by Dominic Luke
No, thought Eliza: not for ages and ages. Not since that night in August, the night when Roderick and Kolya had fought, the night of Kolya’s moonlight swim.
‘I am sorry not to have seen Roderick,’ Lady Fitzwilliam continued. (Mama was content now just to listen: she seemed to know by instinct exactly what was required.) ‘It’s been so long since I saw him last. He’s grown into such a fine young boy, so very handsome, and so like his grandfather! Dear Old Harry. He was anti-Russian too. Do you remember, Eloise – well, of course you do, he was your father: do you remember how he disliked the Russians? Gladstone, too: he detested Gladstone. And the railways. He had an aversion to anything modern. He’d have had no time for motor cars. Perhaps he was right all along. Progress, we used to call it, us younger generation. Progress. We thought it a good thing, we mocked our parents for not keeping up. But now, I wonder. Yes, I wonder.’
She sighed, looking round the room, her eyes not focusing on anything. Finally her gaze came to rest on her hands in her lap.
‘Isn’t it odd that Henry was crippled by a motor car, one of the very machines that are making him rich. Ironic, Joseph would have called it. That was one of his words: ironic. What a blessing Joseph didn’t live to see his own son. . . . But there. Never mind. And now I must go. I mustn’t take up any more of your time. I don’t like to leave Henry too long. Where did I put my stick. . .? Ah, thank you, Ordish. And my hat too. Bless you. Well, goodbye, Eloise, my dear. Goodbye, Elizabeth. But my word, how you’ve grown! And you’re attending school now, I hear! What interesting lives you lead, you youngsters, always on the go. Henry was just the same. Just the same.’
Off she went, stooping, shuffling, leaning on her stick—
But that was complete nonsense, Eliza told herself sternly: it was her imagination running away with her. Lady Fitzwilliam was straight-backed, proud and hale, didn’t really need a stick: she was only a dozen years older than Mama.
What was it about her, then, that made her seem so ancient?
With Lady Fitzwilliam gone, Mama got up to return to the parlour. She hesitated, however, by the breakfast room door and looked back. Her lips were slightly parted. Eliza felt for a split second that Mama was about to say something different from anything she had said before, something profound, something that would change things forever.
But all she did say, after a pause, was, ‘Back to the nursery now, please, Elizabeth.’
December rolled round at last. The Michaelmas term was over and Roderick arrived from Oxford. On his first morning back he came up to the nursery as he’d always done. Perhaps he’d forgotten that Dorothea wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d come up here from habit. Eliza hardly dared presume that he’d come to see her.
‘Mother’s been reading the riot act,’ he said gloomily, pacing up and down. ‘I neglected my responsibilities. I let you run wild all summer. It’s a bit rich, I must say! I wasn’t the one who spent three months in Scarborough!’
Frowning, he flung himself into the chair by the fire. He must know, thought Eliza, that Mama would not stay mad at him for long. She never did. Perhaps, then, there was another reason for his air of gloom.
‘Well, kiddo, and what have you been doing with yourself? You’ve started school, Mother says. A bit late in the day, I would have thought. What’s it like, this school of yours?’
But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the academy, how dull it was, how she could feel herself getting lumpier and lumpier every passing day. Already it seemed as if she’d spent half her life there. She asked him instead about Wales: he had been going to Wales when he left Clifton in August.
Roderick wrinkled his nose. Wales was a gruesome place, barely civilized, the people savages. He and Kolya had stayed with Miss Halsted and her friends in a primitive sort of cottage halfway up what the Welsh had the temerity to call a mountain. It had rained most of the time. There’d been nothing to do but listen to the pointless conversations of his companions, who had talked endlessly about politics and philosophy. They had also taken up country crafts (Roderick sneered at the words). They had tried their hands at spinning and weaving and dying cloth without much success. They had made items of wooden furniture which fell apart as soon as they were finished. What the point of it all was, he didn’t like to guess.
From Wales, Roderick continued, getting up and resuming his pacing around the room, he’d followed Miss Halsted to London where he’d had the misfortune to attend a meeting of her infamous Thursday Evening Club. It had proved a ghastly experience. The so-called club was an unholy hotchpotch of upstart cockneys, muddle-headed artists and frightful bluestockings, not to mention the foreigners and even an Irishman. They had endless debates, talking the most incredible drivel. How in the modern world could one best advance the cause of women’s suffrage? Was a socialist elite a contradiction in terms? What, if any, were the artistic merits of French post-Impressionism? They wouldn’t listen when he tried to talk sense, they shouted him down and called him a chauvinist and a reactionary. They were nothing but a load of cranks and charlatans. He was sorry he’d ever met them.
‘And . . . and Kolya?’ Eliza ventured to say, anxious for news of the Russian.
‘Oh, they all think Antipov a fine fellow! He talks as much bosh as they do. It impresses them no end.’
‘Roddy, do you hate Kolya now? I saw you hit him!’
Roderick glanced at her keenly. ‘So you know about that, do you? We both got a bit hot under the collar that night. But it’s nothing new. We never agree on anything. That’s half the fun. He has the most hare-brained ideas I’ve ever heard but he’s . . . he’s a very honest sort of fellow. There’s not an ounce of affectation in him. I suppose that’s why I like him. If I do like him. There are limits to what a chap can take,’ he added darkly.
He gave a huge sigh and threw himself back into the chair. Antipov had graduated, he went on, had left Oxford: one hardly saw him now from one month to the next. It was the same with Miss Halsted. It was so long since he’d seen Miss Halsted he’d all but forgotten what she looked like. Lord, what a wretched business life was, absolutely beastly! He might as well drop Miss Halsted altogether. He might as well. What was the use if he never got to see her?
A moment later he sprang to his feet once more. There was no point in sitting round moping. He’d be better off taking his dog out. He’d take a gun, too, shoot a few wild animals: that would make him feel better.
The nursery seemed more than usually silent and empty once Roderick had gone. Whatever else you said about him, he certainly livened a place up. In her bedroom, Eliza looked out of the window, her elbows resting on the sill. It was a still, overcast morning. Rooks flapped lethargically in the sky. After a while she saw Roderick emerge from the house below. He strode across the gravel in his long overcoat, a gun on his arm, Hecate at his heels. Circling the cedar tree, he disappeared into the Pheasantry to reappear after a time in the big ploughed field called Horselands where the path to the village was like a pale-brown ribbon dwindling towards the distant crenulated tower of St Adeline’s, grey and austere. Hecate, a black spot at Roderick’s feet, was never still.
Roderick raised his gun. The report from his shot came a moment later, muffled by the window. A rook fell from the sky.
The hunt was to meet at Newbolt Hall. There was nothing like a spot of hunting, Roderick said, to blow the cobwebs away. He would ride over to Colonel Harding’s house and join them.
Eliza went downstairs to see him off, stood side-by-side with Mama on the doorstep. It was a crisp, bright morning with the promise of sunshine later. Roderick was astride his restive horse, which was jigging about, kicking up the gravel. He pulled on the reins impatiently, looking round for Billy Turner and the spare horse.
‘Where is he, the useless clot?’
With Roderick watching for Turner and Mama watching Roderick, it was Eliza who was first to see a solitary figure emerge from behind the evergreens at the head of the drive: a woman wearing a beige c
oat with big buttons, a hat with a turned-up brim and shiny black boots. Eliza at first did not recognize her as she approached them hesitantly.
‘Rosa!’ Roderick leapt down from his horse, went striding to meet her, pleasure and puzzlement written over his face in equal measure. ‘What are you doing here? Have you walked all the way from the station? You should have let me know!’
Miss Halsted gave a timid smile. For Miss Halsted to be timid was most out of character.
‘Good morning, Miss Halsted. How very nice to see you again.’ Mama pitched her words perfectly as only Mama could: polite good manners layered over a soupcon of surprise, with just the merest hint of reproach at such an unexpected – not to say unorthodox – arrival. She turned back to Roderick. ‘You really should go or you will miss the start at Newbolt Hall.’
‘Never mind that.’ Roderick shrugged off all suggestion of the hunt. He took Miss Halsted’s bag, ushered her towards the house, his hand on her back. ‘Come in out of the cold, Rosa. Some tea, perhaps? You’ve had breakfast, I suppose.’
At that moment Billy Turner appeared leading Roderick’s second horse, which trotted meekly behind him, behaving itself as all horses did for Billy.
‘Here, Turner,’ said Roderick. ‘Look after Conquest a moment, would you? I shan’t be long.’
Mama, bowing to the inevitable, led the way into the house. Eliza on the threshold stepped aside to let Roderick and Miss Halsted pass. She caught a glimpse of Miss Halsted in the hallway pausing to grip Roderick’s arm; she heard Miss Halsted’s urgent whisper: ‘Roderick, I must speak to you! I must speak to you right away! It’s incredibly important.’
Mama, looking back, interrupted. ‘This way, Miss Halsted. The morning room. I will ring for tea. And you will want to sit down after your long walk.’
They sat in the morning room, the four of them, and drank tea, whilst Billy Turner waited outside with the horses: Eliza could see him from where she was sitting by the window. Miss Halsted did not say why she had come. She did not say much at all. She looked – as Daisy would have said – white as a sheet. Mama in due course extended an invitation to luncheon. Miss Halsted accepted.
The little party broke up. Back in the day room of the nursery Eliza sat down then got up, picked toys off the shelves, put them back. With one finger she traced the chalked words on the blackboard where she’d been trying to help Daisy with her writing. Daisy had drawn the D of her own name back-to-front as she always did: she could never seem to get it right.
Turning away, Eliza met the parrot’s eye. ‘Oh, Polly! Something’s happened!’ But what? What was so important that Miss Halsted had come all this way, had walked the three miles or more from Welby station?
Polly looked at Eliza cryptically then, losing interest, began to preen her feathers.
In no time at all, or so it seemed, the gong sounded for luncheon. Eliza ran to her room, dipped her hands in the water in the basin on her washstand, splashed her face.
Halfway down to the next floor she heard voices on the landing below and stopped to listen. Roderick and Miss Halsted were talking in whispers.
‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain?’ Roderick sounded tense, almost angry.
‘Of course I’m not certain,’ hissed Miss Halsted. ‘I may have got it wrong. I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’
‘I don’t understand. How has this happened?’
‘I would have thought that was self-evident.’
‘But I’ve seen you once in all these weeks! I’ve been going out of my mind, wanting you, and you always finding excuses. Once, Rosa, once!’
‘Once is all it takes, it seems.’
‘Thanks for that statement of the blindingly obvious.’
‘There’s no need to take that tone. I wanted you to know, that’s all. There’s no need to bother yourself further.’
‘Rosa, wait, I’m sorry. Rosa, where are you going? Come back, Rosa!’
Footsteps sounded. The voices faded.
Eliza made her way down, one step at a time. She was shaking, she didn’t know why.
Luncheon was a rather awkward affair, the atmosphere strained. Even the Perfect Hostess seemed at a loss.
‘What are your plans, Miss Halsted? You are welcome, of course, to stay the night – to stay as long as you like. But I must let Cook know about dinner.’
‘She’s staying,’ said Roderick shortly. ‘She’s staying to dinner, she’s staying the night.’
Rosa gave him a look as cryptic as Polly’s.
Having dressed for dinner with Daisy’s help, Eliza went through to the day room and found Roderick there already changed, impeccable and debonair as he paced up and down. She was rather taken aback, couldn’t account for his being there.
As soon as Daisy had gone he burst out, ‘I wish Doro were here! Doro would know what to do!’ He frowned. He was very tall and grim. Eliza remembered how he’d tugged at the reins of his horse. She remembered the rook falling from the sky. She was almost frightened of him.
He stopped his pacing in front of her, chewing his lip. ‘Oh, God, kiddo. Oh, lord.’ He sounded as if he was in pain.
‘Roddy, what is it? What’s the matter? I do wish you’d tell me!’
‘It’s . . . it’s Rosa. She’s going to have a child. My child.’ He went silent, chewing his lip ever more feverishly, looking at her dubiously. He said at length, ‘You do know what that means, I suppose? You do know about babies?’
She nodded. But she didn’t know, she didn’t know at all. She knew that babies came in the midwife’s bag – or did they? It didn’t quite ring true. There was something strange about babies, something sly and secret, something she hadn’t got to the bottom of.
‘She thinks she can raise it on her own! That’s her idea, anyway. That’s her plan. She’s mad as a hatter. But why should I care? Let her get on with it! I don’t want a child. I’m only twenty-one, still at Oxford. And I couldn’t very well marry her even if I wanted to. Mother would—’ He stopped abruptly, pulled out a chair, sat down at the big table. He tapped the scrubbed wood with his fingers.
Her back to the wall, Eliza ventured to say, ‘Do . . . do you like Miss Halsted very much?’
‘No, I don’t! I don’t like her at all! She’s monstrous!’ His hands on the tabletop bunched into fists. He glared at them as if deciding how best he might use them. Then his expression changed. Slowly he uncurled his hands and flattened them against the scrubbed surface of the table, his fingers twitching. ‘I’m talking rot. I do . . . I do. . . . But like is such an insipid word.’ He gave a little laugh: a hollow, rather disparaging laugh. ‘Lord, I’m such a fool! Ask Doro, she’ll tell you. Or . . . well . . . you can’t ask her. She’s gone. I keep forgetting.’
He got up abruptly, knocking his chair over. Crossing to the shelves, he began rummaging amongst the toys that Eliza herself had rearranged only that morning.
‘Rosa makes me feel . . . I’m not sure . . . as if I can be myself when I’m with her.’ He was muttering under his breath as if talking to himself, picking up a wooden box distractedly and turning it over and over in his hands. ‘She’s not the sort of girl I ever thought I’d like. We’re so very different. And yet . . . she seems to like me, too. And sometimes I think it’s the parts of me no one else likes that she likes best of all. It’s . . . it’s . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t explain.’ He suddenly swung round, dark eyes flashing. ‘Why should I need to explain? Why should I explain myself to you?’
He took a step towards her. Eliza flinched, pressing herself against the wall. But at that moment he noticed the box in his hands. He suddenly seemed to recognize it. He opened it. It was full of toy soldiers. He sorted through them. A distant look came into his eyes. ‘Doro bought me these. I told her she needn’t. As usual, she didn’t listen. Lord, she’d have some things to say now! I’ve got my just deserts, she’d say.’
He replaced the lid on the box and put it aside. ‘She has her head in the clouds,’ he muttered, and E
liza, listening, understood he wasn’t talking about Dorothea now but Miss Halsted again. ‘She hasn’t a penny and her saintly aunts will disown her. She listens too much to those friends of hers. Those half-baked cranks fill her head with nonsense. And Antipov—’ He broke off, began pacing up and down once more. A new fire kindled in his eyes. ‘Antipov, that snake! I can see it all now! This is the opportunity he’s been waiting for. He can step in and save her! Well, I shan’t let him. If the child is mine, why shouldn’t I own it? I don’t care what Mother thinks. Mother can’t tell me what to do. If I want to marry Rosa—’ He broke off, cocking an ear. ‘Listen! There’s the gong. We have to go down.’ He swung round, glared at her. ‘Not a word! Not a word to anyone! Do you understand?’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She watched him smooth his hair and pull down his shirt cuffs. He looked at her and smiled: a rather savage smile, but a smile nonetheless. He held out his hand. ‘Come on, kiddo. Let’s go.’
It seemed to Eliza at dinner that of the four of them only Mama was her usual self. She didn’t seem to notice there was anything amiss. Eliza found herself feeling sorry for her, so ignorant of the facts when normally she was mistress of every situation, sensitive to every nuance. It was as if her omniscience had been shown up as a cheap trick.
It seemed wrong, feeling sorry for Mama.
A feeling of oppression seemed to weigh down the whole house next morning. Or was it her imagination? Eliza could not decide. She tried to remember everything that Roderick had said in the day room yesterday. It was all such a terrible muddle in her head. Did he think Miss Halsted a fool or did he think her the only person in the world who liked him? Was he going to marry her or wasn’t he? It was impossible to sit quietly and work it all out. Daisy was being at her most annoying, ‘clatterbanging round the place’ as she herself might have put it. Miss Eliza was in the way; it was the devil’s own job trying to get the place clean without Miss Eliza under her feet; why couldn’t Miss Eliza keep out of her road?