‘I didn’t see her, Aunt Sissie. She was reading to you, she said, when we got here.’
‘Oh, that’s what she said, is it,’ said Miss Brandon. ‘Well, as a matter of fact she is perfectly correct. She was reading some of Fred’s letters from India to me. I would like you to read me some, Lavinia. Take a chair nearer the window and pull up the blind a little. Here they are.’
She handed her niece a large sachet, worked in cross-stitch with a regimental crest, containing a bundle of yellowing letters. Mrs Brandon went towards the window and could not resist saying as she went, ‘Is it the cousin you sometimes talk about?’
‘His son. I didn’t like the father and the mother is a fool, but luckily she lives in Italy a good deal. I like young Hilary.’
She said this with such meaning that Mrs Brandon was almost goaded into saying that she wished her aunt would leave everything to Mr Grant at once, and then they needn’t ever come to Brandon Abbey again. But when she looked at her aunt’s helpless bulk, and thought of her legs, and the years of pain and loneliness she had had and might have to come, she felt so sorry that she said nothing, pulled up the blind a little, sat down and opened the sachet. A marker of perforated cardboard sewn with blue silk onto a faded blue ribbon and stitched with the initials F. B., showed the place where Miss Morris had left off.
‘Shall I read straight on?’ she asked.
Receiving no reply, she began to read. But Captain Brandon’s writing had never been his strong point, the ink was pale with age, the letters were heavily crossed. And as they consisted almost entirely of references to fellows in the regiment, or the places where they had been quartered or in camp, she found herself floundering hopelessly.
‘You’d better stop, Lavinia,’ said her aunt’s voice after a time, though not unkindly. ‘Miss Morris can do it far better than you can. I think of Fred as if it were only yesterday. He was twelve years older than I was. Sissie was his pet name for me; he didn’t like Amelia. When he was a lieutenant he used to let me ride on his knee and pull his moustaches. He was a very fine figure of a man. My father made an eldest son of him, and sent him into the Army and gave him every advantage. And all the end of it was that Fred was killed. And now I am all that is left. Hilary reminded me of Fred. I should like to think of someone like Fred living here when I am gone.’
Mrs Brandon understood that her aunt was talking to herself and without malice. Neither did she feel any resentment herself at the old lady’s outspoken preference for her new nephew. For many years she had felt that the prospect of an inheritance might be bad for Francis. Luckily he had hitherto treated the whole subject as a joke and worked just as hard as if he had no expectations from his aunt and no allowance from his mother. But if by any chance Miss Brandon did bequeath him the Abbey and even a part of her fortune, Mrs Brandon saw no end to the trouble that such a white elephant would bring. What the amount of Miss Brandon’s estate might be she had no idea, but she thought the death duties would effectually keep the inheritor from improving or even keeping up the place. Never in fact had the mother of a possible legatee been less grateful. It was almost without knowing that she was speaking that she said, ‘I hope that he will then, Aunt Sissie.’
‘What?’ said Miss Brandon sharply.
Mrs Brandon found what she had just said too difficult to repeat and was silent.
‘Read me some of The Times,’ said Miss Brandon. ‘The cricket news. My father was very fond of cricket and I used to know all the names of the county players. It is a poor game now. Go on.’
Mrs Brandon read the descriptions of the chief matches for some time, looking occasionally at the bed to see if her aunt was listening. Gradually she let her voice tail away into a murmur, then gently got up and was tip-toeing towards the door to call Sparks, when a sharp voice from the bed said, ‘Lavinia!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mrs Brandon, returning to the bedside, ‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘You’ve never thought in your life,’ said Miss Brandon. ‘Come here.’
Mrs Brandon approached the bed.
‘You are a silly woman, Lavinia,’ said her aunt, ‘but there’s a lot of good in you. I heard what you said quite well. It was no business of yours, but I daresay you are right. I’m going to give you something. It is the diamond Fred brought back from India the last time he came on leave. I always wore it till my hands began to swell, and I wouldn’t have it altered because it was set just as Fred gave it to me. If you don’t get anything else, you’ll get that.’
She took a little case from beside her bed and handed it to her niece, who opened it and saw a diamond ring in an open setting of very thin gold, a store of a thousand lights and twinklings.
‘Put it on,’ said Miss Brandon. ‘That’s right. It looks better on you than it ever looked on me. You have a lady’s hands. Mine are like my father’s, workman’s hands. Go away now and send Sparks to me.’
She shut her eyes so determinedly that Mrs Brandon did not dare to thank her, so she kissed the swollen, bejewelled hand very gently and went out of the room. In the sitting-room she found Miss Morris writing letters and told her that Miss Brandon wanted Sparks. Miss Morris rang the bell.
‘I hope very much to see you before you go,’ she said. ‘Miss Brandon has her tea about half-past four and I have ordered tea for you at five if that suits you and then I can come down. Five to seven is my off time. I hope you found Miss Brandon pretty well. She has been looking forward to your visit very much indeed.’
‘I never knew anyone who could show their pleasure at seeing one less than Aunt Sissie,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘but she was very kind and gave me this ring.’
She held out her left hand on which the diamond was sparkling. Mrs Brandon had exquisite hands and though she was by no means puffed up she might sometimes be found gazing at them with a frank and pensive admiration that amused her best friends. She wore no rings except her wedding ring, having secretly sold her ugly diamond half-hoop engagement ring many years ago. Captain Brandon’s Indian diamond now shone in its place.
‘It looks perfect on your hand,’ said Miss Morris in a matter-of-fact voice that yet somehow conveyed to Mrs Brandon that her hands were admired and the gift approved. ‘I think your son and daughter are in the garden with Mr Grant. Or would you rather rest?’
Again Miss Morris’s pleasant voice conveyed an unmistakable meaning, and Mrs Brandon went downstairs feeling rather like a child that has been told it may get down from table. In the hall she picked up her parasol and gloves and went out into the shimmering afternoon. To young Mr Grant, sitting on the edge of the lily-pond, while Francis and Delia tried to tickle for goldfish, it seemed that never had a goddess been more apparent in her approach. Being in private a poet he tried to think of a suitable description, rejected the words swimming, floating, gliding, light-footed, winged, and several others, and finally as she came near delivered his soul in the words, ‘Oh, Mrs Brandon,’ standing up and straightening his tie as he did so.
‘Hullo, Mamma,’ said Francis. ‘Don’t come any nearer or you will frighten my goldfish. Hilary, take Mamma away or she will want to look, and if there’s one thing goldfish can’t bear it’s people looking. There are millions of seats about.’
He waved his hand comprehensively at a stretch of green turf and dark walls of yew and bent himself again to his tickling. Mrs Brandon smiled indulgently and turning to Mr Grant said, ‘I think we must be cousins by marriage.’
This statement, which when previously made by Delia had caused Mr Grant no emotion at all, suddenly assumed a totally different aspect. To be Mrs Brandon’s cousin was like suddenly becoming a member of the Royal Family, or being asked to tea by the Captain of the Eleven; or like going to Heaven. In a state of unspeakable nervous exaltation he began to explain the relationship, but one half of his mind, and that, if the expression may be permitted, by far the larger half, was trying to visualise the Tables of Affinity in the beginning of the Prayer Book and to remember whether a
man might marry his father’s aunt’s nephew’s on another side’s wife, or rather widow. So he stammered and repeated himself and wished he had shaved more carefully that morning. When he had stammered himself into silence, Mrs Brandon said she thought there was a seat under the tulip tree, so they walked there; and there were two deck chairs, just as if it had been meant.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Brandon, settling herself comfortably, ‘tell me about yourself.’
This kind suggestion naturally threw Mr Grant into a state of even more acute palsy and paralysis, but to please the goddess he explained, in a not very intelligible way, that his father had died some time ago and his mother was rather Italian.
‘Have you Italian blood then?’ asked Mrs Brandon, interested.
Not like that, Mr Grant explained, but he meant his mother lived mostly in Italy and had got rather Italian, at least, he added in a burst of confidence, the kind of Italian that English people do get.
‘I know,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘She talks about Marcheses and would like you to kiss people’s hands.’
So confounded was Mr Grant by this proof of semi-miraculous understanding, and at the same time so overcome by the idea that he might perhaps be allowed to kiss Mrs Brandon’s hand, that he forgot all the hard words he had been about to utter concerning his mother, and wished she had forced him from earliest youth to kiss the hand of every delightful woman he met. Mrs Brandon said she thought the custom of kissing hands was so charming, which inspired Mr Grant’s heart with fresh ardour, but that she thought Englishmen could never do it well, at which his heart sank and he thought more unkindly than ever of his mother.
Mrs Brandon pulled off her gloves and looked thoughtfully at her hands.
‘Aunt Sissie gave me this ring today,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
She held out her hand. Mr Grant put his own hand very respectfully beneath it and raised it a little. He looked intently at the diamond and the elegant fingers and imagined himself gently pressing his lips upon them. He then, entirely against his own will, found himself withdrawing his own hand and saying the ring was lovely. This would have been a good moment to add that the hand it adorned was lovelier still, but his voice refused its office and flames consumed his marrow. By the time he came to, Mrs Brandon was telling him about the wall paintings in the church.
‘I liked them awfully,’ said Mr Grant, ‘and all the monuments and things.’
‘I suppose you saw my husband’s memorial stone,’ said Mrs Brandon, assuming quite unconsciously a most intriguing air of melancholy.
‘No, I’m awfully sorry I didn’t,’ said Mr Grant. ‘Is it a good one – I mean sculpture or anything?’
‘Oh, no; quite simple,’ said Mrs Brandon, in a voice that made Mr Grant feel how moving simplicity was, compared with sculpture. ‘Just the dates of his birth and death. He died at Cannes, you know, so he couldn’t be buried here.’
Mr Grant said again he was awfully sorry.
‘That is very sweet of you,’ said Mrs Brandon, turning grave blue eyes upon him. ‘I don’t think much about it. I wasn’t very happy. There are things one is glad to forget.’
If Mr Grant’s guardian angel had been there he would have been perfectly within his rights to take Mrs Brandon by the shoulders and shake her. Mr Grant, deeply moved by this touching confidence, saw his exquisite new friend in the power of a sadist, a drunkard, a dope fiend, nay Worse, though why it should be worse he didn’t quite know, and in his agitation got up and began to walk about.
‘Yes, I suppose it is nearly tea-time,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Let’s find the children. And you won’t mind if I call you Hilary, will you? If we are cousins it seems ridiculous to say Mr Grant.’
‘I’d love it,’ said Mr Grant.
‘And you must call me Lavinia,’ said Mrs Brandon, putting her parasol up again as they walked back across the lawn to the pond.
‘There is one name I would like to call you,’ said Mr Grant, in a low, croaking voice.
Mrs Brandon stopped and looked interested.
‘I would like to call you my friend,’ said Mr Grant.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Brandon, laughing gently, ‘that goes without saying. But if you feel I am too old for Christian names, never mind.’
Mr Grant felt that this misunderstanding was so awful that it would be no good trying to explain it. They collected Francis and Delia, who had by now tired of the goldfish, and all four went back to the house for tea. Here Miss Morris was waiting for them at the head of the dining-room table, which was loaded with scones, sandwiches, cakes of all sorts and sizes, sweets and fruit. Mr Grant had not yet arrived at the stage when love makes one resent the sight of food, and all three young people made a very hearty meal. When Miss Morris had finished pouring out the tea she asked Mrs Brandon if it would be inconvenient for her to take Mr Grant back in her car.
‘I had ordered Miss Brandon’s car to take Mr Grant back,’ she said, ‘but as he is almost next door to you I thought you, wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘And now I come to think of it, you are having supper with us tonight, aren’t you, Hilary, so it all fits in.’
Mr Grant on hearing those lips speak his name lost his senses and said, Oh, of course, he had quite forgotten, and again felt that it was no good trying to explain. Ever since the invitation had been issued on the previous Saturday he had been living for that evening, but in the unexpected joy of seeing Mrs Brandon again at the Abbey, and the whirlpool of emotion into which he had been thrown by finding her even more exquisite than he thought, only the present had existed for him, and so drowned was he in the moment that he had truly and completely forgotten about the evening.
‘Well, it’s no good forgetting now,’ said Francis, ‘if you’re coming back with us. No need to bother about changing tonight. When Rose is out we relax a little. And anyway there’s not much sense in telling old Miller to change because you can hardly tell the difference. He ought to be allowed to dress like a monk or something for dinner; he’d get an awful kick out of it.’
While the younger members were loudly discussing suitable evening dress for Mr Miller, Mrs Brandon turned to Miss Morris and pressed cake upon her. Miss Morris refused it.
‘You are too tired to eat,’ said Mrs Brandon accusingly. ‘You have had nothing for tea, and I’m sure you didn’t have enough lunch. Was it a poached egg?’
‘Oh no. Just what you had. Cold salmon, grilled cutlets. I order the meals for Miss Brandon and I make a point of tasting everything. One must keep the servants up to the mark.’
‘Yes, tasting,’ said Mrs Brandon severely. ‘Three grains of rice and a mouthful of cutlet.’
Miss Morris said nothing. Her mouth tightened, but her eyes looked at Mrs Brandon for a moment as if appealing for help.
‘I know exactly what you feel like,’ said Mrs Brandon untruthfully, ‘but it’s no good going on like that. You need a holiday.’
‘I have only been with Miss Brandon since Whitsun, Mrs Brandon.’
‘And have you once been outside the grounds? or had a day to yourself? or gone to bed before one o’clock?’
‘I really could get out if I wanted to,’ said Miss Morris, ‘but there’s nowhere particular to go, and the motor bus doesn’t come any nearer than Pomfret Abbas. And I don’t mind going to bed late at all. I used to read to my father a great deal at night.’
‘Now what I want you to do,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘is to come for a picnic with us on Friday. Francis has a little car and he can come and fetch you and take you back. We are going to the Wishing Well over beyond Southbridge and you will like it very much.’
‘How good of you,’ said Miss Morris. ‘But I can’t.’
Her mouth set into a hard line again, but Mrs Brandon saw it tremble, and took a secret resolution.
‘Miss Brandon sent her love,’ said Miss Morris, deliberately changing the subject and speaking for the whole table to hear, ‘and she is very sorry that she doesn�
��t feel up to seeing Mr Brandon, or Miss Brandon —’
‘Bountiful Jehovah!’ said Francis, piously grateful.
‘— or Mr Grant, but she would like you to come up before you go, Mrs Brandon.’
Mrs Brandon said she would come at once then, as they must be getting home, and went upstairs with Miss Morris, saying no more about the picnic.
Miss Brandon was propped up on her pillows, finishing what looked like the remains of a tea that would have fed several people.
‘Well,’ said she to her niece, ‘so you are going. I can’t see those young people. They tire me. I suppose they have been getting into mischief as usual.’
‘No, Aunt Sissie. Just sitting in the garden.’
‘Idling as usual,’ said Miss Brandon. ‘My father never idled, nor did I.’
Mrs Brandon, suppressing an impulse to say And look at you both now, thanked her aunt for a pleasant visit, at which her aged relative grunted.
The Brandons: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 5