I sat in the sickroom and my gaze settled back onto my husband: I am sorry, Mr Hadley. There was never friendship from you and there will not be grief from me. Not from me.
I wondered if I felt enough to pity him for this.
Chapter Five
Mr Hadley’s sister, Mrs Courtney, arrived one Tuesday from the
country, with her humid emanations and her tight-bound stoutness.
Her bustling, sweeping carelessness threatened the vase from China
on its little hall table—it teetered for a breathless moment—as she
waved a list of the proper methods for tending patients. She recited
these, her handkerchief sprouting from her fist. At the ready, I thought, standing by with one hand resting in the other; then, Poor woman. I must remember compassion; and with resignation, Ah, well. She is staying, as Edith Courtney removed her bonnet and shawl. It was to be expected. I was Patience itself.
My sister-in-law continued with a conversation full of woe and exclamation (which was to be expected), and digression (which was habitual) and I watched her face at its expressive exercise. As so often, Mrs Courtney’s maid bore the brunt of her complaint.
‘My Mary is in a pet, would you credit it!’ Mrs Courtney waved her hands in illustration. ‘She disapproves of this; she disapproves of that. Oh!’ She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I am obliged to leave her behind, she is so vexing, at such a time!’
In secret sympathy with Edith’s maid, I was taken, of a sudden after all these years, by the smoothness of Edith Courtney’s features. This smoothness was only partly due to a general rosy portliness and the lack of any truly defining line to nose or cheek. It was also, I felt, as she bemoaned her wilful Mary who would not approve her every scheme and notion, that the face reflected a mind constantly scrubbed by the owner herself of all intelligent thought.
So that there is nothing left in that mind but the shallow whisperings of a child seeking reassurance. I recognised pity within myself, and was a little taken aback.
When Mr Courtney died, and Edith had begged her brother to tell what she was to do, he replied, ‘You will do what you ought,’ a phrase borrowed from my own sister Gwendolyn. Thereupon, Edith had subsided, for, of course, what she ought to do was very little indeed, less now even than when Mr Courtney lived.
Mr Hadley, having wrought this stricture upon his sister, moved on, all unthinking, for he viewed her—as he had so often said to me—mostly as an embarrassment. Indeed once, after a visit by Edith, he sat down to his supper, grasped his butter-knife and muttered: ‘God save us from the histrionics of middle-aged women, both husband-less and childless.’ His eyes flickered over me before turning back to bread and butter, while I thought, I have one child, at least. Do I therefore outrank Edith? Though I was uncertain how well this would hold me in good stead in his eyes. If at all.
I now regarded my sister-in-law not just with pity but also with a vague and insinuating dread.
Is Edith Courtney the pattern of things to come?
Edith held Mr Hadley’s hand; it lay in her own, limp as an empty glove. She held her kerchief to her mouth, in the manner of the deeply saddened, her head tipped a little to the side and her brows drawn together. Thus, she demonstrated a pitying concern that all would recognise: she did her duty and behaved with commendable womanliness.
What a theatre put on for my benefit. I supressed a sigh, and then from downstairs there came a sharp rap upon the front door. Who is that? I wondered, while Edith was herself not to be distracted.
‘Oh, my poor George. Tell me, my dear, what are you feeding him?’ Edith said this last very nearly as a whispered aside, glancing around at me with those earnest brows. But I was by then listening out—and for my own part demonstrating thus how distracted I was from this question that I did not wish to answer (for fear of eliciting extended advice)—for whatever disturbance the world was bringing to my front door. This, I could hear, was opened at last and
Gwendolyn’s voice drifted to me.
I was able to excuse myself to Mrs Courtney.
My own relations had, evidently, come to visit: my brothers Harry and Dickie and Dickie’s Amanda—Harry alone, since Sarah was herself in confinement with another baby on its way—and Gwendolyn’s daughter, my niece Bella, as ever frail and slight as a twig. Most significantly, there was also present our family eldest, Gwendolyn herself, in her widow’s layers of black and purple and a veil that, when she lifted it as I descended the stairs with Edith Courtney behind me, left her face dough-white, dour, and unsmiling in its somber framing.
“One does as one ought,” Gwendolyn’s best-used phrase, was taken up after a time, as I said, by Mr Hadley, who employed it especially to check his own sister’s querulous uncertainties. Unlike my husband, however—who perhaps only applied it to others—Gwendolyn believes firmly in the axiom, and strives to ensure that all about her did indeed do as they ought. She rules with a thin-boned, nervous grasp that declares such governance is done in memory of those at the centre of her life who have passed on and must be reverenced—her husband, her mother, and her father. Else they would be dishonoured, indeed disgraced, as would all in the family, and all forced to live exiled from society itself. Such an exile would be a terrible thing, perhaps a little like death. One’s place is of and within society; one certainly does not conceive of a place without it. And more, it is not to be borne that the family should be noticed, should draw attention, should be made a spectacle, for that would be to demonstrate an eccentricity. Eccentricity itself is not to be countenanced.
Gwendolyn’s life has been spent in service of her role, thus—watchful for any straying from invisibility, unless one is to be noticed for doing what one ought—and forceful in her insistence on conformity. We are a family to be noticed only for its conventionality.
Fate is not kind with its coincidences, I thought now as my family crowded into the hall for what would doubtless prove to be a most complicated visit. It was a rare thing indeed for Edith Courtney to be in a room with Gwendolyn, or to be invited to be so. It had never seemed likely to me that the two personalities would rub along at all well. While my sister made to have such a grip on all things about her, Edith Courtney had no such grasp, but babbled and babbled. Perhaps it was indeed as Sobriety had whispered once (and then apologised, unnecessarily, for her opinion) that they were each like a ship headed, however tight or loose the grip about the tiller, for rocks they feared lay in wait somewhere unseen beneath the waves.
I felt a familiar nausea of foreboding. Gwendolyn always aroused such feelings.
Gwendolyn had always been, of we two girls, the more dedicated to the instructions of Mrs Ellis, that author of moral guides. Nanny read for hours to us from Mrs Ellis, instilling her strictures on correct behaviours. Thus, it was made clear to us that:
A careless or slatternly woman…is one of the most repulsive objects in creation and no power of intellect, or display of learning, can compensate to men, for the want of nicety of neatness in the women with whom they associate in domestic life.
Ostentation, Mrs Ellis advised us all, was near to a sin, and a dreadful example set by women of elevated class for those poorer than themselves. Gwendolyn took to Mrs Ellis’s dictates as a pattern for her life. Provided all she did walked in step with the authoress, Gwendolyn could be confident of living in ironclad virtue untouched by the wild winds of contrary opinion, difference, or sensuality. I, on the other hand, struggled with this view of correct behaviour, while at the same time living at all times a little disturbed that I did not play virtue well enough.
In Gwendolyn’s presence, it seems to me, there has always been a strong sense of envelopment.
Yet Mama herself had had about her an air of the careless that implied no very deep love of Mrs Ellis. This could be read, perhaps, in her hint of a smile and once, I am certain, in the flick of an eyebrow—even though she durst no
t speak ill of the authoress when Gwendolyn was in earshot. There was a deal of comfort for me in Mama’s unspoken opinion. Now, as then, it made me wish to smile, which itself left me with a little guilt at the temptation to which I had succumbed.
This flock of family entered the drawing room and sat, with much rustling; a subsidence of massive birds, except for Harry who stood behind Gwendolyn’s armchair. Here was the patriarch in lieu of our Papa, with Gwendolyn the matriarch in Mama’s stead. Yet more dedicated to the role than Mama ever was, I thought. Bella sat to the side, her young face set in sulking wilfulness, and her sharp jaw borne very still atop the stalk of her neck.
Gwendolyn glanced a moment at her daughter, my niece, and then settled her gaze back on me. What she lacks of the authority of age—she is in fact barely forty years old—Gwendolyn makes up for in a stately, dragging gravity. To smile in her presence would be a levity and, by and large, we do not smile when Gwendolyn is about.
See, my sister has purpose, I thought. This annoyed me, so that I compressed my lips. I preferred not to know what that purpose might be.
The whole group, once perched, moved eyes to me as a
committee might contemplate a problem of public amenity, or might, I thought, attend politely to the stuttering of an underling before declaring all arrangements had, in any case, already been made. But then, I thought it unfair, perhaps, to think of them all so, for there were among them Dickie, my favourite brother, and Amanda, his wife. Yet the group took on its own stern collective personality (so like a monster with many heads). While I loved some, truly, still there was a prickling as of the brush of tiny needles, as I knew the whole enfolded me and I absolutely did not wish to be so taken up.
‘So kind of you all to come.’ I sank (and it felt like a sinking) to the edge of my chair and rang for tea.
‘Oh yes, oh yes. Such a time, such a sad, sad time.’ Edith Courtney’s
voice began as ever, in too high a key. ‘And so very encouraging that one’s family should rally around…’ She had set herself down next to me, somehow as if she, too, received these visitors.
Gwendolyn turned her head the merest inch toward Edith, who drifted into silence.
Conversation dwelt heavily on the weather as tea, carried in on its tray by a white-knuckled Cissy, was gathered upon the low table, with the great silver pot central to it all, heavy with carven curlicues and small cupids and laden thus with parloured importance. I lifted its great weight and poured and passed, poured and passed, and indicated a choice of cake or bread-and-butter.
Gwendolyn accepted her own cup and bread-and-butter, placed the plate down, sipped her tea, and stated, ‘Bella will have cake.’ This was said with finality, and every syllable expressed itself so. But Bella herself—her face small, fleshless, and as if fresh-chiselled at nose and cheek and chin—was silent. Instead of assenting, she regarded the far corner of the room, with its fine and weighty cornice so intricately painted. It was plain she ignored her mother. I was obliged merely to set the cup and plate down before her.
Tea, cake, and bread-and-butter were passed about the siblings and their wives, yet it seemed as if Gwendolyn and Bella sat by themselves in significance. It was as if the air about them carried the
clatter of their silent battle. Mother and daughter swung great glinting weapons at each other, to speak in metaphor, even though they sat so still, poised and nearly regal, with the polished surfaces, lace, brocades, velvet and fringes of the room frozen all about them.
I thought: See how they reflect one another, their heads held so exactly alike in imperiousness, though Bella is so much the smaller version.
Cissy having departed the room, there was a pause that none could doubt held deep meaning. No one moved, yet it seemed as if all drew away from Gwendolyn and her daughter. Gwendolyn placed her cup back down upon its saucer. All eyes turned to her, while she herself regarded Bella.
‘Your cake, my dear.’ Gwendolyn placed her gloved hands in her lap, her eyes steady and unblinking upon the girl.
All of a sudden, I was oppressed by this enactment before me—they do not shout, and yet it is as if they do, and we must all witness it—and sought some relief in looking about the room. The crystal vase stood on the lacework protecting the pianoforte; Mrs Staynes had done well with maidenhair and white roses, though some drooped.
Moments seemed somehow extended for very long indeed (filled with the faintest sounds of breathing and the heavy ticking of the clock, while Dickie attempted a clearing of the throat). Bella, at last, reached forward and detached the smallest crumb from her slice of cake and placed it in her mouth. Gwendolyn closed her eyes for perhaps three further ticks of the clock, exhaled at length, and turned to me.
‘Your notes to us all were brief, Adelaide. Are we to understand Mr Hadley is unlikely to recover?’
Edith took in a sharp breath and whimpered lightly. I knew that Gwendolyn would consider sensitivity in this or similar matters a waste of time. My sister is brutality itself, wrapped in strait propriety, I thought, as Edith Courtney began to gust, and her breast to heave accordingly.
While my mind clattered with tactful alternatives that might appease the two at once, I knew from experience that none would serve.
In any case, it was too late.
Gwendolyn glanced at Edith. Her voice came clear and uncompromising. ‘A most painful time, I understand, for my sister and for you, Mrs Courtney, but I have always thought it best to call a spade a spade.’ The thought glimmered briefly that Gwendolyn had doubtless never actually seen a spade. There was barely time for Edith to clasp her handkerchief to her mouth once more, before Gwendolyn turned back to me.
‘Is it so?’
‘Oh…’ I thought it best, in the absence of any means of curtailing Gwendolyn’s more unfeeling approaches, to place my hand on Edith’s shoulder and pat it. Edith gave out a long and shuddering breath.
‘He is indeed gravely ill and has not recognised anyone since his collapse, I am afraid,’ I said.
‘It must have been very sudden,’ Dickie broke in, flushing as he had always done when speaking of anything at all. It turned my attention to him: he looked, to me, as if he had collapsed a little. He seemed, I thought, to have grown smaller inside his clothes, perhaps (though this was evidently only imagination), since abandoning—after heavy admonition by Gwendolyn—late nights away from home wagering with his wife’s money at games and horseracing. A person might indeed shrink when under heavy admonition by Gwendolyn, no matter how deserved.
In days not so long ago, Dickie had been as evasive as quicksilver to any who cared for him, would slide away too fast for outstretched hand—his wife’s, or that of any member of his family—to restrain him. He had had a hectic look about his eyes; he laughed too often and at too high a pitch. He began, of course, to draw attention to himself, and important heads turned first toward in curiosity, and then away in ominous judgement. Finally, Gwendolyn (and Harry) called him to a family conference and fixed him with what he ought to do. His own small legacy, and Amanda’s money, were turned to better purpose, enabling his subsequent attendance at Pembroke College to do Classics. We all now awaited his ordination into the Church. The public example of Gwendolyn’s success, Dickie clearly knew himself to have no defence against the humiliation of reproof and enforced improvement. The murmur of his more elevated detractors ceased, and these dour gentlefolk increasingly made clear that they were ‘at home’ to Gwendolyn.
‘Yes, indeed it was. A great shock.’ I bowed my head in agreement. Edith Courtney dipped her own head several times and dabbed at her eyes.
‘Oh, my dears—’ Amanda’s murmur was very quiet. She wore her half-smile upon her small, plump face, as ever; it was meant to speak sympathy and comfort, and it always did so. I suddenly comprehended how great Amanda’s own humiliation must have been, both at the hands of her husband and of her sister-in-law.
Gwendolyn cut across her. ‘I will send my medical man.’
Dread returned to me with force. ‘Doctor McGuiness,’ I spoke, perhaps a little too fast, ‘has always had our absolute trust, and has attended Mr Hadley for many years—’
‘My man is excellent. I will send him to you,’ Gwendolyn spoke in answer but did not look at me, instead glancing at her daughter, where the rebellion continued. Bella had taken no more cake than before and at some point had pushed the plate further away; it seemed unlikely she would revisit it. She tilted her own face to one side, so that she might not meet her mother’s eyes.
Gwendolyn pressed her lips together.
I was washed over once again with sudden irritation—like a wave of the grittiest of sand—and it made me wish to wring my hands and stamp my feet. The mime of Gwendolyn’s feud with Bella played out as if my own humiliation were minor, something secondary. As if to have my family reach out to govern me was not a humiliation. Which it is, it is. I breathed against it. I will imitate Amanda; see, her hands do not clutch each other.
‘That is most kind, Gwendolyn, but Doctor McGuiness may not take kindly—’
‘I shall also send you Barker, for the time being. He is strong, and will serve well for heavy tasks.’
‘Most practical solution, sister,’ came from Harry, who placed his cup down with perhaps too much of a clatter and glanced at the watch hanging on its chain. The business stated, I wondered, he is eager to go?
It has long been understood that Harry is Gwendolyn’s helpmeet in family matters. He comes to stand, at times like these, to lend his presence and his bulk, his tailoring and timbre—he who inherited the great Broom estate, where I as a child had searched out my cupboard. Harry’s presence approves Gwendolyn’s strictures. Yet there is more to these enactments, I have always thought. What might Mama have said? He brings a Broomness to every case. I felt over the tea things now a rise of mild hysteria, which may or may not have been laughter. I took another breath against it.
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