Victoria Holt

by The Shivering Sands

  “Poor Mrs. Lincroft. I’m sure she’s a very good woman.”

  “You see what’s on the surface. You’re not a painter. You’re only a musician. But we didn’t come here to talk about Mrs. Lincroft, did we? Lincroft! Ha! Ha! We came to talk about you. Do you like this picture?”

  “I’m sure it has great merit.”

  She laughed again. “You amuse me, Mrs. Verlaine. Now you know I didn’t ask you whether it had merit. I said: ‘Do you like it?’”

  “I…I’m not sure.”

  “It’s perhaps not you today…but you tomorrow.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m painting you as you’re becoming, Mrs. Verlaine. Very sure of yourself…very much the lady of the vicarage…who is learning to be the bishop’s wife. Very successful…she will help the bishop in every way possible and everyone will say: ‘The dear bishop is so fortunate. What a lot he owes to that efficient wife of his.’”

  “I think you must have been taking a few lessons from the gypsies.”

  “‘Clever conversationalist! Never at a loss! That’s such an asset to the dear bishop, you know.’” She pouted. “I don’t much like the bishop’s wife, Mrs. Verlaine. But that won’t matter because I shan’t have to see her, shall I? I can see her at the breakfast table smiling across the napery at her husband. Oh this is years and years ahead and she is saying: ‘And what was the name of that place where we met? Lovat Something? Such odd people! I wonder what became of them all.’ And the bishop will wrinkle his brow and try to recall and he won’t be able to. But she will. She will go to her bedroom alone and think and think and there’ll be a pain because…because…But you don’t want me to go on.”

  She laughed aloud and whipped the canvas from the easel exposing that of the three girls.

  “Poor poor Edith! What does she look like now, I wonder. But it is nice to remember them as they were together. One moment. I have another picture of you.”

  “Of me? What a quick worker you are.”

  “Only when my hands are guided.”

  “Who guides them?”

  “If I told you I was guided by Inspiration, Intuitiveness, and Genius you wouldn’t believe me, would you? So I won’t mention it. But here you are again. There.”

  She had put a picture on the easel which was recognizable as myself though it was quite different from the one it had replaced. My hair was flowing loose; there was an expression of rapture on the painted face; my shoulders rose bare from a sea green smock. It was beautiful. I gasped and could not take my eyes from it.

  She crowed with delight and pressing her palms together stood on one foot like a child.

  “You like it?”

  “It’s a wonderful picture. But I don’t look like that.”

  “You don’t look like the woman in the other…yet.”

  I looked from one picture to the other and she whispered: “I told you…I told you…” Then she went on: “This woman is happy and she is sad…and she lives. The other is calm and grows more and more contented as the years pass by. Cows are contented chewing the cud. Did you know that, Mrs. Verlaine? They put their heads down and see the rich verdant grass. It is all they ask because they do not see anything else.”

  “Well, which is myself? They can’t both be.”

  “But none of us is one person. I could have been a wife and mother if Harry had not deceived me and if he had not met a richer girl he would still have deceived me but I should not have known it, should I? It isn’t so much what we know as what we believe. I wonder if you agree with me. If you don’t now, you will some day. Two paths are opening for you, Mrs. Verlaine. You will choose. You chose once before. Oh Mrs. Verlaine, you are not as wise as you pretend to be. Once you had a big decision to make…and you didn’t choose your music. Were you right…or wrong? Only you can say because it is what you believe to be right which will be right for you. Perhaps you believe you have been unwise once. You are lucky. Second chances are not given to us all. This time you must make the right choice. I never had a second chance…” Her face puckered. “I wept and wept…” She came close to me. “I think you’ll choose safety this time, Mrs. Verlaine. Yes, I think you will.”

  She disturbed me. I was sure she was mad, and yet…She seemed to have an uncanny gift for reading my thoughts for she said: “Of course I’m mad, Mrs. Verlaine. My misfortunes drove me mad, but there are always compensations. Blind people find them. They become philosophical. So why shouldn’t the mad find them? Some are given special powers, special insight. They sometimes see what others fail to. That’s a pleasant thought, isn’t it, Mrs. Verlaine? There are always compensations.”

  “I think it’s a comforting philosophy.”

  She laughed aloud. “So diplomatic. Yes, I think it will be the bishop’s wife. But it shows you have changed doesn’t it? The bishop’s wife would have chosen music.”

  Her expression changed again; it became sly, malevolent.

  “But,” she said, “it may be that you won’t be either if you meddle. You are a meddler.” She was her childish self again, lifting an admonishing finger. “Admit it. You know what happens to those who try to find out too much when there are wicked people about.” She laughed. “You ought to know. It nearly happened to you, didn’t it?”

  She stood in the center of the room nodding like a mandarin, an incongruous figure, her flowery, feminine hat shading her wrinkled face, a shrewd wisdom looking out of her mad eyes.

  I pictured her writing that note, creeping into my room with it, hiding herself in the outhouse, waiting, sprinkling the floor with the paraffin oil that was left in the drum.

  But why?

  How could I know what secrets this old house was hiding, and how each member of this household was concerned in them?

  Roma, I thought, what did you discover?

  ***

  Sybil had disturbed me more than I cared to admit.

  Everyone seemed to have decided that an understanding was growing between myself and Godfrey Wilmot, and in a way it was true. I could dream if I wanted to of a peaceful future and I did; but when I dreamed of it, it was not Godfrey I saw but my children. It’s natural, I told myself. Every woman wants children; and when she is of a mature age and never expected to have them, then the prospect is very desirable indeed. Yet…But why should there be any doubts? I was lucky, as Sybil said. I had a second chance. Or I could have—if I took care not to meddle.

  When I was with Godfrey the time passed quickly and pleasantly but there were occasions when I did not want his company. I liked to be alone with my thoughts and one of my favorite spots was the little walled garden. Perhaps because she was such an observant little person Alice knew this. She came into the walled garden on this afternoon and asked in a demure voice whether she was disturbing me.

  “Of course not, Alice,” I said. “Have you done your practice?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Verlaine, and I came to talk to you.”

  “That was nice of you. Sit down for a moment. It’s very pleasant in this garden.”

  “You love it, don’t you, Mrs. Verlaine? I’ve often seen you here. So quiet and peaceful, isn’t it? I expect you will make a garden like this in your new home.”

  “My new home?”

  “When you’re married.”

  “My dear Alice, I have been married once and I am not engaged to do so again.”

  “But you will be soon.” She brought her face closer to mine and I could see the freckles across the bridge of her nose. “I think you’ll be very happy.”

  “Thank you, Alice.”

  “I think Mr. Wilmot is a charming man. I’m sure he’ll make a good husband.”

  “How is it that you can judge a good husband?”

  “But it’s easy to tell in this case. He’s handsome and rich I think…otherwise Mrs. Rendall wouldn’t want him for Sylvia. And
he’s kind and he wouldn’t be cruel to you as some husbands are.”

  “Your knowledge astounds me, Alice.”

  “Oh well,” she said modestly, “I have lived here with Edith and Napier. He was unkind to her. You see I have an example close at hand.”

  “How can you be sure that he was unkind to her?”

  “She used to cry a lot. She said he was cruel to her.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes. She used to confide in me a lot. It was because we were both little girls together.”

  “You haven’t a notion why she…went away?”

  “It was to get away from him. I think she’s gone to London to be a governess.”

  “What gave you that idea? You thought she had run away with Mr. Brown, remember.”

  “So did everybody. But that was silly. She couldn’t run away with him, could she? Any more than a married woman could run away with Mr. Wilmot, because he is a curate and curates don’t ran away with people whom they can’t marry.”

  “So you think she has gone off on her own. Oh Alice, as if she would! You remember Edith. She would never be able to stand on her two feet.”

  “Do you know, Mrs. Verlaine, that if a tiger came into this garden you and I would run as we never had run before. We’d have special reserves of strength. Our bodies would provide them. Isn’t that interesting? And it’s true, I read it somewhere. It’s Nature’s provision. That’s what it is. Well, Edith had to get away so Nature gave her the strength to do so.”

  “What a little wiseacre you are.”

  “Wiseacre,” she repeated. “I haven’t heard that word before. I like it. Wiseacre. It makes me sound like a clever piece of land.”

  “If you know anything about Edith you should tell it, Alice.”

  “I only know that she’s run away. I don’t think she’ll ever be found because she won’t want to be. I wonder what she’s doing now. Teaching some children their lessons I expect…in a house like Lovat Stacy. Isn’t that strange, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “Too strange to be believed,” I said. “I’m sure Edith would do no such thing. It would be wrong and wicked.”

  “But while he has a wife, Napier won’t be able to marry anyone else. I’ve written a story about it, Mrs. Verlaine. There’s a woman who is married to a bad man and she cannot escape from him, so she runs away and hides herself. You see, she has no husband and he has no wife and while she is hidden he can’t take another wife. It’s her big sacrifice. She remains hidden away until she is an old woman. And then she is lonely because she has no grandchildren. But that was her sacrifice.”

  “You must let me see some of your stories, Alice.”

  “Oh, they’re not very good. I have to improve a lot. Shall I tell you a secret, Mrs. Verlaine? It will probably shock you.”

  “I’m not easily shocked.”

  “Mr. Lincroft was not my father.”

  “What?”

  “Sir William is my father. Oh, it’s true. I heard them talking—my mother and Sir William. That’s why I’m here…living in the house. I’m what is called a love child. I think that’s rather a nice thing to be…in a way. Love child. It’s like Allegra. She’s one too. Isn’t it strange, Mrs. Verlaine, that there should be two of us? Two love children…in the same house, brought up together.”

  “Alice, you are romancing again.”

  “No, I’m not. After I heard them talking I asked my mother and she admitted it. She loved Sir William and he loved her…and she went away because she thought it was wrong to stay here. And she had me and she married Mr. Lincroft…to give me a name. That’s why I’m Alice Lincroft but really I’m Alice Stacy. Sir William is very fond of me. I think that one day he will make me legitimate. You can do it, you know. I’m going to write a lovely story about a girl whose father makes her legitimate, but I’m saving that one. It’s going to be the best I’ve ever done.”

  As I looked at the earnest little face beside me I could well believe this would be so.

  The skein of circumstance grew more and more tangled with every new disclosure.

  ***

  It had been raining heavily all day long. The girls had come back from their morning at the vicarage wet through and Mrs. Lincroft insisted that they take off all their clothes and put on dry ones.

  As I saw her efficiently taking charge I thought what a strong sense of duty she had and I believed that she was trying to expiate her misdemeanor. I pictured her coming to the house, a companion for Isabella—a lovely creature she must have been with that quiet grace and beauty. What bitter tensions there must have been, with Sir William falling in love with her and she with him, and Isabella…poor and tragic Isabella, suddenly growing aware of it.

  No wonder I sensed the sadness in her room.

  And when Mrs. Lincroft was going to have a child she went away and then, but perhaps that was later—married Mr. Lincroft for the sake of the child. I wondered about Mr. Lincroft who had conveniently died so that his wife could come back to Lovat Stacy after the death of Isabella.

  I always had the impression that she was living in the past; there was an aura of “days gone by” about her. It was in those chiffon blouses and the long sweeping skirts which she favored—the grays, the misty blues…they were hazy, indefinite…ghostly, I thought and laughed at the word.

  After tea I gave the girls a music lesson.

  “Poor Sylvia! She’s missing hers,” said Alice.

  “A fact for which she’ll be truly grateful to the rain,” declared Allegra. “Listen to it…pouring. All the gypsies will be in their caravans making pegs and baskets as fast as they can. That’s one thing I wouldn’t be a gypsy for. I’d hate to make baskets.”

  “You hate to work anyway. All you want to do is lie in the sun.

  “‘Who doth ambition shun

  And love to lie i’ the sun,’”

  sung Alice. “The answer is Allegra. But do you shun ambition? I don’t think you do really. What is your ambition? I know what Mrs. Verlaine’s is.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “To live in a lovely house far away from here…with a handsome husband and ten children.”

  “It’s not such an unusual ambition.”

  “I think it’s mine too, in a way, always to live in a house like this. Only I’m not sure about the husband. I don’t know what I think about them. I’m too young yet.”

  “Ha!” laughed Allegra. “She’s pretending.”

  “I’m not,” said Alice. “Listen to the rain. Nobody would be out in weather like this. Not even ghosts.”

  “It’s just the time they would come out,” contradicted Allegra. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “I don’t agree that they come at all.”

  “The ghost will be in the chapel tonight, you see,” said Allegra.

  Alice shivered.

  “I shall watch,” declared Allegra.

  “You can’t watch all night,” Alice reminded her.

  “No, but I shall keep looking. It’ll be easy to see the light flash because it’s so dark.”

  “Now let’s discuss something sensible,” I suggested. “Alice, I’d like to hear you play that minuet again. You weren’t at all bad last time. Of course there’s plenty of room for improvement.”

  Alice arose with alacrity and sat at the piano. As I watched those painstaking fingers picking out the melody, I thought that the two girls were good for each other because they were so different. Alice was a great help in curbing Allegra’s wildness; and Allegra put a curb on Alice’s primness. The two little love children.

  ***

  The next morning the showers were intermittent and brighter weather was obviously on the way. In the morning I set out with the girls to walk to the vicarage.

  “I was right, Mrs. Verlaine,” Allegra said as we left the ho
use and went along Church Path. “We saw the light last night, didn’t we, Alice?”

  She nodded. “Very bright it was, Mrs. Verlaine, because of the darkness.”

  “Alice wanted to come and tell you but we didn’t because you don’t believe in it.”

  “It was a trap or something on the road most likely,” I said.

  “Oh no, Mrs. Verlaine. The road doesn’t go that way.”

  “Then whoever played tricks on a night like that must be in his dotage.”

  “Or dead. The rain wouldn’t worry the dead, would it?”

  “Well, we have a lot of work to get through the morning. I think I’ll take Sylvia first.”

  We had arrived at the vicarage and as we went up the path Mrs. Rendall appeared at the door, her arms folded, in a not unusual attitude.

  “Sylvia,” she answered, looking through me, “will not be available for lessons today. She is not well. In fact I have sent for the doctor.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I do hope she will soon be well.”

  “I can’t understand what’s wrong. Shivering and sneezing…it’s a thorough chill.” She turned and we followed her into the vicarage. “Ah!” Her tone softened because Godfrey was coming down the stairs. “The pupils are here,” she added. “I was just explaining that dear Sylvia is having a few days in bed.”

  “Doctor’s orders?” asked Godfrey.

  “Mine. The child would go out yesterday to take some soup to poor Mrs. Cory. I said it was too wet but the dear girl insisted and said that it did not matter if she had a soaking and that what was important was that Mrs. Cory should have her soup.”

  “What a little saint she is!” said Godfrey lightly and Mrs. Rendall smiled warmly.

  “She has been brought up to think of others. So many people nowadays…” She threw a baleful glance at me, and I wanted to burst out laughing and I could see that Godfrey did the same.

  I said that as Sylvia would be unavailable for her music lesson there was no point in my staying. I could give Allegra and Alice theirs at Lovat Stacy. This arrangement seemed to please Mrs. Rendall mightily and she smiled almost graciously at me.