Tennyson's Gift (33 page)

But she must hurry to Alfred. There were so many things to say. He would be walking on the down this fine morning, and she must tell him she was sorry for the review, and that of course he must sit for her only if he wished it in his heart. Second, that Ada Wilson was a threat to Emily (though she still did not believe it). Also, she would take the opportunity of returning the wallpaper – and let him toss it from the cliff if he wanted. So with the wallpaper in her arms, she toiled up the steep path to Tennyson's favourite walk, and was only half-way when she spied the tiny black figures and counted them. They were three. The upright one with the hat – a bit like a chimney-stack – was certainly Alfred; her heart leapt at that. The little box-shaped one was Emily (her heart subsided again). But who – dear God – was the third?

Back at Farringford, Lionel roamed the garden. He examined the Garibaldi tree, which alas, had not budged overnight; and though he pushed it hard with his good foot, it stood firm. Still pinned to it was a copy of the
Westminster Quarterly,
but it was drenched and ruined. Not for the first time, Lionel wished he could be sent away to school like other boys. At Freshwater, it was not much fun being a child, when all the interesting imaginative games were played exclusively by the grown-ups.

‘Lionel!' He turned to see Jessie and a strange woman approaching the house.

Lionel gave them a cool wave, and sauntered towards them.

He was well aware that Jessie thought him handsome. He expected to work his charm on the woman too.

‘Remember, Jessie,' Lydia whispered. ‘We must not alarm Lionel by asking too directly about Ada. He is only a child.'

Jessie nodded in a grown-up fashion. How awful it must be, she thought, to have people regard you as only a child.

‘This is my Mama,' said Jessie proudly. ‘Are your folks about?'

‘I'm afraid my Father and Mother are on the cliff,' he explained, showing a good profile as he turned to point.

‘Oh,' said Lydia. This was all a bit delicate. How do you ask a ten-year-old boy whether a maniac has called, without alarming him?

‘Are your parents well?' she asked, at last.

Lionel thought about it.

‘Not exactly,' he answered candidly. ‘But then they never are.'

He giggled, and Jessie joined in.

‘We wondered whether anyone strange has been here,' Lydia continued. But again Lionel was obtuse. ‘Define strange,' he said, wistfully.

At this point Jessie interceded. She couldn't see the point of all this pussyfoot.

‘We are looking for Ada Wilson; she's dangerous,' she snapped.

‘Why didn't you say so?' said Lionel. ‘She's gone with my parents on their walk.'

Lydia handed her umbrella and hat to Jessie, and hitched up her skirts.

‘Which way did they go?'

‘Through the green gate, I expect. Father always goes that way.'

‘May Jessie stay here with you?'

Lionel pursed his lips, and shrugged his assent. ‘Come on, then,' he said, without much enthusiasm, and led his little guest indoors. Tennyson's second son may or may not have inherited the black blood of the family, but he was certainly a splinter off the old door-post in other ways.

Lydia Fowler picked up her heels and sprinted towards the cliff.

‘I'll show you a parody Mr Dodgson wrote of father's poetry,' said Lionel, as they walked indoors.

‘A poem by Mr Dodgson?' remarked the little girl, sardonically. ‘That will be fun. Perhaps we could give each other smallpox as well.'

And where was Lorenzo? Lydia's husband was at Dimbola, to take his apologetic leave of Mrs Cameron (who was not there) and offer Ada's old job to Mary Ryan (who was). The house was otherwise deserted: the Wattses had left, and Mr Dodgson was on board a coach to Shanklin (unbelievably) for another seaside holiday, and another batch of little girls.

But what a bombshell for Mary Ryan. She was astonished at Mr Fowler's offer, and blushed a vivid pink. She shut the drawing room door behind her, and begged him to lower his voice. It would be terrible if Mary Ann heard anything of this – so it was unfortunate that when she shut the door, Mary Ann was lurking outside, and got her hair caught in the jamb.

They stood in the drawing room looking at each other, Mary Ryan and Mr Fowler. Mary Ryan didn't know what to say. Lorenzo, on the other hand, could think of plenty.

‘You have such well developed Individuality, Mary,' explained Lorenzo. ‘How can you stay here, away from the world? You have such spirit, it should not be squandered. And you have a desire for a good marriage, too. But whom will you meet if you stay here? We, the Phrenological Fowlers, can offer you travel and glamour, even trips to the United States of America. Really, Mary, you must leave Mrs Cameron and come with us. We could take you this very day!'

Mary hesitated. It was true she loved the sound of travel and glamour. And it was true that she felt frustrated at Dimbola Lodge. There comes a point when ministering to gloomy high-brows gets a bit samey. Also, her photographic modelling career was rubbish.

‘I don't know.' Her face crumpled with indecision.

But it was then that Lorenzo Fowler – for all his experience in flattery, and for all his enormous Human Nature – made a bad move.

‘We could take you away with us today,' he repeated. ‘Mrs Cameron is a delightful employer, no doubt, but how can I forget what you said at my lecture – that you stay here only for indebtedness, not gratitude.'

Mary looked at him.

‘Did I say that?'

‘You did.'

‘I would never say such a thing.'

‘In your trance you said it, Mary. And anything said when mesmerized comes from the heart of hearts.'

Mary coloured up. She felt ashamed. Was she really not grateful to Mrs Cameron? Was she really such a bad, unchristian girl?

Lorenzo felt her slipping away, but didn't know what to do.

‘Please don't condemn yourself for your lack of gratitude, Mary. It is the most natural thing in the world. We phrenologists have discovered scientific evidence that gratitude scarcely exists. See these earlobes of mine, for example?' And he thrust his face towards her.

Mary struggled, she bit her lip, she looked quizzically at his earlobes. Finally, she spoke. Her mind was made up.

‘Thank you for your offer, Mr Fowler. I will always remember it. And I am sure I will never have another to match it. But perhaps my Individuality is too strongly developed for my own good. For, if only to prove to you that gratitude is not an accident of the earlobe, but a proper Christian virtue, I will remain with Mrs Cameron, who has been so kind to me. Without her kindness, I would probably be dead. Matrimonially, I shall take my chances here. Travel and glamour I hereby renounce.'

She sank in a chair. Such a big articulate speech was rarely required of the maids at Dimbola Lodge, but she always had it in her, and it came out very well indeed.

Lorenzo, who should really have applauded, was disgruntled, and left the room. Opening the door, he released Mary Ann, who sprang back, and then rushed in. Her mouth was agape like a big ‘O'.

‘Mary Ryan! Harken to you! Lor a massey!' she laughed in amazement, with her hands on her hips.

‘Don't,' said Mary Ryan. ‘Please don't.'

‘Just wait till Mrs Caameron hear this, buoy!' exclaimed the stupid girl. ‘Mary Ryan, if you doan't need your head examined!'

Up on the windy cliff, with no idea of the interest they were causing, the Tennysons proceeded in their usual manner.

‘Emily, listen,' said Alfred

He marked a place in his book.

‘What of it?' asked Emily, leaning over to pick an orchid. ‘It's
Mariana
again. You changed peach to pear, I know that.'

‘I am considering further emendations, my dear. “Garden wall” to “gable wall”. It is a great improvement?' Emily shrugged. ‘What do you think, Wilson?'

They both turned to the strange woman in black, who had hardly spoken.

‘I think I'd like to take you for a little walk by ourselves,' she said. ‘Poetry and fresh air never did mix.'

‘Good idea!' boomed Tennyson, and turned to survey the blue of sea and sky, while Wilson, with a mad laugh, kicked off the brake of Emily's carriage, and pushed it fast in the direction of the cliff edge.

The carriage had been built for this clifftop terrain, but it was murder nevertheless. Its big wheels bucked and slithered at the best of times, and now Wilson was pushing it much too fast.

‘Hold on, Wilson,' commanded Emily. The bumping was making her teeth dance, and her brain bounce in her head. ‘No, you hold on,' sneered Wilson. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Oh, it's not respectable to beg. I'm sure you told me that, Mrs Tennyson. I'm sure you mentioned it many times.'

The invalid carriage came to a halt in a little hollow, and Emily caught her breath. Something was wrong here. Wilson was much weirder than she remembered.

‘Alfred!' she called. But either the wind was too loud, or her voice was too soft, because he could not hear. And as for seeing her, there never was a man to whom ‘Out of sight, out of mind' more aptly applied. Currently, he was whispering ‘garden-gable-garden-gable' to himself, oblivious.

‘Wilson?'

‘Yes, Mrs Tennyson.'

‘Is there something you wish to say to me?' Wilson laughed again.

Emily turned to look at her. ‘I wish you'd stop laughing in that sinister way, and start explaining yourself. Look, Mrs Cameron is coming towards us. We will discuss any grievance you have when we return to the house, but at present, I wish to speak with my friend, even though – oh no, how can I bear it? – she is bringing me another roll of that infernal wallpaper.'

‘Are you telling me you did not receive my letters?' said Wilson, nastily. ‘Letters?'