Dorothy Eden (26 page)

“Yes, my lord.”

“Dammit, Bates, stand where I can see you. I’m not blind. Fetch a couple of bottles of the 1897 claret. After dinner I want some port in the library. Perhaps you’ll join me, Lionel.” He made an impatient movement. “I wish all of you wouldn’t stare at me like that. And if you’re anxious, I can assure you I can drink a half bottle of port without needing to be carried upstairs. When I come to that, you can put me in the ground. But I plan to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

His remaining eye, red-rimmed and tormented, sought Hetty’s. “I might warn you I won’t be wanting company. Will you mind? You mustn’t be in too much of a hurry to beget the heir.”

“Hugo, you’re doing nothing but showing off,” Lady Flora said crossly, as if the nightmare monologue were nothing out of the ordinary. “Tomorrow I hope you’ll have the grace to apologise.”

“Like hell,” muttered Hugo, the puckered scar aslant his cheek quivering pinkly against the dark flush of his skin. “Home sweet home.” He suddenly looked exhausted. “We used to sing about it in the trenches. Home sweet home!”

The nightmare meal was at last over, and as Hugo made his way, teetering dangerously on his crutches, to the library, followed by Lionel, Julia inevitably began to weep.

“But he didn’t once mention the horses,” she wailed. “That shows how dreadfully he has changed.”

Had Jacobina got back a husband like this from his wars? Angry, unreconciled, completely self-absorbed, loathing himself and everybody else? If this were so she must have been glad of her lover’s baby in her womb.

Hetty wondered how she could make herself go to bed with that furious travesty of a man. But she would have to if she too wanted a baby in her womb. And she did. It was the only sweetness left to her. That and Loburn.

What would you have done, Clemency?

A
FTER THAT FIRST DAY
Hugo didn’t lock his door. That, however, was his only concession to normality. He began a pattern of behaviour that was frightening. He refused to leave his room until dark, obviously reluctant to be seen, then he came downstairs to dinner, following the ritual of the candles burning in a dim room, a too liberal quantity of wine to drink, and two hours later an unsteady return upstairs.

After the first night Lady Flora made no objection to the candles. Hugo’s temper was too uncertain. She recognised that it was not, after all, the exhibitionism of a spoiled and arrogant young man, but something darker and more sinister.

Hetty too made earnest efforts to avoid arousing Hugo’s temper. Going into the big master bedroom, as she did on one pretext or another, she would see him sitting in the armchair at the window, his back to the door, only the back of his blond head visible, the hair curling crisply and attractively, giving no hint of the ruined face.

Hearing her entrance, sometimes he remained silent, sometimes he grunted, “What do you want?” She invented the need for articles of clothing. “Have I driven you out of your room?”

“You know very well you have, but not for ever, I hope.”

He seized on the last part of her answer.

“Don’t be such a liar. Julia always said you were a liar.”

“And do you think I am?”

“Well, you don’t have to pretend you don’t mind my gargoyle face.”

“I’m not pretending, Hugo. And I do mind it, but mostly for your sake. I’m just trying to find you again. Don’t you get awfully bored sitting here doing nothing all day? Couldn’t I talk to you, or read to you?”

The dark flush had risen in his face.

“No, I don’t want to talk, and I was never one for books. You should have married Lionel if you wanted a literary man.”

Yes, Hetty thought painfully. Hugo was more right than he knew.

“Well, I didn’t. I married you. And I hate to see you so unhappy.”

“Unhappy, Christ! Who could be happy? Just leave me, will you? Just get out.”

“Give him a little time,” Doctor Bailey had said to Hetty. “Be patient and try to coax him to be more communicative. He ought to talk about these dark things in his mind. We don’t want to have to send him to a hospital, do we?”

“No, no. I’ll keep him at home. That’s my duty.”

Doctor Bailey seemed a little surprised at her choice of words. But they were exactly true. This was Nemesis. She was paying for her wickedness.

But was she to go on paying in this way for the rest of her life, living with a husband with whom she could not communicate, and for whom she felt nothing but pity and revulsion? The prospect appalled her.

What are you going to do, Hetty? Give up and go back to New York? How could she do that with Uncle Jonas certain to discover her deceit? Besides, after being an heiress, it would be very little fun to be poor again. After being Lady Hazzard it would be no fun at all reverting to plain Hetty Brown.

No, she must gather up the remnants of her courage, and be a loyal wife to that poor bewildered angry man sitting alone hour after hour. It was only another challenge, perhaps the most severe of all. But hadn’t she boasted that she was not one to be afraid of any challenge?

All the same, it came as a bitter blow when Lionel announced that he and Kitty and Freddie were looking for a house, and planning to leave Loburn. That had always been their intention when Hugo married, but the war had intervened. Now was the time.

He looked at Hetty with his gentle compassionate gaze, and said that this was the only thing to do. It was practical as well as honourable.

“I might really fall in love with you if I stay here,” he said, with a touch of flippancy that did not disguise his underlying seriousness. “Be a good girl and stick it. You will, you know. And it might turn out better than you think.”

“How?” Hetty cried miserably. And then, ashamed of herself, “Of course I intend to stick it. I had no intention of doing anything else.”

Lady Hazzard of Loburn. She was still that, at least.

Nevertheless, she sobbed for hours after Lionel’s talk with her, and in the dusk, pressing her tear-wet face to the window, saw a dripping drowned face, looking in.

“No!” she gasped, moving away. The face moved away, too, and melted into the night.

Surely it had only been her own, dimly-mirrored in the glass. She had suffered that trick of Clemency’s once before, in the mirror downstairs. She wouldn’t be caught like that again.

She remained pale and shaken, however, and almost decided she could not go down to dinner that night. The candlelit dining room and Hugo’s unfriendly intimidating figure at the head of the table seemed too much of an ordeal. She thought of this situation going on after Kitty and Lionel and Freddie had gone, after Lady Flora had died and Julia departed. There would be just herself and Hugo left like figures in a never-ending play.

“What’s the matter, my lady? You seen a ghost?” Effie had come in to turn down the bed.

“Yes, I think I have, Effie. My poor husband who is hardly anything more than a ghost.”

“Oh, he’ll perk up, my lady, don’t you worry. Give him time. He can’t ride his horses, that’s half what he’s fretting about, I’ll be bound. He’s trying to get used to the notion of no more hunting. That was his life, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I expect that’s a good deal of the trouble. And then he’s terribly sensitive about his damaged face. But he’ll have to start seeing people some time.”

“He will when he’s good and tired of his own company,” said Effie vigorously. “Begging your pardon, my lady, if I’m speaking too boldly, but with you beside him he’ll recover.”

It was tempting to make a confidante of Effie. After all, she was the kind of company Hetty had been used to most of her life. But this tendency to familiarity must be watched. Everything must be perpetually watched. It was very wearing. And lonely.

Lady Flora had become kinder, however. Her large eyes were concerned as she regarded Hetty.

“You’re looking tired, my dear. You should get out more, before the summer is over. Couldn’t you persuade Hugo to walk with you in the garden? He did seem better at dinner last night, don’t you think? Less irritable. And that scar on his face is fading. Can you convince him of that?”

“Oh, dear, no. I don’t dare mention it.”

“So you both pretend it doesn’t exist. And other things, like not sharing the same bed.”

Hetty flushed. She had been afraid that Hugo had become impotent. It would be so dreadful if she forced him to prove this fact.

“What would really set him up, Lady Flora, is a good gallop with Julia. Since he can’t have that, I just don’t know what I can suggest that he will listen to.”

“He has to realise that there are other things in life besides horses and hunting. That makes for a narrow outlook. So no sentimentality, Hetty. Be firm with him. Make him face the truth. Tell him you’re beginning to be sorry you ever left New York,” she added. “Make him stop thinking of himself.”

As if Hugo had heard this conversation, or knew of it and guessed what had been said, he actually shook himself out of his apathy the next day. He sent for his estate manager, old Fred Ryman, and then for Julia.

Fred was one thing. He had been longing to talk to the master ever since his return, about practical things such as crops, harvests, livestock, repairs. Julia was another matter. Hetty watched her run eagerly up the stairs. She had either overcome her abhorrence of Hugo’s disfigurement, or perhaps her tenacious love made it of little importance. She had longed to be needed, and perhaps this summons was to be her opportunity.

Hetty made herself keep well out of the way. If this cool blonde English girl, Hugo’s first love, could do anything to improve his state of mind, then she must be allowed to try. This was not a time for jealousy. It would be wonderful to see Hugo more cheerful, she told herself sternly. Let it be unimportant who achieved such a miracle.

There was no miracle, however …

Julia came downstairs, looking angry, chagrined and disbelieving.

“I won’t do it,” she was saying. “I simply won’t do it.” She saw Hetty and said hysterically, “It’s unthinkable. He’s not in his right mind.”

“What has he done?”

“He’s ordered me to sell the horses. You can’t have an estate like this without horses. You simply can’t.”

“Especially if you can’t ride them,” Hetty said drily. “That’s what he means, Julia. Neither he nor I can ride them, and Lionel and Kitty are leaving. So there would be only you. It’s hardly sense to keep a string of hunters for one person, and she only an employee who won’t be here for ever.” It was splendid getting even with Julia for once. The memory of her lost baby goaded her.

Julia had gone scarlet.

“That’s not the reason. It’s Fred Ryman’s fault. He says with the war continuing there are going to be shortages of fodder, and it’s a luxury keeping stables.”

“Isn’t that true?”

“I don’t regard good hunters as a luxury.”

“Maybe you don’t, but a man with one leg may have a different way of looking at such things. You’ll have to do as Hugo asks, Julia.”

Julia’s anger had turned to a cold animosity.

“Who are you to give me orders? You act as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth but what are you, really? Nothing but a good housekeeper. If you hadn’t had all that money Hugo wouldn’t have given you a glance.”

“You make Hugo sound very mercenary,” Hetty said stiffly.

“Well, of course he was where you were concerned. He had to be. We all understood that. But—”

“But what?”

Distress about the horses had made Julia indiscreet, perhaps, about what had passed privately between herself and Hugo upstairs.

“It wasn’t intended to last, your marriage of convenience,” she said cruelly.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, yes, it’s true. It’s still true. We all know what you are.”

“What am I?”

The alarm signals were sounding in Hetty’s head.
The little cheat from New York …

“Certainly not what you pretend to be,” Julia retorted, and refused to enlarge on that cryptic remark.

It was all rather silly, like a schoolgirls’ quarrel. Hetty refused to allow Julia’s remarks, which surely constituted an empty threat, to upset her. Surely the important thing was that if Hugo could give orders to his manager, and make this momentous decision about his horses he was improving at last. Was the tyrannical unnatural behaviour of the past weeks coming to an end? Would he soon be wanting her in his bed and could she be sure she would not quiver with revulsion if he did?

She had never loved him, that was the trouble. A loving wife would have ignored the surface disfigurements. If this had been Lionel—but Lionel’s beautiful face, marred and disfigured, would have broken her heart. She would have taken him in her arms and held him for ever.

Hugo was different.

But she was Hugo’s wife.

He had begun another habit which was even more disturbing than his solitary confinement in his room, that of prowling about the house, opening doors silently and frightening the maids. In spite of his crutches, he moved with little sound. Effie said shamefacedly that his disfigured face with the black patch over one eye peering round the door made her think of robbers.

“Hugo, you must really stop startling the servants like that,” Lady Flora said at dinner. “I believe you’re enjoying it.”

Hugo gave his lopsided grimace that was meant to be a smile, and a pleased one at that.

“Do they think I’m an ogre? Splendid. I might as well get what fun I can out of the way I look. That’s due to me, don’t you think? And I must say the servants seem damn lazy over their work. Dust all over the place.”

“They manage very well,” Hetty said defensively. “This is a big house for a small staff. Please don’t criticise them, Hugo, or they may leave and how would we replace them? All the younger women are going into munitions.”

“It’s not only the servants I’m criticising. I find my wife and my brother closeted together in the library rather frequently. What do you two get up to?”

Now Hugo was grinning evilly. His undamaged blue eye challenged Hetty.

“We’re going through old papers, Hugo. I want to find out everything I can about the house, because if we’re to restore it as it should be done we ought to know its history.”