by Deryn Lake
‘Yes. Do you hear from him? I often wonder how Horatia is getting on. I wouldn’t change places with her for a fortune.’
Realizing that this might sound insulting to John Joseph, Lady Laura added hastily, ‘Nothing against her husband, you understand. It is merely that one cannot pick up a newspaper without reading of the deteriorating situation in the Austrian Empire. The Times is predicting revolution within a twelve-month. I must say I do not envy her.’
‘I believe she loves him very much and wants to be at his side,’ Jackdaw answered slowly.
‘She obviously must. I think she is excessively brave. But then she was always a strange little girl.’
‘Strange?’
‘Unconventional. I remember her saying to me once that she wanted to marry a soldier and go to battles with him. I thought her quite tomboyish.’
‘Well, she has married the soldier. Let us hope there are no battles to follow, that is all.’
‘There will be,’ said Lady Laura shortly. ‘A mad Emperor cannot hold together an Empire of that size, mark my words.’
Jackdaw would have liked to go on speaking with her but found his place card on the table next to that of Ida Anna on his left, and Mrs Clyde, a wealthy farmer’s widow, on his right. Ida Anna being far too preoccupied with Lord Selborne to give him so much as a word, Jackdaw found himself totally engaged with the widow, who turned out to be as stupid as Laura had been clever. She was small, fair, and considered herself exceptionally attractive to men. Furthermore, someone had once told her that her personality sparkled and she had from then on spent her time relentlessly living up to this description. She interspersed her sentences with merry and meaningless laughs and much batting of her bright eyes. It was irritating beyond measure, but she thought it witty to pick holes in every other woman present.
‘Such a lovely colour the Dowager Countess is wearing.’ Giggle, giggle. ‘I would not wear it myself though — so fattening. Not that I need worry about that at my age of course.’
She was about thirty but looked a great deal less.
‘Ah!’ said Jackdaw, wishing she would talk to the man on her right instead.
Mrs Clyde did not take the hint.
‘But I suppose when one is really mature,’ she went on ‘it doesn’t matter what one looks like.’
Jackdaw was furious.
‘Better by far, surely,’ he said, ‘to have maturity and wisdom and a certain style than be a perpetual child with an empty head.’
And with that Jackdaw leant across the table to talk to Mrs Milward about Hastings.
It took two hours for the seven-course meal to be served — a tribute to Anne’s organization and the brilliance of her kitchen staff. And so it was at about nine o’clock that evening that the guests finally repaired into the Great Hall for dancing. The ensemble — who had had a fortifying break — were now back in the Gallery and playing a jolly polka for all they were worth. Amidst much gay applause Anne and Mr Hicks, followed closely by the birthday girl and the dashing young Earl, led the dancing off.
Jackdaw, having whirled with Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave, saw Mrs Clyde — grinning archly and making little beckoning motions — heading in his direction. Pretending not to see he took the only escape route immediately available. Turning, he went up the Great Staircase and into the Chapel, vanishing from her view.
Though the music here was louder, the back of the Musicians’ Gallery being so close at hand, nonetheless the sound was deadened instantly by the extraordinary atmosphere the Chapel conjured. What had once been Sir Richard Weston’s pride and joy — one of the longest Galleries in England — now mouldered in dampness, decay and obscurity; the beautiful windows closely shaded by interweaving tendrils and foliage of ivy.
With a shudder Jackdaw saw that the oak chest in which Sam Clopper had met his death was still in the same place, a fact he had not noticed on Horatia’s wedding day, his eyes being constantly on the bride. But now he walked resolutely past it and into the lumber room which lay behind the altar.
When Melior Mary had committed the sin of turning the Gallery into a place of worship, the far windows — the windows from which so many of the Weston family had scanned the parkland for riders bearing news — had been converted into boarded-in louvres. In fact in one of them a bell now hung to call in the faithful, so far had the desecration gone.
With a sound of impatience Jackdaw heaved at the loathsome shutter which eventually gave way with a groaning of hinges. In the summer dusk he looked out over the Home Park and, to his right, the forest. He saw, with eager eyes, the view that had been gazed on so fondly for over three hundred years by the Westons and their descendants.
And then, as he leaned forward to see more clearly, he felt something hard in the pocket of his dress uniform. He put his hand in and drew out the green marble.
‘I didn’t know you were there,’ he said aloud.
Just as he had done years before, when he had seen Horatia and her family playing on the river bank, he raised it to his eye and peered into the convolutions and spirals that formed its magic heart. And then he slowly lowered it. The earth spun for a second or two as he did so and he grabbed at the shutter to steady himself. But it was no longer there. Neither it nor the bell was anywhere in sight.
With a cry Jackdaw wheeled round. The Chapel had gone too. He stood in a Long Gallery alive with candlelight and blazing fires, the walls hung with glorious paintings and tapestries, a thick carpet running down its centre. Of the Sutton Place he had come to visit that night there was not a sign.
While he stood there, staring, quite unable to move, a figure appeared at the opposite end of the Gallery. It was a woman and, peering, Jackdaw could see that she was wearing an evening gown of the classical type so popular in the early eighteen hundreds. It appeared that he had stepped backward in time. And yet something was not quite right, though Jackdaw, try as he might, could not think what it was.
He watched as she came nearer to him, looking at everything closely as if she were in charge of the appearance of the place. Then he saw her start violently as she caught sight of him.
‘Oh good Heavens,’ she exclaimed, ‘you made me jump! I thought you were a ghost. How did you manage to finish ahead of everybody else? I thought they were still on the liqueurs.’
He made no reply and she went on, ‘Never mind. Now that you are here you can make yourself useful. By the way, I’m Cynthia — Cyn for short.’
Jackdaw made a jerky bow. ‘Wardlaw. John Wardlaw.’
She looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t remember that name on the guest list. Are you a friend of George’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh I see. Well, would you be an angel and stand at the top of the stairs and make sure they all troop in? If the first ones gawp at the paintings nobody will be able to move.’ She paused, looking him up and down. ‘Adore the costume. Did you get it at Nathans?’
‘No, it’s mine,’ answered Jackdaw.
He did not know what to think. The girl’s dress was that of the time of Waterloo but her manner seemed so strange. And, as far as he could recollect, old John Webbe Weston, John Joseph’s grandfather, had lived in Sutton Place in the early years of the century and there had been nobody called George or Cynthia then.
But the girl had him firmly by the arm and was propelling him forward to the top of the Great Staircase. Looking down Jackdaw saw that a throng of people was coming through the small hall — presumably from the dining room — into the Great Hall. He saw hussars, dragoons, cavalry officers; in fact he even thought he glimpsed the Duke of Wellington himself.
‘What’s the date?’ he managed to ask.
Cyn looked at him very oddly. ‘June 17, the Eve of Waterloo. Don’t you get it?’
But the first people were coming up the stairs: a very beautiful girl in a dress like that worn by Napoleon’s consort, an old Field Marshal, a matron in a cashmere shawl and pearl-hung turban. They stopped on drawing level with Jackdaw and the girl said,
‘Well! Whose little friend are you? Say, Cynthia, where have you been hiding him? Hello there!’
And she slipped her arm through Jackdaw’s in the most friendly way possible. His one thought was that he must get away and look once more into the marble. But there seemed to be no chance for the new arrival went on, ‘I’m Penny. Lucky Penny. Who are you?’
‘Jackdaw.’
‘Really? Isn’t that cute. I just adore it.’ Her voice had a twanging accent that he associated with the Americas. ‘Say, are you here on your own?’
‘Very much so,’ he answered — and could not help a wry smile.
‘Then in that case shall we dance a little later on?’
‘It would be a pleasure.’
He gave a formal bow and Penny said, ‘You’re really something, d’you know that?’
She moved on leaving him to stand, statue-like, trying to avoid conversation, as about a hundred people, laughing and chattering, went past him on their way into the Long Gallery.
He was totally bewildered. He could not think why the Eve of Waterloo should be celebrated here in Sutton Place. Nothing made sense to him. And then he realized what was wrong. At the time of Waterloo the Gallery had still been a Chapel, full of rot and mould. He must have gone forward to some kind of pageant. That was the only possible explanation.
And then, as if to confirm his suspicions, a man appeared in the Great Hall dressed differently from all the others. A black cutaway tail coat and black trousers seemed, with a white shirt and white bow tie, to form some kind of evening dress. Yet, despite the fact that his clothes were so dull, he was obviously the most important person there.
‘Gee,’ said a voice in Jackdaw’s ear, ‘there’s old man Getty now. You’d never think he was so damn rich, would you?’
It was Penny, smiling to herself and giving the Major an appraising glance as she did so.
‘Who is he?’
She stared at him in astonishment. ‘Paul Getty — our host, the owner of Sutton Place. The richest man in the world. How come you’re here and don’t know him?’
‘I’ve been abroad,’ said Jackdaw hastily.
‘But everyone has heard of Paul Getty.’
‘Not where I was.’ He looked round desperately for an excuse to get away but she firmly linked her arm through his.
‘Oh no you don’t. I know that shifty expression. We’re going to have a dance and you’re going to tell me a whole lot more about yourself.’
She steered him down the West Staircase and into the Great Hall to where a band — blowing trumpets and making the most dreadful noise in Jackdaw’s opinion — was providing music for dancing. On the way down they passed Paul Getty going in the opposite direction, his horse-face bearing a look of resignation. It struck Jackdaw at once that the man disliked social gatherings but felt obliged to entertain from time to time. Nonetheless he nodded his head at them both politely and Penny gushed, ‘Wonderful party, Mr Getty. How clever to reconstruct the Eve of Waterloo. Just look at this wonderful Major. Doesn’t he just take the part?’
Getty nodded without enthusiasm, then somebody said, ‘Smile,’ and a brilliant light flashed in Jackdaw’s face.
‘Great!’ said Penny. ‘One of those new Polaroid cameras. Can I have the print? Mr Getty, me — and the mystery man. Should be good.’
The momentary distraction was enough. Bowing very briefly and saying, ‘Excuse me,’ Jackdaw pushed his way through the dancers — who were throwing themselves about to the words ‘One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, rock’ — and hurried into the small hall. There he turned into a short passageway, which was new to him, and through a door which led into a close dark room.
Startled, he heard a voice — but it came from a box in the corner which gave out moving, speaking pictures.
At any other time he would have stopped to examine it but now he dared not hesitate. From not far away he heard Penny’s voice calling out, ‘I don’t believe it! This is incredible! There’s only me and Mr Getty on this photograph! What the Hell’s going on? I’m scared. You don’t think ...?’
He raised the marble to his eye and turned every effort of concentration on to Ida Anna’s birthday ball. Once more he passed through a world of green convolutes, saw stalactites and stalagmites of emerald ice — and then nothing.
A voice said in his ear, ‘Oh there you are! It was very naughty of you to play that game. I had kept this dance for you.’
He opened his eyes to find that none of it had happened at all. He was looking straight up into the face of Mrs Clyde, who was leaning over his chair where he sat, obviously just woken from sleep, in the butler’s pantry.
‘What am I doing here?’ he muttered, knowing he sounded utterly stupid.
‘You must have hidden after going into the small hall just now.’
‘Just now? You saw me do that?’
‘Oh yes — we all did.’
Jackdaw stared aghast and Mrs Clyde went on, ‘You were up in the Chapel for an age and then you came down and crossed the Great Hall where we were dancing and went through the archway, presumably into here.’ She looked at him closely. ‘You look very pale. Is anything wrong?’
‘No, nothing,’ said Jackdaw quietly. ‘I have just had the dream of a lifetime, that is all.’
*
Midnight! But no ordinary chiming of twelve from the steeple of the great church in whose protective shadow nestled Dommayer’s casino. For this was New Year’s Eve, 1847; the last year in which Europe under the rule of the old guard was to know peace. Revolution and change were everywhere. For the new moneyed class — factory owners of the Industrial Revolution — was rising to challenge the privileged ranks of the aristocracy. And, to add to this, nationalism was the word stirring on the lips of the oppressed. A deadly combination, poised to erupt like a time-bomb before another year would see its way out.
But as John Joseph and Horatia waltzed the night away to the music of Johann Strauss II — a revolution within that family was making the son more famous than the father — they did not allow themselves to think of it. He held her close to him, enraptured by her beautiful face, wondering why he liked her company so much, why he had grown so accustomed to her presence. He supposed that this was natural in marriage — and yet conversations with his fellow officers led him to believe he was perhaps fortunate.
It never occurred to the poor fool, who considered himself so hard with women, that he was falling wildly in love with her. That the little pleasures he got from watching her laugh, or smile — or even stamp her foot — were microcosms of the most powerful emotion in the world. He had no idea that the reason why making love to her gave more fulfilment than ever before was, quite simply, because he adored her. The woman he had married for the sake of marriage, at a moment of total disillusionment, had captured his heart without his even being aware of it.
But he was, at the exact moment when the clocks and churches rang in 1848 — which was to become known, when the history books were written, as the Year of Revolutions — only sublimely happy that his wife was to accompany him when he and his regiment were moved out to Hungary the next day. For Louis Kossuth who had started life as a brilliant Hungarian advocate, publishing a secret nationalist newspaper, was now demanding independence for his nation — and Vienna was responding with troops.
‘Are you glad I am to be with you?’ said Horatia, reading his thoughts.
‘Never more so. Most of the wives have elected to stay behind in Vienna.’
‘But I am not “most of the wives”.’
‘You tell me that? You are a million times more beautiful and clever and brave than the best one of them.’
She laughed, snuggling a little closer. ‘You sound very prejudiced.’
‘Perhaps. I think you will hate Pesth though — the town is very old and charming but the heart has gone out of it.’
‘Do you hate it?’
‘Yes and no. I lived in the garrison before, which was depressing. But at least
we will be in married quarters.’
‘I think that is the only reason you married me — to improve your accommodation.’
He laughed down at her, his eyes lit by sun.
‘You have guessed ...’
‘Don’t tease me so!’
She suddenly looked very young and vulnerable and rather bleak, and for no reason at all that he could fathom his heart lurched. With a sudden change of face he said, ‘Horry, do you regret marrying me?’
‘I only regret that I am not cleverer.’ Refusing to say another word she dropped a curtsey to the Colonel, who stood bowing in front of her, and whirled away into the dance before her husband could think of a suitable reply.
20
Just before first light the dream came, as clear and distinct as it had been twenty years earlier at Sutton Place. He heard again the moans of the dying, the whistle and pound of mortar, the scream of horses; saw himself as a dead man, Horatia at his side. But this time there was a difference, for he dreamt that he was a boy in the old nursery and that he was dreaming the sequence as once he had used to — a dream within a dream.
So vivid was the impression that when he woke and saw the outline of a tent, the rising sun filling it with warm pink light, he was startled and afraid, wondering where he was. And then he remembered. He and Horatia — along with the entire regiment that had been stationed in Pesth — were in retreat. The long-feared revolution had taken place. There was civil war in the Austrian Empire.
It had started in March with an uprising in Vienna of the ‘young gentlemen of the University’ and had ended with the overthrow of the glittering Imperial government. The capital had fallen into the hands of rebels. And at this signal revolution had broken out everywhere. By September 28 — a week ago, John Joseph recalled with a shudder — Hungary had been ready to declare war.
A tactical withdrawal from Pesth had been ordered and the gates of Buda closed and cannon mounted on the city walls as the National Guard and the Honvods had tried to storm the ramparts of their sister city. The ghastly day had culminated in the murder of Count Lamberg, the Austrian Commander-in-Chief. As his mutilated body had been borne past on scythes the Emperor’s 3rd Light Dragoons on foot and horseback — the regimental wives in carriages — had hastily retreated from the city, their destination uncertain.
