The blue ribbons were threaded into her sleeve so that, when she danced, they would hang and swirl.
About her neck were sapphires.
In her hair were pearls.
She stared at herself in the mirror. CL and LC.
Lord Culloden had come into her life in a blaze of heroism, in a manner of a Galahad or a Lancelot. He was tall, he was eager to please, and he was happy to make her happy.
She could not think of a single thing that she disliked about Lord Culloden, unless it was a slightly supercilious air toward his inferiors. She guessed the superciliousness came from his family’s lack of money, a fear that with a little more bad luck he would become like those he despised. On the other hand, as he became more comfortable with Lazen’s great wealth and privilege, he was displaying a dry and sometimes elegant wit. She smeared the red arrow with her finger and she thought that CL did not dislike LC. She might even like him very much, but there was the uncomfortable fact that when she saw him about the Castle she felt nothing. Or, at least, she did not feel the delicious, secret thrill that the Gypsy gave her.
She wished the Gypsy had not come. She stood. She stared for a moment at the gray, lowering clouds beyond her window. The hills across the valley looked cold, their crests twisting like agony to the winter sky. At the top of Two Gallows Hill, like a black sack, hung the man who had attacked her.
She shuddered, closed the curtains, and turned. Tonight there would be music and dancing, the sound of laughter in the Great Hall and flamelight on its panelling. Yet none of that, she knew, gave her the tremulous, lovely, guilty anticipation that sparkled in her eyes as she left the room. She had dressed with care, she had made herself beautiful, and, though she could not even admit it to herself, she had not done it for Lord Culloden. She walked toward the music.
6
T here was applause as she walked down the stairs, applause that grew louder as more people at the edges of the room turned to watch her. The compliment made her smile shyly.
“I hope you know how lucky you are, my Lord,” Achilles d’Auxigny said to Lord Culloden.
Lord Culloden smiled. His eyes were fixed on Campion. “Give her wings and she would be an angel.”
Achilles raised his plucked eyebrows. “The church fathers maintained that angels did not procreate, or how would you English say? They don’t roger?”
A look of utter shock passed over Lord Culloden’s face, as if what a man might say in the regimental Mess of the Blues was one thing, but quite another to hear it said of a girl like Campion. He smiled frostily at Achilles, then walked forward with his arm held out. “My dear lady?” He bowed.
“My Lord.”
And the sight of the two together, the one in white crepe and blue ribbons, sparkling with precious stones, and the other in gleaming uniform, served only to make the applause louder. The sound reached the Earl of Lazen, whose room Campion had just left, and he smiled proudly at the Reverend Horne Mounter. “Pretty filly, Mounter, eh?”
“Undoubtedly, my Lord. I suppose she’ll be married soon?”
“That’s up to her, Mounter, up to her.” The Earl’s tone made it quite plain that he was not going to discuss his daughter’s marriage plans with the rector. “I’ll oblige you for another glass.”
The Reverend Horne Mounter, who doubted whether the Earl should be drinking frumenty at all, reluctantly poured the glass and put it at the bedside. He took a volume of sermons from his tail pocket. “Can I read to you, my Lord?”
The Earl seemed to shudder. “Save your voice for the morning, Mounter.” He drank the frumenty in one draft, sighed, then smiled as the liquid warmed his belly. “Put the jug by me, then go and enjoy yourself, Mounter. Parsons should enjoy themselves at Christmas! Your lady wife has come?”
“Indeed, my Lord.” The rector smiled eagerly. “I’m sure she would be most happy to greet your Lordship.”
“Not up to parsons’ wives tonight, Mounter. Give her my best respects.” He clumsily poured another glass. “Go on with you, man!”
Few at the Castle would be drunk so quickly as the lord of Lazen, but few had such good reason. All had good means. The frumenty was a speciality of Lazen, brewed for days in the great vats at the brewhouse. Despite the bad harvest the Castle had kept sacks of wheat aside that had been husked, then boiled in milk. When the mash was thick it was mixed with sugar, allowed to cool from the boiling point, and then liberally laced with rum. The recipe claimed that enough rum should be added to make a man drunk with the fumes, at which point the amount of rum should be doubled. The frumenty was cooled. At the last moment, before serving, it was heated again, mixed with egg yolks, and brought to the hall before it could boil. It was drunk only on Christmas Eve, it was too strong for any other day. The Reverend Horne Mounter, who allowed himself some sips of the Castle sherry on this night, secretly believed that the frumenty was a fermentation of the devil, but to say so was to risk the Earl’s displeasure.
In the Great Hall Lord Culloden watched in amazement as the liquid was served. He had taken a cup himself and drunk it slowly, but the tenants and townspeople were drinking it like water. He smiled at Campion. “How long do they stand up?”
“Long enough. They deserve it.” She smiled up at him. “You’re not bored?”
“Good Lord, no! Why should I be bored?”
“It’s hardly London, my Lord.”
He looked at the noisy, shouting, drinking throng. “I always enjoy birthdays.” He laughed.
The local gentry had come, and Campion saw how they kept themselves at one end of the hall while the common folk kept to the other. She walked through both ends, greeting old friends and neighbors, introducing the tall, golden haired cavalry Major at her side. Already, she thought, we behave as though we were married. She looked constantly for a tall, black haired figure, but the Gypsy could not be seen.
The dances were hardly the dances of London. They were country dances that all the guests knew, dances as old as Lazen itself. The Whirligig was followed by Hit and Miss and then Lady Lie Near Me. The church orchestra played fast and merrily and the dancers slowly mixed the two ends of the hall together. Once in a while, in a gesture toward the gentry, Simon Stepper, the bookseller and flautist of the church orchestra, would order his players to provide a minuet.
There was applause again when Campion and Lord Culloden danced to one such tune. The floor seemed to clear for them.
He danced well, better than she would have expected. He smiled at her. “Your father spoke to me today.”
“He did, my Lord?” The room turned about her in a blur of happy faces, candles, and firelight on old panelling. Lord Culloden made the formal, slow gestures with elegance. The month’s easy living in Lazen, she saw, had thickened his neckline so that the flesh bulged slightly at his tight, gold-encrusted collar. He smiled.
“He wanted my advice.”
Campion smiled at Sir George Perrott who, bless him, had led Mrs. Hutchinson onto the floor. For that, she thought, she would give Sir George a kiss under the mistletoe. She could not see the Gypsy. “About what, my Lord?”
“Your cousin.”
“Oh Lord!” Campion said rudely. She smiled at the miller who, with pretensions to gentility, had insisted on dancing this minuet with his wife and had bumped heavily into Campion’s back. “About Julius? What about him?”
Lord Culloden frowned as the tempo of the orchestra underwent a frumenty-induced change. He adjusted his steps. “It seems he has written asking for money.” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the riot of conversation and laughter from the lower end of the hall. “He’s in bad debt!”
“Again?”
“That was your father’s word.”
Uncle Achilles, with grave courtesy, was leading Lady Courthrop’s nine year old daughter about the floor. The townspeople, she could see, were laughing at the odd looking Frenchman. She planned another kiss under the mistletoe.
Lord Culloden turned at the upper end of the hall, h
is feet pointing elegantly in the small steps and glides. “It seems that he’s spent his allowance for the next ten years. Can you believe that? Ten years! I mean a fellow has to live, but hardly ten years at a time.” He smiled. Campion supposed that all tonight’s guests were waiting to see if she kissed Lord Culloden under the mistletoe. She thought she would not like to kiss a man who wore a moustache.
“I’m hardly surprised,” Campion said.
She did not want to talk about Julius. She disliked Julius intensely. He was the son of her father’s younger brother, her uncle who had died in the war against the American colonists. That uncle, she knew, had had the reputation of a rake, and Julius, with a foulness all his own, seemed determined to outdo his father. When Campion had been sixteen, and Julius twenty-two, he had attacked her in the stables, and though it had not been as horrid as the attack on the heath road, she had never forgotten it. He had pawed at her, pushed her into the straw, and it was only the intervention of Simon Burroughs, the castle’s chief coachman, that had ended what Julius had whined was “cousinly fun.” Burroughs had broken Julius’s nose, a wound that had to be blamed on a fall from a horse. The Earl, at Campion’s insistence, was not told of the incident.
Lord Culloden bowed to her as the music raggedly ended, then politely applauded the musicians. He offered her his arm. “Your father believes that no more money should be sent.”
“I trust you agreed with him, my Lord.”
“It’s hardly my place to agree or disagree, is it?” He looked at her with a smile. “I would not want you to think me presumptuous.”
“If my father asked you, my Lord, then I would not think you presumptuous.”
Campion climbed with him to the dais where the top table was set with wine and punch. She took a glass of claret and sipped it. She might look after Lazen, but there were some things that her father kept from her. The allowances to his English relatives was one of those things, and Campion had never been consulted, nor sought to influence him. She looked at Lord Culloden. “You must say whatever you think best, my Lord.”
He was marking her card, she thought, demonstrating that he was already a part of the family. She wondered whether he had already approached her father to ask for permission to seek her hand in marriage. She wondered what she would say when that moment came, if it did come, and the thought made her search the great, happy room for a sight of the Gypsy. The dance now was the Old Man in a Bed of Bones, violently native in its crude exuberance, and, seeing no sign of Gitan, she wondered if he had stayed away in wariness of such an overwhelming English occasion. She smiled as she saw Uncle Achilles, who had no such inhibitions. He capered wildly with two girls from the town.
A crash sounded from the far end of the room and Campion knew that someone had fallen down drunk. They would not be the last. The orchestra, without missing a beat, moved into the Friar and the Nun, provoking laughter, and she looked up at the hooded eyes of Lord Culloden. “You know this dance?”
“Indeed, no, my Lady. My education was sadly lacking.” He smiled. “Are you going to teach me?”
She grinned happily. “No, my Lord, you’re going to watch me. Sir George?”
Sir George Perrott had danced these tunes before Campion’s mother had been born. An ironic, happy cheer went up as the two stepped down to the floor, for the privileged of Lazen were expected to join in these revels. Lord Culloden, smiling and watching from the dais, thought he had never seen her face so happy and so vivacious. He laughed as they mimed the old story that, each year, shocked the Reverend Horne Mounter and his stout, proper wife.
Culloden joined in the applause. Simon Stepper waved his flute, shouted, and the orchestra went rumbustiously into a new tune. The hall cheered, Sir George laughed, and Campion linked her hand with the old man’s for Cuckolds All in a Row.
The music filled the hall, the clapping from the crowds at the room’s edges seemed to shake the floor, to shiver the air with this day’s happiness. This was the Little Kingdom at its best; united and glorious. Campion’s face was lit with the joy of it. She let go of Sir George’s hand and, laughing and smiling, she was swung from man to man, from servant to miller, miller to brewer, brewer to squire, squire to farmer, and farmer to Gypsy.
His face caught her utterly by surprise. The touch of his hand seemed to freeze her, made her pause on the next step and run to catch up. Her missed beat provoked a cheer from the hall.
She turned at the end, looked for him, but he seemed to have gone as quickly as he had come. It was as if the touch of his hand and the single glance from his blue eyes had been a dream. The music was speeding again, she went forward, her hands holding her dress up so that her ankles showed, and then she was whirled violently about by Sir George, she went backward beside the innkeeper’s wife, and the music ended. A huge cheer went up. The musicians, hopefully, went into Up Tails All, but Campion, thinking that dignity must have a limit, smiled and shook her head.
She walked back with Sir George who, with the license of old age and old friendship, put an arm about her waist. “They’re getting very drunk, my dear.”
“You sound like Mrs. Mounter, Sir George.”
He laughed. “God forbid. Where is the lady?”
“Probably looking for dust in the Garden Room,” Campion laughed. The rector’s wife terrorized the parish with her visitations, and even Lazen Castle had been reprimanded for slovenly housekeeping. Campion steered Sir George to the left, and checked him beneath the mistletoe.
He looked at her. “My dear?”
She kissed him on both cheeks. “A happy Christmas, Sir George.”
He laughed. “It will be now, if the excitement doesn’t finish me off. Come, my dear, I must give you back to your handsome young officer.”
Even Sir George, she thought, considered that Lord Culloden was her man. His Lordship smiled as she climbed the steps, clapping her gently by touching the tips of his fingers on the opposite palm. “Some food?”
Her eyes were shining, her whole face suffused by happiness. Even without the diamonds and pearls she glowed this night. She smiled at Culloden and let him lead her to the Old House’s Garden Room where chafing dishes waited for the guests of quality.
The servants who had drawn the short straws of the lottery and thus had to work this evening welcomed them to the Garden Room, held their chairs, then brought plates of food and a cooler of champagne. Lord Culloden had led her to a private table, set in a window alcove that was curtained against the raw night outside. The music was distant now. He smiled at her. “It’s a magnificent Christmas.”
“You really think so?”
“All Christmasses should be like it.”
She laughed, pleased with the compliment. Christmas at Lazen was special to her. “It was better when my mother was alive. She used to dance them all off their feet, all of them!” She smiled. “I was little. I used to watch from the stairs. Toby and I liked to watch the drunks.”
“No one minds them getting drunk?”
She laughed. “It’s Christmas! Some of them have to be taken home in farm carts. Church tomorrow will be groaning with regret.” She sipped her champagne. “You’re sure you’re enjoying it, my Lord? Our country ways are not too crude?”
“Aren’t country pleasures the best?”
It was deftly said. Country pleasures were pleasures of the flesh, the tumbling of bodies in hay, yet he had merely picked up on her words, teased her, and she could do no more than smile.
“Speaking of which,” Lord Culloden went on, “are you riding on Tuesday?”
She nodded, her mouth full of pie.
“Your father,” he said carefully, “would like me to stay through the season.”
She suspected that he wanted her approval for the idea. She gave him a bland answer instead. “The Blues keep you that busy, my Lord?”
He smiled. “I’ll have to go to the regiment for a week or two, just so they don’t forget me. I’d like to stay, though. You must have the fastest
hounds in England!”
“They should be.” Her father, whose accident had been on the hunting field, still had a passion for the sport. He had appointed a huntsman to breed lighter hounds, for even if the Earl could no longer follow the pack he was determined that his guests should be thoroughly rattled by the chase. He was regarded as a dangerous innovator by those who preferred the fatter, staider, more traditional hounds, but it was obvious Lord Culloden liked the quicker sport.
He began talking to her about the Lazen hounds, saying how much sharper the hounds appeared when they were hunted with a few bitch couples among them. She nodded, smiled, made the right responses, but her thoughts, with the dreadful inevitability that she feared, insisted on remembering the sudden, warm touch of the Gypsy and the startling look of those odd blue eyes. She had been astonished by the shiver that had tingled throughout her body as his fingers so lightly gripped hers and passed on. Her uncle had said, before she dressed, that lovers look for small coincidences as signs of heaven’s favor, and she found herself dreaming that the shock of the Gypsy’s touch was just such a sign. Dear Lord, she thought, but this was madness!
Lord Culloden had spoken to her, and she had let the words go straight past her. She looked at him and smiled. “I’m sorry, my Lord?”
“You were miles away,” he said with a smile.
“I was wondering if Carline had remembered the puddings. One year they boiled dry.”
He smiled again. He was looking into her face that was so quick to smile and laugh. “Did you not hear what I said?”
She looked contrite. “Truly not, my Lord.”
He looked down at her ringed hand, then his hooded eyes came up again. He had, she thought, an oddly attractive and crooked smile beneath the moustache. “I hope I offer you no offense, my Lady.”
The Fallen Angels Page 10
