Starrbelow

by Christianna Brand

  She was bemused, she could not think clearly; but, single-hearted as ever, one thought flew up to the surface of her mind. ‘But, Sapphire—then my marriage to Edward …?’

  ‘Oh, pish, child, you think of nothing but Edward! You are safe enough there, poor Anton had been dead eighteen months before you married again; we had been a little trip to Italy in the meantime, if you remember?—and you had come back and dillied and dallied, and your precious Edward had at last forgiven you your association with the notorious Sapphire of Starrbelow. But Nicholas—I vow, Christine, sometimes I think he is more my son, after all, than yours: you care nothing for him nor for Catherine either; it is all your prig of an Edward—’

  ‘He is not a prig,’ said Christine, angrily. ‘It is a word you use too often, Sophia. You have never understood him; he is stern, it is true, and rigid in his principles, but he’s open-hearted and generous as the day.’

  ‘Very well, then, now is the time for him to prove it. For, in this case, Christine, Nicholas was legitimately born; and therefore, after you, is Lord Weyburn’s heir.’

  ‘Nicholas! Heir to Starrbelow! But Catherine—’

  ‘Pouf! Catherine—what does it matter to her? She’s a girl, she will marry; and though Frome’s title and estates must pass to a male heir, she will be dowered enough for a dozen women. But Nicholas—Nicholas would have had nothing but what you and I could privately give him; and you and I have nothing of our own. And now he is heir—my Nicholas, your Nicholas, is, after yourself, legitimately Weyburn’s heir!’

  ‘That’s why …? Just now, with the Duchess, I thought you had lost your senses, suddenly crying out, claiming the inheritance for him, after all these years of silence.…’

  Sapphire laughed. ‘With you clutching at my arm, protesting, ‘Sophia, this is not just!” “Sophia, I shall tell my cousin!…” I thought at any moment you would blurt out the truth.’

  ‘But now …?’

  ‘But now, after all, it is the truth that must be told: though not screeched out over the heads of the mob to Gossip Wit in her carriage in the middle of the park!’ And her heart rose at the thought of what it all might yet mean to herself: for when the truth was known …

  ‘You have the ring, your wedding ring, Christine, which Sir Adam sent to me, after Anton was killed; with the date inside it. You have but to show it as proof of the day of your marriage.…’

  ‘For God’s sake! Tell the truth—about the child, about Anton?…’

  ‘You know now that your marriage was legitimate, Christine; there is nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘But all these years.… Sapphire, I told Edward nothing, my life with him has been a lie.…’

  ‘It shouldn’t have been so: if he had been any other kind of man, it needn’t have been so. You believed yourself married, you did nothing wrong: he should have been asked to understand that, to accept you.’

  ‘To accept me? The Earl of Frome—to take a woman disgraced and dishonoured, with an illegitimate child by some dissolute princeling whom none of them approved of: The Lily of Lillane, fallen to this, to be Countess of Frome!’

  ‘Very well; but now we know you were not dishonoured, your marriage was legal.’

  ‘But, Sapphire, I have lived a lie with him. I—I was obliged to pretend, I—deceived him, I came to him as—as a virgin.… Am I to tell him now that in truth I had lived as another man’s wife? Am I to tell him that I, his wife, had had a child already by another man?…’

  ‘To whom you were honourably married,’ insisted Sophia.

  ‘But, Sophia, I lied, I—I dissembled: all these years I have lived a pretence and a lie. Edward will feel—he will loathe and despise me, he will feel that I tricked him.…’

  ‘I told you,’ said Sapphire in her own dry way, with that touch of scorn she used ever when she spoke of Lord Frome, ‘that the time has come for dear Edward to prove his vaunted magnanimity.’

  And the storm blew up again and small gusts of it carried to the coachman on his box, to be repeated later at Sapphire’s trial for murder; and was carried into the house and lasted the long evening, to the delight of eavesdroppers, only half hearing, all uncomprehending, but ready to run with tales of it to my lord, when their mistress was dead. ‘Could you not, Sophia, simply claim Nicholas as your son and Lord Weyburn’s? If he justly inherits, what does it matter through whom the inheritance comes?’

  ‘Lord Weyburn knows very well he is not his son.’

  ‘How can he know? If on that night of August 1st—’

  ‘On that night of August 1st, my dear Christine, your cousin, having earlier done me the honour to make me his wife in name, in anything but honour made me his wife in fact. He believed at the time and he will never believe otherwise—moreover, he was perfectly correct—that Prince Anton’s child was already on the way: he believed that was why I had asked him to let me go to Italy—and, as I say, he was right. He will never believe that Nicholas is his son. You heard him deny it in the park today, you heard him deny he had ever made me his wife.’

  ‘But in that he lied.’

  ‘He lied because he knew that that evening had nothing to do with the birth of the child. To admit it would be only to complicate matters, the lie did not affect the truth about Nicholas; so he told the lie.’

  ‘And you also lied: you said you would give lie for lie. You claimed Nicholas for your son—and his. Now you say we should tell the whole truth: why didn’t you tell it then?’

  ‘What, screech it out, without preparation, in the middle of the park? It was your secret, Christine, not mine; and I hadn’t had time to think; I saw only that Nicholas was in fact heir to Starrbelow and that I must fight for him. But now I have had time, and the answer is clear. You have done no wrong, your honour is unimpaired; you married, you bore a child—you kept it a secret, and that is all. Now you have but to tell the secret, bear a few reproaches from your so-generous husband …’

  ‘But the gossip! The scandal! It is not for me, Sophia, but for Edward. I am Countess of Frome; is his name to be dragged with mine through the mire?’

  ‘My name and your cousin Weyburn’s have been dragged through the mire, Christine, and for your sake.’

  ‘I know, and I will love you for ever for it, and thank you for ever. But—I am not you, Sapphire. I have lived—as I have lived; a reputation was thrust upon me as a young girl which I grew up to live to, to live by, The Lily of Lillane; I have lived by it ever since and so has he, so has my husband. If I were to lose it now, to drag his name down with mine, I think I should die.’

  ‘I did not die,’ said Sophia.

  ‘You died in spirit, Sapphire; in those first days after the Duchess of Witham’s rout, you died in spirit, you were never again a young, carefree, careless girl. And then, when Charles left you, more scandal, more gossip—I think you died again. After that—oh, dearest, don’t think I don’t know what you did for me, all that you did for me, all that you lost in the last shreds of your reputation, all that it cost you. But …’

  ‘But? But what? But it was only the shreds, after all,’ suggested Sapphire bitterly. ‘That’s what you mean, Christine, isn’t it, by your “but”? What I had to lose I lost for you, and willingly, and you’re grateful—but after all it was not much, for there was not much to lose; and in fact, though you dare not say it, you rather suspect that I enjoyed the losing—the wineing and the winning, and the flirting and philandering, the company of all my gay riff-raff, the whole wild masquerade.…’

  ‘I have never underestimated what you did for me: nor what it cost you, nor what it has meant to me. I owe you everything I hold dear in the world.’

  ‘All you hold dear in the world, Christine, is Edward, Earl of Frome; and if I thought you stood to lose him now, I would still take the alternative path; I would seek the protection of the law of England and defy Lord Weyburn to deny that the child was his son. But you don’t stand to lose your husband, or if you do, then he’s not worth the keeping. You must tell
him, or I will, that Nicholas is your son, born in wedlock: so that Nicholas may be acknowledged, without argument, what he is—heir through you to your cousin’s title and to Starrbelow.’

  ‘Nicholas has no interest in Starrbelow—Nicholas would far rather—’

  ‘Nicholas is heir to Starrbelow: it is his right to inherit, and it will be his duty.’

  The room was sombre, the curtains drawn, a dull fire glowed in the grate on this chill spring evening. Outside the great Frome mansion in Hanover Square the hooves of horses clip-clopped, there was the sound of carriage-wheels rattling over the London cobbles—elegant and gay, the great lords and ladies sped hither and thither agog with the tidings of Gossip Wit’s exchange with That Woman in the park this afternoon; ‘and actually Weyburn present, and staring at the Harlot, my dears, with all his eyes!… Can it be possible he is in love with the creature? It is sure she’s lost nothing of her beauty: tucked away down in Gloucestershire, what should impair it?—for the gossip is she lives quietly enough since her return from Italy; Squire Reddington, of course, the lover, and they say Pardo Ryan tumbles her occasionally, and poor Franks, no doubt, till he cut his throat—on account of the pox, they say, in which case …?’ But within, they sat across the fireplace from one another, two lovely women, elegantly disposed upon their stiff chairs, as long training, grown to habit, enjoined them: in the splendid dresses into which, habit still prevailing, they had permitted their maids to apparel them for the evening, after the drive in the park. They sat in Lady Weyburn’s bedroom, the great four-poster hung with rich embroidery, shadowy in the background; Sapphire vivid, alert, imperious, Christine pale and weeping. ‘I cannot. I cannot.’ She repeated as always, ‘It is not for myself—it’s for Edward.’

  Sapphire struck the little table before her till its ornaments jangled and it seemed as though its legs, slender as the legs of a deer, would crumple beneath it. ‘Oh, God damn Edward to everlasting perdition! I have been sacrificed long enough to Edward. Why should I suffer, why should Nicholas suffer?…’

  ‘You need not suffer; I would not ask you, if you and Nicholas need suffer. But all you have to do is what you have done already once today—claim Charles Weyburn as his father.…’

  ‘Lord Weyburn is not his father.’

  ‘He cannot prove that, Sophia. You said so yourself in the park today, you warned him that the law of England—’

  ‘Good God, Christine, am I to foist upon Lord Weyburn an heir he knows to be not his own?—teach him to believe me a fraud and a cheat for gain, as well as all the rest?…’

  ‘You care nothing, after all, for what he believes of you.’

  ‘Do you think not?’ said Sapphire.

  ‘And even if you did … I would not ask this of you if there were any chance of his changing towards you. But how could that be? It is not as if he ever loved you.’

  ‘Might not he love me now?’ said Sapphire, ‘knowing the truth?’

  ‘But, dearest, what should change him? For what you had done for me and suffered for me—he would respect you; it would explain much that no doubt has made him angry. But that is not love: and why should you wish him to love you?—you have never loved him, Sophia. But I …’ She rested her arms on the table, bowing her lovely golden head in her hands. ‘Sapphire, you don’t know what it is to love: to have your whole heart and soul in another’s keeping. I have loved Lord Frome from my childhood: it’s true when you say that compared with my love for him my children are nothing. I love them, I love Catherine and I love Nicholas—but beside him they are nothing. I cannot help it, that is the way my heart lies—and if he should turn his heart away from mine—’ She broke off. She said, ‘You’ve never loved, Sapphire, you can’t understand me.’

  Sapphire rose to her feet. Opposing elements, they confronted one another, fire and snow, earth and cool water; orchid and lily. She said, ‘I have loved Lord Weyburn from the first moment I saw him—and from that first moment until, for your sake, I destroyed his love, Christine, he loved me.’ Christine cried out, but she silenced her. ‘Till that night in August—even though he believed me a party to the wager, he had loved me. But that night …’ She swayed, sick with the memory of it, pressing her palm against her burning forehead. ‘That night was to be the end of it all; the page from the register was destroyed and there need be no more “escapades”, I need consort no more with Anton, that poor, false, fickle, wanton lover of yours. The last chance for me to return to him the locket he had given you: and I, in the horror of that visit to the Fleet, in the agony of presenting myself before my husband in that guise of debauchery—forgot to give it back. He found it there, hidden in my bosom, as well you know, Christine. Had I spoken then … But I didn’t. I kept your secret still. He loved me: but for your sake I held my peace—and so, once and for all, I say it again, Christine, for your sake I destroyed his love.’ Loyal, true, generous, but pitiless at last, she looked down at the golden head. ‘When he knows the truth, perhaps—perhaps, after all, he may love me again. For you, I might even yet sacrifice this tiny flame of hope—as I did before. But, to save Lord Frome’s precious sense of propriety—no. This is the end.’

  Christine stared up at her, utterly thunderstruck. ‘You and Lord Weyburn.…?’

  ‘You are not the only woman who can give her heart, Christine; or feel it break.’

  ‘But dearest, but Sapphire—you did this for me, you have suffered all this and said nothing for all these years?… How could I know? Should I ever have allowed—’

  But she would not melt, she would not risk her self-control, she dared not be kind. ‘Be silent, Christine. I will not speak of it. Never refer to it again. I have told you only because you must make up your mind, you must do what has to be done.’ She crossed the room and rang the bell for her maid. ‘Go to bed now; we are both exhausted. Tomorrow we can talk again. But my mind is made up: you must tell the truth to the world.’

  And the silent disrobing, a kindly word from the maid, ‘Shall you sleep, my lady?’ ‘Leave me out a phial of the laudanum,’ she said, ‘in case I don’t.’ And the locking of the cupboard, the hiding of the key. ‘Good night, my lady.’

  ‘Good night,’ she said. When the maid was gone, she went through a small communicating boudoir to Christine’s locked door. She called, ‘Christine?’

  ‘Sophia? One moment. What is it?’

  ‘Has your maid left you?’

  ‘Yes, I dismissed her; I am not yet finished undressing.’

  ‘When you are ready, bring me Prince Anton’s ring.’ She went back to her room. Five minutes later, prepared for bed, Christine came through with the ring. ‘I shall take charge of the ring, Christine. It may yet serve as proof of your marriage, and proof may be needed, for the record was burned; and I don’t want you destroying evidence, my dear.’ Christine cried out in repudiation, but Sapphire was exhausted; sick, weary, dejected, she could bear no further argument, she would not hear. ‘Give me the ring. I will lock it away with my jewels.’

  And she went directly to the hiding-place and took out the key and unlocked the closet and put away the ring in one of two boxes there which Christine knew well, and hid the key again. ‘Go back to bed now: tomorrow we will talk again.’ How deeply grateful was she to be in the days to come that she had gone to Christine then and given her that last kiss.

  For in the night … Who could know what dread of the future impelled it, what remorse for the past? Gliding through, the gentle, sorrowing ghost in the long white gown, crowned with the aureole of pale gold hair—gliding through the intervening bourdoir, past the silent, sleeping figure in the great bed, taking the key from the hiding-place, abstracting the phial: standing looking down with what turmoil of emotions, at the bedside: taking up the glass, tossing the empty phial, unconsidered, into the fire.…

  Her first instinct, awakening to the news from a drugged, exhausted sleep, was to mask, to conceal all suspicion of suicide: the first impulse, born of long years of evasion and deceit for protec
tion of Christine, to deny that Christine could have known where the key was hid. That step once taken, it was impossible to retract; to acknowledge that Christine could have taken the phial herself was tantamount to admitting her suicide. That she, Sapphire, could ever be seriously threatened by a suspicion of murdering her friend, at first never entered her head: and when at last it came home to her—well, one more stone to be thrown, one more accusation which could never be proved. If the danger grew real, she must at last tell the truth: to die for such a secret would be wrong—she was weary of a life that, once again, held out no hope for her; but now more than ever Nicholas needed her. And for the rest …

  Bitterly weeping at the white bedside, holding the cold, still hand that wore only Lord Frome’s wedding ring, she knew. ‘If gratitude can make a friend, you have one in me to the end of my life.…’ Gratitude, love, the devoted protective friendship of so many years. Because she could not live to see her fair name sullied, Christine had died; how should Sapphire now, for the sake of her own heart’s longing, sully the fair name of the defenceless dead?

  Outside the great ballroom the light grew dim, the brocades and satins were a jewelled glow in the last rays of the setting sun, the crystal chandeliers that had blazed there on that night ten years ago were glimmering ghosts in the shadows of the high ceiling. Lord Frome stumbled to his feet, came over to her with dragging steps, blundering like an old man: took her hand in his. She could feel the slow, heavy tears hot against her skin as he raised her hand to his lips. ‘I can only beg the forgiveness of your most generous heart.’

  ‘Nothing matters to me, if your own heart forgives Christine.’

  Forgive Christine!—whose sin had been that she had come to him not the pure lily she pretended. Forgive Christine—whose life with him had been from beginning to end a lie. Forgive Christine?… At his side the boy stood, quivering, waiting. He burst out at last: ‘You say nothing, my lord. She was my mother—she did no wrong. What is there to forgive?’