Voices in a Haunted Room (5 page)

“Unkind.”

“You asked for it.”

“And the answer is?”

“No.”

“We’ll make it Yes.”

“How?”

He looked at me intently; his expression changed and the set of his lips alarmed me faintly.

“I have ways… and means,” he said.

“And an inflated opinion of yourself.”

I turned sharply away. He fascinated me and I had to overcome a desire to dismount and face him. I knew that would be dangerous. Beneath the light banter there was a ruthless determination. I was very much aware of it and it reminded me strongly of his father. It was said that men wanted sons because they liked to see themselves reproduced. Well, Dickon had reproduced himself in Jonathan.

I started to gallop across the field. Ahead of me was the sea. It was a muddy grey on that day with a tinge of brown where the frills of waves touched the sand. The tang of seaweed was strong in the air. It had been a stormy night. I felt a tremendous sense of excitement as I galloped forward and let my horse fly along by the edge of the water.

Jonathan pounded along beside me. He was laughing—as exhilarated as I was.

We must have gone a mile when I drew up. He was beside me. The spray made his eyebrows glisten; his eyes were alight with those blue flames which I was always looking for; and I thought suddenly of Venice and gondolas and Italian love songs. In that moment I would have said: “Yes, Jonathan. It is you. I know it will not be easy; there will be little peace… but you are the one.”

After all, when one is seventeen one does not look for a comfortable way of life. It is excitement, exhilaration, and uncertainty which seem appealing.

I turned my horse and said: “Home. I’ll race you.”

And there we were once more pounding along the beach. He kept beside me but I knew he was choosing the moment to go ahead. He had to show me that he must always win.

In the distance I saw riders and almost at once recognized Charlot and Louis Charles.

“Look who’s there,” I cried.

“We don’t need them. Let’s go back and do that gallop again.”

But I called: “Charlot.”

My brother waved to us. We cantered up to them and I saw at once that Charlot was deeply disturbed.

“Have you heard the news?” he said.

“News?” Jonathan and I spoke simultaneously.

“It’s clear that you haven’t. The murdering dogs…
Mon Dieu,
if I were there. I wish I were. I wish…”

“What is it?” demanded Jonathan. “Who has murdered whom?”

“The King of France,” said Charlot. “France no longer has a King.”

I closed my eyes. I was remembering the tales my grandfather used to tell of the Court, of the King who was blamed for so much for which he was not responsible. Most of all I thought of the mob looking on while he mounted the steps of the guillotine and placed his head beneath the axe.

Even Jonathan was sobered. He said: “It was expected…”

“I never believed they would go so far,” said Charlot. “And now they have done it. That vile mob… They have changed the history of France.”

Charlot was deeply affected. He reminded me of my grandfather at that moment, of my father too. Patriots, both of them. Charlot’s heart was in France with the royalists. He had always wanted to be there to fight the losing battle for the monarchy. Now that the King was dead—murdered like a common felon on that cruel guillotine—he wanted it more than ever.

Louis Charles looked at Jonathan almost apologetically. “You see,” he said, as if he needed to explain, “France is our country… he was our King.”

We all rode back together quietly, subdued, in mourning for a lost régime and the death of a man who had paid the price for the excesses of those who had gone before him.

The news had reached Eversleigh. As we sat at the table, the execution of the King of France was the only topic of conversation.

Dickon said he would have to leave for London and Jonathan must go with him. He guessed the Court would be in mourning.

“It is alarming to all rulers when one of their number is treated like a common criminal,” commented David.

“Yet this death comes as no great surprise,” said Jonathan.

“I always believed that it could never happen,” added Charlot vehemently. “No matter how powerful the revolutionaries became.”

Dickon said: “It was inevitable. When the King failed to escape and join the émigrés, he was doomed. If he had been able to join them, the revolution might have come to an end. And he could so easily have escaped! What an example of idiotic ineptitude! Travelling in style… the grand carriage… the Queen posing as a governess! As if Marie Antoinette could ever be anything but Marie Antoinette! One could laugh if it were not so tragic. Imagine that cumbersome and very, very grand carriage riding into the little town of Varennes, and the inevitable questions. Who are these visitors? Who is this lady calling herself a governess? No marks for guessing! What a charade!”

“It was a brave attempt,” said Charlot.

“Bravery counts for little when folly is its companion,” said Dickon grimly.

Charlot was sunk in gloom. Never had I realized how deeply his feelings were involved.

Dickon was very well informed. We were never quite sure why he spent so much time in London about the Court; he was a friend of Prime Minister Pitt, and at the same time on excellent terms with Charles James Fox and the Prince of Wales. It was rare that he talked openly of what we thought of as his secret life, though I daresay he confided to some extent in my mother. She went with him everywhere, so she must have had some notion of what his business was. But if she had, she never betrayed it.

On this occasion he did talk a little. He said that Pitt was an excellent Prime Minister, but he wondered how he would shape up to war.

“War?” cried my mother. “What war? Did not Mr. Pitt say that England was assured of peace for some years to come?”

“That, my dear Lottie, was last year. A great deal can happen in politics in a very short time. I am sure William Pitt regarded all that turmoil on the other side of the Channel as a local matter… no concern of ours. But we are all realizing now that it is of concern to us… of the greatest concern.”

Charlot said: “And it is right that it should be so. How can the nations of the world stand aside and let an outrage like this pass unavenged?”

“Quite easily,” retorted Dickon dismissively. He always showed a faint contempt for Charlot, which I think would have been more than faint but for the fact that it upset my mother. “It is only when events affect us tangibly that we act. The revolutionaries, having ruined France, now seek to see others in a similar plight. The success of the French debacle was assured by its agitators. They are the real provokers, those who pointed out to the people how wrongly they had indeed been treated, who stressed the differences between the aristocrats and the peasants, and who, where there were no grievances, created them. Now we shall have them here. The dog who has lost his tail cannot bear to see those who have retained theirs. The agitators will be here. That is one thing. I can tell you this: societies are being formed in London and as far as Scotland. They are seeking to bring about in this country that to which they have so successfully contributed in France.”

“God forbid!” said my mother.

“Amen, my dear Lottie,” replied Dickon. “We will not allow it here. Those of us who know what is going on will do everything possible to prevent it.”

“Do you think you will be able to?” asked Charlot.

“Yes, I do. We are aware of what is happening, for one thing.”

“There were some who were aware of it in France,” said my mother.

Dickon snorted. “And they involved themselves with the American colonists instead of cleaning out their own stables. Perhaps now they see the folly of their ways, for those young fools who were screaming for liberty, and for the elevation of the oppressed, are now seeing what the oppressed are offering them—the guillotine!”

“At least Armand tried to do something,” insisted my mother. “He formed a group of real patriots who wanted to see justice. Oh I know you thought he was incompetent…”

“He thinks everything is incompetent which is not done in England,” said Charlot.

Dickon laughed. “How I wish I did! I should like to see this country act wisely, which I admit to you, my young Monsieur de Tourville, it does not always do. But perhaps we are a little more cautious, eh? That little bit more likely not to act rashly… not to excite ourselves unduly over matters which are not to our advantage. Shall we leave it at that?”

“I think,” said David, “that it would be wise.”

Dickon laughed at his son. “I see troubles ahead,” he went on, “and not only for France. Austria can hardly stand aside while its Archduchess follows her husband to the guillotine.”

“Do you think they will kill Marie Antoinette too?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly, my dear Claudine. There will be more to gloat over her death than those who have done so over that of poor Louis. They have always blamed her, poor child… which was all she was when she came to France, a pretty little butterfly who wanted to dance in the sun—and did so most charmingly. But she grew up. The butterfly became a woman of character. The French liked the butterfly better.
And
she is Austrian.” He grinned at Charlot. “You know how the French hate foreigners.”

“The Queen has been much maligned,” said Charlot.

“Indeed it is so. Who is not maligned in these ferocious days? France will be at war with Prussia and Austria. Holland too, most likely, and it will not be long before we are drawn in.”

“Horrible!” said my mother. “I hate war. It does no good to anybody.”

“She is right, you know,” said Dickon. “But there are times when even peacelovers like Mr. Pitt see the necessity for it.” He looked at my mother and said, “We must leave tomorrow for London. The Court will be in mourning for the King of France.”

My mother looked at me and said: “We must be back in time for Claudine’s birthday.”

Dickon smiled benignly at me. “Nothing—wars, rumours of wars, revolutions proved and planned—nothing must stand in the way of Claudine’s coming to maturity.”

My parents, with Jonathan, were away for the greater part of a week. Charlot went about in a mood of bleak depression; he and Louis Charles were often deep in earnest conversation. The entire atmosphere had changed; the death of the French King seemed to have opened up fresh wounds which brought us nearer to that state of unease which existed beyond the Channel.

David and I visited the Roman remains and I caught his enthusiasm for them. He told me about Herculaneum, which had been discovered early this century, followed by the discovery of Pompeii—both of which ancient towns had been destroyed by a volcanic eruption from Vesuvius.

“I should very much like to see those places,” he said. “I believe they are most revealing of how life was lived all those hundreds of years ago. Perhaps we could go there together one day.”

I knew what he meant. When we were married. A honeymoon perhaps. It sounded most exciting. Then I thought of Venice and a gondolier with a tenor voice singing love songs in the darkness.

We talked a great deal, naturally, about the revolution in France. It was never far from our minds. David was quite knowledgeable—far more so than he appeared to be during the mealtime conversations which Dickon naturally dominated and where Jonathan also gave a good account of himself.

I went round the estate with David. That was another side to him. He was a businessman, and eager to do everything he could to improve the lot of the tenant farmers and others who lived on the estate. He was very efficient in a quiet way and I saw again how greatly he was respected, which made me feel gratified.

I was beginning to think that I could have a very happy life with him—but that was because Jonathan was absent.

They came back two days before my birthday. I knew that my mother would not allow anything to interfere with that.

So the great day arrived. Molly Blackett wanted to be present when I put on my dress.

“Just in case I’m not satisfied, Miss Claudine. Perhaps a little stitch here, a touch there. You never know.”

I said: “You’re an artist, Molly.” And she was pink with pleasure.

Guests began to arrive in the late afternoon, for a few had to come from a long distance. The Pettigrews, whose country estate was some thirty miles from Eversleigh, were staying the night. They visited us now and then, as Lord Pettigrew was a banking associate of Dickon’s. Lady Pettigrew was one of those domineering women who keep a very sharp eye on what is going on; and I believed she was looking for the best possible match for her daughter Millicent.

Millicent was a considerable heiress, and like most parents of such well-endowed offspring, Lady Pettigrew was eager that she should be matched by a partner of equal financial worth. I visualized the rather plump Millicent seated in a balance with a possible husband on the other side to be weighed with her while an eagle-eyed Lady Pettigrew made sure that the scales tipped in Millicent’s favour.

Our neighbours from Grasslands—one of the two big houses in the vicinity—had had to be invited; we were not very friendly with them in spite of their being our nearest neighbours.

They were Mrs. Trent and her two grand-daughters Evalina and Dorothy Mather. Mrs. Trent had married twice and both husbands had died. The first had been Andrew Mather, from whom she had inherited Grasslands; and on his death she had married the estate manager, Jack Trent. She had been unfortunate for, besides losing both husbands, she had also suffered the death of her son Richard Mather and his wife. Her consolation was her grand-daughters—Evie and Dolly, as she called them. Evie was about seventeen years of age, I supposed; Dolly was a year or so younger. Evie was quite a beauty but Dolly was a sad little thing. She had sustained some injury when she was born and her left eyelid was drawn down somewhat so that she had some difficulty in opening that eye. It was only a slight malformation but it gave a certain grotesque look to her face and I had the impression that she was very much aware of this.