The Binding

by Bridget Collins

  I tell myself that the reason I only take one of them is the prospect of sorting out both bridles in this withering cold. I lead my mount into the yard and hoist myself awkwardly into the saddle.

  All the way to the road I keep glancing over my shoulder. He’ll wake up. He’ll hear. He’ll wonder where I’ve gone. But nothing moves. The house stares back at me with blank windows.

  It’s a long ride back to Castleford.

  It’s dark when I get home. There’s light in all the windows. When Betty answers the door her hair is falling out of her cap and there are smears of pollen on her pinafore. Behind her a new scullery maid picks her way across the freshly polished floor with a fish on a silver platter. She gives me a sidelong, excited glance as Betty says, ‘Oh, Mr Lucian. The man from Esperand’s is here. In the drawing room.’

  There are great bouquets of flowers on pedestals at the foot of the stairs and by the entrance to the dining room. Red roses, ferns, dark waxy leaves like saw-blades. Lilies the colour of raw skin. Betty hovers, anxious to get back to her work. ‘Sir? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ The sudden warmth is making me nauseous. Betty darts forward to take my hat and coat but I wave her away. The scullery maid elbows open the door to the dining room and I catch a glimpse of the dinner à la française laid out on the sideboard. I can smell poached fish and something meatier, like game. I hang up my own hat and coat and push past Betty into the drawing room.

  My mother gets to her feet. ‘Darling,’ she says. ‘At last.’ She waves Esperand’s deputy forward. ‘Mr – what was it? – Mr Alcock has been waiting very patiently.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’ I nod to him. The movement makes me giddy, as if the world is rippling outwards. ‘Mama, would you ring for tea? I haven’t eaten since …’ I stop. There’s a pause. Lisette raises her head from her circle of embroidery. She watches me, her eyes narrowed, like a cat.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re too late,’ my mother says. ‘The servants are all very busy. That’s why we had tea early.’ She smiles at me. But there’s something in the silence afterwards – while Cecily furtively crunches a sugar-lump and Lisette lets her eyes linger on my unshaven chin – that tells me that my father has ordered her not to ask where I’ve been.

  I let Alcock adjust my waistcoat. He pins it without meeting my eyes. Every so often he suggests I raise and lower my arms, in a tactful undertone. My shirt is drenched in sweat. I stink of horses and wet wool. Lisette wrinkles her nose. But no one mentions it. And maybe I’m the only one who can smell, underneath that, the musky brackenish scent of Emmett Farmer’s body.

  At last Alcock goes. He tips me a little salute, man-to-man. When he’s gone Mama smiles at me. She says, as she moves the sugar-bowl out of Cecily’s reach, ‘I’m so glad you’re not nervous, darling. So many grooms would be anxious the day before their wedding. It’s good that you haven’t let it interfere with … whatever you’ve been doing.’

  I walk to the window and pull the curtain aside. I look past my reflection to the garden, luminous with snow. Coloured lanterns border every path. ‘Why should I be nervous, Mama?’ Her reflection plucks at a tasselled cushion. ‘Now my suit finally fits, there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Quite right. And you look splendid in it.’ I turn so that we can smile at each other. She adds, ‘Don’t forget, full evening dress tonight. Sherry in an hour.’

  ‘I’d better go and have my bath.’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea, my precious.’

  I shut the door on her tinkling laugh and cross the hall to the foot of the stairs. There are even more flowers than before, dark and lush as a jungle. A tray of empty champagne glasses sits on the console table. The swing door to the servants’ quarters clunks. The new scullery maid giggles. She stops when she sees me. She dips in a curtsy – carefully, because she’s holding a silver epergne loaded with fruit.

  ‘Ask Betty to run me a bath, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I feel her eyes on me as I go up the curve of the staircase.

  All I want is to lie down and sleep. But my clothes have been laid out for me on my bed. A red rose in a little vase waits to be my buttonhole.

  Tomorrow Honour and I will sleep in the room at the back of the house that’s been set aside for us. It’s a nice room. It overlooks the garden. It has pomegranates on the wallpaper, like mouths stuffed with seeds. The bed is a four-poster, draped with burgundy velvet. When I was small I sometimes drew the curtains and crawled inside. I remember the red darkness, the hot muffled silence. I used to pretend I was dead.

  A knock on my door. ‘Your bath is ready, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ A second later I turn to tell her to bring me a drink, but she’s already gone.

  There’s so much steam in the bathroom it’s like a hammam. Someone has tipped oil of roses into the bathtub, too much of it. I lower myself into the hot water as quickly as I can. I scrub myself for longer than I need to. Then I let my head tilt back against the rim of the tub and shut my eyes. When I hear the clock strike downstairs I haul myself out of the bath and go to my own room to dress. I’ve taken too long. If I don’t hurry I’m going to be late. The carriages are arriving outside. Feet crunch on the drive. High-pitched voices giggle. A bray: ‘Oh, indeed, painfully plain, but the Ormondes’ money covers a multitude …’

  I knot my tie. My flushed cheeks have faded. The face in the mirror is a study in black-and-white. When I slide the rose into my buttonhole it’s like a blot of red ink on a charcoal drawing.

  ‘Mr Lucian? Your mother wondered if you needed any help.’

  I shake my head. Betty stares at me a little too long and closes the door.

  A last look at my reflection. I can do this. I straighten my tie. I smile.

  The dining room glitters with silverware and candelabra and jewels on naked flesh. Everywhere I look there are women wearing low-cut gowns in bright colours – vermilion, royal blue, jade – and men in black-and-white evening dress. More flowers fill the corners of the room. An enormous centrepiece trails dark green leaves over the white tablecloth. The noise of voices blurs into a high chattering as if we’re in an aviary.

  I pause in the doorway. My mother swoops towards me. ‘Darling! You look lovely. Now, you know Sir Lionel and Lady Jerwood.’ I shake hands. I kiss a woman’s satin glove. I hardly have time to look into their faces before my mother steers me towards the next knot of guests. I nod and smile and joke. I can’t hear my own voice. It’s hot. The colours are so bright I feel like I’ve got a fever. Tiny details catch my eye: the lustre on a string of pearls, the starry bubbles in a glass of champagne, a beauty spot on a bare shoulder. It takes an effort to wrench my attention back to the man I’m talking to. On the sideboard behind him the biggest shape is starting to collapse. Milky juices have nearly submerged the crown of pansies and candied ginger that runs round the bottom of the mould. The buttery parsley sauce for the fish has congealed into green-flecked golden grease.

  People are eating now. The smells of strawberry mousse and poached salmon mingle with the scents of hot skin and candle-wax. I put a few things on my plate and sit down. On my right a lady fiddles with her collapsing hairpiece and says, ‘Well, it may be more fashionable, but this isn’t quite what I would call dinner à la française.’ Her husband rolls his eyes discreetly. ‘The Darnays have always been so modish. Nouveau riche—’ She catches sight of me and breaks off, a flush rising to her cheeks.

  I bend my head and jab my fork into the crust of my pigeon pie. On the other side of me another woman is leaning over her plate. Her string of turquoises chinks against the china. She’s talking in a breathless stuttering voice. ‘I heard he was invited tonight – doesn’t Florence Darnay know Lady Runsham? But he’s absolutely prostrated, my dears.’

  The grey-haired lady opposite her raises an eyebrow. ‘I can imagine.’ She turns to the man next to her. ‘Did you hear about Sir Percival Runsham, James?’

  ‘Who?’ He balances a pink morsel of mou
sse on his spoon. ‘Oh, Runsham. The liability. Haven’t seen him since he stood on Rosa Marsden’s dress. I enjoyed that.’

  ‘He used to see de Havilland.’

  ‘Or whatever his real name was,’ someone interrupts, ‘I heard it was a nom de plume.’

  ‘Smith or Jones, I expect.’

  The grey-haired woman cuts through them as if they haven’t spoken. ‘And last night the bindery burnt down, and Runsham’s most recent binding …’ She lets the words hang. They all swap a glance.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ the man says, licking the bowl of his spoon. ‘Imagine remembering you were Percival Runsham.’

  ‘Language, James,’ the grey-haired woman says. But they’re all laughing. ‘Well, I’m glad to say that none of our family has ever been bound. Even if it didn’t show a lack of moral backbone, this sort of thing is an excellent reason not to indulge.’

  ‘Come on, Harriet, that’s a bit …’ The man makes a conciliatory gesture with his spoon and grins at the others. ‘She may sound like a Crusader, but I assure you all that sixty years ago she was far too young to lynch anyone.’

  ‘Just think, though,’ the first woman says. ‘The secrets de Havilland must have known …’

  I get to my feet. A few people glance up and go straight back to their conversations. They don’t seem to care about being overheard. Gossip is public property. I go to the sideboard and pour myself another glass of champagne. It’s tepid. A young lady hovers, batting her eyelashes, until I realise she wants me to serve her. As she points at the dishes, she says, ‘It’s very romantic, isn’t it? You and Miss Ormonde. You’re like a prince in a fairy tale, choosing her even though she’s … She’s not here, is she? Are the Ormondes having their own party tonight? I don’t expect they can afford anything like this, can they? Yes, some grapes, please. Oh, and a spoonful of blancmange. Thank you.’

  I smile at her. She tosses her blonde curls and turns away.

  My mother bears down on me. She leans close and murmurs, ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, my darling. You are quite the handsomest man in the room. And you have made a great conquest of Lady Jerwood. Your father will be so pleased.’ Her breath smells of parsley. My father catches my eye across the room and raises his glass to me. I acknowledge him, then push my way through a group of moist-faced men into the hall. I skirt the sharp-edged flowers to go upstairs, but there are two giggling girls leaning over the banister. I turn away before they see me. My shirt is clammy and my eyes are stinging. All I want is to find a shadow somewhere and dissolve into it.

  I go down the passageway and open the door to the Blue Room. The lamps are lit and there’s a fire in the grate, but the room is empty. The painted nymphs look at me from over the mantelpiece, their wet limbs glistening like mother-of-pearl, their eyes vacant. Water lilies cluster round them like funeral wreaths. I shut the door behind me and breathe.

  Someone has stubbed a cigarette out in the inkwell. It’s still smouldering. I cross to the desk and extinguish the thread of smoke. The ledger is open on the last month’s receipts, and the clerk’s letters are no longer in the right order.

  ‘Forgive me. I’m afraid I am endlessly curious. And they were lying around.’

  There’s a man by the window. He gives me a little bow. I rock back on my heels, but at least I haven’t flinched; I’m cushioned by the champagne I’ve drunk.

  ‘You must be Piers’ son,’ he says. ‘Lucian, isn’t it? I’m Lord Latworthy, one of your father’s … Well, we share some interests. How do you do?’

  ‘How do you do?’ I say, and tap the letters back into a neat pile. I can see that he’s not going to look embarrassed, however long I wait.

  ‘Did I startle you? Forgive me.’ He sounds magnanimous, as if I’m the one trespassing. He steps forward and looks at me, not quite smiling. He has a dark beard and very straight eyebrows. He’s middle-aged, younger than my father. ‘Lucian Darnay. A pleasure to meet you. Face to face, I mean.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No doubt, all this …’ He waves at the door, in a way that includes the rest of the house, the guests, the wedding, the world. ‘It must be … overwhelming.’ His face is intent and curious. It’s the first time tonight anyone has really paid attention to me. The last person who looked at me like that …

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he says, and in spite of myself I obey him. He sinks on to the chaise longue opposite me, tips his head back and heaves a sigh. ‘It’s rather a circus, isn’t it? So difficult for a sensitive young man like yourself.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m sensitive?’

  ‘A young man who may not be … entirely enamoured of his bride-to-be.’

  ‘I have nothing but respect for Miss Ormonde.’

  He laughs under his breath. ‘There’s no need to pretend, Lucian.’ He leans forward, crossing his ankle on his knee. The expression in his eyes isn’t exactly sympathy. ‘Surely I’m not the only one to have noticed, tonight? You must feel very alone.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ But his look doesn’t waver. ‘I’m simply … well. Shall we say, I can imagine myself in your place?’

  I stare at him. A sudden ache throbs between my temples, quick and gone in a heartbeat. ‘Excuse me,’ I say. I get to my feet, propping myself up on the arm of the settee. ‘I must get back to my father’s guests.’

  As I try to move past he stands up in one smooth movement. Before I can react we’re eye to eye. He’s too close. Under the bitterness of tobacco there’s the perfume of something sharp and resinous. Amber, wood. ‘Lucian,’ he says, and his voice is soft. ‘Wait.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He seems about to speak. Instead he reaches for my collar and loosens my tie. I can’t move. It’s like being back at school, in a sixth-former’s study, too confused to be afraid. Surely he isn’t … But he tugs my tie slowly out of its knot, while the silk whispers. His skin radiates heat through my waistcoat and shirt.

  I freeze. A wave of sick warmth goes through me. For a second, wavering in front of my eyes, his face is Emmett’s: clear-eyed, intent, almost afraid. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Why?’

  I look into his eyes. They’re brown. Emmett’s are brown, too.

  I take a breath. All I want is to stop existing. Or to return to that moment yesterday, when the rest of the world was blotted out.

  Then Latworthy clears his throat, and the dry sound breaks the spell. I pull away. He laughs. I hear him still chuckling as I stumble out into the passageway. In the hall people are saying goodbye to my mother. She looks round, sees my unbuttoned shirt and loose tie, and wipes her expression clean, the same way she would look at my father coming out of the servants’ door. She goes back to her farewells, the gleaming, chattering crowd of top hats and furs, while laughter washes out in waves from the dining room. I cross to the staircase and pull myself up, step by step.

  I shut my bedroom door and sit on the bed. The world melts into ribbons. My head is spinning; not only from the drink.

  I thought for an instant, last night, that I wasn’t so bad. But now I disgust myself. There are easy words for the sort of man I am: depraved, pathetic. I don’t understand. How did Lord Latworthy know? But somehow he did. I must stink of it, like sweat. Like blood. And whatever I’ve forgotten is worse. Whatever I did, it was so bad even my father despises me for it.

  It’s gone. Forgotten. As long as it stays locked away, I can go on.

  And this time tomorrow it’ll be over.

  ‘I feel sick. Honestly. I can’t believe how calm you look. I’m a quivering wreck and all I have to do is not drop the rings.’

  I glance sideways. Henry Ormonde’s face is greenish where it isn’t freckled. His hair is stiff with pomade. He ducks his head and it wobbles. ‘Sorry. It’s a family thing. Honour was practically vomiting last night with nerves.’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘How many people are here? Must be hundreds. Poor old Hono
ur, she hates being stared at.’

  ‘Two hundred.’

  ‘Goodness. I don’t even know two hundred people.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ I turn away. The hall has a ceiling like the hull of a ship, higher than I remembered. Somehow the beams have been strung with white ribbon and orange blossom. More garlands hang along the walls. The wood panelling has a silver sheen that makes the windows seem bigger than they are. But as the seats fill, the walls seem to creep inwards. The noise rises like water. Voices, laughter, apologies as men tread on expensive skirts. Thumps and scuffles as they find their seats. Everything echoes.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  I nod at the golden clock above the entrance. I wish I didn’t have to stand here, waiting. Ten more minutes. My skin is itching. I want to pull off my gloves and scratch till I bleed. I’d kill for a drink. There’s a hip flask in my pocket but everyone’s watching me.

  ‘Nice roses.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Today the flowers are pale and delicate, roses and freesias and loose ruffled blooms like petticoats. No lilies.

  ‘Your sisters look pretty.’

  ‘Good.’ I glance over at them. They’re sitting at the front with my parents. Cecily is swelling out of a mauve taffeta dress. She has a lace handkerchief poised for action. Lisette is in dark peacock-blue, a sprig of monkshood wilting in her hair. She’s cleaning under her nails with the point of a jewelled hatpin. I let my eyes slide sideways. My father gives me a nod. I look away so sharply Henry jumps.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. You want me to stop talking, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  But the silence doesn’t help. I wish he’d start talking again. I turn and count the parchment-coloured roses in the biggest display. In front of it is the table where we’ll sign our certificate. It’s draped in lace and satin bows, but it’s just a table.

  My shoulders prickle. I want to throw up. Behind me the noise grows louder and louder. Surely they’re all here. Surely I don’t have to wait any longer … But when I glance at the clock there’s still five minutes. I check my watch but it says the same thing.