Susan and Octavius were having a late breakfast in the small garden behind the hotel in Strasbourg. They were sitting outside, wearing coats, because half the sky was pale blue and the sun ran back and forth across the garden as it passed between the clouds.
Susan dropped the letter from Sophie and did not hand it to Octavius, who never read her letters. She could hear her sister speaking in anger and misery to Dr Sacheverell, and quite possibly to Augusta as well, and told herself that she had far too much imagination.
The breeze blew the letter onto the ground and Susan picked it up.
‘Shall we go in?’ said Octavius. ‘They must think we’re mad English, trying to enjoy the fresh air in this howling gale.’
‘The sun’s come out again,’ said Susan. ‘Octavius, my dear, do you know, the sensible thing for you to have done would be to have proposed to Sophie just before you proposed to me? Then she could have turned you down and been delighted to see you take me in compensation.’
‘Good God, I never knew women were so cynical!’ He spoke angrily, then laughed and kissed her on her pink cheek.
‘What shall we do today?’ said Susan.
‘I’d like to stay here, my sweet thing, with you.’
‘I never knew you could be so lover-like, my dear.’ She crumpled Sophie’s letter while Octavius firmly stroked her other hand.
*
They returned to England at the beginning of June. When they arrived back at Lynmore, Octavius was displeased because the redecoration of the Rectory had not been completed, and he did not like living in a half-finished house. He told Susan, who had given the housekeeper at the Hall full instructions about what was to be done while they were away, that she should have waited until their return to begin the work, so that she could have supervised it herself. Susan said nothing to this.
Within six days she had all the work finished and the workmen out of the house, and Octavius told her many times that she was a splendid housekeeper.
Susan had learned about keeping house during her engagement. Mrs Robertson, the Lynmore housekeeper, had, when Susan asked to learn all about it, beamed at her and taught her to make calfs’-foot jelly. Later Susan had persuaded her to teach her how to polish furniture, silver and brass, and even copper saucepans. When she was a child her mother had taught her how to make bread, boil beef and make a white sauce, so she knew about that. Her mother had told her that a lady should know better than her servants how to cook and clean and wash, or else she would always have bad servants.
Everyone told Susan how much she knew, but she lived in fear of a domestic catastrophe. There were sufficiently few for her to enjoy thinking, when she was alone in the daytime, that once she had been expected only to know how to arrange orchids and roses, and now she was a wife, running her own house without a housekeeper or a capable stepdaughter.
She wondered what she would do if a servant proved to be lazy or impertinent, as they had never been when she was daughter of the house and knew so much which her own stepmother did not know. She was only sure that dismissing the girl would not improve the standard of service in her household. Some years before, a housemaid had got herself with child. Susan had heard about it from Sophie who had learned that Augusta’s plan was to bribe a man to marry the girl, that Nicholas had overruled his wife, and that the maid had been dismissed and nothing more had been done for her. Susan had always wondered what had happened to her, and now she wondered what she would do were a servant of her own to become pregnant, and she a clergyman’s wife. When she lay awake at night she worried about it.
At first, after her marriage, Susan was awake for much of the night; being made love to stopped her from sleeping. At first Octavius was eager, and he hurt her and muttered against himself, although when she asked him what it was that troubled him he said, ‘Nothing, Susan, nothing, my sweet.’ Soon he became gentler and she grew used to it far more quickly than she had expected. When he had finished he never turned away from her, but held on. Susan kept her face to the air and Octavius curled round her and laid his face against the back of her head. The more he had hurt her the harder he cuddled her, and within weeks Susan came to enjoy this, although she did not turn and sleep with her face towards him.
She was very thankful that she had not married in ignorance of what happened to married people in bed, as Sarah had done. In Sarah’s bedroom in Curzon St there was a copy of Dr Acton’s Functions and Disorders of the Reproductive Organs, lent by Dr Sacheverell. Because its pages were uncut Susan had not been able to dip into it at intervals while she was staying with Sarah, and had had to ask to borrow it.
Ladies came to call on her. Each married woman left three cards, one of her own and two of her husband’s, and Susan suddenly wondered and worried about what was done with these cards, which had always simply disappeared after a very short while when she was at home. She took to burning them after registering their arrival in a special book. The wives of other clergymen in the district called on her, and so did the daughters of landed families with whom Susan had been friendly. All the ladies who had met her before her marriage, whether they were wives or spinsters, commented that Susan seemed just the same, so very sure of herself, not in the least like a newly wed woman.
*
Just after Epiphany, Augusta came to call at the Rectory for the second time, and swept into the dining room where Susan was showing a fourteen-year-old maid how to remove a wine ring from the table. Augusta stood in the doorway and said: ‘Susan, I want to speak to you.’ The maid leapt, for she had been told by the head house-parlourmaid ever since her arrival how very lucky she was to work for Miss Susan and not the enormous Mrs Pagett. To calm herself, Susan put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and dismissed her kindly.
‘Well, Augusta?’ she replied, looking at her, clutching the polishing rag in both hands. Her stepmother’s chins were wobbling, her hat was askew and the sharp January sunlight showed up all her grey hairs.
‘I can’t think why you train your maids yourself, you have a head housemaid I believe, and with your thirty thousand you and your husband must have all of three thousand a year.’
‘Rather less than that, Augusta, although Octavius doesn’t tell me.’
‘You mean he manages your money, in spite of this famous Married Women’s Property Act!’
‘Yes, he does. And I train the maids myself because Molly there is very frightened of Rebecca, who’s my head house-parlourmaid, and a bad polisher into the bargain. I’m sure, Augusta, that you didn’t come to talk about my domestic arrangements?’ It was a shy question. ‘Would you care for some tea or coffee? I think we have some brandy to put in your tea if you would like that.’
Augusta smiled a little and Susan smiled too.
‘You are a good girl, Susan. What it must have cost you to say that. I’m snapping at you because I have had terrible news.’
‘Well, let’s sit down and chat for a while, until the tea arrives. Then we can talk about it and I’ll help you if I can. And Augusta, if you confide in me, let me tell you that I shall forget it as soon as you’ve gone, or try to. I know how people need to confide and then regret it as soon as they’ve done so, and dislike the woman they’ve confided in.’
‘Don’t lecture me!’ A tear coursed down Augusta’s flaccid brown cheek and she walked over to the window.
Because she was excited by Augusta’s appearance, Susan did not comment that she never had been able to do or say anything right. ‘We’ll go and sit down. I wonder what you’ll think of my drawing room? It wasn’t finished when you last came, was it?’
‘Sophie has married Sarah’s physician,’ said Augusta briefly.
‘Dr Sacheverell?’ said Susan, and shook her head.
‘Edwin,’ said Augusta. ‘She calls him Edwin.’
‘She’s written to you? I’ll understand if you don’t want me to read the letter, Augusta.’
‘Oh, read it, read it. I think I still have it on me.’
It was a very h
appy and very domestic letter, and it assured Augusta that she, Sophia, had been properly married by a priest, although it did not say when and where. She described quite charmingly some of the shifts which had to be made by a housekeeper to conceal poverty, when she had married on rather less than eight hundred a year. She had discovered that kidneys were cheap, so for dinner one evening she ordered kidneys cooked in marsala, and Edwin had had to explain to her that marsala was not cheap. She was just like Dora Copperfield but she was very sensible and intended to get over this very soon. Her marriage was almost excessively sensible: she reminded Augusta of her boredom with Society and her liking for intelligent chat, which was quite often frowned on. Sophia said that Augusta was not to worry about Edwin’s position: his father had been a gentleman farmer, rich enough to leave his younger son quite three hundred and fifty pounds a year. Edwin was also almost forty, old and steady and patient and tolerant, and he took care of her beautifully. She did not tell Augusta that she loved him or that he loved her.
Very carefully she had written at the top, ‘Tavistock Square, Bloomsbury’, and she had signed in large, beautiful letters, ‘Your loving daughter, Sophia Sacheverell.’ Otherwise there were many alterations.
Susan went through it twice; she was now quite sure that this had been written before Sophie’s marriage, no doubt on the day that Dr Sacheverell proposed, although it had been posted after the ceremony. She did not confide this to Augusta.
‘Augusta, she could have done worse for herself,’ she said at last. ‘Truly she could. You wouldn’t seriously have wanted her to marry an earl or someone, someone really quite unsuited to her, just because he was a good match?’
‘You know who drove her to this, don’t you? Do you know what her father said to her when she came back from the Lovells’ in September? He delivered one of his lectures, Susan. He told her that she must resign herself to being an old maid now, and devote herself to him. Looking after his gouty leg, listening to his tales of your mother and his sordid youth … that’s what he would have had for Sophie and that’s what he told her!’
Susan remembered. Sophie had come to her and told her of this, last September. Susan had promised to see to it that she did not spend the winter at Lynmore. It had been quite a problem because Sophie had used up most of her London friends the previous year and was still opposed to the idea of staying for long periods in the country. Susan had at length persuaded Augusta and Nicholas to send Sophie to stay with some people whom she described as a jolly London family; the mother, Mrs Carson, was more a friend of Susan’s than Sophie’s. Sophie had gone to them in mid-October for a long visit. Mrs Carson had written to Susan and said that Sophie seemed to be in excellent spirits and that they enjoyed having her with them. She also spoke highly of Dr Sacheverell, whom she said she was sure did Sophie a great deal of good, and had got her Katie through the measles.
Since the interview in the autumn, Susan had not seen her sister, although she had had a brief letter from her. Suddenly Susan thought that Augusta would soon accuse her of causing Sophie’s mesalliance, because she had arranged this visit to Mrs Carson.
‘I know why you are really so upset,’ said Susan, turning towards her stepmother and leaning forward. ‘Or at least, I think I do. You blame yourself, really, not my father. You think it’s your fault, and perhaps it is. Augusta, admit it – it will help you, you know.’
‘Your father has ruined my life and now he’s ruined Sophie’s. He forced her to marry this man, a nasty middle-class boor just like himself who happens to have a soft side to his tongue. He even looks like Nicholas.’
‘Dr Sacheverell is small,’ said Susan gently.
‘You don’t know what your father’s done to me. You didn’t know, did you, Susan, that it’s your father who rules me and not the other way round? I have my little privileges, that’s all, which prevent me from being utterly humiliated.’
‘No, I never knew it’, said Susan, looking down.
‘I am allowed my so very shocking cigar after dinner, my rum in my tea and my coarse expressions.’ All this she had thought out as she stumbled down the drive. ‘But he owns my land, Susan, I haven’t a single penny of my own. He can make me do anything he likes, anything at all, I’m a dependent now and I’m forced to realise it every single day. And let me shock you, Susan dear, and tell you that since Thomas was born I haven’t even had physical satisfaction.’ She threw her head up boldly and Susan did blush.
‘Augusta, don’t complain, don’t think about it. It always seems worse if one does that. And Augusta, he doesn’t own your land. He owns you, but you own the land. Do you understand?’ This was a new thought of Susan’s and she was at first disappointed that Augusta had not taken it in, but then Augusta returned to the original subject.
‘Sophie should never, never have married at all.’
‘Yes, that’s what you think isn’t it?’ Susan’s voice was fast and soft. ‘Augusta, believe me, if you can only confess it you’ll feel much much better. It was you who wanted Sophie to stay unmarried, wasn’t it, not really Father at all? You wanted her to keep you company because you’re very very lonely, what with Father never seeing people and all. And it’s not only that, is it? When she was so unhappy about everything, you didn’t help her, you scorned her, Augusta, because you couldn’t take the idea of her being in love, although she wasn’t really, as you quite rightly guessed. You think it’s your fault, don’t you?’
‘I had charge of Sophie, you know. I don’t have charge of Thomas. Did you know that, Susan? I want him to go to Downside, but no, your dear father wishes him to go to Eton, although of course he’s a Catholic. I did force him to let me obey the Church and bring my children up as Catholics, you know. That was before I married, naturally. Now of course my son will be turned into a nice little Protestant.’ She was now shouting and her tears were uncontrolled.
‘Yes, you had charge of Sophie. No wonder you feel as you do!’
There was a long pause.
‘It was my fault. Oh yes, I let her see the man because he seemed to stop her whining for a little while after his visits. I made no real effort to get her out of the house when we were in London, I let her …’
‘No, Augusta, don’t blame yourself. There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about. It’s all our fault – Father’s and yours and mine and Sarah’s and Dr Sacheverell’s and Sophie’s. No one can be blamed. Don’t feel guilty, Augusta, there’s no need.’
‘Don’t feel guilty! Is that all you can say? Sophie’s life ruined through her own folly and I …’
‘Be philosophical, Augusta. Think. She could have done worse, truly she could. She might have become a sour old maid at home and you wouldn’t really want that, would you?’
‘When your father wasn’t wanting that to happen to her, he said exactly that, Susan. He was really quite pleased, just as you are, to have Sophie out of the way. I am going now. Thank you for the tea and your so very sympathetic ear. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Augusta. It’ll all be all right,’ Susan said, shyly again, because it was she who had brought the audience to a close.
Augusta was shown out and Susan sat down heavily. She wondered when Augusta would next speak to her. She still held Sophie’s letter, and she sat gazing at the gay postscript which gave Augusta full instructions about how to get to Tavistock Square.
CHAPTER 12
THIRD MARRIAGE
Sophie had married on New Year’s day, a week after Edwin Sacheverell proposed to her. It had taken him that long to find a Catholic church where they could be married. Witnesses had been taken from the street and afterwards they went straight to the house in Tavistock Square, in a hansom cab. Sophie had never been in one before. On the way they laughed about the possibility of Edwin’s being called away to attend a case in the middle of the night, about their elopement which was really unnecessary but delightfully foolish, and about her swiftly acquired, beautiful new name: Sophia Sacheverell. They vowed that no one should call h
er Sophie now.
*
Edwin paid a professional visit to Sarah a fortnight after his wedding and told her all about it. Sarah smiled with pleasure but was, he thought, a little puzzled. He encouraged Sophia to write to her and invite her to tea, and perhaps to dinner as well. Some while later Sophia did so, and Sarah chose to come to Tavistock Square one afternoon in May. She was the first member of the family whom Sophia had seen since her marriage.
Sarah was seven months pregnant, and Sophia only found this out from Edwin just before she arrived. She was amazed at her sister’s travelling to Bloomsbury in her condition. She was not surprised to be told by Edwin that Sarah ought to be out and about in a limited way, but she was when he added that women ought to flaunt pregnancy, wombs which were healthy and useful instead of the seat of disorders. Sophia thought it very funny, and she told Sarah of the incident.
‘But doesn’t Dr Sacheverell think that large families are not good?’ said Sarah, a little sharp line, new to Sophia, creasing between her brows. ‘I have had five children, Sophie, and two are living. Henry and George died, as you know,’ she reminded Sophia. ‘I thought he believed it was wrong for a woman to have a baby every year.’
‘You mustn’t call me Sophie, Sarah, I’m really Sophia now.’
‘Five children,’ said Sarah, looking across the square. ‘That is, including this one.’
When she was pregnant, Sarah always looked even smaller. Because she was so little the baby seemed to occupy more of her body than was usual, and she looked nine, rather than seven, months gone. Next year she would be thirty, but she looked older than that now, although her hair was as luxuriant and her skin as fine and tight-stretched as ever. The purple shadows under her eyes, which she had had ever since her marriage, were like clefts in her skin, which was almost the colour of old ivory. Sophia did not notice this because she was looking at the small touch of paint which Sarah had put on her face before coming out. She wore pink rouge and she had drawn eyebrows on the bones above her eyes.
Gentlemen and Players Page 12