“No, because Papa disapproves. He thinks it’s like carpentry, and carpentry is for artisans.”
“Does he know about your room up here?”
“Oh yes, but he doesn’t take any notice so long as no one else knows about it. As a matter of fact Papa never takes any notice of something that doesn’t interest him. My friend Derry Stranahan says—”
“You talk a considerable lot about Mr. Derry Stranahan, don’t you?” I said with a smile.
“Ain’t a man entitled to talk about his best friend now and then? Here, Cousin Marguerite, have the cat and kittens as a Christmas present from me.”
“I’d love to,” I said, “but I really mustn’t if Edward doesn’t strictly approve of your woodcarving. It wouldn’t be right.”
He was disappointed, so to divert him I suggested we go for a walk to the village. After that we fell into the habit of taking a daily walk together, and presently he asked if I would go riding with him.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” I said, surprised. “It wouldn’t be at all advisable in my condition.”
“What condition?” he said, naïve as a boy half his age, and then blushed to the roots of his hair.
“You mean Edward didn’t tell you?” I asked, astonished.
Speechless, he shook his head, and his embarrassment was so infectious that I too found myself without a word to say. We were walking back from the village on one of those mild misty mornings so common in an English winter, and ahead of us across the park we could see the tall chimneys of the hall.
“Well,” I said at last, obscurely aware that I should defend Edward, “I’ve no doubt it’s not proper to talk of such things so far in advance, but since I’ve mentioned it the baby’s coming in April and he’s to be called Thomas. But please keep it a secret, because I shouldn’t like your father to be offended by any impropriety.”
“No,” he said earnestly. “Of course not.”
He was still so acutely embarrassed that I found it impossible to talk of something else.
“I do hope you don’t mind having another brother,” I said. “I realize it must be tiresome for you in some ways, but think how nice it will be for Thomas to have a brother so many years his senior. My brother Francis is eighteen years older than I am, so I can speak from experience.”
“Oh yes,” said Patrick. “Quite. Papa is very pleased, I dare say.”
“Fairly pleased, I think,” I said in the most casual voice I could muster and changed the subject as fast as a juggler throwing a new set of plates in the air. “Patrick, tell me about your friend Mr. Stranahan. He does sound so vastly entertaining. Is there really no hope of him visiting us during these three years he’s spending at the University of Frankfurt?”
“None at all,” said Patrick, instantly diverted. “He got into an awful scrape in Ireland, you know, and Papa sent him to Frankfurt more for a punishment than for an education.”
“But what did he do? I’ve never quite liked to ask before.”
But Patrick was more than willing to amend Edward’s reticence on the subject. Apparently, I learned, Mr. Stranahan had been falsely accused of misconduct by a drunken Irish husband who had tried to kill both him and the poor innocent woman involved.
“How dreadful!” I cried, but I found the gossip fascinating. The more vulgar side of my nature has always savored any scandal resulting from what the novelists call “unbridled passions.” “Poor Mr. Stranahan!”
“Yes, wasn’t it a shame! And it wasn’t his fault a bit, but Papa will never admit that now. Unless …I say, Cousin Marguerite, do you think you could say a word to Papa about it when he comes home? I’ve tried, but he won’t listen to me.”
“I doubt if he’d listen to me either.”
“Oh yes he would! If you could just ask him if Derry could come home for a holiday—”
“Well, I might,” I said, suddenly seeing an unexpected opportunity, “but I’ll do it only if you behave with Mr. Bull, Patrick, and stop driving the poor man mad by drawing pictures of him falling in love with a cow.”
Patrick shouted with laughter and leaped in the air with joy. “Agreed!” he cried. “Agreed, agreed, agreed!” And he danced ahead of me along the path like some gorgeous golden puppy who has just been promised the juiciest and most succulent of bones.
II
Christmas came. We went to church in the morning, and afterward I rested before we ate dinner at three. In the evening there was no time to grow mournful thinking of Edward far away in St. Petersburg. We played backgammon together and cribbage, and presently when Patrick dressed up for one-man charades we both laughed at his foolish antics until we were too weak to laugh any more. Finally we decided it was time for a musical interlude, so I attacked the piano (I am a terrible pianist) and Patrick launched into song, but since his singing was no better than my strumming we made the most appalling racket together.
“I used to be able to sing,” said Patrick regretfully. “I was a soprano. But now that my voice has changed I’m not sure what I am any more.”
“You’ll have a nice baritone when your voice is completely broken.”
“It is completely broken!” he said, affronted, and we started to giggle again like two children in the schoolroom. I had not been so amused for months, and after spending so long dreading Christmas it was an enormous relief to feel so lighthearted. After supper we went to the servants’ hall to watch the festivities, and Patrick introduced me to the young men and women who had been the companions of his childhood. One of them was a maid in the still-room, one was a groom, one was the knife boy and the last, the cook’s daughter, had done so well that she was now a parlor maid. Everyone was very merry and civil, and when we left at last I said to Patrick with a sigh, “It’s really very pleasant here at Woodhammer, I must declare, although I admit I missed city life dreadfully at first.”
“I like Woodhammer far better than London,” he said. “I was born and brought up here, so it’s home.”
“You like it better than Cashelmara?”
“Cashelmara!” He grimaced. “Cashelmara’s the end of the world.” He seized my hand, slipped an arm around my waist and whirled me in a silent waltz around the great hall to the staircase.
“Patrick! Not so fast!” I shrieked, but when he laughed I laughed too, and we spun on through the shadows together. “Stop!” I gasped at last. “I must sit down!” So we sat on the settle before the enormous hearth, and suddenly I had a great longing for Edward’s arms around me, for his long strong body pressing against mine. I sat very still, staring at the embers of the fire while Patrick talked endlessly about why he loved Woodhammer, and when I could listen to him again I heard him telling me in a hushed dreamy voice that the oak staircase had been carved by Grinling Gibbons.
“Yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said my voice, and I could see Edward in him so clearly that I wanted to reach out and grasp the elusive likeness, but the next moment it was gone and he was saying with boyish naïveté, “May I kiss you under the mistletoe before you go up to bed?” And he looked so handsome, his hair that rich dull shade of gold and his eyes bluer than any eyes I had ever seen. I had never known any young man who looked quite as handsome to me as he looked then.
“Oh, I don’t believe in kisses under the mistletoe,” I said. “Such a heathen custom. Good night, Patrick. Thank you for a lovely Christmas.”
I left, my feet carrying me without faltering all the way to my room, but when I slipped into bed later I lay awake in the darkness for a long time. I felt I must be very gross and corrupt. Pregnant women were not supposed to yearn for passion during their months of waiting, but that night I longed for Edward as passionately as I had longed for him on our honeymoon, and deep within me was a core of anger that he should have left me alone for so long.
III
He came back two weeks later. He looked very tall—I always forgot how tall he was—and very handsome, and I loved him better than anyone in the world. All I wanted then was to
take him to our room and tell him how much I had missed him, but of course this had to be postponed, for with Edward, swathed in black crepe, her pale, exquisite face hidden by the most hideous of veils, was his bereaved daughter Katherine.
“How do you do, Cousin Katherine,” I said, determined to behave well despite the fact that she had never answered the friendly letter I had written to her after my marriage. “I was truly sorry to hear of your bereavement. Pray accept my deepest sympathies.”
“Thank you, Cousin Marguerite.” She was very formal and as cold as a winter wind from Canada. After she had thanked me there was an awkward pause before Edward suggested she might like to retire to her room before tea, and when she consented I was obliged to escort her upstairs.
“I’m glad you were well enough to travel,” I said tentatively. “No doubt your health will greatly improve now that you’re home again.”
“Yes,” said Katherine.
“I hope your journey wasn’t too difficult.”
“No.”
“You must have been so relieved when your father arrived.”
“Yes.”
I was amazed not only by her monosyllabic woodenness but by her complete lack of gratitude. I wondered if it had ever occurred to her how much I had minded being deprived of Edward’s company and how gravely he himself had been inconvenienced. Deciding I could dislike her all too easily, I tried to make allowances for her by reminding myself of her bereavement.
In her room she took off her veil, and I saw that she was indeed lovely. She was dark. Her eyes were fringed with long black curling lashes, and her skin seemed translucent in contrast. She looked younger too without the veil, and I remembered she was only two years older than I was.
A maid arrived with hot water. Katherine’s own maid was already beginning to unpack.
“Is there anything else I can provide?” I inquired politely, and when she shook her head I hurried to rejoin Edward for our long-awaited private reunion.
We spent much time telling each other what a lonely, miserable Christmas it had been (I was very careful to understate how much I had enjoyed Patrick’s company), and later after he had asked about Thomas he talked of his long journey across Europe to the icy splendor of St. Petersburg. He had visited Russia years before with Eleanor, and one or two of his innumerable acquaintances were still attached to the embassy there. Patiently I listened to his comparison of the Russia of yesterday with the Russia of today; eagerly I drank in his conclusions that not only had nothing changed but that nothing ever would change there, and all the time I was thinking hungrily how handsome he looked and how peculiarly unsuited I was to a celibate life.
“But what about your doctor’s advice?” he said, troubled when the last candle had been extinguished and my skin felt as if it might scorch the sheets.
“Oh, I quite forgot to tell you,” I said, praying hard that God might forgive me for lying. “Dr. Ives said it would be quite safe after the fifth month. It’s the latest medical thought on pregnancy.”
“What a splendid thing scientific progress is!” said Edward with that wry humor I loved so much, and after that I no longer had to worry about the torments of chastity.
The next morning I was overcome with guilty terror in case I had hurt the baby, but Thomas seemed as active as ever, and I soon decided that it was a mistake to believe every word the doctors said. What did doctors know anyway? Besides, it was quite true that they were always changing their minds about the best way to treat their patients.
Fortunately I was soon diverted from my guilty conscience, for on the morning after Edward’s return Mr. Bull requested an audience with his employer, and I knew he intended to give Patrick a bad report.
“Edward,” I said as he finished his second cup of tea and prepared to rise from the breakfast table, “might I have a word with you alone before you go to the library to see Mr. Bull?”
“Of course.” He dismissed the footmen and smiled at me. “What is it?”
“It’s about Patrick. Edward, he was a little naughty after you left, but I persuaded him to behave better, and since then his conduct has been exemplary. I merely wanted you to know that before you interviewed Mr. Bull.”
“I see,” he said. A neutral expression had crept into his eyes, but I decided to ignore it.
“Oh, and, Edward, while we’re discussing Patrick, I’ve just remembered something else I wanted to ask you!” I said brightly. “Dearest, Patrick does so miss his friend Mr. Stranahan. I do realize that Mr. Stranahan’s education shouldn’t be interrupted, but might he not come home for a little vacation soon? Patrick would be so pleased, and I myself would be delighted to receive him.”
“So that,” said Edward, needle-sharp, “was the condition Patrick made for his reformed behavior.”
“Well …”
“The answer to your request is no. Derry misbehaved himself severely, and I have forbidden him my house for three years not only to punish him but to separate him from Patrick. I see absolutely no reason to revoke that decision, nor do I intend to do so.”
“I see,” I said. In the face of such a dogmatic assertion of authority there seemed little else to say. At least, I thought, I could tell Patrick that I tried.
“And, Marguerite, I would be obliged if in future you would refrain from taking sides in matters that are of no concern to you.”
“There was no question of taking sides,” I said unhappily.
“No?” He gave me a cool, hard look. “I’m glad to hear it. It would have put our relationship on an awkward footing, and I fail to see why either of us should be needlessly distressed. So please—no more misguided intercessions on Patrick’s behalf. Concern yourself solely with me and with your child.”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. But I can’t completely cut myself off from my stepchildren.”
“Nor would I wish it. But to be a stepmother is difficult at the best of times, and to be a stepmother of grown children when one is only eighteen years old is a trial indeed. It would lessen your difficulties if you stayed in the background as much as possible whenever controversies arise.”
“Very well,” I said. “If you wish.” And as I did my best to accept his advice I could not help but think it would suit me very well to be detached toward Katherine even if I found it hard to be detached toward Patrick.
I did think Katherine was very tedious. While we remained at Woodhammer it took little skill to avoid her, but early in the new year we returned to London, and there my troubles began in earnest. It is easy to avoid someone in a mansion the size of Woodhammer Hall but a very different matter to avoid that someone in a compact townhouse. Katherine mooched around behind her widow’s weeds like a bad actress in a Drury Lane melodrama, and by the beginning of February I was already wondering how much longer I could bear her dreary presence in my house.
The straw that finally broke the camel’s back came when Edward decided it was necessary for him to make one of his lightning visits to Cashelmara. There was no question of my going, but since Edward was taking Patrick with him for a lesson in estate management, I did hope that Katherine would decide to accompany them.
But Katherine had other ideas.
“Crossing the Irish Sea in February would be detestable,” she said, and when I suggested she might like to see her sister Annabel, who lived in the Cashelmara dower house, she replied haughtily that she had had nothing to say to her sister since Annabel’s unfortunate second marriage.
“I see,” I said with a sinking heart. “So you’ll stay here.”
She gave me a cold look. “If that is so objectionable to you,” she said after a small, deadly pause, “I can make arrangements to stay in Kent with my husband’s parents.”
“Oh no, no, no!” I exclaimed guiltily, thinking what a splendid idea this was. “Of course you mustn’t leave us, Katherine!”
“Why not? It’s perfectly obvious that you wish to be rid of me.”
That gave me a nasty jolt. Was I really so b
ad at concealing my feelings? I made a rapid survey of my past conduct and thought not. “I absolutely deny …” I began with spirit but was interrupted.
“Besides,” said Katherine, “you evidently fail to realize that I find our joint presence under one roof just as unendurable as you do. Christian charity alone prompts me to pity, not to condemn, you for being debased enough to permit yourself any intimacy whatsoever with a man my father’s age, but nevertheless I find your condition quite repulsive. Indeed I can hardly look at you without feeling faint with nausea.”
Anyone who has ever suffered from violent jealousy can hardly fail to recognize the symptoms in others. I said in a surprised, meek little voice, “You’re jealous!”—not an intelligent remark, I do admit, but I was still reeling from her furious onslaught and was at first too stunned to shriek abuse at her in return.
“Jealous!” she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height and giving me her most hoity-toity look.
“Jealous!” I hurled back at her, beginning to recover. “You’re jealous of my place in your father’s affections!”
“What a disgusting slander!” She spoke with exquisite precision; her face might have been carved out of stone. “That’s quite untrue. I have no idea what place you hold in my father’s affections, but I know very well what place I hold there. I’m his favorite daughter. I always was. Oh, I know Nell was the one he treated as a companion, but that was only because she was so much older than us and he came to rely on her when Mama was ill. But even Nell married beneath her—even Nell disappointed him in the end! But I never did. I was the one who made the brilliant match. He told me on my wedding day how proud he was of me, and that made everything worthwhile, those horrible two years of marriage, those dreadful long winters in St. Petersburg. Oh, it would be impossible for someone as vulgar as you to understand how miserable I’ve been! But throughout it all my place in Papa’s affections has remained unchanged. Wasn’t that proved when he came all the way to St. Petersburg to bring me home? I knew he would come. I’m his favorite daughter, you see, and there’s nothing whatsoever you can do about it.”
Cashelmara Page 14