The journey that day seemed never-ending. We progressed along the borders of Kent and Sussex and the rain poured from leaden skies to make a mire of the road. At several inns we had to stop to allow the coachman to attend to the horses who quickly tired from the strain of pulling their burden through the mud, and then at last as we crossed the border into Sussex and left the rich farming land of Kent behind, the rain ceased and on peering from the carriage window I saw we were approaching a new land, a vast tract of green flatness broken only by the blue ribbon of the sea on the horizon.
“This is the Romney Marsh,” said Axel.
It was not as I had imagined it to be. I think I had pictured a series of marshes and bogs which would remind me of descriptions I had heard of the Fen Country in East Anglia, but although there were probably marshes and bogs in plenty, they were not visible from the road. The grass of the endless meadows seemed very green, and occasionally I glimpsed the strips of farmland, and the huddle of stone buildings. There were no hedges or other enclosures, but often I could glimpse the gleam of water where a farmer had cut a dyke to drain his property.
“They plan to drain more of the Marsh,” said Axel, after he had pointed out the dykes to me. “The soil is rich here if only it can be used. Vere has been experimenting with crops and growing turnips and other root vegetables instead of letting a third of the land lie fallow each year. There have been similar interesting experiments in crop rotation in East Anglia; I believe the late Lord Townshend was very successful in evolving the method, but my father held out against it for a long time and clung to the old ways. He distrusted all innovations on principle.”
“And was all the Marsh a swamp once?”
“A great deal of it was below the sea at one time, but that was centuries ago. Up to the fourteenth century Rye and Winchelsea were the mightiest ports in all England, rivals even to London, and then the sea receded from their walls and the river silted up in Rye harbor so that now they’re mere market towns with memories of medieval grandeur.”
“And is Hastings nearby—where the Conqueror landed?”
“It’s less than ten miles from Winchelsea. The ancestor of the Brandsons was reputedly a Dane called Brand who was in King Harold’s entourage and fought with Harold against the Norman invaders.”
“My mother’s family was descended from Charlemagne,” I said, thinking he was becoming too boastful and determined not to be outshone, but to my annoyance he merely laughed as if I had made a joke.
“My dear child,” he said amused, “each one of us had an ancestor who was alive a thousand years ago. The only difference between us and, say, our coachman riding behind his horses is that we know the names of our ancestors and he doesn’t.”
This seemed to me to be a most peculiar observation and I found his amusement irritating in the extreme. I decided the most dignified course of action was to ignore his remark altogether, and accordingly I turned my attentions to the landscape outside once more.
The weather was improving steadily all the time, but now darkness was falling, and as I drew my redingote more tightly around myself I peered through the window to watch the shadows lengthening over the Marsh. The dykes now gleamed mysteriously, the flat ground gave curious illusions of distance and nearness. When I first saw the lights of Rye they seemed very close at hand, a cluster of illuminations dotting the dark rise of a hill, but it was another hour before we were finally below the walls of the town and the horses were toiling up the cobbled road to the great gate at the top of the rise.
“Vere said he would meet us at the Mermaid Inn,” said Axel. “The carriage will stop there presently. Ah, here’s the high street! You see the old grammar school? My father sent Ned there to learn his letters. Vere had a private tutor but it was hardly worth spending the money on such a luxury for Ned ... You can see how old the town is—I would think it probable that the streets and alleys you see now are little changed from the medieval days when they were built.”
I stared fascinated out of the window. I had never seen any town like it before, for Cheltenham, where I had spent my schooldays, was now filled with the modern buildings of the eighteenth century, and the parts of London where I had lived were also relatively new. I was reminded of the city of London which lay east of Temple Bar, a section I had seldom visited, but even though there was a similarity between the city and this town, Rye still seemed unique to me as I saw it then for the first time.
The carriage reached the Mermaid Inn in Mermaid Street, the driver halted the horses in the courtyard, and presently I heard the shouts of the ostlers and the sounds of the baggage being unloaded.
My limbs were stiff. As Axel helped me down into the courtyard I slipped and fell against him, but before I could apologize for my clumsiness he said abruptly: “There’s Ned but I see no sign of Vere.”
I turned.
There was a man in the doorway of the inn, and as he saw us he stepped forward so that the light lay behind him and I could not see his face. His movements seemed curiously reluctant.
“Where’s Vere?” said Axel sharply to him as he drew nearer to us. “He told me he’d be here to meet us.”
“There was an accident.” He had a deep voice with more than a hint of a Sussex rural accent. The accent shocked me for I had thought that all gentry, no matter where they lived in England, spoke the King’s English. He was not as tall as Axel, but was so powerfully built that he in fact seemed the larger of the two. He had narrow black eyes, a stubborn mouth and a shock of untidy black hair which was cut very short in the manner of a yokel. “The prize bull threw one of the farm hands and Vere rode himself to Winchelsea to get Doctor Salter. He asked me to meet you instead and give you his apologies for not being here as he promised.”
“Couldn’t he have sent you to fetch the doctor and come here himself to meet us as we arranged?”
“He was too worried about the hand. They fear his back is broken.”
“I see.” But he was clearly angry. I waited uneasily for him to introduce me, for the man was looking at me openly now with curious eyes.
“Where is the carriage?”
“Over there.”
“Then let’s waste no more time standing here, or my wife will catch cold.” He half-turned to me. “May I introduce my youngest half-brother, Edwin ... Ned, attend to our baggage, would you? Is Simpson with the carriage? Get him to assist you.”
But Ned had taken my hand in his and was bowing low with unexpected ceremony. “Your servant, ma’am.”
“How do you do,” I said, responding to convention, and then Axel’s hand was on my arm and Axel’s voice said coolly: “This way, my dear.” If Ned’s Sussex accent had worried me about the gentility of the Brandsons, their carriage quickly restored my faith in their social position. It was polished and elaborate, well-sprung and comfortable, and clearly could only have been maintained by a gentleman.
“You were barely civil to Ned,” I said in a low voice once I was seated. “Why was that?”
He had been stooping to examine the fastening of the carriage door, but once I spoke he swung around, seeming to tower above me in that small confined space. “He needs discipline,” he said abruptly. “My father let him run wild and his mother cannot control him. He shows tendencies of becoming as wild as Rodric but with none of Rodric’s charm and grace of manner.” He sat down opposite me and the shaft of light from the porch shone directly across his face so that I saw for the first time the anger in his eyes. “And let me tell you this,” he said. “I dislike the idea of reproving you so soon after our marriage, but I think I should clearly indicate from the start whenever I find your conduct unsatisfactory. If I was ‘barely civil’ to Ned, as you put it, that’s my affair and has nothing to do with you. I did not ask for your comment nor did I expect one. Just because you’re my wife doesn’t give you the liberty to criticize my manners whenever they may appear to your inexperienced eyes to be defective. Do you understand me?”
Tears stung my eyes. �
��Yes,” I said.
“Then we shall say no more about it.” He glanced at his watch and put it away again. “We should be at Haraldsdyke within half an hour.”
I was silent.
I had expected Ned to join us in the carriage, but he evidently preferred to travel outside with the coachman and the servants, so Axel and I remained alone together. Within twenty minutes of our leaving the inn courtyard, Rye and Winchelsea were mere twin hills pinpricked with lights behind us, and the country on either side of the road was hidden by the darkness of the night. I felt very tired suddenly, and as always when my spirit was at a low ebb I thought of Alexander and longed for his companionship. Axel’s anger seemed to have driven a wedge between us and made me feel isolated and alone again.
The darkness hid Haraldsdyke from my eyes. I had half-anticipated passing lodge gates and traveling up a long drive to the house, but there was no lodge, only tall iron gates set in a high weather-beaten wall, and then a sharp ascent to a level above the Marsh. I was to learn later that all the oldest houses on the Marsh were built on a slight elevation of the land above sea-level in order to escape the dangers of floods and spring tides. The carriage drew up before the house, Axel helped me to dismount, and then even before I could strain my eyes through the gloom to make out the shape of the gray walls, the front door was opened and a woman stood on the threshold with a lamp in her hand.
I knew instinctively that it was Alice. My nerves sharpened.
Ned and the coachman were attending to the baggage as Axel led me forward up the steps to the front door, but I had already forgotten them. My whole being was focused on the meeting which lay immediately ahead of me.
“Good evening, Alice,” said Axel as we reached her. “May I present my wife?” And he turned to me and made the necessary counter-introduction.
Alice smiled. She was still plain even then, I noticed with relief. She had brown hair, soft and wispy, and a broad face with high cheekbones and green eyes. She had a heavy peasant’s build with wide shoulders and an over-large bosom, and I would have thought her exceedingly fat if I had not realized suddenly that she was perhaps four months pregnant. The image of the meticulously efficient housekeeper and superbly conscientious mother receded a little and I was aware of an enormous relief. She was, after all, merely an ordinary country woman and there was no reason why I should feel inferior to her in any way.
“Why, how pretty you be!” she exclaimed softly, and her accent was many shades thicker than Ned’s. “Pray come in and feel welcome ... Vere’s coming, George,” she added to Axel, and it gave me a shock to hear him called by the name his father had given him, even though he had warned me about it earlier. “He just returned from Winchelsea and went to change his clothes to receive you.”
She led us across a long hall and up a curving staircase to the floor above. Within a moment we were in a large suite of rooms where fires burned in the grates and lamps cast a warm glow over oak furniture.
“I thought you should be having your father’s rooms,” she said to Axel. “They’ve not been used since his death, God rest his soul. Your step-mother still has her rooms in the west wing.” She turned to me. “Let me know if there’s anything more you need,” she said. “George mentioned in his letter that you had a maid, and I’ve arranged for her to sleep in the room across the corridor for the time being. If you’d rather she slept in the servants’ wing—”
“No,” I said. “That will suit me very well.”
“Then if there’s nothing more I can do for you at present I’ll leave you to refresh yourselves after your journey. The footmen will be up with the luggage in a minute, I dare say, and I’ve just had the maids bring up some hot water for you—see, over there in the ewers ... Would you like me to send any victuals up to you on a tray? Or some nice hot tea?”
I opened my mouth to accept and then remembered Axel’s presence and was silent.
He glanced at me, raising his eyebrows, and when I nodded my head, he said: “Some tea would be excellent Alice. But please tell the rest of the family that we shall come down to the saloon as soon as possible.”
The tea certainly revived me. Presently Marie-Claire arrived and helped me wash and change, and some time later when I was attired in a fresh gown and with my hair re-arranged, I began to take more notice of my surroundings. They were indeed beautiful rooms. It was true that they had not the light elegance of the London drawing-rooms, but each piece of oak furniture was a work of art of previous centuries, and the long velvet curtains at the windows and around the bed added impressiveness to the setting. I pulled aside one of the curtains to glance outside into the night, but it was too dark for me to see anything although I fancied I saw the lights of Rye and Winchelsea twinkling in the distance.
Axel came out of the dressing-room to meet me a few minutes later. His valet had shaved him for the second time that day, and he wore a gray coat with square tails, a striped waistcoat and long beige breeches cut in the French style which were slit at the sides above the ankle. He looked exceedingly elegant, yet curiously out of place in that quiet English country house. Perhaps, I thought alarmed, I also looked too elegant, even over-dressed, for the occasion. I glanced in the mirror hastily but before I could pass judgment on myself, he said: “Thank God you don’t look like Alice!” and kissed the nape of my neck as he stood behind me.
He was evidently trying to make amends for his harshness at Rye. “Am I suitably dressed?” I said, still seeking reassurance. “I would not want to create a wrong impression.”
“If you change your dress now I shall be very angry,” he retorted. “You need not worry about creating wrong impressions when you look as well as you do now.”
We went downstairs to the saloon.
Alice was knitting when we entered the room. I remember being surprised, because all the ladies I had been acquainted with in the past had spent their leisure hours sewing and I had never actually seen anyone knit before. There was a girl next to her on the couch, a lumpy girl with a pimpled face and an air of being near-sighted. This must evidently be Mary, Robert Brandson’s ward, whom Axel had mentioned to me. My glance passed from the two plain women to the woman in the high-backed chair by the fireplace, and stayed there. For here was one of the most striking women I had ever seen, not perhaps as beautiful or as attractive as my mother, but a handsome, good-looking woman of about forty-five years of age with black hair tinged with silver at the temples and the wide-set slanting eyes I had noticed earlier when I had first met Ned.
She rose to her feet as we entered the room and crossed the floor towards us, every movement stressing her domination of the scene.
“Well, George,” she said to Axel, “it took you ten months to find an English bride, but I must say the long delay obviously produced the best results! She looks quite charming.” She drew me to her and kissed me on both cheeks with cool dry lips. “Welcome to your new home, child.”
I disliked being called “child,” but nonetheless contrived to curtsey and smile graciously while murmuring a word of thanks to her.
“How are you, Esther,” Axel was saying to his step-mother, but he made no attempt to kiss her, and I realized then that he had shown no hint of affection to any member of his family. “You look much better than when I last saw you.”
“Please, George, don’t remind me of those dreadful days of the inquest ... Mary, come over here—you’re not chained to the couch, are you? That’s better ... my dear, this is Mary Moore, my husband’s ward who lives here with us—ah, here’s Vere at last! Where have you been, Vere? George and his wife have just come downstairs only a moment ago.”
He was a slim pale man. He seemed to have inherited his mother’s build, but otherwise he did not resemble her. He had fair hair and lashes, and his complexion was so light that it was almost feminine. In contrast his eyes were a deep vivid blue and were by far his most striking feature; I particularly noticed them because when he smiled it was with his mouth only and his eyes remained b
right but without expression.
“Hello George,” he said and while I noticed that he spoke the King’s English without trace of a country accent I also noticed that he spoke as he smiled without expression. “We were beginning to think you weren’t returning to Haraldsdyke.”
He might have sounded disappointed, but he did not. However, neither did he sound pleased. The curious lack of inflection made me feel uneasy.
I was presented to him, but although he was courteous in his response I still did not feel at ease with him. We all conversed for perhaps ten minutes in that gracious, well-lit room, and then the butler announced that supper was served, and we crossed the hall to the dining-room. I was hungry after the long journey, and was glad that they had a light meal waiting for us instead of the customary six o’clock tea. We had dined late that afternoon at an inn somewhere along the Sussex border, and dinner now seemed a long time ago.
There was a chandelier in the dining room and the silver glinted beneath its bright light. Axel went straight to the head of the table without hesitation, but I paused not knowing where I should place myself, anxious not to give offense.
I saw Axel frown and make a barely perceptible gesture to the other end of the table. Moving quickly I went to the chair which he had indicated, and sat down in haste.
There seemed to be a general hesitation which I did not understand. I began to wonder in panic what mistake I could have made, and then Vere, who was immediately on my right, murmured to me: “You do not intend to say grace?”
I was speechless.
“I think it unnecessary to say grace more than once a day,” said Axel from the head of the table. “My wife is accustomed to saying grace only at dinner and not on any other occasion.”
“Quite right too,” said Esther from her place on Axel’s right. “Times change. Nowadays I hear only the non-conformists say grace at every meal ... Mary dear, do try and sit up straighter! What will happen to your figure if you tend to droop so?”
Not much that has not already happened, I thought dryly, and then felt sorry for the poor girl as she flushed in embarrassment and sat up as straight as a ramrod. It occurred to me that Esther had a sharp tongue behind her honeyed voice.
The Shrouded Walls Page 5
