Realm of Darkness

by C F Dunn

  “Your freckles are like constellations,” he reflected, leaning on one elbow. “Here’s Orion’s Belt” – he tracked three prominent freckles with his finger – “and this is Cygnus – you can see the sweep of the wings – and all these lighter marks are the distant galaxies you can only see when the sky is really clear.” He smiled. “I can navigate your skin; I can lose myself in its universe. I have found myself in you.” He kissed the sensitive spot at the crease of my elbow and rested his head on the rise of my stomach. I wove my fingers through his hair, and together we listened to the tiny sounds of birds and insects, of stones cracking, green growing.

  “You were going to tell me about my wedding ring,” I reminded him. He found my hand and held it to the light, the plain gold band sitting snugly against my engagement ring.

  “It was my mother’s marriage ring. That doesn’t worry you, does it?”

  “Does it bother you that you’re wearing Grandpa’s ring?” I countered.

  He raised his hand and placed it next to mine. The heavy gold band with its distinctive bar of platinum inlaid around its waist looked as if it had always been there. “No, I’m honoured to wear it.”

  “Well then, that makes us equal.”

  Until our wedding night, I hadn’t had time to look closely at the ring he slipped on my finger at the altar. When, later that evening, he had shown me the words engraved on the inside of the band like a secret, I appreciated its antiquity at once.

  “A poesy ring!” I exclaimed, as I read the inscription, “‘In God and thee all comfort be.’”

  “It seemed the most fitting way to express how I feel,” he had said, and now – looking at it again – I understood just what he meant.

  “So your mother wore this. Oh, that’s odd, that’s just… just downright… weird. But good weird,” I hastened to say before he gained the wrong idea. With a whirr, a small wood-beetle landed on my arm and began investigating, its antennae testing the air. It tickled. Matthew placed a finger in front of it and it crawled on. He released it into the scant grass.

  “My father gave it to her on their betrothal. It was the only ring she would ever wear as she said it was the only ring that mattered. She wore it until her joints became too swollen during pregnancy and my father offered to have it made bigger for her, but she wouldn’t in case it damaged the inscription. I hoped it would fit you without the need for alteration.” Matthew lifted his head at the sudden scurry and rattle of something small making a dash for cover beyond the outcrop behind which we sheltered. He settled back again and I continued stroking his hair. “She would be pleased to know you had it – not, perhaps, the peculiar circumstances in which we find ourselves – but pleased, nonetheless. When she died, my grandmother wore it on a ribbon around her neck until I was old enough to understand its significance and look after it. Now there was a tough character, but she also had her soft side and she was fiercely loyal. She stuck by my father, although she didn’t get on well with my aunt. The two of them made a veritable fireball when they met.”

  “What about William?”

  He sat up, seeking out among the frost-blown scree small stones he proceeded to lob at a stump some yards away. “William was a different matter; she adored him.”

  “Despite the trouble he caused?”

  “Despite everything.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Marking Time

  Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

  John Donne (1572–1631)

  We allowed ourselves a little over a week – just a week in which to be entirely ourselves and alone – but it was enough. In that time the mountain slopes shed the vestiges of winter, and sharp emerald replaced the snow.

  We hiked from the cabin down the mountain early one morning to find Harry already waiting to meet us with the 4x4. Matthew swung the bags into the back. “Good morning, Harry. I thought Ellie was meeting us.” Harry finished giving me a hug.

  “She said something had come up and could I meet you instead.” He opened the car door for me.

  “Thanks. Is she OK?” I asked, hopping onto the high seat.

  “Yeah, I think so, but you know it’s kind of hard to tell with Ellie sometimes; she keeps things close. She said to say hi though. Oh, and Mom wants to know if you wish to be known as Dr D’Eresby or Mrs Lynes.” He climbed into the car.

  “I think I assumed I would be Mrs Lynes, Harry.” It also gave a clear signal to the likes of Megan that Matthew was strictly off limits. Matthew smiled quietly to himself. “And why are you smiling, exactly?” I asked suspiciously.

  Matthew held my hand to the light streaming through the window and rotated my rings until they sat true to my finger. “And isn’t a man allowed to express a degree of happiness at the thought that his new bride carries his name?” His mouth twitched and I wanted desperately to kiss it, but Harry was driving and he didn’t need any distractions from the back seat.

  He left us at the front of our home. I craned to take in the full façade, remembering the first moment I had seen it before Christmas in times less certain than these, and when it was strange, and I the stranger. “Welcome home, my lady,” Matthew said, scooping me up and carrying me across the threshold in time-honoured fashion. All the trappings of the wedding had gone, but the house smelled of fresh flowers and sunshine, as if new life had blown through on spring breezes. “Lunch, then presents,” he said, putting me down and steering me towards the kitchen. “Pat said she would leave a meal for you. I think she believed food wouldn’t be high on the agenda on our honeymoon, so she’ll want to make up for it, no doubt.”

  After lunch, we sat around the old table in the dining room and opened the gifts that awaited our return, and, although we had asked for nothing, tradition dictated we received something. Given free rein, our guests had used their imaginations. I was still convulsed with laughter over Elena and Matias’s present, when Matthew said in muted tones, “Emma, look at this.” Amidst the tatty remains of sun-faded wrapping paper lay a large etching in an ornate gilded frame, white-flecked where it had been chipped on one edge. It appeared very old: small figures in front of the handsome moated building dated the image to the late seventeenth century. I didn’t need to see the name at the bottom of the picture to know where it must be.

  “Your home,” I said softly, seeing at once the ground plan of the manor house we had traced through winter wheat together. Matthew said nothing. He studied it carefully and then I saw what he saw: blank-faced windows naked of glass, gap-toothed walls part-robbed of stone. Trees grew too close, and the moat was empty of water, but the eloquent heart of the building remained untouched.

  “It’s a beautiful house.” It seemed such an inadequate thing to say, but he smiled in acknowledgment.

  “Thank you; I thought so. I wish you could have seen it. Perhaps then we would be standing just here,” and he pointed to the big oriel window suspended to one side, “talking about our future together.” It seemed worlds away and yet close and real. And then came a thought so obvious I’d overlooked it.

  “Matthew, who sent it? Who knows?”

  “Don’t worry, look,” and he picked up a letter lying on the table. Cobweb writing skimmed the paper and here and there it faltered, but its voice was strong.

  Old Manor Farm

  Martinsthorpe

  3rd April

  My dears,

  I intended to give you this picture when you visited, so forgive an old woman’s lassitude, but my years are long and time is short, and my memory is not what it used to be. I will give it to the young man who promised he would send it safely and, if you’re reading this, he has done so. Roger doesn’t know and I think he wouldn’t care for it, but it belongs with the Lynes family and it is what my husband would have wanted.

  I am feeling so much better now that spring is here. My doctor came to see me shortly after your visit and gave me some wonderful tablets. Such a revelation; I feel like a new woman.

  Roger want
s me to take a little flat in Peterborough. He says it will be much easier to keep warm and there will be somebody to keep an eye on me. I did take a look but it was rather poky and dark, and the noise of the trains quite shook me. Now that I feel much brighter, I think I will stay here until I am ready to leave. I have always rather liked the idea of a place in Oakham or Stamford near my friends, or at least near the ghosts of them and my youth.

  I left the young man in the church while I finish this letter and I do not want to keep him waiting, so I will end by wishing you both much happiness and a long life.

  Emma, please tell Matthew that I believe reincarnation is overrated.

  Joan Seaton

  “What does she mean by ‘reincarnation is overrated’?” I puzzled.

  “I believe she refers to a conversation we had when you were making her lunch. She asked me if I believed in reincarnation. I said no, of course, and I thought she had forgotten about it.” He turned the letter over and checked the date, and then back again to her last comment.

  “Do you think she knows about you?”

  “Knows? No, I don’t think so, but suspects? Perhaps. I sometimes wonder whether as one nears death all things seem possible – or credible. Your Nanna certainly thought so.”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “No, she wouldn’t and who would believe the ramblings of an old woman anyway? Don’t worry, I’m not concerned about what Joan Seaton might say. I’m glad she’s feeling much better, though; it’ll help her stand up to her bully of a son. Now, where shall we hang this?” He picked up the picture and held it to the left of the fireplace for me to see. I gave him a thumbs up, and he placed it carefully to one side to put up later. He took a quick look out of the window and, seemingly satisfied, asked, “Are you ready for your present now?” I couldn’t see what the weather had to do with anything, but I nodded again and together we went outside.

  I couldn’t see it from the drive and I hadn’t looked from the kitchen windows, but there, where once the land rose and fell in curves towards the paddock, were now the heads of small trees. I shielded my eyes from the sun as we approached. “Trees? Apple trees? An orchard? You’ve planted an orchard!” I whooped and skipped to the first of the slim trunks. Each tree stood about seven feet high, the lower branches skimming my head. He had timed it perfectly and the blossom glowed in lustrous rose quartz petals in the rich light. I counted the trees in the newly turned earth. I swung around to face him, my eyes glistening. “My own orchard, Matthew. How did you know?”

  “You told me. Once, some time ago, you said that it was where you would go to in your mind when you needed to escape.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t remember telling you.”

  “No, well, I do. I remember everything you have ever said to me and it was something I have wanted to give you for a long time, but only now is right. I’m glad you like it. You have several types of apple, a crabapple, two pears, and a number of self-fertile plum trees to wander under to your heart’s content, whenever you wish to escape.”

  Dancing up to him, I drew him close. “But not you; I’ll never escape from you.”

  “And I’ll never give you cause to. You didn’t say why an orchard represents such a special place for you.”

  “Didn’t I? It’s something from when I was very little, or I might have dreamt it, I’m not sure. Grandpa and Nanna took Beth and me somewhere where there was an old orchard and stone walls. I don’t remember much except Beth and I tried to catch petals as they fell, so it must have been spring, and we were happy – very happy. The day seemed immensely bright, an image I can play over and over again.” I looked at the branches either side of us snagging Matthew’s hair. “Grandpa sat in the sun and his hair was on fire with it and I thought I could never be that happy again.” I smiled wistfully. “I wish he could have met you, but I’m glad Nanna did. There you are – that’s why I like orchards. Now,” I said, reluctant though I might be to leave the silk-scented bower, “it’s my turn.”

  I had secreted the dull wooden box somewhere he wouldn’t find it. I made him wait in his study while I brought it to him and carefully placed it on his desk. Picking up on my caution, he inched off the lid and removed the top half of the foam. Watching the muscles of his face, the hidden complexion of his response in the air around him, I held my breath and it was so long before he reacted that I drew another. An anxious minute passed in which his colours flowed dark to light and back again.

  “A clock – a lantern clock,” he stated. He lifted the brass clock from its womb of foam and set it on its ball feet. He rotated it slowly, examining the detail of the dolphin frets, the tulip engraving, the finials rising at the four corners around the bell dome, until finally turning it to face him. Still he said nothing and, worryingly, now I couldn’t read his mood at all.

  “It’s second-quarter seventeenth century – pre-Commonwealth – by a London clockmaker,” I ventured. “I know you don’t have clocks in the house …”

  “No, I don’t,” he said quietly.

  “… and I know Maggie said you don’t want them because they remind you of the passing of time.”

  “Did she?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve never said so, but she is right enough.” He paused for thought. “But that was before I met you, and now every moment is precious and should be marked and celebrated. Thank you, this is most fitting.” He sounded so serious I wondered if I’d misheard him, until he smiled. “Maggie is very good at deciphering the present emotional state of a person based on their experiences, but she lacks the insight to see how they can move on from that point. She’s too rigid in her thinking, too fixated on the past. You, however, are intuitive and perceptive. This isn’t just what I wanted, but what I needed, and it’s a very fine piece of craftsmanship. Talking of which, I have something else I want to show you.”

  “Ooo!” I pipped.

  “Well, I couldn’t have a new wife without getting a new bed. I wanted a full-tester, but couldn’t find anything I liked enough at the time, so I chose this period colonial piece instead. I hope you like it. I was in two minds whether to wait until we could choose one together, but I rather wanted to surprise you.”

  I ran my hand from the delicate finial at head height, down over the smooth reeded column of the mahogany uprights to the carved footrest, finding his uncertainty rather endearing. I hopped on the bed and felt the mattress sink slightly as it resisted my weight.

  He agitated his hair, leaving it awry. “I realize that all the furniture in this house – everything, in fact – is what I’ve chosen, so I thought that you might like to redecorate and make it your own.”

  I bounced once or twice, then rolled backwards, testing the springs, and lay there watching him watching me. He frowned, perplexed by my lack of response. “Emma, what do you think?”

  Kicking my feet free of my sandals, I wriggled my bare toes against his stomach and felt the muscles contract delightfully beneath them. His expression changed, his eyes glittering. “You didn’t give me an answer, my lady. I’m waiting for an answer.” Bending slowly, he kissed one bare shoulder, and then the other.

  “I think,” I purred, wondering whether he could detect the thunderous reply in my blood, “that four-posters are overrated.”

  It had been a long day and the bed was very comfortable. “You still haven’t answered my question,” Matthew said sometime later.

  I thought I had. Drowsily I found his arm and pulled it back over me. “They won’t take back used items.”

  “I meant the redecorating bit. We could change the colour scheme, brighten things up, alter the kitchen, if you’d prefer.”

  Wriggling comfortably, I stretched out along his length. “No thanks, I like what’s here.”

  He said something in an undertone as he slid out of bed and went to close the shutters.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “I said, your father was right – you’re an economy model. I’ll bear it in mind when we get you
a car.”

  “Very funny. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. Why do you keep referring to me as my lady?”

  He drew the heavy curtains across the shuttered windows, preventing the last of the evening light from creeping in around the edges. “Why? Does it bother you?”

  “No, not really; well, yes, I suppose it does – it’s irksome, like being called professor when I’m not.”

  “Is it indeed? Well, my lady, you’d better get used to it because that is what you are, and it’s taken close to four hundred years for me to be able to say it.”

  There were few things in my life that had rendered me speechless and this was one of them. “Since… when?” I eventually stumbled.

  “It’s fairly complicated…”

  “Of course it is! When isn’t it with you?”

  “All right, I’ll tell you as we prepare dinner.”

  I washed my hands, fetched a knife and chopping board, waiting for his explanation while he located some things in the fridge and put them down on the table.

  “The first part is straightforward. My father was made a baronet, which I inherited on his death, of course…”

  “Of course.”

  “… and I was knighted as his eldest son when I gained my majority.”

  “I haven’t seen any mention of it in anything Grandpa wrote.”

  He dried the long pepper, flinging the tea towel over his shoulder and setting a large frying pan over a low heat. “Didn’t he? Perhaps he didn’t know; it isn’t obvious at first. If you take a close look at the Lynes window in St Martin’s, you’ll see a small red hand embroidered on the breast of my father’s cape.” I hadn’t spent much time studying the detail of the window, and armorials had never been of great interest to me. “Baronets had the right to display the bloody hand of The Arms of Ulster – except my father wouldn’t have it incorporated into our arms. I don’t know why; he could be funny like that.” He split the pepper and laid it in the hot pan. “I suspect he thought it might better my prospects of securing a good match and furthering the family name. He certainly didn’t do it for himself.”