The Shrouded Walls (2 page)

“Thank you, sir,” muttered Alexander, and hurried to open the door for me.

I swept through without a backward glance and outside in the office beyond the little clerk leaped off his stool to open the door which led out into the square.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was blue and cloudless and a light breeze danced through the trees. My mother, who hated English weather, would have said it reminded her of France and the gardens of the chateau on the Loire.

“Oh God,” said Alexander desolately.

“Be quiet,” I snapped. I was too close to tears myself to stand any nonsense from him. The hired chaise was still waiting at the gates of Lincoln’s Inn and presently we were on our way home to Soho.

“What are you going to do?” said Alexander at last.

“I don’t know.” I stared out of the window at the crowded dirty streets, saw the beggars rattling their
alms bowls
and the prostitutes already soliciting in the alleys.

“I don’t want to go into the army,” said Alexander.

I did not answer.

“Perhaps Michael would help us. After all, he is our half-brother.”

I looked at him. He blushed. “I—it was just an idea
...”

“A very bad one.” I went on looking out of the window. “And totally unrealistic.”

Presently he said: “You won’t have to worry. You’ll soon get married, and your problems will be solved. But what about me? How am I to earn a living and support myself? I don’t know what to do.”

“I should like to know who is going to marry the illegitimate child of an English gentleman and a French
émigré
e
without dowry, portion or social standing,” I said acidly. “Please try to talk sense, Alexander, or else don’t talk at all.”

We traveled the rest of the way home in silence. Soon after we arrived it was time for dinner, and we ate our way wordlessly through the plates of fish, fowl, mutton and beef in the paneled dining room. Above the fireplace our father’s portrait smiled down at us, the ironical twist to his mouth seeming a shade more pronounced than usual.

“Perhaps Michael will be here tomorrow,” said Alexander.

I was silent.

“Perhaps he will be quite a pleasant fellow.”

A clock chimed the hour and was still.

“Perhaps I shall ask him if he can help us.”

“If you say perhaps once more, Alexander—” I began and then stopped as the footman came in.

“Yes, what is it, John?”

“There is a gentleman here to see you, miss. He gave me a letter for you and his card, and I showed him into the library.”

I took both card and letter from the salver.

“Michael?” said Alexander at once.

“No, it’s not Michael.” I stared at the card. The name was unfamiliar to me. “I have never heard of this gentleman, John.”

“Perhaps the letter, miss—”

“Nor am I in the habit of entertaining strangers known only to me through a letter of introduction.”

“Let me see him,” said Alexander, standing up. “I’ll find out what he wants. Perhaps he’s a creditor.”

“Pardon, sir,” said the footman scandalized, “but he was most definitely a gentleman.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Wait,” I said. I had opened the letter. The address was New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, and the signature at the foot of the page belonged to the lawyer, Sir Charles Stowell. “My dear Miss Fleury,” Sir Charles had written. “I hope you will forgive me for taking the liberty to introduce to you by means of this letter an esteemed client of mine, Mr. Axel Brandson. Mr. Brandson, though resident in Vienna, has visited this country many times and as well as being well known to me personally was also slightly acquainted with your father whom he had met during a prior visit to London. On hearing of your bereavement, Mr. Brandson expressed anxiety to offer his condolences and as I was mindful of your present unfortunate predicament it occurred to me that it might perhaps be beneficial if an opportunity could be arranged for him to meet you. I offered to act as intermediary in this respect but Mr. Brandson is hard-pressed by business commitments and it
was impossible for us to arrange a suitable time at an early date. Hence
I
hope that this letter will serve as sufficient introduction to his social position and personal integrity. I remain, etc
...
”

I looked up. The footman was still waiting. “Kindly inform Mr. Brandson, John,” I said, “that I will see him shortly, if he would be so kind as to wait a few minutes.”

“Yes, miss,” said the footman, and withdrew.

“Who is it?” said Alexander immediately.

I gave him the letter.

“But what does he want?” he said mystified when he had finished reading.
“ I don’t
understand.”

But I was remembering the expression in Sir Charles’ dark eyes and the knowledge he had of my predicament and background, and thought I understood all too well. I rose to my feet, trying not to be angry. Sir Charles probably intended well enough. After all I had told him directly I had no intention of being a governess and he had no doubt assumed this declaration to be capable of only one possible
interpretation
. What else could a woman in my position do if she refused to be a governess? She could only marry, and as no man of any standing would want me for a wife, even that course was denied me.

“Are you sure you should see him alone?” Alexander was saying alarmed. “I’d better come with you. The man’s a foreigner, after all.”

“So was Mama,” I reminded him, “and most of her friends. No, I’ll see him alone.”

“But do you think it’s proper?”

“Probably not, but I don’t think that matters so much now.” I went out into the hall. In spite of myself I was angry and my pride burned within me like a flame no matter how hard I tried to subdue it by the cool persuasiveness of reason. In a moment of rage I wished the devil would swallow up Mr. Brandson, and Sir Charles Stowell too. I was determined not to make the same mistakes my mother had made no matter how many London garrets I had to spend my days in.

I crossed the hall with swift firm steps, turned the handle of the library door and walked into the room with my head held high, my cheeks burning and my fists clenched as if for a fight.

“Miss Fleury?” said the man, turning abruptly to face me. “How do you do.”

He was not as I had expected him to be. I had instinctively visualized a blond giant as soon as I had read of his
Nordic
names, but this man was dark. He had smooth dark unpowdered hair, and dark eyes which were as opaque as Sir Charles Stowell’s dark eyes were clear and expressive; whatever thoughts this man had he kept to himself. He was dressed sombrely but with good taste in a dark blue coat and plain well-cut breeches; his carefully folded white cravat was starched to perfection and his Hessian boots would have satisfied the highest standards of elegance. He gave no obvious indication of being a foreigner for his English was flawless, and yet I was at once aware of some cosmopolitan nuance in his manner which was difficult to define. When he took my hand and bowed I noticed that his fingers were long and slim and cool against my hot palm.

“Pray be seated,” I said graciously, withdrawing my hand rather too quickly. “May I offer you a cordial or some other refreshment?”

“Thank you, but no.” His voice was cool too, I noticed. The lack of accent somehow seemed to take all hint of passion from his tone.

We sat down by the fireplace, opposite one another, and I waited for him to begin a conversation.

Presently he said: “You may well be wondering who I am and why I have effected this introduction to see you. I must apologize for trespassing on your privacy at such a distressing time. It was kind of you to see me.”
I made a small gesture of acknowledgement.

“Permit me to offer my condolences to you on your bereavement.”

“Thank you.”

There was a silence. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair with his hands tightly clasped in front of him. The light slanted upwards across his cheekbones and into his opaque eyes. “I consider myself Austrian, as I have lived in Austria most of my life, but in fact I am half-English by descent. My father is—was—an Englishman. He died ten months ago.”

I wondered if I should comment. Before I could make up my mind he said: “My mother returned to Austria shortly before I was bo
rn
and died five years afterwards, leaving me both property and income in Vienna. I was more than content to stay there, although I was educated in England and later often came here on account of my business interests; occasionally I would travel down to Sussex to see my father. He remarried soon after my mother’s death and had other sons by this time.”

He paused. I contrived to look intelligent and attempted to give the impression I knew exactly what he was trying to say.

“My father was a rich man,” he said. “He had estates on the Romney Marsh and his ancestors were prominent citizens of the Cinque Ports. I assumed that when he died he would leave his house (which was not entailed) and his wealth to his eldest son by his second marriage, but I was wrong. He willed everything to me. My commitments in Vienna made it impossible for me to come to England earlier, but I am here now for the purpose of visiting the estate and seeing my English relations.”

“I see,” I said.

“I rather doubt whether you do,” he said ironically, “since I haven’t yet explained why I have come to see you. However, I appreciate your interest in what to you must seem a very puzzling narrative.
”
His hands were clasped so tightly together that the knuckles gleamed white. He glanced into the fire for a moment and then looked back at me swiftly as if he had hoped to catch me off my guard. Something in his expression made me avert my eyes instinctively and make a great business of flicking a speck of dust from my cuff.

“Pray continue, sir,” said my voice politely.

“I happened to visit my lawyer Sir Charles Stowell this morning,” he said. “There were one or two matters relating to my father’s will that I wanted to discuss with him, rather than with my father’s lawyers in Rye. In the course of conversation Stowell mentioned your name and the—circumstances of your position both before and after your parent’s death, as he considered it might be germane to my position.”

“And pray, Mr. Brandson,” I said so cool
l
y that my manner was even cooler than his, “what is your position?”

“Why, merely this, Miss Fleury,” he said, and to my annoyance I sensed that he was amused. “If I wish to inherit under the terms of my father’s will, I must marry within one year of his death. Furthermore it’s specifically stipulated that my wife must be English by birth. Unfortunately this condition is not nearly so easy to fulfill as it might have seemed to my father when he made his very insular stipulation. To begin with, the ladies of my acquaintance are all Viennese, not English; I know of no eligible young Englishwoman, and even if I did it’s possible that her father would frown on my foreign blood and discourage the match. My father, as I am well aware, was not the only insular man in this extraordinarily arrogant country, and now when England is the richest, most powerful nation in the world she is more insular and arrogant than ever before. On the other hand, it was clear to me that I couldn’t merely marry some serving-girl for the purpose of fulfilling the condition in the will. My wife must know how to conduct herself and be at ease among people of the class with whom I would be obliged to associate on accepting the inheritance. She must at any rate give the appearance of poise and breeding.”

My coolness seemed to have turned to ice. I was unable to move or speak. All I was conscious of thinking was: He wishes me to masquerade as his wife. When he has his inheritance safely in his hand I shall be discarded and left penniless.

“I believe you are seventeen years of age, Miss Fleury,” he said. “I assume that by this time you will have considered the idea of marriage in general terms, if not in relation to any specific person.”

“Yes,” I heard myself say. “I have considered it.”

“
And?”

“And put the thought aside.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because,” I said, trying to erase all trace of anger from my voice, “I have no dowry, no portion and no social standing. The possibility of making a good match is out of the question.”

“I think you underestimate your own attractions,” he said. “Or else you overestimate the disadvantage of your background. I am sure you would have no difficulty in finding suitors.”

“It’s plain to see you’re a foreigner, Mr. Brandson,” I said, my tongue sharp in my desire to stab back at him for his casual reference to my illegitimacy. “If you knew this country better you would know that whatever proposals a woman such as I may receive, none of them would have anything to do with matrimony.”

“But I have just proposed matrimony to you,” he said undisturbed. “Am I to understand that my proposal was not worthy of your consideration? You at least cannot reject me as a foreigner, Miss Fleury! My father was as English as your father was, and your mother was as much a foreigner as mine. My reputation and standing both in London and Vienna are excellent—anyone will confirm that. I have no title, but my father’s family fought with Harold at Hastings against the Conqueror and my father was one of the most respected of the landed gentry throughout the length and breadth of Sussex. If you married me you would find yourself the wife of a prosperous land-owner, mistress of a large and beautiful home with plenty of servants.”