Death at Blenheim Palace (8 page)

The Marlborough Folly?
Winston thought darkly. The Marlborough Folly was on exhibit before their eyes, at this very table. And God only knew where it would take them. Into disaster, if it went on the way it was going now.

“A folly might be rather nice,” the Duke said with an indulgent smile at Gladys. “In fact, I think that my grandfather had the same idea, and went so far as to commission an architect to draw up plans. But I think we should not go at night, Miss Deacon. If one is planning to build something, it is only prudent to scout out the site by daylight.”

Gladys pushed out her lower lip. “Oh, pooh,” she said in exaggerated disappointment. “And I was trying so hard to coax a little bit of nocturnal fun out of everyone. It’s so dull here.”

Northcote was watching her with a devouring look. “You and I could go, Gladys. We’re not required to be prudent, of course, since we’re not doing the building. We can scout out several sites and report our recommendations to His Grace.”

Carelessly, Gladys tossed her head. “Oh, thank you, Botsy. You’re terribly sweet, but I think the Duke is right. We can all go tomorrow, and take a picnic lunch.” She leaned forward, past Winston, and spoke to the Duchess. “What do you think, Consuelo, dear? Wouldn’t that be great fun?”

The corners of the Duchess’s mouth turned up slightly. But there was no smile in her eyes and her voice was strained as she said, “Why, yes, of course, Gladys. What a delightful plan.”

 
 
Charles Sheridan had not been so deeply engaged in his conversation with the Duchess that he failed to observe Marlborough’s possessive touch on Miss Deacon’s wrist, Winston’s uncomfortable expression, and the flush that rose quickly in Botsy Northcote’s face. Charles did not usually take much notice of the romantic affairs of his acquaintances, but this business was too obvious.

And hazardous, too, he thought. Quite apart from the morality of things, Miss Deacon struck him as a reckless young woman who scorned concealment and preferred open indiscretions. And from the bewitching glances she was casting in Winston’s direction, Charles suspected that she was capable of making serious trouble, not only between the Duke and the Duchess, but between Winston and the Duke. And then there was Botsy Northcote, with his flammable temper and combustible jealousies. Botsy had been known to make rather a fool of himself on occasion, especially when he had been drinking.

Charles could see, of course, what interested Marlborough and Northcote and seemed to fascinate Winston. Gladys Deacon was dazzling, both in appearance and in manner, although she was nervous and high-strung to an unusual degree and there was a certain forced and brittle quality in her gaiety. But Marlborough was obviously mesmerized by her, and his caressing touch on her wrist hinted at a physical intimacy between them. Charles was not an expert in such matters—he had never loved a woman before he loved Kate—but he guessed from the look on Northcote’s face that he was no less besotted than the Duke, and was intoxicated, to boot.

Charles turned his head a little to his left and caught his wife’s glance. Kate smiled at him in a way that never failed to warm his heart and make him feel that however inclined others might be to make romantic fools of themselves, their love for one another was unshakable. Exquisite in a green gown that set off the modest emeralds at her throat and ears, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him. Just now, Kate was leaning forward to say something to Sunny about the history of Blenheim Park, momentarily distracting him from the girl—intentionally, Charles thought. She, too, had seen the Duke’s hand on Miss Deacon’s wrist.

“And you, Lord Charles?” the Duchess asked, and Charles turned with a start, realizing that he had been neglecting his hostess. “What do you think of Miss Deacon’s plan for taking a picnic to Rosamund’s Well tomorrow, with the idea of planning a folly there?”

“A picnic would be fun,” Charles agreed, “although I’m afraid I have no opinion about the wisdom of follies.” He had been thinking of driving to Oxford to see if he could find Ned Lawrence, Buttersworth’s helper, and take him off to see the Rollright Stones, but that could wait.

“The wisdom of follies,” the Duchess said, tossing her head with a laugh. Diamonds sparkled in her dark hair and in the bodice of her ivory satin gown, and Charles thought that she had an inborn, stylish elegance that Miss Deacon could never hope to achieve. Consuelo could be only four or five years older than the girl, but she carried herself with a dignified grace and cultured stateliness that added years to her age.

But even though the Duchess was smiling, Charles saw that her glance rested on her husband and Gladys Deacon, who seemed once again oblivious to the others at the table. The corners of her lips tightened and Charles thought that her eyes held the deepest sadness he had ever seen.

Or was it only sadness? Charles remembered what Buttersworth had told him about the gemstones that might have come from the famous Marlborough collection, about the appearance of the woman with Sappho’s nose, about the mention of the Duchess’s name. Well, the woman could not have been Consuelo herself, for her nose could never be said to be classical. That was an honor that would have to go to someone like Miss Deacon. But it was possible that the Duchess had decided on some strategem to embarrass her husband, or to exact some sort of revenge for his behavior. Or perhaps—incomprehensible as it might seem, since the Duchess was a Vanderbilt—she needed money, and fearing to pawn her personal jewels and refusing to ask her husband, had chosen something she thought might be sold without raising questions.

Charles sat back and allowed the footman to remove the remains of his fish soufflé and empty wine glass. Whatever the business at the museum, he could not help feeling sorry for the Duchess, who was so obviously unhappy. But at the same moment, he heard Kate laugh, and felt himself buoyed by an enormous lightness of spirit. Thank God he did not have such troubles as the Duke and Northcote were in for, if they continued to fling themselves like a pair of mindless moths at Miss Deacon’s seductive flame. Thank God for Kate, for her great good humor, her good sense, and her steadfast love. He wouldn’t trade her for all the duchesses in the world.

At that moment, Kate leaned forward. “Charles,” she said, “did you happen to see a newspaper when you were in Oxford today? I wonder if you have any news of the American motorist who is attempting to drive across the continent.” The story was being followed by the British press, which seemed to be as astonished by the idea that some lunatic might make the attempt as by the possibility that he might actually succeed.

“Horatio Nelson Jackson and his bulldog, Bud.” Winston put in with a laugh. “What a wild, woolly adventure, and so out-and-out American! Almost as brash as Roosevelt’s scheme to dig a canal across the Isthmus of Panama.”

He sobered. “Although of course Roosevelt has exactly the right idea. If he has a canal, he won’t need two navies, one on the east coast and one on the west.”

“The canal, the motor car trip—it’s all the same idea, when you stop to think about it,” Charles replied. “A linkage between east and west. Except that Horatio Nelson Jackson—what a wonderful name!—is doing it on his own. The ultimate personal effort.”

“The ultimate folly, if you ask me,” Marlborough said, pulling his thin eyebrows together. “What idiot would want to drive a motor car where there aren’t any roads? And if Jackson wanted to get across the country, why didn’t the fool simply go by train?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Sunny?” asked Miss Deacon playfully. “I think it sounds like divine fun, and frightfully dangerous.” She shivered deliciously. “Why, the man might be captured by Indians, or murdered by robbers!”

“As a matter of fact,” Charles said, “I read that Jackson drove safely into Omaha, Nebraska, on Sunday. Must have been quite a celebration. But he still has a long way to go—some thirteen hundred miles.”

“Yes, but if he’s got as far as Omaha,” Kate said, “he’s more than halfway there. And he’s over the Rocky Mountains, which must have been the worst part. It’s all downhill from there, so to speak.”

“I’d give anything to be in New York when he arrives,” Consuelo said, her eyes sparkling. “Wouldn’t you, Kate? Such an amazing feat—I’m sure the whole city will turn out. There’ll be a parade on Fifth Avenue, and bands and bunting and flags flying everywhere, just like the Fourth of July. Glorious!”

“You Americans,” Marlborough said scornfully. “Always so childish. Any silly excuse for a parade.”

Consuelo, obviously wounded, lowered her eyes. Charles thought the remark offensively patronizing, and did not even smile, but Miss Deacon laughed and Northcote and Winston joined in.

And with that, dessert was served.

CHAPTER NINE

 
 
 
Rosamond the fayre daughter of Walter lord Clifford, concubine to Henry II (poisoned by queen Elianor as some thought) dyed at Woodstocke where king Henry had made for her a house of wonderfull working, so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. This house by some was named Labyrinthus . . . which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a maze. . . .

 
Stowe’s
Annals,
ed. 1631

 
 
 
 
Walking was one of Kate’s passions. When she was at home at Bishop’s keep, the estate she had inherited from her Ardleigh aunts, she went out for a tramp through the lanes and footpaths almost every day, wearing sensible boots and an ankle-length walking skirt and carrying field glasses and a stout walking stick. She’d brought her walking gear to Blenheim and hoped to go out often, if only to escape from the uninhabitable palace.

How did Consuelo manage, she wondered with a shudder, living day after day in such a dispiriting place?
She
couldn’t endure it, she knew. Blenheim would suck all the life and creativity right out of her. Perhaps it was her American democratic spirit, but she knew she’d feel as if she were living in a vast imperial museum, full of relics of British conquest and domination, and she was its curator. Or a splendidly gilded jail, and she was both its jailor and its prisoner.

But the Park around the palace was lovely beyond words. This morning, the rising sun was a pale silver globe draped with ghostlike mists, and in the pearly light, Kate could see geese and ducks and swans sailing on the lake and hear them speaking to one another in low, comforting calls. However she might feel about the palace, she had fallen in love with the lake and woodlands and meadows, which seemed to change with each hour of the day, with the slightest change in the wind and weather. Early morning—before anyone but the staff was up and about, before the groundskeepers began their work—morning, for Kate, was the best time of all. Yesterday morning and the morning before, she had explored the East Park, the Cascades, and the Swiss Cottage, as well as the wilder, more sinister forests of High Park.

On this morning, Kate had risen just as the sun came up, dressed quietly, and set out in the company of her friend and coauthor, the intrepid, invisible, but very real Beryl Bardwell. Kate was carrying an artist’s folding stool, a sketchpad and pencils, and a notebook. She and Beryl had visited Rosamund’s Well on Tuesday afternoon—just a quick visit, to get the lay of the land and to give themselves something to think about. This morning, Kate wanted to sit in the grass below the spring, to sketch its setting and make notes, while Beryl wanted to dream about a time when there had been a pleasure garden and a cluster of buildings—the famous Rosamund’s Bower—on the hillside above, as well as a royal hunting lodge, which over the centuries had been altered and enlarged until it became a palace as stately and substantial as Blenheim was now.

It was all gone, of course, dissolved into the mists of time and remembered only in legend and the occasional desultory conversation, like last night’s table talk. Rosamund’s Bower and the grand palace had fallen into ruin, the sites had been razed, and the building stones used to construct the foundations of the Grand Bridge. But the bower and the palace were still there, in Kate’s and Beryl’s imaginations—and so much clearer now, after Kate had read one of the books she’d bought in the bookstore,
The Early History of Woodstock Manor and its Environs.

According to the book, the Norman kings of England had first hunted in the forests of Oxfordshire some nine hundred years ago. It was probably Henry I, at the beginning of the twelfth century, who enclosed a park near the village of Woodstock, for he had kept a menagerie there: a lion, leopards, lynx, and camels, and even a porcupine—all exotic creatures never before seen in England. Perhaps, Kate thought with a little smile, the stone wall around the grounds had been built to keep the porcupine from wandering off.

Henry’s park, of course, was nothing at all like the open ornamental landscape that now existed. Then, there had been no lake, only the pretty little River Glyme winding through a marshy valley, its banks rising steeply on either side. The woodlands had provided venison for the royal table, sport for the royal household, and timber for royal buildings, while the river was dammed to create small fishponds, where pike, eel, and bream were impounded. No one could take fish or game or fell trees except by royal permission.

The second Henry came to the throne in 1154. At nineteen, he had married Eleanor of Aquitaine, a marriage between powerful political allies. Exceptionally beautiful, ambitious, and willful, Eleanor was the richest woman in the known world, the possessor of almost half the territory that is now France, and eleven years Henry’s senior. Her age hardly mattered at the time of their marriage, and in the course of the next thirteen years, Eleanor bore her husband five sons and three daughters.

But Henry took a number of mistresses, the most famous of whom was Rosamund de Clifford. She was very young, perhaps only fifteen. Henry had already begun to expand his father’s hunting lodge at Woodstock into a royal palace, and when he brought Rosamund there, he built her a house of her own: Rosamund’s Bower, it was called, a
bower
being a rural retreat. Historians disagreed about the truth of this story, but that hardly mattered to Beryl Bardwell, who was quite happy when historical ambiguity gave Kate’s imagination a freer rein.