The Shrouded Walls (9 page)

“If you would—thank you, Alice ... and please give the rector’s wife my apologies.”

“Of course.” She smiled reassuringly. “Don’t you worry yourself about anything. I’ll see to anything that needs attending to.”

I relaxed in relief as she left the room, and settled down in bed to try and sleep a little more but the more I tried to sleep the more I thought of my conversation with her. Curiously enough, the part which remained most vividly in my mind was her description of Rodric. I could imagine him so clearly now, gay and careless, his zest for life equaled only by his zest for excitement, superbly free of all restrictive ties and the dreariness of responsibilities. The very picture of him stirred my blood. That was the kind of man I would have married if I had had the choice, I thought. Axel’s cool sophistication and remoteness of manner was oppressive to me, and the great gulf of the years between us was stifling in the extreme. It occurred to me for the first time that I resented the discipline he already exercised where I was concerned, his bland assumption that I would do as he told me without question. It was true, I thought, that a woman must be submissive in some respects for in many matters the husband was sure to know best, but surely in this day and age she had a certain measure of freedom
...

For when I was young the nineteenth century had barely begun, and I could not foresee then the great changes of the Victorian era and the dwindling of all women’s independence.

Perhaps they had different ideas now in Europe, I thought. Perhaps Axel treated me in this way because he was a foreigner.

The morning passed slowly; I became restless and impatient, and finally at noon I summoned Marie-Claire and began to dress.

Some reason made me long to explore my new home on my own. I did not want Alice, or worse still Axel’s step-mother Esther conducting me through each room in a formal tour of inspection. Accordingly when I was dressed I did not go down to the morning room or the saloon, but up the back stairs to the attics beneath the eaves, and when I paused at last it was at the top of the house before a small window which looked out due east across the Marsh. Someone had carved on the windowpane with a diamond. Stooping so that I might see the inscription more clearly I read:

“God Save Englande and Ye Towne of Rye “God Save Rodric Who Here Did Lye “Imprisoned.”

“July
1797”

It was the year of my birth. He would have been about ten or eleven years old, locked in the attic for a while perhaps as punishment for some childhood prank. I wondered where he had found the diamond, and then casting my eye around the little room I saw the huge boxes containing heaven knows how many disused clothes and other articles. Perhaps he had found some long-lost diamond by chance and seized upon it to amuse himself as he whiled away the long hours of imprisonment.

It seemed sad to think that he was dead. I traced the carving on the glass with my fingers, and suddenly he was so real to me that I would hardly have been surprised to turn and find him waiting at the door.

But when I turned there was no one there.

I shook myself impatiently and retraced my steps downstairs again, past the stairs leading to the servants’ wing to the floor where Axel and I had our rooms. I stood on the landing, still undecided whether I should go down to the ground floor and risk meeting Alice or Esther, and then at length I turned down the corridor and began glancing inside the rooms which I passed. Several were empty. One I was about to enter and then I heard the murmur of voices so I hastily passed on again. One of the voices I seemed to recognize as the girl Mary’s. Perhaps she was doing lessons with her governess.

Life perhaps would not be so unpleasant as a governess, I thought. No strange new relations to meet and satisfy, no mansion suddenly thrust into one’s control, no husband whom one was nervous of displeasing. A governess could always leave her employment to seek a better position if she were unhappy. A wife could not leave her husband and home.

I reached the end of the corridor and paused to look back. I had a stifling feeling of being trapped then, a tremor of horror which swept over me in sickening waves. I would be here for the rest of my life at Haraldsdyke, and the future yawned before me, decade after decade of nothingness. I was only seventeen. I was still so young. Far too young to be trapped in an old house with a group of strangers who might or might not resent me, far too young to be shackled to a man I did not understand and certainly did not love.

It was not that I was afraid of him, I told myself. Merely that I was uneasy in his presence.

I was too frightened then to admit my fear and look it squarely in the face.

Reaching out blindly in an attempt to break my train of thought I opened the door at the end of the corridor and went into the room beyond.

There was a four-poster in one
corner
and by the window stood a huge oak desk massively carved. The room seemed quiet, unoccupied. I sat down on the chair by the window, my elbows on the desk, and stared out across the Marsh beyond.

It would be better when Alexander came down from Harrow. Perhaps we could even journey to London together for a few days. If Axel allowed it. If I managed to escape pregnancy.

The thought of pregnancy terrified me. I felt as if I were totally unready to face further unknown ordeals, and I had no desire to bear Axel’s children.

I wished desperately then that I could talk to someone of my fears, but I knew as soon as the wish became a conscious thought that there was no one in whom I could confide. Even a parson would be horrified by my revulsion against pregnancy; I could almost hear the unknown rector of Haraldsford say shocked: “But marriage is for the procreation of children
...”

But there were obviously ways of avoiding pregnancy, I thought. Otherwise my mother would have had other children besides Alexander and myself.

Perhaps a doctor ... I almost laughed in contempt at myself for thinking of the idea. I pictured what the family doctor at Winchelsea would say if I were to ask him if there was a way in which I might avoid producing an heir for Haraldsdyke. He would go straight to Axel.

I was aware of fear then, the sharp prickle beneath my scalp, the sudden moistness of my palms. How absurd, I thought, trying to be angry with myself. I was never afraid of Axel until
...
Until I heard Ned accuse Axel of murder; until I realized later that Axel had the means, motive and opportunity to murder Robert Brandson last Christmas Eve at Haraldsdyke
...

But Rodric had killed his father, Rodric who had apparently enjoyed life so much, yet had destroyed life in a fit of rag
e
...

“I don’t believe it,” I said aloud to the silent walls of Haraldsdyke. “I don’t believe Rodric killed his father. I don’t believe it.”

My heart was beating very fast. I sat frozen into immobility behind the great desk, my eyes seeing not the isolated sweep of the Marsh beyond the window, but the abyss which was opening before me, the ground which was crumbling beneath my feet. And as I sat there, my whole being locked in a paralysis of panic, the immense silence was broken by the sound of
footsteps in the passage and the next moment the door was opening and someone was entering the room.

I whirled around as if the Devil himself had come in search of me, but it was only Robert Brandson’s ward, the girl Mary Moore.

She was wearing a pink muslin gown and the color did not flatter her ungainly figure. Her hair was lank and was fast uncurling itself so that her ringlets were wispy and awry.
I
could not help wondering if she had been telling me the truth about an unofficial engagement to Rodric.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, much taken-aback, and stared at me in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

She made it sound as if I were trespassing.

“What are
you
doing here?” I retorted lightly. “It isn’t your room, is it?”

There was a pause. Then:

“It was Rodric’s room,” she said at last. “I come here sometimes.”

I stared. And then suddenly I was looking at the room around me, the silent four-poster, the mute walls, the shelf of books which I had not even troubled to examine. I stood up, conscious of feeling uneasy sitting in the chair which he must often have used, my hands on the desk at which he must so often have written.

“I didn’t know,” I said, “that I was in Rodric’s room.”

She too seemed awkward and ill-at-ease. She had come to the room to sit for a while and remember him, and instead of meeting her memories she had discovered a stranger trespassing in a place she loved. I felt sorry for her.

“I must go,” I said abruptly. “I was only exploring the house. I don’t know why I stopped here.”

She moved to let me pass, her cheeks flushed with her own embarrassment, her eyes averted from mine, and without reason I stopped, my hand on the door-knob.

“May I ask you something very personal?” I heard myself say suddenly.

She looked up startled. “What’s that?”

“You were fond of Rodric. Do you honestly believe he killed his father?”

Her eyes widened. She was evidently stunned and appalled at my frankness and for a long moment she was incapable of speech.

“Come,” I said, “tell me, for I’m curious to know. I find it hard to believe from what I’ve heard of him that Rodric could commit such a coldblooded murder. Do you think he killed your guardian?”

She licked her pale lips, her eyes still wide and frightened. Then: “No,” she whispered. “No, I never believed it. Never.”

She was infatuated with him, I told myself. She idolized him. This was not an unexpected answer.

“Then who killed your guardian?” I said.

She looked at me as if I were some hideous monster. “I dare not say.”

“Ah, come, Mary! Tell me!”

She shook her head.

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“No,” she said, “no, I can’t tell you. I have no proof, no way of knowing for certain. All I know is that Rodric never killed him. I never believed he did.”

“Have you proof that Rodric didn’t kill him?”

She shook her head.

“Well, then—” I said exasperated, and then controlled myself. I turned aside. She knew nothing and was of no use to me. “I must go,” I said. “Pray excuse me.”

I opened the door.

“Alice and I were in the saloon,” she said suddenly, the words tumbling from her lips. “Rodric and Godfather were quarreling so loudly that Alice said we should withdraw upstairs.”

“Yes, she told me.” I opened the door a little wider.

“But she listened eagerly enough,” said the girl, and the spite in her voice made me halt and look back at her. “Until Vere’s name was mentioned. Then she suggested we should withdraw.”

“What did Mr. Brandson say about Vere?”

“I suppose he was comparing Vere to Rodric. He said that although Vere had married beneath him and was a disappointment in many ways, Vere at least wasn’t a constant source of embarrassment. Alice stood up as soon as she heard the phrase about her marriage—she was very angry,” Mary added as an afterthought. “Not that she showed her anger greatly, but I knew how angry she was. She went very pale and her eyes glittered.”

“And what did Rodric say to his father in reply?”

“There was a murmur which I couldn’t hear well enough. Alice was talking of withdrawing from the room. Then I heard Godfather shout: ‘I’ll not tolerate that indeed! I’ll disinherit any son of mine who works with that Frenchman Delancey! Why, we’re still at war with France! It would be an act of treason and I would denounce any such traitor to the Watch at Rye, whether or not he were my son!’ ”

“Did you hear any more?”

“Only the merest fragment of conversation. Alice was virtually pulling me from the room. Godfather bellowed: ‘The devil with scandal! There are some matters which cannot be condoned no matter how much scandal they may cause. To masquerade as a highwayman and play schoolboy pranks is
one matter; to treat with one’s enemies in time of war is high treason!’ And Rodric began: ‘Papa, please listen to me—’ Then I heard nothing further for we were outside in the hall and Alice had closed the door.”

“What happened then? You went to the drawing room, didn’t you, until you heard Esther’s screams when she found Mr. Brandson dead?”

But she was frightened now. She licked her lips again. “Alice went to the nursery,” she said at last. “I—I was anxious to talk to Rodric
...
After a moment or two I went downstairs again to the hall.”

“But didn’t you tell anyone this before?”

“No, no, I—well it was not important ... I only wanted to see him on a personal matter ... I reached the hall, and Rodric came out of the library. He looked very agitated. I called but he didn’t stop so I ran after him. He went to the stables. Ned was there. One of the scullery maids
...
was there too. They had been sitting in the straw, for I remember Ned dusting his breeches as he stood up. Rodric told him to saddle his horse. Ned said why should he, he wasn’t a groom. Rodric suddenly lost his temper, and began to shout at him
...
It—it was rather distressing ... I went back to the house without making any further attempt to speak to Rodric and returned to the drawing room.”

“But didn’t Ned say afterwards that he had seen you at the stables?”

“He didn’t see me. Rodric began quarreling with him while I was still outside, and I didn’t venture past the door. Nobody knew that I had left the drawing room save Rodric, and Rodric—” She checked herself.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She turned to me earnestly. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? You won’t say I left the drawing room and ran after Rodric to the stables?”

“Well, no,” I said bewildered. “Of course not. But—”

“It was a personal
m
atter,” she rushed on awkwardly. “A matter purely concerning Rodric and myself. I didn’t want anyone else to know I spent that afternoon trying to see Rodric alone.” And an odd look of suppressed excitement flashed across her face for a moment to bewilder me still further. “Oh,” I said blankly.

There was a silence.

“What was Ned’s relationship with his father?” I said suddenly. “Did Mr. Brandson never think of leaving the estate to Ned?”

“Oh no,” she said at once. “There was a no question of that.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

She flushed again and shifted from one foot to the other, the picture of embarrassment.

“I didn’t understand either,” she said, “for a long time. Then I overheard—” She stopped.

“Yes?”

“Ned wasn’t Godfather’s son,” she said. “Godfather let him bear the name of Brandson only in order to avoid scandal, but Ned wasn’t his son at all.”

I went downstairs, my redingote draped around my shoulders, and the footman in the hall bowed and wished me good-day. When he saw I intended to leave the house by the front entrance, he opened the door for me and bowed again as I stepped out into the porch. Before me the ground sloped sharply to meet the level of the Marsh. Trees grew on the rise on which the house was built, but none grew on a high enough level to obscure the wide vistas visible on all sides, and to the south I could see the sun as it glinted on the roofs of Rye and Winchelsea and cast a brilliant sheen over the blue band of the sea; to the west was a glimpse of cultivated land; to the east stood the dots of grazing sheep white-gray against the green of the Marsh. Stepping down from the porch to the drive, I walked around the side of the house and found myself facing the stables. Between the stables and the house was a paved yard; a housemaid, engaged in hanging out the washing on a clothes’ line, caught sight of me, dropped her basket of pegs and curtsied in confusion.

I smiled, bent my head slightly in acknowledgement and walked on. Perhaps after all it was not so oppressive to be the mistress of a large house.

I could hear the sound of voices from the stables as I approached, yet due to the way the building was constructed I could see no one within till I reached the doorway. Even then they did not notice me, and I saw at once how easy it would have been for Mary to have arrived on the threshold and withdrawn to eavesdrop without being seen.

I went forward into the stables.

They saw me then soon enough.

The two raw tousle-headed stable-lads fell silent and Ned picked himself up from the pile of straw which lay in one
corner
and flicked the dust from his breeches.

“Good afternoon,” he said, looking a little surprised that I should venture into such a place. “I thought you were sick in bed.”

“I thought you were out riding.”

He laughed. “I’ve just come back.”

“And I have just left my room.”

We both laughed then. After a moment’s hesitation he moved forward awkwardly and the stable-lads drew back and turned to attend their duties.

“I would offer to show you the garden,” he said, “except we have very little garden to speak of. Behind the house, the land falls sheer to the Marsh.
There’s only a seat from where one can gaze north and on a fine day perhaps glimpse the spires of Canterbury.”

“Is it fine enough today?”

“We could find out, if you wish.” He led the way outside even before I could draw breath to assent, and I followed him into the yard beyond.

In fact there was more of a garden behind the house than he had led me to suppose. We passed an orangery and an artificial pool and a walled kitchen garden, and at length reached the view he had mentioned. It was indeed, a fine sight, for I could see to the edge of the Marsh and, it seemed, far north into the more diverse countryside of Kent.

We sat down on the wooden seat together while I surveyed the view.

“I see no sign of Canterbury,” I remarked presently.

“You never will,” he said. “I only said that to coax you to come here. I wanted to tell you how grateful I was to you for speaking to George as you did last night. If I didn’t seem grateful then it was only because I was too upset to remember my manners.”

“Please—”

“George and I don’t get along as brothers should,” he said. “We never have and we never will. I don’t want to lie to you about it and feed you honeyed words, just because he’s your husband. I think he’s a scheming foreigner and he thinks I’m a good-for-nothing bastard, and there’s no love lost between us.”

I was entertained in spite of myself. “And is it true?” I said amused. “Are you a good-for-nothing bastard?”

He looked at me askance with his slanting black eyes which were so like his mother’s. “Perhaps!” His glance became watchful.

“You’re very enlightened,” he said, “for a lady.”

“In what way?”

“Most ladies seventeen years old could not bring themselves to say a word like that. As like as not they wouldn’t know the meaning of it in the first place.”

“I’ve heard it used often enough,” I said.

We looked at one another. He was very still.

“Perhaps it’s different in London,” he said after a while. “Perhaps it’s different there.”

“I don’t think so.” And then I told him.

He was amazed. After a while he said: “Does anyone know?”

“Only Axel.”

“He knew when he married you?”

“Certainly.”

“But you’re such a lady!” he said in wonderment. “No one would ever guess.”

“Are all bastards supposed to walk around carrying a little plaque which announces their unfortunate birth to the world?”

He flung back his head and laughed. “I suppose not!” He was serious again. “But someone must have cared for you—spent money on your education
...”

I told him about my parents. It was strangely comforting to talk to someone about them. I mentioned my education in Cheltenham, described our house in town, told him about Alexander. When I stopped at last I felt more peaceful than I had felt since my arrival at Haraldsdyke, or indeed since my wedding day a week ago.

“You were fortunate,” he said when I had finished, and he didn’t sound bitter. “You lived just as any legitimate child would have lived. Your mother and father loved each other and loved you enough to take care of you. You were never threatened by your illegitimacy until they died.”

“I—suppose not.”

“Nobody cared for me like that,” he said. “And I never knew what was wrong. I used to think it was because I was ugly or stupid, or because I was the youngest and my mother hadn’t wanted another pregnancy. I was brought up by a succession of nursemaids and then sent to the grammar school at Rye. Rodric and Vere had private tutors, but that was considered a wasted expense where I was concerned. My—father seldom troubled to speak to me and my mother never once came to the nursery to see me. It was unfair that no one ever told me why I was ignored so much; it would have been easier if I’d known.”

“But when did you find out?”

“When?” He looked straight ahead across the Marsh to Kent and his body was tensed and still. Then: “Last year,” he said. “On Christmas Eve. Rodric told me on the day he died that I was a bastard.”

There were clouds gathering in the west. A scudding wind ruffled my hair and made me draw the folds of the redingote more closely around my body.

“You’re cold?” said Ned. “Perhaps you would prefer to go indoors. It’s late in the year to sit outside.”

“No, I’m warm enough for the moment.” I waited, half-hoping he would tell me more without my asking further questions, but when he was silent,

I said tentatively: “Why did Rodric tell you then?”

He shrugged and then shivered suddenly as if in revulsion. “We were quarreling.”

The breeze whispered again over the Marsh. Far away in the west I saw the landscape begin to blur beneath the dark clouds.

“I never quarreled with Rodric,” he said. “I thought too highly of him. But that afternoon he was in an ugly temper, I’d never seen him so angry before. I was in the stables talking to one of the girls from the kitchens and he came in and shouted for me to saddle his horse. I said, half-joking: ‘Who do you mistake me for—a stable-lad? Do it yourself!’ And before I could even draw breath to laugh he turned around and shouted: ‘You dam
n
ed bastard, don’t you ever do what anyone tells you? My God, as if I haven’t had enough troubles today, with my father roaring and ranting like a madman and Alice tempting Vere to have a fight with me, and that wretched Mary running after me and pestering me to read her cursed love sonnets! And to crown a disastrous day, you have to practice your high-and-mighty bastard’s bad manners at my expense!’

“I was so stupefied by this attack that I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘You’d better not call me bastard again,’ I shouted back at him, ‘or I’ll knock you off that fine horse of yours!’ I was really hurt that he should speak to me like that. Rodric and I never quarreled. Never. He had never abused me before
...

“He said without looking at me: ‘Well, you’re no more than a bastard, are you? Don’t you even know who you are by this time?’ And as I stared at him, he said: ‘Why do you suppose Papa never troubled to give you a private education?’

“He had the saddle in his hands and was saddling the horse himself as he spoke. It was like some horrible dream.
I
went on staring at him, and then I turned to the scullery girl and said: ‘You’d better get back to the kitchens. Cook will be looking for you.’ I only knew that I wanted to be rid of her, that I didn’t want her to hear any more.

“ ‘I don’t understand you,’ I said to Rodric. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

“ ‘Then ask Papa to explain to you,’ he said, ‘for Lord knows I haven’t the time. Or ask Mama who your father was—if she can remember.’

“He was leading the horse out of the stable. I was so numbed that I could hardly move. I managed to stammer: ‘You’ve no right to say such a thing about Mama! You’re her favorite—how dare you talk of her like that?’