The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,9
small brown clay bottle from the pocket of her dress and began to uncork it. “Off to sleep we go, childeen. Donner’ll have everything right by the time you wake.”
The young man scowled at the servant. “What damned double game are you playing, you witch? I believe you’ve been scheming the whole time to get her sent back to Ireland, to Brionny Keep, where you can queen it over the peasants and run the castle and her ladyship too!”
Donner grinned evilly at him. “Well, little man? And what’s wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing in it for me—that’s what! I’ve no wish to cool my heels in a broken-down Irish castle, consorting with ignorant bumpkins! Damn it, woman, I was to have been presented to the King this very night! And now all’s lost!”
Donner looked at him “Get you gone, then, fancy man. You served to amuse milady and to disgust her fine lordling, but I’ve no further use for you. Run along with you!”
The artist glared at her, cast a humid, languishing glance at Kathryn, said, “Nadine? Beloved, is there no hope—?” Then, when Kathryn did nothing but watch him with fear and disgust, he sighed theatrically, turned, and made an exit whose dramatic value was marred by the extreme stealth which he employed in slipping out of the room. Donner sniffed.
“A pretty little man, and had his uses, but we’re well rid of him. There’ll be many a handsome buck eager to pay court to you when I have you safe back home, childeen.”
“I am not going anywhere with you. I intend to remain in this house until I can straighten out this madness—”
Donner interrupted her. “ ‘Madness’?” she repeated. “Now there’s a word I’d be chary of tossing around, milady. You’ll maybe have heard of Bedlam, and the loonies they keep there, chained up to make a show for the fine folk you’ve been flouting this last year? Are you anxious for them to come and vent their spite on you, and you in the cold cell amidst the filth?”
Kathryn stared at her with horror. ‘Bedlam’? She had indeed heard of the Hospital of Saint Mary of Bethlehem in London, where the mentally ill were confined in degrading conditions, the worst of which, to Kathryn’s mind, was the practice of selling tickets to watch the wretched madmen as though they were beasts in a zoo. “You wouldn’t—you couldn’t—!”
“ ¼Tis not I but that stiff-rumped lordling you’ve outraged so freely this twelvemonth who’ll commit you. Think you your fine husband would lift a finger to save you? Not after the duel he had to fight with Lord Beltane, and nearly killed the poor man for his comments about the lovely Lady Elsingham. Lord Johnny will jump at the chance to be rid of you and all his troubles ended—”
Kathryn shrank back in horror. Donner, sure of her victory, adopted a coaxing tone. “Be reasonable, childeen. Take the easy road. Let’s off to Brionny Keep as his lordship wishes. You’ll have plenty of money, for he’s far from a miser. You’ll be happier there, I promise you!”
“I cannot leave this house,” whispered Kathryn, staring straight in front of her with haunted eyes. “It’s the only link I have with—the future! No, go away!” she almost shouted, as Donner came closer. “Can’t you see what you’ve done? I’m not Nadine Elsingham! I’m Kathryn Hendrix!”
“One little sip of this and all your troubles will be over,” promised the woman grimly. Kathryn stared at her with horrified revulsion. There was an ancient evil around her, a cesspool stench. Donner seized Kathryn’s arm and pulled her closer. The rough grasp sent a searing agony from wrist to shoulder of the broken arm. But the pain was nothing to the fear, the horror which threatened to overwhelm her. She knew in that moment that she must not traffic with this creature of the power of darkness. Frantically she struck at the woman with her free hand, sending the small brown bottle flying. Donner cursed at her, a foul string of vicious filth.
“Go away!” Kathryn screamed.
Whatever else Donner might have done was prevented by a stern voice from the doorway. “Donner, his lordship gave orders you were not to enter her ladyship’s room again. No,” as Donner began to protest, “don’t make excuses. With my own ears I’ve just heard her ladyship order you away. Must I call a footman?” The speaker shook her head, reducing Donner’s outburst to the level of a naughty child’s tantrum. “Such