White Feathers

by Susan Lanigan

  Miss Hautbois jabbed a claw-like index finger in the air. ‘You – will – not – forget. You never know, maybe some day you will find you need it again. Nothing learnt is wasted. Remember that, Miss Downey.’

  ‘Yes,’ Eva said, ‘I will remember.’

  To her surprise, Mr Duncan stopped her in the corridor to say he regretted hearing of her departure, though she had said nothing to him about it. He spoke softly, with a slight Northumbrian burr. For him to stop her and speak to her was sweet, for he was tremendously shy. She wondered again about what Sybil had said. So slow, deliberate, ruminant – it was hard to imagine him excited or passionate about anybody, let alone a member of his own sex.

  She had not seen Mr Shandlin yet, but he would be there on Thursday, as usual. That day, she found him rushing between buildings, his body bent forward as it often was when he was in a hurry. She nearly had to grab his coat to get his attention. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he said irritably, then, upon seeing Eva, a slightly gentler, ‘Hello.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you, sir.’

  ‘For what?’ He looked mystified.

  ‘For giving me the book back.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that.’ He made a gesture akin to brushing a fly off his coat. ‘I need to be somewhere—’

  Eva blocked his way. ‘I didn’t want to go and not say goodbye. You’ve probably heard I’m leaving tomorrow. I just wanted—’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he interrupted, ‘you’re doing what tomorrow?’

  ‘Leaving,’ Eva repeated.

  ‘But you can’t. You … Why?’ The shock on his face was genuine.

  Other pupils streamed past them, and they were starting to form a little island in their midst. Mr Shandlin twisted about, his head jerking like a crow’s. He had the air of a man watching his back with insane care. He bent down to her and murmured, ‘I need to talk to you. Not here, not now. Over there’ – he made a gesture at the rhododendrons that grew near the driveway and created a secluded space – ‘in half an hour.’ Then off he went again, before she could argue, almost leaving a breeze in his wake.

  Half an hour later, Eva was standing in the damp moss, hidden from the lawn by the rhododendrons. Had he truly meant it or had she misheard him? But then she saw him cross the lawn. He crashed past a bush, snapping a twig, then reappeared a few feet away from her. ‘There you are!’ he said, obviously relieved. ‘Now. Tell me, what’s all this nonsense about you leaving?’

  ‘My father has ordered me home. Miss Hedges says she cannot keep me here against his wishes.’

  Mr Shandlin shook his head in astonishment. ‘Is he aware of how well you are doing? It’s come up as discussion, believe me. I find it hard to understand why he would want you to leave now.’

  Eva felt a shard of anger lodge in her heart. She wanted to tell Mr Shandlin that her father would have no interest in her academic prowess. But they had so recently argued, she and he, that she did not know how to continue. She could not forget his words. You get on my nerves. You fill every silence with worthless talk.

  ‘My sister is very ill, and I’ve been summoned home to take care of her,’ she said at last.

  Immediately his expression softened. ‘Oh, my poor girl. I am so sorry.’ He moved towards her but then paused mid-step and drew back. ‘Will she be all right, your sister?’

  Eva was taken aback at his compassion. Then she remembered that the thought of a sibling in danger would be near to his heart. ‘I think so, thank you, sir.’

  ‘I am glad.’ He nodded gravely and was silent for a moment. Then he burst out, ‘I can’t believe it! You’re thriving here; everyone can see it.’

  ‘My father discussed my cheating with Miss Hedges. Sybil’s homework.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ He put his hands to his face. ‘No.’

  ‘I presumed you had told her. I presumed you knew I was leaving.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t know!’ Mr Shandlin cried. ‘And, I can assure you, I did not say one word to Miss Hedges about that whole affair. It never crossed my mind. I know I behaved abominably, but I would never do that. Caroline – Miss Hedges – keeps a tight leash on her prefects. I’m sure one of them told her. Not I, heaven knows I feel bad enough about my conduct without compounding it by getting you in trouble.’ He was pale, and Eva could not help but feel a stab of pity for him.

  ‘I believe you, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He exhaled. ‘I’m so sorry, dear girl.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I should not have spoken that way to you,’ he said softly. ‘It was wrong of me. My vanity was offended, and I tried to hurt you in retaliation. That’s how childish it was.’

  She bit her lip and stayed quiet. Somewhere nearby a nuthatch called out, twee-twee-twee-twee. Mr Shandlin listened intently, then put his hands behind his back and recited some poetry:

  ‘As the clouds the clouds chase;

  And we go,

  And we drop like the fruits of the tree,

  Even we,

  Even so.’

  ‘Is that Brooke too?’

  ‘Meredith, actually. “Dirge in Woods”. I like Meredith; Gabriel cannot abide him. We have frequent arguments on the subject.’

  ‘Mr Hunter!’ Eva exclaimed. ‘I saw him at the dance in Winchester.’

  ‘I know,’ Mr Shandlin said crossly. ‘He told me he went, and I chewed his ear off for it. Stupid fool. Gabe Hunter is a dear friend, but I wouldn’t have him anywhere near young women. A good rule of thumb is to ignore everything he says and everything he does as well.’ He struck his palm with the side of his hand, frowning. ‘But never mind him. Did you enjoy yourself at this dance? Were you the cynosure of the ball?’

  ‘Not hardly. I drank bad wine and had a headache in iambic pentameter.’

  Mr Shandlin made a face. ‘Those are truly the worst kind. Though with your heritage, I thought you’d have had more of a taste for the dactyl. Diddledy-dum-di-diddley-dum—’ Eva glared at him. ‘Ah. Not, I see. Iambic it is then. My head, my head, my head, my head?’

  ‘More or less. There was a viscount too, and a lot of manhandling around the dance floor.’

  ‘Manhandling viscounts. Sounds like you were having fun, and without me.’

  Eva laughed. ‘It wouldn’t be your sort of evening, Mr Shandlin. You don’t dance.’

  He looked at her, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t, do I not? Who says?’

  Eva looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘What step did you learn to skate across the floor with those ham-handed aristos anyway?’

  ‘I think it was a hesitation waltz,’ Eva stammered, still surprised.

  ‘Right,’ Mr Shandlin said, extending his hand. ‘May I have this dance then, please, Miss Downey?’

  Eva gestured around her. ‘May I have some music first, Mr Shandlin?’

  He tut-tutted. ‘So unimaginative. You’re not like that in your essays, let me tell you. I’ll supply the music, if you insist.’ He started humming, another tuneless melody roughly recognisable as a waltz, much to Eva’s mixed horror and amusement. He could not be serious.

  ‘Are you going to have me standing here all afternoon?’ he demanded.

  Tentatively she raised her right hand to meet his, and he took it, his fingers cupping hers, his grip loose. Their palms briefly met, then parted. Then he lightly grasped her shoulder with the other hand to turn her towards him. Together they lined up and pointed their feet outward. Eva had decided to tell him that this was ridiculous and that someone would see them, but he had already counted one-two-three and set off, so she had no option but to follow, her hand flat on his upper arm, feeling like an elephant as he quickly walked her backwards and then on the fifth count set her into a turn.

  To her surprise, she found him quite a good dancer. They moved across the dewy lawn with surprising grace, and he kept a firm but gentle hand on her upper back. He was just a little bit stiff and faced forward all the while, whispering the counts under his breath – but compared to the cheery louts who had
turned Eva’s toes black and blue at the dance, Mr Shandlin’s slightly hands-off approach was a relief. She forgot there wasn’t any music and that she had no natural aptitude for dancing. She was just on the verge of forgetting herself, too, letting the dance take over, when she stepped onto the hem of her dress during a reverse turn and collided with him.

  He smelt of cigarette smoke and, faintly, lemon verbena soap, the kind her mother used to wash her with when she was very small and sitting in a tin bath in the garden back in Cork. Even after Sybil’s telling her that Mr Shandlin was in love with her, Eva had never allowed herself to imagine what it would be like if they touched, or even embraced; now his nearness caused a frisson under her skin that took away both her concentration and her balance. Her head just fitted under the angle of his jaw and she could see tiny shaving cuts on his neck and chin.

  For a second she surrendered to the fall and let herself sway in the light hold of his arms, but he set her on her feet quickly, made a small sound under his breath, then remarked, ‘Of course, that night you wouldn’t have been tripping up all the time. You were wearing that grey, shiny thing, the one that falls down your back, yes?’ He led her into the next step of the dance.

  Still dizzy with sweet confusion, Eva nearly missed her cue for the cross-hesitation step. ‘You saw me?’

  ‘Now, now. Try to remember you’re still dancing and leave my toes alone. I was on my way home through the woods when I saw you all gathered around the door like a flock of flamingos. I stopped to admire you all. I didn’t draw attention to myself – it didn’t seem appropriate.’

  So Sybil had been right! ‘And you saw me.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The hand on her back tightened a little. ‘I saw you all right.’

  ‘That’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned anything I’ve worn. You never comment on people’s appearance.’

  ‘Not commenting,’ Mr Shandlin said drily, ‘doesn’t mean I don’t notice.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Eva, ‘what did you think of it? My dress?’

  ‘My opinion is unimportant. Now stay behind me, I’m supposed to turn you here.’ Eva obediently stepped back and allowed him to turn her forward. They did one more circuit before ending up where they had started, at which point he dropped her hand, bowing ceremoniously to thank her for the dance. He looked flushed and a little out of breath, Eva noticed. And all of a sudden very solemn. ‘I need to speak to you about something,’ he said, ‘while we’re here. I always intended to tell you – but I thought there would be time.’

  Good heavens, Eva thought, is he going to declare himself? She laced her hands together at her waist to stop them trembling. She could not speak for nerves, only nod at him to continue.

  ‘Did you know the colleges are offering scholarships to women? Somerville College in Oxford and the like? You should apply. Not this year, but the next. I might not be able to teach you any more, not officially, but I would do everything in my power to make sure you passed those exams and were accepted, as you deserve to be.’

  Oh. Eva composed herself and shook her head. ‘Father would never allow it.’

  ‘You might be able to disregard his wishes,’ Mr Shandlin said, ‘if the fees were paid for by a scholarship. Look, Eva, I don’t want to be crude, but if you decide to sell yourself the way this place trains you to do, choose a man who will support your ambitions. Or someone you can influence, so they won’t try and keep you at home and lock you away from the world.’ He added, almost in a whisper, ‘That’s not what I want for you.’

  Eva was so shocked it took her some time to answer him. ‘You think that’s how it works?’

  ‘Of course that’s how it works,’ Mr Shandlin said, in irritation. ‘You go to these society events to make it clear by whom you would like to be chosen, and then they choose you. Simple. Heaven knows I’ve been there myself as the chooser – with remarkably little success, I might add.’

  ‘And what about love?’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

  ‘Love? Oh, Eva, no.’ He looked at her in gentle reproof, as if she had used coarse language in his presence. ‘That would be a terrible idea.’

  Eva could hardly believe what she was hearing. Love, a terrible idea? Did he really think she could be paraded and sold like a prize cow at a fair? To someone else?

  ‘Look,’ he ploughed on, seeing her feelings on her face, if not divining their cause, ‘I’ve taught a few girls – not many – who had a good future ahead of them, and then they fell in love – or so they described it. I’ve seen them since, and they’re all unhappy. They married on impulse, and they are stuck with someone who doesn’t understand them or give them any freedom. For a moment of infatuation they’ve lost everything. And they were far inferior to you. For you to end up like that … no. Listen to me, Eva: use your head, not your heart. Find somebody who understands what you want. Promise me you will stay clear-sighted. For your own sake.’

  He stopped for a moment, tired from the effort of so much talk. Eva felt unseasonably cold, and shivered, folding her arms across her chest, bunching her fists under her arms to warm her fingers. What he had just said – it was so dispassionate! Was that how he really felt about the whole business? About her?

  He too seemed agitated, turning away towards a laurel bush, picking off one of the shiny leaves and tearing it in half, then quarters, then eighths, the little green fragments of leaf floating to the ground. Then picking another leaf, shredding that one too. Silence unnerved him, Eva saw. Good. She would treat him to a little more of it. If she could only stop shivering! Why, when it wasn’t even cold?

  He neither looked at her nor spoke again for such a long time that she wondered if she had effectively been dismissed. Her skin had cooled, a breeze was blowing, and her heartbeat was almost back to normal. She could hear voices far away, near the main building, as well as shouts coming up from the netball court. What if someone were to discover them? Not that there was anything more to discover than two silent people standing around like mannequins in a drapery.

  ‘It may be,’ she said tartly, ‘that nobody will be interested in such an arrangement.’

  ‘They will.’ He was short.

  ‘You … you make me feel like a goods parcel,’ she said, with gathering rage, ‘to be packaged and stamped for the travelling post and thrown into a sorting bag in Maidenhead.’

  ‘Now, that’s not fair and you know it—’

  ‘I’m not an item of commerce, Mr Shandlin. I’m—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ He shouted so loudly that a murder of crows clattered off a nearby tree. The netball court fell silent. Mr Shandlin clapped his hand to his mouth, realising he might have been heard. After a few seconds’ silence, the sounds resumed. He approached her. Barely a foot away, his fingers very softly lifted her chin. ‘I am trying to do the right thing here.’ His eyes were huge and black, his voice a whisper. ‘Can’t you … understand – at all?’ He withdrew his fingers.

  Eva clasped the medal around her neck and twisted the chain. The netball players’ voices came closer, cutting the silence open with banalities about motor cars and up-dos and hunt balls.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Downey,’ Mr Shandlin said abruptly. ‘I wish you every good fortune. And please, do write once you have made your plans.’ Then, in a softer tone, a little hoarse, ‘Take care, dear girl.’

  ‘Goodbye—’ Eva began, but he had already turned his back and was walking away rapidly, his shoulders hunched slightly. She stood and watched him retreat across the lawn and vanish into the shadow of the building.

  ‘Goodbye, Christopher,’ she murmured to the empty air. The nuthatch replied, twee-twee-twee-twee, over and over again. It didn’t care if anyone were listening, nor did it care about the crushing disappointment Eva felt in her heart to see him go.

  II

  The Decision

  12

  2 May 1914

  The knock on the door was more like a dead hand than a firm rat-tat-tat; Hend
ricks, the valet, was always irritatingly quiet both in approach and address. Herbert Fellowes, who had just removed his shoes in preparation for bed, answered the door in his stockinged feet. ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘I have just received a phone call, sir, concerning Miss Imelda Downey. She’s taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘Good Lord, again?’ Fellowes said. ‘I have told them time and time again what needs to be done.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Are there any more details?’

  ‘Only that she appears to be coughing up a lot of blood, dark in colour. And that she is having – em – other problems.’

  ‘Hendricks, man, there is no need to be coy, not at this time of night. What sort of problems? Female?’

  ‘No, sir. Severe diarrhoea.’

  Fellowes shook his head. ‘This is getting bad. All right, give me five minutes to get my bag together and I’ll be out.’

  ‘I will get the car ready, sir.’

  Fellowes blinked and rubbed his eyes. A man of nine-and-twenty with thick, wavy hair the colour of wet burlap, he had just eaten a moderately unsatisfactory meal of overcooked macaroni and fatty lamb cutlets and had finally been about to take to his bed and sleep the sleep of the dead. It had been a while since his last good kip; he had endured eleven house calls in the past twenty-four hours and was dropping on his feet.

  Not for the first time he cursed the day he had chosen medicine as a career; you could never take a girl home for fear of being woken in the middle of the night because some old lady or consumptive demanded your attention. He should have studied law. All those fellows did was sit in Chancery, well fed and well rested, being paid huge sums for dressing up in wigs and gowns and … But Fellowes had iterated this particular train of thought many times before.

  As the car pulled away from his rooms in Highbury and rattled over the London roads out towards the East End, he tried to doze, but his eye twitched and he gave up the effort. He was bad with faces, but good with names. He had placed Imelda Downey immediately, even though half the city had tuberculosis and half of that half was busy pretending it was something else. And for many of those people there was nothing Fellowes could do.