Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER NINETEEN part 1

Such was the fear generated about the Château des Amourettes and its matriarch that the locals steered well clear of the place. This piece of information made logical the laxity with which the Lady of the Manor dealt with the maintenance of her gates and boundaries. Rare indeed, or so it appeared, was the man who ventured across her terrain. The taverner, amidst the verbal covenant of treasures which he had imparted, told Lord Seyton Clover of the unlucky demise of a neighbour who had the reputation of being something of a poacher. Why, the poor fellow was missing for days before his chewed up remains had been discovered, staked at various points, about the perimeter of the estate of Madame.

Such were the warnings Madame d’Esprit flourished and God help those who flaunted these messages. When His Lordship had questioned the Innkeeper as to bringing such heinous a crime before judge and jury, the man had laughed. It would appear that Madame was so firmly entrenched with her ‘business’ that she had all the local law dispensers tucked neatly amidst the flowers at her décolleté. 

What he had learnt made Lord Seyton Clover even more afraid for Charity’s safety. How the deuce, he had pondered, had his cousin struck up friendship with a woman of her obvious ill-repute? How, verily! But it had happened and Lord Seyton Clover felt the acrid taste of acrimony every time he thought upon the name of his cousin, Fitzroy, Lord Rispian of Andover. What else was to be revealed about his relation’s debauched style of conduct? Why, as he thought upon them, His Lordship began to feel their weight tipping the scales against good conduct and propriety. How long had he borne it in mind to deceive himself, Lord Seyton Clover; how long for the kidnapping and abduction of one of the most important things in Lord Seyton Clover’s life - yes, how long had the plans taken to hatch and to execute? 

What the depths of depravity too, his own role had unwittingly forced him to descend to. He had become the jettisoning Hercules made ready to fling an innocent like Charity into the brine pits of decadent corporality! That there was insanity in that branch of the family, Lord Seyton Clover did not doubt: one merely had to look upon his cousin’s sister. But to this, it hinted clearly at criminal lunacy and bespoke it as such: the brazen, regardless insensitivity of the man! If London High Society applauded his peacock posings then surely his true metier could only be discovered with the cauterised prongs of a pitchfork! Each footstep which Lord Seyton Clover took towards the foreboding terrain rustled hatred towards his once former comrade and kinsman, Lord Rispian. He kept repeating his avowal as his footsteps took him even deeper into the traverses of evil. The country was rough to say the least. 

Drat! That overhanging viper of oil-green foliage, unsnare those fingers of spotted yellow-fleshed tendrils coneing their way up his booted leg. To hell and damnation that the day fair dripped with rain and malice. 

He had decided against gaining knowledge pertaining to reconnoitre by using the main entrance. Though, God knows, that seemed easy enough. For there were no heavy gates barring the entrance. Armed only with hesitantly imparted verbatim sketches which Pierre Le Bon had furnished him with, he traipsed northwards, keeping close to the gnarled perimeter of a beaten and decaying deciduous wood. Or rather the corpses of trees as they sprawled in rigor mortis against the living briars of a small hedge.

Reaching a stone wall with steps over and down, he took the proffered invitation and beat his way through the dewy death-cold branches. It was all but preternaturally cold in this wood. As he breathed, he watched in fascination his expelled vapours labouring towards the thin light of this winter’s day. 

He shivered and pulled his greatcoat closer to him. If, as it now seemed all but certain, Charity was being held captive here, heaven and all the saints help her! Another thing caught his attention as he foraged forward. Silence. Hardly a leaf stirred, or a blade of grass. No hint of vermin moving furtive in the undergrowth; no lowing of cattle, barking of dog: nothing – except the call of some unnameable bird, unseeable too, intoning a sibylline lament. Maybe drawn by the promise of recouping his own mythical chameleon, now turned by mischance mayhap, to Lorelei; his illustrious chalice, Charity - which is another name for Love - he drew closer. Strange was the trancelike emanation, but with a power beating in his heart for nemesis on those who had woven this evil tapestry, he pressed forward. 

He flinched, throwing his hand against his face. Something small and furry had gauzed past him. Screening his hand to his forehead, he shook the myopic mists from his eyes and spotted the token toll of a belfry of bats which now brownly latticed the grey strata of sky above him. He was on an open pathway, but the grasses were dried umber and faded cinnamon, as though too powerful a sun had scorched them. They rustled and broke under his carefully placed footings. He had taken the opportunity to carry a bag of white ribbons with him but the frail foliage would not even withstand this slight pressure: this precautionary measure, he had felt sure, would assist in the eventuality of their (for he was counting on back-up from the Fibbins duo) having to flee by a circuitous route, once Charity was rescued. 

To this end had he marked his progress through the terrain. Streamers behind him sign-posted the route he had taken. At length he broke into a clearing. A clearing which once must have constituted a wonderful garden. Now the pathways were broken up, the flinted slabs thrown in spasmodic patchwork, both upon the mounds of old, crumbling earth which served as minor escarpment,and into the squares, triangles and crescents where once upon a time flowers were cultivated to bloom. 

A pavilion, modest in size but impressive in rococo design, lay to one side of the clearing. Cautiously he approached the building. Vines and creepers grew about it, peppered with tight-clutched inkblue buds. There was a sweet fetid aroma arising from the place. It made him feel light-headed and nauseous. 

He did not venture inside, for so strong was the aura of corruption, that he had no wish to see what the interior might contain. He by-passed the pavilion and walked nor’east, keeping close to the affording camouflage of an avenue of trees. Here and there were marble statues, but they had grown damaged through want of cleaning and care: soiled with their cold vigilances, sentinels whose origins were in antiquity now brought forward to march the routes of the barbarians. 

There was one exception to this general rule of laxity and this was of a beautifully kept statue, a satyr of some description, the huge phallus garlanded with fresh blooms as though to herald the transition from one margin of existence to another. Lord Seyton Clover became aware of a change in the atmosphere. It was no longer so chillingly cold. As he passed by the priapic stone figure, he tied a small white ribbon to the creature’s tail. 

He took the opportunity to pause for a few moments, looking back along the vista he had travelled. His eye alighted on the still chipped grey stone of an obsolete fountain. He saw rust marks upon the once white body – a Nereid which had formed its central part. He shrugged his shoulders and continued his meanderings. 

Though he could not help but compare that fountain with one he next passed, for it was in perfect upkeep, spouting geysers of clear water, the alabastered perfection of the mermaid’s upper torso spotless and gleaming in the rays of sunlight now hitting it. Strange indeed.