Greygallows (8 page)

'Even if this were true,' I said, 'it would have nothing to do with Edward—with the present
Baron. He is a kind, sensitive—'

'You have not heard of his escapades in his youth? Of the village girls, the missing children...'

I started to my feet.

'You go too far!'

With one bound Fernando reached my side. His face close to mine, he hissed at me.

'The first Baron Clare swore a pact with the devil! A pact sealed in blood, repeated by each baron as he comes of age! And the price is—the life of his bride! Ask if you doubt me! Ask anyone—ask your aunt!—about the curse of the Clares! Do you think I will see you sacrificed?' He caught me in his arms. 'Tomorrow night, Lucy, I will come. You must steal out of the house and meet me; at midnight I will be here, in the street, with a carriage. I will wait for you.'

I shook my head, trying feebly to escape, but his clasp tightened.

'I will do anything to prevent this marriage,' he muttered. 'Anything! If you don't come, Lucy, I will be here all the same; you will find me on the doorstep when you come out next day. Perhaps the sight of me dead will prevent what I, living, could not accomplish.'

I started to cry out. He covered my lips, not with his hand, but with his mouth.

When he left I had not said Yes—but I had not said No, either. I was still sitting in the parlor with my neglected embroidery on my lap when my aunt returned. She stood before the fire warming her back and regarding me steadily.

'I understand that young what's-his-name—the music fellow—was here.'

'He came for his music,' I said listlessly.

'Indeed? Well, that is the end of him. Clare comes for dinner today. You had best go up and tidy yourself. And put some paint on your face, you look like a ghost.'

I started nervously and pricked myself with my needle. Staring at the small crimson drop that formed on my thumb, I said,

'Aunt, what is the curse of the Clares?'

My aunt exclaimed violently.

'So that is it! I wondered what ailed you. You have been listening to—who told you?'

'Then it is true?'

'True, pagh!' My aunt snorted vulgarly. 'Surely you are not ninny enough to believe such nonsense.'

'But there are stories,' I persisted. I felt as if my last hope had failed. I wanted to believe that Fernando had made up the whole thing.

'There are always stories about old families,' my aunt replied irritably. 'Family curses, family ghosts—you may be sure the Clares have their share of such legends.'

'I know so little about him. What is he, Aunt? Who is he?'

My aunt sat down in the chair across from me. She watched me uneasily.

'You want me to marry him,' I went on. 'I will have to go with him, to that remote place in the north. All my life I must be with him. Surely it is not too much to ask—what sort of man is he? You are my only relative, Aunt, I have no one else. Help me.'

It was a gray, lowering day; the air was heavy with fog and the threat of snow. In the gloomy room, my aunt's face looked less florid than usual.

Her eyes, meeting mine, were veiled and apprehensive.

Then a log fell in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. My aunt twitched and turned her head away.

'I am trying to help you. This is a splendid marriage, you foolish girl; the best you could hope for. He is a good enough man; all young men sow a few wild oats and are the better for it. Now'—she rose to her feet—'let's hear no more of these fancies. You are a lucky girl, and you should appreciate your good fortune.'

'I have not said I will marry him.'

'But you will. Good heavens, girl, you will be Lady Clare!'

'And what if I will not?'

Rotating slowly before the fire, my aunt did not reply at once. I expected an outburst, but her reply was, in its way, even more terrifying.

'Then you must consider the alternatives,' she said in a slow, soft voice. 'Do you fancy any of your other suitors? Sir Richard is a trifle elderly, Mr. Swann has that rather conspicuous wen, but if you prefer ... No, I thought you did not. Will you be a spinster, then? We could go on, you and I, as we are—if you can persuade Mr. Beam to be more generous with your allowance. I may tell you, he is anxious to get you off his hands; he will not be forthcoming with money if you flagrantly disobey his advice. I, of course, have not enough of my own to keep you. I daresay we could persuade Mr. Beam to let us set up housekeeping together—nothing on this scale, of course, and not in London, it is too expensive. A cottage in the country. But I think you would not find the life
much to your taste.'

I had no doubt she was right. She would personally see to it that I did not enjoy that life.

I seized on the one sentence in her speech that seemed to offer any hope.

'How can I ignore Mr. Beam's advice when he has never given me any? He has never said I should marry Clare.'

'Stupid girl! Why should he say so when it is inconceivable to him that you should not? He assumes you feel as any normal girl would feel about such a splendid offer.'

'But...' One by one the doors were closing; there was no way out for me but along the narrow corridor they were forcing me into. 'Why should you care, Aunt? Oh, I know it is what the world calls an excellent match, a credit to the family; but you don't care for that, or for me ...'

My voice caught in my throat as I saw the sudden spark of emotion in her narrowed eyes, the tightening of her fat mouth; and I remembered some of the things I had overheard other, more experienced girls whisper.

'He has offered you money,' I said. 'It is often done, I have heard ... How much, Aunt? How much did you take to sell me? Not a great deal, I think; you don't care much for me, do you? You hate me. I don't know why ...'

She slapped me across the face. Her pudgy hand was harder than it looked. Silent with shock rather than with pain I nursed my stinging lip and stared into the black eyes that were so close to me as she bent over me.

'You look so much like her,' she said softly. 'My sweet little sister, with her helpless ways. I caught
the man of title—and she the man I wanted. Now you whimper and whine just as she did when a man too good for her did her the honor of asking for her hand ... I could have turned you over to Carter; he offered more. You'll do as you're told, my fine miss, and be silent. I've had enough of your vapors and your pudding face; I want you out of my life and my house.'

She stormed across the room, her stiff skirts slapping together like hard hands. At the door she turned.

'We are discussing the marriage contract tomorrow,' she said, in a soft, malevolent voice. 'I want no whining from you then. If you think I have been harsh, try your complaints on Beam, and see what he says to you!'

The sun was shining next day as we drove to Mr. Beam's office, but it would have taken more than a few watery rays of sunlight to improve my spirits. I felt wretchedly ill, in fact; my head ached dully and my stomach was queasy. I knew better than to complain to my aunt, and indeed I was sure my feeling of ill health was solely a result of troubled spirits. In one way I was less depressed than I had been; it was beginning to seem as if marriage to Clare were the lesser of several evils. If only I had not heard those frightful stories! I might have disregarded Fernando's wild tales, but Margaret's hints and even my aunt's vagueness seemed to confirm them.

It was hard for me to think, with my head aching so; but I had determined not to give in without one last effort. I would not take my aunt's word for
anything; I would appeal to Mr. Beam myself. He was gruff and formidable, but he had not seemed actively unkind. Perhaps he would listen to me.

When we reached the office I found my plan frustrated by the simplest of facts. Not once did I have the opportunity of speaking to Mr. Beam alone, or even asking if I might do so. It had never entered his head that I should have anything to do with the discussion of the marriage settlement; bad enough that my aunt should insist on being present. He had made other arrangements for me.

'His lordship will be here in a quarter of an hour,' he said, consulting his big gold watch. 'Be off with you, Jonathan, and have Miss Cartwright back at five. And—my best regards, of course, to your mother.'

It seemed that I was to take tea with Mr. Beam's old sweetheart. I had no particular objection to the plan, save for the fact that I had never been consulted about it; I assumed it was a means of getting me out of the way while my future was being decided.

'Mr. Beam,' I said, in desperation.

'Yes, my dear?' He did not even look at me; his eyes were fixed on the hands of his watch, as if he begrudged every lost second.

I glanced around the room and felt my small courage seep away. There were so many people watching. All the clerks—even those hypocrites who pretended to be writing had an ear cocked—my aunt, her eyes narrowed watchfully, and Jonathan, straight as a ramrod and scowling with open disapproval of me and all my affairs.

Mr. Beam did not give me an opportunity to gather my wits.

'Off with you,' he repeated. 'Come, Jonathan, why are you standing there?'

'The proprieties,' my aunt said suddenly. 'My niece is betrothed—'

'Nonsense,' said Mr. Beam robustly. 'It is only the ride to and from the house, with your own coachman. Of course, madam, if you think you should accompany them...'

The hopeful gleam in his eye did not escape my aunt; she thought, as I did, that he had arranged the scheme in the hope that she would be forced to chaperone me.

'Not at all,' she said, with seeming meekness, and a gleam as wicked as Mr. Beam's. 'Whatever you say, my good sir.'

Jonathan handed me into the coach in silence. After he had given the coachman directions, he sat down across from me, and it struck me that he was looking rather ill. I noted the fact, but was unmoved by it. I only thought how ugly he looked, with shadows under his deep-set eyes and his nose standing out sharply in the new thinness of his face. The drive was a short one and we passed the first part of it in silence; apparently he was no more inclined toward idle conversation than I.

The streets were in dreadful condition, with the sun melting the accumulated snow and frozen mud; the curses of pedestrians splashed by our wheels followed us like a chorus. The crossing sweepers were busy with their brooms; I saw one ragged urchin spring aside just in time as the coachman urged the horses forward. His bare black feet slipped in the mud and he went sprawling. At the sight of his mud-smeared face, I burst out laughing.

'It is too bad of James,' I said. 'I think he does it on purpose.'

'No doubt Lady Russell encourages the sport,' Jonathan said, 'and gives James a tip if he succeeds in crippling one of them.'

His critical tone and words were not meant only for my aunt; his steady eyes reproached me as well, and an obscure sense of shame made me all the more ready to resent his attitude.

'Your words are not tactful, sir, in view of my infirmity.'

Jonathan looked blank.

'My limp,' I said, between set teeth.

'Oh, that. I observe it troubles you only when you wish it to.'

'If I were poor, and a servant,' I said, 'they would call me "Limping Lucy," and none of the menservants would walk out with me, not even the stableboys.'

I had expressed this sentiment at Miss Plum's, to great effect; everyone rushed to pet me and deny my words.

Jonathan turned to look at me.

'That is quite probable,' he said coolly, after an appraisal that was insulting in itself. 'Your ethereal, delicate style of beauty flourishes only in sunshine; without care and affection, which you assuredly would not receive as a servant in today's England, you would become sickly and whining, riddled with self-pity and—'

An exclamation of anger burst from me. Jonathan subsided. I watched him out of the corner of my eyes. He was smiling, but his eyes were sad.