Log In
Or create an account ->
Imperial Library
Home
About
News
Upload
Forum
Help
Login/SignUp
Index
Mariana, by Susanna Kearsley
For Susan ShepherdWho led me downthe road less travelled.
All day within the dreamy house,The doors upon their hinges created;The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked,Or from the crevice peer'd about.Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors.Old voices called her from without.TENNYSON: Mariana
OneI first saw the house in the summer of my fifth birthday. It was all the fault of a poet, and the fact that our weekend visit with a favourite elderly aunt in Exeter had put my father in a vaguely poetic mood. Faced with an unexpected fork in the road on our drive home to Oxford, he deliberately chose the left turning instead of the right. 'The road less travelled by,' he told us, in a benign and dreamy voice. And as the poet had promised, it did indeed make all the difference.To begin with, we became lost. So hopelessly lost, in fact, that my mother had to put away the map. The clouds that rolled in to cover the sun seemed only an extension of my father's darkening mood, all poetry forgotten as he hunched grimly over the steering wheel. By lunchtime it was raining, quite heavily, and my mother had given sweets to my brother Tommy and me in a vain attempt to keep us from further irritating Daddy, whose notable temper was nearing breaking point.The sweets were peppermint, striped pink and white like large marbles, and so effective at hindering speech that we had to take them out of our mouths altogether in order to talk to each other. By the rime we reached the first cluster of village shops and houses, my face and hands were sticky with sugar, and the front of my new ruffled frock was a stained and wrinkled ruin.I've never been entirely certain what it was that made my father stop the car where he did. I seem to remember a cat darting across the road in front of us, but that may simply have been the invention of an imaginative and overtired child. Whatever the reason, the car stopped, the engine stalled, and in the ensuing commotion I got my first watery glimpse of the house.It was a rather ordinary old farmhouse, large and square and solid, set back some distance from the road with a few unkempt trees dotted around for privacy. Its darkly glistening slate roof sloped down at an alarming angle to meet the weathered gray stone walls, the drab monotony of colour broken by twin redbrick chimneys and an abundance of large multipaned windows, their frames painted freshly white.I was pressing my nose against the cold glass of the car window, straining to get a better look, when after a few particularly virulent oaths my father managed to coax the motor back to life. My mother, obviously relieved, turned round to check up on us.'Julia, don't,' she pleaded. "You'll leave smears on the windows.''That's my house,' I said, by way of explanation.My brother Tommy pointed to a much larger and more stately home that was just coming into view. 'Well, that's my house,' he countered, triumphant. To the delight of my parents, we continued the game all the way home to Oxford, and the lonely gray house was forgotten.I was not to see it again for seventeen years.That summer, the summer that I turned twenty-two, is strong in my memory. I had just graduated from art school, and had landed what seemed like the perfect job with a j small advertising firm in London. My brother Tom, three years older than myself, had recently come down from Oxford with a distinguished academic record, and promptly
TwoWhere does this one go, miss?'The fair young mover's assistant hoisted an upholstered chair as easily as if it were a child's toy, and paused in the hallway for directions.I was busy rummaging in one of the tidily packed boxes, trying to locate my faithful old teapot before the kettle I'd put on the kitchen stove came to a boil. I glanced over my shoulder, distracted.'In my bedroom,' I told him. 'First room on your right at the top of the stairs. Aha!'My hand closed over the familiar contour of the teapot's handle at the same instant that the kettle burst into full boil with a piercing whistle. Switching off the gas ring, I spooned some loose tea into the pot, filled it with water, and set it on the back of the stove to
ThreeIt wasn't difficult to locate Vivien Wells the next afternoon, in the bar of the Red Lion pub. This was the same pub where Tommy and I had stopped to ask directions all those years ago, its Tudor beams and plaster looking slightly cleaner than I remembered beneath a new thatched roof. Inside, the main bar was low-ceilinged and intimate, a little threadbare, perhaps, but comfortable, the old floor covered with a worn carpet that deadened the sound of conversation.Apart from a small group of old men clustered around a corner table, I was the only other customer enjoying the pub's congenial atmosphere at that hour of the day. And of the two people keeping bar, only one was a woman.Vivien Wells was tall and healthy-looking, close to my own age, with long honey-colored hair, honest blue eyes, and a quick dimpled smile. I liked her on sight.She slid a gin and tonic across the bar to me and leaned her elbows on the scarred wood, tilting her head appraisingly.'Iain said you were pretty,' she remarked without malice, and I shifted awkwardly on my stool.'He said you were an encyclopedia,' I offered.
FiveIt was not, I decided, as I sat on Geoffrey de Mornay's chesterfield with my head between my knees, the most auspicious of meetings. Whatever impression I had hoped to make on my illustrious neighbor, this most certainly was not it.'I've brought you some water,' he said, reentering the room. 'No, don't sit up just yet. How are you feeling?''Fine.' My voice, of necessity, was muffled.He pressed the glass of water into my hand, and I lifted my head to take a sip, the action providing me with my first proper look at my host.Even without—or perhaps in spite of—his cultured voice, well-cut clothes, and expensive surroundings, Geoffrey de Mornay would have been classified by my former colleague Bridget as 'prime.' Bridget would have noticed his tall, athletic frame and the brilliant flash of his smile. I noticed the classic lines of his bone structure and the quiet depth of his hazel eyes, set beneath level dark brows that matched exactly the seal-brown shade of his hair.'Thank you,' I said, giving him the brightest smile I could muster. I wasn't sure how long I had been out, but it must have been only a matter of minutes, as the sun was still pouring in through the large bay window opposite me. [ had a dim recollection of being lifted and carried a short distance, and then nothing more until a few moments ago, when I had opened my eyes, cried to stand, and been unceremoniously pushed back down into my current undignified position.'You're welcome.' He took the chair across from me, watching my face warily as if he expected me to leap suddenly to my feet. 'I'm sorry if we frightened you. Brutus is rather a big horse, and I often forget ...''It wasn't your fault, honestly. I've been burning the candle at both ends the past few days, and it just caught up with me, that's all.''You're sure you're not ill?''Positive.' My tone was firm, and after studying my face for a moment, he smiled.'Then perhaps we could try those introductions a second time,' he suggested, leaning forward in his seat and extending his hand. 'Geoffrey de Mornay, at your service.''Julia Beckett.' I returned the handshake. Raising myself cautiously to a sitting position, I tried to salvage the situation by making conversation. 'De Mornay ... I've just been looking at some of your ancestors in the church, then. Yours must be one of the oldest families here.''That depends on your interpretation,' he replied with a shrug. "There were de Mornays at Crofton Hall in the reign of the first Elizabeth, but they sold off a century or so later. My father waited years for the Hall to come up for sale, and when it finally did, he bought it back. He was a great lover of family history.'I looked around in appreciation, noting how the long, sunlit room with its ornate plaster ceiling and elegantly papered walls exuded all the charm and gentility of a bygone era. 'It's wonderful to preserve these old houses,' I said.'And expensive,' he said, tempering my romance with realism. 'Not to mention impractical. Rather a lot of room, for one person.'
Six‘Mariana’.
SevenThe approach to Vivien's private rooms at the back of the Red Lion wound through one of the loveliest gardens I had ever seen—the sort of garden one comes across in the travel brochures above the caption 'An English Country Garden.' Or at least it would be that summer, in full bloom. Even now, in the middle of May, the garden was deliciously twisted and tangled, with tiny flowers clinging to every crevice of the old stone wall surrounding the yard. I stood on the back step for a moment, loitering in silent admiration.'Coming up behind you,' Iain Sumner announced from several yards away. 'There,' he said, joining me on the steps, 'was that better?'Laughing, I shook my head. 'I'm sorry, but no. I still jumped.''Ah, well,' he sighed, 'we'll think of something. I'd not want to give you a coronary.''Hullo!' Geoffrey de Mornay came round the corner of the house, looking oddly elegant in denim jeans and a casual shirt. His greeting was directed at Iain, but his smile, I fancied, was for me.'Why would you be giving her a coronary?' he asked.
EightIt is difficult to describe the sensation of sliding backward in time, of exchanging one reality for another that is just as real, just as tangible, just as familiar. I should not, perhaps, refer to it as 'sliding,' since in actual fact I was thrust—abruptly and without warning—from one time to the next, as though I had walked through some shifting, invisible portal dividing the present from the past.When that happened, at the moment that I passed through the portal, I was blissfully unaware that anything had changed. That realization, and the full impact of its significance, would come later, when I had returned to being Julia Beckett.But as I stood on the front steps of Greywethers that evening, staring up at the man who blocked the doorway, I was no longer Julia. Julia, and all her jumbled memories, had been stripped from me. My thoughts were someone else's thoughts, my body not my own, and as I moved, I lived each new experience for the first time. I was Mariana, and it was with Mariana's eyes that I looked now at my uncle.Jabez Howard was a tall man, with powerful shoulders
NineAs a child, I always kept my eyes screwed tightly shut when I woke from a nightmare, afraid that if I opened them I might find some truly terrible apparition beside my bed. The same childish instinct made me keep my eyes shut now. I lay still as the dead, curled to the wall, and the blood sang loudly in my ears as I reached out beside me with a tentative hand.My searching fingers touched the cool, faintly textured surface of a wooden floorboard, skimmed across an abrasive wool carpet, and came to rest on a reassuringly familiar bit of cold tubular steel. Either my drawing board had somehow transported itself back in time, I reasoned, or I was lying on the floor of my studio. Gambling on the latter, I cautiously opened my eyes, blinking a few times to focus.The room quivered once, and then stood still, and with a rush of relief I saw the solid twentieth-century clutter surrounding me—packing crates and papers and paintbrushes scattered untidily across the floor. Lifting my head a fraction, I craned my neck for a better look round, then sank back onto the hardwood with a ragged sigh.I had fallen on a clear patch of floor directly beneath the bare west window, which accounted for the cool draft I felt
Ten I had expected to feel any number of emotions as I made the drive back to Exbury the next morning. Apprehension, certainly, and fear, or even excitement. But I was unprepared for the feeling of complete serenity that settled over me like a comforting blanket, almost before the spire of my brother's church had been swallowed up by the trees in my rearview mirror. It was a strong feeling, strong and calming and pervasive. And entirely illogical, given the disturbing events of the day before.I let my eyes follow the erratic movements of my fellow motorists as they maneuvered themselves through the rush-hour shuffle, while my mind drifted idly back to the previous morning.I had managed to read almost one whole year of the Pepys diary before my own weariness had defeated me. When I woke, it was late afternoon, and through the half-open window the air smelled gloriously clean and fresh. My clothes, newly washed and pressed by Mrs. Pearce, lay spread across a nearby chair like a waiting playmate. I rose, bathed, and went downstairs in search of my brother.I found him on the long patio at the back of the house, absently chewing the end of his pencil while he sat, lost in
ElevenI need not have worried, after all. The remaining days of the week passed in quiet, perfect normality, dull as ditch water. Perversely, I was disappointed. It was not a rational reaction, but I could not help myself. Patience, as my family would wholeheartedly attest, was never my strongest characteristic, and now that I was prepared—even eager—to experience another scene from Mariana Farr's life, I found it frustrating to be denied the opportunity. Even the watcher on the gray horse had deserted me, and the place beneath the old oak tree, whenever I had the courage to look, was empty.By Friday morning I had grown restless in my impatience, and I looked to my work for diversion. It was high time I started working, anyway, I told myself in resolute tones. Seated in my familiar pose at the drawing board, with the marked page of manuscript clipped to the top bar and a fresh sheet of drawing paper spread beneath my pencil, I felt instantly more focused and relaxed.It had been over a month since I had last worked on the storybook illustrations. I had been too excited after buying the house, too busy during the move, and too distracted by the events since to even contemplate drawing my goblins
TwelveThe next day dawned Fair and warm, bringing with it the first faint hint of summer's approaching heat. By early afternoon the clouds that had been in evidence that morning had dwindled to insubstantial wisps of transparent white, barely discernible against the brilliant blue sky, and the sun hung like a great yellow jewel in their midst.In the wide flowered borders that lined the gravel front drive of Crofton Hall, the bees were busily at work, single-mindedly unconcerned with the rather noisy and intrusive presence of the queue of tourists waiting in jostling, chatty good humor for the start of the one-fifteen tour.Beside me, on the lawn, Geoff stopped walking and bent to retie his shoelace, casting a quick assessing glance at the gathering crowd.'Saturday's always our best day,' he told me. 'We'd better give this lot a quarter of an hour's start so we don't get any stragglers joining in with our tour.' He stood, smiling. 'Care for a stroll round the rose garden?'A week had not diminished the effect of that smile. A few curious eyes followed us as we made our way across the front lawn, but it was an idle curiosity and I doubted
ThirteenAnd this is the west passage,' Geoff said, pulling the door shut behind him, he leaned back against it with a wolfish grin. 'I couldn't wait to show it to you.''It's lovely,' I said, laughing. 'Arc all your tours like this?''Usually,' he admitted. 'I don't much like crowds. You ought to count yourself lucky—when I took Vivien round to show her the restored rooms a couple of years ago, we had to hide in a cupboard for twenty minutes.'"Lucky Vivien,' I almost said, but I caught myself in time. Instead I asked him, tongue in cheek, 'There's a name for that, isn't there? A pathological fear of crowds?'He nodded. 'Privacy.' He gestured to the door directly opposite. 'That's the servants' hall across there, but since the tour will be going there next, I think we'll skip ahead to the kitchens, if you don't mind.'I trailed after him down the long passage with its sloping flagstone floor. 'Does it bother you,' I asked him, 'having all those people tramping about your home?''Not really.' He shrugged, his tone amiable. 'As I said, I kept the best part of the house for myself, and that's my home—those are the rooms I grew up in. All this is just...
FourteenThe Red Lion was the busiest I'd ever seen it, several tables swarming with Saturday-afternoon patrons, and it was a long while before Vivien could work her way back to the bar to serve us. Even Ned had been moved to action, and had ambled by us at least twice bearing plates of sandwiches and chips from the back kitchen.'Right.' Vivien swung herself into position behind the bar, her fair hair swirled around her flushed face. 'Let me get this straight.' She looked across at Geoff. 'You gave Julia a tour of the Hall today.'Geoff nodded.'And as payment for this enormous privilege,' Vivien went on, 'Julia has agreed to let you buy her a drink.''Correct.''Sounds like a rare fair deal, my girl,' she said to me. 'What can I get you?''Gin and tonic, please.' I smiled back.Two stools away, beside Geoff, Iain Sumner leaned forward with a disapproving frown.'What kind of a drink d'ye call that?' he asked me, his own hand cupped around a sweating pint of dark bitter.
Sixteen‘Julia.’I was shaking all over, or at least I felt as if I were. Perhaps it was the room itself. Certainly the walls seemed something less than solid; they shimmered and danced as if the subtly shifting daylight was being reflected through a thousand swaying prisms.'Julia.' Again the voice spoke, and I turned my head slowly, with a great effort, toward it.At first, I could see nothing but the open doorway of my bedroom and a curious gray, shapeless thing that blocked my view into the hall. A gray, shapeless thing that swelled and drifted, cloudlike, toward me, addressing me in a male voice that was growing decidedly sharper in tone.'Julia.'My first thought was, that's not my name, and then I thought, but I know that voice, and then I thought, Oh, it's Tommy, and sure enough, there was my brother standing over me, wearing on his face the same expression our father had assumed whenever one of us had fallen ill. It was an expression of dismay and concern mingled with a sort of piteous helplessness, and my response to it was automatic.
SeventeenI think your brother is rather wonderful,' Vivien commented. 'Not at all like a real vicar.'It was half-past nine in the morning on the following Saturday, and I was taking advantage of the brilliant sunshine and mild temperature by attempting, in my amateurish way, to weed the dovecote garden behind my house, while Vivien sat perched on the tumbled stone wall, drinking tea from one of my cracked cups and keeping me company in my labors.'Yes, well.' I straightened my back, tossing a handful of what I hoped were weeds to one side. 'I'm afraid the Church tends to agree with you. Nothing like a real vicar, although the people of his parish think the world of him. And he can be serious, when he wants to be. Is that a flower, do you think?'I looked dubiously at a small, delicate plant with fern-like leaves, tilting my head to one side.'I honestly can't say,' Vivien told me. 'I'm hopeless with gardens. Look, are you sure you want to be doing this? Iain I’ll have your hide if you pull up one of his prize South African whatchama-whoosits by mistake.'I left the questionable plant alone and ripped out what
EighteenWith fingers that trembled slightly, I lifted the bracelet from the shallow drawer where it had lain concealed for ... how long? Centuries? It was the same bracelet, I knew it with a certainty that surpassed logic. The sight of it, the feel of it, the weight of it against my palm were so familiar to me, there was no question that the bracelet had once been mine.But how had it found its way into a wooden lap desk that—if the maker's label was to be believed—had not even been crafted until the mid-1700's, seventy years or more after Mariana Farr had come to Exbury? Still clutching the bracelet, I closed the lid of the lap desk and looked again at the swirled letter H on the nameplate, frowning. Was it possible, I wondered, that the H stood for 'Howard'? Had this plain little box once belonged to one of the Howards of Greywethers?I shook my head, bewildered. It all seemed so incredibly fantastic to me, beyond the realm of probability. Too much of a coincidence to be true, I thought. Or ... was it? I ran the bracelet through my fingers like the beads of a rosary, and the birds of paradise seemed to wink at me as their glass eyes caught the light. Maybe, I speculated, just maybe,
TwentyRichard de Mornay reined Navarre to a smooth halt a few feet from the lazily flowing water and leaned an elbow on the horn of his saddle, regarding me with interest over the horse's broad neck.'Good morrow, Mistress Farr.' He swept the wide-brimmed hat from his dark head and presented me with a fair imitation of a bow. 'I did not know that you numbered swimming among your many accomplishments.'To return a proper curtsy from my position would have appeared ridiculous. Besides, he was laughing at me, and I resented it. I rose swiftly to my feet and tossed my head proudly. 'I have a multitude of talents, my lord,' I told him curtly, spreading my skirts to survey the damage.'Of that I have no doubt.' A thoughtful expression replaced the laughter in his eyes, and he swung himself from the saddle, gathering the reins in one large hand. 'You have wetted your dress,' he said, as though it were a revelation. 'You must walk in the sun to dry it.'I stubbornly held my ground. 'I do not wish to walk in the sun, my lord. I find the coolness of the woods refreshing.''You must walk in the woods, then. Come, let me help you.'He extended his free hand toward me, his eyes challenging mine. After a moment's consideration, I placed my hand in his and let him assist me in stepping out of the water onto the riverbank. It was welcome assistance, I was bound to admit, since the wet fabric of my dress weighed heavily against my legs and threatened to drag me back into the river. When at last I stood upright, I released his hand as though it were a snake, breaking the warm contact.'Thank you, sir,' I told him sweetly. 'You are most kind.' Taking my leave of him, I began once more to walk upstream, on land this time, feeling less than graceful in my dripping gown but keeping my head held high.'Tis no trouble.' Richard de Mornay fell easily into step beside me, leading the horse behind us. 'You will not mind, surely, if I walk with you. I would be less than a true soldier if I let a lady walk through the woods unattended.'I attempted a casual demeanor. 'I did not know you were a soldier.''I come from a family of soldiers.' He smiled, but it was a smile without humor. 'Brave knights and gallant cavaliers, and me the only one remaining to champion the family's honour.’'Then I need not fear to lose my virtue in your company.' It was a bold statement, and I knew it. He turned amazed eyes in my direction and laughed outright, a pleasant sound that echoed in the secluded wood.'You are a brazen wench.' He grinned. 'No, you need not worry. I'll not demand the lordly privileges of my estate. I've never yet had cause to force a woman to my will.'I looked up at his handsome, laughing face and did not doubt that he spoke the truth. Perhaps it was my own intentions that worried me, and not his....'Tell me,' he went on, changing the subject, 'how fares your uncle? He must be ill indeed to let you venture forth like this. In truth, 'tis but the second time I have seen you
Twenty-OneTo his credit, he could not hold the innocent expression long. Grinning, he took another pull from his cigarette and straightened away from his work, turning to face me fully. 'My kingdom for a camera,' he said, his gray eyes crinkling in amusement. 'You ought to see your face.'I closed my gaping mouth and shook my head, amazed.'How on earth did you know I was there?' I asked him.Iain braced both fists in the small of his back and stretched. 'I'm no clairvoyant,' he assured me. 'I saw you hopping the fence. Thought you were taking a devil of a time getting here. Besides,' he added, pointing at the clear outline of our shadows on the shed wall, 'if you've a mind to sneak up on a Scotsman, you'd best do it when the sun's not at your back.' He narrowed his eyes a little and looked me up and down. 'You've had a ducking,' he remarked.I was surprised that I had not noticed the fact myself. Perhaps I had grown accustomed to the feel of Mariana's dripping-wet gown against my skin, to the point where my mind no longer registered discomfort. Faintly curious, I looked down at myself, suddenly aware of the clinging dampness of my heavy denim jeans and oversize shirt. I ran
Twenty-twoThe month of June was a glorious one, long sun-filled days and warm, scented nights, when the summer breeze came drifting across the greening fields while a nightingale sang to its mate in the darkness, down by the murmuring river. Even the rains fell more softly, and the little dovecote garden crept shyly into bloom. The columbine and iris bowed down to make way for bolder sprays of red valerian, and a mingled profusion of clustered Canterbury bells and sweet william, pale blues and pinks intertwined, danced at the feet of more stately spears of deep-purple foxglove and monkshood.The changing nature of the garden fascinated me. By borrowing books from Iain I learned the name of each and every new flower, and soon the flowers themselves were working their way into my drawings, lending joyful colour and variety to the dark medieval forests of my fairy tales. My editor was thrilled with the samples I sent her, and if she noticed that all my princes bore a peculiar resemblance to one another, she made no comment.I, too, was blossoming, basking in the sweet exhilaration that heralds the beginning of a new romance.Geoff had returned home two days after my walk by the
Twenty-threeHe advanced on me with a gracious smile. 'So you are not a coward, after all,' he said, and I fancied his tone was faintly pleased. 'You would face the devil on his own footing.'He looked less like the devil this day. In place of his usual black clothing he wore a fine hanging coat of pale dove-gray, and his plain cravat spilled over a yellow silk waistcoat that was tied to his body with a wide sash. I was pleased to see that he did not follow the foppish fashion of London gentlemen. His gray breeches were not loose and beribboned; they fit smoothly over his muscled thighs and disappeared into the high practical boots of a countryman. No high-heeled shoes with buckles and bows for the lord of Exbury manor.I smoothed my hands over my own plain skirt and faced him bravely. 'I am but accepting the invitation of a gentleman, my lord,' I corrected him smoothly, 'to have the loan of some of his books.'' "Tis well for you I am a gentleman'—his eyes laughed back at me—'for you do take a risk in coming thus unchaperoned. No doubt my servants are at this moment fainting from the impropriety of it.'
Twenty-fourI remembered those words often over the next few days, and thought long about their meaning. Not that I had any idea, then, what the lessons of the past might be. I knew only that the past—my past—would not be ignored, and that the longer I delayed the journey the more difficult the trip back would be, both physically and emotionally. And after my most recent experience, I wasn't sure I wanted to delay the journey any longer. However disturbing it might be, I had to admit that the memory of a man long dead had a more powerful influence over me than anything I could touch in the modern day.If the thought disturbed me, it horrified Tom. I could feel the force of his disapproval over the telephone line.'It's too dangerous,' was his judgment.'Well, it's hardly my decision anymore, is it?' I challenged him bluntly. 'It's going to happen whether I like it or not.''I thought you said you could control it. You said you'd found some way of blocking it out, making it go away.''It doesn't always work,' I admitted. 'Look, Tom, I promise I'll be careful. I'll lock all the doors and hide the
Twenty-fiveThe dovecote stood to the back of the garden, a stout, square building of rough stone with a roof of wooden shingles, crowned with an open cupola. The pigeons entered and left through that cupola, always returning with unerring exactness to the dovecote, to raise generation upon generation of young in the dim and crowded nesting boxes. It was a highly efficient structure—a comfortable, cunning, and deadly trap.One sharp tug on a rope that hung from the ceiling, and a trapdoor fell to block the opening to the cupola. Unable to escape to the shelter of the skies, the birds could only flutter in panic while their nests were ravaged and their number culled. Why they chose to stay on in the dovecote afterward I would never know. Why didn't they fly away, when the trap was opened again? Why did they linger on and wait for death, like rabbits raised in a warren beside the kitchen door? Did they lack the sense to foresee their fate, I wondered, or was it simply that the horror of living had deadened their brains; that having grown accustomed to the security of their prison, they no longer knew where else to go?I could become like that, I thought suddenly. If I did not
Twenty-sixThe rain lasted four solid days and nights. It fell steadily, drearily, without respite, raising a melancholy mist that settled over the landscape like a shroud and made the world as viewed from my studio window appear uniformly gray and colorless.Ordinarily, I liked rain. I liked to watch it, walk hatless in it, listen to its random rhythm on the windowpanes while I sat curled into a cozy chair, reading. But after four days even my nerves were beginning to twitch.My forays into the past were no help. Three times I managed to transport myself, and three times I found myself sitting alone, working to finish Rachel's trousseau, with no one around me to break the solitude. When I returned to the present I was invariably more depressed than before. I hated sewing.It was boredom, in the end, that drove me from the house in search of the Red Lion's more sociable atmosphere. Apparently I wasn't the only one with that idea. Every table in the bar was jammed with people, all of them talking at once. From a corner came the jovial sound of a darts match in progress, and the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of damp and drying clothes.
Twenty-sevenIn the end, it was left to me to do most of the talking. Geoff sat facing me in the richly decorated parlor where we'd first spoken on the day we met. His face looked tired in the lamplight, showing clearly the strain of his long drive from London, but his eyes were unwavering and attentive. He interrupted my rambling narrative now and then to ask a question, or clarify a point, but he didn't move from his chair except to refill our wineglasses from the bottle on the table between us. By the time I had finished telling my story the morning sun had risen, a lark trilled brightly in a tree outside the window, and the bottle of wine was empty.Geoff didn't pass judgment immediately. He made a steeple with his fingers and looked down at his shoes, frowning.'You think I'm mad,' I guessed.'Of course I don't.''It's all right,' I said, rubbing my forehead with a weary hand. 'Sometimes I think I'm mad, myself.''It's not that I doubt what's been happening to you. Well'—he smiled—'maybe I doubt it just a little bit, but I don't doubt that you believe, honestly believe, the truth of
Twenty-eight‘Yes, Mum, I know.' I cradled the telephone receiver against my shoulder and reached to straighten a tilted picture frame on the wall beside the stairs. 'Tom told me all about it this afternoon. Quite a nice surprise for you and Dad, I expect.''Mmm.' My mother's voice was absent, and not entirely convincing. 'Your father will keep entering these crossword contests, you know, so I suppose it was only to be expected. Although I'm not sure that a week's holiday in Brighton would be my idea of a truly grand prize. Still,' she said, adopting a positive attitude, 'your father is pleased as punch. You'd think we'd never been on holiday to hear him talk, and here we are barely home a month.'She couldn't hide the smile in her voice, though. We both knew my father well enough to know it was the winning, and not the prize, that excited him—the thought of having something for nothing.'Is Dad at home?''No, he's gone off shopping for swimming trunks. Imagine,' she said, chuckling, 'with his legs! I shall have to walk ten steps behind him and wear dark glasses so no one will think we're together.'
Twenty-nineMrs. Hutherson smiled at me above the rim of her flowered teacup. 'What do you think happened to them?' she asked.'I don't know,' I answered, chewing my lower lip. 'I suppose I want to think they got away, lived happily ever after and all that.' I smiled faintly. 'The fairy tale again.'It was becoming a familiar scene, the two of us facing each other across the scrubbed table in the kitchen of Crofton Hall, with the sunlight streaming in the windows and the kettle still steaming on the stove.‘I went to the church this morning,' I continued, 'and checked the registers again. There's no record of a burial of either Rachel or Evan, or of any marriage between them. The marriage record of Rachel and Elias Webb still stands,' I pointed out. 'No one put a line through it, or anything.''They probably saw no need to,' Mrs. Hutherson explained. 'Elias died soon afterward. But there'—she caught herself, smiling—'I've gone and told you, and after I promised myself I wouldn't.''You wouldn't care to tell me what became of Evan and Rachel, then?''I would not.'
ThirtySeptember was a gray and lonely month, soggy with rain and tediously uneventful. The rose garden at the Hall never really reached its full glory, blighted petals hanging limply above blackened vines and leaves spotted with the damp. In my own little dovecote garden, a scattering of wine-red anemones made a brave showing against a sea of Michaelmas daisies, but the rains soon finished them, too. There was little colour anywhere, only a drowned and tired green and the dull dun-gray of sky and stone.The bright postcards Geoff sent from the south of France were a welcome bit of cheer, and I propped them in a row along my window ledge so I could look at them while I worked on my illustrations. I was in another of my antisocial moods, but nobody seemed to mind.Iain was kept busy harvesting his apples for shipment to some cider maker in Somerset. From time to time I noticed a neatly cleared patch in the garden and knew that he had been there, but I never saw him. He must have worked in the dark. Vivien rang me occasionally to chat, and Mrs. Hutherson dropped in one morning to check up on me, but
Thirty-oneThe evening settled over us like the shadow of death. Johnnie fussed and fretted with his painful teeth, and would not go to sleep, but I was glad of the distraction as I rocked him in my arms, close beside the kitchen fire. If Caroline knew where her husband had gone, and what his purpose was, she gave no sign of it. We spoke of idle things, when we spoke at all, but the tension was there and tangible, and we were all three restless because of it.It was approaching midnight when we heard the horses stop outside the house in a confused tossing of harness and dancing hooves and the shouts of men across the yard. And then the sounds retreated. The front door slammed and my uncle's footstep sounded in the hall. Caroline and I sat straight and still, our eyes upon the door, and I fancied that we both held our breath.The kitchen door rushed inward on its hinges and crashed against the wall behind. Framed in the opening, my uncle glowered at us both, his expression blacker than the depths of hell. Johnnie, in my arms, began to cry.'Elias Webb is dead,' he said, his quiet voice more dangerous than any raging shout. 'And good Bill Pogue, and Edmund Harrap. All dead.'We were not expected to make reply. Nor was there time for one. Immediately he spoke the words he turned and sent the table toppling to the floor with a great splintering of wood and crockery.'The devil take that rogue de Mornay!' he exploded, his face flooding with angry color. 'I will not stand to suffer this from him!'Johnnie bawled more loudly, burrowing his tiny face in my breast and clinging to my dress with frightened hands. I gathered him close and rocked him, trying not to let my own fear get the better of me.'What injury has my lord de Mornay done you, Uncle?' I asked him, calmly, but he was past the point of hearing me. His eyes were fiery wells of hatred, glowing blackly in the flickering light cast up from the hearth.'The others would accept defeat,' he muttered, speaking only to himself, 'and let the devil triumph. But I have seen the devil's blood, and know he is a man.' He clasped a gloved hand round his sword, then frowned, and looked at me. 'Can you not silence that child?' he barked roughly, and I clasped the infant more tightly, shielding him.'Uncle Jabez,' I said, wetting my dry lips, 'what do you intend?'His smile was a thing unholy. 'I intend to await your lord de Mornay's return from his evening ride, and give him a welcome he'll not soon forget.'I kept my voice calm. 'You mean to harm his lordship, Uncle?''I mean to see him dead.'Caroline blanched in her corner by the door.'But, Jabez, surely—''Do you defy me?' He turned his wrath on her instead, looming very large and threatening above my chair. 'By God! Do you think to defy me?' I saw the terrible intent in his eyes an instant before he moved, but I was powerless to
Thirty-two‘You are not to grieve.’He was awake, and watching me. I lifted my chin and met his eyes squarely. 'I've no intention of grieving,' I said, with a calmness I did not feel. 'You're going to get well. The surgeon will be here presently.''Mariana.' It was a gentle admonition, rumbling low in his shattered chest. His eyes slid away from mine and focused on a dimly lit corner of the church, where the torchlight could not reach.He had heard the talk, of course, as well as I—the vaguely conspiratorial whispers of the servants who had carried him here, and who now stood watch outside the door. It was a mortal wound, they had told me, if ever they had seen one, and they had seen some wounds in their time ... not safe to move him, best let him lie in peace ... and they had shaken their heads sadly, their faces lined with the grief of old men who must watch a young man die.I found I could not take my eyes from his face. Each nuance of expression, each flutter of an eyelid, seemed more precious to me now than life itself. There had been several long moments when he had scarce seemed to breathe at all, but I fancied he looked stronger now.
Thirty-threeI believe I knew, even in the moment before I closed my eyes, that it would be my last journey back.Only a few hours had passed since my return to Greywethers, but it had seemed an intolerable length of time. I had gone immediately to bed, trying my best to heed the advice of Mrs. Hutherson and the voice of my own weariness, and there I had lain, staring at the ceiling, while the sun passed above the house and spilled through the dancing poplar leaves that screened my bedroom window.Sleep would not come. The thought of that invisible circle, closing in its unrelenting arc, spawned a sense of urgency that had made me increasingly restless. That same urgency had brought me now to this spot, outside the house, and I knew better than to question it.Behind my back the poplar shivered as the clouds passed over the midday sun, and a faint breath of anticipation went rippling through the grass at my feet, and out across the wide fields.This was the garden where the Green Lady stood. Not the dovecote garden that Iain had created among the rubble, but the original old kitchen garden, long grown over, where
Thirty-fourThe weather held fair the following day, and I went to lunch in London. It was an impulsive, unnecessary trip, a hastily arranged meeting with my editor to discuss a nonexistent problem with the book. Had I been truthful with myself, I might have admitted that I was only trying to avoid my own house, in a somewhat childish attempt to postpone the inevitable. If I was away from home, and had no recollections of Mariana's life, that was no tragedy. Or so my reasoning ran. But if I was at Greywethers, and no living memories came, I was not sure that I could bear it.I had already borne the loss of Richard, and in a different sense, of Rachel; it seemed unfair to me that I should also lose the life in which I'd known them. And yet I knew that I would lose it. Indeed, if Mrs. Hutherson was to be believed, then I must lose it. Such was the fate to which I'd been born; the fate which had called me home, across the years, to Exbury, and Greywethers, and Geoff ...The soul sees what truly matters, Richard had promised me, and I sought comfort in that promise. No doubt, in time, the sharpness of my pain would fade. In time I would not mind so much that Geoff could not remember, as I remembered. I would find happiness within the present tense, be glad that I had found him twice in separate lifetimes, and let it rest at that.He had kept his part of the bargain, after all. He had said he would return to me, and seek me out, and that I would know him. He had not promised more.It did me good to be in London, among the bustling shops and businesses, to sit with my editor in the expensively sleek restaurant and watch the flood of humanity pour past the windows, shoulder to shoulder in vivacious and colorful variety. I could not have lived in London, anymore. It was no longer part of me, nor I of it, but being there for those few hours brought order to my life, and charged me with a new and vital energy.As I drove my car bumping over the little bridge on my homeward journey, I felt alive again and almost peaceful. My house rose proudly from the fields to greet me, solid and unchanging beneath the wide September sky. I drew along the drive, past balding trees that dropped their leaves upon my windshield, and parked the car in the old stables.I had company, waiting for me. Vivien called to me and waved, swinging her legs as she sat upon the dovecote wall. The evening air was crisp and chill, and she wore a bright-red jumper over her jeans, her fair hair gathered back in a disheveled plait.'We helped ourselves to coffee,' she explained with a welcoming smile. 'I didn't think you'd mind. The kitchen door was open.'Beside her, Iain stopped working and leaned on his rake, pushing the russet hair from his forehead with a gloved hand. 'I would've made a sandwich,' he said, good-naturedly, 'but she wouldn't let me.''Small wonder,' Vivien said dryly. 'I've seen you make a sandwich. You'd think no one had ever fed you.'He gave her a look. 'I've been hard at work, my love. I need my sustenance."He had been hard at work, indeed. The garden lay in
About the authorBorn in Canada in 1966, Susanna Kearsley has been writing since the age of seven. She studied politics and international development at university, has worked as a museum curator, and has had two short novels published in the U.S. She lives in Ontario.Susanna Kearsley is the second winner of the Catherine Cookson Prize, which was set up in 1992 to celebrate the achievement of Dame Catherine Cook-son. The prize is awarded to a novel that features the strong characterization, authentic background, and storytelling ability that have been the outstanding qualities of Catherine Cookson's work.
← Prev
Back
Next →
← Prev
Back
Next →