The face of a stranger

by Anne Perry

  But Rosamond did not deserve a lie, even in her loneliness—nor did she deserve the pain of Hester's view of the truth. It was only her view; for Rosamond it might be different.

  "Oh yes, sometimes I do," she said with a small smile. "But we cannot fight wars like that for long. It is very dreadful as well as vivid and real. It is not fun being cold

  and dirty and so tired you feel as if you've been beaten— nor is it pleasant to eat army rations. It is one of the finest things in life to be truly useful—but there are less distressing places to do it, and I am sure I shall find many here in England."

  "You are very kind," Rosamond said gently, meeting her eyes again. "I admit I had not imagined you would be so thoughtful." She rose to her feet. "Now I suppose we had better change into suitable clothes for calling—have you something modest and dowdy, but very dignified?" She stifled a giggle and turned it into a sneeze. "I'm sorry—what a fearful thing to ask!''

  "Yes—most of my wardrobe is like that," Hester replied with an amusing smile. "All dark greens and very tired-looking blues—like faded ink. Will they do?"

  "Perfectly—come!"

  * * * * *

  Menard drove the three of them in the open trap, bowling along the carriageway through the park towards the edge of the home estate and across heavy cornfields towards the village and the church spire beyond the slow swell of the hill. He obviously enjoyed managing the horse and did it with the skill of one who is long practiced. He did not even try to make conversation, supposing the loveliness of the land, the sky and the trees would be enough for them, as it was for him.

  Hester sat watching him, leaving Rosamond and Fabia to converse. She looked at his powerful hands holding the reins lightly, at the ease of his balance and the obvious reticence in his expression. The daily round of duties in the estate was no imprisonment to him; she had seen a brooding in his face occasionally in the time she had been at Shelburne, sometimes anger, sometimes a stiffness and a jumpiness of the muscles which made her think of officers she had seen the night before battle, but it was when they were all at table, with Fabia's conversation betraying the ache of loneliness underneath as if Joscelin had been the only person she had totally and completely loved.

  The first house they called at was that of a farm laborer on the edge of the village, a tiny cottage, one room downstairs crowded with a sunburned, shabby woman and seven children all sharing a loaf of bread spread with pork drippings. Their thin, dusty legs, barefooted, splayed out beneath simple smocks and they were obviously in from working in the garden or fields. Even the youngest, who looked no more than three or four, had fruit stains on her fingers where she had been harvesting.

  Fabia asked questions and passed out practical advice on financial management and how to treat croup which the woman received in polite silence. Hester blushed for the condescension of it, and then realized it had been a way of life with little substantial variation for over a thousand years, and both parties were comfortable with its familiarity; and she had nothing more certain to put in its place.

  Rosamond spoke with the eldest girl, and took the wide pink ribbon off her own hat and gave it to her, tying it around the child's hair to her shy delight.

  Menard stood patiently by the horse, talking to it in a low voice for a few moments, then falling into a comfortable silence. The sunlight on his face showed the fine lines of anxiety around his eyes and mouth, and the deeper marks of pain. Here in the rich land with its great trees, the wind and the fertile earth he was relaxed, and Hester saw a glimpse of a quite different man from the stolid, resentful second son he appeared at Shelburne Hall. She wondered if Fabia had ever allowed herself to see it. Or was the laughing charm of Joscelin always in its light?

  The second call was similar in essence, although the family was composed of an elderly woman with no teeth and an old man who was either drunk or had suffered some seizure which impaired both his speech and his movement.

  Fabia spoke to him briskly with words of impersonal encouragement, which he ignored, making a face at her when her back was turned, and the old woman bobbed a

  curtsy, accepted two jars of lemon curd, and once again they climbed into the trap and were on their way.

  Menard left them to go out into the fields, high with ripe corn, the reapers already digging the sickles deep, the sun hot on their backs, arms burned, sweat running freely. There was much talk of weather, time, the quarter of the wind, and when the rain would break. The smell of the grain and the broken straw in the heat was one of the sweetest things Hester had ever known. She stood in the brilliant light with her face lifted to the sky, the heat tingling on her skin, and gazed across the dark gold of the land—and thought of those who had been willing to die for it—and prayed that the heirs to so much treasured it deeply enough, to see it with the body and with the heart as well.

  Luncheon was another matter altogether. They were received courteously enough until General Wadham saw Hester, then his florid face stiffened and his manner became exaggeratedly formal.

  "Good morning, Miss Latterly. How good of you to call. Ursula will be delighted that you are able to join us for luncheon."

  "Thank you, sir," she replied equally gravely. "You are very generous."

  Ursula did not look particularly delighted to see them at all, and was unable to hide her chagrin that Menard had seen fit to be out with the harvesters instead of here at the dining room table.

  Luncheon was a light meal: poached river fish with caper sauce, cold game pie and vegetables, then a sorbet and a selection of fruit, followed by an excellent Stilton cheese.

  General Wadham had obviously neither forgotten nor forgiven his rout by Hester on their previous meeting. His chill, rather glassy eye met hers over the cruet sets a number of times before he actually joined battle in a lull between Fabia's comments on the roses and Ursula's speculations as to whether Mr. Danbury would marry Miss Fothergill or Miss Ames.

  "Miss Ames is a fine young woman," the general remarked, looking at Hester. "Most accomplished horsewoman, rides to hounds like a man. Courage. And handsome too, dashed handsome." He looked at Hester's dark green dress sourly. "Grandfather died in the Peninsular War—at Corunna—1810. Don't suppose you were there too, were you, Miss Latterly? Bit before your time, eh?" He smiled, as if he had intended it to be good-natured.

  "1809," Hester corrected him. "It was before Talavera and after Vimiero and the Convention of Cintra. Otherwise you are perfectly correct—I was not there."

  The general's face was scarlet. He swallowed a fish bone and choked into his napkin.

  Fabia, white with fury, passed him a glass of water.

  Hester, knowing better, removed it instantly and replaced it with bread.

  The general took the bread and the bone was satisfactorily coated with it and passed down his throat.

  "Thank you," he said freezingly, and then took the water also.

  "I am happy to be of assistance," Hester replied sweetly. "It is most unpleasant to swallow a bone, and so easily done, even in the best of fish—and this is delicious."

  Fabia muttered something blasphemous and inaudible under her breath and Rosamond launched into a sudden and overenthusiastic recollection of the Vicar's midsummer garden party.

  Afterwards, when Fabia had elected to remain with Ursula and the general, and Rosamond hurried Hester out to the trap to resume their visiting of the poor, she whispered to her rapidly and with a little self-consciousness.

  "That was awful. Sometimes you remind me of Josce-lin. He used to make me laugh like that."

  "I didn't notice you laughing," Hester said honestly,

  climbing up into the trap after her and forgetting to arrange her skirts.

  "Of course not." Rosamond took the reins and slapped the horse forward. "It would never do to be seen. You will come again some time, won't you?"

  "I am not at all sure I shall be asked," Hester said ruefully.

  "Yes you will—Aunt Callandra will ask you. She likes
you very much—and I think sometimes she gets bored with us here. Did you know Colonel Daviot?"

  "No." For the first time Hester regretted that she had not. She had seen his portrait, but that was all; he had been a stocky, upright man with a strong-featured face, full of wit and temper. "No, I didn't."

  Rosamond urged the horse faster and they careered along the track, the wheels bouncing over the ridges.

  "He was very charming," she said, watching ahead. "Sometimes. He had a great laugh when he was happy-he also had a filthy temper and was terribly bossy—even with Aunt Callandra. He was always interfering, telling her how she ought to do everything—when he got the whim for it. Then he would forget about whatever it was, and leave her to clear up the mess."

  She reined in the horse a little, getting it under better control.

  "But he was very generous," she added. "He never betrayed a friend's confidence. And the best horseman I ever saw—far better than either Menard or Lovel—and far better than General Wadham." Her hair was coming undone in the wind, and she ignored it. She giggled happily. "They couldn't bear each other."

  It opened up an understanding of Callandra that Hester had never imagined before—a loneliness, and a freedom which explained why she had never entertained the idea of remarriage. Who could follow such a highly individual man? And perhaps also her independence had become more precious as she became more used to its pleasures. And perhaps also there had been more unhappiness there

  than Hester had imagined in her swift and rather shallow judgments?

  She smiled and made some acknowledgment of having heard Rosamond's remark, then changed the subject. They arrived at the small hamlet where their further visiting was to be conducted, and it was late in the afternoon, hot and vividly blue and gold as they returned through the heavy fields past the reapers, whose backs were still bent, arms bare. Hester was glad of the breeze of their movement and passing beneath the huge shade trees that leaned over the narrow road was a pleasure. There was no sound but the thud of the horse's hooves, the hiss of the wheels and the occasional bird song. The light gleamed pale on the straw stalks where the laborers had already passed, and darker on the ungathered heads. A few faint clouds, frail as spun floss, drifted across the horizon.

  Hester looked at Rosamond's hands on the reins and her quiet, tense face, and wondered if she saw the timeless beauty of it, or only the unceasing sameness, but it was a question she could not ask.

  * * * * *

  Hester Spent the evening with Callandra in her rooms and did not dine with the family, but she took breakfast in the main dining room the following morning and Rosamond greeted her with evident pleasure.

  "Would you like to see my son?" she invited with a faint blush for her assumption, and her vulnerability.

  "Of course I would," Hester answered immediately; it was the only possible thing to say. "I cannot think of anything nicer." Indeed that was probably true. She was not looking forward to her next encounter with Fabia and she certainly did not wish to do any more visiting with General Wadham, any more "good works" among those whom Fabia considered "the deserving poor," nor to walk in the park again where she might meet that peculiarly offensive policeman. His remarks had been impertinent, and really very unjust. "It will make a beautiful beginning to the day," she added.

  The nursery was a bright south-facing room full of sunlight and chintz, with a low nursing chair by the window, a rocking chair next to the large, well-railed and guarded fireplace, and at present, since the child was so young, a day crib. The nursery maid, a young girl with a handsome face and skin like cream, was busy feeding the baby, about a year and a half old, with fingers of bread and butter dipped in a chopped and buttered boiled egg. Hester and Rosamond did not interrupt but stood watching.

  The baby, a quiff of blond hair along the crown of his head like a little bird's comb, was obviously enjoying himself immensely. He accepted every mouthful with perfect obedience and his cheeks grew fatter and fatter. Then with shining eyes he took a deep breath and blew it all out, to the nursery maid's utter consternation. He laughed so hard his face was bright pink and he fell over sideways in his chair, helpless with delight.

  Rosamond was filled with embarrassment, but all Hester could do was laugh with the baby, while the maid dabbed at her once spotless apron with a damp cloth.

  "Master Harry, you shouldn't do that!" the maid said as fiercely as she dared, but there was no real anger in her voice, more simple exasperation at having been caught yet again.

  "Oh you dreadful child." Rosamond went and picked him up, holding him close to her and laying the pale head with its wave of hair close to her cheek. He was still crowing with joy, and looked over his mother's shoulder at Hester with total confidence that she would love him.

  They spent a happy hour in gentle conversation, then left the maid to continue with her duties, and Rosamond showed Hester the main nursery where Lovel, Menard and Joscelin had played as children: the rocking horse, the toy soldiers, the wooden swords, the musical boxes, and the kaleidoscope; and the dolls' houses left by an earlier generation of girls—perhaps Callandra herself?

  Next they looked at the schoolroom with its tables and shelves of books. Hester found her hands picking at first

  idly over old exercises of copperplate writing, a child's early, careful attempts. Then as she progressed to adolescent years and essays she found herself absorbed in reading the maturing hand. It was an essay in light, fluent style, surprisingly sharp for one so young and with a penetrating, often unkind wit. The subject was a family picnic, and she found herself smiling as she read, but there was pain in it, an awareness under the humor of cruelty. She did not need to look at the spine of the book to know it was Joscelin's.

  She found one of Lovel's and turned the pages till she discovered an essay of similar length. Rosamond was searching a small desk for a copy of some verses, and there was time to read it carefully. It was utterly unlike, diffident, romantic, seeing beyond the simple woodland of Shelburne a forest where great deeds could be done, an ideal woman wooed and loved with a clean and untroubled emotion so far from the realities of human need and difficulty Hester found her eyes prickling for the disillusion that must come to such a youth.

  She closed the pages with their faded ink and looked across at Rosamond, the sunlight on her bent head as she fingered through duty books looking for some special poem that caught her own high dream. Did either she or Lovel see beyond the princesses and the knights in armor the fallible, sometimes weak, sometimes frightened, often foolish people beneath—who needed immeasurably more courage, generosity and power to forgive than the creatures of youth's dreams—and were so much more precious?

  She wanted to find the third essay, Menard's—and it took her several minutes to locate a book of his and read it. It was stiff, far less comfortable with words, and all through it there was a passionate love of honor, a loyalty to friendship and a sense of history as an unending cavalcade of the proud and the good, with sudden images borrowed from the tales of King Arthur. It was derivative and stilted, but the sincerity still shone through, and she

  doubted the man had lost the values of the boy who had written so intensely—and awkwardly.

  Rosamond had found her poem at last, and was so absorbed in it that she was unaware of Hester's movement towards her, or that Hester glanced over her shoulder and saw that it was an anonymous love poem, very small and very tender.

  Hester looked away and walked to the door. It was not something upon which to intrude.

  Rosamond closed the book and followed a moment after, recapturing her previous gaiety with an effort which Hester pretended not to notice.

  "Thank you for coming up," she said as they came back into the main landing with its huge jardinieres of flowers. "It was kind of you to be so interested."

  "It is not kindness at all," Hester denied quickly. "I think it is a privilege to see into the past as one does in nurseries and old schoolrooms. I thank you for allowing me to
come. And of course Harry is delightful! Who could fail to be happy in his presence?"

  Rosamond laughed and made a small gesture of denial with her hand, but she was obviously pleased. They made their way downstairs together and into the dining room, where luncheon was already served and Lovel was waiting for them. He stood up as they came in, and took a step towards Rosamond. For a moment he seemed about to._ speak, then the impulse died.

  She waited a moment, her eyes full of hope. Hester hated herself for being there, but to leave now would be absurd; the meal was set and the footman waiting to serve it. She knew Callandra had gone to visit an old acquaintance, because it was on Hester's behalf that she had made the journey, but Fabia was also absent and her place was not set.

  Lovel saw her glance.

  "Mama is not well," he said with a faint chill. "She has remained in her room."

  "I am sorry," Hester said automatically. "I hope it is nothing serious?"

  "I hope not," he agreed, and as soon as they were seated, resumed his own seat and indicated that the footman might begin to serve them.

  Rosamond nudged Hester under the table with her foot, and Hester gathered that the situation was delicate, and wisely did not pursue it.

  The meal was conducted with stilted and trivial conversation, layered with meanings, and Hester thought of the boy's essay, the old poem, and all the levels of dreams and realities where so much fell through between one set of meanings and another, and was lost.

  Afterwards she excused herself and went to do what she realized was her duty. She must call on Fabia and apologize for having been rude to General Wadham. He had deserved it, but she was Fabia's guest, and she should not have embarrassed her, regardless of the provocation.