The Imaginary Gentleman (16 page)

The colonel frowned: his own cravat was tied in a manner that paid some attention to fashion, but his heir looked half-strangled in the elaborate arrangement around his neck. He looked across at his elder daughter in the dimness of the carriage. “You may well win a heart, Jane,” he said.

“I doubt the captain has often heard a performance more delightful,” her mother said.

“It would be convenient to have you off our hands
suitably
,” said the colonel. His wife nudged him with her foot.

“What ails you, my dear?” he said loudly.

His wife whispered, “Jane won't like to be reminded.”

“Soon her little sisters will begin to crowd the drawing room—that will remind her,” he replied.

Mrs. Woodruff patted Jane's hand. “I love to have you with me, my sweet girl.”

Jane made the effort to smile. The two girls, seated one by each parent, looked at one another, with Evalina struggling to return Jane's glance with equal affection. How patient Jane is, she thought. How can she wait with such equanimity, year after year, for what may never come to pass?

 

Sir Richard did not return to the drawing room after seeing off his guests, but stomped off across the lawn in the gathering dusk. Edward set off after him.

Elspeth lay back wearily in an armchair by the fire, playing with her lace shawl. Laura sat in a straight chair nearby.

“Elspeth, did Mr. Woodruff give you a letter just now?” asked Laura.

“A letter! What an idea! He offered to attend to any errand I might have in Cornwall, so I asked him to collect my new piece of lace, which I left at home.”

“He gave it to you very secretly.”

“The silly boy likes to pretend we share some intrigue.”

“You might show more consid—” She broke off as the door opened to admit Edward.

“I thought you were walking with my cousin,” said Elspeth.

“I gave it up. He was not in a temper to be cheered.”

Elspeth nodded. “How he hates to be teased about his old-fashioned notions.” She yawned and closed her eyes.

Laura indicated a distant corner of the long room and they left Elspeth to move there.

“Edward, tell me at once,” whispered Laura. “You have learned something about Mr. Templeton.”

“Richard has told you of our enquiries at Mr. Whichale's house?” he said, in a quiet tone.

“Yes, indeed. I admit, to you, that Elspeth was correct in that I may not … have heard the entire truth from Mr. Templeton. But why follow the trail to Plymouth?”

There was a long pause, while Laura became increasingly uneasy.

“I did not go there in search of Mr. Templeton.” He took her hand, yet could not look at her. “Laura, my dear, you are the only person in the whole district, it seems, who has seen or heard of him.”

“It is very peculiar.”

He was silent, and she studied his expression, seeing his acute embarrassment.

“Do not speak it, Edward! How can you betray me in this way?”

He began so slowly that Laura wanted to shake him. “Nevertheless, Laura … I find … I cannot believe in him.”

She jumped up and stepped away from him, speaking in a whisper still. “I might lie, but a complete stranger, your Mr. Whichale, is to be believed—because he is a gentleman?”

“I know you would never engage in deliberate falsehood, Laura.”

She stared at him, her struggles visible in her eyes. Her voice sank
an octave and carried clear across the room. “Dare you say that you think Mr. Templeton a figment of my imagination?”

Elspeth looked up.

Edward rose. “Laura, I beseech you …”

Elspeth cut in. “I cannot let you put Edward in the wrong, Laura. You must face the truth.”

Laura turned to her. “I will not deal with you in this matter, Elspeth.”

“You will find you have no choice,” said her sister, unperturbed.

Laura gasped, turning from her to her brother. Then she felt a strange calm descending upon her. “Pray answer me, Edward.”

Edward came to her and took her hand, his gaze never wavering, although she saw the pain in his expression.

“I cannot tell you how this tears at my heart. I believe that you always spoke the truth, as you saw it. However, I have satisfied myself that … he … does not exist.”

She drew her hand from his and stepped back. She was shaking her head, saying over and again, “No … no … no.” Edward glanced at Elspeth in alarm, but she merely made a gesture of impatience. Laura reached out her hands, as if to keep her balance. Edward stepped forward to take them, but she raised them in a repelling gesture and he stopped.

“My dear Laura!”

“I am not your dear Laura, Edward, if you will not believe me. Mr. Templeton has abandoned me, but I did not dream him into very existence. Do you not know me at all?”

“I know you well, Laura, but you have not always known yourself. All has been explained to me, by one with great skill in these matters.”

“What do you say now? You believe me deluded and have discussed the matter with an outsider?”

Elspeth rose and glided quickly to her side, putting her hand upon her sister's arm.

“Laura, dear, Edward has gone to great trouble to consult a physician.”

Laura shook her off. “You do not deceive me, Elspeth. I understand you through and through.” She turned to Edward. “It is you who has betrayed my affection and my trust, and after so long being my friend!”

She left the room, climbed swiftly up the stairs, and felt her way to her room, scarcely able to see for rage and grief.

R
ISING VERY EARLY, BEFORE
J
ONATHON
was at his post, Laura left the house. Grey clouds hung low over Oakmont as she hurried into the pines. She forced her steps, one at a time up the path, pushing against the aching tiredness of her limbs. Finally she reached the summit, all but falling onto the seat, and let out a sigh; momentarily she leant her elbow on the armrest and rested her head against her hand. Her eyes closed—she escaped the blurry aching in her head by falling briefly into oblivion. As her head slipped from her hand, she heard the sound of a footstep and she started, pulled herself up straight and looked over her shoulder to see Jonathon slipping back out of sight.

Laura felt as though inside a clear carapace. Even as it protected her, it cut her off from all sensation, so that the lovely vista held little power to refresh her. She wearily registered that clouds were massing on the horizon, spreading a dull blanket over the peaks, while in the field below, sheep huddled together under a clump of trees. Only slowly did she become aware that her skirt whipped about her ankles, and her scarf flew across her neck, stroking her face. She pulled her velvet cap low, feeling its soft comfort around her ears.

It's windy, thought Laura. Like that day by the sea at Lyme. How wild the ocean became, under those lowering clouds. I can almost taste the salt still. The sun darted through the clouds for a moment. How the waves lit up!

As though she was still there, Laura could see the sparkling trail of light, which disappeared when she looked back to the east. I viewed it from the wrong angle to see the light reflections. She closed her eyes, recalling the glittering trail on the sea. What had followed? Oh, yes, the sound of his voice—it had thrilled her to the core of her being.

Mr. Templeton had said something about that phenomenon of the light, about the direction from which they looked, influencing what they saw. Vaguely she thought this wisdom might help her to
find a key to the puzzle. She had slept so little the previous night that she could not tease it out.

She drifted almost into sleep until suddenly realising her mistake. If he was not real, then it was she who dreamed him into being, and she who placed the words in his mouth. She could not think it out for the dull aching of her temples.

The sound of a footfall made her groan—Jonathon would drive her madder still. Turning her head, she saw Richard there, emerging from the pines; now resting his hand on the back of the seat, taking off his hat so that his wispy hair flew about.

“Dear Laura,” he said. “May I sit with you?”

“If you do not fear contagion by my madness.”

He sat by her and took her hand, holding it in both of his. “It is not madness, Laura, merely an error.”

“My brother and sister do not share that kind interpretation.”

“They cannot understand you, Cousin, as I do.”

She gestured with her free hand. “I want to believe that life will go on as before, that after this momentary setback, all will be as it always was. Yet I will never be as I was.”

He was listening, nodding slowly, paying attention to her every word.

“You must feel the loss deeply, Laura.”

She wondered at the way he so often understood her, yet he often surprised her when he did. She had never truly valued him.

“I have
lost
not only Mr. Templeton, but the friendship I always enjoyed with my brother.”

“Nay, never lost. He will always love you and be your friend.”

“He has lost respect for my … abilities. I hardly care for an affection that is four parts habit and one of pity.”

“Is that so deficient? Can we always secure the depth of regard that we desire? Edward and Elspeth have not known enough of loneliness to understand you, dear Cousin.”

She felt a surge of fear.

“Richard, don't speak of it!” She could not bear up if all was put into words.

“I think it best, Laura. Why keep our feelings hidden from the few who understand them?”

Making as if to draw her hand from both of his, from the comfort of his gloved fingers, she could not do it, only observed the way his fingers began to intertwine with hers, and felt the solace of it.

After a little pause, he said, “I recall the occasion of your birth, Laura. I was in the solar, playing with my mother's silks and buttons, while she read to me. My father came in with a letter in his hand. He said that his brother's wife was safely delivered of a girl, both in good health—or some such words.
Thanks be to God
, Mother said, as she indeed found several occasions to say daily. She held a small sweet pastry in her fingers and she paused just so …”

He kept one hand on hers while demonstrating with the other the dainty manner in which his late mother had held the sweetmeat.

“I remember that habit,” said Laura. “She managed to suggest that she would never be so base as to eat it.”

He chuckled and returned to the story. “What I particularly remember is my mother's response when my father said that your name would be Laura. She said that the mother and grandmother were both named Elspeth. Why call the child Laura? How very peculiar, she thought it!” Sir Richard shook Laura's hand a little when she did not respond.

She could not laugh, could not speak. That core of strength inside her, which always held her heart and all her feelings tightly in place, was slipping away. There was nothing within which to encase her feelings, nothing to hold onto for balance, as though she turned to water. Her resolve, ever hard and true, was cracking, falling into pieces, washing away, as though over a precipice. She was left with nothing to dam her feelings, nothing with which to wall up her pain.

Laura felt one of Sir Richard's hands drawing away from hers, felt his arm around her shoulders. She was leaning against him, the velvet of her cap pressed against his temple, her forehead against his cheek. He released her hand to fumble for his handkerchief, which he dabbed on her cheeks until she took it from
him, holding it to her eyes, while he held her to him and she cried.

The first drops of rain began to fall and she sat up, drawing her hand from his.

“Laura, whatever you need of me, whatever is required, I will do for you—nothing less.”

She could not bear to speak of it, so could not thank him for this gift. He drew her arm into his, held it firmly against his side and, in the rain, they descended the path to the house.

At the bottom of the path, she said, “Will you post a letter for me?”

She saw how he hesitated, how torn he was between his undertaking to hand Laura's letters to her sister and the vow he had just made.

“It will contain no mention of …”

“Nay, tell me nothing. I trust you completely,” he said.

He took out his keys and unlocked the little-used side door to the house, so that Laura was able to pass to the side staircase and thence to her room without observation. She changed into her night attire and slipped back into bed.

Laura fell soundly asleep, only waking in time to see the afternoon sun beginning to creep in at her window, lighting up the room and underlying the silence in the old house. She had slept through the rain, through the activities that had occupied the household. In nightdress and shawl, she sat at the table near the window, drew her little desk to her and opened it. She took out her sketchbook—determined now to study the picture of Mr. Woodruff rising from the Hollow. Something of the young man's essence was captured in the drawing. Was that how she truly saw him as he emerged? Why did she confuse him then with Mr. Templeton? Laura tore the picture from the book, screwed it up and pushed it into an empty pigeonhole of the desk.

Her hands shook a little as she opened her ink bottle and prepared her pen to write a letter. A momentary shadow fell across her paper and she looked out at the clouds racing across the sky. She waited a moment, calming herself before she picked up the pen.

Laura wished to write to her Aunt Fielding in such a way as to obtain the information she required without taking advantage of Richard's trust. She wrote lightly and amusingly of those seaside events that could neither cause alarm nor raise expectations. She dwelt briefly on Mrs. Gurdon's illness and her hopes for the lady's recovery, adding a postscript:

From staying with her aunt, Laura knew that Mrs. Fielding paid frequent morning visits to Mrs. Gurdon, usually in the absence of their husbands. She folded over the bottom of the page so that the postscript lay concealed and folded the top part of the letter over it. The ends were then folded and the last flap tucked in. Red trickles of wax fell upon the edge of the sheet and the folded part beneath it, and she pressed into it the Morrison seal that lay upon the table.

There came the low rumbling of carriage wheels upon the gravel drive. Peering from the side of the window, she was just able to see her sister's chaise turning in at the gate.

 

Their small family party gathered for dinner at Sir Richard's end of the table, as was their habit when no visitors joined them. The ladies sat to either side of the baronet, and Edward beside Elspeth, who seemed to have recovered from her headache. She gave them an animated account of her visit to the vicarage, for the family there had just returned from a visit to Bath.

“Mrs. Johnson is in fine form, for a wonder. She recovered from the last increase in her family.”

“Poor lady,” said Sir Richard.

“Mrs. Johnson is not sorry for herself. She invites Laura to come and see the little creature, which is to come home tomorrow from fostering. Ten months of age and a … girl, I think.”

“That is something to anticipate,” said Laura.

“How I should have loved a babe of my own!” Elspeth lightly stroked her flat stomach. “However, it was not to be.”

“It is hardly too late, Elspeth,” said Edward. “You are but three and twenty.”

Elspeth sighed. “I know not that I shall ever marry again.” She gazed for inspiration at the light shining in through the stained-glass panels in the window. “I may never know the joys of motherhood.”

She let her hearers put their own interpretations upon this sad prophecy.

“How glum you all look!” she cried. “You have not yet heard all my news, for I discussed with Mrs. Johnson my new gown. It is to be cut in the very latest mode, after a pattern sent me by Lady Clarydon.”

“The wondrous Lady Clarydon!” cried Sir Richard, happily. Elspeth looked at him suspiciously; then dismissed her fear of irony. Sir Richard was never ironical.

“Indeed she is wondrous, dear Richard,” she said. “I wish you to know her. Do not look so fearful! She will be shortly passing this way to visit her uncle and aunt.”

“Does her ladyship spend any time in the company of her husband?” said Laura.

“Ha! Ha! She is the picture of devotion—from time to time.”

Sir Richard frowned. “'Tis not right, Elspeth, for husband and wife to spend so much time apart. I cannot conceive of any cause for them to be separated at all.”

Elspeth looked at him with sugary fondness. “If she were married to you, dear Cousin, that rule would very likely apply. However, his lordship lives for his sport and … a myriad other interests that cannot be expected to seize the interest of his lady.”

“Her duty is with her husband,” Sir Richard stolidly continued.

“The countess has fulfilled her primary obligation in producing two sturdy little sons. She is to be seen arriving on his lordship's arm at all of the more important parties in London, during the Season.”

“I don't like it.”

The captain laughed. “It would not suit you or me, Cousin, to be parted so much from the one who provides the comfort of a home. Yet these great people often live by a different rule. One hears no particular evil of Lady Clarydon, while the same cannot always be said of her husband.”

“A lady will always attract some unpleasant talk if she spends more time away from her husband than with him.”

“Many a man turns a blind eye when it suits him,” muttered Edward.

“His lordship is not always appreciative of her ladyship,” cried Elspeth, a little crossly. “When you meet her, Richard, you will be perplexed to understand the cause.”

“When I meet her, Elspeth?”

“Indeed, yes, for the countess has given me notice that she will call in here, at Oakmont. She is everything delightful and condescending.”

Sir Richard shook his head and tutted.

Elspeth said, “Your relations will be more careful of your happiness than Lady Clarydon's were.” She looked from Sir Richard to Laura. “I intend to see you content in matrimony.”

“I … I don't wish for you to make such arrangements on my behalf,” Sir Richard said.

Elspeth's laugh tinkled sweetly, but Laura caught a brief glimpse of complicity between her and Edward. What now? she thought.

 

Later, in the gloom of the gallery, Laura passed her letter privately to her cousin to post.