The Crimson Bed

The
Crimson
Bed

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Long Shadow

The
Crimson
Bed

LORETTA PROCTOR

Copyright © 2010 Loretta Proctor

Loretta Proctor is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

Matador
5 Weir Road
Kibworth Beauchamp
Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK
Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299
Email:
[email protected]
Web:
www.troubador.co.uk/matador

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical figures and minor factual details concerning their life histories, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1848762-886

A Cataloguing-in-Publication (CIP) catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

The Crystal Ball 1902 by John William Waterhouse 1849-1917

© Christies Images Ltd.-Artothek

Typeset in 11pt Book Antiqua by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

Printed in the UK by MPG Biddles, Kings Lynn, Norfolk

Matador
is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To my daughter Thalia

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible Worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has sought out thy bed
Of Crimson Joy
And his dark, secret Love,
Doth thy Life destroy.

William Blake
'The Sick Rose' Songs of Experience

Belgrave Square, London 1839

Ellie pretended to be fast asleep. Sally, the nursemaid, shivering in her nightshift, waited a few minutes. She stared at her charge with suspicion but the child's eyes were shut, breath as light as thistledown stirring her small slender frame. Satisfied, Sally stretched her arms, and sighed.

    Ellie could see perfectly well what was going on. She watched through lash-fringed slits as Sally struggled to put on her clothes in the chilly light of dawn, blowing on cold fingers to make them move around buttons and hooks. The young girl's breath hung in the air like a ghostly vapour and Ellie knew that when the curtains were drawn back she would see that Jack Frost had drawn his icy fingers over the windowpanes, leaving swirls and leafy patterns on them. Next, Sally would go and collect the big white jug the kitchen maid had left outside the nursery room door, water already cool after being brought up four flights of stairs. This was going to be for Ellie's wash. Dragged from a warm bed to be laved with tepid water: horrible, horrible! She shivered at the thought.

    She had better ideas in mind. Rising while the water was lapping into the basin, the sound covering the soft rustle of the sheets, she slipped out of bed, through the half-open door and down the narrow stairs that led from the nursery. On the upstairs landing she paused as always to listen to the servants busy in the breakfast room below. The murmur of their voices was comforting and the aroma of cooking delicious. There was an odour of fishy kedgeree and the peculiar smell of a dish Sally had told her were 'devil's kidneys.'

    'What are "kid- nees", Sally?'

    'They're things wot you get from inside animals, Miss Ellie.'

    'So why does the Devil want them? What does he do with them and why does Papa eat them for breakfast?'

    'Not Devil– devilled, miss. They call 'em that because they're hot as hell.'

    Ellie thought this dish sounded intriguing but knew that she could not partake of it, as it was unsuitable for a child. She would have salted porridge for breakfast in the nursery later on. She pouted, sulky at the idea of not being old enough to join Mama and Papa at their feast.

    She did not linger long on the landing. Hearing an indignant Sally call her from above she ran for refuge to Mama's room, the beautiful crimson room with the crimson bed. Her mother, whose name was Maria, was seated in this wonderful bed, a lacy white shawl thrown about her shoulders, the little nightcap atop her head tied beneath her chin. From beneath the cap dark hair spilled out over the pillows. On her lap was a small silver tray with a white doily and a long glass cup full of chocolate which she stirred with a silver spoon and then sipped slowly and pleasurably. There was always a single blossom laid on the tray, no matter what time of year.

    Ellie ran up, clambered onto the huge four-poster, and snuggled under the sheets, leaning back on the soft feather pillows with a deep sigh of content, snuffing the distinctive scent of her mother.

    'Take care. You'll spill my chocolate, you naughty wee thing! What
are
you doing, running down here again?'

    'Can I have some chocolate, Mama?'

    Her mother, always indulgent, let her have a sip and it was the most delicious thing Ellie had ever tasted.

    'I want more!'

    'Oh, you always want more, little greedy-puss. There, another spoonful then – but that's all now.'

    Sally tapped on the door and put a head round, looking frightened at having lost her charge yet again. Mama laughed and said, 'It's all right, Sally, she can stay a few more moments before

you take her back to the nursery.'

    'She's that clever, mum, she always gets away when my back's turned,' the young girl said and dipping a respectful curtsey, disappeared to wait in the corridor for her troublesome young charge.

    Ellie was in no mind to leave too soon. First of all there was the vision of her beautiful mother in her lacy shawl; the sight of that glorious, shining hair never seen during the day when it was dressed upon her head with pins and combs. Then there was the room itself, its walls painted a soft crimson with black and gold edgings around the doors and windows and picture rails as if encasing everything in a frame. At the square-paned window hung heavy red velvet curtains that blocked out most of the light even in the daytime. Dark religious pictures with carved gold frames gave an air of antique gloom. A grand mirror hung over the table where Mama sat to have her hair dressed by Mulhall and there she would select her jewellery. Ellie was sometimes allowed to sit and watch this wonderful operation taking place, allowed to see the contents of the jewel box. Mama would point out the special garnet necklace and earrings Papa had given her when they were in Venice on their wedding tour.

    In the centre of this dark room was the crimson bed.

    It was a tall, wide four-poster which some said went all the way back to the days of Queen Elizabeth and had been made for one of the ancestral grandmothers as a wedding gift. Ever since then it had been passed down in the Templeton family to the first bride as her marriage bed. Made from solid oak, it had darkened with age so as to be almost black. It was carved all over with scrolls, animals and acanthus leaves. As Ellie sat in the bed and stared at the carvings it seemed to be alive and rustling with leaves, birds and creatures as if she wandered in some dark, dense forest.

    At the headboard was a carving depicting a wedding. The bride in her voluminous clothes and little hat with a feather looked most demure: eyes downcast, face turned slightly away. The gallant groom, who bowed and held her hand in his, had elaborate frills round his neck, wore puffed out trousers and hose that showed a sturdy leg; he was a dashing fellow. She liked the groom but thought the bride looked prim and foolish. Round the other three sides of the bed were hangings of rich red velvet and the counterpane was made of crimson-dyed wool on which were embroidered small cream flowers and dark green leaves.

    Her mother often told her, 'Our great-great ancestor, Eleanor Mary, made and embroidered this.'

    Ellie knew she had been named after this long-ago grandmother whose portrait was not only on the bed-head for all time but also looked down on her from the hallway as she went downstairs; a dark stern-looking lady with black, puritanical clothes and a stiff white ruff about her neck. That old lady, with eyes that followed one about accusingly, was frightening and yet she had made this wonderful rich bedspread and slept in the crimson bed when she was a young bride.

    Ellie never wondered why Papa was seldom to be seen in this room. He had his own room and his own big bed. This was a room sacred to the Feminine. Men had no place in it at all. She had sensed too a part of her mother that was private, alone and, for some reason, immensely sad.

Chapter 1

Oreton Hall, Hertfordshire: October 1850

'Alfie! Wait for me... wait for me!'

    Alfie laughed at her and ran along the path that led round the riverside towards the woods. Eleanor Farnham stopped and got back her breath – then, picking up her skirts, ran after him again. Oh, skirts– they were so annoying! Once she could have beaten him with ease, being smaller and lighter, but now she had turned sixteen, she had to wear volumes of bodices, drawers, corsets, petticoats and skirts that weighed her down and made her breathless. The arms of her bodice were so tight that they would rip if she wasn't careful. Fiddlesticks to growing up. Why were girls suddenly supposed to stop having fun and slow down and become ladylike and boring?

    Her parents had always allowed her to run about on the Oreton estate with Alfred Eustace Percy Dillinger – to give him his full, exquisite naming – and his siblings since they were small children. Those were the happy days of freedom. Bundled up with clothes as she had been even as a small child, at least she had not had to wear corsets. In those days, she used to shed clothes as she went along in order to free herself from restrictions and run as fast as Alfie and his younger brothers, but she certainly couldn't do that now. Getting in and out of clothes was a tedious and lengthy concern.

    She dropped her skirts and with a sigh began to walk along with more decorum. Alfie had reached the woods and she could hear his feet crunching over the fallen leaves, snapping on twigs and branches. He was still so carefree in every way; so happy and unrestrained. Yet she knew that things were changing for him too. He was studying at Oxford, but would be leaving in another two years and she knew that he was determined to find the kind of career that would suit his energetic nature. As the eldest son of Lord Percival Dillinger, he would eventually inherit these estates but it seemed unlikely he would ever settle to the quiet life of a country gentleman, any more than his father had done.

    She came upon him, as she knew she would, in their favourite place in the woods. This was under an ancient oak tree some way into the depths. There at its mossy base he waited for her to catch up. He had thrown aside his jacket and waistcoat and sat now in his shirtsleeves, staring around at the trees, riffling the crackling leaves through his fingers.

    'Poor Ellie,' he said, laughter in his dark eyes, 'you're puffing and panting like an old carthorse!'

    'So would you if you had to wear all these foolish clothes!'

    Taking her hand, he helped her to subside on the ground beside him, skirts spreading out around her like a fan. She wore a pretty dress and knew that she looked elegant and charming in this pose. Ellie surveyed the hated skirts with sudden satisfaction and pulled a ribbon into place.

    'Women!' said Alfie, looking at her. 'Silly creatures you are, with all your frills and furbelows.'

    'Men!' she retorted. 'Silly creatures you are with your swords and guns.'

    They both laughed with the ease of familiarity. Neither of them could recall a time when they were not aware of each other's existence. Ellie's first memory of Alfie was beside her on a rug on the lawn when they were both babies, he kicking and moving and restless. He turned and rolled over so much at the time that he had landed on top of her, setting her off wailing and screaming. She liked to remind him of this now and then, scolding him.

    'You can never be still, can you? No matter what happens – no matter what gets in your way!'

    'I don't believe that ever happened. How could you remember such a thing? You're imagining it, Ellie.'

    'It did happen. I remember it distinctly. I have a very good memory.'