by Deryn Lake
‘The paintings do not do him justice. He is far more exciting in the flesh. But a terrible rake I should imagine.’
Caroline looked absolutely astonished.
‘What makes you say that? I have always thought of him as rather correct.’
‘I think that is his act for you. But didn’t you tell me he was once jilted?’
‘Well, hardly that. He was madly in love with a woman many years his senior. But still very beautiful, you understand me. I think she broke his heart by marrying some beastly old peer for money. Mary was telling me only today that he still pines for her.’
‘Nonetheless I reckon he plays the field.’
Caroline looked at Horatia, shaking her head. The days of what people were to think of later as Victorian attitudes had not yet begun. The Queen was too young and too happy to have time for moralizing. But, nevertheless, Horatia was still exceptional for her day. There were very few seventeen-year-old girls who would have dared be quite so forthright to their hostess. But this particular young woman regarded hypocrisy as the deadliest sin of all.
Now Caroline laughed and said, ‘You are so refreshing! Will you stay and dine with us, Horatia? You are just what we need after the recent sadnesses.’
‘But Mama is expecting me back.’
‘Then we shall send the footman round with a note so that she need not worry. Will you stay? Then you can have plenty of time to play with little Charles before Nanny gets strict.’
‘I would enjoy that very much,’ said Horatia.
Tea at an end Mrs Webbe Weston, who was showing some signs of further weeping, was put to bed to await Francis’s return from duty; she had great faith in her son-in-law’s ability to cure all her ills. With their mother out of the way Mary and Matilda — who were returning to Paris on the following day — took a carriage to Bond Street anxious to catch the shops. And so it was that, after half an hour in the nursery admiring the new baby, Horatia came down the stairs and found John Joseph standing alone and staring up at his portrait — Sutton Place tiny in the background.
Without a second thought Horry went and stood beside him, aware once more of the dark blue eyes looking her up and down in a glance that she had seen George — and poor dead J.J. — give so often to women.
‘The house looks insignificant,’ she said without preamble, ‘but Caroline tells me that it is not.’
‘Oh? What did she tell you about it?’
‘No more than that.’
They turned to look at each other. There was no artifice whatsoever between them. They were both products of backgrounds which had no room for that which was false or shallow.
‘You are a very unusual child, Lady Horatia,’ said John Joseph slowly.
‘I suppose you use the word to put me in my place.’
‘Not at all. I think to say someone is unusual is a compliment.’
‘You are deliberately mistaking me, Captain Webbe Weston. I am seventeen and have actually left the tender mercies of my governess. It was the noun I questioned.’
He looked away. ‘Would you like to know about the house?’
‘Very much.’
‘It falls beneath the spell of an ancient curse.’
‘Really? Who laid it?’
‘A Queen of England. Very long ago. Her name was Edith and she was a niece by marriage of King Knut.’
‘Why did she do it?’
A small smile twitched at the corners of John Joseph’s mouth and the seascape eyes held a slightly mocking look.
‘I think she had had an argument with her husband. And you know what women are like for revenge.’
‘No,’ answered Horatia, shaking her head so that the great mass of curls — thrust to the top of her head now that she was too old for hair upon her shoulders — rippled like warming wine. ‘No, I don’t know what women are like. My brothers do — did — but I have no idea.’
‘You are quick with your replies, are you not?’
‘Am I? Captain Webbe Weston, please stop teasing me. I would much rather hear about the cursed house than enter the verbal lists with you.’
He laughed aloud. ‘What an amazing character! Very well then. The house was cursed in 1048 to know death, madness and despair: with particular reference to the heir. A manor house was built there by the Bassett family in the reign of King John — previous Lords of the Manor had all met untimely ends — and then they, the Bassetts, were all wiped out. After that it passed through many hands — each time bringing with it its wretched legacy — until it was given to Sir Richard Weston, a courtier of Henry VIII, by the King himself.’
‘Caroline said he built the present house.’
‘Yes. It must have been marvellous then. Alive with people and noise and smelling of food on spits and mulled toddy.’
His mouth drew down in a hard line and Horatia said, ‘Why should that sadden you, the fact that it was once happy?’
‘Because I find it obscene that something once so beautiful should now be desolated.’
‘What caused its ruin?’
‘The curse really. None of the Westons had any luck there — they were even forced to leave during the Civil War.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. It is said that Charles I visited the house secretly during that time and the ghost of Anne Boleyn — who can only be seen by royalty — appeared to him.’
Horatia shivered. ‘How dark!’
John Joseph smiled. ‘Very dark, Lady Horatia. Anyway the line eventually dwindled down to one solitary woman — Melior Mary Weston — who, legend has it, went mad there and let the house fall into decay around her.’
‘And she did not marry?’
‘No. Despite having beauty and a fortune she let it all go for love — or rather for lack of it.’
‘How sad!’
‘Yes.’
Horatia knew by this one monosyllable that his sister had been right, that he still had strong feelings for some woman somewhere.
‘Well, I suppose she preferred that to marriage with the wrong person,’ she answered.
‘Yes.’
‘Which was her decision to make, though not the right one in my opinion.’
He looked at her questioningly and she went on, ‘I would rather marry some jolly old soul with whom I could amble on than shut myself up in a rotting palace and wait for death.’
‘How colourfully put!’
‘You do not agree?’
‘I have not given the matter a great deal of thought. Anyway, Miss Weston had family connections — though not those of blood — with my grandfather, John Webbe. And she left him the estate on the proviso he adopt the name Weston. So here we are — the Webbe Westons of Sutton Place.’
‘Unaffected by the curse?’
John Joseph gave a bitter laugh. ‘On the contrary — there are more subtle ways of ruining people than actually killing them. And that is what happened to my father. He was ruined in the true sense of the word.’
‘He lost all his money?’
‘Every penny. Sutton Place bled him white. Two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of timber had to be sold from Sutton Forest; Melior Street and Weston Street were also sold — to say nothing of Webbe Street — and finally we had to let the house itself. Only one tenant served it well —’ John Joseph had turned to stare through the window at the lamps throwing fuzzy comets of light into the winter-dark streets of London ‘— and after she left it was robbed and pillaged by everyone who stayed there. Furniture, books, paintings — they have all been taken from under our noses.’
‘And what are you going to do?’
‘Put it in the hands of London agents, economize and try to bring the property round.’
‘Not sell?’
‘I don’t know yet. It may come to that.’
Into the sudden silence between them came all the thousand and one little noises of a family house going about its business. From the upstairs nursery baby Charles Hicks started to cry, this sound followed by th
e cooing of Caroline’s voice and Nanny going to fetch something to placate him. From the bedroom above them Mrs Webbe Weston let out a deep sigh and there was the thud of a book dropping upon the floor; while from the living room came the noise of someone putting coal upon the fire. Outside carriage wheels turned and Francis’s cheerful voice could be heard as he hummed a tune while Rivers’ measured tread crossed the hall to open the front door for his master. To complete this cameo of domestic bliss a smell of roasting pork, of sage and onions and apple sauce, came wafting up the stairs to assure the household that a delicious meal awaited them when all their little tasks were done.
‘This is a happy home, is it not?’ said Horatia.
‘Very.’
‘Could it not be done for Sutton Place, this lovely, warm homemaking?’
‘No. It is too big and too sad.’
‘But it was like that in Sir Richard Weston’s day.’
‘That was before its memories came.’
‘I could make it happy again,’ said Horatia.
John Joseph turned away from the window and looked at her in total astonishment. One of her curls had fallen down and clung to her neck giving her a slightly dishevelled look. But despite that she was still quite the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say.’
To his amazement she took a step forward and put her hand on his arm.
‘I want to marry you, Captain Webbe Weston. I really am quite sure I should because I love you so much.’
He did not answer. His distant memory was stirring and he saw in his mind’s eye the ghastly battlefield and himself as a dying soldier: the recurring nightmare of childhood. And he saw too — quite distinctly — the hair of the woman who had sat beside him; the hair like foxfire in autumn; the hair of Lady Horatia Waldegrave.
‘What are you saying?’ he asked abruptly, rudely almost.
‘That I fell in love with you at first sight. Don’t scoff! Romeo and Juliet did so.’
‘That was in a play.’
‘But based on truth.’
He was struck dumb as the madcap girl fell on one knee before him.
‘Hurry up with your answer; Francis will be in in a minute. Captain Webbe Weston, will you accept my proposal of marriage?’
At last he laughed, cracking forward in a guffaw.
‘Get up at once,’ he said.
‘No, I will not. John Joseph, will you marry me?’
‘No, Lady Horatia,’ answered the owner of Sutton Place. ‘I most certainly will not.’
15
On the January night that the new master of Sutton Place went to say farewell to his inheritance, a great frost gripped the land. The trees stood white beneath a sky that glistened with stars, brilliant as gems in the dark torrent of blackness, and the land was hard under a moon that glittered like a gypsy’s brooch. Everywhere was the listening hush of winter, as even the fox kept to his lair, and the only sound was the crunch of wheels on ice as John Joseph’s closed carriage made its way slowly up the drive, the coachman wrapped in a dozen scarves and gauntleted to the wrist to keep away the cold.
They had left Guildford at six, partly through the owner’s whim to see the mansion house in darkness and partly to keep his promise to call on the widowed Lady Gunn, formerly Miss Huss the desperate governess. But now John Joseph regretted the idea as the horse’s hooves slipped on the little wooden bridge that crossed the frozen River Wey.
Yet seeing that icy trickle made him think back to when, all those years ago, he had lost his virginity on the shores of that very river and he smiled to himself at the memory of sweet, naked Cloverella. And then he thought of how he had raped Marguerite Trevelyan on just such a winter’s night; of how she, too, had been naked beneath her riding habit.
He turned to stare restlessly out of the window, looking to where the trees clawed at the night with their white splintery fingers. What a great and wonderful forest this had been when the Saxon Kings hunted the lands — before the curse had even been uttered. But now the place had been decimated by the selling off of wood to meet the debts of the Webbe Westons. He twitched with irritation. What a wretched affair! And then, unbidden, the face of Horatia Waldegrave came to his mind: that glorious and unconventional child. What a pity that she was so young — and not to be compared with Marguerite.
The carriage rounded a bend in the drive and there, ahead of him and slightly to his left, loomed the vast and unrelenting shape of Sutton Place, its windows dark and sightless. All the old feelings came back — fear, hatred, guilt. And yet there was a certain grim pride in it all, that he owned a part of English history.
Before the Middle Enter, on the cobbles of what had once been the quadrangle, a large and blazing bonfire had been built and as the carriage approached John Joseph was able to see the weirdly leaping shadows light up the terracotta brick of Sir Richard Weston’s manor house. And then as he came even nearer he stared in astonishment. For there, in that strange and magic light, Cloverella and her son were dancing barefoot to the accompaniment of her flute.
He watched, astounded, as two pairs of little feet stamped and jumped as if they had gone back to another age. What a sweet scene to have stumbled across — and yet the roaring flames and the fact that Cloverella came from witches’ stock made John Joseph shiver. Had an ancestress of hers met her death in such a blaze?
Now, to break the spell, he called out through the carriage window, ‘Cloverella! Hey, Cloverella! It’s me, John Joseph.’
She looked up and waved her arm, continuing the dance but pointing out to Jay that the master had come back to Sutton Place. And he, not yet five years old, gave a gruff little bow and then stood still respectfully. John Joseph could not take his eyes from the child, wondering if this was his bastard or if Jackdaw was responsible.
But as the carnage came to a halt and he approached on foot, he found there were no real clues in the child’s appearance. For Jay’s eyes were the colour of hazelnuts, as were his mother’s, and his hair was thick and dark. Yet was there a hint of the fine Webbe Weston nose? And yet surely that smile was Jackdaw’s?
Totally confused he looked at Cloverella but she merely shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
‘I’m not telling.’
‘But if he’s mine I want to know.’
‘Jay belongs to himself, Master. Now, will you step inside for some beer?’
‘Yes. Though not for long. Just enough time to talk to you about the future.’
Cloverella gave a rather irritating smile.
‘I think the future is going to take care of itself.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing in particular, Sir,’ she answered, as if she really meant ‘Everything’.
They had stepped through the Middle Enter and were standing in the darkness of the Great Hall. Outside the blazing bonfire cast light upon the stained glass windows which glowed first ruby, then midnight, then gold. Escutcheons old as time flared into momentary brightness and the Westons’ crest — the Saracen’s head — appeared suddenly vivid, sticking out its tongue.
‘It looks almost merry,’ said John Joseph.
‘That’s why I lit the fire. To give the new master a welcome. And somehow I thought you would be bringing a bride here with you.’
‘Cloverella, what are you talking about?’
‘Oh, I just had this feeling that you had met the right one at last.’
‘You and Jackdaw do nothing but have feelings. Don’t you ever think things out? How could I have met anybody? I’ve been in London settling my father’s affairs and putting Sutton Place into the hands of agents.’
‘Well, there are women in London, aren’t there?’
John Joseph could make no reply to this and he rather crossly followed Cloverella across the Hall and off to the left.
‘I’ve lit a fire in the Library and brought some ale up from the cellar. I’ll light the candles. You sit down a
nd make yourself comfortable. Come here, Jay. Go into your nest, my darling.’
She had put a quilt and pillow by the hearth and, waving his hand to John Joseph, the little boy snuggled into it and closed his eyes.
‘He often sleeps there. It’s the warmest spot.’
John Joseph fished into his pocket.
‘Here, Cloverella, for God’s sake get him some clothes and shoes. He looks such a little rag-bag. If he were mine, I wouldn’t like to think ...’
‘Oh don’t worry, Master. He doesn’t go short of the important things. He has hot food and plenty. And he has love and kisses. Ragged trousers don’t really count.’
‘Well they do to me. Here, take it.’
‘Thank you.’ She put the guinea on the mantel shelf, pouring John Joseph some beer at the same time. ‘Now what are your instructions about the house?’
‘I would like you to stay on as caretaker. Of course the agents will send down a representative to take an inventory ...’
‘What’s that?’
‘A list of all the items in the place so that the tenants won’t steal. More than they have already, that is.’
His eyes went rapidly round the shelves of the Library and he added, ‘Half the books seem to be missing.’
‘They are. I reckon each tenant — with the exception of Lady Dawe — has helped himself to a few.’
‘It’s disgraceful,’ said John Joseph, abruptly rising from his seat and starting to pace the floor. ‘I really ought to sell the wretched place and be done with all this letting and pilfering.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’ He stopped short in front of her. ‘I once had a dream in this very room, Cloverella. A dream in which death came to me disguised as a bird. It told me that there was a hidden portrait of Sir Richard Weston in the Chapel. It also told me to sell Sutton Place when the inheritance was mine. But now that it is, I hesitate.’
‘Why? No good luck has ever come to anyone here.’
‘I know that. Do you think I don’t believe in the curse? It is just that I find it so difficult to let places — and people — go.’
And what he said was true. He had been born when the sign of Cancer the Crab had held ascendency in the heavens and, like all those governed by that symbol, John Joseph Webbe Weston had almost to be at the point of death to release his claw.
