by Jess Foley
Chapter Twenty-Five
Early in April Blanche and Marianne returned from Clifton to Hallowford for the Easter break. Blanche did so with mixed feelings. Not only did she resent the fact that she would have to spend part of the holiday in the company of Gentry Harrow, but also, at the back of her mind, she was aware of a growing problem connected with her family.
Where her mother and Ernest were concerned, Blanche had become increasingly aware that their move to Colford had changed the situation between them and herself. With the distance being so much further, and a visit requiring a carriage ride, a ride on horseback, or a rather long walk, her visits had become less and less frequent over the years – and this was in addition to the already-present reserve that had so long ago taken root.
Now, when Blanche visited the cottage at Colford she did not expect any closeness. Over the years she and her mother and brother had drifted further and further apart.
The exposure of the growing estrangement between them came about towards the end of the Easter holidays that year, 1898. It was on a Friday, the day of Gentry’s expected arrival at the house, a bright, mid-April day when the sun shone with an unseasonal warmth. James was to drive Marianne in the landau to Trowbridge to meet Gentry from the train. Marianne had asked Blanche to accompany her, and although Blanche did not really want to go, she had nevertheless agreed, saying that the journey would give her the opportunity to call on her mother, whom she had not visited since returning from Clifton at the start of the holidays. With this in mind she would get James to drive back via Colford and let her off there.
Not long before three o’clock Blanche and Marianne, driven by James, set off for Trowbridge. Gentry’s train was due in just after four. They got to the station as the train pulled in – but without Gentry on board. Marianne, clearly very disappointed, said he had either missed the train or had changed his mind about coming. Whichever way, the next train was not due for at least another hour; there was nothing for it but to get back into the carriage and return to Hallowford. If Gentry was on the next train, she said, he would hire a cab from the station.
They set off back, reaching Colford close on 5.15 where, at the end of Hummock Lane, James brought the carriage to a halt and Blanche got out. Marianne asked if they should send the landau back for her in an hour or so, but Blanche said that it was not necessary; it was a fine day and she could easily walk the three miles back to Hallowford. With a basket over her arm, Blanche left the carriage to continue on to Hallowford while she walked along the lane to the cottage.
She found her mother in the small rear garden, crouching over a vegetable patch pulling up weeds. As Blanche approached down the narrow path Sarah heard her step, and turned and smiled a greeting at her. She stood up and, keeping her soil-stained hands well away from Blanche’s cape, kissed her on the cheek.
‘I should have thought Ernest would have been doing this,’ Blanche said, gesturing to the little pile of weeds that lay on the garden path near her foot. Sarah shook her head at the idea. ‘Oh, Ernest has enough to do at the farm. He has so little time to himself I wouldn’t want to see him spending it all in working about the house. Anyway –’ she vigorously brushed her hands together, removing some of the dark, rich soil, ‘– come on inside and we’ll have some tea.’
In the little kitchen Blanche put on the kettle while Sarah washed her hands. For the next few minutes as they made the tea they talked of this and that, politely though, with the conversation never going far below the surface. And then:
‘Oh, I was forgetting,’ Blanche said, and took from her basket a package containing some little gifts she had brought back from a trip to Bristol. There was a pot of expensive marmalade, some potted meat, and a little jar of dressed crab. Blanche smiled as she set the items on the kitchen table. ‘I thought that you and Ernest might like a little treat,’ she said.
Sarah’s smile was faint and strained. ‘You always bring presents,’ she said. ‘You never visit but you bring something – why?’
Blanche gave a little laugh. ‘Why not? If it’s something you like, why not?’ She paused. Suddenly she felt awkward, a little embarrassed. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘– perhaps it’s just a token. Besides, I want to make you happy.’
‘But we don’t want your gifts,’ Sarah said.
Blanche looked at her, all trace of her smile gone from her face. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
Slowly Sarah shook her head. ‘No, Blanche, you don’t understand. I don’t think you ever have – ever will.’
Silence in the room. Sarah added:
‘Why do you keep bringing us things? These little gifts. We don’t need them. We’re all right as we are.’
‘All right?’ There was a note of incredulity in Blanche’s echoing words. ‘Mama, you don’t realize – I have so much. I want you to have things too. Is that wrong?’ Then before Sarah could respond Blanche went on: ‘You have so few comforts here, you and Ernest. Every time I visit you I’m so aware of it. And you could be more comfortable if you wished, you know you could. At Hallowford you didn’t even have to pay rent, and Ernest has told me since that Mr Savill has offered to help in – in various ways, and if you –’
‘No!’
The vehemence of Sarah’s tone shocked Blanche into silence. She sat there at the kitchen table, open-mouthed, facing her mother, seeing a new side to her, her anger, an anger which she had never really seen before.
‘Why do you think we left Hallowford?’ Sarah said. ‘It wasn’t only because of Ernest’s work. One reason was to get out of the trap of Mr Savill’s charity.’ She shook her head. ‘God knows, he is a kind, well-meaning man, but where does it end? There had to be a limit at some time. So – we came here. And we pay rent here, as the other tenants do. Good God, it’s hard enough to see him paying for everything for you, but we don’t have to be a part of it as well.’
Blanche continued to stare at Sarah. Her mother too was resentful of all that Savill had done for her over the years. Blanche said, her own voice growing sharp:
‘The way you talk, it’s as if you regret what he has done for me.’
Sarah didn’t answer. Blanche waited a moment then went on:
‘Don’t you realize the advantages I’ve had? Aren’t you aware of it all? He’s given me a good education. I’ve learned about the best things in life. I shall travel, see foreign lands. Do you begrudge me all that?’
‘No, I don’t begrudge it. But I sometimes regret that it ever happened.’
‘Mama –’
‘Listen to you,’ Sarah said. ‘Mama, Mama. My other children called me Mam. Ernest, Mary, Arthur, Agnes. Mam they called me. Not you.’ She got up from the table, moved to the window, stood looking out over the narrow back garden. ‘But it’s not your fault,’ she said at last. ‘It’s the way you’ve been brought up. Why should you talk to me as the others did? You’re not like the others. You never have been. You never will be. That was all decided long ago. It’s out of my hands now – and out of yours too.’ A silence, then, her voice bitter, she went on:
‘No, I only regret that I ever agreed to your staying up at the house. It was no place for you. You belonged with me, with us, your family. But it’s too late now. You’ll never belong to us now.’ She turned, and suddenly reached out and pushed across the table towards Blanche the pot of marmalade, the jar of potted meat. ‘We don’t want your charity,’ she said. ‘Keep it for those who are grateful for it. Don’t come round here with your gifts – acting like some Lady Bountiful giving out her largesse to the deserving and unfortunate poor. Keep it for those who appreciate it. Your gifts – your nightgowns and your silk handkerchiefs – we don’t need them.’
She straightened. ‘Go on back to your friends up on the hill,’ she said. ‘Don’t be kind to us; there’s no need. And there’s no need for you to honour us with your occasional visits. Because I know your heart isn’t in them. You don’t want to come, and I’d rather not see you than that you come under some se
nse of obligation.’
With her final words Sarah turned away. Blanche continued to sit there, her face pale, fingers gripping the handle of the cheap teacup. After long, long moments she put down the cup, got up from her chair and picked up her basket. Standing, facing her mother’s back, she said:
‘Yes, Mama –’ She caught herself on the familiar word, and began again. ‘I’m going now.’ Her voice was very low in the little room, measured against the ticking of the clock. ‘I’m sorry I brought you so much unhappiness. I shall try not to do so in the future. But tell me – Mother – why were you so content to leave me in Mr Savill’s care? You must have had some reason. Was it because you resented me? Resented that I was having chances the others were denied? Or was it because I lived when Agnes and Arthur died? And they meant so much more to you than I did – than I ever could. I didn’t ask to stay with the Savills, Mama. It was you who made the decision. You and my father and Mr Savill. I had no say in the matter. Is it any wonder, then, that now, after seventeen years, I regard Hallowford House as my home; that kind of life as my own – that as the circle where I belong. I didn’t ask for it, Mama. I didn’t. You made me what I am.’ She nodded, the tears so close to the surface now. ‘You have every reason to reproach me. I could have been a better daughter to you, but – but did you make it easy for it to happen?’
She turned and stepped towards the door. She could feel the tears swimming in her eyes; her throat was so constricted she felt pain. In the open doorway she turned to her mother again. Sarah’s back was still turned towards her.
‘You said I don’t belong here anymore, Mama. But I don’t belong there either – at Hallowford House.’ And now the tears spilled over and coursed down her cheeks. She struggled to get her words out. ‘I’ve had that knowledge forced upon me many times in the past, and I have no doubt that I shall be made aware of it again in the future.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t belong anywhere, it seems.’
With her last words she turned, went into the yard, around the house and out of the gate.
At the end of Hummock Lane Blanche started off along the road, leaving Colford behind her. Her tears still ran, but determinedly she fought them back. A hundred yards along she turned left onto a bridle track that marked a shortcut to Hallowford.
Leaving the main road behind her, she walked swiftly for some minutes as if eager to reach her destination, but then slowed and came to a stop. Across the fields from the direction of Hallowford she heard the sound of the striking of the church clock. Six o’clock. Not far from the side of the track in a little bower formed by silver birches and some shrubs was the stump of a fallen tree, and she moved to it and sat down, putting her head in her hands.
After a while she raised her head and sat looking dully ahead. Then, with a gesture of anger and determination she wiped a hand across her tear-stained cheek. She would never return to the cottage, never.
Half-turning, she glimpsed, through the screen of leaves on her right, a figure, a man, approaching along the bridle path. Instinctively, not wanting any encounter with anyone at that moment, she shrank back into the shelter of the foliage. But even her brief glimpse of the man had been sufficient for her to recognize him. It was Gentry Harrow.
He was the last person she wanted to see at that moment, but there was no way she could escape. Her only hope was that he might pass by without seeing her there, though it was a slim hope, she knew.
Unable to do anything but remain there, she watched as he came on, coming closer, moving along the track in the direction of Hallowford. He walked with an easy stride, a tall young man with broad shoulders, his hat in his hand, his black hair shining in the April sun.
And then he was drawing almost level with her and she shrank further back into the shadow of the leaves. Watching him, she could see the very moment in which he caught sight of her on the periphery of his vision, drawn by the pale blue of her blouse, the deeper blue of her cape. Next moment he was turning to her, recognition dawning in his eyes.
He came to a sudden stop. ‘Blanche.’ The surprise was evident in his voice. ‘Blanche – what are you doing here?’
She felt like a child caught in some forbidden act. For a moment she gazed at him, conscious of having been found lurking, hiding from him, and of her unhappiness which, she was sure, must show in her face. She opened her mouth to speak to him, but no words would come, and, after a moment’s hesitation she picked up her basket and hurried away.
With Gentry’s voice calling out behind her, she left the track and, quickening her pace, ran off into the thicket that ran beside it, her feet uncertain on the uneven, bramble-strewn ground – which threatened at any moment to send her sprawling. And all the time she was desperately aware of the indignity of her action. Once embarked upon it, though, she was committed and her shame only drove her faster, deeper into the wood.
She didn’t get far. She was brought to a halt by a meandering stream that wound through the thicket, and stopping beside its bank she stood there unmoving, hearing the sound of Gentry as he came through the trees in her wake. Then, above the sound of the surrounding birdsong, and that of her own breathing, heavy after her exertion, she heard his approach close behind her, and then silence as he came to a stop. She could hear too, then, the sound of his own breathing.
‘Blanche …’
She didn’t turn to him. She couldn’t, but remained there, facing out across the little stream with its high banks, her emotions a turmoil of shame, pride, hostility and grief.
‘Blanche – look at me.’
It could have been anyone coming by, she said to herself – but it had to be he. She was reminded of the time of his arrival at Hallowford House when she had peered down at him from the landing window and he had caught her looking …
‘Blanche …’ And now after the sound of her name there came the touch of his hand on her arm. ‘Blanche – please …’
And in his voice there was a softness, a tenderness that she had never been aware of before. After a moment she turned and faced him. He was gazing at her with concern clouding his dark eyes.
‘Why did you run from me?’ he said.
She shook her head dumbly, unable to trust herself to speak. The encounter, coming so soon after the painful meeting with her mother, threatened all her feelings of resolve.
Gentry spoke again, the same note of concern in his voice:
‘Are you all right?’
She nodded. They stood there in their own silence surrounded by birdsong, in particular that of a blackbird who sat in a tree close by singing fit to burst its breast. Behind Blanche’s feet the stream rippled by. After a few moments she said lamely:
‘Marianne and I – we went to Trowbridge to meet you.’ She found it difficult to look him in the eyes. ‘Did you miss the train?’
‘Yes. I had to catch the next one. But I couldn’t find a cab at Trowbridge so I left my box there and set off to walk. It’s not that far across the fields. Anyway, I was lucky: I got a ride in a trap a good part of the way.’ He smiled. ‘I never expected to see you there – sitting beside the bridle path like that.’ He grinned. ‘You gave a fellow quite a start.’
Gazing at her, so close, his dark eyes burning into her own, his smile faded as he said:
‘There is something wrong, isn’t there?’
‘Wrong? No, of course not.’
She shook her head and attempted a small laugh, which didn’t quite work. He continued to look at her, his own mouth unsmiling. ‘Yes, there is,’ he said; and then: ‘Is it me? Have I said something else to upset you? I seem to have a talent for it.’
‘No. No, Gentry, it’s not you. Please – it’s nothing.’
‘It’s something. And you’re on the verge of tears because of it.’
‘Please. I told you – it’s nothing.’
He shrugged, then: ‘What were you doing here, anyway?’
‘I’d been to see my mother.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘And is she well?’
‘Quite well.’
‘Good. And pleased to see you, I imagine.’
Blanche nodded. After a few seconds Gentry said:
‘I think this is the first time you and I have ever really been alone, isn’t it? At other times there have always been others about, somewhere or other.’
Blanche said nothing. He went on:
‘It gives me the chance – which you’ve never allowed me before – to say to you that – well, that I’m so sorry we got off on the wrong foot when we met again last Christmas.’
Blanche shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ It didn’t. Somehow her antipathy for him seemed very unimportant and unreal. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said again.
‘Well, it did at the time,’ he said. ‘And very much. Of course afterwards I thought about it and I could see why. I realized then how it must have sounded to you – as if I was – making some kind of comment on your still living at Hallowford House. Almost as if you – you had no right to be there.’ He shook his head. ‘God, how crass I was. How insensitive I must have sounded – not to mention cruel.’ He paused, then added earnestly, ‘But, Blanche – I meant nothing by it. Please believe me. They were just – empty words.’
He stood waiting for her response, then she said softly, a little note of bitterness in her voice:
‘Perhaps you were right.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Perhaps I do have no right to be there – at Hallowford House.’
He stared at her blankly. ‘What do you mean?’
And suddenly the tears she had kept back were springing to her eyes, overflowing and running down her cheeks. Letting fall her basket she lifted her hands to her face.
‘Don’t. Oh, Blanche, don’t.’ Gentry stepped towards her and she saw him, his form distorted by her tears, as he reached out to her. Briefly she held out her hands, as if she would ward him off, but then let them fall to her sides. The next moment she was held in the circle of his arms.