Chapter 36

36

There was not to be an occasion for Sophie to have further discussion with Lord Drake that day, whether she wished for it or not. Events of a dramatic and unexpected nature overtook them and kept them apart.

When the doctor arrived and examined his still insensible patient, he took a very serious view of the situation, stating it as his opinion that Lord Wyverne must have suffered a serious paralytic stroke, brought on by the shock of falling and injuring his head. The Marquess was a man of intemperate habits and advanced years, so that such a thing could hardly be a surprise to anyone acquainted with him. He never regained consciousness, lying in a coma for several hours before he apparently underwent another crisis, as a result of which he died later that afternoon. The doctor had had little doubt of the outcome from the start. The Marquess never spoke again, and never had a chance to tell anyone how gravely he believed he had been betrayed. His last words, as was perhaps appropriate given how he had lived, were those angry obscenities he spat out at Sophie before Fred, his brother’s lover and faithful companion, knocked him down.

Sophie stayed with the Dowager during this time, and Marchand, who travelled to and fro with the news as long as there was news to be had, remained with them once the death announcement had been issued. During the hours of waiting Sophie had rather tentatively asked if the old lady would like to be carried down to say farewell to her son, though he was insensible and would not know of it, but she had shaken her head. ‘We have passed beyond that, I think. It would be ridiculous to think that he cared for me, or would welcome me at his side. And his wife is with him. I should only disturb her. She would upbraid me, or say something cutting – it is her nature to be combative, and that is hardly likely to change now, under such strain – and I might in response to her provocation utter words that I should afterwards regret. It is better not. It must always be unseemly to fall into a heated exchange in such a situation. And who knows what a person can hear in such an extremity, on his deathbed, though he might show no signs of it? No. I shall let him pass in peace.’

‘Do you think they loved each other, madame?’ Sophie asked now. It was ridiculous to attempt to speak of anything else, to raise some trivial topic of conversation, but it also seemed excessively impertinent to ask the Dowager how she herself was feeling now that she knew her son and last living child was dead.

‘I have sometimes asked myself that question,’ Delphine said. Her manner was grave, but if she felt deep sadness she was not displaying it as far as Sophie could see; no doubt Marchand knew her better and that was why she was here with her mistress, though she was sitting in the corner occupied with some stitchery and contributed nothing to the conversation. ‘Or at least, I have wondered if she loved him, since I am not sure it was in his nature to love but only to possess. It would be so easy to say no, a woman of that kind cannot feel the softer emotions, but thinks always and only of her worldly advantage. I do not know if this is true. They have been married fifteen years, and were lovers before that. I would imagine that must count for something. But I am sure she would not welcome any condolences from me, nor from you for that matter.’

‘I wouldn’t presume,’ said Sophie drily. ‘What will happen to her now?’

‘I very much hope Wyverne has provided for her with some generosity, and she will be able to leave, to live in some place more congenial to her. It’s my belief she’s always hated the country and came here only because he demanded it of her. But that is all done with now. There’s no dower house on the estate, and she would scarcely care to live alone in one of the follies – the Corinthian Arch, perhaps, or the Gothic Tower! Nor would Rafe wish her to stay here, and he is in charge now, thank heaven. I hope he will not be confronted with the disagreeable necessity of requiring her explicitly to leave when a little time has passed. She will be much happier setting herself up in some watering-place and queening it over people who do not realise that society had never received her and never will, even though she can call herself Marchioness. Perhaps she will marry again quite swiftly. One can only wish her happy, and privately wonder what next will befall her.’

‘You will no longer be obliged to endure dinner parties with her, at least.’

‘It will be a great weight off my mind, my dear. And the maids will no longer have to be locked away for their own safety when parties are held. Such parties as they were! I’m sure everyone at Wyverne will breathe easier and sleep more soundly tonight. It is a terrible thing, truly…’ she said a little fretfully, her thin hands moving in agitation, her manner as much as her words showing some hint of what she was feeling at last. ‘My child – my firstborn son, whom I dearly loved once – has died, and yet I know that all anyone can feel or should feel is relief. I feel relief myself, now he can do no more damage in the world. Poor Gervais, what an epitaph: “He can do no more damage now.” I think I shall go to bed, Marchand, if you would be so good.’

‘Goodnight, madame,’ Sophie said, and kissed her soft cheek, the closest thing to condolences she felt able to give.

The old lady took her hand and held it tightly for a second. ‘Goodnight, my child. I’m glad that you are here. I know Rafe is too. He should not be alone at such a time.’

Sophie went up to Rafe’s empty chamber, though she did not undress. She had an odd reluctance to be anywhere else in the house. It was strange to think that this shabby, comfortable room, furnished with cast-offs and hidden up a back stair, was the refuge of the man who was now master of this whole huge building, and all the lakes and fields, farms and villages for miles around. He’d been a lonely little boy who’d hidden away here, but now suddenly he owned so much, and was responsible for the well-being of so many people. She knew he took this charge with the utmost seriousness, and she could only imagine with what mixed emotions he would be contemplating taking up his heritage. Would he be willing or even able fully to embrace it, or would it always be a burden and a reminder of past unhappiness? She knew he had his own much smaller house a few miles away, which presumably was his real home and had been for years; would he want to go back there for the comfort it would bring, or would he wish to live here, or feel he must even if he did not wish to, and bring his young siblings with him to breathe life to all the chilly grandeur?

One thing was certain: there was no place for her in this palace. Not now. He might wish there could be, she knew he did, and in sober truth so did she, but she could not believe it to be true. The world was as it was. He’d not keep his mistress openly here, flaunting her in the face of the world as even his father had not done, and she could not consent to be hidden away like a guilty secret, nor was he the man to ask it of her. Any other role for her – she refused even to allow the word to enter her mind – would be impossible. Perhaps he’d have realised this for himself by now, and perhaps he’d signify as much by leaving her to sleep here alone for the first time. What an unmistakeable message that would be, so eloquently expressive of the new order of things without so much as a word being spoken: Lord Drake had toyed for a while with the idea of loving her; the new Lord Wyverne now could not.

Or if he came to her tonight, it might only be because he was too good and decent to leave her waiting and wondering, though he must know their time was over. She wanted him to come, she desperately wanted one last night in his arms, though she knew it was weak to want it, and illogical too. She’d said herself that they had no future together. How could she possibly be hurt if he too acknowledged as much?

Having spent hours awaiting his arrival – was that a noise on the stairs? – Sophie finally accepted that he wasn’t coming, and, fully clothed, fell at last into an uneasy sleep on top of the coverlet, although it was still early. The day had seemed to last forever, and she was exhausted by the emotion of it.

Downstairs, one Marquess of Wyverne lay cold in his coffin and the other sat in the library with the Reverend Mr Venables. There had been a great deal to arrange, and though Rafe would greatly prefer to be upstairs, holding his love in his arms, he’d only just emerged from a prolonged and very trying interview with his stepmother. Simon had kindly stayed till this was over – he’d presumably been able to hear a fair proportion of it through the closed door – and seemed to feel that he was giving his friend comfort. The new Marquess didn’t quite have the energy to send him away. He wanted him to go – he just couldn’t in his fatigue find a way of expressing the idea that wouldn’t offend the decent old fellow. It was good that his friend was here, and he appreciated the thought – he’d just rather be with Sophie.

Mr Venables was plainly in a state of some unease. His mind was troubled, and his pleasant, open face creased with worry. In his view, it ill-suited a Christian, let alone a gentleman in holy orders, to be pleased that someone, a soul nominally under his care, had died. That would be most unseemly. It was traditional wisdom, of course, to say that the dear departed were going to a better place, and the rector had often employed this notion to console the bereaved. But he hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to mention as much to Rafe. Simon cherished a strong private conviction that the late Marquess was going to a much worse place, was probably already there, roasting on a turning spit in the infernal regions, which ought to make his passing a matter for regret. Or ought it? Had he not merely received his just deserts? There was always a place in God’s house for a repentant sinner – but it seemed highly unlikely that Lord Wyverne of all people had been the least penitent.

It was all very confusing. How did one, whether as a priest or in the guise of an ordinary human friend, console a man for the death of a parent he’d loathed, and with good reason, and explicitly wished dead? Nothing in his previously uneventful career had prepared Simon for this dilemma.

‘Would you like me to go up and speak to your dear grandmother?’ he asked rather desperately, as a reaction to Rafe’s brooding silence. It had never been entirely clear to Mr Venables if the Dowager was officially a member of the Church of England, and if she wasn’t it was probably, at the age of almost a hundred, too late for her to change. He was also slightly frightened of her, but he shouldn’t let that deter him from doing his duty to a mother who had lost her son.

‘Thank you for the thought, Simon,’ said Lord Wyverne with a weary but charming smile. ‘But I’m sure she will be asleep, as she tires so easily now. And if she isn’t, Marchand or Miss Delavallois will be with her.’

‘I’m sure they will give her greater comfort than I could.’

Rafe agreed with him with rather more emphasis and promptness than was strictly necessary. Ignoring this, Simon asked, ‘What do you mean to do?’ One must make allowances for persons suffering under strong emotions; the man had just learned of the death of his father.

‘That’s a very broad question. I have a great deal to do, so much that it makes my head ache, but you have reminded me of my duty,’ Rafe said, rising to his feet somewhat abruptly. ‘I should go and check on my grandmother myself, and see if she is in fact awake. I do not mean to be discourteous, and I am very grateful for your presence, but I haven’t had an opportunity to speak to her since…’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Venables, rising hastily also. ‘Shall I see you tomorrow afternoon, then, to finish making the funeral arrangements?’

‘Yes,’ said Rafe, ‘although it must be as simple as possible. It’s all very well to talk of his standing in the world, but I think we would make ourselves ridiculous with anything but the briefest of services. I presume the last time my father set foot in a church was at his wedding. One of his weddings. I must go into black for the ceremony, I suppose, but I warn you, Simon, I will not be observing the rituals and conventions of mourning in any other fashion.’ He saw unhappiness etched upon his friend’s face and said rather impatiently, ‘You know what happened here last week – was it only last week? Do you really think that a man who displays his wife in such a manner deserves…?’

‘You may very well be right!’ Mr Venables said, blushing, and at last he took his leave.

Rafe sighed, and mounted the stairs.