by Deryn Lake
Very much to her surprise he opened his eyes.
‘Horry?’ His voice was weak and husky.
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Will I be missed?’
She could not answer for a moment, not quite understanding.
‘Do I leave behind a good memory?’ he persisted.
She knew then what he meant. He was anxious that people — not just herself — should remember him with affection.
‘A wonderful memory, my darling. Everyone loves you so — especially me.’
Her voice broke into a sob and, putting her head against his chest, she bitterly wept.
‘No, no.’ The words were scarcely above a whisper. ‘You must not ...’ The rest of the sentence was lost to her.
‘Don’t talk, my darling. Save your strength.’
His body went into a spasm of agony.
‘Let me go,’ he said.
Horatia looked at him astonished. He was asking her to loose her loving hold upon him, asking her to let him slip away.
‘Is that what you want?’ she whispered.
‘Yes. I am a ship becalmed. Oh, blow up a wind and lift this hulk off to the land where the mermaids sulk.’
He was in delirium, of course, but how beautiful the words! Very gently Horry lowered him to the bed and watched him leave her. And then her heart fragmented into a million pieces and she wept until she fell asleep, all dirty face and tousled hair lying beside her sweet-love-gone.
But he who had died in the dawning came back briefly to speak to her once more. She heard his voice say, ‘Leave Sutton Place, Horry. Leave that accursed house.’
It was a dream, of course. He had been dead since day-break.
A winter queen stood beside the grave of a black knight later that day. They put him in without ceremony, without coffin, with nothing but the Austrian flag and fifty of his fellow men for companionship. Over the mass grave a Catholic priest chanted and sprinkled holy water while, from the depths of her black cloak, Horatia drew a bunch of rowan berries — all she had been able to find in the sparse country around Comorn — and threw it in with white fingers. The dark earth closed over the glistening red — and with that, with that last gesture of love, John Joseph vanished from her sight. The Master of Sutton Place was gone for ever.
22
It seemed to the Dowager Countess, as the clouds of steam from the departing London train separated dramatically, that she had never really seen Horatia before. A solitary black figure — gauntly thin and walking with measured steps, a slow sad dog plodding behind it — appeared through the vapour coming towards her down the platform, its white face drawn, its hands thrust into gloves to protect them from the chill November wind.
‘Horatia!’ called her mother. ‘We’re here, darling.’
The figure made no response but continued its steady progress.
‘Can she hear us?’ whispered Anne to Mr Hicks.
‘Yes, my dear. I think she is in a state of shock. You will have to treat her very gently.’
‘Oh my God,’ said her mother, starting to cry. ‘My poor little girl.’
‘Anne!’ Mr Hicks was terse. ‘Stop it at once. Weeping will do no good at all. You have to be a tower of strength to her now. Control yourself.’
He had never been so fierce with his wife, so distraught was he at the pathetic sight of his stepdaughter wending her way. He remembered how beautiful she had been when he had seen her first in the Swan Hotel at Hastings, how her presence had been a flash of splendour amongst ordinary mortals. And his faithful old heart was heavy within him to see the icy ghost of what had once been Horatia Elizabeth Waldegrave, the jewel of her generation.
He stepped forward, pushing past Anne in his haste.
‘Horatia, my dear,’ he said. ‘Welcome home.’
She was like a shadow in his arms, so skeletal and frail had she become.
‘Oh, Stepfather,’ she said, ‘I am very glad to be here at last.’
The Countess bustled up, acting the part of her life.
‘I’m so happy to see you, my love,’ she said. ‘We have all been very anxious. Sutton Place will be far the brighter now that you have come back.’
‘Sutton Place!’ answered Horatia, giving a grim laugh.
Over the top of her head Algy and the Countess stared at one another with misgiving. Yet on the way back the widow seemed controlled enough. That was until the moment when the gates swung open before her and the lodge keeper came to a salute, calling out, ‘Welcome back, my Lady.’
Then she said bitterly, ‘Welcome back! To what? An empty house. His house.’
Very gently Anne said, ‘But darling, it is your home now.’
‘Much good may it do me. I will spend as little time here as possible.’
‘But sweetheart, surely you will live with us? Where will you go to on your own?’
‘I don’t know and care nothing, so long as it is away from this cursed place.’
Anne would have said more but behind Horatia Algy put his finger to his lips and the rest of the journey up the drive was conducted in silence.
For once Ida Anna’s thoughts were on somebody other than herself and she greeted her sister very sweetly indeed. But it was from Cloverella, of course, that the most dramatic gesture came. She appeared in the doorway wearing a travelling cloak, Jay — carrying a bundle and an old carpet bag — beside her.
‘Here Missus,’ she said, ‘take my hand.’
Horatia did so and felt something warm and sticky. Looking down she saw that blood oozed between her closed fingers.
‘That is the gypsy’s way of swearing fealty. I am your bond woman from now till the end of my life. If ever you need me, my Lady, call to my likeness.’
She passed Horatia something wrapped in brown paper.
‘Keep it like that until you need me. And when the day comes unwrap the image and say to it, “Cloverella, thou must come to me.”’
Almost blindly Horatia took the parcel.
‘Are you going away then?’
‘Aye, my Lady. The change in Jay’s body has come about. Now he must travel and learn if he is to be a great man.’
‘A great man,’ echoed Horatia and the ghost of a smile played about her mouth that such a little ragamuffin could be described in those terms. ‘Have you enough money for that, Cloverella?’
‘Enough for the two of us, Missus. We shall not be forced to beg.’
Horatia fished in her reticule and brought out a golden guinea and a white handkerchief.
‘These were in the Captain’s pocket when he died. I would like you to have them.’ She added hastily, ‘The handkerchief has been boiled and disinfected; it cannot carry the infection.’
Cloverella handed both to Jay, who bowed his head very solemnly. Just for a fleeting second he reminded Horatia vividly of someone but the memory of whom had gone before the thought could form in her brain.
‘Then I shall say farewell, my Lady. Never forget that I will come if you call me.’
The widow took the girl into her arms. ‘Thank you for your friendship,’ she said.
Cloverella kissed Horatia’s hand. ‘Long life and good luck to the Lady of the Manor.’
And with that she and Jay began to walk away from the house and down the drive towards the gates. At the bend after which they would be lost to sight, they turned to wave — two brilliant figures. Then in a flash of scarlet petticoat, a merry flute tune and a scamper of little bare feet they were gone.
Horatia turned in through the door of the mansion house with a sinking heart.
‘I never thought I would inherit you so,’ she said aloud to it. ‘With my true love cold in the ground before he had run his allotted course. Be damned if I won’t get rid of you; sell you — and do away with your evil influence for ever!’
The stones re-echoed her voice as the first threads of darkness fell on that raw and cheerless November afternoon.
*
In her own little sitting room, ben
eath the officer-and-gentleman portrait she had painted of her brother John Joseph only twelve years before, but which — with him dead and buried in an unmarked mass grave on foreign soil — now seemed more like a hundred, Caroline Hicks sat opening her morning post. A very pretty woman, her face was spoiled at that moment by a deep frown which turned into a grimace of misery and finally tears as she read and re-read the letter in her hand.
‘Francis!’ she called eventually, springing to her feet. ‘Francis, where are you?’
From above in his dressing room came an answering shout and she ran up the flight of stairs and along a short passage, bursting in without pausing.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ he said. ‘Caroline, you’re crying. What’s happened?’
‘Two awful letters have come,’ she sobbed, rushing into his arms just as she had when they were first married. ‘The first from Anne saying that Horatia is in a dreadful state — thin and gaunt and withdrawn from life. But the second even worse.’
‘What is it?’
‘It came from Helen Wardlaw. She and the General are heartbroken — Jackdaw has been posted missing, believed dead.’
‘But I thought that bloody damned business had ended!’
The eminent surgeon that Francis had become very rarely swore in case he inadvertently did so before the respectful medical students, but this was too much for him. His tragic brother-in-law had died ten days ago before Comorn surrendered to the Austrian Army — what a futile waste of a life! — and now to hear that Jackdaw had been sacrificed just as hostilities had ceased!
‘Did Helen give any details?’
‘Yes. Apparently he went off to translate for the Czarevitch himself but went missing behind the Russian lines after a Magyar attack. Oh Francis, Francis, it is all too painful.’
She began to sob again — not just for Jackdaw but for her brother as well and for her sweet sister-in-law brought so low with anguish. Her husband looked grim. He thought of the years he had spent learning so painstakingly to repair human bodies — and then thought how one battle alone could put those bodies beyond his care.
‘The politicians who wage war are senile and crazed,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I despair for mankind.’
Caroline wiped her eyes. ‘Anne also wrote to ask if Horry could stay with us. Sutton Place seems to be making her worse and it is felt that she would be better with you keeping an eye on her, dearest.’
‘Of course, of course. Does she know about Jackdaw yet?’
Caroline paled. ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. Of course she hardly knew him, even though he was John Joseph’s best man, but still she had the most intriguing introduction to him. Do you remember it?’
‘Do you mean when he ran after her carriage, shouting and making an idiot of himself?’
‘Yes. He must have been absolutely smitten with her.’
Lovely, clever Francis fixed his wife with a bluebell glance that had grown no less sparkling over the years.
‘I don’t think he’s ever stopped, poor man,’ he said.
‘Francis! How would you know that?’
‘By the way he looked at her on her wedding day. I would never have said this to you, Caroline, while either of the poor souls were alive — but two bridegrooms stood at the altar that day.’
‘Did Horatia know?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She has never had eyes for anyone but John Joseph.’
‘You’re right.’ Caroline shook her head slowly. ‘She fell in love with his portrait when she was little more than a child. Poor, poor creature — how can she be feeling without him?’
‘Like a ship floating in a sea of pain.’
‘Will she recover?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Francis. ‘The human psyche repairs itself without realizing it is doing so. Even the most grievous death cannot be mourned for ever. Sweet memory will take its place and eventually happiness, of a different kind to the one before, comes back.’
‘I have told you often,’ answered Caroline, hugging him, ‘you are a very wise man — and I love you. Will you try and help Horatia?’
‘I will do my best,’ said Francis.
*
On the night before she left Sutton Place to stay with the Hickses, John Joseph’s widow had a wild bad dream. She stood on that long curving beach, so familiar from other dreams, and saw again the chapel set beneath the hill. But on this occasion its door was wide and open, and she — even though afraid to do so — felt herself drawn within. There was something sinister about the place this time, for solemn music from an invisible source was playing and big candles threw their flickering light on stained glass saints and dying martyrs.
To her horror she saw that two coffins stood in front of the altar, an order of black-cowled monks mutely guarding them. And even while she watched in terror, two of the monks lifted the lids and beckoned her forward to pay her last respects. She had known then — in that distant way in which sleeping thoughts come — that it would be better by far if she did not look. But the monks were coming forward — their quiet most menacing — to escort her.
One bowed his head, saying, ‘It is your duty, Lady Horatia.’ He seemed faceless, his voice coming from the all-concealing cowl.
Most reluctantly Horatia walked up the aisle and stood at the foot of the left-hand coffin. From there she could see a pair of military boots and a flash of blue uniform within the white satin interior. It was John Joseph.
She did not want to look on his face, could hardly bear the thought, but some terrible compulsion forced her forwards. She leaned on the coffin’s edge and peered within, giving a cry of horror as she did so. For it was not her husband’s body that lay there but his ivory bones. Skeletal hands were crossed upon a uniformed chest that bore the Cross of a Knight of Malta, while his shako adorned a sombrely grinning skull.
She turned away and in her haste almost fell upon the coffin that stood to the right of John Joseph’s. It rattled on its plinth and she was forced to grip it to stop herself falling. With equal horror she saw that this one was empty, that it waited for its occupant.
She wondered then if it was intended for her, if she was meant to have died with her husband and never returned to Sutton Place. But then the name plate on the propped-up lid caught her eye. She bent to read it and in the flickering light saw, ‘Major John Wardlaw, 1817-1849. Rest in Peace.’
She started to cry hysterically at that and was still doing so when she woke up — drenched in sweat and shaking from head to foot. It was Ida Anna who came running to her, a shawl around her shoulders and her feet bare and cold.
‘Oh Horry darling, what is it?’
‘A nightmare. A dreadful one. Ida Anna, I dreamt that John Wardlaw was dead as well as John Joseph.’
Her sister looked stricken. She had never quite recovered from Anne’s matchmaking plans in which Jackdaw had figured so prominently.
‘Oh dear, I hope it isn’t an omen!’
‘So do I. He risked his life to come and get John Joseph and me out of captivity. If he had been discovered he would have been shot instantly. I would hate any ill to befall him.’
They sat in silence for a moment or two, each of them thinking of their jewel-eyed friend. Horatia remembering, with the very smallest blush, the way he had played the part of General Klapka and kissed her so hard and so deeply. Ida Anna recalling that strange time at her birthday ball when he had been found asleep in the butler’s pantry, not knowing where he was.
Then, to hide the fact that her cheeks were growing pinker and pinker, Horatia crossed to the window. Drawing back the curtains she gazed out to where stars danced in silver clusters around others of sapphire and milk, and low in the sky, a moon, thin and new, glistened with frost.
It was bitterly cold, even the little pools on the gravel walkway reflecting moonshine on the sheet ice that was forming on their surface, and from somewhere in the park the hoot of an owl added voice to the bitter scene.
With her back turned to her sister, Hor
atia said, ‘John Joseph told me to seek him out, you know. Said that he could help me.’
‘Jackdaw you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Ida Anna padded over to her on freezing feet.
‘You only had a dream, Horry. Perhaps Jackdaw is alive and well. Perhaps we are being foolish.’
Horatia turned and smiled at her, noticing how the hard little face had taken on a soft and loving expression.
‘Do you remember when you were a little girl and you used to call yourself the favouritest baby in all the land?’
Her sister shuddered. ‘Yes. How you must all have hated me.’
‘We did. But you have made up for it now.’
The sisters hugged each other in the cold.
‘Get back into bed,’ said Ida Anna. ‘I’ll stay with you if you like.’
‘I wish you would.’
And they got in together so that Horatia, in her sleep, felt the warmth of another body and this time dreamed that John Joseph was alive and with her once more.
But the next morning, fastening her black coat about her and putting a black bonnet over her hair, she stopped to look at herself in the mirror. She was ugly thin, bony and hard, her face pinched and white, her mouth a line of misery. Round the beautiful eyes were circles of darkness and her foxfire hair had become that of a vixen exhausted by the savagery of the hunt. It lay dull and flat, hanging about her shoulders where once it had bounced. At barely twenty-six Horatia Waldegrave looked tired of life.
Ida Anna, Mr Hicks and the Countess were all at Woking station to see her off to London but once on the train a terrible feeling of isolation swept her. She wondered how she could possibly face the rest of her life alone, how she could exist without companionship and love. Then Horatia thought that if Jackdaw was alive, if that terrible dream had just been a figment of her imagination, he might help her to gain peace. John Joseph had told her that his friend studied old truths and wisdom. Perhaps, then, he might teach her to live with loneliness.
The train entered a tunnel and Horatia closed her eyes, trying to conjure behind her lids the image of her husband as he had been on their wedding day. But somehow his face would not come to her and she could only remember Jackdaw turning round and staring at her from the altar as if, as far as he was concerned, she was the source of all light.
