11. Ravenstag

As the carriage meandered along a succession of quiet, leafy lanes, Will watched for the first appearance of Ravenstag Woods with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation; and when at length it turned in at the lodge, passing between a set of ornate golden gates, his spirits were in a high flutter.

The park was large, densely-wooded on one side with a wide stream on the other. For half a mile they drove through lush parkland on which grazed sheep and, beneath a cluster of oaks, a herd of red deer.

And suddenly, from around a curve in the lane, they were granted their first glimpse of Ravenstag House. It was a large, handsome building of cream stone, windows adorned with gold leaf catching the sunlight. Baroque in design, the gracious building stood on rising ground, backed by a ridge of high woody hills. The stream, in front, flowed harmoniously through a landscape which blended artful design with natural splendour.

‘Beautiful, is not it?’ declared Mrs Crawford, voice bursting with pride for the county of her youth.

‘Yes,’ murmured Will, eyes fixed on the gracious lines of the house. ‘It is – enchanting.’

Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his coat pocket, and he slipped his thumb inside to stroke across the dog-eared edges of the letter which he had carried around every day for the last four months.

‘I want you to know where you can find me, should ever you be in need. One thing more I shall add, without agenda or hope of return.

I love you.’

These final lines he knew by heart. They sang to him, easing the ache of loneliness in his chest. Spring had passed into summer without news or sign of Hannibal, yet the mere knowledge of the Alpha’s regard for him was a treasure to be cherished. Because despite his misgivings, Hannibal had wanted him. Hannibal loved him. And so although, upon reuniting with Alana at Wolf Manor, Will had related some of the particulars of those days in March, the letter itself had remained tucked away.

‘I am sorry, Will. Mr Lecter was wrong to have spoken so of your background.’

Eyes grave with concern, Alana sat on the edge of Will’s bed as he leaned against the window frame and gazed out of the open casement at the patchwork of stars above.

‘I confess, I was angrier than I have ever been in my life when he spoke as though any union between us would be reprehensible.’

‘You are not angry now?’

‘I feel that I understand him better now.’ Absently, Will traced Orion’s bow with his forefinger. ’His sister suffered cruelly. But what is that when there is entertainment to be had? Small town gossip-mongers are bad enough. One can only imagine the mercilessness of London society.’

‘It is true that his consideration for his sister does him credit. Although,’ added Alana with spirit, ‘the manner in which he couched his proposal leaves much to be desired.’

‘Yes, I do recall,’ replied Will dryly.

‘Still, how disappointed he must have been by your refusal.’

‘Indeed,’ snorted Will, ‘I am heartily sorry for him.’ And on his sister’s reproachful glance, ‘Understanding goes only so far in excusing his behaviour. He was intolerably arrogant in his assumption that I would accept him because he had deigned to make me an offer. And what of the part he played in separating you and Miss Verger?’

Alana looked pained. ‘You make too much of this, Will. There never was any formal understanding between Miss Verger and myself. We enjoyed each other’s company; and perhaps, had she stayed... but it is pointless to conjecture.’ She sighed, then smiled brightly, and Will’s heart ached for his sister’s determined forbearance. ‘I shall remember her as the most amiable person of my acquaintance, but that is all. Please think no more of it.’

For hours he had wandered after meeting with Hannibal in the grove, reading and re-reading the letter: exclaiming anew over the impertinent conclusions which Hannibal had drawn about Alana, whose only fault had been to show a natural modesty; blushing with mortification at the realisation that he himself had played beautifully into Mr Brown’s hands, his prejudice against Hannibal a convenient tool for the other man’s manipulations. Iniquitous behaviour had gone unchecked and had even been encouraged.

I could not have been more wretchedly blind.

Dinner at Fell Park the following evening had been a sober affair. Difficult to sit in the drawing room within sight of the pianoforte and not think wistfully of whispered teasing and furtive touches. Difficult too to banish a sense of desolation as Lady Bedelia had bemoaned her depleted party.

‘They were excessively sorry to leave me,’ she had sighed, holding court from a chair of red velvet and mahogany newly delivered from London. ‘Hannibal, in particular, seemed to feel it most acutely. He said hardly half a dozen words all day.’

‘I am glad that you are back, dear brother,’ pronounced Alana with a fond smile.

‘As am I,’ replied Will fervently. ‘Oh, Alana. Ten weeks!’ And he rolled his eyes. ‘Ten long weeks of Lady Bedelia’s condescension, Brian’s incessant complaining and Mr Franklyn’s obsequiousness.’ He grimaced. ‘As fond as I am of Beverly, I cannot imagine what circumstance would prompt me to return to Kent within a twelvemonth.’

‘I am sure that Lady Bedelia and her son were sorry to see you go.’

At this, a mischievous grin lit Will’s features. ‘Francis Du Maurier has to be one of the dullest people I have ever encountered. He barely roused himself to bow when we left! I believe that he uttered all of five sentences during our entire visit, at least three of which were ‘Yes, Mama.’’

‘Not a match for Mr Lecter after all, then.’

The grin faded. ‘I – no.’

‘Will?’ Reaching out a hand, Alana patted the bed with the other. ‘Come sit by me.’

Gladly, Will took his sister’s proffered hand and sat down beside her. ‘I am well, Alana, truly. Yet there is something we should discuss. What of Mr Brown? Should our general acquaintance be informed of his true character?’

‘Oh.’ Alana’s start was indication enough of the discomfort which that idea provoked. ‘I do not know. Of course, what he did was truly terrible. And to fabricate such a story about Mr Lecter – it is shocking. But the regiment are to leave for Brighton in a fortnight. Mr Brown will soon be gone. Perhaps we should not now expose him so cruelly when he might, for all we know, have repented of his former misdeeds.’

Will frowned. ‘He might, although I fear you are giving him too much credit. But what of Miss Boyle, whom Mr Brown seeks to marry? The idea of allowing an innocent girl to be duped when we are in a position to prevent it –’

Alana faced him, eyes warmly approving. ‘Do not worry on her account, dear Will. According to Abigail, Miss Boyle’s uncle sent for her a month since, and she is gone to stay with him at Liverpool. She is safe from Mr Brown.’

He sighed as relief took hold. ‘I am glad of it.’

‘It is perturbing,’ murmured Alana with a shiver. ‘There is such an expression of goodness in Mr Brown’s countenance. Nothing at all to suggest what lurks beneath.'

‘While for so long we saw only disagreeableness in Mr Lecter.’ Will smiled, a trace of sadness in his voice which he could not hide as he added, ‘The truth is that one has all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.’

‘What should we do then?’

Will chewed his bottom lip in thought. ‘Mr Lecter has not authorised me to make his communication public. Indeed, quite the opposite. I think that we should allow the regiment to leave, and count ourselves lucky that we need never see the charming Mr Brown again.’

At length, the carriage passed beneath a wide stone archway and continued up a short avenue, lined with elms, which ended in a circular driveway. No sooner had Will, Mrs Crawford and Mr Crawford alighted than the front door opened and a bespectacled butler of perhaps middle age admitted them into the flagstone entrance hall.

‘One moment, please.’

As the butler disappeared to fetch the housekeeper, and Mr and Mrs Crawford exclaimed over the size of the fireplace, Will was drawn by the sight of a pair of portraits hanging either side of the staircase at the far end of the hall. A lady and gentleman, finely attired and, judging from the fashions depicted, drawn some twenty years since. His eyes alighted first on the lady and he inhaled sharply, for in that lidded, golden gaze and flaxen hair he saw Hannibal’s likeness as clear as day. An inscription beneath the portrait read simply Simonetta. Although there was less obvious resemblance to be found in the gentleman, Lukas, the nose and the shape of the mouth were achingly familiar. Undoubtedly these were Hannibal’s parents.

‘We are sure that the family are from home?’ he said, casting an anxious glance back towards his aunt and uncle.

Mr Crawford emitted a deep-throated chuckle. ‘Yes, Will. Do not worry. You shall not be forced to endure the presence of the loathsome Mr L during our visit.’

‘Jack,’ admonished Mrs Crawford. ‘Your sister’s choice of address is not something which I care to hear repeated. Particularly when we are standing in the man’s own house!’

Will swallowed the indignant retort which had risen to his own lips and cast his aunt a grateful look. Of course, it was hardly his uncle’s fault that the family had made erroneous judgements about Hannibal. If anything, it was Will himself who bore most of the responsibility.

‘The general prejudice against Mr Lecter is so violent, I see little point in attempting to place him in an amiable light, at least for the present.’

Alana paused in the act of buttering her toast. ‘I suppose that you are right. Still it is distressing.’

Will abandoned his own barely-touched breakfast and stared bleakly out of the window at the rain-drenched lawn. ‘More than you know.’

‘Will.’ Alana’s tone was gently reproachful. ‘I wish that you would tell me what troubles you so.’

For a moment, the temptation to unburden himself fully to his closest sibling, to share his feelings of frustration and regret – and longing – proved almost unbearable. He turned to his sister, heart full, but the opportunity was lost as Abigail, Fredricka and Mrs Graham appeared.

‘I cannot bear it!’ whined Fredricka, flouncing across to the sideboard and snatching up a plate. ‘When they go, I am sure I will die of boredom.’

Will watched in bemusement, his own woes momentarily forgotten, as his younger sister helped herself to a veritable mountain of eggs.

‘But not, I see, of starvation.’ And, at her glare, ‘Are still you complaining about the regiment leaving, Freddie?’

‘Yes, Will,’ she snapped, waving her spoon at him. ‘Because now it is so very much worse.’

‘Oh? But what could possibly be worse than being abandoned by the militia?’

Narrowly avoiding the swift kick which Alana aimed at his ankle, Will smothered a grin. His mother, naturally, misunderstood.

‘Indeed,’ she sighed, sinking onto a chair and reaching for the pot of strawberry preserve. ‘When I was a girl, I cried for two days together when Colonel Fuller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.’

Abigail, who up until this point had hovered in the doorway, fairly pranced into the room at this and primly took her seat. ‘I am sure that I would have broke mine if Colonel and Mrs Chilton had not issued their kind invitation.’

Fredricka’s mouth pursed in a moue of petulance. ‘They should have asked me. Why, Abi is only just sixteen! It was my right, not hers!’

Will stared at his mother, heart sinking. ‘What invitation?’

The housekeeper, Mrs Marlow, proved to be an expert guide. They followed her up the short flight of steps and into a stately chamber which boasted galleried walls and a high muralled ceiling depicting various scenes from the life of Julius Caesar.

‘We call this the Painted Hall,’ she told them, quiet pride in every word. ‘The Lecters had it built in the late sixteen hundreds, to celebrate the coronation of King William and Queen Mary.’

‘The family have lived here so long?’ enquired Mrs Crawford.

‘Oh, longer, Ma’am. The Lecters settled here in the mid-fifteen hundreds. The late Mr Lecter’s father caused quite a stir when he moved back to Lithuania for love, leaving the care of the estate to his younger brother. It was only when his uncle died, unmarried and childless, that Lukas Lecter brought his family over and gave up Lithuanian citizenship.’

From the Painted Hall, she led them up a cantilevered staircase through room after room of understated elegance, pointing out features which all spoke of taste and refinement. Such a contrast, thought Will wistfully, with the gaudy extravagance of Fell Park.

And of this place I might have been master.

‘Of course, the family’s apartments are private. We are all rather excited,’ confided Mrs Marlow with a twinkling smile, ‘for tomorrow Mr and Miss Lecter are to return, and with a large party of friends. There is quite a bustle going on in the west front, I can tell you!’

‘I can imagine.’

Will hardly knew what he was saying, so perturbed was he by this unexpected news. He ached at the thought of how close he had come to meeting again with Hannibal after so long apart, but at the same time he was flooded with relief. They had hardly parted on good terms; and putting aside the misunderstanding over Mr Brown, Hannibal’s contempt for Will’s family and reservations about his illegitimate status remained insuperable barriers.

He would have considered our presence here an embarrassment. I regret nothing.

‘Will, look at this picture.’

They stood in the ground floor dining parlour. It was a large apartment with red walls, dominated by a long banqueting table, over which hung an enormous chandelier set with candles. A serving table set back against the wall was furnished with a selection of fine crystal and silver tableware, while the dining table itself bore an ivory silk runner on which was placed half a dozen squat vases filled with richly-scented roses in various shades of red.

Over the mantelpiece were hung a selection of miniatures, and it was one of these which Mrs Crawford now studied. Will joined her, and stiffened as he found himself face-to-face with a slightly younger version of Mr Brown.

‘Ah, yes. That is the son of the late Mr Lecter’s estate manager,’ pronounced Mrs Marlow, her tone noticeably cooler than at any time in the last couple of hours. ‘He is gone into the army, but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.’

Mrs Crawford glanced at Will, eyebrows raised and a smile at the ready, but Will could not return it.

Mrs Marlow turned dismissively from the portrait to point out another on the adjacent side. ‘That is my master, and very like him.’

Will studied the picture in silence. Like the miniature of Mr Brown, this was a study of a younger man than the one Will knew. Here Hannibal’s face was softer, eyes smiling, no trace of reserve or hauteur. Before death and responsibility and personal betrayal had hardened him.

I wish I had known you then.

‘Is it like him, Will?’ enquired Mrs Crawford. ‘It is a handsome face.’

‘Do you know Mr Lecter, sir?’ Mrs Marlow turned to Will in surprise.

Cheeks blooming, Will nodded. ‘A little.’

‘And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman?’

Squirming a little beneath the housekeeper’s beaming appraisal, Will cleared his throat. ‘I – yes. Yes, he is very handsome.’

Mr Crawford, standing at the window with hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the lower gardens, turned to look at Will with a quizzical expression on his face. Will studiously avoided his gaze.

‘In the gallery, you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this,’ pronounced Mrs Marlow with undisguised pride. ‘Come, I will show you.’

‘And how did you find my old playmate?’

Above the noise and chatter that a dinner at Wolf Manor generally entailed, Will regarded Mr Brown steadily. He would readily have foregone the dubious pleasure of dining once more with the officers, but Abigail and Fredricka’s pleading had been relentless. Still, the contempt that burned bright within him at the knowledge of Mr Brown’s lies and hypocrisy made conversing with the Alpha with any degree of civility a trial.

‘I found him... much improved.’

‘Indeed! Pray tell me, in what way? In his manners, perhaps? For I cannot think that he is improved in essentials.’

A sudden recollection of warm amber eyes, of mingled sighs and tender embraces reawoke in Will a familiar ache. Forcing it down, he focused on Mr Brown’s sneering expression.

‘No.’ His eyes hardened. ‘In essentials I believe he is very much what he ever was.’

Mr Brown’s sudden ruddy glow was evidence enough of the efficacy of Will’s barb. After that, no more words were exchanged between them, and at the end of the evening Will watched the sullen officer’s departure with a fervent wish never again to set eyes on the man.

Of some comfort would have been the fact that Mr Brown was soon to depart for Brighton, had not Abigail been bound there as well; and as soon as the door closed on the last guest, Will sought out his father. Instinct drew him to the library, where he found Mr Graham ensconced in his armchair, sipping a hot toddy. He glanced up with an expression of alarm, causing Will to hesitate.

‘Am I disturbing you, Father?’

But Mr Graham shook his head vigorously and waved his son into the room.

‘I thought perhaps that your mother was set on scolding me for abandoning the party. Come in, child, and close the door.’

He did so, and with their privacy secured Will wasted no time in getting to the point.

‘You must not allow Abi to go to Brighton.’

Drink checked halfway to his lips, Mr Graham raised his eyebrows.

‘Indeed? And on what grounds am I to forbid this visit on which she and her mother have set their hearts?’

Will paced to the window.

‘On the grounds that my sister is too headstrong an Alpha to be yet allowed full rein. On the grounds that she thinks of nothing but flirtation and officers.’ And, on a swallow. ‘On the grounds that her influence over Freddie is such that the wildness of their behaviour – and Mama’s approbation of it – calls into question the respectability of our entire family.’

Setting down his drink, Mr Graham motioned to an adjacent stool. ‘Come here, my boy.’

Will seated himself obediently, though agitation sharpened his voice as he added, ‘Sir, if you were aware of the very great disadvantage which has already arisen from the girls’ unguarded behaviour –’

‘Already arisen?’ interrupted Mr Graham with a quizzical smile. ‘What, have they frightened away one of your lovers? Tell me who it is and I will show you a squeamish youth indeed!’

Will flushed. ‘Father, please.’

Mr Graham patted his hand, eyes gentle. ‘Will, you and Alana are my pride and joy. Saddled with three silly sisters or not, you would always be respected by those who know you.’

‘And by those who do not? Gossip travels quickly for a reason, Father. It is the entertainment of the age.’

‘Hm, yet thankfully it is also transitory.’ Mr Graham regarded him sagely. ‘Do not you think that I have had my share of it these past twenty years? Yet here I am, and here are we all, ever at the centre of our little community. People are more adaptable than you might believe, Will.’

‘Not all people,’ he murmured, throat tightening, eyes downcast.

‘Then they are not worth your regret,’ declared Mr Graham stoutly. ‘As for Abigail, you know full well that there will be no peace in this house if she does not go to Brighton. And little enough even then!’

Chuckling at his own joke, he took up his drink and sipped with relish.

Will recognised with a sinking heart that this was his cue to abandon the subject. His father’s mind was made up. He told himself – though with no true degree of conviction – that he had done his duty by expressing his concerns. All that he could now hope was that Colonel and Mrs Chilton would prove diligent in the care of their headstrong charge.

It was, the party were all agreed, a fine portrait. At the furthest end of a long gallery, stationed on a low wooden easel, the image of Hannibal waited to be hung alongside all the previous generations of Lecters.

‘It was taken last winter, commissioned by Mr Lecter’s uncle, and is just recently arrived from London.’

The reverence in Mrs Marlow’s voice demanded a respectful examination of the painting, on which all eyes were fixed.

Mrs Crawford admired the elegant cut of Mr Lecter’s black coat. Mr Crawford commented on the nobility of his expression. And Will – Will stood, arrested, before the likeness of the man who, for so brief a time, had been his lover. The effusions of Mrs Marlow, the exclamations of his aunt and uncle – all faded into muffled silence as he contemplated the picture with a heart dangerously full. Sculpted mouth curved into the barest hint of a smile, hooded amber eyes strangely wistful. It was so striking a resemblance of the original that Will swallowed hard, images assailing him in a kaleidoscope of memory. A fresh spring morning, hands and lips exploring; bodies pressed close and flushed; a mutual gentle scenting, voices soft with promise. Then the turn, pain and disillusionment biting hard. Rejection. Mutual evisceration.

Shall ever I see him again?

The thought that he might not – that this could indeed be their ending – brought a fresh wave of pain and he turned abruptly from the painting.

Will handed Abigail into the carriage with a fond smile and a gentle warning. ‘Brighton is a large place, Abi. Take care not to lose yourself. And try not to fall in love more than once a week.’

His sister’s peals of laughter, and Mrs Chilton’s accompanying giggles, drowned out Mrs Graham’s relentless sniffles.

Colonel Chilton smiled complacently. ‘Do not worry, Mr Graham. I shall be keeping a strict eye on the ladies. Two, in fact.’

Bedecked in matching pink muslin, the co-conspirators exchanged mischievous glances. And as the carriage pulled away, Will stepped back reluctantly to join the rest of the family in waving off their youngest, most precocious member.

Mrs Marlow escorted them outside via a rear door, and pointed out a red-haired man with a neatly-trimmed beard who was engaged in discussion with two gardeners.

‘Mr Sutcliffe, our estate manager,’ she explained, waving to attract his attention. ‘He can advise you on the best route to take around the grounds.’

‘You spoke of a canal pond,’ Mr Crawford said with almost boyish eagerness.

‘My husband has a fascination with ponds,’ smiled Mrs Crawford, patting his arm fondly.

‘Then you will enjoy the gardens very much!’ exclaimed the housekeeper. ‘Ah, Mr Sutcliffe, may we take a few minutes of your time?’

‘Did you enjoy Bakewell, Will?’

After a day of exploration in the bustling market town, the three travellers were enjoying much-needed rest and hot cups of Negus, courtesy of the ruddy-faced innkeeper.

‘Very much.’ Wincing as he removed his boots and stretched his stockinged toes out in front of him, Will added teasingly, ‘Though I did not anticipate how large the North of England is. I believe you will owe me a new pair of boots by the end of our tour.’

‘Then brace yourself,’ advised his uncle with a chuckle. ‘Your aunt wishes to visit another of her childhood haunts tomorrow.’

‘It was hardly that,’ laughed Mrs Crawford, ‘but as we are so close, I confess I would like very much to see it again. And doubtless you, Will, would be interested in visiting a place of which you have heard so much.’

‘Oh?’ Will lowered his feet slowly to the rug, a sinking sensation dispelling his cheerful mood. Surely they could only mean...

‘Ravenstag House is one of the foremost country estates in all of England. And its grounds are famed for their beautiful walks.’

‘But perhaps the family would not wish to be disturbed,’ said Will, jumping up and busying himself at the table, adding fresh slices of lemon and a sprinkling of cinnamon to his drink – anything to avoid looking at his aunt in that moment. The possibility of meeting Hannibal under such circumstances, after all that had passed between them, was too dreadful to contemplate.

‘The family are in London,’ interjected Mr Crawford, blowing on the steam rising from his cup. ‘I overheard the innkeeper and his wife discussing that very subject this morning.’

‘Then shall we? What say you, Will?’ Mrs Crawford looked at him expectantly.

Will’s lips parted on a silent sigh and he nodded. ‘If you wish it, then of course.’

To Ravenstag, therefore, they were to go.

Hannibal dismounted and arched his back with a grimace. Two days in the confines of a rattling coach had done little for his mood, and he had felt every jolt as his horse had covered the final eight miles from Matlock. He patted her mane absently, looking down from the woodland track through a thicket of trees. Peeping through the foliage, a glimpse of cream stone brought the hint of a smile to his lips. It had been far too long.

The decision to ride on a day ahead of the others afforded him the chance to meet with Mr Sutcliffe and catch up on estate matters before the wearisome business of playing host began, but first he would avail himself of a more pleasurable opportunity.

To the left of the track glimmered the still waters of Cascade Pond, so named for its main function of supplying a stepped stone water feature on the upper slopes of the cultivated lawn below. Leading his mare into the shade of a young oak, Hannibal tethered her to a low branch and left her grazing contentedly. He dropped onto the bank and sat for a few moments until the heat of the midday sun spurred him into action. Coat, boots, stockings, neckcloth and waistcoat all came off, abandoned on the warm grass as he stood with a stretch and contemplated what he was about to do. It was at moments like this, he mused, when he could almost convince himself that he could be content - that he could once and for all banish the memory of pine scent and ruffled curls; the feel of the boy in his arms; the taste of him, salty sweet on his tongue.

Almost.

With a small noise of frustration, Hannibal waded out until the shelf beneath his feet began to fall away. The water was cool but not uncomfortably so, warmed sufficiently by the sun to provide blissful refreshment from the dust of the road. He paused, arced his body and dove into the deepest part.

Leaving Mr and Mrs Crawford in the capable hands of Mr Sutcliffe and a gardener, Will eschewed a visit to the canal pond in favour of a little independent exploration. The estate’s hunting tower, domed turrets just visible between the trees, had piqued his curiosity upon their arrival, and he set out eagerly up a wide track that curved through woodland in search of the nestled building.

He had not been walking long before he heard the sedate clip-clop of horses’ hooves coming from the opposite direction. Moments later, there appeared from around the bend a magnificent grey mare, led by the halter. Led by a tall man in a state of partial undress, damp shirt flapping over equally damp breeches. A man with dark blonde hair slicked back from a high forehead, drops of water trickling down aristocratic cheekbones. And those cheekbones were overspread with the deepest blush as the man’s eyes met Will’s and both drew to an abrupt halt.

Will’s own cheeks were aflame, and for several agonising moments he scarce remembered how to breathe. Hannibal was here. Hannibal was standing before him. Hannibal. Hannibal.

And then he forgot to be embarrassed as his eyes drank in greedily the shape and form of the man whose voice whispered to him in dreams, whose words were carved on his soul.

‘...without agenda or hope of return. I love you.’

He drew in a breath. ‘Hello, Mr Lecter.’

Hannibal cocked his head slightly. ‘Hello, Will.’ And he smiled.