“Oh, I ache so. You’ve changed, Montague. I see that now. When was it—that you changed?”
“Yesterday. Today. A year ago. I have no idea.”
“But you have changed? No, you don’t need to answer. I can see that you have. Ah, well, I should have foreseen it. Maud warned me once, you know.”
“Maud is an astute woman. Not an infallible one.”
“Maybe. Maybe. Montague, before you go—before you’re quite gone—tell me one thing. No, please don’t look at your watch. I won’t be crude and coarse and horrible. Your mistress—You see how polite I am? What is it that you find with her? What is it I cannot give?”
Stern hesitated. “Her voice, I think. Yes, that. I like it when she sings. She has a very beautiful voice.”
“Oh, I see.” Constance’s eyes filled with tears. “I see. That hurts. I cannot compete with that.”
“You are still my wife, Constance,” Stern said in a stiff way. He could see the trap of his own pity. He still found it difficult to turn away from her tears.
“Still? Still your wife?” Constance gave a small grimace of pain. “I don’t like that ‘still.’ It frightens me.”
“Constance, it’s very late.” Stern put his arm around her. “You’re tired. Go to bed.”
“If I said”—she looked up at him—“if I said that I did love you, Montague, loved you very much—would that make a difference? What would you say then?”
Stern considered. He looked at what his response might have been once, a year ago, an hour ago. Gently, he disengaged his arm.
“My dear,” he replied, his voice regretful and kind, “I think I would say that you had left that particular confession too late.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I will go to Winterscombe then.” She clasped at his arm.
Stern gently loosened the grip of her fingers.
“My dear,” he said, “that is your right. And your choice.”
Constance did, as you know, come to that christening of mine. The hope that her action might provoke some crisis with Stern clearly encouraged her; I am still not sure whether she would have gone had Stern forbidden her. Probably it would have made no difference; the more something was forbidden, the more Constance wanted it. She was addicted to brinkmanship. Anyway, she left New York at the beginning of the new year, 1939. The christening was held in the middle of January.
Her decision to attend the christening, the fact that Acland had agreed she should be one of my godmothers, provoked trouble. It would have delighted Constance to know that Acland and Jane, who rarely quarreled, came close to quarreling over that.
My mother, Jane, had come through a difficult birth, which had left her weak. Her opposition to the choice of Constance for godmother was there, in the background, for weeks; it did not surface openly until the day before my christening, the day before Constance was due to arrive.
All morning she said nothing, although her anxiety, and a sense of impending trouble that she could not explain, were very great. That afternoon—the doctors insisted she must rest in bed each afternoon—she decided finally she must protest. Her timing was bad: Acland, having helped to settle her in bed, was about to go for a walk with Steenie and Freddie.
The bedroom was quiet. A fire burned in the grate. The cradle in which her baby slept was at the end of her bed. The room was the same room—with the bay window—in which Acland had stayed during the months of his illness. Jane, returning to Winterscombe as a bride, had selected it for that reason.
Her baby had been born in this room. In this room—defying the conventions of their era and their class—she and Acland slept. The room was filled with their marriage. Acland slept on the left side of the bed, Jane on the right. If ever he was away, she found it difficult to fall asleep without the reassuring warmth of his body. Their separate identities fused in this room, in this bed.
Jane looked at the bay window, at the cradle, at the red coals in the fire. Acland bent forward to kiss her. Knowing it was entirely the wrong moment, and far too late, Jane began on rational objections, knowing she felt an irrational unease. She said the idea of Constance as a godmother worried her. The whole point of godparents was that they should be Christian; if they were not, then the ceremony was meaningless. Constance, she said, pleating the sheet between her fingers, was a self-proclaimed atheist who, the last time she visited Winterscombe, had flatly refused to attend church.
“Acland,” she said tiredly, “oh, Acland, why did you agree? I cannot understand it.”
Acland, who was not sure why he had agreed (except that Constance had insisted and it had seemed easier not to argue) and who wished he had not done so, became irritated. Their baby was to have two godfathers and two godmothers, he pointed out. My godfathers would be Wexton and Freddie, neither of them noted for Christian zeal.
“Freddie goes to church,” Jane said. “When he’s here he goes to church.”
“Darling, for God’s sake! He does that to be polite—because we go. And Wexton never joins us—so where’s your argument?”
“Freddie is a good man. So is Wexton. Wexton is the most religious man I know—in his way. Oh, Acland, I can’t explain it.”
“Darling, I know you can’t. It’s not reasonable, that’s why. I think the truth is, you dislike Constance. Why not be honest and say so?”
“That’s not true. I don’t dislike her, exactly. I just think she’s the wrong choice. She won’t understand it—the whole thing will be meaningless to her. And besides, what shall we do about Maud?”
“I’ve told you. Maud has agreed to come.”
“I can’t believe she will. Not with Constance here. And if she does, Maud will cut Constance dead, right across the font.”
Acland smiled. “No, she won’t. She’s promised me. She’ll be on her best behavior. Besides, she’s a godmother too. She’ll cancel Constance out, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“It’s horrible. I hate it. A christening ought to be joyful. A celebration, a giving of thanks, a promise—and now it won’t be. Maud hates Constance, and Constance hates her. The whole church will be full of hate and anger and resentment, when it ought to be filled with God. We’re supposed to be promising something for our baby’s future, and all we’ll be doing is raking up the past. Old scores to settle. Acland—please.”
Jane struggled up against the pillows. She took Acland’s hand.
“Please, Acland—even now—can’t we change it?”
“Darling, it’s done. I can’t change it now. Constance’s ship docked yesterday. She’s in London now. She’ll be here tomorrow. What am I supposed to say to her? Sorry, but you’ve come three thousand miles for nothing—we’ve changed our minds? You’re not a suitable godmother? Darling, I can’t do that. If you think about it, you wouldn’t ask me.”
“Not even for me?”
“No. Not even for you.”
“Not even for Victoria?”
“Not even for Victoria.” He leaned forward and kissed her brow. “It won’t matter to Victoria, darling—you fuss too much. I can hardly remember who my own godparents were; they certainly never did anything useful. I imagine they produced the traditional christening present, and that was that. I’m perfectly sure they never concerned themselves with my spiritual welfare.”
“I wish you wouldn’t mock.” Jane released his hand.
“I’m not mocking. It’s just that you can be a little solemn sometimes.”
“It matters to me. Is it wrong to be solemn about something that matters?”
“No. Perhaps not. But it’s not very charitable either. Just because Constance doesn’t go to church is no reason to exclude her. I thought there was more rejoicing in heaven when one sinner repented—”
“Stop it, Acland.”
“Well, maybe Constance will repent. You never know. The christening might effect some good upon her. A bolt of light, a vision on the road to Damascus. She might turn into a
model godmother after all.”
“You think that’s likely?”
“No, my darling, I think it’s extremely unlikely. However, the Lord God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. You never know.”
“You frighten me.” Jane turned her face away. “Sometimes you frighten me. You used to do it—years and years ago—”
“Do what?”
“Oh, make jokes. Jokes that sound close to blasphemy—”
“I don’t believe in blasphemy—perhaps that’s why.” Acland stood up. He made an impatient gesture. “I’ve seen blasphemy. Blasphemy is what people do—not what they say. You know that. You saw it too.”
There was a silence. Acland moved away toward the windows. Jane wondered if he looked at the woods and the lake—or at the war. She knew he still looked at the war, as she did, often.
It was a bright cold day outside. Acland, with the light striking his face, still looked very young. Jane had passed forty; Acland still had that difficult birthday to come. Sometimes it seemed to Jane that the disparity in their ages grew more marked with each year that passed. Why should the gray show in her hair and not in his? Acland’s face showed the past: She could see there the strains of his illness, the memories of the war, the difficult passages of their marriage, two babies lost, increasing difficulties with money, employment Acland had loathed and since left.
Yes, those marks of the past were on his face when her husband was tired and dispirited. At other times, though, when Acland had some new project to engage him, such as the estate or plans for a new orphanage, these marks might almost disappear. He would move with his old speed and impetuosity; he would talk with the old racing fervency. Then, he looked simultaneously young and middle-aged. Jane found the combination poignant. She would think sometimes: He is a young man, tied to an aging wife.
This filled her with an acute despondency. Leaning back against the pillows, she closed her eyes. She tried to force back the tears. She hated and despised these tears, which she saw as chemical, and alien, forced upon her at unexpected moments, a bodily reaction she could not control. It did not help that the doctors said, briskly, that such despondency was predictable at her age, after a difficult birth.
“Darling.” Acland had seen the tears. He came back to the bed. He took her in his arms. “My dearest, don’t cry. I’m sorry I spoke in that way. Listen—if it matters to you so much, I’ll do as you say. I’d sooner hurt Constance’s feelings than yours. The hell with Constance! Look, I’ll call her in London. I can reach her tonight. I’ll put her off. I’ll tell her not to come. Winnie will be here—let’s have Winnie as godmother instead.”
“No, Acland. Leave it as it is.” Jane sat up. She dried her eyes. She made a rueful face. “Forget what I said. You’re right in any case. I am being stupid and uncharitable. I feel old—I think that’s it. Old and crotchety. A thoroughly disagreeable woman. I’m sorry. Go on—you’ll be late for your walk.”
“Old? You don’t look old.” Acland gave her a little shake.
“Oh, Acland—don’t lie. I have eyes. I can use a mirror.”
“You look beautiful. Your hair shines. Your skin is soft. Your eyes are full of light. Look, I’m going to kiss your eyes, because I love them and I hate to see you cry. There, now, you see? You look very nearly as lovely as your daughter.”
Jane smiled. “Acland, she doesn’t look lovely at all. We both know that. I love her with all my heart, but the fact remains—”
“That’s better. What fact remains?”
“The fact remains that she has very little hair. In fact, she’s almost bald. Also rather red in the face, especially when she cries. And scrawny. Admit it, Acland. We have a scrawny daughter.”
“I’ll admit no such thing.” Acland stood up. He crossed the room and looked down into the cradle.
“She’s not crying now. She’s not scarlet in the face. She has ears like the most delicate shells. She has nails on her fingertips. She can grasp the finger of my hand—which I won’t encourage her to do, because then she might wake up. And bawl. Furthermore …” He bent.
“Furthermore, what?”
“She is going to have freckles. On her nose. Like you. And red hair.”
He crossed back to the bed. He took Jane’s hands.
“Promise me you won’t cry again.”
“I can’t. I’m sentimental. I’m bound to cry at the christening.”
“All right. You’re permitted a few more tears, then. But only a few. Then no more until …”
“Until when?”
“Oh, her wedding, I suppose. That’s when mothers cry, don’t they—at their daughters’ weddings?”
“That might be twenty years. More.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s a long time, without tears …”
“Twenty years? Twenty years is nothing. Think of all the time we have. Thirty years. Forty. Give me your hand.”
Acland placed a kiss in her palm. He closed her fingers over the kiss. He looked up.
“Do you know what I thought, when she was born?”
“No, Acland.”
“I thought”—he hesitated—“I thought of all the things I had failed to do. All the things my family expected me to do. I thought of my mother, and how I disappointed her—”
“Acland, you never disappointed her—”
“Oh, but I did. And it doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? None of that matters. Whatever failures there may have been, I did two things right. I married you—and we were given her.”
He gestured toward the cradle.
“It’s not such a great thing, I suppose—other men have children, after all. But it felt a great thing to me. I had achieved something … lasting. Do you know, I’d rather have her than build a city, paint a picture, rule a kingdom. I’d give every one of Wexton’s poems—good though they are, they’re nothing compared to her. To us. Which is just as well, I suppose, because I shall never write, or rule, or make a great impact on the world—not now.” His hand tightened over hers. “I hope you don’t mind that. Do you? Maybe you do. Maybe you’d prefer a more ambitious husband.”
“There’s no other husband I’d prefer. Ever. None. You know that.”
Jane gripped his hands. Acland, seeing the old fierceness in her face, a strength he sometimes felt he no longer possessed, bent his head. He rested it against her breast. Jane stroked his hair. The coals in the fire shifted. Acland thought: I am at peace.
After a while he straightened up. He kissed his wife. “I’d better go, I suppose. Freddie and Steenie will be impatient. We’re going on a long march—to the top of Galley’s Field. Promise me you’ll try to sleep. Shall I ask Jenna to come in and sit with you?”
“Yes. I like it when she’s here. She knits. I can hear the needles click.”
“You and she—you’re very close.” Acland looked at her, his expression puzzled.
“She’s my friend, Acland. I feel that. I’m glad she’s here now. I hated it when she had to live in that cottage—”
“Yes. Well. Maybe you’re right.” He hesitated. “I’ll ask her then, on the way out.”
“Thank you. Oh, I feel so sleepy. Look, my eyes keep shutting. I can’t stay awake….”
“I love you.” Acland kissed her once more. “I love you,” he said, “and I hate it when we quarrel.”
Of the three brothers, Acland walked the fastest. Slightly ahead of them as they passed through the woods and crossed the bridge, he gained a greater distance when they reached the hill beyond. He walked ahead; the gap between them widened. Steenie strolled behind him, gazing about him with a bemused air, as if he found the country startling. Freddie, by then rather stout, brought up the rear. He was already puffing.
Steenie was wearing a preposterous coat, two silken mufflers, and a pair of pigskin gloves very similar to the ones that had so offended Boy, years before. Steenie had just flown in from Paris, where he had had another of his perennial fights with Conrad Vickers.
He complained, volubly, first about the defects in Vickers’s character, then about the flight.
Freddie was trying to decide whether Steenie’s walk would be better described as a mince or a glide. It somehow contrived to be both. Freddie frowned at the yellow gloves. (He disapproved of them as strongly as Boy had.) However, his silent criticisms of his brother were mild. Freddie liked family gatherings; he liked to return to Winterscombe when he could.
Toward the top of the rise, Acland paused. He waited for his two brothers to catch up. He looked, Freddie thought, both happy and carefree, much fitter than Freddie had seen him for years. His face was tanned from outdoor work on the estate; he walked with long strides. With great enthusiasm, he had begun to discuss cows.
Freddie was pretty sure that, two years before, it had been sheep. And he was pretty sure the sheep had not been a great success. Freddie did not mind that. Bouts of misguided and often short-lived enthusiasm were something he understood; he himself was currently between engagements. When Acland spoke of cows, Freddie nodded in a sage way. He felt a kinship with his brother.
Steenie did not. Steenie was quite happy to accept funding—his own money having been used up years before—but funding Steenie’s expensive tastes (and Acland must do that, Freddie assumed, since no one else did) was no way to gain protection from Steenie’s tongue.
“For God’s sake, Acland,” he said when they had stopped near the top of the hill. “Do we have to listen to this? You sound like a farmer.”
“I am a farmer. I try to be a farmer. Something has to be done with all this land.” Acland climbed onto a fence. He lit a cigarette.
“Well, it doesn’t suit you. You don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure. And you’re far too optimistic. Proper farmers are never optimistic. They are men of unremitting gloom.”
“I can’t be gloomy. Not today. I’m a father. Freddie understands—don’t you, Freddie?”
“Give me one of those cigarettes. A father?” Steenie inserted the cigarette in a holder. “I can’t imagine why you should sound so smug about that. Lots of men are fathers. Most men are fathers. Where’s the distinction in that?”
Dark Angel Page 88
