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One Night in Paradise. Juliet Landon
Читать онлайн.Название One Night in Paradise
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Автор произведения Juliet Landon
Издательство HarperCollins
The palace itself dominated a large area of the riverside, spreading backwards and upwards in a profusion of towers and turrets that pierced the sky with golden weather-vanes, shining domes, flags and chimneys. The colours of brick and stone mingled joyfully with flashing panes of glass that caught the sun, and the patterns that adorned every surface of the façade never failed to enchant Adorna. But Hester’s eyes were too busy searching for any sign of life to enjoy them. On a rainy day, Adorna told her, one could still walk round the magnificent garden beneath the covered walkway that enclosed all four sides, but Hester was still unsettled. ‘What’s that shouting?’ she whispered, nervously.
‘The tennis court, over there at the back. Shall we go and see?’
‘Er…there’ll be people.’
‘They’ll be far too busy watching the players to see us.’ Adorna took her arm and drew her gently onwards towards the sound of people and the curious pinging noise that became a hard clattering the nearer they walked.
The tennis court was a roofed building like the one at Hampton Court Palace that the Queen’s father had had built. They entered through an arched doorway into a dim passage where suddenly the clatter and men’s cries became sharper, and Adorna felt the resistance of Hester’s arm as she drew back, already fearing what she might see. Although Adorna could sympathise with her cousin’s dilemma, she saw no point in balking at the first hurdle. She placed Hester in front of her and steered her forwards, smiling to herself at each reluctant step.
The light came from windows high up on the two longest sides; the walls built up high had galleries running along them under sloping roofs upon which the hard balls bounced noisily before hitting the paved floor in the centre. A net stretched across the court, visibly sagging in the middle while four men, stripped down to doublets and hose, whacked at the ball with short-handled racquets. The two women sidled into the gallery where men and women leaned over the barrier to watch the play with shouts of, ‘Well done, sir!’ echoing eerily, laughing at the men’s protests, their shouts of jubilation.
They found a space behind the barrier, Adorna nodding silent greetings to a few familiar faces, feeling Hester flinch occasionally as the ball hit the wooden roof overhead and rolled down again. It was only when she gave her full attention to the players that Adorna realized she was within an arm’s length of Sir Nicholas Rayne whose aggressive strokes at the leather ball were causing the marker to call out scores in his favour, though she could not begin to fathom out why.
Almost imperceptibly, she drew back, wishing she had not come, yet fascinated by his strength and agility, his amazing reach that scooped the ball up from the most impossible places, his quickness and accuracy. At one point, as the players changed ends, Sir Nicholas was one of those who pulled off their doublets, undoing the points of their white linen shirts. Rolling up their sleeves, they showed muscular forearms, at which Hester was obviously disturbed. ‘Should we go, Adorna?’ she whispered.
The name was caught inside a moment of silence, and Sir Nicholas turned, stared, and deliberately came to the barrier where they stood. He rested his hands just beyond Adorna’s. ‘The Mistresses Pickering. Welcome to Richmond, mistress,’ he said to Hester. His appraisal, Adorna thought, must have been practised on many a likely-looking horse, though thankfully Hester would not realise it.
But his narrow-eyed survey of Adorna was of a more challenging variety, and his personal greeting to her was no more than, ‘Enjoy the game, mistress,’ which she was quite sure did not mean what Hester thought it meant.
She was given no time to find a reply, for he walked quickly away, swinging his racquet, while she was torn between making a quick and dignified exit or staying, hoping to put him off.
It was Hester’s astonishing response to the greeting, predictably delayed by nervousness, that decided the course of action. ‘Thank you, Sir Nicholas,’ she said to his retreating back.
‘What?’ Adorna whispered, staring at her guest. ‘You know him?’
Hester nodded. ‘Uncle Samuel and Aunt Sarah often invited him to Bishops Standing before he left to join the Earl of Leicester’s household. I’ve not seen him for a year or more. He’s always so polite, but I never know what to say to him.’
For someone who didn’t know what to say, that was the most Hester had said since her arrival. Which, Adorna thought, meant either that Sir Nicholas was the cause of some interest within the timid little heart or that her own efforts were already bearing fruit. Unlikely, after such a short time. ‘Did he visit often?’ she probed, watching him.
‘Quite often. He and Uncle Samuel used to play chess together, and hunted, and talked about horses.’
Adorna was silenced, overtaken by the combined thudding in her chest and the crash of the ball against the wall. Had he pretended not to know Cousin Hester? Or had he simply not pretended anything? I look forward to meeting Cousin Hester. Is she…? Of course, it had not occurred to her to discover any previous acquaintance. So what had been the true purpose of his visit to Sir William Pickering’s sister’s home? Chess? Horses? ‘Is his home near them?’ she whispered.
Hester’s reply came with an expression that suggested Adorna ought to have known the answer to that. ‘His father is Lord Elyot,’ she said. ‘He owns Bishops Standing.’
The astonishment showing so clearly in Adorna’s lovely eyes was caught at that moment by the player at the far end of the court whose mind was not entirely on the game. His keen eyes levelled at hers like a hunter stalking a doe, while his partner yelled at him to attend.
‘Chase two!’ the marker called.
‘No. Chase one!’ Sir Nicholas said to himself as he sent the ball crashing across the court. The next time he had chance to look, the two Pickering ladies had disappeared.
The full impact of what was happening to her began to take effect at the end of that day, by which time Adorna was too confused to sleep. She and Hester had strolled back to Sheen House, diverting their steps through the friary paradise especially to examine the overgrown roses, the heavily budding lilies, the rue and lady’s bedstraw that symbolised the Virgin Mary to whom the garden had probably been dedicated. It was a magical place where, even now, the outlines of the beds could still be seen, providing Hester with a topic for suppertime when Lady Marion asked them where they’d been. It saved Adorna herself from having to reply, her mind being far away on another journey.
As the summer evening drew to a close, she made an excuse to be alone, to walk along the raised pathways to the banqueting house to see that the doors and windows were closed. There was a moon, silvering the pathways and the orchard below, outlining the derelict friary and staring through the glassless east window, lighting the high palace wall. She stared out across the paradise where she had walked earlier, frowning as she caught a movement beyond the shadows. A man passed through the garden door from the palace, leaving it slightly ajar, picking his way carefully across the space to stand under a gnarled pear tree, his broad shoulders well inside the low branches. There was no mistaking the shape of him, the long legs, the easy movement, the carriage of his head. Sir Nicholas Rayne. She was quite sure of it.
He had waited no more than two minutes when another figure came through the door, a woman, looking about her hesitantly. Sir Nicholas made no move to show himself, no rush to greet her or sudden urge to embrace. The woman searched awhile and then saw him, but still there was no laughter stifled by kisses but only a slow advance and the joining of hands indicating, Adorna thought, either a first meeting or a last one. The two stood together talking, his head bent to hers, her hand occasionally touching his chest, her finger once upon his mouth, briefly. The watcher in the banqueting house placed a hand upon her own breast to still the thumping inside, to quell the first awful, sour, bitter, agonising pangs of jealousy so foreign to her that she did not recognise them as such. She thought it might be guilt, or something akin to it, telling herself that the man and his woman mattered nothing to her. Less than nothing.