After one of these spells they would gradually settle down to their normal routine again: he shut away every night in his dressing-room, she alone in the big four-poster bed; he at one side of the dining-room table or the sitting-room fire, she at the other. Everything indeed would become quite civilised and pleasant once more. Gavin and Gilbert would talk about the running of the factory or the estate and, while her head was bent over the canvas of her embroidery, she would listen. Sometimes if Malcolm was at home she would chat with him, or the four of them would enjoy a game of whist. Often they entertained in the evening and sometimes in the afternoons she called on friends or had visitors call for tea.
Days, weeks, months would pass in this way, but with only a surface pleasantness and peaceful contentment. Secretly, passion would be burning through her body again, stronger and stronger as if some tormenting devil had taken possession of her and was playing havoc with her very blood and bones. Then it became a pain nagging mercilessly at the base of her abdomen, pulsating, stretching and aching deep within; a madness from which she had to find release.
Yet she had begun to dread the consummation of her passion, taking the ultimate assault on her body as a punishment for her wickedness. In an effort to cool her thoughts and refresh her spirits she had acquired the habit of enjoying walks in the garden and grounds, sometimes covering considerable distances and purposely tiring herself so that she would no longer be able to feel anything but exhaustion.
Now she wandered into the sitting-room after morning prayers and looked up Gavin’s text for the day: ‘For to be carnally minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace. Because the carnal mind is enmity against God.’
Dutifully she read the words over and over again, sincerely indeed, desperately trying to make them sink into her mind and soul in order that she would be purged and cleansed of all wickedness. But all too soon her attention began to wander and her eyes drifted round the room, across to the pink silk damask sofa and beyond it on the opposite wall to the huge cabinet displaying Gavin’s collection of Blue John urns and ornaments. Then her gaze drifted round to the painted Sheraton secretaires on either side of the fire; to the oyster silk chairs and the leather chairs with their rich reddish glow; the variety of tables—some in rosewood, some in oak—scattered around, some cluttered with brass candlesticks and bric-a-brac, some with framed photographs. The heavy, gilt-framed mirror above the marble mantelpiece reflected the scene, including the crystal, many-candled chandelier hanging from the mushroom-coloured ceiling.
Lorianna’s wistful face turned to survey the window and the great expanse of lawn. It was too early in the day for the languid crack of the croquet mallet against a ball. All was still and silent outside except the swifts speeding through the sky in screaming groups before swerving up under the eaves. She longed to speed with them, noisy and free. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she felt like weeping but was saved from doing so by hearing the rustle of bombasine and sensing the chilling presence of the housekeeper.
Sometimes Lorianna wondered where the custom had originated that senior women servants had to be known as ‘Mistress’ whether or not they were married. And usually, like Mrs Musgrove, they were not. It seemed especially inappropriate and incongruous in her case, for surely no man had ever come within touching distance of this tight-lipped, cold-eyed creature with a spine like a steel rod. She was carrying her usual maroon hardcovered notebook with its matching pencil, attached by a narrow black tape to the chatelaine round her waist. They discussed the day’s luncheon and dinner menus and then as usual went to inspect Gavin’s dressing-room and check through all his things, except of course his writing set where he kept his personal letters and the diary he meticulously wrote in every night. This task was one that made Mrs Musgrove bristle with icy spikes, but her attitude only succeeded in making Lorianna all the more conscientious.
‘These windows look somewhat cloudy,’ she pointed out now. ‘They should be sparkling.’
‘I’ll inform Baxter immediately, madam.’
‘Goodness, is that a broken bootlace? Have that replaced at once! And inform the housemaids, Mrs Musgrove, that I will not have the master inconvenienced or neglected.’
‘Very well, madam.’
The inspection over, Lorianna allowed Mrs Musgrove to go about her business in whatever way she wished, for she never interfered in any other sphere of the housework. There was never any need—Mrs Musgrove kept everything running with admirable smoothness.
After the housekeeper had left, Lorianna forced herself to stitch at her embroidery until she could have screamed with boredom. Time seemed to move so slowly. After a while she moved through to the library and wrote some letters at the flat-topped desk. Then she put them on the hall table for the maid to post. Gavin seldom came home for lunch; he usually ate something with Gilbert in the Dreadnought Hotel in Bathgate and returned home during the afternoon. So she lunched alone at the big round table in a dining-room dark with oak-panelling, in which were hung black and brown and green Flemish verdure tapestries. Afterwards she rang for Gemmell, who helped her to change into a white and black striped dress, nipped in at her tiny waist, which flounced out wide from a black velvet band from knees to floor. The dress was topped by a short-bodiced black jacket with a high neck and long sleeves, trimmed with black velvet.
‘I think the pink straw hat, Gemmell,’ she murmured, slowly turning with hands on hips in front of the mirror.
The hat had a wavy brim with a cluster of white roses and green leaves under it at the front. Black velvet bows decorated the crown. Gemmell pinned the colourful creation on her thick nest of hair, then enquired, ‘Your pink parasol, madam?’
‘Yes, it’s the same shade as my hat.’
Again she surveyed herself in the mirror. How dark and luminous her eyes were, too large and emotional-looking for her otherwise small, even features and pearly skin.
‘Ah well,’ she said without enthusiasm. ‘Now I’m ready to take the air.’ As her skirts swished across the reception hall and down the stairs, she decided she would stroll by the home farm. Some of her happiest memories were of farm life when she was a child and now, more than ever, she needed to seek the comfort of her roots.
3
Because of narrow tower windows, the nursery was shadowy even during the day. Light arrowed in, leaving dark corners and misty patches. It flickered spasmodically on stone walls and bare wood floors and across the faded drugget in front of the fire, spotlighting the dancing dust on the round table and the stools and chairs. The white clothes closet and toy cupboard were ambered with it.
The day nursery, like the night nursery, was a spartan room bare of curtains, cushions or pictures. Gavin Blackwood had always believed that nursery discipline should be based on the evangelical sense of sin, maintaining that his children must be repressed, corrected, withheld by all means from temptation. He insisted that it was dangerous to provide children with luxuries to foster their vanity, to gratify their carnal desires. So the nursery food was plain and not always palatable, a cold bath every day was the rule except on Friday when a hot bath was allowed. Hard chairs were for forcing Clementina to sit upright. He ordered that the child should have lessons every day instead of games. Hymns had to be learned by heart, also the text for each day and several verses from the Bible.
Once a week—on a Sunday evening—her father tested her by asking her questions not only on religion but also on arithmetic, spelling and nature study. Henny dreaded the day approaching every week, but Clementina seldom thought of the ordeal until it was almost upon her and she was led by a shivering Henny down and down, round and round the dark spiral stairs. Then, hand in hand, they crossed the reception hall with its wool mosaic pictures, chiming clock and Blue John urns. Along the narrow corridor they went in anguished silence, with not a glance at the clutter of pictures crowding the walls on either side. Eventually they reached the library, corridor-shaped itself but wider and book-lined, with the portio
n at the far end jutting out at the bay window like a separate small room. It was here on one of the big greyish-green plush armchairs that the fiery-haired figure of her father awaited Clementina. Her heart immediately raced with apprehension at the sight of him, a mixture of desperation to please and fear that she would not.
But it was not Sunday yet and after lessons at the round table had been completed and inky fingers scrubbed in the washbowl which was left for Alice Tait the nursery-maid to empty, Clementina accompanied Henny downstairs. After pausing for a few moments to listen at the door to make sure there was no one about, they slipped out and across the hall to the stained-glass-topped doors that opened on to the carpetless stairs. Clementina raced down to the entrance hall with Henny hurrying after her in twittering agitation. To open the big front door was always a struggle, but Clementina managed it and escaped outside before Henny could catch her. It was not that she wanted to escape from the nurse; just that she was so impatient to enjoy the freedom of the gardens and grounds, although she was careful not to tumble about on the grass or try to climb trees until she was some distance from the house in case her mother or father might see her. Not that her mother ever beat her, but her father did—quite frequently and she could see it upset her mother who always tried to restrain him but when she failed—as she invariably did—she ran from the room. Afterwards, as Clementina lay sobbing in Henny’s arms in the nursery, they would hear mother playing beautiful music on the piano and Henny said that was her way of comforting her daughter.
Clementina hesitated outside the front door, hopping from one foot to the other, petticoats ballooning out. She was unsure whether to fly straight ahead to the pond or further away to the bluebell woods, or to the left towards the stables and the dairy and the home farm. Or she could race right round the house to the back where she could have fun with the croquet mallets or play hide-and-seek with Henny among the high rhododendron bushes.
Or perhaps she could persuade Henny to take her to the village. She loved that most of all, because there were more children to play with there. Sometimes she managed to hide from Henny and then escape with some of the boys to their secret place in the Littlegate woods near the village. There was an oak tree there which they used as one of their hideouts—it had a hole in its giant trunk and quite a few children could squeeze in. The boys hadn’t wanted to play with her at first, far less show her their secret hideout, and she had had to prove that she wasn’t ‘soft’ like other ‘stupid girls’. This she did by giving Sandy Campbell a black eye that sent him howling home to his mother. In any game, no matter how tough, she was never knocked down. No matter who thumped her or bumped her, she stood foursquare, as firm as a rock and always ready to use her little sharp teeth, or fists or feet as weapons. The sons of the local farm workers, or blacksmith, joiner, shepherd or carter came to respect her despite her fancy clothes and satin hair bows, and the fact that she came from the big house.
‘Can we go to the village, Henny?’ She swished back her hair and gazed wide-eyed at the nanny, knowing full well how much Henny adored her and seldom could refuse her anything. ‘Please, please?’
Henny nibbled at her nails in wretched indecision. ‘You’ll play with the village children and get all dirty and dishevelled. Oh dear, it’s just that I don’t want you to get into trouble, you see. If the master or mistress saw you …’
‘How will they see me?’ Clementina scoffed. ‘They never go to the village. Please, Henny?’
She didn’t say she would try not to get dirty or that she’d not play with the village children. She had at times what some of the staff of Blackwood House were forced to regard as a regrettable streak of stubborn honesty. Many a black look and beating it got her and anyone below stairs who loved her prayed that she would grow out of it.
‘All right,’ Henny capitulated, still anxious-eyed. ‘But you will learn something on the way, won’t you, Miss Clementina?’
It was Henny’s way, unknown to the master of Blackwood House, to teach lessons as a game or at least to make them as pleasing and informal as possible.
‘Oh Henny, I love you!’ Clementina flung herself at the nurse and hugged her round a waist which any high-born lady might have envied. Henny was not pretty—it was Lorianna’s policy, something shared by most of her friends, that one should never employ a pretty servant if it could be avoided—but the nurse had a certain delicacy of appearance with her brown hair softly waving back into a bun and her gentle brown eyes and birdlike features. She was tiny, half-child, half-woman, it seemed.
She patted Clementina’s head and was immediately worried because she had forgotten the child’s straw hat. Before she could announce that they ought to go back for it, Clementina had darted away down the drive like a sturdy little bird, white pinafore flapping. Henny fluttered breathlessly after her.
‘Nature study. Nature study, Miss Clementina!’
Clementina came skipping back with the same stiff bounciness she had when dancing. At a children’s ball at a neighbouring mansion she had been the most beautiful child there, but even Henny had to admit—only to herself of course—that she danced with as much grace as an awkward young foal. But she had not the slightest doubt that Clementina would grow into a most graceful young woman.
‘Nature study, nature study!’ Clementina sang.
‘Isn’t it a lovely lovely time of the year, Miss Clementina? Remember Mr Wordsworth—
‘Then sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song
And let the young lambs bound as to the tabor’s sound
We in thought will join your throng …’
Clementina, skipping at the nurse’s side now, joined in,
‘Ye that pipe and ye that play
Ye that through your hearts today
Feel the gladness of the May.’
‘You remember!’ Henny was delighted. ‘What a clever girl!’
They veered a little to the right, tempted to go round the other side of the pond to inspect again the moorhen’s nest they had seen on the stump of an alder tree just out of reach of the bank. The nest had been neatly put together with sticks and dead reeds and had contained one egg.
Already Henny was hitching up her skirts and picking her way through the long dewy grass, but Clementina tugged her back to the drive. ‘You promised, Henny.’
The nurse straightened her straw boater with one hand after it had been tipped slightly askew by Clementina’s jerky enthusiasm.
‘Don’t you remember the nest, dear?’
‘There are nests in the hedges further down.’
‘Oh well … ‘ Henny’s face peeked up under the straw brim. ‘Ah yes … Mr Browning …
‘Hedgerows all alive,
With birds and gnats and large white butterflies
Which look as if the Mayflower had caught life
And palpitated forth upon the wind.’
Back on the drive, Clementina began skipping again.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, what energy you have, child! But it’s not very ladylike, is it? What would your mother say? She’s so graceful and elegant and proper and—’
‘Butterflies!’ The little girl was not much interested in her mother. She seldom saw her—just for a half-hour or so each day in the sitting-room or drawing-room and more often than not there were other people there including her father and it was something of an ordeal, especially if the half-hour stretched to an hour. Mother was nice, of course. She had a nice smile and soft hands and she smelled of rose-petals. When she thought about it, which she didn’t very often, she supposed she quite liked her mother. But she loved Henny.
Henny put a finger to her mouth and they both tiptoed stealthily across to where the butterflies were busily gathered as if for a gossip under the trees.
‘Speckled wood butterflies,’ Henny said, peering forward. ‘See how the broken sunlight matches the pattern of their wings?’
There had been a heavy shower earlier and the trees were still dripping. Drops of water rainbowed b
y the sun plopped to the ground every now and again, making the wild forget-me-nots suddenly quiver. Rain still glistened on the russet backs of cows as they munched contentedly, and the rich odour of rain-moistened cowpats filled the nostrils.
Out through the big iron gates at the end of the drive now and along the dirt road with the giant beeches on either side, Henny and Clementina proceeded with little hurrying spurts and leisurely stops.
Sometimes Henny would put her finger to her mouth and her brown eyes would widen. Clementina would hunch up her shoulders conspiratorially and listen with Henny to the purr-purr of the turtledove through the thick hedges. Or they would watch young blackbirds and song thrushes hopping under bushes, beaks wide, desperately calling out to be fed.
Out at the crossroads at last and over to the Drumcross Road, with rabbits getting up on their hind legs, and with cocked ears and two dainty forefeet hanging in the air, listening and watching suspiciously, ready if necessary to dart quickly into their holes. The road was coggly with loose stones and more than one person had gone down on their ankle here, only saved from serious injury by strong lacing or button-up boots. A white dust covered the grassy verge on either side and Henny said that was caused by the men who broke up the stones to throw on the road.
The Littlegate woods at last! A mysterious green and shady place with firs and sycamores, beeches and oaks. Clementina said it was like being under the sea and Henny giggled. ‘Under the sea!’ She had a habit of echoing everything clever or imaginative that Clementina said with incredulous admiration.
The little girl was in her element now, darting around trees, jumping up with arms high, fingers grasping at branches, sometimes catching a low one and wildly swinging. Henny stumbled about after her with a mixture of hilarity and terror.
Light & Dark Page 3