Cecilia Or Flight From A Shadow

by Catherine Bowness

  “Don’t be silly! He saw us all outside in the snow and took pity on us. It is nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh, on the contrary, I think it is everything to do with you and, if you like him, if you find him appealing, for the lord’s sake, take him before you grow so old that you will have no chance at all of happiness - ever.”

  She shook her head. “I do not believe he is thinking of me in that way – and I could not! I will not, cannot, sink so low!”

  “To be mistress of an English Earl is not particularly low,” Endymion pointed out.

  “No, indeed; just think …” Mrs Moss began before her son shook his head at her.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I know, I know, but, answer me this: why has my daughter become such a prude? It was not the way I brought you up!”

  “No, indeed, it was not,” Cecilia retorted, now thoroughly angry. “It was very likely the influence of that seminary you sent me to. They were excessively hot on propriety as I remember.”

  “You are a very silly girl and I have no patience with you,” her mother exclaimed, beginning to lose her temper too. “You will end by making us all starve in the gutter for you won’t even let Phyllis have her chance.”

  As she spoke, the rattling, which for the last few miles had become a more sinister creaking and squeaking, reached a crescendo, followed by a deeper grinding noise as though a giant were sharpening his knives.

  Something new – and potentially catastrophic - had happened to the carriage or the horses or the control the coachman exercised over one or the other for the next thing they knew the vehicle was hurtling giddily and unevenly – as though on three legs - across the road so that the landscape they would have been able to see out of the windows, if they had not been engaged in some variation of the usual family argument, tilted and next moment was obliterated.

  There was a sickening lurch as the carriage left the road and plunged over the edge, accompanied by panic-stricken curses from the coachman, equine screams and the excruciating sound of wood splintering as the entire equipage broke up and tumbled, piecemeal, into the ravine where it - and they - came to rest in a fortunately placed declivity some way down, but by no means at the bottom.

  Chapter 12

  While the Mosses were falling off a precipice, Lord Waldron and his party proceeded, heedless, upon their way.

  “I suppose the carriage would have been a trifle crowded if you had prevailed upon Miss Moss to join forces with us,” Miss Godmanton observed after they had gone some way.

  “Indeed, and I own I wish I had been able to persuade them to go in front of us,” his lordship said. “Their carriage was exceedingly old and did not look as though it had been well maintained. I should not think it would take much – careless cornering, a bump in the road – to send them over the edge.”

  “But they have a native driver; surely he will have made certain it is in working order,” Miss Godmanton said with a frown. She did not like to think of the beauteous Mr Moss falling into the snow, much less hurtling over a precipice.

  “Indeed, but he will not be able to hold it together if they take a tumble; the wood is brittle and would be bound to splinter if even a small amount of additional pressure were to be put upon it.”

  He leaned forward and requested the driver to go more slowly.

  “Now we will be travelling for ever,” Helen complained, “and I cannot see that it will make it more likely that you will know when they fall off the road. They are miles behind already.”

  “True. We’ll stop at the next hostelry and wait for them.”

  “What will you do if they don’t turn up?” Miss Godmanton asked. “In fact, are you certain they are coming this way? They may have decided to turn round and go back the way they have come?”

  “No, I am fairly certain they are bound for Geneva.”

  “That was what they said, yes, but they struck me as a decidedly shifty set of persons.”

  “Do you think they’re running away from something?” Helen asked.

  “Probably,” his lordship acknowledged. “They seem to be a rather helter-skelter family.”

  “I should have thought you would wish to escape from their clutches as soon as possible,” Miss Godmanton said in a tone apparently designed to make his lordship think the reverse. “The mother is bent on tying you up with one of her girls.”

  He laughed. “I suppose I haven’t reached the age of one-and-thirty without having learned how to avoid traps of that sort.”

  “I take it you know I am by way of being a trap, don’t you?” Helen asked, looking anxious.

  “Yes, but at least your mama is not here to spring it. What did you think of them, Helen?”

  “The young girl is somewhat vacant in the attic,” she said slowly, “but I liked her. I hope you will not do anything rash, Horatio.”

  “Rest assured, I shall not. In any event, I think I would have to answer to her sister if I were to try anything of the sort I believe you mean.”

  “Not her brother?”

  “Yes, him too, but it would be Miss Moss who would put him up to it. She is the one who leads.”

  “You liked her, did you not?”

  “I own I did. Does that disturb you?”

  “No, except that I suspect they’re adventurers and would advise you to have a care. I don’t suppose the mother would mind if you chose the older one, although it’s the younger she’s pushing.”

  “Because she can’t control the elder. What did you think of the young man, Cousin?”

  “I’m not sure I’m in a position to make a judgment. He didn’t notice me at all. Are you about to warn me against him?”

  “Yes. He’s undoubtedly a fortune-hunter. I told Miss Moss you wouldn’t have much and am certain she will inform her brother of the fact.”

  “Is that why he ignored me, do you think?”

  “Possibly, although I didn’t tell her until after you had gone to bed. Perhaps he simply didn’t take to you.”

  “I am certain he did not; he hardly looked at me; he talked to Miss Godmanton all evening. Do you think he suspected she was hiding a fortune?”

  “No; I think he plays a long game. Your papa would never let you marry him, Helen. He and Miss Moss are very prettily behaved but the mother is vulgar. I don’t think they have two pennies to rub together and they haven’t any family so speak of either. He’s a chancer and the mother doesn’t care what becomes of her daughters in the long term.”

  “And Miss Moss?”

  “Ah, now she is pure gold, an I mistake not.”

  “Have you fallen in love with her already?”

  “I don’t think so, although I own I am eaten up with anxiety about them sliding around in that ramshackle old coach behind us. Will you add your voice to mine to persuade them to travel with us when we next meet, Helen?”

  She looked sideways at him and saw the colour rise in his lean cheeks.

  “Very well, although I cannot conceive why you think anyone would listen to me.”

  “Miss Phyllis Moss would, and her pleadings might carry weight with her sister who is, as I said, the one who makes the decisions.”

  The carriage proceeded on its way, still climbing. The road twisted and turned, sometimes making such a sharp bend that they found themselves briefly travelling almost in the opposite direction. They met no one and no one came up behind them although they were still travelling very slowly.

  Towards midday the sky lightened and the sun came out, transforming the scene from one of heavy gloom to one whose brilliance hurt the eyes. Snow draped the distant peaks and was sprinkled romantically over the slopes of the ravine, where it rendered the dramatic curves deceptively soft. The trees, which sometimes bordered the road and clustered in the valleys, were sugar-coated and glistened beneath the sun.

  “It is beautiful,” Miss Godmanton said a little grudgingly as though she considered pretty scenery almost as threatening as pulchritudinous women.

  “Y
es,” the Earl agreed. “I think it is its inhospitable nature which takes the breath away. It would not be difficult to believe that one had strayed into another world.”

  “Is it that – the sense of other-worldliness – and loneliness, I think - which makes you anxious about the Mosses finding themselves adrift up here?” Helen asked.

  “Yes, I think so, partially. Largely it is because they are travelling in an exceedingly dilapidated vehicle which I fear may not prove equal to the stress the terrain is bound to put upon it; and then the Mosses seem so ill-prepared for any further reverse of fortune that one – that I - can’t help but wish to protect them.”

  “They seem to have survived thus far in spite of living in a rather hand-to-mouth manner,” Miss Godmanton observed unsympathetically.

  “Indeed; they have a habit, perhaps, of falling on their feet. From what they have divulged – which is not much – I have gained the impression that most of their misfortunes are by no means their fault.”

  “Visited upon them by a jealous set of gods, I suppose,” Helen suggested. “I suspect they may have found salvation at last - in you, Horatio,” she added.

  “I see I shall have to rely upon you, Helen, to make sure I am not bamboozled,” he said with a rather conscious look.

  “I suppose you have never before met people like them in your gilded life.”

  “Oh, I have; after all, I have been resisting our family’s blandishments all my life, but it is true that nobody has come packaged in quite the manner of Miss Moss before. It is her pride which is at one and the same time her undoing and her saving grace. My family, by which I mean your father and mother, has a disagreeable sense of entitlement which has always made me feel hunted.”

  “I am sorry,” she said, a little stiffly, “that you have been forced to put up with me. I wish you had refused if you find my company so distasteful.”

  “I do not find your company distasteful, but I probably should have refused to allow them to send you out here. I felt, in view of what your aunt told me, that your life had been almost excessively curtailed by your mama’s anxiety and that you deserved a little freedom. I do not mean to criticise you for it is not by any stretch of the imagination your fault – and, in any event, you already know that I am unlikely to accede to their primary purpose.”

  “You mean you will not marry me?”

  “Do you wish to marry me?”

  “It is not my dearest desire,” she admitted, “but, faute de mieux, I probably would not say no.”

  “Now you have shamed me.”

  “Well, I think you deserve to be shamed for saying in so many words that you will not have me. I’m glad I’ve not been nursing a secret passion all these years, although I suspect Mama thinks I have; she’s done her best to nurture one. What do you propose to do with me? Will you look for a substitute?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “I suppose so; it would be quite awful to have to go home unwed!”

  “Then I will sift through my acquaintance and see if I can come up with the perfect husband for you. In the meantime, pray do not give your heart to Mr Moss.”

  “It wouldn’t be much use my offering it to him as he clearly doesn’t want it,” Helen snapped, becoming quite angry.

  As she spoke, they saw the first hostelry since they had set off that morning.

  “We will stop and change the horses and perhaps bespeak a nuncheon,” his lordship said, tapping on the partition and indicating his wishes to the coachman.

  “And wait anxiously for the appearance of the Mosses, I suppose,” Helen said.

  “Indeed.”

  When they had disembarked, the Earl led the way into the inn. They were shown into a bright saloon where a log fire burned with much spitting and many small explosions.

  “I apologise for the fire,” the proprietor said in French, having greeted the Earl as a long-lost friend. “The wood is obviously too new.”

  “Never mind; we will sit in the window where the sun will warm us as much as the fire,” the Earl replied pleasantly.

  “Are we in Switzerland now?” Miss Godmanton asked as they sat down.

  “I believe so – just. People up here do not make much distinction between one nationality and another but this man, Monsieur Lavanne, is a French speaker.”

  A fine repast consisting of freshly baked bread, ham, cheese and fruit was laid before them, along with a pot of coffee and a bottle of wine, which Helen noticed was Piedmontese.

  “I don’t suppose many people come this way,” Miss Godmanton observed.

  “No – and we are probably almost the last this side of winter. As we saw yesterday, the snow is already beginning to fall.”

  They sat over their nuncheon for some time but there was no sign of the Mosses.

  “We are waiting for some friends, who were travelling behind us,” the Earl explained when Monsieur Lavanne cleared away the remains of the meal himself.

  “Were they far behind?” he asked, looking pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fire.

  “Not very; I should think they left Signora Valdini’s no more than a half hour after us, but they have an inferior carriage,” the Earl explained.

  “Even so, they should have arrived by now,” the proprietor said, looking at the clock again. “Would you like me to try to find out how far behind they are?”

  “Have you someone who can ride?” the Earl asked. “Otherwise, I will leave my companions here while I return myself in the carriage.”

  The proprietor immediately offering to send one of his grooms, the Earl accepted, and the party sat down again, afflicted by such an increased level of anxiety that their conversation, never precisely easy, became so stilted as to become positively painful. Miss Godmanton’s attempts to engage the Earl in a description of the most interesting places to visit in Geneva resulted in his answers becoming no more than a list which so filled Helen with despondency that she declared, “I am sure I do not wish to see any of those horrid galleries or castles.”

  “What, not even the Château de Chillon?” Miss Godmanton asked, raising her eyebrows. “I made sure you would want to see that.”

  “Well, I do not. I am heartily sick of wandering about sites supposedly of interest but which I find excessively boring. I’m sure I never want to set foot in another art gallery so long as I live.”

  “The château is not an art gallery,” Miss Godmanton reminded her. “It is a castle set on the edge of Lake Geneva. You must have read Byron’s poem. If you have not, I am sure I have it amongst my baggage.”

  “Yes, of course I have but that doesn’t make me want to visit it,” Helen snapped.

  “I am convinced it would make an excellent trip, would it not, my lord?” Miss Godmanton asked, apparently untroubled by her charge’s petulance. She was perfectly accustomed to being slapped down but was not above harbouring a strong desire to put the girl in her place.

  "Yes, of course; it is a beautiful edifice and full of interesting things,” his lordship agreed blandly. “We will be sure to visit it; if Helen does not wish to come, she can remain at home. The castle is not far from my house so that we can probably go frequently, if that is what you would like, Miss Godmanton.”

  “Oh, good! Thank you, my lord. I shall look forward to it,” Miss Godmanton replied with a rather forced show of enthusiasm.

  His lordship, no doubt anxious to curtail the discussion of the castle and the likelihood of its turning into an argument between the two women, rose and went to stand at the window. The sun had already vanished and the lowering grey of the clouds, which seemed to have arrived from nowhere during the last half hour, presaged another snowfall.

  Chapter 13

  Cecilia, coming to rest in a dip where a quantity of snow had accumulated along with a good many pine needles from the looming trees, was relieved to discover that she was not only still alive but also that she did not seem to have broken any bones or, at least on a cursory examination, to be bleeding.


  The mountain air, cold and thin, was pierced by a variety of noises indicating torment: the horses and her sister were screaming, whether in panic or pain she could not tell, and her mother was swearing, calling down imprecations on the imprudence of her elder daughter and complaining about the indignity of falling halfway down a mountain, but there was an ominous silence from her brother so that she began to fear that he had been seriously injured.

  “Phyllis! Hold still – I’m coming. Do not despair! Are you hurt?”

  “No,” was the reassuring reply, the panic subsiding as soon as she heard Cecilia’s voice. “Where are we? What happened?”

  “I think the wheels must have lost their grip, probably round one of those horrid bends. In any event, we seem to have fallen off the road and landed partway down the mountain.”

  As she spoke, Cecilia was scanning the surrounding scene with anxious eyes and wondering, not only how far they had fallen, but also whether it would be in any degree possible for them to climb back up. And where was Endymion?

  She could see the remains of the carriage, snapped into what looked like giant matchsticks, although the seats, much patched and horridly unyielding to sit upon - a characteristic about which everyone had grumbled - appeared to have proved their mettle by not having disintegrated. They stood, glaringly out of place, as though waiting for guests to make use of them. The wheels had parted company with each other as well as with the rest of the vehicle.

  She could see their trunks, one of which had burst open and scattered its contents over the ground, but she could see neither the coachman nor her brother and feared they must either be under the box of the carriage, which had landed apparently almost intact amongst the shafts, or have rolled further down the mountain.

  Anxious about Endymion, she nevertheless knew her first duty was to find and comfort her sister and mother. Neither could be far away as she could hear them clearly and Phyllis had answered. Her mother had not left off her complaints, but Cecilia was convinced that she was quite close and doubted that she was badly injured. Certainly, she was conscious and speaking much in her usual manner.