The younger boy was crying and appealing to his mother: ‘Be quiet! Be quiet! Please, please, Mama, be quiet!’ which seemed to activate his father again: pulling himself away from Bernard’s hold, he strode down the room and, grabbing the cringing boy, thrust him towards his brother, commanding them: ‘Get out of here! And you, too.’ He was now stabbing his finger at the petrified Jane. The door had no sooner closed on them than he advanced swiftly on his wife and, looking into her glaring, hate-filled face, he brought the crop across the side of it, crying, ‘You filthy, evil, drunken slut! You’re not fit to live. Do you hear me? Not fit to live. You would watch your son—’ He now closed his eyes tightly for a moment; then his arm dropped to his side as he stared at his wife who, after flinching from the blow, was standing straight, glaring back at him. She hadn’t even put her hand up to her face. And what she said now was, as if she were solid and sober, ‘I’ll see the end of you yet, Raymond. And it’ll be a slow end. I prophesy it will be a slow end, you unnatural swine.’ And on this she turned from him as if she were feeling no pain and walked out of the room. And, as if defeated, he stood with his head bowed, before swinging round to where Bernard was kneeling on the floor holding Millie in his arms.
He hurried to him, saying, ‘Is…is she all right?’
‘I don’t know.’ The words were brief and curt sounding.
Bernard now rose from his knees; and bending, he lifted Millie and laid her in one of the leather armchairs, then pulled her torn garment over her bare chest before straightening and facing the man he thought of as his brother-in-law. ‘But what I do know,’ he said, ‘is I no longer recognise Berenice as the half-sister I once knew. Nor can you be congratulated on your sons, Raymond, if you cannot control their drinking at their age.’
‘You know nothing about it.’ The words were ground out through Raymond’s clenched teeth. ‘Anyway, I don’t need any criticism from you; this is my house.’
‘It isn’t your house yet, Raymond, it’s your father’s. And I wonder if, from his fastness up above, he knows what goes on down here. What would he say to this poor child being…?’ He paused: ‘Well, I don’t know if she’s been raped or not, but your son had a damned good try at it, by the look of things.’
‘Yes; but who drove him to it? Ask yourself that. Anyway, get out of my road. I’ll take her down to the Quintons.’
‘No. No, Raymond; you’ve caused enough speculative gossip already tonight back in that room, when you almost exposed the girl’s limbs in your form of dancing when there was no need for it. You didn’t act the same way with the other maids. And please’—he held up his hand—‘say nothing more, else more will be said, and we’ll both be sorry for it. Just one thing: I won’t avail myself of your hospitality any longer than tomorrow morning.’
Raymond Crane-Boulder stepped back from him, saying, ‘That’ll suit me.’ Then he looked down at the dishevelled girl lying in the chair: her hair had become loose and part of it was hanging over one shoulder and lying across the bare nape of her neck; her small breasts were heaving, and in so doing were pushing aside her torn garment. And as he gazed at her his lower lip covered his upper one before being drawn in between his teeth. Abruptly he swung about and went from the room; and Bernard, bending over the chair, said softly, ‘You’re all right. You’re all right.’
Slowly, Millie opened her eyes. She had been aware of the men for some time, though at first their presence had been hazy. But the one thing she felt glad about now was that the master had gone. This one she didn’t mind; he was different somehow. She looked at him, and as he said again, ‘You’re all right,’ the tears slowly spilled over on to her flushed cheeks.
‘Oh, my dear, my dear,’ Bernard said. ‘It’s all right. You’re going home. Here, let me dry your eyes.’ He took out a handkerchief, and with it he wiped her face; and then he said, ‘Sit quiet now. By the way, have you got a coat?’
Her mind said, ‘A cloak,’ but her lips refused to voice the words, and he said, ‘Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I’ll find someone. Just stay quiet.’
She was left alone. She did not move her head but her eyes took in the rows of books. And as they rested on them, she said to herself, ‘Ben. Ben, I want to go home.’ But that wasn’t what she had meant, or meant to think; it was something to do with Ben and the books. He would love to be in this room with all the books. Why was she lying here? Her head was hurting. It was sore at the back. She had fallen, she had a bump. Had she danced too much? No. No, she hadn’t danced too much. Why was she lying here?
As if a door had been wrenched open in her mind she suddenly knew why she was lying there, and she began to gasp, muttering now aloud, ‘Oh, no! No! Please don’t. Please don’t.’ But she was alone now; they had gone. He had torn her frock, her beautiful, beautiful frock; and Mrs Aggie had paid all that money to have it unpicked, remade and pressed. She would never wear it again. Oh, no, no, no! She could never wear it again. Not even if it was sewn up. She wanted to go home. If only somebody would come and take her home.
‘It’s all right. You’re going home.’
She opened her eyes and there he was again, the nicer one of the two; in fact, the nicest one among them. There was another man with him and he was holding her cloak; and the nice man said to him, ‘I’ll have to carry her, Winters. I don’t know if I can carry her all the way, so you’ll have to give me a hand.’
‘She wouldn’t be able to walk, sir?’
‘You heard: she was rambling. I think she’s been slightly concussed. I’ll lift her up, you put the cloak around her.’
She knew she was being lifted and that her head was lying against his shoulder. He was carrying her home. She was so glad. And tomorrow morning she would wake up and go down to the kitchen and set the breakfast for Mrs Aggie and Ben. Oh, that would be nice…
Bernard Thompson managed to carry her through the house and down the drive to the Quintons’ with the help of George Winters, who walked by his side, holding her dangling legs. And when at last he placed her on the couch in the Quintons’ sitting room before two amazed and anxious people, he said to them, ‘I think if she hasn’t fully recovered by tomorrow morning you should call in the doctor.’
When William Quinton asked, ‘What on earth happened? Look at her clothes!’ Bernard said, ‘Come outside for a moment.’
In the hall William was given the details as far as Bernard knew them, but they were enough for him to say, ‘God Almighty! That woman will cause murder one of these days.’ Then apologising, he said, ‘I’m sorry: I forget she’s a relative of yours, Bernard.’
‘Well, I can tell you this much, William, I’m sorry that she can claim that distinction, even if it’s only as half-brother. Anyway, I’m leaving in the morning.’
‘I thought you were here for the rest of the holidays?’
‘No. The atmosphere’s too strong for me.’
‘The old gentleman’ll miss you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think he cares very much one way or the other whom he sees these days.’
‘Will you go home?’
Bernard laughed gently.
‘No, William. My father’s third wife is expecting the first addition. What relation that will make me to it, I don’t know. Still a half something or other. No, I think I’ll return to Oxford. I have a number of friends there and I’ll get down to work again.’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘Are you happy in this job, William?’
‘Yes. Yes, most of the time; but I know I wouldn’t have it if it wasn’t for the old man and his association with my granddad and my father. Anyway, being the runt of the litter of ten, I’m glad to have any post at all.’
‘I’ve always thought you were worth something better than this. Yet still, if you’re happy. But’—he looked towards the door—‘that poor child in there. I doubt you won’t be able to keep her.’
‘No; I can see that.’
‘She’s very beautiful. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone so beautiful. She certainly cau
sed a stir up there tonight. My! You should have seen the faces: the resentment, the bitterness. Odd, isn’t it, how people hate beauty. She stood out like a princess on a dung heap.’
‘Well, it’s odd: she mightn’t have come from a dung heap, but she lives pretty near it, for her guardian’s an old rag woman.’
‘Never!’
‘Oh yes. An enormously fat old thing, a bundle of rags herself. She’s got the famous taggerine place, such as they call it, on the outskirts of The Courts, beyond the market. She’s well known in the town. She’s got a nickname, “Raggie Aggie”. For years she used to push a barrow, and that child with her, I understand. Now they’ve risen to a horse and cart. There’s a warped fellow comes for her on her days off and brings her back. I say warped…well, he’s only about five feet tall, but if his legs had been longer he would have been a massive individual, and good-looking into the bargain. But he, too, from what I can gather, was picked up and looked after by the old rag woman.’
‘Amazing. But she seems…well, educated. Yes, that’s the word; she doesn’t talk like the rest of them.’
‘Oh, she’s been educated in bits and pieces; she was under the nuns for one period, and later attended a pay school; and believe it or not, she asked to attend school with my tribe. In fact, she did a little manoeuvring. It was either she went to school or she left, and the children are crazy about her. Oh’—he put his hand to his head now—‘I don’t know what’s going to happen there: they’ve never been so good in their lives before; she can handle them and they love her. Dear, dear! Why had this to happen? By the way’—his voice dropped—‘do you think she was…?’ He shook his head, and Bernard answered, ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. I heard her screaming. Apparently, Yarrow, one of the maids, was told off to tell the girls to go along to the study and she had sense enough to tell Winters, and he told Raymond. I happened to be there. There you have it. Well, I’ll have one more look at her, then I’ll go.’
And that’s what Millie remembered for a long time afterwards: the kind face above her, saying again, ‘You’ll be all right.’
Nine
Three days later William Quinton drove Millie home in his trap. It was a Friday and the yard was quiet. Ben was dealing with a man who had brought in some scrap iron, and Aggie was in the barn watching two women sort through a pile of oddments and making sure that they didn’t stuff any up their coats. She had lost a few good pieces of late and she felt she knew where they had gone, and one of the two customers was under suspicion. But when, glancing out of the door, she saw a well-dressed man helping Millie down from a trap she almost sprang across the yard, as did Ben. And they both called out together, ‘What’s up? What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, Mrs Aggie!’ Millie put out one hand towards Aggie and the other towards Ben and muttered weakly, ‘I’m home. I’m home for good.’ Then turning to the well-dressed man, she said, ‘This is Mr Quinton. He’s been so kind, like Mrs Quinton. I…I must sit down. I’m still a bit dizzy.’
In amazement, one on each side of her, they helped her into the house, and William Quinton followed, his eyes growing wider as he passed through a room filled with odd furniture and into another which he observed straight away was used as a kitchen-cum-dining-room-cum-sitting-room. And there the enormous woman turned to him and said, ‘What is this all about? Is she ill? What’s been done to her?’
‘She…she had a fall and slight concussion, but she is all right. I can assure you, she’s all right. And more so, I can assure you she is so glad to be home with you. But her return is my loss and that of my wife and children, because, I may say, she brought order and a cheerfulness and happiness into my home. The children loved her and my wife found her a very great help.’
‘Yes, I’ll bet she would.’ Aggie was nodding at him, not sure how to take him, when Ben turned from bending over Millie and, looking at Mr Quinton, he said, ‘Will you be seated, sir? And could we get you a drink of something?’
‘No. No, thank you. I…I must return as quickly as possible.’ He smiled at the shorter man, adding, ‘I have a job to do. As you know, I’m bailiff to Mr Crane-Boulder.’ He gave this last piece of information in turning towards Aggie; and, still addressing her, he said, ‘I would consider it a favour if I could call now and again and bring one or two of my children to see Millie. They would love that.’
With a forearm Aggie now heaved up her sagging breasts and glanced at Ben, and whatever expression she saw on his countenance tempered what she now said to the visitor: ‘Well, if that’s your wish, sir, you’ll be welcome. And…and thank you for bringing her back home.’
He now walked over to Millie and, taking her hand, he said, ‘I’ll come and see you soon, and bring the girls and Patrick. If I promise them such a treat it might keep them tolerably quiet for a time.’ He pulled a small face at her, and she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Quinton. I would like that. Yes, I would like to see the children again. Will you give them my love?’ And she smiled faintly now as she ended, ‘And tell Paddy to keep playing his pipe.’
‘I will. I will.’ He straightened up, then turned and looked from Ben to Aggie, saying, ‘Goodbye, then.’ And as Aggie answered, ‘Goodbye, sir,’ Ben said, ‘I will see you out.’
In the yard Ben demanded, ‘What’s all this about, sir?’ And after taking in a deep breath, William Quinton gave him a brief outline, finishing by saying, ‘That’s as much as I know, and from what Bernard—Mr Thompson—told me, he didn’t think she had…well, been touched. You know what I mean?’
Ben’s answer was a growl. ‘Yes, I know what you mean. My God! You’re telling me that the son of the house tried to…Good God in heaven!’
‘They were very drunk, the young men, and I’m afraid their mother was the instigator of the whole incident. Unfortunately, her drinking is habitual, and nobody is more sorry than my wife and I that all this has happened, because we became very fond of Millie. And my children, well, they adored her. She was like a child with them, yet she could control them.’ He nodded his head now while adding, ‘In a strange way the other side of her seemed very adult. Well, I hope to see you again, Mister…I’m sorry I don’t know your actual name. Millie has spoken of you, and often, but by your Christian name.’
‘Me name’s Smith.’
‘Oh, Smith. Well, I think I prefer Ben.’
Did Ben detect a little slackening of class, a slight condescension? Whatever it was he retorted quickly, ‘Me name’s Smith.’
William Quinton’s expression changed, and stiffly now he said, ‘Well, good day, Mr Smith,’ then he mounted the trap and left the yard.
Ben re-entered the house; but he did not immediately go into the far room, he stood with his hand gripping the back of an old couch and his head bowed to his chest for some minutes before he pushed the door open, there to see Millie with a cup of tea in her hand.
She looked at him as if she had been waiting for him, and as he approached her, she said, ‘Oh, Ben. Oh, I’m so pleased to see you again. I’ve…I’ve said to Mrs Aggie that…that I never want to leave home, leave either of you ever, ever again.’
‘Well, that’ll suit us both down to the ground. But…but how you feelin’, really?’
‘Not too bad; but I have a headache most of the time. The doctor said it would go if I rested for a week, say.’ Then, her head drooping and her voice low, she said, ‘My dress is ruined, Mrs Aggie,’ which brought no harsh retort from Aggie; instead, she put her arm around the thin shoulders and pressed her into her side as she said, ‘Who cares about a frock? There’ll be another where that came from. If that’s all that’s worryin’ you, you can stop. But can you give us the rights of what happened? I mean…’
Millie raised her head and looked from Aggie to Ben, who was on his hunkers before her, and hesitantly she said, ‘I…I shouldn’t have gone dressed like that, but…but they said it was a party. Yet every one of them was in uniform.’
‘Is that a fact?’
Ben poked his head towards
her. ‘All in uniform at a party?’
‘Yes. Except’—she nipped at her lip now before adding—‘the mistress, of course. And…and I seemed to stick out. And then Mr Thompson, him whose birthday party it had been on the Monday, you know. He was twenty-one. He asked me to dance and we did the polka. He was…he was very nice; and yet’—again she bit on her lip—‘he is the half-brother of the mistress, they say. But…but he’s not a bit like her. Then…then they had a quadrille and the master asked me to dance.’
‘The master asked you…?’ Aggie’s expression was one of disbelief and she drew her head back into her thick shoulders, repeating, ‘The master asked you?’
‘Yes. Well, he didn’t ask me, he sort of took me into the dance, and…and he swung me round. And I didn’t know my petticoat and stockings were showing, but Jane said they were. You know, I’ve told you about Jane. She has all the dirty jobs, and she was so excited about the party. She told me yesterday when she came to see me that the mistress had been watching from the doorway, and it was after that that she sent for her and me to go along to the study.
With a quick movement she thrust her head into the back of the couch and opened her mouth wide, and Ben said, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right. You needn’t go on if you don’t want to. It’s all right.’
But she went on haltingly, and told them as much as she could remember, and when she had finished they were both gaping at her. Presently, Aggie said, ‘This Mr Thompson carried you from the house?’
‘Yes; and I understand Mr Winters, the valet, helped him, and they brought me home…well, I mean, to the Quintons’. And Mr Thompson came the next day to see how I was. He was leaving the house. And Jane said there was a lot of talk about that because he had come for the holidays.’
The Rag Nymph (aka The Forester Girl) Page 16