A Crowning Mercy 02 Fallen Angels

by Bernard Cornwall

  'As I'll ever be.' She smiled.

  The Earl had wanted to see them before the ball began, to look at them in their finery, to imagine how they would look when they descended the great staircase. He had smiled at them, wished them well, but his humour had been driven away by the pain. 'Go, children. Enjoy the evening.' He had waved them to the door. Campion had held back and kissed him. 'Thank you for all this.'

  He tried to smile. He reached out to touch her hand. 'I suppose your brother hasn't come?'

  'No, father.'

  He sighed. He could scarce move his head. His red-rimmed eyes rolled away from her as he coughed. Dr Fenner was mixing laudanum and brandy. The Earl waited eagerly for the drink. 'Go, my love. Go.'

  The Castle was filled with guests. A host of relatives had come for Lord Culloden, and with them had arrived a dozen young cavalry officers, loud mouthed and braying, who had churned up the south terrace lawn with a horse race the day before. Aunt Lucretia had come, sniffing into odd corners of the Castle as though planning what she would do if her son, Sir Julius, inherited them. The dowager Duchess d'Auxigny, Achilles' mother, had descended in billows of black silk and white powder, wishing to know why the flag on the Castle staff was not at half mast for her elder son. She brought an expensive mercury thermometer to test the heat of the water in her washing bowl, declaring that water too chill would prematurely age her already wrinkled face. The Duchess, with her drove of maids and servants, was given the Garden House, making the rest of the Castle even more crowded.

  And on this night, the celebration before the wedding, there were the local gentry, officers from Dorchester, the mayor of Lazen, and the rector, the Reverend Horne Mounter, who fussed at the Castle entrance in anticipation of the Bishop's arrival.

  Campion, as she waited at the top of the stairs, was dressed in coloured Pekings, the silk brilliant, the colours seeming to shimmer as she moved. She wore silk gloves that reached to her elbows. Her hair, piled high and held by a comb of gold, was crowned by ostrich feathers. About her neck were the four jewels of Lazen, the chains now of differing lengths so that the seals seemed to make a bar of jewelled gold at her breasts. She had decided, for a reason that seemed whimsical but good to her, that the seals should be seen. They had been locked up too long, these symbols of Lazen's pride. She put her arm into Lord Culloden's and thought how much her father wanted her to enjoy this night. For his sake, she decided, she would.

  Culloden smiled down at her. 'Forward? The full charge?'

  'Shouldn't we wait for the music?'

  'I rather think it waits for us.'

  'Oh!' She laughed. 'I'd have stood here all night!'

  Lord Culloden's spurs and sword-sling jingled as he stepped forward. The two of them went from the shadows of the upper hallway into the chandelier-lit brilliance of the ballroom.

  Septimus Gheeraerts de Serckmaester, who was in truth called Ernest Gudgeon, but who had found his musical services more in demand when he assumed a continental name, rapped with his hand on the lid of the pianoforte. The orchestra had rehearsed for two days and now, resplendent in wigs and livery, the musicians bent to their instruments and played a triumphant processional that had been commissioned for this occasion.

  Applause rippled through the ballroom, it swelled, and Campion, dazzling on the stairway, smiled shyly.

  Lord Culloden wondered if this would be the last time that the great house would ever see such a ball. Within months this place would be stripped, its treasures sold, and the money used to bring down an even greater edifice, Britain itself. Yet Lord Culloden had no great desire to see Britain humbled, or Reason, whatever that was, triumph. His membership of the Illuminati, like his membership of the Fallen Ones, was merely an extension of his partnership with Valentine Larke.

  It was not, it could never be, an equal partnership. Larke was inestimably more powerful because Larke was inestimably more rich. And now, on top of all his riches, Larke possessed the confession of murder which would ensure that Lord Culloden would surrender all this magnificence when the day of Lucifer came.

  So there was some regret in Lord Culloden on this evening of music, applause, and display; on this evening when he walked with such loveliness beside him. He had embarked on this marriage for the Fallen Ones, the expenses of the courtship had been paid by Larke, yet Culloden regretted what he must give up. In marrying Lady Campion Lazender he gained riches and honour beyond his most extravagant desires. He could see that fact written on some of the faces above the applauding hands. The faces smiled, but he sensed the bitterness within, the jealousy, because an unknown lord had taken the most eligible heiress in the country. Lord Culloden sometimes thought that he deserved this marriage. It was he who had play-acted so skilfully, dissembled so politely, who had watched his tongue and guarded his behaviour and steered her gently towards their engagement. Yet Lazen could not be his, he knew it, its bride must be sacrificed, and he consoled himself that, on Larke's coat-tails, he would rise above the lordship of Lazen's 'Little Kingdom' to the pinnacle of Reason's empire.

  His white-powdered head high, his face stiff with pride, he led her with a delicately poised hand into the centre of the floor and waited for Septimus Gheeraerts de Serckmaester to slide the music into the first minuet.

  They did the tiny steps, the glides, the hand movements and the salutations with exquisite grace. The applause continued. Slowly other dancers came to the floor, but always leaving space for the handsome couple in the centre. Only after this dance would the ball become general.

  They danced the quadrille, the pavane, the polonaise, while softly the dusk descended outside, making the brilliance of the ballroom more startling yet, a brilliance that was reflected from jewels and gold, from crystal and silver. This was Lazen at its most splendid, the men in velvet, silk and satin, their white gloves making intricate, pleasing patterns as they gestured together in the courtesies of the dance. The women were dazzling in sapphires, diamonds, emeralds and rubies. It was a splendour better seen than smelt. At the edges of the room, where the over-dressed, warm people crowded together, where satin, silk and gossip rustled close, there was a distasteful odour of bodies and stale powder that no perfume could quite overcome.

  Campion danced with Sir George, with the Earl of Fleet, with a Captain of the Blues who seemed to blush throughout his minuet, and with Uncle Achilles. Achilles, who danced with wonderful grace, shrugged at her as they passed in the minuet. 'So no Toby?'

  'No.'

  'A pity.'

  'I know.'

  He bowed to her, she curtseyed. He stepped towards her, away, and he smiled over his shoulder. 'I see the Bishop has arrived. I suppose you'll have to kiss his ring.'

  'We don't kiss rings in the Church of England, uncle.'

  'How very boring of you. I used to put a speck of mustard on mine when a particularly tedious person came to see me.'

  She laughed, and the watching guests thought how beautiful and happy she looked, the very image of a bride in her loveliness and innocence. To see her was to smile. There was jealousy too, from those women who hated a rival and from the men who could not hope to possess her, yet those who knew her wished only that the happiness they saw would be hers for ever. She was lovely. The Bishop, as she approached him, applauded her loveliness. 'Dear Lady Campion! You look clipped and brushed!'

  She laughed. She liked the Bishop. He enquired about the prospects of the harvest, remarked that there was a damned fine pike in the river at the foot of his garden, apologized for his wife's absence, 'She's got the vapours again', and invited Lady Campion to a day's coursing. 'How are the partridges, my dear lady?'

  'Promising, Wirrell tells me.'

  'Good shooting, eh? Perhaps you'll let me go over the ground come October?'

  'My pleasure, my Lord.'

  'Splendid!' The Bishop turned to his chaplain. 'You'd better keep me a week free of bloody confirmations, Jenkins. My God!' He raised his hands in mock amazement. 'This must be the lucky man! You've
snaffled the likeliest filly in the county, my Lord.'

  Campion introduced Lord Culloden who clicked his heels and nodded formally. 'My Lord.'

  The Bishop smiled. 'You'll let me thump round the floor with your lovely bride, my Lord?'

  Culloden touched his moustache. 'Of course.'

  The thump had to be delayed. As a minuet ended to applause, the folding doors of the ballroom were pushed fully back and Carline's voice announced that the fireworks would be ignited at the pleasure and convenience of the assembled company.

  The Bishop took Campion's arm. 'If I stand by you, my dear, I'll get a good view.' He raised an affable hand to Sir George Perrott, bellowed a greeting to Lady Courthrop, and turned back to the beautiful girl on his arm. 'How did your hounds run this year?'

  'Fast.'

  'That's what I heard.' He sounded gloomy. 'I never got down once. I was riding with a fat pack in Somerset. Couldn't catch a pregnant duck. Why I can't find a diocese with a decent hunt close to the palace I don't know. There's that idiot McDonnell in Leicestershire, all prayers and psalms. A waste of a good See.' He shook his head gloomily then turned to his right. 'Ah! Mounter! I suppose I'd better relinquish the bride for the dubious pleasure of your company. Your lady wife is here, I see. Wonderful, wonderful! Jenkins? There must be some brandy in this bloody place. Look, man!'

  Lord Culloden took her arm, the crowd parted for them, applauded them, and she smiled left and right as Lewis led her to the portico and the waiting night sky. Footmen pulled back their chairs. The Duchess d'Auxigny, Campion saw, had already claimed the highest row of seats. She was calling loudly for wraps and furs, complaining about the cold English night. Campion smiled at her, then sat by Lord Culloden.

  Despite the complaints of the French Duchess, the night was dry and warm. The stars showed above Two Gallows Hill and there was enough moonlight to reveal the mysterious preparations on the far side of the lake. Behind Campion, within the Castle, the music played on.

  Lord Culloden led the applause as the first stars of fire exploded in the darkness.

  Campion had been nervous about his return to Lazen, yet oddly she had found herself calmer than she expected. She wondered whether she had at last accepted the inevitability of marriage, had recognized that it was a commonplace and not something of wonderful strangeness. She had even begun to look forward to Periton House, to entertaining there, and she had felt that sudden, inexplicable yearning for motherhood. She was, she supposed, accepting marriage with decent grace, though she did not see why the graciousness had to extend to every small detail of her new life. She smiled at Lord Culloden. 'Would you ever think of shaving off your moustache?'

  He turned astonished from the fireworks. 'Shaving it off?'

  'Yes.' She mimed a pair of scissors with her fingers in front of his mouth. 'Like that.'

  He frowned. 'What's wrong with it?'

  'Would you like it if I had a moustache?'

  'Not excessively.'

  'It's like being kissed by a horse brush. That's pretty.'

  Culloden turned to look at the flaming comets that were reflected in shaking streaks on the water. 'I rather like my moustache.'

  'You must preserve it, my Lord, if it's very precious to you.'

  There seemed to be a struggle on his face. He touched both ends of the offending hair, then shrugged. 'Of course, if you really want it off, dear Campion, I shall get Mellors to shave it tomorrow morning.'

  'If you make that sacrifice,' she said, 'I shall have to marry you, my Lord.'

  He laughed. Mrs Mounter, the rector's wife, who stood protectively beside the Bishop, saw their happiness and pointed it out to her companions. 'Made in heaven, I say! Made for each other!' She sniffed.

  The Bishop swirled his brandy. 'She's a good filly! Best damn seat on a horse I ever saw! Good Lord! Look at that! Isn't it splendid!'

  The crowd applauded the pretty fires that laced the sky and fell like stars into the water. Great clouds of smoke, shot through with colours of the fireworks, drifted over the lake. In one great burst of white flame Campion saw the gleaming roof of the sunken pleasure barge. Servants moved among the great crowd with salvers of wine and plates of food. The townspeople were thick on the driveway, their applause echoing that from the Great House steps.

  'Magnificent!' Culloden applauded. The crest of Two Gallows Hill was suddenly spitting fire that arced red into the air like a great crown, a crown that grew and grew until the whole sky seemed to be suffused with the colour. The hanging gallows were touched scarlet.

  Then the men from Bristol lit their masterpiece and the cheers echoed from the Castle. On the huge, wrought-iron fence that stood so grandly between its ten foot high stone pillars along the Shaftesbury road they had hung an arrangement of fire that glowed white, showered sparks, and spelt the names Lazender and Culloden. The names were wreathed in hearts and surmounted, as was fitting, by the escutcheon of the Earl himself. The crowd seemed to sigh as the fires died and as the last sparks fell red from the iron frame. The shield was the last piece to fade, the lance blazing in a final burst as a challenge to the darkness.

  Campion hoped her father had seen the fireworks. She looked impetuously at Lord Culloden. 'I'm going to see father.'

  He frowned. 'You think he'll be awake?' She knew he meant sober.

  'I'll go and see.'

  'You have some free dances?'

  She looked at the card that was held by a tasselled cord to her wrist. 'Major Farthingdale. Give him my apologies and say I'll save a dance for him later.'

  Culloden bowed over her hand. 'Remember we have a polonaise.'

  'I'll remember.'

  She walked through the hall, smiling at friends, then up the western staircase to avoid the crowds on the main flight. Two strange servants ran past her with wraps for their mistresses who wished to take the air. She wondered whether beds had been found for all the servants; more had come than she had anticipated, and then she decided she could not worry about such things on this night of music, fire and dance.

  A couple were embracing in the shadow of the great Roman statue on the main landing. She smiled when she saw that they had extinguished the candles nearest them. She smiled at the women who waited by the Chinese screens erected in front of the chamberpots, and then she turned into the corridor that led to her father's rooms. The music reached up here, faint and beautiful, like a reminder of past times in the great house.

  She walked beneath the pictures of horses. Her heel-less satin slippers were silent on the thick carpet. Candles in smoked glass chimneys stood on the small tables every few feet.

  Her father's manservant smiled and stood as she came into the ante-chamber. 'He's asleep, my Lady.'

  'I won't wake him, Caleb. I'll just look.'

  The Earl slept peacefully. His face, for the first time in weeks, looked calm. His breathing was gentle. The candles either side of her mother's portrait burned steadily. Campion leaned down and touched her lips gently on his grey hair.

  She would not wake him. Good sleep was a rarity for her father, and sleep as gentle as this, sleep that had taken the lines of pain from his face, was almost unknown now. She smiled at him, then walked to the further window and stared down at the forecourt.

  People strolled in the light of the great lanterns which lit the facade of the Castle. On the far side of the lake, their torch flames rippling on the reflecting water, the firework men cleaning up their apparatus. On Two Gallows Hill the fires started among the thorns by the fireworks were beaten out by farm labourers hired for this night.

  There was laughter beneath her and she saw three couples dance into her view. They were being applauded by the strollers on the forecourt. There was happiness down there, a great party in a great castle, and all for her marriage. She looked at her father. Was his sleep due to contentment? Was her marriage the solace of his pain-filled days? She smiled. She felt a welling surge of love for him, of pity for his pain, of gratitude.

  She still smiled as sh
e looked back at the forecourt. The dancers circled the fountain now. Someone had put a candelabra on the stone wall that held the fountain's pool, and in its light she could see two lovers kiss. The girl, Campion thought, leaned so willingly forward, stayed so lingeringly.

  To be touched once, she thought, by that magic. Just as the fire rippled and swayed and shivered on the lake, so she wanted to know what that girl knew.

  She looked left towards the town. A horseman trotted on the grass by the lake and she half frowned, thinking that one of Lord Culloden's cavalry friends had saddled a horse for some night-time mischief, and then the rider stopped.

  She knew who it was. Even in shadow the man and horse looked like one being. Only one man rode like that. He had come.

  She had wanted him to come. She had wanted him to see her in her splendour. She had wanted to see his face. Nothing Achilles had said could change that. The guilt, the shame, the excitement, all mingled and seethed in her. She stared at the shadow within the shadow and she put a hand to her breast as though she wanted to quell her heartbeats.

  The shadow did not move.

  She turned.

  She saw herself in the mirror across the room and it was as if she stared at a stranger. That girl in silk and feathers and gold was a girl arrayed to marry a lord. She wanted to weep suddenly, and that offended her, and she straightened her head, refused to turn back to the window, and walked slowly towards the door.

  Caleb stood as she approached. He shut the door of the Earl's bedroom softly. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost, my Lady!'

  She smiled. 'No, Caleb. I think it's just the excitement.'

  'You should be excited this night, my Lady. Now you go on down. They'll be missing you! And you do look lovely, my Lady, if you'll forgive an old man.'

  'It's only clothes, Caleb!' She plucked at the coloured Pekings.