Kitabı oku: «Fallen Angels», sayfa 6

‘Recorded. That Lady Delavele will drop Twins by Easter Day, between Mr Tyndall and Ld. Parrish. 200L.’

‘Recorded. That Ld. Saltash will Consume Bishop Wright’s Tomcat, prepared in Mrs Pail’s Kitchens, Entire. Between Ld. Saltash and Bishop Wright. 150L.’ Beside it was written. ‘Ld. Saltash the winner.’

‘Recorded. That Mr Calltire’s Bucentaurus will beat Sir Simon Stepney’s Ringneck, the owners up, between Tyburn and St Paul’s. The race to Commence at Midnight, Christmas Eve. Between the Owners. 2000L.’

‘Recorded. That Ld. Saltash will Consume Bishop Wright’s Marmalade Cat, Without Benefit of Onion Sauce, entire, prepared without Any Sauces or Gravies, in Mrs Pail’s Kitchens. Between Ld. Saltash and Bishop Wright. 300L.’

Valentine Larke smiled. The commission on wagers recorded in Mrs Pail’s book was twenty per cent. A key sounded in the lock of the door.

He looked up, his bland, flat eyes wary in the candlelight.

Mrs Pail herself stood in the doorway, her white, podgy face grim.

Larke stood. ‘Dear Mrs Pail.’

‘Mr Larke.’ She shut and locked the door, then turned and gave him a clumsy curtsey.

He smiled. ‘I find you well?’

‘Indeed, sir. Yourself?’

‘Never better, Mrs Pail.’ He put the book on the table. ‘Things seem to be flourishing?’

‘Flourishing they are, flourish they had better.’ She said it grimly, then smiled and bobbed her head as Larke poured her a glass of wine.

He raised his glass to her. ‘What’s this I hear about a French Countess in the house?’

‘Dear me!’ Mrs Pail gave a coy laugh. ‘A spinet maker’s daughter from Birmingham! Father was a rich man, raised her to speak French, but he’s bankrupt now.’ Mrs Pail shook her white, shapeless face. ‘Not the most beautiful of my girls, but I took her as a favour. She does well. She jabbers in French while they work. You’d like to see her?’

Larke smiled. ‘No. But a splendid idea to call her a Countess. I do congratulate you.’

Mrs Pail blushed with pleasure. ‘You’re too kind, sir, entirely too kind.’

‘Please sit, Mrs Pail.’

Valentine Larke was the sole owner of Mrs Pail’s Rooms, though only she, he, and a select few others knew it. He owned a dozen other such establishments in London, places where the gentry went to lose their money at cockfighting, cards, women, or prizefighting. He was insistent that, in public, she treated him as one of her less valued customers, such was his passion, his need for secrecy. He waited till she was seated, then sat himself. ‘I’m sorry to intrude on your evening with business, Mrs Pail.’

The doughy, powdered face screwed itself into a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s always a pleasure, Mr Larke.’

He smiled. ‘I won’t detain you long. I merely wish to know how much Sir Julius Lazender is in your debt.’

She thought for two seconds. ‘Not counting tonight, Mr Larke, nine thousand four hundred and twenty-two guineas.’

He raised his eyebrows. It was a huge sum, yet he did not look displeased. ‘You still lend him money?’

‘Of course, sir. You told me to.’

Larke nodded and sipped his wine.

Abigail Pail watched him without speaking. She did not know why her employer had instructed her to let Sir Julius Lazender run up such a vast debt. Sir Julius did it without difficulty. To Abigail Pail’s knowing mind Sir Julius Lazender was a brute, a brute with an appetite that drew him back night after night. He lost at the tables, he became drunk, and he went upstairs to the lavish, soft rooms and never was asked to pay a penny. Even his gambling debts were settled by the house. Sir Julius Lazender, on Valentine Larke’s specific instructions, had been given the freedom of London’s most exclusive and expensive whorehouse.

Larke knew that freedom should not end yet. His timing in this matter of Sir Julius had to be exquisitely right. He put his glass down, steepled his fingers, and smiled at the woman. ‘You will see Mr d’Arblay and instruct him, upon my authority, to prepare a summons for ten thousand guineas. But it is not to be served, you understand?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Nor is Sir Julius to know that the summons exists. He may continue to come here and you will continue to welcome him. If you need money then my bankers will, of course, oblige.’

‘You’re very kind, Mr Larke.’ The white, blubber face sniffed in disapproval.

Valentine Larke saw it and smiled. ‘Something troubles you, dear Mrs Pail?’

‘Not my position to be troubled, sir,’ she said in a tone that contradicted her words. ‘But he’s going to be the ruin of us!’

‘I assure you he is not.’ Larke smiled.

She chose to ignore his assurance. ‘Only this week, Mr Larke! He bit a girl! Horribly, Mr Larke! I can’t work a scarred girl!’

‘You put it on his bill?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the girl?’

Mrs Pail frowned. ‘I can’t put a girl on the streets just before Christmas, Mr Larke! It’s not Christian!’

‘Indeed not.’ He stood, to show that the interview was over. ‘Indeed you may keep her in the house, Mrs Pail, so long as you wish.’ He knew the loyalty that Abigail had to her girls. She educated those that could not read and always ensured that those who were not communicants in the Church of England learned their catechism and were confirmed by a bishop who was one of the house’s steadier patrons. By day the bishop conducted the girls towards heaven, and at night they returned the favour.

Larke bowed over her fat, ring-bright fingers. ‘I will stay a few moments.’

‘Of course, Mr Larke.’ She smiled archly. ‘You’d like company?’

He shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no.’

When she had gone, and when the door was locked, he took from his waistcoat pocket a message that had come to him at the House of Commons. He opened it, read it for the third time, then tossed it onto the grate that was piled with glowing coals. He watched the letter curl, burn, and break into wavering scraps of black ash.

Chemosh had not done what he had said he would do.

Larke stared into the fire.

Chemosh had promised that the girl would never marry because no man would marry her. She would be poxed and scarred, yet she was neither. She lived still with her beauty and her virginity. Chemosh had not done what he had promised he would do.

He put his head back, the corrugated black ridges of his hair crushed on Mrs Pail’s chairback, and he wondered when the Gypsy would next come. The Gypsy was the messenger who connected Larke and Marchenoir, carrying the coded letters that none but those two politicians could read. Larke hoped the Gypsy would come soon for he needed to pass on to Lucifer, by way of Marchenoir, the news of Chemosh. Lucifer would have to decide what was to be done. The timing of this thing was like the workings of a chronometer; gleaming, valuable, and exact. Chemosh was threatening to fail.

They dared not fail. Valentine Larke, staring into the fire, thought that they could not fail. Lord Werlatton was hunted by Moloch, Sir Julius by Belial, and the Lady Campion by Chemosh, and the joy of it was that not one of the victims knew of the hunters. He sipped his brandy and thought of Chemosh. The man had not done what he had promised, but he had not yet necessarily failed. Nor, Larke reflected grimly, would he fail. They were the Fallen Ones, and they did not fail.

Nor would he fail with Sir Julius. He smiled and took another sip of the wine. Sir Julius was baited and hooked, and Larke could reel him in whenever he wished. It could wait, he decided, till after Christmas, and then Belial would strike and the Fallen Ones would tighten the invisible ring that would choke the life from Lazen Castle. He smiled. He drank to the victory that would follow Christmas, to the victory that would lead the Fallen Ones to the Day of Lucifer and the fall of Lazen.

Uncle Achilles ran the blue ribbons through his fingers. ‘You’re going to wear these?’ His tone suggested that perhaps she should burn them instead.

‘I won’t wear anything if you stay here.’

‘My dear Campion, I am far too old to be excited by a woman getting dressed, let alone undressed. Besides, you forget that I’m still a priest. They never unfrocked me.’

‘And I’m not unfrocking while you’re here. Go away.’ She smiled at him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘I’m glad you came.’

He smiled. ‘And glad that my mother didn’t?’

‘She would have been welcome.’

He laughed. ‘I like your Lord Culloden.’

‘He’s not mine.’

Mrs Hutchinson was laying out a dress of white crepe with Brussels lace at the neck and cuffs. Uncle Achilles looked at it where it lay on her bed and smiled. ‘A wedding dress?’

‘Go away.’

‘But I do like him, truly!’ Uncle Achilles took a pinch of snuff, crossed to her dressing table, and sat down. He opened a pot of rouge, dabbed a finger in it, and rubbed it experimentally on the back of his hand. ‘Not my colour.’

She crossed her arms. ‘I’m going to be late, uncle.’

It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, yet already Campion had ordered candles lit in her bedroom. It was gloomy outside, the sky grey and darkening over the Lazen valley. Uncle Achilles twisted on his chair and stared down at the townspeople who walked in excited groups towards the Castle’s entrance. ‘You English make a great fuss about Christmas.’

‘We don’t make any fuss at all. We simply have a good time. Those of us, that is, who are allowed to dress.’

He grinned at her. He was clothed, Campion thought, lasciviously; there was no other word. He had a suit of gold cloth, a new wig with silk tails, gold-buckled shoes of satin, stockings of white silk, and the faintest touch of cosmetics on his face. He saw her looking him up and down. His voice was teasingly anxious. ‘You think I’m presentable?’

‘You look wonderful. Just like a bishop.’

He laughed. He dipped her powder puff into the china bowl and brushed it against his hand. He held the hand out to the window and frowned critically. His nails were varnished. ‘In London they think I’m very elegant. But then I’m French which always impresses the English. They feel inferior to us for one very good reason.’

‘Because they are?’ She smiled. She thought how bored Achilles must be; an elegant, clever Frenchman only half employed in a strange country. He smiled at her. ‘Exactly, dear niece. You are so sensible for a mere woman.’ He crossed his legs, taking care not to crease his silk stockings. ‘The English have a sneaking suspicion that we know something about life and elegance and beauty that they do not know, and it is every Frenchman’s duty to continue the illusion. It is even, dear niece, the duty of someone like yourself who has the blessing of being half French.’ He smiled seraphically. ‘Has he asked you to marry yet?’

‘I haven’t known him five weeks yet!’

‘How proper you are, dear niece.’ He smiled and turned to the dressing table again. He dipped his finger into the cochineal ointment she would use on her lips and painted a heart on her mirror. He ignored her protests. He pierced the heart with an arrow. Above its fletches he wrote ‘CL’, by its point he wrote ‘LC’. He inspected his work. ‘There’s a certain symmetry to the two of you.’

Mrs Hutchinson, who had not understood a word of the French they had been speaking, understood the drawing. She laughed.

Campion, who was dressed only in a full length bed robe of coloured Peking silk, sat on the chaise longue. She smiled at her uncle. ‘You think the symmetry is important?’

‘I think it’s wonderful!’ He was fastidiously wiping his finger on one of her towels. ‘After all, lovers always seek fate’s happy signs. One says “I was born on a Monday” and the other says “and I also!”, and from that mere, unimportant coincidence they deduce that heaven has had a hand in their conjunction.’ He shrugged. ‘I think CL and LC come into that happy, heavenly category, don’t you?’

‘You want me to marry him?’

He smiled wickedly. He liked teasing her, not the least because she never took offence, however shocked she might be by his words. ‘Do you wish to marry him, dear Campion?’

‘What I wish, uncle, is to get dressed.’

He stood, bowed, and smiled again. ‘I retire defeated from the field. You will dance with me?’

‘Of course.’

‘If Lord Culloden will let you. Do you think he’s the jealous kind? Men with moustaches often are.’

‘Go away.’

He did, crossing in the doorway with Edna, Campion’s maid, who had fetched a bowl of warm water and hot towels.

It was Christmas Eve, the traditional day of celebration, the day when the town came to the Castle and the Castle provided bowls of frumenty and plates of pies and vats of punch and music from the gallery and fires in the great hearths and hogsheads of ale and puddings that had seeped their smell from one end of the huge building to the other and, as midnight drew near, great platters of roasted geese would bring cheers from the throng in the Great Hall.

A throng which expected the Lady Campion to marry. The word seemed to haunt the Castle. The rumour was like a whisper in every room, in every corridor, in every smiling face that greeted her. Lord Culloden had been in Lazen just a few weeks, yet all the Castle, all the estate, expected there would be a marriage.

Lord Culloden had said nothing. He was correct, polite, and charming, yet the mere fact of his presence fed the rumour that, before the leaves fell again, the Lady Campion would be wed.

She dressed with more care than usual.

Mrs Hutchinson cooed over her, patting the dress where it did not need adjusting, twitching hair that was like pale, shining gold. ‘You look a picture!’

‘I feel exhausted, Mary.’ Campion, as usual, had organized the day’s celebration.

Mrs Hutchinson smiled. ‘You look lovely, dear, quite lovely.’ What she meant, Campion knew, was that she looked lovely for him.

For whom, though?

For the Gypsy was also here.

She had seen him and the sight of him after so long was like an arrow thrust into the heart. She had thought she had forgotten him, she thought that the memory of that slim, dark, oddly blue-eyed face was just that, a memory. She had persuaded herself that her thoughts about the Gypsy were not about a real man, but about an idealized man, about a dream, and then she had seen his smiling, strong, competent face, and it seemed as if her heart stopped for that moment, there had been a surge of inexplicable, magic joy, and then she had turned abruptly away.

He had brought a letter from Toby. Toby was still in France, working for his mysterious master, Lord Paunceley. The letter asked her forgiveness that he could not be in Lazen this Christmas. Instead the Gypsy was in Lazen and on this night of Christmas Eve, just as at the old Roman feast of Saturnalia from which Christmas had sprung, the servants in Lazen would join the festivities with those they served. Tonight the Gypsy was her equal.

The blue ribbons were threaded into her sleeve so that, when she danced, they would hang and swirl.

About her neck were sapphires.

In her hair were pearls.

She stared at herself in the mirror. CL and LC.

Lord Culloden had come into her life in a blaze of heroism, in a manner of a Galahad or a Lancelot. He was tall, he was eager to please, and he was happy to make her happy.

She could not think of a single thing that she disliked about Lord Culloden, unless it was a slightly supercilious air towards his inferiors. She guessed the superciliousness came from his family’s lack of money, a fear that with a little more bad luck he would become like those he despised. On the other hand, as he became more comfortable with Lazen’s great wealth and privilege, he was displaying a dry and sometimes elegant wit. She smeared the red arrow with her finger and she thought that CL did not dislike LC. She might even like him very much, but there was the uncomfortable fact that when she saw him about the Castle she felt nothing. Or, at least, she did not feel the delicious, secret thrill that the Gypsy gave her.

She wished the Gypsy had not come. She stood. She stared for a moment at the grey, lowering clouds beyond her window. The hills across the valley looked cold, their crests twisting like agony to the winter sky. At the top of Two Gallows Hill, like a black sack, hung the man who had attacked her.

She shuddered, closed the curtains, and turned. Tonight there would be music and dancing, the sound of laughter in the Great Hall and flamelight on its panelling. Yet none of that, she knew, gave her the tremulous, lovely, guilty anticipation that sparkled in her eyes as she left the room. She had dressed with care, she had made herself beautiful, and, though she could not even admit it to herself, she had not done it for Lord Culloden. She walked towards the music.

6

There was applause as she walked down the stairs, applause that grew louder as more people at the edges of the room turned to watch her. The compliment made her smile shyly.

‘I hope you know how lucky you are, my Lord,’ Achilles d’Auxigny said to Lord Culloden.

Lord Culloden smiled. His eyes were fixed on Campion. ‘Give her wings and she would be an angel.’

Achilles raised his plucked eyebrows. ‘The church fathers maintained that angels did not procreate, or how would you English say? They don’t roger?’

A look of utter shock passed over Lord Culloden’s face, as if what a man might say in the regimental Mess of the Blues was one thing, but quite another to hear it said of a girl like Campion. He smiled frostily at Achilles, then walked forward with his arm held out. ‘My dear lady?’ He bowed.

‘My Lord.’

And the sight of the two together, the one in white crepe and blue ribbons, sparkling with precious stones, and the other in gleaming uniform, served only to make the applause louder. The sound reached the Earl of Lazen, whose room Campion had just left, and he smiled proudly at the Reverend Horne Mounter. ‘Pretty filly, Mounter, eh?’

‘Undoubtedly, my Lord. I suppose she’ll be married soon?’

‘That’s up to her, Mounter, up to her.’ The Earl’s tone made it quite plain that he was not going to discuss his daughter’s marriage plans with the rector. ‘I’ll oblige you for another glass.’

The Reverend Horne Mounter, who doubted whether the Earl should be drinking frumenty at all, reluctantly poured the glass and put it at the bedside. He took a volume of sermons from his tail pocket. ‘Can I read to you, my Lord?’

The Earl seemed to shudder. ‘Save your voice for the morning, Mounter.’ He drank the frumenty in one draught, sighed, then smiled as the liquid warmed his belly. ‘Put the jug by me, then go and enjoy yourself, Mounter. Parsons should enjoy themselves at Christmas! Your lady wife has come?’

‘Indeed, my Lord.’ The rector smiled eagerly. ‘I’m sure she would be most happy to greet your Lordship.’

‘Not up to parsons’ wives tonight, Mounter. Give her my best respects.’ He clumsily poured another glass. ‘Go on with you, man!’

Few at the Castle would be drunk so quickly as the Lord of Lazen, but few had such good reason. All had good means. The frumenty was a speciality of Lazen, brewed for days in the great vats at the brewhouse. Despite the bad harvest the Castle had kept sacks of wheat aside that had been husked, then boiled in milk. When the mash was thick it was mixed with sugar, allowed to cool from the boiling point, and then liberally laced with rum. The recipe claimed that enough rum should be added to make a man drunk with the fumes, at which point the amount of rum should be doubled. The frumenty was cooled. At the last moment, before serving, it was heated again, mixed with egg yolks, and brought to the hall before it could boil. It was drunk only on Christmas Eve, it was too strong for any other day. The Reverend Horne Mounter, who allowed himself some sips of the Castle sherry on this night, secretly believed that the frumenty was a fermentation of the devil, but to say so was to risk the Earl’s displeasure.

In the Great Hall Lord Culloden watched in amazement as the liquid was served. He had taken a cup himself and drunk it slowly, but the tenants and townspeople were drinking it like water. He smiled at Campion. ‘How long do they stand up?’

‘Long enough. They deserve it.’ She smiled up at him. ‘You’re not bored?’

‘Good Lord, no! Why should I be bored?’

‘It’s hardly London, my Lord.’

He looked at the noisy, shouting, drinking throng. ‘I always enjoy birthdays.’ He laughed.

The local gentry had come, and Campion saw how they kept themselves at one end of the hall while the common folk kept to the other. She walked through both ends, greeting old friends and neighbours, introducing the tall, golden haired cavalry Major at her side. Already, she thought, we behave as though we were married. She looked constantly for a tall, black haired figure, but the Gypsy could not be seen. The dances were hardly the dances of London. They were country dances that all the guests knew, dances as old as Lazen itself. The Whirligig was followed by Hit and Miss and then Lady Lie Near Me. The church orchestra played fast and merrily and the dancers slowly mixed the two ends of the hall together. Once in a while, in a gesture towards the gentry, Simon Stepper, the bookseller and flautist of the church orchestra, would order his players to provide a minuet.

There was applause again when Campion and Lord Culloden danced to one such tune. The floor seemed to clear for them.

He danced well, better than she would have expected. He smiled at her. ‘Your father spoke to me today.’

‘He did, my Lord?’ The room turned about her in a blur of happy faces, candles, and firelight on old panelling. Lord Culloden made the formal, slow gestures with elegance. The month’s easy living in Lazen, she saw, had thickened his neckline so that the flesh bulged slightly at his tight, gold-encrusted collar. He smiled.

‘He wanted my advice.’

Campion smiled at Sir George Perrott who, bless him, had led Mrs Hutchinson onto the floor. For that, she thought, she would give Sir George a kiss under the mistletoe. She could not see the Gypsy. ‘About what, my Lord?’

‘Your cousin.’

‘Oh Lord!’ Campion said rudely. She smiled at the miller who, with pretensions to gentility, had insisted on dancing this minuet with his wife and had bumped heavily into Campion’s back. ‘About Julius? What about him?’

Lord Culloden frowned as the tempo of the orchestra underwent a frumenty-induced change. He adjusted his steps. ‘It seems he has written asking for money.’ He had to speak loudly to be heard over the riot of conversation and laughter from the lower end of the hall. ‘He’s in bad debt!’

‘Again?’

‘That was your father’s word.’

Uncle Achilles, with grave courtesy, was leading Lady Courthrop’s nine year old daughter about the floor. The townspeople, she could see, were laughing at the odd looking Frenchman. She planned another kiss under the mistletoe.

Lord Culloden turned at the upper end of the hall, his feet pointing elegantly in the small steps and glides. ‘It seems that he’s spent his allowance for the next ten years. Can you believe that? Ten years! I mean a fellow has to live, but hardly ten years at a time.’ He smiled. Campion supposed that all tonight’s guests were waiting to see if she kissed Lord Culloden under the mistletoe. She thought she would not like to kiss a man who wore a moustache.

‘I’m hardly surprised,’ Campion said.

She did not want to talk about Julius. She disliked Julius intensely. He was the son of her father’s younger brother, her uncle who had died in the war against the American colonists. That uncle, she knew, had had the reputation of a rake, and Julius, with a foulness all his own, seemed determined to outdo his father. When Campion had been sixteen, and Julius twenty-two, he had attacked her in the stables, and though it had not been as horrid as the attack on the heath road, she had never forgotten it. He had pawed at her, pushed her into the straw, and it was only the intervention of Simon Burroughs, the castle’s chief coachman, that had ended what Julius had whined was ‘cousinly fun’. Burroughs had broken Julius’s nose, a wound that had to be blamed on a fall from a horse. The Earl, at Campion’s insistence, was not told of the incident.

Lord Culloden bowed to her as the music raggedly ended, then politely applauded the musicians. He offered her his arm. ‘Your father believes that no more money should be sent.’

‘I trust you agreed with him, my Lord.’

‘It’s hardly my place to agree or disagree, is it?’ He looked at her with a smile. ‘I would not want you to think me presumptuous.’

‘If my father asked you, my Lord, then I would not think you presumptuous.’

Campion climbed with him to the dais where the top table was set with wine and punch. She took a glass of claret and sipped it. She might look after Lazen, but there were some things that her father kept from her. The allowances to his English relatives was one of those things, and Campion had never been consulted, nor sought to influence him. She looked at Lord Culloden. ‘You must say whatever you think best, my Lord.’

He was marking her card, she thought, demonstrating that he was already a part of the family. She wondered whether he had already approached her father to ask for permission to seek her hand in marriage. She wondered what she would say when that moment came, if it did come, and the thought made her search the great, happy room for a sight of the Gypsy. The dance now was the Old Man in a Bed of Bones, violently native in its crude exuberance, and, seeing no sign of Gitan, she wondered if he had stayed away in wariness of such an overwhelming English occasion. She smiled as she saw Uncle Achilles, who had no such inhibitions. He capered wildly with two girls from the town.

A crash sounded from the far end of the room and Campion knew that someone had fallen down drunk. They would not be the last. The orchestra, without missing a beat, moved into the Friar and the Nun, provoking laughter, and she looked up at the hooded eyes of Lord Culloden. ‘You know this dance?’

‘Indeed, no, my Lady. My education was sadly lacking.’ He smiled. ‘Are you going to teach me?’

She grinned happily. ‘No, my Lord, you’re going to watch me. Sir George?’

Sir George Perrott had danced these tunes before Campion’s mother had been born. An ironic, happy cheer went up as the two stepped down to the floor, for the privileged of Lazen were expected to join in these revels. Lord Culloden, smiling and watching from the dais, thought he had never seen her face so happy and so vivacious. He laughed as they mimed the old story that, each year, shocked the Reverend Horne Mounter and his stout, proper wife.

Culloden joined in the applause. Simon Stepper waved his flute, shouted, and the orchestra went rumbustiously into a new tune. The hall cheered, Sir George laughed, and Campion linked her hand with the old man’s for Cuckolds All in a Row.

The music filled the hall, the clapping from the crowds at the room’s edges seemed to shake the floor, to shiver the air with this day’s happiness. This was the Little Kingdom at its best; united and glorious. Campion’s face was lit with the joy of it. She let go of Sir George’s hand and, laughing and smiling, she was swung from man to man, from servant to miller, miller to brewer, brewer to squire, squire to farmer, and farmer to Gypsy.

His face caught her utterly by surprise. The touch of his hand seemed to freeze her, made her pause on the next step and run to catch up. Her missed beat provoked a cheer from the hall.

She turned at the end, looked for him, but he seemed to have gone as quickly as he had come. It was as if the touch of his hand and the single glance from his blue eyes had been a dream. The music was speeding again, she went forward, her hands holding her dress up so that her ankles showed, and then she was whirled violently about by Sir George, she went backwards beside the innkeeper’s wife, and the music ended. A huge cheer went up. The musicians, hopefully, went into Up Tails All, but Campion, thinking that dignity must have a limit, smiled and shook her head.

She walked back with Sir George who, with the licence of old age and old friendship, put an arm about her waist. ‘They’re getting very drunk, my dear.’

‘You sound like Mrs Mounter, Sir George.’

He laughed. ‘God forbid. Where is the lady?’

‘Probably looking for dust in the Garden Room,’ Campion laughed. The rector’s wife terrorized the parish with her visitations, and even Lazen Castle had been reprimanded for slovenly housekeeping. Campion steered Sir George to the left, and checked him beneath the mistletoe.

He looked at her. ‘My dear?’

She kissed him on both cheeks. ‘A happy Christmas, Sir George.’

He laughed. ‘It will be now, if the excitement doesn’t finish me off. Come, my dear, I must give you back to your handsome young officer.’

Even Sir George, she thought, considered that Lord Culloden was her man. His Lordship smiled as she climbed the steps, clapping her gently by touching the tips of his fingers on the opposite palm. ‘Some food?’

Her eyes were shining, her whole face suffused by happiness. Even without the diamonds and pearls she glowed this night. She smiled at Culloden and let him lead her to the Old House’s Garden Room where chafing dishes waited for the guests of quality.

The servants who had drawn the short straws of the lottery and thus had to work this evening welcomed them to the Garden Room, held their chairs, then brought plates of food and a cooler of champagne. Lord Culloden had led her to a private table, set in a window alcove that was curtained against the raw night outside. The music was distant now. He smiled at her. ‘It’s a magnificent Christmas.’