The Shrouded Walls by Susan Howatch Page A

He had a deep voice with more than a hint of a Sussex rural accent. The accent shocked me for I had thought that all gentry, no matter where they lived in England, spoke the King’s English. He was not as tall as Axel, but was so powerfully built that he in fact seemed the larger of the two. He had narrow black eyes, a stubborn mouth and a shock of untidy black hair which was cut very short in the manner of a yokel. “The prize bull threw one of the farm hands and Vere rode himself to Winchelsea to get Doctor Salter. He asked me to meet you instead and give you his apologies for not being here as he promised.”
    “Couldn’t he have sent you to fetch the doctor and come here himself to meet us as we arranged?”
    “He was too worried about the hand. They fear his back is broken.”
    “I see.” But he was clearly angry. I waited uneasily for him to introduce me, for the man was looking at me openly now with curious eyes.
    “Where is the carriage?”
    “Over there.”
    “Then let’s waste no more time standing here, or my wife will catch cold.” He half-turned to me. “May I introduce my youngest half-brother, Edwin ... Ned, attend to our baggage, would you? Is Simpson with the carriage? Get him to assist you.”
    But Ned had taken my hand in his and was bowing low with unexpected ceremony. “Your servant, ma’am.”
    “How do you do,” I said, responding to convention, and then Axel’s hand was on my arm and Axel’s voice said coolly: “This way, my dear.” If Ned’s Sussex accent had worried me about the gentility of the Brandsons, their carriage quickly restored my faith in their social position. It was polished and elaborate, well-sprung and comfortable, and clearly could only have been maintained by a gentleman.
    “You were barely civil to Ned,” I said in a low voice once I was seated. “Why was that?”
    He had been stooping to examine the fastening of the carriage door, but once I spoke he swung around, seeming to tower above me in that small confined space. “He needs discipline,” he said abruptly. “My father let him run wild and his mother cannot control him. He shows tendencies of becoming as wild as Rodric but with none of Rodric’s charm and grace of manner.” He sat down opposite me and the shaft of light from the porch shone directly across his face so that I saw for the first time the anger in his eyes. “And let me tell you this,” he said. “I dislike the idea of reproving you so soon after our marriage, but I think I should clearly indicate from the start whenever I find your conduct unsatisfactory. If I was ‘barely civil’ to Ned, as you put it, that’s my affair and has nothing to do with you. I did not ask for your comment nor did I expect one. Just because you’re my wife doesn’t give you the liberty to criticize my manners whenever they may appear to your inexperienced eyes to be defective. Do you understand me?”
    Tears stung my eyes. “Yes,” I said.
    “Then we shall say no more about it.” He glanced at his watch and put it away again. “We should be at Haraldsdyke within half an hour.”
    I was silent.
    I had expected Ned to join us in the carriage, but he evidently preferred to travel outside with the coachman and the servants, so Axel and I remained alone together. Within twenty minutes of our leaving the inn courtyard, Rye and Winchelsea were mere twin hills pinpricked with lights behind us, and the country on either side of the road was hidden by the darkness of the night. I felt very tired suddenly, and as always when my spirit was at a low ebb I thought of Alexander and longed for his companionship. Axel’s anger seemed to have driven a wedge between us and made me feel isolated and alone again.
    The darkness hid Haraldsdyke from my eyes. I had half-anticipated passing lodge gates and traveling up a long drive to the house, but there was no lodge, only tall iron gates set in a high weather-beaten wall, and then a sharp ascent to a level above the