by Jean Stubbs
In those two hours at his rooms, while Henry Hann absent-mindedly flicked flies from the horses’ necks, Laura endeavoured to feel repulsion and could not. All that her mother had told her, and all she had learned from Theodore, was proved false. Her inability to control either herself or him terrified her. The remembrance of her behaviour was agony, the compulsion degrading. Shaken, humiliated, she avoided seeing him for a week afterwards, and then found herself beset by a need she had overlooked. She had thought that if she could put the incident behind her she might go back to their former relationship. Instead, she longed to discover the new one, to build stone on shameful stone, and achieve what? And she could not.
The experience sharpened all her senses. She became aware of Theodore as a man, and watched him. For years she had thanked God whenever her husband left the house, and clutched her privacy to herself if he was kept late in the City. Now she wondered why he was late, and noticed discrepancies. She would have shrieked for help, whatever the consequences, however iron-strong the proprieties, if he had used her as his wife. But she could not bear the thought of infidelity on his part.
She had been bitterly cheated, and desired that the cheat should be cheated also. If they were bonded even to death he must not go free, for that left her more sad and solitary than ever before. She required him to be unfulfilled with her, since his was the sin of omission.
The letter from Titus brought one sorry ray of comfort. He, too, had been scorched and wished to burn. She tore it up, weeping, and threw the pieces in her wastepaper basket. Later, frightened of discovery, she went back to her room to retrieve them but they were gone. There was no reason to suppose that Harriet would know the difference between these and any other torn papers, and Kate’s loyalty was complete. Yet now and again she regretted that she had not set a match to them and so rendered her mind easy.
Now, sitting obediently beside her sleeping husband, she said very softly to herself, ‘I should have died before I met him, and then all this need not have been.
5
Laurel is green for a season, and love
is sweet for a day;
But love grows bitter with treason,
and laurel outlives not May.
The Triumph of Time –
Algernon Charles Swinburne
SUFFICIENTLY improved to render their lives tedious, Theodore insisted on hearing all the details of the epidemic: tutting sympathetically. Oppressed, Laura settled him down for a couple of hours, and retired to her parlour.
It was a quiet time of day, while her staff recuperated from their morning labours and were not involved with the evening meal. Cook snored by the range. Harriet exchanged whispered reminiscences with Annie Cox. Henry Hann drank, unwanted, in his room over the stable. In the linen room, Kate’s needle was dexterous with the lace on Laura’s dressing-jacket. Nanny Nagle, her afternoon free, met Sergeant Malone with whom she had had an understanding for years, and gossiped as he twirled his moustaches and swaggered by her side. The boys were back at school, and Blanche had been taken to Mr Barnum’s Circus at Olympia with a party of small friends. Here, Sam Lockhart’s six extraordinary and wonderful performing elephants, just arrived from the Continent, especially and exclusively engaged at enormous cost, enchanted their young audience.
The book of poems slipped from Laura’s lap as she slept, and she returned it with a start and smoothed the page.
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life …
The doorbell brought Laura to her feet, then she sat again and slid the book beneath a cushion.
‘Are you at home, ma’am?’ Kate Kipping asked quietly, popping a frilled cap round the parlour door. ‘I thought I had best ask first, in case you were resting.’
‘No, Kate, thank you. I am not at home.’
‘Very well, ma’am.’ She paused. ‘Suppose it should be Mr Titus, ma’am?’
‘He will not come before this evening. But would you say that I have a headache? He will have come to see Mr Crozier.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The bell rang again, imperiously, and Laura reclined on one elbow, listening to the murmur of voices, the sharp closing of the door.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ said Kate, evidently disturbed, ‘but it was a strange lady, with these,’ and she held out a package, robustly wrapped in brown paper and sealed with red wax. ‘The lady would not leave her name, ma’am, and she said I was only to give this into Mr Crozier’s hands. But, seeing he was resting, I thought it best to bring it to you.’
Laura took the package and read the directions carefully.
‘What did the lady say, Kate?’
‘She said it was private business and could I deliver it to the master personally. I took the liberty to say that the master was still abed poorly, and could it not be given to Mr Titus since it was business? But she said it was a confidential matter for Mr Theodore.’
Laura turned the package over and over. Her husband’s name was underlined twice in red ink, and printed very large and stiff.
‘How strange she did not give her name. What was the lady like?’
‘The lady was not exactly a lady, ma’am,’ said Kate cautiously.
‘I do not comprehend you.’
‘Well, ma’am,’ said Kate, coming closer, ‘she seemed modest and refined enough at first sight, but her dress was not quite … and she wore a heavy veil as if she did not want me to see her face. But perhaps her complexion was poor, ma’am.’
‘A working girl?’
‘Why no, ma’am. Her dress was a deal too showy for that. And her voice, ma’am, the way she spoke. Very mincing, and then downright common when she spoke fast. And she smelled of patchouli, quite strong.’
A tacit understanding lay between them. Kate had given all the information she could, and Laura had interpreted it. Now both must render the information outwardly acceptable.
‘I think it must have been one of Mr Crozier’s new clerks, Kate. If she was trying to better herself she would perhaps try to make a good impression. We must not be uncharitable if she failed. She would be too shy, possibly, to leave her name.’
‘Yes, ma’am, that would explain it. I hope I did right to bring the package to you.’
‘You were quite right, Kate. I shall see that Mr Crozier receives it as soon as he wakes. You may bring me tea here at a half after four. Miss Blanche will not be home until six o’clock.’
Alone, she read and re-read the printing, felt and shook the package. It remained inscrutably sealed, and she neither would nor could open it without detection. Kate had referred to it as ‘these’, and Laura now tried the parcel for flexibility. Letters, probably. These. Letters. For about twenty minutes she sat thinking, then mounted the staircase with more resolution than usual.
‘I was sleeping,’ her husband complained. ‘Can I have no peace in this household?’
‘We have been married for fifteen years, Mr Crozier,’ said Laura, her pride and dignity damaged, ‘and I think you will agree that I have been a dutiful wife.’
He sat up amazed, nightcap askew.
‘Well, ma’am, that is a matter of opinion. But what of it? Is this,’ and he waved an arm at the William Morris wallpaper, ‘not evidence enough of my indulgence? I told you it would tire the eyes. We should have been wiser to buy a flocked paper,’ and he glared at the pomegranates.
‘I have endeavoured to please you,’ Laura persisted, ‘and very often against my inclination – sometimes against my personal belief. I had not expected to be insulted in this fashion!’ And she flicked the packet on the bed.
Annoyed, confused, he reached for a paper knife and began to prise off the seals: face set against her.
‘Before you open it, since you appear to think it of little import,’ said Laura, one hand at her throat, ‘I must tell you that it was delivered by a woman of doubtful respec
tability, who wished it to be given only into your hands and described it as confidential business.’
He laid down the paper knife and looked at her.
‘She was heavily veiled, so Kate told me. Her clothes, her manner, her speech, proclaimed her to be something other than one of your clerks. Yet she dressed too showily for an ordinary working girl. Furthermore, she was most secretive. She did not leave her name, and she implored Kate to deliver this package direct to you.’
‘Then why did Kate not do as she was told?’
Because she was loyal to me.
‘Because she knew you were resting, and so entrusted it naturally to your wife. And why should your wife not be trusted?’
He was as white as herself now, tapping the package thoughtfully.
‘This is private business, Laura, and I must be careful.’
‘You must be secretive!’ she cried, casting off years of restraint. ‘Who is this woman? She stank of cheap perfume. What is her name? What is she to you? Why are you away in the evenings? Do you go to her? Do you? I know you are not always at business. Titus came once, expecting to find you at home, when you told me you were together.’
‘Be silent!’ he said furiously. ‘I will not be questioned in this manner. I have told you this is private business. I have rivals, you know. I have – enemies, even. I employ – certain people – people you would not receive – to watch over certain aspects of my business. So that you can dress as you do, among other things,’ and he gestured at the fine lace blouse and black tailored skirt, at the great cameo pinned to her high collar. ‘My duties towards you, Mrs Crozier, are fulfilled. I beg you to remember your duty towards me. Obedience was one of your vows, if you recollect.’
She was weeping, beside herself. He watched her, angry and puzzled.
‘Then open it, in God’s name,’ she begged, reaching for the handkerchief tucked at her waist. ‘Open it while I am here, and show me that I am wrong.’
His fingers lingered over the package and withdrew. His expression hardened.
‘You forget yourself, madam. I do not have to prove my honour. It is absolute. Now please to go.’
She stared at him over the handkerchief.
‘You do not care what I suspect?’ she asked, astonished.
‘You are not yourself, Laura. I suggest that you lie down for an hour with the blinds drawn, and come to your senses.’
‘You would leave me, perhaps to the end of our lives together, not knowing what this person meant to you?’
‘I order you to leave this room.’
‘You do not care enough for me even to confide in me?’ she said.
It was a revelation. Dark and withdrawn, he considered his wife and the package.
‘Mrs Crozier, it is seldom – I hope, in most cases, never – that a husband finds it necessary to speak to his wife as I must. When we first married I observed some lightness in your nature which I set down as girlish folly, and which I am happy to say has since been eradicated.’
‘Lightness?’
‘A tendency to foolish behaviour. You were pure and innocent. I know that. But there are certain duties which – I express myself as delicately as possible – must be performed between husband and wife. They are duties, madam, not pleasures. One does not marry for pleasure.’
Colourless, she sat down in a chair and observed him with cold self-possession. Heedless of her moods, unless they disquieted him, he spoke half to her and half to himself, his eyes upon the package.
‘One marries in the Sight of God for the purpose of procreation. I am grateful to you, Mrs Crozier, for my two sons, who will – now they are out of your spoiling – be of some consequence in life. The British Empire is the greatest the world has ever known. Edmund and Lindsey will be dedicated to its service. I can think of no finer goal.’
‘You have a daughter, too,’ said Laura bitterly.
‘Whose tastes, I hope, may not become as extravagant as your own.’
‘Surely you wish me to dress becomingly, and according to your station?’
‘But not so expensively, madam. Your milliner’s bills alone are beyond everything!’
‘Wait!’ she said, dangerously quiet. ‘Let us not interrupt this sermon on my duties, Mr Crozier, by dragging in a milliner’s bill for which you have twice reprimanded me already. So I have given you two sons and burdened you with a daughter? I keep your home as it should be kept. May I not ask for a little affection and trust in return?’
‘You had both, and a measure of respect which I do not wish to lose – though your behaviour puts it in some peril, madam.’
She swept the packet from the bed with one blow of the hand, and it lay between them like reproach.
‘I have nothing,’ she cried, ‘nothing. And I hoped for so much.’
Regarding her steadfastly, he issued a command.
‘Control yourself, madam. You are hysterical. You do not know what you are saying.’
‘Duties,’ she cried. ‘Duties. No tenderness, no true kindness, no understanding. Do you suppose that Mr Browning spoke of duties to his wife? He spoke of love, Mr Crozier. I loved you when we were married.’
‘I thought we had dispelled this nonsense,’ he said, displeased. ‘A lady, Mrs Crozier, a lady should be concerned with decorous and modest behaviour. I do not ask for poetic phrases and lavish demonstrations. I do not wish for them. I do not require them. The conversation is closed, and I shall endeavour to forget that it ever took place.’
Her arms fell to her sides.
‘You have spoiled yourself with weeping,’ he added dispassionately. ‘Do not allow the servants to see you in such a wild condition. Now please go.’
Submissively, wretchedly, she dried her eyes and cheeks. Inclined her head, beaten. Then, with her hand on the doorknob, she paused. Torn between fear and misery, the misery came uppermost.
‘How can you bear to live as we do?’ she whispered. ‘How can you endure it?’
Waiting for her to be gone, he spoke to the looking-glass on the wall. In it they were mirrored: she bruised, he adamant.
‘I am at a loss to discern your meaning, Mrs Crozier. I suggest that you are not yourself.’
6
Let’s contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
A Woman’s Last Word –
Robert Browning
LAURA had moved into the guest-room while the influenza lasted, and Kate found her there an hour later, crouched over the unlit grate.
‘I took your tea to the parlour, ma’am. It’s going cold,’ she said, aflecting not to notice Laura’s brooding posture. ‘It’s starting to rain again, ma’am, but still mild for the time of year.’
She pretended to be busy with the immaculate bedspread.
‘Come downstairs in the warm, ma’am, do. You’ll catch your death up here. Or shall I get Harriet to light the fire for you, and bring you a cup upstairs and you can lay down for a while?’
‘I want no tea, Kate. You may dress me early for dinner. I shall rest in the parlour.’
Kate rang the bell, and ordered Harriet to fetch up the copper cans of water, and then set a match to the fire herself.
‘Shall you wear the watered silk, ma’am, to cheer yourself up a bit?’ she asked. ‘The master’s illness has fair worn you out. Or shall you have the blue velvet. You favour blue better than green to my mind.’
‘The blue will do well enough, thank you, Kate. Oh, do not bang those jugs down so, Harriet! You know how I suffer with my head!’
‘Downstairs with you, Harriet,’ Kate whispered sharply. ‘What kind of lady’s maid will you ever make, with your stupid clatter? Come, ma’am,’ encouragingly, ‘and I’ll brush your hair. And Mrs Hill would like to know shall Mr Titus be stopping to his dinner? And Miss Nagle says should Miss Blanche come downstairs, being so late home this evening?’
‘I cannot endure any more noise today,’ said Laura suddenly. ‘Let Miss Blanche go to bed after she has had her tea. I wil
l come up and say goodnight to her. She can tell me about the circus tomorrow. And Kate, since Mr Titus is coming such a way to your master, I feel I must invite him to dinner. In spite of my headache. Perhaps it will have eased by then. Give me one of my powders, if you please, and a glass of water.’
‘Here, let me hold the glass for you, ma’am. You’re all of a tremble. You’ve caught a chill, sure enough, sitting here in the cold.’
‘You had better tell Mrs Hill,’ Laura said, remembering the volatile nature of her guest, ‘that Mr Titus will not be staying, of course, if he has made other arrangements. Tell her I regret the inconvenience.’
‘Yes, ma’am. But it’s easy to lay another place at table, and Mrs Hill always cooks sufficient for extra visitors. That will be a bit of company for you after all the worry.’
They savoured the early evening ritual, culminating with the brushing and piling of Laura’s pale hair. Under Kate’s skilful hands and quiet chatter, Laura recovered some of her spirits and all her beauty. She was no less sad when she swept into the drawing-room, but physically more buoyant. Titus bowed gallantly.
‘You look so hearty!’ she said, cheered by his good health, and she held out her hand. ‘I have a commission for you.’
She moved gracefully to her chair, speaking over her shoulder, smiling. They had long been able to conduct a conversation without seeming to notice each other more than was needful. And although they were now alone they observed all the proprieties, so that no ears might hear or eyes note anything out of the ordinary. But they could not absolve the magnetism that was like a third presence in the room.
‘Your commands are my delight, Laura. What sort of commission? Do you require me to fetch the moon down for my charming niece, or for yourself?’