by Matilda Hart
The panic is welling up inside me, I feel full of it, sweating it out. My mouth tastes coppery and dry.
He steps slowly towards the door. And suddenly instinct takes over, I have little recollection except fragments of how I move from beside the door, taking off down the corridor as quickly as silence and the dark allows.
Around the corner I press my back to the wall and listen. The door creaks open and there is silence except for the throbbing flush of blood through my veins, so hard I can feel it behind my eyes, painful against me ribs, deep in my sex.
He must be listening for movement. I hold my breath, can practically hear his. Then the door closes and I stand perfectly still. Has he gone back inside or is he waiting in the dark. No, he must be inside, he was naked a moment ago, there’s no way he would go roaming the corridors for a peeping Tom with his clothes left behind in Claire’s room.
I slip slowly back to my room, till trying to make as little sound as possible feeling every moment that a hand could come out of the darkness behind me and make me account for myself.
It feels as if the corridor has expanding, grown into a vast and endless passageway that will never end and it takes an eternity to find my door and slip back into the warm glow of the last few embers on the fire.
Back in the safety of my room, the powerful sexual desire has passed, washed out by the flood of fear at getting caught. But now that I am safe I can think more about the pleasure that was available to me, so close. And now I have seen what I can have. When I slip myself into bed it is only the sight of the bible on my nightstand that keeps me from finishing what started for myself out in the corridor.
I am just drifting off to sleep when I hear footsteps in the corridor going the other way. The conquering hero returning home. He must have returned to finish what he started.
Now that I have seen what is in store for me if I succeed, I am twice as strong in my resolve to have the Marquess. When I fall asleep I dream of Arthurian knights on horseback, tilting for my love. Both wear a token of mine on their helm, and as they break lance after lance against each other’s shields I simply sit and watch from horseback.
Chapter Six
When I wake on Sunday morning, I find the whole situation has taken on the feel of a dream. Did I really go into the corridor and see those things, do those things. They are faded and distorted. The feeling of it being me on the bed was so strong, so real, it could only have happened like that in a dream.
No one seems put out at breakfast, there are no suspicious looks from Clayton or Claire. No one seems overly tired by the nights exercise and I myself feel refreshed, as if after a long and unbroken sleep.
It is with this comforting thought – that my own sins and Clayton’s were simply imagined, part of the forest world of A Midsummer Night’s Dream – that I begin preparation for the day. I check with the relevant parties that they are all still happy to ride up to the tor this morning.
I talk ecstatically about the lovely weather, how well I slept, how happy I am today. And when no one gives me the slightest look except Evan – whose looks are mostly quizzical, not doubt he is trying to work out what I have planned – I settle comfortably into a rehearsal of the afternoon’s subterfuge.
I am confident in my ability to pull off the trick fall, and am certain that the gallant Lord Atwater, that beautiful Marquess, will be precisely the man to set about the rescue of a terrified woman and a bolting horse. And all set against the savage backdrop of heath and moor. It is like something out of one of his poems.
The Sunday riding party consists just of Me, Evan, Claire and Clayton. And so it takes little effort to prepare the horses and have everyone in the saddle after breakfast.
As we walk out of the grounds Claire and I pair off naturally and talk of frivolous things: my reading, her piano, the various fashions in la grand monde and the lower classes at the time. I am even able to draw her out on the coming war in Spain, a topic she has steadfastly refused to say anything on since father’s announcement earlier in the week. She seems more confident that usual on her horse and her excellent spirits confirm to me that the whole strange vision of the night before involved no one but myself and perhaps that jam tart from in town, poorly digested and manifesting as strange dreams.
Ahead of us Evan and Clayton ride side-by-side up ahead. The two Marquesses seem to be getting along well. Evan rarely spends so much time utterly engrossed in conversation with anyone but it has been a task of Hercules this week to get him away from Lord Atwater long enough for me to engage Atwater’s feelings, or seek out some sort of redress from Evan for his harsh words on the matter of my courting the other man.
When we reach the fork where the valley path splits from the main cart track up to the tor we stop a little while to discuss the path to take.
My plan requires us to take the more dangerous path up past Thatcher’s Corner where Lord Atwater’s – who knows nothing of my skills on a horse – concern for my wellbeing will be at its highest.
I shout down Claire’s foolish complaints about the danger of the path. No one today will be in real danger. ‘How about me and Claire lead the way, if we set a woman’s pace we can’t possibly be at risk of falling.’
Not wanting to appear afraid of the valley path the men each egg the other on and the matter is settled three to one.
Watching their faces, it is clear that Lord Atwater looks more comfortable than Evan does. Evan is one for speed rather than difficulty. He would rather run a horse full pelt down Wattling Street than across the moors and have to take even a single jump.
But his discomfort is necessary, I need the valley route, as part of my plan and I need Evan to be unable to give chase. It has to be left to Lord Atwater to save me.
Me and Claire take the lead here. It takes a little pushing on my part to get Claire up to speed, and put a little distance between us and the two gentlemen. They do so hate to walk behind a woman, and keep catching up a trot, poor Evan looking positively queasy. It grates on their innate sense of superiority I suppose. But their egos are large enough to take a little bruising I think. And when all is said an done, Atwater can feel a hero.
On the incline just before Thatcher’s Corner I give my harness a quick check, unloop one of of my stirrups, and give Galahad a sharp kick in the flanks to goad him into a canter. With the stirrup off on one side I barely need to act in order to have myself half flung from the saddle.
It is a truth known to the Mediaeval poets that a rescue is a compelling source of eros.
Lord Atwater has no knowledge of my riding ability and although Evan has insisted on joining the riding party I feel fairly confident in my plan. After all Evan is unlikely attempt a rescue on the valley path, it is much beyond his skills. He is more the type to sit back and mock a girl in trouble for getting there.
I am hanging off one side of Galahad as those great hammers of his feet pound up the rocky road towards Thatcher’s Corner each blow with the hard ground jerking me far harder than I expected, I am hanging half out of the saddle with all my weight on the right stirrup and my left hand driven under the saddle to keep myself mostly on board.
It is much harder work than expected and I am beginning to think I may have given myself too great a lead on my hero. My arm is already aching as we hit the straight up to Thatcher’s Corner and my right thigh burns as it tries to absorb the impact of each beat of Galahad’s hooves. I realise that I may not be able to cling much longer.
Fear is beginning to creep into me, pushing out my previous confidence. In my mind’s eye I can see myself hitting the ground with a bone crunching force, perhaps thrown over the edge to roll head over heels down the valley walls until some spine cracking rock stops my trajectory towards the river below.
The Thatcher boy died, but there are worse fates. I have an uncle who once flung from a horse could never use his legs again. And my Gran told me of a boy who feel from a horse into a stream. Knocked unconscious, he drowned in less than two inches of water.
My hand slips sharply on the saddle and I have to catch the pommel tight. My dress is being dragged at where the heather catches it and it will not take a very substantial branch to drag me clear of Galahad.
I cling on, eyes close and head as close to Galahad as possible. But as the seconds stretch on towards Thatcher’s Corner.
On this straight Clayton should have caught me by now, and I risk the unbalancing twist of my neck to look behind and there he is, my hero in close pursuit.
With my free hands I snatch at the reigns and give a tug, doing my best to slow Galahad, he slows a little but not enough and now the fear is as physical a presence as the ache in my arm the feeling of strength giving out in my fingers. When I glanced behind I realise how far we have come, we are almost at Thatcher’s Corner and the implied threat of the cairn is becoming realer every second.
With one last gasp of strength I give the reigns one more hard jerk hoping to stop Galahad before he hits that loose scree that nearly took us on my last ride up here. But the sudden jerk on the reigns unbalances him and he misses a step. There is the flash of the cairn stones in the edge of my vision and I am aware of the sudden lurching change in direction. Galahad is falling and I caused it.
He is halfway into rearing up, the ground giving beneath his rear hooves and pivoting us both over the edge, when I feel firm hands around my waist and am pulled in one smooth motion across the withers of Atwater’s horse. Galahad slips sideways over the sharp edge of the road, falling shoulder first onto a boulder some ten or fifteen feet below with an appalling, nearly human, scream.
I bury my face in the fur of Atwater’s horse, screaming, a genuine pained scream. I am little more than fear an anguish now. Even the elegant rescue, even being mounted on my hero’s horse, makes no difference to me.
This was not what I meant, I think. So loud in my own head I have no idea if I am thinking it or hysterically screaming it. This is not what I meant to happen. This is not. What. I. Meant.
I love that horse, he was my pet from before I can remember, always beneath me on hundreds of rides, thousands. And he was mine to pet and play with even before I could be trusted on top of hims.
I open my eyes for a moment and turn my head awkwardly – I am still slung like a sack of potatoes over the shoulders of the horse. The glimpse of his legs, at strange angles, the flash of dark yellow bone bared through the skin and the brightness of the blood which pours from his injuries. He has slides another ten or fifteen feet down the valley sides. Still whinnying in that high-pitched scream like cry.
He is lodged his good legs desperately trying to get purchase, to lift him out of the sea of heather and rock which he is drowning in.
I close my eyes again.
‘Alice, what were you thinking?’ I look up at my rescuer, and feel the sting of disappointment again. On top of all this, it is not Clayton who saved me, but Evan. His face is white with shock as he asks over and over ‘Are you okay? Alice, are you okay? Speak to me. You’re white as a sheet.’
He should talk. He looks every bit as frightened by the whole this as I must. He pulls me up into sitting position on his horse, facing him through a mist of tears. He puts a gentle hand behind my head and buries my face in his shoulder.
I cry, long hard sobs of disappointment, of guilt, of fear, and relief, and I cry for the dream of being Lady Clayton Atwater, Marquesa which is gone, even as Clayton rides up with Claire’s horse in tow.
Evan dismounts and helps me to the ground and I continue to cry into his jacket.
What a damn-fool plan of mine. Everything ruined.
The others are all talking across each other but I can hear nothing but my own sobs and the shrill bellows of Galahad.
In a daze I feel myself handed from Evan to Lord Atwater and told that Evan will stay with Galahad while we go for help. Someone mentions shock and hysteria. Another mentions warmth. I feel myself lifted onto another horse and a coat placed around my shoulders. Then someone strong mounts up behind me and his arms go around my waist to grip the reigns.
I recognise the smell, it is him, Lord Atwater. Too late my knight has taken me up onto his horse, to ride me not out into a joyful future but to drag me home like an infant or an invalid.
The ride home passes in a blur. Here I am sat with Clayton on a horse but the fear and guilt make me numb to what should be a joyful fruition my plans. Clayton’s arms are around me, comforting me. But I feel nothing, can say nothing. The plan could not have gone more wrong, Evan saving me, Galahad’s leg broken. So very, very wrong.
After the journey – for which time is meaningless, the whole thing taking place in a single point of sharp emotion that could have lasted a second or a year – we arrive back at the house. Clayton and my father gather some of the coachmen and head out to see to Galahad, while Claire takes me upstairs to be put to bed by Moira. I find myself between warm sheets with a large glass of bran brandy and laudanum with a heavy splash of with water to make it more palatable.
I lie there in my room, the sun streaming through a small crack in the curtains and a large fire built up in the grate, until the laudanum wraps me in its warm embrace, and drags me down into sleep.
Chapter Seven
I wake in the dark many hours later. The fire in the grate is still glowing and I can make out the clock hands which sit at ten-past eleven. There is a knife-blade of moonlight cast across the floor caused by the crack in the curtains, and a screech owl makes its eerie calls out in the dark. Inside my room nothing makes a noise but the steady beating of the Grandfather clock’s pendulum, the creak of its gears and the tick-tick of the hands as they are ratcheted around the face.
Something, however, must have awoken me. My head is still a little fuzzy from the laudanum fog. And my mind skips back to last night, and the eerie experience, dream or otherwise. There are noises of people moving in the corridor. Soft calls of goodnight between Jane and Claire. Doors open and close then there is silence again.
I lie in bed, with the laudanum still calming me I can think of the tragic events of yesterday with a clear head. Perhaps not all is lost, Galahad will have his leg set, Atwater is not yet out of reach. I must ask someone to send him to my bedside to keep me amused. Perhaps I can drag out my convalescence and drag him into my net in the process.
And as a door opens somewhere downstairs I can hear father’s laughter and the murmur of other voices. I consider calling for Moira to dress me so I can join the rest of the household around the hearth, and find out what became of Galahad. Perhaps pull Evan aside and berate him for his actions earlier in the day. The fool if only he had let Clayton ahead to rescue me, Galahad’s injury would not have been in vain.
But I find it hard to be angry with Evan, softly rocked in the arms of a sedative. With clear mind I ponder my next move, but the fog makes thinking ahead hard and I lie back, debate drifting back to sleep again.
Instead I sit up and try and shake my head clear. There is water by my bed and a long draught from that begins to restore some of my mental faculties.
I will ring for Moira, I think and am about to rise to give the bell pull a tug when another set of footsteps comes down the hall. Heavy, male, boots. I wait.
The pace sounds manly, a heavy tread. Familiar. It did happen. It was real, Clayton did slip up to this wing of the house for a liaison with my sister. And I… shame stops the thought.
The feet stop at my door and my heart begins to race. He has come to me. The door handle turns and I frantically check my hair and drape my night gown off one shoulder throwing my hair back to expose the skin of my neck, my delicate clavicle.
The door creeps open and I say, ‘Well, Lord At–’
What cuts me off is the appearance of Evan. He looks angry. ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ he talks quietly, secretively and for a moment I am baffled. What on earth is he doing here at this hour?
He looks utterly miserable and sways a little as if drunk. No doubt unable to keep his gloating until morning.
‘Nonsense, you’re drunk,’ I say. He is, I can smell the brandy on his breath as he sits in the chair beside my bed.
‘I had one brandy, for courage. Then I came here. I am not drunk.’ His voice is certainly clear, no sign of slurring. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ he whispers, furious. ‘I saw you throw your stirrup so don’t even try to suggest this was anything other than deliberate.’
I am a little surprised to find myself on the back foot and perhaps there is still some laudanum in my system because I find it impossible to think of a good answer. ‘I had a plan,’ I say, that is all I can muster. But, I do my best to continue, trying to sound put out: ‘Which you ruined I might add.’
‘What plan?’ he asks.
‘To ensnare Lord Atwater. He was to rescue me, scoop me up in his arms, a rescue. So romantic. What man could resist the affection of the woman he saved?’
‘You wretched fool. Your father shot Galahad, you know. Lord Clayton Atwater has spent all evening telling your father what a fool he raised in you. Can’t stop saying how extraordinary it is that Claire is as charming and intelligent as she is given the crass, damn-fool, tart her sister is. Dressing in ridiculous dresses and throwing herself at him in front of her sister.’ This is a shot of cold water.
‘Rubbish,’ I say. ‘You’re angry because of Galahad, well so am I. If you hadn’t got in Clayton’s way he might have caught me before the corner. Galahad would be fine.’
‘Aren’t you listening. Atwater has no interest in you. He saw through you the first time you met. All that silliness, doting on him dressing up like a girl at her first ball for a family dinner, painted up like a whore and acting like one too.’
His words sting. I feel so extraordinarily foolish. But this is just like Evan, to make up something like this to hurt me when I’ve already hurt myself plenty. Lord Atwater has no idea.‘What do you mean?’ I ask. ‘He gave me every sign of being won over.’
