Shivers Box Set: Darkening Around Me\Legacy of Darkness\The Devil's Eye\Black Rose (12 page)

“These dungeon walls are seeped through with centuries of blood,” he told me, stepping aside so that I could peer into the tortuous maze of tunnels and caverns that ran below the castle. I shivered, drawing my shawl closer about my shoulders.

“Are you squeamish, little Lucy?” he asked, quirking an amused eyebrow in my direction.

Two Lucys fought within me as the endearment tripped lightly from his tongue. Staid, practical Lucy battled a new, wanton Lucy. This wild usurper wished to hurl herself into his arms and beg him to allow her one brief taste of those aristocratic lips. “Not as a rule,” I replied seriously, relieved that the Lucy I had known so well for over twenty years emerged the victor from the skirmish. I would need more time to get to know her nemesis before I allowed her to show herself. “But I cannot help thinking it might not be conducive to a peaceful existence.” He gave me a look of enquiry and I explained further, “To know, for example, that there were prisoners suffering cruelly just one floor below the family dining room.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “No, indeed,” he agreed courteously. “It might even put one off one’s dinner. But my ancestors—and, indeed, yours—walked past severed heads on spikes every time they left or entered the castle gates. So I imagine they probably grew inured to the thought of a little light torture.”

We were nearing the end of our peregrinations. I had obediently followed Uther along galleries and up stone staircases. We climbed tower and turret to watch over wild seascapes, gain a bird’s eye view of whitewashed villages tucked into smuggler’s coves and glimpse distant hamlets slumbering in fields of corn. My mind was awhirl with the names of the myriad rooms within this feudal fortress. The bower, the minstrel’s gallery, the oratory and the casemate. A solarium with a glass roof was a recent addition. The castle even had its own tiny chapel with blue slate flags, an altar and two rows of pews. I was informed that it was seldom used these days.

“We Jagos are a singularly unchristian lot,” Uther informed me with nonchalant pride.

Grand relics of the past hung on every wall and stood in every corner. I learned about the Jago coat of arms, a stark black shield emblazoned with five bright gold stars and the legend that gave the castle its accursed, poetic name.
Lucent in tenebris
.

“Where does it come from?” I asked Uther as I traced the flowing script on a heraldic plaque with one fingertip.

“Anglo-Saxon chronicles show that the first Jago lord was granted these lands early in the ninth century by Egbert of Wessex.” His face reflected a fierce pride in his heritage. “A few centuries later, Peder Jago joined King Harold’s forces and fought with immense bravery against the Normans at Senlac in 1066. Peder, it would seem, was something of an opportunist. When he saw that there was no prospect of an English win, he crossed the battlefield and daringly presented his sword to the Conqueror. He acquitted himself in the role of turncoat with bloody valour, killing many of his former friends that day. King William is said to have described him as ‘a beacon shining in darkness.’ Peder was rewarded with the title of earl. He spent some time clashing violently with William’s half-brother, Robert de Mortain, who became Earl of Cornwall, but subsequent Jagos were more insular and happy to confine their fiefdom to this peninsula, known as Athal,” he explained. “When William ennobled him, Peder Jago chose this motto. And it has proved oddly prophetic, for wherever there is darkness, it would seem we Jagos are at our best. Despite the blackness in our souls, however, we, like most good Cornish men, are renowned for our prowess in war, love and song.”

Now, as we returned to the great hall, Uther pointed out a circular grille in the thick stone floor. “The oubliette. From the French ‘to forget.’ This is almost an exact copy of the one that graces the Bastille. Prisoners were thrown into its depths and left to rot in darkness and filth.”

We paused before a medieval portrait of a woman. She wore a gown with a tight bodice, decorated all over with gold embroidery and tiny seed pearls. A circlet of rubies held a veil in place atop her glossy dark hair, and a matching necklace enhanced the alabaster purity of her throat. “Lady Gwendolyn Jago. A lady whose very soul was tenebrous,” he said. Her face gazed down at us, frozen in half-smiling serenity. “To preserve her youth, she bathed in ewe’s milk. Rather than waste this precious commodity, she then used the milk to soak bread, and had it distributed amongst the poor.” I grimaced, and he chuckled. “Then, so legend would have us believe, when age continued to encroach, she progressed to the blood of virgins. At first, the local populace was decimated by her activities. Later, it was afflicted by an outbreak of promiscuity, as virginity became a somewhat undesirable condition. On her death, there was much rejoicing.”

“I should think there would be.” I studied Lady Gwendolyn with interest. “She looks like Demelza,” I pointed out, and he nodded.

“Her beauty was said to be so great that strong men wept when first they saw her. So, despite Lady Gwendolyn’s less than attractive proclivities, my sister is quite happy to suffer the comparison.”

We moved on. The next portrait was of a heroic-looking knight on horseback with the black-and-gold Jago pennant flying proud behind him. Uther watched my face as I stood back to view the picture. “Nicca Jago, fourth Earl of Athal. Famous for the occasion on which he found his young wife ‘entertaining’ three shepherd boys in her bed. He made her watch as he turned the bed, with her guests still on it, into a funeral pyre.”

“Do you have any nice ancestors?” I asked, and he laughed. I liked his laugh. It was low and silvery like a brook rushing up to meet a river.

“Very few,” he confessed. “Over the years, murder has worn armour, cassock, gown and lace. It has snarled and charmed, poisoned and slashed, but never has it been far from the Jago hand. It is the curse of Tenebris, a loose connection, an unhinged bolt, passed down through generations.”

“But not, I trust, in recent times?” I asked. Instead of replying, Uther indicated several smaller portraits, the subjects of which, he informed me, had indeed led unremarkable lives. “A pack of dull dogs,” he said dismissively.

He stopped in front of a full-sized canvas of a man in the robes worn by restoration priests. “But this, I am told by many, is the Jago I most closely resemble—in looks alone, I must stress! Arwen Jago. Younger brother to the seventh earl. Himself the eighth. A nasty piece of work even by the standards prevailing in our illustrious family.”

The now-familiar tiger eyes stared contemptuously at me from the painting. “What were his crimes?” I looked away, straight into an identical pair of eyes. The sensation made me feel decidedly odd.

“Well, with the delightful Arwen here, it is difficult to know where to start. He is said to have made extensive use of the oubliette. Indeed, anyone who crossed him was destined to end their days in that stinking pit. Despite his cloth, he had a veritable harem of mistresses. These, apparently, were not enough to satisfy him. Out hunting one day, he came across a beautiful young girl in a forest glade and fell instantly and violently in love with her. When she refused his advances, he abducted her by force, keeping her imprisoned here in the castle and constraining her to submit to his desires. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, she escaped. And who would blame her?” While his tone was light, there was an undercurrent, an odd, mocking bitterness that lent it a metallic tang. “Arwen discovered she had gone and, in a blazing fury, hunted her down. He found her again in the glade where he first saw her. His revenge was to use her for target practice. Shot an arrow straight through one of her eyes.” His gaze devoured my face as I listened to his gory discourse. I could not tell if he was pleased or disappointed that I did not react to the horrors he described. “Her name was…”

“Lucia,” I finished the sentence for him.

“Your name,” he stated quietly.

“My mother, of course, knew of the family legend,” I explained. “She told me that, when she came here as a child, Lucia’s story fired her imagination. She remained lustrous and pure, in spite of her evil captor. I think she hoped I would always be as strong and true as my namesake.”

The light in his eyes made me shiver slightly. “A fitting tribute. Poor Arwen was afflicted with the curse of the second son,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “It affects us all in different ways. The story darkens. Devastated by the loss of his love, Arwen began to dabble in the occult in a series of wild attempts to bring her back. After he succeeded to the title on his brother’s untimely death, he murdered more than one hundred peasant children as part of a satanic pact. Perhaps the oubliette was full by that time, because he threw the bodies into the well, by all accounts.” He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the courtyard.

“Was that wise? I mean, would it not have poisoned the castle’s water supply?” I wondered.

He threw back his head and laughed. I studied him in bewilderment. “What have I said to amuse you so?”

When he had collected himself, he shook his head. “It is simply an expression of my pleasure in your delightfully prosaic view of my mad, bad family, sweet Lucy! I have heard many other comments about him, but I have never encountered anyone who has questioned Arwen Jago’s ‘wisdom’ until today! I hope to God you never lose your down-to-earth approach!”

“I don’t suppose I will,” I remarked, after considering the matter. “My father used to quote Byron, describing me as—”

“Let me guess.” He slid a finger under my chin, tilting it up so that he could study my face. Apart from my father’s embrace or a formal handshake, I was unused to being touched by a man, even in a manner as detached as this. I hoped it was this fact, and not something personal to Uther Jago, that made my breath catch in my throat. “He said you were ‘unbent by winds, unchilled by snows.’” He finished my sentence for me.

“Yes!” I smiled, unable to disguise my delight at hearing my father’s well-loved words on his lips. “But really,” I continued, masking my pleasure with a grumbling tone, “my girlish dreams of romance were cruelly dashed, to be the subject of such a dull accolade! It is much more attractive, I believe, to
allow
the winds and snows to bend and chill!”

“I think it would be a great pity if you were to change in any way, sweet Lucy,” he said. I thought how easily heart-stopping compliments tripped from his lips. “Particularly to conform to other people’s ideals of femininity.”

We were approaching the last few portraits by this time. Uther’s father stared at us from under lowered brows. His mother, even on canvas, wore a somewhat distracted air. “Probably wondering which of his many mistresses her husband was visiting on that particular day,” her son remarked.

The final painting was the only one to depict a group. A slender blonde woman sat on a high-backed chair holding in her lap a baby clad in a long lace gown. A young man, unmistakably a Jago, but lacking somehow in the power and ferocity of others in his family, leaned over the back of the chair. His hand rested on the woman’s shoulder in a proprietary gesture.

“This was commissioned to commemorate Tynan’s christening.” Uther’s tone was bland, the bantering note banished.

“Your brother,” I stated, regarding the man in the picture.

“Ruan Jago, eleventh Earl of Athal, and his wife, Eleanor.” The words fell like raindrops between us.

“How did he die?”

He was silent for a long time. “He killed himself,” he said at last. “After beating his wife to death.”

Unexpectedly, he grasped my hand and held it against the cold stone. “These walls have memories of their own. Feel them, Lucy,” his voice rippled through my mind. “Lords and ladies in their jewelled velvets…sunshine warming pennants and spears…shouts of the joust…the maiden meeting her forbidden love …”

I obediently closed my eyes and heard the rustle of skirts, the soft clandestine whispers of long-dead lovers, and the strains of a lute signalling reckless dance and wild romance. Uther’s low sound—somewhere between a growl and a purr—roused me from my trance. My eyelids fluttered.

“Your face—” his voice was a whispered caress, warm breath stroking my ear “—has the look a woman usually wears only once. When she first succumbs to orgasm.”

I stepped back in shock, the ready tinge of roses staining my face. He turned and walked away as if the searing words had never been spoken. I wondered if they had. Or had this new, brazen creature—the one I had just discovered within me—merely wished them spoken?

Demelza’s dresser carried armful upon armful of gowns into my room. Sumptuous silks cascaded in a rainbow waterfall onto the bed. Demelza tripped along behind her. “Now, my dearest Lucy, I know you will not be offended—oh, do say you won’t!—if I give you these dresses, which, Clatterthorpe here will tell you, are much too girlish for an old crone like me.” She did not give me a chance to speak. “Do but look at how pretty they are, dearest. Just the thing for someone of your pale colouring, and all the very finest materials, I
do
assure you.”

“Aunt Demelza…” I started to protest and her face fell into a hurt expression.

“Oh, pray do not look so stern, child. There cannot be the least objection, surely? Your own dresses are very pretty, but—I know you will not mind me saying this—just a trifle outmoded.”

The sour-faced Miss Clatterthorpe nodded lugubriously in agreement, casting an expert eye over the serviceable dimity dress I was wearing. “If I might say as shouldn’t, miss,” she began. I had not heard her speak before, and her voice was surprisingly high-pitched and childlike. “Her Ladyship is quite right. Fashions is changing since the young queen took the crown, but I can easily make these over into the current style and adjust them to fit your figure. The newer styles emphasise the waist, which’ll not be a problem for you, miss, yours being so tiny anyways. But how to make the most of your hips and bosom, well, that’s going to require some thought.” The look she gave me suggested that my slight build did not find favour in her practised eyes. “My lady,” she continued in a worshipful undertone, “should never wear these subdued pastel hues, which are more suited to the likes of you, miss. Her beauty, although it needs no enhancements, shines in warmer, brighter tones.”

“Do try this rose pink silk on, my dear, and let Clatterthorpe pin it around you.” Demelza’s voice was softly coaxing. “I must tell you that my brother has an eye for feminine garb and likes to see the ladies of his household elegantly attired.”

There did not seem to be much else I could say. “Aunt Demelza, I can never sufficiently repay you for your kindness….” My voice faded awkwardly away. I had resided for so long in the aloof circle of my own grief that I struggled sometimes to express my emotions. But I was grateful to Demelza for rescuing me from a life of drudgery. And, if this was not the family for which my hurt heart longed, it was far more than I anticipated when I first returned to England’s fair shores.

“My dear.” She patted my cheek in her caressing way. “You can
repay
—what a dreadful word!—me, if you choose, by entertaining Tynan once he is well enough to leave the confines of his room. The poor boy has very little company other than his uncle and me, and I am sure he will be delighted to have a new friend, and one so close to him in age.”

During the ensuing days I had further reasons to feel grateful. Yet I was also strangely overwhelmed. Demelza showered me with gifts and kindness. These ranged from items unearthed from her trinket box, to hats or new silk stockings. “Clatterthorpe informs me that your own are sadly darned, my sweet.” How could I refuse, when a bracelet of painted beads was clasped round my wrist and my aunt told me that it was too youthful for her? Or, indeed, when she commissioned her own dressmaker to design a new riding habit for me so that I could join Uther on his daily ride. It seemed churlish to spurn her generosity. The sensation of walls closing in on me was heightened. The fact that my prison cell was lined with silk did little to alleviate my unease.

* * *

I was surprised that there were so few servants at Tenebris. My mother had described a veritable army, but perhaps her girlish memory exaggerated.

The redoubtable Mrs Lethbridge ensured that the household ran like clockwork. Huddy—who I learned was actually Mrs Huddlestone, a little lady, as wide as she was tall—cooked as if for a small army. When we were introduced, she bobbed a curtsy, then looked me up and down in consternation. She had a cosy, cushiony face with a tiny rosebud of a mouth. Without a word, she cut a slab of sponge cake the size of a small house and, plonking it down on the table with a tall glass of milk, gestured for me to be seated.

“She will be most offended if you do not eat every crumb,” Demelza whispered. It took a Herculean effort on my part, but I was rewarded, when I finished this repast, with a grunt of approval from Mrs Huddlestone.

“A groat’s worth of grain’d choke her!” she sniffed to Demelza, as if I was not present. “Fear not, my lady, we’ll soon put a bit o’flesh on them twigs she calls bones!”

Pascoe was the embodiment of dignified servitude. Quiet, unobtrusive and, unlike his female compatriots, seemingly nonjudgmental. Two footmen served under him and, hawklike, he supervised their endeavours. There were three parlour maids, a kitchen maid and Betty, who, when she was not attending to me, took any role assigned her by Mrs Lethbridge. Demelza had her devoted Miss Clatterthorpe. Uther, it seemed, scorned the services of a valet. I had also heard mention of Desmond, who, I surmised, was His Lordship’s man. All in all, it seemed a small workforce to care for such a large, sprawling place. From what Uther said, when discussing his horses, it would appear that the stables had a greater number of staff than the house.

Another fact that struck me as odd was the age of the majority of the servants. Apart from the senior staff, in a grand house such as this one might expect to see a young workforce, drawn from the local population. Yet, aside from Betty, the others were all well past thirty and had been in the employ of the Jago family for many years.

I asked Betty about it as I dressed for dinner. “It’s a funny thing, miss,” she agreed, helping to fasten a string of coral beads—another gift from Demelza—about my neck. “But it’s not a popular place to work, despite being a castle and the family so wealthy and all. You hear such stories,” she explained apologetically.

“Stories?” I twitched the folds of my gown into place and studied my reflection thoughtfully. I might be a lone, pale pearl amongst the glitter of Jago diamonds, but I looked well enough. In fact, if I listened to Betty’s admittedly partisan compliments, I might well have my head turned.

“Ghosts and the like,” she explained vaguely, gathering up my discarded day dress. “And then there was the awful thing that happened to His Lordship’s mother—”

“That will do, girl!” Neither of us had heard Demelza enter the room, and Betty jumped guiltily at the bullet-like admonishment. Dropping a frightened curtsy, the little maid cast me a meaningful glance before scurrying through the door.

“But you look quite delightful this evening, Lucy dearest. Our rarefied Cornish air undoubtedly suits your constitution.” The caressing note was back. Demelza gave no sign that she had heard Betty’s comments. On the contrary, as we made our way down to dinner, she maintained a light-hearted, inconsequential monologue about the latest fashion for lace gloves.

* * *

At the decline of the day, I scooped up my cloak and stole outside to enjoy the sweet freedom of evening. Wrapped in my own company, I trod the cloistered west-facing walks. Dusk’s cloying melancholy invaded my mood. Sinking below the distant hills, the sun spread its dying glow across the horizon. Thin vapour crept off the heaving ocean and tiptoed round the curved arches, while the battlements were still subjected to the sun’s heartfelt kisses. The dewy freshness of this fairy hour shimmered in the still air. As day continued its descent, night came silently down and the scene assumed a mantle of solemn grandeur.

As I walked, my mind became a great winged bird soaring high across stormy oceans and sweltering golden deserts, eventually whirling to a standstill amidst brilliant tropical greenery. The English twilight, with waning moon tumbling into cold, dark seas, was far behind me. I could feel my father’s arm warm about my shoulders, his whiskers tickling my cheek as we stood together in the foothills, gazing out across wide, shimmering plains. We laughed at some long-forgotten joke, and the smell of his pipe tobacco soothed me. My heart thrummed briefly with remembered affection and new loss. We had spoken no farewells. All I had of him were memories; my enforced pilgrimage back to England had seen to that. I was wise enough to know that, in undertaking such an arduous journey, I had not allowed myself to grieve. It was only now that I had the luxury of time in which to dwell on my loss. The anguish of my hurt soul was a hard stone nugget embedded deep in my heart.

“Oh!” I gasped and took a step back as I rounded the end of the walk and saw that I was not alone. A young man stood marble still, hands plunged into the pockets of his coat and head bowed in thought. He looked up as my exclamation pierced his brooding reverie, and I knew at once that I was face-to-face with the Earl of Athal.

The family resemblance, although remarkable still, was softened in him. His features were less precise, not quite so masterfully defined, but his eyes were unmistakably Jago-gold and radiantly haunted. Hair the colour of a raven’s wing lay long on his collar with one poetic lock drooping to caress his furrowed brow. Tynan Jago was not quite as tall as his uncle, and he was slender, lacking Uther’s width of shoulder and rippling muscle.

We stared at each other for long, bruised moments. I, the impostor in this dusky landscape belonging to him, stepped forward to break the spell. In the same instant, he swung on his heel and walked away.

* * *

I met Tynan again at dinner. I wore one of the gowns my aunt had bestowed upon me. It was a pretty pomona green silk, its full skirts shimmering in the candlelight as I moved. Miss Clatterthorpe’s skilled fingers had transformed it so that it fitted perfectly, and might in truth have been made for me. The bodice was decorated with a deep frill of lace and was cut rather lower than I liked. Eyeing the neckline dubiously in the mirror, I added the Norwich silk shawl and pinned it in place with my mother’s pearl brooch. Was I being modest, or were my actions because I knew that my small breasts and lack of cleavage could never compare favourably with Demelza’s magnificent décolletage?

As I made my way down to the great hall it crossed my mind that Betty, who usually chattered to me nonstop while I dressed, had been uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn.

The other members of the household were already assembled before the roaring fire. Uther and Demelza made desultory conversation, while Tynan lounged in a wingback chair and gazed moodily into the flames. As I approached, he pushed back the errant lock of hair that flopped onto his ivory brow. The only indication that he had noticed my presence was a brief nod in my vague direction. My earlier impression of a jaded angel fled. In this setting, he resembled nothing so much as a sulky schoolboy.

“Tynan, I know you will be glad of this opportunity to at last welcome your guest, our cousin Lucy,” Demelza said.

Light intensified in his eyes and he rose, bowing formally and murmuring a few incoherent words of greeting. His fingers closed on my hand with surprising strength. Demelza withdrew slightly and commenced a conversation with Uther about household matters. I was acutely aware, however, that as they talked, they kept us under continual scrutiny.

“I have been wanting to thank you for permitting me to stay here as your guest,” I said, looking up into eyes that were infinitely sad.

He hunched a dismissive shoulder. “That choice was not mine,” he replied. My shame was clear from the instant heat which flushed my cheeks. Casting a furtive look in his uncle’s direction, he relented, adding in a milder tone, “You are most welcome, however. My aunt describes us as cousins…?” He raised an enquiring brow.

“I think the link is considerably more tenuous.” I began to explain the intricacies of our family tree while he listened with an interest that was patently feigned. I sensed the tension leave Demelza’s frame as she observed us.
And well she might stiffen in apprehension,
I thought crossly. He may be an earl, and one who was soon to be master of all this wealth and grandeur, but Tynan Jago lacked any social graces. Indeed, he was quite insufferably rude.

Dinner consisted of boiled trout heads and a loin of veal. Side dishes were set on the table, including roast pigeons, petits pâtés, a fricassee of eel and stuffed chicken. I partook sparingly of the veal, in the foreknowledge—gleaned in my short time here—that I would be expected to do justice to an equally sumptuous second course. This duly arrived and comprised a green goose, two rabbits, a dressed crab, buttered broccoli, creamed spinach and an apple pie. This was served with custard that came in a jug that was nearly as big as me.

Conversation over dinner was laboured. I made heroic efforts with Tynan, but was rewarded for the most part by monosyllables or silence. His eyes were sombre, his mouth had a tragic droop and he pushed the food around his plate without actually consuming any of it.

He did evince a slight interest about my life in India and my home there. Glad to find that he had emerged a little from his sullen mood, I was eager to encourage him. I favoured him with amusing accounts of life in Madras and the conditions we had endured there. I explained that our home very much resembled an English country house and our lifestyle was surprisingly similar to what it had been at home. The Indian servants had been taught how to make tea the way my father liked it, to shine his boots to perfection and to fill his pipe.

There were not many British women in Madras, and, as I grew up, my governess and I were often the only females at my father’s dinner parties. The British community, supported by the clockwork organisation of the East India Company, managed to remain surprisingly insular and aloof. There were racetracks, balls and card parties to be attended. Our greatest dilemma—and one which occupied a considerable amount of thought and energy—was how to keep cool, and we attempted some innovative solutions. In describing these, I once or twice succeeded in making Tynan’s beautiful lips curve upward into a smile. I felt a quite disproportionate sense of triumph as a result. I did my best to answer all of his questions, even though some of these were probing and intensely personal.