The Shivering Sands (23 page)

“It’s quite simple. You interest me.”

“How extraordinary.”

“Surely others have found you interesting. One person did at least. I am referring to your genius.”

I said hastily: “Then I wish you would not refer to him in that way. He did have genius, and it’s no use your sneering at that simply because—”

“Simply because I lack all the accomplishments that were his. That’s what you mean. What a poor figure I must cut in comparison.”

“I never thought for one moment of comparing you.”

I was uneasy. What did he mean? Was this a kind of inverted flirtation? It was like a scene from a French farce Pietro and I once saw at the Comédie Française. His wife was with her lover in part of the wood; he was with me talking in this enigmatic way in another.

I should have walked across the lawns to the house and left him. But if he went back to the copse…Perhaps that was partly an excuse. Perhaps I wanted to stay. Perhaps I was only partly repelled—and a great deal fascinated.

These people’s complicated affairs were not my concern, I kept reminding myself. Yet I
was
desperately sorry for Edith, and I knew that the worst thing that could happen to her was for her to be found in a compromising position with her lover. This man did not care for her; but what would his action be if he found himself cuckolded? And if Edith were going to have a child which he would disown…this house would see another tragedy.

“You should forgive me if I am too blunt,” he was saying as he had said before, and his voice was suddenly soft and caressing. “You see, I was seventeen when I shot my brother and when my mother killed herself because of it.” He almost relished the words, I thought, speaking slowly, savoring them. “And then I went to the other side of the world. It was a different life…one lived…rough. One did not enjoy the company of ladies such as yourself.”

“And your wife?” I said.

“Edith is a child,” he said dismissing her.

But I would not allow her to be dismissed. “She is young yet. That is something which we have all been once and it is quickly remedied.”

“We have no interests in common.” The second time he had used that phrase. I thought with horror: He is comparing us. He is telling me he prefers me. I thought of Allegra’s mother—the wild gypsy—what had his wooing of her been?

“Interests between married people are built up over the years,” I said primly.

“You take an idealized view of marriage, Mrs. Verlaine. But then you enjoyed such a perfect one yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said fiercely. “Yes.”

And again I felt that mockery.

“I should like to have met you…before…”

“Whatever for?”

“To see how it changed you. You were a music student, eager for fame. They all are, I believe. All the glories of the world are within the grasp. I’ll swear you heard the applause of enraptured audiences as you sat at your piano.”

“And you…what did you experience before…”

I stopped and he finished for me. “Before I fired the fatal shot. Oh, envy, malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness.”

“Why do you want me to think you are so wicked?”

“Because I would rather tell you myself than wait for other people to do so…Caroline.”

I drew away from him.

“Ah, I’ve offended you. I should not use your Christian name. ‘Mrs. Verlaine, how do you do? What a nice day it is. It’s going to rain.’ That’s how I should talk to you. How dull. How inexpressibly dull. In Australia we never had conversation. There never seemed the time. I used to think of being home…gracious living as it would have been if Beau had lived. I could talk to him. He was witty, amusing; he knew how to enjoy life. That was why it was said that I was envious of him. Envy is the deadliest of the seven deadly sins, did you know?”

“It’s over. For God’s sake why can’t you say it’s over.”

“For the same reason that you can’t forget the past. It’s no use your telling me. You think of it all the time. You color it up. It was a perfect idyll. So you believe, and you go on believing it. At least I try to see things as they are.”

“You had an accident…”

“Listen. Would they have believed those things of me if I had been different? No, I had shown my unpleasant character, my sullenness…my outbursts of temper…If Beau had shot me—believe me they would immediately have said it was an accident.”

“You are still envious of him,” I said.

“Am I? You see how it helps me to know myself…talking to you.”

“It could be so pleasant,” I said, “if you put the past behind you. If you began again.”

“And you?” he asked.

“Myself too. I am trying to make a new life for myself.”

“You will,” he said. And then he added wistfully: “Perhaps we both will.”

I could not meet his eyes. I was afraid of what I might discover there. At all costs I must get away now.

“Good night,” I said, and walked quickly across the grass and into the house. He fell into step beside me; and as the dark pile of stones loomed up before us I thought of Edith in the copse with her lover while I was here with her husband.

And I wondered too if anyone saw us out here together.

W
hen I next went to the vicarage I found Mrs. Rendall in a state of great indignation. Jeremy Brown had gone and the vicar was more overworked than usual. She really did not see how he could manage to teach the girls
and
do justice to his parochial duties until he had a new curate to help him, and she wanted me to explain to Mrs. Lincroft that until that time the vicar could not be expected to teach the girls.

I told her that I would speak to Mrs. Lincroft without delay, and asked if she would like the girls to go back with me now so that the vicar could return at once to his church work. “I could give them their music lesson at Lovat Stacy,” I said.

She was a little mollified. “Come in and have a glass of my elderberry wine. I don’t think we will disturb them this morning…as long as you will speak to Mrs. Lincroft and some new arrangement is made without delay.”

I glanced at my watch. I was a little early and there was ten minutes to spare before the first piano lesson was due.

Mrs. Rendall took me into her sitting room, unlocked a cabinet and brought out the wine bottle labeled in her neat handwriting.

“One of the best brews I have produced,” she said with satisfaction, “though my sloe gin was superb…even better I think. However perhaps you would prefer the elderberry.”

I said I would and she poured wine into two glasses and handed me one while she told me how she had always made her wines herself for one could not trust servants nowadays. A glass now and then was so good for the vicar and she often insisted on his taking it when he had one of his chests.

“Better than any doctors’ medicine,” she said proudly, savoring the brew and watching me to see that I showed adequate appreciation, which I did.

“Yes,” she resumed satisfied, “some other arrangement will have to be made…temporarily.”

“You mean they will have to employ a temporary governess?”

“I hardly think that’s necessary. Governesses are so unsatisfactory nowadays. Mrs. Lincroft was a governess at one time, I believe. She could I am sure manage until we get settled here.”

“Mrs. Lincroft seems to be capable of doing anything.”

“A clever woman. Make no mistake about that. She ran that household…even when poor Lady Stacy was alive. There were some who said that Sir William was very fond of her…in fact more fond than he should have been.”

“No doubt he appreciated her talents.”

Mrs. Rendall’s laughter was explosive and unpleasant. “Talents indeed! However she went away for a while and came back with Alice, and she seemed to slip into her old place—running the house and being at hand for whatever was needed. And now of course she’s almost the mistress of the house with Alice living there like one of the family.”

“One could hardly stress the difference in the girls’ social standing.”

“And why not pray? Alice
is
the daughter of the housekeeper, and I for one think it a little odd that she should mix with Edith—Allegra is different, I know, but she
is
Sir William’s granddaughter. I have allowed Sylvia to be friendly with Alice. What else could I do?”

“You could do nothing else if you wish Sylvia to be educated with the others.”

“Exactly, but that does not alter the fact…By the way, how is Sylvia progressing with her lessons?”

“She has little talent for the piano I fear.”

Mrs. Rendall sighed. “In my day, if people didn’t show talent they were beaten till they did.”

“I’m afraid it is impossible to beat talent into a child where it does not exist.”

“I should punish her if I thought she was not working. And beating would not be necessary. A few days on bread and water, Mrs. Verlaine, and that child would play the piano. I never saw such an appetite. She’s always hungry.”

“She’s growing.”

“I hope you will report to me when she does not do the work you set her.”

“She tries very hard,” I said quickly.

I glanced at the watch pinned to my blouse. “It is really time for the first of the lessons.” I rose. “I shall speak to Mrs. Lincroft as soon as I return to Lovat Stacy.”

Mrs. Lincroft rose admirably to the occasion. She would set the girls tasks and keep an eye on the schoolroom until a new curate could be found.

“If you could give me a hand I’d be grateful, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said.

“I should be pleased to help,” I replied, but reminded her that I had not been trained as a teacher.

“Good gracious, Mrs. Verlaine,” she replied, “nor have I. How many governesses have been? They are usually impoverished gentlewomen forced to earn a living in some way. And I should say that you have had a better education than most. Wasn’t your father a professor?”

“Oh yes…yes.”

“And I daresay you and your sisters and brothers were better educated than most.”

“I only had one sister.”

She was quick to notice I had spoken in the past tense. “Had?” she queried.

“She is…no longer with us.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. And now I remember your mentioning it. As I was saying it’s obvious that you are well educated and you would be particularly useful with their French lessons. I should be so grateful if you could help me out until the next curate arrives.”

I said I would do my best.

Edith had not come for her lesson. I glanced at my watch. Five…ten minutes overdue.

Sylvia was in the schoolroom with Allegra and Alice.

I hesitated to go to Edith’s room. Since my encounter with Napier that night near the chapel I had avoided him and I was reluctant to go to the room he shared with Edith; but when another five minutes passed I decided I must overcome my objections.

I knocked at the door and received a rather feeble request to enter.

Under the domelike canopy, her face pale, her eyes anxious, Edith was lying. “Oh dear,” she cried when she saw me. “My lesson! I’d forgotten.”

“Edith,” I said, “what’s wrong?”

“It was the same yesterday morning. I feel so ill.”

“Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

She stared at me miserably. “I’m going to have a baby,” she said.

“That’s a matter for rejoicing.”

“Oh Mrs. Verlaine…you’ve been married, but you didn’t ever have any babies.”

“No,” I said.

She looked at me earnestly and said: “You seem sad about it.”

“I should have loved to have babies.”

“But it’s terrible, Mrs. Verlaine. I heard Cook talking about the time when her daughter was born. It was terrible.”

“You shouldn’t listen to such tales. Why, women are having babies every day.”

She closed her eyes. “I know,” she said.

“You should be so happy.”

She turned her face to the pillow and I saw from her heaving shoulders that she was crying.

“Edith,” I said. “Edith, is anything wrong…apart from this?”

She turned her head sharply to look at me.

“What else could be wrong?” she asked.

“I wondered whether I could do anything to help.”

She was silent and I was thinking of those words I had overheard in the chapel. I was thinking too of something else I had overheard, a chance remark which had led me to believe that she was being blackmailed.