03 Mary Wakefield

by Mazo de La Roche

  Yet all he had done was to talk to her a little about quite ordinary things, to mount to the driver’s seat behind his horses and to display his back to her. His fascination probably lay in his difference from the men she had hitherto met. They had mostly been journalists, friends of her father’s, hardworked, often pressed for money, often disillusioned. Philip Whiteoak looked as though he had never wanted anything he had not been able to get, as though he had never worried about anything in his life. Yet sorrow had been his. He had buried the mother of his children. Probably had loved her dearly, and had lost her. Yet his blond good looks were untarnished.

  Now the road led them close to the lake. The sand of the shore came close to the road. The horses curved their polished necks and looked sideways at the dancing water. What if it should frighten them and they would run away — bolt! They picked up their iron hoofs, as though in astonishment; quiverings ran through the burnished hairs of their tails. The whistle of a train on a distant crossing made them prick their ears. A white-foamed wave tumbled up the shore. The horses threw themselves into frightening speed. Trees and fields flew by on the right, the vast expanse of the lake rocked itself on the left. Mary put out her hand and grasped the back of the seat in front of her. She could not restrain that gesture of alarm.

  Philip looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Feeling frisky,” he said. “Need more exercise.”

  “Papa, do let me drive!” Renny put his hands on the reins.

  “Oh, no — please!” Mary could not help herself. Meg turned a look of stolid scorn on her.

  Round a curve a farm wagon appeared carrying a load of pigs for market. The road was narrow, the squeals of the jostling pigs were all that was needed to set the horses galloping.

  “Whoa, now, whoa!” Philip put his strength on the reins. “You are a pretty pair — showing off like this for Miss Wakefield. There’s no danger.”

  Mary realized then that she had screamed.

  The horses were now subdued to a brisk trot. Philip again looked over his shoulder. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” he said. “But you’ll get over that.”

  Meg gave her another scornful look.

  “I am not used to horses. I’m ashamed.” Mary reddened painfully.

  “Papa,” Renny said, tugging at his father’s sleeve, “please let me drive.”

  Philip put the reins into the child’s hands, at the same time giving Mary a look of reassurance. “Don’t be alarmed, Miss Wakefield. Renny’s a capable rascal with the reins. And I’m right here. The horses are really well-behaved.”

  The fright was past. Mary resigned herself to precarious enjoyment of the velocity of the muscular creatures under control of the small boy who sat, his back stiff with pride, his arms extended, his thin hands gripping the reins. Philip’s arm lay along the back of the seat; she noticed the ring with a blood-stone inset, on his hand, that hand which had assisted her into the carriage. Myriad leaves, as many as the waves of the lake, spread themselves in the sunshine, butterflies felt strength coming into their newly spread wings, bird song ceased, to let the beat of hoofs be heard. The Surrey rolled from temperate shade to blazing sun. Meg lolled on her seat in an abandon of well-being. It’s glorious, thought Mary, I’m going to be happy here. Thank God, I applied for this post, and thank God, I got it! The prayer of thanksgiving came from the depths of her being. In some mysterious way she had never been so happy before.

  The ten miles were at last behind them, ten whole miles and without apparent effort on the part of the horses! Small farms were passed so quickly that Mary had no time to examine the buildings properly before they were passed. They went through a quiet village where they encountered only one other vehicle in the main street but where shop-keepers strolled to their doors to see them pass. Philip Whiteoak seemed to know everyone.

  As he turned the horses through an impressive stone gateway he remarked, “This is where the Craigs live.”

  “Do we know them?” Renny asked, in his clear voice.

  “I do. Mr. Craig has been ill. He’s going to sell his horses. I’m going to buy them.”

  “Goody!” exclaimed Meg.

  The horses came to a standstill in front of a somewhat pretentious stone house, built close to the shore, the first of a row of similar houses erected by retired city people. They were evidently expected, for a man came forward and held the horses and, at the same moment, a tall, well-built woman of thirty appeared on the verandah where there were a number of jardinières holding sword ferns and palms. Sheltered by these luxuriant plants hung a red and yellow hammock with deep fringe and it was out of it that the young woman had arisen. Mary’s first thought was how could she have been lying in a hammock and remained so tidy. There was an iron neatness about her belt and the “stand-up, turn-down” collar of her shirt-waist and its tucked front were stiffly starched. She wore a fancy comb in her pale brown hair and her wide-open light eyes were intelligent. Her wide-nostrilled nose was retroussé.

  “I am Miss Craig,” she said, “and I am to take you round to the sunny side of the house where my father is sitting in his wheeled chair.”

  Philip and she shook hands, then she said, “Perhaps the children and your…” She hesitated.

  “This is Miss Wakefield. She has just come from England to see if she can drum a little book-learning into these two. Will you mind if they stroll round while I talk to your father? That is, if you think he is well enough to see me.”

  “He will be delighted.” Miss Craig bowed coldly, or so Mary felt as the round light eyes rested on her, but she smiled charmingly at the children. Her voice was low-pitched and pleasant. “Father does miss other men’s society, even though his nurse and I do our best to amuse him.”

  Philip assisted Mary to alight. The children scrambled down. They attempted to follow their father but he sent them back to Mary. Miss Craig led the way and Philip followed her round the house, where in a sheltered nook they found Mr. Craig with a trained nurse reading aloud to him. He had suffered a paralytic stroke which had affected one side which sagged a little. But his face was well-coloured and he looked far from ill. The nurse was stocky, with little bright black eyes and a set smile. She rose and when introductions had been made she left and joined Mary where she stood admiring a large bed of geraniums and coleus. The children had already disappeared. The nurse began at once to talk to Mary with nonchalant familiarities. Mary stood withdrawn, longing to leave her.

  “I think I must find the children,” she said.

  “Oh, you’ll never find them. I saw them running after their father to the stable. This is a lovely place, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “It’s pretty hard on Mr. Craig to have had this sickness, so soon after he built the house, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Miss Craig is a lovely person.”

  “Is she?”

  “She’s a devoted daughter.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s hard on her too.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You come from London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Miss Craig’s been there. And Paris and Rome. That’s not to speak of New York and Washington.”

  “Really.”

  “Don’t you think Miss Craig has a lovely figure? I call her the perfect Gibson Girl.”

  “Do you?”

  A shout was heard from Renny and, on the strength of it Mary made her escape. She hung about, hiding behind shrubs, till she heard Philip’s voice. He was speaking to the man who held the horses. Mary came from behind a clump of syringes, her skirt trailing on the grass. He saw her and came to meet her.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.” He did not trouble to conceal the admiration in his eyes as he discovered her with the heavy-scented blossoms massed behind her. “But the old gentleman wanted to talk. I’ve bought a lovely mare from him. I can’t imagine what possessed him to go in for show horses. He doesn’t seem to know t
he first thing about them.”

  He spoke to Mary with an air of pleasant familiarity. How different it was from the nurse’s pushing intimacy. A quiver of happiness in his returned presence passed through her. She had been feeling lonely.

  “I am so glad you have bought the horse,” she ventured.

  He looked at her kindly. “You’ll get over your fear of them, you know,” he said. “And you’ll enjoy the drives here. We must show you the country.”

  He took out his whistle and summoned the children. Soon they were flying homeward, with Mary less nervous than before and the horses unswerving in their eagerness to return to their evening feed. The shadows of trees lay across the white dust of the road. A coolness rose from the moist earth beneath them. Small birds left the eggs they were hatching to dart with sunny wings after bright-coloured insects. Mary was conscious of the moving vitality all about her. From trotting horse to insect fleeing for its life she was conscious of the vital urge that governed them.

  She lost her fear of what seemed to her Philip’s reckless driving. She, having no real experience of being a governess, forgot she was one, and when the horses stopped and Philip alighted and stood below her to help her alight she held out her arms to him just as though she were a young lady visitor to Jalna, and smiled into his eyes.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. Not at all tired.”

  He gave a little laugh, as he set her on the ground. Mary wondered why. She would have given almost anything to know. She looked into his eyes to discover the reason but discovered only their deep blueness.

  “You are tall, Miss Wakefield,” he remarked. “Taller than I had thought.”

  “I am too tall.”

  “You should see my mother and my sister. They’re inches taller than you.”

  “Then you are a tall family,” she said, admiring his height.

  “My brothers are taller than I. So was my father. Though I take after him I lack his height. My mother has that against me.”

  The thought of anyone holding anything against him was unbelievable to Mary. She began to dislike his mother.

  “I lack his distinction altogether, as you may see from his portrait.”

  “But then what a beautiful uniform he is wearing!”

  “True. Do you know, we still have that uniform and every spring my mother takes it out and hangs it in the open air. In case of moths. I’m usually the one who helps her. It’s a melancholy proceeding. But she’s brave. It’s hard to lose your mate.”

  He drew his brows together and Mary was sure he was thinking of his dead wife. Renny came to his side and he put an arm about him. “This fellow,” he said, “doesn’t look a bit like me, does he?”

  “I can’t see any resemblance.” And a pity, too, she thought, for there was something forbidding in the small boy’s chiselled nostrils, the hard-looking head that had an almost sculptural severity.

  “He’s the spit of my mother. Isn’t it funny?”

  Renny gave his clear high laugh. “I’m glad,” he said, “I like looking like Gran.”

  “Why?” said Mary coldly.

  “Because,” he grinned, showing all his white teeth, “because everyone’s afraid of her.”

  “But surely you don’t want people to be afraid of you?”

  “You bet I do.”

  “Well, I for one aren’t,” cried Meg. She caught a handful of his hair, tugged it and ran off, with him after her.

  “Unruly little beggars,” laughed Philip.

  The two were still talking when the front door opened and Mrs. Nettleship looked out. She fixed a stony accusing stare on Mary.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, addressing Philip out of the side of her mouth, while her stare never faltered. “But I’m looking for the children. I don’t know if it’s still my place or not but if they’re going to be tidied up before their tea it’s high time it was done.”

  “Oh — ” Mary’s colour flamed. “I’ll find them at once. I don’t think they’ve gone far.” She hastened after them, Mrs. Nettleship’s stare moving automatically in pursuit.

  The horses were restively pawing the gravel. Philip lazily climbed into the seat and took the reins.

  “Keep your hair on, Mrs. Nettleship,” he advised. “Miss Wakefield will look after the children all right.”

  He drove off, and in a moment was hidden behind the row of spruces and hemlocks that shielded house from stables. Yet the thud of hoofs could still be heard.

  “Keep my hair on, eh?” exclaimed Mrs. Nettleship, addressing the hemlocks. “Keep my hair on! Yes, I’ll keep it on, Mr. Whiteoak. And I’ll let your mother know a thing or two when she comes back! Carrying on with that fast-looking young woman before she’s in the house twenty-four hours! Yes, I’ll keep my hair on and keep my place too, which is more than she does.”

  Mrs. Nettleship returned to the basement where Eliza was removing a splinter from Renny’s thumb. She was suffering more than he, as he doubled up and writhed in exaggerated agony.

  “Do stand still,” she implored, “or I’ll never get it out.”

  “What is it?” demanded Mrs. Nettleship.

  “A splinter. Such a boy as he is for doing things to himself.”

  Mrs. Nettleship brushed her aside and took the needle. “Here, let me.” She felt a sensuous pleasure in her power as she probed for the splinter, and in the small male body tense in her grip. Meg looked on, vaguely conscious of the difference there would have been in the attitude of the woman had the splinter been in her thumb.

  “We had cherries there today, lots of them,” she said, to draw attention to herself. “I don’t want any tea.”

  The housekeeper pursed her lips and held the splinter aloft on the needle. Renny thrust his thumb into his mouth. He blunted his red head against her shoulder.

  “I want my tea,” he said.

  She ran her hand caressingly through his hair. “Tell me,” she said, “where did you go?”

  “To Mr. Craig’s. We bought a horse.”

  “Land alive! As though there weren’t enough in the stable!” She took him by the shoulders and held him in front of her. “Was Miss Wakefield nice to Papa, eh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you do. Did she smile at him? And laugh at everything he said and roll her eyes at him?”

  “Yes,” said Renny. “She did.”

  “She was lovely to him,” said Meg.

  Mrs. Nettleship turned furiously to Eliza. “What did I tell you? The moment I set eyes on her I knew the sort she was. Designing. To think that they’d be so crazy as to send her into the house with a handsome young man like Mr. Philip! Could you hear what your Papa and Miss Wakefield said?”

  “He told her not to be afraid,” said Meg.

  “Afraid! Afraid of what?”

  “Of him,” said Renny.

  Meg uttered a squeak of delight. “That’s so. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid of me, Miss Wakefield. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on your golden head.’”

  Eliza turned a shocked pink face on Mrs. Nettleship. “Oh, surely not. Surely not so soon.”

  “Now, children, remember all they said and I’ll make you a pan of maple cream.”

  They looked at each other.

  “He said he’d take her for lots more drives.” Meg’s lips curved in a happy smile. “And she said how lovely and he said it was no trouble at all and she said it was hard work teaching us and he said not to tire herself.”

  Mrs. Nettleship gave a groan. “Oh, you poor little things! What else? Try to remember!”

  Mary’s voice came from outside. “Children! Where are you?”

  “Hide,” said Mrs. Nettleship. “Don’t answer.”

  They ran on tiptoe to the pantry.

  Mary knelt on the grass outside one of the windows and peered down. “Have you seen them, Mrs. Nettleship?”

  “They were here but they’ve gone.”

  “Oh, dear, and I suppose it’s their tea-time.”


  “Someone let them fill theirselves up on cherries. They said they didn’t want any tea. That’s not the way to bring up children.” She drowned anything further Mary said by the rattling of pans.

  “I wouldn’t stay in this house,” she said to Eliza, “with her as mistress. I can retire any time I want to. I have money saved. As I’ve told you many a time, the old lady I nursed left me five thousand dollars.”

  The children sitting on their heels in the cool grey light of the pantry stared in each other’s eyes, noticing their own reflections mirrored there. Now the old game had begun, the game of Nettle against the governess. But it had never been like this before. Now there was something new in Nettle’s anger against the outsider. They did not feel pity for Mary. They only wondered dispassionately how long she would last. Miss Cox and Miss Turnbull had lasted quite a long while. To the children the months of their reigns seemed uncounted ages. To Renny Miss Cox was a dim memory but Miss Turnbull was very clear. Though he would not have admitted it there had been something about her he had liked — a calm cool sureness of herself, a quiet inviolate sense of her own rectitude. It fascinated him.

  Now remembering her he stood up and, looking into space, remarked, “I considah…”

  Meg was irritated by his introducing someone long gone from their lives into this present exciting moment. She caught his hand and drew him toward the door. “Come on,” she urged. “Let’s see where she’s gone.”