Mischief Acts, page 12
‘We’ll stop near Cambridge first,’ he mutters.
‘How much further after that?’
‘Three days, in all.’
Dismay turns in her stomach. She looks down at the rose-pink dress, the new silk purse. ‘But I’m dressed for dinner!’ she says. ‘And that won’t come till Friday?’ She tries to laugh, but really she would like to weep.
The coach wheels churn in mud. They hear the driver goad the horses, his cracking whip. Ann pictures Erlekin amid the dripping wood. Call that a song? he’d said, when he had heard her humming an air from Comus. So, she had not told him of this grand sojourn at Seaton Hall, and instead had listened, nodded, as he showed her how to take a robin’s call and slow it down, picking out each note. Don’t forget the old songs, Ann, he’d warned her. The forest has the finest melodies. He’ll wait for her tomorrow, and when she doesn’t come he’ll slip into the Horns, his tricorne hat pulled down, and glare at all the spaces where she does not sit. While Ann will be on roads unknown, lurching through the wind and rain with William, at their driver’s mercy.
*
As their coach pulls up to Seaton Hall, both William and Ann are green about the gills. She has not vomited, but neither has she eaten for the last two days. The journey was so long and dreary, but worse than that, each hour seemed infected with a kind of dread. She’s had too much time to wonder how this trip was brokered, and suspects that game of cards in Kemble Street. Who really won?
William is sullen, has been sullen even when the sun broke through the clouds to show them soaring crags, great gleaming hills, a silver river swollen from the days of rain. Now, at the crunch of gravel underneath the wheels, he stirs and sighs. His eyes are bleary. The carriage air is stale. Above all, Ann would like to lie as still as stone, alone in her room above the Horns. Her father will be grumbling still. He made her teacher swear he would look after her. And William swore. So, all is well, or should be.
The coach driver has made no move, so Ann throws out the carriage door and gulps the mizzled air.
‘Wait,’ snaps William, but she has frozen at the sight of Seaton Hall. Such grandeur, such a serious face it has, it’s hard to see Sir Francis living here. Brown stone, sweeping steps, and now, hurrying down them, a cavalcade of staff in black and white.
She cowers back inside the coach. ‘I can’t step out like this,’ she says, ‘I’m all mussed up.’
‘You’re pretty as a picture,’ William says, and manages a smile.
Ann scowls. ‘I want a bath, no doubt of that.’ But still, excitement rises and she giggles as a footman leans to take her hand.
‘Madame,’ he says, ‘this way,’ and they are greeted by the rows of maids and butlers as they climb the regal steps.
The giant doors are standing wide. As Ann crosses the threshold a great din starts up. Trumpets, horns and drums blast out a clashing fanfare. Petals start to tumble from some unseen height and flutter down like scented snow. Several ladies dressed as forest nymphs are dancing down the endless hall towards her. They curtsey as they take her by the hand and lead her to a kind of throne, completely stuck with roses.
Ann feels the urge to weep again. But there is Sir Francis, grinning, in the guise of Comus. He looks quite gay, his crown bedecked with ribbons, his doublet and his cloak in clashing shades of flame and crimson. Above the fanfare, he bellows out Comus’s lines:
‘Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?’
He helps Ann up on to the throne. William watches, rounded on by nymphs himself, and shakes his head in wonderment. ‘Quite a show,’ he calls out, but Sir Francis pays no heed. He looks only at Ann, who bows her head to receive a rosy crown.
Dizzy with the scent, the trumpet noise, the flowing petals, she whispers to Sir Francis, ‘But I’m Euphrosyne, remember? Not the lady. My part is to persuade her all is well, not sit up here.’ With a flutter in her stomach she recalls the story in the play. The frightened lady, trapped in an enchanted chair by Comus as he preys on her, with magic cup and weasel words. He plans seduction. Wanton sin. The lady risks her virtue.
‘My dear Miss Catley, you may play whichever part your heart desires.’ Sir Francis bends to kiss her feet.
She feels ridiculous, but under William’s watchful eye she laughs and wriggles, playing the coquette. The throne begins to move. Pushed by the forest nymphs, it rolls on hidden wheels the whole length of the hall, Sir Francis leading the procession. There’s nothing she can do but smile delightedly and wait for her release.
*
The music in the glade grows louder. The dancers move so fast that their circle seems a blurred band of golden light against the meagre birch trees.
The Erl-king’s daughter sits behind Sir Olof on his horse. The hand that reaches round his shoulder holds a crag of solid gold. It is larger than a bullock’s heart.
‘I’ll give you this, if you will dance with me.’
Her thighs are pressed around his own. Her breath is cool against his neck.
Such a mass of gold he’s never seen. It would buy him and his wife a blessed life. A home, fine horses, meat and wine; silk and jewels and any gift his children ever asked for. His children!
‘Give me the gold, but let me go. I must not dance,’ Sir Olof says.
The music ringing in his ears becomes discordant. Where all chimed golden, notes begin to shriek in blue and black.
The Erl-king’s daughter thrusts her fist between his shoulder blades. ‘Take only this,’ she shouts.
From the pain across his back spreads a shudder. He can barely hold the reins, nor kick his heels. Upon his jerking mount, Sir Olof hunches, and though he leaves behind the tortured tune, the glittering glade, the Erl-king’s cruel daughter, the shudder grips him all the long ride home.
*
Ann’s limbs are heavy with the weariness of three days on the road. To walk and nod, and smile and chew, is to do so underwater. Her ears are numbed by hours of rattling carriage wheels and sudden trumpet blasts. But there is no respite from her admirer’s hospitality.
The dining hall is decked from top to bottom in great wreaths of ivy, honeysuckle, clematis and rose. In a window nook, a band of minstrels sits to strum and trill. A hundred candles float in bowls of water lilies, and food fit for an elfin horde is laid on whitest linen. Whole roasted birds, candied fruit, jellies bright as costume jewels, salads and vast piles of dainties Ann cannot identify. All stranger than a dream, more fanciful, yet here they sit, the three of them at one end of the heaving table.
Sir Francis heaps her plate with morsels, and pours more wine with every sip she takes. The minstrels croon. Ann struggles even to talk. The conversation seems to slide about, the voices thick and echoing. She nods often, and laughs when William does. It seems to be enough. Eventually, she hopes, she will be shown a room, a bed, and will fall gratefully to sleep.
But the night is long. Sir Francis revels in each dish, each drink, each chance to tell a tale as ludicrous as the one that now envelops them. His ribboned crown slides sideways. Ann droops, then hauls herself upright. She must be gracious, and enjoy herself.
In what feels like the small hours, Sir Francis says he’ll show them both to bed. He claps his hands to summon nymphs, still costumed and obedient, and three of them lead William away.
‘Goodnight, fair prince!’ Sir Francis sings, and turns his demon grin on Ann. It’s just the two of them, a greedy king and queen surrounded by half-eaten bounty. The blooming room swells and sways. On cue, the band of minstrels end their song, and vanish.
‘My nightingale,’ Sir Francis croons. He strokes Ann’s burning cheek, then hesitates. His eyes are bright. ‘I’ve just the balm for you. The sweet night air will freshen weary spirits. Come, and take a walk with me.’ He licks his lips, already wet.
‘It’s very dark,’ says Ann. ‘Why don’t we wait till morning?’
Sir Francis sighs, seemingly relenting. ‘In truth, I have contrived a gift for you, which I long to share. But, if I must be disappointed …’
‘Won’t it be cold?’ she asks. ‘William says a chill would be a danger to my voice.’
Sir Francis stands, flicks off his crimson cloak and in one great swoop has wrapped it around Ann. ‘There,’ he says. ‘Just a minute’s walk? It’s not far. And I promise you a bed fit for a lady.’
Ann thinks of pillows, cool white sheets; a blissful, silent rest. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘A minute.’
Triumphant, he leads her to the velvet drapes that line one wall and swishes them aside. The tall doors rattle open. The air, it’s true, is fresh as water. All beyond is black, but where the land meets sky, a retinue of stars that blaze with chilly light.
Ann is forced to take Sir Francis’s arm, and step into the gaping night. They cross a colonnade, descend six steps, then walk on spongy grass. Her shoes sink in, and all around, the dizzy heavens tip this way and that. She smells damp moss, wet lawn, some other herbal perfumes that she doesn’t know. Sir Francis guides her on. Though their walk is slow, his breath is heavy.
‘Just a little further,’ he mutters now and then. But all around is black on black, the house so far behind that she is not sure she could find her own way back. If it came to that.
At the sound of rushing water, Ann balks. ‘Where are we?’ she asks, as boldly as she dares. ‘I think we should return, don’t you?’
‘We’re here,’ Sir Francis whispers, and she spies a faint flicker of candle flame not far ahead. The path feels muddy, but as the small light grows, Ann’s heart is eased a little. There’s shelter near, at least. She hears the clank of key in lock. She sees the slice of gentle light that widens as they push the door.
The room, so sudden after all that black, is a paragon of opulence. Rugs and furs, tapestries, silken drapes that hide, she sees, a gold four-poster bed. She gives a cry. ‘What is it?’
The light gutters. Hastily, Sir Francis shuts the door against the night. He kneels before her. ‘Starlight Castle. A fairy place for a fairy queen. And all of it, dear Ann, I built for you.’
She gazes at the patterned chaise, the candle sconce, the ornate table laid with wine and fruit in golden dishes. ‘I don’t believe you!’ she laughs. ‘You’re teasing me.’
‘Oh, no.’ Sir Francis frowns. ‘A week ago, this was a patch of meadow grass and daisies. But a queen deserves a castle. And though I lack the magic powers of Comus, I do not lack for zeal. Do I, Ann?’ He draws her fingers close to those wet lips. ‘Dance with me. We need no music.’
She lets him kiss, once, then steps away. The golden bed looms beside them. A pair of gold-heeled slippers, and a dress of silk, white as moonbeams, lie upon the counterpane. ‘I should not accept such gifts,’ she says. ‘But do you mean me to sleep here? Not in the house?’
Sir Francis stands. ‘Nobody need see us, or hear us, hidden as we are, with but the stars for company.’ He is growing grandiose. ‘Do not imagine I’m immune to those bewitching smiles, those saucy looks of yours. William might remain cold-blooded. But I am made of richer and more lusty stuff.’ As he talks he sidles closer, while Ann steps back, and they slowly move around the room like this until they reach the table. ‘Ann, you are wise in your own ways. Your angel eyes are knowing, your laugh designed to reel me in. And you have caught me. Your spell has worked. So now, my darling girl, it’s your turn to give in.’
He grabs her round the waist. With nowhere else to go, she slips his hand and ducks beneath the tabletop.
‘Ann, you need be coy no longer.’ He bends and glowers down at her, the bulge of his eyes more prominent than ever. They are red-veined, and greedy.
‘Did you tell William? That we were coming here?’
‘He need not ever know you are my mistress.’
The key to Starlight Castle dangles from Sir Francis’s neck. She’d like to snatch it, run and lock him in, but beyond is only miles of dark, a landscape she cannot even guess at. Ann smiles. ‘Then grant me one more wish,’ she says. ‘Since this is Starlight Castle, let’s admire the stars together.’
‘Star-crossed lovers that we are.’ Sir Francis beams and helps her up.
She suffers his kiss, his grin of victory, and calls on all that William has taught her. With dimples, blushes and dancing steps she steers him to the door. ‘Let us share your cloak,’ she says, and soon she’s nestled at his chest, the crimson velvet round them both. The key is on a broad ribbon, knotted tight.
‘Which is your favourite star?’ she trills.
‘Let me see.’ She feels Sir Francis’s fingers running up and down her sides, then resting on her ribs. ‘This one,’ he says, as his hand grasps at her left breast.
Ann twists about and flings her arms around his neck. ‘You devil!’ she laughs, and gazes with all the false lust she can muster into his swollen eyes. She leans up to kiss his mouth and, as she does, her fingers find the ribbon. She pulls his head down, lips pressed tight, and in one light flick has looped the ribbon up and round her own head.
Sir Francis’s tongue is between her teeth. Ann bites.
At his yelp, she wriggles free and shoves him out towards the dark. She slams the door. She turns the key, then runs to lift each tapestry and check for other entrances. There’s only stone. She is trapped, but so is he.
For some minutes he calls to her, praising her seducer’s trick. She has stoked his fire, he says. He burns with love despite the chilly night. The stars all sing her praises, if only she will come and hear. His tone does not stay jocular. He pleads for a while; grows stern, then angry. His baritone roar vibrates the door between them as he rants.
‘I would have married you, cruel Ann, and now I’ll marry nobody. I’ll waste away for want of you.’
A good thing too, thinks Ann, but tries to calm him. ‘I sought only your guidance, your generous tutelage.’
‘You wanted teaching? Ha! If you will not accept my gifts, then I curse you. May you never earn such gifts again. May you never leave that dreary wood, nor ever find true love, or fame. May your looks be mired, and all that look upon you shriek in horror.’
On he rages. Ann retreats and sits beneath the table, listening. Her mind runs to the morning, the look on William’s face, the long and dreary journey back to London while he chides her. The man has influence. She thinks of Drury Lane, and the auditions she’s been waiting for, the role of fair Euphrosyne. All their happy talk, of how she’ll be the youngest ever to play the part, how she’ll take the theatre world by storm and win a thousand hearts.
When finally her lover’s howls dwindle and subside, Ann creeps once more towards the door. There she presses her ear to hear – what? His breathing? The silent night? She jumps when, instead, Sir Francis speaks directly to her.
‘Ann. Ann. Do not be angry with me.’ He pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is meek. ‘It’s William you should reproach. It was he, Ann, who lost at piquet. It was he who took my bold wager, and lost. He lost you, in that game, and I won. I’ve only tried to claim my prize.’
She hears him slump against the door. ‘In truth, your voice is not so fine as Isabella’s,’ he says. And then he walks away.
*
At the grey stone house, Sir Olof’s grey mother greets him. She is at the door, a candle in her hand. When he does not dismount, she comes to him and raises that small flame towards his face.
His mother gasps. ‘But you are drawn and stricken. How you shake. You look as though the night has aged you all at once.’
At the window, he spies the pale face of his bride peering out.
‘Douse the flame, Mother,’ he says. ‘Tell her it was a stranger who passed by.’
‘But what has become of you?’
‘Tell her I went hunting and did not return.’
‘But it’s night.’ With one great sigh, his mother blows the candle out.
They stand in the moonlight, which bleaches the grey house white.
‘The Erl-king’s daughter has struck me,’ Sir Olof says. ‘And I must ride until this shudder subsides.’
When the moon has gone, and morning comes, Olof’s grey mother sets to work. She lays down cloth and pours out wine, and piles sweet morsels on to plates. The fearful bride watches this. She sees how those bony fingers shake.
‘Gold Mother,’ she says, ‘who was it that rode up to our door last night?’
‘It was but a stranger.’
‘But Gold Mother, why does not Sir Olof come?’
‘He went hunting, Gold Daughter,’ says Sir Olof’s mother. But the silver in her eyes betrays her.
All day Sir Olof’s wan bride weeps in her chamber. She turns the key three times in the lock and will not answer pleas. Flies drown in the cups of wine, and wasps feast on the morsels. All around the grey stone house, blackbirds sing and pigeons coo, making their own May marriages.
*
At the King’s Arms in Seaton Sluice, Ann feels quite at home. The owner, a sprightly but serious man named Mr Milton, reminds her of her father. He’s set a fire for her, despite the early hour, and there she dries her damp feet. She sips a thick and warming drink he called a ‘brose’, and ponders what the day will bring.
It was quite simple, in the end, to creep from Starlight Castle in the mawkish dawn, and follow the stream she’d heard the night before, away from Seaton Hall. She walked by it, through a strip of tangle wood, so like her own dear forest by the Horns that it raised her spirits. With its rushing voice, the stream led her to Seaton Sluice, a village. Most wonderful of all, it led her to her first glimpse of the sea. A great, grey, roiling mass of moody water; Ann thought that she should feel afraid. But the smell of it was so invigorating, and the size of it so awesome as to make Sir Francis seem no more important than a fly, that she lingered till the wind had chilled her. She would like to look again, before she goes.
