‘Probably not. He is suspicious of everything. But I’m not giving up my visits here, whatever George may think or feel. Why, this is the one bright spot in my life! The one haven where I can be safe from the aura of George’s disapproval.’
Ginny’s haven, however, was not so safe as she supposed, and scarcely had she spoken these words when there was a sound of voices and, turning, she beheld her niece coming tripping across the lawn, bringing not only Martin but her uncle George as well.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Ginny demanded, with frank displeasure.
‘I am here by invitation,’ George replied equably. ‘You may remember, at the party in March, that Mr Cox very civilly offered to show me the work he’s had done on the trout stream.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were coming today.’
‘Nor did you tell me that you were.’
‘How ridiculous.’
‘Yes. I agree. We could have come together.’
There was a cold silence. Ginny looked away in disdain. George spoke to Katharine; Martin offered a few remarks; and then the two men went off together, down across the lawn to the nearest gate that would let them out into the park.
‘There! You see! That is typical. He must always be spoiling things. And why Martin should ask him here, knowing what I have to bear from him, is more than I can well comprehend.’
‘I think Martin, very sensibly, is anxious to avoid being the cause of any misunderstanding between you. Plainly he means to be friends with George.’
‘Well, I wish him joy of it!’ Ginny suddenly stood up. ‘And now, my dears, I will take my leave of you. No, no, I won’t stay to tea. My pleasure in the day is quite spoilt. You may tell my lord and master that I am gone to my dressmaker. Perhaps he would like to follow me there!’
Susannah, when her aunt had gone, was eager to question her mother on a subject mentioned earlier.
‘Aunt Ginny seems to think that Martin was once in love with her. Do you think he was, Mama?’
‘A great many young men were in love with your aunt in earlier days.’
‘Including Martin?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘If it’s true that he loved her … that may be why he has never married.’
‘Possibly, yes. But Martin is still a young man and I have no doubt whatsoever that he will marry one of these days, when the right young woman comes along.’
‘Oh, I hope he does not, Mama, for what would become of us if he did?’
Soon, now, the English papers were full of news from America, where, in April, the attack on Fort Sumter had brought North and South into active conflict. Katharine discussed the war with her children, just as she did all current events, and together they studied a map in the newspaper, showing where the main events had occurred. During these discussions, their absent father was rarely mentioned, and then only by Katharine herself. Dick, with his stubborn reserve, would not be drawn on the subject at all. As far as he was concerned, his father no long existed, but since he could not say this to his mother, he remained silent. Alone with his sister, however, he was outspoken.
‘Father’s been gone now for more than eight months and we’ve heard nothing. He’s not coming back, obviously, and I’m sure Mama herself is resigned to that, although she still speaks of him as she does.’
‘But you do still pray for him, don’t you, Dick?’
‘No, I do not.’
‘Even though he might be in danger in the fighting between the states?’
‘He didn’t have to go there. And if he is there, he needn’t stay. And as it is perfectly plain that he doesn’t care about us any more, I don’t see why we should care about him.’
Chapter Ten
Although Katharine, in her changed situation, could take no great part in social affairs, she was at least beginning to go about more freely now, within her own small circle of family and friends. There were visits to Ginny and George at Chacelands; to the Claytons at Town End; and, during the midsummer days, long excursions by wagonette, when all three families travelled together to Malvern, or Bath, or the Forest of Dean, where they picnicked together, happy and relaxed.
At home, too, a great deal of time was spent out of doors. Martin had introduced croquet at Railes and croquet parties were all the go. Ginny, especially, developed a passion for the game and would play it all day long if she could. She always insisted that Martin should be her partner, and she played according to her own rules, often cheating outrageously, especially when playing against George. Her behaviour became so blatant that even Dick and Susannah were sometimes out of patience with her.
‘Aunt Ginny is very foolish these days. I do wish you’d speak to her, Mama.’
Katharine agreed with them, but speaking to Ginny brought no good result.
‘If George doesn’t like my behaviour, he had better stay at home.’
‘If you will not consider George’s feelings, you might at least consider Martin’s. He always behaves with great correctness but it must be very difficult for him when you flirt with him so openly.’
Ginny merely smiled at this and gave a little careless shrug. Her behaviour, if anything, grew worse, and one afternoon, at the end of a visit, when George was ready to depart, and the Denbigh carriage stood in the courtyard, Ginny herself was not to be found.
‘I’ve reminded her at least three times that we are dining at Parke House but she is determined to make us late.’
George was kept fuming for twenty minutes. Then at last Ginny appeared, strolling to the carriage in a languid way, a shallow basket on her arm, containing peaches and nectarines.
‘I suddenly had a yearning for them, so I went to the greenhouse and helped myself. You don’t mind, do you, Martin? I’ve only taken a few, as you see. Now, before bidding each other goodbye, we must fix a date for our visit to Tintern ‒’
‘Not now,’ Martin said, taking her firmly by the arm. ‘You have kept your husband waiting quite long enough for one day and I will not take part in causing him further annoyance.’
George, his face like a thundercloud, handed her into the Denbigh and climbed in beside her without a word. He took the reins into his hands and drove away without more ado, nodding to Martin as he passed.
‘You didn’t ask if I wanted to drive.’
‘No. I did not.’
‘I might well remind you, George, that this carriage and pair are mine.’
‘And I might remind you, madam, that it was I who paid for them.’
George, leaning forward slightly, touched the horses with his whip. When he leant back again, Ginny dug him in the ribs.
‘Don’t take your spite out on those poor brutes. They haven’t done you any harm.’
‘I am not doing anything of the kind.’
‘Oh, and you’re not in a temper, I suppose? That black scowl is just for fun!’
‘I am in a temper. I admit that. Furthermore, I have good cause.’
‘Yes. You lost at croquet again.’
‘You kept me waiting a full twenty minutes, even though you know quite well that we’re dining with the Robertsons.’
‘Oh, goodness, is that all? What a mountain you make of everything.’
‘No, madam, it is not all. It is your conduct as a whole, especially during the past few weeks.’
‘You’ll have to be more specific than that.’
‘Very well. Since you insist. It’s the way you behave with Martin Cox.’
‘Ah, yes. I thought it might be.’
‘I suppose it has never occurred to you that he might find it embarrassing?’
‘George, dear, you’re being a cat.’
‘I know you assume he’s in love with you but my own impression is very different and if you had any sense you would see ‒’
‘Yes, George? What should I see?’
‘Oh, never mind! It’s all of a piece. The plain truth of the matter is that you flirt with him, as with other men, on purpose to enrage me
.’
‘I have no wish to see you enraged. It is not an amusing spectacle.’
‘And you, of course, take it for granted that my chief function in life is merely to keep you amused.’
‘And what is my chief function, pray?’
‘A married woman of your age should not need to ask such a question.’
‘But I do ask it. I should like to know.’
‘You could take more interest in your home for a start, and the running of your own household.’
‘My household runs itself. Which is to say, the staff run it for me. So if that is my one and only function, you really don’t need a wife at all.’
‘I didn’t say it was your only function.’
‘What others do I have, I wonder? You expect me to provide wifely comforts, of course, especially in the marriage bed. Well, as to that, I do my best.’
‘I have no complaint on that score,’ George replied, in a prim voice, ‘except that I should be happier if I thought it meant something to you.’
‘Why, what should it mean, precisely?’
‘Love, for one thing,’ George said, and stared ahead, woodenly, narrowing his eyes against the dust rising in a cloud from the horses’ hooves.
‘And what else besides?’
‘Most women, if they be worthy of the name, would naturally desire to have children.’
‘Ah, now we come to it!’ Ginny exclaimed. ‘The crux of the matter! The festering gall! I’ve always known that I was a disappointment to you in this respect. You have made that quite plain over the years. But I never can quite understand why every man always assumes it must be the woman who is at fault.’
‘You can’t pretend that you wanted children.’
‘What has wanting to do with it? Surely you are not suggesting that simply by not wanting a child a woman can stop it from happening? Because if you are, that, my dear George, is nothing but rank superstition.’
‘I am suggesting no such thing. But women do, so I’ve heard, have their own secret ways of … of preventing it if they so choose.’
‘Do they? Good gracious me!’ Ginny, turning, stared at him, lifting the folds of her travelling-veil to obtain a better view of his face. ‘Well, this is the first I’ve heard of it and I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Haven’t you?’ He met her gaze.
‘No. I have not.’
Her look and her tone were quite enough to convince him that she was speaking the truth. She, in turn, was able to see that his surprise was as great as hers.
‘D’you mean to tell me that all these years we have been married, you thought I was interfering with the course of nature?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘Then I think you owe me an apology. Admittedly, the sad fact remains that I have not given you a child, but even so, it still doesn’t follow that I am inevitably to blame. The fault could just as easily be yours.’
George was now facing forward again, his gaze fixed on the horses’ ears.
‘I am quite confident it is not.’
‘Men always say that, of course. But the facts don’t always bear them out. Think of Squire Barnaby over at Sharveston Court. Eight years married and no child. But when he died and his widow remarried, she had four children all in a row. And that is not the only instance. I can think of two others at least where the circumstances proved ‒’
‘Yes, there are instances enough. But I’m sure it is not the case with me.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Ginny demanded.
‘I wish you would please allow, just this once, that there are some things a man may know without being able to explain why.’
‘I will allow no such thing. Indeed, I insist that you should explain. Otherwise I shall be obliged to assume the worst of you, my dear George. After all, there is only one way you can be sure of what you assert, and that is if you had fathered a child elsewhere.’
George was silent, still staring ahead. His broad face, with its strong jaw, was finely coated with dust from the road, but underneath this coating of dust she could see the colour flushing his skin. She could also see a little nerve pulsing at the side of his mouth.
‘George,’ she said, ‘will you look at me?’
‘What for?’
‘You know what for.’
He turned his head and looked at her, doing his best to present an expression of sternest equanimity. The task proved beyond him; the challenge of her bright gaze was too strong; and his own gaze soon fell away.
‘So,’ she said softly, drawing out the word. ‘So, my dear George, that’s how it is … And you have the barefaced impudence to criticize me simply for flirting with Martin Cox.’
Disliking the dust on her own face, she let her veil down again, but she continued to study him as they drove for a while in silence.
‘Well, well,’ she said at last, giving a little chuckling laugh. ‘Who would have thought of such a thing? It seems to me that when we get home, you will have some explaining to do, my dear.’
Alone with him in their bedroom, having sent her maid away, Ginny questioned him closely.
‘Is it a son or a daughter?’ she asked.
‘A son,’ George said. He cleared his throat.
‘How old is he?’
‘He is almost nine.’
‘Do you see him?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Anthony.’
‘Where is his mother?’
‘She is dead. She died of pneumonia six years ago.’
‘Oh, poor girl! How old was she? What was her name? Did you love her, George?’
‘Really, Ginny, I cannot see that there is anything to be gained by going into the matter like this ‒’
‘I think I should be the judge of that, seeing that I am the injured party.’ She looked at him consideringly. ‘I am not shocked, you know.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it appears not.’
‘Would you prefer it if I were?’
‘I don’t know how to answer that.’
‘Tell me about the boy’s mother. How and where did you meet her?’
‘It was back in 1851. You were being very cold to me at that time and then you went off to London with Katharine and Charles, to visit the Great Exhibition, and you stayed up there for more than six weeks.’
‘Oh, dear! Poor George, poor George! Obviously, then, it was all my fault for going and leaving you by yourself. I might have known you would find some way of laying the blame for it all on me.’
‘I did not intend to do that.’
‘Of course you did. You always do. But on one count you are right to blame me, for you have a child and I have not, which means that I have indeed failed you.’
‘Almost, you sound as though you were sorry.’
‘Well, no woman likes to find she is barren. It seems you had better divorce me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Well, I’m not likely to conceive now, unless I should be like Sarah, that is, in which case I’ll laugh as Sarah did and be scolded for my naughty doubts. But let us return to Anthony. Where are you hiding him?’
‘He is with his grandparents, but I’m not going to tell you where that is.’
‘Oh, yes, you are,’ Ginny said, ‘because otherwise I shall go about rousing the whole countryside until I find him.’
‘With what object?’
‘Because I want to see him, of course. Do you expect me to be indifferent to the fact that you have a son?’
‘I don’t know what I expected. I didn’t intend you should find out. But if you are really serious ‒’
‘I am perfectly serious. You can take me today.’
‘We are dining with the Robertsons.’
‘Oh, never mind the Robertsons! Send word to them that I am not well and that you are too worried to leave me alone. Please, George, you really must, for I am in such an excitement of nerves, I should probably blurt something ou
t to them. Go down now and write them a note. Don’t cancel the carriage, however. We’ll go and see Anthony straight away.’
They drove out to Sharveston; to a tailor’s shop in Easton Street; and there, in the room behind the shop, Ginny met the tailor and his wife, a respectable couple in their fifties, Mr and Mrs Jeffery by name. At first they were somewhat dismayed when George introduced Ginny to them, but recovered themselves soon enough and spoke to her in a way that was civil and deferential, without any trace of obsequiousness. After a while they withdrew. Ginny and George remained in the room and Anthony was sent in to them, having been fetched down from his bedroom, where he had been doing school prep.
The boy was tall for his nine years, and was sturdily built. He had a smooth pelt of chestnut-brown hair, eyes of a light hazel colour, and a broad, handsome, freckled face. He was, in a word, the image of George, and Ginny, as she gave him her hand, looked from one face to the other in laughing amazement.
‘So you are Anthony Jeffery.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Do you know who this gentleman is?’
‘Yes, he’s my uncle Winter, ma’am.’
‘And do you know who I am?’
‘You are my uncle Winter’s wife.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because he once described you to me.’
‘It was a fair description, then?’
‘Yes, ma’am, it was fair enough. And I would like to say, ma’am, how pleased I am to make your acquaintance.’
‘That is very pretty, sir. I am equally well pleased. My one and only regret is that it didn’t happen sooner than this. Never mind. We have plenty of time to make amends. Would you like to come for a drive with us?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Indeed I should.’
‘Go and find your grandparents, then, and we will ask them for their consent.’
It so happened that Sharveston was holding its annual summer fair, down on the great town meadow between the two rivers, the Leame and the Cullen. Anthony asked to be taken there; was given a few coppers to spend; and went on a tour of the booths and stalls; ‒ the coconut shy; the menagerie; ‒ and watched a blackamoor swallowing fire; ‒ while George and Ginny strolled behind. They then returned to the carriage and drove down to the bank of the Leame, well away from the noise of the fair, to a place where there were willows, and ducks, and coot, and sand-martins nesting under the bank. Anthony went to feed the ducks, throwing them pieces of gingerbread, while Ginny and George sat in the carriage watching him.
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 30
