An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (57 page)

Absorbing everything with the breathless excitement of a child, Iona awoke to the fact that she loved Skaig as she had never loved anything else in her whole life before. In such a very short while it had become indivisibly a part of herself, and it was with a sense of misery that she realised the truth, because every day she drew nearer to the moment when she must leave it, never to return.

She thought of Paris, and for the first time in her life she understood what her guardian and other exiles like him must have felt when knew that their lives must be lived out amongst the frivolity and gaiety of a city, which could never really amuse them.

It was Scotland for which they longed, for the wide sweep of moor, hill and sea, for the winds fragrant with the perfume of heather blowing down from the north, overwhelming the weak but bringing new life and courage to the strong.

No wonder they had grumbled, no wonder they had sighed, no wonder there had always been a haunting melancholy in their eyes and on their faces as if some part of them was absent in unceasing remembrance.

Now Iona could understand, now she knew that she, too, would be haunted with memories. No sound, however melodious, no music, however finely orchestrated, could excel the cluck of an old cock grouse winging its way down the hill, no picture, however artistically executed, could rival the panoramic masterpiece of the sun setting behind Ben Nevis.

Iona scolded herself for selfishness, but her sadness at the thought of leaving the castle would not be dispersed. It was always there, sharpening her appreciation of everything, giving her a sense of urgency that she must miss nothing because the sands of time were running out and the moment of her departure grew inexorably nearer.

And yet happiness could spring to her heart with something near to rapture. Hector was safe! The Duke had been instrumental in setting him free, and more than that, His Grace had not failed Iona’s most cherished hopes.

She had not believed it possible, even in her most fearful moments, that the Duke could favour the English. She would have believed anything of Lord Niall from her first moment of meeting him, but though she had for a little while been afraid of the Duke and had been chilled by his coldness and air of arrogance, she had never distrusted him, never thought that he could be anything but loyal to his countrymen.

As she dressed this morning, Iona had thought that perhaps today would bring the opportunity of speaking to him of the Prince, of telling him why she had come to Scotland – and how much the future rested with him and his decisions in the matter.

Like all women with a difficult task ahead she dressed herself with unusual care, choosing a gown of leaf-green muslin, which she was well aware became her more than anything else she possessed. She had purchased the muslin in the
Marché
in Paris, and the Syrian merchant who had brought it all the way from Damascus had reduced the price a little because Iona had smiled at him and because he knew that it would suit her better than anyone else he had ever seen.

Iona had sat late into the night working by the light of two candles to finish the dress before she sailed for Scotland. She remembered now how she had wondered in what circumstances she would wear it and knew that even her wildest imaginations had fallen far short of the truth.

The dress was laced with velvet ribbon and Iona, feeling gay, set a tiny bow of it among the curls of her hair, then, humming a little tune, she went downstairs.

She did not at first realise that anything was wrong – although afterwards she wondered if she had not had a vague premonition of it from the moment she reached the main landing outside the Crimson Salon.

At first glance she thought that no one was about. Then she noticed Lady Wrexham’s Abigail, a sour faced, nervous-looking woman, look at her in what she felt was an unpleasant manner as she passed by without a greeting, to disappear down the main staircase.

A few minutes later, as Iona moved restlessly about the Crimson Salon, she saw the maid returning, followed by a flunkey carrying a silver tray on which reposed a decanter of wine and two glasses. Iona wondered at the two glasses and thought perhaps that Lady Wrexham was kind enough to offer her maid some wine when she herself partook of it in her bed chamber.

There was no sign of the Duchess, and after a while Iona thought it would be polite to go to her bedchamber and inquire if she had slept well.

Her Grace had seemed strange these past few days and at dinner she had hardly spoken at all, answering the Duke in monosyllables when he addressed her directly. Iona had thought that her silence on previous occasions was due to the fact that she was jealous of Lady Wrexham, but last night her Ladyship had sent word that she was indisposed and would dine in her bedchamber. Even in her absence, the Duchess had not been any more cheerful.

Iona had grown to dread the long, drawn out meals when she was uneasily aware of strange undercurrents in the conversation, while their meaning was beyond her comprehension. As she moved down the passage, she wondered what the Duke really thought of Lady Wrexham and if, when they were alone together, he unbent before the honeyed blandishments with which she so obviously tried to entice him.

“I dislike her,” Iona said half aloud, and then started, for her Ladyship’s maid was approaching once again, this time carrying a hooped gown of sprigged brocade with a petticoat of azure blue satin. Iona’s simple pleasure in her own dress of green muslin vanished. Suddenly she felt that it was drab and unmodish beside the extravagant elegance of Lady Wrexham’s clothes.

She thought how she and her Ladyship must appear in the Duke’s eyes. One a woman poised, brilliant, gorgeously arrayed and expensively bejewelled, the other an unsophisticated, unfledged girl ignorant in so many ways and having very little in her to interest a man of experience, vast possessions and magnificent traditions.

As
if to
escape her own thoughts, Iona ran the last steps before she knocked on the door of the Duchess’s bedchamber. As she waited for a reply, Iona heard a movement in the sitting room. The door was ajar and after a second or two she crossed the passage. This time, after she had knocked, a voice bade her enter. She opened the door and uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

The whole room was in disorder. Four large trunks lay open and at one of them knelt the Duchess’s maid, packing papers and books and an array of china, enamel boxes, work bags, miniatures, ornaments and pin trays, all of which were strewn around her on the floor.

At the es
critoire
by the window was seated the Duchess. She wore a frilled peignoir of pink muslin over her night robe, and her nightcap was made to match. Her skin was wrinkled in the morning light and her eyes were swollen and puffy as if she had spent the night in weeping. She glanced towards Iona, but continued to take out of a drawer of the
escritoire
bundles of letters tied with ribbon.

“Oh, it’s you, girl,” she said ungraciously. “Come in, you may be of some assistance.”

“What is happening?” Iona asked, looking round in astonishment.

Bureaux were open, drawers lay on the floor, and one chair was piled with material of every sort and description. There was velvet, muslin, brocade, satin – several bales of it half unravelled and trailing on the floor.

No one answered her and after a moment Iona asked somewhat stupidly,

“Are you packing to go away?”

“Yes, I am going away,” the Duchess said almost angrily, looking up suddenly, and Iona saw there were tears in her eyes. She put her fingers up to her forehead.

“I am tired,” she said suddenly.

The maid rose from the trunk.

“Shall I fetch Your Grace some wine or a pot of tea?” she asked. “Your Grace never touched a bit of the breakfast I brought you.”

“I will have tea,” the Duchess answered, “and bring a cup for Miss Iona,” she added with a surprising solicitude.

“Very good, Your Grace.”

The maid withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind her. The Duchess looked at Iona and made a little gesture with her hands.

“As you see, I am going away,” she said.

Her face puckered, accentuating the lines round her thin lips, and Iona thought for a moment that she looked like a sick monkey. The colour of her skin in contrast to the pink muslin was almost ludicrous.

“Surely this is a very sudden decision?” Iona asked, wondering if the question would seem impertinent and yet feeling somehow that the Duchess expected her to ask it.

The Duchess rose from the chair and walked across the room, the train of her peignoir, more suitable for a girl of eighteen, trailing behind her and knocking over several china ornaments arranged near another trunk.

“Sudden? Yes, I suppose it is a sudden decision,” she said, speaking more to herself than to Iona, “and yet I have always known that the time must come when I must go. I have hated this place, hated it from the first day that I came here, and now it has defeated me. The castle has won, as I always knew it would.”

Her hands shook and the twitch in her eye was so violent that it contorted her whole face. Iona suddenly felt sorry for her, however disagreeable she had been to her personally, however unkind, here was a woman who was suffering almost beyond endurance.

“You are tired, ma’am,” Iona said. “Come and sit down by the fire. You will feel better after you have had a cup of tea.”

“I doubt it,” the Duchess said uncompromisingly, but she sat down in the chair Iona pulled forward for her and held out her thin, bony hands to the blaze.

“Where are you going?” Iona asked a little timidly.

“Back to England,” the Duchess said. “Back to my home in Kent. Do you think they will be pleased to see me?”

“I am sure they will,” Iona said brightly, feeling it was the only possible answer.

“Then you are wrong,” the Duchess said. “My father has married again and his new wife has no liking for me. She is my stepmother, yes, my stepmother!” She suddenly gave a high, cackling laugh poignant with bitterness and misery. “It is a jest! Yes, a rare jest that I, who am a stepmother, will now have to live with mine. She will hate me, she will intrigue against me and do her best to be rid of me. I have done all those things, haven’t I? And now I shall have them done to me.”

The Duchess’s voice died away, and now the tears were running down her wrinkled cheeks. She made no effort to stop or to wipe them away. She only sat staring at the fire, and Iona saw that she had bitten her lips until they bled.

“But must you go there – if it will make you so unhappy?” she asked at length, feeling that the Duchess was waiting for her to speak.

“If I do not go home, where is there a place for me?” the Duchess asked. “You know full well that I cannot stay here. No, you do not know it, but never mind, it is of no consequence. You will learn the reason fast enough.”

“Does it concern Lord Niall?” Iona asked.

The Duchess grasped the arms of her chair and her face was livid.

“Yes, it concerns him,” she hissed. “Lord Niall and that woman he loves – that harlot from St. James’s. Well, he is welcome to her, but she will bring him nothing that he needs. Instead she will destroy him. But, oh God, I have loved him so.”

Her voice broke. She covered her face with shaking fingers and wept noisily, rocking herself backwards and forwards in the chair as Iona had seen the peasant women do when they were bereaved. She felt there was nothing she could say or do, only sit silent, more sorry than she could say for this broken, miserable woman.

At length the Duchess’s sobs ceased and she groped for her handkerchief. Iona retrieved it from where it had fallen to the floor and put it into her hand. The Duchess wiped her eyes.

“I am a fool,” she said sharply. “It is a waste of time to grieve, and yet I cannot help myself.”

She looked at Iona as if she saw her for the first time.

“You are young and pretty,” she said. “Waste little of your youth, for it is gone so quickly and then there is nothing left but regrets.”

She gave a deep sigh that seemed to shake her whole body.

“Once I was pretty. You would not think it now. But I was pretty enough to attract men – pretty enough to have them desire me. And then I fell in love. God sent love into this world to torture women, did you know that? People talk as though it were an enviable thing, something to be sought, to be prized, to be treasured. Poor deluded fools! What they seek is a poison, a weapon which will destroy them as completely as if they put a bullet through their brain.”

The Duchess paused, her eyes closed for a moment as if she were thinking back into the past, remembering what had happened, recapturing the pain and torture of that first love.

“How old were you when you fell in love?” Iona asked.

She was not really curious, for it horrified her to hear these revelations and see the agony on the Duchess’s face, yet she felt that in some way it relieved the stricken woman to talk the bitterness out of her rather than keep it bottled up.

“I was sixteen when my mother took me to court,” the Duchess replied. “My father was proud of me. I was his only daughter and his favourite. To his three sons he was a tyrant, and a hard taskmaster, but to me he was always lenient and understanding. But I was well aware than I must exert myself to earn his favour.

“I was a success at St. James’s, and I came home to Kent with several suitors and the assurance that there would be many more. My father had no intention of letting me be betrothed to anyone he did not consider to be his own equal both in wealth and breeding. He turned my suitors away and as my affections were not engaged, I was content to see them go, knowing that there would be others to take their place. Then on my twentieth birthday I fell in love.”

The Duchess put her fingers to her eyes.

“Love, love,” she muttered. “What is it? Nothing but a crucifixion for those who succumb to it.”

Her words were so wild that Iona said quickly,

“Was he nice, this suitor whom you loved?”

“Who said he was a suitor?” the Duchess asked, taking her hands from her eyes, then staring almost resentfully at Iona. “He was no suitor, girl. He would never have dared raise his eyes in my direction had I not loved him first, had I not encouraged him, had I not told him that I loved him.”