‘I thought, from something Lady Denby said, that you were originally destined for the Church,’ I said.
‘Indeed I was but can you see me as a clergyman?’
‘Not really.’
‘Neither could I – besides which, I was never much of a scholar – I’ve always preferred action to study.’
‘I got the impression you were a great reader.’
‘Oh, I’d hardly call myself that. A wide reader would be a better description – but mostly novels, plays, poetry – some history but nothing too demanding.’
‘Mr Lawrence!’ cried Lady Denby. ‘If I can tear you away from the delightful Miss Tyler, do you think I could persuade you to give us another of your sweet Irish songs? Just one,’ she added as he seemed to hesitate, ‘before the card tables are set up. It will put us in the right frame of mind.’
I was not at all sure what she meant by that, though it was obvious she wanted to remove Frank from his seat beside me on the sofa for as he went over to the piano she took his place, smiling at me winningly.
He began singing and he seemed to be directing the words to me:
‘She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps
For her heart in his grave is lying …’
I had felt like that for many years, though I had never attracted any sighing lovers. But the grief had worn itself out; I knew that when I moved Harry’s ring to my right hand. Did Frank Lawrence know about Harry O’Neill? If so, the only way he could have come by the knowledge was if my brother had carelessly dropped a word to Mrs Thorpe, who had passed it on to her nephew. I was growing increasingly exasperated with George.
‘You look very pensive my dear,’ said Lady Denby when he had finished. ‘Does that song have a particular meaning for you?’
‘Not at all.’ I wondered why she was suddenly so interested in me and suspected she was seeking a favour. This proved to be the case. On hearing I was an amateur artist and having observed me sketching on our trip to Hollingstone she asked if I could draw portraits of each of her guests during our stay.
I agreed readily enough. Most people enjoy having their likeness taken. Having fetched my sketchbook, I began that evening with a study of Lady Denby which greatly pleased her.
‘I shall have an album put together,’ she declared, ‘and it will be a delightful souvenir of this party.’
I never realized how important my collection of portraits would prove to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The fine weather continued and two days later we all set off on an expedition to Normaston Castle, which was about eight miles away and where we were to have a picnic. We ladies travelled in the carriage and the gentlemen, including Colonel Hartley, accompanied us on horseback.
The castle was a picturesque ruin of the sort beloved by Lady Denby. ‘Situate upon an eminence,’ she sighed, ‘a veritable scene of romance.’
It was certainly picturesque and I had brought with me my sketchbook and watercolours. I tried to persuade Sophie to do likewise as she had some talent but she was a reluctant artist, lacking patience and perseverance. I suspected she was hoping to wander about with Rowland as she seemed to enjoy his company. She still made disparaging remarks about him, especially if I questioned her concerning her attitude; but I feared she was growing to like him. I hoped it was a sisterly affection such as I had for George but I was not at all sure.
The party split up and we went off to explore the ruins, Lady Denby and Sir Ralph pointing out arches, stairways and towers, all smothered in brambles and ivy.
I eventually found a spot near a wall with an attractive aspect for me to draw. I flattened some tall weeds, spread my shawl and settled down with my pencil and sketchbook. I was rather hoping that Frank Lawrence might join me and amuse me with his lively conversation but he was nowhere to be seen.
For some time I was absorbed in my occupation, but then I realized that there were two people on the other side of the wall and they seemed to be arguing. I thought I ought to move but I was comfortably settled and it would take a few minutes to gather all my belongings together. Perhaps they would go away.
‘You’re making a perfect fool of yourself.’ It was Frank’s voice.
‘What right have you to criticize me?’ his aunt demanded furiously. ‘Neither Mr Tyler nor I are married. He would probably make a very good husband – rich, quite handsome, very easy-going and amiable. A good deal nicer than Thorpe, I can tell you.’
‘Don’t provoke me.’
‘I’ll provoke whoever I please. And for that matter, aren’t you rather overdoing your attentions to that dull Tyler girl? She has no money, no prospects and is obviously condemned to spinsterhood.’
‘She’s by no means dull and as you’ve scarcely spoken to her I don’t know how you can tell. She’s actually quite lively and amusing. I find her decidedly attractive and she’s a good fifteen years younger than you.’
‘Miss Tyler is thirty if she’s a day, and looks it. If I were to marry her brother, I’d soon get rid of her.’
‘I advise you not to continue your pursuit of him.’
‘Advise all you like. What can you possibly do about it?’
Then there was silence. One or the other – probably both – had stormed off in a temper. I found it a curious conversation and not because it contained some frank opinions of George and me but on account of the general tone, which was surprisingly intense and intimate for an exchange between aunt and nephew. It was more like a lovers’ quarrel. Something rather unsavoury there, I thought, and I was not at all happy about her possible intentions towards my brother. A flirtation seemed in danger of slipping over into something far more serious.
‘Ah, there you are!’ At first I felt a momentary annoyance at my solitude being interrupted and then I saw it was Colonel Hartley. I could not possibly be displeased with him.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Of course not, I’ll be glad of your company. Did you happen to see Sophie?’
‘She’s wandering about with Rowland, which should please Lady Denby, though I’m not sure about you.’
‘He’s not good enough for her and she’s too young to know her own mind. I don’t want to see her take up with the first personable young man she encounters. I’m not sure if he’s a fortune-hunter.’
‘I think not, but I’m sure his mother is, to say nothing of her dear friend Mrs Thorpe. You don’t like her, do you?’
‘Not at all and I fear for my poor brother.’
‘She has her claws into him, I can see that, but he seems a willing victim.’
‘I wish I could do something about it but he wouldn’t listen to me. He can be very stubborn. It’s not the first time some unsuitable woman has made overtures, but on previous occasions they weren’t living under the same roof and seeing him every day. Nor were they as beautiful as Mrs Thorpe.’
‘Not the sort of beauty that greatly appeals to me. I saw enough brunettes in Spain and there were times when I longed for light hair and an English complexion.’
He asked to see my sketches, made appreciative remarks and the conversation slipped into easier channels. I asked if I might add his portrait to my collection and he assented good-humouredly. ‘On condition that it’s my good side.’
‘Of course – if you will be kind enough to keep quite still for a few minutes.’
I sketched his right profile and showed him the result when I had finished.
‘You’ve made me too handsome,’ he observed.
I looked at my work critically. ‘Yes, possibly, but it will have to do.’
‘Oh, you disappoint me, Miss Tyler. I hoped you’d assure me that it was a very good likeness.’
‘I don’t flatter people, Colonel Hartley.’
‘I’m sure you don’t. And neither do I.’
He talked for a while of his life in the army and
I was able to compare his experiences with Harry’s.
‘How did you meet Harry O’Neill?’ he asked. ‘I thought he was Irish.’
‘So he was. His father was a country doctor in County Clare. There was a large family of boys – all in the army or navy. His only sister married an English doctor and came to live in Whitcombe, our nearest town. After Harry’s father died his mother was invited to live with them. When Harry was wounded at Sabugal and sent home to recover, it was only natural for him to stay at the doctor’s house where he could receive medical treatment and be nursed back to health by his mother and sister.’
‘So you met him in Whitcombe?’
‘Yes, in a ball at the Assembly Rooms. He asked me to stand up with him but he wasn’t at all well and nearly collapsed. I helped him to a seat and gave him my smelling salts – the reversal of the faint young lady being assisted by her gallant partner. We laughed about it afterwards. Poor Harry! He was so full of life and he hated being ill but if he hadn’t been wounded I would never have met him.
‘Eventually we were seeing each other nearly every day and became engaged before he rejoined his regiment.’
‘And your brother approved?’
‘Oh yes, he liked Harry very much but he warned me that neither of us had any money and we ought not to marry until our situation improved. He was right, of course, but I still wish we’d gone ahead and married anyway.’
‘At least you’ve the satisfaction of having won the love of a man like Harry O’Neill.’ He paused a moment and then added softly, ‘And I begin to understand why.’
Had I heard right? Had I misunderstood? But he had returned to examining my sketches.
At that point one of the servants rang a bell to summon all the party back to the place designated for our picnic. George already lay stretched out on the grass with a slice of pigeon pie and a glass of wine in front of him. Louisa Thorpe sat beside him under her parasol, very animated and treating him like a child to be fed and pampered. He was enjoying the attention.
Colonel Hartley was about to sit beside me when somehow Frank Lawrence cut in and threw himself down on the grass. The Colonel quietly withdrew and went to the other end of the group.
‘It’s confounded hot!’ Frank complained, flinging off his hat and revealing the dark curls that so resembled Harry’s. The Colonel’s hair was plentiful enough but a commonplace mouse-brown and of the sort that always looks dishevelled.
‘I envy you ladies in your muslins. You all look so cool. I think we shall have a thunderstorm before we’ve finished. What have you been doing with yourself? I was looking for you.’
‘Sketching and painting.’ I was about to say I’d left my materials in the shade of a certain wall but I stopped myself just in time. He might realise I had overheard an intimate conversation. I glanced round and saw that Colonel Hartley was seated between Elinor and Sophie, with Rowland and the Denbys to the other side and George and Mrs Thorpe next to us.
I found my feelings towards Frank had changed a little since my accidental eavesdropping. I felt rather uneasy and wondered what his relationship with his aunt might be.
‘All on your own?’ He helped himself to a plate of ham. ‘I wish I’d known.’
‘No, Colonel Hartley was with me.’
‘Oh, ’Armless ’Artley – you won’t have any trouble from him.’
It was a coarse remark and a cruel one. I said nothing but did not laugh and he realized, after a few minutes silence, that he had gone too far.
‘I meant no offence,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sure the Colonel’s a very good fellow.’
‘He hardly requires your patronage,’ I snapped, thoroughly annoyed by him.
George was lying back laughing as Louisa Thorpe tickled his face with a long piece of grass.
‘Really, Louisa!’ boomed Lady Denby. ‘Do leave poor Mr Tyler alone. He’ll never finish his pie if you continue to torment him.’
Mrs Thorpe pretended she had not heard and I began to feel both irritated and depressed. What should have been a happy day proved to be too full of tension to be wholly enjoyable. Yet there was one small circumstance that made up for everything. I could see that Colonel Hartley was deep in conversation with Elinor. He looked up suddenly and smiled at me and then raised his wine glass towards me in a silent toast.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That night the weather broke. Thunder rolled, lightning flashed and I heard heavy rain drenching the parched earth. I slept badly and woke unrefreshed. The morning was dark, the rain still fell and I realized we were all destined to spend the day indoors.
At breakfast Sir Ralph declared it was a perfect day for showing us his collection in the Long Gallery. Rowland, Elinor and Mrs Thorpe excused themselves from the tour as they had seen it all before. The rest of us obligingly trooped up to the top floor, along creaking old passages, to the gallery, which ran the full length of the house, the long windows letting in as much light as possible on such a dull day.
Sir Ralph was an enthusiastic collector but not a discriminating one. My second examination of the exhibits confirmed my first impression formed on our initial visit at the beginning of our stay at Lovegrove. There never was such an accumulation of rubbish and genuine curiosities. What is more, the items were displayed in confusion with little attempt to separate the exhibits. Cabinets full of medallions and cameos jostled with halberds, crossbows and helmets. Matting from the Sandwich Islands was displayed next to cases of mineral specimens. Suits of armour were mixed up with fragments of Roman statuary, Greek vases and bits of tapestry.
A glass box contained a lock of Mary Queen of Scot’s hair.
‘My heroine!’ breathed Lady Denby.
I did not tell her I had always thought her a very silly woman.
I tried to let my eye pick out a few things to study properly and let the rest fade into the background; bits of rusty metal and dusty rhinoceros horn did not interest me.
This lasted until eleven and after that the party dispersed. Lady Denby retired to her study to work on her novel but I did not stay to see what the others were doing. I was determined to do a little exploring on my own as there were parts of the house that I had scarcely seen.
Eventually I found myself in the Tapestry Room, an unoccupied bedroom full of Tudor and Stuart furniture and, as its name implied, lined with faded tapestries telling biblical stories. I tried to decipher them and identified Abraham about to slay Isaac and David holding up the head of the dead Goliath. Everything else was too frayed and blurred by age to make out.
Suddenly I heard a sound that made me turn cold: a muffled moaning. I remembered that this room was supposed to be haunted by a Lady Chater who appeared, moaning and sighing for her husband who had been carried off to the Tower. I almost expected to see a grey apparition in Tudor dress.
I stood frozen to the spot. The moaning continued, followed by a small shriek and then a man’s voice and a woman’s laughter. It was impossible to hear any actual words but certainly there were two people very close – not in the room itself and not, I thought, next door, but …
I moved round the room, listening at the walls, and at last found a portion of the tapestry which was not secured by pegs at its base. On lifting it up I found a door let into the panelling. I was about to knock and then changed my mind. Someone was still murmuring and laughing on the other side of the door and I feared an embarrassing confrontation. I hastily slipped out of the room and went up to the Long Gallery to seek diversion from the collection.
However, my curiosity had been aroused and I continued to wonder who had been in the closet – for that is what I thought might be on the other side of the door under the tapestry. It could well be that two of the servants were using the concealed room for a dalliance. A pretty word, that – all nymphs and shepherds and hey nonny nonny! I felt sure the truth was more mundane and perhaps sordid.
I could not resist returning to the Tapestry Room about an hour later. I entered cautiously, listening at the door
before I went in, but everything was quiet. Then I lifted up the tapestry and stood for a while at the inner door, but I heard nothing. Slowly I opened the latch and peered inside but to my relief no one was there. I noticed there was a crude wooden bolt to secure the room against intruders. It was scarcely a room at that – indeed, my supposition that it was a closet seemed correct as it was less than twelve feet by twelve and was illuminated only by one tiny window which rattled in the wind and let in a dim, greenish light through a veil of ivy.
The furniture consisted of a huge chest that could have served as an altar when the house belonged to a Catholic family, and also a day bed, an old red velvet close stool, a small table and a chair. That was all, apart from the cushions; and there were many of those, on the bed and on the floor. They had a crushed and crumpled look, as though in recent use.
I searched the closet for some evidence of its recent occupants but found nothing but a solitary hairpin which might have been dropped by anyone at any time. Yet a musky scent lingered, especially on one of the cushions. Both Lady Denby and Louisa Thorpe were heavily perfumed but my suspicions were immediately directed to the latter. As to her partner in the liaison – here I felt sick; only one man was it likely to be and that was my poor susceptible brother.
Before leaving, I moved the two heavy brass candlesticks from the top of the chest and raised the lid. It was half-full of old, musty damask curtains and a faded velvet counterpane.
On my return to my room I encountered Sophie at her door, about to enter.
‘Have you had a pleasant morning?’ I asked.
‘Pleasant enough. Rowland and I played carpet bowls in the library.’
‘Alone?’
‘More or less but the door was open and we were interrupted a few times. Lady Denby came in for a book.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘Oh, she beamed on us and said we seemed to be getting on very well.’
‘Yes, she would. How do you feel about Rowland?’
The Lovegrove Hermit Page 5
