Meriel, staring at his green-shaded face as the sun came out, thought: does it occur to him that if we were to carry out this precious scheme, Auriol would only have to tell his inquisitors what I am in order to be released?
She had never been so frightened in her life.
Kindly, anxiously, seriously, Juxon said, “Time to consider, perhaps? Do you wish for time to consider, Marquis?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Marquis’s Duty
Juxon’s revelation changed everything. Sitting up together by hot candlelight late that same night, Meriel and Auriol repaired their quarrel as they discussed the Steward’s wickedness in seemingly perfect unity of mind. They then agreed on a provisional plan for Auriol’s escape, a plan which had to involve Philander Grindal, and had to be put into action as quickly as possible: tomorrow.
It seemed to them that Philander had to know some version of the truth about Juxon’s madness and the treason-charges, in order that he would agree to allow them to use his shooting lodge on the Southmarch border as a temporary hiding-place. What was to happen after they had made use of it, Meriel and Auriol did not discuss. They were too frightened of quarrelling again about that unmentionable future.
*
Day was going down behind the castle wall in a thin cloudy sunset of striped blues and pale yellow. Philander Grindal, sitting in a window embrasure in Auriol’s attic, wondered how he could have borne the heat up here, where it was unruffled even at twilight by the slightest stir of wind. He had not borne it well, that was clear, even though he was alert and eager now at the prospect of escape.
Auriol’s appearance shocked Philander. He was clean, and fairly neat, but his big muscles seemed to hang slackly on his frame, indicating that if he took little exercise when he grew older he might well become fat. There were shadows under his eyes as there were under Meriel’s and his complexion looked sallow. Auriol had coarsened.
Meriel was on the sofa, leaning well back against its arm with one booted leg thrown over the other. She was drinking black coffee and looking tired but handsome. For the past ten minutes, she had been talking in a careless, drawling way, rather like her Cousin Hugo’s, as though nothing mattered in the least. But her eyes were anxious, and so were Auriol’s. His manner was rather curt.
Philander was hating this discussion. Though the other two pointedly consulted him, their various remarks often seemed to be aimed only at each other, and to have little to do with the business in hand. Both of them could smile at one moment and look exceedingly rigid the next. On the whole, they smiled: smiled as though at some insulting secret joke, he thought. Philander told himself that the obvious love between them was not carnal, and almost wished that Meriel could have formed a simple, happy connection with some boy all Castle West knew for certain to prefer men. He would have been discreet about that.
Suddenly Auriol turned to Grindal, and asked with a curious mixture of kindliness and scorn, “Grindal, why precisely did you agree to help us in this? You know, Westmarch himself reminded me that you have a good deal of respect for the proprieties, and you dislike scandal, and I’m sure that with your great good sense you would think it damned unlikely that Juxon would go so far as to try to poison me! Doesn’t it sound an unlikely tale, sir? Can you find it easy to believe? Why didn’t you tell him, Westmarch, to wait at least a little while, and then see how matters stood?”
Meriel drew in her breath at this.
Grindal set down his coffee-cup with a little too much force. “I do think Westmarch’s fears may be exaggerated, yes, I hope so, and it is the craziest tale ever I heard, but if what he told me is true, which of course I can’t doubt, Juxon does indeed appear to be a dangerous madman, Wychwood! Don’t you think so?”
“As I was saying in so many words yesterday, indeed,” said Meriel, “both to you, sir, and to you, Philander, and to Dianeme. Exhausting work it was. So devilish hard to persuade you all that he is, in fact, queer in his attic.” She flicked at some dust on her shoulder.
Auriol gripped his knees. He did not understand why it upset him to see her nervously pretending to be an idle and bored, clever young fellow, when she was finally about to run away with him. She was even sending him teasing glances from under her eyelids. But he could see that Grindal too was surprised to see that in the presence of Auriol himself, Meriel appeared to treat his plight as a tiresome and amusing little difficulty, not as a desperate case. Yesterday her behaviour had been very different: she had abased herself and begged.
Why, Auriol thought in a flash: of course, she is terrified that I will tell Grindal she is a woman! Tell him now. As I could, Meriel, if I were not a man of honour — like you.
“Dianeme was certainly very much shocked,” said Grindal. “But she like myself concluded that there could be no resisting Westmarch’s importunities when your life might possibly be in danger, to answer your question, Wychwood.”
“Importunities?” said Meriel, raising her eyebrows. “Surely a request, merely? Though I suppose it was improper, Wychwood is perfectly right. So much of what we do is improper.”
Neither of them will ever know now that I honestly wanted him killed, she thought. It no longer matters that I did: this will expiate.
“How can there be impropriety in my lending you what aid I can in such a case as this?” cried Grindal. “And I hope I have courage enough to face the possible consequences to myself! Shall we now turn to more important matters than my feelings on the subject?”
“You are a very loyal friend, I see, Grindal,” said Auriol.
“But of course he is, my oldest and my best,” said Meriel.
“Philander, what I want to know is this: granted that it’s essential to smuggle him out before everyone is awake, how many do you suppose, among the grooms and porters, are likely to recognise him? For we can’t depend upon meeting no one at all.”
“Wychwood is known to be wondrous great with you and so he is an object of interest to some of them on that account alone. Besides his size — I beg your pardon, sir. He will most certainly be recognised. Your dependence must be upon your own consequence, Westmarch. Anyone who sees you both with me in attendance may chatter — even mention the circumstances to his betters — but none of them will dare to remonstrate with you! And you will soon be out of reach, we hope. It is a fortunate circumstance that you are what you are, Meriel.”
“Indeed,” said Meriel, twiddling her thumbs.
“We would be obliged to resort to drugging the men outside and smuggling poor Wychwood out in a trunk, I daresay, if you were not the Marquis.” Grindal smiled wryly and looked from one to the other.
“What an adventure that would be, to be sure,” said Meriel.
“Yes, almost like an elopement,” Auriol agreed.
Meriel turned back to Philander with a quick movement of the head.
“So are you proposing that I should simply take him up in my curricle to air him a trifle? Are you to accompany us?”
“Yes, I fancy that will present a better appearance — I shall go as rearguard, as it were. But don’t use the curricle, and most certainly not a chaise! Ride, don’t drive. Wychwood is not an invalid to be taken out for a gentle airing, Meriel. On the other hand, perhaps the curricle —”
“No, indeed,” said Meriel. “Quite the reverse, I —”
“Saddling the horses,” Auriol interrupted. “Who’s to do that? Ourselves? Or shall Westmarch use his vast consequence to overawe some groom into doing it in the usual way?”
“Ourselves,” said Philander. “Both you and Westmarch are known to be well able to groom your own horses, and one of you can very well saddle mine for me. If you make your escape very early, as you said, your own grooms will be asleep. You won’t care to waken them.”
“You think of everything,” said Auriol. “How I admire you!”
“Wychwood has no groom of his own at Castle West,” said Meriel, sitting further forward. This quibble irritated both men. She went on, “You’ll
bear us company in order to seem something in the nature of a guard, Philander, or so I collect? Your notion is that should dear Wychwood try to make a run for it, the two of us should be able to overpower him? That’s what anyone who chances to see us will think?”
“Exactly so.”
“So no devoted servant of mine will indulge in nightmarish visions of my lifeless corpse stretched out by the roadside. Ah, me.”
“You seem not to realise that it may very well be a case of lifeless corpses if this comes to nothing,” said Auriol.
“But my dear sir, how could I forget it?” she replied, then said in a very different voice, “Oh, don’t look at me like that! I’m in a worry — nervous — I can’t forbear to tease.”
“Westmarch,” said Philander, “What I do not understand is why you feel yourself obliged not only to effect Wychwood’s escape, but to remain with him.”
He blushed, and so did Meriel. Auriol did not. Philander tried to show a sense of humour, and went on, “After all, you can scarcely be wishful to escape from Castle West, Meriel!”
“Oh, but I am!” said Meriel, in shock. She could not imagine how she had betrayed her intention of quitting her post to Philander, never had she deliberately done so, and she could not believe it of Auriol.
“And he will scarcely require you of all people as a protector from the militia! Indeed, Westmarch, if you too disappear instead of returning to explain the business, it will look shockingly.” Still puzzled, he faced Auriol. “Surely, Wychwood, you must see that it is quite ineligible? I thought at first that Westmarch meant only to escort you out of Castle-town, but now from various things you have both said, I collect that is not so. I do not mean to be impertinent, but why must he go with you?”
“We have a further purpose in mind which we have not disclosed to you,” said Auriol briefly. He got to his feet for the first time during the conversation. “It is necessary, I promise you.”
“No, I think Philander is perfectly right,” said Meriel. Auriol stared at her. “I may very likely join — visit you, for there’s nothing I should like better, but I ought to return here first. Truly, Wychwood, I ought to settle matters here.”
“You-may-very-likely?” whispered Auriol.
“Yes, can you not go on alone?”
It was too much. The sight of Meriel lounging with such tense grace, of her neat little blue-haired friend sitting behind her and so preventing him from speaking his mind, made Auriol’s whole face throb with rage. For nearly twenty-four hours he had been allowed to believe that at last, what he had longed for was going to happen, and that nothing could prevent it. He had reminded himself over and over that this time tomorrow, he and Meriel would be galloping south, never to go back to the prison of Castle West.
Now he was to be deprived of his treat, and all for a foolish whim or scruple. He would be deserted. She would never come to join him.
“Do you not understand?” said Philander. “My dear Wychwood, do not be putting yourself in this ridiculous passion! I know you have had much to endure, but if Westmarch does not return, don’t you see that there will be a perfect hue and cry after the pair of you that I could do nothing to prevent? Indeed, I —”
“Be silent!” shouted Auriol. Both the others looked very surprised and, he thought, disgusted. He wondered that they dared.
It did occur to him that Meriel was prevaricating only because Philander was there, but the thought did not soothe him. If she still meant to escape with him, it was her duty to tell her friend the whole truth, now that one secret element of their plan had apparently leaked out despite themselves. It was not her duty to seem to compromise. But he, Auriol, was incapable of saying that she was a woman and was going to elope with him. He believed that thanks to her he had neither the strength nor the courage. At the moment he found it almost impossible to believe that she was, in fact, female and his mistress.
“Come, sir,” she said.
His own feelings, Meriel’s determination to be calm, and above all, Grindal’s presence which she had insisted on, tied up Auriol’s tongue so that he could not use it. Instead, taking one step forward, he raised his arm, and brought his hand cracking down on Meriel’s face.
The blow was so hard that it knocked Meriel sideways.
“Oh, my God!” shrieked Philander.
“Oh, no,” said Auriol, “oh, no.”
Meriel had made no sound, not even a moan, the surprise had been too great. The two men now watched her raise herself, and saw that her right cheek was not only dark pink, but distended. Though Auriol had struck her with his open palm not his fist, she was going to have a bruise on her cheekbone. In some ways, she was no stronger than other women.
It took her several moments to recover. Her head felt like a whirlpool, and she could see sickly gold in front of her eyes, a sensation she remembered from the two occasions in her life on which she had fainted.
“Meriel, remember, you can’t call him out!” said Philander, knowing full well that he would have to, despite his position in the state and despite the law. Among gentlemen, no apology could be given or received after a blow.
It was Philander’s warning that reminded Meriel and Auriol of the necessity of fighting a duel. Auriol, horrified at what he had done to the woman who loved him, on the point of scooping her up from the sofa and begging forgiveness, nearly gave way to laughter when he realised how things looked to Grindal. But when he looked again at Meriel, he saw that as yet she was neither shocked nor hurt, but glittering with the cold vengeful fury of a person intolerably humiliated, and that calmed him. He had meant to hurt her but never to degrade her as she clearly felt he had done.
Meriel said, very quietly, “You will meet me for this, sir.”
It was a profound relief to remember that that dignified way of settling a score was open to her and at once, she felt less angry and less helpless.
“Westmarch, for God’s sake —” Grindal began. She turned on him, her marked face a horrible sight. “Do you expect me — me — to stomach such an insult as that? Do you?”
He dropped his eyes. “No.”
“You’ll act for me, then.” Meriel rose from the sofa, though her legs were shaking.
“I know that my apology will make no difference,” Auriol said to her, “but I do apologise, from the bottom of my heart, none the less.”
“Do you? I despise you for it.”
He flinched, and Meriel swallowed. A little colour came back into her face, and she looked at Philander. She said, sitting down on a chair, “It’s a fortunate circumstance that we have already settled what we are to do tomorrow. We can fight in Six-Elms Field, I suppose, like everyone else, and then if I miss my mark he can make his escape. While I come back, for there can be no question at all, now, thanks to him, of my accompanying him.” She paused, utterly miserable at this prospect of having to return to Castle West to be Marquis no matter what her wishes might be when the time came. “So there won’t be any scandal if you hold your tongue, Philander.”
“There will be, if you do kill him,” Grindal remarked, trying to damp down the hidden-current passions of the other two with common sense. “Not but what I could scarcely blame you for doing so. Is it to be swords or pistols? And who, pray, is to act as Wychwood’s second?”
“I should certainly like to kill him. Is it necessary for him to have a second?” said Meriel.
Philander blinked. “A rencontre properly conducted is, in your case, irregular enough!”
“I think you are pretty well acquainted with my late wife’s brother Fabian Blandy?” said Auriol, speaking at last, and trying to steady his hands by clenching them. “I know he is still at Castle West though the rest of them went into the country.”
“Yes,” said Grindal. “I suppose he could not refuse to act for you.” He was obliged to be grateful to Auriol for suggesting this convenient man, his brother-in-law, who was as keen a believer in honour as he was himself, and would agree to be a second out of pure curiosity,
but would feel no wish to spread the story of this unlawful and appalling affair.
“I choose pistols,” said Meriel.
Auriol gave her a slight bow, and their eyes met. “Yes, of course.”
“And I hope, sir,” said Philander to Auriol as bitingly as he could, “that having dared insult a man whose position legally obliges him to seek vengeance in some other way, as indeed he would do if he were not most truly the gentleman, you will have at least the common delicacy to fire in the air! How you could expose Westmarch — forcing him to this — you, a friend of his!”
“You need not fear that,” said Auriol in a low voice. “I shall certainly do that, delope.”
Meriel said nothing, and turned her back. Most of her fury had now left her, because she realised by this time that Auriol’s slap had not been intended to put her in her place. It had been the result of simple and intense frustration, and that she could understand and forgive. Her cheek still felt as hot as a brand, but it was not painful. If Philander had not been there, she and Auriol would have made up their quarrel quite in the way of ordinary lovers. But she could not possibly withdraw her challenge: for indeed, leaving the punctilious Grindal aside, she wanted to exchange shots with Auriol and teach him a lesson. It was only that she longed to make violent love to him first.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Shot in the Corn
Philander Grindal lay awake in bed beside the gently snoring Dianeme. He could not sleep because he had to be up at four, because the hot sheets prickled, because his wife’s great hard belly seemed always to be in his way, and because the unshuttered room was too light. Most of all, he was kept awake by thoughts.
He got up and sat by the window, hoping that this would make him tired. Outside, the round moon shone in a patch of clear sky like dark silver water — up above it, black clouds drifted by. Orange nasturtiums, pale in the night, climbed up over the windowsill from the Grindals’ little balcony, and Philander could smell the massed tobacco-plants in the courts below. A lantern was burning in the middle of the garden as it did every night, summer or winter, full moon or dark. There was no sense of peace. Two drunken young men were crossing the courtyard, giggling, arm in arm.
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