by Mary Mackie
Without a backward glance, I left him. I told Swift that when Narnie came down, with the key to the cupboard, another bottle of brandy was to be taken to my father.
‘He’ll kill himself, Miss Rose,’ Mrs Benstead fretted.
‘Yes, he probably will. But if that’s what he wants why should we stop him? He’s a grown man.’
As I turned away I saw her gape at me in disbelief.
Hearing Narnie go into Mama’s room, I went to the door and saw my stepmother being helped to sit up in bed so that she might be given her morning tray. Narnie’s bulk blocked my view as she bent over the bed, so I had time to see the tray, which lay on the dressing-table, set with a pretty cloth, a dish of oatmeal porridge, dainty slices of bread, boiled egg under a knitted cosy, and a thin china cup with its matching tea-pot and milk jug. Narnie had always taken special care of Mama, but that tray looked as if it had been prepared to tempt the appetite of an invalid.
‘Mama…’ I began, and as Narnie turned, startled to find me there, I saw my stepmother for the first time in three years. The sight drove all other thought from my mind.
She had lost at least three stones in weight, and her face was pallid, shadowed with grey beneath her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. Even the turning of her head seemed to cause her an immense effort and her eyes, as she looked at me, seemed lifeless. Such a change had not been effected in the few days since Victor died. She must have been sick for months.
‘Mama!’ Concern threw me across the room to kneel beside the bed. ‘Mama, are you ill?’ I turned on Narnie, blaming her for this. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You said she wasn’t ill! Oh, Mama, why didn’t you let me know…?’
She stared at me with a slight pucker to her brow, as if she couldn’t quite place who I was. She said vaguely, ‘Why, Rose! My dear, you’re home. Oh…’ Her mouth sagged open as her eyes welled with tears and she threw a hand to stifle a moan. ‘Victor! Victor is dead! Oh, Rose, how can we bear it? How will your father ever do without him? Poor Will. Poor Will!’
‘Hush, my lamb.’ Narnie pushed me out of the way as she bent to offer comfort and a clean handkerchief, crooning softly as was ever her way.
I backed away, feeling as if I were trapped in one of my nightmares.
After a while, having calmed Mama, Narnie turned and took my arm, easing me towards the door. ‘She’ll be all right. Don’t worry. She’s not really sick, she’s just not herself in the mornings. It’s the laudanum. But she needs it if she’s to sleep at all. Wait until later. You’ll see, she’ll be more her normal self later.’
Too shocked to do other than obey, I allowed myself to be persuaded out of the room. The door closed in my face.
* * *
I found myself in the dogcart, driving along a lane. I don’t recall how I got there, only that I snapped back into awareness to find myself at the reins, the cart bowling along. Overhead the clouds were breaking, allowing glints of sunlight to break through. For a frantic, panicky moment I didn’t know where I was. The woods and fields were unfamiliar, the lane like so many others. Then I recognised a gateway, whose gate had a broken middle bar, and all at once I knew that the road would lead me to Feltham Grange. Like a homing pigeon, with nothing but instinct to guide me, I was on my way to see Cassie Wyatt. She was my oldest, dearest friend. Nothing would ever come between Cassie and me; we had always sworn it.
We had been friends since childhood. Cassie’s mother, Mrs Lydia Wyatt, was actually a cousin of Mama’s, though there was some estrangement between them because of a reversal of fortunes. It had always galled Mama that her low-born cousin, now married to a wealthy merchant, could live in luxury while she, though daughter to the squire of Esham, was reduced to counting pennies.
When Squire Bartram Ferrers died a bankrupt, the Wyatts offered his daughter a home with them, but Flora had no intention of becoming an object of charity to her despised cousin. Another answer presented itself and she accepted gladly when my father, needing a mother for his two small children, asked for her hand in marriage.
Since Orchards Farm lay only a few miles from Feltham Grange, the irrepressible Lydia Wyatt had begun to visit. Mother of eight children, she was a lady of large presence and larger personality, not to be deflected from her purpose. Thanks to her generosity, her unselfish sympathy for her dispossessed cousin, and not least her middle-class awe of the noble blood among my own ancestors, I had enjoyed lessons with the Wyatt girls and their governess.
Those years gave me a good grounding for what came later; my aged great-grandmother, Lady Mary Seward, left money in her will for my education ‘as a lady’, so at the age of fourteen, at the suggestion of Aunt Agnes, I was sent to Miss Waterburn’s Academy for Young Ladies, in Cambridge. But I kept my close ties with the Wyatts, corresponding regularly with Cassie, and for Mrs Wyatt I held a warm regard. She had allowed me to feel almost a part of her family.
Nevertheless, on this first visit in three years, something caused me to eschew the familiarity of the side door. I approached the Grange by its main entrance, where I tethered my horse by the porch and pulled the bell.
After a short while the door opened and the butler stood there, his look of astonishment smothered at birth by polite, professional detachment.
‘Won’t you come in, Miss Hamilton?’
As I stepped past him, a voice enquired, ‘Who is it, Reed?’ and Mrs Wyatt appeared in the inner doorway of the lobby, draped in a light, flounced, morning gown of puce and magenta. At first, with the brightness of the day behind me, she didn’t recognise me, and when she did she didn’t believe her senses. ‘Rose Hamilton?’ she stared at me as I stepped further into the lobby. ‘It is you. But… whatever do you mean by coming here?’
Her words came like a slap. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Wyatt. If I’m not welcome—’
She took my arm, her brow clouded with sympathy as she drew me into the inner hallway. ‘My dear, I didn’t mean to turn you away. You will always be welcome in this house, never doubt that. But, my dear child, with your brother lying unburied… You should stay within doors until after the funeral. Don’t you know that? What is your mama thinking of?’
Relief made me weak. I had feared that she was rejecting me because of my shameful past. ‘I’m afraid… I never thought—’
But Mrs Wyatt, dear soul, was always ready to make allowances – to be over-indulgent, according to my stepmother. ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ she cut me off. ‘You were anxious to see Cassie as soon as you could. That’s why you came. I’m sure no one will think any the worse of you for that. We’ve missed you, my dear. The house hasn’t been the same without your visits. Come…’
In the staircase hall, lined with portraits and lit from high above by the domed glass lantern, she paused to give me a long, assessing look. ‘How are you, Rose? You look… older.’
‘How should I look, with my brother lying dead and my parents half mad with grief?’
Her eyes flickered and softened. ‘Of course. Yes. Victor was a fine young man. So much promise. It’s a great sorrow to us all. Please accept my deepest sympathies, my dear. My poor Felicity is distraught because of it. You know what a soft heart she has.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said.
‘And… Forgive me. It’s hardly the time to rake over the past, I know, but I very much need to know… Your going away. It didn’t have anything to do with my son, did it?’
I held my breath as my thoughts scattered wildly. ‘Your son?’
Her eyes met mine, anxious and probing. ‘It wasn’t because of Hal that—’
‘No, Mrs Wyatt, it was not Hal’s fault.’
I saw her relax and her fingers pressed my arm confidingly. ‘That’s what he told me, of course. Hal is far from an angel, but not even he… But there was some talk – wicked gossip, so it seems. I heard a little of it. And then your father implied…’
‘My father?’ I prompted. ‘What did he say?’
‘He heard me discussing your absence with your mama,’
she confessed. ‘He all but threw me out of the house. And… he made veiled accusations about Hal.’
He would! I thought. Couldn’t he leave well alone? Did he have to spoil my relationship with the Wyatts, too?
She waited, watching me, wanting explanations – deserving them, it seemed to me.
‘I did have an argument with Hal,’ I replied. ‘That’s all it was. We quarrelled, and we were seen by our backus boy – a stupid, lazy boy named Finch. He thought I was in danger, and went running for help. My father… misunderstood what had happened.’
‘You mean he thought it prudent for you to go away for a while – before my wicked son could ruin your reputation,’ she guessed sadly. ‘Yes, that would be like Will Hamilton. Thank you for your frankness, Rose. I must confess it has been troubling me. I’m truly sorry for Hal’s part in it. I hope you will be good enough not to hold it against the rest of us.’
‘I could never think ill of any of you,’ I assured her.
‘Bless you!’ With tears in her eyes, she reached to kiss my cheek and hug me. ‘You’ve set my mind at rest. I tried to talk to Flora, but she wouldn’t listen. She prefers to sweep all hint of unpleasantness under the carpet. I fear, my dear, that I don’t call at Orchards as frequently as I used to do. I cannot tolerate your father’s rudeness. I pity my cousin, married to such a man.’
I opened my mouth, about to make excuses for my father, but Mrs Wyatt stopped me with a gesture.
‘Forgive me, my dear. He’s your father, I know. It’s inexcusable of me to complain of him to you.’
‘I know he’s not an easy man.’
Her wry expression appreciated the understatement. ‘No, indeed.’
‘But he does care for Mama.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. As for Hal, my dear… I have a feeling… I fear we may never see Hal again.’
‘Is he ill?’ I asked in concern. ‘I thought he was planning to come home very soon.’
‘He was. Yes, he was. But his plans have changed. He and Melinda – his wife, you know – have decided to go west, to seek their fortune in California.’
‘He’s married?’ I asked, surprised and somehow relieved. I had not looked forward to encountering Hal again.
‘Yes, didn’t you know? The wedding took place… why, it must be four months ago. Now that the war’s ended over there, everyone is anxious to make fresh starts, and Hal, he was always too… too energetic, to be confined in our small, provincial England. America… they call it the New World, don’t they? Land of opportunity, for those who have the courage to take it. And now Robert’s gone, too. Did you know? To New Zealand. I’ve lost both my sons.’
She still had six daughters, I thought, but as I knew to my cost girls didn’t really count. ‘Who knows,’ I comforted, ‘they may make their fortunes, and come home rich men – or send for you to visit them.’
‘That’s what I told Mr Wyatt!’ she smiled, clasping my arm. ‘Oh, thank you, Rose. I knew you would understand. But why are we standing in the hall? Cassie has missed you. Come up and see her.’
She led the way up the stairs, puffing a little as if the effort tired her, and paused on the gallery to say, ‘Did you know your aunt Agnes is here? She’s such a comfort to us all, especially Cassie. But, my dear, I must ask you to excuse me. I must go and get dressed. You know your way.’
Indeed I did. Over the years I had come many times to Cassie’s room. She was my best friend, the gentlest of souls. Like me, she rejoiced in the turn of the seasons and the beauties of nature, but she also possessed many qualities that I lacked; she was obedient, clever, tidy, patient… I could never understand why it had pleased God to make her fall under the wheels of a laden hay wagon, so that at the age of eleven she lost the use of her legs and was confined to bed for the rest of her life.
But after three years I stood uncertainly before the door, my hand raised to knock. I could hear female voices inside. If Aunt Agnes was here, how would she greet me? And what of Cassie? She had always been so perceptive; she would see through any prevarications.
My knuckles rapped on the panel, bringing a silence to the room beyond, then my aunt’s voice called, ‘Come in, Sarah.’
The blue and white room had not changed. A fire burned in the grate; Chinese screens shielded the bed from draughts; a faint sick-room odour of mingled liniment, perfume and carbolic soap swept me back to memories garnered over many years.
Against that setting, the occupants of the bed formed a tableau that burned itself into my mind. Framed in swathes of blue bed-curtain, Cassie sat propped in a nest of pillows; and, nestling close beside her, brush raised in the act of grooming my dearest friend’s hair, was my aunt Agnes. They were both wearing loose wraps of complementary blues, their hair flowing loose, Cassie’s softly fair, wispy with curls, Agnes’s a rough, stringy grey, as it had grown after her experiences of nursing in the Crimea. They stared at me, both caught in a moment of surprise – of guilt? – that seemed to last for ever.
I felt like an interloper, embarrassed for no reason I could have put into words. Then other emotions tumbled over me in waves – hurt, resentment, jealousy… In all my life I had had only two real friends – Cassie and my aunt. Agnes had deserted me three bitter years ago, but Cassie… Cassie had been there still, a calm anchorage for me to return to in need. Or so I had believed. Her intimacy with my aunt made it seem as though a door were being slammed in my face, being bolted, locked and chained against me, never to reopen.
‘Forgive me…’ I began uncertainly.
‘What are you doing here?’ Agnes climbed from the bed, away from me, hampered by a certain stiffness in her joints. She stood there with the hairbrush clasped in her hand, arms crossed in a gesture that warded me off. ‘We thought you were the maid.’
Our eyes met and I saw that she remained implacably hostile towards me. I also saw a flicker of something else that darted away like a rabbit down a hole. Fear, perhaps? Self-reproach? It was gone before I could identify it.
‘Rose!’ Cassie’s vibrant voice drew my attention to her soft, sad expression as she held out her arms in welcome. ‘Oh, my poor Rose! I grieve for you. I am so very sorry about Victor. I know how much you will miss him. But he’s safe now, beyond further hurt. Think of that, Rose. Try not to grieve too much, my dear friend. Oh… I am so very glad to see you. If only it were not such sadness that had brought you, how happy I should be.’
‘And I.’ I walked to the bed and took the hand she stretched out to me. Once I would have flown to hug her, but that time was past. ‘You look well.’ It was as near the truth as it could ever be.
‘So do you,’ she lied.
Into the lengthening silence, Agnes said irritably, ‘I can’t believe you would be so irresponsible as to show yourself in public at this time, Rose. Does your father know you’re here?’
‘I didn’t ask his permission, if that’s what you mean, Aunt Agnes.’ Letting go of Cassie’s hand, I faced my aunt across the expanse of the bed, keeping my voice low and as polite as could be. ‘You always bade me think for myself, did you not? You exhorted me to break the mould of convention – to follow your example.’
Unable to deny this charge, she caught her breath and narrowed her eyes. ‘And is this how you intend to repay me – by making a spectacle of yourself? By becoming the object of more gossip, from the moment you return? Before your brother is even decently in his grave? I may have broken a few rules in my youth, but at least I knew when to show respect. I didn’t try to drag my whole family to shame!’
Blood burned in my cheeks as we stared at each other across the bed, she, coldly hostile and I wishing all this scene unplayed. I had come here to find solace, not to add to my tally of sins. But I could find no repentance in me. At that moment I hated my aunt.
‘I’m of age now,’ I said. ‘No one is obliged to feel responsible for my actions except myself.’
‘Don’t quarrel,’ Cassie said anxiously, looking from one to
the other of us. ‘Please don’t quarrel. You must think of Victor. He wouldn’t have wanted bitter words to be exchanged, not at this time.’
‘I don’t believe Rose cares about Victor,’ Agnes replied. ‘I don’t believe she cares, or ever cared, for anyone but herself.’
The cruelty was calculated. I knew it, but still it hurt me like a knife in my ribs. That she, who had always defended me, could turn and inflict such pain, was a bitter discovery. I wanted to be gone from that place.
‘Don’t go!’ Cassie called after me as I turned for the door. ‘Oh, Agnes, go after her. Tell her you didn’t mean it. Of course she cares about Victor. Rose, please—’
The door closed behind me. In the hallway I stood a moment, fighting my distress, forcing the tears to recede. I could hear Cassie and Agnes arguing beyond the closed door and though I couldn’t distinguish any words the tone of their voices made me feel like an eavesdropper. Taking a breath, I lifted my head high, straightened my back, and departed.
* * *
Later that day I went into the candle-lit room where the coffin rested on its trestles. The room was silent, the shutters closed, the window drapes drawn to exclude all light and sound: even the clock had been stopped lest it disturb the departed. And, slumped in an armchair, Father was sleeping.
Beside him a tray lay on the floor, a cup with dregs of tea, a plate with a few crumbs. There was also a brandy bottle, but it was still full. So, he had eaten some food, and he had resisted the temptation to open the brandy. Drained as I felt after my visit to the Grange, I was relieved to know that some gleam of sanity had broken through the dark clouds of his grief. Perhaps I had reached him, however briefly.
As I had done so many times over the years, I stood before the hearth looking up at my dead mother’s portrait. Between her drapes of black crape she smiled out dispassionately, the candle-light giving her a semblance of life. Like me, she had curling red hair and blue eyes; her demeanour was calm, elegant and assured. My imagination, and the stories I had been told about her, had dreamed her into the sort of woman I tried to be – independent, strong, unafraid. She too had been a rebel: only daughter of Viscount Colworth, she had married Will Hamilton, the banker’s younger son, much against the wishes of her family. They had disowned her as a result. Had she cared about that? Somehow I thought not. She had loved my father, and he her. He had never stopped loving her, never stopped grieving for her.