by my own mind—then I ought to be able to find some way of “remembering” upon demand.

  It was at least worth a try, I told myself. And now was the perfect time for such an experiment. I was safely installed in my own house, bolstered by the false bravado that comes from being not fully awake, and in the event that I did wander out of the house, I was at least fully dressed in the faded blue jeans and rumpled T-shirt that I used for painting. I was respectable. Besides, it would be hours before anyone in the village woke up.

  Having convinced myself of the practicality of my plan, I spent the next several minutes rummaging through my disorganized cupboards in search of a candle. I had read somewhere that candles were essential to self-hypnosis. I finally found the stump of one buried in the cutlery tray, and set it to stand in a shallow saucer. Taking my seat at the scrubbed table, I set the candle before me and lit it, holding my breath.

  The flame flickered expectantly, dipping and dancing in the currents of air that played round the silent room. My entire world seemed reduced to that single point of light, that tiny, wavering, mesmerizing flame, radiant in the near darkness. I kept my eyes fixed upon it, staring and concentrating, while in my mind I kept repeating a single thought. I want to remember. I want to remember. Over and over again, like a movement from Handel’s Messiah, insistently, monotonously purposeful. I want to remember. I want to go back…

  The air swept singing past my ears, and the candle flame dipped sharply in response.

  “Have you not finished your draught yet?” Rachel asked in amazement. “The market has started already, and we’ll be missing the best buys.”

  I drained my cup guiltily, nearly choking on the strong wine. “I am sorry,” I apologized. “I was thinking.”

  “You do too much thinking. In this house, that can only lead you into trouble,” she said, smiling at me from the doorway while she adjusted her heavy cloak, drawing the hood over her bright hair. “The rain has stopped, at least, and the sky is clearing. It promises to be a fair day.”

  I left my own hood down.
I liked the feel of the wind in my hair, especially the clean wind that followed a late spring rain. My dark-blue cloak was worn, and mended in places, but the dress beneath it was new, and I was looking forward to a morning away from the house and my uncle’s influence. Unbolting the kitchen door was like unlocking a prison cell, and my smile was wide as I followed Rachel across the back garden towards the road that would lead us away from the house, away from the village, to a marketplace full of people and laughter and life.

  Chapter 15

  The market town of Wexley Basset lay four miles to the east of Exbury, on the Marlborough road. We were not the only travelers on that road—three times we were passed by carts bearing people and produce to market, and a little farther on we ourselves passed a young lad leading a gentle brown cow and her soft-eyed calf. The temptation to speak to people was great after my weeks of solitude, but I followed Rachel’s example and kept well to the side of the road, my eyes demurely downcast.

  That was the hardest part, waiting until the strangers had moved on, or fallen behind, so that I could once again lift my head and drink in the scenery that surrounded us.

  Freedom was a new and heady wine to me, and the fresh scent of rain-soaked wildflowers blew the bitter smell of despair from my nostrils and made me forget for a moment the hopeless uncertainty of my situation.

  The road was straight as an arrow’s flight, straight as a Roman road, with deep ruts washed smooth by yesterday’s rains. To the right of us lay level fields of new-planted wheat and fenced enclosures dotted with sheep; to the left the broad green sweep of Wexley Down and the rolling chase beyond. In my grandfather’s time, Rachel told me, the first King Charles had himself hunted there, cantering after his hawks with his nobles at his heels and half the village tumbling after. It made a romantic and colorful picture, and I was so busy re-creating it in my imagination that Rachel had to speak twice in order to get my attention.

  “Not long now,” she told me. “You’ll be able to see it when we get to the top of this hill.” And then the sun came out from behind the blanket of clouds as we crested the hill, and I got my first glimpse of Wexley Basset.

  The markets of my memory were city markets, London markets, crammed into narrow streets or cobbled squares, with hoarse-voiced vendors hawking their wares and all around me the relentless press of people, people everywhere. It was a pleasant change to see the bright-striped awnings gaily ringing round the weathered market cross, and the sunlight beating cheerfully down upon the market square. There were crowds here, too, to be sure, but these were friendly country folk, their voices clear and plain, with honest faces scrubbed red by the wind and weather.

  “What do you think?” Rachel asked me.

  I could only gape, wide-eyed, like an entranced child, and she laughed her lovely musical laugh, grabbing my hand to lead me down into the thick of the crowd. We were jostled and bumped, but I found I did not mind it, and to my own amazement I heard myself laughing as the final shreds of oppression fell away from me. The breeze lifted my hair and the sun warmed my face, and I felt suddenly, gloriously alive.

  “It’s wonderful!” I cried to Rachel, but my voice was swallowed by a sea of voices, and she did not hear me. She led me on a little farther, then turned back towards me, her face flushed with excitement.

  “Come, you must see the players,” she said.

  A large cluster of people had gathered in one corner of the square, and she pulled me towards them. When we reached the spot, Rachel smiled sweetly at one of the taller men, who moved aside to let us slip in front of him, where we could view the goings-on with ease. The players were eight in number, dressed in weird and fanciful clothing of every conceivable rainbow hue. One of them, a young lad of about fourteen, was speaking a prologue in a high, ringing voice.

  “I’d hoped they would be here,” Rachel confided in an elated whisper. “They often come on market day, to entertain.”

  The young Prologue had finished, and an anticipatory hush fell on the watchers. It was a short play, only several minutes long, but it was acted wonderfully well.

  One of the men came forward draped in somber black, with a Puritan’s hat upon his head, and the word “Parliament” painted on a banner across his chest. He spoke at length about the ruinous morals of the English nation, with such droll turns of phrase and twists of meaning that he merely mocked himself, and made those watching laugh aloud at his foolishness. By and by came Oliver Cromwell himself, and a Roundhead soldier, and a leering preacher, and all three joined in the general lamentation, and made such evil and sinister plans that the crowd made a mighty protest with shouts and hissing noises.

  In came an angel, who listened sadly and unseen, then crossed to the “Parliament” and touched him, whereupon the dark Puritan clothes were cast away to reveal a new Parliament, gleaming white and gold. A player representing the people, clothed in red and brandishing a sword of fire, joined this new and holy Parliament, and together the two challenged and defeated the diabolical conspirators. And such a cheer rose from the assembled crowd when a fair facsimile of good King Charles appeared to claim his crown, that it rivaled the very din of the Coronation Day itself.

  There were many “Hurrahs!” and a good many coins thrown when the players had finished.

  “It was a good play,” I said to Rachel as we drew away.

  “Ay,” she agreed, “but your uncle would not have thought so.”

  “Why would he not?”

  She looked at me, and seemed to be considering something, then suddenly thought the better of it.

  “Look,” she said, instead, “there is the orange seller. Shall we share an orange? I have money to spare.”

  I had money of my own—a few hoarded pennies safely tucked within the lining of my dress, but I let Rachel buy the orange that we split carefully between us, savoring the sweet, juicy flesh and the exotic fragrance of the zest, a fragrance that clung to our fingers long after we had finished eating.

  “Now,” said Rachel, remembering our instructions, “I am to get a goose, and a joint of beef for Caroline. The butchers be over there, across the way.”

  I hung back, hesitating. “If you don’t mind,” I told her, “I’d like to look about a bit on my own.”

  The truth was, I dreaded the stench of the butchers’ stalls, and I had never been able to bear the sight of animals doomed for slaughter. Rachel did not seem to begrudge my reluctance.

  “Do as you will,” she invited with a small shrug. “I’ll come to find you when I’ve finished with the shopping.”

  I felt a tiny twinge of guilt. “D’you not need my help? To carry the meat, perhaps?”

  “Not at all. Don’t trouble yourself so,” she laughed. “I usually come to market by myself. Be off with you, and amuse yourself. You can carry your share of the load on the walk home.”

  It was not difficult to amuse myself, surrounded as I was by such an array of wonders and trinkets and marvelous things: tonics to improve the health, imported French silks and Flemish laces, apples and lemons spilling from their carts onto the cobblestones, dried fish and tin horns and wooden buckets and delicate jewelry. Entranced, I wandered from stall to stall, pausing on the fringe of the gathered crowds to hear one seller crying up his wares, or to watch another remove tallow stains from white linen with a liquid strong as magic.

  At one of the stalls, a beautifully worked bracelet caught my fancy, and I paused to admire it. It was daintily made of gleaming gilt, a linked procession of fanciful birds of paradise with eyes of blue glass that glittered like royal jewels. I lingered over it wistfully, tracing the delicate creatures with my fingers. My pennies seemed to shift impatiently in their hiding place, and the merchant, sensing my weakness, sidled cautiously closer.

  “That’s real quality, mistress,” he told me, accompanying his words with an ingratiating smile. “Just like the ones the fine lad
ies wear at court nowadays. Only ten shillings.”

  Ten shillings! I drew my hand back reluctantly. I had only sixpence in my pocket, and I could never hope to bargain him down as low as that. My disappointment lasted only a moment, though, for as I turned away from the stall my eyes fell upon a bookseller’s cart tucked into a shadowed corner on the fringe of the marketplace, and my heart leapt joyfully. How wonderful it would be, I thought, to hold a book again, to feel the smooth, crisp pages and smell the rich, intoxicating smell of oiled leather and paper.

  Our house in London had been full of books. They had been crammed into cupboards and every shelf had groaned with the weight of them. But in my uncle’s house there was only a heavy, stately volume of King James’s Bible, and nothing more.

  So happy was I to see such a quantity of books that I scarcely paid attention to the bookseller himself, a lean and quiet man who leaned against the cart, lit his pipe, and watched in indulgent silence as I pored over his collection of titles. There were several that I would have wished to buy, but I settled finally on Nature’s Pictures Drawn by Fancy’s Pencil to the Life, by Margaret Cavendish, the celebrated Duchess of Newcastle. It was not a new book—in fact it was some ten years old, having been written during the lady’s exile from the Commonwealth—but my father had read it, and had remarked upon it with approval. Best of all, it was only fourpence.

  “A good choice,” the bookseller commended me with a smile, “providing you don’t let all her romantic fancies turn your head. The lady is unique, and deserving of admiration, but she is not, I think, to be imitated.”

  I smiled back at him. “I shall keep your counsel in mind, sir,” I promised, quite certain that I would never be tempted to emulate the Duchess of Newcastle’s extravagant dress and lifestyle.

  I made to hand my pennies over to him, but he shook his head slightly, pushing a small dish of liquid towards me. The strong, acrid smell of vinegar assailed my nostrils.