Echoes in the Darkness (5 page)

When we strolled along the cliff top, I recalled the rider I had seen the previous night. I told Eleanor about him. “Do you know who he was?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Her expression, which was midway between fear and fascination, surprised me. She cast a swift glance over her shoulder, then back at me as though weighing me up. “The man you have described has been seen now and then by servants and visitors. I have not seen him myself,” she told me quietly, linking her arm through mine and directing our steps toward a series of steep steps hewn into the rocks. We paused at the top, gazing down at the pretty cove below. “No one knows who he is or where he comes from. But it would be best not to mention you have seen him to my mama,” she added. “His description reminds her of someone she once knew. Someone I believe she has no desire to be reminded of.”

As we approached Port Isaac, Eleanor commenced an oddly stilted history of the picturesque harbour town and the surrounding area. “We are on the coastal edge of Bodmin Moor here,” she explained. “The whole area is hilly with deep valleys where streams run down to meet the sea. Port Isaac is in one of those valleys.
Yzack
is ‘corn’ in the Cornish language. So the name means ‘corn port.’ It was registered as a fishing village in 1340 and that is still the main trade, but the harbour is very busy with cargos of stone, coal, timber and pottery. My father calls it a rare sheltered haven on an otherwise inhospitable coast.” I couldn’t help reflecting that she sounded like a bored child, one who has learned a recitation off by heart. Her words did not do justice to the wild beauty of this place.

Bertram ran ahead of us down the tight, twisting path, while I enjoyed the feeling of stepping back in time. This was what England had looked and felt like centuries ago. This was the medieval heart of the land my mother called home. Beautiful, quirky and mellow. But there was also a disturbing undercurrent of drama. This was also a land of smugglers, wreckers and ancient legends. I pictured dark-cloaked witches claiming these cobbled alleyways after nightfall and ghostly mariners putting to sea by moonlight. My thoughts had a poetry that was a million miles from Eleanor’s mundane account. I was drawn into the irresistible web of the beauty and mystery of this strange land.

“Bertram! We are not going that way today.” Eleanor’s call interrupted my thoughts and I turned in time to see the dog dash along one of the alleys that flanked the harbour. When, in spite of Eleanor’s shouts, he didn’t return, we followed him. The lane ended abruptly in a series of narrow steps that led down to a tiny cove. Bertram, unabashed and without hesitation, ran down these and onto the pale sands. A young boy, probably some eight years of age, sat beside one of the many rock pools, gazing with fixed attention into its depths. A net was clutched in one of his hands. The little dog pelted up to him and gave his face a huge, slobbery kiss. The boy laughed delightedly and pushed the prancing animal away. Glancing up, he saw us and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. I was aware suddenly of a palpable tension, like singeing electricity, buzzing through the air between us. I turned to ask a question of Eleanor, but the expression on her face forestalled me.

“Tristan!” A woman’s voice rang out from one of the neat, white cottages that lined the shore. With an aimless wave of his hand, the boy ran off in her direction. Eleanor’s own hand sketched a hesitant reply. Bertram, with all the air of a dog well pleased with the job he has done, came back to us, and we retraced our steps.

Eleanor remained silent for a few minutes and then in a high, bright voice said, “Madame du Bois has made Mama’s clothes for years. She pretends to be from Paris, and we go along with it. But pray don’t confuse her by speaking French to her! It will only end in disaster and embarrass us all.”

I ordered several winter dresses from Madame du Bois, who was about as French as the English breakfasts that revolted me so, and purchased a few other items of warmer clothing. The shopping expedition left me feeling better equipped to face the unexpected horrors of the English climate.

* * *

That evening, I made my way along the brightly lit corridor. I had swathed my shoulders in a new tobacco-coloured shawl with russet fringing, but still I shuddered as the chill air touched my face. Embossed ivory curtains had been drawn over the wide bay windows, and chandeliers threw rainbows of light onto the light oak panelling. Rounding an unexpected corner, I found myself in a part of the house that was unknown to me. Irritably, I reflected that it was typical of Eddie to not only neglect to warn me about the weather but also omit to take me on a guided tour of the house. Knowing my devil-may-care friend as I did, however, I was quite certain that he would view the prospect of me wandering the corridors of Athal House, cold, lost and disheartened, with amusement rather than concern.

This passageway was narrow and dark with old-fashioned flambeaux set in wrought-iron sconces at shoulder height along the walls. Alternating shadows and flickering light danced along the uncarpeted floor. The panelling here was so dark as to appear black, and ancient tapestries depicting scenes of battle were hung at regular intervals. The wooden floorboards were worn smooth and uneven. The only window was a narrow, pointed arch set in a wall that was several feet thick. I remembered Eddie’s comment that some of the walls of the original castle had been incorporated into the design of the house. Even so, I was surprised that Tynan and Lucy, who had between them so carefully planned a home that was aglow with light, should include such old-fashioned features as these. The cold was even more apparent now, and my breath plumed ahead of me like a silver streamer.

My feet wanted to hurry suddenly, and I felt unaccountably nervous. Cold air traced its icy fingers along my spine, making me shudder. Drawing my shawl even closer to my chest, I decided to turn back. As I did, I caught a glimpse of movement on the periphery of my vision. A couple stood close together in the shadows, oblivious to anything but each other. Their faces were in darkness, but I could see that the man was tall and powerfully built. His hands gripped the woman’s slender waist while her voluptuous body quivered with blatant longing as she arched toward him. A low, throaty chuckle from her ruby lips echoed in my mind rather than my ears. He leaned closer and she reached up to slide a hand behind his neck. Embarrassed at the sensation of spying on them in such an intensely private moment, I turned to fully face them, intending to utter a greeting. But they were gone. Had they been there at all, or was the glinting torchlight playing a ghoulish trick on my already disordered nerves?

I realised with a start that I was standing, open-mouthed in the corridor—the wide, modern corridor—just beyond my bedroom. One of the younger footmen had rounded the corner and was regarding me with bemused interest. With a blush that finally warmed my chilled face, I hurried away toward the stairs.

* * *

I was an early riser, but I knew from experience that Eddie was not. When he moved in with me in Paris, the only times I saw him before noon were those occasions when he rolled into the apartment at dawn after a night’s carousing. Even when he did surface, he would have a face like a thundercloud for an hour or more. We gave each other a wide berth during that time.

But I was bored. I had drunk coffee and nibbled a wafer-light pastry and decided, since no one else seemed to be stirring, to explore Athal House some more.

“Mr Edward told me that there were parts of the original castle incorporated into the house when it was built. I would like to see those, if I may,” I said to Porter, who was hovering in the hall when I emerged from the breakfast parlour. He was the most visible of the servants, although Lucy had also introduced me to the housekeeper, Mrs Webster. There also seemed to be several footmen and a number of maids. A young girl had attended my room before dinner and when I rose in the morning—a custom I found quite amusing. I was perfectly capable of dressing myself and styling my own hair. I had, after all, been doing those things all my life. It was pleasant, however, to have my clothes cared for, my bath prepared and my room made comfortable. What a pity this life of luxury was not to be mine permanently. I thought wryly that I might as well enjoy it while I could.

“Certainly, miss.” The butler bowed ponderously. “If you would care to accompany me.”

“Have you worked for the family for long, Porter?” I asked as we traversed the main corridor.

“I was hired by his lordship soon after his marriage, miss,” he said. “It was a difficult time for the family. The earl and countess were married on his lordship’s twenty first-birthday, but the castle burned down on the same day. His lordship’s uncle had run the estate until he came of age, but he was killed in the fire. My master had to learn how to run a large estate, take control of the business interests and establish a home for his new bride all at the same time. When I started working for him, their home was a large manor house, just north of Port Isaac.” When he spoke about Tynan, there was genuine respect and affection in his voice. “But I believe it was always his intention to return to Athal. It has been the family home since history began. This place belongs to the Jagos and they to it.”

It seemed an oddly poetic statement, but we had reached the rear of the building by that time so I didn’t have time to question it. Porter explained that this was the ballroom and the walls here had formed part of the main hall of the original castle. In keeping with the rest of the house, this merging of old and new had been tastefully done. The newer walls that flanked the ancient stone were lined with light oak panels, but the medieval masonry was untouched. A beautiful stained-glass window dominated the centre, depicting brave knights and beautiful maidens in long-ago colours.

“The original window was destroyed,” Porter told me as I gazed upward in admiration. “But his lordship wanted it reproduced as faithfully as possible. This is the result.”

“Are there any other parts of the inside of the house that are older?” I asked. I was thinking of the dark corridor I had strayed into and the beautiful couple I had seen. Or perhaps imagined.

“No, miss. Some of the outer walls are original, but this is the only part that has been included in the interior,” Porter replied in his precise way. “If there is nothing more, miss, I will leave you now. I have a few matters that need my attention.”

When he had gone, I reached out a hand to touch the historic stones of the first Tenebris. Something made me draw back at the last second. If this was the heart of the house, it did not beat to any rhythm I knew. Its origins were lost in the darkness of Jago time. A foul, unbidden image of these walls oozing blood took a grip on my imagination. I shook it off with an effort, but, nevertheless, I felt the need to hurry away. Sparkling pins and needles along my spine urged me to break into a run. I managed to retain my dignity. Just. But there was nothing on earth that would have persuaded me, in that instant, to glance back over my shoulder.

Chapter Four

We had been at Tenebris for about a week when Eddie’s belongings, including his paintings, arrived from Paris. He was adamant that he needed a studio, and there was some debate about where this should be located. Lucy was inclined to view an artist’s studio as something less than a necessity for the heir to an earldom. Eddie, moody and sullen as a result, dug his heels in stubbornly. Eventually, Tynan broke the impasse by suggesting that one of the estate cottages, which was located half a mile or so from the house itself, might be converted to suit the purpose. This decision met with everyone’s approval. Eddie would have peace, quiet and privacy in which to pursue his art, and the clockwork precision with which Lucy ran the household need not be disturbed. A team of farm workers were deployed to make the cottage suitable for his requirements.

Once Eddie had organised the small rooms to his liking, I strolled over to the cottage with him. The tiny building was basic and simple but in a good state of repair. Time had stolen much of its charm and the once-white outer walls were now diseased and flaking. Inside, there were two rooms downstairs and an attic bedroom. All of these had dangerously uneven flagged floors and windows that, despite recent efforts, were darkened by the scars of age. Steep steps led down to the cellar. These were so narrow and rickety that I eyed them dubiously before declining to descend into the darkness that lay beyond their base. Eddie laughed at my expression and made a joke about pushing me down there and throwing away the key, should I prove to be an unsatisfactory wife. I responded by calling him Bluebeard, and our funning felt easy and natural once again. That had not been the case since we left Paris, and I missed the easy camaraderie we had always shared.

Standing side by side, we examined the paintings, which had been neatly stacked in the smaller of the downstairs rooms. There were several large canvasses of me, and I studied them thoughtfully. Eddie had ability, it was true, but he lacked the special something that would make his work stand out from the crowd. I had seen raw talent once or twice and it was unmistakable. I think Eddie knew he didn’t have that touch of genius, and he allowed the knowledge to gnaw like a hungry rat at his insides.

I was seventeen when I first took off my clothes for money. Forced to flee my home in troubled Buda, one of the twin capital cities of Hungary, I worked my way across Europe with no clear destination in mind. My only object was to ensure that Sandor could not find me. When I set out, I had very little money, and only the clothes I stood up in. I was innocent, but not so naive that I was blind to the dangers facing me. My face and figure were all I had, but I knew already that both were remarkable. Men, and sometimes women, stopped in the street to stare at me. There had to be a way I could use my looks to my advantage, other than the obvious option of prostitution. It was in Vienna—that most beautiful and graceful of cities—that I met Magda von Tiel, and my career as a nude model began.

Magda had herself enjoyed a long and lucrative career posing for artists, but, as her looks began to decline, she had set up what she laughingly termed her own “stable” of girls. We met by chance in the tiny café where she usually took breakfast. After staring at me long and hard across the room, she bought me cake and coffee and outlined her terms. In return for half my earnings, Magda would find my clients and provide me with lodging, food and protection. I had to confide in her about Sandor, of course, so that she understood why I could not allow my face to be painted. I couldn’t risk my portrait being publicly displayed. Fortunately, there were enough artists who wanted to paint, sketch or sculpt the nude female form without needing to include the face. And my body, it seemed, was exactly what was wanted. I was much in demand. Magda joked that my derriere was the most famous in Austria, but no one would be able to match my face to it. By the time Sandor arrived in Vienna—and I was forced to flee once more—I had amassed a tidy sum of money, and a wealth of experience. It was Magda who advised me to head for Paris.