Christian has removed his cloak with a flourish. His presence seems to fill the room; he stands rhetorically as if about to address them all, sofa and mantelpiece and the watercolour portraits of Papa and Mama at either side of the chimney. Christian’s resemblance to Lore is fading with time, yes, it’s going. And then Anna realises.
‘Oh no!’ is all that she manages to squeak. ‘Not Beatrice?’
‘Anna!’
‘Sorry. Just … I’m overwhelmed, that’s all. I’d no idea. Well, of course, I did.’
‘She’s unwell. Sit down, Anna,’ says Beatrice, bitterly hurt. I must be careful, Anna thinks, not to arouse her resentment. We need to live in harmony from now on, if I’m to have my freedom and come and go as I wish. Anna cannot help but shiver as once she did peering through a partly open door at Christian jouncing her sister on his knee, a child, her cheeks hot and red, wrinkling her nose, her hands caught up at her chin like a mouse. His too large hand stroked the place between her shoulder blades. His face buried itself for a moment in her ringlets, breathing in her scent. There were others in the room, a ring of ladies, all, it seemed, in thrall to the glorious young man, all leaning forward, going Aah … as if it were the sweetest thing in the world. It was not sweet. It is not sweet now.
My cousin is always hungry and thirsty; he wants to swallow the world, said Lore, for its own good. He needs to suck blood.
There’s nothing to be done. It’s too late now to explain to Beatrice her new and favourable view of Will Anwyl. Anna stands up; smiles; shakes her brother-in-law-to-be by the hand, asking about his work, his travels, the happy couple’s plans. All the while the walls are closing in and Sarum House takes on the staleness of a sick-room, in which one has suffered whooping cough, dreaded ghosts and feared the touchy Deity who was incensed when you asked for extra plum cake. Whereas in Cornwall she expanded, now Anna shrinks.
Do not, whatever you do, relinquish your territory, Anna warns herself. But the parlour narrows further. She can’t stand it. Anna brushes past Beatrice, a rigid smile on her face. In the kitchen Amy’s chopping carrots and a kettle’s boiling on the range, before which a stray tabby basks. Leaving by the back door, Anna strides down the garden, telling herself to be calm, all will be well. Unhappiness is just a habit.
Beatrice isn’t far behind. ‘For goodness’ sake, Anna, what on earth are you doing? What an exhibition of yourself you’ve made. Come back in, you’ll catch cold.’
‘Cold will have to catch me first.’
‘What on earth have you been doing?’
‘What have you been doing, I could ask you the same thing.’
Beatrice takes a step backwards through the mulch of fallen leaves. ‘I would have told you if I’d known where you were. And, oh, what a shock when I got home and learned that you …’
‘Told me what?’
‘About my engagement.’
‘But what about Mr Anwyl?’
‘Anna, I could never marry him now. Never.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you will have to marry him.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Anna, how can you be such a baby? How can you not realise what you’ve done – running off with him like that. Did you not for one moment think what the consequences of that would be?’
‘Of what?’
‘Running away with your sister’s …’
‘Sister’s what?’
Beatrice turns away. Whispers, ‘Love.’ She seems overwhelmed by her own acknowledgment; holds her face between both palms.
‘But if Will is that … how can you think of marrying anyone else?’
They’re both hot and red-faced – ready to rake their claws down one another’s cheeks as in distant girlhood when briars were readily blamed for wounds. And the wounds, generally on the face of the younger, would represent a victory for Anna, especially if she picked the scars until they oozed pus and bore the stigmata with the appearance of uncomplaining patience – which produced fury in the belly of the aggressor and seduced her to renew her attack. All this is remembered here at the end of the garden where cultivated lawns give way to wilderness, glorious with poppies and cornflowers in the summer and where brambles yield a heavy harvest of blackberries that persist into early November.
And there’s something here, the precious objects she collected and buried. Anna scans around. Now, which was her mound? I buried them for my mother, she thinks. For Mama in the other world, the other life. The tumps, like waves in a green sea, look alike; none of them seems to call. I need to dowse for it, she thinks. I need divining rods.
‘What are you looking at, Anna? For goodness’ sake. I can’t marry him now, can I? – I couldn’t, how could I?’ Beatrice hisses. Her fine new London gown is saturated in the long grass. ‘He’s soiled. Like you. Only you are worse. Anna, what is the matter with you? Have you gone out of your mind? You ran away together. You were witnessed. At the station. On the train. You and Mr Anwyl. I was told.’
‘But what were you told, Beatrice? That Mr Anwyl was concerned for my health and insisted on coming to take care of me?’
‘Holding hands. I was told. That he was …’ – Beatrice turns her face away, her tears overflow, she speaks small – ‘rubbing the palm of your hand with his thumb.’
‘What?’
‘With his thumb,’ Beatrice repeats, ridiculously, despairingly, as if the whole issue turned upon this one observation. ‘Like this.’ She mimes with her own hands. ‘Stroking. Fondling. Secretly. The inside of your hand. The whole of Chauntsey and Fighelbourn is talking about you and him. How can you show your face?’
‘I just wonder,’ Anna says evenly, although her face flames, because she remembers, yes, she does remember now and had no objection then to this tenderly playful gesture, to which she ought to have objected. And it must have been the elderly man in the carriage on the first leg of the journey who took silent note as she and Will jested and bantered and were taken for man and wife. Anna felt as if she were flying above her own head with the thrill of holiday. ‘I just wonder how anyone could have seen a person’s thumb doing secret things in the palm of someone else’s hand? Does it sound likely to you, Beatrice? Quite honestly?’
Beatrice shakes her head. She sees the point but her closed face says that it makes no odds what actually happened. What signifies is that Anna Pentecost has exposed herself, her family and her denomination to reproach.
‘And then,’ Beatrice goes on. ‘To cap it all. You went off with Miriam Sala, so-called, and her … paramour. Behind my back. Atheists. You could hardly wait to get me out of the house – scheming with this creature. You do know, do you, that they are not legally married.’
‘They are married, Beatrice.’
‘I was told they were not. On good authority. Mr Montagu is not a gossip or a liar.’
‘How does that old busybody know anyway? They are married.’
‘Not legally married. Ask your friend where and when they were married.’
‘It’s tattle. You should be ashamed.’
Beatrice says, ‘She denies Christ! That woman is rotten with sin. She has seduced you – yes, Anna, yes, she has – she’s a blasphemer. She will never enter my house again. Not if she comes crawling to the door and begs.’
‘Oh, very Christian of you,’ Anna sneers. ‘Oh yes, I like that.’
‘And, Anna, this is my house. I shall never allow atheists and fornicators under my roof.’
‘Your house for another three weeks apparently.’ Anna no longer guards what she’s saying. She just wants to hurt her sister. The words of Barbara and Bessie echo in her memory. They were discussing the campaign to amend the marriage laws. And Mirrie was very silent. A married woman owns nothing under the law. It’s a crying shame, everyone agreed. ‘In three weeks apparently you’ll be handing your property over to another person. Sarum House becomes your husband’s – to whom you’re lying in your soul, for you cannot love him. And you become your husband’s
property, bag and baggage. And any children you have are his. And the clothes on your back are his. And you’ll be pretending to love him while you’re thinking only of Will. You’ll be taking Pastor Will Anwyl into your marriage bed. You’ll be committing adultery yourself, Beatrice. Every single night of your life. So don’t judge. Just don’t. And the only way you’ll get away from Christian will be through death. And, no, I’m not marrying Will Anwyl. Why the hell should I? I don’t want to marry any man and I shan’t. And I don’t care if my friends are married or not, I don’t care. I’m sorry for you, Beatrice Pentecost – I shall possess my own soul but you’ll have nothing.’
*
Beatrice didn’t push her sister or strike her; she knows she didn’t. Anna caught the toe of her boot in the roots and crashed into the nettles. I didn’t hurt her. I went to help her up and she refused to let me touch her. I crouched down; she rolled over and sat up, her cheek and her left hand and wrist red with nettle stings. She shoved my hand away as I offered dock leaves to cool the smart, saying that there was one thing I could do for her: disappear. Stop violating her.
The same old tune. Every time Anna doesn’t get what she wants, she’s being bullied and hectored and picked on. Beatrice makes her way, shaking, past the chestnut tree, the ewes, the topiary garden and the midden. Smoke from neighbours’ bonfires drifts in the air. She pulls down her cuffs, straightens her bodice, breathes deep. The piano sounds from the parlour and singing voices murmur.
Nearer my God to thee, nearer to thee.
In the parlour they’re grouped round the piano. Mr Elias nods and smiles as Beatrice slips in to join her fiancé. Reading signs of trouble in her face, Christian raises his arm. She slides in under her future husband’s wing, as she’ll be able to do all her life. Anna is beyond all reason. At last the wilful younger sister has crossed the line. That is clear.
The hymn concludes. Anna is heard to let herself in at the back door and to climb the stairs to her room. Later Beatrice taps on her sister’s door. No response. Afraid to enter, Beatrice stands irresolute, her knuckles raised ready to knock again.
Violate was the word that stung, an arrow in her heart.
It’s hard to bear the particle of truth in her sister’s wild reproaches. Not your house. Of course it’s Anna’s house, just as surely as it’s Beatrice’s. The shadow of their father darkens over the elder daughter, there in the dim corridor. Papa would never have sanctioned a threat to thrust the beloved younger from her home. Gently he would have remonstrated with Anna, expressed his chagrin and disappointment. He’d have padded off to his study to pray for her. Subdued to Papa’s love, Anna would presently have followed him in and freely laid her contrition before him. The door would have closed behind the two. Nothing was unforgivable.
So I will pray, Beatrice thinks. Right here and now. Down on her knees she drops, outside Anna’s room, skirts belling around her.
Joss scarcely turns a hair at finding her there. Pulling a humorous face, he steps round his sister, fondling her head. When he knocks, clearing his throat, he’s asked to come in. The door’s unlatched and through the gap Beatrice can see Anna, lounging on the bed, hold out her hand to her brother, asking in a perfectly normal voice whether Joss made sure to put his linen in the laundry basket. Have he and Mr Elias taken round the petition against tithes? How many signatures has he obtained? Beatrice thinks: she’s punishing me. Well, let her.
‘Goodness, Annie what have you done to your face?’ she hears.
‘Fell in some nettles.’
‘How on earth did you do that? The rash must itch like crazy. Let me put some Calamine on it for you. Have you got some? Do you want Old Quarlie?’
‘Dear God, no. On the shelf – yes, there.’
Shifting position, prior to rising to her feet, Beatrice gets a different view of her sister: Anna has chopped off her long, lustrous hair. It hangs in clumps round her face. Joss anoints Anna with lotion so that half her face is white.
‘What a clown you look. Poor old Annie. Always in the wars. Shall I do the other half of your face so that your two halves match?’
Anna laughs. ‘No, I shan’t come down tonight, Joss. Can you ask Amy to bring me up a tray of tea? I’m not ill, I’m tired; I just want to rest.’
Joss bends and whispers to Anna, who shakes her head, categorically.
That was about me, Beatrice thinks. He’s asking if she wants to see me. Or if I hurt her. Since when did they discuss me? Perhaps the two of them have always whispered behind her back, blamed the elder sister, humoured her, down all the years. Two of them against one of her. Beatrice rises, removes herself. You never know people, even or especially your kith and kin. Descending the stairs, she wonders how it came about that her half-brother and her sister understand one another so well, in that commonplace, low-key way. The two of them have rarely argued in their lives, accepting one another’s vagaries.
Later, as Amy prepares lamb chops for frying and Beatrice slices carrots, Beatrice considers Miriam Sala, wondering about the identity of her legal husband. What is her real surname?
Has the woman abandoned children along the way?
The Montagus will know. Or be in a position to find out. She stands looking down at her cold hand with the knife in it. The joints are reddened, the pads of the fingers callused; a scatter of brown flecks, the seeds of age-marks that will bloom within a decade, defaces the backs of her hands. They’re the hands of a menial. Leaving the vegetables to Amy, she finds a lemon to squeeze over her skin, to whiten it for her wedding day. This must be repeated daily. So much to do. A trousseau to be assembled – and Christian hasn’t the least idea of the scope of the work to be done in preparation. Men don’t. Chemises, nightgowns and drawers; petticoats, combinations. The bridal gown, a travelling dress, a walking dress, silk dress … drugget, bedlinen. Beatrice’s mind is packed to the rafters with objects that must be purchased. An immense outlay: can’t be helped.
One is, lacking either a father or a serviceable brother, one’s own daughter, holding the purse strings to defray the cost of giving oneself away. These are the last moments of an era. The natural order will reassert itself and what a relief it will be to hand over responsibilities to her husband. Certainly it will. Though I do have an appetite for mastery, she reminds herself. No doubt about that. Anna’s hysterical remarks about marriage appal her. Chattel? Never. A Christian husband guarantees his wife’s rights under God.
And anyway, Joss must make a settlement on her.
Now, for the wedding dress, violet grenadine perhaps, fine silk and cotton weave, that can be adapted and worn for best on future occasions. Last month there was a beautiful swatch in Miss Eliot’s haberdashery: but will it still be there in sufficient quantity? White with faint violet stripes. Everything must be bought to last. And what else? Flowers of course, chrysanthemums, love-in-a-mist: the garden will furnish those. The wedding breakfast.
Then (she almost forgot) there is the question of the bridesmaid’s dress.
And, oh, the bridesmaid with her cropped, scandalous hair.
Chapter 10
Anna sits where she has lapsed, listless in the tedious mayhem. Sarum House is in uproar, with two strong West Grimstead lasses helping to clean from top to bottom. Joss whistles, self-elected inspector of their work, urging them to take a little break for they must be tired, while Amy stamps around the house in a filthy temper. Doors slam. One brawny girl beats carpets in the garden as if whipping malefactors. If Beatrice had her way, Anna herself would be grasped by the scruff of the neck and scrubbed with a hog’s bristle brush until she’d shed her dirty epidermis. Then they could dispose of her skin and hang her laundered bones out to dry.
Though the sickness has abated, its aftermath leaves her feeble. Anna consents to be measured for a dress. Agrees with everything Beatrice says; her sister is her usual brightly practical self except that she never looks Anna in the eye.
Anna awoke this morning, thinking: Beatrice is death.
&n
bsp; How could she have allowed herself to slump into the old angry torpor? No word comes from Mirrie, presumably lingering in Tenby. Or Beatrice has intercepted the letters. Anna imagines the Salas, freed from visitors, walking barefoot over ribbed sand, all in all to one another, enjoying the intimacy of one another’s company by the fireside or bent over rock pools. Far away. What is the truth about the charge Mr Montagu has brought against her friend? How could one stoop to ask her? I never can, Anna thinks. Mirrie will flinch back into herself like a sea anemone. That will be it.
Better by far, in any case, to continue to believe in your friend. What right has Anna to judge, whatever Miriam has done? Her friend will be a pariah, pointed at in the streets. Respectable folk will avert their heads. A patch of soreness remains at the knowledge that Mirrie may not have trusted Anna with the truth.
And Lore has dwindled to the dimensions of that wasp on the sill waving feeble feet as it perishes. Perhaps, Anna thinks, it’s healthier to release Lore. Maybe her grieving ghost is detained here by my calls and cannot die. Can’t you die, darling? How can I help you die? I’ll look away, occupying my mind by studying the place in the wallpaper where the sheets are out of true and the rosebuds misalign with their stalks. When the wallpaperers introduce a tiny error, it multiplies to infinity. But beneath that paper lie layer upon layer of old paint, old wallpaper, plaster, lime wash, timber and at the centre the unseen irregularities of the mediaeval wattle and daub, a lattice of hazel glued together with clay and dung and straw.
Where is Lore now? Nowhere; she’s layered into the wall. She’s nobody: a name without a body. It’s impossible to grasp; the whole matter of her death comes apart in your hands. But Lore believed in the god of the imagination, to create and unify and integrate. How disappointed in Anna she’d be, if she could see her abjection.
If only I could have one conversation with her, Anna thinks: just half an hour. Not for the first time, Anna considers the Spiritualists.
‘I hope you’ll be recovered for the wedding, dear,’ says Mrs Elias. Her daughter lolls on a stool at Anna’s dressing table, opening bottles without a by-your-leave, sniffing the contents, trying out Anna’s comb and brush. Loveday sits Anna up and plumps her pillows, mentioning Dr Quarles, who previously did Anna such good with his regime.
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