The Daughters of Mrs Peacock (19 page)

Sarah smiled evasively. ‘It's lovely to be back.'

‘Yes, but something's happened,' Catherine insisted. ‘Hasn't it?'

‘I hope Papa comes home soon,' said Sarah, getting into her nightdress.

Catherine was already in bed, sitting up, expectant. Sarah joined her. She blew out the candle, whose wick, the flame departed, gave forth an acrid, hovering stench; and presently, in the intimacy of darkness and warmth, she told her story.

‘Oh Sally! How wonderful for you!' Catherine said. ‘I'm terribly excited. Aren't you?'

‘I'm not altogether displeased,' Sarah admitted. ‘But he may have changed his mind by now.'

‘Humbug said the hedgehog. You know he hasn't. I expect there'll be a letter tomorrow. Will he come to stay, do you think?'

‘That depends, doesn't it.'

‘On Mama, you mean. Yes, there's sure to be a commotion. When will you tell her?'

‘Not till Papa comes home. It's a secret, mind, till then. Now tell me about Robert.'

‘I think, I'm not sure, he'll be coming next Sunday. Papa said something. Isn't it funny of him not to write, though?'

‘I expect he thought it unwise. Do you like him very much, Kitty?'

‘I might,' said Catherine, ‘if he liked me. But I don't suppose he does. Not much. Besides, there's that woman. It must be wonderful to be in love. To let yourself, I mean. I do think you're lucky, having Edward. I'm dying to see him. Is he nice, Sally?'

‘He is not entirely lacking in attractive qualities.'

Catherine gurgled. ‘Is that what you said when he asked you to marry him? How gratifying for him, as Papa would say.'

‘I don't know about gratifying, but there were no complaints.'

‘It's such a comfort, Sally, having you back. Don't get married too soon,
please!
'

‘No chance of that,' said Sarah, rather sombrely. ‘He's not in a position to marry yet. Besides …'

‘Besides what?'

‘We might have a double wedding. That would be fun.'

‘You and Julia, do you mean?' said Catherine slyly.

‘Of course. What else?'

‘As for me,' said Catherine, ‘I shall be an old maid. I may even go into a decline and fade away, like Mary Godolphin in
Rosemary and Rue
' Now that she had Sarah again, to confide in and laugh with, her heart was lighter, her lovesickness eased. ‘Shall you tell Papa first, about Edward? He's sure to be on your side.'

‘Will he be? I wonder.' Sarah was not so confident.

Mr Peacock returned two days later, but not until Thursday was she able to put her question to the proof. A visit to London on his part was a rare event: for his womenfolk it had all the wonder and excitement of an odyssey. They crowded about him, plying him with questions and greeting with delighted indignation his teasingly brief replies. Had he stayed with Uncle Richard? Yes. Had he been to a theatre? No. Then what
had
he done and seen? What adventures had he had? He had got up in the morning, he assured them, and gone to bed at night, and in the interval had encountered a number of people all of whom, though Londoners, had eyes in their heads and noses above their chins. As to whether he was glad to be home again, he
must have time to consider the question; but at least he could promise to endure the circumstance with fortitude. Sarah alone, playing his own game, held somewhat aloof from the inquisition, knowing that much as he enjoyed frustrating their curiosity he would sooner or later, in his own time, when the din had subsided, tell them all there was to be told. Meanwhile the salient fact that emerged was that the purpose of his visit had been achieved: all arrangements had been made for the opening of a London office of Messrs Peacock and Crabbe, in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Upstairs, on the first floor, was a small room known as Papa's study, to which Mr Peacock resorted when he wished to enjoy the pleasures of solitude. Catherine in early childhood had once described it to a visitor as ‘the place where Papa sleeps', and it was true that sometimes, with a calf-bound volume nestling in his lap, he would close his eyes for a few moments, reasonably confident of being neither disturbed nor detected.

‘May I come in, Papa?' said Sarah, peering round the edge of the door.

‘Eh? Certainly, child.' He put down his pen.

She advanced into the room. ‘Am I interrupting your letter?'

‘The fact is incontestable,' said Mr Peacock. ‘It would be idle to deny it.' He smiled amiably. ‘But the letter can wait. It will come to no harm.'

‘I want to talk to you,' said Sarah, perching herself on the arm of the nearest chair.

‘Yes?' He glanced at her sharply, over his spectacles.

‘I met someone while I was at Meonthorpe. Rather a nice person.'

‘Excellent, so far,' said Mr Peacock judicially.

‘I wondered whether it would be a good idea to ask him to come and stay with us for a few days, during the school holidays.'

‘Am I to understand that the young gentleman is still at school?'

‘Don't be difficult, Papa. He's an assistant master. Actually, he's older than I am.'

‘Poor fellow. How does he support the burden of his years?'

‘The point is,' said Sarah firmly, ignoring the heavy banter, ‘we … like each other. And … the fact is, he has asked me to marry him.'

‘Has he indeed? Wasn't that a little rash of him, on such a short acquaintance?'

‘I think you'll like him, Papa.'

‘I'm already disposed to like him, my dear. Impetuous he may be, but he shows excellent taste.'

‘Thank you, Papa.'

‘But that's not to say that I can do with him as a son-in-law.'

‘Would you care to know his name?' said Sarah. ‘Or would that seem to you an irrelevance?'

‘The answer is Yes, my dear Sarah, to both questions. To know his name may turn out, eventually, to be a convenience. On the other hand, it can have no bearing on his eligibility.'

On the strength of this meagre encouragement Sarah proceeded to tell all she knew of Edward Linton. She became aware, as the recital dwindled to its conclusion, that it amounted to painfully little.

‘You have known each other,' said Mr Peacock, ‘for little more than a week. You have spoken with him twice, I gather, or is it three times? You have spent an aggregate of perhaps half an hour in his company. Are you, on the strength of that, proposing to spend the rest of your life with him? Really, my love, you surprise me. I thought you were a sensible young woman. Do I need to remind you that marriage is a long business, and a difficult one? At the moment, I've no doubt, you imagine you are in love. That's very important and very agreeable, but it's not, I assure you, enough. Have you, may I ask, ever felt like this before?'

‘Never,' said Sarah, blushing deeply.

‘So much the worse. The experience is new to you, and therefore overwhelming. It may be that the young man is all, or nearly all, that you think him. But you are not, not yet, in a position to judge. You must give yourself time, my dear. And,' he added significantly, ‘you must give
him
time, poor fellow. Has it occurred to you that he may already be half-repenting his impulsiveness? That's a thing that has been known to happen.'

Sarah had indeed been tormented at intervals by just that doubt; but this very morning it had been resolved.

‘Yes, Papa. But I had a letter this morning, if you remember? The one that Mama was so curious about.'

‘I see. And you haven't spoken to your mother?' Guiltily, staring at the ground, Sarah shook her head. ‘You realize, don't you, that she'd be very hurt if she knew of this conversation? This will need careful handling, child. Whatever you may have privately resolved, an official engagement, at this stage, is clearly
out of the question. My advice is this. Let the young man find a pretext for visiting Newtonbury, and from there call and pay his respects to Miss Sarah in due form. He will then, if all goes well, be invited to stay with us for a day or two. I'll propose it myself if necessary. But as for what you've told me, my dear, I've already forgotten it. Let that be understood. His arrival will be a complete surprise to me.'

‘Oh thank you, Papa,' said Sarah. ‘That's a wonderful idea.'

On Sunday morning Catherine woke at first light, and could not sleep again. This was the day, so long looked-for, when Robert Crabbe was coming to luncheon. Recently, and especially since Sarah's homecoming, she had contrived to keep the thought at bay; but now it was unavoidable and must be examined in all its aspects. She was angry with him, and still more so with herself for having exposed her heart to no purpose. His five-weeks silence had not failed of its effect. At first she had been prolific in excuses for him, but now could no longer see his behaviour as anything but a snub, gentle and well-deserved, but bitterly unwelcome. Since he evidently had no use for her devotion, what better could he have done than ignore it? So she argued within herself, trying to be inflexibly just. Yet still her heart rebelled, clinging to its foolish dream. To meet him again would be painfully embarrassing for them both, she believed; yet the possibility that he might not come today after all was a torment. Even to see him would be something, would be almost everything.

‘Are you awake, Sarah?'

Getting no answer she slipped out of bed, padded across the room, and flung back the curtains, letting sunlight flood in. Then lifting the ewer from its basin she poured out some water and began her ablutions, wishing that the process were a noisier one. The house was quiet, no one was yet stirring, and a direct assault on Sarah's slumbers at this hour was against the code; but there was always a chance that with a little surreptitious encouragement she might wake of her own accord and put an end to this anxious intolerable solitude, this alternation of hope and dread. Sarah asleep had the trustful look of a young child: as well she might, having Edward for her own. Catherine rejoiced in her sister's happiness but could not quite subdue a pang of envy that to Sarah, who had always been inclined to make fun of such things, not to herself who so much desired it, had come this lightning visitation, love at first sight. She'll be married before long. And then, perhaps, Julia—who knows? And I shall be left alone, to be with Mama, and grow old.

A drowsy voice from the bed murmured: ‘Is it time to get up?'

‘Not really,' said Catherine, gliding quickly to the bedside, towel in hand. ‘But don't go to sleep again,
please
, donkey, unless you most dreadfully want to. It's Sunday. I was tired of lying awake, so I got up.'

‘Very commendable in a young girl,' said Sarah, ‘this eagerness for church. Is it the thought of Mr Pardew's preaching that excites you, dear child?'

‘Yes, Papa,' retorted Catherine. ‘What else could it be? But perhaps Mr Garnish will take the service today.
He's a good deal better, Julia says, in spite of the Budge.' She seated herself on the bed and fixed expectant eyes on Sarah. ‘It's Sunday,' she said again. ‘I can hardly bear it, Sally.' Her looked belied the words. The small alert face, enhaloed by the flame of her hair, glowed with a vital, irrational happiness. ‘Do you think he'll come?' she said breathlessly.

Sarah smiled. ‘Of course he will.'

‘I'm not sure that I want him to, now,' said Catherine, her eyes clouding. ‘It's all rather frightening.'

‘I think you do, Kitty.'

‘Yes, I suppose I do, really. And yet …'

‘I know,' said Sarah. ‘Don't worry. Everything is going to be all right.'

‘You remember what we were talking about last night?'

‘It begins to come back,' Sarah conceded, ‘as the mists of sleep disperse. We were talking about your lonely old age. Or at least you were.'

‘I rather think it. was nonsense, don't you?' said Catherine judicially. ‘I mean, even if he doesn't like me much, it's not the end of the world.'

‘It certainly isn't.'

‘Of course, I should never marry anyone else.'

‘Of course not,' agreed Sarah, with scarcely perceptible irony.

‘But it'll be fun being an aunt,' said Catherine wistfully.

‘We shall both be aunts in time,' said Sarah. ‘And Julia too. Poor Julia!'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Mama will never let us all go. Not if she can help it.
And Julia, you know, suffers from an enlarged sense of duty.'

‘That won't make any difference,' said Catherine, ‘if she falls in love. Perhaps Mr Pardew will be the one. She sees a lot of him, because of the Sunday School. And Mama thinks he's wonderful.'

Of Mr Pardew's wonderfulness they had a chance to judge for themselves a few hours later. The Vicar's boasted recovery did not amount to much: he left his bed for an hour or two each day, but neither Julia nor Dr Witherby, though they pretended otherwise, could suppose that he would ever be able to resume his duties. They tactfully refrained from telling Mr Garnish that his ‘smart young curate' was acquitting himself well in the pulpit. Responsibility had endowed Hugh Pardew with a new dignity and self-assurance. He would never be an inspired preacher, but this morning his manifest sincerity won respect even from Catherine, who, not daring to think of what lunchtime would bring, yet unable to forget it even for a moment, tried hard to concentrate on the sermon.

In the churchyard, on the way out along the narrow gravel path flanked with tombstones standing in rough grass, mute memorials of names long forgotten, of men and women beyond reach of this quivering late-September sunlight, there were neighbours to be greeted and to exchange a moment's gossip with. Then came the walk home, parents leading, daughters following in a row, each with a prayer book nestling in her muff. Catherine was now in a complicated state. She moved in an emotional vacuum between dream and reality, hardly knowing which was which. Her tormented psyche, confronted by
a choice between hysteria and partial anaesthesia, chose the wiser, safer alternative; but the resulting numbness left no outward mark on her behaviour; aware, though she did not belong to it, of the immediate world about her, the wide-arching sky, the running hedgerows, the chalky lane, she joined without effort, and indeed without thought, in her sisters' talk, while within her was an entranced silence, and within that silence, beating against its high walls, the voice of her anxiety, to which she dared not listen, incessantly chattered.