Kirsten looked at Rose and she had the desire to fall on her neck and pour everything out to her. Yet she warned herself against it; although a good girl, Rose had a loose tongue.
Rose was still chattering and Kirsten hadn’t taken in what she had been saying until she said, ‘I’ll have to be goin’ while the goin’s good else I’ll have Ma Poulter after me. Bye, Kirsten girl. I’m glad you’re back. Ta-ra.’
‘Ta-ra, Rose.’
The boy now came to Kirsten and she took him into her arms and although she looked into his smiling face she wasn’t thinking of him, what she was thinking was that she, too, had better get going away from here when the going was good, while she was still alive to get going, for a smiling Miss Cartwright, a pleasant, open Miss Cartwright, was much more dangerous than a surly, angry Miss Cartwright.
Two
The house was in a disturbed state. From the kitchen to Florence’s boudoir, the unrest was like smoke choking everyone, and in coughing it out they spilled their fears for the future.
In the kitchen Mrs Ledge asserted to all who could hear that she wasn’t worried, she could get a job anywhere. ‘But not as cushy as this,’ Mary Benton had dared to put in; and Jane Styles had added her fear that they would never again eat like this in any other place in the county.
Rose was the only one who didn’t seem too affected by the atmosphere. What were they all on about? she demanded; the ship hadn’t sunk yet. The master was up there in London and up there her da said that men like the master could lose a fortune one night and get it back the next, and her da should know for he had wherried coal up the River Thames from the Tyne boats, then carted it to the big houses in London; he had worked for the same man from he was twelve, and he knew all about the gentry and their ways, so what were they all on about? Just let them wait until the master came back in three days’ time. Anyway she couldn’t see the master going bust, his friends wouldn’t let him. Look at the Bowen-Crawfords, and Lord Milton and the Whitbreads, they wouldn’t let the master go bust.
Bainbridge, however, had put the damper on Rose’s optimism by saying quietly that it was funny how friends reacted. If it was a few hundreds they might have been expected to rise to it, but the master was up to his neck in thousands. What was more, it was his opinion that although the Miltons and Bowen-Crawfords had supped here for years they had never recognised the master as one of themselves, him having been brought up part of the time in Sweden and looking like a foreigner, and his tongue not belying his face for he had a different way of talking.
Mrs Poulter said, ‘Get on with your work, all of you, and mind your business.’
Slater said nothing, at least not in front of the kitchen staff, but he and Mr Harris had long discussions in the pantry, especially after Mr Harris had returned with the master from London last time, when their talk reflected the true state of affairs. The master, Harris had said, was at his wits’ end. The shares of two of his main companies had dissolved like snow dropping down a hot chimney, and those who would have helped were in a similar financial state. It was his view that the master would sell up and go to Sweden. He himself would likely accompany him for he could not see the master managing without a man. He did not know yet if the mistress would be taking Miss Cartwright with her, but he himself couldn’t see her either tending to herself. Then there was the child. But the nurse would be kept on to see to the child. And they had exchanged quiet knowing glances.
Although to those nearest her it would appear so, it was not the financial gloom pervading the house that was affecting its mistress; Florence had for some time past been making her own plans and now it was only a matter of hours before she would be gone from this house…and him. The thought that she’d never have to look upon his face again was joy in itself. By this time tomorrow Gerald would be at the turnpike with the coach, and two hours later they would be aboard a vessel going to, of all places, Sweden. It was laughable when she thought they were escaping to his country. But their stay in Sweden would be short. Gerald had everything worked out to the minutest detail. For a whole year they had been planning this, and under the noses of both Konrad and Bella…Bella. Would she miss Bella? No. She had outgrown Bella. Bella had played mother to her, and she a dutiful daughter, and Bella had been repaid for all her services. Indeed yes, for had she not also played the mistress of this house for years? She’d be glad to see the back of Bella, and she surmised Bella would not miss her very much now, for she had taken onto herself a new motherhood, that monstrosity in the east wing. But why not? The child had been her own creation, conceived of an idea, supposedly to allay Konrad’s wrath against his seed being stillborn for a second time, or was it third, fourth or fifth? She had forgotten the number of times he had been disappointed by his other wives. Her lip curled at the memory of his lovemaking. Like some great ignorant peasant out to show his strength, and domination, he had ravaged her, and laughed and joked whilst at it. When she compared Gerald to him she likened it to looking up to God from the arms of some slimy bog creature.
She was standing now before a highly ornamented commode in the far corner of the room, and she unlocked a drawer and took out a casket, wherein lay the jewels that would keep her and Gerald in comfort for some years ahead. She had no compunction in taking the jewellery. Konrad had given the originals to her on her wedding day, and although they had been stolen these were of like value.
As she put the casket into a small black travelling bag she did wonder for a moment why, immediately on his return from Sweden, he had not demanded that the jewels be returned to the safe. Yet she thought she had the answer. Since he was going to deprive her of them for good he was letting her enjoy them for the short while they remained in his possession; she knew that his warnings regarding the state of his finances had good foundation. She might not have taken his word alone, but Gerald had confirmed the rumours concerning him.
She looked at the clock and counted the hours that lay between her and her freedom, they were twenty-three. There was only one thing now that troubled her, the weather.
She ran to the window but could not see beyond a few yards because of the heavy rain which had poured intermittently for the past two days. If it did not soon cease the road to the turnpike would be impassable for a coach. But then she dispelled her doubts. Hadn’t they thought of this, too, and decided that she must be prepared to dress for a walk that would take them to Ovingham and across the river to Prudhoe, where they would board a railway train to take them to the docks.
As she began to pack a valise with some necessary clothing, just enough to give her a change and no more than Gerald could carry should they have to walk, she had the desire to burst into song, to run, to skip, because tomorrow she’d be free and young again, the girl, the eternal girl she was still inside.
Bella was not unaware of what was in Florence’s mind. She did not know the exact extent of her plans, but she guessed that she intended to run away with Gerald; and strangely, she was not perturbed. A year ago, in fact six months ago, she would have probed her cousin’s plans, then cajoled her into rejecting them by making her see the stupidity of any hope as to their success, but not now for she had a plan of her own, the result of which she saw as just repayment for a lifetime of servitude and abnegation. Even this did not upset her, in fact it furthered her plan. There was only one thing, one obstacle standing in her way; and now she went to face it once again, as she did every day when Konrad was out of the house.
As she opened the day-nursery door, Kirsten, about to go into the night nursery, stopped and turned around. She had a bundle of small linen garments in her arms and Bella was quick to notice that her hands were gripping them and pressing them tightly to her breast. And she felt some surprise when the girl did not continue her journey but, facing about, moved slowly forward until there was only the table between them, and to her further astonishment she now said, ‘You will be pleased to know I am going away, Miss Cartwright. And I would like a day’s leave to make my preparations
.’
Bella closed her mouth and looked at the tall, slight figure before her. The eye was not lying in the corner as it usually did now, there was only the slightest cast in it today, and the beauty of the features in spite of their pallor struck her as they would have a man.
She could not keep the brightness from her eyes or the eagerness from her voice when she said, ‘When do you want your leave?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘It is granted. Where do you intend to go?’
‘I aim to seek lodgings and look for a post in Newcastle.’
‘You are wise.’
‘To your way of thinking I must surely be, Miss Cartwright.’
Bella made no response to this for a moment. There was a new boldness in the girl, a maturity; in fact she was no longer a girl, she was a woman. And at this moment she was facing her as a woman; and having reached this stage it seemed strange to Bella that she should be giving into her and not fighting her with a new strength. Perhaps it was that her maturity had given her wisdom at last. But what a lot of misery could have been avoided, her own particular misery, if the girl had made such a decision two years ago. She asked now, quietly, ‘Where is the child?’
‘He is asleep.’
Bella drew in a short breath before saying, ‘He will not miss you.’ And Kirsten drew in a long breath before she answered, ‘I am aware of that.’
‘You should be glad.’
Kirsten made no answer but she turned about and walked into the night nursery, the small clothes still held to her breast.
As Bella watched her go she let out a long sigh. It was almost ended. Thank God it was almost ended and she would not be tempted further.
Three
Konrad dismissed the cab, having paid the driver generously for his wet drive, ran up the steps out of the dark afternoon, and had passed from the outer vestibule to the main hall before anyone was aware of his presence. Slater, coming leisurely from the library, where he had been warming his buttocks against the massive fire, stopped for a moment, his mouth dropping into a gape, and peered through the candlelight. Then, his shoulders going back, he walked briskly forward to where Konrad was dragging off his coat and as he assisted him he remarked, ‘You are damp, master.’
‘It happens to be raining, Slater.’
‘Yes, master. I…we didn’t expect you till tomorrow, master, else I would have been…’
‘Why didn’t you expect me until tomorrow?’ Konrad was walking briskly towards the dining-room door now while mopping his face with a silk handkerchief.
‘Well, the mistress, master, she said that dinner need not be set; she…she was having a light meal in her room before going visiting, and Miss Cartwright said she would have the same.’
Konrad stopped, turned slowly and looked at Slater but he did not speak the words going through his mind. Going visiting in this! He had never known Florence venture out in the rain. She hated rain, she thought too much of her complexion; not for her the old adage that rain water was as milk to the skin.
After staring at the butler for a moment he walked towards the staircase and as he mounted he remarked, ‘The river is rising rapidly. It looks dangerous; a number of fields farther down are covered. Has there been any message from the farm?’
‘Not as yet, master.’
Konrad stopped on the stairs, his hand on the balustrade, and looked down at the butler, saying sharply, ‘Well, there should have been. Send someone immediately and find out how things are.’
‘Yes, master.’
Florence going visiting! He paused on the landing, looked across it to the corridor, then down the gallery from where the doors led to the east wing. And again he said to himself, ‘Going visiting in this?’ As he walked slowly forward he asked a question that was almost audible. For whom would she risk leaving the house in such inclement weather? And when he gave himself the answer, the latent suspicion of weeks gathered force and sprang at him. And now his response was audible: ‘No, by God! Oh no, by God!’
He tried first her boudoir door. Opening it quietly, he pushed it wide; and there she was dressed for a journey in a long, blue cloak with the hood hanging loose at the back. She was wearing a small bonnet tied securely under her chin with ribbons, and brown kid boots on her feet. There was a pair of gauntlet gloves on the table to her hand, and beside them stood a soft black leather valise, and to the side of this a mother-of-pearl studded jewel case.
He thought she was about to collapse. She had turned sharply towards him, saying, ‘Now, Bell-a.’ But the name had become strangled in her throat. She stared at him for a moment, then swayed, and putting her hands behind her she leant against the edge of the table, screening the bag and jewel case.
As he slowly moved towards her, he asked quietly, ‘You’re going visiting?’
She did not speak until he reached the end of the table and when he was about to walk round it and bring himself opposite her back, she swung round, picked up the jewel case and thrust it into the valise.
He watched her slipping the clasp into the locking position before he again spoke, and then he said, still quietly, ‘Whom are you visiting?’
‘The…the Ramshaws.’
‘The Ramshaws? I can’t recollect any of our acquaintances bearing the name of Ramshaw.’
‘They…they are some people I met when, when on a visit to London last.’
‘Oh!’ He raised his eyebrows slightly and looked down at the bag before reaching out and putting his hand slowly on the top of it whilst keeping his eyes tight on her face.
She was looking at his hand on the bag when he said, ‘They must be going to hold an important function that necessitates you taking your jewel case?’
‘I…I always take my jewel case when I, I go visiting, you know that.’
‘Yes, yes, your jewel case, but not this jewel case.’ His fingers snapped back the clasp of the valise and when he went to draw the bag towards him, she gripped it and cried at him, ‘No! No! Leave them be, they’re mine. You know they are. They’re mine, I can do what I like with them. You gave them to me.’
Slowly he took out the jewel case and, opening it, looked at the replicas of the heirlooms that had been passed down through his family for generations. Dangling the tiara on his first finger, and shaking it gently from side to side, he said, ‘One does not give family heirlooms away. The jewels were for your use as long as you remained my wife. As for these’—he swung the tiara widely now—‘I would not have insulted you four years ago with these baubles; for these jewels that you claim as yours are but very cheap imitations of the original, which by the way I did not have replaced as I had, at the time, a better use for the money.’
She had her arm straight out now, the palm of her hand held stiff and erect as if thrusting off some evil, and she backed from the table, and from him, as she whispered, ‘You’re lying. They’re not im…imitations, they’re not. Tell me they’re not.’
‘But I am telling you they are, my dear.’ He walked quietly alongside the table, tracing his fingers against the inlaid curve of it as she retreated still farther away from him in the direction of the bedroom door, and he went on, ‘Do you know, you’d get more money from the clothes you are wearing than you would from that paste.’
She was now holding her face tightly between her hands, her body was rocking backwards and forwards as if in an agony of physical pain. Then her swaying stopped with her body in a forward position, and like that, her voice rising to a pitch of a scream, she cried at him, ‘You fiend! You fat, ugly, coarse fiend!’
A ripple passed over his face, blotting out all expression for a moment, and his voice in comparison to hers sounded controlled and soft as he asked, ‘Why are you so disturbed?’ But before she could answer he continued, his tone rising gradually now on the wave of anger that was enveloping him: ‘I’ll tell you why. You were going to run away with dear Gerald, weren’t you? You planned to live on what you would get for the jewellery, for dear Gerald would not be able t
o keep you. No, you would keep him, as his dear mama has done all his life.’ He gripped the edge of the table now. ‘You’ve had it all planned for months, haven’t you? I came back too early. Well, let me tell you, even if you had got away, I would have followed you and brought you back. Don’t think that I would let you, you! You empty-headed, vain, brainless weakling that you are, show me up. I wouldn’t suffer that again; I would slit your throat first…God!’ He swept his arm wide and there was utter disdain in his gesture and in his voice as he cried, ‘You would leave your son, you’d walk out without the slightest compunction and leave your child! You may not see him often, but you are here and you are his mother, and his mother you will remain.’ He shook his head now as he ended, ‘Only God knows how such a bright individual as he came out of your silly body.’
He watched her mouth open now, her face screw up as if it were going into a loud sneeze. Instead, there issued from her mouth a high peal of laughter. It had no mirth in it, it was like laughter that might issue from a madhouse. He had once heard a man laugh like that in the House of Correction. He was gripping the bars of his cell and laughing. Now he yelled at her, ‘Stop it, woman! Stop it!’
As he made to move towards her she pressed herself against the stanchion of the bedroom door and there was definitely a look of madness in her eyes as she screamed at him now, ‘Well, he didn’t, you see, he didn’t come out of my body. That’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Nor did he come out of yours. Dear papa! Big laughing papa! Your son! It’s funny, funny. I’ve laughed about it at nights. I’ve rolled in the bed laughing about it. At first I was frightened you would get to know, then I thought, wouldn’t it be funny if you knew; wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could spit it at you. And it is wonderful, wonderful! Wonderful! Your son! You’ve got no son, you’ve never had a son. That monstrosity along there’—she flung her arm wide in the direction of the corridor—‘he was born up in the loft, and the girl is his mother. Your fancy little nurse is his mother. And a tinker was his father. Do you hear? A tinker! Mine was born dead and I’m glad, I’m glad. That’s mine buried in the park, not hers!’
The Slow Awakening Page 27
