This was heartening. A man who had an eye for a lady who wasn’t interested might very well be persuaded to change direction.
Lucy put herself out to be very kind to Franz that evening.
Since it was Sunday, there could be no playing of the piano or singing except for hymns, which Lucy hated. So there was no chance to shine by sitting at the instrument looking poetic over Chopin. On the other hand, while her husband read aloud from Tracts for the Times it was possible to have a low-voiced conversation on the far side of the room.
Franz, trapped with this young married lady whom he didn’t much like, behaved well. He replied as briefly as he could to Lucy, tried to attend to Ned, and leapt up to help when the tea things were brought in at eight o’clock.
Ned was putting away his text, turning instead to the record of fishing rights on the local stretches. Franz carried tea to Millicent and Jenny, then after taking his own sat down beside the elder Mrs Corvill. ‘And how is your little boy?’ Millicent asked kindly.
‘Very well, thank you. He was one year old this month.’
‘And you didn’t go home for the birthday? Oh, how sad.’
‘I sent a present, of course,’ Franz said. ‘I sent him a doll dressed as a Highland soldier ‒ but he is too young for that, I know.’
‘You should have asked my help, Mr Lennhardt,’ Lucy called. ‘I would have been delighted to help you choose a present.’
‘Thank you, you are very kind.’
‘Have you a picture of the little boy?’
‘Yes, I carry one in my pocketbook.’ He produced it ‒ the same one he had shown at first to Jenny and her mother.
Perforce he had to go back across the room to show it to Lucy. She detained him: he sat down and talked about the latest news of his son, about his home in Hamburg of which he had a little sketch showing the house and the linden tree in the street outside.
‘You must long to go back,’ Lucy suggested.
‘No,’ Franz said, ‘I am happy enough here in Galashiels. I have made good friends here.’
‘Ah, friends … Who is there to be friends with here? A very dull crowd, don’t you find them?’
‘Not at all,’ Franz replied unwarily. ‘I have made good friends here. I am honoured to have the friendship of Miss Corvill.’
‘Oh, business friendship you mean. But that’s a very shallow thing. Jenny never makes friendships of any depth, you know.’
‘That is quite untrue!’ he exclaimed.
Ned looked up from the fishing record. Millicent turned her head to stare. Franz coloured. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it in quite that way.’
‘I should hope not,’ Ned remarked with a smile. ‘You sounded as if you were quarrelling with my poor little wife about something.’
‘I assure you, not in the least. We were saying how charming it was to have friends.’
Jenny had studiously avoided being drawn in. Perhaps too studiously, for as he made his farewells Franz said to her aside and in an anxious tone, ‘You weren’t hurt by what Lucy said?’
‘I didn’t even hear, Franz.’
‘I am glad of that. She is an unkind lady.’
‘I told you to be careful.’
‘She made me angry.’
‘Please take care in the future.’
‘Yes.’ He pressed her hand as he turned to take his coat from Thirley.
Lucy had watched it all from the door of the drawing-room. She couldn’t hear what passed between them but she saw that her sister-in-law looked anxious and that Franz pressed her hand in leave-taking.
She had plenty to occupy her mind for the rest of that Sunday evening. As she went upstairs at bedtime she had an impulse to go into Jenny’s room and see if she could tease a little more out of her.
Jenny had made ready for bed. She was by her bureau in the light of the lamp selecting a book from the row that stood there, to soothe herself for a few minutes before settling down to sleep.
As soon as ever she first gathered together some money in Edinburgh Jenny had bought herself a second-hand copy of the Vestiarium Scotium of the brothers Sobieski-Stuart. She had felt it was a necessary tool of her trade though it had cost more than she could afford. In it were notes about clan tartans that she had gathered herself, and a few mementoes of important moments ‒ a scrap of the Royal Stuart tartan she had shown to the Prince Consort at Balmoral, an envelope of a letter from the Tsarina.
Lucy’s entry surprised Jenny. She started. Something fell out of the book.
It was a dried flower, the blossom of the hoya that Bobby Prentiss had picked for her in the dusty conservatory at Balmoral that day six years ago.
It lay on the floor. She stooped to pick it up. Lucy did likewise and it was her hand that fell on it first.
She looked at it, handed it to Jenny. ‘A keepsake from a sweetheart?’ she said lightly.
Jenny went crimson. She cursed herself for the weakness but she knew she had shown far too much emotion ‒ and there was nothing to be done about it.
‘My goodness,’ Lucy said with a laugh, ‘I seem to have touched a tender spot.’
‘Did you want something, Lucy?’
‘I only dropped in to say I think I was right after all about that young German. He has got a mash on you.’
Jenny shook her head. She accepted the flower from Lucy, put it back in the book, closed it, and set the book in the row. ‘Aren’t you going to read the book?’ Lucy asked.
‘I think I’m too tired. Goodnight, Lucy.’
‘What do you think about Mr Lennhardt?’
‘I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you.’
‘It would be very shocking if he really were to be in love with you. He’s a married man.’
‘I’m quite aware of that.’
‘Yes, it’s the kind of thing you can’t really forget, isn’t it. Well, goodnight, Jenny. Pleasant dreams.’
When the door had closed behind her Jenny sank down on the chair by the bureau. Good God, what had she done? Clearly Lucy thought the dried flower she had so foolishly kept was a memento from Franz. That stupid fit of blushing had given her what she thought of as proof.
Ever since she had been caught red-handed exchanging Ned’s wine-glass, ever since Jenny had fought the battle for Lucy’s freedom that Lucy couldn’t fight for herself, her sister-in-law’s resentment had been almost palpable.
She had wanted to get her own back for being shown in such an unfavourable light. And now Lucy had found a weapon. What she would do Jenny couldn’t predict. But she would use the weapon.
Jenny buried her face in her hands. Why, why, did everything have to be so difficult, so complicated? Why couldn’t Lucy be content instead of always grasping for what she couldn’t have? Why couldn’t she herself live her life solitary, without needing love, since it seemed it must be denied to her?
She slept badly, and faced the new day with suppressed anxiety. But nothing happened. Lucy made no reference to the dried flower.
If anything, her sister-in-law seemed rather more considerate than usual. She dropped in on Jenny in her office to bring a magazine Jenny expected in the post. She offered to give a dinner party for Jenny’s business acquaintances when the pattern books were opened to them. Franz was among those who came but Lucy made no special effort to single him out.
There was only one moment that Jenny was later to think of as significant. When the guests had gone, Lucy said playfully to the others: ‘Which of them all do you like best?’
‘Why, I like Mr Kennet,’ said Millicent. ‘But then I know him best.’
‘I rather like Hailes,’ Ned confessed. ‘A hard character, but direct.’
‘Jenny likes Mr Lennhardt best, don’t you, Jenny?’
Jenny laughed. ‘I see you’ve made the choice for me, Lucy.’
‘Well, he’s the one I would choose ‒ he’s the one I should miss most. Such a delightful man.’
The next ten days were a very
busy time in the Borders. Mills were showing their winter patterns, buyers and agents of cloth wholesalers were hurrying from one wool town to another to see what was on offer. In the midst of this Jenny had to make a trip to Edinburgh to argue with her insurers over an export order lost at sea.
When she sat down again in her office late on a Wednesday to catch up with what had been happening she saw to her surprise that Franz had put in no order on behalf of Gebel’s Warehouse. ‘Mr Muir, what happened about Gebel’s?’
‘Eh? Oh, you havena heard, Mistress Corvill? There’ll be a delay on that,’ said the chief clerk. ‘Their Mr Lennhardt has gone.’
‘Gone? To Kelso or Hawick, you mean?’
‘No, mistress, to Hamburg.’
‘What?’
‘Aye, a sudden summons by the telegraphic cable. Something amiss wi’ his child, I hear.’
When Jenny had first come into her office she hadn’t turned up the oil lamp on her desk. She was glad now, for her features would not be clear. She knew she had lost colour at his words. ‘When did he go?’
‘Let me see … It would be the day before yesterday. The same day you set out for Edinburgh, I think, aye, that was it. He was in muckle haste to get to Newcastle for the North Sea Packet so he hadna time for leavetaking. That clerk of his, Jameson, came round wi’ regrets and a message that his order will be in as soon as possible.’
‘I see.’ She stared down at some papers, to look as if she was working. ‘When will he be back?’
‘That I canna say. Jameson himself doesna ken. His instructions are, “Hold the reins” so he’s holding, but not urging the horse on.’ Pleased with this little quip, the chief clerk waited with his pencil over his notebook. ‘What would you like to start on now, mistress?’
She looked at the fob watch on the bodice of her gown. ‘I think it’s over late to start work this evening ‒ it’s past eight.’
‘Aye, it’s gey late at that.’
‘Let’s away home then,’ she said.
‘Shall I call you a hackney? You’ll be tired, after all your journeying.’
‘No, I’ll walk. The boy can bring my valise up to the house tomorrow ‒ there’s nothing in it that I need.’
She went out, with Muir thankfully putting away his silver pencil and closing his book.
It was a chill March evening. Darkness had come down but there was a faint light from a young moon decked with a drifting veil of cloud. She walked head down against the breeze, trying to recover from the surprise of Muir’s announcement. That Franz had had to leave at once she understood.
But she couldn’t believe he hadn’t found just a moment, at Newcastle, say, to scribble a line to her.
She was quick to scold herself for her selfishness. If his child were sick, he’d be too worried.
Sighing deeply, she collected her thoughts. He was gone, perhaps for a long time ‒ it depended on the well-being of the little boy. She would have to do without him among her circle of friends. But that was not so new to her as once it might have been. For some time now the bond between them had been loosening. There was still a deep fondness, but the ardour had gone ‒ and perhaps that was just as well. It had always been a wildly dangerous thing to do, to meet Franz as a lover in this close little community.
When she reached Gatesmuir she was ready with news of her journey and her success with the insurance firm. Her mother mentioned Franz Lennhardt, the alarm about his baby. ‘Poor man, it’s terrible to be so far away from your child at a time like that.’
’Yes, indeed. I hope he got to Newcastle in time for the packet.’
‘He might have got a cabin on a cargo ship otherwise,’ Ned suggested.
‘Oh, he’d certainly find some way to get across,’ Lucy said. ‘I know what he must have been feeling ‒ the thought of losing a child …’
Ned put his hand on hers. ‘Yes, my love, you know that grief,’ he murmured.
‘No one can understand what it’s like.’ Her head drooped, there were tears brimming.
Yet Jenny had the feeling her eyes were watchful under the fair downcast lashes.
A week later a letter came to the office, bearing foreign postmarks and marked ‘Personal’. She recognised his writing. She told Muir she’d look through her correspondence and would like to be undisturbed. The moment the door had closed behind him she tore open the envelope.
It was dated three days earlier, had been neatly timed to catch the packet from Hamburg. The letter sounded more stilted than Franz ever had when he spoke. Perhaps that was because it was a difficult letter to write.
My Always Beloved,
I write quickly so you shall receive this before Herr Tabbler arrives. He is my replacement, middle-aged, greatly experienced in cloth. He shall bring with him his wife and ten-year-old son for whom he wishes good English learning at the Border Academy.
My Jenny, there was nothing wrong with my son. It was a ruse to bring me home. Yet I must confess I was grieved when I saw him because he was afraid of me when I wished to pick up him. I was a frightening stranger.
My wife Elsa had received an anonymous letter in English. Since Elsa speaks no English, she had to give it to her brother to translate, and this has caused much conflict in our families.
The letter said she had better look to her marriage because her husband was in the toils of an unscrupulous woman. Hans didn’t know what means this phrase about toils but he looked in a dictionary at the University. The letter suggested she should come to Galashiels and see for herself but this Hans forbidded and instead she sent word to me that Wilhelm was very sick.
I do not know who sent the letter but I suspect. I vowed to Elsa that it was wicked lies and I think she is believing of this. But yet she wished very much for me to stay in Hamburg. She is sorry for the coldness that came between us and wishes to try again to have a good marriage.
I must confess to you ‒ and I am both ashamed and not ashamed of it ‒ that I want to stay. It hurt me much that my son had tears when I wished to take him in my arms. He is a fine little boy, Jenny, I feel I cannot lose him again by going away.
Perhaps in any case it was ending for us. I love you, I always shall, but there was a change in what we felt and perhaps it is right now to say farewell, though I find my heart aches very much to write this to you. Forgive me, Jenny. I am torn in two, but I cannot leave my little boy.
This is a long letter but it is the last I shall ever write to you. You used to laugh when I quoted our German poets to you but I will this last time quote: ‘When love conquers pain, A new star gleams in the sky.’ You will always be my star, Jenny, and when the pain of parting is too great, I will look up into the night and be grateful for what we had.
Always yours, though I shall never see you again,
Franz.
The words in their spiky lettering ran together in front of her eyes. She let the paper fall on her desk. For a long time she sat unseeing, breathing shallowly as if to prevent herself from feeling the hurt.
He was never coming back. That must be accepted. Even though she had said to herself that their love affair was already in the past, she felt a wounded sense of loss. Never to see that bright glance across a room, never to hear his voice catching up some argument. Never to hear it whisper gentle, loving words. Never to feel his hand in hers.
She put her knuckles against her lips to prevent herself from sobbing. Tears ‒ what use were tears? They had been parted from one another by a cruel trick and she ought to feel anger, not grief.
An anonymous letter. It could have been from no one else but Lucy.
Her first thought was, I’ll strike back, I’ll hurt her.
She could hurt Lucy ‒ easily, easily. She could tell her family about the lies, the non-existent naval lieutenant who in reality had been a third-rate actor. She could tell them about Archie, about the meetings in the Gatesmuir summerhouse, about the child that might have been his. She could tell them the callous things Lucy had said when she heard Ned was
ill with alcoholic mania.
She could destroy her. She could have her banished from the family circle, sent away to live on a tiny allowance that would not permit the kind of airs and graces she found so necessary.
Easily. Hurt her. Kill her dream, make her poor and a nobody. Let her see contempt and dislike where before she’d seen admiration and love.
And what good would that do?
Franz was gone. It was over. And perhaps it was best so. The little boy needed his father, Franz needed his son. There was a marriage that ought to be preserved, built up. Franz was where he belonged, with his wife and child.
And she? She was here, alone again ‒ but she was accustomed to that. She had been alone before and though she couldn’t enjoy it she could bear it. She had much to be thankful for ‒ her mother and her brother loved her, she had work she enjoyed, she was liked and respected by the community.
Oh yes, all that was true. But it didn’t prevent the tears from spilling out on to her cheeks when she thought she would never see dear, loving, impetuous Franz again.
To prevent herself from drowning in self-pity she folded the letter and put it away. She turned her attention to the business letters that had come by the same post. She tried to work, making notes of what she would tell her chief clerk to do concerning this and that. But she found herself seeing Franz’s face, picturing scenes they had shared.
It was an hour later before she rang for Muir. She gave him a little pile of work. ‘I’m going out now ‒’
‘But it’s only nine-thirty, mistress.’
‘I know, Mr Muir, but I want to speak to the station-master about greeting the deputation from the Turkish Board of Trade. I don’t want any pointing and staring when they get off the train.’
‘Well, you can give orders to the station staff, but you canna do much about the passers-by, mistress, and they’ll stare at dark men in Arab robes ‒’
‘Mr Muir, they are going to be wearing ordinary frock coats!’ She swept out, looking indignant, and walked briskly through the entrance hall and out to the front courtyard. But her mind wasn’t on the Turkish delegation, though she did indeed go to the station and ask Mr Gowan to ensure good manners.
A Web of Dreams Page 29