Child Friday (7 page)

She enjoyed walking with him on that sunny Christmas morning, aware of a companionship she had never known with anyone else before. Even with Tim she had not experienced the strange unity which seemed suddenly between them on the empty moorland road. She saw the grey roof of Torcroft in the distance, the upper windows flashing in the sunlight.

“The shutters are down,” Emily said with interest
.
“Perhaps the people are coming back.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That house across the moor. I think Alice said it was called Torcroft
.
”

“It’s been empty for years. The owner’s abroad.” Dane spoke so sharply that she glanced up at him in surprise.

“But people come home eventually—even if it’s only to die,” she said.

“You’re
talking
nonsense,” he countered with disconcerting harshness. “The place hasn’t been lived in for years.”

The illusion of companionship had gone, or perhaps she had only imagined it. His face, as he strode bareheaded in the sunshine, was suddenly set in forbidding lines and she could plainly see the faint scarring if his eyes in the strong light Emily kept him company in silence. She could not understand why her innocent remarks should have disturbed
him
but his past associations with the house across the moor were clearly unpleasant
.

“I was probably wrong—about the house, I mean. One can’t see very distinctly from this distance,” she said as they reached their own gates.

“Very likely. In any case it’s of no importance,” he replied, and walked away from her up the drive.

CHAPTER
FOUR

THE days passed swiftly, one
m
uch like another. In the mornings Emily sometimes worked with Dane in the study, but he seemed in no hurry to get on with his
thesis and Emily found there was little for her to do except to devise holiday occupations for Alice. The little girl, though as solitarily inclined as her guardian, seemed to like her company. On wet days they would repair to the little-used drawing-room where there was an old piano, and Emily, who had once possessed a quite appreciable gift for playing by ear, taught Alice the
chansonettes
and carols she had learnt herself in childhood.

Once they found Dane standing in the doorway listening to them. Emily stopped playing, wondering if their singing disturbed him, but all he said was:

“Get a piano tuner out if you want to use the thing. It probably hasn’t been touched for years.”

The tuner came and performed mysterious rites on the piano which seemed to fascinate Alice who, when he had gone, had the first fit of giggles Emily had ever heard from her.

“Wasn’t he
funny
!” she said, and promptly sat down to perform the treble part of chopsticks like any normal schoolgirl.

“Emily,” she said once, “you are going to stay with us always, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, Alice,” Emily replied evasively, reminded again of all that such a request might imply.

“Oh, please promise—please, please promise,” the child begged.

“What is Emily to promise?” asked Dane’s voice behind them. It was a little unnerving, Emily thought, how seldom they heard him coming unless he was using his stick.

“To stay here always,” said Alice, looking a little alarmed.

“Always is a long time,” he replied gravely. “Emily might not want to commit herself for so long.”

“
You could marry her, Uncle Dane, and then she’d have to.”

“Yes, I could do that,” said Dane, and Emily, embarrassed and unsure where all this was leading, told the child not to talk such nonsense
.

Alice ran out of the room, her cheeks hot, but Dane remained.

“Is it such nonsense?” he enquired mildly. “You seem to have made a conquest of my ward. She’s not an easy young person to make friends with.”

“Perhaps you haven’t tried the right way,” said Emily, her own cheeks as hot as the child’s.

“Very probably not. I’m unused to children,” he replied, and sounded suddenly weary. “She’s afraid of my blindness, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But that’s natural at first. You have an uneasy gift for knowing without seeing. That can be disconcerting to a child.
”

“And to you, too?”

“Quite often, but perhaps half the time you’re only guessing.”

“Perhaps I am. Well, Emily, I think Louisa Pink would consider this exchange between employer and employee rather odd, don’t you?”

She glanced at him quickly.

“Have I been—unprofessional?” she asked, and he
smiled.

“It depends what you mean by that,” he observed softly,
and turned to leave the room.

It seemed to Emily that she was becoming trapped by her own desire to give; to Alice who flattered her sense of necessity, even to Dane who did not. Pennyleat, old-fashioned and comfortable, was a haven from the uncertainties and make-shifts of the world she had known, Dane and his silently padding dog symbolic of the cruelty of life. It was all a little unreal.

M
rs. Pride and Shorty still maintained their hostility but Mrs. Meeker, the daily help from Pennycross, was a Devonshire woman of comfortable habits. She would always stop work for a gossip and a surreptitious cup of tea away from the kitchen, and it was she who confirmed the fact that the shutters had indeed been taken down from the house across the moor.

“They do say old Mrs. Mortimer be coming home at last from they foreign parts,” she told Emily one morning. “Leastways, house is being opened up again and the workmen in, so shouldn’t wonder if ’tisn’t tru
e.
”

“She might have sold it,” said Emily, unwilling for Dane’s
s
ake that old Mrs. Mortimer, whoever she might be, should return to disturb him.

“Her wouldn’t do that!” Mrs. Meeker exclaimed with proper indignation. “Mortimers have been at Torcroft for generations. Her’s not much herself, not being proper family, but her wouldn’t sell on account of the nephew’s expectations.”

“Expectations?”

“The house itself when the old lady dies. There bain’t much money — never was.”

“Did Mr. Merritt know Mrs. Mortimer?” Emily asked, wondering why Dane should resent an old lady who had been abroad for years.

“Oh, yes, but that was in Mr. Carey’s time afore I worked here.” Mrs. Meeker shot Emily a sly look, then evidently decided not to enlarge any more on past history.

“Poor gentleman,” she said, attacking her dusting again with unaccustomed vigor. “ ’Twas proper cruel to lose his sight like that. If it had been known then as Mr. Carey was going to leave him the place and his money when he died, things might’ve been different.”

“What things?” asked Emily, but Mrs. Meeker became vague and then embarked on a long and involved account of the doings at the village public house on Boxing Night, from which it was impossible to wean her.

“Your Mrs. Mortimer is coming back,” Emily told Alice the following afternoon, but the child only replied without much interest:

“Is she? But she isn’t
my
Mrs. Mortimer,
Emily
I
don’t remember her.”

It was New Year’s Eve and Emily felt unaccountably
d
epressed. If she had been in London she would have joined the crowds in the streets tonight and seen the New Year
in
. There was something sad, she thought, about
going to bed and letting the midnight hour slip away unnoticed. She asked Alice if such was the case at Pennyleat, knowing that it probably was.

“Uncle Ben used to keep it,” Alice, her eyes suddenly alight at the memory of the rare treats which had come her way. “Mrs. Pride used to wake me at a quarter to twelve and bring me downstairs, and the gardener came in with a piece of coal for luck and then we all, drank hot punch and welcomed in the year.”

“And now?”

“Oh, now we just go to bed. Uncle Dane says there’s nothing to celebrate.”

Emily felt an unreasoning anger with Dane.

“It’s defeatist,” she told him, tackling him while she was still in the mood. “There’s always something to welcome the New Year in for—
always
.”

“Is there?” he said, looking up in mild surprise. “How fierce you sound, Emily. To me one year is much like another, now.”

“How do you know? Every year holds something new. Why, not so long ago you were poor as well as blind—you told me so yourself. One of those years at least brought you good fortune.”

“True. Have you great expectations of the coming year, then, Emily?”

She was silent, and he enquired with gentle mockery
;
“Are you blushing again?”

“Of course not!” It was only that I—that Alice—I’m sorry,” she finished. “I suppose I’m being idiotic.”

“You can have your New Year, you and Alice, if it means so much to you,” he said a little wearily.
“
But don’t expect me to fall into the traditional hysteria and sing Auld Lang Syne or anything, will you?”

“But you’ll be there?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll be there, and Shorty and Mrs. Pride, too, if you like. They’ll think I’m demented.”

But when the time came and they all assembled in the library just before midnight, the two servants, if surprised, seemed almost human. Mrs. Pride had always thought it only proper to be invited to drink champagne with the gentry on New Year’s Eve, and Shorty, if, like
Emily, he had been remembering with nostalgia past, more wroughty occasions in his native London, had shed his aggressive manner for the moment. Alice in her long bl
u
e dressing-gown clung to Emily’s hand and watched the' clock with expectant eyes and only Dane stood a little apart, his face curiously still, his eyes, because he could not see the Clock, turned towards the radio in the corner of the room. Their glasses were already in their hands, and as Big Ben struck the hour in the quiet room, they seemed frozen into immobility while the slow, deep notes hung on the air.

Emily’s eyes were on Dane’s face, and as she watched him she was conscious of that familiar sense of trespass. Was
it pain, regret, or merely a cynical tolerance that tightened the muscles about his mouth, she wondered. Did he remember other New Years when he had his sight and looked forward to success, achievement and, perhaps, love?

Emily’s own eyes filled with tears. He was still a stranger but in that moment she felt she knew him; knew him and was powerless to help except to give him the little he might ask, and unbidden to her mind came the lines of one of the old folk songs she had taught to Alice.

Black is the color of my true love’s hair
.
.
.

—
But Tim’s had been red
...

I love my love and well he knows

I love the ground whereon he goes
—

The last note of the hour died away and with the sound of many voices singing the familiar air the little group came to life. Dane raised his glass and gave the traditional toast, they wished each other a happy New Year all round and Mrs. Pride, her glass almost untouched, prepared to take her leave and drink her champagne in the kitchen where etiquette could be relaxed.

“I’ll be waiting to see you into bed, sir,” Shorty said, preparing to follow her, but Dane shook his head.

“I’ll do without you tonight, Shorty,” he said. “In any case it’s an unnecessary, if kindly attention, as I’ve often told you. Now, Alice, off to bed and leave that glass behind you. One sip at this hour of night is quite sufficient at your age.”

“I don’t
think
I like it very much,” said Alice. She winked at Shorty and handed him her champagne and he went out, grinning, a glass in each hand.

“Shall I come up with you
,”
asked Emily, watching the child with amusement
.

"No, thank you,” Alice said with polite unconcern, then she suddenly flung her arms rou
n
d Emily’s neck in a rare gesture of affection.

“Good-night, dear Emily—it was a really truly New Year this time, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Emily softly. “May it bring you all your dearest wishes.”

“Good-night, Uncle Dane, and thank you for letting me come down,” Alice said to her guardian, but she did not offer to kiss him and, drawing her dressing-gown closely about her thin little body, walked sedately from the room.

“Have they all gone?” asked Dane.

“
Yes,” said Emily. “I hope—I mean
I’
m afraid I rather thrust this on you.”

“Not at all. I could have gone to bed if I’d wanted to.”

“I suppose so, only
—
”

“You have an exasperating habit of leaving your sentences in mid-air with the word ‘only’,” he said.

“Have I? Well, sometimes it’s difficult
—
”

“What is? You sound unsure of yourself tonight
.
Did the passing of the Old Year raise ghosts?”

“Not for me,” she said. “But I was watching your face.”

“Oh! You thought the ghosts were being raised for me
,
did you?”

“I wasn’t sure. I think I’d better go to bed now.”

“Oh, no,” he said with a touch of arrogance. “You can’t run away from me like that. I want to drink a private toast to you, Emily Moon.”

She
waited uneasily. He seemed in a strange mood and her emotions had already been stirred in a fashion she had not expected. He stood with his back to the fire and raised his glass to her.

“To you— Child Friday,” he said.

She watched, him drink his wine, observing those thin, sensitive fingers on the glass. They were good hands, sure hands, she thought; they were the substitutes for the sight he no longer had.

“Why did you call me that?” she asked.

“Have you forgotten you told me Friday’s child was loving and giving?”

“Oh, I see.”

“No you don’t. I shouldn’t trade on an old tag which may be true—and I think it is. Come here.”

He put down his glass and she moved slowly towards him. His gaze was directed too high above her head and his hands, feeling for her, at first touched her face before they dropped to her shoulders.

“You’re not very tall, are you?” he said. “I must remember. Emily, you’re going to stay with us, aren’t you?”

“The month isn’t up,” she said and knew that she was playing for time, not because she wanted to refuse him, but because she was suddenly afraid of herself.

“I know,” he replied with gentle amusement. “But this is the time for good resolutions, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you find me unbearable as an employer?”

“No—of course not, only
—
”

“That tantalizing little word again! Do you think you could find it bearable to think of me as a husband?”

He had spoken casually, as though his extraordinary suggestion meant no more than a bonus for good behavior. Emily stared at him helplessly.

“Are you serious?” she stam
m
ered at last.

“Perfectly. I’ve had it in my mind all along. Louisa Pink was supposed to have given you the hint when she sent you down here.”

“Oh! Then those others—the two who Shorty didn’t like—were—were applicants for marriage!”

“How indignant you sound! Does a business approach to a partnership shock you, then?”

Her indignation died under his prosaic honesty and she was left only with a feeling of defeat.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, and even as she spoke she remembered that first interview, the impression she had received of things left unsaid between them, and his strange observation that Miss Pink had cheated.

“I didn’t feel it was a subject that could be sprung on you at first acquaintance,” he replied with a certain grim humor, “in that you should count yourself exceptional to the two ladies who preceded you.”

“But why—why
—
”

“It seemed a sensible proposition to me,” he said, sounding suddenly weary. “It’s already been made very plain to me that
a man with my affliction cannot expect to pick and choose.”

She heard the bitter note in his voice and exclaimed involuntarily at such injustice:

“But that’s absurd! Blindness doesn’t alter your essential self
...
anyone
...
any woman would be proud to take you as you are.”

“Do you think so? Then, Emily, perhaps you can bring yourself to accept me.”

Before she could formulate her reply he went on speaking, rounding his phrases with cool deliberation, as if they had been well rehearsed.

“If it’s the accepted aspect of marriage that troubles you, put it out of your mind. Any arrangement you and I came to would naturally be one of convenience.”

“A life contract in return for a home?” she said bleakly.

“If you like to think of it that way. There would be advantages, you know. I’m no longer a poor man, and you would be free within reason.”

“And you?”

“I too, of course.”

She shivered, forgetful of his hands still on her shoulders. His proposition was typical of what she knew of him, she thought, and wanted to weep when, aware of her shudder, he said quietly:

“Don’t you like me to touch you? Things will be no different between us if I’m your husband, my dear. I won’t expect anything of you.”

Emily felt the tears again on her lashes. Yesterday, tomorrow, she could consider matters in the light of a business proposition, but tonight everything was different. She did not answer because the words she might have said would have embarrassed him. His hands travelled to her face, delicately tracing the bone structure as they had on that first evening, and he felt the wetness on her cheeks.

“Surely I haven’t upset you,” he said with a trace of impatience. “My proposition isn’t so horrifying, after all.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said, a
n
d he raised his dark eyebrows.

“I probably understand more than you think,” he said, taking his hands away and thrusting them into his pockets. “Blind persons sometimes have an extra insight—by way of compensation, I suppose. I’ve come to know quite a little about you, Emily. I know, for instance, that you’re too gentle to put up a fight for yourself. You’ll admit, I think, that you’re ill-equipped to meet present-day
c
ompetition, so wouldn’t you be better off married to me? One job is much like another, after all, and this would at least have the advantage of being permanent.”

She felt cold and moved closer to the fire which now was little more than smouldering ash. His arguments no longer moved her. She would do what he wished, of course, but not for the reasons he had put forward.

“Well?” he said, speaking sharply. “You clearly have Alice’s approval, if that was needed, and presumably, Louisa Pink’s, since she sent you down here. You also, for what it’s worth, have mine.”

“You don’t need to persuade me, Mr. Merritt,” said Emily, crouching in a little heap by the fire. “I’ll marry you.”
Why not
...
she cried within herself ...
why not?

“In that case you’d better start using my Christian name,” he said briskly. “Well, now that’s settled I’d like to get matters arranged as quickly as possible. Next week, shall we say? Before, if I can get the special licence
through.”

“So soon? But Alice won’t have gone back to schoo
l.”

“What difference does she make? I see no point in delaying matters any further.”

His words should have been those of an impatient lover.

To Emily there seemed no reason for such haste.

“Very well,” she said, and he shifted his position impatiently.

“Where are you?” he asked with slight exasperation. “Your voice seems to be coming from the floor.”

“I’m sitting there,” she said. “The fire’s nearly out
.
”

He stooped to where he imagined her to be.

“Yes, it’s time we went to bed. It must be nearly one o’clock,” he said, and held out a hand vaguely in her direction. She took it, pulling herself to her feet.

“A happy New Year to you again and thank you for falling in with my wishes. Will you see that all the lights are out, please?”

She handed
him
his stick as she did most nights, and watched him go from the room, his dog at his heels. As she stood for a strange five minutes in the empty room, she could hear his stick tapping in the hall and up the stone staircase until the sound finally ceased and nothing stirred in the silent house. She moved stiffly then, switched off the library lights and went up to bed in the darkness.