Kate did her best not to show distress at Rick’s departure, knowing the granite streak in his character would not appreciate any undue display of unnecessary emotion. For him the brief four weeks would be an occasion of exhilarating business contacts needing all his concentrated expertise in assessing lucrative financial possibilities.
The adventurer had been stirred by the vision of subtle mental duelling ahead. Whatever line he took, in whatever project, he meant to be on the winning side. The world was quickly changing; Britain still remained the great industrial power, but in the United States were the seeds of the New World, and if possible he meant to be a step ahead in both.
He could not think of Kate without a rush of longing in his heart and loins, so he did not think of her overmuch. But with Kate it was quite different.
She resented the abrupt parting, and the fact that he could, with such apparent blitheness, sail away leaving her at Woodgate with a house of dull female servants except for the one man, and two uncompanionable babies who were generally asleep or wailing and wanting to be fed or carried round the room in the arms of the nanny whenever she approached.
She told herself constantly she loved them, and she did, on the rare occasions when they were quiet and could even smile like beaming cherubs of fiction. But because her time with them was so severely monitored by the nurse or the maid, she had little chance of really getting to know them.
Once or twice she took them in the carriage to Beechlands, but on each time Felicity had wind and, despite Emily’s protests, on the insistence of Nanny Green, they returned after only an hour to Woodgate.
The truth was, Kate decided, her own presence with the children seemed to be superfluous. Perhaps when they were older she would feel differently, but it had been quite ridiculous of Rick to make the babies an excuse for leaving her behind. Strangely, since her marriage, she had got to know few local people. Most were either too old or too immature to be interested in a young mother. The rest either belonged to the select little hunting crowd with whom she had nothing in common, or to the few shopkeepers in the village whose limited means kept them aloof from being on familiar terms with the wealthy Mrs Rick Ferris. The farming fraternity came nearest in any possible companionship. But they were always too busy, and anyway, Kate thought, you couldn’t call farmers’ wives exactly stimulating conversationally, and she hated thinking of animals being killed, or being made to realize that a playful cuddly young lamb seen playing in a field one day might be served up on a dinner plate the following week.
So her only real diversions during that period were as they had been before her marriage – shopping sprees.
She ordered a new outfit to be made by a dressmaker in Lynchester. It was to be a costume of deep blue silk with a fitted waist meant to win admiration and approval from Rick when he returned from America. She had not forgotten his comment of ‘a fine figure of a woman’, and was already dieting in a mild amateurish way.
She also kept to her determination for regular physical activity every day, and when she felt in the mood went over to see Cass in her Studio.
There were several different routes from Woodgate to the site, one leading half-way down a lane bordering the encampments used by gypsies on their travels between Larchborough and Lynchester.
On a fine late April morning following her short daily session with the twins – just twenty minutes which was considered ample time by both Nanny and Mrs Rook –Kate set off in this direction wearing light boots and a loose yellow cape over a rust-coloured dress patterned with small white daisies. Her curiosity concerning the rift between her cousin and Jon had in no way abated, but rather increased in Rick’s absence. So she was a little nonplussed and frustrated to arrive there after a two-mile walk to find Jon present. Cass was looking vaguely troubled, and Jon, she thought, more gaunt than when she’d last seen him.
‘Oh, hullo,’ she remarked rather lamely. ‘I hope I’m not intruding. Don’t worry though, I’m not staying. I do a good deal of walking these days.’ There was a short pause, ‘for my figure you know.’ She nodded with an attempt at lightness.
Jon managed a humourless smile. ‘Ah! – the young matron a la mode.’ His gaze studied Kate’s form through tired, heavy-lidded eyes. ‘A pity you can’t wave a magic wand and give Cassandra a few pounds.’
‘There’s no need to be personal,’ Kate said sharply. ‘I’m off again anyway. I’ll look in another day, Cass.’ She turned and was out of the door again when Jon sprang forward, pushed by and stopped her. ‘Oh, don’t be so touchy. I was leaving when you appeared like a warm breath of air in an icy atmosphere. For Pete’s sake try and cheer Cass up. I’ve done my best, but as usual it’s landed me in the dog-house.’ He pulled a cap from a pocket of his jacket and slammed it on his head.
‘Bye-ee. Nice to see you looking so gorgeous.’ The next moment he was off down the path, and had turned a corner into the lane.
With feelings bordering between reluctance and irritation Kate turned and joined Cassandra.
‘What’s the matter with Jon today?’ Kate said. ‘Or was it just that he was annoyed at being interrupted?’
‘No, not that,’ Cassandra answered. ‘He gets moods sometimes, so do I.’
‘No wonder really,’ Kate remarked tactlessly. ‘It’s such an odd life you two lead.’ When Cassandra remained silent, she continued in cautious wheedling tones, ‘Can’t you tell me all about it. Cass, what happened that night – the night you had the dream – or whatever it was? Perhaps you’d feel better. It does help sometimes, having someone to confide in when you have a problem.’
‘I’ve no problem,’ Cass told her coldly. ‘I’m just – frustrated. She generally comes to the pool, in the early afternoons. I’m trying to finish that portrait, but she hasn’t turned up today, and I’ll have to get back to Beechlands soon or Aunt Emily will make a fuss.’
‘You’re talking about your – about the nun, I suppose?’
‘Who else? I’ve no other model.’
‘You could have though – there are squirrels and deer, and—’
‘I don’t want squirrels and deer. I want her, and I wish you wouldn’t interfere. Jon was like that before you came today. He’s always wanting. He wants this – he wants that – never what I want—’
Kate stifled the desire to make an angry comment and said gently, ‘Well, Cass, perhaps it’s natural. He loves you; don’t forget that. And I thought it was the same with you.’
‘It was, and is. I do love Jon. But—’ All vitality appeared to drain from her suddenly. She looked tired and exhausted, almost ill. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel so lost sometimes – lonely; and yet I have to be alone, because—’ Her voice faltered. ‘Oh, you couldn’t possibly understand. I don’t always understand myself. But I do know that when I’ve finished the painting things will be better. They must be. Or—’
‘Yes? Or—?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Forget this stupid conversation, Kate. I’ll have to be getting back presently. Are you going my way?’
‘No, it would be a long way round. But we can go down the lane together. Have you got your cycle?’
‘Yes, it’s at the back.’
‘All right then. Whenever you’re ready.’
Five minutes later the Studio door was safely shut, and the two of them were walking down the lane with Cassandra pushing her bicycle. They parted at the point where the path wound from the lane through the trees towards Woodgate, and as she watched Cassandra pedal down the winding stretch of roadway leading towards Beechlands, Kate noticed the glimmer of red and gold vehicles through the interlaced branches of chestnut trees.
So the gypsies were back.
She hoped Cassandra wouldn’t get too involved with them, although a diversion to take her mind off the supposed nun for a bit might be beneficial.
She only saw her cousin twice more during the following fortnight. On the first occasion Cassandra appeared unusually happy and lighthearted; she’d finished
the portrait which was quite compelling in a thoughtful ethereal way, Kate thought. Cass’s attitude to Jon was very different from the last time they’d met. He’d become her legendary heroic lover again.
‘Darling Jon,’ she sighed, when Kate enquired after him. ‘He’s only just left. We are so terribly in love, you know. Just fancy! He kissed my hand today, and called me his “fairy child” and “princess” – imagine it. Isn’t it wonderful?’
Yes, Kate could imagine it. But she didn’t believe it for one moment, and she found the sentiment slightly ridiculous, and rather frightening. What was happening to Cass? What had happened? Was she losing her reason?
The thought worried her, with the result that a week later – a week before Rick’s return from America, she made another visit to the Studio.
This time it was quite different.
Cass was not there.
It was a still afternoon with a thin yellowish sky and a faint ground mist, more like autumn than spring. But the earth held a sweet tangy odour suggestive of young growing things.
Everything was very quiet. From the distance, mingled with the occasional chirp of a bird came the rise and fall of gypsy music – of violins that faded as Kate stood listening.
‘Are you there, Cass?’ she called moving to the Studio entrance. There was no reply. She pushed the half-open door wider and stared.
The interior was a jumble. Canvasses and paintings lay strewn about the floor; Cass’s blue cloak lay over a chair, a stream of golden liquid trickled from a small bottle in a corner, and at the far end a figure was slouched into a lump surrounded by pieces of a slashed painting – the portrait.
Aghast, Kate went in, and the figure moved, staggering to its feet.
Jon.
A Jon distraught and angry-looking, with a shining large penknife in his hand. His fair hair had fallen over one eye. Kate thought at first he was drunk. Then he spoke. His voice was throaty with exhaustion, but cold and calculating, holding a frightening finality in it
‘So it’s you,’ he said. ‘Well, as you see, I’ve done it. Done it at last. Destroyed the wretched thing.’ He put a hand to his head. ‘For God’s sake sit down or do something. Speak, can’t you – tell me off in any bloody way you like – but move, speak – don’t just stand there.’
He staggered slightly; Kate went towards him.
‘Oh, Jon.’
‘That’s right – Jon, Jon, the noble squire’s wicked son – destroyer of pictures and seducer of women. But then that wouldn’t be true, would it? Cassandra’s unseducable, and you, Kate – what about you?’
He lurched and almost fell. Kate put out an arm and steadied him.
‘Sit down,’ she heard herself saying as firmly and quietly as possible. ‘Rest a bit, and then – tell me about it, and get it off your chest. What’s happened? Where’s Cass?’
He flung himself on to the divan and sat there with his head in his hands before facing her.
‘I’ve no idea where Cass is,’ he answered. ‘I’ve waited and waited for hours but there’s no sign of her – only that damned nun creature and that’s gone for good now, hasn’t it? Hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes. I suppose so,’ Kate answered gently.
‘You suppose? Ah, well! Yes – I guess that’s all anyone can do about Cass and her – obsession. Just wonder.’
For a moment his expression changed and was solemn, holding a great sadness in his blue eyes when he continued, ‘It’s killing us both, you know. And for what reason? What does she get out of it all? It’s only pretence, you know – imagination – this thing about the nun. I’ve made enquiries from everyone around here, and no one else has seen or heard of her. Maybe she exists in that big book on the floor there below the cupboard – I don’t know. I’ve intended to tear it up, get rid of it. But now – now that holier-than-thou face has gone perhaps there’s no need.’
‘No, I’d leave it,’ Kate said quietly. ‘You don’t know whose book it is; it could be your father’s and valuable. But the portrait! Would it be best do you think to pack it right away somewhere, perhaps bury it or throw it in the pool? Then if we tidied up the place and both left before Cass came – or anyone – it could look as though someone had just come in and stolen it. If Cass knew the truth there’s sure to be an awful scene and all sorts of enquiries. You don’t want that, do you?’
‘God, no. I only want one thing. I only ever did, since I first saw her. I want Cass back. Cass as she was at Isabella’s dance wearing the dress you lent her.’
Pity stirred Kate to say gently, ‘Jon, I’m so sorry. So truly sorry; I’d do anything I could to help but—!’ Her voice faltered as she recognized with bewilderment the sudden hope spring into Jon’s eyes bringing youth back briefly to the handsome worn-out countenance.
‘You would, Kate? Really?’ He got up, went towards her, and took both her hands in his. At first she did not resist. He was the Jon she remembered. ‘You always liked me, didn’t you?’ he said huskily, drawing her close. ‘We liked each other. You were always so – so bright and warm.’
She trembled, torn by a strange mixed sensation of fear, pity, and memories of the past. A hand sought the softness of a breast. She recalled Rick with shock.
‘Let me go,’ she said, feeling Jon’s hot breath against her cheek. ‘Jon – we mustn’t.’ She struggled to free herself. ‘I didn’t mean – Jon!’ He was pressing his mouth against her neck and lips, smothering her protests, while her body arched back under the weight of his, almost forcing her to the floor. Then suddenly there was the creaking of the door, a shadow of the light, and he freed her. But not before a woman’s high, light voice cried shrilly, ‘Don’t stop because of me.’
Both turned to see Cassie’s silhouetted figure standing rigidly at the entrance.
Kate couldn’t speak for a moment; she was aware only of shock, of Jon’s figure standing like a block of frozen wood beside her, and as Cassandra swept in – of a blazing white face and contemptuous staring eyes. Then in a rush of words the power of speech returned, and with it movement. Kate rushed forward, ‘Cassie it’s not what you think – it’s nothing, you must believe it – Jon was just needing you, and I was here. It’s all a terrible muddle – a mistake – listen—’
‘I don’t care if it was a mistake or not. I don’t care what you do, either of you. But-’ For the first time Cassandra appeared to notice the slashed and torn portrait on the floor. She knelt down and lifted up the pieces of canvas, examining each with a kind of numbed despair. Then she lifted her head and stared at Kate accusingly. ‘You did this. You – you’ve wilfully spoiled all I’ve worked for – all I cared about—’
‘No,’ Jon interrupted harshly. ‘I did it and good riddance. Now shut up, put on your cape and come back with me like a sane human being, or – or – God knows what’ll become of us.’ He turned away and stood leaning at the door, head down, his face covered by one hand, a forlorn, deflated figure. At that moment Kate didn’t know which was the most to be pitied – Jon or Cass.
She bent and touched the other girl’s shoulder. ‘Cass try and forget all this. It was just – unhappiness. I know what it must look like to you – and I’m sorry about the painting. But—’
Cass gave her a fleeting glance. Her expression was bleak, controlled by an icy veneer covering inner despair and confusion. ‘I’ve said it doesn’t matter – not you or him,’ Cass retorted. ‘So don’t – don’t talk. I’m going—’ Jon glanced up hopefully, ‘back to Beechlands,’ Cass concluded, ‘when I’ve collected all this.’ She started picking up the remaining bits of the painting, trying to piece them together. Then she placed them helplessly on a chair and reached for her cape. After she got to her feet Kate saw the blur of tears in her eyes.
‘If you’re going now I’m coming with you. You’re not leaving in this state.’
In spite of her distress Cassandra managed an icy tight little smile, false but with a hint of triumph in it. ‘You’re not. I’ve got my bicycle. So, do you
mind leaving, both of you? I don’t want people prying and poking round. I want the door properly shut.’
Knowing that only force could stop her they had to do as she said, and a few minutes later Kate and Jon parted to go their different ways.
‘I wish I’d never come today,’ Kate said bitterly before she took the path through the woods leading to Woodgate. ‘Oh, how I wish I hadn’t.’
Jon gave her a shrewd bitter glance and retorted. ‘But you did, didn’t you? I wonder why?’
Then he turned and walked away apparently recovered, with a jaunty air and swagger that she knew nevertheless was pretence.
A deep unhappiness flooded her. She sensed the day might have repercussions none of them as yet could envisage, and the awareness held an odd feeling of mounting apprehension that was almost fear.
*
Cassandra left for the forest early the next day, in spite of Emily’s protests.
‘You look a bit “wisht” dear, tired,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you working too much at your painting these days? What about taking a little trip into Lynchester? We could do a bit of shopping and perhaps have a light meal at that nice place near the Market Place?’
Cassandra shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t feel like shops and crowds, and–’
‘There won’t be crowds today. There’s no market on Wednesdays, we could—’
‘No, really.’ Cass’s voice was stubborn. ‘I have things to do at the Studio. Tidying up, and finishing something. I thought I’d take sandwiches and come back later. Please. Don’t try and press me. There’s no shopping I want to do anyway. It would be a waste of time.’
Emily was forced to agree in the end, and shortly after their brief conversation Cass set off on her cycle with a packet of hastily prepared food hanging in a bag from her handlebars.
There was no wind at all that morning, everything was very still, almost unnaturally so. A faint shroud of mist filmed undergrowth and trees, glistening at moments from shafts of pale sunlight silvering the spring green.
She’ll be there today, Cass thought. She’s sure to be. And a deep spreading sense of contentment flooded through her, dispelling the distress and ugliness of the previous afternoon. Quite what she intended to do she didn’t know. The portrait was gone, and she’d no intention of trying to repeat it. All through the night hours when she’d hardly slept, her mind had been a jargon of unformed thoughts and depression that had affected her whole body making her rigid with pain – pain not caused primarily by Kate, but from Jon’s betrayal, and once more that dark risen thing from the past that was always waiting to assume its identity of terror.
The Velvet Glove Page 11