by Tim Jeal
‘A ride in the gig, Mr Strickland?’
The easy almost mocking confidence of her gesture coupled with the formality of her address made his heart swell. No doubts of him in her mind. She was looking at him expectantly through her veil, her head slightly inclined, her lips parted. He noticed her breath just moving the thin gauze. The servants, Catherine, Magnus, each and every one of his objections died before he had time to think them. Instead he nodded assent and followed her from the room, trying to disguise the elated spring in his step and the wild happiness, which made his face ache from the effort of concealment.
*
The horse stepping high, the tall wheels whirling so that the spokes blurred and merged, and the light open carriage cracking along at a fine pace with harness ringing and leather creaking, the wind cool in their faces as a long white cloud of dust billowed out behind. The effrontery: to drive him herself in a two-seat gig from the front portico, down the drive through the lodge-gates, raising her whip to the gatekeeper as he ran out to open the heavy wrought-iron gates and smiling at his daughter helping him. All the time Tom sat impassively beside her, staring at the stone griffins on the flanking piers and longing to ask her where they were going, but remaining true to his determination to say little. She had taken the initiative; let her keep it.
When Helen had asked Tom to come with her, she had done so on impulse, really having intended to get away on her own to think. Since giving in to Humphrey, she had felt in a strange mood – sad because afraid for him, but carefree because she had appeased her conscience: as if by freeing him, her selflessness had granted her a brief dispensation to think only of herself. One moment she felt like saying outrageous things and laughing wildly, the next like listening to or telling a moving story and weeping without restraint. Although she disliked the tarnished and dull midsummer leaves and the parched burnt grass, everything around her seemed highly charged and significant as though she had previously seen obscurely through a mist which had suddenly cleared. With no precise plan of where to go she drove to where she had met Charles early that spring.
A very different scene now; the lane luxuriant with rank grass, cow-parsley and flowering dog-roses, the stream a mere trickle choked with ivy-leaved crowfoot and fringed with purple loosestrife. But even in this damp place the surrounding rough grass was dry and brittle. Hay-cutting had started in late May and the corn had been golden by early June; never could she remember a drier hotter summer. They crossed the field, Tom carrying a rug, and sat down under the silvery leaves of a willow.
After what seemed to Tom a long silence, she took his hand and raised it to her lips, inclining her head towards him in the same movement; again her initiative sanctioning him, he moved closer and kissed her through her veil, drawing back and then kissing her more lightly several times; once more waiting. Without taking her eyes from his face she pulled the fine gauze aside with a slow deliberate gesture, but now both moved together, their lips meeting eagerly. He drew off her gloves and kissed her hands, noticing a few light freckles against the pale skin and the faint blueness of veins.
She held him back for a moment, so that he felt that he had exceeded what was expected and looked away to hide his confusion; but when she placed her palms lightly on his cheeks and turned his face towards her, he realised that she had simply wanted to see him better. She reached forward tentatively, almost in shyness, and touched his hair, letting her fingers trail across his cheek down to his neck, looking at him all the while with a tenderness and longing that set his heart pounding wildly and brought a dull inner roar to his ears. Her lips moved a little but she did not speak. Incapable of remaining still, he pulled her to him, oblivious of the small pointed buttons on her bodice jacket and the brushing feathers of her hat. They slipped sideways, their bodies clinging and colliding, but without pain, as if falling in air like gliding birds – their element the rapt absorption of their misting eyes and their quickening breath: breathing and seeing together, as one. Her eyes were half-closed and her parted lips searching for his mouth, kissing his ears and neck as he turned away; her fingers stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, loosening his neck-cloth. He jumped up like a man wrestling to shake off unseen wires that yield a little but still hold him. She rose too and took his arm, understanding and feeling grateful for his restraint. Still breathing deeply, he bent down and picked up the rug. His shirt was soaked with sweat.
They walked beside the stream towards the bridge, Helen patting her hair as they went to see what damage her chignon had suffered. She touched her veil and felt that it was torn; as she tossed it aside, Tom plucked it from the grass, blushing at such an obvious piece of chivalry, but she smiled at him and murmured:
‘Those who play at hide-and-seek in love are not worth seeking.’ She sighed and rested her back against the stone arch of the bridge. ‘Even if I pretended to care for the diplomacy of passion and all its tactics and intrigues, we would not have time for them.’ He sensed her changing mood and felt an ache of fear. She squeezed his hand to reassure him. ‘Coming here together was unwise.’
‘Are we never to be alone?’
‘Except for my sittings, no; at least not at Hanley Park.’ She paused and went on rapidly: ‘I have various arrangements to make before the sale of our London house. I had not intended to leave a visit longer than three weeks. We will meet then.’
‘Perhaps I should go sooner than you suggested?’
‘It would be better for us.’
His look of resigned sadness pierced her to the heart.
‘What will you work at when you get back?’ she asked gently.
‘God knows. Perhaps I’ll stare at the wall or drink….’ He shrugged his shoulders and stared down at the sluggish stream, already amazed that he could have thought that absence from her would be easier than staying and pretending indifference. ‘I may paint what you suggested – the monk and his pig.’
‘I should like that; I should like you to think of me.’
She kissed his cheek, but they did not embrace; like sailors, he thought, after a rough passage, getting used to firm ground and stepping carefully. It seemed terrible to Helen deliberately to be stifling emotions which their every wish and longing had been to prolong and which she had feared she would never know again. Ahead of them, only the uncertainty of moments snatched, of plans unexpectedly overturned, of tensions and tears. Foreseeing such a future, why should he wish to go on loving her? The thought weakened her resolve to send him away so soon.
Beyond the bridge cattle were drinking from the stream, and in the still air numerous bees sought out the white clover in the meadow, their humming interrupted by the sharper chirp of grasshoppers. Clouds were forming above the hazy outline of the distant hills.
Helen imagined arriving in London to discover that he would not see her. Other women would console him; he might confess his unhappiness to Magnus who would mix sympathy with advice to forget her. His work would divert him; being younger than she, he would be more resilient. Although Helen often smiled at the mention of truth and duty, her own honesty did not even now allow her to contemplate marrying a man with the definitely formed intention of deceiving him afterwards. Tom’s chances for love would come again; this, she believed, might be her last. They had been silent for some minutes when she took his hand and murmured without looking at him:
‘Come to me tonight.’ She felt his fingers tighten around hers.
‘I don’t know your room,’ he replied, blushing deeply, keenly aware of the bathos of his reply; his skin was tingling and there was a warm throbbing in the muscles of his calves.
‘Then I’ll come to you.’ A moment later she laughed and began pulling on her gloves. ‘I can’t imagine why we should be whispering.’
He said nothing, but started to pick seeds and dry grass from her long black skirt, finally rising and securing a stray lock of hair at her temple. His care for her appearance and his caution made her eyes fill. He had nothing to gain by preserving her reput
ation – quite the reverse. Only when they were driving home did she wonder whether he had done such things before to avoid discovery. His regular mistress might be a married woman. I know nothing about him; nothing. Yet tonight we will make love. Helen felt faint with shock. She imagined him showing this other woman her veil, telling her how easily her ladyship had been seduced, how he could now expect more portrait work from her aristocratic friends. She reigned in the horse and looked at him beseechingly.
‘Never talk about me to anybody. I beg you not to.’
‘I won’t; I swear it.’
She shut her eyes for a moment and then nodded.
‘I believe you,’ she replied in a low fervent voice as she lifted the reins. A few minutes later they were approaching the gates.
*
That afternoon Catherine stood in the doorway of the library watching Tom reading; in fact he had managed barely three pages during the hour he had been sitting there. Since their conversation in the Sculpture Gallery they had addressed no more than a dozen sentences to each other. Tom heard the rustle of a dress and stood up.
‘How is the portrait, Mr Strickland?’
‘As complete as I intend to make it here.’
‘Surely you are not leaving already?’ Catherine asked, with an innocence which he was certain was ironic.
‘I go tomorrow.’
‘It has taken longer than you thought?’
‘A few days.’
Her cold scrutiny disconcerted him, but he did not show it.
‘By asking you to stay on, her ladyship has paid you a rare compliment.’
‘I must try to merit it,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘I fear she has found sitting very dull. She kept me waiting an hour this morning and then did not deign to sit.’
Catherine ran her fingers along the spine of a book and then smiled brightly at him.
‘Did you enjoy your morning drive?’
‘Should I not have done so?’ he asked, meeting her gaze.
‘Of course not.’
She rested her hands on a marquetry table between them, drumming lightly with the tips of her fingers.
‘You must forgive my mistake, Mr Strickland.’
‘I cannot recall any mistake, Miss Crawford.’
‘I believed Lady Goodchild had spoken to you concerning me.’
‘And now you think otherwise?’
‘Of course,’ she replied pertly. ‘Her ladyship would hardly have considered a man whose company pleases her so much, an unsuitable companion for me.’
Tom was still thinking how to reply as she left the room.
*
Shortly after dinner, Humphrey suggested billiards, and for once Tom was glad to oblige him, since the alternative was to sit with Catherine and Helen, ignoring the unnerving tensions and undercurrents passing between them and trying to make innocuous conversation. A game of billiards also gave Tom a brief respite from his apprehensive thoughts. In the past his progress with Helen had appeared entirely spontaneous, and this had saved them both from self-consciousness and nerves. There would be nothing unplanned or unexpected about tonight; this time both of them would have had hours in which to reflect.
Between shots, Humphrey lounged on the arm of a leather armchair, sipping claret and talking about the navy; he also lit a cigar and persevered with it in spite of several bad fits of coughing. His valiant efforts to be a man of the world amused Tom and he enjoyed calling the boy ‘my lord’ and in return being called ‘Strickland’ – a token of familiarity, he thought, rather than superiority. They were in the middle of their second game when Helen and Catherine came into the Billiard Room. While Humphrey raised his eyebrows disapprovingly at what he evidently considered an unwarrantable violation of this male sanctum, Tom hurriedly finished his shot, before turning to greet the ladies.
They sat down on the long buttoned-leather sofa in front of the window and watched the play in silence; a proceeding which did not please Tom, since Humphrey began playing with an expertise and determination which he had not shown when they were alone. This was not the first time that Tom had noticed Humphrey’s eagerness to impress Catherine, nor did he intend to spoil the boy’s attempt by making an exceptional effort to avoid defeat. In the end Humphrey won comfortably.
‘I hope you win all your naval battles so easily,’ said Catherine, as Humphrey put away his cue. ‘I am sure that I should be frightened of becoming a sailor with everyone speaking of war.’
Tom had an uncomfortable feeling that Catherine had really aimed this remark at Helen; he was still uneasy about what she had said in the library, and was determined that if they argued, he would remain neutral.
‘Even officers who have been in action ever so many times are a bit nervous,’ replied Humphrey.
‘Of course war is by no means certain,’ added Helen. ‘Nobody wants it; not even the Tsar.’
Catherine got up and on reaching the table, began bouncing the red ball back and forth off the opposite cushion; in the light of the bright moderator lamp above the table, her eyes shone mischievously.
‘Why on earth is everybody pretending to be against a war? Lots of promotion for soldiers and sailors, contracts for caterers and shipbuilders, and the whole thing fought out thousands of miles away over somebody else’s country by people paid to do it.’
‘You can’t want people to be killed,’ said Humphrey, genuinely shocked by her apparent cynicism.
‘Isn’t it rather like cholera – dying in battle? Nobody thinks it’ll happen to them, so they don’t worry. And anyway, we’re going to win, aren’t we?’
‘I find your attitude a little surprising,’ said Helen icily, ‘especially at a time when your father is doing everything he can to preserve peace.’
Catherine smiled sympathetically and leant against the side of the table.
‘I wonder if he’s told you why he thinks my lord Aberdeen such an old woman?’ Helen did not reply. ‘Apparently his lordship toured the battlefield at Leipzig and was so stricken by the bodies of the slain that there and then he became a Quaker – in sentiment if not in name. Perhaps he had expected to see flowers instead of corpses – my father’s words.’
‘If you are suggesting that your father would encourage Humphrey to become a naval officer, knowing that, he stood a high risk of being killed, I think you ought to say so clearly.’
‘Your ladyship knows his thoughts better than I, but you may have heard that half his crew were dead before he moved out of the line at Navarino. The officers on the gun decks had to threaten to shoot men to keep them at their guns.’
Tom noticed that Humphrey appeared animated rather than cowed by this information. To his relief Helen still seemed perfectly calm.
‘The circumstances were hardly similar. Your father is convinced the Russians will not leave harbour.’
‘Perhaps we will send in the fleet to sink them at anchor?’
‘Kronstadt and Sebastopol are too well fortified,’ said Humphrey, more with disappointment than relief.
‘I hope so for everybody’s sake,’ replied Catherine, sweeping one of the white balls into a pocket with a loud thump.
‘Your father has repeatedly said so, and I have perfect confidence in his judgment.’
Catherine glanced at Helen and said quietly:
‘He is fortunate to enjoy such loyalty and trust.’ She turned to Tom and Humphrey. ‘I have stopped your play, forgive me, gentlemen.’
As Catherine left, Tom was convinced by Helen’s expression that she was also aware of the barbed irony in Catherine’s parting words to her. Although Catherine’s bitterness distressed him, Tom was sure that it owed more to wounded pride and a personal dislike of Helen than to any evidence more damning than their ride together, unaccompanied by coachman or groom. Jealousy could be founded on even less – on a word or a glance. Given time to reflect, Tom was confident that Catherine would realise that she had allowed her emotions to distort her judgment. Tom’s fear was that Helen might be unable t
o take such a philosophical view of her future step-daughter’s behaviour.
Having played a final game with Humphrey, this time of pyramid, and having lost it badly through inattention, Tom rang for a servant to light him to his room.
He lay fully clothed on his bed, doing his best to prepare himself for what he expected to be a long and anxious wait, made worse by a growing suspicion that she would not come. Their morning by the stream seemed to have happened weeks rather than hours ago; and since then, worries about her son and Catherine would have reminded Helen forcefully of the realities of her situation. The darkness of the room and the deep shadows cast by the candles on each side of the bed made the sunlit fields seem still more remote. He fumbled in the pocket of his frock-coat and pulled out her veil, staring at it for several moments before replacing it. Then he undressed rapidly and climbed into bed. For a time he wondered whether he ought to wear his nightshirt but in the end decided not to: its patched condition overcoming his shyness at being naked when she came. A moment later he laughed aloud at the absurdity of worrying about such things. The beautiful kingwood chest, with its intricate brass inlay and gilt bronzes, was filled with his worn shirts, and threadbare under-waistcoats and trouser-drawers. Beside the carved sphinxes, supporting the porphyry and marble top of the dressing table, were his only pair of new shoes, bought specially for his stay at Hanley Park. After thoroughly impressing on himself the bizarrerie of his position, Tom felt less nervous, and fell to thinking about the various conversations he had had with Helen since his arrival. Later, thinking of the future, he imagined himself welcoming Helen in his studio and laughing with her about the cracked sky-light and stained floorboards; he saw Magnus come in and was relieved that he did not seem angry or disturbed to see Helen, but embraced her warmly and offered her some wine.