Cut to the Quick (6 page)

“What is there about Craddock that puts everyone here in such a passion?”

“What the devil, you might as well know the truth. It’s bound to come out anyway.” He leaned closer. “What do you suppose Craddock did for a living before he made his fortune in London?” “Something to do with horses?”

“How did you know that?”

“Just a guess.”

“Well, here's something you won't guess so readily. He was a groom. The man worked in a stable! And which stable do you think it was? Ours—here at Bellegarde!”

Julian's brows shot up. This was extraordinary. What on earth could have prompted Hugh to get engaged to the daughter of a former groom in his family's stables? No wonder Lady Tarleton was half mad with injured pride. No wonder the rest of the Fontclairs showed such a distaste for the marriage. And no wonder Guy was at a loss to fathom what lay behind it.

“That must have been a long time ago,” he said at last.

“Before I was born, or just after. Anyway, it was more than twenty years. He left under a cloud. Uncle Robert gave him the bag— though they say it was Aunt Catherine who was behind it. I'd give a monkey to know why. I like to think Craddock tried to ravish her in a hayloft, but it’s hard to believe even he would dare. Though she used to be good-looking when she was young. You'd never believe it now. But the colonel swears to it, and he's to be trusted about female charms.”

“It wouldn't surprise me if she'd been very fetching as a girl."

“Well, maybe, if you like that tigerish style. She was one of those wild girls, always tearing round the countryside on horseback and telling people to their faces exactly what she thought of them. Do you know, when she was hardly more than twenty, she went off to the Continent on some female version of the Grand Tour, with nobody to give her countenance but a duenna she could wrap around her little finger. Uncle Robert tried to stop her, but there's never been any holding Aunt Catherine back from what she wanted to do. By God, I can't abide that kind of female! I like women to be docile and come to heel—and if they don't, I make them sorry for it!"

“I wonder you don't keep spaniels instead. Much easier, and less expensive."

Guy stared at him, uncertain how to take this remark.

Julian frowned. “How could Lady Tarleton have gone travelling on the Continent when she was young? Wouldn’t that have been in the midst of the wars with France?"

“It was during some truce that went on for a year or so. When the fighting started up again, she came back to England, and soon •after that, she married Tarleton. God alone knows why. Except that he came of a family nearly as old as ours, and his rank was on a level with Uncle Robert’s. Those are the only things that matter to Aunt Catherine. Of course the match was a disaster. She drove him out of England in the end, with her carping and her fits of temper. He lives on the Continent, and I’m told he’s in mortal dread of her coming after him some day. But she doesn't seem to care a fig if she never lays eyes on him again. She’d rather live at Bellegarde and queen it over Aunt Cecily and give her opinion of everything that goes on, whether people want it or not. She ought to have married the kind of man who'd beat her whenever she opened her mouth out of turn. If you ask me, one reason she can’t stomach Craddock is that he stands up to her, which is more than poor old Tarleton could ever do."

“Perhaps that’s why she wanted him dismissed from Sir Robert’s service."

“Could be. But there’s no knowing, worse luck. There’s hardly anybody left at Bellegarde who was here in those days—only Travis,

the butler, and he’s as close as a clam. Of course Uncle Robert and Aunt Catherine won’t talk. The colonel was away in the army at the time Craddock got the bag, and he says he doesn’t know anything about it. I’m not sure I believe him—the fact is, he won’t tell me anything anymore. I’ve been pumping him for weeks about what’s behind Hugh’s marriage, and will he breathe a word to me? Not a bit of it!”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know.”

“Oh, he knows, all right! He’s been in the thick of this whole business from the beginning. It all started this past April, when Hugh came of age. Of course Uncle Robert put on a bang-up show: a feast for the servants, dancing—the whole feudal rigmarole. Next morning—it was raining, I remember, and I was stumping around with a monstrous headache, and the women were looking sort of peaked and tired out, and we were all moping about in the library, thinking how to keep amused till the rain stopped. And all of a sudden Travis comes in, looking as if he’d just taken a flush-hit on the nob, and says Mark Craddock is here to see Uncle Robert. We were all pretty taken aback—we knew Craddock was plump in the pocket now and had long since shaken the dust of Bellegarde from his feet, and why he should come calling on us was more than we could make out. But, Lord, you should have seen Aunt Catherine! Her legs fairly buckled under her—the colonel, had to hold her up. You know, sometimes I think Aunt Catherine’s a little mad. But that’s by the way.

“Aunt Catherine started blathering about Craddock’s impudence in coming here. She said Uncle Robert mustn’t see him—said he ought to be thrown out, just as he had been twenty years ago. But Uncle Robert wanted to see what Craddock wanted, so he told Travis to show him in. In comes Craddock, with his steely-eyed look, and that way he has of making any room look too small to hold him. He doesn’t waste any time on civilities—just says he’s got business with Uncle Robert, Aunt Cecily, Aunt Catherine, and the colonel, and will they see him somewhere alone. Uncle Robert didn’t like the sound of that, I could tell, but he agreed, and so all the old people went off together, and Hugh and Isabelle and I were left racking our brains to think what it was all about.

"They were gone a long time—a couple of hours at least—and I was so bored with the whole thing by then that when the rain stopped, I went out riding. I came back in the afternoon, and, by God, you’d think someone had died in the house—it was so still, and everyone looked so solemn. Craddock was gone, Hugh was shut up somewhere with his parents, and the colonel took me aside and said it would be best if I went back to London. Well, I kicked up a dust, naturally. I wanted to know what was in the wind. But I went in the end. It was clear no one was going to tell me a bloody thing, and who wants to stay in a house that’s turned into a mausoleum? Besides,” he added more quietly, "the colonel was really cut up. I thought for once I’d better do whatever the deuce he wanted.”

"And it was on the heels of that that Hugh offered for Miss Craddock?”

"About a fortnight later, I think. She’s not much of a bargain, is she? A little mouse of a thing, dull as ditchwater, no life in her at all.”

"Perhaps being handed over to an unwilling bridegroom in the teeth of his family’s opposition is dragging down her spirits a bit.”

"You think there might be something in her after all?”

"My dear fellow, how should I know?” That girl again, he thought. Why does she get under my skin this way? She’s probably delighted to marry Fontclair, and only sulking because the mantua-maker is taking too long with her trousseau. And if there’s more to it than that—if she’s marrying him against her will—what can I do about it? Other than land myself, one way or another, in a devil of a mess.

"Hugh doesn’t see anything in her,” Guy was saying. "If he were in love, everybody would know about it. He’d be mooning, and making sheep’s eyes at Miss Craddock, and fighting duels with anybody who wouldn’t swear she was all three Graces in one. Hugh’s romantic, poor devil. You should see what he reads. Byron, Walter Scott, all that rubbish. Oh, well, he could be much worse off. He could have ended up shackled to Isabelle.”

"Was that on the cards at one time?” Julian became absorbed in smoothing out his shirtcuffs.

“It's been talked about for years—mostly by Aunt Catherine, who's all for breeding Fontclairs with each other. Isabelle is second cousin to Hugh and me. Her parents died without a farthing when she was a child, so Uncle Robert and Aunt Cecily took her in. Uncle Robert's promised her a dowry, by the way, in case you care to have a go at her. I wouldn't set your heart on it, though—Isabelle's thrown cold water on every poor fool who ever dangled after her. It's Hugh she wants. She's mad on the family, just like Aunt Catherine. She's caught it from her like a disease. When Hugh came of age, she probably thought she was going to nick it at last. Then along comes a drab little chit whose father reeks of the stables, and Isabelle's out of the running. By God, she must hate the Craddocks!"

He got up. “Well, my boots have dried out, and I'm going to bed. Alone, unfortunately. Aunt Cecily’s maids are devilish straitlaced. Look here, before I go, there’s one thing I want to know— though I’m damned if I know why you should tell me. I’m never allowed to get to the bottom of any mystery in this house."

“What mystery could there be that I would know more about than you?"

“The mystery of what the deuce you’re doing here; I didn't even know Hugh knew you till I saw the two of you with your heads together at that gaming hell, and now you’re going to be groomsman at his wedding."’

Julian considered. “I think I’m the chorus.”

“The what?”

“Like the chorus in a classical drama. I watch the action and comment on it, without being drawn into it myself.”

“Well, I'm blistered if I know why you'd want to be stuck here playing chorus at some daft family drama.”

Julian did not know the answer to that himself. “There are worse places to be stuck,” he mused, gazing around the room.

“It’s not half bad, is it? It used to be my room, you know.” “No, I didn’t.”

“I stayed at Bellegarde a good deal when I was a boy. My mother died before I was out of leading-strings, and the colonel was always off with his regiment somewhere, so often there was nothing to do with me but quarter me with Uncle Robert. I don’t think he liked

that above half—thought I was a bad influence on Hugh—but there was nothing he could do about it. Family loyalty—all we Fontclairs are slaves to it, and no one more than Uncle Robert.”

He went over to the window, smiling reminiscently. "I used to spend most of my time trying to figure out ways to get out at night on the sly. I got pretty good at climbing out the window and down that tree, but the gardeners saw the broken branches and my footsteps in the ground, and they peached on me to Uncle Robert.” He grinned mischievously. “Well, that was a long time ago. Nowadays I can get in and out at night without climbing through windows. I use the back door in the servants’ wing. There are dogs loose at night, but they know me, so they don’t give me any trouble.” He yawned. “Well, I’d better get a few hours’ sleep. Are you going to the horse fair in the morning?”

“I think Hugh’s planning to take me.”

“Good. We can make a party of it—the two of you and the colonel and me. At least it’ll keep us away from Bellegarde until luncheon. Mornings are the very devil here these days. Whey-faced ladies are always calling to have a look at Miss Craddock and find out how much her rich papa’s spending on her wedding. Poor Hugh!”

*

“Time to wake up, sir,” Dipper ventured.

“What time is it?” came a sepulchral voice from under the bedclothes.

“Seven o’clock, sir.”

“Oh, my God. ” Julian dragged himself out from under the covers. “Don’t—” he began, but Dipper was already parting the window curtains. Julian dove under the sheet again to block out the light. “It’s appalling,” he groaned, “simply appalling, to think that anyone was ever so benighted as to worship the sun. Dipper, if I ever tell you I mean to have a house in the country, immerse me in cold baths and singe me with mustard plasters till my sanity returns.”

Dipper was glad to find him in such a tractable mood. When Mr. Kestrel was really out of temper, he did not mock or complain, but went about in a tautly strung silence more disturbing than any show of rage.

At eight o'clock, Julian came down to breakfast impeccably dressed in riding clothes. The meal passed off with an uneasy, "everyone-on-his-best-behaviour” sort of calm. Afterward, Guy, Hugh, Julian, and Colonel Fontclair set off for the horse fair.

“I'm so glad it's turned out such a beautiful day,” said Lady Fontclair as they were leaving.
^M
Hugh, what would you say to taking Mr. Kestrel round the estate this afternoon, if you’re not too tired after the horse fair?”

“That's a capital idea,” Hugh agreed.

“Well, enjoy yourselves, all of you, and don't, I pray you, stand about in the sun without your hats. I’ll have hock and seltzer water waiting for you when you come home. Good-bye!”

*

It was, indeed, a lovely day—the kind of day to win over even a confirmed city-dweller like Julian. The colours of the country dazzled him, after London's myriad shades of grey. Oaks and elms spread their lacy crowns against a sky of vivid cornflower blue. Spotted cows browsed in brilliant green meadows, bounded by roads of a warm, rich brown. Here and there, set back from the road, were cottages of whitewashed brick, with ivy-covered fences and steep thatched roofs.

Julian and Hugh were riding side by side. At one point, Hugh slowed his horse's pace, letting Guy and Geoffrey ride on ahead. “I want to tell you how sorry I am about last night,” he said to Julian. “You shouldn't have had to see that fit of temper of Aunt Catherine's. I daresay I oughtn’t to have invited you to Bellegarde at all. Things are so awkward right now—anything might happen.”

“Is this a delicate way of saying you’d like me to arrange to be called back to London unexpectedly?”

“Oh, no! No, I hope you’ll stay. It's very selfish of me, of course. Apart from the fact that it’s great fun having you, your being here has a moderating influence on people. You may not think so after last night, but, believe me, things would probably be much worse if you weren't here.”

“Is that why you invited me?”

“Yes,” Hugh admitted. “I never thought for a moment you’d really come. I just thought you seemed so—I don’t know, detached and sensible and able to keep a clear head about things. And since you’re an outsider, people would have to behave in your presence. That sounds an awful thing to say about one’s own family, but they're not themselves right now. None of us is. I wish I knew how it was all going to end. This waiting is worse than anything. It’s like one of those nightmares where you know something terrible is going to happen, and you don’t know what it is, but you know there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”