The Marquis of Westmarch (10 page)

“Oh, Westmarch.”

“Meriel, I fancy that even if Maid Rosalba had been an eligible bride for you, you'd soon have come to think her — well, very little more than a pretty wet-goose, to speak candidly,” said Philander. “She wouldn't be the woman for you, you know.”

“Oh, take a damper! Who wishes for a clever wife?” Meriel raised her head, and laughed a little. It was such a glorious irony that Rosalba's future should have been settled on the same day as her own, and settled so differently, in the helpless way of women. “She's such a shy little puss, a man must long to take care of her — surely you agree with me, she's vastly taking?”

“Taking, yes, now, but what she will be like at forty I can imagine only too well,” said Philander.

“Damn it, Philander, I'm in earnest. I would to God I had been able to marry her,” said Meriel; physically able, she thought. “Oh, I do indeed.”

“You're an original, my lord,” said Dianeme. A short silence followed her true observation.

Meriel thought that she wanted to live the rest of her life in society, even though it were frivolous, to be surrounded by friends, she never wanted to be alone again. She did not need her high eminence any more.

“Tell me, do you think it would be very shocking if I were to resign the Marquisate to Hugo and retire into private life?” she said amiably, dabbing at her eyes. “To be a mere gentleman has always been my wish, you know.” Her lips quivered as she felt boisterous love for Dianeme and Philander. She was so grateful to them for having taken care of her.

Philander looked at the Marquis, and there was a kind of pity in his face. He had been very fond of Meriel when they were boys, and in recent years he had seen that he was dependent on his continuing affection; though he had often wondered why Meriel did not make other friends. He said nothing.

“Yes indeed, my lord, it
would
be shocking!” said Dianeme.

*

Sitting alone in his top-floor chamber, Auriol tried to control an excitement he thought childish, though it was something he had never known and which he found delicious. He tried to make a sober comparison between Meriel and other women, remembering always that he had never been attracted to anyone like her, that since his widowhood he had imagined himself falling in love only with prettier, less intelligent, more dependent and affectionate versions of his little blonde wife. Such perfect women had seemed to be thin on the ground; he had slept with no one since the death of Clorinda, and had often wondered why he could not compromise.

Surely, he thought, it was not possible that she could differ so very much from the many high-spirited, strong-minded, rough-tongued women whom he knew and liked though never loved; perhaps it was only because she adored him that she seemed to be unique. People deceived themselves so often, he wearily reminded himself, in thinking their lovers extraordinary and perfect; but nonetheless, this love of his, if it went any further, must be an exception to this humiliating rule. The pleasure the thought of Meriel gave him was too sharp to be borne. He told himself that
he feared to lose his wits, and knew that on the other hand, he longed to lose them for her sake, which embarrassed him and made him want to cry.

“Of course she's unique,” he said aloud, enjoying the brave eccentricity of talking to himself exactly as though there were someone else present, “whatever can you be thinking of? And of course she is not perfect, far from it, by God.” Auriol got up and began to pace the floor, conscious of what he was doing.

It was still rather difficult always to think of the Marquis as ‘she'. “Oh, Meriel,” he said, and smiled, and continued to address her spirit in a whisper. “What a strange creature you are, other women don't like to feel a rough hand on their bridle, but you — well, you would never let me bridle you at all.”

She'll bridle me, Auriol thought, but did not speak the words aloud. Passing the mirror at the end of the room, he saw that the titillating fear he felt had made him colour up and sparkle like a girl.

The tower of Castle West rose up above the main gateway. It was sixty feet wide and three hundred feet high; and though it had been built more than five centuries before, it was still the tallest building in the whole of Westmarch.

A symbol of might of which Meriel was proud, the great tower was disused now, though it was kept in good repair. The lower guard-rooms were full of relics of war, and rubbish of a kind to be found in the attic of any mansion, but the topmost ones contained only stony dust and spiders. On the tower’s platform roof, there was a little garden, consisting of four curved flower beds grouped round a belvedere, and trellises which covered the inside of the battlements. The garden had been made by Juxon when Meriel was young, and for a couple of years it had been popular with those who thought it would be good for them to walk up six hundred and fifty steps. The novelty of the tower-garden had worn off quickly enough, and now, though the beds were well tended and the young plants were good ones, it had a slightly ridiculous look.

Meriel pushed open the door of the belvedere, and Auriol followed her out. Both were a little out of breath, and rather ashamed to admit it.

“The view,” Meriel announced, “is very much admired.”

When they came out, they were facing west, and beyond the parapet, the sea stretched out as flat as the country. On its blue surface, cloud-shadows made dark stains, but no foam was visible from this height, and there were no ships in the water. Meriel, filled with unaccustomed awe at the plain and mirror-like expanse, said, “Exceedingly calm today.”

“I imagine that on a windy day it would be very unsafe up here.”

“Yes, indeed, in the old days the guards were tied to their posts when there were storms out at sea.” She rubbed her hands together, and stood still, because she was afraid of heights, and would not approach the battlements. Auriol meanwhile walked slowly around, looking over.

It was the variety of prospects, each one corresponding roughly to a point of the compass, that made the view from the tower extraordinary. The sea to the west curved round and met the rocks and many inlets of the north-running coast, while southwards from the tower it surrounded Castle-town.

The roofs of Castle-town were chiefly grey-blue, with patches of red tile, and pale green copper, divided by a multitude of threadlike streets. Auriol had never seen an entire city laid out before his eyes in this way, and he was fascinated, though he was made to feel a country bumpkin by Meriel’s being clearly unimpressed. The only other city he knew, Bury Winyard in Southmarch, happened to be infinitely grander, for it had been built according to an elaborate plan: the houses were all of pale grey stone, decorated according to the rank of their inhabitants, arranged in streets which radiated out from a vast square, in the middle of which was the Marquis’s grey and gold Island Palace. Auriol had not liked Bury Winyard, and could not think that an aerial view of it would be half so interesting as this of Meriel’s town, where a squalid quarter of once-whitewashed cottages pushed right up against a parade of new sea-front brick and stone villas. That, he thought, was life. Auriol turned away from the southern prospect, not wanting to question Meriel about it just yet.

The view of distant country to the east did not please him: though it was a very clear day, the open fields with their thin patches of leafless trees and barely visible villages seemed muddy and unreal to him. But he enjoyed gazing straight down over the parapet at Castle West itself, and seeing the gently puffing chimneys, shaded walls and roofs like mussel-shells, suits of clothes trotting in the courtyards, and the green gardens neat as tapestry. A brass weathercock on top of Meriel’s own apartments, which he had never noticed before, was glinting in the sun; and Auriol was sure that he recognised Juxon’s figure in the court below. Dressed in purple, the little man was descending the
outside staircase with a footman in tow. What a wicked stupid fool he must be, he thought, then his mind returned to the Marquis and he raised his head.

She was still standing by the belvedere, peering up at the sky with a solemn frown on her face. Auriol thought she looked remarkably young.

“Don’t you care to look over? Are you so much accustomed? Or are you subject to fits of vertigo?” he said.

“Vertigo,” said Meriel. “Well, what do you think of this country, does it compare with your own? You must have a far better notion of it now than seen from the road.”

“You told me then you had no love for the fens,” he replied. “I agree with you: I prefer Longmaster Wood.”

Four yards separated them. They both longed to touch each other, but they were sober, and dared not, although they were safer from possible observers on top of the tower than they would ever be anywhere else. It was the memory of the absurd joy they had each known when they separated after returning from the Green Garter that was separating them now.

“But you come from the Peninsula, even Longmaster Wood must be strange to you, ugly.”

“Why do you suppose that your country must be less agreeable to me than mine? The heat don’t suit my constitution and I was never happy there, you know.”

“I’ve never travelled farther south than Bury Winyard,” said Meriel.

“Perhaps you shall one day,” said Auriol. There was a pause.

“Describe it to me, is it as picturesque as some romance-writers would have us think?”

“Well, it was they invented the notion of its picturesqueness. To my mind it is merely dirty, but then I know it well. I don’t intend to go back there.”

Just at that moment, Auriol did feel that his own dry southern country of colour-washed walls and gravelly vineyards, olive trees and wild boar and many geraniums, was merely hot and dirty. Yet he could picture it as it really was, every detail of Wychwood down to the morning light as sharp as lemon juice. It was only that he never, never wanted to leave Meriel’s territory, where he was valued. Next it occurred to him that perhaps he was
not valued after all, that the Marquis had introduced this topic because she wanted to be rid of him. He felt he was being reduced to nothing, which was not a sensation he had had before, even though he had been underrated most of his life.

“Westmarch —”

“Is it important to you that I am Westmarch, Marquis of Westmarch?” said Meriel in a rush. “Was it before?”

Taken aback, Auriol swallowed, thinking that he must always call her ‘Meriel’ in future. “In all honesty — yes.” He squinted at her across the flowerbed and perceiving her expression, thumped one palm with his fist as she was in the habit of doing. “So I daresay you think it a mere case of toad-eating, but it is not! I am a rustic, a gapeseed, a bumpkin remember — good God, do you suppose that your rank could
not
fascinate me? Don’t let’s come to cuffs!”

“It’s a false rank to which I’ve no right, being vile,” said Meriel, her eyes, like his, screwed up against the sun. “Do you know that in all likelihood I’ll end my days as a prisoner in a Female College? Fine rank and consequence I’ll have then, sir. Not but what I’d cut my own throat first.”

“I would not let you do that,” he said boldly.

“Well, I think you would not be in a position to stop me, if I were discovered,” said Meriel then, and smiled, stretching out a nervous hand. “I am afraid you might well be ruined too. You must know that. Oh, come here, come to me, let’s sit down on this bench.”

He went, and they did so, and then Meriel crossed her legs and started to talk fretfully about the Fen Commission which managed these lands of hers round about in a way she could not approve of. Auriol, watching her face, felt unable to make useful comments.

“Oh, why the devil am I letting my tongue run on in this ridiculous way!” she said. “What was I talking about?”

He laughed, and took her hand, very much relieved to know that she was not really interested in the Fen Commissioners. “I wasn’t attending. You said that it would be foolish beyond permission to do something or other to the drains, but I can’t remember what.”

Smiling perfunctorily, she said, “I wonder what my father would say if he could see us now. It does not bear thinking of.”

Auriol glanced towards the battlements, then turned back to Meriel. “Perhaps he would have been amused, Meriel. Well, I remember my own father used to say yours had a sardonic, caustic
way with him, set no more store by the proprieties than by fashionable town-ways. And I don’t doubt he would have thought you very brave to do as you have done, however wrong-headed.”

“Do you know, you are a comfort to me,” Meriel said, and edged towards him along the bench. She examined his face intently. “Do — do you indeed think so?” It had never occurred to her that anyone who knew the truth about what she was and how she had coped could think of her with any other emotion than rage and disgust. Possibly fear.

“I think he would have been prouder of, of his boy-girl than he would ever have been of a son, a true son,” Auriol replied, knowing that he was saying very much the right thing. “To have concealed your true sex from the world for so long is no mean achievement, it’s remarkable, indeed. It is, Meriel. Perhaps he would not have
approved
of what you have done — would not approve of me — but he must have been proud to think you had so much, so much determination and rumgumption and resource!” He hesitated. “Tell me, did you, did you never think of telling your mother, someone else — of living as a female from the time Juxon told you?”

Meriel stared at him. “Only with the most profound horror!”

“Yes, I see. Yes, it would have been damnably difficult.”

“You think my father would have loved me even if he had known I was a daughter,” she said, a moment after, “but it is not so, Wychwood, because only men are loved.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh, but it is, Wychwood, I assure you.”

“It is not.”

“Yes, because one must have
power
in order not to be despised.”

“No. I love you,” said Auriol, and gripped her knee. “I would not love you half so much if you were indeed a man, and if you had no power as you call it, I’d love you as much as ever, very likely more, I promise you, because you are
yourself
. Despite what I said not ten minutes ago.”

“The devil you would,” muttered Meriel, putting an arm round his waist as firmly as she could. “I’m so damned tired, Wychwood, I still don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.”

“I too. Our situation is not easy.”

“What are we to do?”

Auriol took hold of her hand. “Meriel, tell me, do you — sincerely wish me to make love to you?”

Meriel had not expected this. She sat up and withdrew from him.

“Yes, of course, what do you suppose?
I
wish to make love to
you
, sir.”

“I wonder how you — picture it,” he said, not letting go of her hand. Oh, I do love you so much, you extraordinary little devil, he thought, God knows why.

“With pretty fair accuracy, I’ve a tolerably good notion of all I should like to do to you, you may be sure,” Meriel said.

“Oh?” said Auriol.

“Pray do not be thinking I do not know what men are, sir, women too, I’ve seen men sea-bathing often and often, and I have read
Nights
of
the
Gods
and such stuff, who has not? I don’t like your tone!”

“But don’t you think I shall have to show you the way, all the same,” said Auriol, remembering the gentle night they had spent together. “You are a little afraid, I can tell, and who can wonder at it?”

“Damn it, I’m not! How dare you?” Her voice was not quite as rough as her words: she too remembered her crying all over him at the Green Garter.

“Meriel, there’s no shame in it. I’m afraid myself, but I have more experience than you, and I’m not in the same — confusion, confusion of sex.”

“At all events,” said Meriel, “I don’t intend to indulge in lovemaking just yet.”

“Perhaps that is wise, we must grow a little more accustomed.”

“Yes, and I want to, to feed my fancy with anticipatory imaginings,” Meriel told him.

A current of good genital desire ran between them then, and made their narrowed eyes shyly meet: it was the first they had shared and recognised and the most powerful they had known.

“Bless you,” said Auriol thickly. Her words had brought back to him the altered vision of his own sexuality which had given him such a disturbing and enjoyable shock in the privacy of his room.

“Ay, and you.”

They did not touch each other. They could not speak for a while, their faces were too full of blood.

Meriel got up, and to Auriol’s surprise she walked over to the parapet and looked down at Castle West, her fear of heights forgotten. He smiled to see it. When she raised her head she did not look either dazed or sick; perhaps he had cured her. Auriol went over to her, and put a large arm round her shoulders. Together, they stepped back.

“Do you suppose that we love each other — only because we are both at odds with the world in our different ways, that we need each other’s — support?” said Meriel. “Wychwood, I’ve had a thought — if we are not happy
without
each other, can we be happy together, as lovers? I daresay that sounds a deuced odd thing to say, people are expected to find love a cure for all ills, are they not? Fustian nonsense, to my mind.”

“No,” said Auriol. He took in what she had said in silence, but when he spoke did not refer to it directly. “I know only that I desire of all things to keep you from harm, make you happy — almost, well, as though you were an ordinary woman.” He added, “I mean that if I can do anything to prevent it, I shall never let that man, Juxon, oppress you again.” From the twitch of her shoulders under his arm, he could tell that he had startled her.

“He does oppress me,” said Meriel. “Says he loves me and wishes to
protect
me, which is a damned impertinent imposition — very differently those words sound coming from you, I confess!” she said, without smiling.

“I did not mean to imply that you are a helpless female, if that’s what you’re thinking.”