The result of that evening was more amicable than might have been expected from Kate’s point of view. Rick agreed to leave Charnbrook at an early hour which meant the removal of any undercurrent of stress in the gathering, leaving Jon free to discuss Hiram’s proposal for him as publicity trainee and photographer with the new moving-picture firm in America.
*
The Carcodales decided to leave Britain earlier than was expected, after acquiring the Dower House at a considerably higher price than had been expected by the Wentworths.
During the few weeks before departure Jon’s nerves relaxed and, fortified by his deepening friendship for Elizabeth Carcodale he was able to look back on the past tragedy of Cass’s death more reasoningly. He realized the cruelty of his own behaviour to Kate, but considered she’d deserved it, recalling the compulsive heady sexuality of her presence and her closeness to him on that dreadful day. She should never have been there, he told himself more than once, as the memory swept over him.
However much she might deny it – she’d wanted him. Secret lusting was as bad as technical unfaithfulness; and in retrospect he decided anything could have happened in those heady moments of anguish, loss and longing.
Thus he forced himself to reason in justification over his damning confrontation with Rick. It was right he knew the type of woman he’d married. And anyway Ferris was no saint himself. So let them solve their own future, which no doubt would be what they deserved.
America lay ahead.
Once there, in a new enterprising and remunerative occupation he might, in time, be able to erase the torture of Cass’s death to the back of his mind – even eventually to forgetfulness.
In this way Jon’s problem was solved.
10
Kate expected her baby in December, and by November there were times when she wondered how she’d ever get through to the date. Rick was away a good deal and, although during the times he was at Woodgate he was polite and always saw she had everything for her comfort, he remained aloof and succeeded in an unsmiling way of shutting her from his personal life.
She went to bed early those days; if both happened to be in a lounge or the drawing-room, he would be quick to open the door for her, incline his head and say a brief ‘Goodnight’, but there was never a touch between them – no contact at all unless it was a brief brush of silk as she passed, followed by the closing of the latch, and her figure moving into the shadows by the stairs.
Every night he was at Woodgate she would lie wakeful, sometimes for hours, listening with ears keyed and senses alert in the wild hope of his footsteps emerging along the landing, and not pausing until he came to her own door. Then the pause and turn of the knob, and he would be there at last in his rightful place, a tall figure looking down on her – Rick! her husband and lover.
But it never happened.
At first, during the long estrangement she’d told herself it would be different when the baby came. He would know it was his. He’d have to – she’d somehow prove it. And if it was a boy – but now even that eventuality failed to rouse her. She was too exhausted to hope any more.
‘You look tired,’ Rick said surprisingly one day. ‘Do you see the doctor regularly?’
A flicker of life stirred in her. ‘He calls every day. But of course you wouldn’t know being in London so much. He says I’m all right.’
‘Good. It would be a pity for the twins to have an ailing mother so young in life.’
The brief warmth in her froze. The twins! Marged and Felicity! – always the twins. It was as though he cared for nothing of his own but his possessions, his business and the two tiny girls he knew were his. At first in the early period of the rift she’d been jealous of the sudden look of ardour on his face whenever he looked on them, the blaze of tenderness in his dark eyes. Now she felt merely dull resentment; she wished frequently she had no children at all. During his brief periods at Woodgate he made it so increasingly clear that she personally was merely a chattel in his life.
In early November she decided she couldn’t stand it any longer. Rick was away on a brief visit to London, and would be returning that night. She had been sleeping badly recently, partly due to the restlessness of the baby that should be born in a few weeks, but mostly the result of her deep unhappiness. Why should it be so? Why should she be forced into such a hell of misery at such a time and for something that was no fault of her own? Well, perhaps she’d been a little unwise with Jon that fateful day, she thought at times. But there were better, kinder things than wisdom. Rick was wise in a shrewd cold way – in business, in stocks and shares and companies and getting his own way. And ‘having and holding’. But love? His love had proved sterile. And she so needed love at this time – someone’s – if not his. Suddenly she knew. She wanted her mother, and her father’s whimsical way of cracking a joke, as he had done when she was upset over anything when she was a little girl. Yes, it was her parents she wanted, with their arms round her so she could cry and cry, and let her grief explode, freed by the comfort of their presence.
She would go to them.
She would go that day before Rick got back, and stay. Her child should be born at Beechlands. Somehow she’d think of an excuse – that Rick was too much away, and she wasn’t well, or – oh, something. Something. They would understand. They always had. There’d be no need for details. Just one thing was clear. She had to get to them.
*
The nursery staff were engaged with the children upstairs and the rest of the domestics busy about the kitchen when Kate set off shortly before twelve that morning for Beechlands.
She was wearing a long, thick, grey, hooded cape, and carried only a very light case. No one had a glimpse of her except a gardener from the potting shed, as she cut down a side lane to the paddock. From there she planned to take a short cut along a path through a patch of forest land which led into the lane eventually going to the main road. It would be possible to catch a country bus at the crossroads, she thought vaguely. If not, there would surely be someone willing to give her a lift, a farmer, or friend possibly.
It was very cold. Her mind was exhausted and confused, and her body felt unduly heavy that day. She’d have to think up some explanation she supposed – an excuse for being out on her own wandering in her condition. But just then practical things didn’t seem to matter. She was driven by one compelling thought – to get home. Hazily she recalled the note she’d written to Rick before leaving Woodgate:
Rick, don’t come looking for me. I’m leaving you, and I’m not coming back. Our life lately has been a mockery. There’s no need to worry about me. Where I’m going I shall be perfectly all right. And you have the twins.
Goodbye.
Kate.
It was strange how clearly the words remained in her mind. As she plunged into the spreading thicket of trees through the gate the bare dark branches of trees jigged like immense letters before her eyes in the rising wind – ‘I’m never coming back – never coming back.’ From the leaden sky above flakes of snow fell in only a thin flurry at first, then thicker, filming branches and ground below with white.
She blinked and drew her cloak closer, lifting a cold hand to wipe the frost from her eyes. Soon, as the woodland enclosed the world outside, the path thinned, disappearing at points, emerging only fitfully in treacherous snake-like twists and turns. Her senses became numbed and disorientated; gradually she was aware of nothing any more but the increasing heaviness of her own body, the urgency for sanctuary and rest. But no rest came, only a crippling stab of pain that sent her reeling for support to the trunk of a birch. She clung there till the first agony passed, then went on again. How long she’d been continuing haphazardly between bouts of giddiness and pain, clutching her distended stomach, searching desperately for guidance she had no idea. But at last, like a miracle, a faint rosy glow emerged from a small clearing behind a clump of thorns – only a flicker at first, but a sign of life surely, she thought, suddenly wildly alert – indication
of a lamp? Or glow from a fire? A window perhaps? That of a cottage near the road?
With a spurt of energy she made an effort to break through the tangled undergrowth, but it was too much for her. Brambles clawed her face as she fell. Renewed agony struck her with the sensation of a sword splitting her in two. Nothing registered any more but darkness and pain, and a terrible pushing, then a gigantic rush of relief followed by the thin high crying like that of a wild bird through the snow.
For a brief pause all was still in the forest, as though the thickening snow had laid its silent mantle over the earth. Even the wind was hushed. Then there was a crackle of branches and twigs, and the bent figure of the old Mumper emerged dark among the other shadows against the whitened earth. A transitory beam of crimson from his fire lit his bearded face, as he bent down where Kate lay with the newly-born child who was already hungry for the milk at her breast. Blood stained the ground; her eyes were shut. Awed, with a primitive fear gnawing his nerves he touched a cheek. The dark lashes parted and fluttered. Very slowly her tired gaze rested on the tiny wet head beside her. The man’s withered countenance under the woollen cap jerked and nodded.
‘It’s all right, lady, I’ll get ‘elp. Where you b’long lady, eh? You tell old Mumper. That’s me. I won’t ‘arm you, lady – not you nor that little ‘un.’
But Kate was too exhausted to speak. Her eyes closed again and he hobbled off quickly through the undergrowth, anxious only to be away from a scene which might involve him with difficult questioning. It was an hour later before Kate was discovered by a search party organized by Rick who’d arrived back at Woodgate earlier than expected. The snow had thickened by then, and left no footsteps to guide them. The only clue they had was from a worker at a distant farm who’d glimpsed Kate’s grey figure as she passed some distance away in the trees. Luckily for her he’d thought it strange, recognized her, and told the farmer who’d reported it to the house. This prompt action it was that saved her life and that of the baby who was later to be named Blanche-Rose.
11
The days passed into weeks and Kate lay for most of the time half-conscious in bed at Woodgate, after a bad attack of pneumonia followed by exhaustion. No one – not even her parents – was allowed to see her except Rick, and on the rare occasions of consciousness she turned her head away refusing to look at him. He spent much of each day in the room waiting for a sign of recognition, stony-faced and silent. But none came, no sign of emotion from the white face on the bed that could have been some marble effigy except for the luxurious surround of shadowed hair. She ate and drank what was held to her lips obediently, but without life or interest. With Blanche-Rose she would have nothing to do at all. Whenever her tiny prematurely-born daughter was brought to her, her eyes widened with something between terror and dislike; she’d put her head under the bedclothes and a muffled ‘No – no’ would come from her lips. No one had any idea why, except perhaps Rick who naturally kept the grim knowledge to himself.
The baby, with perfect tiny features, had a crop of very fine pale hair giving her at first glance an uncanny likeness to a miniature Jon.
Whatever feelings Rick might have had on the infant’s perfect small features and extraordinary fair skin and pale hair, he made no comment except to say to the housekeeper, ‘Another girl to name. Now what do you suggest, Mrs Rook?’ Thinking it was a matter for Rick and Kate, but guessing he might already have asked and been rebuffed, Mrs Rook answered, ‘Well now, what about Blanche? Isn’t that French for “white”? And as she was born in the snow it seems fitting somehow.’
‘Hm, and very cold,’ he agreed with an underlying sting in his voice. ‘Blanche? Yes, but let’s have a bit of colour too. Rose, perhaps. Blanche-Rose. What do you think?’
‘Oh, Mr Ferris, sir, that’s perfect. And suitable too with that pink little bud of a mouth.’
So the matter was settled as quickly as that.
Comment was naturally caused in the kitchen when the name was known, and Cook was critical of Mrs Rook. ‘Pretty enough,’ she said, ‘but a bit fancy. To my mind the mistress might have shown an interest. It’s not right the master should have to shoulder such things on his own. And if what I heard’s true the doctor says there’s nothing wrong with Madam now except exhaustion following the pneumonia and that night in the snow. If you ask me, things are sometimes made too easy for rich folk—’
‘But no one has asked you,’ came the tart reply. ‘Mr Ferris has the right. It’s his choice, and no one else’s to criticize.’
During the first fortnight of Kate’s recovery following the crisis of her illness Emily and Walter had been allowed to see their daughter and the baby for a few minutes; but it was not a success.
Although so weak, Kate was by then aware of the gossip that must have emerged over her flight from Woodgate, and was resentful of wagging tongues that might have upset them. This happened to be true. The note, for instance, had been seen by a maid on the dressing-table before Rick returned, and the envelope was not stuck down. She could have opened it, probably had, the girl was only human, and had a boyfriend. It was hardly likely she hadn’t dropped a hint to him; then the old Mumper, having been treated to a pint at a wayside inn after his wanderings that evening, had told a garbled tale about a fine lady wandering all bloodied in the woods. There was the farmworker – a word here, a word there – their strange stories that couldn’t be disproved.
For a time the Ferris family was bound to be a source of wild conjecture and rumours.
So when Emily tried with soothing words to get at the truth, at the same time doing her best to comfort her daughter, Kate passed a hand over her forehead and said, ‘Oh, do leave me alone Mama. So many questions, and I’m so tired. I don’t want your sympathy. Please.’
Her quick flashing glance at her mother was so intense Emily was hurt. And, with a hint of annoyance said, ‘Very well. If that’s how you feel to those who care for you, I’m sure your father and I don’t want to intrude.’ She picked up her handbag and went to the door. Walter followed, looked back with a placating gesture to the bed, shook his head, winked and raised a finger to his lips.
‘Shsh,’ he murmured, and blew a kiss before disappearing after Emily.
Following this unsatisfactory interlude it was some time before Emily visited Woodgate again, and by then Kate was mobile and able, the doctor said, to get dressed and go downstairs when she felt like it. But her lethargy continued, and she still took no apparent interest in tiny Blanche-Rose whose fragile looks and fairness disturbed her, bringing always a bitter reminder of Jon. That she could bear a child so unlike herself or Rick was ironic. She was under no illusion that her husband had not noticed it. But he said nothing. He remained polite, thoughtful, though outwardly cold.
Once he said on his morning visit to enquire about her health, ‘I hope you approve of my choice of name for the baby?’
She was standing by the french window, wearing a sea-green velvet housecoat with her rich hair loose on her shoulders. She turned and answered with chill indifference, ‘I don’t care what she’s called.’
‘Then I think perhaps you should,’ he told her. ‘In the doctor’s opinion it would be better for you now if you could bring yourself to take a little interest in the normal things of life.’
She regarded him coolly and replied with no sign of emotion on her face, ‘But things aren’t normal here, are they?’
His mouth half-opened to speak, then he thought better of it, and closed it, turned away and made to leave.
‘I hope you have a good day,’ he said a moment later. ‘I’m going to London and won’t see you again until tomorrow. So if you’re wise you’ll make your mother welcome if she decides to call. And try and look a little more cheerful. Harshness doesn’t suit you.’
The latch clicked; she was alone.
He was not to know how, after a moment or two, her tension broke, and she flung herself on the bed with tears gushing from her eyes. Nor had she any idea of the futility h
e felt – the sense of failure, and sterility of an existence without the woman to whom at that moment he would gladly have sacrificed all else he possessed if she’d wanted it.
*
Later he was ashamed of his own fleeting emotional lapse, and stayed in London an extra day. During that time he had dinner with Linda Wade, but if she had any optimistic hopes the occasion was meant to convey a feeling on his part of more than mere friendship, she was disappointed. She quickly discovered – despite the excellent champagne they drank – that his thoughts were elsewhere, and correctly divined where. That something was wrong between him and his young wife became painfully obvious – not through what he said, but what he did not; and later after bidding her a cordial but abstracted, ‘Good night, Linda,’ adding, ‘It’s been nice seeing you again,’ she gave a regretful smile and rueful shake of the head.
‘But not nice enough,’ she said. ‘I never was, was I? Never mind, we’ve the magazine and business in common. But your heart’s with Kate, and I reckon it always will be. So get back on the next train, that’s my advice; a good thing’s worth hanging on to.’
He did just that, and arrived at Lynchester in the early hours of the morning.
*
It was 4 a.m. when Rick inserted his key into his own front door and entered the house. He walked as quietly as possible along the wide hall and up the main staircase to the first floor and his study. Having dozed on and off through the journey from London he was not so physically tired as mentally. Instead of providing the emotional ballast he’d hoped for from his interlude with Linda, the meeting had proved to be merely dead sea fruit – a proof of a lack in his life that could be filled completely by only one woman – Kate.
The Velvet Glove Page 15