Court of Foxes (7 page)

The package contained a ring set with a ruby as red as the roses themselves magnificently mounted in gold; and the now familiar legend:
I will love you till I die.

And so the Monday came; and for the last time she put on the white gown of her theatre-going days and went with her little group — (‘My servants shall be present, my lord; they are my friends, I have no others,’) — to the small, carefully obscure chapel where he awaited her. Within its shadows, a girl was standing. Gilda slipped her hand away. ‘I want to speak to her.’

‘It is only the flower girl who sells me roses.’

But she left him, uncertainly standing. ‘Bess!’ She led her sister aside out of earshot. ‘Oh, Bess — now that the moment has come — in God’s name, what am I doing?’

Bess looked at her, terrified. ‘Do you not now wish to go through with it?’

‘A man I don’t know, don’t love…’

‘You’ve always believed, Gilda, that love didn’t enter into it.’ (Bess, nowadays, herself knew better.)

‘That was for — those other plans. But this is marriage, this is for ever.’

‘When he finds out the deception—’

‘What if when he finds out the deception, he won’t let me go?’ In the background, music played softly, the Earl stood quietly but with an air of puzzlement, waiting. ‘Oh, Bess, what am I doing? What am I doing?’

‘Can you not like him, dearest? He’s handsome, kind, charming—’

‘And rich. You don’t add, Bess, the most important thing of all — he’s rich.’

‘Riches are not all,’ admitted Bess. She stood with her sister’s hand in hers, holding her fast. ‘We’ve been dazzled by this opportunity, we haven’t stopped to think: it’s all been so rushed and quick. But if you truly dislike him, Gilda, you know that even now, none of us will urge you forward. Say the word and it’s all over; if need be we can go back to Gloucestershire — you shall not be made unhappy for our gain: not even for your own. If you don’t like him—’ And suddenly she dropped the two white hands. ‘Oh, Gilda — it’s not that you don’t like
him
! It is that you like someone else. It’s because of Brown Eyes…?’

She turned swiftly and ran — back to where he waited, back to the folly, the wild, wicked folly of her chosen destiny. But walking up the brief aisle upon his arm, standing at the altar, walking down again, Countess of Tregaron, at her husband’s side — the scent of white roses filled all the air for her.

The carriage, discreetly uncrested, which had brought them to the chapel, took them home to the great mansion in Hanover Square, the Welsh maid he had brought back with him, perched respectfully upon the seat opposite, her eyes respectfully lowered: a slim, neat girl with a frizz of black hair, in the national black, beaver chimney-pot hat, worn over a frilled white bonnet; trim jacket and three-cornered shawl over a petticoat of brick-coloured wool. The Earl took the hand of his new Countess into his own. She remembered the thrill of that other hand, brushing against hers and was sick with the terror of what now, past reclaim, had been done. If it had been Brown Eyes who sat in the carriage with her now; if, to mansion or bijou, it had been Brown Eyes who was bringing her home…!

The carriage drew up with a rattle of iron-shod wheels upon cobblestones. Between fluted Doric columns, two footmen, white-powdered, plushy-breeched, stood already in waiting outside the high front door. She passed in, beneath the lovely glass fanlight to a hall as big as a garden, where upon the patterned marble floor beneath the painted ceiling, a major-domo bowed, a house-keeper curtseyed, murmuring a welcome. Everything was prepared, a meal would be in readiness when her ladyship should wish it… Gilda stifled a giggle as, bobbing and bowing, as so lately her own mother had bobbed and bowed to the gentlemen outside the box at the playhouse, the woman led the way upstairs.

A room which might have swallowed up her little bedroom in the bijou house round the corner; but not white and gold and cerulean blue as that room was, with billowy hangings held up by small naked cupids, peeking through to watch the sweet nonsense of love in the filmy white bed below… That bed which would never now be used, which was to have been the tumbling-place of so much naughtiness and fun — with a sovereign to be paid for every kiss, no doubt, but for kisses that would have been tender and gay, for loves that were always new. Would not kisses grow stale that were given in this huge four-poster, year after matrimonial year? — caged in by columns of carven mahogany and curtains of damask fringed with gold. Crimson damask; the whole great room was hung with crimson. Red roses in a room of crimson: no doxy to be bought and sold but a lady of title now, rich, powerful, adored, in this great room of crimson in this great house, as splendid as any in the land. And she would give it all, she knew, to be back in the little white room, in the little white house around the corner; with no wealth, no security, no future — only the promise that lay in a bunch of white roses, a pair of brown eyes. I can’t go through with it, she thought. I’ll tell him it’s all been a trick, I’ll tell him I repent of it. If I refuse to consummate the marriage, it can yet be annulled. Her heart shuddered at the thought of what her family would say; at the thought of the punishment that might come upon them all, if he revealed their deceptions to the law… But she need not, after all, go to such lengths as these. She could simply tell him the truth. I’ll tell him that I’m in love with another man; that in these past weeks my love has been stifled, forced down, half-forgotten and yet has been always there, always deep in my heart. I’ll tell him I can’t let him love me, I can’t let him touch me — when all my heart and my body cry out for the love of another man…

The woman had curtseyed herself out of the door, dismissed, and now he came into the room. Came up and stood behind her and put his arms around her, his hands on her breasts. She swung round to face him. ‘My lord — one moment: one moment — listen to me! I want to tell you — to explain to you… My lord, I repent of this marriage. I… My own heart…’

His arms closed around her, hard and strong, his mouth came down upon hers. She felt the sick surge of excitement that she had known on the first day he had kissed her, on all those other days of his controlled embracings; and fought against it, moving her head from side to side, repudiating him, trying with all her no small strength to thrust him away from her. But all the time, even as she fought, she knew that the flame was burning up within her, growing bright within her, uncontrollable, a flame of pure physical passion, pure animal desire. His eyes were dark and brilliant, staring down into hers; one arm now sufficed to hold her, one hand struggled to pull aside the low bodice of her white gown; and, sick with angry shame at her own weakness, her own infidelity, she yet, unresistant, permitted, encouraged — half swooning against him in a sort of sick rapture as his hard brown fingers touched for the first time the sensitive tips of her breasts. He said nothing, spoke not a word; only violent, ruthless, relentless, in the grip of his own passion, imposed his will upon hers, ripping away her petticoats, silently cursing impeding cambric and corset, flinging her at last half naked across the width of the bed. Her arms fell lax, her lips acquiesced, accepted, responded: grew, in response as avid and demanding as his own. Her body arched to him, the flame was soft and lambent no longer but a flaring-up of ecstasy that flared at last into such a bonfire of consummation as burned away all other longings, all other desires — all other loves…

They sat through the long evening meal, one at either end of the mahogany table, polished through the years to the colour of old wine; speechless, exhausted, sick with passion consummated, desire fulfilled. The servants moved about them quietly, handing dish after dish, course after course, removing each almost untouched. They spoke not a word; what words, she thought, could two people have left to speak to one another, after such an hour as that? And yet… Had it been Brown Eyes — would there not have been a look, a sweetness, an exchange of glances, half-tender, half naughtily ashamed, under the silent, impersonal watchfulness of the attendant staff? What have I done? she thought; what have I done? For, heaven knew! — no one could claim the marriage un-consummated now; and with its consummation went all hope of ever finding her way to the arms of her own true love.

The meal reached its climax, the housekeeper reappeared and led the way to the vast withdrawing-room upstairs, proffered chairs, proposed the tea board at such and such a time… Will she one day decide, thought Gilda, that we can find our way, without conduct, about our own house? — or am I to move through the rest of my life as though I were a dummy, incapable of decision or action on my own? And will every evening drag like this evening? she wondered, stifling the first yawn, half a silent hour later. Would there be nothing to look forward to ever again? — but the ending of an evening like this — which in turn would lead up to the great bed with its dark crimson hangings and its dark crimson blazing of animal matings with a man whom she never could love; and yet, it began to seem, never be able to resist… And she thought of her true love, of Brown Eyes, with his arms full of roses; and was sick with shame for that earlier loveless devouring that now had for ever ended her hope of his love. For something to say, she asked, for the third or fourth time, about arrangements for their journey on the following day, towards Wales; for the third or fourth time was told briefly, almost abruptly, that all was in train, a coach would be at the door by seven o’clock; a plain hired coach to preserve their secrecy, rather than the huge, crested family equippage. They were to sleep that night at Gloucester; with changes of horses they might be there by the evening; it was almost exactly half-way, they might be at Castell Cothi by dark the next night…

‘In that case, I must be up by six for my toilet; with your permission, my lord, I will retire.’

He jumped to his feet. ‘Certainly. It will be best.’ And he pulled on a bell rope and soon the woman came and there were more curtseyings, and a procession formed at last to conduct my lord and lady up the stairs to their rooms. Two footmen went ahead with candelabra held high, the housekeeper after them, walking crabwise looking backwards, alert lest a young woman of seventeen years be unable to mount a score of broad, shallow steps without a helping hand; behind her Catti Jones, the dark Welsh maid, stepped smartly with her skirts held up above her trim ankles. At Gilda’s side Lord Tregaron kept a protective hand at the elbow of her right arm.

A man came to the top of the stairs and would have descended; but seeing the little cortège coming up, paused at the top and waited for them to come to the splendid curved landing of the first floor. The footmen moved a little to the side to avoid him as he stood silently, bowing, making way for the lady to pass. On Lord Tregaron’s arm, she paused for a tiny moment to bow back an acknowledgement of his courtesy. He raised his head; and once again for one moment they looked back at one another, those two…

Fair hair and a quiet face, gentle yet strong. Brown Eyes.

A
T THE DOOR OF
the bedroom she stopped. In front of them all she said to her husband, coolly: ‘I will bid you goodnight, my lord. We have an early start tomorrow,’ and bowed and went in; the maid Catti following her, closed the door behind her. She said sharply: ‘Lock it; you can sleep on the sofa in here, with me.’ Not for all the red roses in the world would she spend the night in that other man’s arms; but her own vile flesh even now assured her that if he came to her, she might still be unable to refuse him.

The lady’s maid was not much of a lady’s maid; but Gilda after all was sufficiently capable of preparing herself for bed. She allowed the girl to brush out the marigold floss of her hair; the elaborate coiffure had been so tumbled that she had hardly been able to get it into some sort of shape for the supper hour and tomorrow might (with relief) resort to a simple knot of curls at the nape of her neck, tied back with a black velvet bow as was the habit when riding or travelling. Now, as the bristles slid their way through the silky floss she asked, secretly trembling: ‘Who was the gentleman on the stairs? Do you know?’

‘On the stairs? His lordship’s brother, David of Llandovery. They were saying in the servants’ hall that he is just this moment arrived, back from foreign parts much earlier than expected.’

Gilda sat astounded. ‘His lordship’s brother? Is
he
the Honourable David Llandovery?’

Catti misunderstood the emphasis; spelt out the lessons doubtless learned below-stairs. ‘My lord your husband is the head of the family, Madam, is it not so? — his father being lately dead and he now Earl of Tregaron. And the other, being the younger brother, second son of the late Earl, is but an “honourable”, with the family name of Llandovery. Dafydd — that’s the Welsh for David and Dai the short form of it: Davidd bach of Carmarthen, we call him down in Wales, begging your ladyship’s pardon, or Dai bach. There’s no exact English for it: darling David you might say, or dear little David — a term, one might say, Madam, of a sort of loving disrespect — everybody loves him in Wales, so brave and gay he is, and kind…’ But she broke off sharply as though she had said too much, been guilty perhaps of disloyalty. ‘All but his lordship, that is: for you saw how the two brothers passed without a word — it’s said they haven’t spoken for years…’
*

Here in this house, her husband’s house: the love of her life, her own husband’s brother, her own brother-in-law! She said faintly, ‘Does he — does David Llandovery live here in this house?’

‘Oh, no, Madam, he has a home of his own in Carmarthenshire where he also has estates, my lord of Tregaron of course having far the largest share. But this is the family house with no mistress till now but my lady the Countess, their mother, and therefore available of course to all her family. And returning from abroad and believing Lord Tregaron in Carmarthenshire I dare say — which indeed he was until yesterday, milady — came here not expecting to meet him. Or came anyway, perhaps; the house is large enough, heaven knows, to accommodate even two quarrelling brothers. And the staff here being forbidden to speak to anyone of your marriage, of Lord Tregaron’s being in town… It has been difficult for them in the servants’ hall, milady. A word was spoken to milord — to Lord Tregaron, my lady — when he arrived, as to his brother’s being in town…’