The Marquis of Westmarch (11 page)

Meriel took hold of the hand that was clasping her arm, and shook it slightly. “I’ll keep you from harm too, never fear, I won’t let you be ruined if it should come to that. Believe me, I’ll take care of
you
! It is my — dearest wish, sir.”

“I know you will.”

“Because I love you exclusively, little love. There is no going back now, Wychwood.” She pronounced ‘little love’ with great care, to convince herself that that was what he was.

“No, and I’m glad.”

“Good of you. It will certainly be an adventure.”

“To be sure it will. Damn the man, what
right
had he to dictate to you, establish the course of your life and keep you from friends with his horror-stories!”

Meriel poked him in the chest as he squeezed her. “I’ll say this for you, Wychwood, you have a pretty good notion of his methods. I’ve told you almost nothing as yet.”

“Oh, I trust I have commonsense.”

They kissed briefly before going down, and each felt one little dart of promising pleasure, but no more.

*

While Meriel and Auriol were on top of the tower, the Marchioness, passing by in her sedan chair, saw Juxon and Hugo Longmaster talking together under the budding apple-blossom in Orchard Court. Saccharissa, who knew that they loathed each other, nearly ordered the chairmen to set her down for a moment, but remembered how odd this would look. Leaning back in her chair, she put a sweetmeat in her mouth, and her light eyes gleamed as she decided to ask her son about this meeting and watch him pretend that he knew all about it. She rather suspected that neither Hugo nor Juxon would mention it to Meriel.

When the Marchioness’s chair had been carried through into the next court, Juxon took out a silk fan from his pocket, began to ply it, and looked up into Longmaster’s face, which was as elaborately painted as his own.

“You say, sir, that Mr Conybeare was
in
his
cups
when he invited you to plot with him in this singularly foolish manner?”

“What a very charming fan, sir. From Twentyman’s? Oh, yes, indeed, most certainly he was. But nonetheless, it is an excellent jest, is it not, Mr Juxon? Poor Tancred, how he does long to be restored to his grandfather’s, no, great-grandfather’s dignities, to be sure! He even signs himself ‘Northmarch’ when writing to his various bits of muslin, you know, though, of course, he is by far too discreet to do so when communicating with persons of consequence. Yes, sometimes I think he does indeed believe that if only his three noble cousins were to be found murdered, all would be well with him.”

“And with you, Mr Longmaster? Pray do not be thinking I wish to imply that you are not a man of honour!”

“My dear sir, my desire to succeed Westmarch — should he choose not to marry, to be sure! — stops somewhere short of murder,” said Hugo, smiling and taking snuff. He did not offer his box to Juxon.

“Why do you tell this to me?” said Juxon. “Why do you not tell the Marquis himself?”

“Because I would not dream of entertaining
him
with an account of Conybeare’s, er, jug-bitten maunderings.” Longmaster saw that Juxon believed his story to be nothing but an unpleasant tease, and he smiled. “Dear Tancred is such a fool.”

“Do you not feel it is perhaps a pity,” said Juxon, “that you have allowed such a man as Mr Conybeare to guess at your sentiments towards the Marquis? Your envy, indeed, is natural enough, Mr Longmaster, but to my mind, unwisely expressed.”

Until now, Longmaster had dominated the conversation, and had been able to anger Juxon. “A very palpable hit, Sir Steward!” he said. Juxon had never been known to speak to anyone with such direct impertinence. “But on occasion it is advantageous to betray a-certain-version of one’s feelings, to-certain-persons, for one’s own ends?”

“Is it so, Mr Longmaster?” Juxon rubbed his chin in a pleased, inelegant gesture, which he had tried many times to abandon. “I wonder at your saying that, to me.”

“You are devoted to my cousin, are you not, sir?” said Hugo, and he saw Juxon wince. He continued, copying Juxon’s mode of speech in a very natural way, “Quite devoted. Indeed, I have a notion that you almost love him.” Longmaster’s suspicion that Juxon was not wholly self-seeking increased his contempt for him, though he would have respected a well-born former Governor for sincere devotion to Meriel. “That, my dear sir, is why I thought it proper to — inform you of my cousin Conybeare’s wicked ambitions. For I am persuaded that they
are
true ambitions — wicked ambitions — however difficult of fulfilment.” He spoke very lightly, and his smile was charming. “Westmarch believes the best of everyone, but for a very few exceptions, does he not? So very unworldly, as he is! He would not pay the least attention to my suspicions, were I to divulge them to him.”

“Very likely he would not, Mr Longmaster,” said Juxon.

“We have had a comfortable cose, have we not, sir?” said Longmaster, taking another pinch of snuff and looking down at Juxon with the smile still on his lips. “No, pray don’t upset yourself! It was a poor witticism, was it not, on
such
a serious
subject? Good day to you.” He nodded a dismissal, and strode off.

Longmaster had not approached Juxon in the courtyard: Juxon had approached him, in order to ask him delicate questions about his recent visit to Bury Winyard. Hugo smiled to think of the irritatingly satisfactory answers he had given. He had told Juxon a little bit of the truth about Tancred Conybeare, but he would never tell anyone the whole.

Conybeare had asked in all earnest for his help in raising a rebellion in Northmarch, and he, Longmaster, had refused it just as he ought. If he were to tell Westmarch that, Westmarch would never believe him. But as it was, his incorruptibility, and his polite refusal to boast about it, gave him a hold at least over Conybeare, which might one day be useful.

Juxon raised his eyes to the sunlit top of the great gate-tower, and indulged in a few thoughts of having Longmaster murdered. He would like to see him dead, but he shrank from violence, and he knew that if Meriel found out about it, she would disapprove. It made him feel dirty to think that Hugo Longmaster had guessed he loved Meriel: he, Juxon, who had never had a taste for his own sex, or touched a disgusting womanly woman. Meriel was untouchable. His love for her was infinitely pure, because cloaked in her seeming masculinity, her nobility and strength, she was the only pure woman in the world.

Juxon knew that Meriel was showing Knight Auriol the view from the top of the tower, and he intended to wait here, wandering poetically under the apple-trees, until they came down and crossed through the courtyard. Sadly, he thought that he had best not let them notice him. He only wanted one look at either of their faces.

It did not occur to Juxon that Meriel might want even in a moment of madness to tell Auriol Wychwood the truth. She was far too clean to fall in love, or even to be aware of the reality of difference of sex; and far too well trained and too aware of danger to tell him even if she were. Juxon’s only fear was that the coarsely male creature would eventually see through Meriel’s disguise, and desire her, and violate her. He gave very little of his attention to the prospect of blackmail, or even that of exposure, his thoughts were on the filthiness of lust.

Juxon turned red and shivered, as he gazed at the tower. The Marquis was too innocent, he thought, to understand that she was in constant need of protection even from such negligible persons as Tancred Conybeare. Something must be done; but Juxon loved Meriel, his creation, too much to act with dangerous haste in disposing of Wychwood. He could not quite trust her not to object.

The Marquis treated her guardian with cool rudeness nowadays, but if the worst were to happen, she would turn to him at last: and he, Florimond Juxon, would know what to do. A part of him rather liked to imagine a fallen Marquis weeping with her head in his lap.

Ten days had passed since their meeting on top of the tower. Now they were standing outside Auriol’s bedchamber door, gripping each other’s arms, and laughing. They had wanted to laugh very often, since their quick kiss on the tower, both when they met in public, and on the three occasions when they had been alone.

“Damme, Meriel, I never saw you look so well before,” said Auriol shyly, putting his hands on her shoulders. Her beauty, in his eyes, was making him inarticulate. “But I sincerely trust that you don’t show yourself in your shirtsleeves in the general way. No one who saw you now would take you for a boy, let me tell you.”

Meriel glanced at her discarded coat, tunic and neckcloth, which lay over a nearby chair. Auriol’s clothes were underneath.

“No, I never dare take off more than my coat. But how so, sir? I have no hips or bosom to speak of, thank God.” She looked up at him, frowning slightly, but with happiness and teasing in her eyes.

“No, and you’ve no shoulders either,” he said, stroking them, but unable to look at her. “See your ankles, and your hands, and your neck, it’s scarcely thicker than my arm.”

“Well,” said Meriel calmly, “I could name you half a dozen men as tall as I am, with shoulders, who have far less strength at least in their hands than I have.”

“Yes, but it’s the look of the thing. Swear to me you’ll never let any man besides me see you like this!”

“Unnecessary, but yes, I swear!” She pulled down his head to kiss it.

Auriol was unable to resist the temptation to pick her up off the floor, swing her legs over one of his arms, and hold her like a child.

The reaction was, “Good God, what will you be at!”

He laughed, “Oh, Meriel.”

“No, put me down, I’m nervous enough in all conscience without that. I mean — I don’t care to be dangling four feet above the ground.”

“As you wish. I had meant to put you at your ease.”

But she kissed him again when he released her, and he could tell that in some way he had increased her excitement as well as his own, so all was as it should be.

Meriel opened the door of his little bedchamber, and they saw that it was as dark as a cave: they had been expecting to find it already lit, though neither had done anything about it. Auriol picked up a branch of three candles from the sofa-table and led the way inside. When he had set the candelabrum down on a chest of drawers, he turned round, and saw that Meriel was looking back into the other room, and had her arms folded tightly around her body. He took two strides towards her.

“Are you cold?”

“No, sir.” She closed the door, and smiled at him.

He took both her hands, and kissed first the left and then the right, which bore on its middle finger the great carnelian seal-ring of Westmarch. Drawing her close to him, he examined this. Meriel gave him a pat on the side of the face, then stood on tiptoe and bit him lightly on the jaw. He gave a grunt of laughter.

“Little vixen.”

“
Elephant
.”

Auriol, holding her by the waist, began to pull at her shirt.

“Oh, I adore you,” she said, struggling, laughing as he laughed. They took a step nearer to the bed in the alcove, and the candles flickered in a draught.

Yesterday, they had ridden out to a wood several miles away, and there they had chased each other, like children. Once, when they were rolling down a little slope in each other’s arms, Auriol had said: “Never fear that you’ll find yourself breeding, I’ll take care of that, Meriel.” She remembered the male smell of him, the strong peppery reek that must be so different from her own scent of dirty blood and corruption, which was imperceptible to herself, but about which she had heard men talk with reference to women.

“No!” she said now, as his palm cupped her white breast under her shirt. Her eyes had caught sight of Auriol’s shadow, looming
on the attic ceiling. Her own was nearly as large, and quite as active, but she did not notice it.

“What? What do you mean?”

Meriel retreated. “I can’t. And don’t think to make me, sir
I
am not some wretched little game-pullet.”

“Meriel, what the
devil
—”

“I will not do it. I can’t.”

“No.” He lunged forward and tried to grab her wrist, then realised what a terrible mistake that was.

Nostrils savagely indented with anger, Meriel looked at him from the other side of the room.

“Never dare — do anything like that, sir.”

“I am sorry. Please, come back.”

“N-no.” The frightened sneer was gone.

“I tell you I’m sorry!”

Although it was the sudden memory of Auriol’s words in the wood that had jolted her into fending him off, it was not the fear of pregnancy but the fear of being swallowed, invaded, and abolished as Elphinstone’s daughter-son Marquis of Westmarch that possessed her now. She still loved him, but she was loyal to her old self. Reason told her that to make love was to lose pride, strength and purity. She knew all about the convention of virtue for women, and lived in disgust of it, but this was different. She knew that as a matter of honour, she must listen to reason at this last chance, before giving in, if she did give in, however unhappy it made her.

Auriol, though he was fighting his own anger, had some idea of her state of mind, and body.

“I’ll — I’ll be as gentle as I know how. And you mustn’t be afraid that —”

“I don’t want you to be gentle.”

“Then what? D’you wish to be ill-treated?” She said nothing, she seemed not to be listening at all. “Meriel, for God’s sake come here, I’ll die if you don’t!”

They stared at each other, and tears began to slop down Meriel’s cheeks as she edged forward into the middle of the room. “Can you not see?” she said. “It
can’t
be possible, not for me!”

“Meriel, if we don’t do this thing now, what will become of us, what will you do! Look at me!” Her sad, desirous eyes were on his breeches; he wanted her to take one look at his face.

“Lie still for me,” she whispered, giving him one glance. She stopped crying as suddenly as she had begun. “Only that, for now.”

With a huge effort, for her behaviour had not deflated him, but quite the opposite, which made him feel he was going mad, Auriol said: “Very well. We’ll see — what happens, then, little Marquis. Come!”

Meriel came, sat down on the bed, and took possession of his hand. She was thinking of his words: ‘what will become of us? what will you do?’ if you cannot love.

*

“Westmarch!” said Auriol, with a tremor of laughter in his voice. “My dear Westmarch, do, pray, wake up!” He shook her as she lay there asleep in her crumpled coat on the sitting-room sofa, next to a table which the two of them had loaded with cards, bottles, dirty glasses, and slips of paper the night before. She had been there for three hours; they had stayed together in bed next door till dawn.

“There seems to be no waking him at all, Esmond,” he said to Meriel’s major domo, who was standing in his tiny hallway looking with cynical indulgence on the sunlit scene.

He had known the Marquis for many years, and had never yet seen him do anything so natural as fall asleep in a friend’s rooms after an evening’s drunken gaming. Juxon had kept him on too tight a rein for that, and Esmond had often wondered at such a spirited young man’s submission to his ex-Governor. Both Meriel and Auriol knew that everyone had wondered at it.

“So I perceive, my Knight,” said Esmond.

“Uh-h,” said Meriel.

“Well, he hasn’t cocked up his toes yet, at all events … Westmarch,” said Auriol loudly, “your major domo is without, he’s come to fetch you to a meeting of the Closet!”

“What?” She saw his soft face, and raised a hand, which he brushed away.

“You ought at this moment to be presiding over a meeting of the Grand Closet. Esmond is here.”

“That, my lord Marquis, is indeed the case!” said the major domo.

Meriel jumped. She remembered last night, the plan they had
made for being discovered in an innocent misdemeanour, and woke up. “What? Oh, my God! It’s you, Esmond, is it? Damn it, could you not have sent one of the footmen? It would have looked a deal less particular! D’you want the whole of Castle West to know I was too much disguised to make my way back last night? My head’s fit to kill me. Go, tell ’em I’ll be there directly, Esmond — with my compliments and apologies, of course!”

Esmond sniffed. “Mr Juxon, my lord Marquis, took it upon himself to order me to fetch your lordship in person. He, being detained by Mr Lucy, was unable to come himself.”

“Did he so! Well, in that case I am fortunate.”

“I daresay he was desirous of knowing the extent of the Marquis’s losses,” said Auriol. “They’re not so very bad!”

The major domo gave him a look, smiled, bowed deeply to Meriel, and left, closing the door behind him.

“Marquis!” said Auriol. They both laughed, uneasily. “Did you think me too familiar with Esmond?”

“My losses, my
gains
, sir! Twenty crowns you owe me, because we
did
play at piquet for a short while, didn’t we? Gad, if Juxon
had
come himself it would have been the very devil, but — but diverting!”

She turned her eyes to him and waited for a response, and he gathered her up from the sofa and set her on her feet, kissing her forehead with profound respect as he did so. Meriel put her hands in his, and squeezed them. “Would it not?”

“It would. But it was an addle-brained thing to do, only to tease them, we never must again.”

“No, though I thought it was rather to put them off the scent than to tease them. What a pity I do have to go.”

“I know, love.”

“It was good, the last time?”

“It was damnably good.”

They parted.

Fifteen minutes later, the Marquis walked into her dining-room, where ten men, most of whom were far older than she was, were seated at a table made to accommodate forty. Light from the east window fell on the table, but did not illuminate the faded mural, painted on plaster and depicting a battle, which ran round the walls. I seem to notice everything today, thought Meriel, with
her eyes on the blue wigs and gleaming bald heads. She sighed: she had not been happy to leave Auriol this time.

The members of the Grand Closet rose from their chairs and bowed to her as she entered. She apologised sincerely for being late, as she never had been before, and they forgave her with smiling murmurs, and sat down, shuffling.

Juxon, in his capacity of First Secretary, sat at the Marquis’s left hand, but was removed by six places from the nearest full member of the Closet. When Meriel took her high seat under the window, he gave her a long, slow look which she took to be compassionate. He must think she was ill. Meriel’s heart beat fast at the thought of what she had been doing, and, thinking how remarkably little and ugly he was, she smiled and murmured in a friendly way, “Too much devilish brandy! Don’t, pray, look at me as though I’d just had notice to quit. What’s this?” she added, as Juxon handed her a sheaf of papers.

“Do but look at it, my dear Marquis.”

Glancing down, she saw that the whole meeting was to be about a proposed extension of the great canal from Fenmarket to Laura Spa, on the Northmarch border. Some claimed that an extension was quite unnecessary, and there had been trouble about the method of financing it even from its supporters. Meriel, turning over pages of figures gathered together by Juxon, remembered that she was not a supporter, while Juxon was.

Her lips tightened. In that moment, with the smell of Auriol still fresh on her skin, she realised quite what a fool she was, and how entirely unfit to be Marquis of Westmarch. Juxon had never blackmailed her into giving way to him over such things as this; she had allowed him to rule her out of laziness. She had encouraged him to take most of her work on his shoulders, and because of that, though for years she had opposed him on principle, he would always win her round in the end. The clarity with which she saw the outer world now was not at all the same, pleasurable clarity with which she had viewed it on the day after her talk on the beach.

From the far end of the table, the Senior Member of the Court of Citizens pronounced his opinion of the canal.

“My lord Marquis, before you have driven yourself to distraction by trying to understand such a set of rubbishing, lying figures as Mr Juxon has just set before you —” There was no sound
from Juxon, but there were stifled laughs from two others “— I must tell you that on no account will the Court countenance the raising of a forced loan to finance such a damned caper-witted scheme, upon my word they will not! A sixty foot canal, above a hundred miles in length, through damned difficult country as you will know for yourself, Marquis, and to what purpose? The lining of certain pockets, ay, there’s your purpose for you!”

“Senior Member!” said the Keeper of the Treasury.

“All I have to say is that my sympathies are with you,” said the Marquis, raising her voice to reach him. “Do not be putting yourself in a passion, Senior Member.”

“A very improper style he uses in speaking to you! Such unbecoming violence!” whispered Juxon on her left. His face was completely impassive, though his words were so petulant.

“Do not you either, Juxon,” said Meriel, turning briefly.

She longed to tell him, now, that Auriol Wychwood was her lover, only to see the expression on his face. Crazily she thought he might perhaps be pleased.

“I would remind the Closet of the difficulties in transporting supplies during the Northmarch War,” said Mr Lucy, the dandified, talented Warlord Chancellor, who was only ten years older than Meriel. “I trust that one day this canal will be proved to be a military necessity even to your satisfaction, Senior Member.”

“You hope for another war, sir?” said Meriel, leaning forward, and brushing away a memory of Auriol which made her insides ache. Mr Lucy, looking at her, thought how very fascinating the Marquis was, and how impossible it was to make advances to a man in his position. Recently, his looks seemed to have improved. “With whom?” said Meriel.