“Leave Acland out of this—”
“Why should I? Acland is a perfect example of what I mean. I have a long memory. I remember how Acland used to be, before you set about taming him. And now look at him. The perfect husband. The perfect father—”
“Is that something to be ashamed of?”
“Not exactly.” Constance paused. She picked up, and considered, her table knife. “He plays the role very well. I’m almost convinced. But not quite. Certain elements don’t add up. After all, here we all are, gathered together for a christening. All this rejoicing for the birth of a little girl. A first child, at last. Except—she isn’t a first child. Acland had a son once. By Jenna—whom he used to love. A little boy called Edgar, with eyes exactly like his father’s.”
“Stop this.” Acland swung around. “Dear God, will you stop this—”
“No, Acland.” Jane rose. She laid her hand on his arm. “Let her finish.”
“Thank you, Jane. I was about to say, Edgar is dead. He’s been conveniently dead for a long time—so I suppose it is easier to pretend he never existed, to continue to lie about him. After all, so long as we all go on assuming he was Jack Hennessy’s child, we’re safe—aren’t we? We paper over that particular crack. But is that right—all that deception? Here we all are, downstairs—and who is upstairs minding the new baby? Jenna. And Jane is, apparently, devoted to Jenna. I find that astonishing. Is it the result of ignorance? I ask myself. Or is it true generosity of spirit? Is Jane stupid, or magnificent? Did you know, Jane? And if you knew, how did you manage? Are you never jealous?”
There was a silence. Acland turned away. He pressed his hand across his eyes. Jane and Constance continued to face each other. Wexton—the bystander in all this, as he was later to say to me—continued to watch.
Jane did not reply for some while. She frowned a little, as if uncertain what to say. She clasped her hands together. The firelight flickered against her hair; her eyes rested on Constance’s face.
“Constance,” she said at last, “I know all this. You are not the only person to think of Edgar. I think of him too. I speak of him—to Acland and to Jenna. I thought of him this morning, in the church—and I am sure they did also. He is not forgotten, Constance.” She hesitated. Faint color came to her cheeks.
“Acland and I have been married twelve years, Constance. Rather too long for secrets. Jenna once lost a child. I have lost two. We understand each other. Whatever happened in the past, it doesn’t cause division. Can you understand that? It brings us closer together. Acland and I, and Jenna—we deal with this in our way.”
There was a silence. Constance made an odd, faltering gesture. “Twelve years?” Her expression became confused. “Is it twelve years?”
“Constance, why do you do this?” Jane’s voice was quiet. Moving forward, she laid her hand on Constance’s arm. “To speak of a child in that way, to use a dead child as a weapon—why would you do such a thing, today of all days? Why ask to be a godmother, and then do this? I don’t understand. Why go to such lengths to cause pain to others?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Steenie’s your friend—and you’ve hurt him.” Jane paused. “Winnie may have misunderstood some aspects of Wexton’s poem, but she understood the heart of it. Wouldn’t it have been kinder to leave her with her illusions? Boy, Freddie, Acland—I know you care for them, Constance, so why behave as if you hate them?”
“I love them. They’re my brothers.”
“Then why hurt them, Constance? All it does is isolate you. Can’t you see that you hurt yourself, far more than you could ever hurt us?”
The word us stung. It was gently said, but Constance flinched. She jerked her face away as if she had been slapped.
“Don’t you pity me—don’t you dare to pity me.” She backed away until she was pressed up against the table. “You’re stupid, you know that? The ex-nurse! I wouldn’t come to you to bandage my finger. You know why Acland married you? For your money. Because I told him to.”
Jane paused, then gave a small shrug of exasperation. “Very well. And I have the opportunity to thank you at last. There isn’t very much money left. Even so, you gave my husband good advice. For which we’re both grateful.”
As she said this, Jane glanced toward her husband. Perhaps it was the quality of that glance, affectionate and wry; perhaps the fact that Acland then moved to his wife; perhaps the fact that Wexton, the bystander, smiled. Whatever the reason, Constance’s control snapped.
As always, her rage was sudden, and physical. Her hand smashed down on the table. She swung it in an arc. Knives, forks, plates, crashed to the floor. Wexton ducked, then rose to his feet. Constance began to hurl glasses. Crystal showered; wine dripped. Debris filled the air. There was a small violent whirlwind of energy in the room, a smashing, crashing concatenation. Then, eerily, silence.
“Shall I, Acland?” Constance said.
She stood in the midst of quick disorder, wrist outstretched. The stem of a wineglass, with one pointed shard still attached, was poised in her right hand.
The flurry of movement stopped; the group resolved itself. Wexton to one side of her, some few yards away; Jane and Acland to the other; the table behind her. Constance stood at bay, her face white, her eyes fixed and glittering, her black hair springing away from her small, set face.
“You think I won’t? Don’t come any nearer. You think people don’t do that—they don’t cut themselves up in other people’s dining rooms? I will. Acland knows I will. I break all the rules—”
“Constance—”
“Get back. All of you. Come any nearer, and I’ll do it.”
Jane gave a gesture of alarm. Acland took a step forward, then stopped. Constance’s face lit with triumph.
“Shall I, Acland? Which—wrist or throat? This glass is very sharp. Cut the right vein the right way, and it’s very quick. One great fountain of blood. You can all watch.”
“All right.” Acland folded his arms. His voice became grim. “We’ll watch. Go right ahead. Only make sure it’s an artery and not a vein, if you want it to be quick.”
“Acland, don’t. She’s ill.” Jane took a step forward. “Constance. Put the glass down.”
“Come any closer and I’ll smash it in your stupid sanctimonious face—”
“Leave her alone. Stay where you are.” Acland moved between Constance and his wife. Constance’s eyes fixed themselves upon his face. She gave a small shiver. Her black eyes took on a dead look.
“Shall I, Acland? Shall I jump? Is it a very long way down?”
“Far enough.” He hesitated. “It always was.”
“You did understand—this afternoon?”
“Yes. I understood.”
“How I hate this house! All the corners talk.”
“Give me the glass, Constance.”
“The dead walk up and down in this house. I can smell them.”
“Give me the glass.”
“Where’s my father? Are you my father?”
“No, Constance.”
“Isn’t he here?” Her face dissolved in grief. “I thought he was here. I heard his voice.”
“Constance. He isn’t here. Now put the glass in my hand, quietly.”
“Oh, very well.” Constance sighed. The tension left her body. Her hand fell. “Maybe you’re right. Live a little longer, then a little longer, inch by inch, day by day, step by step, night by night. Here you are, Acland. May I be alone? I want to be alone. I’ll go to bed now. It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’ll leave in the morning. What a horrid mess. I’m so sorry.”
When she had left the room, there was a silence. Jane bent to pick up a plate, then left it. Wexton wandered up and down the room, then sat down in a chair. He said, “Jesus.”
“I know.” Acland turned away grimly. He looked at the smashed glass, the uneaten meal, the chaos of the table.
“I need a whisky,” Wexton said.
“Good idea. Pour me one, would you?”<
br />
“Does she often go that far?”
“She’s always liked to make scenes. This was one of the better ones. She controls it, up to a point. Then it goes wildly wrong—way out of control. As you just saw. Today, there were reasons.”
“I guessed that.”
“Acland.” Jane had been staring into the fire. She turned. “Acland, you can’t make her leave. She’ll have to stay. She’s ill. She needs help.”
“No. She’s leaving. And she’s not coming back.”
“You can’t do that. We can’t do that. There’s something seriously wrong.”
“I know that. And it’s not my responsibility. I won’t have her in this house. Not again. Not after tonight. You saw what happened, for God’s sake—”
“You can’t blame her, Acland. I see that now. She isn’t responsible for her own actions.”
“Then it’s time she was. I’m not arguing about this. I don’t want her anywhere near you, or Victoria.”
“Acland, she’s ill.”
“I know her illnesses. She recovers from them very conveniently. You’ll see—tomorrow morning she’ll behave as if nothing happened. And expect everyone else to do the same. I told you: She’s leaving, and she’s not coming back. That’s it. The whole goddam thing. It’s over.”
“You’ll let her go back to New York—on her own? A long journey like that? Acland, you can’t. It isn’t safe.”
“I can’t? Just watch me.”
“Her behavior tonight—all those things she said. The way she looked with that glass in her hand …” Jane hesitated. “Acland. She isn’t altogether sane.”
“She’s not altogether mad, either, if that’s what you mean. She might like you to think she was—but she isn’t. I’m right, aren’t I, Wexton?”
Wexton had been sitting, during this conversation, at one end of the table, his chin sunk in his hands, his whisky in front of him. Now he roused himself. He hunched himself up into his favorite position, that of a human question mark.
“Is Constance mad? That’s the question? Well, I’d say—a bit like the play. You know: ‘mad north-north-west; when the wind is southerly….’”
He gave Jane one of his anxious, melancholy looks. “Acland’s right, you know, Jane. She should leave. She wants to leave, anyway. No. Correction. She wants to be made to leave.”
“Why should she want that?”
“Punishment, I guess.” Wexton shrugged. “If other people won’t oblige, she punishes herself. No, Acland—don’t say anything. Whatever she told you, I don’t want to know. This whole evening—that’s what it was all about: Constance, making sure she got exiled. Okay, so she finally pulled it off. Let her go, Jane. She does have a husband.”
Later that night, when Acland had explained to her the events of the afternoon, Jane did try cabling that husband. She sent a second cable the next day. Morning, and Constance was leaving.
Jane, in her bedroom above, could hear the muted sounds of her departure. She moved to the bay window.
Only Steenie was there to bid Constance goodbye. He seemed to have forgiven her, as Constance had predicted. He embraced her tightly, standing on the portico steps. He was not wearing a coat, although the morning was cold and the lawns white with frost. His scarf fluttered in the wind; Constance’s little white hands linked behind his neck. She kissed him once, twice, three times.
When she released him, she turned and looked about her. A tiny, erect figure in a scarlet coat, the only vivid point of color in a bleached and monochrome landscape. Jane saw her face turn back toward the house, then jerk in the direction of the lake and the woods. She was wearing no hat; the wind lifted her black hair away from her face. She pulled on first one glove, then the other.
Constance’s final farewell to Winterscombe. For once, it seemed, she had nothing to say. Having looked around her, she climbed into the back of the waiting car. The door was closed. It pulled away. Jane watched it, a large, black, somewhat funereal Daimler, as it disappeared down the drive and out of sight. She turned back to her husband, who had not wished to witness this departure. Acland sat by the fire, gazing into the coals. Across the room, his child slept.
“She’s gone, Acland,” Jane said gently.
“Has she? I hope so. I wish I felt sure of it.”
Jane knelt and took his hand in hers. “She couldn’t have done it, Acland,” she said quietly. “You must know that. She may imagine she did—but kill her own father? It’s not possible. It’s unthinkable. She was a ten-year-old child.”
“I know. I don’t believe it either. But she does. I suppose that’s what’s wrong with her.”
“Do you think Stern knows?”
“He knows most things. I don’t think it would be easy to keep a secret from him. But in this case—no, I think not. If you’d seen her in the Stone House, you’d understand. First—she seemed so convinced it was me. Then she kept talking—you know how she talks. She talks the way people dream. She cried out—I remember that. She said something about listening to a voice. I can’t remember exactly. Then she said she’d show me, and she ran out. It was as if the idea came to her then, for the first time. She looked … I can’t describe how she looked—”
“She frightens me, Acland.”
“I know. She frightens me too. You see now, why I won’t have her here? It was my fault. My mistake. Nothing and no one is safe from her. She talks about my own brother, about Boy—and I feel I never knew him. She distorts everything, but she does it in such a way that I can’t see anymore. I begin to think maybe she’s right, maybe it was the way she says it was—I can’t explain. All I know is, she hurts people. And I don’t want her to hurt you. Or Victoria.”
“Acland.” Jane knelt back. She looked at him. “We must make sure Stern understands. Not everything, perhaps. But he should know she’s ill. If nothing else, he must understand that.”
“You see, she could have been different.” With a sudden, restless gesture, Acland rose. He began to pace about the room. “She could. I still believe that. When she was younger. Even now—some of the things she says. She can be … extraordinary.”
Jane looked down at the floor. She said:
“She’s very beautiful.”
“Yes. But I don’t mean that. She isn’t beautiful—not in any classical sense, not if you analyze her, feature by feature. But you can’t analyze her. Not once you look at her. She’s so very alive. She has so much energy—”
“Do you love her, Acland?”
Acland stopped pacing and turned around. He stared at his wife.
“Love her? No. I don’t.”
“But you did … once?” Jane raised her eyes to his face. “Tell me, Acland. I’d rather know.”
“I can’t answer that. I don’t even know the answer. There was a time—before the war, at the beginning of the war. She—bewitched me a little, I think.”
“Bewitched you?” Jane looked away. “Oh, Acland, that’s not your kind of word. It’s all right. I understand. She’s very lovely and very strange. Any man might fall in love with her.”
“And I gather a number do,” Acland replied drily. He crossed and put his arm around his wife. “It didn’t last—that’s the point. I found you.”
“Ah, the wife.”
“Don’t say it like that. I won’t let you.”
“Oh, but I will—and all women would.” Jane gave a wry smile. She rose to her feet. “Even the most virtuous wives, you know, feel a little envy for the mistresses—for the mistress type.”
A glint of amusement came into Acland’s eyes. He said, “They do?”
“But of course. I’d make a very bad mistress, for instance—I know that. I’m aware of my own limitations. But I’m not nearly as strait-laced as Constance seems to think. I’ve considered, from time to time, how it would be—to be the other kind of woman. To be an object of desire. Beautiful. Careless. Capricious.”
“Expendable.”
“Perhaps. I’m not so sure about that. Th
e perfect mistress—”
“Is there such a thing?”
“The perfect mistress is … unattainable. Like the perfect lover. She can be … achieved, but never possessed,”
“And you think men imagine such a woman—want such a woman? You think I do that?”
Jane smiled. “I’m a wife. I told you. And sensible wives are discreet. I shall never ask you, Acland—and no, don’t tell me either way, because I shan’t listen.”
“All I was going to say”—he kissed her—“is that you have a rather feminine view of the male imagination. Most men, I think, are rather more basic. Either they are like me—exemplary, devoted—or they want diversion. And the point about the diversions is that they’re easily and immediately available. Easily disposed of, too. Darling—”
“Acland, I’m being serious.”
“I know you are. It’s delightful. It’s also very funny.”
“You think I’m wrong? Then how do you explain Constance’s success?”
“With men?” Acland frowned. “Ah, I see the trap. She’s certainly had her fair share of worshippers. Also victims. Perhaps you’re right. Steenie calls her the femme fatale of Fifth. She seems to like that. I’m not sure I believe in femmes fatales, though—”
“I do.” Jane turned away. “Especially when the woman concerned is also a femme enfant.”
“What did you say?”
“She has no children.” Jane’s face was pressed to the window. She did not look around. “She has never grown up. She is a woman and a child. I think there are men who like women like that.” She paused. “Sometimes, I think all men like women like that.”
Her voice sounded suddenly tired. Acland hesitated, but he did not answer her.
He thought of the Stone House, the previous day. The sharp scent of Constance’s hair came back to him. He saw the curve of her white throat, the redness of her parted lips, the pleading and childish anxiety in her eyes. He put his arms around a child; his fingers brushed against a woman’s breast. He thought: I could have stayed when she asked me to. What would have happened if I had?
Abruptly he turned away and crossed the room.
Dark Angel Page 94
