Lace for Milady (17 page)

With regard to the horse she bought from her aunt, I am amazed to read the lessons go well. She grits her teeth each morning and puts on the riding habit with the gaping neck—really I think I must alter it, it bothers me so—and goes out for an hour, but when I peer out the window, I see her sitting as taut as a wire on the animal’s back and am convinced those sudden starts the animal takes with her ears pulled back have not Priscilla’s approval. She should be a good rider, for she was always athletic, but she wants a tamer mount to begin. She would have got one before now if Burne did not continue to tease her about it, and ask her if she has been thrown yet every time he comes. She would ride it now if it were a tiger, to show him she can do it. I have occasionally hinted that mulishness is an unlikely way to nab a husband, but she tells me I had better change, then, or Clavering will escape my clutches.

The recital of the grate episode is substantially correct. I do feel, however, that the voices I heard from the chimney were given short shrift. I described to her in some detail that they were voices—human or ghostly voices—not creaking timbers or any mechanical thing. They came from a throat I am convinced, but that it was a living throat I could not swear. There was an eerie, supernatural sound to them, possibly caused by the echoing effect of the chimney. I do not
strongly
believe in ghosts, but a phenomenon that recurs throughout history and in all parts of the world cannot be rejected out of hand only because it is not understood. In fact, my own mother, whom I mentioned having vivid recollections of the earthquake of 1750, claimed to have seen an apparition on the grounds of Longleat in 1775, when the lord and lady of the manor had graciously opened the park for a church garden fete. Other than the grate, I have had no personal contact with the supernatural. While we are on the subject of my mother, I shall clear up a little point that might have mystified you. It has been said I am a “connection” of the late Mr. Denver and left at that. There is no mystery in my origins; I am not illegitimate or anything so raffish. My sister Wilma married Mr. Denver’s first cousin, Ivan Sinclair. That is the connection.

No doubt other things will occur to me after I have left off writing. I know I showed hackle every time my name cropped up in the story, as it
finally
did at the end of chapter one. Ah, yes, the shawl, the mustard shawl (to say nothing of the ominous-coloured mauve). There was a gratuitous insult. It is three-and-a-half years old, not five, and was plenty good enough until the Duke came into our lives. But you see who it is that is out to impress him. To finish off and bring it up to the present, I read that Clavering “often” came at night to read books with me. He came every single night that week, and also stopped in two afternoons on his way home from Anderida, and there was precious little book reading done, I can tell you. He frequently invited Priscilla out with him as well, but she stubbornly refused to go, for what reason I cannot fathom. He had the clavichord tuned and sent down immediately, the very next day, and often asked us to play for him in the evenings. He also brought her a box of dates (which he had sent down all the way from Londinium, I think, since there were none available in town), after I mentioned her liking them. He said they were the only thing he had heard of her liking, outside of wild nags that she couldn’t handle, and she already had that.

I write with embarrassment (for her behaviour reflects somewhat on my association with her) that she neither ate one nor even opened the package till he had gone. He was trying to court her, you see, but would have had better luck making up to a cabbage. I occasionally left them alone for brief periods, and always noticed when I returned that Burne had availed himself of a seat closer to her than when I had left, and on one occasion she was blushing, but I did not enquire what had passed, and naturally she did not tell me. I noticed that from that evening on she reverted to her yellow gown, so concluded he had complimented her on the green silk.

It remains only to straighten out the birthday gift from Clavering. I did not feign interest in it, nor was it a worthless, broken bit of rubbish, as you might be forgiven for concluding. It was purchased by a great uncle of his on a trip to Italy some years previously. It was primitive, which is to say not one of the large, classical copies of Greek work, but a bit of genuine Roman artwork, about fifteen inches high, very naturalistic, and there is no doubt as to the sex of the person in my mind. It is a small boy, holding a bunch of cherries, of which only one remains, but the statue itself is in perfect repair other than that. Its appropriateness rests in the cherry, of course, and I must say I think Priscilla is particularly petty with regard to our mutual taste for the fruit. It has come to the point I hesitate to offer the man one, which is ludicrous with the quantity of them now in the house, for she bought another tin when she got the rose satin material. There, the dinner bell is sounding now, and I shall finish up.

~ ~ ~

Evening

I see Miss Slack has availed herself of my story without bothering to ask my approval. I have read over her account and can say only “Balderdash!” However, in case I have inadvertently biased my account, I shall leave it in. She is quite correct to be angry at my neglecting to mention her name is Maude. Clavering did not come tonight, and we are both retiring early, since he has developed the rude habit of staying long past our first yawns, till midnight, in fact, and as we continue arising early, we are both fagged with his interminable visits.

Chapter Eleven

I
spent the next day in my sickbed where I was resting not because of a sudden onslaught of illness but because of a long overdue spill from Juliette. On Monday the day was fine—the whole autumn had been beautiful with more sun than we ever got at Wiltshire, and in the afternoon I decided to ride alone. I had had a lesson with George in the morning and had planned to go to Pevensey with Slack later, but she had to dash to Belview to borrow yet another book—his library shelves must be nearly empty—and so my rose gown remained at Miss Savage’s shop, and it was to be finished that day. There was no immediate need of it after the spill, so it hardly mattered.

I became bored with the garden and decided to canter through Clavering’s spinney. It is closer than my aunt’s fields. She had dropped the hint she disliked a great deal of traffic in the park, since she was trying to grow some decent lawns there. I had permission to use the trap-free spinney, and intended doing no more than running through it once or twice on the footpath; but it happened that a stupid hare, of which there are many on Clavering’s property due to his having killed his foxes, dashed across our path, and what should Juliette do but take a fright and break into one of her wild gallops. I was first only frightened, thinking I could control her, since she has occasionally pulled this trick on me before. On this occasion I did not succeed. When she got to the end of the spinney, she went mad with the vast expanse of meadow that suddenly opened up before her, and went galloping off into that trap-infested area at a hair-raising speed. It was the fear of traps that made me panic. I envisioned one opening its maw and snapping onto her legs, myself being thrown wildly and breaking my head or a leg, or falling into another trap. I thought of them as being littered every few yards, but this was not true. We didn’t see one during our whole gallop.

There soon arose before us a few remains of gray walls, the ruined chapel of Belview. I knew this to be the area particularly heavily trapped, and felt that if we were to be caught, this was where it would happen. I recount this now in a rational manner, but at the time I was irrational with fear, and hardly knew what I was seeing. I did catch, out of the corner of my eye, the sight of two men talking, and saw they had mounts standing by. Remembering the men who were to clear out the excavation for rebuilding, I assumed it was these workmen and shouted to them for help. The larger jumped on to a black stallion and came after me. The other also ran to his mount, but it was farther away and it was the first whom I had some hopes would rescue me. I soon heard him clattering behind me, gaining on me in spite of Juliette’s heart-pounding speed. He was soon at my side and reaching out one strong arm. I understood, quite naturally, I think, that I was meant to throw myself on to his arm, not that he could actually catch me, but it would break my fall.

I summoned my wits and my courage and threw myself from Juliette’s back. It was an error. What the man was doing was trying to snatch the reins and bring the horse to a stop. His arm moved beyond my grasp as I leapt, and I went falling perilously into a maelstrom of flying hooves and heaving flanks. There was very little time to consider it, a second or two, but in retrospect I realize I faced death. That was what accounted for my subsequent state of shock. A hoof on the temple might well have killed me—or made me a senseless mass for the rest of my life, which would have been infinitely worse. In a split-second I was on the ground, waiting for the inevitable stab of pain, for my head to fall open, for some excruciating agony in back or limb, presaging a life as a hopeless cripple. Miraculously, I felt only some slight discomfort in my left hip, which had taken the brunt of the fall. I heard more hooves coming from behind, the second man who had been there at the ruined chapel. He dismounted quickly and was at my side, while dimly the other set of hooves were heard to go farther away, off into the distance.

I was alive; I was well but was seized with a spasm of trembling at the shock of the ordeal and could not speak. The man beside me was feeling gingerly with his fingers in my hair, my scalp, for blood or bumps, lifting my arms, feeling my body. I could hear him breathe rapidly and heavily, but he said nothing. I tried to open my lips to speak, and became unconscious. When I revived, I was being carried off somewhere. I knew not where, nor did I care. Nothing hurt. It was warm and peaceful and safe being carried along. Someone was looking after me; it was all that mattered. I was a little annoyed when I again heard horses approaching from behind us.

“Go to the house and get the gig,” the man carrying me said. It was a familiar voice. I was sure I had heard it before, but it sounded strained now, as though it came from a distance.

“What about the horses?” the other man asked. I had not heard that voice before. It was deep, rough.

“Take them home. All of them, especially that damned mare of Inglewood’s.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the second voice replied. He must be a sailor, I thought.

“And Lou—better send the gig with a groom. She might not have recognized you. I’ll meet you later.”

“Where are you taking her?” the sailor asked.

“I’ll wait at the ruins."

“Righto.” I heard the sound of harnesses jingling, and then the clop of horses leaving. I was very glad the interruption was over and I could go to sleep.

Some time later I had been laid down on a strip of grass, but not on the ground. There was a wall behind me, and the clear blue sky above. I was on a ledge with a grass surface, some feature of the ruined chapel. There was a coat tucked around me, inhibiting the movement of my arms. I turned my head to the right and saw Clavering glowering over me with a face that would have curdled cream. “You damned fool,” he said harshly.

It seemed inordinately cruel that he should swear at me when I was so tired. I didn’t even feel angry at this treatment. I was too tired. I closed my eyes again.

“Priscilla! Prissie, are you all right?" he demanded. Let him worry, I thought and lay comfortably back, unresponsive. But I was not to be allowed my hard-earned rest. “Speak to me,” he said angrily. The coat was ripped off, and my hands, ice-cold, were being chaffed. “It serves you right. I’ve told you a dozen times..."
he went on in a fierce voice, then stopped and I felt a jerk as he turned around. “What in hell’s keeping him?”

I was infinitely tired. I thought I might sleep forever but felt my eyelids flutter open of their own volition, and still that grim, angry face swam before me, not ten inches away.

“Do you recognize me?” he asked.

I frowned, not at the difficulty of the question, but at the pointlessness of it. How should I not know him, when he had been all but living at my house the past week? “Kn-know you?” I asked, intending irony, but hearing a weak, infant’s puling voice issue from my lips.

“It’s Clavering,” he said, in a hard, taut voice.

I tried to lift my lids, but they weighed a ton each and were too heavy for my weakened condition.

“Damn your eyes, you’re not going to die on me,” he growled, and lifted my poor tired head from the grass. “Look at me!”

I was much inclined to obey to silence him, but could not.

“Priscilla, speak to me!
Say something!”
he commanded sternly. The loud voice hurt my head.

“Be quiet,” I managed to get out, very weakly.

“You’ll live,” he said, and laughed, also weakly, then returned my head to its resting place.

I felt the coat being tucked around my arms again. With a very uncomfortable rustling about, Clavering sat down at my head, and then lifted it to ease his lap under me. He made a very poor pillow, and my peace was further disturbed by having his large, cold hands pass over my cheeks and through my hair, while a continuous stream of vicious blandishments were poured over me.

“It serves you right. I have
repeatedly
told you you couldn’t handle that damned nag. You’re lucky she didn’t trample you. I hope you’ve learned your lesson once and for all. Damn that lackey! What’s taking him so long?” Then in a tone only a shade softer, “Does it hurt anywhere, Priss? Are you in pain? We’ll soon have you home. Where
is
that gig? Dear God, we must be waiting half an hour!” That was the nature of his soothing comfort. Abuse, liberally interspersed with profanity and curses on me and his servants.

Finally the unfortunate person chosen for the chore arrived. “Where’s the blanket?” Clavering demanded, arising quickly, but not quite throwing my head to the grass.