Mariana (23 page)

I ought to have known, really, that it would be a wasted
effort. Geoff’s father, with his love of family history, would already have searched those parish registers for William de Mornay's offspring and found nothing.

The death of Mariana Farr, on
3
October 1728, had been duly recorded in a flowing, unemotional hand. But Richard's fate remained a mystery.

I stared up at the portrait, now, with an absent frown. Lifting one hand, I let my fingers trail across the flowing sweep of painted cloak that fell in artful folds from the lifeless Richard's shoulders. It was a mistake. Even as my fingertips left the canvas, the walls began to waver, the colors of the painting running as if the artist's hand had brushed carelessly across it, smearing the outline of that handsome, taunting face. Taking a hasty step backward, I squeezed my eyes shut.

/
can't,
I pleaded silently, urgently.
Don't you see that I can't? There isn't time....

As if in answer to my thoughts the dizziness subsided and the shifting, vibrating walls righted themselves, appearing placidly innocent when I dared to open my eyes. My breath was coming in short, nervous gasps that hurt my lungs. Quickly I turned my back to the portrait and stumbled out of the room, steadying myself against the comforting solidity of the massive doorjamb. A peal of girlish laughter drifted into the dim hallway through the partly open front door, and I turned my steps toward it, like a prisoner seeking fresh air and the warmth of sunlight.

I didn't reach the door. I had only gone a few paces before the sensation was upon me once again with a violent, almost punishing force that brought beads of icy sweat to my forehead and made my fingers clutch at the paneled walls in an effort to stay upright. I tried to fight it back, but failed. This time the high-pitched ringing rose deafeningly in my ears, and I spiraled downward into darkness. It seemed an eternity before the storm passed, leaving me standing alone in the silent hallway, my hands shaking in anticipation.
A footfall sounded in the main passage behind me, and I spun round, my skirts sweeping the polished floor. Richard de Mornay halted his approach when he was still several feet away, and I waited for his reaction.

It was shockingly bold behavior, for me to come calling on him like this, and I wasn't sure why I had done it. Perhaps it was because my uncle and aunt had gone down to Salisbury, and I had grown wild in my unaccustomed freedom. Or perhaps it was because of what Richard himself had said to me that day at the market, about my not seeming a coward. I had read the laughing challenge in his eyes that day, and I saw it again now as he took a step forward into the light, gallantly bowing his head.

'Welcome to Crofton Hall,' said Richard de Mornay.

Twenty-three

He 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.'
I smiled, recalling the expression on the face of the man who had opened the door to me, and his stammering discomposure as he'd left me to find his master. A sudden thought struck me, and I glanced up, sobering.

'They will not tell?' I said quickly. 'That is, my uncle ...'

'... shall never hear of your adventure,' Richard de Mornay finished the sentence for me. 'My servants may be Puritan in their morals, but they are a loyal lot. Your uncle is not at home, I take it.'

I shook my head. 'He has gone down to Salisbury, with Aunt Caroline.'

'Has he, now?' I thought his eyes hardened for a moment, but it was a fleeting impression and
soon
forgotten. 'Well, then you need not hurry your visit,' he decided. 'Would you like to see the library first, or view the house as a whole?'

That was a simple question to resolve. 'The library, please.'

'As you wish.' He inclined his head, not surprised. 'Follow me, if you will.'

He led me along the dark passage and out into a cloistered walk that gave onto a tranquil courtyard, cool and green and peaceful. No flowers bloomed here save a handful of tender blossoms that trailed lovingly across a flat square of white stone set into the turf.

'My mother's grave,' Richard said, when I asked him what it was. 'Being Catholic, she was refused burial in the churchyard.'

I frowned thoughtfully. 'Is that why you do not attend the services yourself?'

'I had rather pay the fines and pray according to my conscience,' he replied. 'I could not hold with any church that would so judge a pious woman.'

He pushed open a heavy, creaking door and led me into another passage, where the air was heavy with the glorious scent of leather. I had often dreamed of rooms filled with nothing but books, but I had never actually seen one, and so
the first sight of Richard de Mornay's library left me momentarily speechless.

'These are all yours?' I asked in wonder, my eyes raking row upon row of the handsomely bound volumes, and he laughed at the unbridled envy on my face.

'Ay. One day I will build a larger room for them, but for now this must suffice. You may borrow whatever you like.'

It would have taken me a month to read all the titles. I stepped forward and quickly selected a small, fat book from one of the lower shelves. 'May I borrow this one?' I asked him.

'Shakespeare?' He checked my choice, raising one eyebrow curiously. 'Take it, if you will. That is the Second Folio, and contains a curious verse by Milton, the old sinner, in the form of an epitaph.'

I brushed my fingers across the book's cover lightly, reverently. 'My father spoke highly of Milton's poetry,' I said, 'though he did not applaud his politics.'

'He is an odious man,' Richard agreed, 'but a brave poet. He has just finished an epic on the fall of man, I am told, but cannot find the wherewithal to see it printed.'

Since the Restoration the once fiery Milton had fallen from favor, and the man who had penned such venomous defenses of the killing
of
kings now lived in blind and bitter solitude. I, for one, did not mourn his downfall. Fanaticism such as his had always frightened me.

My selection made, we left the library and skirted the courtyard once more, entering the main part of the house through a different door this time. I followed my host down a long gallery, where the dark portraits stared down at me from their vantage points on the paneled walls. All the eyes held disapproval. All the eyes, that is, but the pair belonging to a defiant young man in the last portrait but one.

'Your portrait, my lord?' I stopped to have a look. "It is an admirable likeness.'

' 'Twas done by Lely,' he told me, giving his image an assessing glance, 'soon after I returned from France. A minor vanity, on my part.'

'And this?' I moved on to the next portrait, and frowned a little into the face of a smug, self-satisfied boy with curling blond hair and idle eyes.

Richard looked. 'My nephew, Arthur,' he identified the boy. 'He has the look of my brother, but not, I fear, the character.'

I would have lingered in the gallery, but he pressed me onward, through yet another doorway into a great soaring room with glittering glass windows and a ceiling that seemed as high as the arches of a cathedral.

'Oh,' I breathed, my eyes drifting upward. Here was a room, I marveled, fit for the use of princes. The walls were hung with cut velvet and tapestries woven in scarlet and blue, showing dark-eyed satyrs and pale-white nymphs, Vulcan and Venus and a host of ancient heroes. All round the room hung silver sconces set with candles, ready to illuminate the great hall with a hundred points of light and banish darkness forever. There would be light from the fireplace as well, I thought, that huge stone fireplace that could shelter burning logs the length and breadth of a man....

'It is a handsome room,' Richard said, beside me. 'I regret the furnishings are so poor, but much of the furniture was sold off during my father's imprisonment.'

There was, in truth, but a handful of chairs and small tables, clustered near the cold fireplace, but it scarcely seemed to matter. I took a step forward, stretching my neck to look up at the heraldic carvings above the mantel.

'The arms of my family,' he supplied. 'The hawks wear hoods to remind us not to trust our eyes in battle, but to follow our sovereign blindly. We lead with our hearts,' he explained, 'and not our heads. And much it has cost us.'

'But you cannot be destroyed,' I pointed out. 'So says your motto. At least that lends some comfort.'

'You read Latin?' His tone was incredulous, and I lowered my eyes, embarrassed.
'My father taught me,' I said, in a small, defensive voice. 'He said that if a queen could read Latin, then so should I.'

'He must have been a remarkable man, your father. Did he die recently?'

I shook my head. 'Nine years ago. He fell into a fever, and did not recover. I was eleven years old.'

'Did you keep none of his books for yourself?'

'They were burned,' I said flatly. 'Everything in our house was burned, upon my mother's death, for fear of the plague.'

He stared down at me. 'Your mother died of the plague?'

I nodded, unable to speak, and he shook his head sympathetically. 'It is a dreadful thing,' he said. 'I have heard that some five hundred people have died of it in London this past week alone, and it is far from over.'

'The Lord's vengeance on a wicked people,' I mused slowly, then glanced up in apology. 'That is what my uncle calls it.'

His face hardened. 'Your uncle is a fool. The vengeance is in his own mind, and nowhere else. His side has lost the battle, and he would see the victors suffer.'

I stared at him, uncomprehending, and he smiled suddenly, the blackness lifting from his features. 'But our talk has grown dreary,' he complained. 'I apologize. Come, let me show you round the house before we dine.'

'I cannot dine with you, my lord,' I protested, shaking my head.

'I insist. I am not often graced by visitors.'

I held my ground. 'I cannot,' I repeated. 'Rachel would worry if I were late in returning home.'

He smiled slyly. 'I could send Evan round to Greywethers, to inform her of your delay,' he said. 'She would not be so eager for your return, then.'

I flashed him a quick look of alarm. 'You would not send Evan to her, surely!'

'He may be there already, for all I know.'
'But Rachel is betrothed,' I told him, 'to Elias Webb.'

'What of it?" He shrugged. ' 'Tis plain to see that she does not love that corrupt old man. And I'll wager Evan will not cheerfully step aside for our black-hearted bailiff.'

'She cannot go against my uncle,' I said quietly.

'Then she is not worthy of the love of my friend. Christ's blood, I despise a weak and mincing woman!' He was challenging me, and I knew it. He took a step closer, crowding me against the fireplace. 'Will you dine with me, or no?'

I shook my head again, not trusting my voice.

'A dance, then,' he suggested unexpectedly, with a laughing gleam in his eyes. 'I must have some recompense for my hospitality.'

'I do not dance.'

'I'll keep the step simple,' he promised, and I shook my head helplessly. It was unheard-of, I thought, to dance in private with a man, and that man not your husband. It would be improper, wanton, and yet the thought of it set my blood racing with unladylike excitement.

'There is no music,' I remarked, retreating another step.

Richard de Mornay smiled. 'Would you like me to call for my stableboy? He is unequaled on the lute, and I'm sure he would favor us with a danceable tune.'

'No,' I said hastily. I had no desire for a witness to my folly.

"Then you must make do without. Or I could sing, if you wish it' He held out his hand. 'Come, you are no coward. One dance, a simple step, and the debt is paid.'

Trapped, I took his hand.

He did sing, after all, softly and in French. He had a deep and pleasant voice, and his warm breath fanned my cheek as he twirled me round and round the deserted, echoing room. It was a sinful feeling.

I coughed a little to clear my throat. 'What is that air you sing?'
'Aux plaisirs, aux delices bergeres,'
he replied. 'My mother used to sing it when I was a boy.'

'It sounds a happy song.'

'It is. It tells us to pass our lives in loving, for time is lost, hour by hour, until only regret remains.' He whirled me wide beneath the long windows.
'A Vamour, aux plaisir, aux boccage,'
he quoted softly, then turned the words to English: 'In love, in pleasure, in the woods, spend your beautiful days....'

I stared up at him, dumbly, my heart rising in my throat. I was not aware of the precise moment when we stopped dancing, when he turned those deep, forest-colored eyes on mine and traced the outline of my face with a delicate touch.

'These are your beautiful days, Mariana Farr,' he said gently, and then his shoulders blocked the sunlight as he lowered his head to mine and kissed me.

He must have known that it was the first time I had been kissed by a man. I had no idea what to do, no idea how to respond to the flood of strange and new sensations. His touch was sweetly, exquisitely, achingly wonderful, and when it ended I felt robbed.

He looked down at me and laughed, and took my face in his hands and said something, low and in French, some phrase I couldn't catch, and his face blurred before my eyes as he bent to kiss me again....

My vision cleared. I was standing, quite alone, by the tall windows of the Great Hall, gazing out over the lawn where the gathering shadows of late afternoon were growing longer. I could see Geoff and Iain, still standing in the rose garden by the churchyard wall, the dark head bent to the russet one, listening, while Iain leaned on his spade and talked.

I saw them only for an instant, really, and then my vision blurred a second time, this time with tears. As quickly as I could blink them back, they rose again from some seemingly endless spring inside me, welling hotly in my anguished eyes. It was foolish to cry, I told myself firmly. Utterly foolish. It was only a kiss, after all, and it had happened so long ago ... so very long ago....

I heard a small, tentative footstep on the floor behind me, followed by an uncertain cough. 'Excuse me, miss, but ... may I help you?' It was a girl's voice, and I suddenly remembered the tour guides.

I turned, and saw the girl's face relax as she recognized me. 'Oh, it's you, Miss Beckett. I couldn't think who it ... I say,' she said, frowning, 'are you feeling all right?'

I raised my hands to my burning face and felt the tears come spilling over onto my cheeks, horrified that I could do nothing to stop them. It was a relief to hear the calm, crisp voice of Mrs. Hutherson speaking from the doorway of the room.

'Nothing to worry at, Sally,' she said evenly, dismissing the young girl. 'Miss Beckett's just had a bit of a shock, that's all. You can get on with the locking up, now.'