‘She’s no prig; she’s a decent, kindly young soul.’
‘Well, I can say this, she’s got one follower in you, Irish. All right! All right! Shane. But, enough of this; we’re goin’ to have our hands full the night with those animals, ’cos just listen, that thunder’s comin’ closer. The big fella an’ young Prince will kick hell out of their stalls if there’s any more of it.’ …
How long she had remained standing by the wall she didn’t know, but she found herself walking back through the garden towards the wood, and in the darkness she groped towards a tree and, putting her arms around it and leaning her forehead against the bark, she moaned aloud as the tears thrust up from her being and flooded her face. She was overwhelmed as if the waters of a dam had burst over her head and she were drowning, dying, while still conscious of the agony of the process.
At some time she must have slipped down the tree to the ground. Her back was against the trunk, her legs tucked under her, her arms about her waist. She was no longer crying, nor was there present in her that dreadful feeling of humiliation, but what was in her was a white flame of anger. It was a new emotion, and was burning her up inside. It wasn’t debilitating. On the contrary, it had a strength all its own, a separate mind of its own, and it was telling her what to do. Step by step it presented her with a plan, and on the blackness of the night about her she saw it unfolding, right up to the time when he would present her with an explanation.
When a flash of lightning lit up the woodland around her, she did not jump to her feet, telling herself that it was most dangerous to be under trees in a storm, and when the burst of thunder startled her, that’s all it did. She did not run for shelter from the storm that it heralded; the storm inside her was far more frightening, for it was demanding retribution: she wanted to rend something, someone; she wanted to throw things, break things, claw, fight. She was no longer her father’s daughter. ‘Let him without sin cast the first stone.’ Well, she was without sin in that way and there was righteousness in the stone that she was about to cast.
As she got to her feet, she thought of her father. He was the only one who had been right: he had known the nature of the man who had sought her hand; he had seen through the hypocrisy of his changed character, as had, no doubt, the staff of that house, which was why they had never accepted her as mistress, laughing at her behind her back. The Parson’s Prig. Well, she would show them what a Parson’s Prig could do. And for the first time in her life she blasphemed: by God, yes, she would this night!
There came another flash of lightning, then a deep roll of thunder. Still she didn’t move from under the tree, but asked herself how long it was since she had heard the voices of those two men. An hour? Oh yes, it must be.
Slowly now she groped her way among the trees. Once she stopped when she heard a rustling in the undergrowth some distance away, and she asked herself what would happen were she to come face to face with someone, a poacher. And such was her strength at this moment that she told herself he would certainly get a bigger shock than she would. It was as she neared the wall again that she heard the chimes of the stable clock. They told her it was eleven o’clock. Away from the wood the night seemed light, yet the sky was low and black.
As if already following her plan, she passed the archway and walked to where the wall ended and a high hedge began. The path beside it led to the middens, but there was a gap some distance along it, wide enough to take the flat cart that carried the drums and buckets of household refuse of all kinds to the tip.
She passed through the gap and into the yard. At the far end of the buildings was a doorway that led to what was called the maids’ passage, and when it opened to her touch, it appeared to be all the confirming proof that she needed, for it was the first footman’s duty to go round the house and see that all doors were bolted. Apparently this had been the practice since, a few years previously, robbers had simply walked into the house and helped themselves to a quantity of silver.
She had no fear of meeting any of the staff: those who weren’t in bed would, no doubt, be ensconced discreetly in the housekeeper’s room. She had no difficulty in mounting the stairs going up from the passage for they were lit by the glow of a night candle on the landing above. From here another flight of stairs led to the attics, whilst a door opened onto the gallery. This too she found was softly lit here and there by candles, which was not the rule.
How dare they? How dare they? All prepared to light my lady in and out. She’d ‘my lady’ her. And him. By God, she would! A small voice from some depth in her that had the echo of her mother said, ‘Oh, Nancy Ann. Nancy Ann.’ And she made an actual physical movement with her hand as if flinging it aside. She was past niceties of thought or action; she felt she had really come of age.
There were three ways into the bedroom: through the main door, through his dressing room, and through hers. He had likely turned the key in the main door. But why should he? For that was hardly ever used except by herself and him, the staff customarily using one of the dressing-room approaches.
She had crossed the gallery and was in the corridor now; the thick piled carpet hushed her footsteps. She stopped at his dressing-room door, and as she did so a streak of lightning flashed past the long window at the end, lighting the space as if in daylight. This was followed immediately by a crash of thunder that brought her shoulders up to her ears. But before its vibrations had trailed away, she had turned the handle of the dressing-room door, was inside and had closed the door. Strange, there was no light here, but from under the door leading to the bedroom there was a beam showing.
As her hand gently sought the handle of the door she heard her husband’s voice saying, ‘Rene. Rene,’ then the woman’s tone, soft and laughter filled, saying, ‘Denny. Denny. What I’ve braved for you.’
She did not thrust open the door but turned the handle gently; then she stepped into the room that was lit by the two pink glass-shaded lamps, and there, lying on the high bed on top of the covers, stark naked, lay her husband and the woman. For a moment the sight seemed to blind her. All she could see was the pink flesh which appeared to encompass the bed, and the long fair hair spread over the pillows.
There was a moment of utter silence: then Dennison was sitting bolt upright, crying, ‘Nancy Ann! My God! No! No! Listen, Nancy Ann!’
Slowly she walked towards the foot of the bed, and there, over the chaise longue, she saw the clothes: dress, corset, petticoat, fancy bloomers, stockings, all in a jumble, and by the side of them his dressing gown, with his small clothes on top. Her mind registered this, for he always changed into his night things in his dressing room.
As if it was part of the plan she glanced towards the doors leading on to the balcony. They were wide open. Almost as quick as the lightning that further lit the room her arms spread out and within seconds they were full of the clothes; then dashing now through the open doors, she flung them over the balcony, but did not stay to see some of them fall to the ground and others come to rest on the cherry tree whose branches extended to within a few feet of the house wall.
Dennison was on his feet now, yelling, but his words were unintelligible to her. She saw him run into the dressing room; then she looked at the woman on the bed. There had been a triumphant smile on her face when she had first looked at her lying there by the side of her husband; now that was gone and she was tugging at the quilt in order to cover herself. But the quilt was tucked into the bottom of the bed and, being unable to loosen it, she swung her fat legs over the side of the high bed. As she did so her upper body came forward, bringing her hair over her shoulders. When Nancy Ann grabbed it, the woman let out a high squeal; and then they were grappling like any fishwives. But Mrs Rene Myers had never sparred with brothers, nor had she fought with the McLoughlins, and when one of her soft breasts was suddenly punched she squealed again, but had no time for anything more before she was swung round and a shoe contacted her buttocks and sent her sprawling onto the balcony where her soft body coming in cont
act with the iron railings wrenched from her a high-pitched scream. The next instant Nancy Ann had banged the doors closed and turned the key. And she was running to the window at the other end of the room when Dennison rushed out of the dressing room, a towel round his middle, seemingly having been unable to find any of his clothes; even if there had been a light in the dressing room, he wouldn’t have even known in which drawer his handkerchiefs were kept, so well had he been taken care of all his life.
As her hand raised and flung the key into the night, he yelled at her, ‘Have you gone mad, woman? Have you gone mad?’
She made no answer whatsoever. She was aware that he had tucked the towel into itself in order to form a hold and when his hands now came out as if to grip her shoulders the fury in her reached its peak and almost simultaneously, just as she had seen the McLoughlins do when fighting, and not infrequently men coming out of the inn on a Saturday in the summer, she doubled her fist and levelled it at his face, at the same time lifting her knee into his stomach.
Neither of these blows had the force behind them they would have had had they been delivered by a man, but nevertheless they staggered him and brought him bent double and wrenched a groan from his lips which was drowned by the screams coming from the balcony, added to now by the commotion in the corridor.
It needed only the gesture of her wiping her hands to say that the episode was over, for now she turned from the mêlée in the room, and, as she opened the door into the corridor and looked into the horrified faces of the butler, the housekeeper and the valet, she spoke for the first time. Her voice sounded dead calm even to herself. ‘The storm’s breaking,’ she said. Then as she went to move away, she turned to the valet and added, ‘The keys to the bedroom and the dressing-room doors don’t fit that of the balcony doors; I’m afraid you’ll have to break it down.’
They said nothing. They could not have been more astounded if, before their eyes, she had turned into the devil himself.
She was slightly surprised to see Mary on the nursery-floor landing, fully dressed, and to be greeted with, ‘Oh, ma’am. Ma’am.’ And then, as if giving an explanation why she wasn’t in bed, saying, ‘They were uneasy. It’s the storm. They were so hot. I didn’t wake Agnes, she sleeps through anything.’
Nancy Ann went into the day nursery and here the rain was now hitting the roof so hard that she had to almost shout to make herself heard. ‘There are some boxes and hampers in the store cupboard,’ she said. ‘Will you bring them, Mary?’
‘Sit down, ma’am. Yes, yes, I’ll bring them, but sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mary. But bring the boxes first, please.’
Mary made three journeys to the store cupboard, and when the floor was littered with soft travelling bags and boxes, Nancy Ann said, ‘We’ll pack all the children’s body clothes first, and then the bedding.’
‘But ma’am.’ Mary stood hovering over her, her face crumpled with enquiry, and Nancy Ann, looking up at her, said, ‘I’m taking the children to my father’s…the Dower House. Did you hear the commotion downstairs?’
‘I…I felt something was afoot, ma’am.’ Then she pointed to the window. ‘I could see from the storeroom window the lights in the yard, and I made out in the rain a carriage there. Are you going by carriage, ma’am?’
‘No, Mary, that carriage won’t be for me or the children. We…we shall wait till dawn, when I’ll get you to go down to the yard and seek out McLoughlin. What time exactly do the men rise?’
‘Oh’—Mary hesitated for a moment—‘some of them are in the yard at half past five, ma’am.’
‘Well, I’m sure McLoughlin will be one of them. Try to take him to the side, then tell him I would like his assistance, and bring him up the back way. Will you do that?’
‘Anything. Anything, ma’am. But, oh, ’tis sorry I am to the heart that…that you are troubled like this.’
Nancy Ann lay back in the chair and let a long drawn breath out before she said, ‘’Tis sorry I am too, Mary, to the heart, that I find myself like this. There’s an old saying, We live and learn, but I have been very slow to learn. I did not listen to people wiser than myself. But then, it is all experience, and if we learn anything, we never make the same mistake twice.’
No, well, it would be an impossibility, wouldn’t it, to make her mistake twice, to again marry a man like Dennison? It would be the act of a fool. Yet, hadn’t she already been a fool? No, no, she hadn’t. She denied her accusation. She had been, or had tried to be, a trusting wife. She had tried, oh yes, she had tried, not to imagine how he spent part of his time when in London, or even in Newcastle. Well, she need wonder no more.
It was strange, but all the anger had gone from her. There was a coldness in her, an empty coldness, as if her whole being was a room without furniture or decoration of any kind. She could look back at the events of the last hour and picture each movement she had made from the time she saw the naked bodies on the bed, and it was like looking at an album. Turning the pages, she felt her fist digging into the soft flesh of the woman’s breast, then the feel of her hair as she entwined her fingers in it, and the strength that came into her arm and foot as she swung her onto the balcony. Then over a page, she saw the clenched fist going into Dennison’s face and her knee into his stomach. Years ago, the boys would have inwardly applauded her antics while outwardly expressing disapproval. Yet, in the rough play she’d had with them, or while defending herself against the McLoughlins, only once before had she used her knee. From whom had she inherited such traits? Her grandmama? Yes, she could see her grandmama acting in the same way, given the same provocation.
‘Thank you.’ She took the cup of tea from Mary, then said, ‘Once we get the bags packed you must go to bed. I will sit here.’
‘Oh no, ma’am, no. If you sit up, I sit up. I’ll take that chair an’ you put your feet up on the couch there.’ She pointed to the old horsehair couch that was set under the window.
Nancy Arm made no protest at this because of a sudden it seemed that all her strength was draining out of her. She did not feel the need to cry, but a great need to sleep, to shut out life and dream that she was back in the vicarage where the pennies had to be counted and the food was always plain, but where the days were filled with happiness, and she had never come across the man called Dennison Harpcore.
Shane McLoughlin stood in the nursery looking at the cases and bundles on the floor. He then raised his eyes to where the young mistress stood, and, as he was to say to his mother when he visited her on his next leave day, he had never seen a change in anybody come about so quickly, for although her face was as white as death she seemed to have grown in stature, so straight did she hold herself. And her manner, too, was no longer that of the smiling young woman but was firm and in command of herself and her intentions.
After she had finished speaking, he touched his forelock and said, ‘Yes, ma’am, don’t worry about this lot. You go ahead and I will see they get to the gate—I’ll take the flat cart—and from there I’ll carry them to the house. Don’t worry yourself, ma’am. And ma’am’—he looked into her face—‘I take this liberty of speaking as someone who has known of you for many years, and to who you’ve shown kindness since I came into this service. And I’ll say this, ma’am, I’m your servant any day in the week.’
‘Thank you. Thank you, Shane.’
At the mention of his Christian name, his eyelids blinked rapidly, and he jerked his chin and moved aside to let her pass.
She now went into the night nursery and, taking the baby from Agnes’s arms, she went out, followed by Mary who was now carrying Rebecca.
Their advent into the yard and their crossing of it did not go unnoticed, but none of the male staff approached them, simply stared wide-eyed at the mistress of the house followed by her nursery maids, one carrying a child, the other two cases.
The morning was bright, the air was fresh, the garden was giving off varied scents, but Nancy Ann neither saw th
e beauty nor smelt its fragrance; her future ahead appeared like a battlefield, for she knew she would have to fight for the custody of her children, but fight she would.
Her entry into the Dower House at the early hour brought her grandmother from sleep, and Peggy also. Hilda was already awake and busying herself in the sickroom.
In the sitting room, Jessica immediately dropped onto a chair and stared at her granddaughter as she gave her an outline of what had transpired, and for once she could find nothing to say. And after Nancy Ann had finished, she continued to gaze at her, and when she did speak, it was in an unbelieving mutter: ‘You threw her out onto the balcony in the storm stark naked? And…and you struck Dennison?’
‘Yes; I did both these things.’
‘You actually used your knee and fist on him?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Huh! Huh! If the whole thing wasn’t so tragic, child, I would laugh my head off and pat you on the back, for in your place I would have reacted in exactly the same way.’
The words of understanding, even of approval of her actions, was almost too much. She flung herself down on the carpet and buried her head in her grandmother’s lap. And Jessica, stroking her hair, bent over her, muttering half to herself now, ‘I never thought that of him, no, no. No matter what his vices, I always gave him credit for gentlemanly instincts. But that…that was coarse, and blatant, and degrading.’ She lifted Nancy Ann’s head and was surprised to see that her cheeks were dry. She asked softly, ‘Have you done any thinking beyond this moment?’
‘Yes, yes, Grandmama, I’ve done a lot of thinking, in fact, I’ve thought all night. I’m divorcing him.’
‘Oh, child, your father would never…Oh, then’—she sighed—‘what does John Howard know or care what happens now? But perhaps he, Dennison, won’t let you.’
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