Awakening (24 page)

How could she not choose such a towering spirit over the jester?

I shall learn to love you, Christian, Beatrice thinks as the train rides through the snowy countryside towards the mediaeval town of Shrewsbury, with its centuries of Baptist witness. I don't love you yet. But I'm learning. A plume of smoke rides beside the train; the coach's rhythm lulls her tension. She's impressed by Christian's ministry. Her husband often speaks three times a day, without notes, for an hour together. He can make each auditor feel that the message is just for himself or herself, especially, apparently,
herself
, for ladies and young girls cluster round him effusively after a service. It's a novelty for Beatrice to have nothing to do but attend on her husband, hear him preach, fondly brush his coat and cede responsibilities.

They have the carriage to themselves and sit either side of the window. Christian's eyes are closed; his lips move soundlessly. She knows he's praying. She closes hers; prays too, that they may be one. God comes close to Beatrice in the green Marches as the train throbs its gentle way between the hills. She welcomes Him as a guest long absent. How can He bear to take up residence in such a filthy tabernacle as her heart?

Sitting with bowed head, Beatrice asks pardon for the cold formality of her worship in the past months; the vanity of her witness. For bringing the image of Will Anwyl into the sanctuary of her marriage. He is still here. The Spirit cleaves to her in forgiveness. It reminds her that the woman taken in adultery was freely and fully pardoned. But Beatrice and her husband are one. And that one
should
be Mr Ritter. To attain her womanly fulfilment, Beatrice must allow herself to dissolve into him and nestle there in the region of his heart.

God's responses to Beatrice's prayers are not always comfortable or welcome. Opening her eyes, she looks out to where – over in the west – the Black Mountains, flanks white with snow, conceal the deeper Wales of Mr Anwyl's childhood.

The train passes the Long Mynd and the rolling Shropshire Hills. With a sigh, Christian opens his eyes. Reaching out a book, he flicks through the pages; glances over at his wife with a loving smile. Sometimes she thinks he overhears her thoughts. Last night he read aloud from the Song of Solomon. Longingly.
A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse. A spring shut up, a fountain sealed.
She flinched from the intuition that Christian was expressing a sense that she holds something back. But what is it? How do you know how to yield the surrender a man craves? The crude animality of their coupling still dismays her. The intimacies of marriage are a subject about which she has never spoken to a soul, not even to her sister.

Poor Anna – all that pain and sickness and hysteria. Thank goodness Dr Quarles has promised to keep an eye on her. For Anna would never voluntarily call him in, despite or because of the fact that he has intimate and long-standing experience of her quirks and maladies. When Anna lost her reason and attacked herself after Lore's death, he sewed up her arm. Beatrice has said to Dr Quarles: even if Anna resists, please persevere. Well, she thinks, I'll soon be home and Anna and I can start afresh.

A bearded, rough-looking fellow with drink on his breath embarks at Ludlow. He looks from one to the other, assessing the relationship; winks at Beatrice. She removes her left glove and lays her hand, with the wedding ring, on her knee. By the time they reach Shrewsbury, Christian has initiated the conversion of this bibulous cobbler from Wem.

*

At last! She scampers across the road. Sarum House – back at last – oh, thank heaven. Beatrice slides on slush, clutches at the gate to save herself and is in the garden, on her own land, where everything is precisely as it should be. Islands of grey slush persist in a sea of dank greenery. She relishes the long perspective of lawn, labyrinth, vegetable plot, chestnut tree, stable and outbuildings, the wilderness. Windows are bright rectangles of yellow light in the dim afternoon. Beatrice peeps into the drawing room, where figures encircle the hearth, as if they'd not moved since the moment the Ritters left. My family, my home, my world. She's through the door: a scent of nutmeg hits her. Boots kicked off, she's haring on stockinged feet through the house into the parlour.

‘It's me! I'm home!'

Mr Elias moves seamlessly from a Scottish song into the wedding march.

‘Oh! Beatrice! You never said. Why didn't you tell us you were coming? Where's Christian?'

‘
My husband –
is just sorting out the luggage. Go out and help your brother-in-law, Joss, would you?' She's in her sister's arms, laughing, weeping. What a relief to have the honeymoon behind her! ‘How are you? Did you miss me? Oh, Anna, let me look at you – you look, goodness, you do look so well.'

Christian arrives, to clapping and handshakes. How are you? What is your news? There's a huge fuss. Amy brings Beatrice's red velvet slippers, worn to the shape of her feet; her hands are chafed. Anna goes for mulled wine; the fire's banked up. Are you warm, are you cosy? The queen is back in her court and the court adjusts to receive her.

A commotion at the door. And here he is. Oh, at last. Mr Anwyl, pausing briefly, comes forward with his hand held out; no, his arms.

Beatrice leaps to her feet, elated, taken by surprise. Her husband's head swivels in mid-phrase. He sees all. Christian will always see all. Even so, Beatrice cannot be daunted by proprieties. The heart has its impulses and doubtless she'll repent afterwards and can obtain forgiveness – which is thinking like a Papist but … oh, my darling Will. His hand reaches out.

To Anna. Who takes it in both of hers, her eyes brilliant. We have something to tell you. Our secret. We waited until you came home. It wouldn't have been right to make an announcement without Mr and Mrs Ritter. And now that they are home, not one more minute can we wait. We're engaged to be married! Yes, really. Thank you, we're so happy.

And there's a ring! Would you like to see, everybody? They show the ring. It belonged to Will's mother. A cheap circle of tin alloy, scored and worn. A metal of mortal softness.

And perfect.

‘Anna would not hear of a gold ring, would you,
cariad
?
'

‘No, categorically not. This remembers the person Will loved most in the world. I'm in the best company on earth, the very best.'

‘And I bless you for saying that, dearest Anna.
Dw i'n dy garu di
,
ti'n werth y byd.
'

‘And I'm learning Welsh, to speak to my husband in his mother tongue.
Dw i eisiau siarad Cymraeg.
'

Christian comes forward with hearty congratulations; the rest follow. How Anna shines. Everything about her seems to catch the ebbing light as afternoon turns to evening. Beatrice is awed by her dark eyes, with beads of candle flame at the centre; her glorious hair, parted in the middle, sleek to the head and pinned at her nape so that it no longer appears cropped. Anna's cameo brooch glows at the collar of a charcoal grey silk dress Beatrice has never seen before. The cheap ring that belonged to Will's mother winks on her finger: the ring promised to Beatrice, had she deigned to receive it. But Will never showed it to her. And, being invisible, the ring accrued a legendary aura. This cheap thing was the most precious token Will owned in a life that began in pauperdom. This was what Beatrice had been challenged to earn. She failed.

Not once does Will meet her eyes. Even when he accepts her handshake and congratulations, the exchange is brief and correct. The room spins. Pain twists in Beatrice's side like the stitch that used to hobble her when she tried to race the village children down Primrose Lane. The rabble galloped past, jeering. She sinks into a chair. It will pass in a minute, this illegitimate pang. For I have no right to it, she thinks. It's adulterous. Her husband is cordially telling his brother-in-law-to-be, ‘I cannot say how pleased I am. Congratulations to you both.'
Nobody seems to notice Beatrice's qualm. Thank goodness. Give me a moment to command myself. And after all, this arrangement is what I ordained.

He looks so happy. But he can't be! Beatrice's soul stamps its foot. He's only a hand-me-down, Anna. He must have settled for you as a way to stay close to me or in a spirit of retaliation. You're second best; always have been, always will be.

‘Beatrice – dear – you are glad for me?' Anna asks in a measured voice.

Those pearls at Anna's ears are their mother's, given by their father to Lore and removed when Anna laid out the corpse. Beatrice took them from her sister's hands, replacing them in their box, the box being hidden in the bowels of a chest. In this chest they used to climb as children, crouching in the musty velvets and linens of an earlier generation.

Beatrice's eyes swim with tears. She cannot speak. I shall – oh, no – disgrace myself, she thinks, and focuses on the delicate place between Anna's ear lobe and her throat, where the pearl gleams. She's aware of the high cheek bones in her sister's heart-shaped face that has come out of the shadow and blazed at them all. You've taken my place
.

‘Very happy. As long as you are. But – you never said, Anna. And there are things to discuss. Such as' – she whispers – ‘
income
.'

‘Oh, I did discuss that – with Joss, don't worry. But it was your idea, wasn't it? Everything changed once you were gone, as it was bound to do – or rather it clarified. I knew I must marry – marry Mr Anwyl, as you wished. When it came down to it, I had no choice.'

‘It wasn't like that, Anna, I didn't wish –It was your conduct. I didn't mean you to –'

‘You made it happen. As sure as eggs is eggs. And thank you for that, Beatrice.'

There's no way into Anna any more. Her face is closed. Don't
leave me, Anna, don't leave me alone.

The room is full of spies. Darting looks, pretending to keep conversation light and open.

Anna says, sympathetically, ‘But you're looking pale, dear. Are you unwell?'

‘Oh, I'm always well. But, yes, the journey – it has been – fatiguing. I think I might go upstairs to rest … there's nobody in my – in our – room, is there?'

‘Oh no, dear, I've moved out of it and kept it ready for you both. Is there anything you'd like? Something to eat or drink?'

‘No … well, is there port or anything? No, I don't need help. Anna,
don't.
Just let me
be
,' Beatrice snaps, mortified tears brimming. A cold sweat has broken out on her brow. ‘I'm all
right
,
don't fuss. Put some lemon in the port.'

There's a moment's silence in the drawing room. Now at last Will brings himself to look Mrs Ritter in the eyes. He casts on her a deep, chastening, unsmiling gaze.

What do you mean by looking at me like that?

And of course the bridegroom's antennae have caught and interpreted the look. Irritation spikes up in Beatrice. Why can't he leave her alone? But no, Christian hastens to support his wife out of the room and up the stairs, like an overtired child being put to bed for its own good. Lifting her bodily (against her will), he lays her gently down on the bed. He removes her slippers.

‘Never mind,
Liebchen
. It is better that we all get over this moment,' Christian covers his wife with the quilt; brings a flannel from the washbasin and lays it over her forehead. ‘Better now? All is well, you know.'

‘Much better, darling, thank you. Sorry for snapping. I do need a rest. It's all the emotion. Is she bringing some port? Will you bring it instead? And then do go back down and have tea, Christian. Apologise for me, please.'

He remains seated beside her on the bed, his hand on the mound of bedclothes over Beatrice's hip. She would feel it pressing down through a thousand quilts. Christian's expression looks gravely sermonical, like Papa's after some small act of childish naughtiness. Beatrice can't have this condescension. In her own house. She's not some giddy girl who can't keep her emotions under control.

‘Please go downstairs, Christian. I need to sleep, I really do. I'll be right as rain if you will just allow me to
rest
.'

‘Well, I will in a moment. I just want to say –'

‘No, please
don't
say.'

‘But you don't know what I was about to say, my love.'

‘Don't say anything. I'm too
tired
for it, why do you have to make speeches when you know I can't stand it?' The tears rise. Beatrice's face burns. Shame drives out affection. Her lip trembles. ‘I won't listen to your preaching!' she insists petulantly.

He gives a little cough, embarrassed for his wife. ‘I am not preaching now, dear. Or am I? Maybe I am. I don't mean to. But I'm going to say it all the same. Are you listening, Beatrice?' He bends his head, looking towards the twilit rectangle of the window. ‘Love is always the greatest good
.
Always and everywhere. So writes Paul in his Epistle to the Corinthians and Amen to that, say I. Don't you?'