‘You will have to have somebody’s money, my love, to pay off even half your debts, a tenth of them, or you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of Papa, excluded from Hanover and your ultimate destiny, the fair Princess Gertrud.’
‘She iss not fair,’ he said sulkily. ‘She iss like a young carthorse.’
‘Good,’ said Lady Corby, with satisfaction.
‘You are pleased for me to marry a carthorse?’ he said, half laughing. ‘This iss not very kind.’
‘It is not kind of you to marry at all, when your Marcia needs all your heart.’
‘But I must marry at the last,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She closed her eyes for a moment against the reality of it; but go warily! her instinct told her, you hold him because you are worldly and cynical and it is all a charming game; if he ever suspected what it really means to you, he would take fright and be off. He ‘must marry at the last’—it was a fact; she had known it always, she must face it now, and make use of it. ‘Yes, you must marry. And Marcia is unavailable—and penniless. But the Princess Gertrud is rich, my poor Anton. Is it not so?’
‘That she is rich is not important; I inherit my own estates.’
‘But she is a suitable match for a nephew of the Elector, and a nephew, moreover, not so very far removed from the throne itself.’
‘To you thiss iss unimportant,’ he said, resentfully. ‘To you, Hanover is a dull little tuppenny kingdom which turns out dull, elderly mistresses for your king—who, however, I remind you, Marcia, vos not too good to come from Hanover himself—’
‘And look at him!’ said Marcia.
‘I, at any rate, have respect for my country; and I do not think it a small thing that—though God forbid!—I might possibly be called upon one day to rule it.’
‘And therefore must provide yourself with a suitable Electress. Of course, my dear, you are right, it’s a serious matter. But I, meanwhile—why, you cannot be astonished that I should be not sorry the young lady is like a carthorse! And you have a year or two yet to sow your charming wild oats.’
‘I should have discretion, however, in the sowing. And, Marcia, it has not been discreet to come over and waste this time when I should be studying your history, your constitutions, etcetera; to spend my whole competency in so short a while—’
‘And spend it in the company of Marcia Corby!’
‘An affair of gallantry—’ he began uneasily.
‘An affair of gallantry—ah yes, in England! But in Hanover, my pet, will Papa take the same view?’
‘Your own king—’ he began again.
‘Ah yes, our own king—who, by the way, as you have reminded me, is rather more your own king—has his affairs no doubt: and finds his mistresses in Hanover, what’s more. But I cannot suppose Gertrud’s stuffy little royalties will be quite so complacent as our poor dear Queen Caroline.… Or as they say she was,’ she added, rather hurriedly, ‘for I’m sure I was too young to know about such things when the Queen was still alive.’
‘And Gertrud is too young now.’
‘But her parents are not.’
‘Nor mine. If my father should find how I haf spent this time …’ He looked suddenly very young, his face was troubled, he met her eyes with a sort of pleading. ‘Sometimes I ask myself, Marcia, whether I should not—if you and I should not …’ He left the fireplace and moved right away from her, stood in the window, one hand holding back the heavy curtain, looking out at the first grey streaks of the dawn. ‘Has the time come, perhaps, to end it all?’
Life had dealt unkindly with Marcia Corby. Married off at an early age (yet well knowing what she did) to a man much her senior, whom her parents had deceived about her fortune, she found too late that he, in turn, had been deceiving them. Thus mutually betrayed, they had settled down to a jog-trot partnership, loveless yet by necessity loyal; united only in a common duplicity, a common coldheartedness, a common determination to fight without quarter for such material benefits as they demanded from life: since life had robbed them of purer means to happiness. For twenty years they had struggled side by side; and, Sometimes I feel, she would think, peering at her old-young face in the looking-glass, that behind this mask lies all the age and evil knowledge of the serpent of old Nile.… And now into her life had come, two years ago, this young man—who was not like the other young men she knew, the old-young men to match her old-young face, the cynical, raffish, middle-ageing men playing, with rather desperate abandon as the years hurried on, their games of gallantry that were not at all gallant, their games of love which were utterly without love. Anton, genuinely young, fresh to the ways of the world and the ton, handsome, charming, in those days rich, in those days debonair, had been too inexperienced to recognize the serpent that stared out at Lady Corby from her own glass: had fallen genuinely, gaily, richly and happily in love. To her it had meant, at first, another conquest, only; but, as time went on and his guileless sincerity flattered and reassured her, something far more—something to lift her heart above the dreary round of petty deception and roguery, the cheating, the dodging, the debts, the thieving—call it by what other name one would; the lies. Something to raise her own value in her own long-disillusioned eyes, something to give back, for a little while at least, a real look of youth to the mask of youth she habitually wore; something to treasure, something to cling to, something, as far as her cold heart could know such an emotion, to love; a vindication, coming late but not too late to be precious to her, of the right she had once had, innocent, lovely and young, to a decent man’s love. And now … A short while later, schooled all too quickly in the manners and modes of her world, he tugged at his silken tether and longed to be free; and had not even the courage to say so, must pretend he would stay if he could but did not dare. He is a poltroon, she thought, looking at his handsome, white, unhappy young face, a great, whey-faced, faltering, innocent baby, weak as water and not knowing what he wants—unless it may be that sly-smiling witch of a girl. But she shall not have him. Such as he is, he is mine and I need him and will keep him: I won’t let him go. ‘Anton,’ she said, ‘are you telling me you wish to leave me?’
‘Not wish to,’ he said, weakly protesting.
‘The truth is, you fancy yourself in love with this girl.’
‘I—in love …?’ he stammered, startled, colouring.
‘And that is why you want to break off this bet. Well, I tell you, fairly, Anton, it shall not be. Sophia Devigne is not for you—’
‘Sophia?’ he said. ‘I … I don’t …’ He stuttered and stammered. ‘I swear to you, Marcia, there’s nothing between us, nothing.…’
‘Then keep it so. She is not for you, Anton; you must marry your German girl in the end and it would be fatal to get tangled up over here with an unmarried woman. With me you are safe.’ But she added: ‘As long as you do what you’re told.’
He raised his eyebrows, shadowed by the falling lock of fair hair. He was, after all, a prince. ‘As long as I do ass I’m told? What iss this—a threat?’
She came across to him and stood facing him, very small, very lovely in her bright dress; very strong. ‘Yes, Anton—if you like to call it that—a threat. Sophia is destined to marry Lord Weyburn; our fortunes depend upon it, mine and Sir Bertram’s, and, if you will be wise, yours too.’
‘I tell you, Marcia, I do not vish for her money—’
‘And I shall not allow you to upset my arrangements,’ she concluded, disregarding him.
He said, with a touch of scorn, ‘How vill you prevent me?’
‘Ah, you don’t quite believe me, Toni: but it’s simple enough. For rather than let you spoil my plans—and this is the “threat”, my dear—I shall acquaint your parents, and dear Gertrud’s, with the manner in which you have spent your time and your patrimony over here. You understand?’
He looked at her with something like fear; but he said, rallying a smile and a shrug: ‘A pretty scheme! Lady Corby presenting herself at my father’s door with a story o
f having had a liaison with his son and helped to dissipate his fortune. I don’t quite see you,’ he said, looking down at her with something of the teasing smile Sophia had come to know, ‘in so very unpromising a rôle.’
She considered it ruefully. ‘Nor I. It would not become me at all.’ She paused just a moment for his little gust of triumph. ‘No, I couldn’t go myself; I should have to send Sir Bertram. The husband, enraged, breathing fire and thunder, demanding redress, would cause quite a stir, I flatter myself, Toni, at the court of Brunswick.’
His face changed. He said sullenly, ‘Sir Bertram would not go.’
She laughed. ‘No, I don’t think he would; and if he did he would manage it badly—can you see him playing such a part?’ And she came up close to him again, and again put her little hands upon his shoulders and smiled like an angel into his face. ‘Come—I am teasing you, darling; of course I shall not send Bertie, or go myself. But you must be a good boy, my love, and do what your Marcia tells you—and forget all this nonsense; and when the time comes, you shall go back safe and solvent, to the little carthorse.’ And to be on the safe side she added, for he was as weak as water, naughty boy! where a pretty face was concerned, he had perhaps better not see Sophia for a little while.
‘This is impossible; tomorrow we all go to Starrbelow.’
‘In the circumstances, will it not be wiser for you to return to Town? We shall follow at the end of the week.’
‘Oh, but no,’ he said. ‘I am invited to Starrbelow.’
‘We will make your excuses—’
He was a young man, weak, perhaps rather vicious, easily led, caught up in an affair ‘of gallantry’ which had become too complicated for his limited experience; but he was also a prince, reared in the formal atmosphere of a court. When in this trivial affair of behaviour she opposed him, he knew where he stood. ‘Lord Weyburn invited me, Marcia. I haf accepted. Tomorrow I shall go to Starrbelow ass I said I would.’ And he looked out at the dawn and corrected himself: ‘Today.’
FIVE
Starrbelow, whose name in former days was Starr-below-Edge, lies at the foot of the easternmost ridge of the Cotswold Hills; its land on the western side marching with the far wider estates of the Earl of Frome. Frome Castle stands higher than Starrbelow, crowning a rounded hill from which it dominates, foursquare in its Tudor magnificence, the country below—the ‘slender landscape and austere’, lying serenely, silver-grey and green in the thin, clear Cotswold air. But Starrbelow looks out over level land; its lovely yellow Cotswold stone is set in a green park, only a little undulant, beyond which stretch the flower-bright meadows and the rich farmlands; only behind it the ridge rises up, heavily wooded, sharp and high as a cliff. So Sapphire saw it, driving up the long approach in the thin sunlight of a winter’s day, with drifts of melting snow where flowers and leaves would come again; and could not dream that one day, rich in everything but love and happiness, this would be her own.
There were, in all, thirty guests at Starrbelow for that Christmas house-party; but there had been a reshuffle, she found herself assigned a room that might have been set apart for one of more consequence, surely, than Sophia Devigne? A room looking out over sunken gardens, centring on a lily pool, of stunted plants forming loveknots and initials entwined, trimmed with tiny clipped hedges of box—a room hung with parchment all round its high walls, with painted scenes: a meeting, a love scene, a presentation scene—young lover, young love, and welcoming parents; formal betrothal scene. Every servant at Starrbelow knew, and paid her deference accordingly, that this was, traditionally, the room where a prospective Starrbelow bride first slept; everyone at Starrbelow knew—but not Sophia.
The Duchess of Witham was among the guests. ‘You’ll put up Gossip Wit for me?’ Charles Weyburn had said to his friend, discussing the plans for Christine’s party; and ‘Not I,’ said Lord Frome. ‘That hooting macaw? I wouldn’t have her in my stables, let alone my house.’
‘My sentiments, exactly. But my Aunt Lillane insists. The Wit could be a dangerous enemy to Christine.’
‘Christine has nothing to fear from the Wit, nor from any other woman either.’
‘All young girls in society, Edward, are at the mercy of gossip. Look at this unfortunate whom Christine has befriended.…’
‘Your cousin is no poor little wretch from heaven knows where—and with an aunt like La Corby. Slander can’t touch Christine.’
‘Even direct rudeness; a rebuff, a passing sarcasm in that high, carrying voice … The Duchess is past-master.’
‘Christine would look at her with her blue eyes unclouded, and raise those winged eyebrows of hers a fraction and pass on her way, as though she and everyone present must wonder that any lady could so betray herself into unloveliness. And what is more, everyone would take the cue from Christine.’
Lord Weyburn laughed. ‘You have a great confidence in my cousin.’
‘I have confidence that she need not pander to such women as her Grace of Witham; at any rate, I will not entertain the lady, even for you, or even for your aunt, or even for Christine. Tell off thirty or forty of the others and I’ll house them for you in my great barracks with pleasure. But even Frome is not large enough for me and Gossip Wit.’
So the Duchess of Witham was entertained at Starrbelow because everyone disliked her, and the Countess of Lammingham because everybody liked her, and Lady Thawne because everybody laughed at her, and Lady Pamela Newton because everybody laughed with her; and Lady This for some other reason, and Lady That for yet another.… And in their train came the gentlemen, dawdling or mincing behind them according to their various ways; poor old Witham very doddery, Lord Lammingham very correct, Lord Blanco very much depressed, Lord Newton in the seventh heaven of devotion to his Pamela; and among the Thises and Thats three men whose names, for Sapphire’s sake, were, within less than a year, to become household words: ‘Red’ Reddington, hard-riding squire of the small but lovely manor of Harley-sub-Edge, near by; Sir Francis Erick, as blond and china-blue-eyed as Christine herself, and Lord Greenewode, his familiar and friend, as tall and dark and melancholy as Sir Francis was bright and blond and gay. And all these people knew, of course, that Lord Weyburn had wagered a thousand guineas with Prince Anton; but even those who had room for pity in their hearts could do nothing to warn their victim—a wager was a wager and one could not conceivably depart from the accepted code.
Lord Weyburn met them as the carriage stopped at the great front-door steps, with Christine at his side. She had regained her poise; and to see the two cousins there—he tall, slight, dark, handsome, coolly aloof, she tall also and slender, dazzlingly blonde and blue-eyed so that she seemed all pale gold and azure, and wearing that same cool aura of reserve he wore—you would not dream what passions in the past few hours had stirred them both. There was a general plan for a ride that afternoon, to the hills above Frome Castle (Lady Corby smirked at Miss Lillane, but The Lily coldly turned away her head). He feared, however, said Lord Weyburn, bowing, that Miss Devigne would not ride?
‘Thank you, no, my lord,’ said Sapphire, and would not be at the trouble of asking him why he should suppose it in advance.
‘If we could command sea-horses, perhaps …?’
‘Sea-horses? Oh—you imagine that, because I come from a city of waterways, I can’t sit on a horse.’ She shrugged. ‘We have no roadways in Venice, either, yet your lordship perceives that I have the use of my legs.’
‘And employ them to perfection, madame—as I know from your dancing last night.’
She inclined her head in indifferent acceptance of the compliment, sweeping before him in her bouffant, trailing skirt, through the doorway to the hall. The servant motioned them all up the wide stairs to their rooms. Lord Weyburn held her back, standing looking up at her, one hand on the newel post. ‘Will you not change your mind then and come with us today?’
‘I thank you—no.’
‘You are piqued because I fancied you couldn’t ride? But where, in V
enice—?’
‘I have not been hobbled like a goat all my life in Venice,’ she said; and burst out, flashing blue, ‘There are horses in Italy as good as any nag in England, I suppose; and riders to leave your trit-trotters in the park a thousand miles behind.’
‘You are vehement in defence of Italy—’
‘She needs no defence,’ said Sapphire, dropping back immediately into indifference.
‘Some day, I hope, you will think as loyally of England.’
‘That is not very likely. Loyalty implies some familiarity with the object, and my only wish regarding England is to leave it as soon as I may.’
He bowed his regrets. ‘The more reason why you and I should ride while we yet have the opportunity.’
‘For the third time, I thank you—no.’ And she went up the stairs after the rest to her room. ‘I understood,’ she said to Christine, flinging her hooded cloak upon the four-poster bed, ‘that I was coming here for your protection. But it seems I shall soon be as much in need of yours; it is I who am to be persecuted. Your cousin is no gentleman.’
‘Because he asks you to ride?’
‘Because he persists. What does he care whether I ride or no?’
Christine stood looking out across the sunken garden beneath the high window. ‘You are so angry, and so suspicious, Sophia. May it not be that my cousin simply wished you to ride? For truly, dearest, I believe he likes you.’
‘Your cousin has been successful then, already. Last night he thought only of you. Today you believe he likes me. Tomorrow may you not be a little jealous?’
‘You don’t believe that, Sapphire?’
‘Of course not; but Lord Weyburn does—it is his only object.’ And she burst out again that it was heartless, heartless.…
‘Oh, dearest—heartless? What can you mean by that?’
‘I mean nothing,’ said Sapphire, quickly. ‘Your cousin believes that it will pique you if he makes love to your friend. When I say it is heartless, I mean that were I an innocent, as I was a few brief months ago, I might be credulous, I might suffer; and so it would be heartless. But I am not innocent: your beau monde has cured me of all that, and in a wonderful short space of time indeed. I am credulous no longer, I cannot be made to suffer: for “heartless” read “cynical”, therefore read “insolent”. Your cousin insults me with his attentions: I find him insolent.’
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