by Jane Godman
“Eddie doesn’t love me, you know.” I was anxious for him to hear the whole story now.
He smiled. “I do know. At least, I know that he does not love you in the way a man should love the woman he chooses to be his wife,” he told me, amusement tingeing his cultured tones. “I may be an invalid, but I still know about the goings-on in my own family. I can see that Eddie depends on you, and that his life is richer for your presence. That is not sufficient reason for marriage, as I am sure you are astute enough to understand. I am well aware, however, that, among my children, it is not Eddie who would be hurt most by your departure.”
We paused just in front of the house and I gazed up at the beautiful facade. Athal House was a testimony to Tynan’s love of beauty, demonstrating to the world that this man had the soul of a poet and the eye of an artist. The inevitability of my forthcoming departure stung. I had never allowed myself to grow close to anyone until I met Eddie. Now, without warning, I had grown to love his family. I should have trusted my instincts and remained alone, because now I did not want to leave this place.
“It cannot have escaped your notice that Cad has a reputation for wildness, Miss Varga.” The words came out of the blue.
“It has not, but what Cad does is not my business, my lord.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “It is true that he has taken great delight in sowing his wild oats.”
It was not an expression I knew, and I felt the frown that wrinkled my brow. “Are you trying to tell me that he is to become a farmer?”
Tynan laughed and shook his head. “I am making a mess of what I am trying to say, so I will keep quiet on the matter. Will you do one thing for me, Miss Varga?”
“Anything,” I replied promptly, and the twinkle lit his eyes once more.
“Will you postpone any decisions about leaving until the new year? I would like Lucy to have the family Christmas she craves, and I know she would be saddened if you left us before then. She has grown fond of you.”
“If Sandor should come…” I began.
“If he has the temerity to come here you will leave him to me,” he said decisively. I hesitated a moment longer and then nodded my agreement. Together, we walked back into the welcoming warmth of Athal House.
* * *
The pretty church of St Petroc dated back to medieval times, although, Tynan informed me as we strolled arm in arm down to the village, the saint himself was of even older lineage. Lucy and Cad had walked on ahead of us and Eleanor remained at home, having pleaded a headache. The village below us nestled in the protective embrace of the cliffs, like a land of slumbering dreams. Viscous sunlight penetrated the bruised clouds, and the smoke from a dozen chimneys rose straight and proud, undisturbed by breezes.
The Jago family were not noted for their religious observation, Tynan informed me. Lucy, however, insisted that her family should attend the Sunday service every week so that the locals could not question their devotion. “There were quite enough rumours of ungodliness abounding during my uncle’s time,” Tynan informed me as we stepped through the arched door of the church and into the marble-chilled gloom beyond. There was something about the way the family spoke of Uther Jago that fascinated and, at the same time, repelled me.
The service was long and uninspiring, and I offered up an apology during my prayers for the fact that my attention was distracted by Cad’s long thigh pressed against mine in the tiny pew we occupied. When we rose to sing a hymn, we shared a book. He held it between us, and I was grateful for his upper arm against my shoulder. It was the only source of warmth in the place. He surprised me by knowing the words to each hymn and singing them in a rich, slightly off-key baritone.
When the service ended, Lucy and Tynan paused to chat with the vicar, and Cad was immediately approached by several simpering young ladies. I moved slightly away, not wishing to give the impression that I had any feelings, one way or another, about this circumstance. The day was mild even though an iron-hard frost gripped the ground. Groups of parishioners stood around, ostensibly discussing the service. In reality, most of them seemed to be discussing Amy Winton’s murder and Nellie Smith’s disappearance.
“They say Miller knows full well who did it and, if it wasn’t for the fancy Jago name and his father’s title, he’d be on his way to the gibbet by now.” The man’s voice reached my ears and I stood very still, not wanting to alert the speaker to my presence.
“Well, he was always a wild one when they were growing up,” a woman answered. “Mr Edward was quieter, although he had a temper on him, as well.”
“Rotten through and through, the lot of them,” the first man said briskly. “Oh, his lordship is a fine man, I’ll grant you, and her ladyship, despite her high-and-mighty ways, does plenty of good for the locals. But, between them, their children have made sure the legends are brought back to life. And some of us are of an age to remember Uther Jago, riding around the neighbourhood on that black stallion of his, and we all know what they said about him.”
“No, what did they say?” A different voice piped up.
“That he was Arwen Jago born again. Arwen Jago, mind you, was so evil the devil wouldn’t spit on him if he was aflame, so it was said. Aye, and the pattern laid down by time is clear. Arwen came back as Uther. Now Uther is back among us again. And killing a few young girls to keep ‘em quiet once he’s had his way…well, that’ll just be part of the fun for our fine Mister Cad.”
“Now then, less of that talk, if you please. Ladies present!”
“Where? I don’t see any…”
The group drifted away out of my earshot. I began to walk toward Tynan and Lucy, when another conversation made me pause.
“Who is she?” It was a woman’s voice, and I was aware of a group of smartly dressed, middle-aged women standing nearby. I knew instinctively that I was the subject of their conversation.
“Well, they say she is to marry Mr Edward. Which sounds better, I suppose, than the truth.” This statement was followed by a slight sniff.
“Rolled up with her, he did, bold as brass and told her ladyship they were to be wed. My daughter’s friend has a niece in service up at the house and she said her ladyship was most put out being as how this fancy bit he had on his arm was well-known in Paris, by all accounts, for being a you-know-what.” I could not see the speaker, but I could picture her lemon-sour expression.
“No! You mean she—for money? Well, I never! And her turned out so fancy and her face so pretty. Although, I did think she looked mighty cosy with Mr Cad Jago this morning, mind. Perhaps when Mr Eddie gets fed up he might pass her along? Keep it in the family…” A chorus of shocked titters followed this remark.
Enough. Blindly, my feet found the path and I hurried along it. Tears burned the back of my eyelids and I angrily blinked them away. I had heard worse, so why was I letting it affect me so much this time? My mind turned to my Cornish mother and the anguish she would have suffered if she had heard those words spoken about me by her countrywomen. And, as if making an automatic connection, I thought of Lucy and her kindness to me. I would not, for all the world, want to cause her to feel a similar shame.
“Dita!” Cad called out to me, but I hurried on, keeping my head bent. When he drew level with me, he caught my arm, halting my brisk stride and swinging me round to face him. His eyes scanned my face and, to my annoyance, I felt a single tear slide down my cheek. “I heard what they said.”
“It isn’t true.” Suddenly it mattered that he, of all people, should know that. “I have never—I wouldn’t—”
“Christ, Dita, I know that.” We were out of sight of the church, having rounded the curve of the bay. He drew me into his arms and, gradually, the trembling in my limbs subsided. “Those evil old cats have nothing better to do all day than gossip. And the Jagos are a source of endless fascination for their razor tongues. If they can’t find something to talk about, they’ll make it up. You should hear some of the activities they ascribe to me. Mind you,” he said
, slipping a finger under my chin so that I was forced to look up at him. “Most of those are true. Besides, nobody knows better than I do that, if you did charge for your favours, you’d be the richest woman in England. No, don’t try and look prim, it doesn’t suit you.” I relented and gave a watery chuckle. “That’s better. Come on, we’ve done our duty. Let’s go home.” With a pang of sadness, I realised that it did not feel strange anymore for me to call Athal House my home, too.
It was much later when the memory of the first conversation I had overheard made itself felt like a chill and sudden gust blowing off a distant sea. This was a land of legend and superstition, I told myself briskly. Cad was right. Stories about the local nobility would always be the juiciest source of gossip. And I clung persistently to that explanation for what I had overheard, despite a cold worm of doubt that tried to twist itself into my mind.
* * *
In my dream, I stood at the cliff’s edge, so close to infinity that my heart soared painfully out over the ocean. The wind plastered the thin fabric of my dress to my legs and tugged the pins from my hair. And I waited, lifting my face to receive the moon’s caress. When the hoofbeats came at last, they were in time with my heart. The black stallion halted beside me. Eagerly, I took the strong hand that reached down to me. The rider swung me easily up before him and I slid my arms about his waist. My cheek pressed against his chest and I felt his triumphant laugh vibrate through my whole body.
I don’t know where we rode or for how long. The midnight landscape flashed by in a blur. The mighty stallion clung faithfully to the outline of the cliff, its hooves now and then skittering dangerously close to the sheer drop. This moon-drenched land belonged to us. The night air was sweet with the tang of spray and cold. Below us the grating roar of pebbles flung against the cliffs by maddened waves accompanied the pounding rhythm of our ride.
The sleepy tranquillity of dawn was approaching when I slid from the saddle and gazed up at my companion. He gave me a flash of the same fallen-angel smile I had seen when he stood at my bedside. Then he was gone.
I awoke late that day and felt curiously rested and content. Details of the dream surfaced slowly, and I stretched luxuriously, exulting in the memory. Running a hand through my hair, I found it a tangled, salt-sticky mess. My lips tasted of the sea and my face felt wind-scorched. The sense of well-being that had engulfed me vanished and, with jerky, uncoordinated movements, I rose from my bed. It was nonsensical, I told myself, studying my windswept appearance in the mirror, to imagine it was anything more than a dream. My sleep had been restless, that was all. There was nothing sinister in that. I could not possibly have been on a wild night’s ride with the ghost of Uther Jago. Could I?
Chapter Nine
He turns his mind resolutely away from the girl. The young one who held a basket in one hand and struggled to keep her bonnet in place with the other. She had looked up at him with timid eyes and reddening cheeks. “Thank you, sir.” The shyly whispered words had been her last. But, no! Do not think of her. She was a mistake. That was why he had hidden her away instead of displaying her like his other grotesque works of art. Think of them, the nameless whores who hoisted their skirts for the first man to toss them a coin.
A different picture intrudes into his mind. A woman’s face. So beautiful you can’t not look at her. He clings to her familiar image, as dear and comforting to him as a remembered kiss.
“Dita.” No sooner has he breathed her name than he feels his master reach into his brain with hell-black fingers, probing and twisting.
“Forget her. She is a treacherous bitch.” The voice drips menace.
“No,” he whispers weakly, but the pressure building inside his skull is too great. Even for Dita, he cannot fight his master.
“Yes, I tell you. Just like all the others, she uses her womanhood to get what she wants. To trap an unsuspecting man into spilling his seed inside her whore’s body so that her belly is filled with the only thing she really craves. Now put the Hungarian slut out of your mind and do as I say. You have more work to do this night.”
* * *
I reached the bottom of the stairs as Porter, with a long-suffering expression, was eying a large box that had just been delivered. “From the estate of Lady Una Jago,” he said, distaste making his thin lips disappear. “Cousin of his lordship’s father, a lady who passed away a month or two ago. She liked to hoard.”
Lucy appeared then and requested the butler carry the offending item into the parlour. “Lady Una fancied herself as something of a family archivist,” she told me when the box had been placed on a side table and Porter had cut through its seals with a letter opener. “I have no idea what is in here, but her will apparently left certain items to Tynan. I told him I would see what the contents are and decide how best to dispose of them.”
The box contained a number of paintings, each wrapped in several protective layers of newspaper. Lucy drew them out of the box and I removed the paper, lining the pictures up on the table so that they could be clearly seen. The first picture, by far the largest, depicted a man, standing on a wide staircase with a stained-glass window behind him. He was tall and powerful with hair as dark as a raven’s wing and eyes that glittered gold even on canvas. There was a masculine grace about his beauty that lent it a sharp, pure edge so that it was hard to look away from him. His clothes were from another century and the artist had skilfully captured the careless arrogance that oozed from his every pore.
“Arwen Jago,” Lucy said quietly, gazing at the picture. I had overheard that name after the church service but knew nothing else of him. Yet, for some reason I could not explain, a chill—almost of recognition—ran through me. The face staring back at me from within the gilt-edged frame could have been Cad’s.
“Who was he?”
“At the time of the Restoration, he was a member of the clergy. He was the younger brother of the earl, until he tired of that situation and murdered his brother. His reputation for evil was legendary. The most famous account of his infamy is the story of a young girl called Lucia.” She smiled at the surprise on my face. “I was named after her,” she explained. “My mother was a distant cousin of the Jagos, so she knew the tale well. While out hunting one day, Arwen is said to have encountered Lucia in a nearby glade. He was stunned by her unearthly beauty and offered her money to become his mistress. When she refused, he abducted her and locked her in a tower at Castle Tenebris. He became obsessed with her, to the point where he eschewed all other women. Which was remarkable, since he had previously had a veritable harem of lovers. He must have thought he had tamed her because he began to allow her a little freedom, and Lucia escaped. He hunted her down like one of the deer he loved to kill. He found her in the glade where he had first seen her, and when she told him she didn’t love him, he killed her by firing an arrow into her eye.”
I shuddered. “How horrid.”
“But then he was seized with remorse. Not remorse that he had committed murder, you understand. That was nothing new to Arwen Jago. No, his regret was that he had lost Lucia, whom he believed he loved, and he felt his life was meaningless without her. His sadness was for himself. Legend tells us that he leapt from his horse and ran to her, only to find that her body had vanished. Arwen shrieked wild curses to the skies and swore that he would find her again. He is said to have made a pact with Satan involving the sacrifice of children. In return for their innocent blood, the devil promised him eternal life so that he could be reunited with Lucia throughout the ages to come.”
“I can see why you would not want his portrait on display in your home,” I said, studying the painting with renewed interest. “But the likeness is remarkable.”
“I know. He exulted in it.” Trancelike, she reached out a finger to trace the contours of the high cheekbones. With an odd little laugh, she shook herself, adding, “You mean his resemblance to Cad is remarkable, don’t you? I was thinking of someone else.” Resolutely, she lifted the painting and, turning it away from he
r, propped it against the wall. The action restored her composure.
The next items were a pair of cameo portraits in matching silver frames. Lucy placed them side-by-side on the table. Curious, I glanced at the one nearest to me. My breath caught in my throat.
“That’s odd,” I commented, keeping my voice carefully under control. “This picture of Arwen Jago appears to be of a much later date than the other one.”
“That isn’t Arwen Jago. It’s Tynan’s uncle, Uther Jago.” Her voice was curiously flat. My eyes were irresistibly drawn to the man in the portrait. Uther’s image unnerved me for two reasons. Firstly, the artist had captured an impression of a stunningly handsome man. Secondly, a faint, familiar scar marred his left cheek. Lucy nodded, misinterpreting the surprise in my eyes. “Cad is the living spit of Uther. Who, in turn, was said by many to be Arwen restored to life. So very alike they were. Uther enjoyed the comparison, but Cad does not,” she said quietly. Her eyes were troubled, and I wondered why her son’s resemblance to his great-uncle and another ancestor should cause her such apparent pain. But my mind was preoccupied with the shadowy figure I had seen at my bedside. At the time I had dismissed it as a hallucination induced by my illness. Suddenly, I was less sure.
Thoughts of Uther Jago were quickly driven from my mind, however. With a hand that shook slightly, I reached for the other silver-framed picture. The woman it depicted was—without doubt—the woman I had seen on my balcony. It slipped from my uncertain hand and clattered back onto the table.
“What is it, Dita?” Lucy’s voice was full of concern as she scanned my face.
“Who is she?” I asked, pointing to the miniature with a hand that, despite my efforts, still refused to remain steady.
“Demelza Jago,” she replied. “Tynan’s aunt. She died in the fire that destroyed Tenebris on our wedding night. Why, my dear!” She reached out to clasp my hand. “You have gone quite dreadfully pale. Are you feeling unwell again? Can I get you something?”
