Fortune's Soldier

by Deryn Lake

  *

  The Chapel had — if anything — grown slightly worse since Melior Mary, in a fit of ungovernable religious mania, had desecrated the Long Gallery and turned it into a house of prayer. Down the whole of one wall ugly patches of mould, with their accompanying damp smell, were visible and flecks of fungus were eating into the canvases of the many and ghastly pictures of martyred saints and suffering Christs hung about the place.

  The lofty windows with their finely moulded sills — once the pride of the English craftsmen who had made them to the architect da Trevizi’s design — were now virtually blocked up by interweaving tendrils and foliage of ivy, and the light that they threw was dim and full of shadows.

  And it was at one of these shadows that Cloverella — who had been given the unenviable job of cleaning up the mansion house for the new tenant — now stared in horror. It seemed to her that a small pale boy stood there. A boy whose mutilated leg hung above the ground like a crushed matchstick and whose pitiful eyes gazed at her beseechingly, while his features were contorted into such a grimace of fear and agony that she thought she would faint just looking at it.

  Wheeling, a frantic scream upon her lips, the servant practically jumped the length of the Great Staircase to arrive panting and trembling in the Hall beneath.

  ‘Good gracious!’ said a modulated voice, with the merest hint of an Irish accent in its tones. ‘Really!’

  Pushing her escaping hair off her face and back into her mob cap, Cloverella peered towards the Middle Enter. A woman stood there, her back to the light.

  ‘This is Sutton Place, isn’t it?’ the stranger went on as if she could not believe that such an exhibition of careless behaviour or such a scruffy urchin could possibly be associated with so grand a house.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ said Cloverella.

  ‘Mrs! Mrs Augustus Trevelyan.’

  The woman stepped forward and the light from the stained glass fell on her, showing her clearly to Cloverella’s unblinking gaze. She stood quite tall — possibly as much as five feet seven — and was as slim and willowy as a nymph, even her hands being long and thin and her feet, in their neat boots, narrow and pointed. Her many-caped pelisse of purple silk did nothing to detract from her slenderness, nor did the leg-of-mutton sleeves hide her shapely arms. As she moved forward — which she did now — she swayed slightly and a distinctive scent of gardenias wafted from her heavy skirts.

  ‘And you must be the serving girl,’ she said.

  Her speech was extremely cultured; careful almost, as if she took pride in her beautifully modulated tones. Cloverella rubbed the back of her hand over her cheek, making a smudge of dirt streak right across her face. ‘Yes, Miss — er, Mrs.’

  ‘Well, we shall have to improve your appearance, won’t we? I dare say with a good scrub and a neat uniform you might look quite presentable. Of course, I shall be bringing my personal staff with me, but Mr Webbe Weston did say that the domestics and labourers would be provided by the estate.’

  Cloverella’s face cleared. ‘Oh, you must be the new tenant. I’d expected someone older. Old Blanchard said it was a widow woman who was renting the house.’

  Mrs Trevelyan smiled sweetly, the sort of smile given to a child or simpleton.

  ‘I am afraid, my dear, that one can be a widow even when one is as young as I.’

  ‘Oh — you don’t look that young. Just not old, that’s all.’

  Mrs Trevelyan gave a tinkling little laugh.

  ‘This really isn’t the sort of conversation for mistress and servant, my dear. Or perhaps you didn’t know that. Never mind, with my guidance you will be fit to go into service one day, I promise you. Now what is your name?’

  ‘Cloverella. Cloverella Blanchard. I’m the old man’s bastard.’

  Mrs Trevelyan winced, her soft blue eyes rolling upward slightly.

  ‘We don’t use that kind of word in polite conversation, Cloverella. I can see that we shall have to keep you firmly below stairs for the time being. Now, how much more work do you have to do? I must say that the place looks none too clean.’

  She ran a gloved finger along the window sill, leaving a trail in the dust.

  ‘Several hours more, Mam. But then we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

  ‘I am staying at the Angel in Guildford for a few days while my things are sent on from Manchester. The first of them will come up in the morning and I shall spend tomorrow night here. I shall move in properly over the following two days.’

  She smiled a sugar smile.

  ‘I shall be off now; I’ve a deal of organizing to do. When you have finished cleaning be sure to lock up — and if you see Mr Webbe Weston would you ask him to call on me that we may discuss the fine details?’

  ‘It will be Mr Webbe Weston Junior who’ll come. He is the estate agent now.’

  Mrs Trevelyan waved a gloved hand.

  ‘Whoever! Now, Cloverella, I would like fresh flowers in every room — gardenias in the room in which I shall sleep, which is the largest in the West Wing. And get the gardener to cut back the ivy from that wretched Chapel. I know it is open to the public but that does not alter the fact that it is still in my house.’

  ‘The house you are renting,’ said Cloverella.

  Mrs Trevelyan arched her cheek bones. ‘Quite. Now before you report tomorrow morning to help with the hand carts I would like you to have a bath.’

  ‘I don’t have those, Mam. I swim in the river with no clothes on. Won’t that do?’

  ‘No. I mean the tin bath with hot water. Otherwise, Cloverella, I shall have to speak of it to Mr Webbe Weston.’

  Cloverella giggled. ‘He swims too, Mam.’

  Mrs Trevelyan chose to ignore that, merely patting her honey-coloured hair to ensure its swept-up smoothness beneath her purple flowered hat.

  ‘I must say adieu. Don’t frown, Cloverella. I am sure that a fine strong girl like you will suit very nicely. Good day to you.’

  Leaning on her parasol she turned and walked swayingly out of the Middle Enter. The scent of gardenias was everywhere.

  ‘Well!’ said Cloverella. ‘I wonder what her husband died of. Choked on honey, most like.’

  And picking up her pail and mop she made her way crossly to the West Wing, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the Chapel — and the retreating form of Mrs Trevelyan which was by now bowling down the drive in a trim trap, her slender back and neck held in perfect and lady-like straightness.

  *

  With his slightly old-fashioned mistrust of the railway system, Jackdaw chose to make the journey from Hastings to Guildford in a light one-horse travelling coach from his father’s stable. And consequently, having rested overnight, it was mid-morning when he finally turned through the wrought-iron gates and clipped down the drive.

  In his memory he was back four years, thinking of the grandeur of the Home Park under snow and the gaunt castle that was Sutton Place in winter. But now everything was bright with sunshine, except where the fully leafed trees formed a tunnel of green as he drove beneath.

  He found his thoughts wandering frighteningly. He remembered that game of hide-and-seek during which Sam Clopper had disappeared and which he had only managed to avoid by pleading a headache. He remembered, too, the flash of clairvoyance that had shown him a coffin lid closing just before the game had begun. And how they had never found Sam Clopper and, as far as he knew, had not done so to this day.

  And then he thought of his own mysterious gift and wondered why it had gone away again since that one brief vision of Helen on her deathbed. He had not seen the red-headed girl for years and nowadays he doubted her existence. She was a dream of childhood, a vision come to taunt a little boy with too much imagination.

  And yet that time when — through the mediumship of his marble — he had stood on the riverbank and watched her and her naughty brothers. It had seemed so real and she, in turn, had seemed so aware of his presence.

  ‘Hell!’ said Jackdaw out lou
d.

  Sutton Place was just coming into view round the bend of the drive and he slowed the carriage to walking pace. He had never seen it in summer before and the glow of the brickwork was russet in the brightness. Like the girl’s hair. He suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that she was real, a creature of flesh and blood like himself, and that Sutton Place was the link between them.

  ‘I’ll meet you one day,’ he said, and was rather startled to see a gardener’s boy — of particularly stupid mien — gazing at him in astonishment.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jackdaw went on, unreasonably annoyed by the cod-like stare, ‘I’ll meet you. But who are you? Is it you, Sir? Are ye he whom I seek? Come here, my boy.’

  He grinned and beckoned evilly and the lad lurched off into the Forest, shouting, ‘Go away! I’ve heard about men like you. My Da will come and hit you.’

  ‘And I,’ shouted Jackdaw, bursting into song, ‘will thicken his ear-o! Yes, yes, his ear; tra la la, la la, la!’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said John Joseph’s voice behind him, ‘stop frightening the servants. We have few enough left as it is.’

  For no reason immensely jolly all of a sudden, Jackdaw gave a hoot of laughter and turned to see his friend trotting up on a great bay hunter and looking very fine in a periwinkle blue cutaway and black top hat.

  ‘Well, there’s one I would prefer not to drive off,’ he answered with a wink. ‘And that’s Cloverella Blanchard. Where is she?’

  John Joseph laughed. ‘Grumbling fit to burst at present. The new tenant has got her running like a hare. She’s never worked so hard in her life. Jackdaw, how are you?’

  ‘Excessively well. Who is the new tenant?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? A Mrs Marguerite Trevelyan — widow of the late Augustus Trevelyan, merchant of Liverpool and a stockholder of the Liverpool and Manchester railway.’

  Jackdaw whistled softly. ‘Worth a guinea or two, then?’

  ‘So it is said. She has rented Sutton Place in order to entertain her friends quietly — as befits her widowed status.’

  ‘What is she like?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t met her yet — but reports vary. My father said, “Dashed handsome,” my mother said, “Expensive clothes.” But Cloverella said, “Not what she seems,” so ...’

  ‘So, worth a visit.’

  ‘I am to call tonight to discuss the rental agreement. I might well ask you to accompany me.’

  ‘I should be delighted.’ Just as Jackdaw said this the most vivid feeling of ill-ease overtook him. Something, somewhere, had taken the wrong turn. One of fortune’s wheels had started off on the wrong tangent. He stared at John Joseph not quite sure what to add.

  ‘You don’t seem very delighted.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Something walked over my grave.’

  John Joseph turned away abruptly, heading his bay for the Home Park and Pomona House.

  ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’ he said. ‘Always one to add a strange note. You depress me sometimes, Jackdaw.’

  ‘I don’t mean to. But occasionally I get these feelings.’

  ‘I know only too well.’

  ‘Do you remember the night Sam Clopper vanished? That was the very last time I had a vision, except when my mother was ill.’

  John Joseph’s face took on a strained expression. ‘Cloverella told me she saw a ghost in the Chapel a few days ago.’

  ‘Would that have been the legendary Giles?’

  ‘No, strangely enough it wasn’t. She said it was a crippled boy with a sad white face. She said he limped towards her with his arms outstretched and a look of such anguish upon his face. Jackdaw, it made me feel sick to hear it. Somewhere, somehow, Sam must have died in misery in Sutton Place.’

  ‘He still hasn’t been found?’

  ‘No.’

  Pomona House — its elegant Georgian façade looking effete in comparison with that of the manor house — was visible in the distance.

  ‘God, I hate this place,’ said John Joseph.

  ‘The smaller house, you mean?’

  ‘No, just here; Sutton; Guildford. I wish I was a thousand miles away. I wish I was anybody else.’ One of the violent swings of mood that occasionally threw John Joseph off course had beset him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why. Jackdaw, I want to get on in life. I want to be an Army man and make my mark — not be stuck here as some futureless and snivelling little estate agent, whimpering round tenants and running to the bottle every five minutes for consolation. Yet however hard I try I feel I am a marked man. I am heir to a curse. How can I succeed at anything?’

  Jackdaw gave him a piercing look. ‘I’ve told you before — get away. Go abroad and make your life far from Sutton Place. And if you feel it such a bird of ill omen, sell the house when it becomes yours. We are all masters of our fate to some extent.’

  ‘That’s what Cloverella says.’

  ‘Then she speaks good sense.’

  The seascape eyes regarded Jackdaw with no warmth. ‘It is not easy in this situation, believe me.’

  Jackdaw would have liked to tell his friend that his fears were groundless; that the curse of Sutton Place was nothing but a set of coincidences strung together over the centuries and dwelled on by those with nothing better to do with their time. But he could not do so. He knew perfectly well that the house was brimming with force; defying anyone who owned it to deny its omnipotence. He was glad that the front door of Pomona House was opening, stopping any further attempt at conversation.

  Mrs Webbe Weston waved a feeble hand.

  ‘Oh, Jackdaw. How nice. My goodness me but you have grown up. It makes one feel old to see it. I do hope we won’t be too dull here for you. Of course this house is terribly cramped in comparison to what we have lost.’ She rolled her eyes piteously and laid her hand upon her breast. ‘But you know how things are — needs must when the Devil drives. I do hope there will be enough for luncheon.’

  She hadn’t changed a bit, still as silly-mouthed and ineffectual as ever.

  ‘The girls are at home, of course,’ she went on. ‘But you’ll see some changes there. Mary is eighteen now — and quite the beauty.’ A calculating look appeared behind her vacuous eye and Jackdaw realized with a shock that he was being assessed as possible husband material. ‘Oh yes, she’s lovely, isn’t she my dear?’

  This question was addressed to Mr Webbe Weston who had appeared, red-faced and trudging, round the side of the house.

  ‘Oh yes, capital. Nest of charmers. Ha Ha, Jackdaw!’

  Jackdaw fingered his cravat and John Joseph stared at the ground.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ Mrs Webbe Weston was gushing now as her new train of thoughts took a grip. ‘This really is a special occasion. Fancy, four years since we all met. What a happy chance that you ran into John Joseph in London. And what wonderful news that you will be entering the Army. Your family must be delighted. How is dear Helen?’

  All the while she had been ushering her guest into a drawing room where a half-filled decanter of sherry and four glasses stood on a sideboard in preparation.

  ‘John Joseph,’ Mrs Webbe Weston’s laugh trilled archly, ‘ask Mary to step in here to greet her old friend. And tell Amy to bring more glasses. Sit down, Jackdaw, so. What a pleasure. Do you think, dear ...’ this last remark addressed to her husband ‘... that we might bring another bottle up from the cellar as it is so long since we have seen dear Jackdaw?’

  ‘Splendid, yes. Nest of charmers! Eh, Jackdaw?’

  He slapped his thigh and disappeared, rumbling with laughter. And it was while he was gone that poor Mary flew into the room and stopped short, her face going pink, on seeing Jackdaw sitting there.

  She thought he had grown terribly handsome and loved the way his eyes seemed full of sparkling lights when he smiled. She also liked the curl of his dark hair about his ears and his small, elegant figure. Impressionable and cut off from more eligible young men by the fact that her parents could barely afford
to entertain, Mary fell a little in love.

  Jackdaw sprang to his feet and gave one of his formal bows and then kissed Mary’s hand, at which she went pinker and pinker. She had not turned into a beauty at all but was a pleasant looking girl with a plump pretty figure. But she had very full and exciting breasts, Jackdaw could not help but notice.

  ‘How do you do, Jackdaw?’ she said.

  ‘Very well, Mary. How wonderful to see you after so many years.’

  She blushed again. ‘I’m afraid we’re not very good hosts these days. We don’t have a great deal of company.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Mr Webbe Weston had come back into the room bearing a dusty bottle of indifferent sherry. ‘Enjoy friends. Especially kin. Distant cousins. Eh?’ He gave a terribly knowing wink in the direction of his wife and rumbled into another laugh. ‘Shot pheasants. Eat ’em tonight. Gala occasion.’

  ‘Don’t forget that I have to call on Mrs Trevelyan at six,’ John Joseph put in. ‘And I thought I’d take Jackdaw with me. He wants to get a look at Sutton Place.’

  ‘It’s clean. New broom.’ Mr Webbe Weston laughed uproariously at his own joke. ‘Fine woman, Dashed fine.’

  The door opened again and Matilda and Caroline rushed in shouting, ‘Is Jackdaw here? You’ve grown up!’

  The passing of time had made them even more unalike than they had been as children. Matilda had grown rounder and browner, for she had taken to wearing earth-coloured clothes which did nothing at all to make her more comely. Caroline, on the other hand, had traded on her wheaten looks and had a mass of fair curls tumbling from an Apollo knot whilst darkening her eyebrows above her light pupils. There could be no argument that, of the three girls, it was she who had emerged as the Beauty.

  They all sat smiling at one another, sipping the over-sweet liquid, until Jackdaw said, ‘Where is Miss Huss?’

  There was a pause followed by a gale of laughter.

  ‘You mean Lady Gunn,’ said John Joseph.

  ‘Lady Gunn?’

  ‘She has married Sir Roly Gunn — a bachelor of strange reputation — whose horse threw him outside our very front door.’