Court of Foxes

by Christianna Brand

  ‘Such as they were in Aston-sub-Edge,’ admitted James, reasonably.

  ‘Oh, I don’t complain,’ said Gilda. ‘I think the life of a well-placed courtesan will be delightful. Only I sometimes wish that it might begin. I grow weary of that wretched little penned-in box and all those tedious plays. Bess might have had my part with pleasure.’

  ‘I wouldn’t exchange,’ said Bess. ‘Why, even when Gilda has made us all rich, I believe I shall keep on my flower-stall. I meet all the gay blades that she may not even lift her eyes to.’

  ‘All those I reject you may have,’ said Gilda grandly, ‘with my compliments.’

  ‘Including Brown Eyes?’

  The white lids dropped for a moment, concealing her true expression; but, ‘Just for that,’ said Gilda, lightly, ‘you shall not re-sell the white roses.’ She added thoughtfully: ‘I begin to see light. It is Brown Eyes that is but a mere honourable?’

  ‘And Tregaron an earl. And what is an hon. to an earl?’ said Mrs Brown, warmly, ‘even if he have brown eyes — which I think not so very remarkable.’

  ‘In days gone by, my dear mother, it would seem that brown eyes alone were enough; and not even a baronet!’

  ‘And where did that land me? Wife of a poor schoolmaster in a remote Cotswold village, far from my dear, naughty London and all I had known. Your father, poor dear man,’ said Mrs Brown, sighing, ‘would insist upon “rescuing” me; and he thought he was doing me such a favour, that I hadn’t the heart to undeceive him.’ Mrs Brown’s now much vaunted long-ago transgressions had, in fact, been largely of a vicarious nature; she had been employed (very briefly and all unaware) as seamstress to a famous courtesan of the day, and only in retrospective dreams had come to identify herself with her lady. ‘But he was an excellent husband, my dears, I’ve no wish to decry him—’

  ‘And with a most obliging memory, it seems, as regards his wife’s past?’

  ‘Thank your stars, unregenerates as you are,’ said their mother, ‘that he isn’t here to see what’s in train as regards his daughter’s future!’ Not but what, she added, there seemed to her little difference between a woman who married with no thought of love, for a home, money and children, and one who obtained the same without ceremony. And anyway — without family or fortune to bring her into the best society, that was all a girl could do.

  ‘Ight or ong,’ said Gilda. But really it was too wearisome. ‘I refuse, Mother, any longer to have a difficulty with my r’s. He must take me as I am.’

  ‘And so he shall!’ Mrs Brown took the lovely face between her hands — but carefully, not to disturb the high-piled hair — and said lovingly: ‘Mistress of the Earl of Tregaron. No one could wish more for her!’ — and what was more, genuinely believed it.

  All the same the Unattainable Lady slept uneasily that night, her dreams full of white roses.

  She carried them when, next evening, she came into her box and stood for a moment in her white dress — no jewels! — looking down, cool, calm, as ever divinely remote, into the auditorium. If bright dark eyes looked back at her, she did not observe them; she was looking for a lighter brown and the brown eyes were not to be discovered. All about the rose and gold of the house, candles flickered, winking down upon jewelled throats and wrists, upon jewelled fingers passing jewelled snuff-boxes, fluttering jewelled fans, pure side out, naughty side in… In their boxes, the courtesans laughed and flirted, competing with each other for attention, winking across slyly at gentlemen who had their ladies not been present would doubtless have been among their visitors; it was the fashion to move about ceaselessly, calling at this box or that, regardless of the play going forward. But no Brown Eyes! The wagering was in full flood again, from the gallery rough voices challenged, ‘A tizzy on the Markiss!’ ‘Two to one on the sprig in the yeller weskit!’, in the harlots’ boxes shrill laughter urged, ‘Send her a posy, Charlie, she’ll not resist you!’ Even the great ladies exchanged furtive signals from behind their fans, backing their favourites. But among the bustle and the chatter — no Brown Eyes! He will send in the first interval, she thought.

  But he did not. Roses of every colour — she had secretly begged her sister to sell white to no one else that evening, so that she might be sure of the source if his bouquet came; violets and lilies, forget-me-nots, love-lies-bleeding, all pregnant with significance — but no white roses. ‘He will send in the second interval,’ she prayed.

  Within the little room, Mrs Brown and James were listing the names attached to the bouquets as footman George handed them in. ‘Here, Mother, she might carry this one — Lord Firth.’

  ‘Never mind old Firth. Has Tregaron sent yet?’

  ‘Not so far; therefore let us meanwhile encourage the possibles. Lord Firth is an earl.’

  ‘And near seventy,’ said Mrs Brown, locating him in Debrett. ‘Away with him!’ Her finger moved on down the page. ‘Here’s a Baron Proburn.’

  ‘A hundred years old and supports three permanent mopsies already.’

  ‘Oh, heavens!’ She went on leafing through the book. ‘Here is a Lord Flute, Viscount, who has sent.’

  ‘No good, he owes money everywhere.’ James laughed. ‘Probably to us, for that matter, for this very bouquet.’

  ‘It’s been paid for often enough already,’ said Gilda, sitting idly by. ‘It’s done duty three times to my certain knowledge — I recognise this canker mark on the rose.’ There came a light triple knock on the door and she raised her head sharply. ‘The signal! Someone in the corridor who carries his own bouquet.’

  ‘Quick, then, the champagne!’ James put a finger to his mouth and counterfeited the pop of a cork coming out of its bottle — night after night the same bottle did duty, ostentatiously carried in with the silver tray and single glass; night after night removed almost secretly since it had not in fact been opened. He sprang to attention behind her chair; Mrs Brown all deference presided over the bottle. George opened the door just sufficiently for the scene to be apparent to anyone outside in the corridor and handed in a vast bunch of red roses. Mrs Brown deserted her post and came forward, nid-nodding, to receive it. ‘What name shall I say to milady?’

  ‘The Earl of Tregaron,’ said George, and his voice shook a little.

  ‘Tell the servant, compliments and thanks and I’ll hand the flowers to her ladyship.’

  ‘ ’Tis my lord himself brings the flowers,’ said James, and edged the door a little wider open to give my lord the benefit of a further glimpse of the flower-banked room and the shining head bent listlessly over the glass of coloured water. But enough was enough and Mrs Brown hurried forward to block the aperture, bobbing and bowing, tripping over her own curtseys as she did so; all too conscious of stifled hysteria behind her as the Marchesa and her second footman went off in a fit of the giggles. She came out hurriedly into the corridor and closed the door behind her. ‘My lord the Earl of Tregaron? Apologies, my lord, I did not know you came in person. My lady’s compliments and thanks, my lord, and I will hand her the flowers.’

  A slender young man, dark yet brilliant, by no means over tall. Small, white-powdered tye wig; laced, ruffled, brocaded, decidedly on the over elegant side and carrying, despite the warmth of the evening, the inevitable enormous muff. A little whipper-snapper girl of a man: her first thought was that Gilda would make two laughing mouthfuls of him and gobble him up. She stood with the great, burning bouquet of roses in the crook of her arm. ‘I’ll see that her ladyship has your card, my lord.’

  He was staring past her as though he could still see, even through the closed door, that golden head and the lovely, calm, sad, sweet face. He said vaguely: ‘Card?’ and brought his eyes to meet hers. ‘There is no card.’ But as she turned to go, he caught her by the plump wrist. ‘But a message,’ he said. ‘You’ll give her a message from me?’

  A message. She allowed herself to look troubled; a little resistance often brought about a bribe. ‘My lady the Marchesa doesn’t receive messages, my lord, she refuses all acqu
aintance.’

  ‘I don’t aspire to acquaintance. I have no introduction. One day, perhaps… But a message…’ He still held her wrist and now with his free hand searched in a pocket and counted out into her willing palm seven gold coins. ‘One for each word of the message. Seven words — only seven. Will you speak them?’

  A little whipper-snapper girl of a fellow; and yet… The ring of his fingers was very hard and firm about her wrist, as with his right hand he opened out the fingers clutching the golden guineas to her palm. ‘Seven gold pieces — for seven words. Will you tell her what I want her to hear?’ And he whispered the words to her and so left her, blundering a little as he walked away from her, down the long corridor. She opened the door and went back into the flower-filled room.

  The Marchesa Marigelda, white skirts bunched in a clutching hand, was waddling across the floor, sketching a bob at every third step, nid-nodding, ‘Yes, milord, no, milord, compliments and thanks, milord…’ but so choked with laughter that no coherent sound came out of her; her brother leaned, hugging his aching ribs, against a wall. ‘Oh, Mother, for God’s sake stop this terrible girl, she’ll be the death of me yet…!’ Gilda collapsed, exhausted, her arms about her mother’s neck. ‘You excelled yourself, dearest, we thought you would fall straight forward, flat on your nose. “Yes, milord, no milord, compliments and thanks, milord…” ’ She waddled off again, stumbling over one foot, righting herself just in time, nid-nodding to right and left. ‘I will see that milady receives the flowers, milord…’ She straightened up at last and asked, still laughing: ‘Tregaron himself! My goodness! What did he say?’

  ‘He said,’ said her mother, standing there, not laughing at all, the red roses clutched, vividly glowing, in her arms, ‘that I should give you a message. Only seven words…’

  Only seven words. I will love you till I die.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AND SO THE UNATTAINABLE Lady at last succumbed to an intrusion of her resolute privacy. Brown Eyes was reported as certainly abroad on an extensive tour of Europe and the family was adamant in refusing to wait upon such small hope as might be based upon a single bouquet and an exchange of glances. Besides, the gentleman was now known to be formally affianced, and though Lord Tregaron was also, Lord Tregaron was nevertheless on the spot and demonstrating devotion. White roses were banished from her dreams therefore; and before a siege of red, the Marchesa Marigelda d’Astonia Subeggio capitulated finally; and Gereth, Earl of Tregaron, had stormed the unassailable heights of the house in South Audley Street.

  The first meeting was not, perhaps, calculated to encourage in him hopes of an early amorous success. The lady — beneath the eyes of the departed husband and with a vigilant duenna in incessant attendance — sat, exquisitely languid, white gowned as usual (and wearing no jewels) and touched little of the wine and none of the small, sweet cakes which the attendant footman handed round. She proved, however, upon closer acquaintance, to have something less of the mystery and remoteness which the shadows of the playhouse box had imposed upon her — emerging a young girl, slender to the point of being too thin, with great eyes, grey blue, in a face whose bones held the true beauty that remains always beauty, throughout age and the ages; a skin of transparent whiteness beneath the glory of the mari-golden hair, a mouth whose present lovely droop of melancholy must belie, surely, a more common tendency to an equally lovely laughter. A creature of pearly loveliness, of exquisite charm. So at least, evidently, thought the happy conqueror, sitting with elegant crossed silk legs, his dark, ardent face alight with admiration. ‘You have arrived but very recently in London?’

  ‘Very recently, sir.’ The Marchesa sighed to the bottom of her boots. ‘And have here no acquaintance, therefore. In Italy — ah, yes! But I have been obliged to leave Italy.’ Affairs were at present not happy for her. The fortune her husband had left her was disputed — she had been from the years of her childhood his ward, but their marriage had been brief and — hopes had been disappointed, greed disillusioned. ‘I have done what I can, but—’ She broke off, gazing down with wounded sorrow at the white hands twisted nervously in her lap.

  ‘My lady has been more than generous,’ broke in the waiting woman, standing by as chaperone: unable, evidently, to support with equanimity the sight of her mistress’s distress. ‘Boundlessly generous. But some people…’ She too broke off, bobbed another curtsey, begged my lady’s pardon and my lord’s too, but she was an old woman and could not bear to stand by and see her white lamb, begging her ladyship’s pardon again, pulled down by the ravening wolves of Rome…

  For a time must come when, the fortunate suitor having been admitted to her friendship — though as yet to nothing closer — the Marchesa would have to account for a total lack of any fortune whatsoever. The wolves of Rome would then be represented as having prevailed after all; too proud to fight back for what was so deeply begrudged her, the lady would throw herself upon her admirer’s protection. To a man of Tregaron’s means — and the family did not nowadays calculate upon less — the prospects of acquiring the enchantress by simply financing her establishment for the future, would naturally be eagerly grasped at. Private wealth well lost for love, she would let her last chances slip from hands too fondly occupied with caresses; fortune, fair fame, the beloved and doting husband, all, all would be forgotten, all offered on the altar of a passion that should last for ever. Meanwhile… ‘She is young and friendless, my lord,’ sobbed the waiting woman, over the bent golden head of her white lamb, ‘and yet so reserved and so proud…’ And she cast him a piteous look that said that when he was gone this lack of reserve on her own part would cost her dear. Mrs Brown was enjoying herself immensely.

  It was a little awkward that his lordship should leap to his feet and declare himself ready to rush to Rome at once and there rally all the resources of the law in defence of his lady’s inheritance. ‘Indeed, indeed, my lord, there is no need,’ cried Marigelda tremulously, rolling an apprehensive eye towards the two footmen, standing stiffly one on either side of the doorway; (If James but lets his lip quiver, she thought, I am undone. Why will Mother think herself a Mrs MacCready?) ‘There is no legal question at all. It is simply the cruelty of those turned unkind, who thought it should be they who inherited.’ And the contemplation of it so much overwhelmed her, poor lady, that it became obvious that the visitor should take his leave and embarrass her no longer by witnessing so much sensibility. She revived enough to beg him to visit her again and vowed never more to dwell upon so unhappy a subject.

  It was a relief, all the same, when, hard on his departure, there arrived yet another great bunch of the familiar red roses. There had been an anxious family post mortem meanwhile, lest they should have over-reached themselves. But now all was well; and the bouquet carried the message that now accompanied all his flowers — I will love you till I die.

  They talked it over that night as usual, in the big, shabby room upstairs. Volatile, easy-going, hedonistic, they felt themselves already confirmed in their wildest hopes and never for a moment doubted that they were doing the best thing in the world for their treasure. That she should bring love or even affection into her side of the bargain need not enter into the matter. To be beautiful, gay, never wearisome or complaining, above all to be a delightful and delighted alternative to the dull marriage bed — what more need anyone in all honesty offer? There would be rich pickings for all of them — had they not loyally invested their all to bring about this charming conclusion? — and each might go or stay as best suited him. Sam, for example, had ambitions for the law, George to be a writer… For the rest… ‘You do feel, Marigold, that this arrangement can be for your happiness?’

  ‘Oh, Mother dear, don’t call me Marigold, for pity’s sake! How could you have burdened a poor child with such a name?’ said Gilda for the thousandth time. ‘It makes me feel like a cow.’ She added vaguely: ‘What arrangement?’

  ‘Well, Tregaron, of course. You do feel you could — live with him?’

&nb
sp; ‘I shouldn’t have to live with him,’ said Gilda. ‘Let the ladies of Tregaron, mother, sister, wife when she comes along, do that. For a day or two at a time I daresay he’d be not unendurable. He’s a prettyish little kind of a fellow with his muffs and his frills and his amber cane, all so à la mode, and I can’t say that his conversation so far enthrals me. But when he’s absent we can all foregather as usual and store up enough nonsense to tide us over till the next time.’ She stretched, luxuriously yawning. ‘Are there no little cakes left over from the visitation?’

  ‘Sealed away in a jar till the next time; they’re very expensive. So all of you, keep your hands off!’ said their mother. ‘Gilda mustn’t eat in his presence, it isn’t romantic, and his lordship hardly touches them. They may yet be made to last half a dozen visits.’

  ‘Like Bessie’s flowers. Have a care, Mother,’ said James, ‘or he may come to recognise some recurrent currant.’ He went off into fits of laughter at his own wit. ‘ “Compliments-and-thanks-milord and permit me to dust off such of the sugar cakes as the ravening wolves have left for you…” Oh, Mother, dear, those ravening wolves! I thought George and I would split asunder with the effort to preserve our long faces.’

  ‘Your poor father always said,’ said Mrs Brown complacently, ‘that I was made for the boards.’

  ‘Talking of which, need I go any longer now to that terrible theatre?’

  ‘We should miss the revenue from the flower-stall,’ said George, the accountant. ‘Besides it might look odd if you suddenly lost so great a devotion to the drama.’

  ‘And besides, again, one visit doesn’t necessarily make a protector.’

  ‘Will he not consider it strange if I continue to accept other gentlemen’s flowers?’

  ‘I told him, that first day, that you thought nothing of it. It was the custom in Italy, where you came from.’