The Library
Sir William Vavasour reached for his glass on the small pedestal table beside his chair, and was surprised to find it empty. He didn't usually drink, and believed in warning his patients about mistaking medicinal measures for a dependency upon wines and spirits, but he had only taken one glass of Madeira earlier and then the dram of whisky brought to him by the butler. Why then were his fingers drawn back to the decanter that he was aware of from the corner of his eye?
He sighed, and pushed himself up from the high-backed armchair beside the fireplace. The library was a comfortable room, lit by lamps and the warm glow from the hearth, and Sir William let his eyes stroll around the walls and furniture as he waited for a signal that he was required. The many hundreds of books naturally interested him, but he had already perused the spines of those volumes at eye level, and it didn't seem polite at such a time to pick one off the shelf; nor did he feel that the pages in a book could hold his attention whilst his mind insisted on replaying the evening's tragic conclusion.
Sir Andrew had been paying dutiful attention as his father's old hunting companion described to him the spa town of Harrogate in the north, but the physician knew better – the poor young man was merely a captive ear, assisting the host in making all of the assembled guests feel welcome. It seemed to Sir William that the brilliant reception rooms of Blakeney Manor, from the obligatory card tables to the orchestra upon their platform, were decorated with parading young men and women in their bright and sumptuous costumes: every snip of conversation overheard was on a fashionable topic; the person beside you might turn out to be a leading figure in politics or a leading light in society. No, a peaceable, aging doctor did not belong in this whirlwind, and Sir Andrew should have been waiting on his tender young wife instead. He smiled as the two of them met eyes across the distance of the room once again.
"Why don't you go to her, lad?"
Sir Andrew's gentle gaze cut back to his guest, and he gave a helpless smile. "Forgive my moment of distraction. You were talking of Bath?"
"I was talking too much," Sir William had insisted. "I believe I shall visit the refreshment tables, and then observe the card games in the next room. Your wife will be missing your company."
And then the constant chatter that had been filling his ears throughout the evening had suddenly parted around a woman's tearful, abandoned cry: "Suzette!" Sir Andrew had reacted instinctively, his head turning with dozens of others, until his senses told him what was happening and started him towards his wife. Blakeney's call seemed to come almost at the same instant.
He was intruding here, kept on merely in his position as a private man of medicine; and as such, he could do no more for Lady Ffoulkes. An oppressive barrier seemed to divide the house, protecting Sir Percy, his lady, and Sir Andrew from time and action, as well cutting off those who did not share their intimate friendship. A Lord Dewhurst had taken a coach into the city to collect Lady Ffoulkes' parents, and another young man was deputed with arranging a hearse for the morning; the housekeeper had approached Sir William to ask if the laying out would be tonight, but he could not have told her. The duties of death jarred violently in a house still decorated for an evening ball, and nobody seemed ready to face what had happened: Sir Andrew was still with his poor young wife, and Sir William had heard nothing of the host and hostess for some time.
On the chimney breast, practically the only wall that wasn't supporting floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, there hung a striking portrait of Lady Blakeney, and Sir William stepped onto the hearth to better study its detail. It was signed in the lower right-hand corner by Romney, the fading master artist, and depicted the lady of the house in a midnight blue robe, reclining against the arm of a chaise longue with her slender fingers loosely intertwined upon a cushion. Her tempestuous eyes, framed with lowered lashes, looked down upon the viewer, her lips seeming to mock him. Sir William moved back from the fire.
A throat was cleared at the door: "Forgive me, I was looking for Blakeney."
"Wait!" Sir William called to the hastily departing figure. "Have you – I am Sir William Vavasour, a friend of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' father."
"I know who you are," the man answered, pausing over the threshold. "The name's Hastings. Have you seen Blakeney?"
Sir William shook his head, crossing the library so that he did not have to call out to the other man, who was still stood in the open doorway. "There was nothing I could do upstairs, so Sir Percy had the butler show me here to wait."
Hastings, bowing his lightly powdered head, studied his hand upon the door latch. "I'm not at all sure what I'm supposed to do," he admitted. "Lady Ffoulkes' family will be arriving soon, Tony went to collect them. I was told to organise the other guests, but everybody was in such a flurry to get back to town that I was nearly trampled in the exodus. And out by the stables, I suddenly had the idea to ride into Richmond and call on the parish priest, but – what could he do now?"
Sir William met the young man's anxious brown eyes. "I've heard it said that a sudden death is the purest kind, and that there is no need to pave the way of the soul; I am also convinced that Lady Ffoulkes has nothing to atone for."
"Her family are devout Catholics," Lord Hastings responded with a frown.
"Then no doubt her parents will arrange for a service," Sir William agreed. He took another step forwards. "I know the hardest task is oftentimes to wait and only be prepared to act, but time will catch up with us all very soon, and then I am sure Sir Andrew will need every one of his friends."
"What happened to her?" Hastings demanded, slapping his open palm against the door.
"I don't know," was the plain and helpless answer. "Perhaps a weak blood vessel, or her heart. My brother was only thirty when he died, and he suffered tremendously before the end came – I would not wish that on another soul, but I know that Lady Ffoulkes is – was – younger still, and I will also never understand nature's way. I thought medicine was the key, but we know so little of what happens to the body –" He shrugged. "We must not dwell on what cannot be altered, but think how best to aid Sir Andrew, from now on."
"When did your brother die?" Hastings asked quietly.
"Ten years ago." Sir William turned back into the room. "I inherited the house that would have been his," he confessed. "It was too late to save him, but I hoped to learn something during my studies in Edinburgh that might have offered him some respite from his terrible pain. All I could do was return to Weston and nurse him through those last, bitter days."
Resuming his position before the fire, Sir William heard the decanter ring against a glass behind him. "Yet you still practice?" Hastings asked, gasping from the neat whisky.
"I'm still learning," Sir William explained.
The house weighed heavily upon their hearts once again and both men stood silent, hearing the flames in the hearth and a distant step above their heads, but listening for an echo of life now past. Lord Hastings' younger ears were the first to detect the trudging measure of feet upon the terrace beyond the French windows, and he was already advancing towards the desk when Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney appeared at the glass. Startled by the sight of Blakeney in his shirt sleeves and Marguerite wrapped in her husband's coat, Hastings merely threw open the door and stood back to let them in.
"Let Benyon know where we are, Hastings, and fetch a wrap for Margot," Blakeney ordered, and his friend looked to the wilted, frozen woman at his side before slipping hastily from the room.
As Blakeney walked his wife towards the armchair beside the fireplace, Sir William studied her young face with professional concern, noting her trembling chin and the wan complexion of her skin now free from powder and rouge; such a vital difference between the cowed figure before him and the poised, playful woman who surveyed the room from her dais over the fire. As Blakeney settled her into the warm seat, Sir William noted the dirty, tattered stocking that peeped from beneath her sumptuous skirts, and wondered if she realised she had lost a slipper.
"Your hands are like ice," Blakeney told her softly, pressing her slim fingers between his palms. He raised his eyes to the long features and direct gaze of the gentleman doctor: "Would you prescribe a dram of whisky, Sir William?"
"Aqua vitae, to give it its original name," he observed, nodding. "It can do no harm, certainly."
As Sir William filled a glass, Hastings re-entered the room with a silk embroidered shawl draped over one arm. Marguerite lifted her burning eyes as he closed the door, seeing her husband's friend without really heeding him, and then stared in pained surprise at the rose-patterned material.
"What are you doing with that?" she demanded, forcing her husband to step back as she suddenly started to her feet, his coat slipping from her shoulders.
Percy and Sir William looked from Marguerite to Hastings, who in turn was glancing uncertainly between the three people standing before him.
"That belongs to Lady Ffoulkes, Hastings," Percy explained. "You weren't to know; I should have rung for Benyon myself, I apologise."
Hastings lowered his eyes to the delicate wrap gathered over his forearm, studying the stitches in the coloured embroidery and the tiny nubs in the weave of yellow silk. Of course this beautiful decoration belonged to Lady Ffoulkes; now that he thought on, he could remember her wearing it. Why hadn't he realised? Not wanting to disturb the complete stillness of the house, he had himself quickly peered into the nearest rooms, and glimpsed the shawl over the back of a chair in a small boudoir; anxious to be of help, he had blindly snatched up the wrap and hurried back to Percy in the library. Yet all that he had brought, he saw now, was further distress to Lady Blakeney, already beside herself with grief, and a physical symbol of the loss they all felt; Suzanne Ffoulkes was no longer here, but he held on his arm the memory of her presence and the light fragrance of her touch.
"Give it to me!" Marguerite snapped, lifting the sodden hem of skirts as she hurried past Sir William, nearly upsetting the golden liquid he was still holding. Hastings tried to seek silent guidance from his friend, but Marguerite reached him before he could make eye contact with Sir Percy, and so he merely held out his arm and let her take the shawl.
"Margot!" Percy called, but she swept out of the room in a wave of silver and burnished gold, leaving only the lingering scent of roses and autumn air for him to follow.
The Silk Room
He had known where she was bound for, shawl in hand, as soon as she reached the door. With her long skirts and cold, tired feet, he could have caught and held her two steps into the hall, but he resigned his inhibitions to her instinct and only climbed the great staircase behind her. Wavering a little on the landing, she turned to him, her blue eyes shimmering, and he had taken her hand.
"I can't see her," his wife whispered, spilling her tears as she stole a glance at a closed door across from them. "I can't, Percy!"
"It's as if she might be sleeping," Percy told her, forcing the lie from his lips, relying on her to break the spell.
"And what of Sir Andrew? You told me –"
"It would be insensible to do nought for fear of doing wrong," he added. "Yours is the wisest, warmest heart; I will follow it."
Marguerite gave a small smile, her hand a reassuring presence in his, and together they approached the Silk Room, an indulgence of his father's overlooking the river; she pressed her ear to the panels, and then drew back to scratch gently at the door. They neither expected an answer and did not wait for one, merely sounding their entrance before Marguerite slipped open the latch and stepped into a room that was no longer hers.
The air inside was warm, and yet the current that met them brought only the sharp scent of green kindling on the fire and the dull, fusty undertone of spare rooms in a large house; she had expected to meet the lingering aroma of Suzanne's gentle spirit, as spiralling smoke reaches the nose after a candle has been blown out, but all that came to her was the room itself. Her fingers still intertwined in her husband's strong grasp, Marguerite stepped forward.
There were two ornate glass candelabras at either side of the bed, and Suzanne lay beneath the canopy in the pool of warm, dancing light that had cleared away the shadows. Marguerite sent her eyes about the room, noting the winking reflection of the candle flames upon the dark window panes and the spitting wood in the hearth, even as her memory showed her the painted designs upon the green silk wall hangings that were now masked by the gloom. Every piece of furniture within that exquisite boudoir now seemed to resonate with the pain of lost romance: an ornamental kissing chair that spoke of the love of Sir Algernon Blakeney for his poor young bride; the pristine Venetian glass wash basin and ewer on its cherry wood stand; and a magnificent three-tiered dressing table with a golden-framed mirror, which now beheld the image of a tall, handsome man dressed in blue and gold, kneeling with bowed head beside the fallen form of his beloved. Promises and gestures betrayed by fate.
Before facing her friend, Marguerite crossed to the mirror and, briefly regarding her own searching eyes in the shaded, shifting mask of her face, covered the silver glass according to the custom. She held onto a corner of Suzanne's shawl and brought it to her face, inhaling the embroidered pattern of a rose as if it were a real flower; a trace of lavender, her friend's favourite fragrance, betrayed the illusion and stirred her heart once again.
Percy met her at the foot of the bed, but it was Marguerite alone who approached Sir Andrew. Her eyes drawn to Suzanne's alabaster face and the terrible half-light that seemed to animate her features, she lowered herself onto her knees and lightly touched his arm. He drew in a sharp gasp of air, as if he had forgotten to breathe, and gave her all the bitterness and sorrow in his raw expression.
"What am I to do, Lady Blakeney?" he pleaded hoarsely. "Why must it be my Suzanne?" His proud features began to sag, and he drew Suzanne's skirts into his hands to cover his uncontrollable emotion. Marguerite could only hold him, pressing her tear-stained cheek to his sleeve as he shook with grief.
"Suzette, chérie," Marguerite whispered, and Percy watched as she touched her fingertips to her lips and hesitantly pressed a kiss upon Suzanne's crossed hands.
As he stood beside his wife, Percy struggled to master his own silent anguish; he had the sense that he should be the one to support these two, Ffoulkes and Marguerite, and to make the necessary preparations in behalf of Lady Ffoulkes' family. Whether as host, leader, friend or independent soul, he knew not, but the conviction forced him to swallow his heart as he looked upon Margot's awed sadness and Andrew's desolation.
When he saw that his wife was battling for control of her own feelings, her lips quivering as she drew in a deep breath, his resolution weakened. He had thought that he and she were practiced in private strength and the loss it fed upon, but perhaps their union had weakened them – had they become so secure in their happiness, in their triumph against the odds, that they might have unconsciously lowered the natural defences of children without parents, of lonely souls who find it hard to trust? And apart from her brother Armand, Suzanne de Tournay had been the only other constancy in Marguerite's early life, her childhood friend and companion in a foreign land; it was not weakness of spirit that numbed her senses, but the rending of her heart. Orphaned as a young child, the loss of her Suzanne now had disturbed an old foreboding, as well as dealing a blow that had finally shattered her happiness.
Percy cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Ffoulkes," he started, adding: "Andrew."
Sir Andrew spoke, but did not uncover his face. "Yes."
"Shall I ring for Mrs Horton?"
"Why?" Marguerite asked for him, turning up her fluid blue gaze to her husband.
Percy found he couldn't suggest what had to be done, and shook his head. Lady Ffoulkes upon the bed, her chestnut hair tumbling across a pillow and the rose gown she wore by far the brightest detail, and his Marguerite wilting like a cut lily as she kept vigil beside her, would have tested the mettle of any man, and in this room, on this night, he had never faced such a strain.
"If you will both excuse me," he murmured, lightly caressing Marguerite's hair, "I shall wait downstairs for the arrival of the Comte and Comtesse." She nodded wearily.
"Blakeney!" Sir Andrew called, his broken voice muffled by his hands. Percy turned at the foot of the bed and met his friend's bleary eyes. "When they arrive – I want to speak with them first, before they see her." He sighed, and looked at Suzanne. "To beg their forgiveness."
Marguerite gasped. "Sir Andrew, no!"
"I failed them, Lady Blakeney!" he insisted, slumping back against the cabinet. The crystal candelabra behind him jingled and sent shadows fleeing across the bed. "I wasn't even there to hold her. They gave me their daughter, and I betrayed my assurance to them."
"You have broken no promises, Ffoulkes," Percy told him firmly.
"Mon dieu, but of course not!" Marguerite cried, pushing to her feet now that she could no longer reach Sir Andrew. "I cannot hear of my dearest friend punishing himself so for what is beyond all earthly beings!" She twisted sharply to Percy. "Nor my husband! The League rescued Suzanne and her family from a fate shared by too many of their kind, and I know the de Tournays will always be grateful – but you cannot defend against every cruel trick of time and nature ... You cannot!"
She shattered in the resounding silence of the room, her breath caught in a sob until she sank, bowed in agony, against Percy's outstretched arms. He drew her up against him and felt her gripping the ties of his waistcoat as she tried to stifle her cries. Sir Andrew silently rose from the floor and stood by, too deadened by his own loss to comprehend another's.
Alone
In the muted light of early dawn, Marguerite Blakeney gazed out across the grounds towards the mist-laden river. She sat with her legs curled up beneath her, a woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders, resting her head against the wooden panels of the window embrasure. Her tender eyelids were heavy with fatigue, and she shifted uncomfortably within the confines of her formal raiment; the mere thought of movement, of a normal routine, turned her limbs leaden and set her heart rapping against her breast.
"Have you been able to rest?"
Marguerite gave a start, and turned her head against the window. Percy was beside her, kneeling at her feet; she had not even heard him enter the room. He met her eyes, and the obvious distress in his caring gaze stirred her from her torpor.
"I sat upon the bed, but I knew that I would not sleep," she lied, conciliatory; she had gone straight to the window seat upon reaching her chamber, dismissing even her maid's thoughtful attendance in order to be alone with her sadness. "Has everybody gone?"
Percy rose up and sought her hands beneath the woollen wrap. "The Comte and Comtesse did not wish to stay on; Hastings volunteered to drive them to Andrew's house, but they meant to return to London first, and so Tony took them. He asked if he should bring Lady Dewhurst back with him – I said of course." He paused, waiting for a response, but Marguerite remained silent. "Glynde and Mackenzie have been, but did not stay; Sir William left with them for the city."
"He has been very kind," she sighed, "though he was as helpless as the rest of us. Will we see him again?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Of course – he is a friend of Sir Andrew's father."
"Margot, please try to rest for a while," Percy implored, perching against her legs on the edge of the cushion. With the lightest of caresses, he brushed away a stray tendril of golden hair, leaving his fingers upon her face. "Shall I stay with you?"
He drew her to him, unfastening the remaining pins in her hair with a practiced hand, and supported her as she rose stiffly from her silent refuge. Though he knew her feet would be tired and her legs aching, he fought the instinct to lift her into his arms, letting her lean upon him as he had once rested his head against her shoulder; she seemed to prefer it. He swept aside the curtain and she sat heavily upon the edge of the bed.
"I am tired," she admitted, absently coiling her loose curls into a braid over one shoulder. Percy stooped to raise her stocking feet onto the bed, and saw that the sole of one was soiled and ragged.
"Let me help you," he offered, after a pause.
They lay upon the counterpane together, his body turned to shield her from the rising winter sun. As they huddled in each other's arms, listening to their own breathing, Marguerite remained awake; Percy could almost chart her thoughts by the fleeting clouds of emotion in her wide open gaze. He held her, now and then pressing kisses into her hair, and eventually she gave in to a troubled sleep. She was so real in his arms, a comforting presence; with her face turned towards his and their fingers linked between them, he felt he could allow himself the practical necessity of a brief rest.
The de Tournays had swept through the house in a dignified procession of familial mourning, kneeling in prayer with a priest fetched from the community of émigrés in the city; even Alexandre, the young Vicomte, had stirred from one of his blustering French clubs to attend his sister. One or two members of the League not present for Lady Blakeney's soiree had arrived at Blakeney Manor to express their sympathies and offer their assistance. Sir Andrew was not disturbed by any of them; his sombre reverie was like a blanket that dampened his senses and protected his fragile heart.
The candles guttered and finally swallowed their own flames, but by that time grey daylight was creeping into the room where he sat in vigil beside his Suzanne.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, his legs stiff and cold from so long kneeling on the floor, sank into one side of the padded kissing chair at the foot of the bed. His aching eyes pored over Suzanne's neat, tranquil form upon the counterpane, and then closed as fresh tears began to prick at his eyelids.