by John Burke
‘And now. Dominic’s longing to see you. All day he’s been as impatient as I have.’
Taking my mother’s arm and mine, she led us to the door of the drawing-room and released us so that we went in under our own momentum.
Dominic stood by the piano on which my father and I had taken turns in playing for musical evenings many a time. He stood very erect, as a man might stand to face an ordeal which must be endured and made the best of. I had always looked up to him as a boy and man so much older than myself. It was odd that at a time like this, a mature married man, he should look so young and defenceless. Surely I could not have caught him up in age since we last met?
‘Here they are at last,’ said Caroline. ‘Here they are, my love.’
She moved gracefully past us, tapping me lightly on the shoulder and flashing an affectionate smile, and took her place beside him.
Mother said: ‘You’re looking well, Dominic.’
‘Looking very fit,’ said my father.
‘Nora, do tell him he looks well,’ said Caroline. ‘You know how much your opinion means – to both of us.’
I said: ‘You’ve both got every reason for looking radiant.’
She was willing me to draw closer. When I did so, Dominic kissed my cheek; and she gave him a little hug.
I was glad that we were at once bustled off to our rooms. Caroline explained this and that on the way, as if three of us had not known the nooks and crannies of the house far longer than she.
My bedroom was a small, trim little box looking down on the crescent.
‘I haven’t handed over my own room, the way you did for me.’ Caroline gave a meaning little chuckle. ‘You’d hardly expect that, would you, in the circumstances? But this is the nicest, really it is. Some of the rooms are hideously dismal. Hideous. I’m going to have the whole place brightened up as soon as I can. But for the time being I hope you’ll find this comfortable.’
‘We oughtn’t to be putting you out like this, just for one night.’ I might have been my mother’s echo.
‘But I’ve been longing to have you here.’ At the door she smiled back at me. ‘Nora, I’ve been longing so much for you to come here and see us.’
I had used the right word to describe her. She did indeed look radiant.
At dinner that evening she had changed into a low-necked, plum-coloured dress whose softness emphasized the metallic burnish of her hair. I had thought there might be a handful of other guests, but Caroline had meant just what she wrote: we were the first, and for the time being the only ones. Perhaps she derived more pleasure from studying our faces and sharing her triumph among a few close relations than from playing hostess to a larger gathering.
Dominic talked to my father about Scotland in an earnest, impersonal manner. Once when he used the word ‘we’ in discussing his time away with Caroline he shot me an awkward glance and then looked back at my father.
Aunt Aurelia hardly took her eyes off Caroline. She was silently inviting us to admire the way things were going, the excellence of the meal, the smooth competence of it all.
Over the baked apricot pudding she said fondly: ‘I suppose you’ve got all kinds of notions for altering the house to suit the two of you – and whoever else you’re blessed with?’
‘Poor Dominic,’ said my father. ‘Nowhere to sit down for at least a twelvemonth.’
‘Not just this house,’ said Caroline.
Dominic put his spoon down very quietly on his plate. We all found ourselves turning towards Caroline.
She said: ‘The old house too, Mama. What do you think?’
‘I don’t quite know what you mean, dear.’
‘Our old house on Tempest Fen. What about doing that up?’
‘Oh, but you couldn’t. I mean, that’s all . . . well, it’s finished with, isn’t it? Not ours any more.’
‘But it is,’ said Caroline straight at Dominic. ‘Ours, isn’t it?’
‘Haven’t you got one of your fellows living there now?’ my father asked Dominic.
‘At the moment, yes. Burridge.’
Dominic was very hushed. Caroline still concentrated her gaze full on him. ‘Isn’t that typical of the Warringtons?’ she said. ‘Letting one of their staff have such a beautiful house, just for himself and his wife. Handing it over just like that! Remember how beautiful it was, Mama?’
‘Burridge,’ said my father: ‘wasn’t he the chap who had that accident a year or two back?’
‘Twisted his leg badly on the dredger,’ Dominic confirmed. ‘Lucky not to have lost it altogether. Never be the same for heavy work – but he’s made an excellent job of looking after our orchards above Tempest Hythe.’
‘An excellent job,’ said Caroline, ‘living in luxury.’ She made a sketchy little gesture which might have signified blowing her husband a kiss. ‘What a warm-hearted family I’ve married into!’
Aunt Aurelia wiped her eyes. ‘It’s so wonderful to see you both so happy.’
Caroline smiled at Dominic. They made a strong, impressive, well-matched couple. Already they had their own secrets, their own private ways of communicating, their language which meant different things to them from what it might sound to others.
She said: ‘You remember our dear old house, don’t you, Nora?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘The fun we had there.’
Mother said: ‘I was talking about it to Leonora not so long ago, when you were coming to stay with us, before we –’
‘Mr Whatever-he’s-called is moving out,’ said Caroline. ‘Dominic will find him somewhere nice. But we’ve decided to have the house done up, so that we can get away to it as often as possible. Haven’t we, darling?’
Dominic nodded.
‘And perhaps you’d like the west wing, Mama.’
‘I?’
‘It’s more comfortable than Sunderland.’
‘But I thought . . . I mean, I never thought of going back. Never once.’
‘No. Neither of us did, did we?’
‘Poor Mr Burridge,’ said my mother.
Caroline did not by as much as a blink acknowledge the remark.
I was a trifle vague about what had happened to the house, or for that matter many other things, after Uncle Henry’s death. There had been some talk, I thought, of it being taken over as part of a bad debt. I suppose I had been aware that the Warringtons had acquired it, but it was no concern of mine and I rarely thought of it until my mother jogged my memory those few months earlier.
A place of happy memories? Not for me. And not, I would have imagined, for Aunt Aurelia.
But she said: ‘If that’s what you want, dear.’
‘It is. Isn’t it, Dominic?’
Caroline stood up, and we all pushed our chairs back and left the table. Before we went into the drawing-room she went and linked arms with Dominic for a moment, tugging him gently closer. She smiled at him and then at her mother, and at my mother, and at me.
‘Now, shall we leave the gentlemen to their port and the topography of the Scottish Highlands?’
Mother and Aunt Aurelia settled themselves on a sofa whose cover, I recalled, had been embroidered by some visiting niece while Mrs Warrington was still alive. I glanced about the room. A pier table against one wall was surely new; and the curtains did not seem Caroline’s sort of thing and would soon come down; and what had happened to the sombre but impressive painting of a four-master in a storm?
Caroline seized my hand, making me start.
‘I must have a word with you, Nora. I mustn’t put it off any longer.’
Bravely and knowingly she smiled again at her mother and mine.
We went on through the door into a little sitting-room beyond. Here, too, I remembered the late Mrs Warrington. The flocked wallpaper had faded in strips where the sun struck during the afternoon, and there was one oblong patch of older, brighter colour to mark the disappearance of another painting.
‘This room is going to be one of my first tas
ks,’ said Caroline. ‘I shall have to have somewhere to be at ease while work is carried out through the rest of the house.’
‘You’re going to make really sweeping changes?’
‘It has been a man’s house for too long.’
She nudged a satin-cushioned chair towards the chaise-longue so that I was closely facing her as she drew up her legs and adjusted the folds of her dress.
‘Caroline,’ I said, ‘there’s something I must tell you.’
She stared at me for a long moment. ‘How you must hate me.’ The idea seemed to amuse rather than disturb her. ‘I’ll be frank with you, my dear. I was most relieved to have you out of the way while all this was happening. Because you’re far too beautiful. I’m not sure I’d have captured him if you’d been here.’
‘Caroline, I –’
‘And the funny thing is that you don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you? Now that you’ve let me help myself to such a prize, I really must see about giving you a few lessons – about yourself.’
Was she saying all this out of sheer, calculated cruelty? There was little point in any of it unless it was meant to hurt, to torment me with the feeling that things might just possibly have taken a different course if I had not been so far from the scene.
I had meant to break my news as decently as I could: give her time to prepare for the shock, help her decide what best to do. Her husband, her real husband, had obviously found much in her to love. If she had loved him, too, as much as he believed, then once she knew he was still alive she would need to be with him; and would need counsel and support.
But the flicker of that callous mouth spurred through my good resolutions. Instead of leading gently up to the subject I said without more ado:
‘While we were in Carlsbad I met Anton.’
She had been stroking one hand pleasurably over her knee. It stopped. She sat quite rigid, and the high colouring of her cheeks turned pale and muddy. I could have sworn I heard a whimper choke in her throat. Then, very steadily, she said:
‘I don’t follow.’
‘I met Count Anton Florian.’
There had been so many reactions I had expected. Incredulity, confusion, joy – even, at first, disbelief. What I had not been prepared for was this stony, unyielding voice.
‘You met someone in Carlsbad. How pleasant for you.’
‘Your husband,’ I said. ‘I met your husband.’
‘Nora, what are you talking about?’
‘He is desperate to see you again. He wants you to go to him. I promised –’
‘What sort of joke is this?’ Colour flooded back into her face. ‘A very ill-timed one, I must say.’
I tugged the ring from my pocket and held it out in the palm of my hand, the Florian signet facing her. She lowered her gaze, expressionless.
‘You’re to show this to the blacksmith of Svetlik. Count Florian said you would not have forgotten. Word will be passed along, and when they are sure it’s safe you’ll be taken to your husband.’
I waited for her to take the ring; but her hand stayed where it was.
‘Dominic is my husband.’
‘I’m sure you married him in good faith, thinking the Count was dead. I told him so. And he forgives you.’
‘I need no forgiveness.’
‘He understands. But now that you know . . .’
‘All I know,’ she said, ‘is that I’m Mrs Dominic Warrington. You may not care for that, Nora, but it’s true. Is that what has affected you? Will you feel better if you lie down? I’ll fetch smelling salts.’
But she made no move to go away.
I said: ‘He loves you, Caroline. He described you so clearly, there can be no mistake about it. The dates, the position you left, your brief marriage – you can’t deny it, any of it. You can’t.’
‘Nora. I brought you into this room for a personal, private chat. I felt I owed it to you. But now I think you owe me some explanations. What can you hope to achieve for yourself by this absurd story?’
‘It’s not myself I’m thinking of. This errand is none of my choosing. I made a promise to Count Florian, who has suffered and who has such faith in you. And such a need for you.’
Her pose was still frozen: exquisite but stiff, not relaxed.
Thoughtfully she said: ‘Go on. You had best tell me about this man.’
To those cold, unreceptive eyes I told of my meeting with Anton Florian and of his imprisonment and supposed death. Awkwardly I tried to convey the abiding warmth of his love for her. Caroline was silent and attentive, but I had the impression that one part of her mind was adding things up, adjusting and balancing, trying to estimate the total. After a while she grew restive, as if she had made up her mind and rejected the outcome; and finally she interrupted.
‘Nora, there’s not one word of truth in any of it. I never met any such person, I’ve not been married before. And I can’t believe any man could have approached you with such a tale.’
‘I’m not lying. He came to me, and he told me what I’ve told you.’
‘If there were such a person, he must be a wild eccentric or a trickster. I want nothing to do with either. I’d advise you to be more circumspect in future.’
I suppressed my anger. It was not in me to call her a liar, as she was virtually calling me. I said: ‘How could any stranger invent such things? And why should I invent them?’
‘That’s the question which perplexes me.’ Caroline looked gravely down at her lap. ‘Do you think that by stirring up such grotesque rumours you’ll wreck my marriage? Do you still have some girlish hope of –’
‘You’re the Countess Florian,’ I said, ‘and you know it. Are you prepared to discard all that – and to betray the man who still loves you?’
The gentle swish of her hand across the fabric of her dress slowed. ‘This figment of your imagination does seem to have made an impression on you.’
‘No figment. He was real. I know it, and you know it.’
Musing, she said: ‘I suppose you introduced him to Uncle Edgar?’
‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘Oh. But you told Uncle Edgar about him? And Aunt Milada? Feeding them with stories which could be used against me when you returned to Ely?’
‘I told them nothing.’
‘I see.’ Her hand was gentle and rhythmic. She smiled a pinched little smile to herself. ‘Such a remarkable experience – such a revelation out of the blue – and you didn’t breathe one single word to your parents?’
‘I’ve told you, I was sworn to secrecy.’
‘How very neatly you make it all fit. I congratulate you on your inventiveness. But don’t you think you’d be wise to abandon your fantasies before they do you too much damage? Damage to you, Nora, not to me. Admit it was all a dream: a rather spiteful dream.’
My fist had clenched over the signet. I opened it again.
‘What about this? This evidence is solid enough.’
Caroline shrugged. ‘The shops in Carlsbad must be stocked with any number of trinkets. That I don’t doubt. Tell me – did you buy the ring and then contrive the story, or did the story come first?’
‘Caroline,’ I burst out, ‘for his sake, for your own sake, please be honest. Please!’
‘Coming from you, Nora, I find that as ill-timed as the rest of your contrivances.’
‘You can’t deny –’
‘I do deny. Every insane word of it.’
‘He must be given some answer. He can’t just be left there without a word.’ I thrust the ring at her. ‘Take it. You’ve got to take it, and make up your mind, and find some way of getting to him. If you want help, I’ll do anything I can. Truly, I’ll help you in this.’
‘In this I’m sure you will. Help me by looking after Dominic in my absence? Oh, I’m sure you’d be most assiduous.’
‘No!’ It was only the consciousness of my mother and Aunt Aurelia in the next room that prevented my shouting at her. ‘I want nothing of Dominic. I want on
ly to help you to see your husband again – and to make your own plans from there onwards.’
She leaned closer. ‘Oh, no, Nora. I see my husband every day. And every night. And his name, in case you have forgotten, is Dominic Warrington. I’m well content with the life I have chosen, and I do not intend to give up any part of it whatsoever. You understand me?’
Before I could reply, if any reply were feasible, there was the distant click of an opening door, and a deep voice murmured faintly in the adjoining room.
Caroline got up. ‘I think the gentlemen have joined the ladies. It’s time we completed the numbers.’
‘We can’t leave it like this.’
‘If you attempt to take it any further, your motives will be all too clear to the meanest intelligence.’
She opened the door, and waved me politely through to the drawing-room.
I remember little of the remainder of that evening: little of what was said, or of the time which passed before we went to bed, or of the gestures and movements and bearing of any of us. Except, perhaps, for a lingering memory of Dominic. He spoke little save when asked to confirm something Caroline had said. But once or twice, when Caroline was outlining her plans to my mother or Aunt Aurelia, he glanced at me and I was carried back to earlier days, more carefree days: he appeared to be on the verge of making a playful remark, tossing some topic at me so that we might talk as freely and casually as we had once talked. It did not come. It was out of the question now. His wife was the one who would share his jokes and asides and grumbles.
In bed that night, and on the homeward journey next day, my head ached with bewilderment. I had thought myself prepared for so many possibilities; but not for her outright denial of Anton Florian. What was I to do with the signet, and with my burden of responsibility? For I did feel responsible, and unsettled by the reproach of a task left unfulfilled.
I did not believe Caroline. Her breath had been taken away by that first mention of Count Florian’s name.
But if she denied him, what was I to do? What further concern was it of mine?
