The Clouded Hills

by Brenda Jagger

  ‘Thank Christ,’ he said and, incredibly, in the flickering, treacherous moonlight, I saw that he was crying.

  Mrs Stevens was waiting in the hall, hands twisted anxiously together, her eyes compassionate, whispering to me that, in the smoking room she had made all tidy – not perfect but sufficient – and I took him upstairs, walking once again as a lover, my arm around his waist, his arm around my shoulders. And when I had undressed him, washed him and bandaged him again, put him to bed, he said, ‘Stay with me.’ And so I sat down beside him, noting the greyness of his face, its gauntness against the white pillows, his eyelids blue-veined, black-smudged, his cheeks scoured, into hollows, looking as Blaize had looked on that night of fever.

  ‘Will you bring me a cigar?’ he asked, hesitant almost, as if I were a stranger, and as I brought it, he groaned suddenly and said, ‘I have to do something for her. Whether she lives or dies, I have to do something for her. Verity, what can I do?’

  ‘You can settle Mark Corey’s debts and get him out of jail.’

  ‘Mark Corey. Dear God—’

  ‘Yes – Mark Corey.’

  And leaning back against his pillows, very weakly, almost imperceptibly, he laughed.

  Some time later, when his eyes were closed and my eyelids were aching for sleep, I was jerked abruptly to wakefulness by his whisper, coming at me like a bee sting through the dark.

  ‘Does she want him, Verity?’

  ‘Her sister says that she does.’

  ‘Then she could have raised the money herself, to buy him out – surely?’

  ‘Not without your being aware of it, since she’d have had to take it from the business, and she knew how much you wanted to close his paper down. And then he knew nothing of the child, for it seems matters had come to an end between them, or nearly so. She thought his eyes were roving in another direction, and so why should she set him free for someone else? At least, that is what her sister says. And perhaps she didn’t want to beg. Perhaps she didn’t want to say, “I have paid your debts so now you must marry me,” I can understand that.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said quietly. ‘But he’ll marry her, just the same.’

  ‘Joel – how can you? If he’s not willing?’

  ‘I’ll make him willing. I’ll make him damn glad. I’ll get him out of jail and I’ll get him down the aisle – or my money will, his newspaper will. Settling his debts won’t be enough. He’ll need money if he wants to print that bloody filthy rag again, and now that his father’s gone, I see no alternative for him but to take a well-dowered wife. And since I’ll be supplying the dowry I reckon I can pick the bride. He’ll see the sense to it. He’ll take what I offer and slander me in his first edition. Why not? I’d do the same.’

  ‘Joel – Joel – how can they be happy, if he doesn’t want her?’

  And setting his jaw, he snarled, ‘I don’t give a damn for what he wants. If she wants him, then she’ll have him. The rest is up to her.’

  The next morning, blessedly, was Sunday, bringing me no need to dissuade him from going down to the mill. He had passed a quiet night, his bandages were clean, his flesh ridging painfully together, long, raw scars, uneven and ugly, but no longer seeping his life away; mending, he said, as I washed and bandaged them again and laid my hand across his brow for signs of fever.

  ‘I’ll live,’ he told me, and because there was a question in his voice which asked, ‘Are you glad? Are you sorry?’ I became immensely occupied with towels and soiled linen, and hurried fussily away.

  He spent the morning and afternoon in bed, staring moodily at the ceiling, endlessly smoking, but he allowed me to cancel an engagement to dine with the Mandelbaums, using my own sick headache as an excuse, and came downstairs in the early evening, appearing suddenly in my sitting-room door, to the consternation of Mrs Stevens, who, after one swift glance at his face and then at mine, picked up her work basket and fled.

  ‘So,’ he said, sitting down carefully, ‘and what has our dear Emmeline to tell us today? She’ll have had her spies, working overtime these last twenty-four hours, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘She says Miss Boulton seems to be mending – slowly – although it is still not certain. They had Dr Overdale first of all, from Blenheim Lane, who does not approve of suicides and said there was nothing to be done. But then they sent for the new young doctor who lives in Simon Street, where suicides are ten a penny, and I suppose experience tells. That is what Emmeline Stevens says.’

  ‘Verity, do you pity her?’

  ‘Mrs Stevens?’

  ‘Verity, for God’s sake, I am not talking of Mrs Stevens.’

  ‘Miss Boulton, then? Yes, I pity her intensely. I believe I have always done so. Shall I ask them to light a fire in here, for I think I feel a chill’

  ‘Verity,’ he said, so violently that the effort hurt him and he pressed a hand briefly to his chest. ‘Verity, will you talk to me – not of fires and the weather – talk to me?’

  And I was at a loss to understand the feeling of power – of elation – that possessed me.

  ‘I don’t know, Joel, for you have never talked to me. You have given me instructions and reprimanded me sometimes, and you have teased me – pinched my chin and ruffled my hair in that abominable manner – and called me “reasonable” and “sensible” often enough. But I don’t think one can call that conversation.’

  ‘Maybe not. If I talk to you now, will you listen?’

  And when I nodded he hesitated, at a loss himself in this new situation, faced – as I was – with a person he had known all his life and never known at all.

  ‘I have to explain—’

  ‘There’s no need, Joel.’

  ‘There is a need, dammit. I have to explain, and don’t hide yourself away – don’t disappear into a cloud like your mother. Listen to me. The father of the woman who had been my mistress for years whipped me last night because he believed I had ruined her – and he was right. And we can’t let that go by without comment – can’t lose it in discussions about lighting fires. You must want to know something more about it. At the very least you must be curious.’

  ‘I asked you something about it last night and you wouldn’t answer.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t answer. You asked me if I’d ever loved her, and I don’t know what that means. I wanted her once, badly enough to marry her, since that was the only way to have her, but I let her go readily enough when I got the chance to marry you. I expected her to get married herself fairly soon after, and so did she, and if she had that would have been the end of it. I never gave her a thought for a long time, and then, one day, I called in Blenheim Lane to see Morgan Aycliffe, and there she was, on her knees, dressmaking for Elinor. Well – I’d like to say my conscience troubled me – and in a way it did – but when I made her my proposition about the shop I knew what I wanted out of it for myself. And if she’d turned me down I can’t say for certain, if I’m honest, that I’d have gone on backing her. But she didn’t turn me down – far from it – and for a while I can’t deny that it was exciting – everything, her jealousy even, was exciting – mainly her jealousy. I liked her to love me. I liked to watch it – test it – and even when sleeping with her lost its excitement and was no more than convenient, I still liked her to love me – until it became a nuisance. And then I told myself she was doing well in the shop and that I’d nothing to reproach myself for. So – there’s your answer – I liked her to love me.’

  ‘And Estella Chase?’

  ‘Estella Chase loves Estella Chase. She’s peevish and tricky and unreliable and curious. That’s been the basis of my relations with her – curiosity – and I reckon it’s been long satisfied.’

  And as the evening deepened, the house quietened, leaving us completely alone, I asked, ‘Why are you telling me this, Joel?’

  And he, leaning slightly forward, his eyes hesitant again, replied, ‘Because I want to talk about you. I want to clear them out of our way, and tell you—’

&nb
sp; ‘No, Joel. Not now. You’re grateful now, and still weak—’

  ‘Yes, Verity. I’ve spent the day and most of last night thinking about it, and there are things you have to know.’

  ‘But it’s not the moment – can’t you see? You’re tired, I’m tired—’

  ‘I couldn’t touch you, Verity, in the beginning – do you know that? – without a damned, stupid feeling that it was wrong …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. I understand. You’ve told me and now, please, don’t talk so much. It’s not good for you. You’ll start the bleeding again.’

  ‘I felt I was harming you, Verity, and it troubled me that I cared. I was a man who’d had other women, and you were so untouched.’

  ‘It was so long ago – it’s over.’

  ‘I felt I’d never penetrated you, Verity – you were like smoke in my hands. I couldn’t hold you, and it maddened me, many a time.’

  ‘Oh – as to that—’

  ‘And I never lost that uncertainty. That’s why I kissed Estella Chase that afternoon. You’d talked so calmly about my infidelity – so bloody calmly – and so I wanted you to see it – I thought that might make a difference. You wouldn’t tell me what you felt, or didn’t feel – and so I had to know. And finding out was painful. I didn’t think a woman could hurt me, until that afternoon, when you came sailing out of the front door with a smile on your face. I wanted – oh, God knows what I wanted—’

  ‘You wanted to see me sick and shaken and trembling – as I’d been two minutes before – that’s what you wanted. You wanted me to love you, like Rosamund Boulton, but what were you prepared to feel for me – your new challenge?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it true – that you were shaken?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s true that I’ve grown up, Joel.’

  ‘I know it. I couldn’t have got on without you last night, and today, thinking it over, I know there is no one but you I could have asked to help me, no one else I would have cared to ask.’

  ‘Hannah?’

  ‘No, not Hannah, Verity.’

  ‘And is that supposed to mean something?’

  ‘Perhaps I’m thanking you. Perhaps I’m saying we can’t go on as we are.’

  But emotion in Joel, the slight trembling in his voice as he spoke those last words, held the terror of all things that are totally unknown, and I got up, walked away from him, feeling a desperate need for escape, to say, ‘I am not quite well. I must go upstairs,’ managing only to reach the window before he came and stood behind me, not touching me, although the warmth of his body, the odours of his skin touched me, separately, quite distinct.

  ‘Verity – do you still care for Crispin Aycliffe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And his sigh entered me, fanning out inside my body, warm, alien air, invading, possessing.

  ‘Verity, if – and I say if – I were to allow you to see him – just see him, as you did before – live with me and see him – would you agree? Would it be a solution? Don’t answer all at once. Think about it, for your answer matters to me.’

  And, unbelievably, I swung round to him and said irritably, ‘Oh, do go and sit down. Why on earth must you walk about so? I can feel your chest hurting. Do sit down.’

  He obeyed me, crossing the room slowly to the fireside chair, watching me from lowered lids as I followed him, sat down too, my hands folded one inside the other, quietly, my breathing shallow, everything in me suspended somehow – waiting, waiting – letting the minutes flow by in silence until they measured half of one hushed hour, my body still tight-curled like a bud – waiting, waiting – to open and know itself.

  ‘Why did you make me that offer, Joel?’

  ‘Because—’

  ‘Tell me the truth.’

  ‘Yes. There’s no trap, Verity. It seems that after all my philandering, I’m just a poor devil who doesn’t want to lose his wife. That’s what it comes down to.’

  ‘That – or you want to reward me. A husband for Miss Boulton, a lord for Caroline, a lover for me.’

  ‘You could be kinder, Verity, than that,’ he said, and raising both hands, pressing them hard against my eyes, I felt tears stinging behind my eyelids, their first dampness on my fingers.

  ‘I’d abide by it,’ he said. ‘God help me, but I’d keep my word. I don’t say I wouldn’t try to win you away from him – I don’t deny there’s a part of me that believes I could – if you’d let me try. I’d do it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘God knows. I’d do it, that’s all. I’m as amazed as you are and it’s taken me all afternoon to bring myself to admit it, but I’d do it. I don’t say I love you – maybe I just think I could love you. Maybe I want to love you – and I’d go to the devil before I’d say that to anybody else. I don’t want to love anybody else. And I’m a man who takes risks, you know that. If we keep on as we are he’ll be between us for the rest of our lives. And it was only a game when I told you I didn’t care how you thought or felt, only how you behaved – a charade, like it’s been a charade these past six months, you must know that. I’ve always cared – selfishly, maybe, because I’ve always thought I could leave you for later, that you’d be here waiting – growing up – ready for me when I’d tasted everything else. And I miscalculated the time. I left it too long. And the power of the law and the power of my money can’t keep you – not the way I want you. So if you want to see him, see him – stay with me and see him. Maybe I’m giving you a licence to hurt me. I reckon I’ve hurt you often enough.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  And once again time flowed between us, soft waves of slow-dropping water. Silence. And then: ‘Is it a licence to hurt you, Joel, or a calculated risk – the calculation being that I won’t use it?’

  ‘Whatever you like,’ he said, the strain of the day very clear now in his face, staining his eyelids, engraving lines I’d never seen before from mouth to chin. ‘There’s no reason why you should trust me, God knows. If you think I’m making a grand, empty gesture, then I can’t blame you. If you think it’s all just because I can’t bear to lose, then I can’t blame you for that either. But I’ve made the offer. It still stands. What do you say?’

  And this time the silence was airless, tense, the lowering quality of a hot summer sky straining towards thunder, until I said, ‘No. I say no,’ and the storm receded.

  ‘Why not? Tell me.’

  ‘Because I cannot accept so false a life – you with your lovers and me with mine. I thought, six months ago, that I could. I thought you were making me this same offer when we began to sleep apart – and even then I was uneasy with it. Adultery does not suit me, as it suits you. I could never take a lover, as you take a mistress, for pleasure. It would not satisfy me, and I don’t know – I don’t know – how much it satisfies you.’

  ‘What do you want then?’

  And for a long moment I looked down at my folded hands.

  ‘I believe I want to be married, or not to be married. One thing or the other. And if I am married then I will be faithful to my husband and expect him to be faithful to me. I want my husband to be my lover and my friend – my dearest, closest friend. I want him to rely on me for the support and guidance it is in my nature to give, as I will rely on him in the areas where he is best able to guide me. I want him to trust me, and I want to trust him. Whatever happens to me during my days, however small or comic or momentous, I want to feel an immense urge to run and tell him of it, to share it with him, and I want him to feel the same urge towards me. I want us both to feel that no pleasure, not one of life’s experiences, can be fully realized unless the other is involved – the good alongside the bad. I want his weaknesses and his faults as well as his strengths. I want him, as he is, a whole person, and I want him to want the whole of me. If I am married then I will refuse the fiction that I have only a woman’s role to play and he only a man’s. We must be two of a kind, the same species, giving the best that is in us to each other.
That as what I want – if I am married.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, leaning back heavily in his chair, his eyes closing on a great tide of weariness. ‘And you are not talking about me – don’t think I don’t know it. And if you are not married?’

  ‘Would you allow me – not to be married?’

  ‘Allow it? No. But I don’t know, any longer, if I can altogether prevent it. I should make another grand gesture now, should I not – another calculated risk? I should tell you to leave me, give you the money and the goods to make yourself comfortable – the calculation being that my generosity would touch your heart and you’d say, “Poor Joel, he must love me to distraction. I’d better stay.” Yes, that’s what I should do, but I find the risk too great – it scares me, Verity.’

  And he was smiling now, ruefully, wistfully, drawing a smile from me, reminding me, for no reason I could name, of the man who had sat in the window of the Old Swan and raised his glass to the howling crowd below; the man who had driven fifteen miles one night and back again to throw my puppies at me in the dark; the man who, bleeding across his desk top, soiling his good shirt and his precious carpet, had said, ‘Verity, see to Mr Boulton’; the man who later, that same night, had said, ‘Verity, help me.’

  ‘Do you dislike me, Verity?’ he asked now, and I shook my head.

  ‘No. I have never done that. If you had troubled to pay attention to me when I was young – because you are handsome and clever – I would probably have fallen madly in love with you and you would have broken my heart. Because if I had loved you then, when I was young and awkward and didn’t know how to handle it, you would never have thought of loving me.’

  ‘I am thinking of it now.’

  ‘But you don’t know for certain that you can. Joel, would you allow me to visit my mother – while you are thinking about it – so that I can think too?’

  ‘I don’t want that.’

  ‘No. But will you allow it?’

  And for the final time that night silence entered the room and stood between us, its arms outstretched, holding us apart, the busy ticking of the clock a hammer beat, speeding my pulses and the beat of my heart.