Victoria Holt (16 page)

“They would need a very sure aim if they planned to strike someone on earth…even if the clouds are low-lying.”

“You have a practical mind, Miss Grant, and I like that. Ah, here comes the soup. I trust it will be to your liking.”

A discreet manservant was carrying in a tureen from which he served us. Then he uncorked a bottle of wine and poured it into the glasses.

“I hope also that you will approve of the wine,” said Jason Verringer. “I chose it specially. It is of a vintage year…one of the best of the century.”

“You should not take such pains on my account,” I replied. “I am not a connoisseur and cannot really appreciate it.”

“Didn’t they teach appreciation of good wine at that very select school in Switzerland? I am surprised. You should have gone to that one in France…I forget its name. I am sure the knowledge of wine would have come into their curriculum.”

He tasted the wine and raised his eyes to the ceiling with an expression of mock ecstasy.

“Very fine,” he said. “Your health, Miss Grant, and that of the girl upstairs.”

I drank with him.

“And to us,” he added. “You…myself…and our growing friendship which has begun in rather dramatic circumstances.”

I took another sip and put down my glass.

He went on: “You must admit that all three occasions of our meeting have been unusual. First a hold-up in a narrow lane; then you are lost and I come to your rescue; and now this affair of the runaway horse, which has led to our being here together.”

“Perhaps you are the sort of person to whom dramatic things happen.”

He considered that. “I suppose something dramatic happens to most people now and then in their lifetimes. What of you?”

I was silent. My thoughts had gone back to that meeting in the forest and my uncanny—as it now seemed—encounters with a man who, according to a tombstone in Suffolk, had been long since dead. Strangely enough, this man whose most outstanding quality was his vitality and firm grip on life, was reminding me more vividly of my strange experience than I had been for some time now.

He leaned forward. “I seem to have awakened memories.”

He had a way of penetrating my thoughts which I found disconcerting.

“As I was involved in those events which you call dramatic, I suppose you would say I had experienced them too. Drama, like everything else, is in the mind of those who take part in it. I don’t think I see those incidents—apart from what happened to Teresa—as dramatic.”

“Do have some more soup.”

“No, thanks. It was delicious, but I am too concerned about Teresa to give your food the attention it deserves.”

“Perhaps at some later time you will make up for your neglect.”

I laughed and he signed for the butler to bring in the duckling.

He asked about his nieces and how I thought the Academy was benefitting them. Out of loyalty to Daisy, I assured him that the benefits were great.

“Fiona is a quiet girl,” he said. “She takes after her mother. But quiet people are sometimes deceptive. Out of your vast experiences you will know that.”

“I have learned that we know very little about anybody. There are always surprises in the human character. People say so-and-so acted out of character. That is not really so. They have acted according to some part of their character which they have not hitherto shown to the world.”

“That’s true. So we can expect Fiona one day to surprise us all.”

“Perhaps.”

“Eugenie not so, because nothing she did would surprise me very much. Would it you, Miss Grant?”

“Eugenie is a girl whose character is as yet unformed. She is ready to be influenced. She is—rather unfortunately—by a girl named Charlotte Mackay.”

“I know her. She has been here for holidays. I also know her father.”

“Charlotte is very anxious that no one should forget she is an Honorable when it would be so much more becoming if she sought to conceal the fact.”

“Do you approve of concealment, Miss Grant?”

“In certain circumstances.”

He nodded slowly and attempted to fill my glass. I put my hand over it to prevent his doing so for I was sure he would have filled it even though I declined.

“You are very abstemious.”

“Shall we say unused to drinking a great deal.”

“A little afraid that those excellent wits might become a little befuddled?”

“I shall make sure that they do not.”

He filled his own glass.

“Tell me about your home,” he said.

“Are you really interested?”

“Very.”

“There is very little of interest. My parents died. They were missionaries in Africa.”

“Do you share their piety?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“One would have thought that parents who were missionaries would have produced offspring eager to carry on the good work.”

“On the contrary. My parents believed ardently in what they did. Although I was very young when I left them I realized that. It was goodness in a way. They suffered hardship. In fact they died for their beliefs in the end, you might say. I suppose that is the supreme sacrifice. Then I came home to a beloved aunt and I saw a different sort of goodness. If I were able to emulate the goodness of one or the other I would choose that of my aunt.”

“Your voice changes when you speak of her. You are very fond of this aunt.”

I nodded. There were tears in my eyes and I was ashamed of them. Disliking him as I did he yet had the power to play on my emotions. I was not sure what it was—the words he used, the inflections of his voice, the expression in his eyes. Oddly enough I felt there was something rather sad about him, which was absurd. He was arrogant in the extreme, seeing himself more than life size, the master of many, and wanting to prove himself to be the master of all.

“I was sent to live with her,” I continued, “and that was the best thing that ever happened to me…or ever will, I imagine.”

He lifted his glass and said: “I will make a prophecy. Things as good are going to happen to you. Tell me about your aunt.”

“She ran a school. It didn’t pay. I was going to work with her. But she had to sell so I came here.”

“Where is she now?”

“In a little house in the country. She has a friend who lives with her. I shall go to her as soon as school breaks up.”

He nodded. “It seems to me, Miss Grant,” he said, “that you are a very fortunate young lady. You have been to that place in Switzerland when your aunt was more affluent, or did your parents leave you well provided for?”

“Everything they had went into their mission. It was my aunt who sent me to the school. She could ill afford it, I am sure, but she insisted on my going and she kept me there. And that…made it easy for me to come here.”

“Miss Hetherington talks of little else but your talents and the Schaffenbruckenization of her school.”

I laughed and he laughed with me.

“There is a soufflé. You must eat up every scrap, otherwise there will be rebellion in the kitchens.”

“Dare anyone rebel against you?”

“No,” he answered. “It would be a private rebellion. In any case they know I should never be guilty of such a heinous offense as to reject their excellent handiwork. It is you who will receive their condemnation.”

“Then I will do my best to avoid it.”

“I am sure you would always do your best.”

The soufflé was indeed delicious and I had to admit that I had had an excellent meal—very different from the plain, though very good, fare we had at the Abbey.

He talked about the school, the history of the Abbey and how it came into his family soon after the Dissolution.

“My ancestor had performed some service to the King…somewhere abroad, I believe, and for services rendered was allowed to buy the Abbey lands—and what remained of the Abbey itself—for a pittance. I think it was two hundred pounds…although perhaps that was not such a pittance in those days. He built the Hall and set himself up as a nobleman. He prospered, but people in the surrounding country never took kindly to the family. They looked upon us as usurpers. The Abbey had always done so much for the poor. There was always a meal for wanderers and a place to sleep. When the abbeys went, the roads were full of beggars, and robbery increased. So you see, the Verringers were a poor exchange for the monks.”

“I wonder they didn’t try to surpass them.”

“You mean judging from the actions of this scion of the old race. Well, they were so busy setting themselves up as lords of the neighborhood and that didn’t necessarily involve becoming its benefactors. There are some rogues among us. I must show you the portrait galleries. Our villainies are written on our faces and I think take precedence over the virtues. But you shall see and judge for yourself.”

We had finished the soufflé and I said: “I think perhaps I should make sure that Teresa is all right.”

“And mortally offend Mrs. Keel! She is zealously guarding the girl. If you went up now she would suspect you didn’t trust her. Come into the courtyard. It is quite pleasant out there when it gets dark and the candles are lighted. They are in niches cut into the stone. We don’t get many nights when we can sit in the courtyard, so we do like to make the most of them.”

I had risen and he was beside me. He took the crook of my elbow in his hand and led me through the door.

There was a white table in the courtyard and two chairs beside it on which cushions had been placed.

The air was still and silent and I felt an excitement grip me. I thought about school. Supper would be over and the girls would soon be settled for the night. I should be on my rounds if I were there and wondering whether Charlotte or Eugenie would make some difficulty.

“We will have coffee if you would like it and perhaps a little port…”

“Coffee, please, no more wine.”

“There must be something you would like. Brandy?”

“Coffee will be enough for me, thanks.”

We sat down and the drinks were brought out.

“Now,” he said, “we shall not be disturbed.”

“I was unaware of being disturbed before.”

“We live surrounded by servants,” he said. “One is inclined to forget that they are a race of detectives. One should be wary of them.”

“If one has something to hide perhaps?”

“Who has not something to hide? Even excellent young ladies from Schaffenbrucken may have their secrets.”

I was silent and he poured out wine for himself.

“I wish you would try a little,” he said. “It is…”

“Vintage port, I am sure.”

“We are proud of our cellars, my butler and I.”

“And I am sure you have much in them of which to be proud.”

“And we like others to share in our treasures. Come, just a little.”

I smiled and he half filled my glass.

“Now we can both drink to each other.”

“We have done that already.”

“We can’t have too much good fortune. To us, Miss Grant…Cordelia. You are looking aloof. Do you not care for me to use your Christian name?”

“I think it is rather…unnecessary.”

“I think it is a most suitable name. You are Cordelia from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. I could not imagine you as anything but Cordelia and even without your permission I am going to use it. Do you not find the air of Devon delightful?”

“Yes.”

“I am always glad that our Abbey was a Devon one. It might have been in the bleak, bleak north. They have some fine ones up there. Fountains, Rievaulx…and others.”

“I have heard of them.”

“I don’t think any of them surpasses ours…or even equals it. But perhaps that is what is called pride of possession. We are a ruin, are we not…as they are, but we are also a young ladies’ Academy. Who can compare with that?”

“It seems a strange place for a school.”

“In the midst of all that antiquity. What better place for young people to learn about the past?”

“That is what Miss Hetherington always says.”

“She is a fine woman. I admire her. I am glad she has her school here. It is so convenient for my wards and without it I should not be sitting here enjoying one of the most delightful evenings of my life.”

I laughed lightly. “You are a master of hyperbole.”

He leaned forward and said earnestly: “I mean it.”

“Then,” I retorted, “you cannot have had a very exciting life.”

He paused for a while; then he said: “The darkness is beginning to descend. We won’t light the candles yet. Look. The stars are beginning to come out. Why do people say the stars are coming out when they are there all the time?”

“Because they only accept what they see.”

“Not discerning like you, Cordelia. You and I do not have to have everything made blatantly obvious, do we?”

“To what are you referring?”

“To life,” he said. “You will not judge me from what you are told by others, will you?”

“It is not for me to judge.”

“Perhaps I put that wrongly. You will not assess my character from the gossip you may hear.”

“I will repeat that it is not for me to assess.”

“But you do…without thinking you are. You hear something about a person and if it is not contradicted, you believe that against him or her.”

“What are you telling me?”

“That I know there is a great deal of scandal circulating about me. I don’t want you to believe it all. At least I want you to understand how it came about.”

“Why should it affect me?”

“Because after tonight you are going to be my friend, are you not?”

“Friendship is not put on like a hat or coat. It develops…it grows…It is something that has to be proved.”

“It will develop,” he said. “It will be proved.”

I was silent for a while.

“I daresay,” he went on, “I have done a good many things during my life of which you would not approve. I would like you to understand a little about my family. Do you know we are said to have descended from the Devil?”

I laughed.

“Ah,” he went on. “You think that is very likely, don’t you?”

“On the contrary. I think it is very unlikely.”

“Satan takes on many forms. He doesn’t have to be a spirit you know, with cloven feet.”

“Tell me how the Devil became one of your ancestors.”