“Monsieur, please leave.”
“Not until you tell Mrs Morgan I am here. Let her decide if she will see me.”
A man’s voice came roaring through the hall, deep and Welsh accented: “Who the devil is it, Berthe?”
The maid tried to shut the door in Felix’s face, but he caught it and held it open.
“No-one, Monsieur,” the maid called over her shoulder and again addressed Felix imploringly: “Please Monsieur, please leave! I beg you.”
They had a little tussle with the door, until Felix got the better of her and stepped into the hall, just as a man in his shirt sleeves came out of the sitting room.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded of Felix. “Eh, sir?”
He was tall, broad-shouldered and robustly built, and in the dim light of the hall he looked faintly satanic. It was also clear that he was somewhat drunk. “Another young buck who thinks he can paw my wife, yes?”
“I wish to speak to Mrs Morgan,” Felix said.
“Speak? I doubt very much that’s what you want from her,” the Welshman said, seizing Felix by both lapels. “At this time of night? Do you think I’m stupid, boy? Do you think I’m a fool?” Felix found himself with his back to the wall. “I know what you want, you dirty little bastard!”
Morgan had the physique of a prize fighter and his spirit was well-stoked by brandy and righteous indignation. Felix found his mouth was dry with terror and that his muscles seemed set rigid. Her husband, this monster, is her husband – it was all he could think. “Think you can have her, boy? Is that it? Think she’s yours for a tumble, for a nice fuck? Is that it?”
“No!” Felix exclaimed, and summoning up what strength he could, attempted to push him away.
This attempt seemed to amuse Morgan rather than anger him. He let Felix go and said, “Ha! Spoiling for a fight, then, are we? That would be a pleasure – to give you a good thrashing. That’s what you’re going to get, you know. A good thrashing, you presumptuous little shit-bag.”
“Edward, Edward, leave him be, for goodness sake,” said a woman’s voice. It was Mrs Ridolfi. “That’s Lord Rothborough’s son.”
Morgan spun round. “Rothborough’s son? What are you saying? Have both of them been sniffing at her? Is that it?”
Mrs Ridolfi said nothing but Morgan took her silence in the worst light, and Felix wondered if she had seen something that day he attempted to kiss her. Or perhaps Mrs Morgan had confided in her. If that was the case, he was in deep trouble here.
“Father and son – well, well, well,” said Morgan turning back to Felix. He looked him up and down. “He doesn’t look much like a swell.”
“He’s a bastard,” Mrs Ridolfi said. “But his Lordship is sentimental about him.”
Morgan lumbered a little closer to Felix again and Felix thought he was going to strike him, but instead he let his hand drop and wandered away.
“Filthy whore! Father and son. Father and fucking son.”
“I’m so sorry, Edward,” Mrs Ridolfi murmured, patting him on the arm as he wandered past her to go and sit mournfully on the bottom of the stairs.
“Well, Master Bastard,” he said. “I’m afraid you are too late. You and your father. The bitch has already gone. Already taken for the evening, ain’t that so, Lina?”
Paulina Ridolfi nodded.
“Where?” Felix managed to ask.
“She didn’t say.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Morgan rejoined.
“She went somewhere with Major Vernon,” Mrs Ridolfi said.
“What?”
Felix got no answer. At that moment another man came staggering out of the sitting room, holding a bottle.
“What’s going on?” he said, his voice slurred and confused. “What’s all the fuss?”
“Oh, get to your bed, you silly man!” Mrs Ridolfi said to him with exasperation in her voice.
“That’s no way to s...s.... speak to your husband!” he said with some difficulty. “I sh..sh.. shall go to bed when I am good and ready. But first there is a bottle of port which needs my attention.” And he went back into the dining room.
“With Major Vernon?” Felix said again to Mrs Ridolfi. “Are you sure, ma’am?”
“I heard her say something to her maid. I am sure of it.”
“But why?”
She went and opened the front door.
“Why do you think, Mr Carswell?” she said. “Goodnight.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Finding the room had grown warm, Giles stripped down to his shirt. He stretched out on the couch, not attempting to sleep, but allowing his mind to turn over the events of the day, trying to take his ease. But he too keenly felt the unfamiliarity of his surroundings and the stimulation of having been so much in the company of a woman whom he found it impossible not admire. She was intelligent, courageous, and full of wit and spirit. He liked her playful mind and how she had endeavoured to smile throughout her trying circumstances.
The rain had turned again to hail, and he could hear it spattering like gravel thrown against the window panes.
There was a sudden loud bang and he heard her cry out. He leapt up from the sofa and headed for the passageway. The door to her room was open, and he could see that the window had also been forced open by a violent gust of wind. He could just see her crouching in the darkness on the bed.
He leant out into the storm and hauled the casements shut, his face lashed with hail as he did so. He fastened the catch tight, and turned back to her.
The room was dark except for the white-hot glow of the fire, and in this eerie light he watched as she pushed her hands through her loosened hair, her shawl falling from her shoulders leaving only her shift to cover her, which also slipped inopportunely down to reveal the generous curve of her breast.
He turned away quickly and searched for a candlestick. There was one on the washstand which he relit from the fire. Then, having set it on the mantel, he set to making up the fire again, putting on fresh logs and raking up the embers into new life.
“There,” he said.
“What a fool I am,” she said. “I thought – I don’t know what I thought – I think my fancies have got the better of me at last. To be scared half to death by a window blowing in a storm – you must think I am a fool.”
“It’s understandable in the circumstances. It made quite a noise. What a night!”
“I am frightened by shadows now,” she said. “What must you think of me?”
He took the candle from her bedside and lit it. The room became tolerably light.
“I think that you are frightened of someone who has treated you badly and who may be dangerous. You are allowed to be frightened. Besides, fear makes us vigilant. It is a useful emotion at times.”
“Yes, I suppose I know that well enough. There is a moment before a performance – I have experienced it sometimes – well, it is indescribably terrifying – when one must go out and perform. It feels as if utter failure is imminent and disaster is inevitable.” She wrapped her shawl about her. “So I should know better.” She pressed her hands to her face and breathed deeply attempting to steady herself. “Really I should.” But he could see she was shaking, and he heard her teeth chattering – whether from fear or the cold, he could not say.
“You are hard on yourself,” he said. “And you should get back under the bedclothes. You must not catch cold. Lord Rothborough would never forgive me.”
“He will never forgive you if he hears you were here,” she said, managing a slight laugh. “Poor dear man! I really wish he did not feel so... so! My life would be a great deal simpler if I did not seem to make Cupid fire off his arrows indiscriminately!”
“It must be a terrible affliction,” he said, glad to hear the levity in her voice. He went to adjust the logs on the fire and stir up the flames while she got back beneath the blankets.
He was making for the door when she said, “Oh must you go?” Then she sighed. “Oh dear, you will think e
verything that is said about me is true from that tone of voice. What I meant is – I do not feel safe alone. I ought to try, of course, but... I know the moment you are gone and the door is closed that I shall...”
“Would it help if I were to sleep on the floor?” he said.
“I would feel ashamed to make you sleep on the floor on my account,” she said. “No, I am being foolish. I will manage.”
“I will sleep on the floor. It will be no hardship for me, and I will rest easy knowing that you feel comfortable.”
“I will not be comfortable if you are on the floor,” she said. “I can’t bear the thought of such unnecessary gallantry. This is a large bed – if it is not indelicate to point out that fact. Would it be so wrong if you were to lie here beside me? You will die of cold on that floor. If I am under the covers and you wrapped in your blanket, we will be like a bundling couple tucked up by a vigilant parent, and the Bishop of Northminster himself could not find fault with it!”
He could not help laughing.
“I am serious,” she said.
“I know you are,” he said, still laughing.
“A grown man and a woman – we ought to be able to contain ourselves,” she said, and she reached out and patted the space beside her.
“Very well,” he said, and went and fetched his blanket from the other room.
When he returned she had tucked herself up under the covers, facing away from him, but he could see she was still shaking from the cold.
“I am not very hardy, am I?” she said. “I can’t seem to get warm.”
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “Excuse my pragmatism, Mrs Morgan, but there is one way we can solve this, if you will permit me?”
And he climbed beneath the covers and pulled her into his arms.
“You are a bold man,” she said, with a gasp, but she relaxed at once in his embrace, pressing herself against him as she did so. He relaxed too. She had issued an invitation and he had accepted it, it was clear enough now.
“I cannot have you losing your voice,” he said. He could smell her hair now, for she had moved so that she lay in a crescent against him and there was not a chink between him and her. Somehow their fingers had knitted together, too.
She began to shake with laughter. It was indescribably pleasant to feel it, and he could not help laughing too at the absurdity and outrageousness of what they were about. Yet he felt a deep sadness at the same time, knowing it was nothing but a mockery of something he profoundly desired. This was how a husband would treat his wife on a cold night when she was in distress. He would pull her close for comfort and whisper sweetly into her ear, filling his nostrils with the sweet fragrance of her warm hair.
“If I did not laugh I would cry,” she said, speaking aloud his own thought. “This is too...”
“Yes,” was all he could manage to say, and buried his face in her hair. Her fingers tightened in his grasp and then she rolled about to face him, and pressed her lips to his for a long moment. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“Now, don’t cry,” he said, “Please.”
“I am crying because you understand me,” she said.
He reached out and dried her tears with his fingertips, near to tears himself.
“I have recently been a great fool with a woman,” he said, tracing his finger again down her cheek. “I don’t deserve to trifle with you.”
“Nothing you do is trifling,” she said. “I have watched you this last week – I have seemed to see nothing else but you. Last night I dreamt of you. I dreamt you took me away to America and chopped down a grove of trees to make a me a garden with a view of a river. It was as clear as something I read in a book.”
“But I can never do that,” he said. “I wish that I could, with all my heart...”
“I did not say it to reproach you,” she said, “or to taunt you. Just to tell you that is my heart’s desire. I am not such a fool as to think we will ever have more than this.”
“No,” he said. “But we can have this,” and returned her kiss. “We can and we shall.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Over breakfast, they agreed that there would be one last embrace and then she would go away directly to his sister’s, driven in the trap by Holt. Nothing more would be said of the night before. They had agreed to lock up the remembrance of it their hearts. It had happened, and nothing more could come of it, no matter what they might wish.
But that last kiss was hard to break from and she clung to him as much as he did to her, and he knew she was stifling a sob as she let down her veil and made for the front door. He did not see her into the carriage. They had agreed on that, too. He remained in the house, and only went to the window to see the carriage drive away. When he saw her later it would be only as an acquaintance. The night was over, and that was that.
He left the house soon after, taking a householder’s care to damp down the fires and leave all in order. One of Sally’s servants would be there to clean and tidy, but he rather furtively smoothed one set of pillows, wondering whether the bed looked as though it had been occupied by two bodies and not one. He was used to looking for such incriminating details. He realised he was thinking like a rogue, seeking to cover his actions.
But what had passed between them brought him no shame. It had not been furtive. It had been like a night in a marriage that could never exist between them, but which they had both wanted ardently. The sleep that had come after had been sweet, and Snow had climbed up onto the bed and joined them in the small hours, as if she too understood it all.
Now Snow leant against him and whimpered. She had liked her new mistress and did not care to see her leave. He caressed her head and was thankful at least to have a companion. Nancy’s road was far harder.
He walked back to Northminster with Snow across the field road by which he had come, a path he knew would soon become familiar. The facts of his life could not be avoided, nor could the facts of Nancy’s existence. She had confided that she planned to go to America; she had been asked to go some time ago. Now her mind was made up. She would leave Northminster, in two day’s time.
He quickened his step. He had work to do.
***
Felix had not slept well. Two large drams had done nothing to help. He lay twisted up in his blankets on his narrow bedstead, in his cold slot of a bedchamber. The ancient structure of the building had been set shuddering and groaning by the fierce wind, but it seemed to him like a diabolical chorus, brought on to deny him any rest when he most wanted it. Oblivion he could not find. Even his pillow was determined to attack him – a feather escaped the casing and ripped across his face, threatening him with another scar.
He threw the pillow across the room, feeling at the scratch with his finger tips, and then the scar on his cheek. It was a woman who had caused that, and now it was a woman who again seemed to be intending to send him to Hell. Mrs Morgan... oh dear God above, Anna Morgan!
Mrs Ridolfi’s words were etched into his being, like acid on glass. Had Major Vernon really succeeded with Mrs Morgan? If he had, what did that mean about her? If she was apparently so liberal with her favours, then why had she rejected him? What had he done, or failed to do? Was there some vital step in this game that he had failed to learn? He felt peevish with envy and unable to find any satisfactory answers. For several long hours, he found himself unable to do anything but imagine in some detail what might be passing between them, and his entire body ached with an agonised mixture of disgust and fascination.
He felt he might have stood it better to know that she was with Lord Rothborough. That would have been explicable – there was a lot for a woman like that to gain from being the mistress of Lord Rothborough. If she was that sort of woman, which was the thing he could not establish for certain. But Mrs Morgan and Major Vernon – he was the last person in the world he would have imagined permitting himself to get involved in such an imbroglio. He had shown no signs of susceptibility, neither had he seemed much moved by her beauty
or her charm, beyond conventional compliments. However, he was a man good at keeping his opinions to himself, and apparently his actions as well.
At length Felix did sleep, waking later than he ought, and was obliged to scrabble to get dressed and decent. The water in the washstand had frozen in the night, meaning he would have to defer his shave, and his clean shirt felt as if was fashioned out of ice. He wondered if he should employ a man to bring him a little domestic comfort.
As he pulled on his coat, the little drawing of Lady Nina fell out of his pocket and went flying across the room as with a will of its own. It lodged itself under his bed and he was obliged to lie flat on his belly to retrieve it. Getting back onto his stockinged feet, her eyes looked at him reproachfully at his ungallant treatment. It was indeed a beautiful and intriguing face. She did not simper, and there seemed to be little affectation about her. He turned it over and noticed that there was a competent sketch on the reverse showing, curiously, some form of fungi, with the Latin name written beneath it and initialled N.D. Had Axelmann taken an abandoned piece of sketch board from his subject to draw upon? That suggested a comfortable intimacy, Felix thought. He hoped she were madly in love with him and at that moment planning an elopement.
That would serve Lord Rothborough right, Felix thought, and turned the card back so the portrait faced him, finding he did wish to look at her again. Lord Rothborough had got his taste so right and that annoyed him extremely. Although the scheme seemed ridiculous, it was impossible for him not to wonder what it might be like to marry such a girl, and indeed what marriage might mean in general. A warm bed and a calm night, perhaps. In that moment the idea was infinitely desirable. He put the portrait on the mantelpiece, hoping it might act as a lesson to him.
He had just put on his boots when he heard knocking on the door to his consulting room. He went to open the door, expecting his usual morning queue of patients. Instead he found the Major himself, dressed in his mackintosh cloak and looking as if he had come straight through the storm, which was still hard at work outside.
The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) Page 24
