The Daughters of Mrs Peacock (3 page)

With her arm round Judy's neck, and her cheek resting lightly, caressingly, on the smooth mane, Catherine fed her with lumps of sugar stolen from the breakfast-table. ‘We're going for a drive, Judy. Won't that be nice?'

Unhurrying, yet without losing time, Harry did his part. The pony was harnessed, gently backed between the shafts of the trap, and all made secure, Catherine herself, with a murmur of reassurance to this old friend of her childhood, buckling the last straps. While she was so engaged a new and audacious idea blossomed into decision.

‘I shan't need you, Harry, after all,' she said. ‘I shall drive myself.' Harry hesitating, bewildered by the
change of plan, she took the reins from him and sprang into the trap: whereupon Judy at once plunged forward, to be restrained by Harry's hand on her bridle. ‘Let her go,' Catherine commanded. Her tone was impatient, imperious. With a shrug he obeyed her, spreading his hands in a gesture of humorous resignation. ‘Don't tell anybody,' she called over her shoulder, ‘unless you have to.'

The yard gate, luckily, stood open; and unless Alice or Jenny should chance to be staring out of an upper window her exodus would not be seen from the house. Away they went, she and Judy, at a smart trot, along chalky white lanes, between hedgerows full of young green, uender a sky so vast and bright, so all-embracing, no hills intervening, that the roundness of the green globe, magically suspended in space, was no theory but a sensible fact. To Catherine's exalted sense the trotting hooves and turning wheels seemed scarcely to touch the ground: she had the sensation of flying or floating through the intoxicating golden air. To be driving was no novelty, she handled the reins with all the ease and assurance of second nature; but to be alone, and free, made the outing a delirious adventure.

Some forty or fifty minutes later, arriving in East Street, Newtonbury, she was confronted by a question to which she had given no thought: what to do with Judy and the trap while she went to see Mr Crabbe in his office; for that Judy would wait patiently for her return was more than she could be quite sure of. As she sat considering the matter, five yards from the elegant Georgian building whose door bore the legend
Peacock and Crabbe
,
a small tow-headed child, who was gazing in rapt contemplation at a glass marble cupped in his hands, got up from his seat on the pavement and transferred his open-mouthed philosophical stare to Catherine.

‘Hullo, Tommy,' said Catherine.

The stare did not waver, nor the lips utter speech.

‘Would you like to earn sixpence?' An immense sum, but her mood was reckless.

‘Yessum.'

‘Can you hold the pony's head for five minutes? See that she doesn't run away?'

‘Yessum.'

‘You're not very big, are you? Are you sure you know how?'

A faint smile, scornfully confident, added ten years to the child's apparent age. Without troubling to answer he stepped to the pony's head and attached himself to her bridle. Catherine, alighting, said: ‘That's right. I shan't be long.' To make sure of his loyalty she showed him the sixpence. ‘Only five minutes, Tommy. There's a good boy.'

Mr Crabbe, in his dark little room that smelt of leather and mahogany and black-japanned deed-boxes, greeted her quietly, concealing his surprise.

‘Good morning, Catherine. This is an unexpected pleasure.'

‘I've brought you a note from Papa, Mr Crabbe. He's rather poorly this morning. My mother is keeping him in bed.'

‘Dear me! Nothing serious, I hope?'

‘I don't think so. Just a little chill.'

‘Ah, yes. This treacherous weather. Never cast a clout, you know, till May is out. Though I must say it seems to agree with
you
, Catherine. You're the picture of health.' And of beauty, his glance added. Over the years he had seen her mysteriously change from a leggy and romping schoolgirl into a demure and dazzling young woman.

Robert Crabbe was a tall clean-shaven man, very neat in his dress and very precise in his movements, with a long straight nose, alert grey eyes, a rather severe mouth except when he smiled, and brown hair that was already beginning to go grey at the temples, above the two inches of side-whisker. He looked, in fact, far more the solicitor than her father did. Though it was Mrs Peacock's habit to refer to him as ‘young Robert Crabbe', perhaps by way of emphasizing his junior status in the firm, he was not young in Catherine's estimation, for he would never see thirty-five again. She did not however hold his age against him; if anything it enhanced her interest in him, by stimulating her curiosity. Here was a man who had lived and suffered, who had known marriage and bereavement. His allusion to the weather and its treachery gave her a moment's wonder; for it was in just such an April as this, three years ago, that pneumonia had carried off, as they said, his beautiful young wife. She remembered vividly the doleful faces and shocked voices of that tragic week, when to be specially kind to poor Mr Crabbe had been everyone's ruling thought.

‘Yes, yes,' said Mr Crabbe, having read his letter. ‘I see. Give your father my warm regards and my hopes for a speedy recovery. Everything is in hand, tell him.
No need to hurry or worry. And thank you, my dear Catherine, for coming.'

She offered her hand in farewell. He took it, bent over it, and ceremoniously kissed the finger-tips.

‘Good-bye, Mr Crabbe.' Surprised into blushing slightly, she turned quickly away; but he accompanied her to the street door and bowed her out. ‘I think it will rain before nightfall,' she said, for the sake of saying something. There was not a cloud in the sky.

‘Perhaps, when the wind drops,' he conceded politely. ‘Good-bye.'

Judy and the trap were waiting for her. The child she called Tommy was still at his post. She remembered, just in time, to give him the sixpence, still puzzling over Mr Crabbe's odd behaviour.

As she drove into the yard she was met by Harry Dawkins, fully awake for once, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs Peacock disappearing into the house.

‘You'm got me into trouble, miss,' said Harry, ruefully grinning. ‘She's in a rare taking, the missus.'

‘Why?' asked Catherine. It was an idle question, and she did not wait for an answer. ‘Don't worry,' she said loftily. ‘I'll put it right for you. It was none of your business.'

‘No, miss. I didn't tell on you, miss,' he explained eagerly, ‘not till she caught me unexpected. “What are you a-doing of here,” she says, “and where's Miss Catherine?” And then, don't you see, the fat was in the fire, as the saying is.'

‘What nonsense!' said Catherine. ‘Judy behaved splendidly.'

Though inwardly trembling, she held herself proudly, a disdainful smile on her young lips. The long habit of subservience could not be shaken off in a moment: hidden within her was a small scared child, detected in a misdemeanour. But it would never do to let Harry Dawkins see that, or Mama either. There was a battle ahead, and she braced herself for it. If she was in disgrace she was resolved not to seem aware of the fact, a resolution reinforced by a sense of the indignity of having been discussed, in terms of disapproval and apology, by an irate woman and a stable-boy.

Leaving pony and trap to be disposed of by Harry, she sauntered into the house, where, though she did not encounter Mrs Peacock, signs of an impending storm were not wanting. Julia, with a sad reproachful look, murmured: ‘Oh Catherine, you've made Mama angry.' Catherine answered, with a toss of the head: ‘Dear me! What a pity!'—and exchanged a bold wink with Sarah.

‘These children!' said Sarah, in her mother's manner. ‘What a trial they are, to be sure! … Did you have fun, Kitty?'

As the girls foresaw, it was not until they were all assembled at the luncheon table, Papa alone being absent, that Mrs Peacock opened the attack.

‘Catherine, I am displeased with you.'

‘Are you, Mama?' Her heart beat furiously. Her mouth was dry. ‘May I ask why?'

‘Don't ask me. Ask your conscience.'

‘Very well, Mama.'

‘Well?' said Mrs Peacock sharply. Catherine did not reply. ‘Answer me, child.'

‘Perhaps,' Sarah suggested, ‘Kitty's conscience has nothing to say.'

‘Be quiet, Sarah. Let your sister speak for herself.'

‘Gladly, Mama, if she wishes to.'

‘What did I tell you this morning, Catherine? What were my instructions?'

‘To go to Newtonbury, Mama, with a message for Mr Crabbe from my father.'

‘Don't equivocate. I don't want a sly daughter. I told you to get Harry Dawkins to drive you in. My words were quite plain. And you deliberately disobeyed me.'

‘Oh no, Mama!'

‘Don't contradict. Never before have you gone so far, and into a busy town, by yourself. You know that perfectly well.'

‘There must always be a first time, mustn't there? And, as you see, I came to no harm.'

‘That is beside the point. The point is that your behaviour was improper.'

Improper? This was strong language indeed. Unladylike would have been bad enough, but improper was by many degrees worse. Even Julia was startled by the word, which to her suggested unimaginable depths of infamy. Catherine continued to face her mother with a look of stubborn, faintly smiling incomprehension; but suddenly remembering Mr Crabbe's impetuous gesture she felt herself beginning to blush. There was no logic in her sense of guilt: Mama could not have intended that Harry Dawkins should chaperon her at that interview, nor
could even she, whom so little escaped, possibly know what had happened. It was less than nothing anyhow, the girl told herself: the merest, meaningless civility. Yet its memory momentarily confused her and tied her tongue.

‘But why, Mama?' pleaded Sarah, coming to the rescue. ‘We know it must be so if you say so. But do please explain. It's so important that we should know what is and what isn't proper. Do you mean that a strange man might have spoken to her? But he couldn't have without stopping the trap. And if he'd tried to do that she'd have run over him. Wouldn't you, Kitty? Or beaten him off with the whip,' she added irrepressibly. ‘Young girl defends her honour.'

‘Have you finished, Sarah? Thank you. Then perhaps you will allow your mother to speak. The impropriety, as you ought to know, was in the disobedience. That is the long and the short of the matter. You and Julia have reached years of discretion, or so I like to think. What is right for you to do is not necessarily right for your little sister. If Catherine had asked my permission I should very likely have said Yes, young though she is. But no, she preferred to deceive me. She preferred to go behind my back. And I forbid you, Sarah, to try and make a joke of it.'

‘But aren't you forgetting, Mama,' said Catherine, ‘that I am turned twenty?'

‘I do not propose to argue, Catherine,' said Mrs Peacock, resorting to her favourite formula. ‘You have grieved me very much.'

It was clearly her last word. The meal proceeded in silence. Julia shot an anxious glance at Catherine,
waiting for the words of contrition that did not come. Catherine, feeling like a whipped child and angry with herself for so feeling, swallowed the food with difficulty. She wanted nothing so much as to leave the table and hide herself away but was determined to resist the impulse. Sarah, shocked at last into gravity, kept her eyes on her plate.

Yet the sequel, as they all knew, was not in doubt. If dear Mama was grieved, or claimed to be so, there was only one thing to be done. Sooner or later, and the sooner the better, the ritual of apology must be performed, that the cloud might be lifted and all breathe freely again. Sarah knew, and Julia knew, that it was only a question of waiting until Catherine, her resentment subsiding, her lifelong affection reasserting itself, could for all their sakes bring herself to the point of surrender. This she did, later in the afternoon, choosing a moment when her mother was alone. She said she was sorry, shed a few tears, and received a kiss of forgiveness. Peace and happiness were restored: the family was united again.

A sweet child though wilful, thought Mrs Peacock, with a backward glance at her own spirited girlhood. As for Catherine, though in her heart she did not repent, and thought her mother unreasonable, she bore no grudge. If Mama was like that, knowing herself to be always in the right, that was how she was made, and the harmless fancy must be humoured. It did not prevent her being Mama—the best in the world.

Before the week was out Mr Peacock, Edmund, Papa, was in circulation again. He was a restive patient and could suffer his wife's coddling no longer. Dr Witherby, whose appearance suggested an amiable eagle in spectacles, solemnly pronounced him to be out of danger, but taking his cue from Mrs Peacock he advised him to have a few days more rest at home, to get his legs back and build up his strength before braving the east wind again, which, it appeared, was for some unexplained reason more to be feared in the neighbourhood of Newtonbury than here at Lutterfield.

‘Nonsense, Witherby!' said Edmund Peacock. ‘I was never
in
danger. You and my wife are in a conspiracy to make an old woman of me. As for the wind, it's shifted, or I'm a Dutchman. And anyhow there's not enough of it to fill a paper bag.'

The advice, however, was not unwelcome: in no great hurry to get back to the office he was glad of the excuse to spend Saturday, as well as much of Sunday, pottering about the farm in breeches and gaiters and an old tweed jacket. So clad, so occupied, he felt more himself than in his sleek town-going gear, interviewing clients, drawing up wills, executing conveyances, and dissuading hotheads from litigation. All those activities represented not only
another life but another personality. This was recognized by the whole family: it was one of his favourite jokes, of which they never wearied. ‘You're a shameless woman, Emily,' he would say. ‘You have two husbands.' And Emily, pretending to be shocked, would answer complacently: ‘What a way to talk, and in front of the girls too!' He did in fact sometimes shock her with his more audacious pleasantries, but she enjoyed the sensation and was perhaps obscurely gratified that though he would often defer to her judgment, more especially in matters that did not greatly concern him, he was a genially masterful person with a will of his own. His visible presence in the house—a large vigorous man, with long chestnut-brown moustaches and copious side-whiskers adorning a broad red face—made a subtly different woman of her, younger, more placid, a wife as well as a mother. For that reason alone, had there been no other, his daughters would have adored him. The family atmosphere was never so serene as when Papa was at home.