by Deryn Lake
*
‘I really do declare,’ said Mrs Webbe Weston in a high voice, ‘that I shall faint with the sheer strain of it all. I have never been strong, you know. Never. And now I have to cope with giving up my home — at my age. What will become of us in Pomona House? The place is a mere box compared with this.’
She sat hard upon a tea chest, pulling her silly mouth down at the corners and dashing at her cheeks with reddened knuckles.
‘Terribly grim,’ said her husband, shifting from one gaitered leg to the other. ‘Awfully sorry. So sorry. Oh dear!’
He strode away, his sensible legs squeaking in his boots as he walked.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Mrs Webbe Weston moaned.
Her three daughters — Mary, Matilda and Caroline — stood staring at her blankly while Miss Huss, the governess, glared in mute but militant disapproval. She had been given notice; told she must leave because they could no longer afford her miserable wage and she — idiot though she had berated herself — had taken a cut in her pittance rather than lose her place. She despised her soul for it; thought herself a cringer, a weakling. But what to do? Wasn’t she a bit old now, a bit past going on to the streets with painted face and gartered stockings, calling out to military men? Yet how she longed for it. The awful exciting smell of cheap scents, unwashed bodies and lust.
‘Miss Huss!’
She jerked herself into awareness. It was John Joseph calling out — and a fine young man he had become these days, with some new indefinable self-confidence. She smiled at him nervously, wondering, just for a brief exhilarating second, what he would do if she invited him to take tea with her and then threw her skirts above her head.
‘Miss Huss?’
Was he looking at her oddly?
‘Yes, John Joseph?’
‘Could you get some smelling salts for my mother? I believe she is greatly distressed by this move. More than she will admit.’
As Mrs Webbe Weston was already weeping as copiously as a fountain Miss Huss wondered how much further emotion could possibly be displayed by her employer. However she said nothing and was creeping, mouse-like, to her bedroom when she saw Cloverella Blanchard — clad from head to foot in flowing scarves of apple green tawny — struggle through the Middle Enter carrying a vast tray of cakes.
‘Oh, Cloverella,’ she said, ‘I do not think this is quite the right time to call.’
It was sweet meat indeed to wield some pathetic authority but Cloverella appeared undaunted, said, ‘Very good, Miss,’ and turned to go. However, behind her Miss Huss heard John Joseph say, ‘It’s all right, Miss Blanchard. You may leave them over there.’ And the governess, wheeling sharply, was left in no doubt at all that the son of the house had bestowed on the ragamuffin girl a naughty wink.
She stared in horror as Cloverella reciprocated and then — had there ever been such a flagrant display? — heard her whisper, ‘Later.’
It was too bad. Before she had time to think the word ‘Really!’ had risen, unbidden, to Miss Huss’s lips.
‘Is anything wrong?’ said John Joseph politely.
‘Er — no. That is — yes. John Joseph, I feel I must speak. Your mother would be so distressed and it is my duty ... The fact is that you are delicately reared and that wicked girl ... Why, she is nothing more or less than a gypsy slut.’ She blushed scarlet with her fevered thoughts. ‘I do hope ... John Joseph, nothing has taken place?’
The seascape eyes looked at her enigmatically.
‘What sort of thing?’
The governess shifted miserably where she stood, well aware that Mary — horrid little pig — had sensed a serious note in their conversation, though unable to hear a word, and was staring beadily in their direction.
‘You know very well what I mean. I should not have to speak to you like this. It is the duty of your father.’
John Joseph took her hand in his and said with apparent sincerity, ‘So it is, Miss Huss. I shall go and talk to him immediately. Thank you for your concern.’
It was not the response she had expected and she felt herself growing more and more flustered and starting to dither. Meanwhile John Joseph stayed holding her hand and looking at her sympathetically, shaking his head.
She snatched her fingers away.
‘Well, go then. I’ve a great deal to do, John Joseph. Everything must be crated and carted by nightfall and as for you ...’
‘Yes, Miss Huss?’
‘Oh, don’t stare at me so.’
She turned in a whirl and hurried through the Middle Enter, her lips compressed tightly together.
Outside she shivered with the first hint of autumn in the September shadow of the courtyard. Once it had been a quadrangle; a quadrangle through which had ridden many leading players in the pageant of English history — Kings, Queens, statesmen and soldiers.
And not only they but also the common people had stood there. Armies of servants had bustled and swept and held the horses’ heads while great men and women had descended and walked through that mighty door, out of which the insignificant figure of the governess now hurried.
Artisans had built the walls, masons had carved the stone. The ordinary folk of England — the laughing, sweating, suffering, flea-bitten population — had come to Sutton Place to work or watch men of rank at play. Plagues had killed them, wars had decimated them, yet Sutton Place still stood, posing a question by its very invulnerability: was it, in truth, the master of those who had dwelled within?
Something of this occurred to poor Miss Huss as she twittered and fluttered round the courtyard like an anxious bird, looking fearfully up at the soaring walls as if they would close around her at any moment; the windows staring back at her as blankly as unfriendly eyes.
‘I’m glad we’re going,’ she exclaimed aloud. ‘Anything will be better than this grim place.’
And then she jumped violently as someone said, right behind her, ‘Miss Huss.’
Just for a fleeting second she had the notion that the house had a voice and was about to take her to task, but when she wheeled round she saw that it was only Cloverella Blanchard standing in the shade of the West Wing.
‘Oh, you made me jump,’ the governess said. ‘What do you want, Cloverella? You shouldn’t lurk about like that, frightening people.’
‘Sorry, Miss,’ answered the ragamuffin, dropping a small curtsey. ‘It’s just that I wondered if we might speak together for a moment.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But I am very busy, you know. Mrs Webbe Weston is extremely upset and the whole responsibility of the move has fallen on my shoulders.’
‘I dare say the Mistress will be able to spare you for a few minutes. Shall we step into the garden? It’s more peaceful there.’
‘Well, I ...’
She wanted to say no, but Cloverella’s merry hazelnut eyes were twinkling like a squirrel’s and it was hard to refuse. Miss Huss reluctantly fell into step, feeling a fool when the wretched girl produced her battered flute and began to jig along in time to the music.
‘Cloverella, really! We can be seen from the house.’
‘That doesn’t matter, Miss. Anyway, they’re busy with the move, as you said yourself, and won’t have time to be staring at us. Come on, Miss, dance a step or two.’
‘No I won’t. How can you be so silly? I must remind you that I am the governess and here to set an example.’
Cloverella turned to look at her, her black curls bouncing about her shoulders as she did so.
‘Well then you should be more cheerful. You don’t want them all growing up miserable, do you?’
‘How dare you!’
‘It’s true, Miss. But I suppose you haven’t a great deal to be cheerful about. Life didn’t deal you out very good playing cards, did it?’
Miss Huss stopped in her tracks, her one desire to hit the dark little face that stared up at her so knowingly.
‘What do you understand of it? How can you speak to me like this?’
‘
Because I want to help you. You weren’t cut out for this life, Miss Huss. You should have married a curate and raised boys. Now then ... Cloverella’s grubby hand fished into the depths of a vast pocket ... take this.’
She handed Miss Huss a particularly revolting toffee wrapped in a tattered piece of handkerchief.
‘What is it?’
‘You give that to the man of your choice and he won’t be able to resist you.’
The governess threw it from her as if it were a snake. ‘Cloverella, I’m shocked. You are speaking of spells and magic and things un-Christian.’
A very odd expression crossed Cloverella’s face.
‘Oh, so it’s un-Christian, is it? It is wrong to help people, I suppose? Miss Huss, you know very little.’
‘I know that to worship Satan is wrong.’
Just for a moment Cloverella looked very angry.
‘I don’t worship Satan, Miss. I worship God because He gave me life and wit; He gave me the chance to be outside in the sunshine and dance to my flute; He gave me breath, Miss, and He gave me the chance to take hold of Fate and do my best with it. I don’t pity you, Miss. We all have opportunities and you — you are so busy bemoaning your lot that you don’t give a bugger about taking them. Well then I’ll have back my magic sweet and wish you the time of day.’
‘Cloverella ...’
‘Yes?’
‘May I keep it?’
‘But you think it’s ungodly.’
‘Yes ... No ... I’m not sure.’
Cloverella pressed the toffee back into Miss Huss’s palm.
‘Listen, you foolish creature. It has been blessed with laughter and merriment — sounds the Devil doesn’t like to hear. But I tell you this. It won’t work unless you play your part.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Learn to give out jollity; you’ll get it back, I promise you. Now I’m going. I’ve spoken enough for one day. Keep the sweet and when you meet him, think of me.’
And Cloverella was off, her flute at her lips with a bravura trill, skipping into the forest with only the cry of ‘Farewell, Miss Huss’ to ring in the ears of the startled governess.
*
‘No,’ said the Earl.
‘But James ...’
‘Anne, I said no. I don’t want J.J. here any longer. It is high time that he set up on his own. Anyway he makes too much noise.’
‘But his health ...’
The Earl looked up over his half spectacles and frowned. ‘When he stops drinking so much it will improve.’
The Earl and Countess Waldegrave were in their bedroom at Strawberry Hill. In fact the Earl was in bed, propped comfortably against a cluster of lace-trimmed pillows and reading his customary newspaper, whilst the Countess sat at her dressing table brushing her light hair and peering at herself in the mirror for any sign of advancing years.
The bedroom was octagonal and was known as the Tribune — a name given to it by Walpole himself. It was set in one of the little castle’s Gothic turrets and Anne — in a fit of enthusiasm upon her first arriving as mistress of the house — had clad the walls in blue and watered silk. The result was voluptuous, a veritable love nest, particularly when the merry log fire crackled in the grate like dragon’s breath. She often blamed the five children that had been born after taking up residence on the watered silk, but at the moment nothing would have induced her to let the Earl so much as wink in her direction.
‘Do you know, James,’ she said now, looking at his reflection in the glass, ‘you seem quite old when you glower. I personally try to keep my features composed. It is so much more attractive.’
‘Really?’ said the Earl without glancing.
‘Yes. Also there is the fact that the eyes mirror the soul and if one is constantly glaring and squinting, people could not be blamed for thinking that one harboured something dark and demonic in one’s depths.’
‘Quite.’
‘I do hope that none of the children will inherit this habit of yours. Of course poor J.J. cannot help contorting when he has a fit — oh, to think of his being alone when that should happen! — but if one of the girls should begin to resemble you! I dread to think about it.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I do believe that you are not listening.’
‘I am. You have said that J.J. might be alone when he has a fit and my answer to that is the young rake is surrounded by doxies and drunks half the day and all the night. He’ll fare very well at Navestock.’
‘But Essex is so far away.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Why is it,’ said Anne with a sigh and more than a grain of truth, ‘that parents who were the biggest libertines of their day are always the hardest task masters with their children?’
‘Because,’ answered the Earl, laying down his paper at last, ‘they are only too aware that their children might take after them.’ He eyed her up and down. ‘You still turn a trim figure, my dear. Come and kiss me.’
‘No, I won’t. You are a wretched grump and a cruel father.’
‘I see.’
‘And beside you have grown so uncommonly ugly with all this frowning that I would as soon kiss a toad.’
The Earl took off his spectacles. He had no more grown ugly than Anne and as his piercing blue gaze fixed itself upon her, she blushed in discomfort.
‘So you find me repellent?’
‘Yes, horrible.’
She turned back to the mirror but was beginning to burn with the exultant excitement he could always arouse in her. In the glass she saw him get out of bed, his purple dressing gown brushing against the floor as he stood upright.
‘Truly, truly hideous?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I must use either force or persuasion to induce you to make love to me?’
The elation between them was crackling in the atmosphere.
‘Yes.’
‘Very well.’
He came up so close to her that a ribbon could not have gone between them.
‘Shall I rape you, Countess — briskly, maritally, and without mercy?’
‘No,’ she breathed against the dark hair on his chest.
‘Rape me with love.’
‘Very well.’
She was off her feet and in the middle of their great bed before she could draw another breath. The Earl threw his gown to the floor and stood naked before her, smiling as insolently as he had on the day they first met.
She flew at him but he caught both her hands in one of his and with the other lifted her on to his shaft. She was powerless as he moved inside her, first lazily as if he did not care — and then harder and harder and harder.
‘Am I ugly, you little vixen?’ he said in her ear.
‘Yes.’
‘Every bit of me?’
She could not answer.
‘Even this bit?’ He thrust so deep that she felt passion’s culmination start inside her. ‘Well?’
‘I love you,’ was all she could gasp.
‘And I love you — damn you, blast you, pretty Anne King.’
They both cried out together as what was left of his control deserted him and he pushed both of them ruthlessly over the cliffs of passion and into the tumultuous seas of rapture that roared beneath.
In the large bedroom to the front of Strawberry Hill, which Horatia shared with Annette and Ida Anna, she heard her parents shout out. Staring at the moon-silver ceiling, wide-eyed and sleepless, she wondered why they were arguing at this hour of the night. She also wondered why the house seemed pulsating with life when it should have been quiet and sleeping.
In the moonlight she called softly, ‘Annette, are you awake?’
But there was no answer, only Ida Anna sighing and turning over in her bed. Putting her head cautiously over the counterpane, Horry stared about her. The room was as brightly lit, in a sharp platinum way, as ever it was in the daylight. Picked out by the moon’s rays Horry could see the beds of her sisters and the fine lines of the Chippe
ndale bedroom furniture which her family had collected over the years. Nothing moved anywhere and yet there was still that unearthly, almost tangible, feeling of stirring.
Without making a sound Horatia swung her legs over the side of the bed until her feet touched the Turkey carpet. Nothing seemed to breathe — including herself — as she slipped her woollen dressing gown about her shoulders and made for the door.
But once there she lost heart. For all its brilliance the September evening was chilly and she shivered as she stood at the top of the stairs. Beneath her she could see what Walpole had described as ‘lean windows fattened with rich saints in painted glass’ and — beyond three open archways — her kinsman’s collection of relics of the Holy Wars. In the odd light the old coats of mail — mounted on dummy figures — took on a sinister life of their own and Horry quivered at the very thought of walking past them. Instead she turned right and peeped for a moment into the famous Breakfast Room, Horace Walpole’s favourite place in the entire building.
The thick velvet curtains had been drawn against the night and she imagined that her parents must have retired there after dining. Feeling her way with the familiarity of one who has known every inch from babyhood, Horatia crossed to the windows and drew back the drapery. Instantly everything was flooded with silver and even Walpole’s sofa and the ancient marble urn in which he had kept his canister of Fribourg’s tabac d’étrennes snuff, were transformed. For a minute Horatia wondered if he was in there with her, watching and smiling in the moonlight. In fact she wheeled sharply and drew a breath that was razor sharp, as a black shadow stirred itself and seemed to take shape on one of the sofas. But the arch of its back and the blink of an emerald eye told her that it was only her mother’s cat spending a forbidden night within the confines of the house.
Suddenly nervous, she left the room intending to return to her bed, but as she regained the top of the stairs she heard a sound that made her freeze from head to foot — somebody was laughing, very quietly but very definitely, in the Gallery. She longed to move, but fear or curiosity — or both — kept her where she was.
