Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “Put that back.” He stepped forward and grasped her hand, shaking the letter out of it. Possibly he hurt Constance, for she drew back with a small grimace, but no cry.

  “Why, you’re angry, Acland. You’re white. You always go white when you’re angry.” The black eyes glittered, as if it pleased Constance to have provoked this response. “And you hurt my hand. Don’t do that.”

  With which, she reached up and, before Acland could move, scratched his face. One quick bunched movement of the hand, her nails against his cheek. She drew blood, and the two of them stood looking at each other, neither moving, neither speaking, until—a second later—Constance laughed and left the room.

  An incident never spoken of again, by either of them, but it has remained with Acland, puzzling him and occasionally perturbing him, for he experienced emotions then that he did not understand and is still at a loss to explain. In a peculiar way Acland respects Constance. She is the antithesis of all he admires, with her deceits and her flagrant lies and her tight, barbed little remarks—and yet, in her way, she is honest.

  Constance sees too much: This thought speeds into Acland’s mind. It makes him uneasy. There are certain things he prefers Constance not to see, his hatred for her father being one of them. He glances once more at the house, but now the figure of Constance is gone; the light from the window is obscured; the curtains are drawn. Acland feels freed. He opens the door that leads to the loft stairs, and mounts them.

  A sweet smell of hay; from below the rustle of straw as the horses shift in their stalls. Acland moves to the dormer window to the west. The night is still, the gardens dark; the comet’s light declines. Some exultancy lingers in his mind: Oh, let Jenna come soon.

  He fixes his mind on her: Jenna, who drives out the dark. When he is with her he can forget … everything—even his mother and Shawcross.

  He throws himself down on the hay, smells its sweet dustiness, closes his eyes, summons the parts of her body, as another man might count the beads of a rosary: her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her throat. When he hears her footfall on the stair, he springs to his feet, then clasps her in his arms.

  It is very quick. Jenna can feel his anger beating down on her. Knowing the source of that anger, she waits. Then, when Acland is calmer, she takes his hand.

  “Still him?”

  “Him. My mother. Everything. The comet maybe.”

  Jenna kneels. Acland will not look at her. He fixes his eyes on the window to the west, his body taut, his face scowling.

  “Why the comet?”

  “No reason. Every reason. Urgency, perhaps. I could see time … slipping past me. And nothing changing. This place, this house, that man—it made me … violent. I wanted to do something extreme. Kill someone. Put a bullet through my brain. Set fire to the house—stand there and watch it go up, every picture, every stick of furniture, every evasion, every lie—one great, glorious conflagration.” He stops. “Is that mad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe it is. But it’s what I felt. It’s gone now—nearly gone. Did I hurt you? I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  “Shall I make you forget all that?”

  “Can you?”

  “If you’ll be slow, I can. But you’re to do as I say, mind.”

  Acland turns. He looks at her hair, her eyes, her throat, her breasts. Jenna, peering through the dusk of the loft, watches his face. A new concentration comes to it. She rests her hand on his thigh; she moves her hand a little higher; Acland sighs, leans back.

  “I believe you. I almost believe you. Show me.”

  Upstairs, her hands shaking, Gwen changes satin slippers for leather shoes. She retrieves her sealskin coat—if she is to meet Eddie, return, and not be missed, she must be swift—and then, the coat still in her arms, pauses, stares at her own reflection in the cheval glass.

  Such a flurry of indecision: What will she say to Eddie? What will she do? Shall she break it off, this liaison of hers, or shall she wait until the morning, when she is calmer, and decide then?

  Who is this woman? she thinks as she looks at her strained white face in the glass. Despite her thirty-eight years, Gwen feels a girl still—but it is not the face of a girl who looks back at her.

  Oh, let me be wise, Gwen thinks, and turns away from the glass with a little moan. As she does so, she hears a sound.

  A light tapping at her door. Gwen stands still. It must be her maid, she decides—and what will her maid think when she sees the sealskin coat? Frantically she tries to push it back onto its hanger, but the fur catches on the embroidery of her dress. She has just freed it when the door opens; Constance comes into the room.

  “It’s Steenie,” she says without preamble. Gwen pales, feels a cold and shivering sense of premonition.

  “He has been having a nightmare, I think.” Constance’s eyes never leave Gwen’s face. “He was calling your name and crying. He feels very hot. I went in to him, and touched him. He didn’t wake up. I think he has … a fever.”

  Constance speaks clearly and precisely; her eyes waver, turn from Gwen’s white face to the sealskin coat, now tossed across the bed. “Oh. You were just going out,” she continues flatly, as if this is not surprising at all. “I’m sorry. Shall I go and wake Nanny?”

  Gwen does not pause to answer this question. She does not pause to observe the oddness of the situation, for Constance has never come to her room before. She does not even notice that Constance has just apologized (and Constance never apologizes). By the time Constance has finished speaking, Gwen has almost forgotten her. She is already running to the door.

  She runs along the corridor, runs to the stairs of the nursery wing, runs to Steenie, her last child, her baby, the son she loves best. And as she runs, her mind streams with prayers: God forgive me, God forgive me, let Steenie be safe.

  She flings back the door of the night nursery and rushes to the bed. Steenie sleeps. As she kneels beside him he flexes, murmurs, rubs at his nose; he turns from his right side to his left. Gwen bends over him.

  Constance comes into the room after her, but Gwen sends her away. “Just go back to your room, Constance,” she says, averting her face. “Go back to sleep. I’ll stay with Steenie. He’ll be all right if I’m here.”

  Constance slips away; the door closes. Gwen remains on her knees by her son’s bed. She rests her hand on his forehead; she feels for his pulse. All the old terrors flare up in her mind: Haviland, the local doctor, saying he must be honest and there was very little hope. One of the dead babies … which dead baby? The little girl, that was it, lying in her arms, a yellowish tiny waxwork with blue lips. The rattle of croup, the terror of the scarlet fever, when Steenie’s throat swelled so badly he could not swallow saliva, let alone water. A week to the crisis; she had sponged his body hourly with vinegar and cool water to try to lower the temperature. At the height of the fever Steenie did not recognize her, could not speak…. Please, God.

  Gwen rests her head against the rise and fall of her boy’s chest. His forehead is cool; his breathing is regular; the pulse does not flutter. Gwen counts heartbeats, and slowly, slowly, she grows calmer.

  There is no sign of fever. Constance must have been mistaken; it was simply a nightmare, that is all. Steenie is safe and God is merciful.

  But (it is 1910, remember; penicillin will not even be discovered for another eighteen years) Gwen is a mother, and as a mother she knows the fragility of the division between life and death. It is a hairsbreadth; easily severed; the commonest childish illnesses are something to be feared. Measles, mumps, influenza, bronchitis, even a minor cut, infected—all these can be killers. Gwen knows this; she knows she has been warned.

  This time, she thinks, burying her face in her hands, this time she has been spared. God has not punished her, but He has reminded her of His might. Silently she repents her affair with Shawcross; she will break it off, never see him again. From this night forward she will conform to an ideal laid before her since earliest childhood: She will b
e a loyal wife, a virtuous mother.

  To her surprise the decision is neither painful nor difficult; it brings her an instant respite. This morning she would have believed the bonds that bound her to Shawcross could never be severed; tonight, the bonds are gone.

  Head bent, Gwen tells herself that she is making a moral choice—between right and wrong, between holy matrimony and fornication. But in her heart it does not feel like that. It feels like a choice between lover and son—and in that, of course, there is no contest.

  Gwen stays in Steenie’s room that night, letting its peacefulness work on her; then she descends to her guests.

  The fires in the drawing room are still well banked, her servants are still circulating, but the evening’s party has reached its climax of energy and is beginning to run down. The elderly earl and his wife (who have been anxious to leave for some time) take their departure.

  This is the cue for other guests to leave—guests who are not staying at Winterscombe. There is a flurry of thanks, of congratulations, of farewell; people’s spirits are high. Servants hurry to fetch hats and coats and walking sticks; motorcars (and some carriages) are brought around to the front of the house. The houseguests linger for the departures, and then they, too, one by one, come to Gwen to wish her goodnight.

  For correctness’ sake Denton should be at Gwen’s side for these thanks and farewells, but he is not, and Gwen (used to this) is not greatly worried. By now, Denton will have consumed the best part of a bottle of port, possibly some brandy. He is probably still in the smoking room or the billiard room.

  When she discovers this is not so, Gwen is still not concerned. Boy comes to her, his manner agitated. He announces he has been looking for his father for the past hour and cannot find him. He is not in the smoking room. There is no one playing billiards….

  “Boy, leave it until the morning,” Gwen says fondly, kissing him. “Your father will have gone to bed, that is all. You know how these evenings tire him.”

  Boy does not question the euphemism. Politely he escorts Jane Conyngham to the door of her room; politely he wishes her goodnight and, once her door is closed, flees to the sanctuary of his own room. There he surveys his collection of lead soldiers, his collection of birds’ eggs, his rows of adventure stories—all the familiar and much-loved totems of his boyhood. He sits on his bed, chin in hand, and stares into the coals of his fire. He will not sleep, he knows that. He also knows his boyhood is finally over.

  In her room Jane Conyngham rings for the little maid Jenna Curtis, who dressed her hair so flatteringly this evening, and thinks—as the girl unfastens her dress, unlaces her stays, loosens her hair, and then, once Jane is in her cambric nightgown, brushes it for her—how pretty the girl is.

  Her fingers are deft; her cheeks are flushed; her eyes sparkle. I am engaged. I should look like that, Jane thinks, looking at her own reflection; I should, and I do not. She sighs. Fifty brushstrokes—but nothing will make her fine hair look the way this girl’s does, shining, heavy, profuse, a glorious weight of chestnut hair, escaping even now from the confines of her neat maid’s cap, and that cap slightly askew, as if it has been pinned in place hastily.

  “Did you see the comet, Jenna?” Jane says as the girl lays down the heavy silver brush, picks up Jane’s green dress, and bobs a curtsey.

  “I did, Miss Conyngham. We—all the servants—watched it.”

  “It was beautiful, didn’t you think?”

  “Very beautiful.”

  “But frightening, I thought. A little frightening.” Jane looks at the girl’s reflection in the glass; Jenna does not answer.

  “I felt as if … oh, I don’t know quite. As if the world were changing. Something was altering. I—”

  Jane breaks off. That was not what she felt, and she knows it. She also knows her feelings cannot be discussed with a maid—or, indeed, with anyone. She speaks more briskly: “Imagination, I suppose. Very foolish. Still, it was a remarkable night. One we shall never forget. Goodnight, Jenna.”

  Below, in the drawing room, the last guests wish their hostess goodnight. Gwen, alone, turns to a mirror, smooths her dark hair, sees that the decision she has made can be read in her face: It is serene now.

  She touches the emeralds that lie about her throat like a necklace of water: an engagement present from Denton, given when she was eighteen years of age, newly arrived in England with her widowed mother, part of that fishing fleet of American girls who came to England in search of an aristocratic suitor. So long ago. She had believed Denton an aristocrat then; now, she is less certain.

  Some fresh air, she decides, before she retires for the night. One last look at the stars.

  There is the figure of a man in evening dress leaning against the balustrade, looking out over the gardens. From a distance Gwen thinks it is Shawcross. She is about to withdraw—she does not want to meet her lover now; their interview must wait for the morning—when the figure turns, looks up. She sees it is Acland.

  She smiles with relief and crosses to him. Of course it was not Eddie, she thinks; Eddie will long ago have given her up and returned to his bed in a bad temper.

  She puts her arm around her son’s shoulders and reaches up to kiss him goodnight.

  “Why, Acland,” she says, “your coat is quite damp. Where have you been? You should go in, my dear, before you take cold.”

  “I’ll go in, in a minute, Mama.”

  Acland does not return her kiss; in a cold manner he disengages her arm.

  Gwen turns back to the house. In the doorway she looks back. Acland is still in the same place, still leaning against the balustrade.

  “Acland, you should go in,” she repeats, more sharply. “It’s past one o’clock. Everyone’s left. What are you doing anyway?”

  Acland turns away again. “Nothing, Mama,” he says. And then: “Thinking.”

  It is Cattermole who discovers that there has been an accident, Cattermole who wakes at five-thirty the next morning with a thirst and a hangover.

  He heaves himself out of bed, leaving his wife fast asleep, and goes downstairs to the kitchen of his cottage. There, he stokes the stove and gets a blaze going. Then he fills a pitcher with ice-cold water from the pump, stands at the sink in his shirt-sleeves, tips half of the water over his head, and lets out a growl when it hits him.

  The kitchen is small and warms up quickly. Cattermole puts the kettle on to boil, lays newspaper on the kitchen table, sets a knife, a fork, a plate, and a big tin mug in readiness. He is already beginning to feel better; he whistles to himself as he cuts a thick rasher from a side of bacon and puts it in the pan to sizzle. Two eggs, a large hunk of bread, four spoonfuls of strong India tea in the big brown pot—let it sit to keep warm; Cattermole likes his tea well mashed—and then he is ready for his breakfast. Cattermole is an early riser; he is used to getting breakfast for himself. He is thoroughly domesticated. Arms on the table, rump to the fire, Cattermole munches his way through his meal.

  When he has finished he uses the last of the hot water in the kettle for his shave at the sink, using a cutthroat razor, stropping it first on its leather. That done, he creaks up the stairs again to put on the rest of his clothes. Two pairs of thick woolen shooting stockings, stout brown boots that once belonged to his father and still have a good few years left in them, Harris tweed breeches, woolen shirt, moleskin waistcoat, Harris tweed jacket—nothing to beat that for keeping a man warm.

  Downstairs once more, he pours a cup of tea, which he takes up for his wife, Rose, and leaves by her bedside. Downstairs again: cartridge case, cartridge belt, walking stick, shotgun. He checks his gun (also once his father’s), squints down the barrels, breaks it, rests it in the crook of his arm. Outside now, and the mist is lifting, the air cool and fresh, the ground still damp with dew, pungent with spring.

  The dogs are ready as usual. He goes to their kennel and lets two of them out, his two black flat-coat retrievers, Dancer and Lightning, father and daughter, better dogs by far than any of
those spoiled brutes up at the Hall.

  Dancer and Lightning greet him and go at once to heel; each gets one pat, one touch on their damp muzzles. They look at him expectantly. Cattermole knows that they look forward, as he does, to these morning expeditions through the woods.

  Six-thirty now, which is late by Cattermole’s standards. One thin high whistle and they are off, dogs and man, to the woods.

  Cattermole skirts the village, looks toward the Hennessy cottage. He wonders if the Hennessy family will be late rising this morning, as he was. Jack Hennessy drank too much the previous night, no doubt of that; he missed most of the celebrations, disappeared halfway through dinner. To meet that girl Jenna—that was his wife Rose’s opinion, but Cattermole is unsure if he agrees. Last night Jack Hennessy was drunk before they sat down to eat, too drunk for dalliance, in Cattermole’s opinion, and downing the drink in that odd way he had sometimes, as if he wanted to be in a stupor.

  A junction of two paths; Cattermole turns left, heads deeper into the woods, silently now, no whistling. There is a ritual to these walks from which Cattermole rarely departs. He quarters the woods, then makes for the clearing on the far side from the village, where he has a quiet five-minute smoke. Then he makes his way back, checks (at this time of the year) the pheasant pens, unlocks the bins, and gives the birds their allowance of corn.

  Today, by the time he reaches the clearing, the sun is well up. Cattermole settles himself with his back against an oak, takes out his tobacco tin, takes out his papers, rolls a fat and aromatic cigarette.

  Dancer and Lightning know they have five minutes of freedom now; they may weave back and forth in the clearing, sniffing and marking their territory. They may engage in mock fights and roll in the damp grass; they are off duty.

  Cattermole watches them for a while, feet spread, bottom protected from the dew by Harris tweed, cigarette pungent. He removes his cap and lifts his face to the sun; he thinks of the comet the night before. His father saw that comet, the very same one, when he was a boy, back in 1835—saw it from much the same place, most likely.