The Byram Succession (11 page)

ELEVEN

Even when
she was a very old lady, more than half a century later, Alethea could remember with crystal clarity every detail of that perfect summer day. She had but to close her eyes to see again the fringed parasol that she had carried to protect them from the sun’s brilliance, the sheen on the hide of the grey gelding that Kit was driving when he called for her—very early, since Marianne had said that they must set out by ten. She had begun the day with the happiest of anticipations, planning with innocent cunning how best she might tactfully remove herself from the society of the reunited lovers, and wondering what topics would be most likely to divert poor Kit from his melancholy.

It had been a considerable surprise to learn that they were to make the journey to Greenwich by river, and, even as her eyes lit with delight at the suggestion, to discover that their escort was not, after all, to be Kit—for whom she had been at such pains to devise distraction—but Lord Skirlaugh. Her surprised face drew a gentle explanation from Marianne.

“Going by boat was Damon’s idea. He chanced to be with me when—when I heard of James’s arrival,” she improvised hurriedly. “It was he who suggested that you might be willing to bear me company in Mama’s place.” And that, at least, was truth, she breathed thankfully. “He thought you would like to visit so historic a building, and that, since James was able to put a boat at our disposal—a cutter, I believe it is called—that you would enjoy the novelty of a different form of transport. That was why I had to ask you to be here so shockingly early. It seems that at this hour the tide will serve us well. Did
you
know that Thames had tides? I vow that
I
did not, until Ja—Damon explained it to me.”

Alethea smiled for the slip of the tongue. It was plain that Marianne was bemused by her happiness. Useless to expect sensible conversation from her. She could think only of James. And her own heart was joyous. How kind! How truly kind of his lordship to take thought for
her
pleasure when he must be deeply preoccupied with his own affairs. Briefly—as she had done so often since Marianne had let slip the fact that her cousin had at last chosen a bride—she speculated as to the unknown girl’s identity. But such thoughts, she well knew, would only give her a heart-ache. Resolutely she banished them. It was utterly foolish. There would be a price to be paid. But at least today was hers, and she would enjoy it to the full.

The circumstances, so different from anything in her experience, conspired to lend a dreamlike enchantment to the journey. The cutter was so immaculately clean, with polished brass and gleaming paintwork. There were even cushions placed in the sternsheets for the comfort of the passengers, plump square cushions, covered in blue and piped with silver cord. So very different from the wherries that Londoners were accustomed to use when they wished to cross their river. The sailors, too, in their picturesque clothing, sturdy and suntanned and smelling of soap and flannel and tobacco, and never so much as glancing over their shoulders to see where they were going. It was easy to imagine oneself as a princess of olden days, travelling in the royal barge from Westminster to Greenwich. Beside her, Damon, who had begun by pointing out various interesting features of the busy river scene, fell silent, sensing her mood and, to some extent, sharing it. On his other hand, Marianne was happily lost in blissful dreams of her own. The three of them seemed to be drifting in a fantasy world. The glitter from the dancing water that made even a parasol inadequate protection and forced one to half close dazzled eyes, heightened the effect. It was with a sensation of coming back from some far country that Alethea put her hands into Damon’s and allowed herself to be helped ashore, and fortunately she was still too bemused to notice that the greeting between James and Marianne was surprisingly restrained for lovers who had been so long parted.

Indeed, after one brief irresistible peep to see what kind of man had won Marianne’s heart, it seemed only courteous to avert one’s eyes until such time as the pair had so far returned to earth as to have time to recall such mundane matters as formal introductions. Alethea turned her gaze to her surroundings and was at once entranced. The river frontage of the Palace was quite the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Damon briefly indicated the salient features—the King’s House, to her right, where the Governor had his quarters; Wren’s graceful twin domes, and King William building where later, he promised, he would show her the magnificent Painted Hall.

They had strolled a little apart from their companions as they talked, but at this juncture Marianne called to them and she and James came up, hand in hand like a couple of children and full of laughing apologies for their casual behaviour. James was presented to Alethea in form, but it emerged that he and Damon were old acquaintances. Shipmates, in fact, though only for a very brief period. Alethea looked puzzled until James explained that marines served on board ships as well as ashore and that he had met Damon as a newly appointed and—he threw in, with a grin—painfully efficient first lieutenant.

James was one of those people with whom one was immediately at ease. He treated Alethea with perfect courtesy but as naturally and simply as though she had been Marianne’s sister. It was not long before she was asking his advice as to how she should address the Governor. Never having met anyone so awe inspiring as an Admiral before, she confessed to certain nervous qualms. James smiled—an attractive flash of white teeth in his thin brown face—and told her not to trouble her head. Sir Hugh was perfectly amiable and much enjoyed the society of pretty mannered young females. A few questions about the establishment—the progress of the repairs to the Chapel, or the distinctive uniform of the pensioners—and the thing was done. On such topics he would discourse at length.

“
You
are the dangerous guest,” he teased Damon. “Don’t let him stray into Navy talk, and above all, don’t mention the name of Keppel. He has never accepted the Court Martial’s findings on that disastrous affair. But he’s not likely to steer into troubled waters with ladies present,” he consoled the girls, who were looking a little alarmed by these mysterious warnings.

In fact, luncheon passed off very pleasantly. Their host, while attentive to the comfort of all his guests, was naturally more interested in James and Marianne, and talk ran safely enough on their future plans. Alethea, a little over-awed by her surroundings and by the state which the Governor kept, sat drinking it all in, storing up memories to be savoured at leisure. Her patent appreciation pleased the Admiral who addressed several very civil remarks to her and regretted that he could not, himself, do the honours of the establishment as he had to attend a Committee meeting of the Directors. His guests deplored this circumstance with expressions of regret that were, alas, purely perfunctory. Sir Hugh might make an admirable guide, but three of them felt that they would do very much better without him, while the fourth—Alethea—was still fearful of the thunderbolts that she might bring down upon her if she was betrayed into uttering some tactless remark about the Navy or Courts Martial. Better to risk the insidious if far more dangerous sweetness of strolling about the lofty, elegant rooms, the courts and colonnades, the beautifully laid-out gardens with his lordship. Never out of sight of James and Marianne, of course, but generally, with kindly tact, out of earshot.

It was small wonder that of late Alethea’s friends had found her unnaturally inclined to cling to Marianne’s skirts, or, failing that shelter, even to Tina’s, despite that damsel’s manifest annoyance. To avoid Lord Skirlaugh’s society entirely was impracticable, but as soon as she realised the danger in which she stood, she had done her best to set him at a distance. When that deep voice softened to warmth and gentleness, the crooked smile lightened the harshness of his normal aspect, she might feel as though her very bones melted, as though she longed only to give him whatever would bring him solace and contentment. But that wild sweet elation that flooded her being at his nearness should have no chance to swell to an irresistible current that could only sweep her away to bitter desolation.

Now they were flung together in virtual isolation. And if Damon had known the state of her feelings and deliberately chosen his venue, he could have found no better way of disarming her. His appreciation of historic places was as genuine as her own, and because of its naval associations, Greenwich was especially dear to him. In explaining the lay-out of the various quarters and in dipping haphazard into the past to recall memories of those who had known the Palace when it was in every day use as a royal residence, he forgot himself and even, for a while, his especial purpose in arranging this encounter. And his animation, his eagerness that Alethea should share his sentiments, drew the two of them together more delicately, more surely than any carefully rehearsed speeches.

By the time that their wanderings had brought them back to the Painted Hall Alethea’s guard was down and they were exchanging views with their earlier freedom and candour. She gazed about her, awed to momentary silence as much by the magnitude of the display as by its artistic merits, and as usual her first comment was a question.

“Who painted it?”

“Sir James Thornhill—a well-known mural painter of Queen Anne’s day. The ceiling of the Upper Hall is dedicated to her. This one”—he indicated the central oval of the Lower Hall—“as you see, is for William and Mary. The idea of a hospital for seamen was Mary’s, you know, inherited from her unfortunate father. It is sad to think that she did not live long enough to see her plan become reality. See the inscription.” He indicated the Latin phrases around the frieze.

Alethea, no Latin scholar, spelled them out slowly. “At least her husband gave her all the credit,” she pointed out.

Damon nodded. “Yes. He pushed ahead pretty quickly with the building, too, considering his other preoccupations. It was to be his memorial to his beloved wife, so it was given precedence.”

Alethea shrugged. “A chilly kind of loving. Poor Mary! I daresay she would rather have married one of her own countrymen and stayed quietly at home. Poor, lonely homesick little girl!”

“I doubt if queens have time to be homesick,” suggested Damon bracingly.

“Do you? Of course she was homesick. She was only fifteen—a year younger than Sue—when she had to leave everything that was dear and familiar for marriage with a man nearly twice her age, who spent most of his time campaigning and left her to deal as best she might with a rigid court etiquette. And you doubt if she was homesick?”

She sounded quite fierce about it, thought Damon amusedly. “Royal personages are trained from childhood to acceptance of such marriages,” he reminded her. “It is part of the price that they pay for their state. And if I remember aright, Mary learned to love her William quite devotedly. Why else should she have gone to the pains of creating an Orangery at Hampton Court? Surely that is the kind of sentimental gesture that indicates true affection?”

Alethea considered that carefully, then said, “For my part, I think her dairy is far more typical of her than a lot of silly orange trees in tubs. I see her as a housewifely creature who delighted in cleanliness and good order. It was her misfortune that she was born to royal state. She would have been far happier tending some comfortable manor and seeing to her lord’s comfort when he came in weary after a long day in the saddle. As for William—if he had spent more of his time at home he might have got himself an heir, and so spared us”—and broke off short, scarlet-cheeked at the enormity of what she had said. Through her agonising embarrassment the thought came crossly, that was the worst of talking with his lordship. It was so interesting, so comfortable, that one simply spoke one’s mind without reserve—and see what came of it!

But Lord Skirlaugh was feigning a convenient obtuseness. Not for worlds would he imperil, by so much as a raised eyebrow, the easy intercourse that he had so painstakingly sought. Moreover, his quarry had quite innocently led the talk into channels well suited to his purpose. So he said only, carefully, “Yes. A pity. A pity, too, that the little Duke of Gloucester died so young. But though you may have a romantic fancy for the Stuart succession, you will acknowledge, as did Aunt Emily, that we go on pretty comfortably under King George.”

She seized thankfully upon his subtle twist to a delicate topic, denying, with unnecessary fervour, any leaning towards Jacobitism, and agreeing that, despite her affection for the things of the past, she was thankful enough to live in modern times. Her hot cheeks cooled. And his mention of Lady Emily gave her cause to enquire if he meant to make one of the party that was to drive out to visit her the following week.

This outing had been arranged on Tina’s insistence, and promised to be a dashing affair. Closed carriages were unthinkable in summer weather, and landaus, decreed Tina, were ‘stuffy’ in the other sense. Curricles were the thing. In fact she had with difficulty been dissuaded from the notion of making the excursion into a race. Only a fortunate remark from Marianne, that, while she might be able to wind
Kit
round her finger, it was highly unlikely that
Damon
would approve of such hoyden tricks, persuaded her to draw in her horns. But it was to be quite a large party, since, in Tina’s experience, large parties tended to pair off and go their chosen ways. Naturally they would not all inflict themselves on Lady Emily. Only a select group would be accorded that privilege. But the others could amuse themselves very happily in strolling about the grounds.

Damon now pointed out that there would be an extra man. Marianne could not be expected to go without James, who would naturally wish to pay his respects to his future bride’s formidable relative. “In which case, Miss Forester, I shall beg of
you
to accept the seat in my curricle.”

She said sedately, “It is very kind of you, my lord, but do you not think”—she hesitated, then pushed on bravely, “From some chance remark that was let fall, I had the impression that it was my cousin, not Marianne, who was to ride in your carriage.”

Damon’s brows lifted a little. “Miss Newton does me too much honour,” he said softly, and would have liked to express his opinion of that young lady’s encroaching ways with some acerbity, but the trouble in Alethea’s face gave him pause. No doubt the poor child’s life would be rendered miserable if the spoiled beauty did not get her way. “Then I shall at least hope to enjoy your company on the return journey,” he said crisply, and when she did not immediately answer, said persuasively, “Come, now! Consider the possibilities of an encounter between your cousin and my aunt!” Her lips twitched in involuntary amusement. He said cordially, “Precisely so. I cannot help feeling that after an hour of such—er—stimulating exchanges, we shall be quite exhausted. If I do not have your promise to sit beside me on the return journey to soothe my jangled nerves, I shall certainly cry off from the whole affair.”