The Shrouded Walls by Susan Howatch Read Free Book Online Page B

“It’s such a damp chill night and the wine will warm us both.”
    I protested half-heartedly but then agreed readily enough. I would have seized on any excuse to postpone the moment when I would be alone with him in the bedroom.
    The wine not only warmed my blood but made me feel drowsy and relaxed. I meant to ask him on the stairs what “activities” Rodric had pursued which would have offended the police at Rye, but my mind was hazy and I was unable to concentrate sufficiently to revive our earlier conversation. Marie-Claire was waiting for me in the bedroom, but I dismissed her at once to her own sleeping quarters for I could see she was greatly fatigued, and undressed as quickly as I could without her. I discovered that she had stretched my nightgown over the warming-pan in the bed, and I felt the luxurious warmth soothe my limbs as the silk touched my skin. A second later I was in bed and lying sleepily back on the pillows.
    He had been correct in the assumptions he had made that morning at Claybury Park. Matters did improve; at least this time I was spared the shock of disillusio n ment. Afterward he was asleep almost at once, but although I moved closer to him for warmth and even ventured to lay my head against his shoulder he did not stir, and I was conscious even then of his remoteness from me.
    The next day we set off early from the inn at Sevenoaks and journeyed further south through the meadows of Kent until we reached the great spa of Tunbridge Wells which Charles II’s queen, Henrietta Maria, had made famous over a century and a half before. It is not, of course, as celebrated as Bath, which is famed throughout Europe, but Axel found the town interesting enough to linger in and thought that a short journey that day would be less tiring for me. Accordingly we dined at an excellent tavern near the Pantiles and stayed the night at an inn not far from the Pump Room. Again we shared the same bedroom, but this time it was I who slept first and did not wake till it began to rain at seven the next morning.
    We had not spoken again of his family, but as we set out on the last stage of our journey on Wednesday I began to think of them again. I was particularly anxious at the thought of meeting Alice. I hoped she would not be too much older than me so that my disadvantage would not be so great, but if she had had six children already it was probable that she was at least twenty-two or even older.
    I began idly to count the months to my eighteenth birthday.
    The journey that day seemed never-ending. We prog r essed along the borders of Kent and Sussex and the rain poured from leaden skies to make a mire of the road. At several inns we had to stop to allow the coachman to attend to the horses who quickly tired from the strain of pulling their burden through the mud, and then at last as we crossed the border into Sussex and left the rich farming land of Kent behind, the rain ceased and on peering from the carriage window I saw we were approaching a new land, a vast tract of green flatness broken only by the blue ribbon of the sea on the horizon.
    “This is the Romney Marsh,” said Axel.
    It was not as I had imagined it to be. I think I had pictured a series of marshes and bogs which would remind me of descriptions I had heard of the Fen Country in East Anglia, but although there were probably marshes and bogs in plenty, they were not visible from the road. The grass of the endless meadows seemed very green, and occasionally I glimpsed the strips of farmland, and the huddle of stone buildings. There were no hedges or other enclosures, but often I could glimpse the gleam of water where a farmer had cut a dyke to drain his property.
    “They plan to drain more of the Marsh,” said Axel, after he had pointed out the dykes to me. “The soil is rich here if only it can be used. Vere has been experimenting with crops and growing turnips and other root vegetables instead of letting a third of the land lie fallow each year.