The Ruthless Rake Read online

  When disaster came, it broke the banks of his self-control and he no longer had any restraint over his emotions or his desires.

  He had rushed away to London the moment his wife had been lowered into the grave and had not returned for three months.

  When he came back, Syringa hardly recognised him.

  It had taken him less than a year to become so debauched and so depraved, and sometimes she prayed that he would not return to the house and terrify her.

  Then she learnt how to handle him.

  Not as skilfully as her mother had done, that would have been impossible, because, although he was fond of her, she could not control him and she could not prevent him from drinking himself into unconsciousness whenever he had the chance.

  It was soon obvious that Sir Hugh only returned home when his money had run out or when he had become so incoherent with drink that even his cronies were bored with him.

  Syringa would nurse him back to health.

  It was not an easy thing to do, but somehow she achieved it, mostly because Sir Hugh could not afford the brandy for which his body now craved incessantly.

  Sometimes they were without any money until her father found that he could raise a loan from a friend.

  Then he would post to London and Syringa would realise despondently that all her efforts had been in vain.

  When he returned, she would have to start all over again.

  Entering the kitchen, Syringa set her father’s uneaten breakfast down on the table.

  Nanny glanced at it and commented,

  “I just knew it would be a waste of time. Is he gettin’ up?”

  “I said I would take Papa his shaving water,” Syringa answered.

  Without comment the old Nanny poured some boiling water into a silver jug.

  Syringa put it on a silver salver and, picking up a white shirt with lace-edged cuffs that was airing in front of the fire, she walked upstairs again.

  Her father was lying in the same position as she had left him, his hands over his eyes, but she noted that the decanter was now completely empty.

  She put his shaving water on the washstand, laid his shirt over a chair and fetched from the wardrobe his white breeches and well-cut coat with its long tails.

  Nanny had left Sir Hugh’s highly polished Hessian boots outside the door the night before. They had taken her over an hour to clean, but now they shone brightly as any dandy’s might have done and Syringa set them down near the chair.

  “What’s the time?” her father asked when she was preparing to leave the room.

  “It is about eight o’clock, Papa. The sale starts at ten, but I expect people will be arriving soon after nine to inspect the house. So you had best be clear of this room so that Nana and I can make the bed.”

  “What is the point of making it? I am not going to sleep in it again,” Sir Hugh growled.

  “It will look tidier,” Syringa answered. “I would not wish strangers to think that we were slovenly or careless in our ways.”

  “What the hell does it matter what strangers think?” Sir Hugh asked. “They will be walking about my house, fingering my possessions, taking them away in their carts and carriages.”

  “And when they have gone – where do we go. Papa?” Syringa asked quietly. “Have you made any plans?”

  There was silence before her father replied surlily,

  “You will learn in good time what I have planned.”

  Syringa knew as he spoke that he really had no idea what they would do or what would become of them.

  She had the sudden uneasy feeling that when the moment came they would be turned out of the Manor House just to walk the roads and to sleep in a ditch.

  Then mentally she shook herself. It could not be as bad as that – it could not be – or could it?

  She ran down the stairs as if to escape from her own thoughts and out to the stable.

  Mercury heard her coming and he was whinnying before she could open the stable door.

  She went inside and he nuzzled his nose against her.

  “Oh, Mercury! Mercury!” Syringa cried, “I have been praying for you all night. Praying that you will find a happy home with people who will be kind to you and love you as I do.”

  The great horse pushed his nose against her cheek. She kissed him, her arms going round his neck.

  But her eyes were dry, she was past tears. Past everything, she thought, but the urge to pray as she had been praying during the last few days that, whatever happened to her, Mercury would not suffer.

  She wondered if there was time to ride him once again and knew that there was not.

  There were still a dozen things to be arranged in the house. She and Nanny had set the chairs in the dining room and the auctioneer had brought a stand for himself and a desk he could take the bids from.

  He had made a catalogue of the contents of the house and Syringa, going round with him, had felt ashamed that so many of the items were broken or damaged.

  It had been impossible to explain to the dry uninterested man that they had not been able to afford to have them repaired.

  She and her mother had done their best to hold together the antique furniture, to patch the curtains and replace the webbing when it sagged under the chairs.

  She knew that the auctioneer disparaged not only the furniture but the pictures that were badly in need of varnishing or reframing, and the silver, which, while it looked bright from Nanny’s frequent polishing, was not old enough to be of any great value.

  Nevertheless it seemed to Syringa that by the time he had finished he had quite an impressive list of items to be sold.

  At the top there was the house itself, at the bottom the last item of the sale – was Mercury.

  “That horse is the best of the lot,” the auctioneer remarked, “and if we put him last, it will encourage those who are interested in him to stay until the end. That is important. We don’t want them driving away too soon, that lowers the price quicker than anything.”

  “The best of the lot,” Syringa whispered now to herself and opened the stable door.

  “Come, Mercury, let’s go for a walk.”

  She led the horse away from the house and into the paddock.

  The grass was damp from dew and, lifting up her skirts a little, Syringa walked across the field to where there was a tiny copse where she had often hidden as a child.

  She had a wild impulse to hide there with Mercury and not to go back.

  The sale would start without them. At first no one would realise that she was not there or that the horse was missing, and when they came to the last item –

  Syringa shook her head. No, she could not do it! It would be too despicable and would be a betrayal not only of her father but of her mother’s trust in her.

  She knew that her mother would want her above all things to look after the man she had loved so deeply and who had meant everything in the world to her.

  “I have tried – Mama – I have tried!” Syringa whispered and held her breath as if expecting her mother to answer her.

  She must somehow feel that her mother was near, understanding, helping and guiding her to do the right thing.

  Then despondently she thought that she could feel nothing except the soft breeze on her cheeks and the sound of Mercury following behind her.

  She had often called aloud to her mother since her death, even as her father called out in his drunkenness, believing that she must be hiding somewhere in the house.

  But there had only been silence for both of them.

  Syringa reached the wood and stood for a moment with her back against one of the trees staring at the Manor House.

  It looked small, grey and rather insignificant and yet it was the only home she had ever known, the only place she belonged. In an hour’s time that too would be gone!

  Mercury was waiting, surprised that his Mistress was walking when she might be riding and perhaps even instinctively knowing that something was wrong.

 
; Syringa bent and kissed his nose.

  “I love you,” she sighed, “I love you and there is nothing more I can do except to go on praying for you for the rest of your life.”

  When they returned to the stable, Syringa rubbed Mercury down. She had brushed him the night before and combed his mane and she knew that he had never looked more handsome.

  She had just finished bringing him hay and water when she heard voices outside and saw some strange men coming into the stable yard

  She knew then, with a sudden pain in her heart that was almost like the turn of a dagger, that these were people who were attending the sale and who perhaps intended to bid for Mercury.

  In a sudden panic, knowing that she could not speak to them and could not enumerate the good points of her horse, Syringa ran from the stall and, crossing the yard, entered the house by a side door.

  She ran upstairs to change her dress realising that the one she wore was damp round the hem and that her feet were also wet.

  She had just finished arranging a clean white muslin fichu round her shoulders when Nanny came into her bedroom.

  “Your father is askin’ for you. Miss Syringa.”

  “Is he all right?”

  There was no need for Nanny to ask what Syringa meant.

  “He tried to borrow some money from me, but I could tell him truthfully I had none,” Nana replied. “So he takes it from the first person who arrives for the sale. It happened to be old Farmer Proger.”

  “So he has – some more – brandy,” Syringa said almost beneath her breath.

  “He’s in his study,” Nanny said abruptly and left the room.

  Syringa did not bother to glance at herself in the mirror. She hurried downstairs and, as she reached the hall, saw that the dining room was already packed with people.

  They were sitting in rows looking, she thought, like vultures waiting for the pickings.

  She recognised several familiar faces and yet there were an enormous number of strangers, middle-aged men neatly and unobtrusively dressed.

  For a moment she could not place them and then she recognised one man she had seen before.

  He had come to the Manor House from London demanding that her father pay his wine bill. It was for a very large sum, but her father was not at home and Syringa could do nothing but send the man away.

  She saw him now sitting in the third row.

  She knew then that all the other strangers, the men who seemed somehow out of place amongst the farmers and the villagers, were all tradesmen – men her father was in debt to, men who, if their bills were not met, could send him to prison.

  She ran as if pursued by a sudden terror into the study.

  Her father was sitting in a wing-backed armchair, a glass of brandy in his hand.

  “Papa, there are a lot of your creditors here,” Syringa said in a frightened voice.

  “Of course there are!” Sir Hugh replied. “And I say to them, come! Let them all come! Let them bid, let them buy, let them give me their money!”

  “You don’t understand, Papa. They will not buy anything. They have only come to collect the money as soon as the sale is over.”

  “God damn it!” Sir Hugh ejaculated. “I might be a fox with the hounds after me! Well, I hope I give them a good run for their money. They have chased me long enough, but they have not got me yet!”

  Syringa sighed.

  She realised that her father was too drunk to understand, too drunk to realise the seriousness of what was happening.

  She had left the door slightly ajar when she entered the room and now she heard the dull rap of a hammer and the general chatter suddenly ceased.

  Then the auctioneer’s rather precise voice began,

  “Good morning, gentlemen. The first item on our catalogue is – ”

  With a swift movement Syringa shut the door.

  She could not bear it, could not bear to hear the man mouthing over her home, her possessions, everything that she had known and loved since she was a child.

  She tried to pretend that it was all a dream and it was not really happening.

  But always at the back of her mind she had known the day must come when her father would not be able to continue living on credit, piling up ever more debts and borrowing from his friends.

  Yet she had hoped against hope that he would have a lucky winning streak or would reform and change back into the decent affectionate man he had been when her mother was alive.

  It was a child’s dream, she thought now, something that bore no resemblance to reality.

  She stood for a long time, not looking at her father, but hearing the clink of the bottle against the glass as he poured himself drink after drink.

  Then the door was opened and two men in white aprons came in to take three chairs into the auction room. They returned to remove a table and two pictures from the walls.

  Syringa moved to sit in the window seat.

  She must have been there for over an hour before the two men came back into the room and looked uncertainly at Sir Hugh.

  “Could we ’ave the chair you’re a-sittin’ on, Guvnor?” they asked. “’Tis wanted.”

  “What is wanted?” Sir Hugh asked in a thick voice.

  “The chair, Guvnor. ’Tis to be sold.”

  Sir Hugh opened his mouth to curse them, but Syringa moved swiftly to his side.

  “There is no point. Papa,” she said quietly. “They are only

  doing their duty. Come and sit in the window.”

  She picked up the decanter as she spoke and took the glass from his hand. One of the men put out a hand and helped her father to his feet.

  As they went from the room carrying the wing-backed chair, Sir Hugh stood staring after them.

  “I have sat in that chair ever since I lived here.”

  “I know, Papa,” Syringa answered, “and now it is to be sold.”

  “Your mother was very fond of that chair.”

  “Don’t think about it – ” Syringa began.

  She thought with a feeling of despair that at any moment he would become maudlin.

  She thought she could not bear the people they knew, let alone a collection of strangers, to see him cry or hear him humiliate himself as he did so often to her.

  Hastily in her anxiety, Syringa poured a little more brandy into a glass.

  “Come, Papa,” she said, “as you have bought this, you might as well drink it.”

  Her father raised the glass to his lips.

  Then he said in a low voice as if he spoke to himself,

  “I have seen the debtors’ cells in Newgate Prison. They are dark and evil and the stench remained in my nostrils for days.”

  He drank again and went on,

  “The prisoners are like wild animals. Their shrieks echo round the walls and they fight for food as if they were starving. How can I face such conditions, such ghastly degradation?”

  There was sheer horror in his tone.

  “Perhaps it will be all right, Papa,” Syringa suggested soothingly. “The sale may make enough money to pay off all your debts.”

  She knew as she spoke that it was a forlorn hope. How could the house and furniture fetch so vast a sum?

  “How can I endure Newgate?” Sir Hugh asked, his voice thick with emotion and drink. “Gaol fever kills hundreds of prisoners a year. I shall have no money to buy any comforts and must herd with those who live like beasts!”

  “Don’t torture yourself, Papa,” Syringa pleaded. “Perhaps your creditors will give you more time.”

  “And what is to become of you?” Sir Hugh asked, as if she had not spoken. “Oh, what have I done, Syringa?”

  “It’s too late to worry about it now, Papa.”

  “What would your mother have thought, if she had seen our possessions going under the hammer, our home sold over our heads?”

  There was a note of panic in her father’s voice and Syringa rose to her feet.

  “Come and sit down. Papa,” she said. “Not
hing can be changed at this late hour.”

  “What is happening?” Sir Hugh asked. “I have to know what is happening! Come, Syringa, we will listen to the bids.”

  “No, Papa, no,” Syringa begged.

  Ignoring her he reached out his hand and took her by the arm propelling her along beside him.

  He pulled her across the hall and they entered the auction room.

  The chair Sir Hugh recently vacated was standing just inside the door. Another chair that had been sold earlier was beside it and, still holding Syringa by the arm, her father sat down and pulled her down beside him.

  One of the men in a white apron was holding up a picture off the stairs.

  It was of a man on a white horse and Syringa had loved it when she was a small child.

  “Five guineas I am bid?” the auctioneer boomed. “Five – six – seven – eight – Any advance on eight? What about you, sir? The bidding is against you.”

  The man he looked at shook his head.

  “Then at eight guineas. It’s going cheap, gentlemen. Going – ”

  “Nine guineas,” someone called out at the back.

  Syringa could not see who spoke because there were a number of people standing who could not get a seat.

  “Nine guineas,” the auctioneer said. “Any advance on nine guineas? Going – going – gone! Sold to the same gentleman,” he said in a quiet voice to his clerk who was sitting beside him.

  They were now almost at the end of the sale, Syringa thought.

  The carpets had been sold, the furniture, and now there were only a few items left from the garden. A wooden seat she had often sat on with her mother, a roller and a wheelbarrow.

  These were all disposed of for quite small sums, except, Syringa noticed, that when the bidding came to a stop it was always the same voice at the end of the room who put the price up higher still.

  “And now we come to perhaps the most important lot in the catalogue,” the auctioneer announced, “and one for which I know a number of you gentlemen have been waiting.”

  He smiled as he spoke showing his false teeth and Syringa, clasping her hands together, felt as if it was hard to breathe.

  “It is something we cannot bring into the sale room,” the auctioneer continued jovially, “but I know that most of you will have seen it outside. A fine piece of horseflesh. A five-year-old stallion broken to the saddle and used to carrying a lady on his back, and a pretty lady too.”