Mariana

  “I’ve brought you some water,” he said, re-entering the room. “No, don’t sit up just yet. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” My voice, of necessity, was muffled.

  He pressed the glass of water into my hand, and I lifted my head to take a sip, the action providing me with my first proper look at my host. Even without—or perhaps in spite of—his cultured voice, well-cut clothes, and expensive surroundings, Geoffrey de Mornay would have been classified by my former colleague Bridget as “prime.” Bridget would have noticed his tall, athletic frame and the brilliant flash of his smile. I noticed the classic lines of his bone structure and the quiet depth of his hazel eyes, set beneath level dark brows that matched exactly the seal-brown shade of his hair.

  “Thank you,” I said, giving him the brightest smile I could muster. I wasn’t sure how long I had been out, but it must have been only a matter of minutes, as the sun was still pouring in through the large bay window opposite me. I had a dim recollection of being lifted and carried a short distance, and then nothing more until a few moments ago, when I had opened my eyes, tried to stand, and been unceremoniously pushed back down into my current undignified position.

  “You’re welcome.” He took the chair across from me, watching my face warily as if he expected me to leap suddenly to my feet. “I’m sorry if we frightened you. Brutus is rather a big horse, and I often forget…”

  “It wasn’t your fault, honestly. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends the past few days, and it just caught up with me, that’s all.”

  “You’re sure you’re not ill?”

  “Positive.” My tone was firm, and after studying my face for a moment, he smiled.

  “Then perhaps we could try those introductions a second time,” he suggested, leaning forward in his seat and extending his hand. “Geoffrey de Mornay, at your service.”

  “Julia Beckett.” I returned the handshake. Raising myself cautiously to a sitting position, I tried to salvage the situation by making conversation. “De Mornay… I’ve just been looking at some of your ancestors in the church, then. Yours must be one of the oldest families here.”

  “That depends on your interpretation,” he replied with a shrug. “There were de Mornays at Crofton Hall in the reign of the first Elizabeth, but they sold off a century or so later. My father waited years for the Hall to come up for sale, and when it finally did, he bought it back. He was a great lover of family history.”

  I looked around in appreciation, noting how the long, sunlit room with its ornate plaster ceiling and elegantly papered walls exuded all the charm and gentility of a bygone era. “It’s wonderful to preserve these old houses,” I said.

  “And expensive,” he said, tempering my romance with realism. “Not to mention impractical. Rather a lot of room, for one person.”

  “Is that why you opened the house up for tours?”

  “No.” He smiled again, amused. “No, I’m not that civic-minded, I’m afraid. I applied for a government grant a few years back, to do some renovations, and one of the conditions of my being given the money was that I open up the place to the public.”

  “Nice for the public,” I pointed out. “Several people have told me that it’s well worth the price of admission.”

  “It is rather a lovely house. I’d give you a tour right now, for free, but you hardly look up to it.”

  I was feeling rather weak in the knees, but I preferred not to speculate upon the reason why. I smiled. “Another time, perhaps.”

  “Certainly. Some time next weekend, maybe, when I’m a little more organized myself. I’ve just come back from holiday.”

  “I know. France, wasn’t it?”

  Geoffrey de Mornay smiled, a slow, spreading smile that was unconsciously seductive, and mildly accusatory. “You’ve been to the Red Lion,” he said. “Yes, I keep a boat in the harbor at Antibes, in the south of France. I like to get down to take her out once or twice a year. Nice to get out of the rain every now and then.”

  “And who takes care of the Hall for you, when you’re not here?”

  “I’ve got a terribly efficient staff to manage things for me.” He leaned back in his chair, shifting the position of his broad shoulders. “Two tour guides, a housekeeper, a part-time cleaner, a gardener—depending on the season—and a man to take care of the horses. It’s quite an operation, really.”

  “Of course!” I nodded in sudden comprehension. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Sorry. I’ve just solved a mystery, that’s all. I’ve been seeing a man riding in your fields, a dark man on a gray horse. It must have been your groom.”

  “Not if it was a gray horse. I only have chestnuts and bays in my stables.” He ran his thumb idly down the arm of his chair, smoothing the fabric, and his voice, when he spoke, was casual. “You’re sure it was a gray?”

  “Horses may not be my forte,” I told him, “but I do know my colors.”

  He grinned. “I forgot. You’re an artist, aren’t you? Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m not so medieval about my property rights. If someone wants to use my bridle path, they’re welcome to it. What did he look like?”

  I tried to recall, exactly. “I really didn’t get a good look at him, he was too far away. He was fairly tall, I think—although it’s hard to tell on horseback, isn’t it? He wore dark clothing, and I rather fancy his hair was long.”

  “Sounds like one of the chaps from the hostel. There’s a youth hostel about three miles west of here,” he explained. “Quite a large one. Lots of tourists passing through. They hire horses out, sometimes.”

  “I see.” It certainly sounded sensible to me. I finished drinking my glass of water, and Geoffrey de Mornay stirred in his chair. “Would you like another drink?” he offered. “Something more substantial?”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine, honestly.” I set my glass down on the end table beside me and rose awkwardly to my feet, running a hand through my untidy hair. “You’ve been very kind, but I really ought to go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  “Not nearly. But I never argue with my neighbors.” He stood up as well, dwarfing me, and gallantly inclined his head. “Come on, I’ll show you out.”

  I followed him through a narrow, dark passage to the side door, turning on the threshold to thank him once again.

  “My pleasure,” he assured me, propping one shoulder against the doorjamb and folding his arms across his chest. “Rather a nice change from my normal daily routine. I don’t often have comely young maidens throwing themselves at my feet.”

  “Yes, well,” I said, coloring, “that won’t happen again.”

  He smiled down at me, and after a final handshake I made my departure. I had almost reached the end of the neatly edged walk when he spoke.

  “What a pity,” he said, but I don’t think I was meant to hear it.

  ***

  “You want to watch out, my love,” my brother said sagely when I told him the story of my meeting with Geoffrey de Mornay. “The lord of the manor has certain historical privileges, you know. Pick of the village virgins, and all that.”

  “Don’t talk rot,” was my response.

  It was a week later, Saturday evening, and we were sitting in the unmistakably posh surroundings of Roderick Denton’s house in London. The dinner party had been a great success, as all Rod’s social ventures inevitably were, and not for the first time I had to admit that my brother’s advice had been spot on.

  The evening had provided me with a welcome break from the seemingly unending cycle of unpacking and decorating, and I felt nearly human again. On top of which, I finally had an excuse to wear dressy clothes, in place of the jeans and the floppy shirts I’d been living in for the past fortnight. It gave me a deliciously sophisticated, grown-up feeling. If only I hadn’t been so drea
dfully bored…

  Two weeks out of London, I thought, and already the talk flowing around this room seemed unconnected to me, and narcissistically shallow. Tom caught me yawning and nudged me playfully.

  “I told you to go easy on the wine,” he reminded me.

  “Sorry.” I yawned again. “I think I’ve reached my limit, Tom. I have to go.”

  “OK. I’ll see you to the door.”

  “Julia, my dear.” Roderick Denton descended upon me with outstretched arms, blocking my escape route. “I’m so glad you came.”

  I hugged him back. “Thanks for the invitation. I’ve had a wonderful time. And be sure to thank Helen for me.”

  “You’re not leaving, already?”

  “I’m afraid so. I have a friend waiting up for me.”

  “Oh?” He raised a gossip’s eyebrow. “Spending the night in town, are you?”

  “Yes, with my friend Cheryl. You remember Cheryl, don’t you, Rod? She works at Whitehall.”

  He frowned, but only for a moment. “Red hair?” he asked. “Quite intelligent? Lives in Camden Town?”

  “Islington, now,” I corrected him. “She’s had a rise in pay.”

  Rod ought to appreciate that, I reasoned, being a social mountaineer himself. It was rather underhanded of me to use Cheryl as an excuse for leaving the party. She was not, in actual fact, waiting up for me. She wasn’t even in London. Her boyfriend was treating her to a weekend in the Lake District, and she’d cheerfully given me the loan of her flat for the evening, along with her pet cat and the use of her parking space.

  “If you wait a few minutes, I can find someone to give you a lift,” Rod offered, ever the considerate host.

  “No, thanks.” I shook my head. “It’s just as quick to take the tube. And you,” I poked Tom in the arm, “should be leaving, too. You’ll sleep through your sermon tomorrow.”

  “Along with the rest of the congregation,” Rod said, and I giggled.

  Tom smiled at me, indulgently. “Laugh it up,” he invited. “I’m not letting you take the tube in this state, you know. I’ll find you a cab.”

  “I don’t want a cab,” I protested. “I want to take the tube. Or walk. I fancy a bit of fresh air.”

  But Tom was resolute. He saw me down to the street, hailed a cab, and bundled me into it, giving the driver directions to Cheryl’s flat. As soon as the cab had turned the first corner, I leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “I’ve changed my mind,” I told him. “Embankment tube station, please.”

  I should have kept the cab, after all. The entrance to the tube station was clogged with young people, and the press of bodies steeped in stale beer and Saturday-night sweat made me feel distinctly claustrophobic. I had intended to take the northern line straight up to Islington, but suddenly the garishly lit tunnels of the underground held little appeal. There really was no hurry, I told myself. I could always stroll a little way along the river, and pick up the circle line at a station farther on. With a final deciding glance at the boisterous crowd, I turned my steps towards the softer streetlamps of the embankment and the myriad twinkling reflections of the slumbering Thames.

  Behind me, back by Westminster Bridge, curved the impressive facade of the old County Hall building, and ahead the familiar dome of St. Paul’s, sharply illuminated, rose like beacon against the night sky. It was a beautiful night, surprisingly peaceful and quite mild in temperature, despite the humidity. I walked on, past Cleopatra’s Needle with its watchful sphinxes, past the looming bulk of Somerset House and the more majestic gateway leading to the Temple and the Inns of Court.

  At first, I enjoyed the sense of solitude. But after several minutes my wine-fogged complacency slowly gave way to a creeping wariness. It was, after all, quite late on a Saturday evening, and as lovely as the embankment might be, it was not the wisest place for a woman to walk alone. I quickened my step, uneasy. At the very next tube station, I promised myself, I would go underground. I had walked far enough for one night. Besides, I had drunk slightly more than I ought to, and I was feeling terribly tired. My steps swayed a little, unsteadily, and my head felt curiously light, filled with an odd, ringing sound.

  A minute later I’d given up the thought of taking the tube altogether, and altered my course away from the river in search of a cab. But there didn’t seem to be a single cab in sight, and the more I searched the maze of streets, the more lost I became. The streets narrowed first to lanes, and then alleys, becoming progressively darker and rougher underfoot, while the ringing in my ears grew steadily louder. After several wrong turns, I finally came across one street that looked familiar—a crooked little street of oak-framed houses with plaster walls, their crowded overhanging top storeys painted and carved. As I passed a sheltered doorway, a small, ragged boy took a step forward, raising his lantern.

  “Do you want light, mistress?” he asked me, hopefully, but I shook my head and hurried on.

  A little farther down the street, I stopped at one of the huddled houses and knocked urgently at the door. It seemed a long time before my summons was finally answered by a small, middle-aged woman with kindly blue eyes and a plain face. She was in her bedclothes, and wore a shawl wrapped round her head and shoulders to ward off the night chill.

  Seeing me, her eyes widened in astonishment. “My child! What are you doing abroad at this hour of the night? Come inside… come inside and warm yourself!”

  I was practically dragged from the threshold and deposited in front of a sputtering fire. I stared at the flames, feeling a hollow cold that the fire’s warmth could not touch.

  “My mother is ill,” I said.

  The woman’s eyes met mine, and there passed between us an anguished understanding more eloquent than words.

  “When?” she asked.

  “She was struck suddenly.” My voice was wooden. “At dinner. Already she is fevered and knows me not. The servants sent me from the house.”

  “They did wisely. You cannot return there.” She sat down, heavily, beside me. “Nor can you stay here. My neighbors fear the sickness too much. They would make trouble.”

  She was silent a long moment, thinking. “You will go to the country,” she said, at last. “To your mother’s elder brother.”

  “My Uncle Jabez?” I bit my lip.

  She knew the cause of my misgivings. “He is not like your uncle John, God rest his gentle soul. But he is highly thought of, and an honest man. I will arrange a coach in the morning. Have you brought nothing away with you?”

  I shook my head, and she frowned. “You will need clothes. My girl Ellen is very like you in size. She may have something suitable.”

  She rose from her stool and bustled towards the narrow stairway. I moved in feeble protest.

  “Aunt Mary…”

  “Mariana.” Her voice was firm. “This is the Lord’s will. It is decided.”

  The dancing fire flickered, dimmed, and disappeared.

  I blinked. I was standing in Blackfriars Lane, among the rubble of construction, in a dark and empty lot. It had begun to rain, a cold, relentless spring rain, and a passing car spat up a freezing spray that sent a chill through my entire body and set my teeth chattering. A short block above me, yellow light and laughter mixed with music poured out onto the street through the open door of the local pub, and I turned my stumbling steps in that direction.

  The cab company was quick to respond to my telephone call. Settling myself in the back seat for the short ride up to Islington, I shrank into a shadowed corner, well out of the light of the swiftly passing streetlamps.

  Inside the cab, out of the rain, it wasn’t cold at all; but I went on shivering and shivering, as if I would never get warm.

  Chapter 6

  “Mariana.” Vivien Wells rolled the name around on her tongue like a wine of questionable vintage, tilting
her fair head back with a frown. “No, I don’t remember hearing about anyone by that name. Do you, Ned?”

  Without looking up from his newspaper, the barman shook his head, and Vivien carried on balancing the cash register.

  “It’s rather an unusual name, isn’t it?” she said. “Old-fashioned.”

  “Funny you should put it like that.” I smiled into my glass of orange juice, and she looked up from her work with interest.

  “Been finding old love letters tucked beneath the floorboards, have you?” she asked.

  “Something like that. It’s really not important.” I set my glass down on the bar and glanced towards the empty table in the corner.

  “I see the lads aren’t in today.”

  Vivien followed my gaze and smiled. “It’s early yet.”

  I looked at my watch and saw, with some surprise, that it was only half-twelve. Admittedly a little too early for the good people of Exbury to be heading off to the pub, especially on a Sunday. To me, though, it felt as if it were already the middle of the afternoon.

  I had slept badly the night before. Slept, perhaps, was not the right word, since I had spent most of the night staring wide-eyed into the darkness, watching the glowing digital display on the bedside clock count off the minutes, one by one.

  I had relived those strange and frightening moments in Blackfriars Lane, turning them over and over in my mind until I felt I must be going mad. It was not the sort of experience I could talk to anyone about, really. Tom might have listened, but this was Sunday, and Tom was unobtainable on a Sunday. Over the breakfast table in the lonely London flat, Cheryl’s cat had stared blankly back at me.

  “What do you think?” I had asked it. “Am I losing my mind?” The cat merely went on staring. No answers to be had from that quarter, I decided. And so I had come home. Strange, I thought, how this little sleepy village had so quickly come to feel like home. Stranger still how London, where I had spent so many years, now seemed oddly foreign and remote.