A Strange Likeness

by Paula Marshall

  Alan thought that he knew the reason why Knaresborough was kind to her—but that was not a story for him to tell.

  ‘I admire him,’ he said, ‘but that does not mean that I like him. He would be a good friend, but a dreadful enemy. He likes to test people.’

  He began to stroke her hand. ‘You are not to worry about him—or me. I can look after myself.’

  She then said something which he was to remember later. ‘Where he is concerned, no one is safe. Be careful, Alan.’

  He kissed the hand he held, and then leaned over a little to kiss her cheek. The scent of her roused him; it was so sweet that he was again in danger of forgetting himself. She turned willingly into his arms, and there, alone, overlooking the wild beauty below them, he made gentle love to her, kissing and stroking her so that she might feel pleasure but not be frightened.

  It was sweet torment for both of them, until he was the one to break away. Eleanor, in the first throes of active love, was unable to deny him anything, and the time for them to progress beyond nursery matters was not yet.

  Soon, he told himself when they walked back, hand in hand, I shall ask for her hand in marriage—but he knew that before he could there were mysteries to be solved, and ghosts from the past to be laid.

  Eleanor was right: Knaresborough was dangerous. Two mornings later Alan found himself fighting Ralf, not sparring with him. Knaresborough had said that he wished to see a real bout, so he engineered one by deceiving Ralf when he met him in the stables after he had watched him sparring with Alan.

  ‘I hear that the Australian boy is your master,’ he said, jeering at him a little, ‘and spares you when you spar with him.’

  Now this was true, but Alan had said nothing of it to anyone. Wounded to the quick, Ralf denied the accusation fiercely.

  Knaresborough shook his head at him. ‘Easy to prove it,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you good money if you can persuade him to engage in a real fight with you tomorrow morning. And if you beat him fair and square I’ll treble your reward.’

  ‘Fair and square, then. I’ll tell him I want a real fight,’ said Ralf, and so he informed Alan—to have Alan refuse him until he understood that he would have to agree in order to soothe Ralf’s feelings, so casually plundered by Knaresborough.

  He said nothing to anyone of his dismay. He knew that once in a real fight he would be unable to restrain himself, and would go for Ralf with all his strength and all his cunning—which was why he only ever sparred. But there was no way in which he could gainsay either Ralf or Knaresborough, so the next day he dressed himself for the fight and went to the moor beyond the House—to discover an eager crowd was waiting for him.

  Besides the estate workers and the servants from the House there were gentlemen and labourers from Brinkley and other local villages come to see the fun—but the news had been kept from the women, he later found.

  Everything was to be done in proper form: Knaresborough had seen to that. It was he who had arranged for the crowd to be present, and for betting to be organised.

  Alan knew, even before the bout began, that, however much he had promised himself to spare Ralf, once he was in the ring with him he would have only one idea in his head—to win it. Quite early on he knew that Ralf was his for the taking—he was older and slow; his fine edge had gone. Alan also knew that the pugilist who had taught him in Sydney had been right—he possessed the hard malevolence needed to be a champion, as well as the strength and the skill.

  But when he turned Ralf for the last time, readying him for the final knock-out blow, Knaresborough’s face came into view, and he saw that Knaresborough knew it, too, and could scarcely wait for the final blow which would defeat and humiliate Ralf—and complete his pleasure.

  The killing rage against Ralf which he had built up during the bout was in an instant directed against himself and Knaresborough. He would not be manipulated in order to provide a Roman holiday for an unprincipled patrician by humiliating Ralf, whose last remaining and only pride was in his skill.

  Coldly and deliberately he turned the rage on himself, and so that no one should suspect that he was throwing the fight he changed it, so that he was exposed to Ralf’s most punishing blows.

  Suddenly he was lying, half-fuddled, on the ground, supported by someone’s strong arms which did not belong to either Ned or Stacy, his seconds. The same strong arms were lifting him on to a bench and were beginning to sponge his face. His senses steadied and he knew that it was Knaresborough who was ministering to him and holding the others back.

  ‘No,’ said Alan feebly, trying to push him away, but failing. ‘No, not you. I don’t want you.’

  ‘Yes,’ retorted Knaresborough, his voice low, so that the others surrounding them should not hear. ‘I know what you did, if no one else does. You will not be managed, I see. You are Sir Beauchamp’s best. Be still, that I may help you.’

  ‘No,’ said Alan, turning his head away from him. ‘Not you nor any man shall pull my strings. Ralf is not a toy for me to maul and break for your pleasure. Fight him yourself—or leave him alone. I’ll not do your dirty work for you.’

  ‘He has not addled your wits, I see,’ said Knaresborough, still sponging Alan’s face. ‘And you are right to try to shame me. Must I apologise to you, then?’

  ‘Apologise to Ralf, not to me.’

  ‘Oh, Ralf does not need apologies. He will be well rewarded now that you have thrown the fight.’

  The killing rage swept through Alan again, despite his weakness.

  ‘That is a vile thing to say. Mind me. When I recover I shall strike you down for that, Earl though you are.’

  Knaresborough stared at him. ‘I believe you would. I will tell him that I was wrong to pit you at one another—not to escape your blows but because I see that Ralf is a man, too, in your mind. Let me help you up.’

  Despite himself weakness had him taking Knaresborough’s arm to rise. He found he was facing Ralf.

  Ralf glared at Knaresborough, his face set. ‘I shall not take your money, m’lord. I did not win the fight—he gave it to me most cunningly. Why, I don’t know, only that he did. Until then he had me for the asking. He was never mine to beat, not now, nor when I was in my prime.’

  ‘Do not say so,’ returned Alan. ‘You won fair and square and I shall spar with you when I am fit again. No, do not argue with me. I was wrong to agree to fight you. Take his money—as much as you can get of it. He owes you more than that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Knaresborough, ‘and I was wrong to set you at each other for my pleasure. Had I asked you both straight that would have been different, but I did not. I ask your pardon, Ralf.’

  ‘That is nobly said, m’lord,’ said Ralf.

  Knaresborough put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a purse of guineas. ‘You shall get drunk for both of us, Ralf. Now let us get him to the House.’

  Alan did not come down from his room until the afternoon. By then the news of the fight was known to everyone. Eleanor met him in the garden and exclaimed at his black eye, swollen face, split lip and damaged hands.

  ‘Oh, Alan, I was angry when we missed our ride this morning. You told me once that you could not equal Ralf in a fight, so why did you try?’

  They had been riding together the previous day and they had made gentle love again. Each time the power of what they were doing struck Eleanor anew, and each time it was stronger. Being in love was hard, not easy, she found. She had a curious desire to be Alan. She wanted to be lost in him, but did not know how, only that after a time mere kissing became unsatisfactory—more than that was needed, but the possible nature of the more frightened her.

  ‘You will not be fit to ride with me tomorrow,’ she said sorrowfully.

  Alan tried to smile at her, but smiling hurt, so he stopped. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It will not be long before I am fit again.’

  Since nothing else was possible, he allowed his eyes to caress her to make up for his hands not being available. Knaresborough, watchin
g them together—the party was assembling for tea on the lawn—said to Sir Hart, ‘So that is why he came here—against his better judgement, no doubt. For he must suspect the meaning of the likeness.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir Hart painfully. ‘I am sure that, but for Eleanor, he would never have visited Temple Hatton. Now, with Ned’s hidden resentment revealed, he stays only for her. And me, a little, I think.’

  ‘The sooner you tell him the truth, the better. My care is for Eleanor, as well as for him, as you must know. She deserves him, and must not lose him to his sense of honour—which is strong.’

  ‘Yes—but you must understand that I have asked him nothing of his origins, and until then all must be supposition. I fear that he might tell me nothing. I also fear that he may believe Eleanor to be his cousin—with all the consequences which might flow from that.’

  ‘In that case I shall smoke him out for you, since matters must not remain as they are. He must know the truth about Eleanor’s parentage, as well.’

  When Sir Hart began to protest he said gently, with none of his usual brutal panache, ‘No, trust me. I shall use no bravado. The young man is of a metal which deserves our respect. He is gold through and through—Sir Beauchamp with a heart that feels for others. What could be stronger than that?’

  Eleanor persuaded Stacy to rescue Alan from the unwanted attentions of the rest of the party, particularly Jane’s mother. He took Alan to the upstairs drawing room, ostensibly to show him something he had found in the library that morning. Eleanor, joining them a little later, came in to find him sound asleep on the yellow brocade sofa. Stacy, quietly reading opposite to him, put his finger to his lips when he saw her.

  Knaresborough had come to her at the end of the tea party and had walked her through the rose garden, chatting of this and that, until she had said, quite calmly, ‘Tell me, m’lord. Is it true that you were responsible for setting Mr Dilhorne and Ralf at one another?’

  ‘So,’ he had said, equally calm, ‘the gossip has reached you already. Yes, I must confess to that.’

  Surprised at her own daring, for he had always seemed like a capricious God to her, someone so powerful and mighty that he was not to be questioned or criticised, she had said, ‘The other day I told him to be careful, that you were dangerous. I did not think that you would prove me correct so soon. It was not well done, m’lord.’

  ‘Oh, I quite agree with you, Miss Eleanor. It was not. I am delighted to discover that you have such a fund of good sense as to appreciate that.’

  At first she had thought he was mocking her, but when he saw her anxious face, he’d added, ‘The same good sense that has made you choose him from all the shallow fools who have courted you here and in London. I can only trust that he has the good sense to offer for you soon, and so I have told Sir Hart. Now may we talk nonsense—which is all that men and women are supposed to do, sense being usually employed only with one’s own sex?’

  This was so truly Knaresborough that Eleanor had begun to laugh. She wondered how often he ever made confession of a fault, and decided that it was rare. She was thinking of this when Alan woke up and put out a hand for her to hold. Stacy, seeing that he was awake, began to read to them until it was time to dress for dinner.

  Alan and Knaresborough were playing piquet. Knaresborough was naughty, and cheated wildly. He had warned Alan that he would before the game began, since they would be playing for counters, not money.

  ‘No holds barred, Master Alan. Anything goes for both of us when we’re not playing for money.’

  Alan’s face was almost healed. That afternoon he had ridden out on the moors with Eleanor. For the first time he had unbuttoned her riding habit to reveal the silk beneath it. He had kissed her neck and shoulders and stroked her breasts through the silk. She had shivered her delight while he did so.

  Eleanor had not known what to do with her hands, but she had caressed his face, running them down his strong jaw. Her body had been on fire, and her eyes had questioned him.

  Alan had contained himself with difficulty, saying inwardly, A seasoned man has only so much self-restraint; there must be no more than this until I offer. He had imagined Knaresborough’s grin if he had heard him.

  He’d seen Jane and Stacy, whom they had outpaced, coming towards them, and rebuttoned Eleanor’s habit rapidly. They had been decorously admiring the view by the time the other pair of lovers arrived.

  Stacy, taking in Eleanor’s brilliantly roused eyes and her flushed face, had said nothing, but thought a lot. He was taking great care not to frighten Jane and thought how strange it was that everything was allowed to young men and nothing to women, who consequently came ignorant to the marriage bed.

  Now he was watching Alan and Knaresborough; their voices were low so that none could overhear them.

  ‘You play well, young sir.’

  Alan laughed at him. ‘Oh, there is nothing to that. If one man marks the cards, the other may use them—if he knows how.’

  ‘Yes, you are a fox among the chickens. I must not forget that.’

  They played on a little in silence before Knaresborough said idly, ‘You speak proudly of your father—but give little of him away.’

  ‘Nothing to give away, m’lord.’

  ‘Knaresborough. I am Knaresborough to you. I suppose that he was sent as a felon to New South Wales instead of being hanged in England?’

  ‘You suppose correctly…Knaresborough.’

  Knaresborough laughed. ‘You did not mind me saying that?’

  ‘He would not mind if he heard you, so why should I?’

  ‘Why indeed? And from London, I hear. Pass the bottle, boy, you have nursed it long enough. Mark you, though, I note how little you actually drink. No Yorkshire connections at all?’

  His voice was idle when he came out with this last.

  Alan suddenly tired of both the games they were playing; tired of the half-truths and the evasions. He remembered Sir Hart’s anxious face, Ned’s angry one on the night of the fight, his father’s likeness to Sir Hart—and, above all, his own to Sir Beauchamp. It was time to end it.

  ‘Oh, yes, Knaresborough, there was a Yorkshire connection. However did you guess?’ His voice was mocking.

  ‘I am sure that Sir Beauchamp did not live for nothing.’

  ‘Well, as to that, I don’t know. They are your points this time, Knaresborough, but you have not won enough to help you.’

  ‘I distracted you,’ said Knaresborough mildly. ‘Have you told Sir Hart of the connection?’

  ‘No, nor has he asked me if there were one—but I am tired of being devious. Nothing but the truth will satisfy me now—for there is Eleanor to think of.’

  Knaresborough made no immediate answer. At last he said, ‘I think that I may have won my first hand.’

  Alan’s answering laugh had no mirth in it. ‘I think not. You are rubiconed as the game has it, I fear, and have lost it.’ He watched Knaresborough stare in disbelief at the cards before saying, ‘My father, as you have doubtless guessed, had no acknowledged father, but you could not disturb him by calling him bastard.’

  ‘Oh, I could believe anything of a father of such as you. But your father had a mother, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and I know that she was from Yorkshire. It is your turn to play.’

  ‘Indeed, and you have beaten me again. Are there cards up your sleeve, too?’

  ‘You must ponder that, Knaresborough, for I shall not tell you. What I can say is that she worked in a big house on the edge of the moors.’

  More counters on Knaresborough’s side passed to Alan. They played on.

  ‘It was the old story, I suppose. The son of the house and the pretty servant, no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Alan was short, for the game was nearly over.

  ‘I can tell you that my father was born at a farm on the moors, but the moors are wide and there are many farms and many big houses on them.’

  ‘Indeed, young man. But not many b
y-blow’s sons have Sir Beauchamp’s brass face, I assure you. You are too good for me again.’

  Alan made him no direct answer, said instead, ‘You would have done better to have played without marked cards and sleight of hand. My father taught me how to use them against the cheat, long ago.’

  ‘So, you have beaten me; I give you best. You know that I shall tell Sir Hart all this?’

  ‘Of course—else I should not have told you.’

  Ned, seeing that the game had ended, walked over to them. ‘So you have won, Alan, and against Knaresborough of all people. He always wins, for he plays dirty, you know, when he does not play for money.’

  ‘Yes, I guessed that, Ned.’

  Ned said sorrowfully, ‘But you play dirty, too, Alan.’

  ‘Yes, and did so for you, Ned.’ Alan had not meant to remind Ned of the debt he owed him, but Ned’s tone had stung.

  ‘You shall both drink with me,’ Knaresborough told them, ‘to celebrate my defeat, for I rarely lose.’

  Ned drank down one bumper and then left them. Knaresborough said dryly to Alan, ‘You are sorry for Ned, I see. Why? He is most fortunate, being the Hatton heir.’

  ‘He would have been happier in a cottage.’

  ‘There is nothing to that. He is heir here, and that’s an end to it. When you visit me at Castle Ashcourt leave him behind. He bores me.’

  ‘You are frank, Knaresborough, but unkind.’

  Knaresborough’s laugh was humourless. ‘There is no point in being able to call the Queen cousin if I may not say and do as I please. And it will not be long before me and mine will not be able to please themselves. For as my friend Alexander Baring says, “The field of coal will outstrip the field of barley”, and you and yours will sit where I am sitting now—but until then I will do as I please. What was your grandmother’s name?’

  ‘The same as mine, only Mary. I know little of her beyond that. My father has never spoken to me of her, or of his English past.’

  ‘As is natural. Well, I like you, and not only because you remind me of a man whom I feared and respected. I hope that you may be successful with Miss Eleanor. She deserves better than she may find here.’