The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [296]
‘Ah.’ He gazed straight back, as though the thought of conquest had suddenly struck him too, and their eyes remained looking into each other’s for several moments before he looked thoughtfully away. ‘We old families’, he said with a hint of intimacy that seemed like a comforting cloak around her shoulders, ‘perhaps dwell upon the past too much. And yet …’ He glanced in the direction of the Tottons in a way that suggested that, although fine enough people, there were things that a Martell or an Albion could never quite share with them. ‘I think we belong to the land in ways that others do not.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. It was how she felt too.
‘So.’ He turned to her with such easy playfulness that it was as if he had already put his arm round her. ‘Are we ruins, or are we merely picturesque, you and I?’
‘I am picturesque, Sir,’ she replied firmly. ‘But pray don’t tell me you’re a ruin.’
‘I promise you’, he said gently, ‘that I am not.’
The Beaulieu River being tidal, the tide was out as they crossed the bridge to the old gatehouse and the big pond on their left was almost empty of water, the reeds around the edge of this muddy expanse greeting them with a soothing rustle as they approached.
Although the abbey was long since ruined, it still preserved remarkably its ancient character. Nor was it all destroyed. The gatehouse and much of the inclosure wall was still there. The abbot’s residence had been restored and somewhat enlarged into a modest manor house. The cloister inclosure also remained, with the huge lay brothers’ domus still taking up one of its four sides. And while the great monastic church had been almost all dismantled, the monks’ refectory opposite had been converted into a handsome parish church. The present Montagu heiress was seldom there, having made another of the family’s brilliant marriages, this time to the descendant of Monmouth – for although Charles II’s unlucky natural son had lost his head when he rebelled in 1685, he had still, thanks to his wife, passed down huge estates to his descendants. And these were now united with those of Montagu. The family kept a kindly eye upon the place, however, and its grey stones retained their air of ancient peace.
‘So, Mr Martell.’ Louisa turned back to them as soon as they had passed the gatehouse. ‘Have we lost you to Fanny?’ She gave Martell a curious little look when she said this, as if there were something slightly odd about Fanny, but Martell smiled and took no notice.
‘I have been enjoying her conversation as much as I enjoy yours,’ he replied amiably. ‘Will you not join us?’ And so, with one young lady upon each arm, he proceeded into the precincts. They had not gone far before he suddenly remarked: ‘This abbey hath a pleasant seat; the air …’ He paused. Louisa looked blank.
Fanny laughed. ‘Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself,’ she continued. And, seeing Louisa still looking confused, she cried: ‘Why, Louisa, ’tis from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. We read it together with Mrs Grockleton. Only it is a castle, not an abbey, in the original.’
‘I had forgotten.’ Louisa flushed and frowned irritably.
‘But Mr Martell, you surely remember that after the king makes that remark he meets his death,’ Fanny reminded him. ‘Perhaps you had better be careful.’
‘Well, Miss Albion.’ Martell looked from Fanny to Louisa. ‘I believe I am safe, for neither of you looks to me like the fearsome Lady Macbeth.’
‘You haven’t seen me with a dagger,’ said Louisa with mock fierceness, trying to recover her position. It seemed to Fanny that it was perhaps herself, rather than Mr Martell, into whom Louisa might plunge a dagger just then and she decided to make sure there were no more embarrassments for her cousin.
She was on her guard, therefore, when, as they reached the abbot’s house, Martell casually enquired of Louisa what order of monks had inhabited the place in former times.
‘Order?’ Louisa shrugged. ‘They were just monks, I suppose.’ Hardly wishing to do so, she glanced towards Fanny.
‘I’m really