by Helen Magee
‘Indeed? How very generous of him.’
I felt the hot colour drain from my face and my body was cold as ice. I was humiliated beyond all description, I felt someone take my arm and lead me away and then I was in the little parlour which led from the ballroom, while Charles stood over me with a glass of something golden. He held it to my lips and the fiery liquid burned my throat as it went down but I began to feel the cold leave my body and the shivering lessened.
I spent the rest of the evening with Charles. He was so kind.
‘Don’t upset yourself, Felicia. Vida was tired. She has had a long journey.’
‘But Charles, she thought . . . ’
‘Nonsense, she only said that to hurt Lachlan. No one would believe such a thing.’
Eventually I was able to regain my composure and return to the ballroom. Neither Lachlan nor Vida were there and I was glad. Araminta came rushing up, her face flushed.
‘I say, Charles, did you know she was coming back tonight? Lachlan didn’t. He looked as if he could murder her. I’ve never seen him so angry, and with me too.’ Her pretty face was torn between excitement and apprehension.
‘Where are they?’ said Charles.
She shrugged.
‘They’ve gone. They went upstairs almost immediately and I haven’t seen them since.
What a thing to happen. The way she looked at you, Felicia . . . ’
I winced and felt Charles’s hand steady on my arm.
‘Come and dance with me, Charles,’ said Araminta.
Charles looked at her in disbelief.
‘I don’t think so, Araminta. Felicia is still a little shaken.’
Araminta looked at him petulantly. ‘But, Charles, it’s my ball.’
Charles seemed to lose patience.
‘Araminta, you are eighteen and yet you insist on behaving like a spoilt child. Why you haven’t even apologised to Felicia for that stupid remark.’
She seemed genuinely surprised.
‘But it was true. Lachlan did pay for the gown. He told me to make sure she had something decent to wear.’
I swayed slightly on my feet and Charles’s hand steadied me once more. His voice was low and cutting as he said,
‘Araminta, one day I shall get truly angry with you. Now go before you say anything worse.’
She made to speak then changed her mind as Douglas appeared at her elbow. She smiled brilliantly up at him.
‘Well at least you won’t be cross with me, will you, Douglas? Charles has grown quite stuffy you know.’ And she shot me an accusing look before she went spinning across the floor in a swirl of blue and gold as Douglas looked down at her in wonder.
‘She’s such a child still,’ said Charles, his eyes following them.
‘I know, Charles,’ I said, ‘please go and dance. I don’t want to keep you from your guests.’
But he wouldn’t and we spent the evening dancing or quietly talking until, pleading a headache, I retired early to my room.
I did not sleep. I wanted to leave, to pack my things and go before the house should awake but that was impossible when I thought of Alexander. Poor little Alexander caught up in such violence of feeling. I shivered as I thought of the looks that had passed between Lachlan Grant and his wife. ‘You could have been a little more original’ she had said. Was this what had changed the sweet-faced woman of the portrait into the cool mocking Mistress of Dryford I had met tonight? It was anger that saved me, anger at his gall in ordering Araminta to ensure that I had something decent to wear; anger that his wife should so readily jump to such a conclusion; but most of all anger that a child like Alexander should be a pawn in their game.
I paced the floor restlessly as if movement would release me from the turbulence of my thoughts. The wind was getting up and rain began to spatter against the window as I drew the heavy curtains to shut out the night, to shut me in with my thoughts. As I undressed for bed, I thought of the things he had said to me, and my cheeks flamed at the memory. How dared he? I cast the gown from me and it lay there on the floor, beautiful still in its dark softness. I had nothing to reproach myself with, I thought, slipping my most severe nightgown over my head in defiance of the unashamed luxury of the ball gown. My replies had been, in my own words, perfectly correct. The sight of his face as he said those words – ‘I am not free’ – flashed across my memory and I thrust it from me as I removed my mother’s necklace and put it in my little jewel box. As I did so my hand touched the piece of paper I had thrust in there earlier in the day and I smoothed it out. It was as I have said in Italian, and in an unduly ornate hand at that, but my mind was in such turmoil that I was glad of something, some mental task, to occupy it.
At the inadequate little school that I had attended there had been a drawing master, a little Italian with sad eyes and a droopy moustache. I smiled at the recollection of the fresh lace collars and ribbons that had appeared amongst the mistresses every Tuesday morning. I was not much good at drawing but I was a good listener with a thirst for knowledge and he would often talk to me of his home and even taught me some scraps of Italian, mostly poetry or homely little phrases. Somewhere amongst my things I still had the little Italian dictionary he had given me when I left the school. I found it in the depths of my trunk and I sat down to make what I could of the writing.
It was barely readable and the ink was smudged in places. Some words were obliterated altogether as if it had been left out in the rain but that was hardly possible. There was a date at the top. It was a page torn out of a diary and written more than a year ago – just before Alexander and his mother went on that fateful trip to Italy. There were words I could not make out, try as I might. As it was it took more than an hour before I could piece together fragments of the writing. I sat back and looked at what I had translated.
I am so afraid . . . I must go . . . my little Alexander . . . surely he is not in danger . . . I love him but I fear . . . I will take him with me . . .
And then at the end, written in so heavy a hand that the paper was almost torn through,
My God, forgive me for my suspicions . . .
I sat back, too shocked even to think clearly. One thing I knew. It was not rain that had smudged the ink so badly. I could see, as clearly as if I had been present, Vida sitting at her little work-table writing in her diary and her tears fell on the page as she wrote. Of what was she afraid, or of whom? But I knew the answer, did I not? I had seen the look in his eyes as she stood in the doorway. Dorcas knew – the temper of the devil she had said, but I had seen him look at the portrait in the Tower Room. What terrible thing had happened that two people should change so much? And more importantly, what of Alexander, was he in danger?
It was like a physical compulsion. I knew it was madness but I could not help it. I had to go and see if Alexander was all right. I threw a shawl on over my nightgown and, swiftly, my bare feet making no noise on the thick carpet, I crept along the corridor to the boy’s room. The wind was stronger now. I could hear it gusting distantly, making the old house creak and groan. Several times my imagination got the better of me and I had to stop and listen, sure that I could hear someone moving around, but it was only the wind I told myself. I reached his door and listened, then I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it. It resisted and I pushed again. I was alarmed. Surely it could not be locked?
I thrust the weight of my body against it and it opened but some force seemed to be trying to close it against me. I pushed again and this time it opened fully and I found myself hanging onto the doorknob to save the door from crashing back on its hinges for the wind had caught it. I looked in disbelief at the open window while great gusts of wind surged into the room and threw sheets of rain at me. The curtains had been pulled roughly back, and billowed into the room. I threw myself at the window, sparing only a glance for the sleeping boy. The wind whipped at my shawl and the rain swept my hair in rats’ tails across my face as I leaned out trying to catch hold of the windows which lay flattened a
gainst the outside walls. So insistent was the beat of the rain and so harsh in my ears the sound of the wind that I almost cried out when a strong hand reached out from behind and plucked me from the sill. In a matter of seconds he had the windows shut and the curtains drawn against the night. He turned to me, his hair plastered across his head like a close-fitting cap.
‘I heard noises,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
What could I say? Not ‘I read your wife’s diary and was afraid for Alexander’.
‘I thought the wind might frighten him,’ I lied, then I realised what I had found so odd. ‘But he’s sleeping soundly. How can he in this?’
Lachlan bent at once towards his son and I knelt by the bed.
‘The counterpane is wet,’ I said, then I saw the expression on his face. ‘What is it?’
‘Sleeping draught,’ he said shortly, lifting Alexander’s eyelids one by one.
He put his ear to the child’s chest.
‘He’s breathing quite naturally. He’ll be all right. I’ll stay with him for the rest of the night.’
‘You mean someone did this deliberately?’
His mouth was set in a grim line.
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it? You get to bed, and change out of those wet things before you do. You look like a drowned rat.’
I looked down. My nightgown clung to me and hastily I picked up the wet shawl and wrapped it round me.
‘Modesty even at the risk of pneumonia,’ he said with a trace of a smile. ‘You’re a wonderful girl, Felicia. Now get to bed.’
‘You’ll have to change the blankets,’ I said, ‘the counterpane is soaked through.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, and for the first time I noticed the tiredness around his eyes. I put out my hand to him.
‘He’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘He’s very strong.’
He was turning once more towards his son.
‘Bed,’ he said roughly, and I went.
It was curious, I had gone suspecting that Alexander was in danger, suspecting moreover that that danger came from his father. I had found him in danger, for surely he would not have escaped serious illness exposed all night to the storm? I had found the person I had suspected on the spot and yet I did not now believe that it was from Lachlan Grant that the danger to Alexander threatened. I peeled off my wet things and put on a fresh nightgown. Was I a complete fool to trust him as I did? I had left him alone with the boy, but he was his father.
One thing had not changed however, I thought, as I drifted into sleep. And I swore to myself that the child would not suffer because of the almost tangible violence of feeling that existed between his parents.
5
I went to the schoolroom as usual next morning but it was fully an hour before Alexander arrived. By that time I had made up my mind to say nothing of the incident of the previous night. I thought I understood what had happened. Dorcas had obviously given the child a sleeping draught to save him being disturbed by the festivities, the window had been left slightly open on what had been a pleasant evening and with the arrival of Vida Dorcas had forgotten to come and close it when the rain began. It was the only reasonable explanation. To read anything more into it would be nonsense. And of course his father had been angry. Perhaps Dorcas had been acting against his wishes in giving the child a sleeping draught, certainly she had not told him. I would make no mention of it either to Alexander or his father. It could serve no useful purpose.
When Alexander arrived I was shocked at the change in him and my first thought was that he had taken harm from his exposure to the rain during the night, but then I saw that the cause of the change in him lay deeper than that. Gone was the happy, rosy-cheeked little boy that he had become and in its place was once again the small pale ghost of an adult.
‘I apologise for being late,’ he said stiffly, ‘my Mama arrived unexpectedly last night and I was required to go straight to her this morning.’
I looked at him in dismay.
‘That is quite all right, Alexander,’ I said. ‘Indeed if you wish I’m sure your father would not mind if we forgot about lessons for today. Your mother has been away for some time. You may wish to spend the day with her.’
The skin around his taut little lips whitened as he said, ‘That will not be necessary.’
That was all, but the emptiness in his voice filled me with pain and an unreasoning anger that the progress we had made should be wiped out like this.
The events of the previous evening filled my mind, the things that Lachlan Grant had said to me, things that he had no right to say no matter how lightly; his wife’s insinuations and the implication that the situation was not unusual. What were they doing to this child? I looked at him bending over his book, his fingers tracing out the words painstakingly and my heart went out to him. I thought once again of those dark slanting eyes and heard anew that softly accented voice, saw in my mind’s eye the look on Lachlan Grant’s face as he saw his wife. I pushed the thoughts away and concentrated on Alexander. By the end of the morning I was pleased to note that he had smiled several times and that the colour had returned in some measure to his cheeks, but as we prepared to go down to lunch he suddenly grasped my hand as I helped him replace his books.
‘You will not go away, Flissy,’ he said desperately, ‘now that she is here?’
I looked at him in concern. His whole body was rigid with tension. I bent down and put my arms around him and he allowed me to do so.
‘I will not go away, Alexander,’ promised.
He relaxed and his arms came round my neck in a swift hug, then he composed himself once more though he said,
‘I think I shall take a nap after lunch today.’
‘Very well,’ I replied and arranged to meet him afterwards. As I made my way to my own room my mind was not wholly at rest. It had been some weeks since he had last taken a nap and I wondered what had prompted this return to what he had dismissed as a babyish habit.
I was summoned to the library after lunch. As I left my room I cast a last look at the box in which I had carefully packed the ball gown. It would not be an easy interview. He was seated at the desk, the light behind him so that I could not immediately see his face. He rose as I entered and motioned me to sit down.
‘I feel I owe you an apology, Miss Grainger,’ he began. ‘My wife had only just arrived home after a long and arduous journey and I fear she was somewhat overwrought.’
I felt the colour mount in my cheeks as I replied,
‘I understand, Mr Grant however, your wife was quite right in one respect. It was unseemly that I should be wearing a gown that you had paid for. Believe me if I had known I would never have accepted it from Araminta.’
‘Araminta,’ he said impatiently, ‘I expressly told her not to mention to you where the money for the gown had come from.’
‘You misunderstand,’ I said more firmly than I would have believed possible. ‘I do not blame Araminta.’
He looked directly at me and his face was pale against the blackness of his hair. ‘Then you blame me?’
I took a deep breath. I may be dismissed for it, I thought, but I had to stand by my principles.
‘I think it unsuitable for an employer to make a governess such a gift.’
‘But you had no suitable ballgown.’
Humiliation stabbed painfully again.
‘I have a perfectly adequate gown that suits my station in this house,’ I replied, ‘and if that were considered inappropriate then I need not have been invited to attend the ball.’
‘And if I wanted to make you a gift?’
‘It was an unsuitable gift,’ I repeated.
He seemed to lose patience.
‘Miss Grainger,’ he said, ‘I could not have cared less if you had attended the ball in riding breeches. You would have looked just as beautiful. I am a plain man and being a plain man I assumed that any young woman would have been pleased to have a new gown and besides, I wished to express my gratitude
for what you have done for Alexander. It was a gift. Are you too proud to accept a gift, Miss Grainger?’
I remained stubbornly silent and his face darkened.
‘Would you have accepted such a gift from Charles?’ he said.
I was suddenly angry.
‘You have no right to ask me such a question,’ I cried. ‘You are my employer, not my guardian.’
‘I am well aware of that,’ he said, ‘but you are living in my house and I feel some responsibility for you.’
‘I am well able to look after myself,’ I said.
He rose and for a moment I thought he would come round the desk towards me but instead he merely placed his hands flat on its polished top and leaned towards me.
‘Are you indeed?’ he said. ‘And what would you consider a suitable gift? A Latin primer perhaps?’
I lowered my eyes, determined not to be browbeaten.
‘I have packed the gown in tissue paper and put it in a box in my room. Perhaps one of the maids could return it to Miss Machivor. It is possible that she might find a use for it amongst her usual customers.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him flinch and I thought I had gone too far, but he merely resumed his seat and when I looked up he was regarding me calmly once more.
‘I see that I cannot persuade you to accept my gift?’
‘No.’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will say no more about it.’
I made to rise but he stopped me. ‘There is one thing more, Miss Grainger.’
He was playing with the pens in his tray.
‘I find that I have to go away on family business. I very much hope that while I am away you will take full charge of Alexander. His improvement in the last weeks has been a source of considerable pleasure to me. I hope that you will continue to make progress with him.’
‘I shall continue to do everything that I can for him,’ I replied. ‘But surely now that his mother is home . . . ’
He did not let me finish but cast aside the pen he was toying with and rose from his seat. He moved towards the window and stood there looking out for a moment.