The Shivering Sands (24 page)

How could that be? She was an heiress, it was true, but I doubted whether she had control of her money. It might by now have passed into her husband’s possession—an unpleasant reflection.

Poor little Edith, married for her money to Napier Stacy when she was in love with Jeremy Brown, who had gone away to provide the only possible solution to their sad little love story.

But before he had gone had they consummated their love, and was the child she was now carrying the result? I suspected this might be the case for she was so young, so incapable of managing her life. I was filled with a great desire to protect her, and I wanted her to know this.

“Edith,” I said, “if I could do anything to help…please let me…if you think that’s possible.”

“I don’t know what to say…what to do, Mrs. Verlaine. I feel so…bewildered.”

I took her hand and pressed it; her fingers clung to mine and I was certain that she drew some comfort from my presence.

Then she seemed to come to a decision for she closed her eyes and murmured: “I just want to rest for a while.”

I understood. She might confide in me sometime but as yet she could not bring herself to do so.

“If you want to talk to me at any time…” I began.

She said, “Thank you, Mrs. Verlaine,” and closed her eyes.

I did not want to force confidences. I was sorry for her, because if ever I saw a frightened girl that girl was Edith.

Sir William was jubilant. He sent for me to play for him and before I did so he asked me to sit beside him for a while.

“I’m sure you have heard the news,” he said. “We are all delighted.”

He looked younger, I thought, and a great deal better than I had seen him yet.

“Your performance was such a success,” he went on, “that we must have another. You are a very good pianist, Mrs. Verlaine, I should say a great one.”

“Oh no. That is going too far,” I protested. “But I’m delighted that I pleased you and your friends.”

“It is pleasant to have music in the house again. Mrs. Stacy will continue practicing now for a while yet, I daresay.”

“Perhaps she will not wish to continue with lessons after the child is born.”

“We shall have to ask you to teach him.”

I laughed and said a few years would have to elapse before then.

“Not so many…wasn’t it Handel who was discovered playing the piano in an attic at the age of four? Music is in the family, Mrs. Verlaine. The child’s grandmother would have been a great pianist, I believe. She was, as you would say, very good.”

Yes, I thought, the atmosphere of this house was changing. He could refer to his wife without embarrassment. And this was all due to the child Edith was going to bear, a child which might not be this man’s grandchild.

I had admitted the possibility of the doubts which had been niggling in my mind for some time. Poor Edith, what a dilemma for her. What if she confessed to her husband…My imagination was running away with me, and I could see a terrible tragedy looming up over Edith’s head. I heard her voice raised in fear when she talked to a blackmailer. She looked so innocent on the surface, and she was innocent, I was sure of it. It was life that was cruel.

Sir William was silent for a while and I asked him if he would like me to play for him now.

He said he would and the pieces were on the piano for he had already selected them.

They were light, gay pieces; among them I remember were some of Mendelssohn’s
Songs without Words
. I remember in particular the “Spring Song,” gay light music, full of the promise of gay young life.

I had played for an hour when Mrs. Lincroft appeared. She came into the room and quietly shut the door behind her.

“He’s asleep,” she whispered. “He is so contented.” She smiled as though Sir William’s contentment was hers; and I thought of what Mrs. Rendall had hinted about the relationship between them.

“It is really so satisfactory…so soon,” she went on speaking quietly. “Personally I didn’t think Edith was robust enough, but often those delicate-looking girls are the ones who have the children. Then Napier…he has shown quite clearly that he…Well, what I mean is he could scarcely be called a devoted husband. But he knows that Sir William expects him to provide the heir. He was brought home for that.”

I said rather indignantly: “Rather like a stud bull.”

Mrs. Lincroft looked very shocked at my indelicacy and I was a little ashamed of it myself. There was no need for me to be so vehement. Napier had come home of his own free will, knowing what it involved.

“At least he must do his duty,” said Mrs. Lincroft.

“And it seems he has.”

“This puts him on a firmer footing here.”

“But surely as Sir William’s son, his only son…”

“Sir William would have left the house and a considerable portion of his income elsewhere if he had not come home. But he came…naturally he came. He was always ambitious; he always wanted to be first. That was why he was jealous of Beau. Well, that’s all over now. He’s accepted his father’s terms and when the child is born Sir William will feel more kindly toward Napier, I am sure.”

“Sir William is a hard man.”

Mrs. Lincroft looked pained. I had again forgotten my place. It was the influence of Napier. Why did I want to defend that man?

“Circumstances have made him so,” she said coldly, and there was a note in her voice which told me that I was showing poor taste in passing adverse opinions on my employer. She was a strange woman, but I was deeply impressed by her absolute devotion to two people—Alice and Sir William. She seemed to regret her coldness toward me for she went on in a different tone of voice: “Sir William is delighted now with this news. Once the boy is born everything will start to go well in this house. I feel sure of it.”

“What if it should not be a boy?”

She looked a little startled. “It’s a trend in the family to have boys. Miss Sybil Stacy was the only daughter for several generations. Sir William will have the child named Beaumont—and then I think he will be quite contented.”

“What of the child’s parents? They might have different ideas about naming the baby.”

“Edith will be eager to give way to Sir William’s wishes.”

“And Napier?”

“My dear Mrs. Verlaine, he could raise no objection.”

“I don’t see why. He might want to forget that…painful incident.”

“He would never go against Sir William’s wishes. If he did it might mean that he were sent packing again.”

“You mean having done his duty in siring a child and bringing a Beaumont back to the family he might once more get his congé.”

“You are in a very strange mood today, Mrs. Verlaine. It is unlike you.”

“I am becoming too interested in the family affairs I expect. Please forgive me.”

She inclined her head. Then she said: “Napier’s staying here depends on Sir William. I think he knows that.”

I looked at my watch. The old excuse of work to prepare was on my lips. I did not want to hear any more. I had thought of him as bold, frank—at least that. I did not like to think of him knuckling under to his father for the sake of his inheritance.

On my way back to my room I met Sybil Stacy. I had the idea that she had been hanging about waiting to intercept me.

“Hello, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said, “how are you?”

“Very well, thank you, and you?”

She nodded. “It’s a long time since you’ve seen me, isn’t it? But it’s not a long time since I saw you. I saw you talking to Napier…In fact I’ve seen you several times. I saw you coming in one evening after dusk.”

I felt indignant. The woman was spying on me!

She seemed to sense this and be amused by it.

“You’re very interested in the family, aren’t you? Now I think that’s very kind of you. I’ve discovered you are a very kind person, Mrs. Verlaine. I have to observe you, don’t I, if I am going to paint you.”

“Do you paint everyone who comes to work here?”

She shook her head. “Not without reason. And only if they are interesting to paint. I believe you are going to be. Come along to my studio now. You said you would, didn’t you? After all you didn’t see very much when you came before.”

I hesitated, but she laid her hand on my arm with her little girl gesture. “Oh please,
please
…”

Then she clasped her hands together and as she was standing so close I saw her face in the harsh daylight and thought once more how grotesque the blue bows were on that white hair, how pathetically childish simpering was at odds with that wrinkled face.

But she fascinated me, as everyone in this house seemed to do and I allowed myself to be led to her studio.

The picture of the three girls was still on the easel. My eyes went to it immediately and she stood beside me wriggling a little in pleasure.

“It’s a good likeness,” she said.

“It’s very good.”

“But time hasn’t drawn anything on their faces…yet.” She pouted as though she had a grievance against time. “It makes it very difficult for the artist. You can’t
read
anything in those faces, can you?”

I agreed. “They look so young and innocent.”

“Yet we are all born in sin.”

“Some people manage to live good lives in spite of it.”

“Oh, you’re one of those optimists, Mrs. Verlaine. You always believe the best of everyone.”

“Isn’t that better than believing the worst?”

“Not if the worst is there.” Her face puckered. “I used to be like you. I believed…I believed in Harry. You look puzzled. You don’t know who Harry is. Harry is the man I was going to marry. I’ll show you a picture of him…two pictures of him, shall I? At the moment I am working on Edith.”

I looked at her steadily. She had tripped over to a pile of canvases; and I was aware that her footsteps were soundless. I pictured her silently watching the comings and goings of the people in this house…myself included. Why did she watch? Merely so that she could learn of our secret motives, so that she could come up to this room and record them on canvas? The thought made me uneasy; and she was aware of it and amused. Beneath the little girl attitude was a character she wished to hide.

“Edith!” she mused. “You see her on the picture with the girls. How charming they look there. Now look at this one…” She whipped out a canvas and put it on the easel covering up the one of the trio.

There was a figure hardly recognizable. It was picture of a heavily pregnant Edith, her face twisted in an expression of something between fear and cunning. It was horrible.

“You don’t like it.”

“No,” I said. “It’s…unpleasant.”

“Do you know who it is?”

I shook my head.

“Oh Mrs. Verlaine, I thought you were honest.”

“It has a look of Edith…but I am convinced she never looked like that.”

“She will though. She is very frightened now. And each day she will grow more frightened. She will never stop being frightened until the day she dies.”

“I hope no one has seen that picture.”

“No. I will show it later…perhaps.”

“Yet you have shown it to me.”

“That is because you are as interested as I am. You are an artist too. You hear music where others do not. Is that not so? You hear it in the sighing of the wind, in the trees and the rippling water of a stream. I find what I want in the faces of people. I never wanted to paint landscapes. I never cared for them. It was always people. When I was in the nursery I would take a pencil and sketch our governesses. William said it was uncanny. But I didn’t have the same gift then. It was only after Harry…” Her face puckered and I thought she would burst into tears. “I sometimes feel an urge to paint one person. I haven’t that urge to paint you yet, Mrs. Verlaine, but I know it will come…so I’m stalking you…like a lion stalks his prey. But lions never eat until they’re hungry, do they?” She came close to me and laughed up into my face. “I’m not hungry for you yet, but I’m in touch.” She lifted a hand and her face broke into a seraphic smile. “I’m in touch…with…powers. People don’t understand.” She touched her head. “Do you know what they say in the village? People are three halfpence short—not all there. That’s what they say of me. I know it. The servants say it. William says it, and so does that Mrs. Lincroft of his. Let them. I’m far more
here
than they are because I’m in touch…in touch with powers they know nothing about.”