Henrietta (26 page)

She pushed open the churchyard gate and wandered around the moss-covered gravestones but it was a depressing place, rank with weeds and uncut grass and tall nettles.

The heavy door of the church was stiff with disuse but eventually gave as she wrenched the handle. Inside all was cool and dim, the fight filtering through the trees outside and the stained glass windows giving her a weird feeling of being in some subterraneous dwelling at the bottom of the sea. Henrietta wandered idly up the aisle, reflecting that there was hardly anything of interest to see. Perhaps she would climb the tower, admire the view, then walk slowly back to the hotel. The door to the tower stood at one side of the altar and proved as difficult to open as the church door. A long flight of wood steps led upward and creaked alarmingly under her tread.

After what seemed to be an unconscionable amount of climbing, she emerged into the bell chamber and stared up at the black mouths of the bells. Motes of dust disturbed by her feet danced around the thin rays of fight in the bell chamber. A tottering, crumbling ladder in the corner must lead to the roof of the tower.

But Henrietta was overcome by the mountaineer’s urge to go onwards and upwards and firmly set her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. It ended at a trapdoor. She slid the heavy bolts across and put her shoulder to it. It gave and swung back with an almighty crash and she pulled herself up onto the roof, standing for a few moments to brush the dust from her clothes. A brisk wind had sprung up and tugged at the brim of her bonnet as she walked round the top of the tower admiring the view.

The colors of autumn were emblazoned across the countryside as far as the eye could see, scarlet and yellow edging patchwork fields of green, umber and gold.

Suddenly the ground beneath her gave an ominous cracking sound and she clung to the stone battlements of the tower and looked down at her feet For the first time, she realized with a pang of fright that the wooden floor of the tower was rotting and split Well, she would take one more look around and then cautiously make her descent.

In the distance, on a road leading into the town, she could make out what appeared to be a grand travelling carriage moving at great speed. Then in the immediate foreground, she spied a figure in black, hurrying along the road. As Henrietta continued to watch, the black dot became larger until, as it halted for a moment outside the churchyard, she saw that it was a priest. Good! She would ask the good father about the history of the church.

Below her, one of the bells moved gently sending out a high thin silver note like a warning. The priest must have brushed against one of the sallies, hanging in the room at the foot of the tower.

Then she heard a far away creaking. He must be climbing up the tower. She would wait for him. That was the most sensible thing to do. She would ask for his help in the descent Henrietta turned back idly to look out over the countryside. The travelling carriage was now leaving the town and taking the road to the church. She turned as the cowled head of the priest appeared above the trapdoor.

“I am glad you are come, Father,” she said as the priest hauled his heavy bulk onto the roof. “I had become fearful of the prospect of getting down again. This tower is in bad repair and not very safe.”

“I wouldn’t let that worry you, my child,” said the priest And then throwing back his cowl, “You are not going anywhere.”

“Henry!”

“Yes, Henry,” he sneered, his plump features distorted with hate. The sun flickered wickedly on the stiletto he held in his hand. “You are about to meet your Maker, dear sister. Any last words? Scream away. No one will hear you here.”

“But why?” stammered Henrietta. “Why? You are my brother. You always said that blood is thicker than water.”

“True,” he remarked with a fat shrug. “And I’m going to spill some of yours. Why? ’Cause I hate you, Henrietta.

“Always have. You killed our mother. She died giving birth to you. She would have loved me… cared for me. Father didn’t. Called me a pompous little windbag. Said I was greedy, said I wasn’t a man. Talked of nothing else on his deathbed but his darling baby, his Henrietta. You’ve always spoiled everything for me. You…
you
got Mrs. Tankerton’s money after I had slaved and run after her and flattered the horrible old frump.

“
You
dance around London society, fêted on all sides and I… I am left to remain a country vicar, nothing more.”

Henrietta backed away from him round the roof of the tower, her eyes wide with horror. Henry’s face was a mask of rage and hate. She had no hope. She stood still.

“Very well, Henry. Do your worst!” said Henrietta, her back to the parapet.

Henry lurched eagerly forward. There was a tremendous cracking sound as the floor of the tower split right open beneath his feet. His pudgy white hands clawed desperately at the edge of the rotten wood. “Help me!” he screamed. Henrietta stood paralysed with fear. For the rest of her life she would remember those two hands, clutching and scrabbling like two white rats until they disappeared from view.

Henry Sandford’s heavy body plunged into the bell chamber, crashing against the bells on his way down and sending their frightening clamor sounding over the quiet fields.

Henrietta sank down to her knees and inched her way to the split in the floor and looked down. Henry Sandford lay on the floor of the bell chamber, his head at an awkward angle, his black habit stretched out on either side of him over the sun splashed floor. There was the sound of horses hooves, then of shouting voices, then steps on the stairs.

“Henrietta!” It was Lord Reckford’s voice from the bell chamber below. She would have run forward but his voice stopped her. “I daren’t risk mounting the tower or my added weight might make the floor give way altogether. Now I want you to edge forward to the trapdoor very, very slowly.”

Feeling as if she were in a long black tunnel and crawling towards light and safety again, Henrietta moved slowly forward on her hands and knees, edging carefully round the hole. The roof creaked and groaned. The tower was now being buffeted by a strong wind and seemed to sway with every gust as the bells below sent out their high clear murmur of warning as they moved gently on their frayed and dusty ropes. Resisting the temptation to throw herself headlong through the trapdoor, Henrietta backed cautiously down the stairs.

Lord Reckford wrapped his arms round her and held her as if he would never let her go. He called her his darling, his beloved. He bent his head and kissed her and they clung together as if to barricade themselves from the wicked world.

Then he put her gently away from him and called to his footman.

“Maxwell will take you back to your hotel,” he said quietly. “Leave me to arrange things here.”

She looked at him with a question in her eyes, but he merely bowed formally and turned away.

After she had gone, Lord Reckford paused at the foot of the stairs. The white rose Henrietta had been wearing in her hair lay in the dust. He bent slowly and picked it up and put it in his waistcoat.

Crowds stood on the pavement outside the hotel to watch Henrietta being escorted in. Lord Reckford’s savage berating of the manager in which he had stated that Henry Sandford was a dangerous lunatic had spread like wildfire round the town.

Miss Scattersworth was in their suite, dressed and waiting for Henrietta. “Come in, my dear and go straight to bed. So Henry’s dead, is he? How utterly marvellous!”

Henrietta feebly opened her mouth to protest, to say that Henry was her brother, and then it all seemed so idiotic that she allowed Miss Scattersworth and the maid to undress her and give her a glass of mulled wine with a liberal dose of laudanum. As she drifted off to sleep, the last thing she remembered was Lord Reckford’s passionate words and the last worry she had was as to why he had seemed so cold and formal.

Henrietta slept heavily until the next morning. When she was dressed and at breakfast, the burgermaster arrived to tell her in hushed tones that Lord Reckford had arranged all the legal formalities and the funeral. He had expressed a wish that Miss Sandford should leave this town so full of unhappy memories and proceed to Luben.

“Luben!” exclaimed Henrietta in surprise. “What on earth does he mean? No doubt his lordship will explain the matter when he calls.”

“But his lordship has already left,” said the burgermaster, “He said to present his compliments and something about your love waiting for you at Luben.”

How odd, mused Henrietta, after he had left. “What do you think he meant, Mattie?”

“Why he meant himself,” said Miss Scattersworth cheerfully. “After what happened in the tower between you, he obviously means himself. He does not wish to declare himself in this atmosphere of scandal and murder.”

Henrietta hesitated. “He is so considerate, Mattie. It is not like Lord Reckford to expect me to travel after such an experience.”

“Oh, pooh!” said Miss Scattersworth with her eyes shining. “Love is inexplicable, my dear. Let us get packed directly.”

Lord Reckford lounged in the corner of his carriage and stared out unseeingly at the passing countryside. He only hoped that fellow Evans realized what a treasure he had in Henrietta. God, he felt like turning round and going to Luben and kicking him into his beloved cesspool. Goodbye, Henrietta, he thought I shall take care I do not see you again.

H
ENRIETTA PIROUETTED IN FRONT
of the long pier glass in the bedroom of her house in Brook Street. Her dress of heavy shot taffeta rustled round her ankles, her gold hair rioted over her head
à la Medusa
and a heavy necklace of opals shone at her throat.

This, she decided, was to be her last ball. Then she would remove to the country, wear her caps again and take up Good Works.

Miss Scattersworth came bounding into the room and Henrietta swung round, dropping her fan. Miss Scattersworth’s hair was frizzed fashionably at the front and had returned to its natural grey. But she had damped her petticoats and her wet skirts mercilessly outlined all the charms of her rather pitifully thin form.

“Back in London again,” cried Miss Scattersworth twirling round the room. “Oh, what bliss. Back to the sophisticated surroundings in which we belong. Oh, that dreadful Luben. Nothing ever happened. I used to dream that the little hill behind the hotel was in fact a volcano and that one day it would erupt and pour molten lava down towards the town and some Count would dash to my rescue. He would throw me on his prancing steed and….”

“You should have mental saddle sores,” said Henrietta acidly, “when you consider all the imaginary steeds you have been thrown upon. In any case, a real admirer is calling this evening. I secured an invitation to the D’Arcy’s ball for Mr. Symes.”

“Is he still at Nethercote?”

“No. I gather that Lord Reckford has become his patron and that Mr. Symes is now studying medieval languages at Oxford University. So Mattie… in view of Mr. Symes staid turn of mind, I think perhaps your gown is a little… fast.”

Miss Scattersworth fervently agreed. “I am indeed looking dangerously seductive and I would not wish Mr. Symes to see how much I inflame other men’s passions.”

Henrietta turned away to hide a smile as Miss Scattersworth fled from the room. Had it not been for Mattie’s nonsense, she reflected, she could never had survived the long disappointing journey from Luben. Lord Reckford had never been near the place. Mr. Evans was still down the drains and Alice was being pursued by an elderly gentleman with gout.

She had asked Lady Belding if she could convey any messages to Lord Belding in London to which Lady Belding gave a definite “No.” Lord Belding had cared naught for poor Alice, she had declared wrathfully. Lord Belding had called his daughter a highly insulting name which she would not soil her lips repeating. There had been nothing to do but for Henrietta to leave for England with her cheeks burning with shame. Lord Reckford must have sent her off on a wild goose chase to Luben to be rid of her company.

Pulling on her long white gloves and picking up her shawl she went downstairs to meet Mr. Symes and her escort for the evening, a Scottish gentleman, Charles Lamont, who had just arrived in town.

Charles Lamont was remarkably like Mr. Evans in appearance but fortunately his character was different. He was a jolly young man, only a year older than Henrietta, who was hell bent on enjoying all that London had to offer.

Miss Scattersworth shortly followed, dressed in an attractive crimson velvet gown. “I see Mr. Symes has not yet arrived,” she said, pausing on the threshold of the drawingroom.

“Look again,” teased Henrietta. “He is very much here.”

Miss Scattersworth blinked. Lord Reckford’s patronage had extended to franking Mr. Symes’ tailor’s bills. The ex-curate was dressed in a well-cut evening coat and breeches. His snowy cravat was perfection and his hair had been cut in a Brutus crop. He stood proudly while Miss Scattersworth shrieked her delight and ran round him in little circles.

“I declare my gown is too modest to go with such magnificence if you will excuse me, I will go and change,” said Miss Scattersworth.

Henrietta read visions of transparent petticoats and clinging gowns in the spinster’s eyes and ushered her firmly to the door. “No, Mattie. Very definitely no. You look very well as you are.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Mr. Lamont, who had also suffered from Miss Scattersworth’s vagaries of dress. “Splendid. Fine as fivepence.”

While their carriage waited in line outside the D’Arcy mansion, Mr. Lamont asked Henrietta if she still meant to retire to the country. She answered the affirmative in a small voice and he shook his head at her.

“I have had enough of the country,” he said. “How can you leave all this?” He waved his hand at the mansion. They were nearly at the door and the flambeaux blazing from their brackets on the walls lit up the silks and satins, jewels and feathers. They could hear the faint strains of music. A few thin wreaths of fog were beginning to blur the lights, giving the whole scene the unreal glamor of a fairytale.