Philippa Carr - Song of the Siren

I must not be foolish and fanciful.

I would leave at once. There was no point in going through the house. I was too upset. No matter what explanation I could offer, the scent had conjured up too vivid a picture of him. I wanted to get away.

And then suddenly I saw it glinting on one of the floorboards. I stooped and picked it up. It was a button. A very unusual button, gold, and very delicately engraved.

I had seen that button before. It had been on a coat of claret-coloured velvet. I had admired the buttons very much. Beau had said: “I had them especially made for me by my goldsmith. Always remember, Carlotta, that it is the finishing touches to the garment which give it quality. Now these buttons make this coat unique.”

And here … lying on the floor of the minstrels’ gallery was one of those buttons.

Surely it could mean only one thing. Beau had been here.

“Beau,” I whispered, half expecting him to materialize beside me.

There was nothing but the silence of the house. I turned the button over in my hand. It was real. This was no hallucination. It was as real as the scent which hung about the place—Beau’s scent.

It is a sign, I thought. It is a portent because I am proposing to sell the house.

I sat down on one of the stools and leaned my head against the balustrade. The indentation on the chair, the scent … they could have meant anything. But the button, that was proof positive.

When had I last seen him wearing that coat? It was in London. Yes. He had not worn it here as far as I remembered. Yet here was this button. He could not have lost it while he was here. Surely it would have been found before if he had.

I was bewildered. I was overcome by my emotions and found it difficult to understand them. I did not know whether I was wild with joy or filled with misery. I was lost in limbo, black and uncertain. I called his name again. My voice echoed through the house. That was no good. What if that stupid little Damaris was hiding somewhere, spying on me? No, that was not fair. Damaris did not spy. But she did have a habit of turning up when she wasn’t wanted.

Beau! What does this mean? Are you there? Are you hiding? Are you teasing me?

I went out of the gallery. I was going to look through the house. I went to our bedroom. I could smell the musk there.

It was awe inspiring, and the darkness would soon fall. The ghosts would come out—if ghosts there were.

“Oh, Beau, Beau,” I whispered, “are you here somewhere? Give me a sign. Let me understand what this means.”

I could feel the button growing hot in my hand. I half expected it to disappear but it was still there.

I went out of the house to my horse.

It was dark when I reached the Dower House. Priscilla was in the hall.

“Oh, there you are, Carlotta. I knew you were out. I was beginning to grow anxious.”

I wanted to shout: Leave me alone. Do not watch me and worry about me. Instead I said coldly: “I can take care of myself.”

I hesitated a moment and then went on: “I don’t think I want to sell Enderby after all.”

There was consternation at my decision. My grandfather said it was absurd that a chit of a girl should have a say in such matters. The house was neither use nor ornament and should be sold. My grandmother, I think, agreed with my grandfather; Leigh was tolerant and said it was my affair, and Priscilla, of course, started to worry about my strangeness in the matter. She knew it was something to do with Beau and she was upset because she had begun to think I was getting over that affair.

I sent a messenger to Mistress Pilkington at Crowhill to tell her that I had changed my mind. She sent back the key with a message that she was disappointed but understood how difficult I found it to part with such a house.

Christmas was coming and there was the usual bustle of preparation. Priscilla did all she could to arouse my interest; but I knew that I was difficult. My temper burst out at the least provocation, and Sally Nullens said I was like a bear with a sore head. Harriet sent a message to say that she, Gregory and Benjie would be joining us. We either spent Christmas at the Abbas or they came to Eversleigh. My grandmother insisted. She was very fond of Harriet; they after all had been friends almost all their lives and had met in France before the Restoration. My grandmother sometimes showed a certain asperity towards her, which seemed to amuse Harriet. Anyone who knew their history would understand it, because for a time Harriet had been Arabella’s rival and Edwin Eversleigh had been the father of Harriet’s son, Leigh, now Priscilla’s husband. We were a complicated family. It had all happened long ago and in Harriet’s eyes should be forgotten. But I could understand Arabella’s resentment towards her. Then Priscilla had gone to Harriet when I was about to be born. I could imagine Arabella resented that too. However, Harriet stayed at Eversleigh, and there was a very firm bond between her and my grandmother just as there was between my mother and Harriet, and myself and Harriet for that matter. Harriet had played a major part in all our lives and she was like a member of the family. My grandfather was the only one who disliked her and as he was a man who would not bother to hide his feelings, this was obvious. But there again I think he enjoyed his battles with her and I was sure she did. So it was always good when Harriet arrived.

It was the usual Christmas, getting in the yule log, decorating the great hall, giving the carol singers mulled wine out of the steaming punch bowl, feasting and dancing under the holly and mistletoe.

The Willerbys were there of course. Little Christabel was taken off to the nursery by Sally and she and Emily shook their heads and muttered about the less efficient methods employed at Grasslands compared with those at Eversleigh.

As we sat drowsily over the remains of the Christmas dinner, our goblets full of the malmsey and muscadel of which my grandfather was justly proud, Thomas Willerby again raised the question of his giving up Grasslands.

“I don’t know,” he said looking at my mother, “there is too much to remind us of Christabel.”

“We should hate you to go,” said Priscilla.

“And it would be so strange to have someone else at Grasslands,” added my grandmother.

“We’re such a happy community,” put in Leigh. “It’s really like one big family.”

Thomas’s expression grew very sentimental. I guessed he was about to say again that he owed his happiness to the Eversleighs.

Christabel had been my grandfather’s illegitimate daughter. He was a wild man, my grandfather; it always delighted me, though, to see how devoted he was to my grandmother. Harriet once said: “He was a rake till he married Arabella. Then he reformed.” I liked to think that that was how Beau would have been had we married.

“It is only the thought of leaving you all that has stopped my going before,” went on Thomas. “When Christabel went I knew I could never forget while I was here. There’s too much to remind me. My brother in York is urging me to go up there.”

“Dear Thomas,” said Priscilla. “You must go if it makes you happier.”

“Try it for a while,” suggested Harriet. “You can always come back.” She changed the subject. She was a little impatient of this sentimental talk, I knew.

“Strange if there were two houses for sale,” she said. “Ah, but Carlotta has changed her mind. She is not going to sell Enderby … for a while. I wonder what our new neighbors would have been like.”

“Carlotta was rather taken with her, were you not, Carlotta?” said my mother.

“She was very elegant. Not exactly beautiful but attractive with masses of red hair. I was very interested in Mistress Pilkington.”