Household (6 page)

“Dear boy,” Sir Francis continued, “before taking your bath, let me give you a glass of wine.”

Richard did not want wine. Everything Sir Francis proposed seemed designed to lengthen the time that stretched between the present and his meeting with Catlin. Yet, since it would have been ill-mannered to refuse such ready hospitality, he said reluctantly, “A drink would certainly be welcome.”

“We must go to the south drawing room. ’Tis on the next floor. Come.”

Following his host up a circular staircase, Richard saw that there were paintings on the walls. Though these, too, were cast into shadow by the diminishing light, several bathed in the red glow from a higher window brought an actual blush to his cheek. It was an unusual abbey that could boast the picture of a nymph lying beneath a Hercules whose might was not limited merely to his muscles. There was an equally graphic rendering of Cupid with Psyche. The mental images to which these paintings gave rise caused Richard to regret the postponement of his meeting with Catlin even more. In the interests of self-protection, he averted his eyes from the walls, staring straight at Sir Francis’ plumpish back. Over his host’s shoulder, he saw an alabaster statue which, on closer examination, proved to be a beautifully sculpted but subtly distorted depiction of the Holy Trinity. Examining it closer as he passed, Richard’s lip curled. He found this juxtaposition of the spiritual and the profane depressingly adolescent.

The room into which Sir Francis ushered Richard was in sharp contrast to the shadowy hall; candles flamed in wall sconces, in candelabra and in the great crystal chandelier that centered on a painted ceiling. Glancing upwards, Richard saw what first appeared to be a classical scene typical of those decorating many a contemporary mansion. However, a second and longer look showed him that the godlike Grecian youths were engaged in a Bacchanalian orgy complete with supplicating maidens whose pleas were very obviously going unheeded. The work was detailed enough to bring forth a most embarrassing reaction. Looking away quickly, Richard encountered his host’s eyes and found them full of glee. Had he noticed? Of course he had, Richard thought with some annoyance, and now he realized that some of the furnishings depicted in the painting were duplicated in the room. Among them were couches covered with green damask. These were very long and very wide, designed, Richard guessed, for similar dalliance.

Indicating a nearby divan, Sir Francis said genially, “Sit down, dear boy.” He strolled to a long side board on which were several crystal decanters of wine along with delicate crystal goblets.

Richard, meanwhile, found his couch almost indecently soft, filled, he guessed, with the finest swan’s-down. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of sybaritic luxury; tables, bearing baskets of beautiful fruit, were inlaid with semiprecious stones. Huge malachite pillars flanked a fireplace in which a roaring fire had been built. There were Roman marbles upon the mantel, and in one corner of the room stood a statue of a well-endowed Apollo carrying a lyre. The other corner was occupied by a companion piece—a young, naked and voluptuous nymph with a roguish smile on her face and a finger against her lips, as if requesting silence. The other hand was upheld in a beckoning gesture.

“Charming, is she not?” Sir Francis remarked. “I call her Phyrne.” He proffered Richard a goblet filled with dark red wine. “I hope you’ll find this to your taste. ’Tis well aged and comes from one of Italy’s finest vineyards.”

“I am sure I will,” Richard murmured, strenuously trying to appear as casual as his host. He feared that he had not quite succeeded in hiding his surprise at finding such voluptuous surroundings beneath an abbey roof. As he accepted the glass, Sir Francis held up another goblet of wine.

“A toast, my dear Reverend Veringer!” he said lightly.

“I am not a reverend,” Richard replied coldly. “As I have explained, all that is behind me now.”

“I remember, dear boy,” Sir Francis nodded, “but I cannot help wondering... does one ever doff the principles learned in childhood and early youth? If I were to direct this toast toward the health of say... Satan, what would your response be?”

Richard regarded him with more than a little disappointment. He had misjudged his host. All of Sir Francis’ aftermentioned reasons for bringing him to Medmenham could be discounted. Despite this man’s avowal of an enlightened atheism that marched with his own, Sir Francis was proving to be an impious fraud. He must be engaged in some manner of devil worship! And undoubtedly the abbey was the headquarters of a Satanic circle. The studied irreverence he had marked in the Trinity pointed to that. There had been similar groups among the undergraduates at the seminary, an adolescent response to a repressive rule. Generally, these did not survive graduation, but some young men, he knew, did continue their adherence to these societies. He knew of several “hell-fire” clubs and thought them both puerile and pathetic. He had deemed Sir Francis too intelligent to concern himself with such arrant nonsense. How could any reasoning individual lend credence to the notion of a personified evil? It was almost as ridiculous as believing that a supreme being guided the destinies of mankind. However, much as he would have enjoyed debating with his host and battering down his beliefs with opinions he had held ever since he had been old enough to reason, he did not want to involve himself in anything that must keep him from Catlin. If paying lip service to a “painted devil” would please the man, he had no objections. Catlin was all that mattered.

He said, “I would be delighted to toast Satan or Beelzebub or Lucifer or the whole hierarchy of demons, if you prefer.”

“Ah.” Sir Francis had seemed tense but now he visibly relaxed. “As I think I told you before, my dear young sir, you are a man after my own heart. To Satan, then!” He clicked glasses with Richard and drank deeply.

“To Satan.” Richard drained his glass.

“And I bid you welcome to Medmenham,” Sir Francis said approvingly. “I am pleased we understand each other. I presume you’ll want to take your bath now?”

“Immediately!” Richard responded enthusiastically.

❖

The bathtub was set in the middle of a large chamber furnished with a huge fourposter bed and a tall mahogany armoire. Richard had been brought to the room by a lightvoiced, soft-footed lad with the beautiful sexless face of an Italian choirboy. He had been clad in the grey livery common to all of Sir Francis’ servants. Helping Richard undress, he had assisted him into the bath. However, an offer to scrub his back had been curtly rejected.

Lying in waters that were pleasantly warm, Richard wondered if pedastry were the order of the day at the abbey, but dismissed that notion as he recalled the paintings. That Sir Francis was both hedonist and Satanist he was willing to believe, but he must be exonerated of what men called the French vice. Certainly he was a strange man and a disappointment, yet at least a question troubling him ever since the previous evening had been resolved. He had wondered why Sir Francis was so eager to forward the course of true love and for a stranger. Undoubtedly, the baronet imagined he had left the church because he had lost his faith in God. Probably he would have been extremely disappointed to learn that the erstwhile Reverend Veringer had no faith to lose and that he had loathed every moment spent in seminary and pulpit! Yet, as he was quick to assure himself, that was just as well. If Sir Francis had not imagined him to be an apostate ripe for devilish mischief, he never would have invited him to Medmenham and Catlin would now be in Ireland. He grimaced. They were taking a damned long time bringing them together, and to think about her as much as he did was intensely frustrating, especially for one who had not held a woman in his arms since Meg deserted him.

“
Abstinence, dear Richard, maketh the heart grow fonder.
”

Richard started, causing some of the water to spill over the tub’s edge. The whisper in his ears was in his brother’s voice. Fulke had said those words to him when he had deprived him of Christina, and why was he now thinking_of his damned sibling—hopefully damned, he amended, wishing he could believe in such heavenly reprisals.

Banishing Fulke from his mind, he clambered out of the bath. There was a rough towel lying on a chair. Wrapping it around him, he rubbed himself dry. His heart was beginning to pound heavily. It was time—it had to be time for him to join Catlin. He strode to the armoire, expecting to find his second-best suit of clothes, but on peering inside, he found only a long brown cassock which ordinarily would have been made of sackcloth and tied with a rope. This garment was fashioned from heavy silk and belted with a twisted silken cord. On the floor beneath it was a pair of leather sandals. He eyed the costume angrily. He was not going to dress up like some damned mountebank! He strode back to the bed where the boy had laid his black suit only to find it gone.

Additional anger shot through him. He pulled open the door to his room, hastily slamming it as he heard a spurt of girlish giggling in the corridor and remembered belatedly that he could not be the only guest at the abbey. His choice was clear. Either he donned that damned robe or he remained here. Was he to greet Catlin in this Papist attire? The idea was deeply repugnant, but since he had no choice he finally put it on, feeling like a damned fool. As that thought crossed his mind, he smiled unwillingly. Those who did obeisance to the so-called foul fiend could also be called damned—and fools, they undoubtedly were. “I’m in good company,” he muttered, as he slipped his feet into the sandals and knotted the cord tightly around his waist. He was about to open the door when he heard a light knock. A thrill of anticipation went through him. Catlin, at last?

It was not Catlin who waited outside in the hall. It was the boy who had brought him to the chamber. “If your Lordship will be so good as to follow me,” he murmured.

Once more Richard was going down the hall, descending the stairs to another floor and then down the stairs he had mounted upon arrival. Only this time, the same stillness did not prevail. Though no one save his guide was in evidence, he heard muted conversations and, he thought, light feminine laughter. He stared around the entrance hall, seeing several doors. Where did they lead? More specifically, where was he being led?

The boy opened one of the doors and beckoned Richard to follow him. They were in a dimly-lighted corridor; on either side of them were paneled walls similar to those on the upper floors but unadorned by paintings. At the end of the corridor, Richard saw another portal. Reaching it, his guide knocked loudly three times.

Three for the holy trinity, Richard thought amusedly as the door swung slowly open. Though the boy went inside, Richard remained on the threshold staring into a small room, lighted by two candles placed on a long flat table covered by a scarlet cloth and flanked by three chairs. Richard’s eyes shifted to the cloth on which was emblazoned a golden cross. There was, he thought, something strange about that cross, and another look revealed that it was upside down.

Richard immediately recognized another symbol of Sir Francis’ so-called Satanism. A book he had found in the seminary library had contained a description of Satanic practices. The text had been spiced with such adjectives as “horrid,” “abominable” and “evil.” Richard could not see anything abominable or evil about the reversed cross nor, he told himself, would any other enlightened person.

“Enter, my Lord,” someone ordered in deep sepulchral tones.

Richard looked about him but saw no one. Then, a panel behind the table slid slowly open, and three men in cowled robes similar to his own appeared and took the three chairs. Richard concealed a threatening grin as he noted their cowls were up, leaving their features in darkness. The effect was eerie but not as frightening as they evidently hoped. He faced them boldly, saying ironically, “Good evening, good sirs.”

They did not move or speak. Three monkish monoliths, he thought amusedly. Finally, after a long pause, the man on the left said, “Richard Veringer, Lord More, are you present?”

“As you see,” Richard acknowledged.

“Do you know why you are here?” inquired the man on the right.

Richard’s patience was swiftly leaving him, “No. At least, I do not know why I have been summoned to this room.”

“You have been summoned here, Richard Veringer, because we want your word that you’ll reveal nothing of what has or will take place during your stay.” It was the man in the center who had spoken, and Richard recognized Sir Francis Dashwood’s tones.

“You have that,” he replied brusquely. “And indeed you need not have asked.”

“On the contrary, it is important to ask, important, too, that you swear on the head of our Prince Satan, guardian of the Monks of Medmenham, that you will abide by our rules. Will you swear?”

“If I must,” Richard said.

“You must,” the man on the right said solemnly.

“And if you forget your obligations to us,” the man on the left spoke in a deep monotone, “you’ll pay the price and suffer the consequences. Do you understand?”

Richard nodded. The thought of Catlin was in his mind again, or rather it had never left his mind. He had an impulse to tell them all to go to hell, but, under the present circumstances, such an order must prove singularly ineffective.

He said, “I understand.”

“And will swear.”

“Very well,” said the man on the left, “repeat after me. ‘I, Richard Veringer, do solemnly swear to keep faith with those who sit in high places and whose hearts and souls are in thrall to the Prince of Darkness, whom I now recognize as my liege Lord.’”

Richard, repeating the requested oath, wondered what more he must suffer before seeing her. He was really going through hell! He bit down a threatening laugh as he realized that in the eyes of the trio on the dais, he was doing just that! “Is it enough, Brother?” asked the man in the middle.

“It is enough, Brother,” the other two repeated in unison. “Very well, Richard Veringer, Earl of More, you are admitted to our circle and may partake of all the joys therein—for as long as you remain under our roof.”