The Drop of the Dice (Will You Love Me in September?) (23 page)

So we were married and as I came out of the church with Lance I tried to suppress my uneasy feelings and assure myself that I had done right in accepting him. It would have been foolish to go on dreaming of a boy who had been transported to the colony of Virginia and whom I could not see until we were so much older. So much happened over the years and it was hardly likely that, even if we did meet again in the far distant future, we should still be the same people who had met so romantically and parted so tragically.

At Enderby the celebrations were taking place. Everyone who had gone to church had carried a sprig of rosemary in accordance with the old custom, and when we were all seated at the table a great punchbowl was passed round so that everyone could drink the health of the bride and groom. As the bowl came to them each of the guests dipped into it the rosemary they had carried to church, and so they wished us married joy.

Lance held my hand firmly and I was reassured. I had done what was right. In my heart I whispered wistfully; ‘Goodbye, Dickon. Goodbye for ever.’

Healths continued to be drunk, people made speeches, and there was a great deal of chatter and laughter. Then we went to the hall which was decorated as a ballroom and in the minstrels’ gallery the musicians played for our dancing.

There were no ghosts there that night.

At midnight Lance and I retired to the bedroom with its brocade-covered bed and sprigs of rosemary, and the moments I had been dreading were at hand. I was terribly apprehensive; I was both ignorant and innocent. I had vague ideas of the relationship between men and women. I had come across servants in embarrassing situations. I had heard giggles, seen certain fumblings in dark corners; I had once come across a couple in the woods, merged into one another under a tree, moving and moaning; I knew one of the kitchen maids had been, as the cook said, ‘anyone’s for the taking’ and finally she had had a baby. I will not pretend that I had not thought about an idyllic relationship with Dickon, and when we had lain side by side in Makeshift Gallery we had both deplored the fact that we were not alone. I think we both knew that if we had been, our emotions would have swept us into a physical union which would have been irresistible to us both. I thought now that if we had been we should have been bound irrevocably together and I should not be in this bridal suite with Lance at this time.

But it had not been so and there was I seated at the mirror brushing my hair, going on and on because I was afraid to stop. Lance had removed his coat. He was standing there bare to the waist and I could not help seeing in my mind’s eye that other scene; Lance as he looked now, but another woman at the mirror. She had been relaxed and smiling, luxuriously dreamy like a satisfied cat. How different I was—ignorant and inadequate.

Lance came and stood over me, smiling at me in the mirror. He slipped the robe over my shoulders until it fell to my waist. Then he kissed me… my lips, my neck and my breasts.

I turned to him suddenly and clung to him.

‘Don’t be afraid, Clarissa,’ he said. ‘It’s not like you to be afraid. Besides, there’s nothing to fear.’

He pulled me to my feet and my robe fell to the floor. I felt unprotected without my clothes. But Lance was laughing softly as he picked me up and carried me to the bed.

So my wedding night had begun. It bewildered me. I felt I had stepped into a new world where Lance was my guide and teacher. He was gentle and sympathetic. He understood my ignorance, and something told me that he knew I was thinking of that occasion when I had seen Elvira in his bedroom. He was determined to make me share his pleasure in our relationship, but at the same time he respected my virginity and understood that I must come to understanding gradually.

Finally he slept. But I did not. I lay awake thinking of all the young brides who had come to this room… all dead and gone now… but it seemed as though their spirits lingered on. I seemed to hear voices in the rustle of the curtains and the faint moaning of the wind in the trees. Then I thought: Oh Dickon, it should have been you. It would have sealed our love for ever.

The curtains had been drawn back and there was a full moon. It shone into the room through the mullioned windows, making shifting patterns on the wall from the swaying branches of the trees outside. Lance lay on his back. I could see his face clearly in moonlight—the well-chiselled features and fine bones, the Roman nose, the high forehead and the hair which grew back thick and wavy. And as I watched him the moonlight touched his face and in the shifting pattern his face seemed to change. I could believe he was an old man now… the shadows did that to him. I thought, he may look like that in thirty years’ time. It made him seem vulnerable and suddenly I felt how very dear he was to me.

The moonlight shifted; he was young and handsome again.

I must love him, I told myself. I must cease to think of Dickon. Even if he comes back we shall be two different people. Lance is my husband. I must remember that… always.

So I continued to lie sleepless in the big four-poster bed, my husband beside me.

So I became Lady Clavering, and the days that followed were full of new experiences. Lance was always the tender lover, at ease in every situation, and his exquisite manners were in evidence in the bedchamber as everywhere else. He was sweeping my fears aside; he tutored me in the arts of love as he had in those of living when we were on the road from York together. I could see that life with him would always be lived graciously. Our intimacy had brought us very close. I do love him, I assured myself. I was certainly proud of him; he was charming, easy-going and distinguished in company.

Jeanne’s delight increased with every day. Unmarried herself, yet she was knowledgeable in the ways of men and women. He was the beautiful man; as far as she was concerned we were worthy of each other.

Everyone around us was content.

My Grandmother Priscilla was, I think, particularly so. She said I must read the family journals and contribute to them myself.

‘You will see how it was with your mother,’ she said. ‘She was a stormy girl from the beginning. She was far too beautiful. Your character is quite different from hers. You had a harsh beginning, my child; I think it developed you in a certain way. But you have been happy since Damaris brought you home.’

‘Damaris did so much for me. I shall never forget it.’

‘You did a great deal for her, my dear,’ said my grandmother.

On the day Lance and I were to leave for London I received a letter from Aimée. Over the last three years I had had about two or three letters. They had come at Christmas time.

I did know that there had been a close watch on Hessenfield Castle after the flight of the Pretender when the Jacobites were being rounded up and brought to trial. Lord Hessenfield had been questioned and suspected; his fate had been undecided for some time and then, no doubt because of his disability, he had been left in peace.

My dear sister [wrote Aimée],

Everything has changed at the Castle. Our dear uncle has passed away. You can guess what an upheaval there has been and now we have a new Lord. Alas, I am unwelcome here. He is the son of one of our uncles, a younger brother of dear Lord Hessenfield, whose brothers were all executed… so the title and estates have gone to this nephew.

The fact is I cannot stay here, I feel my life is in ruins. I cannot go back to France. My mother would not want me. She is settled in with her new family. She has stepchildren. No, I could not face that. I thank God—and our father—that I am not in need of money. But I feel bereft… alone… without family or friends. I often think of my little sister… the only relation I have here. Dear Clarissa, may I come and stay with you… just for a little while until I know what I can do…?

Jeanne came in while I was reading the letter.

‘What is it,
chérie
?’ she asked. ‘You look a little
distrait
.’

‘I’ve had a letter from my sister.’

Jeanne frowned. ‘So?’ she murmured.

‘She wants to come and stay with me for a while.’

‘But you are just married. You want to be alone with your ’usband.’

‘She is my half-sister, Jeanne.’

‘Why now she want to come?’

‘A great deal has happened up there. My uncle has died and a nephew has the title and the castle now. There are changes evidently and they have made it clear that Aimée is not wanted there. There will be plenty of room in the London house and in the country. Of course she must come. I dare say she will marry if she comes to London. She wouldn’t have many opportunities for meeting people up there. They were all intent on one thing—putting James on the throne.’

Jeanne clicked her tongue. ‘Wasting time in silly plots when they might be marrying and having dear little babies!’

I laughed. ‘I shall tell Lance and see what he feels about it,’ I said.

I knew in advance what he would say. ‘Of course your sister must come.’

So I wrote and told her that she would be welcome to arrive at any time.

Lance and I travelled to London about a week after our wedding day. I was enchanted by London. In the first place I loved Lance’s town house, with its big windows which let in the maximum of light, and its large uncluttered rooms. After Enderby it seemed airy and welcoming—a happy house.

My delight in everything was a source of pleasure to Lance. He devoted himself to me entirely. He wanted to show me London, that city of contrasts, such a place as I had never dreamed existed, having only before savoured brief visits. I was amazed at the wealth and splendour which I saw side by side with poverty and squalor, I wanted to give to every beggar I saw, and whenever a flower-girl crossed my path I would buy her entire basketful. Flower-sellers always brought back such poignant memories.

We went often to the theatres. There was one in Drury Lane and that one called the New Theatre in Portugal Street; there was a theatre and opera house in the Haymarket. Lance was fond of the opera and was determined that I should also appreciate its delights. I found those days immensely exciting, full of new experiences as they were.

We would take our seats among those reserved for the quality, and I would often find the audience more entertaining than the play. After the first act one of the theatre employees would come round to take the money for the seats, which was a signal for many to sneak out—not, as they would imply, because they were disgusted with the play, but because they did not want to pay for their seats. Lance said that many people made a habit of coming to first acts and then going to the coffee houses, where they would discuss the play with a show of knowledge and call themselves patrons of the theatre.

Up in the top gallery were the footmen who came with their masters and mistresses to the theatre, where they had free seats, and oddly enough they were often the most vociferous among the audience, expressing their pleasure or more often their disgust.

‘Although they have not paid for their seats,’ Lance pointed out, ‘they believe they have a right to disdain the play, which shows that the more people are given the more they take as their natural right. I wonder they don’t demand the price of the seat which they haven’t paid for.’

Lance was interested in people, but his attitude towards them was light-hearted and even cynical. He looked for something beyond the facade and I was sure he was often right in his judgement. When I pitied some poor beggar in the streets he would suggest that the woebegone look was part of an act.

‘I once knew a man,’ he told me, ‘who was a great figure in the night life of London. He’d wager a thousand pounds and think nothing of it. He lived in style in St James’s, I saw him one day disguised so that I scarcely recognized him. He was waylaying fine ladies as they came out of their houses and telling such a pitiful tale that there was scarcely one of them who didn’t dip into her purse and give the plausible rogue some money. I had a game with him. I pretended not to recognize him and gave him five pounds on condition that when he was able to he should repay me threefold. “May Gawd bless you, sir,” he said. He had a good line of talk, and although by night he spoke in a highly cultured fashion, the jargon of the streets came readily to his tongue. “That I will right gladly, noble sir,” he said, “I never forget them that hoffers a poor beggar what’s in need”.’ Lance laughed at the memory. ‘It was a fortnight later when I saw him in the Thatched House coffee house in St James’s. I said, “Hello, you old rogue, you owe me fifteen pounds.” He was startled, but when I told him I had recognized him in the ragged beggarman he was overcome with mirth. He paid out the fifteen pounds and made me swear to tell no one of his little subterfuge.’

‘I am sure his was an isolated case,’ I said.

‘That may be. But how can you say how many men-about-town are hiding behind their rags and tatters? How many ladies of quality are telling their doleful tale to passers-by? I always remember him when I see them. It teaches you something.’

‘It teaches me that he couldn’t have been very successful at the gaming tables if he had to resort to such methods. Oh, yes, it teaches me that gambling is a foolish way to lose one’s money.’

‘
Touché
,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have told you this tale if I had known it would bring us round to this. As a matter of fact he was fairly lucky at the tables. I think he did the begging out of a spirit of mischief.’

After that, I must admit, I looked closely at the beggars, and was less generous.

I had a dressmaker who came to the house and made a whole new wardrobe for me. The clothes I had worn at Enderby were scarcely suitable for London life. All the latest fashions, I discovered, came from France—a fact which delighted Jeanne. If it had been worn at Versailles that was its accolade. My dressmaker would bring large dolls sent from her associate in Paris, and these dolls would be dressed in the latest fashion, all made in exact detail. There would be tight-fitting bodices with sleeves to the elbow which ended in the most elaborate frills. Big collars and fichus were very much in vogue. Panniers were worn and the widened skirt accentuated the narrowness of the waist. There was a new kind of gown called a
sacque,
and although the bodice was tightly fitting, there was a fullness at the back which I thought most becoming. The dresses were made of silks and satins, brocades and velvet. ‘The material is of the utmost importance,’ declared Alison the dressmaker, with such seriousness that she might have been discussing the Treaty of Utrecht.