03 Mary Wakefield (7 page)

She lost her fear of what seemed to her Philip’s reckless driving. She, having no real experience of being a governess, forgot she was one, and when the horses stopped and Philip alighted and stood below her to help her alight she held out her arms to him just as though she were a young lady visitor to Jalna, and smiled into his eyes.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Not at all tired.”

He gave a little laugh, as he set her on the ground. Mary wondered why. She would have given almost anything to know. She looked into his eyes to discover the reason but discovered only their deep blueness.

“You are tall, Miss Wakefield,” he remarked. “Taller than I had thought.”

“I am too tall.”

“You should see my mother and my sister. They’re inches taller than you.”

“Then you are a tall family,” she said, admiring his height.

“My brothers are taller than I. So was my father. Though I take after him I lack his height. My mother has that against me.”

The thought of anyone holding anything against him was unbelievable to Mary. She began to dislike his mother.

“I lack his distinction altogether, as you may see from his portrait.”

“But then what a beautiful uniform he is wearing!”

“True. Do you know, we still have that uniform and every spring my mother takes it out and hangs it in the open air. In case of moths. I’m usually the one who helps her. It’s a melancholy proceeding. But she’s brave. It’s hard to lose your mate.”

He drew his brows together and Mary was sure he was thinking of his dead wife. Renny came to his side and he put an arm about him. “This fellow,” he said, “doesn’t look a bit like me, does he?”

“I can’t see any resemblance.” And a pity, too, she thought, for there was something forbidding in the small boy’s chiselled nostrils, the hard-looking head that had an almost sculptural severity.

“He’s the spit of my mother. Isn’t it funny?”

Renny gave his clear high laugh. “I’m glad,” he said, “I like looking like Gran.”

“Why?” said Mary coldly.

“Because,” he grinned, showing all his white teeth, “because everyone’s afraid of her.”

“But surely you don’t want people to be afraid of you?”

“You bet I do.”

“Well, I for one aren’t,” cried Meg. She caught a handful of his hair, tugged it and ran off, with him after her.

“Unruly little beggars,” laughed Philip.

The two were still talking when the front door opened and Mrs. Nettleship looked out. She fixed a stony accusing stare on Mary.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, addressing Philip out of the side of her mouth, while her stare never faltered. “But I’m looking for the children. I don’t know if it’s still my place or not but if they’re going to be tidied up before their tea it’s high time it was done.”

“Oh — ” Mary’s colour flamed. “I’ll find them at once. I don’t think they’ve gone far.” She hastened after them, Mrs. Nettleship’s stare moving automatically in pursuit.

The horses were restively pawing the gravel. Philip lazily climbed into the seat and took the reins.

“Keep your hair on, Mrs. Nettleship,” he advised. “Miss Wakefield will look after the children all right.”

He drove off, and in a moment was hidden behind the row of spruces and hemlocks that shielded house from stables. Yet the thud of hoofs could still be heard.

“Keep my hair on, eh?” exclaimed Mrs. Nettleship, addressing the hemlocks. “Keep my hair on! Yes, I’ll keep it on, Mr. Whiteoak. And I’ll let your mother know a thing or two when she comes back! Carrying on with that fast-looking young woman before she’s in the house twenty-four hours! Yes, I’ll keep my hair on and keep my place too, which is more than she does.”

Mrs. Nettleship returned to the basement where Eliza was removing a splinter from Renny’s thumb. She was suffering more than he, as he doubled up and writhed in exaggerated agony.

“Do stand still,” she implored, “or I’ll never get it out.”

“What is it?” demanded Mrs. Nettleship.

“A splinter. Such a boy as he is for doing things to himself.”

Mrs. Nettleship brushed her aside and took the needle. “Here, let me.” She felt a sensuous pleasure in her power as she probed for the splinter, and in the small male body tense in her grip. Meg looked on, vaguely conscious of the difference there would have been in the attitude of the woman had the splinter been in her thumb.

“We had cherries there today, lots of them,” she said, to draw attention to herself. “I don’t want any tea.”

The housekeeper pursed her lips and held the splinter aloft on the needle. Renny thrust his thumb into his mouth. He blunted his red head against her shoulder.

“I want
my
tea,” he said.

She ran her hand caressingly through his hair. “Tell me,” she said, “where did you go?”

“To Mr. Craig’s. We bought a horse.”

“Land alive! As though there weren’t enough in the stable!” She took him by the shoulders and held him in front of her. “Was Miss Wakefield nice to Papa, eh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you do. Did she smile at him? And laugh at everything he said and roll her eyes at him?”

“Yes,” said Renny. “She did.”

“She was lovely to him,” said Meg.

Mrs. Nettleship turned furiously to Eliza. “What did I tell you? The moment I set eyes on her I knew the sort she was. Designing. To think that they’d be so crazy as to send her into the house with a handsome young man like Mr. Philip! Could you hear what your Papa and Miss Wakefield said?”

“He told her not to be afraid,” said Meg.

“
Afraid
! Afraid of
what
?”

“Of him,” said Renny.

Meg uttered a squeak of delight. “That’s so. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid of me, Miss Wakefield. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on your golden head.’”

Eliza turned a shocked pink face on Mrs. Nettleship. “Oh, surely not. Surely not so soon.”

“Now, children, remember
all
they said and I’ll make you a pan of maple cream.”

They looked at each other.

“He said he’d take her for lots more drives.” Meg’s lips curved in a happy smile. “And she said how lovely and he said it was no trouble at all and she said it was hard work teaching us and he said not to tire herself.”

Mrs. Nettleship gave a groan. “Oh, you poor little things! What else? Try to remember!”

Mary’s voice came from outside. “Children! Where are you?”

“Hide,” said Mrs. Nettleship. “Don’t answer.”

They ran on tiptoe to the pantry.

Mary knelt on the grass outside one of the windows and peered down. “Have you seen them, Mrs. Nettleship?”

“They were here but they’ve gone.”

“Oh, dear, and I suppose it’s their tea-time.”

“Someone let them fill theirselves up on cherries. They said they didn’t want any tea. That’s not the way to bring up children.” She drowned anything further Mary said by the rattling of pans.

“I wouldn’t stay in this house,” she said to Eliza, “with her as mistress. I can retire any time I want to. I have money saved. As I’ve told you many a time, the old lady I nursed left me five thousand dollars.”

The children sitting on their heels in the cool grey light of the pantry stared in each other’s eyes, noticing their own reflections mirrored there. Now the old game had begun, the game of Nettle against the governess. But it had never been like this before. Now there was something new in Nettle’s anger against the outsider. They did not feel pity for Mary. They only wondered dispassionately how long she would last. Miss Cox and Miss Turnbull had lasted quite a long while. To the children the months of their reigns seemed uncounted ages. To Renny Miss Cox was a dim memory but Miss Turnbull was very clear. Though he would not have admitted it there had been something about her he had liked — a calm cool sureness of herself, a quiet inviolate sense of her own rectitude. It fascinated him.

Now remembering her he stood up and, looking into space, remarked, “I considah…”

Meg was irritated by his introducing someone long gone from their lives into this present exciting moment. She caught his hand and drew him toward the door. “Come on,” she urged. “Let’s see where she’s gone.”

He suffered himself to be led but preserved a melancholy dignity. His tone became la-di-da.

“I considah,” he repeated, savouring each syllable, “I considah…”

He passed through the kitchen, looking neither to right nor left.

M
RS
. L
ACEY WHOSE
father-in-law had been one of the first of the group of English naval and army officers to settle in the vicinity of Jalna and whose husband had reached the rank of Admiral in the Royal Navy sat beside the tea-table in a room which seemed scarcely large enough for the impressive Victorian furniture. The sofa and principal chairs were covered in horsehair of the best quality, their frames of ornate carved walnut. Unlike the Whiteoaks who had brought their furniture from England the Laceys had purchased theirs form the reliable Canadian manufacturers Messrs. Jacques and Hayes. So admirably was it made that it might well last for ever, but it was inclined to impart rather a sombre look to a room even though the sunshine poured in, as it was now doing. Mrs. Lacey and her daughters had made a number of gay-coloured antimacassars for the backs of chairs and the arms of the sofa, and had embroidered a pale blue silk drape for the square piano. Another drape, this one of rose colour, hung on the mantel and a third, of shell pink, decorated the picture of a square-rigger, in a storm at sea. One of the daughters of the house painted on china, and many examples of her work decorated the mantelshelf and the what-not. The floor was covered by a green carpet with pink flowers across
which the June sunlight fell, through the small windows. Perhaps there was a little too much furniture in the room but the effect was one of long establishment and well-being. The daughters were the third generation of Laceys who had occupied the house, and that was a considerable time in this young country.

The figure of Mrs. Lacey fitted in very well with the character of the room. She was short, plump and of pleasingly fresh complexion. Her greying hair was neatly parted in the middle and crimped above her smooth forehead. She wore a black dress with innumerable shiny black buttons down the front of the bodice, and a long gold chain on the end of which was a gold watch tucked inside her belt. A delicate white ruching brightened her collar and set off the pinkness of her cheeks. She always held herself upright in her chair and seldom sat down without a piece of needlework in her hand. Her expression was almost always cheerful. She was pleased with life in general. Admiral Lacey was just the sort of husband she had wanted; her daughters just the sort of daughters. Of course she would have been pleased if they had married. They had had their chances and, if they had not taken them, well, it was rather a pity but it left them at home to be company for their father. He was very fond of them and would greatly have missed them. And after all they were only in their early thirties.

Now Ethel and Violet came into the room, their hands full of trilliums, for they had been gathering them in the nearby woods.

“Look, Mamma, aren’t they heavenly?” exclaimed Violet. “I’ve never seen such large graceful ones.”

Mrs. Lacey glanced at them approvingly but said, “Do put them in water and go and tidy your hair. Philip Whiteoak is coming in. Surely you didn’t forget.”

“I’m afraid we did,” laughed Ethel. “It isn’t very exciting to have your near neighbour to tea.” It would have been truly exciting to her if it had been Nicholas who was expected. Years ago she had wanted to marry the eldest Whiteoak. He was the only man she ever had wanted. But Nicholas had known her all his life. To marry her would have been tame. So he had gone off to England and
married there. After some years of marriage his wife had eloped with a young Irishman and Nicholas had divorced her. Ethel had not seen him since but occasionally, in the dreamings of solitude, she thought how strange it would be if, when Nicholas returned to visit his old home, they might still come up together.

Violet held up the trilliums, admiring them.

“I have a mind to paint them,” she said. “Wouldn’t they look too lovely, white on a pastel-blue ground?”

“Violet, I do wish you wouldn’t use so many superlatives. Things are always too lovely or heavenly with you.”

“Only flowers. One really can’t use too many adjectives to describe them.”

“Well, well,” her mother smiled tolerantly, “call them what you like but do put them in something and come to your tea.”

“Where is Father?”

“He’s here, waiting as usual,” growled Admiral Lacey. He came in, looking much more good-humoured than his words sounded. “I’m always waiting for one of you three women. What are those things you’ve got, Violet?”

“Wood lilies — trilliums — aren’t they ravishing? They seem to have gathered all the spring into their petals.”

“Really,” declared Mrs. Lacey, “I can’t do anything with that girl.”

“What I object to,” said her husband, “is the way those long skirts of theirs gather up dead leaves and twigs. Think of going to the woods in such a get-up!”

“What would you have us wear?” asked Ethel.

“Shorter skirts — bloomers! We men know you have legs. Why hide them?”

“You’re an immoral old darling,” said Ethel, kissing him.

“There is Philip to the door.” The Admiral himself strode to open it.

“Now it is too late to tidy yourselves,” said Mrs. Lacey, in despair. She regarded her daughters as one might regard two mettlesome ponies, proud of their spirit, yet deploring their unmanageableness. This occasion was a fair example of her difficulties with them.

Philip, in loose tweeds and rather sunburned, came in. Mother and daughters greeted him with dignified familiarity. When they were seated by the table and had bread and butter on their plates and tea in their cups Mrs. Lacey asked about the new governess.

“Miss Wakefield?” returned Philip happily. “Oh, she’s a peach!”

The word struck the atmosphere of the room like a blow. Then a woman laughed. And the woman was Ethel.