Marguerite Selsden
Twenty-Four
12 Mermaid Street
Strand
April 16th, 1914
Dear Mrs Grose,
Of course I can understand you do not wish to talk of events at Bly, of how much even now the contemplation upsets you – as it does Elaine. Let us forget my request, let us let the past lie.
Here we are, with Spring coming in, the landscape below the town, fields and bushes, is swept by strong gusts which move grass and bushes so that one feels one also sees the wind as it moves. Today Elaine and I had planned to take ourselves to the town, make some small purchases and enjoy a lunch at a respectable hotel but, alas, we have decided it is wiser to wait for a better day, as it would not do for the poor patient to get cold or wet on this first outing.
However, Dr Prothero called yesterday to assure us that all was well and pronounced Elaine’s lungs to be better than they had been since he began to treat her – such good news! Elaine has gone downstairs to help Mrs Constantine with the ironing and mending of household linen while I remain upstairs, in our little sitting room, quietly looking into Mrs Reeve’s garden from time to time where the freshly budding trees are at present blowing wildly to and fro in strong wind. I feel much more tranquil now that Elaine is making so much progress. She will continue, I’m sure, to improve now that summer is on the way.
In St Petersburg we would still be looking forward to the thaw. How strange it is to think that last year I was under the great strangely decorated ceilings of the Klebers’ huge house, that gazing from my window I would have seen not the gentle coming of spring to Mr Reeve’s garden but broad streets full of sledges, some horse-drawn, some pulled by men or women – seen bundled-up figures, black against the snow, with feet swathed in thick layers of rags against the cold, or clad in huge sable hats and long coats costlier here than diamonds, all set against a vast sky and the view of the solid, frozen river.
Mrs Constantine comes up in a bustle. Did I know that just now my sister has received a letter from Norway? ‘Why no,’ I respond. ‘How could I, since I am up here and she is downstairs?’ And did I know, she further asks, ‘that only last week she received just such another letter? And she has asked Jenny especially to bring her any such letters, saying nothing to anyone else?’ ‘I did not know,’ I responded. ‘But an invalid suffers from many things, one of them being a loss of privacy. Perhaps my sister feels she needs a little secret.’
Mrs Constantine looked unsympathetic. ‘It will be the young man from Scotland, no doubt,’ she observed. ‘I think it must be,’ I agree. ‘Elaine cannot have a vast acquaintanceship in Norway!’ And so Mrs Constantine has departed, her curiosity unassuaged. I suppose Elaine is receiving letters from young Mr Brett. There is no harm in it, surely.
And so our calm day continues. Tomorrow we may get out into the town.
I hope I did not offend you by pressing for details of the boy’s death. I was too insistent. All I can say in my own defence is that at that time Elaine was very ill and I very fearful for her. Perhaps I overstepped limits you feel I should have observed. And yet sometimes, Mrs Grose, I wonder if there are more things Elaine has not told me about her past, perhaps to spare me pain. In the meanwhile, we are both anxious for news of you. Are you well? I – we both – long to hear from you.
Affectionately,
Marguerite
My dear Mrs Grose,
What joy! A reply from you. Yet I regret for you the news of Bly. I will not of course tell Elaine that Mr Bennett is determined on a sale.
Mr Reeve comes to tea today – he has apparently also suggested to Mrs Constantine that one day soon we go on an outing to visit his excavations. This will be most exciting.
I will run along with this to the post and reply further to your letter with its dispiriting news soon.
Your friend,
Marguerite
Twenty-Five
‘It seems a strange preoccupation for a gentleman, digging up A such very old things,’ Mrs Constantine said to Mr Reeve as she carefully spooned tea into a silver teapot. ‘If it were only Roman remains. There seems more dignity in a Roman villa, somehow, than a lot of hairy men in dark, wooden huts. You’ll forgive my friendly remarks, I hope, Mr Reeve.’
‘By all means,’ agreed Henry Reeve with a smile. ‘Not everyone wants to dig too far down. Many prefer to stop at the Roman layer, that more respectable, classical era in our history, which links us with the broad stream of European culture.’
‘Rather as people prefer to stop looking into their ancestry at a certain point,’ Marguerite Selsden observed wryly. ‘Better to end the research before one comes to the smugglers and horse thieves.
‘Quite so,’ said Henry.
‘Marguerite!’ Elaine said, in reproof.
They sat in Mrs Constantine’s overcrowded parlour, where each small table bore its burden of photographs and ornaments and the walls were crowded with pictures. Nevertheless, it was cosy and comfortable with a fire burning cheerfully. Mrs Constantine sat before a small table by the fire on which stood a teapot and cups and saucers. Bread and butter and a cake stood on another table. Opposite Mrs Constantine, Elaine, pale and fair, was ensconced in an easy chair as befitted her invalid status. Beside her, in a straight chair with padded arms, sat Henry Reeve facing the fire. Marguerite was on Mrs Constantine’s left in a similar seat. A kettle swung on a chain over the fire. Mrs Constantine now stood up to take it to the pot. As she bent over a little stiffly, Marguerite stood and went to her. Her pale brown hair was caught in a chignon at the back of her head and she wore a soft grey dress with a cameo brooch at the neck. She bent, took the boiling kettle from the chain and passed it carefully to Mrs Constantine, who poured its steaming contents into the teapot.
‘Thank you my dear,’ Mrs Constantine said to her, then offered Mr Reeve a plate and some bread and butter.
‘May I have some tea, Marguerite, before it becomes too strong?’ appealed Elaine.
‘Of course, dear,’ Mrs Constantine said comfortably. ‘I will pour yours now.’
‘Perhaps it should be allowed to stand for half a minute longer,’ she suggested.
‘Half a minute it shall be,’ responded their hostess, agreeably.
‘You’ve been in London, Mr Reeve?’ Elaine asked him.
‘Yes. I have an old friend who sometimes bestirs himself to come and stay in London. We were able to spend a few days together. We were very gay. You will be shocked to learn we went to a music hall and even joined in the choruses, not at all the thing for two elderly gentlemen.’
‘You are by no means old, Mr Reeve,’ Elaine told him with mock sternness. ‘Indeed, I think you should be celebrating your engagement, not visiting wicked places like music halls.’
He laughed. ‘It is sad, isn’t it? I’ve been unlucky enough never to find the right lady. However, we did our duty the following evening and visited the theatre to see a play, Macbeth. Prior to that we had examined some very modern paintings from France. They were extraordinarily interesting and startling, indeed.’
Elaine said, ‘I should so love to go to a play.’
‘Here is your tea, Elaine,’ Mrs Constantine interrupted. Marguerite stood up and took it, saying to her sister, ‘As soon as you are well, we shall go to London. We may see a play and still return that night on the fast train.’
‘A sad sight – two unaccompanied ladies at a play alone,’ Elaine said, taking her tea.
‘Well, we shall retrim our hats,’ announced Marguerite, ‘so as to seem less tragic. And how are your excavations proceeding, Mr Reeve?’
‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘They are flooded. It’s only to be expected at this time of year. I had it in mind to put a tarpaulin over them, but the farmer who owns the field pointed out to me that March gales would probably rip it off, no matter how firmly I tried to secure it. He predicted it would then fly across a neighbouring field wrapping itself round one of his cows – a comic idea, I suppose,
but not amusing for the cow. He pointed out grimly that I would then have to recompense him for the damage to his livestock. So now we’re flooded out.’
‘Is he interested in your excavations?’ asked Marguerite.
‘Not in any academic way. But I think he imagines himself eventually showing visitors round the excavated Bronze Age village at sixpence a time, so that at least secures his cooperation. However we’re drying out nicely now. I should be delighted if you would accompany me to see the excavations in a day or two. I believe the farmer’s wife will give us tea.’
‘That would be very interesting,’ Marguerite said. ‘Thank you. I think we all look forward to it.’
‘Indeed we do,’ Elaine said. As she bent towards Henry a beam of light pierced the thick net curtains in front of the window, falling on the pink curve of her lips and on one cheek, pale as paper, but glowing with a small, healthy flush. Why, thought Marguerite, Elaine looks like a girl, as she did when she left home. She seems so fresh, so new. She contrasted this face with the one that had been opposite her in the railway carriage when they left London. Then Elaine had been chalky, with black circles of fatigue and illness under her eyes. Even sitting, she had seemed to lack enough strength to hold herself upright. My heavens, Marguerite thought, she is better. She is. She will live! With her gaze on Elaine, she was barely conscious of Henry speaking. She said hastily, ‘On the first fine day? Of course. What shall we see?’
‘With any luck, we shall find the floor of a house.’
Soon it was time for Henry to leave. As he stood up Elaine put out her hand to him. He pressed it, bending over it slightly. As he held it, she raised herself up in her chair and, with her other hand, straightened his tie a little. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said in some confusion. ‘I am compelled to straighten things wherever I go. You must forgive me.’
Marguerite and Mrs Constantine looked at the pair, awestruck. But if Henry Reeve found the gesture surprising he did not show it. He released her hand and said, ‘I sympathise. I am much the same myself, compelled to set the crooked straight.’
When he had gone and Mrs Constantine was out of the room, Marguerite put the tea things on a tray, ready to take into the kitchen.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ Elaine told her.
‘It saves Jenny a little trouble. They are busy today,’ her sister replied.
‘I believe you are angry with me,’ Elaine said.
‘No, not angry. But weren’t you a little flirtatious with Mr Reeve?’
Elaine spoke quickly. ‘You want him for yourself, I know.’
Marguerite, emptying teacups into a slops bowl in order to put them on the tray, stopped short, still holding the cup, and gazed at her sister in astonishment. ‘Mr Reeve? Elaine – how can you say that?’
‘Oh,’ she replied scornfully, ‘I have seen how it’s been going, with your little cups of tea in teashops. Oh,’ she said, rising from her chair and going to the window rapidly, gazing through it as if ready to burst through the pane out into the street, ‘oh – do you not want more, Marguerite? Can’t you see? Can’t you understand? Can you bear to look at your own future, see, each day, your eyes losing their brightness, your complexion its colour, find the first grey hairs on your head, have nothing to look forward to but poverty, spinsterhood, living at other people’s disposition in other people’s houses? They have the lives, Marguerite – we have just the shadows of their lives.’ She turned from the window, ‘I want more, Marguerite. I must have something, a husband, a home, something. Can you not see that? How can you bear it?’
‘Oh, Elaine,’ said her sister, ‘Oh – Elaine!’ She sat down abruptly at the table and, cupping her face in her hands, looked at her sister in grief and bewilderment.
Twenty-Six
‘It’s an odd life you lead, Henry. One minute in London, the man invited everywhere; next back in Strand for tea and cake with two governesses who lodge with your old housekeeper, who will not let you name her as such, since she married a sea captain and is now a respectable widow. All this followed by a nice windy day’s excavation of a muddy primitive old village. Does the contrast never strike you as odd, old man?’ Geoffrey Bennett said from his office.
‘Never,’ Henry Reeve said robustly into the telephone. He stood in the small panelled room off the hall of his house in Strand. ‘But do you telephone to ask me only about my social arrangements, or is it slow work in legal matters? Have you lost too many cases? Are clients avoiding you?’
‘No. I wondered if I might impose myself …’
‘By all means. But to what do I owe this pleasure? Have you a desire to take tea with governesses?’
‘The position of a man in a household arranging a wedding is ambiguous. He is not needed. In fact, he is in the way, yet his presence is required to show he is involved. Although he is not, nor does anyone wish him to be.’
‘Some of your anxieties have evaporated?’
‘I think so. But now I am redundant in my own home.’
‘Good. Come then, and gladly.’
‘I shall try not to interfere with your courtship of the governesses,’ he said lightly. There was a silence. ‘Good Lord, Henry,’ Geoffrey said, startled, ‘is there something going on? Have you taken a fancy? Good Lord!’
‘Certainly not,’ Henry denied promptly. ‘Will you drive down, or take the train?’
‘I’ll come by the train which gets in at midday,’ Geoffrey said, ‘if that suits you.’
To Beth, over dinner, Geoffrey said, ‘I suspect Henry Reeve is getting attached to someone in Strand.’
To this his wife responded, ‘My goodness. Are you sure, Geoffrey? I thought he was past that age. But,’ she added, ‘I suppose none of you ever are.’
It was a bright, wild day on the hills above Strand. The small party consisting of Mr Reeve, Mrs Constantine, Elaine and Marguerite Selsden and the farmer, Mr Welsh, stood by the excavations in a field on Shipston Down. At the end of the field lay a sharp cliff and, below that, the town. Further on, past the clustered rooftops, was the harbour in the estuary, full of little ships. From there, the river flowed through fields to the sea. They had come up by a rough, chalk road. This was at the edge of the field where they stood and where Henry Reeve’s motor had been parked.
The ladies’ dresses blew out in the strong wind. All three carried their hats, since Marguerite’s had blown off earlier and she had been forced to chase it, laughing, across the grass, to the very edge of the cliff, where she had finally caught it. Now they all stood in the middle of the field, behind the small ramparts of earth thrown up by the excavatations, staring down on the site of Mr Reeve’s research. This patch of drying mud, above which various brown protusions emerged, was some two hundred feet across. Henry Reeve, opposite the ladies, standing on the two-foot-high rampart of earth on his side, pointed out what had so far been discovered.
‘There, where you see that row of what appear to be wooden foundations, was a line of dwellings, like a village street. Opposite, there is another. Then there, to the left, we think we have a byre for sheep or cattle.’
Marguerite frowned, following his pointing finger. Elaine’s gaze drifted up to the sky.
‘Alas,’ Henry said, ‘the outlines have filled in with mud. We’ve lost some parts. Look over here.’ He pointed to one corner where a slick of apparently dense drying mud, through which poked a few bumps and projections, was all that remained of what must have been a careful digging out.
‘However, we’ll get it back. Ah!’ he then exclaimed, hopping from the rampart of earth on which he stood, down into the dug area. He was wearing a tweed suit and gumboots. He gazed down at the mud, then looked up. ‘I don’t advise you ladies to join me,’ he said. ‘It is muddier than I thought and your boots are hardly suitable.’
‘Imagine,’ he gestured, ‘there lay a house – and over there another. Just below where you stand I believe I have found the fragments of a wooden stockade, surrounding the whole encampment. From its posit
ion, on this slight rise, close to the cliff, it seems our local Caractacus would have been able to defend himself from his enemies.’
‘You’ll need a couple of boys to clear away the mud, Mr Reeve,’ the farmer said.
‘Hand me down a spade,’ Henry requested. The farmer did so. Henry caught it and stepped forward and drove it into the spot that had earlier attracted his attention. He took a good spadeful and hurled it towards the rampart. He did this again, and then again. Mrs Constantine said in an undertone to Marguerite, ‘I wish I’d worn my thick coat.’ Her nose was rather red and Marguerite was conscious that Mrs Constantine’s idea of a pleasant afternoon’s outing was not standing in a windy field watching a man in gumboots digging among buried ruins.
Henry, meanwhile, had taken his fourth spadeful, heaved it away from him, then bent down to examine the hole he had made. He gave a cry of satisfaction. ‘Thank you, ladies,’ he said. ‘I believe you have brought me good luck. I believe I may have found the midden.’
‘Heavens! What for?’ called Mrs Constantine. To Marguerite she said, ‘Why on earth would anyone want to uncover one of those?’
‘This is where they threw all their waste,’ Henry explained. ‘One can find all sorts of interesting items. Think, Mrs Constantine, what every household in the land throws away daily and imagine what the future would discover from our dustbins about our lives and times.’
Elaine was standing some feet away from Marguerite and Mrs Constantine, staring about her. It had been long since she had been in the countryside. She was enraptured, caught at the sight of the green of the field, the blue of the sky, the small white clouds scudding in the wind. Now Henry dropped to his knees in the mud and began to search for something. Mrs Constantine drew in her breath. ‘The mud,’ she whispered in horror. Marguerite craned forward. She had an impulse to jump down and get closer to the search. She was held back by thoughts of her boots, stockings and good green skirt.
Miles and Flora Page 10
