unknown poet, before giving herself to him.
But this was not a dream. Nor was a ghost walking: in spite of the fact that the figure of Decimus—as it seemed—might well have been supposed by a more fanciful person than Jemima to have emerged out of the Van Dyck portrait at the head of the stairs. Jemima however did not suppose that, as she stood at the bottom of the stairs at Lackland Court, on her second visit in ten days.
Once she had restored herself to a sense of proper reality, she was busy wondering more practically: who on earth has bothered to dress up for my benefit? It could hardly be Lord Lackland, the obvious candidate in a sense, standing at her elbow as he had done on the occasion of her first visit, but just a little closer, even perhaps just a little too close for the kind of relationship Jemima hoped they were having: that is, strictly professional. On the other hand, she had to admit that the proximity was not quite so unwelcome as it might have been, for example, ten days ago. You had to grant that the man had charm (well, yes, damn it, he was famous for it - nor had the crowd nicknamed him Handsome Dan for nothing) even if it was a charm based mainly on excellent attentive manners and a seductive voice - something to which Jemima was always rather partial. More earthily, maybe it was merely that taste for Eau Sauvage which he shared with Cass . . .
Her thoughts returned to the seventeenth-century masquerader before her. Not Dan Lackland, then, but who? It was Dan himself who gave her the answer in a voice which remained pleasantly low but contained at the same time an audible undercurrent of irritation.
"Zeenie! What the hell are you trying to prove now?"
Zena Meredith had reached the bottom of the staircase and the light fell on her pale face, the dark eyes so like her ancestor's. In spite of that resemblance, in spite of Zena's height, Jemima wondered how on earth she could ever have mistaken her for a man. A trick of the light: it was noon in high summer but the staircase was still encased in its own perpetual dusk (a fact which, it occurred to her, must have helped on the legend of the ghost in the past). The portrait at the head of the stairs, which was dramatically lit by hidden spotlights - a recent innovation presumably - made the gloom of the stairs seem even greater in contrast.
Zena Meredith gave a half-smile, more a whimsical turning of the lips which made the resemblance to Decimus, in face at least, even more remarkable. In her Cavalier boots with their heels, she was able to gaze at her brother directly in the eye.
'Why so sharp, Dan?" she said. "Did you think perhaps I was the uecirnus Ghost come to claim you?" Zena mockingly extended one long white hand—and her hand too had the splayed fingers of the poet.
"Don't be more ridiculous than you can help, Zeenie." Dan was treating his sister as some kind of turbulent little girl, the girl she must have been in their shared childhood. And yet, thought Jemima, this was no little girl, but a woman approaching forty, a woman moreover who had carved out an estimable career as a historical novelist— whatever you thought of the genre, she was a serious exponent of it—even if Zena had not secured the radiant newspaper-headline fame of her brother.
Zena abandoned her predatory pose and turned her attention to Jemima.
"As a matter of fact, I've had it for ages. I had it made for a fancy dress ball—Come as Your Own Ancestor—oh years ago. Don't you remember? You refused to go. Some match or other. So I went as Decimus. But I thought this would be my costume for the Cavalier Celebration," she began. "Since you wouldn't let me enact Olivia— surely Charlotte is not quite right?—and since there are a number of candidates for Lady Isabella Clare, I thought I would enact the ghost of Decimus himself. You be Decimus in Part One, I'll be the ghost in Part Two. Quite an amusing notion, isn't it?"
"No, it bloody well is not,"
But this was not a dream. Nor was a ghost walking: in spite of the fact that the figure of Decimus—as it seemed—might well have been supposed by a more fanciful person than Jemima to have emerged out of the Van Dyck portrait at the head of the stairs. Jemima however did not suppose that, as she stood at the bottom of the stairs at Lackland Court, on her second visit in ten days.
Once she had restored herself to a sense of proper reality, she was busy wondering more practically: who on earth has bothered to dress up for my benefit? It could hardly be Lord Lackland, the obvious candidate in a sense, standing at her elbow as he had done on the occasion of her first visit, but just a little closer, even perhaps just a little too close for the kind of relationship Jemima hoped they were having: that is, strictly professional. On the other hand, she had to admit that the proximity was not quite so unwelcome as it might have been, for example, ten days ago. You had to grant that the man had charm (well, yes, damn it, he was famous for it - nor had the crowd nicknamed him Handsome Dan for nothing) even if it was a charm based mainly on excellent attentive manners and a seductive voice - something to which Jemima was always rather partial. More earthily, maybe it was merely that taste for Eau Sauvage which he shared with Cass . . .
Her thoughts returned to the seventeenth-century masquerader before her. Not Dan Lackland, then, but who? It was Dan himself who gave her the answer in a voice which remained pleasantly low but contained at the same time an audible undercurrent of irritation.
"Zeenie! What the hell are you trying to prove now?"
Zena Meredith had reached the bottom of the staircase and the light fell on her pale face, the dark eyes so like her ancestor's. In spite of that resemblance, in spite of Zena's height, Jemima wondered how on earth she could ever have mistaken her for a man. A trick of the light: it was noon in high summer but the staircase was still encased in its own perpetual dusk (a fact which, it occurred to her, must have helped on the legend of the ghost in the past). The portrait at the head of the stairs, which was dramatically lit by hidden spotlights - a recent innovation presumably - made the gloom of the stairs seem even greater in contrast.
Zena Meredith gave a half-smile, more a whimsical turning of the lips which made the resemblance to Decimus, in face at least, even more remarkable. In her Cavalier boots with their heels, she was able to gaze at her brother directly in the eye.
'Why so sharp, Dan?" she said. "Did you think perhaps I was the uecirnus Ghost come to claim you?" Zena mockingly extended one long white hand—and her hand too had the splayed fingers of the poet.
"Don't be more ridiculous than you can help, Zeenie." Dan was treating his sister as some kind of turbulent little girl, the girl she must have been in their shared childhood. And yet, thought Jemima, this was no little girl, but a woman approaching forty, a woman moreover who had carved out an estimable career as a historical novelist— whatever you thought of the genre, she was a serious exponent of it—even if Zena had not secured the radiant newspaper-headline fame of her brother.
Zena abandoned her predatory pose and turned her attention to Jemima.
"As a matter of fact, I've had it for ages. I had it made for a fancy dress ball—Come as Your Own Ancestor—oh years ago. Don't you remember? You refused to go. Some match or other. So I went as Decimus. But I thought this would be my costume for the Cavalier Celebration," she began. "Since you wouldn't let me enact Olivia— surely Charlotte is not quite right?—and since there are a number of candidates for Lady Isabella Clare, I thought I would enact the ghost of Decimus himself. You be Decimus in Part One, I'll be the ghost in Part Two. Quite an amusing notion, isn't it?"
"No, it bloody well is not,"
Similar Books
