Mariana (5 page)

'Not Freud.' Tom shook his head. 'Jung. And I really haven't the foggiest idea. I didn't study psychology. Which reminds me'—he sat forward suddenly—'Rod Denton is giving a dinner party next Saturday at his house in London.'

'How can my comet dream possibly remind you of Rod Demon's dinner party?'

'Rod
did
study psychology at college,' Tom explained. 'Among other things.’ Roderick Denton had
come
down from Oxford at the same time as my brother, but had been destined for rather more worldly pursuits. He had married the daughter of an earl, inherited a house in Belgravia, and was doing quite well for himself in the financial world.

'Anyhow,' Tom continued, 'his parties are usually rather fun. I thought you might care to come with me. Might do you good, getting out for a day.'

'You make it sound
as
though I've been cooped up here for weeks."

'I only thought'—he shot me a dark, sideways glance— 'that you could use a break from all this work.'

'Well, I could, actually,' I conceded, draining my teacup with a smile. 'Thanks. Next Saturday, you said? What time?'

'Cocktails at six-thirty. You remember where he lives?'

I nodded. 'I'll meet you there, then, if you like. I'm sure my friend Cheryl would be happy to put me up for the night. I can park the car at her place, up in Islington, and take the tube down to Rod's. Okay with you?'

'Fine.'

'Right. Are you ready for the rest of my guided tour?'

'Are you sure you feel up to it?'

'Of course. Besides,' I said, putting an affectionate arm
around my brother's shoulders, 'I want you to take a look at my drawing board.'

He frowned. 'I've already seen your drawing board.'

'A really
close
look, if you know what I mean.'

Tom caught my meaning and sighed heavily. 'Don't bat your eyes at me, love, I know entrapment when I see it." He led the way back up the stairs to the first floor, and I heard a shockingly irreligious oath as his dark head connected a second time with the low ceiling.

'And a good thing it is for you,' he said, turning to me with a broad grin, 'that your neighbors weren't around to hear
that'

*-*-*-*

Later that afternoon, I found myself once again on the narrow paved road leading into the village, walking with my face turned toward the wind and reveling in the cool, fragrant country air that blew the packing-box dust from my lungs.

Tom had been gone for nearly an hour. The remainder of his visit had passed smoothly—I had no more hallucinations, and to my great relief, every room we entered had appeared exactly as I had left it. I decided that my brother must have been right, after all. Tom, I reasoned, had an irritating habit of always being right. Perhaps I had been pushing myself too hard, trying to do too much all at once.

I had planned, after he left, to clear away the remains of the morning's impromptu tea party, do the washing up, and try to tighten the leaking tap in the bath, but instead I decided to take Tom's advice and get away from the house for a while.

My original thought had been to drop in at the Red Lion for a light meal and a friendly chat with Vivien, but the sun was shining and the road was beckoning, and the more I walked, the more I felt like walking.

I passed by the Red Lion, and the offices of Ridley and Stewart, Estate Agents, and the huddled cluster of shops. A
short distance farther on, a massive stone portal rose on my right, its iron gate flung invitingly wide. A narrow dirt path, tidily edged and shaded by a tightly woven canopy of closely planted trees, curved away into the cool shadows. This, I correctly assumed, must be the entrance to the famed manor house.

Resisting the temptation to trespass, I stuck to the cobbled walk of the High Street. Time enough to see the manor another day, I told myself. Besides, the man who owned the Hall was away, Vivien had said. In France. Better to wait until he returned, and have a proper inside tour. I walked on to the quaint wooden covered gate that I'd admired earlier and, pushing open the swinging half door, entered the silent churchyard.

There are few places in England so peaceful or oddly beautiful as a country churchyard, where the ivy grows thickly in the shadowy corners and trails across the weathered stones, their carved faces almost unreadable after countless years of exposure to the sun and rain. Many of the stones here were tilted at a precarious angle, leaning to one side like drunken sentries. Some of them had toppled from their post completely and had been propped with care against the outside wall of the church.

The church itself was small and plain, a squat building of sun-bleached stone topped by a square, crenellated tower. A faded, hand-lettered placard by the door proclaimed it to be the Church of St. John, with services on Sundays and Wednesday evenings. One push against the thick oak door and it swung obligingly inward on its heavy iron hinges, showing me an equally plain interior that nonetheless gave the impression of soaring space. The late-afternoon sunlight streamed in through narrow stained-glass windows and bathed the bare stone walls in a warm, glowing light.

My footsteps sounded uncommonly loud, a modern intrusion into this peaceful, holy place, as I walked slowly into
the center of the church, reading the distinguished names on the square stone markers beneath my feet: Staynor, Alleyn, Hatch, de Mornay ...

A violent explosion of sound brought my head up and around with a start, my heart leaping wildly against my rib cage. It was only a pigeon, trapped for a moment behind the rood screen, thrashing out in panic before it could work its way clear and beat a hasty exit through the half-open door.

My heart slowly returned to normal, leaving me feeling slightly dizzy, with a dull ringing in my ears, as though I were about to faint. The sunlit interior of the little church felt suddenly as stale and airless as a tomb, and I stumbled back outside, gulping air in deep, unsteady breaths.

In my confusion, I turned my back to the High Street and found myself in a shaded dirt lane, flanked by large, overhanging beech trees that rustled gently in the shifting breeze. My face was damp with perspiration, and a steady pounding sound rose above the ringing in my ears as I paused to rest, supporting myself with an outstretched hand upon one gnarled tree trunk. The pounding gradually became louder, more rhythmic, until it was recognizable as the sound of a horse's hooves striking the tightly packed soil. Looking up, I saw a solitary horse and rider approaching. A gray horse, carrying a tall man in dark clothing.

I blinked, my vision blurring, and the horse changed color, no longer gray now but chestnut, with a darkly flowing mane and tail. The man astride the horse changed, too, subtly, like clay poured from one mold into another, his outline indistinct in the mottled shadows of the lane. They drew nearer still, and still I neither moved nor spoke, standing rooted to my spot and staring like the village idiot.

Closer and closer the specter came, until the horse was pulled to a halt in front of me. I looked up. The sun was positioned directly behind the rider. Filtering through the trees, it created a blinding halo around the man's dark head, and I sensed, rather than saw, his smile.
'Hello,' he said. 'You must be my new neighbor. I'm Geoffrey de Mornay.'

I momentarily forgot the rules of proper etiquette. I raised my hand, smiled up at him, and fainted dead away at his horse's feet.

Five

It was not, I decided, as I sat on Geoffrey de Mornay's chesterfield with my head between my knees, the most auspicious of meetings. Whatever impression I had hoped to make on my illustrious neighbor, this most certainly was not it.

'I've brought you some water,' he said, reentering the room. 'No, don't sit up just yet. How are you feeling?'

'Fine.' My voice, of necessity, was muffled.

He pressed the glass of water into my hand, and I lifted my head to take a sip, the action providing me with my first proper look at my host.

Even without—or perhaps in spite of—his cultured voice, well-cut clothes, and expensive surroundings, Geoffrey de Mornay would have been classified by my former colleague Bridget as 'prime.' Bridget would have noticed his tall, athletic frame and the brilliant flash of his smile. I noticed the classic lines of his bone structure and the quiet depth
of
his hazel eyes, set beneath level dark brows that matched exactly the seal-brown shade of his hair.

'Thank you,' I said, giving him the brightest smile I could muster. I wasn't sure how long I had been out, but it must have been only a matter of minutes, as the sun was still pouring in through the large bay window opposite me. [ had a dim recollection of being lifted and carried a short distance, and then nothing more until a few moments ago, when I had opened my eyes, cried to stand, and been unceremoniously pushed back down into my current undignified position.

'You're welcome.' He took the chair across from me, watching my face warily as if he expected me to leap suddenly to my feet. 'I'm sorry if we frightened you. Brutus is rather a big horse, and I often forget ...'

'It wasn't your fault, honestly. I've been burning the candle at both ends the past few days, and it just caught up with me, that's all.'

'You're sure you're not ill?'

'Positive.' My tone was firm, and after studying my face for a moment, he smiled.

'Then perhaps we could try those introductions a second time,' he suggested, leaning forward in his seat and extending his hand. 'Geoffrey de Mornay, at your service.'

'Julia Beckett.' I returned the handshake. Raising myself cautiously to a sitting position, I tried to salvage the situation by making conversation. 'De Mornay ... I've just been looking at some of your ancestors in the church, then. Yours must be one of the oldest families here.'

'That depends on your interpretation,' he replied with a shrug. "There were de Mornays at Crofton Hall in the reign of the first Elizabeth, but they sold off a century or so later. My father waited years for the Hall to come up for sale, and when it finally did, he bought it back. He was a great lover of family history.'

I looked around in appreciation, noting how the long, sunlit room with its ornate plaster ceiling and elegantly papered walls exuded all the charm and gentility of a bygone era. 'It's wonderful to preserve these old houses,' I said.

'And expensive,' he said, tempering my romance with realism. 'Not to mention impractical. Rather a lot of room, for one person.'
'Is that why you opened the house up for tours?’

'No.' He smiled again, amused. 'No, I'm not that civic-minded, I'm afraid. I applied for a government grant a few years back, to do some renovations, and one of the conditions of my being given the money was that I open up the place to the public'

'Nice for the public,' I pointed out. 'Several people have told me that it's well worth the price of admission.'

'It is rather a lovely house. I'd give you a tour right now, for free, but you hardly look up to it.'

I
was
feeling rather weak in the knees, but I preferred not to speculate upon the reason why. I smiled. 'Another time, perhaps.'

'Certainly. Some time next weekend, maybe, when I'm a little more organized myself. I've just come back from holiday.'

'I know. France, wasn't it?'

Geoffrey de Mornay smiled, a slow, spreading smile that was unconsciously seductive, and mildly accusatory. 'You've been to the Red Lion,' he said. 'Yes, I keep a boat in the harbor at Antibes, in the south of France. I like to get down to take her out once or twice a year. Nice to get out of the rain every now and then.'

'And who takes care of the Hall for you, when you're not here?'

'I've got a terribly efficient staff to manage things for me.' He leaned back in his chair, shifting the position of his broad shoulders. 'Two tour guides, a housekeeper, a part-time cleaner, a gardener—depending on the season—and a man to take care of the horses. It's quite an operation, really.'

'Of course!' I nodded in sudden comprehension. 'That explains it.'

'Explains what?'

'Sorry. I've just solved a mystery, that's all. I've been seeing a man riding in your fields, a dark man on a gray horse. It must have been your groom.'

'Not if it was a gray horse. I only have chestnuts and
bays in my stables.' He ran his thumb idly down the arm of his chair, smoothing the fabric, and his voice, when he spoke, was casual. 'You're sure it was a gray?'

'Horses may not be my forte,' I told him, 'but I do know my colors.'

He grinned. 'I forgot. You're an artist, aren't you? Well, I wouldn't worry about it. I'm not so medieval about my property rights. If someone wants to use my bridle path, they're welcome to it. What did he look like?'

I tried to recall, exactly. 'I really didn't get a good look at him, he was too far away. He was fairly tall, I think— although it's hard to tell on horseback, isn't it? He wore dark clothing, and I rather fancy his hair was long.'

'Sounds like one of the chaps from the hostel. There's a youth hostel about three miles west
of
here,' he explained. 'Quite a large one. Lots of tourists, passing through. They hire horses out, sometimes.'

'I see.' It certainly sounded sensible to me. I finished drinking my glass of water, and Geoffrey de Mornay stirred in his chair.

'Would you like another drink?' he offered. 'Something more substantial?'

'Oh, no. I'm fine, honestly.' I set my glass down on the end table beside me and rose awkwardly to my feet, running a hand through my untidy hair. 'You've been very kind, but I really ought to go. I've taken up enough of your time.'

'Not nearly. But I never argue with my neighbors.' He stood up as well, dwarfing me, and gallantly inclined his head. 'Come on, I'll show you out.'

I followed him through a narrow, dark passage to the side door, turning on the threshold to thank him once again.

'My pleasure,' he assured me, propping one shoulder against the doorjamb and folding his arms across his chest. 'Rather a nice change from my normal daily routine. I don't often have comely young maidens throwing themselves at my feet.'

'Yes, well,' I said, coloring, 'that won't happen again.'
He smiled down at me, and after a final handshake I made my departure. I had almost reached the end of the neatly edged walk when he spoke.

'What a pity,' he said, but I don't think I was meant to hear it.

*-*-*-*

'You want to watch out, my love,' my brother said sagely when I told him the story of my meeting with Geoffrey de Mornay. 'The lord of the manor has certain historical privileges, you know. Pick of the village virgins, and all that.’

'Don't talk rot,' was my response.

It was a week later, Saturday evening, and we were sitting in the unmistakably posh surroundings of Roderick Denton's house in London. The dinner party had been a great success, as all Rod's social ventures inevitably were, and not for the first time I had to admit that my brother's advice had been spot on.

The evening had provided me with a welcome break from the seemingly unending cycle of unpacking and deco rating, and I felt nearly human again. On top of which, I finally had an excuse to wear dressy clothes, in place of the jeans and the floppy shirts I'd been living in for the past fortnight. It gave me a deliriously sophisticated, grown-up feeling. If only I hadn't been so dreadfully bored.

Two weeks out of London, I thought, and already the talk flowing around this room seemed unconnected to me, and narcissistically shallow. Tom caught me yawning and nudged me playfully.

'I told you to go easy on the wine,' he reminded me,

'Sorry.' I yawned again. 'I think I've reached my limit, Tom. I have to go.'

'Okay. I'll see you to the door,'

'Julia, my dear." Roderick Denton descended upon me with outstretched arms, blocking my escape route. 'I'm so glad you came.'

I hugged him back. ‘Thanks for the invitation. I've had a wonderful time. And be sure to thank Helen for me.'

'You're not leaving, already?'

'I'm afraid so. I have a friend waiting up for me.'

'Oh?' He raised a gossip's eyebrow. 'Spending the night n town, are you?'

'Yes, with my friend Cheryl. You remember Cheryl, don't you, Rod? She works at Whitehall.'

He frowned, but only for a moment. 'Red hair?' he checked. 'Quite intelligent? Lives in Camden Town?'

'Islington, now,' I corrected him. 'She's had a raise in

pay-Rod ought to appreciate that, I reasoned, being a social mountaineer himself. It was rather underhanded of me to use Cheryl as an excuse for leaving the party. She was not, in actual fact, waiting up for me. She wasn't even in Lon-ion. Her boyfriend was treating her to a weekend in the Lake District, and she'd cheerfully given me the loan of her Bat for the evening, along with her pet cat and the use of her parking space.

'If you wait a few minutes, I can find someone to give
you
a lift,' Rod offered, ever the considerate host.

'No, thanks.' I shook my head. 'It's just as quick to take the tube. And you'—I poked Tom in the arm—'should be leaving, too. You'll sleep through your sermon tomorrow.' 'Along with the rest of the congregation,' Rod said, and

Tom smiled at me, indulgently. 'Laugh it up,' he invited. 'I'm not letting you take the tube in this state, you know. Ill find you a cab.'

'I don't want a cab,' I protested. 'I want to take the tube. Or walk. I fancy a bit of fresh air.'

But Tom was resolute. He saw me down to the street, hailed a cab, and bundled me into it, giving the driver directions to Cheryl's flat. As soon as the cab had turned the first corner, I leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'I've changed my mind,' I told him. 'Embankment tube station, please.'

I should have kept the cab, after all. The entrance to the tube station was clogged with young people, and the press of bodies steeped in stale beer and Saturday-night sweat made me feel distinctly claustrophobic. I had intended to take the northern line straight up to Islington, but suddenly the garishly lit tunnels of the underground held little appeal. There really was no hurry, I told myself. I could always stroll a little way along the river, and pick up the circle line at a station farther on. With a final deciding glance at the boisterous crowd, I turned my steps toward the softer streetlamps of the embankment and the myriad twinkling reflections of the slumbering Thames.

Behind me, back by Westminster Bridge, curved the impressive facade of the old County Hall building, and ahead the familiar dome of St. Paul's, sharply illuminated, rose like a beacon against the night sky. It was a beautiful night, surprisingly peaceful and quite mild in temperature, despite the humidity. I walked on, past Cleopatra's Needle with its watchful sphinxes, past the looming bulk of Somerset House and the more majestic gateway leading to the Temple and the Inns of Court.

At first, I enjoyed the sense of solitude. But after several minutes my wine-fogged complacency slowly gave way to a creeping wariness. It was, after all, quite late on a Saturday evening, and as lovely as the embankment might be, it was not the wisest place for a woman to walk alone. I quickened my step, uneasy. At the very next tube station, I promised myself, I would go underground. I had walked far enough, for one night. Besides, I had drunk slightly more than I ought to, and I was feeling terribly tired. My steps swayed a little, unsteadily, and my head felt curiously light, filled with an odd, ringing sound.

A minute later I'd given up the thought
of
taking the tube altogether, and altered my course away from the river in search of a cab. But there didn't seem to be a single cab
in sight, and the more I searched the maze of streets, the more lost I became. The streets narrowed first to lanes, and then alleys, becoming progressively darker and rougher underfoot, while the ringing in my ears grew steadily louder. After several wrong turns, I finally came across one street that looked familiar—a crooked little street of oak-framed houses with plaster walls, their crowded overhanging top stories painted and carved. As I passed a sheltered doorway, a small, ragged boy took a step forward, raising his lantern.

'Do you want light, mistress?' he asked me, hopefully, but I shook my head and hurried on.

A little farther down the street, I stopped at one of the huddled houses and knocked urgently at the door. It seemed a long time before my summons was finally answered by a small, middle-aged woman with kindly blue eyes and a plain face. She was in her bedclothes, and wore a shawl wrapped round her head and shoulders to ward off the night chill.