Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘If you cared for me, you would be saying what a devil that woman is! You would be saying how she should not blacken my eye or pinch my arms. You would not be defending her, Will, if you cared for me like you say you do.’

  Her chin wobbles, but the pity in his face makes her fists clench.

  ‘Anne.’ He comes closer, takes hold of her arms. ‘Anne, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I hate her. And I would prefer it if you did not walk with me, Will, I would like to have the time to myself.’

  She leaves him standing scarecrow-like, cursing him and Mrs Oliver, and hoping that the powder around her right eye has not been ruined by her tears. She would not have her mother see the yellowing crescent where Mrs Oliver last took out her frustration.

  It is a swelteringly hot morning. The sun beats down upon him while heat emanates from his horse’s body below. Tom pulls at his riding clothes, trying to create some air between his skin and his cotton shirt. His scalp is wet, and he removes his top hat for a moment to allow what little breeze there is to run through his hair.

  ‘I am still not convinced you should be riding in your condition, darling.’ Tom squints at his wife who sits with ease on her new white pony.

  ‘Nonsense, I am perfectly well. The fresh air will do me good.’

  Behind Tom, Liz hangs on to her own grey mare, forced to sit side saddle for the entire ride due to the company. He smiles at her terrified face, and she glowers back at him.

  Behind her, by twenty yards or so, are Anne, Mr Chipman, and one of the maids. They carry the family’s picnic between themselves like mules.

  ‘Take your time,’ Tom shouts at them. ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘Let’s have a race, darling.’ Mary turns to him. ‘First one to the cliffs.’

  ‘I don’t think that is wise. It’s not good for the baby.’

  But Mary has already kicked her heels into her animal and is now galloping over the green fields and bounding up the hill.

  There is no way Liz will be going anywhere near a trot, let alone a gallop, and Tom is not a confident horseman. He has been practising a few times a week ever since his arrival at Floreat, but still, the large snorting giants do not fill him with confidence.

  Mary streaks ahead, her pale skirts flapping over her pony’s rear. Reluctantly, Tom squeezes his stallion, and it belts away after her, scoring hoof marks into the soil as it goes. He clings on, hoping his fear does not show.

  He nears Mary. The blue frills on her dress are visible once again, as are the strands of hair that have fallen loose from under her hat.

  ‘Slow down, Mary.’

  A cackle of laughter is her only response as they breach the hill. The grass slopes down and away from them, and close, getting closer, is the sapphire blue of the sea, stretching before them, as still as ice.

  ‘Mary,’ he calls. His horse snorts as it thrashes along just inches behind her. ‘Slow down!’

  The cliffs are approaching far too quickly. Tom drags on the reins, and for a second the stallion resists but then drops from a gallop to a trot.

  Mary’s pony is not as well trained. Tom can make out the strain in Mary’s arms as she tugs at the reins, he can hear her frightened orders for the creature to slow down, but it takes no notice.

  This is it! She will go over the cliff and fall to her death.

  It would be quicker this way, he thinks, his eyes widening, his mouth drying with something like excitement.

  Mary screams.

  She and her pony are feet away from the cliff edge when the pony’s hooves suddenly dig into the ground. It braces to the side, turning just in time to avoid the sheer drop. It is a tumble of white – the pony’s body, Mary’s dress, everything jumbled and unclear. Only when the creature rounds and heads back towards Tom can he see that Mary is no longer astride it.

  The pony trots towards the stallion, its fear vanished. Tom dismounts, and for a moment, the pony obstructs his view, letting him imagine that Mary has been thrown down upon the shoreline.

  But no, she is slumped on the grass, meringue-like in her crumpled dress. He runs to her and finds her shaking all over, tears slugging down her cheeks.

  He brings her into his arms. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, darling.’

  They sit together until the rest of the entourage emerge over the hillside.

  ‘Ma’am!’ Anne drops her bags and lets her hat fall from her head as she runs towards Mary, screeching at Clair to follow. Anne’s breath is quick and heavy and her cheeks are scarlet by the time she drops to her knees in front of her mistress. ‘Are you all right, ma’am? Are you hurt?’

  Mary is recovering herself, her head cradled between Tom’s arms.

  ‘She had a fall. She just needs a moment, Anne.’

  ‘Should I call for the doctor?’

  ‘No,’ Mary whispers, pulling her head upright and wiping away the tears. ‘Help me up.’

  The three of them take hold of Mary and bring her to her feet. As she tries to straighten, she flinches, crying at the pain, grabbing her stomach.

  ‘Get the doctor,’ Anne says to Clair, who is just about to run when Mary stops her.

  ‘I am fine.’ Mary stretches up again, wincing, but in more control than before.

  ‘Ma’am, the baby. We must get the doctor.’

  ‘I said no!’ Mary’s voice bellows in the quiet. ‘Will you never listen?’

  Anne’s lips purse, the top of her dress tightens and loosens with each breath.

  ‘I think we should go home.’ Tom nods at Anne, indicating that she may leave them and gather their things. She does as he bids.

  ‘I am well,’ Mary says.

  ‘You are not. We are going home. Take Mrs Oliver to my horse.’ Tom transfers Mary to Clair. Together, the two of them stumble towards the stallion, who placidly chews the grass.

  Liz joins Tom, and they stare over the cliff. The rock is a deep red where it has been gouged by centuries of wind, rain, and sea. The stony beach lies thirty feet beneath them, and white waves break over the boulders below, creating a noise like an agonising moan.

  ‘She is a fool.’ Liz’s words disintegrate in the wind.

  ‘She could have died,’ Tom says, looking down at the waves, but he feels Liz’s gaze slide his way.

  ‘Sir?’ Anne is behind them, shifting on her feet. ‘Mrs Oliver is ready.’

  ‘Thank you, Anne. Thank you for everything.’ As he passes her, he touches her arm, then goes to his wife.

  It is a steady ride home. Liz stays at the back, her mare plodding heavily, like everyone, for the heat is too much to bear. It is a relief, in all honesty; she could think of nothing she would rather do less than picnic under the midday sun, watching Mary eat for two.

  They amble towards the stables. Liz's horse takes to a bucket of hay as Mary is helped from the stallion. The white pony is already in her block, shaking her head and stamping on the straw, rather pleased with the drama she has caused.

  ‘She should be shot.’ Mary lands with a thud. Her eyes are red, her nose running; she wipes it with the back of her hand as Chipman leads the stallion to safety.

  ‘She’s feisty, that’s all.’ Tom makes a show of brushing Mary’s clothes straight, fussing over her, while Liz must get herself to the ground unaided.

  ‘I want her gone, Tom. I mean it. The horrid thing would have killed me!’

  ‘Anne,’ Liz calls. The girl trots over immediately and curtseys. Poor girl, her skin is crimson, the sweat clear on her brow. She cares too much, it would seem.

  ‘Does Chipman know where the guns are? A house as big as this must have some lying around.’

  ‘I don’t know, miss.’

  ‘Well, ask him.’ Liz shoos her away and watches Anne whisper to the man, and both of them flick their eyes worriedly at Liz. ‘Go and fetch one, Chipman. Be quick.’

  She takes the time to summon the pony to her with the lure of a carrot, provided by Will, and strokes its course mane as it chews. It is a wonder the cre
ature held Mary’s weight in the first place, for its head is only level with Liz’s, and its legs look remarkably short this close. It’s big, black eyes meet hers, as clear as mirrors, as Mary drones on and on in the background, her voice grating on them both.

  ‘Miss.’ Chipman waits behind Liz, holding the gun awkwardly before him. The sight of it has made Mary cease whining, and both her and Tom turn to Liz.

  ‘Is it loaded?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  She takes it from him, liking its cold solidity in her prickling hands. She walks with it to Mary and holds it out. ‘Shoot her.’

  Mary gawps at Liz, then at the gun. The metal gleams in the sunlight.

  ‘Liz,’ Tom whispers, edging closer, ‘what are you doing?’

  ‘She wants the animal dead then she must shoot it. Come, Mary, take the gun and kill the beast.’

  Mary’s eyes fill again. Liz steps forward, and Mary jumps back. The air is ice between them, brittle and tight, as Tom and the servants watch silently.

  ‘It is all you have been talking about for the last half hour. What is wrong? Have you not the nerve to do it yourself?’ Liz waits for a second, but her anger is like a flare soaring into the sky, and it is like she is flying. In the quietness, her heels echo as she marches for the pony’s stable, raises the gun, and aims between the animal’s ears.

  The gun trembles. The pony stares, unperturbed, and Liz sees her own smiling reflection in its eyes.

  ‘Stop!’

  There is a commotion behind. Mary has fallen into Tom’s arms, her head lolling against his chest, tears streaking down her cheeks. He whispers into her ear, words that mean nothing, as he glares at Liz.

  Liz returns the gun to Chipman, and the man runs inside with it. She wipes her wet palms on her skirts, squares her shoulders, and lifts her chin defiantly as Tom guides Mary towards the house. Only Anne remains, but she follows Tom with her eyes.

  ‘You may go, Anne.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Liz shakes her head, returns to the pony. The creature greets her calmly, and she strokes its velvet muzzle.

  ‘Miss.’ Anne lingers nearby, her voice unsteady. ‘You wouldn’t really have shot her, would you?’

  The pony blows through her nostrils, her warm breath like feathers over Liz’s wrist, smelling sweet.

  ‘Never.’

  The house has been all astir since Mary’s fall. Doctor Jameson has been and checked her. He said that the baby seems fine and that Mary suffered nothing more than bruising. She is to rest and not strain herself again. Horse riding is strictly forbidden.

  They have not spoken about the incident with the gun. Liz is waiting for some admonishment from Mary, waiting in anticipation, but it never comes. Instead, they continue as if it didn’t happen, and Mary has returned to her loathsome self.

  Now, a week after the fall, Liz and Mary are on the lawn, arranging flowers just picked from the garden. Mary’s vase is white porcelain, its neck moulded into the shape of two holding hands. Her flowers protrude in a proud display of colour.

  ‘I think I should look in The Times. I do not want another girl from the village.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘A wet nurse.’ Mary rolls her eyes. ‘Have you not been listening to me?’

  ‘Sorry. I have been thinking about my flowers.’ Liz picks up a delicate yellow rose, its tips blushing to a gentle amber. She puts it under her nose and inhales the sweet scent, imagining she might take a bite of it, it smells so beautiful. She places it into her vase, then stares again at the heap of flowers waiting to be chosen.

  ‘Violet suits yellow.’

  ‘But you already have those colours.’

  ‘You can also. Here,’ Mary leans across the flower-strewn table and plucks some violet petals. ‘Freesias should sit nicely and be different from my roses.’

  Liz takes the freesias, hoping that she looks like she knows what she is doing, but Mary is too busy with her own arrangement to notice Liz’s hesitation.

  ‘I was saying I should like a good, reliable wet nurse, with references, of course. I cannot take a chance when it comes to my son.’

  ‘Shall you not nurse him yourself?’

  Mary skewers a thick lily stem into the vase and snorts. ‘No.’

  ‘If it were mine, I should like to nurse it myself.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’ Mary stands back to assess her work and grins.

  Liz imagines shoving Mary’s vase to the floor, watching the ceramic hands smash into tiny pieces, the flowers splitting in the crossfire.

  ‘Bravo, darling.’ Tom saunters around the side of the house in grey striped trousers and a navy lounging jacket. ‘That is a beautiful arrangement.’ He kisses Mary on the cheek. ‘Yours is … coming along nicely,’ he says to Liz. ‘I’ve told Chipman that we shall take tea in the garden now.’

  On cue, Mr Chipman and Will emerge, carrying a table between them. When it is all set neatly, Mary places her vase in the middle, and they take their seats. Liz leaves her arrangement where it is, noticing, now that she has stepped away, how small and meagre it looks compared to Mary’s.

  ‘I have been thinking ...’ Mary slips a cucumber finger sandwich in her mouth and chews in the awaiting silence. ‘I should like to hold a garden party soon.’

  Tom has dispensed with the sandwiches already and helps himself to a large slice of Victoria sponge. ‘Are you sure you are up to it?’

  ‘I am with child, Tom. I am not an invalid.’

  ‘But who would we invite?’

  ‘Well, Aunt Emily.’

  The thought of that woman returning makes Liz groan, but Mary is too distracted with her plans to notice.

  ‘We need more than the four of us for a party, my dear.’

  ‘There’s the Reverend and his wife. Maybe the Lynches from Sidmouth?’

  ‘Shall they not be in London for the season?’

  ‘Why must everyone flock to that ghastly place?’

  Liz bites into a jam tart. Tom gestures that she has some crumb on her cheek.

  ‘Might we not invite the villagers?’

  Mary turns to her husband as if he has suggested they might all walk into the sea and drown themselves. ‘That is not the sort of company one invites to a garden party, Tom.’

  ‘Why don’t we hold it as a kind of fete? Have games, competitions?’ Tom continues. ‘Folk love that kind of thing. I should imagine it might boost spirits before the harvest begins.’

  ‘I do not want the villagers here, milling about all over the place. Who knows what they might do.’

  ‘It is a garden party.’ Tom laughs with a hint of exasperation. He removes his hat and scratches the back of his head. ‘No one need go inside.’

  ‘I think it sounds lovely,’ Liz says as she takes her second strawberry tart from the platter, wishing the tedious conversation would end so she could eat in peace.

  ‘And if not them, there is no one else to invite. Go on, darling, it will be fun. I could captain a game of cricket. You and the women could enjoy croquet on the lawn.’ Tom finishes his cake, places his fork down, and smiles at his frowning wife. ‘I’m sure they would appreciate it. And they would think highly of us because of it.’

  ‘They must think highly of us anyway.’

  ‘Yes, but ... people like to know they are appreciated, dear. They are good tenants.’

  Tom takes an eclair and cuts it with his knife. Liz sips her tea. They watch each other watching Mary.

  ‘I suppose it would not hurt,’ Mary says with a sigh. ‘And I think it shall be a good harvest this year from what I have seen of the fields. Very well, I shall arrange it.’

  ‘Marvellous idea, darling. Well done.’

  The day has been full of excitement, yet Liz has done nothing but sit in front of her mirror or take dresses from her wardrobe to examine which would be most appropriate for the party. Anne has been buzzing in and out, commenting on the excellent spread of food that Mrs Beacham is preparing and tal
king of how the lawn has been cut so neatly that it looks like a swathe of green velvet.

  ‘Can I bring you anything to eat, miss?’ Anne says as the clock chimes one. ‘You’ve not eaten all day; you must be starving.’

  ‘I am saving myself for the picnic food.’ She smiles at Anne, who is flushed from the business of the day and rolls back and forth on the balls of her feet, eager to attend some task or other. ‘I am fine, Anne, honestly. Come back at two to help me dress, won’t you?’

  Anne curtseys then runs from the room. Liz sits by the window, hearing the seconds tick slowly onwards, watching the sky. It has been blue and brilliant all morning, but now it is greying in the distance. Clouds the colour of bruises sit on the horizon.

  An hour later, Anne enters in the cotton summer dress her mother gave her on her last visit home. It is a pretty dress, but not flattering against Anne’s complexion, and the years of use and wash have left the whites turning to yellow and the floral patterns fading to nothing.

  ‘What have you decided on, miss?’

  All of Liz’s dresses are piled on her bed, as big and lifeless as dead bodies. On the top of the pile is a dress of pale green taffeta with delicate lace stitching along the bodice, sleeves, and skirt, and a large ornamental bow on the back.

  ‘That one.’

  Liz has already spritzed her clean skin with rose and lavender water, prepared only yesterday by Anne. Now, with her long hair protecting her back, she stands in her undergarments, waiting for Anne to tighten the corset. She had been enjoying the freedom, and now with each tug, she feels the familiar jab of pain in her stomach.

  ‘Would you like some air, miss?’ Anne turns to open the window but stops when she sees it is already as wide as it will go.

  ‘There is no air today.’

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’

  Glancing at her reflection, Liz sees the paleness of her cheeks. ‘It is just the weather.’

  ‘Too hot for me as well, miss. I’m fair on sweating under here.’

  Liz smiles at the girl’s boldness. ‘I think we are due a storm later.’

  ‘I hope it don’t spoil the party.’

  With worry in her face, Anne begins fastening Liz’s gown, her eyes flicking to the window as if she would halt the storm coming as long as she saw it in time.