Parfit Knight (9 page)

And with his
lordship’s arm to guide her, Rosalind made the intoxicating
discovery that it was not hazardous at all – merely exhilarating;
that, amazingly enough, it was possible not only to walk with him
but alone; that by listening to the sound of his voice she could
indulge in the childish pastime of snowballing and even – on one
intoxicating occasion – hit him. They were outside for over an
hour, at the end of which it was Amberley who insisted that they
return to the house and Rosalind who did not want to go.

Oddly, it did
not occur to her to wonder why Philip had never thought she might
be capable of braving the elements and enjoying it – and, if it
occurred to the Marquis, he elected not to mention it.

Not all their
activities were so strenuous. There was music at the harpsichord in
Rosalind’s parlour. Though she could play only by ear or from
memory, she had a light touch and was quick to learn. Amberley, who
could not play a note but was possessed of a pleasant, even tenor,
ransacked his brain for all the latest Parisian airs and derived a
good deal of pleasure from teaching them to her. In exchange,
Rosalind attempted to pass on the rudiments of her skill at the
keyboard but his lordship proved an indifferent pupil, much
inclined to let his attention wander and seemingly incapable of
getting past the stage of picking out
Rule Britannia
with
one finger.

There were
books, too. Rosalind explained that while Lawson usually read her
the news-sheets, she had to rely on the rector’s daughter for
anything of a lengthier nature.

‘She normally
comes three times a week for an hour or so – but, of course, she
can’t get here while the snow lasts.’

Even at the
hectic height of the social season, the Marquis read rather more
than that and it was his considered opinion that for anyone living
as Rosalind did, three hours a week was little short of paltry. He
said, ‘And what do you read?’

Rosalind
sighed. ‘Well that,’ she admitted, ‘is the problem. Rebecca is a
dear girl and I’m fond of her and grateful. But she’s full of
scruples and so very good that she can’t bring herself to read most
of the things I’d like to hear.’

‘Dear me,’
grinned his lordship. ‘Never say you asked her to read
Rabelais?’

‘No.’ She
exhibited signs of mild interest. ‘It is shocking?’

‘Very.’

‘Oh. No chance
of that, then. Even
The Canterbury Tales
was touch and go –
though we did eventually finish it. As for
Tom Jones
or
Moll Flanders
or
Pamela
– she’s afraid her Papa would
never approve of her reading
novels
. I did once manage to
coax her into starting
Clarissa
but we had to abandon it
when she felt that the content was becoming rather too
warm
.’ A gleam of humour appeared in the dark eyes. ‘On the
other hand, she has nothing against the poetry of Herbert and
positively enjoys Milton. We’ve had
Paradise Lost
twice.’

‘All of it?’
asked his lordship weakly.

‘
All
of
it. Also
A Pilgrim’s Progress
. We did start on some of
Donne’s verse but, despite being in Holy Orders, his work came as a
terrible shock to poor Rebecca and we had to set it aside in favour
of a book of sermons.’

Amberley ran
his fingers along a row of leather-bound volumes, noting that all
the titles she had mentioned were present, along with a good many
others, most of them patently unread. He said, ‘What shall it be
then?’

‘Really?’ She
was suddenly eager. ‘Anything?’

‘Anything.’

‘You’re sure
you don’t mind?’

‘Quite sure.
Choose.’

‘Oh. It’s so
difficult! There’s
Tom Jones
or Wishart’s
Life of
Montrose
that Philip promised to read to me but never did or --
‘ She stopped, clasping her hands together. ‘No. I know. Please
will you read
The Castle of Otranto
?’

‘Horry
Walpole?’ he laughed, pulling the volume from the shelf.
‘Seriously? You surprise me.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I
haven’t read it myself but I’m told it’s a piece of spine-chilling
nonsense.’

‘Exactly. Evil
villains, horrible apparitions and blood.’ She shuddered with
delicious anticipation. ‘Wonderful!’

‘Fine.’ Amused,
Amberley sat down and opened the book at the first page. ‘But don’t
blame me if you have nightmares.’

They read it in
instalments, often late into the evening beside the fire and, after
the first few chapters, Rosalind took to curling up beside him on
the sofa in order to grip his hand at all the most ghoulish bits.
On one occasion, Amberley almost asked how being scared silly was
enjoyable … and then realised that, of course, it was – but not
necessarily solely due to Horace Walpole.

*

With Chard
healing nicely above stairs nursed by Mrs Reed and attendance on
his master required only three times each day, Saunders found
himself with very little to do and resigned himself to a period of
rare inactivity. His fifteen years with the Marquis had covered
everything from the boisterousness of army life and a number of mad
escapades abroad, to the courts of Paris and London, but never once
in all that time had he been bored. Excited, over-worked,
entertained, annoyed and occasionally scared out of his wits – but
never bored. And strangely, despite his expectations, he was not
bored now.

Since the
butler was the only member of the household whose status could be
said to match that of his lordship’s valet, it was only natural
that Saunders should be invited into Lawson’s inner sanctum on
terms of equality. Within two days a curious friendship had sprung
up between them in which little was said but much understood; and,
within three, Saunders had absorbed the full measure of the manor’s
mood.

Between a
gentleman’s gentleman and a dignified butler, both of unimpeachable
professionalism, the question of gossip was unthinkable - so while
Saunders confined himself to the perfectly proper indications of
Lord Amberley’s wealth and position, Lawson made no attempt to
enquire further. But it speedily became plain to the valet that,
apparently on no greater recommendation than his personal charm,
the Marquis was favourably regarded by everyone in the house – not
excepting the scullery-maid who was unlikely ever to have clapped
eyes on him. Even the fearsome Mrs Reed, after a confidential word
from Lawson, had lowered her defences and grudgingly admitted that
his lordship’s frivolous manner concealed a surprising degree of
proper feeling and that he appeared to have done her darling
nothing but good. And eventually, in a flash of dazzling insight,
Saunders realised what was behind it all.

The entire
staff of Oakleigh Manor were romantically united in the belief
that, though there could not be a man who was
wholly
worthy
of their beloved mistress, the noble Lord Marquis would do very
nicely. And, from Lawson downwards, they all entertained the
expectation that Amberley would offer marriage.

From stunned
disbelief at their presumption, Saunders passed to sardonic
amusement for what was likely to prove a forlorn hope and finally
to a nagging concern that the Marquis was getting in a good deal
deeper than he either intended or realised. This last caused the
valet to subject his master to a discreet surveillance which
finally served to convince him of three things; that Amberley and,
as far as he could tell, Mistress Vernon were blissfully unaware of
the fond hopes surrounding them; that his lordship, uncommunicative
as ever, gave every appearance of knowing exactly what he as about;
and, most significant of all, that – despite all this – a subtle
change had come over him during the last few days.

Saunders was
unable to put his finger on just what that change was, but it
somehow suggested that the household’s hope might perhaps be less
forlorn than he’d previously supposed. It was a novel situation,
fraught with possibility and he settled back to await the end-game
with interest.

There was, in
fact, one inmate of Oakleigh Manor who was not reconciled to his
lordship’s presence. Contemptuous of mankind in general and
outraged in particular by those members of it who were rivals for
his mistress’ attention, Broody sat on his perch and eyed the
Marquis with growing malevolence.

At first he
sulked, silent, hunched and glowering; then he took to turning his
back on the room and giving vent to an occasional muttered squawk;
and finally he started to talk. With verve,
élan
and
distressing clarity, he uttered every possible combination from his
mixed fund of dockside and Anglo-Saxon invective. And the Marquis,
bombarded by expressions he hadn’t heard since his army days and
others he’d rarely heard at all, listened in shocked fascination
before succumbing, typically, to laughter.

‘That bird,’ he
told Rosalind, ‘could out-curse the devil. It’s totally unfitted
for life in a genteel establishment and will undoubtedly come to a
sticky end. I hope.’

Having
exhausted both himself and his repertoire, Broody retired into
undefeated silence while he devised new tactics. He discovered them
when his enemy was alone and seated conveniently close by. Broody
seized a sun-flower seed and spat; it was a hit and he squawked his
satisfaction. His lordship calmly retrieved the seed and continued
to read without turning his head. Broody was annoyed. He spat
another seed and then another. Lord Amberley slowly closed his book
and turned round.

There was a
pregnant pause while parrot and Marquis surveyed each other
measuringly and then the Marquis – who by his own admission had
been badly brought-up – picked up a seed and returned it with
casual accuracy.

Broody jumped.
‘Wark!’

‘Quite,’
replied his lordship. ‘My point, I think.’

Broody waited,
cautious but interested and, when the second seed was flicked his
way, he side-stepped it neatly and put his head on one side.

‘Bugger!’ he
said. And then, hopefully, ‘Clear for action?’

And the
Marquis, recognising that he had apparently made a major breach,
laughed and shied the remaining seed. It was quite reprehensible
and he knew it – for there was no telling who the wretched bird
might choose to spit at next. But if it reduced the deluge of
gutter-vernacular to a trickle, then it had to be considered an
improvement.

*

For five days
the snow lay heavy and unmoving; then, as January merged into
February, a sudden thaw set in bringing sporadic showers of rain.
Saunders told the Marquis that Chard was fit to travel, if not to
drive, and then waited for him to speak of leaving. Amberley
expressed his pleasure at Chard’s good progress and asked for his
coat. Then he slipped the customary emerald on to his left hand,
shook out his ruffles and walked serenely away to dine with
Mistress Vernon. It was destined to be his last tranquil hour for a
long time but neither he nor his quietly dissatisfied valet were
privileged to know it.

It began
innocently enough when Rosalind asked his lordship to tell her
about Paris and the court of Louis XV. Amberley described the
splendours of Versailles along with its chronic over-crowding and
then said, ‘As for Louis
le Bien-Aimé
, he’s not so
well-beloved these days thanks to his unproductive wars, the
extravagance and depravity of his court – and, of course, the
influence wielded by his numerous mistresses.’

Rosalind rested
her chin on her clasped hands and said, ‘Madame du Barry is the
present one, isn’t she? Have you ever met her?’

He grinned. ‘My
dear, I’ve
danced
with her – at her own request,
moreover.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ A
tremor of laughter entered his voice. ‘But don’t be too impressed.
She only wanted to cross-question me about a friend of mine. He’s a
particular favourite of hers and - though I’d like to say that’s
purely because he has the advantage of a coronet - candour compels
me to admit that, with the French King and the French treasury at
her disposal,
la belle
Marie-Jeanne cares nothing for
that.’

‘Is she very
beautiful?’

‘Big blue eyes
and an abundance of golden curls – so yes, she’s beautiful. But
very
beautiful? That would depend on one’s personal taste.
Certainly, she’s not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

‘No?’

Amberley
hesitated for a moment and then, casting caution to the winds,
said, ‘No. That would be you.’

A tide of
colour swept over her face and she said unevenly, ‘Why did you say
that? You can’t possibly mean it.’

‘Actually, I
can and do – but I apologise if I’ve embarrassed you. I didn’t mean
to.’

She shook her
head. ‘I don’t know what to say to you.’

‘Then we’ll
talk of something else until you do,’ he replied easily. And
embarked on a description of the Paris Opera, the Comédie-Française
and some of the city’s many other attractions.

Gradually,
Rosalind recovered her countenance and, having led his lordship to
describe some of the private balls he had attended, listened with
rapt attention whilst he did so. Her expression of dreamy eagerness
was not lost on Amberley and after a while he said, ‘What are you
thinking?’

She shrugged
lightly. ‘Oh – that it must feel marvellous to dance.’

‘And you wish
that you could do it?’

She flushed for
it was the sort of admission she preferred not to make. ‘A little,
perhaps.’

The Marquis
pushed his chair back and stood up.

‘Then you
shall. I’ll teach you.’

Rosalind looked
startled. ‘You – I can’t,’ she said flatly.

He walked
around the table and drew her to her feet. ‘I beg your pardon?’