Prue Phillipson - Hordens of Horden Hall

by Height of Folly

  Bel laughed. “Which is just what Deborah wants. She will be thirty-four in September and if she is ever to be a mother she should waste no time meeting a suitable husband.”

  Ruth popped her head over the back of the settle. Daniel had forgotten her presence. She has crept round out of sight, he thought, just so we wouldforget.

  “Oh let Deb get married, then I can be a bridesmaid again and as it would be here at home I wouldn’t have to go to France and be seasick on the journey.”

  Eunice put her hands up to clasp hers on the back of the settle. “You bad little eavesdropper. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I’m not bad. Grandmother Bel said I could hear the letter.”

  “True, I did, Eunice, but of course I knew not what it contained.”

  “Well, what did I hear? It was an interesting story. I’ll write it all in my diary.”

  Daniel held up his hand. “Now Ruth, stop there! I know not that we want this to be public knowledge. You leave that diary of yours where anyone can pick it up. Your mother and I will have to consider carefully whether we fulfil Lord Branston’s request to inform him of your sister’s whereabouts. That is the end of the matter for the present. Mother, do you think I might now have the perusing of his letter myself?”

  Bel clutched it tightly and screwed up her lips. Then her eyes twinkled and she handed it over. “But remember it is myletter and Iwill have the answering of it.”

  Eunice looked startled. Bel squeezed her hand. “Nay, my daughter, if this man should ever meet your girl it is she who will decide where it might lead. We all know Deb has a mind of her own. No one will push her into a marriage against her will.”

  Eunice shook her head. “It is not her mindI fear, Mother Bel. It is her untried girlish emotions. We all saw what happened when Ranald Gordon appeared on the scene. More than fifteen years on I do not feel she has mastered her inner passions. She yearns for any man’s attention, poor child.”

  Ruth was listening wide-eyed.

  “You,” said Daniel sternly, “are long overdue in the library. I left you a page of mathematic problems to work out and I will come in half an hour to see if they are done.”

  Ruth turned her pretty mouth into an angry pout and marched from the room.

  Eunice said, “Why, Dan, you will be making that biddable girl into a rebel with so many sums. She is fifteen. Too old for lessons like that.”

  “No knowledge is ever wasted.”

  “I wonder about that. Look at poor Deb with all her great learning. She never stopped acquiring more and more but it has got her nowhere.”

  “Well, she will be conversing this minute with her French cousins in their own language. Is not that something?”

  “Yes, but Hebrew!”

  They all laughed and Mother Bel rose, slapped her man’s hat on her head and announced that she would be out in the garden “for the weeds are all up apace” and she would pray for dear Deb’s future while she worked.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Deborah was reading Racine’s ‘Andromaque’ on a marble seat in the château gardens. She had lately made this seat her own and Suzette had learnt that if no excursions were planned that day she was to take a cushion out and set it on the rose arbour seat for her mistress and then disappear for an hour or two. Deborah could send for her since there were always gardeners about and footmen frequenting the paths to bring wine or iced cordials and sweetmeats to anyone out taking the air.

  Looking about her Deborah found a wry pleasure in reading of dark tragic passions when the roses were in flower, their petals pure whites and pinks and their scents engulfing her in sweetness. It was mid-morning and growing hotter but half of the seat was shaded by the hedge that formed the arbour.

  I can sit in the sunlight or in the shadowy corner, she reflected. I can enjoy the beauty around me or dwell on my own passion for Ranald and its tragic end. I can revel in Racine’s elegant language or weep with Andromarque. Will the pain of lost love ever leave me? Should I not thank God for these days of ease and peace? Yet there is talk that Marlborough has forces poised to invade France itself but no one here seems perturbed. I long to be travelling to Paris but an apathy of summer lies over the château. Have I to wait till Jeanetta conceives?

  She returned to her reading but from time to time lifted her eyes as figures passed along the main walk some thirty yards away. The gardens were copied from Versailles she had been told by the count who had insisted on being her escort on the day after their arrival. They were laid out very symmetrically with long straight vistas, and in between circular spaces with gravelled paths twining round centrally placed statues or fountains. Here and there however near the high walls were secret bowers like this one, in its semi-circular hedge of yew.

  Occasionally she heard voices from behind the hedge where there was an Italianate garden surrounding a fountain. The splashing of the water usually made the words indistinct but today she began to hear the unmistakeable cough of the Vicomte de Neury, Sophia’s father. She had made little headway in his acquaintance for he rarely appeared in the public rooms and then seldom spoke. Sophia would make an excuse that he preferred writing in his study. The vicomtesse also kept to their own part of the château and showed no interest in Deborah.

  Deborah could tell that the vicomte had someone with him whose voice was very low for at one point the vicomte said quite plainly, “Speak up, man. You know I am hard of hearing.”

  The other replied, with a low chuckle, “That may be, sir, but I am wary. Even fountains have ears.”

  Deborah dropped her book into her lap. That voice! She knew it. Where had she heard it before? It was no one at the château. The speakers were moving away now, she could tell. Where could she go to see who it was that had spoken? She laid aside her book and stood up. She must walk in the opposite direction till she came to the diagonal that led back to the Italian garden. She didn’t want to be seen herself so when she reached the turning she peeped round a tall fir on the corner to see if the men were still in sight. There they were, heading by the opposite diagonal for a gate in the wall that led towards the stables. Beside the small hunched figure of the Vicomte stalked a tall man clad in a dark cloak despite the warm day. His hat was pulled well down on his head and made her think of Shakespeare’s conspirators in Julius Caesar She couldn’t possibly tell from his back a hundred yards away who it was. She bit her lip in frustration. That voice!

  She now stepped out into the centre of the path for they were going to disappear through the gate at any moment. But as they reached it the man turned sideways to speak to the vicomte. She realised he was saying goodbye. Oh he was too far away to see his features! And then her figure must have caught his eye because he turned fully round, raised his hat, waved it and passed out through the gate in the wall.

  That flamboyant gesture! Last seen as he looked over the side of the packet boat as she was rowed away. Edouard le Vent! She shivered.

  “What is hedoing here? But the impudence of that wave! He knew I was coming here so if he wanted to see mewhy is he going away? But of course he didn’t. I am a post.” Angry and flustered she began to retrace her steps to the rose bower. “Why is he dressed like one disguised? And what business can he have with the Vicomte de Neury? Is he an agent of the Frenchgovernment?”

  She heard her name called and saw John pausing on the main walk. He came down the path to join her.

  “Not reading on your marble throne, Deb?”

  “Yes, no, I mean I’ve left my book there.”

  “You look – troubled. Were you mumbling to yourself just now?”

  She was only too eager to confide in him. “Yes. John, you recall the man on the boat who wished me a safe journey.”

  “Why yes, he knew your name. You said you’d been talking to him on deck.”

  “I’ve just seen him.”

  “Here! How could that be? You must have been mistaken. Where is he now?”

  “He was talking with the Vicomte de Neury
by the fountain. He passed through the gate to the stables. I suppose a groom was waiting with his horse there and he will be well on his way.”

  “You don’t suppose he came seeking you?”

  “He saw me – at a distance – he raised his hat and went. So, no, I do notthink he came to see me. But he had somecurious business here.”

  John took her arm and drew her back by the side path and looked toward the garden wall. The vicomte was ambling along by it as if returning to the château by that route.

  “See how tiny he looks from here. You couldn’t recognise anyone you hardly knew from this distance.”

  “He waved his hat to me.”

  “Any gentleman might raise his hat to a lady he saw watching him. I would myself.”

  “John, I heard his voice when they were behind the hedge. He sounded – I know not how it was – like a spy! Maybe one playacting a spy.”

  “A spy?”

  “And he was dressed up as one – well, a long dark cloak and his hat pulled over his ears.”

  John laughed now. “I think you are touched by the sun, sister. Come get your book. The family are planning a picnic.” She fetched it and as they walked on John asked, “I suppose you know not the name of this mysterious man though you gave him yours.”

  “Yes, he was called Edouard le Vent.”

  John stopped still and grabbed her arm to face him. “Le Vent!” His mouth stayed open.

  “What! You’ve heard of him?”

  At once he was on his guard. “Oh well, yes.” He gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “How? Where?”

  “Here perhaps. Or no, maybe in Dover or on the boat. Someone who travels a great deal. Maybe he gambles mightily or deals in fine wines. I’ve heard the name bandied about.”

  Deborah was both intrigued and alarmed. “You can’t fool me, John. The name startled you. But you didn’t recognise him on the boat?”

  “I’ve never seen the man. I told you. I’ve just heard the name. It’s nothing. Let us go and see the picnic preparations. They do such things on a magnificent scale here. There’ll be every servant in the place carrying tables and trays down to the glade in the woods by the stream. It will last all day. They hang lanterns in the trees when it gets dark and there’ll be musicians and dancing. Oh, I was going to tell you – Netta is feeling sick and doubts if she’ll come down. That’s a good sign isn’t it?”

  Deborah had to smile at his round eager eyes. “Mother was sick when she was carrying Ruth but there are many other causes. Don’t hope too soon. But John, be honest with me. What do you know of le Vent? There is something sinister about him.”

  “No no, just an odd character. Playacting. You said it. The name is tossed about. You say he was talking to Neury? No one else.”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Better not.”

  “What? A name bandied about and yet not to be mentioned?”

  “Perhaps old Neury lays bets with him and wouldn’t want it known. We’ll keep his secret eh?” He seemed desperate to drop the subject but then suddenly asked, “Tell me, what did le Vent speak of on the boat?”

  “Very little. I told him about us and Horden and coming here.”

  “And me? You mentioned me?”

  “Yes, why would that matter if he is some eccentric as you say?”

  John laughed. “No indeed, not at all. I wager he’s a gossip who likes to know folks’ business. Harmless of course. Forget him. Ah here is Netta up after all.” He looked crestfallen. He is desperate for a son, Deborah thought. I mustn’t harass him about this.

  Jeanetta approached, holding hands with her two young cousins, Louisa and Francesca, Sophia’s daughters.

  “We made her get up and come out,” they shrieked.

  “I am better out in the air and will enjoy the festivities even if I can’t eat much.” She pulled the book from under Deborah’s arm. “Urgh, Racine! How can you read such gloomy stuff?”

  She seemed about to hurl it into the bushes but Deborah grabbed it. “I took it from the château library.”

  “Oh! I suppose they would have to buy his works because the King made much of the man, but he was quite a heretic you know. The Pope didn’t approve of him. You girls shouldn’t read him,” she told them, chuckling, and skipped ahead with them like a young girl herself.

  Deborah followed, heavy-legged. Is John afraid of le Vent because of his boyhood adventure with the Jacobites, she wondered. Pray God he is not already entangled with them again! Was the vicomte reporting something to le Vent or was it the other way round? I dislike mysteries. And is it not a further puzzle that if le Vent wanted secrecy he should reveal himself to me by that saucy wave. I could spread news of his coming to all and sundry. Should I tell Comte Rombeau that his gardens are used for secret meetings between de Neury and some mountebank? Why does de Neury live here at all? Is there no Château Neury? Should I make a confidant of Sophia and find out her family history?

  She realised John was silent too. He had not hurried ahead with his wife. He was plodding beside Deborah in a cloud of thought.

  Seeing they were approaching the château where there was an immense bustle going on, she asked abruptly in a muted voice, “John, what do you know of de Neury?”

  His head jerked up. “Why? Nothing much. He keeps to himself.”

  “Has he not got a mansion of his own somewhere? Why do he and the vicomtesse live here and Sophia and her girls?”

  “Oh that! It was after Sophia’s husband was killed. He was at some siege when King Louis’s forces were fighting the Dutch. The French rebuilt a Citadel and held the place but the Dutch took it and the French had to surrender. Sophia’s husband ordered his men to lay down their arms but the Dutch shot him anyway.”

  “Oh.” Deborah considered this. “It must have been the Siege of Namur. That was about eight years ago. It all ended with the Treaty of Ryswick.”

  John laughed. “Of course I should have expected you to know all about it.”

  “I followed the course of that war in the papers as you could have done. But what has Sophia’s husband’s death to do with the de Neury family coming to live here?”

  “Their home was close to the border so they feel safer here. Jeanetta says her uncle went a bit mad. He hates the Dutch and would like them wiped off the map. Her Aunt Madeline thought he might go out and shoot a few. That’s why he won’t talk to us. We English fetched William of Orange over to be king instead of James.”

  Deborah watched John’s face closely when he threw this out. “Oh,” she said, “does that suggest a connection with this man le Vent? A Jacobite plot perhaps?”

  John waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Forget that man. As I said he’s an adventurer, an eccentric. Now I beg you, sister, to put your curiosity to rest and enjoy today’s festivities. Next week you and I have been promised the carriage to visit Paris and Versailles.”

  “Do you mean we are to begin our great travels then?”

  “Nay, we will come back here afterwards. I must know if Netta – ” He lifted his brows. “You know what I mean. It seems her father has to show his face at court so we’ll go with him but he’ll stay there when we return. Of course you know the French nobility are obliged to spend time at court. If the king observes anyone’s absence without due reason, well, they might as well be dead meat.”

  “Should you not keep your voice down?”

  But the racket of shouted orders, the running of feet and clattering of dishes was loud enough to drown all conversation. Deborah decided she must enter into the spirit of a French picnic on so grand a scale and inwardly indulge her delight at the prospect of Paris and Versailles so soon. The count’s company was not so welcome. He took over every activity and talked incessantly but that she must endure patiently.

  A footman approached her as all the servants did with a mixture of diffidence and derision. She knew they all regarded her as grotesque. He was bearing a letter on a si
lver dish. Deborah saw Grandmother Bel’s handwriting and grinned with delight.

  John was already moving from her side to join Jeanetta so she called after him, “From our grandmother.”

  “Good. I’ll see it later.”

  She wandered back along the main walk away from the crowds till she found a carved bench with stone snakes entwined along the arms. She was soon engrossed in the letter. Amidst the minor details of Horden life Grandmother Bel had inserted the news that a member of the Branford family – Deborah might remember that the old earl had been at Cambridge with her dear Nat – was travelling in France and had been sent an introduction to herself and John in remembrance of the link between their two families. So she was not to be surprised if the card of a Lord Frederick Branford should be presented at the château door. ‘He is about thirty-five we reckon and a widower,’ Grandmother added.

  Deborah smiled to herself. What is she saying between all these lines? Am I to consider him as a suitor, officially proposed by my family? They do not know that I am suspicious of men, on my guard, armoured against flattery. Well, we will be away for some weeks visiting Paris and Versailles so if this Frederick calls here he will be disappointed, unless of course they entertain him in one of their many spare guest rooms till we come. I wonder what connection he is with the old earl. Grandmother Bel avoids mentioning the son Henry, Father’s Cambridge friend, the poor lad who lost his head to a canon ball. Perhaps she shows her letters to Father and believes the memory still upsets him.

  She got up and inserted the letter into her hanging pocket and walked briskly back to join the family party. She was not surprised to find they had already set off for the picnic place, some in the carriage, the younger ones walking. No one had noticed her absence or they didn’t care. She set off with her great strides and soon saw the colourful figures disporting themselves in the glade.

  I am not much enamoured, she was thinking, of the name Frederick.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lord Frederick Branford was in a constant battle with his servantcompanion, Will Smythe, over his reluctance to spend his grandfather’s money.