by Mary Mackie
Through half-closed eyes I saw Basil come in. I didn’t want to talk to him, not then. Feigning sleep, I heard the lock click as he turned the key, then the floor creaked. The bed gave under his weight. He leaned over me, stroking my hair, touching the cheek he had lately abused.
‘That didn’t please me to have to hit you,’ he said. ‘But don’t you ever go for me again. I won’t stand for it, Rose. And don’t ever talk to me in that hoity-toity manner, either. Those days are gone. If it weren’t for me, where would you be, eh?’
‘I’m grateful,’ I murmured.
‘Are you? Show me.’ Without haste, he pulled the coverlet away from me and, as I opened my eyes, he slid a hand inside my camisole.
‘Please!’ Hot with unease, I grabbed that errant hand and tried to push it away. ‘Please, not now!’
‘How long do you expect me to wait? I’ve waited, out of respect for Miss Cassie. I won’t wait any longer.’
‘Do you expect me to make love to you with my aunt unburied? It’s not twenty-four hours since she died. I can’t—’
‘You can and you will! You’re my wife. Or are you trying to drive me away? Do you want me to leave, and have your uncles take someone else on for the tenancy?’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Blast, and I would!’
He fell upon me, forcing me to suffer the grindings of his body. But I felt dead inside. For the first time there was not the least flicker of response in me.
At last, when he lay replete and exhausted from his exertions, I rolled away and began to dress myself, my back turned to him.
‘I’m a man,’ he muttered. ‘A man has his needs. You’re my wife!’
‘Indeed, I am. You used me as is your right. I’ll not complain.’
He was silent for a while, then, ‘I didn’t expect it to be like this.’
‘Nor I.’
‘Then what did you expect?’
‘I don’t know. Tenderness, perhaps. Kindness.’
‘Kindness? Aren’t I kind to you? Haven’t I bought you clothes and fancy doings?’
Sighing, I laid a hand to my aching head. ‘Yes, you have.’
‘Isn’t that enough? What else do you want?’ He scrambled from the bed and stuffed his shirt tail back into his drawers, doing up the buttons – such had been his haste that that was as far as he had gone in undressing.
I watched the performance, despising him, tired of humouring him. ‘I wanted your name, Basil Pooley, that’s all. You knew that. You agreed to it. It was more than you ever dared to hope, remember?’
He stared at me, bristling. ‘My God…’
‘I’ll keep to my vows, never fear, so long as you keep to your part of the bargain. I’ll warm your bed and keep your house, so long as you let me keep this farm. That’s the pact we made. And one thing more – I’ll thank you not to smoke in the parlour in future. My father never did. If you want to smoke, you can use the office, or go outside. I’ll not have my house tainted with that smell.’
‘Your house…’ His mouth closed like a trap, lipless and grim as he glowered at me. ‘Right, then, if that’s how it’s to be…’ He sat down on the bed, pulled on his boots, and stamped for the door. ‘I’ll be at The Feathers. I may be late. Wait for me. Don’t go to sleep. And don’t wear your nightgown!’
* * *
Having vowed to obey, I obeyed. To the letter. Long after the servants went to bed and the house was silent, I waited, in a chair by the dying fire in our room. I did not sleep, nor did I put on my nightgown – I did not undress at all but sat with a shawl about my shoulders as the room grew colder. A single lamp burned beside me. By its light I read Wordsworth, finding peace and comfort in his images of nature.
It was after one when Basil finally came home. I heard his step in the hallway and then he was standing in the open doorway, regarding me with a tilt of brow, a slight curve to his lips. I felt a pulse jerking in my throat, evidence of my nervousness, though outwardly I remained cool and resolved.
Slowly he closed the door and leaned on it, taking wry note of the way I had concurred with his orders. He had been drinking, but the drink had mellowed him. ‘You always were a stubborn woman, Rose Hamilton Pooley. But, blast my eyes, that was one of the things that drew me.’ He walked wearily to the bed and sat down, taking off one boot and then the other, letting them thud to the floor. He threw off his coat and waistcoat, undid his tie and his collar, loosened his shirt, and as he fumbled with his cufflinks he looked again to where I was sitting.
‘We’re wed, you and me. For better or worse. Neither of us knew what we were getting, that’s plain. But it’s done. It’s a fact. No going back. What d’you say we make the best of it, hey, Mrs Pooley?’
‘We don’t seem to have any other choice,’ I replied.
‘Then come to bed, before you catch your death. I’ll not bother you tonight. I’m too tired for it. Come on, girl. Let’s make peace.’
Our marriage had found its level. From then on we enjoyed – if that is the word – an uneasy truce. We lived our different lives. He had his work and I had mine. What went on between us when we were alone in our bed was, for me, a necessary evil.
* * *
Agnes’s death brought the family to conclave at Weal House. Only Uncle Henry was absent, off in warmer climes with the Prince of Wales.
My hasty marriage, and Basil’s presence as my husband, caused only minor disturbance among that gathering. Of far greater import was the inquest, and the storm of publicity that accompanied it. To complete our humiliation, when the coroner returned a verdict of suicide, the Morsford vicar refused to bury Agnes in the family plot. She had not been a regular churchgoer, he pointed out. Indeed she had openly declared agnosticism, if not atheism. However, a kindly veil might have been drawn over that had she not also committed the unpardonable sin of taking her own life.
My uncles argued fiercely that Agnes had not been in her right mind, but the vicar and his bishop remained obdurate. My aunt was granted the briefest of services, followed by interment on the dark north side of the churchyard, the place marked only by a stone embedded in the ground, just large enough to bear her initials. Even the church turned its back on Agnes at the last.
* * *
In the upstairs drawing-room at Weal House, I sat reading black-bordered letters of condolence, while Grace stood by the window, holding the lace curtain aside as she peered down King Street. Her tea-cosy silhouette, lacy shawl meeting wide skirts, disguised her advancing pregnancy. She was restless, working herself up to say something.
‘Rose…’ she began at last. ‘Rose, dear, William and I have been talking and… and we really do think that Mama ought to go home with you. I mean, William and I have had hardly any time to ourselves since we were married, what with his relatives and mine always visiting. His mother appears nearly every day. Narnie doesn’t like her, and makes it obvious. And Mama frets over me…’
Understanding all too well, I said with sympathy, ‘I’d be happy to have her come home. I’ve mentioned it several times, but she doesn’t respond. You know how she is when she doesn’t want to face reality.’
‘But I wish you would try harder to persuade her. She… she might be more willing to go if you let Narnie—’
‘No!’ I looked up sharply. ‘No. I’m sorry, Narnie must go back to Willow Cottage.’
Her underlip thrust out, trembling. ‘Why?’
‘Because Father would have wanted it.’
‘But Father’s not here now!’
‘Quite so. And I won’t betray his memory by having her back.’
A baffled silence followed. Then: ‘He hated Narnie – just because Mama loved her. He was always unkind to her.’
‘That’s not true, Grace. Whatever story she may have told you… well, it doesn’t matter. I can’t have her back. I won’t have her back. That’s an end to it.’
Stamping her foot, she swung away and jerked the curtain aside, peering at the street for a moment before
she tossed the lace back into place, saying fretfully, ‘This is too bad of William! He promised he would take the early train. Why doesn’t he come?’ Moving heavily, flat-footed with a hand to her aching back, she came to sit in an armchair near the fire, sighing in relief as firm cushions supported her. ‘Some business kept him, no doubt.’
‘Yes, probably.’ I was only half listening.
‘With men, it’s always business.’
‘That’s how they support their wives and families.’
‘Oh, you! You don’t care whether your husband’s away or not.’
As I looked up again she began to fuss with her skirts, brushing at imaginary crumbs, her mouth sulky in a face puffed with pregnancy. ‘Well, it’s true. I haven’t heard you complain about him going off to London again. Not that he seemed sorry to leave.’ Her brow furrowed as she watched me. ‘Why did you marry him? He’s so uncouth. He doesn’t even know how to hold a knife and fork properly.’
‘Don’t be so sniffy, Grace.’
‘But it’s true! All the family are saying it. How can you bear to…’ Her mouth twisted and she gave a little shudder. ‘I mean, I know how it is. Now that you’re married you’re obliged to share his room, and his bed, and…’ Her face contorted with distress as she whispered, ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’
The sudden change in her caught me unawares. ‘What is?’
‘You know – that. What Mama calls the dark side of marriage. I do love William, but even so, sometimes… Sometimes I dread the nights when he wants to…’ Tears started from her eyes as she cried, ‘Oh, Rose, I’m so afraid! When the baby comes… I might die!’
‘Nonsense!’ Putting the letters aside, I went to crouch beside her and comfort her. ‘Grace, what has Mama been telling you? You mustn’t listen to her. It’s not so bad, I promise you.’
‘Oh, what do you know of it?’ she cried.
Fortunately, she was too distressed to notice the pain her careless scorn brought me, I too had feared the birth of my child. But I had not had a loving husband and family around me.
Through bouts of tears she repeated all the dreads that Mama and Narnie had managed to plant in her mind. In return, I reminded her of women who had borne children successfully – from the Queen herself to Pam Chilvers; and what of Mrs Wyatt, who had given birth to eleven?
‘She only raised eight of them though,’ Grace fretted. ‘Three of them died. Even the Princess of Wales nearly died with her little Louise, and Mama… Mama miscarried four times after she had me. Did you know that? And then she nearly died when she had Johnny.’
‘But you’re not Mama. You’re much stronger than she is.’
What became clear as we talked was that during the last weeks of her pregnancy Grace needed a respite from well-intentioned ‘advice’ that was frightening her half to death.
Unfortunately neither Mama nor Narnie wished to leave Grace’s side until after the child was born. Narnie, of course, much preferred being with her ‘lambs’ to being alone in her cottage, and Mama, I knew, was afraid of going back to a place that echoed with Father’s absence.
When Turnbull arrived he added his voice to mine. ‘I’m sorry, Mother Hamilton, but you heard the doctor say that Grace must take care of herself. She has to rest, and she can’t do that when she’s concerning herself with looking after you.’
‘But I shall look after her,’ Mama protested. ‘I – and Narnie. Grace needs us with her.’
His eyes glinted and behind his beard the full red lips tightened. ‘Grace needs peace and quiet. My mother will take good care of her. You’ll go home. You have another daughter who will take care of you. I’ll brook no more argument where my wife’s health is concerned.’
I don’t suppose he had ever used that stern tone with her before. Mama blinked at him, her mouth trembling, but she said, ‘Why… yes, William, of course. If you say so. But—’
‘No “buts”,’ he broke in. ‘Orchards is where you belong. Orchards is your home. And I dare say Rose will be happy to have Narnie stay for a while until you get settled. Won’t you, Rose?’
Wondering if I were being manipulated, I surveyed them all – Turnbull expectant, his arm protectively about his pale, tearful wife, Mama bewildered and Narnie with a little smile of triumph playing about her lips. She thought she had won her way back.
‘Narnie will be welcome,’ I said levelly. ‘For a day or two. Just until we can make sure that Willow Cottage is properly aired for her.’
Her face twitched, the smile blinking out as her eyes narrowed to slits.
Mama’s breathy voice put in, ‘Yes, a day or two. Just a day or two. That’s all I ask.’ She laid a hand on my arm, her face lifted anxiously. ‘Your father won’t object to that, will he?’
* * *
Mama’s return to Orchards was accomplished amid tears and petty panics, but within hours of arrival she had performed her usual trick of closing her mind to unpalatable facts. She appeared to believe that Father had gone away for an unspecified time, as he had done after Victor died. ‘When your father comes…’ became her watchword.
Narnie’s ‘day or two’ at the farm stretched nearer to a week. Though I sent our two housemaids to clean and air the cottage, she grumbled that she didn’t trust them to do it properly. However, she would not go to check for herself – she seemed to feel that if she clung on at Orchards House for long enough I would give in and let her stay. It was a battle of wills I determined to win.
On a day of blustering wind, with rain showering from leaden skies, I drove over to the cottage myself and found it neat and sparkling. Even the feather bed smelled sweet, with not a trace of damp. Swift and Howlett had worked hard. The living-room hearth was still warm, with glowing embers from which I built another blaze to lighten the gloom.
As I riddled out the ashes, Narnie’s little cat appeared and came rubbing round me, purring.
‘Hello, where did you come from?’ I stroked her head, enjoying her warm softness before I removed the pan from the grate and carefully stood up, trying not to spill the ashes.
But as I turned I heard a step in the kitchen. A tall caped figure loomed in the doorway. A cry escaped me. The pan slipped in my hand, sending a shower of ashes to the rug. The intruder’s cape was dark with rain and beneath the dripping brim of a leather hat his eyes glimmered at me from a pale face adorned by a dark moustache.
‘I apologise,’ Geoffrey Devlin said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
My heart hammered with alarm. My mouth was dry, my throat tight. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘Are you mad?’
He didn’t reply at once. I saw his lips tighten beneath the dark curve of his moustache as he swept off the hat and ran a hand through his flattened hair. ‘Perhaps so. Yes, perhaps I am. That would appear to be the only p-possible explanation.’
The bitterness in him made me uncertain. ‘You shouldn’t be here. If someone saw you…’
‘No one saw me. I came by the hedge-sides, and then through the churchyard.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I’ve been watching for you. As I did the day you came home. Like a lovesick schoolboy. Watching, waiting… I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your aunt. I wanted to write to you, but…’ He threw out his arm, scattering water from his hat. ‘Damnation, Rose! Why did you marry Pooley? Why?’
Still helplessly balancing the pan of ashes, I said, ‘You must know why. Surely you’ve heard?’
‘Are you having his child?’
‘How dare you ask me that?’
‘I want to know.’
Suddenly my face was burning. ‘I am not with child, and time will witness to the truth of that, whatever my enemies may be saying. I married Basil Pooley because it was the only way Mama and I could remain at Orchards.’
That gave him pause. His eyes narrowed as he considered, then emotion built in him again and, ‘Do you care for him?’ he demanded.
Wounded, I hit back. ‘Do you care for Lucinda?’
With an impatient gesture he took a step towards me but stopped when I drew back. ‘We’re not d-discussing Lucinda. When it came to marriage I had no choice. I told you that. Good God, don’t you know that if I’d been free to follow my own inclinations…’ He stopped himself, took a deep breath and added bitterly, ‘But no, evidently you don’t know how it is with me. You accused me of lying to you. Did you ever truly believe in me, Rose?’
‘Geoffrey…’ What did he mean?
‘Answer me! D-did you ever believe that I cared for you?’
‘I…’ How could I tell what I had believed so long ago? It was part of some other life. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I did. I wanted to. I was lonely. I needed to believe that someone loved me. But I was never foolish enough to think it might be forever.’
‘No. I was the fool. I see that now.’
Why was he so angry, so upset? ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You say you needed to be loved. But did you love in return, Rose?’
‘Of course I did. How can you think—’
‘Did you believe in me? Did you trust me? Why did you say it was all lies?’
It seemed important that I should be completely honest with him, and with myself. I tried to think back, past years of pain and separation, but the memories wouldn’t hold still. ‘Geoffrey…’
‘Thank you!’ His voice shook, deep with disgust. ‘I believe I have my answer.’
My hands were trembling, tiny showers of ash falling from the corners of the pan. ‘Please…’
‘I never lied to you, Rose,’ he said. ‘Between us, only truth would ever do. So I thought. You and I… it was s-something… something apart. S-something unique. I thought you felt the same.’