Season of Light (20 page)

‘And what of your own home, a manor house, I believe?’

‘Ardleigh Manor hardly warrants the title being old and quite small, but it’s my home so of course I love the place and should not like to live anywhere else.’

Her arm was pinched playfully by Mrs Shackleford. ‘Your loyalty does you credit but most people accustom themselves to more luxurious surroundings in time, given the chance. My dear daughter-in-law, Susan, whose father has houses in Chandos Square and Norfolk, was forever losing herself when she first arrived at Compton Wyatt but she likes it well enough now.’

Poor Susan, at the opposite end of the table, was seated beside Warren, who had been quizzing her about plays she had not seen, music she had not heard and places she had not visited. At the mention of her name she threw her mother-in-law a resentful glance.

‘But Susan is the daughter of a viscount and therefore schooled to shine in society. She and my dear son Thomas were the talk of Bristol and beyond when they married. I wish you could have met Thomas, my fine boy.’ Mrs Shackleford dabbed her eyes with a diminutive handkerchief.

‘Perhaps you’d describe him to me.’

‘He was not at all like Harry; dark where Harry is fair and a brilliant head for figures. Sometimes I wonder whether Harry learned anything at all at school.’

Shackleford leaned forward. ‘My brother’s portrait is above the mantel in the drawing room, as you perhaps noticed, Miss Ardleigh, it being so large.’ Asa couldn’t help smiling. In the life-sized portrait a young man in mustard-coloured breeches leaned against an oak, a gun tucked under one arm, the other hand holding the leash of a dog. In the background was the angular bulk of Compton Wyatt. Tom Shackleford, according to the painting, had indeed been darker haired than his brother, thinner faced and with a small, shut mouth.

‘The fact is,’ whispered Mrs Shackleford, ‘to be the owner of Compton Wyatt is to be the governor of a small kingdom. Sometimes even I, its chatelaine, find my duties overwhelming.’

Susan Shackleford said suddenly: ‘I can’t say I find much to do here when I’m not playing the piano.’

‘Susan is a gifted musician,’ said Mrs Shackleford indifferently. ‘She’ll play for you later, I’m sure.’

‘I can’t wait to explore,’ Georgina piped up. ‘I do hope it will be fine tomorrow so we can take a walk in the gardens.’

‘My son has devised an itinerary for you,’ said Mrs Shackleford the elder, ‘such that you are not to have a moment’s leisure. There are to be picnics and tea parties and tomorrow we are all to bathe. And next week, before you go, we are to hold a ball in the long gallery.’

Georgina clasped her hands together. ‘For us?’

‘I need hardly say that we have not held assemblies here of any kind since my husband and son died so it will be a very minor affair. I am not out of mourning but Harry, an impulsive soul, insists …’

Shackleford glanced apologetically at Asa, who in turn wondered why he was so determined to put her through one ordeal after another.

‘Oh, we shall love it,’ gasped Georgina. ‘How marvellous. A ball. I have not been to a ball for months and months.’

Madame de Rusigneux, dressed in her shadowy blue gown, had been eating markedly less than usual and shaking her head sorrowfully when offered succulent dishes which normally she would have accepted with relish. Her position was made awkward by the fact that at Compton Wyatt she was faced with a nemesis in the form of an English companion, Mrs Foster, who performed the role for all she was worth; earlier, at tea, she had placed herself a few feet behind her mistress’s chair so as to limp off at a moment’s notice to fetch a shawl or a pin and then shrink out of sight when not required.

It was not long before the full glare of Mrs Shackleford’s attention fell upon Madame. ‘You are one of those poor French émigrées, I believe? How fascinating. You must tell me all about it.’

Madame gave Mrs Shackleford a brave and dazzling smile. After the meal she offered her frail arm to the much larger English lady and the pair drifted into the drawing room.

‘I find myself overwhelmed,’ Madame murmured, ‘to be so far from home, yet to find so much that is familiar. Is it the proportions of this house, I wonder? Or the beautiful colours of the paint.’

‘You had a home like this?’

‘Something like it: the Château de Rusigneux. It was much smaller and very old – the central tower which dominated the front of the house dated back to the thirteenth century.’

‘And de Rusigneux, your husband?’

‘The marquis? There was a terrible fire …’

‘Children?’

‘Thank God, no children. But I had a brother.’

Next moment they were tête-à-tête on the sofa. Asa, tucked into a window seat near the piano, was surprised by Madame’s readiness to confide in Mrs Shackleford. Or perhaps Compton Wyatt represented Madame’s proper milieu and her reticence hitherto had been due to a fear of embarrassing her employers by reference to her own much grander roots.

Susan Shackleford proved to be a fine musician; it was the first time, in fact, that Asa had heard Mozart played since Paris, and in that fragrant room, she felt guilty pleasure at being away from Ardleigh, Mrs Dacre and the strain of waiting for news of Didier. Shackleford, after a brief spell with Warren in the dining room, sat beside Georgina, but Asa knew by the set of his shoulder and his frequent glances across the room that he was entirely engrossed in her.

Next day neither Mrs Shackleford joined the bathing party; the elder claimed she had preparations to make for next week’s ball, the younger a slight head-cold. Shackleford left the house early to visit the family glassworks in Bristol accompanied by Warren, who hinted that he too had important business in the city. So the sisters set off into the gardens, together with Madame de Rusigneux (now firmly established as the tragic but unimaginably high-born – though French – figure who completed the trio of widows at Compton Wyatt), a couple of maids and a footman. They were guided down flights of steps through the water garden, the herbaceous garden and the topiary garden, to the lake, where a path ran past the boathouse, undulated through a grove of trees and then at last arrived at the bathhouse, which from a distance looked like a rustic cottage. Inside they were shown a large room furnished with sofas and a roaring fire, before which the ladies might warm themselves after bathing. Beyond were a couple of heavily draped changing rooms from whence the bather padded down a flight of stone steps and entered a winding tunnel leading to a cave with a view of the lake at one end and a deep bathing pool, fed by a spring and lit by braces of candles, at the other.

Georgina dipped her hand in the water and declared that she had never so much as paddled in anything so cold. ‘What about you, madame,’ she asked, ‘did you take cold-water baths in France or did you prefer a warm spa?’

Madame had approached the very front of the cave overlooking the lake and was holding her face up to the light. Her cheeks were devoid of colour so that in her dark gown and with the sunshine spilling on to her face she might have been a subject for Caravaggio, whose painting of a nubile serving boy had pride of place in the Compton Wyatt gallery between a Rubens and a Gainsborough.

‘I cannot bathe today.’

‘Madame, you will love it. Think of how refreshing it will be.’

‘Please, Mademoiselle Ardleigh, I am quite sure you will not make me.’

‘Certainly you are not obliged to bathe,’ said Asa. ‘Perhaps you would like me to come back with you to the lake.’ Together they edged along the tunnel with its damp, uneven floor, up the staircase and out to the lakeside. All the while Madame’s feet dragged as if she were afraid of what might happen next.

‘I shall be very well here,’ Madame said, releasing her grip on Asa’s sleeve.

‘You are shaking, Madame.’

‘There are places where the memories are bad. It was the stone. The cave. No light. And now, if you do not require me, I shall go back to the house and lay the foundations for the copy that Madame Shackleford has asked me to make of her son’s portrait, in miniature.’

Madame was soon forgotten in the excitement of the bath. The sisters were used to cold water because as girls their father had encouraged them to sea-bathe at Littlehampton, ‘although the sea was positively
boiling
compared to this,’ cried Georgina, dabbling her bare foot in the water. She had always been the most daring, and as she flung aside her robe and stepped gallantly down the steps, hair flooding her shoulders, arms crossed on her ample bosom, Asa caught a glimpse of a girl who would risk everything. ‘Come on, Asa. Be bold.’

‘I haven’t as much flesh as you.’ Asa laughed and squealed as she dipped her toe then at last threw herself forward into the achingly cold water. ‘I dare you, stay another minute,’ she shouted, and the sisters thrashed about and splashed each other, shaking the water from their ears. Only as they raced up the steps to the changing room did she think: At Compton Wyatt, even suffering is manufactured.

Nevertheless, she was glad to toast herself before the fire. ‘I have no doubt at all that Shackleford will propose to you,’ confided Georgina, flexing her toes to the heat. ‘I wish Warren would look at me the way I’ve seen Shackleford look at you.’

‘If he does propose I will refuse.’

‘You can’t mean it.’

‘I’m ashamed of being at Compton Wyatt. Where you see a pot of gold, I see only disgrace. How many slaves have been tortured so that you and I might sit in front of the fire in this bathhouse? How many women raped and children orphaned? And all so that a few spoilt ladies can stroll down gravel walks, sip tea from priceless cups or yawn through an evening of Mrs Susan Shackleford’s music – I saw you last night, Georgina. Mr Lambert says …’

‘Mr Lambert is a pauper who has dragged his daughter down with him. Have you any idea how sanctimonious you sound? How many people has Mr Lambert truly helped with his whining talk of kindness to all God’s creatures? Whereas I bet you the late Mr Shackleford rescued thousands of Negroes from all kinds of cannibalism and suchlike. Warren has been asking a lot of questions about the Shacklefords on your behalf and he says their plantations are a model of humanity to the point of their slaves being spoilt. Not to mention hundreds of poor children in Bristol who receive an education thanks to Shackleford endowments. Surely even you can applaud all that?’

‘Georgina, I will never marry Shackleford. Put it out of your head, once and for all. In any case he definitely won’t make an offer when he finds out what’s been happening at Ardleigh.’

But Georgina, when told of Mrs Dacre’s plight, brushed the subject aside. ‘Since there’s no proof at all that it’s Father’s child, why should he take responsibility? Asa, I beg you, don’t let Shackleford find out what’s happened even if it
is
true. Please, if he makes you an offer, accept.’ She began to cry. ‘Warren and I are in terrible trouble. We have nowhere left to go. The bailiffs are after us. We daren’t show our face in London.’ She buried her face in Asa’s skirts. ‘Warren may be arrested. If we don’t get the money to pay for a lawyer he could be imprisoned. He might even be hung or transported.’

‘Georgina, even if I married Shackleford I couldn’t save your husband from the law.’

‘You could. I don’t think you realise how influential Shackleford is. I’ve never seen Warren so hopeful about anything. He’s drinking less, have you noticed, and he’s been so much kinder … Oh, Asa, don’t look outraged. You and Philippa abandoned me and went jaunting off to Paris so what choice did I have? Well, now you must rescue me.’

‘What has Warren done exactly?’

Georgina was incoherent – said something to do with exporting goods from Bristol via France so that a ship could then sail on with French papers and under French colours, thereby evading the crippling British restrictions on the number of slaves who could be transported. Unfortunately, when a few dozen slaves perished on the voyage, questions had been asked about dates and timings. She said it could all be sorted out as long as there was a decent lawyer on the case. ‘If you marry Shackleford, all will be well. Shackleford could rescue us in a minute. He’d have to, because Warren says the Shackleford family, for all its noble reputation, has been up to all kinds of tricks in its time.’

A week passed. Each night Asa went to bed not tired enough and rose the next morning exhausted. Inching from room to room, she loitered before a painting or a priceless bit of porcelain, never to study or admire it – as a matter of principle she crushed any tendency to be seduced by objects so dearly bought – but to put off the moment when she must rejoin the ladies. She was surrounded by treasures: a Book of Hours illuminated by a fervent monk lavish with his gold ink and his interlaced designs of flowers and leaves; a leather-bound first edition of Milton’s
Paradise Lost
; a deep blue lidded Sèvres vase depicting a maid and her lover reclining on a bank. She often wrote letters, to Philippa, who wanted to know all about Compton Wyatt, and to Caroline Lambert:
Any more news of Mrs Dacre? Is your father better? If I’m needed I will come home
.

Mrs Shackleford senior never stopped talking. When she ran out of things to say she read aloud verses or prayers, and she was in her element when female neighbours came to call, as they frequently did, to look over the new Ardleigh relatives. On these occasions Asa was monosyllabic because she suspected their husbands of investing in slave ships. The trouble was Mrs Shackleford liked Asa’s aloofness. Was not Asa the very image of a lady, with her French companion, her ancient name, impeccable deportment and practised whisk of a fan?

There was no escape. If Asa strolled in the gardens she was accompanied by Georgina, who reminded her sister a dozen times a day that all this could be hers. Warren haunted the lake, a borrowed fishing rod balanced beside him. One evening he came back with a thin perch, his only catch. If they happened to be alone – and it occurred to Asa that, recognising her desire for solitude, he was intent on needling her – he would stand far too close. His habitual smell of alcohol was distorted by a dash of perfume and there was a softness about his hands and cheeks which she disliked intensely. ‘How beautiful you look, Miss Ardleigh. Fresh as a rose. I can’t help thinking your charms are wasted on the few of us gathered at Compton Wyatt. When you’re wed I hope to see you in London. You and I could have a rare old time if we could only slip the leash.’