The Elsingham Portrait

Twenty-Two


Kathryn had passed the day very quietly in the attic room. Since she was so soon to leave this time and place, she felt it important that she experience as much, as fully, as she was able. She even pulled aside one of the heavy red rep curtains which covered the dormer windows, and stared through the narrow space at a part of the Manor grounds. From this angle, she could not see the extensive gardens through which Bennet had led her the night before. The view from this window was of green velvet lawns sloping down to a little lake, in the middle of which floated a tiny island. The whole landscape was so exquisite that Kathryn found herself smiling and wishing very much that she could go down and walk in it. On the green lawns were a few noble old trees which cast a gracious shade.

“I’ll remember this,” Kathryn told herself, and had a sudden unpleasant memory of Central Park, with its noisy crowds, dust, litter and threat of muggers. The serene lawns and noble trees of the Manor took on a glamor and glow of venerable sweetness, a sort of innocence which reminded Kathryn of the Vicar.

The Vicar—Newton—Polly—Mrs. Latchet—Margaret and Richard Bennet . . . suddenly Kathryn’s eyes were brimming with tears, and she felt an almost unbearable wave of homesickness—for this century she was to leave. She blinked away the tears angrily. How foolish can you get? she mocked herself. You haven’t known these people for a month—the Vicar just over a week—and you’re lonely for them already! When you get back to New York you’ll forget about them, she promised herself.

Liar!

With a sob, Kathryn twitched the curtain shut and went to sit on the narrow cot. Admit it, she thought, you love them all. John and the Vicar and Bennet and Richard . . . even little Poll, and you’re doing your darnedest to get away from them. She cried for a while, and then she dried her eyes resolutely and got up to prepare for the encounter with the portrait.

“Get with it,” she advised herself, deliberately crude, “Unless you want to be shoved in the looney bin or locked up in some creepy castle dungeon for the rest of your life. Little old New York is better, even with the noise and smog and dirt.”

She brushed the beautiful hair and back-combed it into a high, elaborate coiffure, as close as she could get to the shape she remembered in the picture. She was quite unaware that far below her a stammering gardener’s helper had confided a frightening experience to the head gardener, who had boxed his ears and then gone to the kitchen to relate the story to the cook, who had given him a mug of beer and requested him to tell it again to a breathless group of kitchen maids and footmen.

“A white, ghastly face it was,” said the head gardener, making the most of his moment, “peering out of one of the attic windows and beck’nin’.”

“Beck’nin’?” breathed a maid in horrified delight. “To him?”

“Beck’nin’,” repeated the head gardener firmly. “To whoever would come.”

A shiver of fear went through his audience. To think! A ghost in the very attics above them! And beck’nin’! Two housemaids began to get hysterical, one vowing she could never sleep another night under this roof.

Cook realized she must nip this in the bud, or have a gaggle of silly fools vying with one another to establish who had the most sensitive nerves.

“Well, if that’s the way you feel, Sookie, you may stay awake and scrub the scullery and kitchen floors. And polish the spoons. And if you still can’t sleep after that, I’ll lay out some ironing for you to do.”

This Spartan treatment effectively cured the incipient hysterics, but it also ended the head gardener’s hour of triumph. He finished his beer and tramped off to his tiny cottage, muttering to himself about silly females who couldn’t take a joke. And he’d rather have a dozen of ghosts any day, than one old spoilsport besom.

But when she had successfully cowed the staff and got them back at their respective duties, the cook went quietly upstairs to tell the butler, Mr. Ponty, what the boy had seen. He in turn told Mrs. Bennet—and she encouraged him in his supercilious laughter.

“Believe me, Mrs. Bennet, they are a pack of credulous farmers, and Cook is no better than the rest of them,” he said. He fought a running battle with Cook, who had been at the Manor longer than he had. “Ghosts in the attics, indeed! It’ll be bats in the belfry next for Cook and her cohorts,” said Ponty, and was rewarded by almost hysterical laughter from Bennet.

It was unfortunate that Bennet, using a headache as an excuse, left the servants’ hall early and crept upstairs to the attics. She missed the stealthy arrival of a determined group of villagers led by Donner. They had learned from the fiasco of the night before, and instead of storming the Manor with shouts and flaring torches, they came quietly to the kitchen door and asked in a seemly fashion for an audience with Mr. Ponty. That worthy, anxious to reestablish ascendancy over Cook, was more willing than he might normally have been to listen to their strange tale.

Unaware of this, Bennet was in Lord John’s playroom helping Kathryn to don the orange satin gown. “It’s as well you are leaving tonight,” she admitted. “The gardener’s youngest helper saw you at the window this afternoon and thought you were a ghost. It’s put all the servants into an uproar.”

Kathryn began to explain and apologize, but Bennet brushed that aside. “It is rather fortunate than the reverse,” she decided. “Now not a blessed one of them will venture to put his nose outside a bedroom door till it’s daylight.” She stood back to check Kathryn’s appearance. “Perfect! We can go down soon. They’ll all be hurrying off to bed, none of them anxious to be the last one left in the dark.”

She stood by the round table, looking at Kathryn. She had never been close to Lady Nadine, scarcely even spoken to her. But she had glimpsed her from a distance, and it seemed to Bennet that the beautiful face, now white and tired, was more exquisite than it had ever been. Something about the eyes, Bennet thought. A shadow of pain bravely accepted, a flash of good humor, a softness of compassion, made the beautiful green eyes tender, and disciplined the whole face into lovely maturity.

“Oh, Master John,” thought Bennet, “why aren’t you here to see what your lady has become?” Even in the garish gown, Kathryn-Nadine was a triumphantly beautiful woman.

Kathryn smiled encouragingly at her. “Well, Bennet? Shall we try a little white magic?”

Bennet shuddered involuntarily. God forgive me, she prayed, I’m still hoping it won’t work! And yet she knew that the alternatives: confinement in Bedlam or in the ruined Irish castle—were worse. Sighing, she took up the lamp and led the way down the stairs to the Great Hall.

When they reached the floor above the Great Hall, they became aware of a murmur of voices. They drew back, alarmed, and Bennet blew out her lamp.

Lights flared up in the Hall. Led by Ponty, what seemed like the whole staff of servants came into sight. Nearly every one carried a candle or a lamp. A footman went quickly from one wall sconce to the next, and in a few seconds the Great Hall was aglare with light. The portrait she had come deviously to confront blazed in the harsh light, a focus of color dominating the Hall. It was so close she could read the arrogance on that beautiful face—yet it was separated from her by her enemies. For, as she hid in the shadows, Kathryn perceived with a shock of fear that Donner and Adrian Bart were standing beside Ponty.

The butler began to direct his staff and the villagers.

“Four of you men will stay here in case the witch should try to escape through the front door. Stop Mrs. Bennet if you see her. Place her under restraint if necessary; it is for her own good. The rest of you will accompany me and Donner, as we go from room to room, searching for the Lady Nadine.”

“What if she flies out a window?” called a man’s voice, obviously more than half serious. Ponty ignored the question.

“The gardeners and grooms are posted outside, all around the house. There’s four men in the kitchen. If the lady is in this house, she will not escape us.”

“She’s here!” Donner’s nostrils flared with a fine dramatic flourish. “I can sense the taint of witchcraft! Can ye not smell the brimstone?”

There were cries and groans from the women servants.

Hidden in the shadows above them, Kathryn listened incredulously. This was a witch-hunt! Did Donner mean to have her killed? And how had Donner found her so quickly?

At this moment, startling both the hunters and the hunted into shocked immobility, there sounded the heavy booming of the iron knocker on the panel of the great oaken door. The butler, conditioned by a lifetime of training, was the first to recover. Catching the eyes of two footmen, he began a stately advance toward the door.

Donner, with a mixture of avidity and alarm on her face, caught at his arm. “It’s some trick of the witch! Don’t open that door! Mayhap it’s the Devil himself!”

The maids squealed in terror, but Ponty, ignoring Donner’s clutch, continued his stately movement to the front door.

“Permit me to know my duty, ma’am,” he told Donner coldly. Common trash, his supercilious dismissal said.

Donner gave him her snarling wolf-smile. She twisted her hands. So close! Nothing must stop me now!

The knocking was repeated, thunderously.

Ponty opened the door.

On the threshold, a towering figure of anger, stood the master of Elsingham Manor.

“You keep me waiting, Ponty,” he said icily.

At once the hall was a reverberation of voices: the villagers, the servants, the butler, all hastening to explain the unexplainable, defend the indefensible. Donner had faded to the rear of the group, waiting in the shadows for her dupes to provide an opportunity for her, but meanwhile quite content to let them face the challenges and the punishment.

Milord did not even need to lift his hand to silence the babel. His attitude was enough. When the great room was still again, he addressed the butler.

“It appears I am entertaining. May I know the names of my guests and the purpose of their visit?”

Ponty, out of countenance for the first time in his life, was at a momentary loss for words. His employer waited, gray eyes unrelenting. After a few seconds the butler spoke.

“Milord, there is a —a situation here at the Manor.”

“Indeed?” commented his lordship. “And you cannot handle it?”

Ponty lost color. “A woman has arrived claiming that . . .” He floundered. How do you tell your employer that some strange, common female insists that his lordship’s wife is a witch, that she has bewitched half the village as well as his lordship’s old nurse, and that the staff is completely disorganized because a gardener’s boy has seen a ghost? Ponty, despairing of the task, decided to shift responsibility.

“Milord,” he began, “a woman who calls herself Donner has come to—pick up her charge.”

“Indeed?” repeated his lordship imperturbably. Ponty felt a surge of envious respect for the cool aristocrat. Quality! It always shows. His lordship continued speaking, “Has the woman called Donner informed you of the fact that she is a former servant dismissed in disgrace by me, and currently sought by the London constabulary?”

“No, milord,” Ponty confessed humbly. He was beginning to realize the enormity of his blunder in listening to the woman. He could only work now to palliate his offense, and hope for mercy.

But there was more. “Has this disgraced former servant told you the identity of the ‘charge’ she has gone to such trouble to ‘pick up’?”

Ponty groveled. “Donner’s around here somewhere, milord. Perhaps she should tell you herself.”

“Ah.” His lordship scanned the group of shrinking servants and tenants. “Perhaps she should. Are you there, Donner?”

Boldly the woman thrust herself through the group, spewing veiled threats. “Sure and old Donner was only tryin to save your lordship from public shame and misery. I was trying to get her-we-know-of safe off to Ireland, in accordance with Your Honor’s expressed wish, before worse befell her—and all of us.”

Lord John faced her with a look of such contempt that even Donner’s thick skin was pierced. Yet the man’s voice, when he spoke, was still under rigid control.

“You are all benevolence, ma’am,” said Lord John. “However, I fail to see what business you could have here in my house, dismissed from my service as you have been for attempting to practice witchcraft.”

Donner’s face lit with a smile of triumph. “Well, now, Your Honor dear, since you bring up the subject yourself, ¼tis your own good lady’s dabbling in witchcraft that I’ve come to stop. And all these good people with me, to see justice done and the witch confined!”

This was battle with no holds barred. Lord John faced her. “May I remind you that I have the chemist’s report on the drug you were giving to Lady Nadine, and witnesses to attest to your attempt to administer the same drug again? I might even remind you that your associate,” his eyes flicked scornfully at Adrian, “will be compelled to testify. Perhaps you know how much you may place in his willingness to protect you when his own freedom is at stake.”

Donner was quick as an eel. “A fine thing it is, Your Honor, for you to be persecutin’ a poor helpless old woman,” she began whining.

“Don’t waste your time and mine with such nonsense,” advised Lord John. “You have made very serious charges in front of these witnesses. The question now is, do you have evidence to back up your charges?”

Donner took them all by surprise. She whirled and pointed to the shadowed area at the top of the stairway. “There she is, the witch, with her dupe, Mag Bennet, about to lay their devil’s games in front of that accursed portrait! But Donner can control her! Come out, my poor misguided, mad nursling—come to Donner!”

Almost against her will Kathryn advanced into the light. She came down two steps. There was a concerted gasp from the spectators, all of whom had turned their faces up toward the woman on the stairs. In her flaunting finery, white-faced, green-eyed, hair blazing red as flame, she looked more—or less—than human. Lord John, whose eyes had fixed on the beautiful face, maintained his air of stern challenge, but Donner wore a gloating expression of triumph.

“Come to Donner, little changeling!” crooned the old woman, in a wheedling, loathsome mockery of love, “come, Nadine, I command you!”

But Kathryn was not Nadine, and whatever power the old woman had established over the body and will of her charge was weakened by the mind and spirit of Kathryn. She took one more step down toward the people waiting wide-eyed below. Her own eyes were fastened on the avid face of Donner.

“In the name of all that is good and holy, I charge you to leave this house,” Kathryn said clearly, stretching her hand out toward Donner as she had seen Father Percy do. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from those who watched, and a startled light appeared in Lord John’s eyes.

“You have no control over my spirit, for it is free and dwells in the light of the God Who gave it life and substance.”

“Amen!” Bennet’s voice rang out.

Donner, eyes gleaming red in the lamplight, laughed harshly. “Very pretty, little wanton! The Vicar has taught you to mouth the words neatly enough. But your body is soiled, Nadine, and given over to a service more ancient than the Galilean’s. Come down, I say!”

Lord John looked from the old crone to the slender girl who stood on the dark stairway. In every inch of his body he ached to help her, but he did not dare to break her concentration. Donner was grinning her wolf-grin. “Answer truly, woman. As your god is your witness, are you indeed Lady Nadine Brionny—or are you something else?”

There it was. The one question she must not answer. Kathryn believed firmly that if she told a lie, at this crucial moment, she would increase the power Donner had over Nadine’s body. Yet if she told the truth, even Lord John’s position and prestige might not be enough to save her from the superstitious fears of the villagers. The girl stared as if hypnotized into the flat black eyes of the old woman whose lust for power had led her into these dark ways.

And Donner, sure of her victory, smiled. “As your god sees you—and as you hope for heaven—answer! Are you Nadine Brionny?”

Into the waiting silence came the sound of a sob. Bennet appeared at the head of the stairs, clasping her Bible to her. Lord John took a step forward, eyes steady on Kathryn’s face. The villagers began to whisper and murmur. Kathryn swayed with the intensity of her emotion. Her lips opened.

“I am . . . not . .. Nadine Brionny . . .” she began.

“Then who—or what—are you?” Donner’s challenge rang out.

The air was heavy with evil. Kathryn lifted her hand to her throat.

“What are you that has seized the body of Lady Nadine?”

There was a growl of animal fear from the crowd. Donner darted to the foot of the stairway.

“Stop!” A strong voice broke the tension. Even Donner turned to face Lord John. He stood smiling confidently up at the white-faced woman on the stairs. “Donner,” said the nobleman, “you have asked the wrong questions. There is no longer any Lady Nadine Brionny. There is, however, a Lady Elsingham. I shall ask a few questions—the right ones. Listen!”

Never taking his steady eyes from Kathryn’s face, he said, “Bennet, I see you have your Bible. Please hand it to milady.”

When Kathryn had accepted it into her hands, he addressed her formally. “Madam, swear upon the Holy Book, as God is your witness: are you a Christian soul and no witch?”

Her own eyes holding to his, Kathryn replied in a voice clearly audible in the breathless silence. “I am a Christian and no witch.”

“Are you my true wife—the Lady Elsingham—in spite of all that has happened?” And now the gray eyes were alight with an ardent warmth that brought color to milady’s pale cheeks.

—We have something for each other—

Kathryn, smiling, answered in a voice whose joy rang like music, “My lord John, as God is my witness, I hope and believe I am.” And she took a step toward him, smiling gloriously, and—fell.

“Oh, no!” cried Lord John, between alarm and laughter, “not again!”

*****



The villagers, surfeited for once with excitement, and convinced by what they had observed that they had witnessed the healing of a lovers’ quarrel, had dispersed to their homes with enough gossip to keep them busy for a twelvemonth. Donner and Adrian Bart, under heavy guard of milord’s most trusted menservants, were being driven to London, where they would be given into charge of a magistrate, to be bound over for trial and sentencing. Ponty, reveling in sentiment, had gone to order Cook to prepare an especially tasty late supper for his master and mistress and their guests. At milady’s request, the Vicar and Richard Bennet had been sent for, to share the happiness of this hour. Lord John, smiling at his lady with an ardency which brought the roses to her face, said to her, low-voiced, “Supper, yes; guests, of course—I expect Peter and Randall soon—but the moment will come, milady, when you and I must have private converse.”

He had carried her to the library and placed her on a comfortable sofa, where she now sat, propped up against cushions, while Bennet hovered solicitously, making sure that none of Kathryn’s bones were broken this time. Stretched very much at his ease in a big chair, his eyes still full of that disturbing light, Lord John watched them both. Kathryn found it very hard to meet his elated, masterful gaze.

“Bennet,” said Lord John gently, “you have my thanks for your devoted help to Kathryn.”

“You believe me now?” interrupted the lady. “You are sure I am Kathryn?”

“I believe,” said Lord John “Your friend Mr. Wilmot Manton has supplied irrefutable proof.”

“Bennet believed,” said Kathryn, holding out her hand to the beaming woman. “From the beginning. Without proof.”

“We will always remember that,” answered Lord John with a grateful smile to his old nurse. “As for me, I foresee years of fascinating discussion opening before us, as you teach me what our world will become. But my dear,” he warned gently, “I also believe we must keep your true nature a secret, except from our most trusted friends. Eighteenth century London is not ready for a Lady Nostradamus. The average Englishman is hard to convince of the validity of a new idea.”

“Yes,” agreed Kathryn solemnly, although her eyes shone with laughter, “I have noticed that you Englishmen are stubborn and hard to convince. Bull-headed, we call it in the States.”

His smile gleamed at her. “Madam, are you declaring war—again?”

Kathryn changed the subject quickly. “And the Vicar believed me. Have you sent for him?”

“Yes,” answered her lord. “Perhaps this is he?”

But the commotion at the door heralded the arrival of Lord Peter and Mr. Towne, whom Ponty, again very much master of himself, announced with full decorum. As soon as the butler had left hem, Randall walked over to stand beside the couch on which Kathryn rested. He scanned her face intently. Then he turned to face his host.

“Peter was right,” he said. “Johnny, dear boy, I am forced to explode a bombshell. Though this lady is every bit as lovely as your wife, her eyes and expression are completely different from Nadine’s, Johnny, I am forced to tell you: this is NOT your wife!”

He could not understand why John, Kathryn and even Bennet broke into hysterical laughter.

While Lord John began to recount the events of the evening, Lord Peter came to Kathryn and kissed her hand. “Welcome home, Kathryn,” he said softly. “Can you ever forgive a pair of very arrogant Englishmen?”

“Yes, and love them, too,” replied Kathryn, eyes brimming with tears of gratitude at his welcome.

“Better not let our young cockerel hear that,” Peter chuckled, and told her Randy’s experience with Nadine.

When the Vicar finally arrived, sleepy but full of happiness at the outcome of the situation, the little group sat down to a very gay supper indeed. Only Richard Bennet, late coming, refused to eat and could not keep his eyes off Kathryn. But his quiet smile reassured her that he would never importune her with his love, and she would always have his complete devotion. He left early, pleading urgent duties at the farm. Kathryn watched him leave, his great sturdy body held very straight, and knew a sharp pain in her heart.

The rest of the party behaved with such uproarious good humor that Bennet finally felt compelled to remonstrate. After one particularly outrageous remark by Randy, Bennet said,

“You are all acting like children. You especially, Master Randall. Why can you not behave with as much propriety as Master Peter?”

This sent them off again, but when the laughter quieted, Lord John said lazily, “Yes, why can’t you behave, you young whippersnapper? That’s my wife you are paying court to.”

“Just doing the pretty,” grinned Randy.

“Well, go do it to your own girl,” Lord John advised him, with such a look of quiet joy on his face that his two friends rejoiced for him.

Lord Peter arose. “Your lady must be tired after all this hubble-bubble. We’ll bid you goodnight, now—and offer our best wishes.” Standing, he raised his glass. “To the Lady Elsingham, long life and happiness!”

Even Bennet rose with the rest to drink to that.

*****



Finally they were alone, the lovers who had come together across two hundred years. Lord John carried his beautiful wife over the threshold of the great bedroom in which he had been born, and put her down gently on the bed. She could not meet the eagerness in his eyes. He stood looking down at her.

“Kathryn—my beautiful wife—”

She raised her clear lovely eyes to his at last, meeting his ardent gaze. Rich color rose in her cheeks. “We are married—but we are strangers,” she said softly.

“Our bodies are not,” offered Lord John. “Perhaps we should let them lead us. They have shared joy.” It was there in his deepened voice, the urgency of passionate love under iron control. When she did not speak, he sat beside her on the great bed and took her hand gently in his big warm one. “It is like a new wedding night.”

The girl nodded, wordless.

He raised her hand to his lips, speaking softly, his breath warm against her palm. Eyes steady on hers, he said, “I, John, take thee, Kathryn, to be my beloved wife—now and for eternity.” He released her hand, leaving her free to choose. “And you, my love?”

She looked at this stranger who was her husband, this man with the golden hair and the clear, disturbing gray eyes, the now-familiar mouth sensuous yet disciplined. Her fingers ached to trace the beloved lines and stroke the scarred, lean cheek. Would she take this man?

“Oh, yes!” said Kathryn Hendrix of New York, and gave herself into the strength and security of his waiting arms.

*****


Much later, when dawn was shining through the curtains, John said, his lips against the softness of her breast, “You are more beautiful than ever. You are all I have ever hoped for—more than I had dreamed woman could be. . .” His voice was curiously soft and roughened. He kissed her gently on the lips, a kiss that sealed his claim upon her. Then his eyes fell on the crumpled orange gown which lay on the floor where he had tossed it the night before. It reminded him of the portrait. He raised himself on one elbow.

“That accursed portrait! How I hated it—and Nadine!—when that jackanapes was painting it! I’ll have it destroyed today.”

Alarmed, Kathryn sat up beside him. “No! We must be sure to keep it safe, bequeath it in our wills to a museum, with the proviso that it be sent to America in 1975—”

John smiled wickedly. “And why all this bother to preserve a wretched daub which doesn’t do my wife justice?”

“Because, milord,” Kathryn smiled demurely, “if we do not, how will I ever get back here into your arms?”

Lord John showed her.


About the author


Elizabeth Chater was the author of more than 24 novels and countless short stories. She received a B.A. from the University of British Columbia and an M.A. from San Diego State University, and joined the faculty of the latter in 1963 where she began a lifelong friendship with science fiction author Greg Bear. She was honored with The Distinguished Teacher award in 1969, and was awarded Outstanding Professor of the Year in 1977. After receiving her Professor Emeritus, she embarked on a new career as a novelist with Richard Curtis as her agent. In the 1950s and 60s she published short stories in Fantastic Universe Magazine and The Saint Mystery Magazine, and she won the Publisher’s Weekly short story contest in 1975. She went on to publish 22 romance novels over an 8 year period. She also wrote under the pen names Lee Chater, Lee Chaytor, and Lisa Moore. For more information, please visit http://www.elizabethchater.com