The Marquis of Westmarch (24 page)

Meriel, staring at his green-shaded face as the sun came out, thought: does it occur to him that if we were to carry out this precious scheme, Auriol would only have to tell his inquisitors what I am in order to be released?

She had never been so frightened in her life.

Kindly, anxiously, seriously, Juxon said, “Time to consider, perhaps? Do you wish for time to consider, Marquis?”

Juxon's revelation changed everything. Sitting up together by hot candlelight late that same night, Meriel and Auriol repaired their quarrel as they discussed the Steward's wickedness in seemingly perfect unity of mind. They then agreed on a provisional plan for Auriol's escape, a plan which had to involve Philander Grindal, and had to be put into action as quickly as possible: tomorrow.

It seemed to them that Philander had to know some version of the truth about Juxon's madness and the treason-charges, in order that he would agree to allow them to use his shooting lodge on the Southmarch border as a temporary hiding-place. What was to happen after they had made use of it, Meriel and Auriol did not discuss. They were too frightened of quarrelling again about that unmentionable future.

*

Day was going down behind the castle wall in a thin cloudy sunset of striped blues and pale yellow. Philander Grindal, sitting in a window embrasure in Auriol's attic, wondered how he could have borne the heat up here, where it was unruffled even at twilight by the slightest stir of wind. He had not borne it well, that was clear, even though he was alert and eager now at the prospect of escape.

Auriol's appearance shocked Philander. He was clean, and fairly neat, but his big muscles seemed to hang slackly on his frame, indicating that if he took little exercise when he grew older he might well become fat. There were shadows under his eyes as there were under Meriel's and his complexion looked sallow. Auriol had coarsened.

Meriel was on the sofa, leaning well back against its arm with one booted leg thrown over the other. She was drinking black coffee and looking tired but handsome. For the past ten minutes,
she had been talking in a careless, drawling way, rather like her Cousin Hugo's, as though nothing mattered in the least. But her eyes were anxious, and so were Auriol's. His manner was rather curt.

Philander was hating this discussion. Though the other two pointedly consulted him, their various remarks often seemed to be aimed only at each other, and to have little to do with the business in hand. Both of them could smile at one moment and look exceedingly rigid the next. On the whole, they smiled: smiled as though at some insulting secret joke, he thought. Philander told himself that the obvious love between them was not carnal, and almost wished that Meriel could have formed a simple, happy connection with some boy all Castle West knew for certain to prefer men. He would have been discreet about that.

Suddenly Auriol turned to Grindal, and asked with a curious mixture of kindliness and scorn, “Grindal, why precisely
did
you agree to help us in this? You know, Westmarch himself reminded me that you have a good deal of respect for the proprieties, and you dislike scandal, and I'm sure that with your great good sense you would think it damned unlikely that Juxon would go so far as to try to poison me! Doesn't it sound an unlikely tale, sir? Can you find it easy to believe? Why didn't you tell him, Westmarch, to wait at least a little while, and then see how matters stood?”

Meriel drew in her breath at this.

Grindal set down his coffee-cup with a little too much force. “I do think Westmarch's fears may be exaggerated, yes, I hope so, and it is the craziest tale ever I heard, but if what he told me is true, which of course I can't doubt, Juxon does indeed appear to be a dangerous madman, Wychwood! Don't you think so?”

“As I was saying in so many words yesterday, indeed,” said Meriel, “both to you, sir, and to you, Philander,
and
to Dianeme. Exhausting work it was. So devilish hard to persuade you all that he is, in fact, queer in his attic.” She flicked at some dust on her shoulder.

Auriol gripped his knees. He did not understand why it upset him to see her nervously pretending to be an idle and bored, clever young fellow, when she was finally about to run away with him. She was even sending him teasing glances from under her eyelids. But he could see that Grindal too was surprised to see that in the
presence of Auriol himself, Meriel appeared to treat his plight as a tiresome and amusing little difficulty, not as a desperate case. Yesterday her behaviour had been very different: she had abased herself and begged.

Why, Auriol thought in a flash: of course, she is terrified that I will tell Grindal she is a woman! Tell him now. As I could, Meriel, if I were not a man of honour — like you.

“Dianeme was certainly very much shocked,” said Grindal. “But she like myself concluded that there could be no resisting Westmarch's importunities when your life might possibly be in danger, to answer your question, Wychwood.”

“Importunities?” said Meriel, raising her eyebrows. “Surely a request, merely? Though I suppose it
was
improper, Wychwood is perfectly right. So much of what we do is improper.”

Neither of them will ever know now that I honestly wanted him killed, she thought. It no longer matters that I did: this will expiate.

“How can there be impropriety in my lending you what aid I can in such a case as this?” cried Grindal. “And I hope I have courage enough to face the possible consequences to myself! Shall we now turn to more important matters than my feelings on the subject?”

“You are a very loyal friend, I see, Grindal,” said Auriol.

“But of course he is, my oldest and my best,” said Meriel.

“Philander, what I want to know is this: granted that it's essential to smuggle him out before everyone is awake, how many do you suppose, among the grooms and porters, are likely to recognise him? For we can't depend upon meeting no one at all.”

“Wychwood is known to be wondrous great with you and so he is an object of interest to some of them on that account alone. Besides his size — I beg your pardon, sir. He will most certainly be recognised. Your dependence must be upon your own consequence, Westmarch. Anyone who sees you both with me in attendance may chatter — even mention the circumstances to his betters — but none of them will dare to remonstrate with you! And you will soon be out of reach, we hope. It is a fortunate circumstance that you are what you are, Meriel.”

“Indeed,” said Meriel, twiddling her thumbs.

“We would be obliged to resort to drugging the men outside
and smuggling poor Wychwood out in a trunk, I daresay, if you were
not
the Marquis.” Grindal smiled wryly and looked from one to the other.

“What an adventure that would be, to be sure,” said Meriel.

“Yes, almost like an elopement,” Auriol agreed.

Meriel turned back to Philander with a quick movement of the head.

“So are you proposing that I should simply take him up in my curricle to air him a trifle? Are you to accompany us?”

“Yes, I fancy that will present a better appearance — I shall go as rearguard, as it were. But don't use the curricle, and most certainly not a chaise! Ride, don't drive. Wychwood is not an invalid to be taken out for a gentle airing, Meriel. On the other hand, perhaps the curricle —”

“No, indeed,” said Meriel. “Quite the reverse, I —”

“Saddling the horses,” Auriol interrupted. “Who's to do that? Ourselves? Or shall Westmarch use his vast consequence to overawe some groom into doing it in the usual way?”

“Ourselves,” said Philander. “Both you and Westmarch are known to be well able to groom your own horses, and one of you can very well saddle mine for me. If you make your escape very early, as you said, your own grooms will be asleep. You won't care to waken them.”

“You think of everything,” said Auriol. “How I admire you!”

“Wychwood has no groom of his own at Castle West,” said Meriel, sitting further forward. This quibble irritated both men. She went on, “You'll bear us company in order to seem something in the nature of a guard, Philander, or so I collect? Your notion is that should dear Wychwood try to make a run for it, the two of us should be able to overpower him? That's what anyone who chances to see us will think?”

“Exactly so.”

“So no devoted servant of mine will indulge in nightmarish visions of my lifeless corpse stretched out by the roadside. Ah, me.”

“You seem not to realise that it may very well be a case of lifeless corpses if this comes to nothing,” said Auriol.

“But my dear sir, how could I forget it?” she replied, then said in a very different voice, “Oh, don't look at me like that! I'm in a worry — nervous — I can't forbear to tease.”

“Westmarch,” said Philander, “What I do not understand is why you feel yourself obliged not only to effect Wychwood's escape, but to remain with him.”

He blushed, and so did Meriel. Auriol did not. Philander tried to show a sense of humour, and went on, “After all,
you
can scarcely be wishful to escape from Castle West, Meriel!”

“Oh, but I am!” said Meriel, in shock. She could not imagine how she had betrayed her intention of quitting her post to Philander, never had she deliberately done so, and she could not believe it of Auriol.

“And he will scarcely require you of all people as a protector from the militia! Indeed, Westmarch, if you too disappear instead of returning to explain the business, it will look shockingly.” Still puzzled, he faced Auriol. “Surely, Wychwood, you must see that it is quite ineligible? I thought at first that Westmarch meant only to escort you out of Castle-town, but now from various things you have both said, I collect that is not so. I do not mean to be impertinent, but why must he go with you?”

“We have a further purpose in mind which we have not disclosed to you,” said Auriol briefly. He got to his feet for the first time during the conversation. “It is necessary, I promise you.”

“No, I think Philander is perfectly right,” said Meriel. Auriol stared at her. “I may very likely join — visit you, for there's nothing I should like better, but I ought to return here first. Truly, Wychwood, I ought to settle matters here.”

“You-may-very-likely?” whispered Auriol.

“Yes, can you not go on alone?”

It was too much. The sight of Meriel lounging with such tense grace, of her neat little blue-haired friend sitting behind her and so preventing him from speaking his mind, made Auriol's whole face throb with rage. For nearly twenty-four hours he had been allowed to believe that at last, what he had longed for was going to happen, and that nothing could prevent it. He had reminded himself over and over that this time tomorrow, he and Meriel would be galloping south, never to go back to the prison of Castle West.

Now he was to be deprived of his treat, and all for a foolish whim or scruple. He would be deserted. She would never come to join him.

“Do you not understand?” said Philander. “My dear Wychwood, do not be putting yourself in this ridiculous passion! I know you have had much to endure, but if Westmarch does
not
return, don't you see that there will be a perfect hue and cry after the pair of you that I could do nothing to prevent? Indeed, I —”

“Be silent!” shouted Auriol. Both the others looked very surprised and, he thought, disgusted. He wondered that they dared.

It did occur to him that Meriel was prevaricating only because Philander was there, but the thought did not soothe him. If she still meant to escape with him, it was her duty to tell her friend the whole truth, now that one secret element of their plan had apparently leaked out despite themselves. It was not her duty to seem to compromise. But he, Auriol, was incapable of saying that she was a woman and was going to elope with him. He believed that thanks to her he had neither the strength nor the courage. At the moment he found it almost impossible to believe that she was, in fact, female and his mistress.

“Come, sir,” she said.

His own feelings, Meriel's determination to be calm, and above all, Grindal's presence which she had insisted on, tied up Auriol's tongue so that he could not use it. Instead, taking one step forward, he raised his arm, and brought his hand cracking down on Meriel's face.

The blow was so hard that it knocked Meriel sideways.

“Oh, my God!” shrieked Philander.

“Oh, no,” said Auriol, “oh, no.”

Meriel had made no sound, not even a moan, the surprise had been too great. The two men now watched her raise herself, and saw that her right cheek was not only dark pink, but distended. Though Auriol had struck her with his open palm not his fist, she was going to have a bruise on her cheekbone. In some ways, she was no stronger than other women.

It took her several moments to recover. Her head felt like a whirlpool, and she could see sickly gold in front of her eyes, a sensation she remembered from the two occasions in her life on which she had fainted.

“Meriel, remember, you can't call him out!” said Philander, knowing full well that he would have to, despite his position in
the state and despite the law. Among gentlemen, no apology could be given or received after a blow.

It was Philander's warning that reminded Meriel and Auriol of the necessity of fighting a duel. Auriol, horrified at what he had done to the woman who loved him, on the point of scooping her up from the sofa and begging forgiveness, nearly gave way to laughter when he realised how things looked to Grindal. But when he looked again at Meriel, he saw that as yet she was neither shocked nor hurt, but glittering with the cold vengeful fury of a person intolerably humiliated, and that calmed him. He had meant to hurt her but never to degrade her as she clearly felt he had done.

Meriel said, very quietly, “You will meet me for this, sir.”

It was a profound relief to remember that that dignified way of settling a score was open to her and at once, she felt less angry and less helpless.

“Westmarch, for God's sake —” Grindal began. She turned on him, her marked face a horrible sight. “Do you expect me —
me
— to stomach such an insult as that? Do you?”