Brides of Aberdar (8 page)

Tante Louise came swaying down the stairs in her fine flounced gown, with all her urgency yet picking her careful way. ‘
Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, Edouard? Tu as froid? On dit que tu es tombé
—’

‘I tripped in the doorway, Louise. It’s nothing.
Soyez tranquille; un petit choc, pas plus que ça. Mademoiselle m’a
—’

‘
Et bien—Mademoiselle
! What do you here, Mees? It is not business of la gouvernante—’

‘I heard that Sir Edward was hurt, Madame, and happened to be first on the scene. I’ve sent Tomos for a hot drink—’

‘
Cognac, il faut du cognac
—’ She snatched up the glass on the table at his side. ‘
Pourquoi
—?’ He waved a limply dismissive hand. ‘
Mais si, mon cher, j’insiste
—’

‘I believe, Madame—I’ve been taught that for a blow on the head, it is best not to give spirits.’

‘You! What do you know about it? I think I am the one to know what is good. Come, Edouard; le cognac!’

He shook his weary head, lips closed against it. ‘Comment? Do you take notice of this stupid girl? What does she know? Come, drink!’

‘Louise, leave me alone!’

‘Madame, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’ She put one hand to the scar; it was the first time she had ever openly referred to it. ‘Do you think I have not had experience? It is wrong to make him take brandy. I won’t let him. I’m not going to allow it.’ And as Madame Devalle, in a rage of indignation still tried to manoeuvre the glass to his lips, she took it from her hand, tipped the untouched spirit back into its decanter and carrying both, walked away to the dining-room. Tomos appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray.

Tante Louise, pretending only outraged dignity, was in fact sick and terrified at heart. This little nobody taking over from her, giving orders, accepted by all as to be obeyed! She will come here, she thought, she will be mistress here: have I not expected it from the first? Lady Hilbourne!—his wife, mother to the children. That poor Anne, she thought, she might have been touched in the head, but is this scarred Thing to take her place, is she to take precedence in all things over
me
…?

She sat close up to the Squire, taking his limp hand in her own, pouring out her rapid French. ‘Be persuaded by me,
mon cher
. What experience has she had, this young woman? You are too easy with her, Edouard, you question nothing. Be a little warned by me, she is capable enough, oh,
bien sûr
, in many ways excellent, but what do we know of her after all? What is her background?—she calls herself “at home” in that famous Greatoaks Park but suddenly she is shown the door—the reference not from the wife but from the gentleman of the house, and letters coming to her from him, and gifts….’ He turned his head wearily from side to side, seemed hardly to hear her, made no reply. She grew more urgent, lifted her voice. ‘You do not know all, you do not know the gifts that come; only the other day a box, enamelled with forget-me-nots and a message entwined with the flowers, “
Toujours
”. And inside the lid, those letters again, the initials of this Sir Charles Arden of Greatoaks: C.B.A. Did she hope to be Lady Arden there one day? Does she now hope…?’ She dared not quite put it into words. ‘I say only—
écoutes-moi
, Edouard, I advise you, you are weak and ill, she is playing the charming nurse, I say only to you, take good care…’

In the dining-room doorway, the slender brown figure had stood all this time, quiet and still. Now she came forward and, totally ignoring the juddering woman, knelt down again at his side. ‘Will you go upstairs now? Are you well enough? Tomos and Rodric will help you up to your bed.’

He looked at her vaguely; she was frightened by the blankness in his eyes. Tomos had stood waiting, unable to understand a word, and now said, ‘Yes, Miss. I’ll fetch Rod.’ She suggested with perfect calm to Madame Devalle as though nothing had happened: ‘It will be best, Madame, if he should be taken to his room?’

‘I shall arrange all,’ said Madame, loftily. As swiftly as it had arisen, the storm of anxiety had blown itself out and she was able to recognise how unwise it had been to make reference to the possibility of marriage, to put such an idea into his head. Thank heaven, he had seemed hardly to take it all in; and, above all, thank heaven that Mees did not understand French!

The little girls lay curled together in the big white-hung four-poster bed. ‘Did you feel the hands today, Lyn?’

‘When we went into Papa’s room. Weren’t they
cold
?’

‘Papa’s whole room was cold. Tante Louise said it was because Tetty made Hannah open the window—’

‘Tetty’s always saying about fresh air!’

‘—but it wasn’t. Even standing close to the fire it was cold.’

‘If Papa’s ill, won’t he be able to take us away to another house, Christine?’

‘Do we want to go away from here?’

‘I think Papa believes that if we go to another house we won’t feel the cold hands.’

‘Papa doesn’t know about the hands.’

‘I think he might, but he doesn’t say he does. Hil knows. Would
you
like to go away from the house, Christine?’

‘I don’t think the house would let us,’ said Christine.

Any struggle as to the over-all care of the patient must be fruitless. The governess was despatched back to her own duties and a strong young woman called Blodwen, used to nursing, brought in under the dominance of Tante Louise. But news filtered through from Blodwen to the servants’ hall and was retailed to Miss in due course. The Squire seemed not to rally, remaining very pale and weak and speaking hardly at all. As to the actual nature of the malady, the visiting doctors seemed curiously vague, prescribing only as much good, simple food as the patient could be induced to eat, rest in bed, and to the huge indignation of Madame Devalle, fresh air. And: ‘These windows already are small enough, Madam; have the hangings removed, throw open the casements during the day; have the bed moved to that side of the room. As soon as he is strong enough, we will arrange for short drives for him about the countryside. And as much mental stimulation as possible. Have the young lady bring in the children twice a day at least, to chatter to him; if he can’t read, arrange for her to read to him, something of interest to him, but light and agreeable…’ To his colleagues in the neighbouring town he confided: ‘Not that I have much hope of any of it. What with the shock of his wife’s death—’

‘And of her life, even more,’ said Dr Meredith, who had been Anne’s medical attendant in the last years.

‘A mental affliction. Poor man, I daresay it was difficult to live with.’

‘Very difficult indeed,’ said the other, whose lips on the subject had been sealed at the end by a ‘mourning gift’ so generous as to amount to a bribe.

‘—well, the shock either way; it has left him with little stamina to resist such an incident as a blow on the head from the swinging-back of a heavy oak door.’ He mused: ‘Very strange. I’ve been in and out of that door over many years, never known it to swing. At any angle, it would just stand open. You don’t think by any possible chance the servant—?’

‘What, Tomos? He’s a bit of a boyo, as they say in deepest Wales, but the Squire’s a good master, Meredith, what could the man gain by such an act? They do say that Sir Edward had thoughts of moving from the house?’

‘It would hardly avail Tomos to attack him on that account?’

‘Well, no—he would doubtless take his servants with him. In a way,’ said the doctor, musing, ‘one would rather wish a move for them. There is something very strange about the old house.’

‘I’ve noted it myself,’ said Dr Horder. He suggested: ‘Something almost—haunting.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t use that word for it,’ said Dr Meredith, mindful of his undertakings.

Madame’s interpretation of the doctor’s orders was much what one might have expected. The bed was duly moved, since he would be able to check up on it, so that the patient might lie and look out of the window—on to that bleak hillside rising up immediately opposite, with its bare winter trees; lie and wonder, perhaps, whether or not he would ever again see the woodlands clothed in green. And the curtains at the windows were replaced by the lighter ones of summer, but the casements remained open for the duration of the doctor’s visits, and then were tight closed again. As to the nice bright young lady who was to bring the children for cheering visits, who else, in the eyes of Tante Louise, but Bethan, plain, simple Bethan with her kind, round face, devoid of the smallest sign of superior intellect.

Nor, as to reading aloud, was that anything that Blodwen could be expected to accomplish, since she could hardly do more than write her name. Tante Louise must take it upon herself. Her first efforts to read, in English, a novelette chosen by herself, unfortunately brought on a severe headache and the patient must ask her to desist; hereafter he endured with closed eyes, readings in her mother-tongue, so that she might soon presume him asleep and thankfully slip away.

Indeed, the whole invalid scene was beyond words
ennuyante
to her and she intruded there as little as possible; but with Edouard so ill, and helpless to defend himself against scheming wiles, she was not risking any sick-bed marriages, that was certain! It had passed through her mind that she herself was after all only very distantly related and that to secure the well-being of his children by giving her the authority of a closer relationship, he just possibly might… But in the very moment of its inception, the idea had been dismissed. He could bear her presence as part of his household, only for the children’s sake. She was plain, to his standards un-cultured, to his tastes unattractive, and was moreover his senior by almost twenty years. No chance whatsoever of her ever by marriage becoming the true mistress of Aberdar Manor. Madame was a realist.

But if she could not—then at least no one else should do so.

At Christmas, Mees must of course import one of the decorated trees that the Prince Consort had introduced into England from his Germanic origins. Tante Louise was disgusted. ‘All on the carpets dirt and leaves, what great pot is this that you have for holding this foolish tree? Do you think I shall permit this in my salon…?’

‘We could have it in any other room, Madame, of course. But the little girls—’

‘We shall have it not at all. Tell Tomos to have taken away this stupid thing.’

‘But, Madame, I’ve promised, they’re so excited—’

‘Then it is all the fault of you. You have had no permission, Mees.’

‘They’ve told their father all about it, Madam, and he hasn’t objected.’

‘They have spoken no word of it to me.’

They know a good deal better than to do that, thought Miss to herself, with perhaps a small quiver of guilt in consciousness of her own lack of encouragement in that direction.

‘
N’importe quel—tout ça, je n’accepte pas
. I forbid.’

‘Madame, their father—’

Madame’s brow grew very black. ‘Mademoiselle—Mees Tettaireman—
puis-je vous demander, s’il vous plaît
—who is or is not mistress in this house? And therefore what I say—is that not the end of it?’

‘Except when the master says otherwise, perhaps?’ said Miss Tettaireman with suitably downcast eyes; and executed a little bob curtsey and almost fell over her feet making as swift get-away.

‘Well, there’s silly you are, Miss!’ said Tomos, encountered—curiously enough—just outside the door. ‘Why not just set up your precious tree in the servants’ hall?’

She had seen him several times—always strictly in the presence of Tante Louise—but it was a shock to recognise how weak the Squire had grown, still thinner and more pale, assisted down the broad stairs by Tomos and Hil, carefully lowered into a deep chair in the Hall. But he had made an effort, obviously, for the sake of the little girls, sporting a
robe d’intérieur
of many-coloured silk over the narrow trousers, tapering to the ankle, and a matching satin cravat. He wore his greying hair rather long, but with only a short side-whisker, never beard or moustache. His eyes lit up with rare pleasure when he saw the radiant faces of all about him and the children gazing rapturously at the glittering tree.

Tante Louise had considered that white pinafores, hand-tucked and embroidered, were sufficient presents for two little girls, with a ribboned box for each of sugared almonds, especially sent over from Paris. Miss, however, had had quite other ideas and had galvanised the increasingly friendly staff into a frenzy of shaping and stitching and carving and colouring and baking and cake-ing; the glittering white snow outside was rivalled by the sparkle of frosting and candlelight on the seven-foot tree, with its twin fairy dolls, all a-twinkle with wings and wands at the very tip-top—(‘Oh, Tetty, I want the one with the golden dress!’ ‘No, no,
I
want the one with the golden dress! Christine can have the silver one…’)

The staff stood round beaming, hands clasped before ‘best’ starched white aprons, or behind uniform coats. Tante Louise had shown her disapproval of the whole exaggerated piece of nonsense, by wearing her dullest black moiré; Miss Tetterman, however, was in her grey silk with the little lace collar and a sepia brown velvet bow at her throat. (Anyone else, thought Madame, would have worn a grey ribbon to match the silk, or plain black; one had always to allow it to Mees that she had a clever head when it came to dress—the brown toned charmingly with the pale grey, and exactly matched the colour of her eyes and hair.) ‘Oh, Papa, Tetty’s wearing her best dress, do you like her dress, Papa? It’s her best grey silk… Tante Louise, do you like Tetty’s lovely silk dress?’

‘Have you no ornaments, Mademoiselle, that you wear none on this great occasion? No brooch, perhaps, no ring?’

She did not know that Sir Edward’s eyes were turned towards her, watching her face, that, seeing the faint flush that mounted there, he turned them abruptly away and looked down at his hands; that Hil also was keenly watching her. She said, steadying herself, ‘I think that you are the last person, Madame, to wish the governess to deck herself in jewellery. Even if she had any.’