by Sara Seale
“Chivvy!” For a moment the voice was the remembered one, the deep tones of outrage and personal affront. “I am not aware that I have ever chivvied anyone into anything, and my nephew, dear child, would scarcely choose that method of making fun of you. Have you no fondness for him?”
The last of the daylight seemed suddenly to fail and they were, all three, dim, anonymous figures, grouped together for one last question and answer. Even the birds had stopped singing.
“I—I—” Charity stammered, unable to lie, but unable, too, to confess her feelings under the cryptic regard of that still figure the other side of the bed.
Astrea sank back on to her pillows and her breathing became a little labored.
“Never mind,” she said. “Give me your hands, both of you.” She took their outstretched hands, joining them together across the bed, and Charity felt the cool, firm touch of Marc’s fingers on hers. “Now, you have pledged your troth over what is, probably, my deathbed. You will not go back on your word, my little Ganymede?”
It was, Charity knew, only one of the histrionic moments in which Astrea so much delighted, it might even be her last, but she could not resist saying with indignation, “I haven’t given my word,” and immediately felt Marc’s hard, unyielding grasp tighten on her hand.
“You have given it now,” he said sternly. “Let truth wait till another time.”
“Truth?” said Astrea vaguely, but she began to wander. “Do you remember the fireworks in my honor?” she said. “And the time they took the horses out of the carriage ... and the time the Crown Prince followed me to Ankara? ... Ah, no, you were scarcely born ...”
Minnie had come into the room and she went to straighten the worn tapestry which served as a cover.
“Yes, ducks,” she said, relinquishing all the wordy arguments of other days. “He was incog, as you’ve always said, but he made you the toast of the town. Rest now, dearie. I’m going to draw the curtains.”
Marc stooped over the bed to kiss his aunt.
“Goodnight,” he said softly. “Are you content now?”
Astrea only smiled and held out her hand to Charity.
“Goodnight, dear child,” she murmured in a whisper. “Be good to Marc ...”
They left the room together and, on the landing, Charity turned up her face to his.
“Is she going to die?” she asked solemnly, and felt his glance flick over her, cool, deliberate, and a little impersonal.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Did you grudge making an old woman happy at the end?”
“Of course not, only—well, it was just make-believe, like the rest, wasn’t it?”
In the darkness of the landing his face was unreadable, but his voice, when he replied, held the old note of mockery.
“It depends on what you designate as make-believe, Charity Child. For my own part, I’m not in the habit of jesting about things that matter. Goodnight—or are you coming downstairs for the rest of the evening?” It was dismissal, and she was glad of it. She could not have borne to spend the rest of the evening with him. It must, she supposed vaguely, be long past the dinner hour, but let Roma and himself partake of the meal alone and make up their differences if they could. She bade him a brief goodnight and shut herself into her own room.
She slept so heavily that she did not hear the disturbance during the night; the whispers and the running footsteps, the doctor’s car arriving and leaving on the other side of the house. It was Minnie who, in the morning, told her that Astrea was dead, and stood there, twisting her old, work-roughened hands together in dumb acceptance.
At first Charity could not believe it. She had known that last attack to have been a grave one, but it was so typical of the old prima donna to have staged the sort of deathbed scene of the night before for her own amusement, that she could not rid herself of the notion that the whole thing was a hoax designed to embarrass them all. One look at Marc’s face when they met for breakfast, however, told her the truth. He was freshly shaved, but his elegant clothes which needed pressing and the drawn look on his lean face gave evidence that he had been up most of the night.
“Why didn’t you wake me?’ she asked him over and over again. “Why didn’t you call me when you knew?”
“Because she wouldn’t have known you,” he told her with unusual gentleness. “At the end it was only Roma she thought of. The rest was just a desire to lick old wounds, you know.”
“The rest? You mean—” For a wild moment Charity had a vision of that same scene being enacted all over again, with Roma taking her place, her hand joined with Marc’s over the bed.
“No,” he said dryly, his shrewd glance testifying that once again he had read her thoughts. “I did not pledge myself to Roma to satisfy a dying woman. Astrea’s desires had gone beyond that—back to her own youth, perhaps.”
“Did she—did Roma—”
“Oh, yes. Roma behaved with propriety. She even managed to shed a tear.”
“How bitter you sound!”
“Bitter!” His face was suddenly old and haggard. “Do you think it’s pleasant to be reminded of one’s own stupidity—to see people as they really are?”
Charity’s less complex emotions could only place one construction on his outburst.
“You still love her,” she said sadly, and his smile held tenderness and sudden compassion for her simplicity. Before he could answer her, however, Roma came into the room. It was evident that she still wore nothing under the long green housecoat which became her so well, but she had made up her face with her usual care.
“It was scarcely fitting to expect breakfast trays this morning, so I came down,” she said. “Are you going to town, Marc?”
“Naturally not. I must stay to make the necessary arrangements.”
“It’s funny how funerals always come under that heading,” she said, pouring herself some coffee. “You will get in touch with old Fenimore, too, I imagine. Do we have to wait for him to know what was in that will?”
“Oh, really, Roma!” Charity exclaimed, her voice sick with disgust.
“Come off it, honey!” retorted Roma, quite unmoved, “Don’t you want to know where you stand?”
“No. I wish—I wish there had never been any question of a will at all, and if I should have been mentioned in it, then you can have my share.”
Marc’s eyes went curiously from one to the other of them. Beside Roma’s vivid beauty, Charity looked washed out and insignificant.
“You don’t need to worry, Charity, you don’t benefit,” he said, and Roma turned eyes brilliant with expectation upon him.
“Having gone so far you might as well tell us the rest,” she said. “And I must say I’m surprised, since you drew the thing up, that you allowed your ewe lamb to be cut out.”
“Are you, Roma? But, you see, Charity won’t need the money. I have other plans for her.”
Roma’s eyes narrowed.
“Really?” she drawled. “And where do I come in—or don’t I?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “You come in, as you put it, just where you expected.”
“Sole legatee?”
“Well, Minnie is provided for, naturally.”
“Naturally, but that can’t amount to much. What was the old girl worth, Marc?”
Charity wondered if she had only imagined the reservation in Marc’s replies. She did not want to share in a discussion which now no longer concerned her, but she could not bear to leave him to the insensitive avidity of a girl for whom he might still cherish a stubborn fondness.
He, stirred his, coffee with deliberation before answering, swallowed a mouthful, then pushed it aside because it had grown cold. Charity automatically began to refill his cup.
“Astrea’s affairs were not at all as we imagined them to be,” he said then. “She was always very close, if you remember. I imagine old Fenimore was the only person who knew the truth.”
“The truth?” Roma’s eyes were suddenly hard and wary.
“
Astrea has, apparently, been living on capital for years. These household economics she effected, her own personal expenditure, became necessary.”
Charity, not as yet understanding, watched Roma’s face whiten and grow suddenly older.
“But that’s absurd!” she exclaimed, “Stubbs’ sausages made mints—they still do.”
Marc’s smile was not pleasant to see.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Unfortunately for you, the firm passed into other hands after Stubbs died. Astrea sold out for a lump sum and the money was never properly invested, so you see, my dear Roma, although you are, in fact, the sole legatee after Minnie’s legacy has been paid, there will be nothing worth calling an income, much less a fortune.”
There was a brief, dreadful little silence, then Roma sprang to her feet, sweeping a whole collection of cutlery to the floor with the loose sleeve of her housecoat.
“You devil, Marc!” she cried. “You knew, and you’ve chosen to take your revenge this way! I hope you’ve enjoyed your charming little game with me.”
“A, I knew nothing of my aunt’s affairs until yesterday morning,” he retorted, quite unmoved. “B, my intentions have never been dignified by melodramatic thoughts of revenge, and C, I no longer play games with you, my dear; such pleasantries were finished with a long time ago.”
To Charity he sounded cruel by very reason of his calmness, for he spoke with a dispassionate quiet that was more insulting than anger. She knew then that whatever her own doubts, Roma had no more power to hurt him, and because in a different measure, she too had been humiliated by him, she could feel it in her heart to pity Roma.
“Marc, please—” she protested, longing to get out of the room, but it was Roma who went.
“You’re nothing but a cold, calculating legal machine with the dust of musty briefs, instead of blood, in your veins! I wish you joy of him, Charity, you poor simpleton!” she cried furiously, and slammed out of the dining room.
“Well,” said Marc, not even turning his head as the door banged, “and do you consider that I have the dust of musty briefs in my veins instead of blood?”
She did not understand how much he had been holding himself in check, and could only marvel at his callousness. The humiliations she herself had suffered at his hands, and her own personal grief for Astrea, set a spark to her temper so that she turned on him unthinkingly.
“How can you behave like this with—with Astrea lying dead upstairs?” she demanded, and saw his eyebrows lift.
“Do the conventions demand hypocrisy of you, Charity? I had thought you more honest,” he said.
His change of tone and expression should have warned her, but she was past caring what he thought of her.
“And I had thought you kinder, or at least more courteous,” she retorted.
“I was not aware that I had been discourteous,” he replied coldly. “As to kindness, you should not look for that where you least expect to find it.”
She was aware, now, of the pinched look about his nostrils, of the taut restraint which she had mistaken for indifference. She was aware, too, that although he had held his temper in check without apparent difficulty with Roma, he was not prepared to afford her the same forbearance.
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “This must all have been a great strain for you. I—I’m apt to forget that Astrea was your aunt.”
“You’re apt to forget a good many things, aren’t you?” he replied with dangerous calm. “Among them the fact that you gave your promise last night to a dying woman. I can see I shall have to take you in hand once we’re married.”
She stared at him stupidly, then the color rushed to her face.
“But that was a whim of Astrea’s!” she exclaimed. “You would never hold me to that!”
“Why not? Weren’t you serious?”
“As serious as you. I thought you understood.”
“I understood very well, my dear. You had already turned me down. How else was I to get you to change your mind?”
He had risen to his feet and began to collect the morning papers and the little pile of bills and letters which had come for his aunt. He was, it was clear, prepared to leave her on this outrageous note of uncertainty.
“You—you can’t be serious!” she exclaimed.
“Why not? You heard me tell Roma you wouldn’t need the money as I had other plans for you.”
“You have no right in any plans for my future,” she said, and he smiled a little crookedly.
“Oh, yes, I think so. We’ve blown hot and cold too long, owing to one thing and another; it’s time we came to an understanding,” he said quite pleasantly, and left the room without another word.
The next few days had a dream-like quality for Charity in which more personal matters were lost. She scarcely saw Marc or Roma, for he was busy with his aunt’s affairs and she hired the village car and went off on her own pursuits. When they all three met in the evenings they were studiously polite to one another, but by tacit consent they no longer used the music room. Charity, left much to herself, wandered aimlessly round the house, wondering what would become of all the ill-assorted treasures Astrea had collected through the years. Few of them could be worth very much except to a collector of souvenirs, and Roma had made no secret of her intention to sell up Cleat House and its contents for the highest price everything would fetch.
“It seems sad to think of all these things going under the hammer,” Charity said to Minnie. “Is there nothing you would like for yourself to remind you of her? I’m sure Miss Roma would understand.”
“Miss Roma don’t care one way or the other so long as she gets the cash,” Minnie replied, and Charity looked shocked.
“But she wouldn’t sell you mementoes of Madam!” she exclaimed, but the old dresser’s wrinkled face creased in a sour smile.
“Maybe not,” she said, “but I prefer to buy and take my pick, young miss. I’ll not be beholden, no more than you.”
“What will you do, Minnie?” It was hard to say how deeply affected she had been by Astrea’s death, but her future often worried Charity.
“Go back to the North End Road where I come from. The liver and lights shop is still there.”
“The liver and lights shop?” Charity frowned, trying to remember where she had heard the phrase before.
“The start of Stubbs’ sausages—didn’t Madam ever tell you?”
“Oh, of course! But what had it to do with you?”
“My dad worked there with Stubbs’ governor—back in ‘98 that was. When Albert, the son, started his sausage factories, the shop passed to Dad. Funny, isn’t it, how our paths crossed? M’lady, of course, said it was all written in the stars, which sounded a mort of nonsense to me, though it was through me, mark you, that she ran across Albert Stubbs in the end. You didn’t know that, did you?”
“No,” said Charity, marvelling at this strange glimpse of old history. “Who owns the shop now?”
“Cousin by marriage of me dad’s. She’s widowed now, but she used to dress the chorus at the old Paladrome in years gone by—bit different to Madam’s classy turn-out, but all in the same business, so to speak. I’ll put the bit of money Madam’s left me in with her and she’ll be a nice bit of company.”
A reminiscent and slightly roguish gleam had come into the old dresser’s round bright eyes, and Charity could suddenly see her for what she once must have been, a gay and rather tough young Cockney, sacrificing the pleasures of quite a different environment in order to better herself and, in the end, sink her individuality in the nebulous role of housekeeper.
“How little one knows people,” she said, and thought, for almost the first time since Astrea’s death, with serious deliberation of Marc. Was he too another person under that studied facade he liked people to believe was himself? Did they all show a different front to the curious eyes of the world; Astrea with her histrionics, Marc with his fastidious mockery, Roma with her worldly hardness? And what of Charity Child, she thought humbl
y; did she show only pride and rejection because she so passionately desired the opposite and was afraid of being laughed at?
Minnie was watching her with a suddenly knowing look.
“We must know ourselves, young miss, before we can know others,” she said.
“Yes. How wise you are.” For some unexplained reason, Charity suddenly stooped and kissed the old woman, and Minnie pushed her away with a cluck of impatience.
“Oh, get away with you! You’re soft-spoken, even to the likes of me, and that’s in your favor, but go out for what you want, ducks—don’t let ‘em walk on you! I’ve no patience with the shilly-shallying kind, and neither had Madam.” Minnie spoke sharply, with her old lack of forbearance at the many changes she had seen at Cleat, but her eyes held a sudden, surprising moisture.
“Will you be happy in the shop in the North End Road?” asked Charity anxiously, because the breakup of Cleat, although she had been there such a short time, seemed suddenly to matter very much.
“Happiness is where you find it. Don’t you know that yet, young miss?” retorted Minnie, and went back to her kitchen where the daily women were waiting to afford her the respectful but enjoyable attentions due to the bereaved.
On the day of the funeral, villagers climbed Cleat Hill to lay flowers in the porch. Astrea had known none of them intimately, but she was, nevertheless, the district’s celebrity. She would be buried in Cleat churchyard, and forever afterwards her grave would be pointed out to tourists and her memory kept green.