On the terrace near the cliffs, where a host of people mingled, and food and wine grew damp and warm respectively in the heavy air, he had sought out his hostess, a duchess named Sythia. She had been standing at the centre of a group of guests, amusing them with gossip. Samuel had sipped his wine and made what he hoped were discreet enquiries about the woman on the balcony.
Sythia had smiled conspiratorially and led Samuel to one side. ‘You speak of Xanthe. You like her? Of course you do. She is charming. A temptation to many men.’
Samuel, unused to such direct words, had felt himself grow hot. ‘She is interesting,’ he’d replied, which was exactly what he’d felt.
Sythia’s smiled had widened. ‘You would like to meet her, of course.’
Samuel had been irritated by Sythia’s demeanour. He knew the people who thought themselves his friends had despaired of him ever finding a mate. Well-meaning older ladies had often told him he was a well-favoured man and had many admirers, but once he saw the women whose eyes he’d caught, he had to flee. They seemed so pink and fleshy, so clumsy. Now, his fumbling enquiries about Xanthe would soon be known to all the company. The morsel of information would be relished as much as the rare, salty shell-fish that lay dismembered on the duchess’ table.
‘In truth, I know very little about the lady,’ Sythia had confessed as she cut through the throng of guests that cluttered her garden. ‘I met her at a soiree some weeks back, and like you, felt my curiosity stir. Nobody knows her. She is an enigma, and a lovely complement to any gathering. I have invited her here three times already.’
Sythia had paused beneath the balcony where Xanthe still contemplated the scenery. The duchess called her name and, languidly, Xanthe directed her attention towards the sound. Her face had remained expressionless.
‘My dear,’ Sythia had said, in a voice of constrained excitement, ‘would you come down here for a moment. There is someone who wishes to meet you.’
With neither words nor smile, Xanthe had put down her glass on the rail of the balcony. She’d descended the steps that flanked the house, her movements precise yet elegant. Then she had stood before them, towering over Sythia, looking Samuel directly in the eye. She’d been dressed in a long, finely-pleated garment, the colour of ripened corn, which clung to her body like scales. Her dark, straight hair had hung lustrously over her shoulders. Her skin had seemed dusty, and Samuel had known instinctively that it would feel smooth and dry to his touch. He’d wanted to shrink from Xanthe’s overt scrutiny, yet simultaneously wanted to drown in her unwavering gaze.
He could no longer remember how Sythia had affected introductions. His memory had discarded any words that had been exchanged beyond that initial overture, but he could still recall in detail the smashing of the sea below, and the scent of the night-blooming vines, and Xanthe’s private smile as she observed, through her dark, slanting eyes, his developing infatuation.
In a dry, barely interested kind of way she apparently decided to collude in his desires. Later that same night, after most of the guests had retired to bed, or else had fallen where they stood among the empty glasses, she had led Samuel to a bare promontory and here, beneath the swelling moon, had discarded the sheath of her dress, to reveal a long, sinuous body whose flesh was cool yet supple. She’d had no inhibitions whatsoever, although Samuel, being devoid of experience in these matters, had wondered whether all women were so open in this regard.
There had followed a week of intoxicated passion, of fever and of joy. In the mornings, Xanthe would leave Samuel’s bed and go to sun herself upon the balcony, kneading into her skin fragrant oils that were absorbed almost immediately to leave a matte sheen. In the afternoons, while the other guests dozed after lunch, she and Samuel would walk into the nearby town, and drink cold, tart wines beneath the shade of awnings outside sleepy inns. She’d talked of herself, of her dreams and expectations. Her voice had been low, husky, with a slight lisp. Her family were rich, she’d told Samuel, and she was an artist. She was amused by Sythia’s patronage, but was happy to enjoy the benefits of the friendship. ‘I love her house,’ Xanthe had said. ‘The rocks around it retain such heat.’
At the end of that week, Samuel had made up his mind: he wanted Xanthe as a wife. One afternoon, as they paused in their daily walk at a shore-side inn, he’d become emboldened by wine, and had taken hold of her hands across the table. ‘Xanthe, be my bride.’
She’d looked at him inscrutably for a few moments, then said, ‘If you like.’
Just a few days later, they’d married in a small, mountain temple, and afterwards Sythia had thrown a banquet in their honour. Then, Xanthe had returned to her family estate to organise the packing of items she wished to transport to her new home, while Samuel had travelled back across the sea to his homeland of Tarbonnay, where he would prepare his demesne for her arrival.
‘And today she comes,’ Samuel told the Damozel. ‘I pray you will love her as I do.’
The afternoon had dulled and seemed to fall silent; the bees had tumbled away, and not even a leaf stirred in the bower. Then, as Samuel raised his head, the sun reappeared from behind a cloud and the Damozel’s stately blooms turned slowly away from him. She seemed to gaze haughtily at the sky.
‘Fear not, my lady,’ he murmured. ‘My consort will attend you as I have. She is eager to meet you and tend you. She will be a mother to you. It is a wife’s duty to love all that her husband loves.’
The sun rolled behind the first black cloud of the approaching storm, and stayed there. First the Damozel, then her hand-maidens, slowly bowed their heads once more and stared at Samuel with the blind eyes of their velvet hearts. He had never lied to them before.
Samuel did not bother to make any special effort over his appearance to greet his new wife. He spent a few hours tending his plants, then, pausing only to wipe his hands on a dirty rag, bound back his long hair with a piece of twine, and positioned himself in his gloomy study to await Xanthe’s arrival. His eyes skittered with discomfort over the disarray in the room, as if becoming aware of it for the first time. Perhaps he should have hired a team of cleaners to prepare the house for her arrival, but it was not his habit to fuss about his environment. After the last of his parents’ retainers had left, complaining the house was too large for so small a staff to cope with, he had never engaged anyone but Hesta, who in fact did very little for her money. Still, domestic matters would be Xanthe’s province. He smiled to himself. Previously, he had not considered that particular benefit of taking a wife.
After Xanthe did not arrive at the expected hour, Samuel started to feel impatient. Rain began to fall heavily upon the garden, which did not improve his mood. Hesta presented herself at the doorway of his study. She was a large woman with resentful eyes. ‘Is she here yet?’ she enquired rather disrespectfully.
‘No,’ Samuel answered shortly. ‘Prepare a cold supper and leave it in the kitchen.’
Hesta grunted and departed; perhaps relieved she would not be required to stretch her culinary talents for the benefit of a new wife.
Samuel waited for the storm to pass, then went outside, where the air was cool and damp. He resolved to walk down the long, winding driveway and if Xanthe had not made an appearance by the time he reached the road, he would lock the gates. It was as if the events of his recent holiday had been a dream, a pleasant dream, but one ill destined to continue. Now, it seemed inconceivable that Xanthe, with her foreign air, would settle successfully in his home. He must have been bewitched in Mewt; lulled by the hot, perfumed air and the long, lazy nights.
At the gates, Samuel put his hands upon the wet, rusty rods and peered down the road that led to the nearest town. He saw her then, walking ahead of a wagon like a common farm girl. She wore a sun-coloured, loose dress that brushed her ankles, and her face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. She walked languorously, clearly in no particular hurry to reach her destination. Sometimes, she paused to sniff a road-side flower or turned to say something to the wagon driver.
Not until she’d nearly reached Samuel’s gates, did she look ahead, notice him and raise a languid hand to wave.
‘You are late,’ Samuel said churlishly.
‘Yes,’ she agreed and came forward to lay a cool hand on his arm. ‘Open the gates then, Samuel, so the wagon can carry my effects to the house.’
The wagon heaved past them; it was not heavily laden. Xanthe hooked her hand through Samuel’s arm and they strolled up the driveway behind the wagon. Their feet crunched upon gravel that was softened by clumps of dark moss. ‘This is a rich and fertile land,’ she remarked, ‘but I trust it is not too cold in winter. I thrive only in heat.’
Samuel ignored these words and snapped. ‘You are now the lady of this house, Xanthe. You should have hired a proper carriage in the town, rather than arrive here on foot like a slattern.’
Xanthe laughed and squinted at him sidelong. ‘Why, Samuel, you look like a farm-hand yourself. There are seeds in your hair and dirt beneath your nails. Cheer up. Don’t be irritable just because I chose to enjoy a walk and acquaint myself with the land. I am here now.’ She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Her touch kindled heat within him. ‘This is your home now, my love. We shall be happy here.’ The dream took on flesh once more.
Xanthe uttered an appreciative murmur as the house appeared around a bend in the drive. The garden at the front was rather neglected; a sweep of waving grasses, hedged by willows. The house itself lay like a sleeping lizard in its grounds; a grey sprawl of wings, buttresses and towers that had formed over the generations, from architectural additions by Samuel’s ancestors. It was scaled with a myriad tiny windows and its walls were lazily uneven, corseted with immense wooden beams. The late afternoon sun, still watery from the storm, washed the lichened walls with rusty light and gilded the window panes. ‘So warm,’ Xanthe breathed. ‘So warm.’
The heat of summer, however, seemed not to have penetrated the hall of the house, and here the air felt uncomfortably cold and damp. The house smelled of its own age - once a familiar, comforting odour to Samuel, but now somehow repellent. He noticed his wife shiver a little. ‘The place needs a good airing,’ he said lamely. ‘It was shut up while I was away.’
Xanthe glanced at him, but made no comment, even though Samuel could guess she thought the house had been neglected for rather more than a month. The wooden panels of the hall, which once had burned with the sheen of bees’ wax, now looked dull and sticky. The floor tiles were obscured by years of accumulated mud, trampled in by Samuel from the garden. Xanthe ventured forward cautiously, apparently to examine her surroundings.
Samuel called, ‘Look out,’ but it was too late. Xanthe had stepped into a tray against the wall and had scattered its contents.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve spilled all your seeds,’ Xanthe said, adding pointedly, ‘I didn’t see them.’ She bent to brush them up but Samuel hurried to her side and stopped her hand.
‘Don’t touch it, my love!’
Xanthe frowned. ‘Why not?’
Samuel took her hand in his. ‘It’s poison. A hazard of living in the country, I’m afraid. We have a problem keeping these old places free of vermin.’
‘Vermin,’ said Xanthe, flatly, straightening up.
‘Mice,’ Samuel explained. ‘Even rats - not that they often come this far into the house, of course, but the cellars, the old larders… I have to keep poison down.’
Xanthe raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry. Rodents don’t scare me. They are too small to inspire fear.’
Samuel smiled at her. What an admirable quality in a woman, this fearlessness where vermin were concerned. He’d always believed women screamed and fainted at the mere mention of them. He led her through the dark passages of the house, into the old kitchen, where he suggested she should wash her hands. Xanthe went to the great, white sink - which was not as white as it could have been - and turned on the cold water tap. ‘Poison is dangerous,’ she said. ‘We might have children one day, Samuel. Why haven’t you got a brace of good cats to deal with the problem?’
Samuel did not wish to mention that the poisons growing in his garden were lethal to dogs and cats, while at the same time oddly attractive to them. The thought of children made him go momentarily cold. He imagined little hands reaching for the tempting, deadly fruits. He laughed too heartily and made a feeble joke that animals did not like him.
‘Do they not?’ Xanthe said coolly, looking for something on which to wipe her wet hands, and finally opting for the front of her dress.
As the sun sank, they went into the dark, dusty dining-room and there consumed the modest repast that Hesta had left for them; cold meats, cheese and thick, heavy bread. Samuel had found a bottle of wine that had not gone off, but it was thick and red - nothing like the light, acid wines he had enjoyed with Xanthe in Mewt.
Afterwards, Samuel showed Xanthe around the more habitable areas of the house, finally leading her to his bedroom. Xanthe’s nose wrinkled fastidiously, but she seemed relieved to discover that at least the sheets were crisp and clean. Spiders bred in the dusty, faded folds of velvet drapes around the bed, and the windows were opaque with grey-green grime. Samuel had made a small effort at decorating the room, however, and had filled a number of huge, antique vases with garden flowers - not the children of his ladies, but some lesser blooms left over from the days when his mother had tended the estate.
Xanthe sat on the bed and said, ‘I may have to make changes here, Samuel.’ She leaned back on stiff arms and looked around herself. ‘You’ve had dire need of a homely touch, it seems.’
‘You may do what you like to the house,’ he replied.
Xanthe nodded and silently smiled. Standing, and fixing him with her slanting eyes, she peeled away her dress. Samuel went to her, eager to touch her smooth skin once more, to breathe in her intoxicating scent. Pulling away from him, she walked, naked, to the window and wiped the glass. The moon was rising above the trees, sailing high. Xanthe struggled to open one of the windows and, at last, with a scraping creak and a fall of dead insects and spider webs, it released its hold on its frame. Xanthe stood tall, taking deep breaths. Samuel put his hands upon her smooth, bare shoulders and kissed the cool flesh. She buried her fingers in the thick velvet drapes and sighed like the night.
Below them, in the pale moonlight, the flowers had turned their heads towards the ground. But for the rustling of rats in the grass, the gardens were silent.
The following morning after breakfast, Samuel took his new bride into the garden behind the house. He had decided there was no point in delaying a certain crucial introduction, although his heart beat fast.
Xanthe stepped down the shallow steps led to the lawn and shaded her eyes. ‘It is so bright out here after being inside. The house needs light, Samuel.’
Samuel took her elbow in a firm yet gentle grip and ushered her over the grass to the first walled garden. Herbs grew here, surrounded by granite pathways. In the centre, was an ancient grey sundial, almost like an altar. Beyond the herb garden, steps led down into a shaded avenue of stately poplars, with lawns to either side, bordered by mature roses of dark red and startling white. Behind them, lush green ivy tumbled over crumbling walls.
Xanthe examined her surroundings with apparent pleasure, complimenting Samuel on the variety of the plants and the secluded mystery of the linked gardens. ‘Is that water I hear?’ she asked. ‘Oh, Samuel, do you have a water garden?’
Breaking away from him, she ran down a path-way, her swift body dappled by sun-light. Samuel was forced to run to keep up with her, slightly annoyed by her wilfulness.
He found her by the fountain, where a voluptuous stone mermaid held up her hands to release a stream of cold, clear water. The pond was greened with the leathery saucers of water-lilies. It was surrounded by a circular path, around which grew a tall juniper hedge.
Samuel once again slipped a hand beneath Xanthe’s elbow. His voice was hushed. ‘This way.’ He put a finger to his lips.
&nbs
p; Xanthe frowned quizzically, but did not speak. She went compliantly into the yew walk that led to the court of the queen. Samuel saw her studying the strange plants that grew in the gloom, some with long, white heads like trumpets and others with purple spikes. Later, he would regale her with their secret histories. Then, the narrow opening in the hedge was ahead, and he allowed his new bride to go before him.
Night’s Damozel reared imperially in her green bower. Xanthe paused at the entrance to this hidden garden, and Samuel heard her draw in her breath. She seemed almost shocked.
He hurried past her, smiled encouragingly and urged her forward. ‘Come, come, this is who I’ve been waiting to show you.’
Xanthe’s eyes were wide; it made her look peculiarly sinister. ‘It is a creature of enchantment,’ she breathed, and then flicked him a narrower glance. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘A corner of the world,’ Samuel whispered, ‘but hush. Stand before her, but not too close. Her pollen is toxic.’
So the new bride was introduced to the queen. Their beauty seemed to complement each other; both so tall and still. Samuel could not detect any sense of rivalry or pique in the Damozel, but perhaps the presence of another human being stifled his communication with the flower.
‘I can see,’ Xanthe said softly, ‘that all other flowers in your garden are but a screen for this priceless bloom. You keep her secret, of course.’ She nodded gently to herself. ‘But that is only right.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say...’
‘No!’ Xanthe interrupted. ‘I can see the truth of it. Thank you for bringing me here.’
Samuel felt oddly uneasy. He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected from Xanthe, but it wasn’t this.
As they walked back to the house, Xanthe was silent. Samuel asked her what she thought of his garden.