Shadow of the Moon (14 page)

‘India,' said Alex laconically.

The Countess stiffened indignantly. ‘I do not understand you, Captain Randall. You yourself have spent some years in that country—'

‘Twelve,' interjected Captain Randall.

‘Then surely you have met many of your fellow-countrywomen out there? Are you trying to tell me that none of them finds life supportable? I cannot believe that you are serious.'

‘No,' said Alex slowly. ‘Many of them would be nowhere else if given the choice. But as a general rule these fall into two categories: those who remain, and endure every hardship that heat and disease and exile can bring, for love of husband or father. And those whose social status in this country is such that India gives them a sense of position and importance that they cannot obtain here. The rest hate it. The latter consideration will hardly apply to the Condesa, but can you be sure of the first one? I understand that it is five years and more since she last saw Mr Barton.'

‘That is a matter that must be left to my cousin,' said the Countess frostily. ‘It is no concern of ours. No doubt she will decide for herself.'

She rose with an impressive rustle of silk and held out her hand. Captain Randall stood up and bowed over it.

‘I hope,' said the Countess with a return to graciousness, ‘that you will not mind extending your stay for another two days? My husband hopes to be able to see you tomorrow afternoon. Most of our guests will be leaving after the funeral, and he will then be able to give you his undivided attention.'

Captain Randall murmured his thanks and turned to go, and as he did so he noticed for the first time a large portrait that hung above the clutter of a velvet-draped overmantel. It depicted a young girl in a white crinoline and a blue sash. A pretty creature, barely more than a child, with pale gold ringlets falling onto sloping shoulders, and one small hand holding a single rose. He had observed the original of the portrait at luncheon that day, and looking at the painted likeness he had a sudden and disturbing vision of what a few years of scorching heat, difficult childbirths, cholera, typhus, dysentery, and the society of a dissolute and drunken husband would do to that face. It did not seem made of the stuff of endurance. ‘No stamina,' thought Alex with a stab of anger and frustration. It would be unthinkable to have a hand in condemning such a defenceless creature to the life that awaited any wife of Conway Barton, Commissioner of Lunjore.

‘My daughter, Sybella,' said the Countess complacently, and Alex drew a quick breath of relief. At least the future of that fragile-looking child need not be on his conscience. He turned and smiled at the Countess. Few women were proof against Alex Randall's smile, and Julia Ware proved no exception. She thawed visibly. ‘Such a dear child. You must meet her, Captain Randall. Herr Winterhalter informed me that of all his subjects Sybella was—'
The discreet entrance of an elderly lady, evidently a companion, interrupted her: ‘What is it, Mrs Barlow?'

‘Lady Augusta. You asked that she—'

‘Yes, yes. I shall not be a moment. Good night, Captain Randall. I have so enjoyed our little talk.'

She inclined her head in a slight but gracious nod of dismissal and turned her attention to the elderly companion.

There was no sign of the young lady of the portrait at dinner that night, and Alex concluded that she must be dining with her parents. He found himself seated between a portly clergyman, and a Lady Wycombe who, having demanded an explanation of his presence at Ware, remarked: ‘For one can see that you are not one of the family.'

‘How?' inquired Alex, interested.

‘The family favours fair hair. Have you not noticed? Yours is dark. And you are burnt so exceedingly brown. India, I presume?'

Alex introduced himself and explained his presence in the house. He did not go into the details of his errand, merely allowing it to be inferred that he had had business to transact with the late Earl.

‘Yes, of course. He was a shareholder, was he not? Of the East India Company, I mean. A very interesting country, India, I feel sure. But too hot. You were looking for someone, were you not? Who did you expect to see here?'

‘No one, I assure you,' said Alex with a smile. ‘But there was a young lady sitting opposite me at luncheon. I noticed that she is not here tonight.'

‘Ah, you must mean Sybella,' said Lady Wycombe. ‘She is having a light supper in her room. Do not tell me that you too have fallen a victim to her charms! If so I must hasten to warn you that you stand no chance; no chance at all. When Bella marries it will be to the heir of a great name or a great fortune. Probably both.'

‘I have met Lady Ware,' said Alex gravely.

His companion laughed. ‘Oh, I was not referring to Julia. Naturally
she
thinks that no one under a Prince of the Blood is good enough for her dazzling daughter, but she could be brought to consent to anything that her child demanded. No, it is Sybella herself who sets the mark high. And she will hit it, of that I have no doubt. That is, if she can rid herself of her cousin. Winter may yet spoil her aim. It is a way she has.'

‘Winter. That is a curious name. Does it derive from the Spanish? It sounds a trifle bleak.'

‘You have not met her yet?'

‘No. What is she like?'

Lady Wycombe laughed on rather an odd note.

‘No woman can describe her to you without injustice. But I am sorry for Julia - and Sybella. Sybella is a spoilt, selfish chit who will grow up into a
spoilt, selfish woman. Nevertheless one cannot help feeling for her. Do you see that young man over there? On the far side of that candelabrum; sitting between old Lady Parbury and Camilla Grantham - the girl with the red hair. That is Amberley's heir, and the greatest
parti
in Europe. He is also Sybella's first cousin, though that will not stop them. There is only one thing that may stand in the way of a satisfactory conclusion, but now that Henry is dead I am quite sure that suitable steps will be taken. Yes, they will certainly get rid of Winter.'

Alex said: ‘I am sorry to appear so dull-witted, but you forget that I am a stranger here. I have never met any of these people before, and I must confess that I have not the least idea what you are talking about.'

‘And why should you, indeed?' said Lady Wycombe.

‘Enlighten me, please.'

‘You will find it very tedious stuff. What is it you wish to know?'

‘About the Condesa with the chilly name. And Lady Sybella. What was it that she could do nothing about while Henry - the late Earl I collect? - was alive, and why will she get rid of this Winter now that he is dead? You perceive that you have aroused my curiosity.'

‘Wait until you know them better, and then you will see for yourself.'

Lady Wycombe had clearly lost interest in the subject. She turned her shoulder upon him, and Captain Randall found himself engaged to listen to a long monologue from his right-hand neighbour, a portly ornament of the church, anent the disgraceful advance of the railroads, which were spreading a pernicious network all over the country to the great detriment of the natural scene and a decline in the use of that noble animal, the horse.

There had been no gathering of the assembled guests at the conclusion of the meal, for the ladies withdrew to their several rooms immediately upon leaving the table. After an unusually brief interval with the port the gentlemen followed their example, and Captain Randall, making his way back to his room, took a wrong turning and so came upon a curious scene.

He found himself at the entrance of a long, unlighted gallery hung with tapestries and family portraits, at the far end of which, blackly silhouetted against a lighted hall beyond, stood two closely embraced figures. He was preparing to retreat hastily when it was borne in upon him that what he was witnessing was not a love scene, for the woman at the far end of the gallery was being held against her will. Her captor held her with her arms closely pinioned to her sides, and so hard against him that she could move nothing but her head as she strove frantically to avoid his avid kisses. She did not cry out, but struggled silently, and in the stillness of the quiet gallery Alex could hear her short, panting breaths. He started forward at a run.

The floor of the gallery was thickly carpeted and the two at the far end of it too engrossed in their struggle to be aware of his approach.

‘Just a moment,' said Alex crisply. He caught the gentleman's shoulder in an ungentle grip and jerked him round, and the lady, freed, drew back
with a gasp of relief and leant panting against the wall, her hands at her throat. The wide black skirts of her crinoline merged with the shadows of the gallery, and only her face and her small hands made white blurs in the dim light.

Alex turned his attention to the gentleman, but before he could speak, yet another figure appeared upon the scene; someone who must have started to run across the wide hall towards the struggling figures at almost the same instant that Alex had started towards them from the far end of the gallery, but who, hampered by a trailing cashmere shawl, had arrived there a close second.

‘
Edmund!
' The word was a gasp of fury.

Captain Randall released his captive who took a hurried step backward, bringing his face into the subdued light of the hall. It was the young gentleman whom Lady Wycombe had referred to as the most eligible
parti
in Europe.

The new arrival stared up at him for a moment, her breath coming short. Then suddenly, swiftly, she brushed past him, ignoring Captain Randall as though she were unaware of his presence, and confronted the panting figure in the shadows.

‘
You!
' The single syllable was scarcely more than a breath of rage in the silence. It was followed by another sound, equally shocking in its unexpectedness: the crisp, sharp sound of a slap delivered with the full force of an open palm.

The woman in the shadows threw up an arm as though to protect herself from further attack, and then picking up her wide skirts, whirled about and ran down the length of the dark gallery, the heavy silk of her dress rustling in the silence like a rush of wind through dead leaves. In the same instant the eligible Edmund turned on his heel and disappeared with startling suddenness through a door that led out of the circular hall a few paces from the entrance to the gallery, and Captain Randall was left alone with the lady in the cashmere shawl.

She turned slowly, and apparently for the first time became aware of the presence of a stranger, for he heard her startled gasp. The warm light from the hall fell full on the white face and tumbled blonde curls of the girl of the dining-room and the Winterhalter portrait. The Lady Sybella Grantham. The next moment she had swept past him and run lightly across the hall to vanish down a dimly lit corridor beyond.

The whole curious incident had occupied less than two minutes of time, and Captain Randall, unexpectedly involved in the brief drama and left in sole possession of the scene, retraced his steps, and coming upon a hurrying flunkey was redirected to his own part of the house.

The morning of the funeral dawned cold and windy. Hurrying ranks of clouds streamed endlessly overhead against a lowering background of grey
skies that failed to show a glimpse of blue, and patches of discoloured snow still lay about unmelted among the roots of the oaks and the beech trees in the park.

The body of the late Earl had been laid to rest in the ancestral mausoleum attached to a chapel in the grounds of the castle, and when the service was over Captain Randall found himself standing next to his neighbour of the previous evening, Lady Wycombe.

‘Let us wait in the porch until the crowd thins,' said Lady Wycombe. ‘At least it is out of the wind. It will take some time to get the carriages away, and I do not intend to walk.'

The crowd about the mausoleum was thinning rapidly, for the keen wind did not encourage loitering. Those who had come or were returning on foot had already set off at a brisk pace, and the carriages that waited to one side of the yew-lined avenue were being filled and driven away.

A lone woman was standing apart by the nearest yew tree, using the thick trunk as a shelter against the wind and evidently waiting, as were Alex and Lady Wycombe, until the major portion of the crowd had left the avenue. Something about her, something vaguely familiar, attracted Captain Randall's attention. Despite the heavy veil that obscured her features he had the impression that he knew her or had seen her before. Yet it was not the Lady Sybella; of that he was certain. This woman was not so tall and her hair was dark, not fair, for in the cold light of the windy morning even a heavy black mourning veil could not have entirely disguised the pale gold glint of Lady Sybella's curls.

She stood quite still; so still that Captain Randall suddenly realized where it was that he had seen her before. It was the woman who had entered the guardroom yesterday and had stood in that same rigid attitude before the old Earl's coffin.

He watched her idly, wondering how it was that such complete immobility could yet manage to convey such a vivid and unmistakable impression of grief. And as he watched, a freakish gust of wind, sweeping about the trunk of the aged yew tree, snatched at the long black veil and whipped it out and above her head, revealing a young, unguarded face.

It was a small face, the colour of warm ivory. Wide at the brow and pointed at the chin, with enormous dark eyes under delicate black brows that curved like a swallow's wings. The thick waves of hair that sprang from a deep widow's peak on her forehead held the blue, burnished gleam of a raven's plumage and made the mourning hue of bonnet and gown appear dull and rusty by comparison; and though her mouth was too wide and too full to suit the accepted standards of beauty in that age, it was a mouth, all the same, to set a man's pulses beating.

The girl reached up an arm to recapture her veil, and as she did so she turned her head more fully towards the two in the porch. Upon her left cheek, and sharply visible against the ivory skin, was an irregular blotch
that might have been a birthmark - or the mark left by a vicious blow given with an open hand.