by Jean Plaidy
She crept out of the room.
The candle guttered. The clock ticked on. And as he sat there he knew that Kitty was not coming home.
The dawn was beginning to creep into the sky when he remembered seeing her that afternoon with her daughter. He went suddenly cold. Had she taken Carolan with her? Hastily he went to the child’s room. With great relief he saw that she was still there.
He sat heavily on the bed. He could just see her face in the early dawn light a child’s face with a smudge of lashes against her pale skin, very sweet, very innocent.
He shook her.
“Wake up, girl! Wake up!” She awoke startled.
“Oh …” she said, ‘the squire!”
He frowned. He had told her she must call him Father, had threatened to whip her for not calling him Father; and it was only in unguarded moments that she slipped back into the childhood habit of calling him the squire.
“Carrie,” he said sternly, ‘where is your mother?”
“Mother!” she said, and the events of the day came crowding back to her.
“You heard! Where is your mother? You know, do you not?”
She was too bewildered to deny her knowledge.
He said: “You know then, you know!”
She did not answer.
“By God,” he said, ‘so you are in this conspiracy against me, eh? Where has your mother gone?”
“I… I cannot say,” stammered Carolan.
“You cannot say! And why can you not say? Tell me that.”
She was silent.
“You have been sworn to secrecy, is that it?”
She nodded.
“It would be better if you told me now, you know.”
“I cannot tell.”
He looked down at her, livid with fury; not because Kitty had left him now, but because Carolan was in league with Kitty against him.
He gripped her by the shoulder and tore her nightgown. She was very small, he noticed, such a child.
“Look you here, Carrie, I will have no more disobedience in this house. You will tell me where your mother has gone, or I will whip you myself. Will you tell me ?”
But she knew she must not tell … not yet. They would not have gone far enough yet. She must wait a while, a whole day at least. Then he could never find them and bring them back. Mamma had married the squire because of her, Carolan; she had gathered that much; now it was her painful duty to save Mamma from the squire. So she pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head.
“You admit you know then?” he said, and she had known it, there was a pleading note in his voice: he wanted her to say she did not know; he wanted to put his great face close to hers and kiss her and say: “You are completely my daughter now, little Carrie.” But she knelt on her bed, her hands clasped behind her back, her face white and frightened, but her lips pressed firmly together. She was going to be silent for Kitty, and she would not speak to him.
“Very well,” he said cruelly, ‘we shall see whether you will speak or not. Margaret!” he roared, and Margaret, who had heard the commotion and had been awake for a long time, came in.
“Go to my bedroom, Margaret, and bring my riding crop. I will not have disobedience from my children.”
Margaret hesitated and wished she had pretended to be asleep. But he roared at her again: “Go! Or you will be the next. God Dammed, am I to be thwarted in my own house?” Margaret went, and he pushed Carolan on to the bed.
“Now, Carrie,” he said almost wheedlingly, ‘you tell your father what happened this afternoon. Where did she take you, eh? Eh, Carrie?”
Carolan said nothing. He bent down and gave her a stinging blow about her ear. He lifted her by her hair and pulled her up.
Her lips quivered.
“Are you coming to your senses, Carrie? Are you going to tell me?”
Carolan could only shake her head.
He threw her face downwards on to the bed and began to slap her body with his great hands. Carolan cried out, and he laughed.
“I will teach you, my girl!” he said.
“I will teach you!” Margaret came back and stood trembling on the threshold, the crop in her hand. He snatched it from her, and with it poised in his hand, stood staring down at the quivering body of the child.
“Dammit!” he cried.
“What do I want with this? I have strength enough in my hands to deal with the brat.” And he picked her up and shook her, and he saw that her eyes were tightly shut and that tears were squeezing themselves through her closed lids. Emotions mingled in his mind.
Then he saw Jennifer. She was looking in at the door, and her mouth was working. She had been at the gin bottle again, and she was laughing because he had beaten the child.
He picked up the crop and went towards her; she ran, her arms stretched out before her, into her room. He stood in the doorway, laughing at her. Then he looked over his shoulder at Carolan who lay still on the bed, her nightdress in ribbons about her bruised body, a sob shaking her now and then.
How loyal the child was! Loyal to that slut of a mother. And nothing for him but defiance.
“Carrie!” he said.
“I’ll see you in the morning. Then we will hear whether you persist in your folly or not.”
But he would not beat her again. He was the beaten one, not she. He had to get out or he would be petting her, telling her he did not mean that after all, and that whatever she had done mattered not, because he loved her.
He went to his bedroom, but not to sleep. And in the morning he sent for Mrs. West.
The child had to be whipped last night,” he said, and though he felt her disapproving eyes upon him; he did not resent that. He warmed to Mrs. West. He said, almost apologetically: “I was upset myself. Perhaps I laid it on a bit too strongly… But I will have no more disobedience in this house. Go to her. And take her something tasty to eat… And see that she is all right.”
In the evening of that day he sent for Carolan. She came to him, her head high, defiant.
By God, he thought, is she asking for another whipping? But how he admired her! She had something in her that Kitty had not had, nor perhaps Bess either.
“Well, Madam Carolan!” he said, with an attempt at lightness.
“Well?”
“Well what? Have I not told you to use some respect when addressing me? Did I not tell you to call me Father? You had better do so, unless you so like the feel of my hands about you that you are asking for more of what you had last night.”
She was frightened, he saw with satisfaction.
“You are not my father,” she told him boldly enough.
“So why should I call you such?”
“Look here, Carrie,” he said.
“I am your father. You had better tell me immediately who has said I am not.”
“My mother has said it. And I will tell you now what I would not tell you last night… She has gone away with my father.”
His face went white, then hideously purple.
“Ah!” he said at length.
“And Madam Carolan knew, and would not tell, eh?”
“No,” she said, “I would not tell.”
“For fear I should have gone after them?”
She nodded.
Brave little girl! Bold and defiant and disobedient. His eyes were filling with mawkish tears. Why was she not his daughter! He would have given anything to know she was.
“You need not have feared that, girl.”
“Oh!”
“And you might have saved yourself a whipping. Carrie, come here, girl. It did not please me to whip you like that. How do you feel?” He looked at his hands.
“They are big and clumsy, eh, Carrie?” He took her hand, and laughed comparing them.
She said: “I did not mind. It is all over now.”
Queer position. Am I asking pardon of Kitty’s bastard? It looked to him as if he were; he did not understand himself. Then,” he said, ‘we will forget last night, Car
rie, eh? I was in a foul temper.”
“Of course,” she said.
“I know.” And she smiled, and when she smiled she was the image of Bessie … more Bessie than Kitty.
“And it does not hurt much now. Mrs. West was very kind.”
“Good for West!” he said.
“We will have a ride together tomorrow. Not West and II’ He roared with laughter at the thought, and put out a great hand and pinched Carolan’s cheek.
“These two, Carrie. Squire and his daughter, eh?” There was nothing sullen about her. She was adorable, this child. Kitty had left her; that made her solely his. After that Carolan’s life slipped on smoothly enough. She saw more of the squire; they rode together almost every day. He was eager to make up for that beating, and he tried to do so in lots of ways which on account of their very clumsiness were endearing. He was like a father to her; indulgent, though violent enough when crossed, and afterwards almost pathetically sorry for his violence. She avoided him when she possibly could, but when she could not she tried very hard to be fond of him, and after a time she began to find his companionship tolerable, even amusing.
Often she dreamed of joining her father and mother in London, because she was sure that that was what she was going to do one day. She waited for the promised letter which was to be enclosed in one for Mrs. West, and she was disappointed for weeks, but eventually it came.
She took it to her room and read it through many times. Her mother had given an address in London but she said it would not be possible for them to have Carolan with them just yet. They had their way to make and prospects at the moment were not very rosy; they would prefer their daughter to wait until they had a home to offer her which would be as luxurious as the one she would have to leave to come to them.
As if I care for luxury! thought Carolan, but she did realize that if she went to her parents in London, it would mean leaving Everard, and that most decidedly she did not want to do.
Carolan’s first ball dress was of green brocade trimmed with coffee-coloured lace. Its skirt was full and swept the floor; its bodice was rightly fitting and very dainty, falling from her shoulders, with tiny sleeves caught up with green ribbons. Her eyes matched the colour of her dress; and her hair, parted in the middle, hung in soft curls about her shoulders; it looked very natural and fashionable, unpowdered as it was, for powdering had gone out of fashion some four years before with the coming of the tax.
The squire had given her a dress; he had taken great pleasure in doing so. There was to be a ball, he whispered to her, and it was a great occasion Carolan’s first ball; she was to stop being a child when the old century ended and start her adult life with the new. The disreputable clothes in which she tore about the countryside were unsuitable for a young woman though they might do well enough for a child, so there must be a new dress and new slippers, and as the money for these was to come out of the squire’s purse, he hoped young Carrie was going to be suitably grateful. She was grateful; she gave him a kiss without being asked, which seemed to please him mightily.
Carolan, studying herself in her mirror, thought about the kiss she had given the squire. He still made her uneasy, as he had when she was a child. She could have liked him so much more but for his hearty caresses. He was kind to her. indeed more kind than he was to Margaret or Charles, which amazed her. He liked to ride with her, to take her round the estate, to make the cottagers curtsy to her. Queer man, but kind I Carolan bent her head and kissed her own white shoulder in an excess of excitement over this occasion of her first ball and the delight in herself dressed up in her first ball dress. Everard would be at the ball tonight. He had said: “Now, Carolan, I shall expect you to save plenty of dances for me!”
How beautiful was Everard! With his finely chiselled features and his courteous manners, he was aristocratic and gentle, elegant without being foppish; never really angry except on someone else’s behalf: never unkind. So calm he was, aloof, never excited by her as she was by him; she loved to sit on the wall between the Orlands’ house and the graveyard and listen to Everard’s talk of his future; and how he loved to talk! She twirled round ecstatically to glimpse at the back of her dress; she danced round the room and imagined she was dancing with Everard.
She came to an abrupt stop by falling against the old bureau in the corner; she was laughing at herself. Did everyone get ready too soon for their first ball?
She was so happy she had to dance. Indeed the last year had been the happiest of her life. In the bureau were letters from her mother; there were several which had come via Mrs. West over the last four years. Mamma was very happy in London; soon Carolan must join her and her father, but not yet; they were not quite ready … Ah, thought Carolan, let them enjoy their happiness without an intruder!
And she knew in her heart that she did not really want to join them; she was too happy here. It was true that the rough caresses of the squire sometimes perturbed her, and she understood him as little now as she had done when a child. But that was a small matter in the midst of such contentment, and Everard was the rock on which all this contentment was built. To go to London would mean to lose Everard; therefore she was glad when her mother wrote that they were not quite ready for her.
Life had changed for her. Everywhere it seemed good.
Charles, who was at Oxford now and home only occasionally, no longer tormented her. He scarcely seemed to notice her at all. Jennifer Jay had drunk too much gin one night last year, and had fallen from the top of a flight of stairs to the bottom; that was the end of Jennifer Jay. With Mrs. West and the servants she was a favourite, more so than Margaret, which surprised her, for Margaret was lovely to look at and the squire’s own daughter. But one of the deepest reasons for her contentment was Margaret’s sudden change of feeling towards Everard. Margaret had loved Everard a little while ago; now she was almost indifferent to him. If Carolan talked of him, she was scarcely interested, and that made Carolan very happy, because she knew Everard had never wanted Margaret to care for him so blatantly, and he seemed to like her better now that she was more or less indifferent towards him.
Margaret came into the room, looking delightful in her favourite blue, with her fair hair dressed high on her head.
“You look beautiful!” cried Carolan enthusiastically.
Margaret looked wistful, and said: “You always exaggerate.”
“How do I look?” asked Carolan, her head on one side pleadingly.
“All right.” said Margaret.
Carolan grimaced, and Margaret wondered why a dress, which had been merely pretty hanging in the cupboard, should, when draped about Carolan’s slender person, become provocative, seductive, all that in Margaret’s opinion a dress should not be.
Carolan quickly dismissed the disappointment which Margaret’s cool comment had aroused in her, and said: “Oughtn’t we to go down … since you will have to receive people, or something?”
“You need not come yet,” said Margaret.
“I must go.”
“Of course I shall come.” giggled Carolan.
“Do you know, I have been ready for at least half an hour, waiting! If I have to wait much longer I shall burst with impatience.”
“You are a silly child,” said Margaret, ‘and you say such silly things! I am going down now.”
Carolan followed her from the room. The squire from the hall below saw them descending the staircase, and stood there watching them.
By God, he thought, she is growing up. She is a woman. She is not much like Bess and Kitty smaller altogether, brighter, with more vitality. She has all they had though. Carolan … my daughter, Carolan!
His eyes went to Margaret. Nice enough just the wife for young Orland. Margaret’s place was in a country parsonage. Amelia’s girl! And, by God, no one could have any doubt of that. And tonight that young milksop would come to the point, he hoped. The young fellow was a plaguey long time deciding that he wanted to take the girl to bed with him. Still, there was nothing like a b
all to bring a young man to the point; show him Margaret’s people knew how to entertain, by God! Show him what sort of a family he would be marrying into. She was nigh on twenty! Time she was off his hands. How the children grew up! Carolan next. No, not Carolan she was his girl, his little daughter. This last year he had been happier than he had been for a long time. He was beginning to shape into that pattern he had cut for himself. He scarcely ever flew into one of the wild rages that had come to him so frequently at one time. People might think he was getting old, but it was not that entirely; he was not getting old; he was getting what he wanted. He had his little Carolan. Why did not Margaret’s eyes sparkle as Carolan’s did? Why did not her hair glow with that vitality?
His hand came down on Carolan’s shoulder.
“By God!” he cried.
“What have we here? I thought it was a child, but it is a young woman!”
She glanced at him through those thick lashes.
“Children are not given ball dresses, are they?” she said.
“Pampered ones might get all sorts of things out of their old fathers.”
She was scintillating. And this at sixteen! He was faintly worried, seeing her like this. He wanted her to remain a child.
“Well, sir,” said Carolan, curtsying, ‘this child is a child no longer.”
He touched her nose with a clumsy forefinger, made her take one arm, offered Margaret his other. Now he was proud and happy, standing with Margaret Carolan in the background -receiving the guests. He was the good squire now; he had been wild in his day, but what young man is not wild in his day? His cottagers could bring their troubles to him nowadays; he might roar at them; he might lose his temper now and then; but he did what he could for them; he was a good squire.
A girl in the uniform of a parlourmaid flitted through a door and across the room. His eyes followed her. That was Emm; and he glowed again with satisfaction. He was not a bad squire really … large hearted and tolerant. Good squire, people would say when he rode by with his daughter. Wild in his day, but a fine master! So many men would not have had Emm in their houses after Harriet had turned her out. Emm! He could laugh at the thought of one starry night when she had run from him and locked the door on him. She had saved her virtue for a young labourer who had promised her marriage and then deserted her. So virtuous little Emm had found herself with child and nowhere to cum. But the squire was a good squire, and Emm would never cease to bless him to the end of her days. He had not said: “Now you see what it is to trust a labourer; better far to trust a squire!” He had never deserted a woman. If there was a child he had seen that it was put out somewhere and a lump sum paid for it. Poor little Emm! What would have happened to her if she had lived in a neighbourhood where the squire was just a squire! But Emm had her baby at the cottage of Jane Lever the midwife, and a man and his wife who had no children looked after it; and Emm came to Haredon to be parlourmaid under Mrs. West. And she was shapely, a personable enough young woman; and she was grateful to the squire: but not once had he looked in her direction. That was the man he had become. He was bowing over Mrs. Orland’s hand, well pleased with himself and with life. Carolan watched the guests arrive. How lovely the old hall looked, decked out like this, the beautiful dresses of the women, the elegant garments of the men a blaze of colour and lights and beauty! And here was Everard, more elegant, more beautiful than any.