The Shrouded Walls

by Susan Howatch

  I crossed the hall with swift firm steps, turned the handle of the library door and walked into the room with my head held high, my cheeks burning and my fists clenched as if for a fight.

  “Miss Fleury?” said the man, turning abruptly to face me. “How do you do.”

  He was not as I had expected him to be. I had instinctively visualized a blond giant as soon as I had read of his Nordic names, but this man was dark. He had smooth dark unpowdered hair, and dark eyes which were as opaque as Sir Charles Stowell’s dark eyes were clear and expressive; whatever thoughts this man had he kept to himself. He was dressed sombrely but with good taste in a dark blue coat and plain well-cut breeches; his carefully folded white cravat was starched to perfection and his Hessian boots would have satisfied the highest standards of elegance. He gave no obvious indication of being a foreigner for his English was flawless, and yet I was at once aware of some cosmopolitan nuance in his manner which was difficult to define. When he took my hand and bowed I noticed that his fingers were long and slim and cool against my hot palm.

  “Pray be seated,” I said graciously, withdrawing my hand rather too quickly. “May I offer you a cordial or some other refreshment?”

  “Thank you, but no.” His voice was cool too, I noticed. The lack of accent somehow seemed to take all hint of passion from his tone.

  We sat down by the fireplace, opposite one another, and I waited for him to begin a conversation.

  Presently he said: “You may well be wondering who I am and why I have effected this introduction to see you. I must apologize for trespassing on your privacy at such a distressing time. It was kind of you to see me.” I made a small gesture of acknowledgement.

  “Permit me to offer my condolences to you on your bereavement.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a silence. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair with his hands tightly clasped in front of him. The light slanted upwards across his cheekbones and into his opaque eyes. “I consider myself Austrian, as I have lived in Austria most of my life, but in fact I am half-English by descent. My father is—was—an Englishman. He died ten months ago.”

  I wondered if I should comment. Before I could make up my mind he said: “My mother returned to Austria shortly before I was born and died five years afterwards, leaving me both property and income in Vienna. I was more than content to stay there, although I was educated in England and later often came here on account of my business interests; occasionally I would travel down to Sussex to see my father. He remarried soon after my mother’s death and had other sons by this time.”

  He paused. I contrived to look intelligent and attempted to give the impression I knew exactly what he was trying to say.

  “My father was a rich man,” he said. “He had estates on the Romney Marsh and his ancestors were prominent citizens of the Cinque Ports. I assumed that when he died he would leave his house (which was not entailed) and his wealth to his eldest son by his second marriage, but I was wrong. He willed everything to me. My commitments in Vienna made it impossible for me to come to England earlier, but I am here now for the purpose of visiting the estate and seeing my English relations.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “I rather doubt whether you do,” he said ironically, “since I haven’t yet explained why I have come to see you. However, I appreciate your interest in what to you must seem a very puzzling narrative.” His hands were clasped so tightly together that the knuckles gleamed white. He glanced into the fire for a moment and then looked back at me swiftly as if he had hoped to catch me off my guard. Something in his expression made me avert my eyes instinctively and make a great business of flicking a speck of dust from my cuff.

  “Pray continue, sir,” said my voice politely.

  “I happened to visit my lawyer Sir Charles Stowell this morning,” he said. “There were one or two matters relating to my father’s will that I wanted to discuss with him, rather than with my father’s lawyers in Rye. In the course of conversation Stowell mentioned your name and the—circumstances of your position both before and after your parent’s death, as he considered it might be germane to my position.”

  “And pray, Mr. Brandson,” I said so coolly that my manner was even cooler than his, “what is your position?”

  “Why, merely this, Miss Fleury,” he said, and to my annoyance I sensed that he was amused. “If I wish to inherit under the terms of my father’s will, I must marry within one year of his death. Furthermore it’s specifically stipulated that my wife must be English by birth. Unfortunately this condition is not nearly so easy to fulfill as it might have seemed to my father when he made his very insular stipulation. To begin with, the ladies of my acquaintance are all Viennese, not English; I know of no eligible young Englishwoman, and even if I did it’s possible that her father would frown on my foreign blood and discourage the match. My father, as I am well aware, was not the only insular man in this extraordinarily arrogant country, and now when England is the richest, most powerful nation in the world she is more insular and arrogant than ever before. On the other hand, it was clear to me that I couldn’t merely marry some serving-girl for the purpose of fulfilling the condition in the will. My wife must know how to conduct herself and be at ease among people of the class with whom I would be obliged to associate on accepting the inheritance. She must at any rate give the appearance of poise and breeding.”

  My coolness seemed to have turned to ice. I was unable to move or speak. All I was conscious of thinking was: He wishes me to masquerade as his wife. When he has his inheritance safely in his hand I shall be discarded and left penniless.

  “I believe you are seventeen years of age, Miss Fleury,” he said. “I assume that by this time you will have considered the idea of marriage in general terms, if not in relation to any specific person.”

  “Yes,” I heard myself say. “I have considered it.”

  “And?”

  “And put the thought aside.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because,” I said, trying to erase all trace of anger from my voice, “I have no dowry, no portion and no social standing. The possibility of making a good match is out of the question.”

  “I think you underestimate your own attractions,” he said. “Or else you overestimate the disadvantage of your background. I am sure you would have no difficulty in finding suitors.”

  “It’s plain to see you’re a foreigner, Mr. Brandson,” I said, my tongue sharp in my desire to stab back at him for his casual reference to my illegitimacy. “If you knew this country better you would know that whatever proposals a woman such as I may receive, none of them would have anything to do with matrimony.”

  “But I have just proposed matrimony to you,” he said undisturbed. “Am I to understand that my proposal was not worthy of your consideration? You at least cannot reject me as a foreigner, Miss Fleury! My father was as English as your father was, and your mother was as much a foreigner as mine. My reputation and standing both in London and Vienna are excellent—anyone will confirm that. I have no title, but my father’s family fought with Harold at Hastings against the Conqueror and my father was one of the most respected of the landed gentry throughout the length and breadth of Sussex. If you married me you would find yourself the wife of a prosperous land-owner, mistress of a large and beautiful home with plenty of servants.”

  After a while I said: “You want to marry me?”

  For the first time since I had met him he smiled. “I am only surprised that you should find it so hard to believe,” was all he said.

  “A legal binding marriage?”

  “Certainly. An illegal fraud would be of little use to me in making any claim to the estate, and still less use to you.”

  My incredulity was succeeded by an exhilaration which in turn sharpened into panic. “I—we know nothing of each other—”

  “What of that? The majority of marriages these days among people such as ourselves are preceded by
a very brief acquaintance. Marriage is an institution of convenience which should confer benefits on both parties. The grand passion of a courtship culminating in married bliss is for operatic librettos and the novels of Mrs. Radclyffe.”

  “Well, of course,” I said sharply, not wanting to be thought a romantic schoolgirl, “it was not my intention to imply otherwise. But—”

  “Well?”

  “I—I don’t even know how old you are!” I cried out. “I know nothing of you!”

  “I am thirty-four years old,” he said easily. “I was married in my twenties, but my wife died in childbirth and the baby with her. I’ve never remarried.” He stood up. “You will of course need to consider the matter. If you will permit me, I shall wait upon you tomorrow, and then if you wish to accept my proposal we will take a drive in the park and perhaps drink chocolate in Piccadilly while we discuss the plans further.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I assume you have no objections to my brother accompanying me? I would prefer to be chaperoned.”

  He hesitated slightly, and then shrugged his shoulders. “As you wish.”

  “Before you go,” I said, for he was still standing, “I would like to clarify one or two matters in my mind.”

  “Certainly.” He sat down again and crossed one leg over the other. His hands were no longer clasped tightly together, I noticed, but were limp and relaxed again upon his thighs.

  “First,” I said, “if I am to marry you, I would like to be sure that my brother is provided for. He has another year of studies at Harrow and then would like to go up to Oxford to complete his education.”

  “That could easily be arranged.”

  “And he could have a reasonable allowance and live under our roof whenever he wishes?”

  “By all means.”

  “I see,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Was there some other matter you wished to clarify, Miss Fleury?”

  “Yes,” I said. “There was.” My hands were the ones which were clasped tightly now. By an effort of will I held my head erect and looked him straight in the eyes. “There’s one matter on which I’m anxious there should be no misunderstanding.”

  “And that is?”

  “As the marriage is really purely for convenience, Mr. Brandson, am I to take it that the marriage will be in name only?”

  There was a silence. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. Presently he smiled. “For a young girl educated in an exemplary seminary for young ladies,” he said, “you seem to be remarkably well-informed, Miss Fleury.”

  I waited for him to speak further but he said nothing more. After a moment I was obliged to say: “You haven’t answered my question, sir.”

  “Nor have you commented on my observation, madam.”

  “That’s easily done,” I said shortly. “My mother talked long and often of marriage and liaison and of the lot of women in general.”

  “In that case,” he said, “you will be well aware that there are few marriages which begin in name only although the majority certainly end in that manner. However, if the matter is distasteful to you, there is no need for us to live together immediately. As you say, I am more interested in securing my inheritance and you are more interested in attaining your own security to be concerned with details such as those. We can discuss them later on.”

  My first thought was: He thinks I am as fearful as most young girls and might spoil his plans by refusing in panic at the last minute to marry him. My second thought: He has a mistress or he would not concede so much so carelessly.

  And my relief was mingled with anger and irritation.

  “Then I shall see you tomorrow?” he said, rising once more to his feet. “If I may, I would like to wait upon you at half-past ten tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That would be convenient.”

  He took my hand again in his long cool fingers and raised it casually to his lips. I felt nothing at all. No shiver of excitement or anticipation or even revulsion. He merely seemed old to me, a stranger twice my age with whom I had nothing whatever in common, and it was at that time quite impossible for me to realize that within a month we would be sharing the same name.

  “But we know nothing of him,” said Alexander. “Nothing. We don’t even know that he is as he says he is. He may be utterly disreputable.”

  “We shall go now and talk to Sir Charles Stowell. Tell John to have the chaise brought to the front door.”

  “But an Austrian! Viennese!”

  “Austria is allied with us now against Bonaparte.”

  “But—”

  “Listen Alexander. Please try to be practical and realistic. We’re not in a position to be otherwise. Within a few days we shall be destitute—we have no money and soon we’ll have no roof over our heads either. This man—if he is as he says he is, and I believe he was telling the truth—this man is going to provide us both with financial security and social respectability. It’s a gift from the gods! I shall be an honorably married woman with a house and servants, and you will be able to complete your studies and then do whatever you wish. How can we turn down such an opportunity? What shall we do if we did turn it down? You would have to enlist in the army and I should have to be a governess, and while you may be content to spend the rest of your life marching and parading, I am not content to be consigned to some isolated country mansion to teach the stupid children of some provincial local squire! I want to marry and be a great lady in whatever county I may live in, not to be a spinster, an unwanted appendage to a noble household!”

  “You would be content to marry this man?”

  “You didn’t see him!”

  “I didn’t care for your description of him.”

  “But Alexander,” I said exasperated, “this is hardly the time to be particular and fussy about prospective brothers-in-law, or husbands. Mr. Brandson is not ill-looking, he is courteous and a gentleman, and he cannot help being old. It could be much worse.”

  “Well, I don’t like it,” said Alexander obtusely. “I don’t like it at all. Who knows what this may lead to?”

  “Who knows?” I agreed. “But I know very well what would happen if we ignored this offer. Suit yourself, Alexander, but which is the worse of two evils?”

  “I wonder,” said Alexander.

  Mr. Brandson arrived punctually at half-past ten the following morning and I went to the library to greet him with my decision. I was wearing a dress of yellow muslin in the height of fashion, and my maid had arranged my hair in a most becoming Grecian style so that I considered myself exceptionally elegant. My self-confidence swept me across the floor towards him and only ebbed when I felt his cool fingers once more against my hand. There was some element in his manner which unnerved me. For the first time it occurred to me that he was sophisticated; he was probably amused at my attempt to present an adult poised facade to him, much as any mature man would be amused at the caprices of a precocious child.

  With singular lack of finesse I managed to say gauchely that I had decided to accept his proposal. It seemed that he had never once thought that I would do otherwise. He had all his plans carefully prepared. He had rented a suite of rooms near Leicester Square, he said. He understood the predicament in which my brother and I were placed, and suggested we might move to the rooms whenever it became necessary for us to do so. I might take my maid with me, if I wished. He and I could be married as soon as was convenient and could spend a few days in the country after the wedding while Alexander could return to Harrow.

  I said that this would be eminently satisfactory.

  News of my betrothal was soon circulated; my mother’s French friends who eventually came forward to offer us assistance were all relieved to hear that I had been so fortunate although little was known of Mr. Brandson. However, one or two people had heard of his father Robert Brandson, the Sussex land-owner, and Sir Charles Stowell introduced me to a City banker who assured me of Mr. Axel Brandson’s standing as a man of business in London
and Vienna.

  Mr. Brandson himself gave me a handsome sapphire ring and waited on me five out of the seven days of each week. Often he stayed no longer than quarter of an hour before making some excuse to be on his way, but occasionally we went for a drive in his phaeton, and once, shortly before the wedding he took me to Vauxhall.

  I was unchaperoned. Now that I was officially betrothed and soon to be married it was no longer so important to be escorted by a third person, and besides Alexander had an assignation with some actress with whom he had become infatuated during frequent visits to the theater in the Haymarket, and I saw no reason to interrupt his schoolboy’s idolization of some highly unsuitable female. The worst that could happen would be for her to be too indulgent towards him.

  So I went to the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall with Axel Brandson and walked with him among the brilliantly-dressed crowds. I was just enjoying being seen in the company of my future husband by people I knew, and was just lagging a pace behind him to make sure that I had not mistaken some fashionable member of the aristocracy nearby when I heard a man’s voice exclaim: “So you’re back, Axel! And alone! What happened to the beautiful—”

  I turned. The man saw me and stopped. There was a second’s silence and then Mr. Brandson said without inflection: “Miss Fleury, allow me to present an acquaintance of mine...”

  But I was not listening to him. The man’s name was familiar to me. My father had spoken of him in vague amusement as “a daredevil rake and a gambler soaked in his own debts.” Since my father was a rake and a gambler I knew exactly the kind of man Mr. Brandson’s friend was.

  “You told me you had no friends in London,” I said after we had left the gentleman behind.

  “No close friends certainly.”

  “The gentleman seemed very well acquainted with you.”

  “Once perhaps fifteen years ago we were inseparable during my visits to England but that time is long since past.” He seemed untroubled, but I thought I could detect a slight impatience in his manner as if he wished to be rid of the subject. “My personal friends are in Austria now. The people I knew in London are merely business acquaintances.”