‘She would be free to marry again. The positions would be reversed, and she would be the rich widow whose hand would be sought. But Oliver would not be free. She could surely not hope that I, still so young, would conveniently die too. Why had she let Oliver marry me? Why, she had actually encouraged the match and done all she could to bring it about. Perhaps she had even pushed him into it, told him to marry me. She must feel very sure that she had nothing to be jealous of in me, I thought bitterly. Perhaps that was the answer.
‘She was so positive that Oliver could find nothing to love in me that she actually preferred to see him safely married to me, since she could still continue to see him constantly, than risk losing him to some wealthier, prettier bride, who would carry him off in the body too, away from the sphere of her influence.
‘All this sounds as if Oliver was very weak. But he was weak, you know, for all his air of haughty indifference, and I was beginning to understand that he was completely ruled by Sophia. For that matter, what man isn’t ruled by some woman?
‘For he loathed on principle any form of work. Papa was right about him. He was hopelessly indolent. It shocked my conventional puritan soul to see how contentedly idle he could be, if he had a good cigar and a glass of wine. He looked down on Papa for a tradesman. “I was born an aristocrat,” he used to tell me when I remonstrated with him.
‘Yet still I pondered, how did she mean to get rid of me when Papa was dead? I was pretty sure she would not tolerate being just Papa’s widow, with Papa’s tiresome daughter between her and the man she wanted. And as I have said before, she thought too much of the sanctity of respectability to run away with Oliver, however rich she became. It was a pretty little problem with which to divert oneself in the white hours of the night.
‘But I digress. These finer points only troubled my peace later. Immediately after my discovery my chief concern was how I was going to bear seeing them both again. I was afraid of seeing Papa, afraid he would see the unhappiness in my eyes and question me. The nearer came the day of our return, the more I dreaded it. At last by a ruse I evaded the situation. I “lost” my jewel-case and acted a perfect frenzy for Oliver’s benefit, which must have made him wonder, seeing me for the first time so unlike myself.
‘Anyway, I attained my object; we missed the train that day. We should not be back before Papa’s boat sailed. We sent him a wire to say we had been unavoidably detained, not to worry, that we would be home without fail the day after.
‘How well I remember that homecoming! So different from what I had expected.
‘I had thought the children would be at the station to meet us. Meeting trains was still an exciting adventure in those days. Even apart from that, I thought they would have wanted to see me. The empty grey parallel of platform struck a chill to my heart, as if something had gone wrong, though I told myself that I was being absurd. As we rumbled up the drive, I stared up at the vacant windows. Not even Edgar’s baby face at the nursery window. I pressed my hands together and drew back into the dark corner of the carriage to conceal my agitation.
‘It seemed an age before the parlourmaid answered my ring.
‘“Good afternoon, Miss — M’m, that is. Welcome ’ome,” she said nervously.’
‘I stood in the hall stripping off my gloves and trying not to shiver.
‘“Where is everyone?’ I said lightly. “Are they all well?”
‘She cast a look over her shoulder.
‘“Oh, yes, M’m, quite well, if you please,” she said with a ridiculous sort of bob.
‘“Tea, Beulah, in the drawing-room. Is the fire alight? I’m cold.”
‘“Very good, M’m,” she said, with a scared look that yet struck me as having something exultant in it, the sort of pleasurable horror one feels at the really gruesome moment of a ghost story. I fancied that I must be imagining things, and what with the sense of inward chill I began to think I must be going to be ill. I suddenly realised what was making me feel sick was the smell of carnations. There was a bowl of them, yellow and white, on the console table in the hall, stuck stiffly in a little object full of holes like an umbrella stand.
‘I said, “Take those flowers with you and throw them away,” in a cold voice.
“Oh, but what a pity, when they were put there specially to welcome you!” exclaimed an amused voice lightly behind me.
‘I turned.
‘“Why, you look as white as a pillar of salt! Aren’t you pleased to see me?” said Sophia with her little ringing laugh.
‘The children rushed out at me, chanting, “Surprise! Surprise!” and buffeting me affectionately.
‘“Lucy! Harry! Where’s Papa, then? Hasn’t he gone?” I asked bewildered.
‘“Oh, yes, he’s gone, he’s gone. And we all went to Tilbury to see him off.” They were laughing with excitement and talking so hard that I could not follow. From the corner of my eye I was watching Sophia, serenely smiling in a dress of olive-green velvet.
‘“And how is my stepson-in-law?” I heard her ask my husband.
‘“Then why are you still here?” I interrupted rudely.
‘“I’ve not been well. The doctor advised me it would not be wise to accompany your father at present,” she said blandly.
‘I drew back and took Oliver’s arm.
‘“You look all right. Doesn’t she, Oliver? What’s wrong with you?”
‘“Really, Blanche, how can you be so stupid?” she cried, impatient and laughing. “Nobody would think you a married woman.”
‘“Oh!” I said, staring at her with my mouth unbecomingly agape. “You mean, you’re — ”
‘Her sharply raised eyebrows stopped me with their unspoken reproof: “Not before the children!” and I stammered out: “Then you won’t be going at all?”
‘She agreed, studiedly intent on her white fingers rearranging the fall of ecru lace at her throat.
‘“Then — then — Oliver and I had best return to London.”
‘“To London?” said my husband, surprised. “My dear Blanche, whatever for?”
‘“We can’t stay here,” I said quickly. “There’s no need for it since Stepmama is here.”
‘“But why not stay here?” said Oliver. “We have nowhere else to go.”
‘“I don’t want to. I never wanted to come back and begin my married life here. I want — ”
‘“I wouldn’t for the world try to persuade Blanche Rose to stay against her will,’" Sophia said smoothly. “But need we stand in the hall discussing it? You look so cold and tired, Blanche Rose,” she said pityingly, with a look that made me feel how plain and pinched and dishevelled I must be. “Come and warm yourself. There’s a fire in the drawing-room, and here is Beulah with tea.”
‘It was over tea that Sophia reminded Lucy to give me the letter Papa had left for me. It was to ask me to look after Sophia in her delicate condition. He was so relieved to think she would not be without the solace of another woman’s company. He might not be back until the child was born. And poor little Sophia had been so brave about letting him go. Would I punctiliously write by every mail and report on her health?
‘So I settled down glumly into my old life. Oh, the boredom of it, with nothing to do! For I was not allowed to practise running a house, as I had hoped, since Sophia was there to do it. If ever I gave an occasional order contrary to hers, the maids were too afraid of her to obey me. Lucy was still in the schoolroom. Harry went up to Town every day to the business, fancying himself in Papa’s place. And Oliver went to the Inner Temple and did whatever barristers do when they’re looking for work. There was no company for me all day but Sophia’s. She used to follow me into the hall every morning, ostensibly to say good-bye to Harry, while I was finding Oliver’s hat and gloves and cane. I would give him a dutiful peck, while Sophia, as if in mockery, would put her hands on Harry’s shoulders and gently kiss his cheek and murmur, “Good-bye, dear boy!�
� And poor Harry would crimson and bolt after Oliver into the landau. How I would long to go with them, out of this house that was no longer home to me, to escape from the boredom of my days!
‘I used to walk over the marshes for hours among the scattered sheep, with the clouds blowing across the immense sky like rags. It was the only way I could escape from her presence. Otherwise we took our meals together, and sat together with our books or our sewing in silence. I have often wondered whether she detested it as much as I did.
‘I liked best to take my walk when the sun was setting, the glory added a brightness to my empty day, and later the pensive twilight suited my mood. Once I returned barely half an hour after I set out, for a pin to fasten a broken garter. I ran upstairs. I was so startled to see Oliver on the dusky landing like an apparition that I gave a little cry. His face was white as china.
‘He said sharply, “Blanche, what are you doing here?”
‘I was taken aback by his tone, but I tartly answered his question with another: “What are you doing here, if it comes to that?”
‘“I came back early.” He put his hand to his forehead. “I was not feeling very well. I was looking for you when you startled me.”
‘“Did you expect to find me in Stepmama’s room?”
‘“I simply ... I was going to ... I went to ask her if she knew what had become of you. That was all.”
‘“What else could there be?” I said.
‘Sophia came out of her room with a wrap gathered across her bosom and her red hair falling round her shoulders. I thought it indelicate of her to have appeared en deshabille before my husband. I suppose I looked shocked, for she said quickly, “What is the matter? You disturbed me. I was lying down. I am unwell.”
‘“Dear me!” I said. “Both of you! How unfortunate! Poor Stepmama, should I loosen your stays and put a vinegar compress on your head?”
‘When she was angry a flush stained the beauty of her throat. I saw it now and was wickedly glad. I thought it was my remark about the stays that had annoyed her. I knew it was vulgar of me. Moreover, though I modestly tried not to look, it was quite plain that she had already removed them; I could tell by the free way her body moved under the silk wrap. I felt a pang of envy at her pretty figure, so much more elegant than my rangy slouch; one would never have guessed, I thought with astonishment, that she expected a child in five months’ time.
‘She turned and went back to her room without a word and shut the door. And Oliver stammered out that he had got such a frightful headache he thought he would come for a walk with me, the air might do him good. He was amazingly affable on the way and I suppose he found me silent, though that was not unusual, but presently he asked me what was the matter, why was I so silent? I said, I never liked to talk when I was walking, but then I never wanted to talk when I had a headache either.
‘It was soon after that that Oliver got work with a Queen’s Counsel, helping prepare the defence for some big trial. He did not trouble to explain it to me, and women in those days rarely bothered to read the papers. He did say that it would mean a lot of very hard work, that it would often necessitate working so late at night that he would not be able to get home. He would stay in Town and dig-in with a friend of his.
‘The first week he only spent two nights away from home out of five. Sophia still complained of not feeling well. And in the middle of the second week she decided to go to London to consult a specialist. She travelled up in the care of my brother and husband. She was to return in the evening, but instead came a wire to say: “Specialist insists remain London nursing-home writing.”
‘I missed the mail to Papa, waiting for that letter. (I could hardly have written to him and not told him Sophia was unwell.) Her letter never came. I thought, perhaps she was too ill to write. I did not know the address of the nursing-home and I did not even know who the specialist was. I blamed myself now for my lack of sympathy. I dreaded Papa’s wrath if he should ever find out. I did not know what to do and there was no one to advise me. Oliver all this while was in Town under pressure of work.
‘On the sixth day of Oliver’s absence a box came for me from a West End florist and inside lay a posy of white roses on a bed of moss. “Never absent from my thoughts. O.” he had written on the card. Lucy saw me blush and asked me who they were from. “How dull!” she pouted, when I told her, which made me laugh. “Oh, it’s nice,” she said. “It is nice without her!”
‘“I thought you liked her?” I said, absorbed in decapitating my breakfast egg.
‘“Well, I do when she’s there. She makes you like her,” the honest child explained. “So I thought I did. But I like it much better without her. Don’t you wish she wouldn’t come back?”
‘I said demurely, “Papa would not like that.”
‘“Nor would Harry. Aren’t men silly?”
‘“Does Harry like her, then?”
‘“Oh, gracious me!” she laughed. “Don’t you know? Oh, Blanche, you never notice anything! Harry’s in love with her.”
‘I caught my breath and put my hands in my lap so that she should not see them tremble. “Lucy, don’t you know that’s a very vulgar way to talk? And stupid too.”
‘“But he is, he is. He writes poetry. I’ve seen it. There’s one about when she kisses him good-bye every morning,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
‘But I was not amused. “Faugh!” I exclaimed. “How unspeakably revolting!” I put my handkerchief to my lips.
‘“Oh, Blanche, how stodgy you’ve got since you’re married!” my sister complained. “Once you’d have seen how funny it is. Harry being grown-up and sighing and looking in the glass.”
‘“It isn’t funny,” I insisted. “It’s terrible and disgusting and wrong. You’re too young to understand. You must never mention it to anyone again. For if Papa heard about it he would punish Harry dreadfully.”
‘Her eyes were round as blue glass buttons.
‘“What would Papa do to him?” she breathed.
‘“He’d send him away for being so wicked.”
‘“Like — like Robert?” she whispered.
‘I nodded. She looked quite pale. I was satisfied.
‘I cannot pretend I was worried at not hearing from Sophia; I simply felt absolved from my obligations. Until I received a cable from Papa to the effect that Sophia had cabled news to him of her miscarriage and would I instantly cable details and report on her condition. Then I was horrified. Not only had I not known that Sophia had had a miscarriage, I did not even know where she was, and had not troubled to find out the nature of her illness. I was flooded with guilt. Not remorse; I was not sorry for her in the least, but I did feel horribly guilty at having failed Papa. And worse, I did not see my way to mend the situation. I did not know where she was, nor did I know the name of her doctor, and Oliver was not there to advise me. Yet plainly I could neither ignore Papa’s cable nor cable him back the full extent of my ignorance.
‘Then, like an angel visiting me in my despair, I recollected Mrs Falk, Sophia’s neglected mother. I would go to her. She would be sure to know where her daughter was and would direct me to her.
‘I had never been to London by myself and because I did not know that part of London I took a four-wheeler to her address. I sat on the edge of the seat nervously glancing through my veil at the dizzying traffic and holding stiffly away from me the bouquet of pink carnations I was bringing for Sophia.
‘As we turned into the street where Mrs Falk lodged, I saw on the other side of the road a woman very like Sophia in just such a walking-dress as she had in lavender broadcloth frogged with violet braid, but her face was concealed beneath a pale grey silk parasol and she passed too briskly for me to be certain of her walk, for all my craning to see through the dusty little window behind. Of course I knew very well it could not be she; only it was queer to chance on someone so like her in this very street.
‘The street had come down in the world, the residences were no longer so genteel and shops were beginning to creep in at either end, as if they did not like to establish themselves boldly in the centre among the fanlights that offered discreet little notices: “Apartments to let”. The cabby drew up before an old-fashioned house built in the days when the Italian style was in vogue and it was still embellished with the useless little ornamental ironwork balconies, now sadly faded and forlorn. The worn stone stairs rang under my feet. They circled up into the gloom. Mrs Falk’s apartments were on the third floor. It was a very long time before anyone answered the door and then it was opened three inches and a crone put one eye to the gap and demanded to know who it was. I said I wanted to see Mrs Falk.
An Afternoon to Kill Page 6