Fortune's Soldier (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 3)

by Deryn Lake

  Everyone was at readiness: the bridegroom and best man dressed to the hilt, the bridesmaid bright-eyed in the porch, the Reverend William Pearson, Prayer Book well in hand, all with one purpose. All waiting for the moment when Lady Horatia Waldegrave would sweep up in her carriage, accompanied by her stepfather, Mr Hicks, and descend at the doors of St Nicholas, Guildford.

  The organ, throbbing out chords of melodious nothingness in the background, was part of the somnolent atmosphere until it suddenly played a solitary, high, clear note at which the cheerful carillon of bells in the steeple was hushed.

  ‘She’s here,’ hissed everyone, with enough volume to send a whirlpool whisper running from font to altar rail and back. There was a murmur of voices in the porch — the vicar saying, ‘How dee do?’; Ida Anna piping, ‘You look lovely.’ And then the music changed.

  Jackdaw knew, of course. Knew, even before he had turned his head, that destiny had taken its inevitable twist and that Horatia Waldegrave, whom he had always loved but never met, stood behind him in a great cascade of swirling satin and organza ruffles, her veil of silk tulle held in place by the Waldegrave tiara.

  As he turned, so did John Joseph, and they stood together staring at the bride who made her way slowly up the aisle, holding the arm of her stepfather and looking modestly — and most uncharacteristically — at the ground.

  Aware of his lapse of manners, Jackdaw moved his head, but Horatia must have sensed this because she suddenly looked up. Very briefly their eyes met. They brimmed recognition at each other and then, quite deliberately, she turned her gaze to John Joseph who now stood, every inch a soldier, his face correctly and stalwartly turned towards the altar.

  In that moment Jackdaw was aware of everything: knew that she knew him — but really did not. Knew that she was full of love for her bridegroom and that this was what was meant by his gaining everything — and losing all. He had found his soulmate at last but she was going to another man.

  In the silence that followed, the opening words of the marriage ceremony were spoken and within minutes, or so it seemed to him, Jackdaw passed John Joseph the gold ring that was to bind Horatia to his greatest friend.

  And then how the organ cried out! With merry shout it told all the world that the master of Sutton Place and his bride were coming out into the fresh clean morning and heading for the mansion house that had belonged to his kinsfolk for over three hundred years.

  As the gates swung open the lodge keeper and his family waved their caps and kerchiefs before the carriage bearing the bride and groom. And further up the drive, at the point where the little bridge crossed the River Wey, an enormous daisy chain had been hung from one post to the other, completely barring the way. The only four children left on the estate — Jay and three of the other Blanchards — stood there demanding toll from Horatia.

  And she was not found wanting. John Joseph had warned her the night before and inside her reticule was crammed a sticky bag of sweets.

  ‘God bless you, Missus,’ said Jay, in his funny, touchingly gruff little voice. ‘God bless you, Master.’

  He made a jerky bow and John Joseph saw that the child — probably for the first time in its life — was wearing an enormous pair of lace-up boots.

  The daisy chain was removed and the cavalcade of carriages — a dozen in all — swept on up the drive and clattered into the courtyard, only to see that more guests had arrived and were standing before the open Middle Enter, waving and cheering. Horatia simply could not believe that Frances — her double sister-in-law, dressed in starkest widow’s weeds — was there on the arm of a very redoubtable and very elderly gentleman who, quite clearly, was old enough to be her father but whose feelings were far from paternal.

  And romance was in the air not only for the Widow Waldegrave, for also present — very grande dame and eccentric — was Uncle William’s second wife, Mrs Sarah Milward of Hastings, standing with General and the Hon Helen Wardlaw. The sight of Frances prompted Horatia to whisper, ‘I think there may be another Waldegrave bride soon.’

  John Joseph glanced at the newcomers from the carriage window as Old Blanchard lowered the step and came to a shaky salute. And it was thus that he caught Cloverella’s eye.

  She was dressed in crimson from head to foot, her frock sweeping the cobbles below, a gold-threaded shawl about her shoulders and gold ribbons tying up her brown hair. And he saw that she held something in her hand and was looking at it, smiling and winking, and then looking back at John Joseph.

  ‘Welcome to the bride of Sutton Place,’ she called out in a loud clear voice and, as Horatia set her satin-pumped foot on the ground, Cloverella made an extravagant gesture. The witch girl knelt on the stones, picked up the hem of the bridal gown and kissed it. Then from the pocket of her dress she produced her flute and a silver ring with a green eye worked into its flat broad surface.

  ‘Wear this, my Lady,’ she said, ‘and no ill-luck will visit thee.’

  It was hideous, quite the most monstrous gift with which a bride could be presented. Nonetheless Horatia slipped it on next to her wedding band and, bending over, helped Cloverella up and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said John Joseph, ‘there are refreshments within. The second ceremony will take place in half an hour.’

  ‘And I shall pipe in the happy couple,’ added Cloverella.

  Once again she muttered something to the thing she carried in her hand and, for a fleeting second, John Joseph thought he caught a glimpse of a waxen doll. But when he looked again he saw there was nothing and knew he must be mistaken. Not even Cloverella would bring such a heathenish thing to a wedding.

  Meanwhile Jay, who had removed his boots, came running up the drive with the other children, and a wonderfully natural thing occurred. Jackdaw, quite forgetting the occasion, caught his first glimpse of the child whose parentage was so doubtful and, turning to John Joseph, raised his eyebrows. The bridegroom, also forgetting himself, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Then they grinned at one another like naughty boys who had once gone in for a night of education with the Misses Fitz. They were in total harmony. Jackdaw would never, could never, do a thing to harm his friend.

  But oh how he loved the bride! Everything about her, now that he had seen her closely, enraptured him. Her immense physical beauty, her unconventional approach to life, her utter fearlessness ...

  He closed his mind, deliberately shuttered it off, and listened to the notes of Cloverella’s flute as Jay, dancing barefoot around his mother, caught the coins that the jovial wedding guests threw to him. Then he watched as they processed into the Great Hall before the Roman Catholic ceremony began in what had once been the great Long Gallery of Sutton Place.

  An hour later it was all over; John Joseph and Horatia had been married twice and had been pronounced man and wife by vicar, priest and registrar. Their two wedding certificates had been signed: the Anglican by Lady Waldegrave, Uncle Thomas Monington, Mr Hicks and John Fearon, a school friend of John Joseph’s; the Catholic simply by Algernon and Uncle Thomas. The same wedding band had been slipped on her finger, passed by Jackdaw — dying for love, and saying not a word.

  It was time for the wedding breakfast. On the top table sat Uncle William and Mrs Milward, pretty little Frances with her elderly suitor, who turned out to be George Granville Harcourt, not only Member of Parliament for Oxfordshire but a wealthy widower into the bargain. And, of course, the Dowager Countess and Mr Hicks, the latter very fine in a black morning coat, white frilly shirt and black and white spotted cravat.

  Toasts were drunk in champagne, feasts were made of lobster, game birds, and various pies, with cheeses and a dozen different desserts; while those on the lower table — the Blanchards, Cloverella, the lodge keeper and all the children — drank strong ale.

  At length John Joseph rose to make his speech. In the pocket of her dress Cloverella turned the waxen image of him. She was determined to use all her power to make him love Horatia. She had
vanquished Marguerite Dawe and now she summoned all the old forces of magic into play.

  Cloverella did not know the meaning of jealousy. To her all was natural. The taking of a lover, the passing on to another, was merely the re-echoing of seasons. In that sense she was amoral — and yet she was the most highly principled of them all. She would never do a deliberately harmful thing. She believed in the old religion; she believed in nature taking its true and purposeful course.

  Now she listened and smiled as John Joseph said, ‘My Lord, my Ladies, ladies and gentlemen — I thank you all so much for being here today. I promise you that though Horatia and I will be, in a week’s time, some distance from you, we will never be apart from you in our thoughts. I thank you for both coming to our wedding — or should I say weddings? — and coming here, to Sutton Place, to toast our health.

  ‘I know that I am the luckiest man in the world and I promise to serve Horatia as she deserves. In other words, with all the loyalty of which I am capable. May I ask the assembled company to rise as I give you the toast: my beautiful bride — Horatia Webbe Weston.’

  Anne Waldegrave Hicks patted at her eyes and Frances snuggled, smilingly, into the arm of Mr Harcourt. Mrs Milward, on the other hand, shouted out very loudly, ‘Good for you, Sir. I wish there were more bridegrooms of your ilk.’ And from the lower table Cloverella called, ‘Here’s long life and happiness to the pair. What say you?’

  Everybody pledged their cup, rising to their feet to do so. And Jackdaw drained his glass with the rest. He wished them that — long life, happiness, everything they could desire.

  As dusk fell the guests left Sutton Place. Flambeaux were lit and thrust into holders to show the revellers their way and it was then that Mr Hicks, happy and bouncing, said to his wife, ‘By jingo, Anne, the deed is done.’ And in reply to her enquiry explained, ‘We’re to live in Sutton Place. I’m going to sign the agreement with the agents on Monday. We will take over as soon as John Joseph and Horatia leave for Austria. What do you think?’

  Looking up at the great house — into which four Strawberry Hills could have fitted quite easily — the Dowager Countess shivered visibly.

  ‘Do you not think it might be too large for us? After all, there will only be you and me and Ida Anna.’

  Her husband looked anxious, bearing the expression that always made her want to pat him.

  ‘Well, in that case, my dearest ...’

  ‘No, Algy. I am only being foolish. I know you fell in love with the place years ago.’

  He beamed merrily. ‘Yes, at Francis’s wedding to be precise. But I would not wish to foist my caprice on you.’ Behind them the house — with John Joseph and Horatia framed in the Middle Enter, waving goodbye to the guests — vanished as they rounded the bend in the drive.

  ‘It will be all right, Algy. It will help John Joseph — and so Horatia too — and I know it will please you. Pray proceed.’

  ‘Very well, sweetheart. I shall.’

  And with that they fell into silence and stared out of the carriage windows to where the sapphire sky glowed blue over Sutton Forest.

  And it was at that same sky that the bridal couple gazed as Old Blanchard shot home the bolts on the huge door and bade them good night, before they quietly took each other’s hand and, in their wedding clothes, walked up the smaller staircase to the chamber at the back of the house which had once belonged to Melior Mary Weston. Here Cloverella and the gardener had excelled themselves. It seemed that there were a thousand white blossoms in the room — though in reality it was probably barely a hundred — and the old four poster bed had been hung with new lace curtains, woven round with satin ribbons.

  ‘How beautiful,’ said Horatia.

  ‘Like you — it befits you.’

  ‘John Joseph,’ said his bride, ‘I am afraid.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ he answered. ‘Come here and sit with me on the sofa.’

  ‘I have heard some women say — though never my mother — that they must bear men’s appetites.’

  Her bridegroom laughed out loud at that.

  ‘Some women may forbear — but not you, Horatia. Not you, my wild fox. You were born to know love’s great fierce beauty.’

  Then he would say no more, gathering her into his arms and kissing her mouth and her neck until, at last, she grew languorous. Then, after a while, he moved her gently closer to him, and unfastened the white dress, letting his lips run down to the now naked nipples, down to the perfect breasts, the roundest and firmest and finest he had ever seen.

  He was ready for her — hard and strong and more than able to initiate her to womanhood. But he was too kind to hurry her. Instead he coaxed her to her feet, so that the dress swathed down, mermaid-like, to her ankles and she stood there in her shift, the bridal veil still upon her head. Then he, too, stood up and slowly removed her stockings, her veiling; every last thing she had on.

  Now at last he saw her — one glorious curve following upon another, a constant harmony from neck to shoulder to breast, waist and hip.

  ‘You are so beautiful, Horatia,’ he said. ‘Stay like that in the firelight.’

  And as she watched him, he undressed too, and she saw that he was the opposite of herself; muscular, powerful and with a great shaft that both horrified and fascinated her.

  ‘Come to bed,’ he said. ‘I promise not to hurt you.’

  But he did — he could not help it! As he claimed the most secret part of her body for his, she could have cried out at the strength of his thrusting. But, at last, the pain ended and there came a faint throbbing between her thighs which seemed to grow in intensity and insistence.

  Hearing her gasp John Joseph moved relentlessly, pinioning her where she would have escaped him.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said again.

  And her shout of ecstasy was his reward as the bride of Sutton Place tasted passion — raw and sweet and unashamed — upon her sweat-beaded and newly-awakened body.

  19

  The packet boat had become a blob on the horizon and a summer shower had blown in from the sea before Jackdaw finally turned away from the quayside, wet through. To say he was sick at heart would have minimized how he was feeling. He had not cried for years; not since Marie had been killed. But now he wept like a child.

  Climbing up the gangplank, going away from him on to the steamer that ran regularly between England and France, had been John Joseph and Horatia. And Jackdaw had felt that this was the end, that he would never see his childhood friend again.

  The sense of foreboding had been unbearable, and Horatia’s face, framed in a ribbon-trimmed bonnet, had not helped at all. Jackdaw was more in love with her than ever, if such a thing were possible; sick with guilt at the force of his feelings for his great friend’s bride.

  And then John Joseph had hurried back down the gangplank — out of earshot of Horatia, who stood at the top waving — and had clasped Jackdaw to him, embracing him on both cheeks in the Austrian manner.

  ‘If anything happens to me,’ he had said, ‘you will care for her, won’t you?’

  Jackdaw had been unable to reply, merely staring at his friend aghast.

  ‘Who can tell what lies ahead?’ John Joseph had continued. ‘With the Empire in such upheaval God knows how long we can hold out without fighting. Listen. My will is with my solicitors in London. I have left everything to her — Sutton Place, everything.’

  Jackdaw was still unable to speak.

  ‘Do you remember once, at the Queen’s birthday ball, how we spoke of a dream I had — a dream in which I died on a battlefield in the arms of a girl with red hair?’

  ‘And I told you that I, too, used to dream of her?’ Jackdaw had found his voice at last.

  ‘Yes. I wonder what it means. But I do know one thing — the curse of Sutton Place has not done with me yet.’

  Jackdaw’s strength had returned. ‘I told you on your wedding day to ignore the date. I tell you again, now, to fight off evil. The path of destiny is not inevitabl
e, John Joseph.’

  But at that point the ship’s bell had rung and there had been a call of ‘All ashore, who are going ashore.’ It was too late. The friends must part.

  *

  ‘... so you see, Horatia, there is to be no mention of the unrest in Hungary, or anything like that. No war talk, in other words.’

  ‘No,’ said his bride. ‘John Joseph, are you really sure that this is the correct thing to wear?’

  Her husband’s eyes flickered over her as they sat side by side in the carriage taking them to the royal palace of Schönbrunn. He thought he had never seen her more enchanting and supposed that it must be marriage — or perhaps the bed-magic that they had found together — that made her smile so radiantly.

  So instead of answering her question he asked another.

  ‘Are you happy, Horatia?’

  ‘I will be when you fall in love with me.’

  ‘But I do love you.’

  Horatia gave an impatient little move.

  ‘You are fond of me — as you would be of a lap dog. But I am not a dog, John Joseph.’

  ‘No, you are a foxfire vixen! I could ravish you here and now.’

  She laughed and pushed him away.

  ‘Stop it. I look enough of a rag-bag as it is. Are you sure that this is the right sort of thing to wear for meeting the Emperor?’

  ‘Yes!’

  He had come to the married quarters they occupied together in Vienna’s heart, to find the bedroom a sea of clothes and Horatia — arrayed in a very formal cloth-of-gold gown — preening before a cheval mirror. He had looked at her astonished and she had exclaimed, ‘Oh, isn’t it exciting! A message has come from the palace. The Emperor has sent for us to go to him. Something about an evening of card play. I had no idea that you were on such intimate terms with him. Mother will be thrilled.’