The Pool of St. Branok (53 page)

“I wasn’t there,” she murmured. “If I had of been …”

I held her head against me. “No, Fanny. It was as well you weren’t there. She should have come to us.”

“She would stay with ’im.”

“It was what she wanted.”

“She shouldn’t ’ave.”

“People have to make their own choices in life. She knew this could happen and she stayed with him.”

Timothy had moved closer to us. He put his arms round us both.

“It’ll be all right, Fanny,” he said. “You’ll be here. Ours … completely now.”

“You won’t want me.”

“Oh yes we shall.”

“You got yer own … both of you.”

“We can always do with more,” I told her. “We’re greedy, Fanny, and we want you.”

“Do you reely?”

“We do indeed,” said Timothy fervently. “We want you to stay with us … we want that very much.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because we love you,” I said.

“Garn,” she said. “Nobody never said that to me before.”

“We’re saying it now.”

Then suddenly she was crying—the first tears I had ever seen her shed. She clung to me … and then she reached out and included Timothy in the embrace.

At length she withdrew herself and dabbed angrily at her face. “Look at me. You’ll think I’m daft.”

“We think you are a very nice girl,” said Timothy.

Then I could see the tears coming again.

“It’s all right, Fanny,” I said. “We all cry sometimes, you know. They say it’s good for you.”

She just lay against me while the tears rolled down her cheeks. I wiped them gently away.

“I love her,” she said. “She was good to me. She was me mum.”

“I know.”

“I ’ate ’im. I always ’ated ’im. Why did she ’ave to? My dad was all right, he was.”

“Life is like that sometimes,” I said. “We have to take it and make what we can of it.”

“I like it ’ere,” she said. “I never thought you’d keep me. You’re funny, you two. I ought to be scrubbing floors or something. I wouldn’t mind. But I like being with the little ’uns. I like that Rebecca. She going to live here?”

Timothy pressed my hand.

“No, we live in London,” I said. “We’re just visiting.”

“But you will live here, won’t you? The two of you …”

She was almost pleading.

“You together … both of you. You’re all right. I like you … better even than Mrs. Frances. She’s some sort of angel, ain’t she … but you two … well you’re just … people. That’s what I like, see? I want to be with you both … and the children … and that little Rebecca.”

“It may well turn out that way,” said Timothy, looking at me.

She said slowly: “I’ll never see me Mum again. I can’t believe it.”

“It is terribly sad,” I said. “If only she had come away …”

“Will they hang him?” she asked.

“It seems likely.”

“I’m glad of that,” she said vehemently. “It makes me feel a lot better. He won’t be able to ’urt nobody no more.”

Then suddenly she turned to us and hugged us, first me and then Timothy.

He said: “We’ll work it out, Fanny. Don’t worry. I think we are all going to be very happy together.”

He took her hand and then mine; he held them in his own.

I felt then that, in time, I should be here with them both.

W
E WERE AT BREAKFAST
next morning—my mother, Timothy, Janet and I. My mother had been glancing through the morning papers.

“Here is something that will interest you?” she said. “This is a real scandal sheet. It’s about Benedict Lansdon. It could mean that he is getting on so well in Manorleigh that he has got some people worried. It is scandalous the way they are allowed to print such things.”

“What do they say about him?”

She took up the paper and read: “ ‘Benedict Lansdon, charismatic candidate for Manorleigh, is creating quite an impression. It seems he is leaping ahead of his rivals. He is indefatigable … here, there and everywhere dispensing charm in exchange for the promise of votes. It is prophesied that for the first time in many, many years the seat will change hands. Benedict Lansdon has had a spectacular career before taking up politics. He is a golden millionaire—one of the few who struck lucky in Australia. Benedict’s luck came to him through his marriage which brought him the mine containing rich veins of gold. Mrs. Elizabeth Lansdon appears at all functions with her husband, but who is the elegant third? I can tell you. It is Mrs. Grace Hume, daughter-in-law of Matthew Hume, Cabinet Minister in the last Tory administration. Mrs. Grace is a staunch supporter of the party in opposition to her father-in-law. Rather a storm in the family teacup? Perhaps, but Mrs. Grace gives her fervent loyalty to candidate Benedict. It is Mrs. Grace who speaks to the press. Mrs. Elizabeth’s lips are sealed. Why does she appear with the sad look on her face? Is she worried about her husband’s chances with the Manorleigh voters? That seems to be rather unnecessary as things are going. Or perhaps is it because the elegant and ardent supporter of her husband should be such an intimate member of the household?’ ”

I felt myself growing more and more angry as my mother read on.

“What a horrible suggestion!” she said, laying down the paper. “Grace is only trying to help Lizzie. Poor Lizzie, what must she think?”

“I wonder what Ben thinks about it,” I said.

“Oh, he’d shrug it off. But it is very hurtful to Lizzie and Grace.”

“I always thought,” said Janet, “from what I have heard of Benedict Lansdon that he must be a very attractive man.”

“Did you know he is some sort of distant relation of ours?” asked my mother. “You’ve met Amaryllis and Peter. Well, Benedict is Peter’s grandson. It was a love affair before his marriage. Apparently Peter always looked after the family.”

Janet looked disapproving.

“Yes,” went on my mother. “It was irregular. Somehow people forgive Peter his indiscretions, don’t they, Angelet?”

I nodded.

“And he has done so much for the Mission. They wouldn’t have been half as successful there without him. Their activities could not have been so widespread. I’d like to know what Peter thinks of these paragraphs.”

“So you think they will affect Ben’s chances of getting the seat?” I asked.

Timothy said: “No. I shouldn’t think so for a moment. There is a good deal of this sort of thing going on at election time. I think people don’t take too much notice of it.”

I was thoughtful. I was shocked at the suggestion and scarcely listened to their comment. I was thinking of Lizzie, so inadequate, so scared of what had been thrust upon her, trying to face all those people; and of Grace who was able to talk to them with charm and efficiency.

Grace and Ben! Could there really be anything in the suggestion? Most women would admire Ben and it was a long time since Grace had become a widow. Lizzie had turned to Grace. Had Ben, too?

I thought then how foolish I was. I had had an offer of marriage and a peaceful life from a man whom I could trust and I was refusing it because of my feelings for someone who was out of reach and, in any case, of whom I should always be unsure.

My mother and I returned to London with Rebecca. The Ransomes were very reluctant for us to go. They came to the door to say goodbye as the carriage arrived to take us to the station. Fiona and Alec waved frantically. Janet said: “You must come again … soon.” Timothy was coming to the station with us and Fanny stood looking at me reproachfully. Rebecca burst into tears which was the most effective way of saying she had enjoyed the visit. We could only pacify her by telling her that we should be coming again soon.

At the station Timothy pressed my hand and said: “I shall see you at the Mission on Wednesday.” And we said goodbye.

On the way home my mother eulogized about their being such a charming family and how pleased my father would be to hear the result of our visit. She did look at me with slight reproach I knew because there had not been an announcement of my engagement to Timothy and they all gleaned that it was my fault.

So I traveled back to London between a tearful daughter and a rather disappointed mother; and I told myself once more that I had been foolish not to fall in with what everyone seemed to think was an excellent plan.

But there was still time.

The next night we were invited to the house in the square; and to my surprise Ben was there. Lizzie was not with him. She was resting, he said. Grace was with her.

I said: “I did not expect to see you. Shouldn’t you be charming votes out of the voters of Manorleigh?”

“There is time before polling day,” he said.

At dinner Uncle Peter talked about the piece in the paper. He waved it aside. “Just malicious gossip,” he said. “It shows they’re rattled, Ben, looking for stuff like that.”

After dinner when the men joined us in the drawing room, Ben made a point of coming over to me.

“I must talk to you, Angel,” he said.

“Well? Talk.”

“Not here. Could we meet somewhere?”

“What is it you have to tell me, Ben?”

“Let’s meet. Shall we say in the Park? Kensington Gardens … in the flower garden.”

“Do you think we should?”

“We must. Tomorrow, ten thirty.”

“But …”

“Please, Angel. I shall expect you.”

I slept little that night. I lay awake wondering what he would say to me.

I found him waiting impatiently. He rose as I approached and, taking both my hands firmly in his, drew me to a seat.

“What is it Ben? What’s happened?”

“It’s this Timothy Ransome.”

“What of him?”

“You have been visiting his house … with your mother.”

“Well, what of it?”

“It is rather significant that he should invite you with your mother. It seems to me that it is for one purpose. Have you promised to marry him?”

“No, I have not and, Ben, I don’t see …”

“That it is my business? It
is
my business, Angel. I love you. You and I were meant for each other.”

“But you are married to Lizzie.”

“That was because …”

“You don’t have to explain. I know only too well. You didn’t love Lizzie, but you loved what she could bring you. You knew there was gold on her father’s land and that was the only way you could get it. You did try to buy it at first, I know … I grant you that.”

“Stop it,” he said. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand, too well. I was there, remember.”

“It is all in the past.”

“But the effect is with us still.”

“I love you. I want you … you only. More than anything I want you. You were married to Gervaise. Life was cruel to us both. It was always too late. And now you are proposing to marry again. First you were married to Gervaise. Then I was married to Lizzie …”

“You are still married to Lizzie.”

“She might divorce me.”

“Divorce you? On what grounds? I remember you suggested that Gervaise and I might divorce. It seems to be a ready solution for you.”

“It is a solution.”

“Never. Think of your political career. Would you stifle it at birth?”

“I would do anything if we could be together.”

“Ben, you are being rather rash.”

“What I want to say to you is … wait. Don’t rush into this. Oh, I know he is a worthy man … full of virtue and good works … as I could never be. But could he love you as I do?”

“I really don’t think you should be talking like this.”

“I’m telling you the truth. I know that we are meant for each other. We shared that … incident together. It bound us to each other in some way. I should never have gone away. Oh … isn’t it illuminating? One can look back and see where one has gone wrong all along the line. I should have stayed with you then … until you were well. I should never have gone back to London. I should never have gone to Australia. I think it was something to do with that … which made me want to go. It was on my conscience too, Angel. I thought I would get right away. You see, you were only a child then. Had you been older, I should have known … and then, as soon as I saw you again, I
did
know but you were married to Gervaise then.”

“It is no use going over it. We are where we are today and that means that you are married to Lizzie. I am sure she loves you devotedly. She brought you what you wanted … the mine … money … power. It was what you had always aimed for. People have to pay for the things they want.”

“But such a price, Angel.”

“Remember the miners … the story you liked so much. They thought they need not go on paying and look what happened to them.”

“That is a legend. It has nothing to do with our case.”

“You can compare them,” I said. “Listen to me, Ben. You have a great deal. You have a career which you will enjoy. It stretches out ahead of you. Perhaps it is not everything you want … but it is a great deal.”

And I was thinking: I have Timothy. It is not everything I want … because I want Ben; but it is a great deal.

“I’ll never give up hope,” he said. “Have you promised to marry him?”

“No,” I answered.

“I thank God for that.”

“You have become very pious suddenly, Ben.”

“Don’t joke. This is too serious a matter.”

“How can it change, Ben?”

“I never give up hope.”

“I must go.”

“Wait a while.”

“I really shouldn’t have met you here. What about all this talk?”

“What talk?”

“That piece in the paper about you and Lizzie and Grace?”

“Oh that. That was just the enemy getting rattled.”

“Could it spoil your chances?”

“Sensible people will take it for what it is.”

“How does Grace feel about it?”

“Rather put out I’m afraid.”

“It seems … so horrible … just because she helps Lizzie.”

“I know. But most people take it for what it is.”

“So you are going to get in?”

“I hope so.”

“The first step along a dazzling career?”

“That is what you think of me, is it?”

“I know you, Ben.”

“Don’t give up hope, Angel. Something will be done.”

“I must go.”

“I have to get back to Manorleigh this afternoon.”

“I suppose you will be there until the election?”