The Daughters of Mrs Peacock (14 page)

‘No, Catherine. That's precisely the point.'

The intentness of his look, eloquent of more than admiration, appeased her; but she would not let him know it.

‘I see that it was foolish of me to come. And improper too. Thank you for telling me. Good night.' She turned away.

‘Please don't go!'

‘Perhaps I ought to have explained,' said Catherine
over her shoulder, ‘that Sarah and I are staying with the Skimmers, in North Street. But I imagined Papa would have mentioned it.'

‘He did mention it,' Robert earnestly assured her.

‘But evidently you weren't interested. And why indeed should you be?'

Coming nearer he put a restraining hand on her arm.

‘If we're to quarrel, Kitty, let's do it in comfort. We might walk a little way, don't you think? Will you wait while I get my hat?'

She raised her eyes to his, silently assenting. He had never called her Kitty before.

At the junction of the four main roads of Newtonbury stood the Market Cross, a noble octagonal structure stained and mellowed by five centuries of time. Except for the church, All Saints, it was the most ancient building in a town predominantly Regency in style; and the paved open court at the base, with its stone seats round a central pillar, provided the perfect venue for an ingenuous young lady and a gentlemen bent on correct behaviour. Here, in this public place, they could sit and talk freely, and even intimately, while advertising their innocence to any passers-by who might chance to see them.

‘What a lovely evening,' said Robert. ‘The best time of the day.'

‘Yes,' said Catherine.

Now that she had at least part of her wish, and need struggle no more, peace descended on her. She gazed at the gilded street, a river of brightness intersected by long, clean-cut, patches of shade. Soon she must resume her
campaign, but for the moment it was enough to be with Robert, enjoying the shared silence, the occasional word, the illusion—if it were no more—of intimacy. But the quietness she had won was not absolute: it was quickened by her sense of his physical presence, as of something long imagined and dwelt upon and now miraculously actual.

‘Are you staying long in Newtonbury?'

‘Only ten days, I think. With the Skimmers.'

‘Ah yes. The watchmaker.'

‘Do you know him, Robert?'

‘Not socially, of course. But I've been to his shop.'

‘Why of course? Don't you like him?'

‘Oh, quite. An odd but amiable character, I imagine.'

‘He's really, you know, rather clever in his way. Much cleverer than Ellen, though she's nice too, and
they
think she's marvellous, poor dears. He's got any number of books, Robert. I know, because I sleep with them.'

‘You
what
?'

‘Sleep with them,' she repeated, laughing. ‘They've put up beds for us in his library. I'm sorry you don't like him much, because they have a sort of reading circle every Sunday after Evensong, and I was wondering if you could come. They'd be very pleased and flattered if you did. They're reading Dante or something, but I'm sure they'd change over to Omar Khayyám if you'd rather. Just a few neighbours,' she finished breathlessly, echoing Mrs Skimmer's words, ‘and a cup of coffee.'

‘I'm afraid it's not possible. I have an engagement for next Sunday.'

‘What a shame.'

‘But there are other evenings, aren't there?' he said quickly. ‘Would you and Sarah do me the honour of letting me drive you to Crowle Hill to see the Ruins one evening this week? And your friend Miss Skimmer too, of course, if she cares to come.'

‘Thank you. How very polite of you. Would you take us on your machine?'

He laughed, glad of the chance. ‘No difficulty about that. I'm sure Jobson will hire me a carriage. We might, don't you think, make a picnic of it?'

‘What fun,' said Catherine flatly. ‘I shall be well chaperoned, shan't I? Don't you think Mr and Mrs Skimmer ought to come too, just to make sure?'

‘Certainly.' He ignored the irony. ‘If we can squeeze them in.'

Silence fell between them. The proposal was left in the air. It had served its purpose of carrying them past an awkward moment, and whether or not it would be put into effect was a matter of almost indifference to Catherine, so remote was it from what she had hoped for. Normally the prospect of an outing would make her heart leap, but a party of four, three women and a man, would bring her, she thought despairingly, no nearer to Robert. It would leave him, moreover, free to follow his own dangerous devices on the Sunday. She ached to know the truth of that situation.

The silence lengthened. The precious minutes dragged by. She sat broodingly, staring at the ground, only half aware of the eyes anxiously watching her averted profile. In a few moments she must get up and go back to North Street. With nothing said to the purpose? The idea
was intolerable. Yet how, without shocking and repelling him, could she expose herself, men being so proper, so conventional, so stupid?

Anger came to her rescue. ‘Will you tell me something, Robert?'

‘Of course, if I can.'

‘Are you as careful of Mrs Stapleton's reputation as you are of mine?'

He did not answer.

Turning to him, searching his face, she said tragically: ‘Now, I suppose, I've offended you. You'll never speak to me again.'

A queer smile visited his severe features. It vanished instantly, giving place to a gentle gravity that made her heart turn over.

‘No, Catherine. I'm not offended.'

‘Aren't you?' she said eagerly. ‘Do you promise?'

‘Nothing you say could offend me,' he said, lightly touching her hand. ‘But… well, never mind.'

‘Tell me then. Are you very fond of her?'

‘Why? Why do you ask? Is it so important?'

‘Yes,' said Catherine. ‘Yes. Yes. You know it is.'

‘But why, my dear? What can it matter?'

‘Don't call me your dear,' she exclaimed angrily. ‘You don't mean it. Else you wouldn't be so blind.'

‘Am I blind? I didn't know.'

‘It's not fair. I can't help being young.'

‘It's not such a bad thing to be, you know.'

‘Can't you see she's not your sort?' asked Catherine in a tone of wonder. ‘Besides, she's too old for you.'

He smiled. ‘I've no doubt she must seem very mature
to you. But you forget: I'm not so young myself. At least fifteen years older than you.'

‘I know that,' said Catherine. ‘It's nice. Just the right difference.' Embarrassed by his sudden, startled comprehension, she got up. ‘I must go now. Good-bye.'

‘May I not see you home?'

‘Of course, if you wish.'

The walk to North Street was accomplished in all but silence: a silence on her part full of a tremulous happiness, shot through with doubts and fears; and on his part, what?

In this flat country, enclosed on all sides by uninterrupted sky, Crowle Hill was a curiosity and an excrescence: no soaring eminence, but a sudden round bump, smooth and green, that looked as though it had been turned out of a gigantic pudding-basin. It was one of the recognized ‘sights' of the county, and a favourite resort of picnickers. Coupled with it, by the accident of propinquity, were ‘the Ruins', a broken geometrical pattern of walls, open to the sky, which were all that remained of Newtonbury Abbey where centuries ago generations of monks had lived and died, holy and aloof, taking no part in the busy life of the town three miles away. The thing to do was to ascend the obscuring hill and on reaching its rounded summit exclaim in wonder and delight at the expected yet always surprising sight spread out below, and then descend on the other side to make its nearer acquaintance and perhaps, if one had a taste for such experiences, imagine oneself to be living for a moment in that bygone age.

Robert Crabbe, by virtue of his temperamental bias,
was able to do just that: standing in the long grass full of nettles and willowherb, and surrounded by the walls of what had once been the Abbot's Kitchen, he assumed in fancy a monk's habit, feeling the sun warm on his bare, tonsured head, and under his sandalled feet the hard brick floor that was in fact buried under centuries of accretion. Not so his two young ladies (Ellen had elected to stay at home): to them the ruin was a ruin and no more, the past remote and unreal, the present, the living moment, everything. It was nice to be here; it was fun; but the mystery of time did not engage them. It was enough for them, Catherine and Sarah, that they were alive
now
, now and for ever, in an endlessly exciting and amusing world.

‘Here we are,' said Robert, ‘in the Abbot's Kitchen. The external shape, you see, was a square; but the interior was octagonal, with fireplaces and chimneys filling in the four corners.'

‘Why the Abbot's?' asked Sarah. ‘Did the poor man have to do his own cooking?'

‘Hardly,' said Robert, smiling but serious. ‘He was an important person. His authority was absolute. The work of the place, I imagine, was done by lay brothers, men whose vocation was for the humbler forms of service. Hewers of wood and drawers of water, as the phrase goes.'

‘Poor things,' said Catherine. ‘It doesn't sound much fun. What did the rest do, Robert?'

‘They would be engaged in spiritual exercises, don't you see? Prayer and meditation.'

‘What, all day long? I think I'd rather have been a what-d'you-call-it, a lay brother.'

‘Me too,' said Sarah.

‘Well, yes, perhaps you would. But we must remember they also produced some beautiful works of art. Illuminated missals and so on. Let's go and see the chapel, shall we? What's left of it. Actually, it's the best preserved of all the ruins.'

They picked their way through the rank grass and emerging from the kitchen resumed their exploration in an easterly direction, along a lane enclosed by low ivy-clad walls. Three parts of the chapel, and even a section of its roof, were still intact. Nave and chancel were buried under soil and grass, the sediment of the ages giving ground for new growth; the odour of incense lingered only in imagination; and where prayer and praise had once ascended, invisible exhalation of piety, was now the haunt of wayfaring or roosting birds. A whirr of wings startled the silence as they approached. Suddenly alert, they came to a standstill.

‘Where we're standing now,' said Robert, ‘were the cloisters. The floor, it's supposed, is some three feet below the present ground level. How do we know that? Not by digging, though that would be a good way to make sure. But no. It's because on moonlit, nights, at a certain time of the year, a ghost has been seen, perhaps the old Abbot himself, gliding along the cloister, head sunk in meditation. I say gliding because only the upper half of him is visible, the rest of him, from the waist downwards, being submerged. That means, don't you see, that he's walking on the original flagstones: which, of course, is what one would expect, isn't it?'

Catherine shivered. ‘How gruesome!' But Sarah,
eyeing him curiously, said: ‘Do you really believe that?'

‘Not quite, my dear Sarah. But it's a good story.'

Catherine, clutching at his arm, said urgently: ‘Look, Robert! There's someone there now—in the chapel!'

‘Dear me! So there is. How very——'

He left his comment uncompleted, embarrassed by what he read in Catherine's face.

‘Don't worry, Kitty,' said Sarah equably. ‘
She's
not a ghost.'

‘So I see,' remarked Catherine. The toss of her head, the look she flashed at Robert, were an accusation.

‘How very extraordinary,' said Robert, ‘and unexpected.'

She averted her eyes from him, burning with the consciousness of having been seen and watched by the interloper, perhaps for some minutes. How hateful, she thought. How shameless. She's come to look after her property. Not for a moment did she doubt who the woman was; nor did she ask how she knew that Robert was to be here this evening. He had told her. He had told her everything. She, Catherine, had been the subject of an amused conversation. Her first impulse was to escape, but a counter impulse resolved her to stand and give fight.

Olive Stapleton, elegantly posed, awaited the party's approach with an air of polite indifference tempered by amusement.

‘Good evening, Mrs Stapleton,' said Robert, raising his hat. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.'

‘Is it?' She offered her hand. ‘But why so formal, dear Robert? Won't you introduce your young friends?'

‘I was on the point of doing so. Miss Sarah Peacock. Miss Catherine Peacock.'

‘Ah! So we meet at last, my dears. I've heard so much about you. Haven't I, Robert?'

‘Have you? I don't recollect——'

‘But yes indeed. The Peacock sisters are famous. He talks of you day and night, and always, I assure you, in the most flattering terms. How odd that we should chance to meet here. A chance in a thousand.'

‘A remarkable coincidence,' said Catherine.

‘Yes, isn't it, Miss Catherine? Yet perhaps not so remarkable. I so often come here. It provides, you know, an objective for one's evening walk.'

‘You're fond of walking, Mrs Stapleton?'

‘I dote on it, Miss Sarah. And I dote on these dear ruins. So quaint. So old.'

‘Age, I imagine, is a feature of most ruins,' remarked Sarah. ‘You must be fond indeed of walking to have come so far.'

‘Ah, but one's little house is only half an hour away. I make nothing of the distance. Something less than two miles, wouldn't you say, Robert?'

‘We shall believe you,' said Catherine, ‘without Mr Crabbe's corroboration.'

‘Dear me! What long words for a young girl!' drawled Olive Stapleton.

Robert said, tactfully intervening: ‘Too far, I suppose, for Harold's small legs? Mrs Stapleton, Catherine, has a charming little boy.'