The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (31 page)

'I'm ashamed of you,' he said, 'and so are all your ancestors.'

'But they,' Linda said, 'are to blame for his behaviour --again if your theory is correct.'

Hadstock laughed. But as he followed her and the dog downstairs he said, serious again: 'If you feel nervous at night why don't you have some servants in this part of the house?'

'It would be so silly,' she said. 'Servants are so very nervous themselves, it would never do to allow them to suspect that I was nervous too. Besides, at the moment, on account of the alterations, there are only three rooms-- Mr Mundford's, Sir Richard's and mine--in use in this part of the house.'

'I see.'

They came to a standstill at the foot of the stairs. Then Hadstock said, staring about as though taking his bearings: 'If your room is beyond the one we've just inspected, it shouldn't be too far from the stableyard.'

'It isn't. One of my windows looks on to the yard.'

'Then, if you like, while you are alone here I'll come and camp over the stable. There is a room, unused. Then if at any time your imagination produced any fears you could shout or blow a whistle and summon my imagination to produce the explanation. I assure you the arrangement would not inconvenience me at all.'

'It is extremely kind of you to suggest it,' she said. 'I do thank you; very much. But of course I'm not really frightened, and I have the dog; and the servants are not far away. I wouldn't dream of putting you to such inconvenience--for it would be that, whatever you say.'

'Very well; as you wish, my lady. There are times when it is a convenience for me to be on the spot, and I had marked that room for my purpose. So if you ever look out and see a light rather late, you'll know.'

After that the time when it was convenient for Had-stock to sleep over the stables appeared to recur very frequently. Seldom, for the rest of that winter, during Richard's absences did she look out and fail to find the faithful little light.

Night of a Necromancer

During March of that year Linda received three letters from Richard, all urging her to spur on the workmen as he expected to find the alterations completed in April when he returned. The letters also contained detailed instructions for the placing of various articles of furniture --new carpets, mirrors and ornaments--which began to arrive at Clevely in almost daily consignments. The enclosure had gone as Richard had desired and his income would be larger in the coming year; also, as he wrote, in a moment of unusual expansion, his luck at cards since Christmas had been phenomenal. (He did not mention that shortly after his return to London he had again mentioned to Alec Mundford the matter of luck, and that Alec had said, 'Well, as I said, I'm bored with it. I'll lend it to you and see how you like it.' He had bunched the tips of his tallowy fingers and thumb together and lightly touched the back of Richard's left hand, using his left too. And that evening Richard's luck had changed and had continued good.)

On the second day of April Linda received another letter. Richard wrote that his plans had changed; he and Alec were going on a short visit to France, to a place called Loudon. They would return in May and come direct to Clevely, bringing company with them: two gentlemen and five ladies. 'Now that the house is habitable--or shortly to become so or there will be something to be said--we can begin to entertain a little, at least enough to leaven the lump of local company. These are a lively crowd--you, my dear, will probably think them too lively; but, as you are well aware by this time, I do not insist upon you sharing my interests any more than I enquire too closely into yours I So long as you have an eye to the material comforts and needs of our guests you may abstain from their company if you so desire and gather your primroses and catkins in peace! I will advise you of the date of our arrival nearer the time...'

Linda read this letter with an emotion which it was not written to evoke--a deep relief. Save for the finishing touches the house was ready--that was a comforting thought; and so was the plain implication that when the 'lively company' arrived she would not be expected to participate in their activities.

Inevitably, as April passed, alternating days of warm sweet promise with others of biting wind, and Richard's final letter arrived, and then May came and at last the day of the arrival dawned, Linda's relief gave way to a mounting anxiety. It was the first time in all her life that she had been responsible for a houseful of guests; and she feared Richard's censure if anything was unsatisfactory; she also became timid of the guests, especially the female ones. She knew Richard's taste in female company; the pattern had been set long before her time by that Mrs Davison who had been the cause of one of the first quarrels between old Sir Charles and his son. Richard favoured married women--smart, sophisticated women who for some reason or another had fallen from or abandoned the strictest standards of 'ladyhood'. They were usually past their first youth, not too financially secure, widows, or married to men who were merely shadowy figures in the background; but they were, invariably, what was called 'well-bred'-- and that meant that they would know and notice if in any detail the housekeeping and service at Clevely Manor should fall short of standard. Quite humbly Linda admitted to herself that life at the Didsborough Rectory, in Cousin Maud's comfortable middle-class establishment and in the places where she had lived with Richard during their married life had not equipped her to make good showing as the hostess of a country house.

So on first sight she was relieved, and at the same time, being human, slightly annoyed, to find that all five ladies were extremely young and what the French called 'women of the people'. All were very pretty, well-dressed, exquisite and even elegant in their equipment; but they were all of humble origin, and each pair of pretty, high-heeled feet was set on the bottom rung of the ladder which Angelina had scaled successfully. On the first evening, looking at all the lustrous young eyes, the slim young waists, the rounded young bosoms, the full, painted young lips, and listening to the voices, frankly rustic or painfully genteel, Linda thought to herself, with the inward honesty which was at once her curse and her salvation, Here we have the makings of a very superior brothel, and any minute now one of them is going to call me 'Madam' which will put me in my place!

That notion, followed to its conclusion, brought dismay. Was it right to be so compliant? Suppose Sir Evelyn Fennel turned up at Ockley with five such guests; what would Lady Fennel say, do? What ought Lady Shelmadine to do?

Lady Shelmadine sat there, weakly, feebly glad that her guests were not more intimidating. They seemed, indeed, to be in awe of her; and this attitude was encouraged-- almost deliberately, it seemed--by the behaviour of the male guests towards their hostess. They treated her with the most elaborate civility, as Alec Mundford had always done, and as Richard was doing. Both the men were 'gentlemen'; one old and rather shabby, with a cynical face and--it was revealed--a cruel, witty tongue; the other young and foppish, not unlike Mr Montague, who was, Linda was not surprised to learn, invited to make the tenth member of the party.

On the first evening, tired by travelling, everyone went to bed early. On the second, at about nine o'clock, Richard said, 'We are going to play cards and shall be late. If you prefer to retire my dear, we will excuse you.'

'If you propose to be late you will need some refreshments. Shall I order them?'

'That would be as well. Have them brought here and tell the servants they can go to bed. We can wait upon ourselves.'

The extension of the front of the house had resulted in more bedrooms, but still, in order to accommodate properly the ladies whom she had imagined would be critical, Linda had remained in the room which she had used during the alterations; and to it, having ordered cold food and wine and brandy, she retired. Hadstock's faithful little light still burned in the window above the stable. She had not seen him since Richard's return and probably would not see him as long as the visit lasted. Looking at the light, she now wondered what explanation Had-stock had given for his change of sleeping place, or whether he had indeed given any; and also why he had not taken the opportunity to return to his cottage, the house now being full enough of company to reassure the most insanely nervous person.

And yet, to her, dismissed to bed like a child--for the outwardly considerate words which Richard had spoken were nothing less than dismissal from her own drawing-room--the little light was, obscurely, a comfort, a recognition of her identity; proof that she mattered to someone. Upon that thought she slept.

She was awakened by Simon, who was moving about and growling that same low, stifled growl which he had emitted so often outside the door of Mr Mundford's room. She roused herself and listened. Quiet movements in the next room, muffled by the thickness of the old walls, reassured her. She did not trouble to make a light, but spoke softly to the dog.

'Don't be silly, Simon. Come here and lie down. It is only Mr Mundford going to bed.'

Simon remained restless for a while, then at last flung himself down with a sigh. Linda returned to sleep.

The house guests slept late next morning, Linda breakfasted alone, interviewed Mrs Hart, who, surly before the guests' arrival, had now cheered up under Richard's lavish praise of her arrangements, and then gone into the garden, where the first irises of the year were showing colour. She stood admiring them, Simon by her side, when one of his sudden, defensive movements warned her that someone was approaching her from behind. She turned and saw one of 'the girls' coming across the lawn from the house, walking rapidly. As the girl drew near Linda made an effort to fix a name to this young body, this pretty face, and succeeded; this was Miss Jackson, the one they called Rose, the one who, by just a trifle, was the youngest and the prettiest of the lot. This morning her face was puffy--with sleep, Linda thought at first; then she noticed that in her clenched hand Rose held a sodden handkerchief.

She said, 'Good morning, Miss Jackson. Isn't it a beautiful morning.'

'Lady Shelmadine, can I speak to you for a minute?'

'But of course.'

'Privately,' the girl said, looking back at the house.

'We'll go through here,' Linda said, and walked towards an opening in the thick yew hedge which backed the border where the irises grew. Another yew hedge grew on the opposite side of a wide grass path, and at the end of the path a third hedge made an enclosure in which stood a sun-dial and a stone bench. At this time of day, at this season, the sun fell on the bench and the yew hedges shielded it from the wind; it had seemed the perfect place to sit, Linda had thought. But it was, she discovered melancholy. The dark hedges were gloomy even in sunshine, and the sun-dial, with its trite little motto, 'It is later than you think,' was not cheerful company.

They sat down together on the sun-warmed stone, and after a moment's silence Linda said: 'Now, what did you want to ask me?'

'It's a favour. I want you to lend me my coach fare back to London. I know it's a lot to ask--in the circumstances, I mean; but I got to go, and I can't very well pad the hoof like this. ...' She indicated her flimsy, high-heeled shoes, her long, wide, silken skirts.

'Of course not,' Linda agreed. "Why should you? I'm sure my husband will...'

'Oh.' said Rose, her hand flying to her mouth. 'I got off on the wrong foot, as usual--but I did say privately, didn't I? I meant just between you and me, my lady; nobody else to know till I was safely away. Lend it to me, will you? I swear I'll pay you back.'

'That isn't what bothers me. I'd give it to you...but, to tell you the truth, I haven't got more than a few shillings.' She attempted to explain this statement, which was true. Richard allowed her money for current expenses, enough and no more. The allowance for April was spent, and now it was May and he was home and she would have no more money until he went away and left her in charge again. She had not, had never had, the price of the coach fare to London for her own; Richard housed and clothed and fed her--what more did she need?

The attempt to explain was drowned by Rose's bursting into sobs, noisy, uncontrolled as a child's with a broken knee. She appeared to be in such distress that Linda's mind flitted from the financial to the emotional problem; placing her hand on the girl's smooth silken knee, she said: 'What is the matter? Is someone ill? I'll think of some way...if only you'll hush and let me think. Why can't you tell my husband and ask him for the money?"

Rose hushed, drew a quavering breath, let it out in a final sob and began to talk.

'I'm daft,' she said, 'that's what's-a-matter with me. It all sounded lovely, a 'oliday in the country and nothing to it but the usual. I ain't all that particular, else I shouldn't be...You must of seen through us, my lady; you know what we are, shut your eyes as you may. Even so, even if it was what it looked like, it was a rotten crying shame. I knew that the first night, but what could I do? I got a living to make, same as everybody else. But even me...All right, I'm daft...and I'm scared. I'm too scared to go on with it, promise what they may. I know the difference between right and wrong; I do wrong...I know that, but a natural sort of wrong if you can understand that, my lady. This is different...nothing else ever scared me. Now I'm scared and I've gotta get away without their knowing. They'd be that angry! And I wouldn't put it past that Mundford to be sitting there in his bedroom and hearing every word I'm saying now...'

And deep down, far under the foundations of reason and experience, something in Linda's mind popped up its head and said distinctly, 'Neither would I.' And that was, of course, absolute sheer nonsense.

'That is nonsense,' she said aloud. 'No one could possibly hear from such a distance; and no one could approach us and listen. My dog would give warning. What is it that has frightened you?'

The girl lifted her head and looked at Linda; her eyes were very beautiful, a clear hazel in colour, with a tinge of blue in their whites and with thick, rather short black lashes.