The Birthright (13 page)
Soon they walked into the long gallery, where Nicole finally had to stop. “It’s all too much,” she whispered.
“It
is
rather grand,” Charles admitted, giving her time for a longer look.
Walls of amber damask rose forty feet to a gilded domed ceiling, where skylights of stained glass diffused a rainbow of afternoon shades. Dozens of pillars were crowned with gold-leaf cherubs holding aloft silver ribbons that crisscrossed the dome. The floor consisted of a mosaic of marble and fine woods. And the gallery’s furniture was carved and covered with gold leaf to match its surroundings.
“The long gallery here is used for our larger parties,” Charles said. “I had hoped to give a reception in your honor, my dear. Once you have had a chance to settle in and become comfortable. But everyone is away just now. It’s the season, you know.”
Nicole nodded, not understanding, but unable at the time to speak. The room went on and on, and was ringed by a balcony deep enough to contain tables and chairs. Nicole felt her head beginning to spin. She couldn’t take it all in, so she sought something to fix her attention on. Her eyes landed on a painting, one so beautiful she cried aloud, “Oh, look.”
Charles followed her gaze and then guided her forward till they stood directly before it. Yet it was to the butler that he spoke. “Have you ever seen the like, Gaylord?”
“Quite remarkable, m’lord.”
In a tone more tender than she had ever heard him use, Charles said, “This was my mother’s favorite painting. It hung in her bedroom all her life. The one which will now become your bedchamber, if you like.”
“This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Nicole breathed.
“It was painted by a Flemish man named Rubens nearly two centuries ago. It is called ‘Christ Praying in Gethsemane.’” As Nicole continued to stare intently at the painting, he went on, “I think we should move it back to your bedchamber. Will you please see to that, Gaylord?”
“Immediately, m’lord.”
Nicole spun around. “You are giving this to me?”
Charles gave her a soft smile. “My dear,
all
of this is yours. Whatever you like, you may claim as your own.”
The implications of this simple statement left her utterly without words as they walked on into the yellow drawing room, the striped drawing room, and the Etruscan drawing room with its embroidered silk benches that encircled the chamber. Only after they had entered the formal dining hall, which included a thirty-foot long table and centerpiece of Portuguese silver, did she react at all—and then with a shudder.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” Charles asked with a concerned look on his face.
“Nothing, it’s just…” She pointed at the walls. “All the paintings in here are of war.”
“Ah. Yes. Of course. This was my grandfather’s choice, and my father left them here out of respect for his memory. I should have thought of this, given your heritage.” He then turned around and said, “Gaylord.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Every painting to do with soldiery, officers, battles, and war.”
“Soldiery. Yes, m’lord.”
“Remove them to the back garden and burn the lot.”
“Immediately, m’lord.”
“No!” Nicole cried out. “You cannot!”
“If they offend you, my dear, then I must.”
“No, it’s just…” But when she looked again at the scenes of battle and mayhem, she couldn’t completely hide another shudder. “Please, don’t destroy them.”
“Very well. We shall instead collect the paintings and store them in a room you shall not need to enter. Which of the rooms did you care for the least?”
Nicole hesitated, then admitted, “The one with the striped benches.”
“Gaylord?”
“Every military painting to the Etruscan drawing room. We shall begin on this at once, m’lord.”
“No need to hurry. We shall not be using this room for a few days yet.”
Struggling to make sense of the jumble in her head, Nicole blurted, “You have so many paintings.”
“Indeed we do. Several of my ancestors were great collectors.” Charles took her arm, and together they entered a pair of small antechambers, both fitted out with writing desks. “There are pictures and portraits by Ribera, Raphael, Van Dyck, Rubens, Steen, Titian, Correggio, Brueghel.” Charles stopped when he realized she was no longer listening. “What is it, my dear?”
“No one,” Nicole said slowly, “can possibly own this many books.”
“Ah. You like my library, do you? I am so very pleased. I spend as much time here as I can.”
The chamber was as tall as the long gallery but included two balconies rather than one. Two of the walls were covered by glass-fronted cases, and every case was crammed with books. The third wall had shelves as well, but these were built to rise up and frame a huge marble fireplace. The fourth wall was given over to a beautiful leather-topped desk flanked by tall windows. The furniture was simple compared to the rooms they had just left behind: a great Persian carpet spread over the polished wooden floor, leather settees, and tables piled with books and documents. Books everywhere. “May I come back here?” she asked.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure. We shall claim this chamber as our own, shall we? The place where we meet in the evening and speak of our day.”
Above her confusion and all the opulence, Nicole heard her uncle’s desperate plea for her to be happy here. She patted his arm and said, “You are such a good, dear man.”
Charles seemed to deflate, releasing the tension he had been holding since her arrival. And long before. Suddenly she was looking into the face of the man she had come to know in Halifax. “You must be tired from your journey,” Charles said. “Come, let me show you to your private chambers, and you can have a rest before dinner.”
Nicole started to say she had no intention of resting, but her mind was caught when Charles had said
private chambers
.
Down the staircase they went, through a trio of rooms somewhat less regal than those upstairs, yet only by degree. Then through a doorway with an odd point at the top and up another flight of side stairs, narrower than the front hall and much older. The steps creaked a gentle welcome beneath her feet. The railing was made of dark wood and appeared scarred from centuries of use.
Charles tapped on another of the tall peaked doors, set now in frames carved from stone. “My chambers are through here,” he said. He then led her down a hall decorated with tapestries to another doorway. “And here is where you may reside.”
He pushed open the door and waited for her to enter. Though it was very hard, Nicole forced herself to move forward.
Before her stretched an array of four rooms. The front room held a writing desk, settees, and bookcases, with ancient-looking windows shaped like the doorway. The walls were comprised of carved wood, oiled so that they shined a rich welcome in the afternoon light. And on the left and right sides of the entrance were fireplaces, so tall she could have stepped inside them. Nicole gasped when she looked into the next chamber and saw the vast canopied bed. To one side there was a narrow doorway, open to the afternoon breeze, which revealed a balcony and stone railing smothered by blooming lilacs.
“Your dressing chamber and washroom are through there,” Charles said, pointing. “I shall leave you now and give you a chance to settle in. Welcome, my dear, to Harrow Hall.”
Anne’s and Catherine’s prayers and their unrelenting care could not keep Cyril’s fever from returning. And five days after Anne’s fearful admission, both women were now exhausted from the work and the strain.
Anne emerged from the house in time to greet the symphony of twilight. She eased her back with one hand and clung to a porch post with the other. As she squinted at the globe dipping behind the western hills, she felt resentment over the day’s closing beauty. How could the heavens be so gloriously lit? How could the air hold such a warm promise of summer?
Then the door opened, and Catherine came out to stand beside her. “Is he resting?”
“Finally.” But what got Anne’s attention was not her mother’s question. Rather it was the odor that had escaped through the door with her. She knew the smell. She had faced it many times in the homes of Cyril’s patients. He had once told her he could often tell the degree of illness long before he examined his patient, simply by being exposed to the home’s odor. She did not have his gift or training. Nevertheless, she had studied hard and learned much, and she knew what she smelled.
Her eyes were then drawn toward the raucous shouts coming from the lane beyond their front garden. Their planting had been over a week late. Finally that morning, three of Cyril’s former patients had stopped by to dig the small furrows and plant some vegetables. The neat rows of tilled earth gave off a fragrant promise Anne found easier to ignore. Instead she focused on the three men sauntering by on the other side of the white picket fence.
The governor had ordered that two fields beyond their home be turned into garrisons for soldiers on their way west. One of the fields was now home to a hodgepodge of adventurers, mostly German mercenaries who had come to fight alongside the British. Late at night when Anne lay in bed, she could hear their carousing.
The three men brandished sabers, wore high muddy boots, and carried themselves with a jaunty air. One of them spoke in a language she did not understand. Anne felt no fear, no anger over their leering and rough talking. Having nothing to say, nor the will to hide what she was feeling, she simply stared back at them. And something in her gaze was enough to silence them. They turned away from whatever they found in her and her mother’s face, continuing on without another word.
Not long after the soldiers had passed, Anne heard a horse trotting. She did not turn, though, thinking it was one of the motley officers responsible for the garrison. Then she heard her mother gasp.
Catherine flung herself down the path, struggled with the gate, then raced toward the horseman. The figure was caught in the glare of the setting sun, so that at first Anne could only see that both the rider and horse were near exhaustion. For the horse’s head drooped almost to the ground, and the rider’s shoulders were bowed, with the head leaning slightly to one side.
Then she suddenly realized this was her father.
Anne started down the stairs, but it seemed that suddenly balance was impossible to maintain. It occurred to her that this was not just the result of fatigue or her being with child. She found herself needing to grip the railing with both hands, to pause on each step, breathe, and then gather herself for the next step. She watched as Catherine reached up and embraced the exhausted Andrew. She heard the quiet weeping, the first tears Catherine had shed since her coming.
Anne then heard her father say, “I left just as soon as I received your letter. I’ve ridden straight through. How is he?”
She managed finally to get to the bottom stair and take the first step along the path. She noticed how her mother did not respond with words but with weeping, stronger than before. Her father then slid from the horse without releasing Catherine. Rubbing her face back and forth on Andrew’s shoulder, her mother clung to him with a look of desperation, her body shaking from the irregular sobs.
Anne’s feet could no longer hold to the path, nor her eyes see to find her way. The stench from the house, their little cottage, wafted out and wrapped its cruel tentacles around her. She felt the moist earth beneath her feet, and it seemed to her that she stood at the edge of a grave. She knew her father had turned toward her, yet how she knew this she could not have said. It appeared as though the odor now blinded her to all but the sudden realization. She had been at Cyril’s side when other pastors had come. Other ministers, some strangers and some friends, called to the bedside with urgent haste. There to help, to offer the final solace. There to pray.
She did not so much faint as give up. All the strength she had been holding, all the will she had left—all was suddenly gone. It felt to Anne that the ground had risen up and caught her. The last thing she remembered was the scent of soft, sweet earth.
Gradually Anne began to return from the land of unconsciousness. But her eyes resisted focusing, and her mind struggled to sort out what was going on around her. Ghostlike images drifted in and out of the mist, murmuring words she couldn’t comprehend, touching her with hands she did not feel. She wanted to scream in her confusion and protest, but only a groan escaped her lips. It brought immediate response from the ethereal figures hovering over her. A hand reached out to stroke her brow. Then she felt it and understood its meaning.
A voice spoke, her mother’s. She fought to make sense of the sounds, trying hard to focus her eyes on the face that wavered before her. She licked dried lips and finally found a voice to express her confusion. “What happened?” The words were weak and breathy, and she did not recognize them as her own.
The hand again. Stroking her forehead, brushing back the hair that had somehow escaped from her carefully pinned topknot, now wisping uncontrollably about her face. “We’re here. Your father and I are here,” the voice above her said.
That I know, but why?
Anne wanted to respond.
What has happened?
She felt the urge to scream. Why was she in this peculiar state? She had to know. The questions pounded through her benumbed brain.
“The doctor has left. You—”
But Anne interrupted. “Doctor? Why was a doctor here?”
“You have a son,” her mother murmured, trying to bring some lightness to the strange announcement.
“A son?” Anne fought to raise herself from her prostrate position.
Catherine’s hand forced her back against the pillows. “Just relax. You are still very weak. You must conserve your strength.”
“A son?” Anne still puzzled. “How? When…?”
“A short time ago.”
“Is he…?”
“He’s fine.”
“But he’s early. He was not to arrive…”
“I know.” Anne relaxed against the pressure of the hand on her shoulder. She did not have the strength to push herself up anyway. Her eyes searched frantically around the room for clues as to the bizarre happenings. If she could only think clearly.