Another Life

by Sara MacDonald

  From the open windows of the drawing room below her she could hear laughter and chatter. Soon she would have to walk down the aisle in her wedding dress and everyone would turn to stare at her. Isabella felt unsure she could bear it.

  She heard her father’s voice and she tried to swallow the bitterness that rose up in her. She tried not to think of this as a second betrayal. For a moment she wondered what would happen if she changed her mind, if she refused to go down the stairs, get into the carriage, walk into the church. If she refused to marry a man nearly as old as her father.

  Her heart jumped for a moment in hope. Then she thought of the consequences of having to stay here and they were more unbearable. There was also Sir Richard Magor to consider. He might be old – Isabella suspected he neared fifty – but he had always been kind to her.

  There was a knock, and then the door flew open and Sophie burst in. Isabella’s small cousin stopped in the doorway and gasped.

  ‘Isabella, you look just like a princess. Why are you alone? Where is Lisette?’

  ‘I was thirsty so she went down to the kitchen to find me a drink.’

  Sophie shut the door and came into the room. ‘Mama is coming presently to help Lisette with your veil.’

  Isabella sat carefully on her dressing-table stool so that she did not crush her dress. Sophie was watching her intently in unaccustomed silence. Then she leant towards Isabella and said urgently, ‘Isabella, you do not have to do this. You look so sad in your wedding dress. I wanted to talk to you before Mama comes. I am sure she would learn to understand if you have changed your mind. So would your father … if you told them you are so unhappy …’

  She trailed off. The words hung in the air and even Sophie did not believe them. Isabella smiled for the first time that day. Sophie was the only person she would truly miss. This youngest, plainest daughter; the clever one; the only one who did not resent her in any way.

  ‘You know I cannot remain here, Sophie. Your parents have been good to have me for so long. I am grown up and not their responsibility.’

  Her father, confronted once more with the problem of what to do with Isabella, had made it plain that he intended to re-marry, to a woman called Charlotte Flemming, the daughter of a friend.

  Sophie turned away, paced the room anxiously.

  ‘It is my mama who has driven you to this. You cannot help it if you are prettier than my sisters and far less stupid. It is as if she thinks you attract all the attention on purpose …’ She came and knelt in front of Isabella, her small, sweet face earnest. ‘I cannot bear you to throw your life away. You have been pretending you are happy to marry that old man all these months. I am so angry with your papa, Isabella. I am sorry to speak of him like this but he is grown into a very selfish man indeed.’

  Her voice was so portentous in a girl of fifteen that Isabella laughed.

  ‘I think Papa is a man who is afraid of growing old and being alone in that huge house.’

  Isabella got up from the stool and pulled Sophie to her feet, shook her hands so that she listened to her.

  ‘Sophie, in a moment your mother will be here. I made a promise to marry Richard Magor. I am not going to change it. I cannot remain here and I cannot return home … Help me to be strong …’ Isabella’s voice wobbled. ‘I need your friendship today, Sophie, more than I ever have. There are things I cannot change and I must make the best of them. I will especially need you when I return from Italy to my new home.’

  Sophie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Isabella, he is so old, how will you bear …?’

  Isabella interrupted her cousin swiftly. ‘He is kind to me, Sophie, and I believe he will go on being kind. I am going to live in a beautiful house by the sea. It is not so bad, and we can see each other often, can we not?’

  ‘Of course! I will come whenever you need me, Isabella.’ She hovered at the door. ‘Isabella, at night when I cannot sleep, I have such strange and lonely thoughts. What is the purpose of being a woman, apart from having babies? No one takes us seriously. I wish I had been born a man.’

  Before Isabella could reply to this outburst, Sophie heard her mother downstairs and with a small moan disappeared quickly down the corridor to her room.

  Lisette came in carrying a tray of tea for Isabella. ‘The kitchen is in turmoil. Your aunt is displeased with the flowers and Cook is having an argument with Tilly. For pity’s sake, Miss Isabella, you should have had this tea before we dressed you. Do not spill it down your dress. Wait, wait, I will cover you.’

  Lisette threw a sheet over Isabella and she took her tea gratefully, for her throat felt parched.

  Lisette watched her anxiously. ‘Now, let me throw your veil out upon the bed …’

  Isabella waited. She knew Lisette well. She wanted to talk to her of intimate things but was having difficulty finding the right words.

  ‘I will be in the new house waiting for you when you return from Florence, Miss Isabella. Botallick House is a beautiful house, is it not? I believe you will be happy there.’

  ‘Yes. I am so near the sea I can walk to the beach from the garden. Did you know that, Lisette? There is a hidden path down to a small private cove. It was once used by smugglers.’

  ‘Indeed, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, it is true.’

  ‘I believe you will feel much … freer at Botallick, Miss Isabella, to be yourself. Why, you will be your own mistress!’

  ‘I think it will be very peaceful there. I believe I will grow to love that house.’

  Lisette said gently, ‘I believe, too, Miss, that you will grow fond of Sir Richard, for he seems a kind man.’

  Isabella’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She bit her lip hard, but could not answer. Lisette made herself busy straightening her veil, then she said in a little rush, ‘Miss Isabella, at first … relations in marriage are not … easy. It grows easier with time. Your mother is not here, so I … I will tell you little ways of being more … comfortable. Do you understand me?’

  Isabella nodded. She understood only too well. ‘Thank you, Lisette.’

  It was a thing she tried not to think about. She had looked at women of her acquaintance who were married to old or ugly men and they appeared perfectly content, so it could not be too dreadful. Perhaps these women kept their eyes firmly shut.

  Isabella’s aunt appeared at the door, positively joyful at the prospect of her niece’s departure, and today her voice held no edge. There had never been open hostility from her, she was much too well-mannered, but it had been implicit and had grown worse as Isabella got older.

  Her aunt bustled round her. ‘You look very well, Isabella. Very well indeed. Your father will be proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunt.’

  Isabella hesitated, then, risking rebuff, she said, for it was true, ‘Aunt, I know it must have been difficult to have yet another girl in your household for so long and I thank you for taking me in.’

  Her aunt’s face grew red with surprise and something else Isabella might only guess at, for her aunt and her father were very alike in their transparency.

  ‘Isabella, you are my brother’s only child, what else would I do but welcome you into our house? Now, come along, it is time to leave for the church, your father waits downstairs.’

  She touched Isabella’s arm briefly. ‘I wish you happiness, Isabella.’

  Lisette adjusted her veil. Isabella wanted her to hide her face but Lisette would not let her do so until they had descended the stairs.

  ‘You will break your neck, Miss Isabella.’

  Daniel Vyvyan stood in the hall looking upwards. She watched his face closely. She wanted to see the pain in it, although she knew that it was wrong to have these thoughts on her wedding day. She was quite aware of how like her mama she looked today and she wanted her father to remember this day, always. To remember Helena. To remember that Isabella was her daughter, a part of the life they once all shared and he was renouncing for the second time. She wanted him to remember her, exactl
y as she was at this moment, untouched, before he gave her away to an old man.

  Oh, the pain was there, making his face suddenly grey and old, but it gave Isabella no pleasure, only sadness. She reached him and Lisette pulled the veil over her head, hiding her face, and they walked together, father and daughter, out of the front door, down the wide stone stairs to the waiting carriage. Her father had not said one word.

  At the church her cousins waited in their creamy primrose dresses to walk behind her. Her father took her arm to walk her up the aisle.

  ‘How did you grow so suddenly beautiful?’ he whispered. ‘My God, you are like Helena. It breaks my heart.’

  It was as if he was seeing Isabella for the very first time as a grown woman.

  The dark chill of the church was a shock after the warm day and Isabella shivered. All eyes turned to watch her. Isabella wanted to run. She wanted to run, screaming her mama’s name, along the sea’s edge. She wanted to be free of this. She wanted to be free.

  Her father, feeling her tremble, squeezed her arm. They stopped in front of the vicar and her father vanished suddenly from her side as he had always done, and she was alone next to Sir Richard.

  Her eyes, hidden behind the veil, did not have to express anything as she looked into his face. He took her hand gently between his own, smoothed it as if he wanted to smooth away the ache in her heart. Tears sprang to Isabella’s eyes, rose up in her throat. She looked away, to the crucifix, to the vicar, and concentrated hard on his opening words. The tiny pearls on her wedding gown glistened and moved in the candlelight like thousands of tears.

  Chapter 24

  On Monday morning Gabby returned to the upstairs room of the museum and continued to fix the loose paint on Isabella, concentrating on the main damage around the neck and chest region. The gesso or ground layer beneath the paint was brittle and thick as it was chalk or gypsum based. She decided to use a weak solution of gelatine so that it would penetrate through all the layers. She had kept an eye on the temperature in the room and the humidity was stable so there was little danger of fungal activity.

  Gabby had brought the small CD-player Nell had given her last Christmas and she put Beethoven on low. The day was heavy and overcast, the sun, trapped behind cloud and sea mist, pressed down making her head ache.

  She had been tense all weekend. She had walked and gardened and fidgeted, guilt and astonishment at herself making her jumpy. Now, in the silence, away from the farm and Nell and Charlie, Gabby felt her limbs begin to loosen as she concentrated. A form of peace flowed through her and into her fingers, making them sure and steady.

  She stopped working for a moment and went to switch her mobile on. Just in case. Her stomach lurched as the memory of Mark’s hands reaching for her played, as it had all weekend, through her head. She had thought Charlie must notice the difference in her and had fought to seem normal as she discussed with him whether or not she should take work in London.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, by the time you’ve paid your train fare and accommodation, you’ll be no better off, Gabby. Just exhausted,’ Charlie had said.

  ‘My accommodation is free, for this job anyway, and I’ll get paid far more than I get down here.’

  Nell had said quietly, trying not to interfere and failing, as she poured Charlie a beer, ‘I would discount money, keep it out of the equation. You’ve been offered a job by a prestigious gallery, Gabby. Are you excited by the work? Is it interesting? Do you believe you can do a good job? Might it lead to more work? If the answer is yes to all these things, what do you have to lose? The only consideration you have is the figurehead. It must be in a condition to be exhibited at the end of June. That is your first responsibility. I would have thought you could manage both.’

  ‘Yes, I could. I’m sure I could. The NPG already know I am committed to work on her for another two weeks.’

  ‘I am not against you taking the job, Gabby,’ Charlie had said. ‘But you know what the summer is like. I’m out all daylight hours and I rely on you being here for whatever crops up. If you’re away, all your jobs fall on Nell …’

  ‘Charlie, for heaven’s sake, we’re talking about three weeks at the most. This is Gabby’s future. You can’t have it all ways. You are permanently trying to devise ways of bringing more money into the farm and restoring is how Gabby and I contribute.’

  There was no answer to this and Charlie had been silent. Eventually, draining his beer, he got to his feet.

  ‘Well, it’s your decision, Gab. It’s money, I guess, and as you say, it is probably a one-off. I suppose we can manage without you.’ He had grinned at her.

  ‘I’ll be finished long before harvest,’ Gabby had smiled back, feeling treacherous.

  ‘OK. Go for it! I’m going to the office to catch up on paperwork. I’ll shut the hens in for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

  ‘This girl from the gallery is ringing you again tomorrow?’ Nell had asked.

  Gabby had suddenly felt exhausted. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go to bed, Gabby. I’ll stick these in the dishwasher.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive.’ Nell had paused, carrying plates to the sink. ‘I really don’t think Charlie was trying to be obstructive, Gabby. He’s just so used to having you around. Men are odd, you know, they rely on women far more than they’d ever admit.’

  Gabby had stared at Nell, surprised. ‘I didn’t think he was being at all obstructive, Nell. I thought he was being very reasonable. He was only pointing out that if I swan off it makes more work for you, which is true. But it’s doubtful this is going to happen too often, and apart from the figurehead I do usually work from home.’

  Nell had thought later, Does Gabby ever think about what she actually does for Charlie? Things that he could very well organize for himself, or a housekeeper or extra cleaner could do. Roles, she thought, form such a comfortable habit that we stop questioning them and they become hard to break, like a comfort zone.

  In the museum the phone bleeped. Text message. Gabby ignored it and went on working. After an interval that she judged businesslike, she went over to the phone. It was Josh, not Mark. Anxiously she scanned the message:

  MET FANTASTIC GIRL LUV JOSH.

  Gabby smiled. Must be fantastic to text your mother during the day. So Josh was, at last, smitten. She went back to Isabella and looked down on the face that gave nothing away. What do you know about love, Lady Isabella? Then, out of nowhere, the thought came; Were you married off to an old squire and the young men could only paint or carve your likeness?

  Gabby gazed down on her, feeling sure she was right. She started to prepare a fine chalk-based filler, texturing it to match the chest and neck damage. She found herself murmuring to Isabella as she worked, almost believing Isabella was listening.

  In the silent room, with Beethoven playing softly, the figurehead seemed tangibly real. Flesh and blood, like a second person in the room. A patient lying flat, while the doctor bent working over her, stitching her deftly together, healing her wounds, mending the ravages of the past.

  When Gabby left the museum at the end of the day the heat haze which had never lifted had swallowed the sea, locking the village into the landscape, muffling and distorting the disembodied voices coming eerily above the throb of the engines of the returning fishing fleet. The evening seemed diluted, like a child’s watery painting, the colours running into each other, blurring all edges.

  Gabby drove slowly, unwilling to return home. She stopped to do some food shopping and as she climbed back into the car, the phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Gabriella! Tell me if it’s a bad time.’

  ‘No … It’s fine, really.’

  ‘I just wanted to say “Hi”, and to hear your voice.’

  Gabby closed her eyes, said inanely, ‘You got home safely?’

  ‘Sure. I got in last night. How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m driving home after a day with your La
dy Isabella.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Very well, but it’s looking doubtful whether we’ll discover any more original paint. I’m just waiting for the last of the tests I sent to be analysed.’

  ‘Looks as though Valerie Mischell was right, then?’

  ‘’Fraid so. Mark, you know the girl, Lucinda Cage, at the National Portrait Gallery? She rang and asked me if I would try to undo some of the damage to that painting she showed us, before their exhibition in July.’

  ‘Hey, that’s wonderful. Congratulations! I hope you jumped at it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gabby said smiling, ‘I did.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘When I’ve completed restoring the first phase of Isabella. In about two weeks.’

  Silence at the end of the phone and then Mark said, ‘I’m still going to be over here. Oh, what bad timing, Gabriella.’

  ‘Yes …’ Gabby said. She had been hoping, perhaps …

  ‘Is there any chance of you getting more work with them?’

  ‘Well, maybe, if I’m lucky. And if they’re happy with my work.’

  ‘If I could get back earlier I would, but …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I have to go … I miss you,’ he said softly.

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘We’ll speak soon. Take care, Gabriella.’

  ‘Mark, thank you for ringing me.’

  ‘The pleasure’s mine!’ She could see him vividly, head slightly on one side, his eyes laughing.

  The sea fret began to lift to reveal a pearl grey sea like a millpond. Her headache had miraculously flown. She realized that in accepting Lucinda’s offer in London and waiting all day for that one telephone call she had made a definite declaration of intent. A deliberately placed foot forward.

  Chapter 25

  Charlie always enjoyed ordering in new strains of daffodils. Their very names conjured up exotic images. He walked the fields where the daffodils had remained unpicked so they could die back into their roots. After three years all daffodil fields had to be alternated or disease would get into the bulbs. He had spent the morning with Alan, ordering in from the catalogues, and now he wanted to inspect the fields that had lain fallow.