Cecilia Or Flight From A Shadow

by Catherine Bowness

  The coachman still lay upon the remains of the sled and Endymion was trying to repair it with him lying there. She could not tell from this distance but thought that, if they had fallen any further, it could not have been far because she could still see the remains of the coach below them.

  She repressed her instinct to ride down again and offer what help she could for she was as convinced as her brother that they needed more people – and perhaps equipment – to bring them to safety. She remembered the lone rider who had appeared from the Swiss side, as well as the pair of coaches toiling up from the other direction, and pinned her hopes on someone reporting what they had seen to someone else; presumably the inns situated on the higher reaches of the mountains were not unused to emergencies of this kind and possessed not only the sort of equipment needed but also the expertise to make use of it.

  So, feeling a trifle guilty that she seemed well on the way to reaching safety herself, she persisted with her climb towards the road. It took some considerable time because of the method upon which the horse had decided, but at last the edge of the road was before her.

  It was only then that she perceived that the way the road had been built meant that it had a noticeable overhang so that she must, at some point, get her mount to take a definite step up as though beginning to mount a staircase. She found the whole idea of this unnerving as she was only too conscious of the steep drop behind her.

  She took firm hold of the harness, leaned forward so that she was almost horizontal upon its back and urged it forward. It resisted. Whatever it thought about remaining on a cold mountain versus reaching a warm stable and a good meal, it seemed unable to convince itself of the wisdom of lifting even one leg to climb on to something resembling a shelf. Cecilia urged it forward with every encouragement she could think of but was aware, even as she tried to persuade it to take that first perilous step, that she herself was quite as nervous and reluctant as the animal. She wondered if this communicated itself to the horse so that, whatever she said, it was at variance with what it read from her movements.

  “I know you are not a circus horse,” she said sadly, “and I am not a skilled rider but, together, surely we can do this. Pray, pray, step up! We cannot potter about like this for much longer. It’s getting dark and poor Mario, to whom I am sure you must be attached, is in increasingly urgent need of medical attention.”

  But the horse continued to refuse. She felt certain her brother would not have tolerated this sort of behaviour but could think of no solution other than to dismount, climb up herself and then try to persuade the horse to follow her. As she was debating within herself whether – and how – she could achieve this, she heard the sound of several horses, presumably drawing a carriage, approaching from the Swiss side.

  She did not think she had ever felt such a surging sense of relief. Help was surely on its way, particularly since the sound of hooves was coming from the direction in which the two carriages had gone, and from which the lone horseman had appeared earlier.

  She pulled up and waited, no longer intent on actually setting foot on the road for, in a moment, there would be somebody to lead the horse up, or at least help her if she dismounted.

  The horse began to fidget nervously as the sound grew louder – and how very loud it was; there must be several horses and perhaps more than one carriage approaching.

  Her attempts to soothe her mount did not seem to be having much effect so that, once again, she wondered if it was her own excitement that was infecting the horse.

  As she saw the first animals rounding the bend, saw their straining chests and fast-moving legs, she realised not only that there were a number of them – the first carriage was certainly drawn by six – but also that her mount, growing increasingly restive, was quite likely to lose its nerve completely when they drew level with it and bolt back down the mountain.

  She thought that, rather than run the least danger of its doing that, the best thing she could do was to dismount immediately and be prepared to let it go if it decided to take to its heels. The thought of being taken off, at a breakneck pace, just as help arrived was too awful to contemplate.

  “I’m dismounting,” she told it, “but that does not mean that it would be at all sensible for you to fly off downhill again. Pray, pray, stand still for a moment.”

  With which, she slid off its back and stood, her legs braced, determined to hold the horse if she could, just below the lip of the road.

  Chapter 18

  Dressed in chestnut brown and with her pale hair wound into an austere knot and bound with a velvet ribbon, Helen thought that she probably looked older than her chaperone.

  She had favoured dark colours ever since her brother had suggested they would suit her on the memorable occasion when they had visited the local assembly rooms in Tunbridge Wells. That first bold step away from the pastels that young girls were expected to wear had been a revelation. Her extraordinary colouring, which was unremarkable when paired with wishy-washy muslins, came into dazzling focus when set against rich, dark shades.

  Her moon-pale hair shone and her marble skin glowed like pearls. She did not know it for no one had ever paid her a compliment but, dressed like this in sober hues, her slender frame and delicate features seemed the very embodiment of purity, an image which had been fully appreciated by the men in Rome, much to Miss Godmanton’s horror.

  When she was satisfied with her appearance, which did not take long for she was almost entirely without vanity, she sent the maid to attend to Miss Godmanton, although in truth she could not imagine that much amelioration of the chaperone’s appearance could be wrought even by Hannah’s skilled hands.

  The older woman had a face and figure which exemplified ‘ordinary’ and her greying hair, thick and coarse, so lacked lustre as to seem forever in shadow. Sunlight, or candlelight, which set Helen’s locks alight, had little or no effect upon Miss Godmanton’s.

  But Helen, although she had a poor opinion of Miss Godmanton’s appearance, had an even worse one of her own so that, in spite of the twenty years or more between them, she did not find it particularly odd that gentlemen seemed more taken with the older woman than with her. It did not occur to her that their wariness might have something to do with their perception that she belonged to Lord Waldron and that he was not the sort of man it would be advisable to cross.

  When she knocked on her chaperone’s door, Miss Godmanton emerged immediately, looked her charge up and down, failed to find anything to criticise more overtly than with a tightening of her lips, and led the way down the stairs.

  In the hall, a hovering servant showed them to the private parlour where Lord Merdle was awaiting his guests. The fire was blazing, the table laid, the candles lit, the curtains drawn against the chilly evening and their hosts rose as one as soon as the ladies entered.

  They seemed at first sight to make a neat quartet. Lord Merdle was probably much of an age with Miss Godmanton and Mr Merdle was likely neither much older nor substantially younger than Miss Lenham. All four took their places, wine was served and dinner began.

  Helen was surprised to find that Lord Merdle fixed his attention upon her, not upon her chaperone. She wished it were otherwise for, while it was apparent that he could exert himself to be perfectly agreeable, the truth was that she did not take to him. There was something faintly sinister about him, some sense that he was at pains to conceal those aspects of himself which he feared might unnerve a well-brought-up young lady.

  He began by complimenting her on her appearance to which she returned a somewhat bristly denial.

  He smiled. “Do not, pray, tell me that you are not accustomed to having your beauty acclaimed for I will not believe you. I will think you seek to prompt further praise.”

  “I will not,” she snapped, flushing uncomfortably for she thought he was mocking her.

  He, man of the world enough to recognise her embarrassment, said with some surprise, “Do you tell me you are unaware of your beauty?”

&
nbsp; “Unaware because not possessed of it,” she replied shortly, still red in the face.

  “Oh, my dear Miss Lenham, I apologise. I see I was mistaken. I had taken you for a much-travelled beauty who must have received endless homage and have grown quite fatigued with it.”

  “I am tired of it,” she replied. “Already. I have not been accustomed to flattery and I warn you, my lord, I do not care for it. Pray let us talk of something other than me.”

  “Certainly, if that is what you wish. Tell me instead about your cousin, Waldron. I seem to remember hearing – and Miss Godmanton confirmed earlier – that he is disinclined to return to England, insisting instead on flitting about Europe in the guise of some sort of diplomat.”

  “I don’t think he is a ‘sort’ of diplomat,” Helen said, still irritated. “He is one. He was in Vienna for some time but recently removed to Geneva.”

  “Ah! Did you visit him in Vienna? It is a handsome city and more fashionable than Geneva.”

  “No. I was too young to be travelling about Europe when he was there. My brother has been though and praised it highly.”

  “Ah! Your brother? And where does he reside? Is he another who prefers Europe to his own country?”

  “I do not believe he does; he did travel in Europe a short time ago, but only as far as Vienna. He is now back in England and has recently bought his own house.”

  “Married, then, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And have you any other brothers and sisters or is it perhaps because you are alone that your parents decided to send you off to visit your cousin?”

  “My mother has been ill and, I suspect, feels a little guilty that she has been unable to give me the sort of introduction to Society which most women of my age undertake. I have not – and do not expect to – have a formal come-out.”

  “I see. But, forgive me, Miss Lenham, if I observe that not being presented at Court makes it difficult for a young woman, even one as beautiful as you, to meet a suitable husband.”

  “I am not looking for one.”

  “No? Is that because you have in fact already got somebody in your sights?”

  “I suppose you mean my cousin. I do not know why you want to know so much about me – or him – but I can assure you he and I have no plans to marry. As I told you earlier, he is by way of being my brother. I have missed him while he has been abroad and since, as you pointed out, he shows no sign of wishing to come home, I have been forced to follow him to Europe.”

  “The devotion of siblings – when it exists – is excessively touching,” he commented with a sneer.

  “Do you have siblings, my lord?” she enquired with an innocent lift of her eyebrows.

  “I had a brother,” he admitted with a dark look. “He is dead now.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. I am persuaded you must miss him.”

  “He and I were not close.”

  This response was clearly phrased and pronounced in a manner intended to close the subject and Helen, better mannered and less persistent than Lord Merdle, said no more. She wondered if young Mr Merdle was blessed with siblings but, his lordship having been so very dismissive, she did not like to ask and fell back on the usual discussion of the foreign country in which they found themselves. Since they had already said considerably more than either of them believed the art and the galleries in which it was housed warranted, they were forced on to those aspects of the geography which, in the circumstances, were of particular interest to Helen.

  “Is there much further to go before we reach the col, as I believe it is called?” she asked.

  “Oh, lord, yes; we are scarcely halfway there at present.”

  “Oh! The Alps are very high, are they not? I own I find the scenery excessively dramatic.”

  “It is certainly very different from our own dear country,” Lord Merdle agreed, now adopting a rather paternalistic tone as though he thought her comment implied fear of the unknown.

  “Yes.” Helen, whose mind seemed unable to fix upon anything other than the absence of the Mosses, returned hopelessly to the subject which preoccupied her. “Do you think – do you know whether people – carriages – frequently have accidents?”

  “I believe they have them all the time, but I suppose you are still worrying about your friends and wondering if they have skidded off the road and tumbled into a ravine.”

  “Yes. Do you think that likely?” His words struck her as insensitive but, lacking the desire to speak of anything else, she appealed to what she assumed to be his superior knowledge.

  “I am afraid I think it increasingly likely now that your cousin has been gone so long in search of them, although perhaps one should view that fact from the other end of the telescope, as it were, and conclude that, if he had found any evidence of them having plunged off the road, he would surely have been back by now.”

  “Yes – unless he has had an accident as well.”

  “It is possible,” he agreed, now in a much kinder tone, “but unlikely, unless there is some particular hazard out there which is making such a thing more likely.”

  “There was nothing untoward when we came past,” Helen said. “I mean, I own I was terrified by the sharpness of the bends and the steepness of the road, but our journey was perfectly smooth and unremarkable. And you have driven over the same stretch since.”

  “Precisely. It’s my belief your friends decided not to come into Switzerland at all but instead return to Piedmont.”

  “Perhaps, although I think, if they did, that it was abominably rude when we had agreed to meet again this afternoon.”

  “I daresay they had their reasons which, quite possibly, do not bear close examination. You are clearly disappointed,” he added with what she felt was spurious sympathy.

  “Not particularly,” she replied untruthfully for the thought of never seeing Mr Moss’s face again was a loss, in spite of the fact that he had taken no notice of her.

  Meanwhile, Miss Godmanton, who had been foolish enough to hope that Mr Merdle would take as much interest in her as Mr Moss had, was also disappointed. Encouraged by the young man the previous evening, she had made a particular effort in her dress, putting on a maroon silk, which she supposed cast a flattering light upon her complexion, and ordering the maid to arrange her hair in what she believed was a more youthful style and one, moreover, which made much of its abundance and thickness, qualities in which she judged her charge to be deficient.

  Mr Merdle, who was a fresh-faced young man who did not look as if he had been shaving for much more than six months, glanced at her only intermittently when she said something which he believed required him to look at her. The rest of the time he either stared at his plate or at Miss Lenham.

  Helen, encountering this stare when she looked up briefly, smiled at him encouragingly, hoping that perhaps she could induce him to speak to her for she was growing increasingly irritated by his father’s cynicism alternating, as it did, with implausible concern.

  Mr Merdle, scarcely nineteen, was so excited at receiving a smile from a young woman he thought perfectly exquisite that he interrupted his father, abandoned Miss Godmanton in mid-sentence, and, blushing with pleasure, immediately engaged her in conversation.

  Helen, her heart already having been more or less irretrievably placed in the possession of Mr Moss, was nevertheless delighted to read admiration on the face of a man of her own age and responded accordingly so that, as the evening progressed, the young people’s absorption in each other did not pass unnoticed by their elders.

  It turned out that father and son had travelled to Piedmont because Lady Merdle, although she had not possessed a drop of foreign blood herself, had connexions in Turin and his lordship had wanted to visit and give them certain small mementoes of the dead woman.

  “Oh, I am so sorry to hear of your loss,” Helen said at once. “Have you been to Turin before?”

  “No; in point of fact I have never left England before. I was supposed to be going up to
Cambridge this month, but Papa asked them to defer my arrival so that we could make the tour.”

  “I suppose that travelling across France would not have been possible until a few years ago,” she said.

  “No, precisely.”

  “Her connexions must have been delighted to meet you. Have you brothers and sisters?”

  “I own they did seem pleased,” he returned modestly. “Particularly, perhaps, because I do not have either brothers or sisters. I think Mama was disappointed not to have been able to provide Papa with any more children, but she was never strong and began to fail some years ago.”

  She nodded sympathetically before moving on to enquire what brought the Merdles to Switzerland. Here Mr Merdle seemed a little uncertain.

  “I am not altogether certain of Papa’s reasons,” he admitted, “but he suddenly decided that, instead of going straight home and my starting at Cambridge only a month or so later than I should have done, we should extend our tour and visit Switzerland.”

  “Did you not ask him for his reasons?” she enquired, frowning.

  “I did, but Papa can be quite abrupt at times and, since I was fairly keen to see a country whose scenery is reputedly so dramatic, I did not persist. No doubt all will become plain eventually.”

  Helen felt she understood Mr Merdle rather better after this confession. She was constantly irritated and frustrated by her elders’ habit of keeping their cards so ridiculously close to their chests that she sometimes doubted they could read them themselves.

  Chapter 19

  Cecilia was standing just below the edge of the road when the first carriage rounded the bend. It was a fine affair, drawn by six horses with two men on the box, one of whom was the Earl of Waldron, muffled up in a thick scarf, a fur hat and a heavy greatcoat.

  Both men saw her at the same time and the coach was brought to a halt only a few feet from her, much to the discomfort of her steed which, finding itself only feet from twenty-four equine legs and hooves, strained to move away.