What agonies Jane must have endured when she realized that the luminous mercurial man, who had wanted her enough to abandon his first wife, was falling out of love with her. That his heart no longer belonged to hers, that she had failed to capture and keep it …
Dorothy had a sudden vivid vision of Jane walking alone in her garden, unable to stop listening for the sound of Bertie’s footsteps, yet knowing it would not come.
She let the ball of crushed paper fall back into the wastepaper basket.
Nine
Benjamin reached the end of his story and buried his face in his hands. He had a particular way of inhabiting a chair: his head sinking toward his chest, his legs stretched out across the shabby carpet and crossed at the ankles, his half-empty cup of tea on the floor next to him. The sight was so familiar, yet it was as though he belonged to another world. Her life with him seemed flimsy and indistinct; perhaps it was a dream she’d woken from? Only her time with Bertie was real—real and vibrant.
When he moved out, Dorothy had told Benjamin he must call on her if he needed help: she had a foreboding he would get entangled in something of this sort. She’d heard him out in silence. As he talked, she watched the muscles of his face contracting to form the painful words. She listened to the rise and fall of his voice—so well-known and so alien—a curious meshing of argument and melody, as if he was holding a negotiation with himself. And she was able to see the images he conjured with perfect clarity, as vividly as if she’d been an actual witness to the wrecked romance.
“She was pretty,” he said wistfully. “She had the most extraordinary hair; it glowed with red-gold lights, like fire … and the softest skin I’ve ever seen or touched. And she was full of life; everything else seemed colorless and dull next to her. She flattered me, made me feel capable of amazing feats. Fool that I was, I believed every word … I was gripped by desire, completely taken over by it. The only place in the world I wanted to be was in her arms.” He paused, gazing at Dorothy, as though seeing her for the first time. “Have you ever wanted someone like that?”
“Yes, I have,” she answered truthfully. For a fleeting moment, the shared experience made her feel closer to him.
“I think it was a type of madness, from which I am thankfully recovering … oh God, how is it possible to be so stupid?”
“Don’t blame yourself. She showed you only what she wanted you to see. Nearly all men would have been taken in.”
Dorothy understood only too well Benjamin’s utter helplessness when confronted with this devastating combination of charm and looks. The girl sounded like the epitome of ambitious artificial femininity, playing to his vanity; he hadn’t stood a chance. After Dorothy, the blatant flattery must have been sweet balm.
“There’s another thing…” Benjamin cleared his throat, looking sheepish. “We thought she was with child.”
Dorothy stared at him in horror. “Benjamin, no!”
“A false alarm, thank God.” Shielding his eyes with his hands, Benjamin described the ugly insults and reproaches, the broken engagement.
Dorothy squirmed with guilt: she had failed him by sending him out into the world, innocent and defenseless. She had as good as pushed him into the arms of a monster. She looked at the green silk tie showing beneath his beard; the gold watch chain decorating his waistcoat; the gleam of his ring, pale old gold clasping a circlet of seed pearls. With his fine opulent looks and the generous allowance sent by his father from St. Petersburg, he was a catch for anyone. Any adventuress. He was like a child, open and trusting, oblivious to the guile of women. Swift anger blazed in her because of his naivety; it mingled uncomfortably with her guilt, making her feel physically sick. In the end, she harmed all the people she loved best.
He sat upright, flexing his hands until the joints cracked. The profound melancholy in his eyes reminded her of a puppy who needs to be picked up and stroked. Yet his beard and his formal manners and serious expression might have belonged to a far older man. What a strange combination of childishness and middle age he was. As he stared into space, he seemed to be confronting the barren stretches of his future, alone … Dorothy wavered, tugged by the knot of feelings that still bound her to him. Poor needy Benjamin; how isolated and heartsick he was, stranded in this cold damp country he would never belong to.
He sighed noisily. “What shall I do?”
“Find new lodgings at once. Make a clean break, get as far away from her as you can.”
“Again? I am always moving.”
“I know. I’m sorry … I don’t know what else to say. Look, how about another cup of tea? It might make you feel better.”
As she poured, he stopped her forgetfully putting milk in his tea. Taking a glistening lump of sugar from the bowl, he popped it between his lips and proceeded to suck his tea through it with quiet practiced sips. When all the sugar had dissolved, he took another lump and carried on drinking in the same way.
Dorothy watched this ritual, filled with an achingly familiar disgust. Certainly, the girl wouldn’t have cared how Benjamin drank his tea. She wouldn’t have been repulsed by his habits, like Dorothy was. Dorothy cursed her own fastidiousness.
She tore her gaze away from his mouth and looked instead at the pallid black-fringed eyelids shuttering his face when he blinked; the earnestness of his gaze as he raised his eyes to hers. His eyes held an enduring fascination. He would always be dear to her. She looked at him fondly.
He caught the look and plucked a fold of her skirt, putting it to his lips “I know now why men kneel to women.”
“Benjamin. Don’t.”
“I miss reading with you. Do you remember Anna Karenina?”
Dorothy nodded. Anna Karenina was the first book he had introduced her to, on a visit to the British Library. She remembered her opening encounter with Tolstoy beneath the gorgeously domed ceiling, accompanied by Benjamin’s penetratingly whispered commentary and the angry glances of the readers around them. Anna Karenina had seemed alive in a way English novels were not. She could hear the characters’ voices, feel the currents and shifts in the gaps between their conversations. The aliveness wove a strange beauty that was stronger than the anguish … Dorothy missed her shared reading with Benjamin, too: the dark-haired form sitting near her, contentedly absorbed.
“Is it even now too late for us?” he asked. “Nothing has been right, before or since.”
Briefly, she cupped his cheek with the palm of her hand. He closed his eyes. She wondered if he could sense the heat that Bertie had aroused in her. She crushed a sudden shocking urge to kiss him full on the lips.
“Sweet boy,” she said. “You don’t give up, do you?”
As Dorothy walked Benjamin to the front door, Mrs. Baker was crossing the hall with Mr. Cundy. Mrs. Baker looked more dingy and depleted than ever. Beside her, Mr. Cundy gleamed with youth.
The landlady greeted Benjamin warmly, but with barely held-in curiosity. Mr. Cundy shook his hand heartily, not quite meeting his eyes.
When they had disappeared into the drawing room, Benjamin said, “I am surprised that man is still here.”
“He’s very much here. He seems to be perpetually closeted with Mrs. Baker these days. I think he’s helping her straighten out her affairs.”
“There is something evasive about him … nothing I can put my finger on, nothing evil, but I do not like him.”
“I know what you mean. I hope he doesn’t try to take advantage of her in some mean way, like the others. She’s had an awful time, you know.”
“I do not know anything about it.”
“She was left penniless when her husband died, with two infant girls to bring up. His family behaved terribly. They disowned her, cutting her off without a farthing. She scraped and saved for years to get this house, but she’ll never make it profitable. She doesn’t have the first idea about running it; she thinks her failure is just inexplicable bad luck. Half the boarders don’t pay their bills.”
“That is terrible.”
* * *
DOROTHY’S CONVERSATION WITH Benjamin crystallized her unease about Mr. Cundy. He was secretive and sly. He had ingratiated himself with Mrs. Baker, winning her confidence, making himself indispensible to her.
Dorothy wondered how she might broach her anxieties to Mrs. Baker without causing offense. She went down to dinner that evening, hoping there would be a chance to talk to her alone.
The room was nearly full; the other diners were already at their places. Mr. Cundy was sitting—at the head of the table! Mrs. Baker had given him her chair! He sat surveying the room with quiet assurance.
“Here you are, young lady,” Mrs. Baker said, with the sweetly serene smile Dorothy loved. “Come and sit over here.”
Mrs. Baker was wearing a new blue ribbon in her hair, incongruous against the badly dyed blonde and grey. She steered Dorothy to a chair beside a girl Dorothy had never seen before.
“Miss Leslie-Jones,” Mrs. Baker murmured, as Dorothy sat down.
Dorothy saw a beautifully molded oval face, shining dark eyes framed by a mass of tumbling curls, and a satiny peacock-blue dress that gleamed in the dimness. Beside Miss Leslie-Jones, the other boarders looked dowdy and insipid. She had charm, a slightly unnerving poise and charm. Dorothy’s appreciation of these qualities battled against the alarm that jolted through her suddenly …
The girl held out her hand with studied grace. “You must call me Veronica. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Dorothy took the offered hand. “I am happy to meet you, too. I’m Dorothy Richardson.”
“Yes, I have seen you around the house. You always look as though your thoughts are far away, so I hesitated to introduce myself.” Veronica paused; she leaned toward Dorothy, dramatically conspiratorial. “But I wanted to talk to you from the moment I laid eyes on you.”
Dorothy was silent, trying to cope with the sense of invasion. Veronica’s elegant poses were irritating, yet Dorothy was attracted, despite herself, by her warmth. Veronica was pouring glasses of water for both of them.
“Are you staying here for long?” Dorothy asked. “Or just passing through?”
“I don’t know if I will stay. I came from Paris—I made my family send me there to study art. There are so many things I prefer about living in France.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, I could give hundreds of examples. Mainly it’s the food and the way of living, the little everyday things the French do so much more elegantly and comfortably. Then there’s the way the English dress…”
She raised her eyebrows and drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders, as though trying not to become infected by the English lack of style. “But I do like this house. The atmosphere of faded gentility appeals to me very much. And Mrs. Baker is a perfect darling.”
“I agree with you,” Dorothy said warmly, glancing at the landlady, who was on her feet handing round plates of soup. By the look of it, there would be no chance of a private conversation tonight.
They began their meal. The usual talk started up among the boarders about the weather (more rain was prophesied). Things were passed around the table with a great deal of efficient politeness. Veronica began telling Dorothy about her family, ignoring everyone else.
Her oldest brother was in Simla: she made Dorothy see the unimaginable landscape of the Indian hill station—think Surrey, with slightly more dramatic scenery, she said. Dorothy could picture the brother standing in the clean bracing air: tall and aristocratic looking, benevolent and wealthy, coming to the rescue of his adored younger sister when their parents refused to pay for the art course. Veronica spoke of her younger brothers in the services, and her titled relatives and their country estate. She had broken away from them because she couldn’t stand the suffocating life. There was a brief engagement to a curate. She seemed to have difficulty describing him, abandoning the attempt to explain instead the puzzling way he shrank and shrank in her mind, until he scarcely seemed real. She left for Paris after their engagement ended. Her family were relieved to have her out of the way until the gossip in their village had died down.
Veronica spoke matter-of-factly; she was clear-sighted and a little disillusioned. Despite her sophisticated and affluent family life, she seemed as displaced as Dorothy. Her exclusion of the other boarders was plain bad manners, but it was hard to resist the sense of intimacy she created within the public social occasion. She asked Dorothy about her family.
Dorothy sighed. “Well, my mother is dead. I have three sisters. My father lives with the eldest, Kate, and her family at Long Ditton in Surrey.”
Her father was unchanged, despite everything that had happened. He still clung to the appearance of power, while lacking the substance. He laid down the law in Kate’s household, and depended on the charity of Kate’s husband. Dorothy sent him half a crown as often as she could, and visited less and less.
There was a pause.
“Doesn’t talking about anybody’s family bore you?” Dorothy asked eventually.
“I hope I didn’t bore—”
“Oh no,” she said hastily, “I didn’t mean that at all, I loved hearing about your family. It’s just … I … I find it difficult to speak of mine.”
When the meal came to an end, Veronica said, “I had a marvelous evening. It’s been a long time since I met anyone I can talk to as easily as you. Would you like to go for a walk? Perhaps we’ll find a café, and we can sit and talk some more.”
Dorothy declined as politely as she could. She escaped back to her room, vaguely promising to be at dinner again quite soon.
* * *
DOROTHY’S OPPORTUNITY TO talk to Mrs. Baker presented itself at the weekend, when the landlady came to clean her room. She knocked softly and pushed open the door, hovering just inside the threshold. “Ah! I hoped I’d find you in, young lady.”
“Yes, here I am.”
There was a pause while Mrs. Baker came fully into the room and set down the mop and pail. She shut the door firmly behind her.
Dorothy said, “I’m glad to see you, because there’s something I want to speak to you about.”
“Actually, young lady, I need to speak to you.”
Dorothy looked at her in surprise. But Mrs. Baker’s tired face was expressionless, revealing nothing.
“You know I think a lot of you,” Mrs. Baker told her. “You’ve been one of my best boarders, from the moment you arrived. To tell the truth, I’ve a bit of a soft spot for you.”
“And I for you, Mrs. Baker.”
“Well, I know you’re busy. I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll get straight to the point. It’s about him. The Canadian doctor.”
“Dr. Weber?”
“Yes. He was worried almost out of his mind about you.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
Mrs. Baker flushed and drew herself up to her full height. “You may be wondering why I’m here, bringing this up … you see, Dr. Weber saw you in the street with that … that man of yours.”
“Which man? Benjamin?”
“No. I wish to goodness it had been Mr. Benjamin.”
“Who was it? Who did he see me with?”
“The other fellow. The writer.”
Dorothy felt herself blushing deeply.
“Oh, I feel so badly about it,” Mrs. Baker continued. “And the worst of it is the doctor never let slip a single word until he left.”
There was silence while Dorothy tried to take everything in. Dr. Weber had gone … disappeared back to Canada. Some smart pretty Canadian nurse would snap him up … he hadn’t even said good-bye.
“I feel I have to tell you,” Mrs. Baker said. “You see … Dr. Weber had made up his mind to ask for your hand.”
“Oh.”
“He was one in a thousand, mark my words. It was the chance of a lifetime, and you’ve lost him. Lordy! I wish I’d known what you were up to with that married fellow. I would have t
old you to stop it at once.”
Dorothy recoiled. She had lost all desire to talk to Mrs. Baker about Mr. Cundy. She only wanted her to leave—as quickly as possible. “My goodness,” she said in a trembling voice. “Dr. Weber was an awfully decent man.”
“Isn’t it a shame?” said Mrs. Baker with real feeling. “It vexes me dreadfully to think how foolish you’ve been.”
The room throbbed with tension. Dorothy couldn’t meet Mrs. Baker’s eyes. She looked instead at her small battered chest of drawers, the yellow wardrobe and the bed tucked under the slope of the attic, feeling wildly estranged from them. Mrs. Baker had violated the tranquility of her room. Dorothy wondered if her beloved things would ever seem familiar again. She willed Mrs. Baker to leave. She only wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
“Well, I felt obliged to come up and tell you,” Mrs. Baker said, at last. “I felt you ought to know what happened. I couldn’t have lived with myself otherwise.”
“Yes. It was the right thing to tell me. Thank you. It’s like, um … a mountain out of a molehill.”
“It’s no molehill, believe me,” Mrs. Baker said darkly, brushing at her skirt. “I hope you’ll give the fellow up, now you know how carrying on with him is harming you.”
Dorothy stared at her, a multitude of unspoken thoughts and questions rushing through her head. How many people knew? Was everyone gossiping about her and Bertie? She shuddered at the thought of the judgments, the acid commentaries that were being directed their way. Mrs. Baker thought it was a scandal.
It was the first time she’d realized her affair with Bertie might have wider repercussions. It was like throwing a stone into a pond: the ripples kept spreading. Another scandal could damage Bertie’s career. Dorothy’s reputation was in shreds, though she was still a virgin. A sudden thought brought her up short: If her reputation was already wrecked, what was the point of staying a virgin?
The Lodger Page 9