Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  “That’s ridiculous.” Ceecliff leaned forward and, picking up Jo’s cup, put it into her hands. “Drink that and listen to me. You’re getting things out of perspective.”

  “Am I?” Jo bit her lip. “Either Nick or Sam lied to me and I don’t know which.”

  “All men are liars, Jo.” Ceecliff smiled sadly. “Haven’t you discovered that yet?”

  The rain was growing stronger now, releasing the warm scents of wet earth that reached them even through the conservatory windows. Jo could see Nick hastily stacking the deck chairs in the summerhouse.

  “That’s a bit cynical, even for you, Grandma.” She reached forward and touched the old woman’s hand as Nick sprinted back toward them across the grass. Behind him the horizon flickered and shifted slightly before Jo’s eyes. She blinked, watching as he opened the door and came in, shaking himself like a dog. He was laughing as she handed him a cup of coffee. “You’re soaked, Nick,” she said sharply. “You’d better take off your shirt or you’ll get pneumonia or something.”

  He spooned some sugar into the cup and sat down beside her. “It’ll soon dry off, it’s so hot. Go on with what you were telling us at lunch, Ceecliff, about Jo’s grandfather.”

  Ceecliff leaned back against the cushions on her chair. “I wish you remembered him better, Jo, but you were only a little girl when he died. He used to love talking about his ancestors and the Clifford family tree, which was more of a forest, he used to say. The trouble is, I never used to listen all that carefully. It bored me. It was about yesterday and I wanted to live today.” She paused as another zigzag of lightning flickered behind the walnut tree. “I didn’t realize how soon the present becomes the past. Perhaps I’d have listened more if I had.” She laughed ruefully. “Sorry. You’ll have to allow for an old lady’s maudlin tendencies. Now, what I was saying was that hearing you talking about your William de Braose being a baron on the Welsh borders reminded me that of course that is where the Clifford family originally came from. I’ll find Reggie’s papers and give them to you, Jo. You might as well have them, and you may find them interesting now you have decided the past could have something to recommend it, even if it is only a handsome son of the Clares.” Again the impish twinkle. She sighed. “But now you are going to have to excuse me because I am going to lie down for a couple of hours. One of the compensations of old age is being able to admit to being tired and then do something about it.” With Nick’s help she pulled herself out of the low chair in which she had been sitting and walked back slowly into the house.

  “She’s not tired,” Jo said as soon as she was out of hearing. “She has ten times more energy than I have.”

  “She thinks she is being tactful.” Nick stooped over the tray and poured himself another cup of coffee. “She thinks we should be given the chance to be alone.”

  “How wrong she is then,” Jo said quickly. She flinched as another shaft of lightning crossed the sky. It was followed by a distant rumble of thunder. “There’s nothing we need to talk about that she wouldn’t be welcome to join in.” The heaviness of the afternoon was closing over her, dragging her down. Her eyelids were leaden. She forced them open.

  Nick was standing with his back to her, looking at the rain sweeping in across the garden. “I do have to talk to you alone,” he said slowly. “And I think you know it.”

  Jo moved across to her grandmother’s vacated chair and threw herself into it. “Well, now is not the moment. Oh, God, how I hate thunder! It’s thundered practically every day this week!”

  Nick turned and looked at her. “You never used to mind it.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean I’m afraid of it. It just makes me feel so headachy and tense. Perhaps I’m just tired. I was working all last night.” She closed her eyes.

  Nick put down his cup. He moved to stand behind her chair, and, gently resting his hands on her shoulders, he began to massage the back of her neck with his thumbs.

  Jo relaxed, feeling the warmth of his fingers through the thin silk of her dress, the circling motion easing the pain in her head as a squall of wind beneath the storm center sent a flurry of rain against the glass of the conservatory.

  Suddenly she stiffened. For a moment she could not breathe. She tried to open her eyes but the hands on her shoulders had slipped forward, encircling her throat, pressing her windpipe till she was choking. She half rose, grasping at his wrists, fighting him in panic, clawing at his face and arms, then, as another rumble of thunder cut through the heat of the afternoon, she felt herself falling.

  Frantically she tried to catch her breath, but it was no use. Her arms were growing heavy and there was a strange buzzing in her ears.

  Why, Nick, why?

  Her lips framed the words, but no sound came as slowly she began the long spiral down into suffocating blackness.

  11

  Two faces swam before her gaze. Absently she tried to focus on them, her mind groping with amorphous images as first one pair of eyes and then the other floated toward her, merged, then drifted apart once more. The mouths beneath the eyes were moving. They were speaking, but she couldn’t hear them; she couldn’t think. All she could feel was the dull pain of the contusions that fogged her throat.

  Experimentally she tried to speak, but nothing happened as she raised a hand toward one of the faces—the blue eyes, the red-gold moustache, the deep furrowed lines across the forehead coming sharply into focus. It drew back out of reach and she groped toward the other. It was younger, smoother, the eyes lighter.

  “I’ve phoned Dr. Graham.” A woman’s voice spoke near her, the diction clear, echoing in the hollow spaces of her head. “He was at home, thank God, not on that damn golf course! He’ll be here in five minutes. How is she?”

  Jo frowned. Ceecliff. That was Ceecliff, standing close to her, behind the two men.

  She breathed in slowly and saw her grandmother’s face near hers. Swallowing painfully, she tried once more to speak. “What happened?” she managed to murmur after a moment.

  As Ceecliff sat down beside her Jo realized she was lying on the sofa in the dimly lit living room. Her grandmother’s cool, dry hand took hers.

  “You fainted, you silly girl. Just like a Victorian miss!”

  “Who’s there?” Jo looked past her into the shadows.

  “It’s me, Jo.” Nick’s voice was taut.

  “Why is it so dark?” Jo levered herself up against the cushions, her head spinning.

  “There’s the mother and father of a storm going on, dear,” Ceecliff said after a moment. “It’s dark as doomsday in here. Put the lights on, Nick.” Her voice sharpened.

  The three table lamps threw a warm, wintry light in the humid bleakness of the room. Through the windowpanes the sound of the rain was deafening on the broad leaves of the hostas in the bed outside.

  “Where’s the doctor?” Jo stared around.

  “He’s not here yet, Jo.” Ceecliff smiled at her gravely.

  “But I saw him—”

  “No, dear.” Ceecliff glanced at Nick. “Listen. That must be his car now.” Above the sound of the rain they could all hear the scrunch of tires on the gravel. Moments later the glass door of the entrance hall opened and a stout figure let himself into the hall.

  Ceecliff stood up. She met David Graham in the dim, heavily beamed dining room, which smelled of potpourri and roses, and put her finger to her lips.

  “It’s my granddaughter, David,” she murmured as he shook himself like a dog and shed his raincoat on the mellow oak boards.

  David Graham was a fair-haired man of about sixty, dressed, despite the heat, in a tweed jacket and woolen tie. He kissed her fondly. “It’s probably the storm, Celia. They affect some people like this, you know. Unless it’s your cooking. You haven’t been giving her that curry you gave Jocelyn and me, have you?” He did not wait to see her mock indignation. His bag in his hand, he was already moving toward the door of the living room.

  Nick smiled down at Jo uncertainly. “I’ll leave yo
u both to it, shall I?”

  “Please.” David Graham looked at him searchingly for a moment, noting the tension of Nick’s face—tension and exhaustion, and something else. Putting down his bag beside Jo, he waited until Nick had closed the door behind him. Guilt, that was it; Nick Franklyn had looked guilty.

  He sat down beside Jo and grinned at her, picking up her wrist.

  “Do you make a habit of this sort of thing, my dear?” he asked quietly.

  Jo shook her head. “It’s never happened before. I’m beginning to feel such a fraud. It’s just the storm, I’m sure. They always make me feel strung up and headachy.”

  “And you’re not pregnant as far as you know?” He smiled.

  “Certainly not! And before you ask, I’ve given up smoking. Nearly.”

  “There’s something wrong with your throat?”

  She moved away from him slightly on the sofa. “A bit painful, that’s all. I expect I’m getting a cold.”

  “Humph.” The doctor bent to open his bag. He withdrew a wooden tongue depressor. “Open up. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  Her throat was agony. Not sore. Not raw, but bruised and aching. Without registering any emotion at all the doctor put down the tongue depressor and reached for a thermometer. When it was in her mouth he brought his hands up gently to her neck, and, brushing aside her hair, he felt beneath her ears and under her chin with cool, impersonal fingers.

  Jo could feel her hands shaking. “What is it?” she said as soon as she could speak.

  He held the thermometer up to the green-shaded table lamp and squinted viciously as he tried to see the mercury. “I’m always telling Celia to get some proper lights in this damn room. In the evening you can’t tell your gin from the goldfish water. It is ninety-eight point four, which is exactly what it ought to be. Your pulse is a bit above average for a Sunday afternoon, even in a storm, though. Let’s try some blood pressure, shall we?”

  “But my throat?” Jo said. “What’s wrong with my throat?”

  “Nothing that I can see.” He was rummaging in his bag. “Where does it hurt?”

  “It aches. Here.” She raised her hand to her neck while her eyes focused on the little pump in his hand as he inflated the cuff around her arm.

  It was all coming back to her. She had been in the conservatory with Nick. He had stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, then slowly he—or somebody—had slid them up around her throat and begun to squeeze…She could remember what happened quite clearly now. It was Nick. It had to have been Nick. No one else was there. Nick had tried to kill her! She felt sick. Nick wouldn’t hurt her. It wasn’t possible. It must have all been some hideous nightmare. She swallowed painfully. But it was too real for a nightmare.

  She realized suddenly that the doctor was watching her face and turned away sharply. “Is it high?” she asked as he folded away his equipment.

  “A little, perhaps. Nothing to get excited about.” He paused. “Something is wrong, my dear, isn’t it? You look worried. Is there something you ought to be telling me?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing, Dr. Graham. Except that perhaps I should own up to a few late nights, working. I expect that could make me feel a bit odd, couldn’t it?”

  He frowned. “I expect it could.” He waited as though he expected her to say more. When she didn’t he went on. “I can’t explain the throat. Perhaps you’re getting one of these summer viruses. Gargle. That will help, and I suggest you take it easy for a bit. Spend a few days here, perhaps.” Smiling, he stood up. “Not that Celia is my idea of a peaceful companion, but this is a good house to rest in. It’s a happy house. Better than London, I’ll be bound. If it happens again, go to see your own doctor.”

  “Thank you.” After pushing herself up, Jo managed to stand. Outside the window there was another pale flicker of lightning. “I’m sorry my grandmother called you out in this.”

  He laughed as he picked up his bag. “If she hadn’t I’d have slept through it and kicked myself for not closing the vents in the greenhouse, so she did me a favor! Now, remember what I said. Take it easy for a bit. And do see your own doctor if you go on feeling at all unwell…” He gave her a piercing glance, then with a nod he turned to the door.

  As soon as he had stepped out into the hall Jo turned to the sideboard. The lamp shed a green, muted light behind it toward the mirror, and, tipping the shade violently so that the naked light of the bulb shone into her face, Jo stood on tiptoe, peering at the glass. Her reflection was white and stark, her eyes shadowed and huge in the uncompromising light. Leaning forward, she held her hair up away from her neck and peered at it. Her skin looked normal. There were no marks there.

  “Jo! You’re burning the silk on that shade!” Ceecliff’s cry made her jump. Hastily she put it straight, noticing guiltily the brown mark already showing on the lining. She could smell the scorched fabric.

  “What on earth were you doing?”

  “Just looking at my throat.” Jo glanced behind her grandmother. “Where is Nick?”

  “He’s holding an umbrella over David while he gets in the car. I suppose you won’t do what David suggests and stay here for a few days?”

  Jo sighed. “You know I can’t. I’m too busy.”

  “Then you’ll have some tea before you let Nick drive you home—”

  “No!”

  Ceecliff stared at her in astonishment. “Jo, dear—”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt.” Jo swallowed. “It’s just that I don’t want Nick to drive me.”

  “Well, you can’t drive yourself, Joey. David was quite clear about that.” Ceecliff’s tone was surprisingly firm. “You stay here or you go with Nick.”

  Jo glanced toward the door. Her lips had gone dry. She took a deep breath. “Who was the man in here as I came round?”

  Ceecliff had turned away, patting her injured lampshade with a proprietorial hand. “There was no one else in here, Jo. Only Nick and I.”

  Jo crossed to the door, steadying herself with her hand on the back of a chair. Swiftly she closed it. Leaning against it, she looked at Ceecliff.

  “Someone tried to strangle me this afternoon.”

  Her grandmother pursed her lips. “Jo, dear—”

  “I am not imagining it. Out there in the conservatory. Nick was massaging my shoulders. Then—” She shrugged wildly. “Someone tried to kill me!”

  “Nick was the only person there, Jo.” Ceecliff came toward her slowly and put her hands on Jo’s arms. “Are you accusing Nick?” She was scandalized.

  “No, of course not.” Jo’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

  “Did you tell David all this?”

  “I said my neck hurt.” Jo shook her head.

  “I think he would have been able to tell, Jo, if anyone had tried to kill you. There would have been bruises on your throat for one thing.” Ceecliff moved toward the sofa and sat down on the edge of it. “I think Nick was right to be worried about this hypnosis, Jo. You are too susceptible—”

  Jo flung herself away from the door. “This has nothing to do with the hypnosis! I wasn’t imagining it! You would know if someone had tried to kill you!” She put her hands to her throat. “There was someone else there. Someone else, Ceecliff. It can’t have been Nick. He wouldn’t…He wouldn’t want to kill me. Besides, there was someone else in the room when I woke up. You must have seen him. You must! For God’s sake, he was standing right behind Nick!”

  “Joey, there was no one there,” Ceecliff said gently. “If there had been, I would have seen him.”

  “You think I’m imagining it?”

  “I think you’re tired, emotionally upset, and what we as children used to call thunder-strung.” Ceecliff smiled.

  She turned as Nick pushed open the door. He went straight to Jo, who had tensed nervously as he came into the room. “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” She forced herself to smile at him.

  “But she is going to l
et you drive her back, Nick, after you’ve both had some tea,” Ceecliff said firmly. “She can come and pick up her car another time.”

  Jo swallowed. Her eyes had gone automatically to Nick’s hands, resting on the back of the chair. They were firm, strong hands, tanned from sailing, slightly stained now, with lichen from the rain-soaked wood of the summerhouse door.

  As if feeling her gaze on them, Nick slipped them into the pockets of his jeans. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “I’ve never had a woman faint at my feet before. It was all very dramatic. And you still look very pale.”

  Ceecliff stood up. “She’s fine,” she said firmly. “You know where the kitchen is, Nick? Go and put the kettle on for me, there’s a dear. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  As he left the room, Jo caught her hand. “Don’t tell Nick what I said, will you? He’ll think it is something to do with the hypnosis too, and I’m not going to fight with him all the way back to London.”

  Ceecliff smiled. “I shan’t tell him, Jo. But I think you should,” she said slowly. “I really think you should.”

  ***

  The storm crackled viciously across Hyde Park, highlighting the lush green of the trees against the bruised sky. Sam stood looking out of the window of Nick’s apartment in South Audley Street, feeling the claustrophobia of London all around him. He sighed. If it weren’t for that keyhole glimpse of the park up the narrow street in front of the apartment, he would not be able to stay here. It calmed and restored the quiet sanity of self-perception. He spared a moment’s regretful thought for his high-ceilinged apartment in Edinburgh with its glorious view across the Queen’s Park toward the Salisbury Crags, then, turning from the window, he drew the curtains against the storm and switched on the light. After throwing himself down on the sofa, he picked up his third glass of Scotch and reached for the pile of books stacked on the coffee table.

  The first that came to hand was A History of Wales by John Edward Lloyd, MA, volume two. After turning to the index, he began to look for William de Braose.