by Hill, Fiona
Her mind ran restlessly over and over what little she knew of his feelings for her. For—and this was the more true the farther they came from London—she was increasingly aware of how very much she liked him. Perhaps it was only loneliness since letting go of Ensley (this was the first time in ten years she had quitted town without informing him). But she did not think so. The more she considered it, the more she believed there were plenty of reasons to like Mr. Highet for his own sake. He was generous (witness his aid to her when she first came to Linfield), kind (his coming to London with Maria’s letter), scrupulous (his conduct towards her since they married), and even—after his own fashion—intelligent and humorous. Besides all that, she began to remember (and indeed, once or twice in the coach as he brushed her by chance, to experience again) the odd sensations his presence, his touch had produced in her early on. Why, he was handsome! In the rocking carriage she had watched him sleeping across from her and felt a distinct attraction to him, open mouth and all.
With all this in her thoughts, she was more conscious than ever of the humiliating possibility that his principal feeling towards her now was pity. She had felt, as they approached Fevermere, almost as if she were coming home. But it was not in her to insist on dining at the family table when Mrs. Highet so plainly suggested she ought to remove to her rooms. So she hesitated, and was profoundly relieved when Mr. Highet placed a hand on his mother’s arm and said coaxingly to herself and Maria,
“Surely old travelling companions must not be parted so soon? Refresh yourselves a little and come dine with us.”
Politely, after a glance at Anne, “If it will not disturb Mrs. Highet—” Maria answered.
With all eyes upon her, “Bless you, my dear!” Mrs. Archibald trumpeted. “I should be delighted, delighted! I only thought you might be tired, that’s all. That’s the all and end of it,” she added, laughing as if she had made a very good joke. “Four for dinner! Off I go to tell Cook. Now you scamper up and wash the dust off you, my chickens, and—” She turned, arm outstretched. “Henry, dear, would you come with me?”
Mrs. Highet’s elder son arrived at Fevermere with his wife and their extremely considerable brood about three the next afternoon. Acquaintance with them gave Anne a much clearer idea why Mrs. Archibald had fled into Cheshire with her younger son, for Mrs. Thaddeus Highet was as managing a female as Anne had ever laid eyes on. Not that she wondered at it—with seven children, six of them boys, she supposed one would be obliged to be managing—but the household at Foxleigh (this was the name of the Highets’ estate in Staffordshire) could not have been comfortable for the old lady.
Anne herself got on with Selina well enough: Conversation with her was chiefly a matter of nodding and smiling while Selina interrupted herself to call to one child or another—as for example, “My dear Anne—I hope I may call you— Excuse me! William, put Charles down at once and come to me!—may call you Anne, since we are really sisters— Oh, pardon me! Arthur, I told you to leave that infernal noise-making thingummy at home, and now how does it come to be here? Put it away at once! Give it to Nurse, if you can’t leave it alone. —What was I saying? Oh yes, we are sisters, really! But I started to say, I am so terribly sorry I have been unable to do more than—Charles! At your age! I expect a big boy like you to have better sense than to dangle out a window like that. Come down this moment! I am so sorry, Anne, it is really their father’s fault. He will wind them up so, with his jokes and his teasing, and then of course he goes off where it’s quiet and leaves them to me. But as I was saying, I feel absolutely ashamed we have not met sooner. That is my fault, I admit, for— Stay here, Anne!” She jumped up suddenly and ran to the other end of the room exclaiming continuously, “Oh dear dear dear dear dear!” till she reached the window and snatched the persistent Charles from the jaws of death.
Anne found it easier to converse with her brother-in-law, who had some of Henry’s traits, though in many ways they differed. In fact, the two together made an interesting study for her. Equally large as his brother but rougher-featured and (Anne thought) much less handsome, Thaddeus had a bluff good-humour and heartiness which, though apparent in Henry, were refined in the latter (Anne considered) by his more thoughtful character and an innate gentleness the older man lacked. Thaddeus had inherited his mother’s loquacity. He had not what Anne now recognised as his brother’s habit of close, quiet observation: Altogether he was more voluble, more convivial than Henry. He had a natural taste for clowning which he frequently indulged among his children. In time Anne came to consider Selina’s complaint well-founded, that her husband “wound the boys up,” then left her to deal with the consequences. Mr. Thaddeus Highet bore his wife’s complaints with cheerful indifference.
Towards herself he showed a degree of polite interest and friendly curiosity that made it easy for her to talk with him, and soon to feel she knew him. If any of the Staffordshire Highets wondered at her living in a different wing of the house than her husband, none mentioned it to her. All accepted Maria easily, Thaddeus chaffing her about her constant work (she was never without a bit of embroidery or filagree), Selina adroitly putting her to good use as a sort of auxiliary governess-nurse.
In this last Maria willingly complied. She liked children; and anyhow, being within a few miles of Mr. Mallinger made her anxious to such a degree that any diversion was welcome. Having arrived on a Saturday evening, the London party had slept late Sunday and forgone church, so that she had not seen him there. But see him she would: if not by chance on some earlier occasion, then on Christmas Eve, when he and Miss Veal and Rand and some half-dozen others were to come to a family supper. The very idea of it made her tremble and gather her grey shawl more closely about her. She had at first wanted to excuse herself from all such festivities on the grounds of her mourning; but to do this, Mr. Highet had pointed out, would be to have the whole story of her earlier deception out. This being so, Maria could only thank him for making her realize it, and think to herself what a very good friend Mr. Highet was.
In light of the fact that it was Maria’s welfare which had brought Anne into Cheshire again, by the way, it was remarkable how little attention she paid to that lady. Mrs. Archibald Highet having happened to mention that Mr. Mallinger was expected to join them on Christmas Eve, Anne vaguely considered that the matter would thenceforward take care of itself—that Mr. Mallinger, given the opportunity to renew his acquaintance with Mrs. Insel, would somehow also renew his suit, and this time succeed in it. The real subject of her reflections in these days was Mr. Highet. How patiently he played with the children! Amazed, she watched him crouch down and submit to be blindfolded in the centre of the room, then tapped and teased in a game of Hot Cockles. He pretended to wonder where on earth that slipper could have got to while the children passed it round and round, every moment giving away its position by their squeals and chortles. The Highet brood had been joined on Monday by three girls belonging to a couple named Framouth who (Mr. Framouth having been at Oxford with Thaddeus Highet) had come to swell the Christmas party. Accustomed to houses in which the nursery held children in an exile sterner than Bonaparte’s, Anne looked on in astonished horror as Fevermere fell under the thrall of a pack of screeching urchins. But when she herself was asked to join a game of Forfeits and (under stringent urging from Mr. Highet himself) consented, she soon found herself pointing and laughing every bit as loud as the children, and even submitted to stand up and sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” to win back her reticule.
She was aided in this undignified performance not only by the example of Mr. Highet (who had had to hop up and down while whistling “Hot Cross Buns” in order to regain his watch fob) but by his obvious delight in her participation. A dozen times she caught his eyes warmly fastened upon her, a smile in them and on his generous lips, while she thought up forfeits and challenges for the children. Under such a friendly gaze, she could not but unbend and enjoy herself—though she wondered now and then what clever Miss Anne Guilfoyle would have tho
ught (a year ago) of the giggling lady now rolling upon Mrs. Highet’s drawing-room floor. But she shrugged such questions off, taught the children how to play Backgammon and Speculation, and was soon as much a favourite with the Framouth girls and little Augusta Highet as their Uncle Henry was with the boys.
In the evening the older children were permitted to sit up and dine with the adults. The Wares came to dinner also, and Mrs. Ware’s brother (who had indeed been glad to take Linfield and was living there very comfortably) with his older offspring, so that they sat down quite twenty to table. Afterwards, Miss Ware proposed dancing. So much acclaim greeted this suggestion that the carpet was promptly rolled back and all the music in the house that might serve eagerly ferreted out. Miss Sophia Ware, most conveniently, played proficiently but was too bashful to care to dance. She willingly seated herself at the pianoforte at nine and never rose till past eleven. Anne danced a quadrille with George Highet (the favourite nephew of his uncle), a minuet with Thaddeus Highet, a country-dance with Mr. Ware, and a rather wild gigue with his son. But her most memorable turns upon the floor were a pair of waltzes she danced with her husband, who proved to possess a surprisingly light and elegant foot for a man so large. After the first, Selina Highet took her aside and (emboldened by the punch? inspired by the figure Anne and Henry had cut upon the dance floor?) asked “if by any chance the Henry Highets expected a happy event?”
Anne’s immediate instinct was to glance down, alarmed lest her slender waist should have thickened without her noticing it. But,
“Oh, no, my dear!” murmured Selina, laughing. “You are as slim as a girl, I’m sure! I only wondered.” And she gave Anne a rather coy glance from behind her fan—a glance which seemed to say, “You and I know every woman longs for a baby! Come, tell me!”
Anne shook her head, looking down again. Though her natural reserve disliked the forwardness of the question, it did touch upon a matter which had been on her mind in the last day or two. It was a strange thing, but she could no longer remember how she had come to be so sure she did not wish to have children. Perhaps she had only caught the Nursery Madness which seemed to hold Fevermere in its grip; perhaps it had more to do with seeing how delightedly Mr. Highet received his nephews; in any case, she found herself nearer to liking the idea than she had ever been before. And she was not so very old! She had turned nine-and-twenty in September; but many women bore children long after that. Still looking away, “No,” she answered Selina, in a tone which did not invite her to ask again. But her eyes sought out Mr. Highet a moment later and she coloured consciously when, seeming to feel her gaze, he looked round at her.
The second waltz ended the evening. Mr. Highet presented himself to claim it from Anne with a humorously deep bow, grandly swept her onto the floor, clasped her lightly in his arms, and whirled her so relentlessly that she felt quite giddy. She kept her eyes on him to ward off even a worse vertigo, and all the time they turned she felt his warm hand on her waist, and thought of Selina’s question.
Then it was over. A light snow, the first of the year, was found to have fallen while they were at dinner. The wheels of the visitors’ departing carriages pressed a delicate lattice into it as they went. With the informality of the season, the house party crowded at the open hall door to wave them off. Anne walked out a moment with Henry and young Arthur Highet, to taste the crispness of the air and marvel at the thin white layer on the branches of the trees and every twig of every bush. Then, shivering, all went in, and climbed to their several beds.
Fourteen
Mr. Mallinger’s heart thumped. The blood roared in his ears so loudly he could hardly hear what Trigg was saying to him. From his expression, he guessed the man had wished him a happy Christmas; from his gesture, he supposed he was waiting for his coat. Accordingly, he wished Trigg a happy Christmas in return and surrendered the desired garment. Yet the man still stood, pointing, pointing, and saying something about a hat. Ah, his hat! Mr. Mallinger plucked it off, shook from its brim a fair dusting of the snow which had been falling since noon, and walked inside towards the drawing-room.
It seemed a long walk. Every step brought him closer to Mrs. Insel (whose arrival he had known of even before it happened, for the second parlour-maid at Fevermere had told the boy from the dairy, who had mentioned it to the girl who tidied up the schoolhouse). In the last two months he had almost stopped hoping such a day would ever come again. Yet here it was! Nor could he blame himself for going where he knew he was sure to meet her: On the contrary, he had most earnestly endeavoured to refuse Mr. Highet’s invitation to Christmas supper. But all in vain. Mr. Highet had been adamant. When friendly urging had failed, indeed, Highet had straitly adjured him to come, even going so far as to hint the security of his position as schoolmaster rested upon it! What then could Mr. Mallinger do but bow to fate? Now his only fear was that, hearing he was expected, Mrs. Insel had elected to absent herself from the evening.
A moment, another moment would tell him. Behind that door, amid that hum of voices, did he hear hers? He sent a quick prayer to heaven. Though she had told him not to hope, though to see her and not to have her might be exquisite torment, how he longed for that torment! Screwing up such courage as the long anxiety of the past two days had left to him, he entered the room.
She was there! His little dove, all in dove grey and—could it be?—rather more rosy and round than when he had last set eyes on her. Had her weeks in London suited her, then, so well? A stab of pain that it should be so—that a separation which had stripped his life of all interest, all happiness, should have calmed and nourished her—shot through him. But he must make his bows to the company, thank his hosts, meet the Framouths, renew his acquaintance with the Staffordshire family, pay his courtesies to Miss Veal, say hello to Rand (for this family supper was the one night in the year at Fevermere when man and master sat together). At last it came time to face Mrs. Insel. Mr. Highet led—one would almost have said pulled—him to the corner of the room where she sat, quiet and demure, upon a little sofa.
“You know Mrs. Insel,” was all Highet said, with a jovial flourish of the hand.
Mr. Mallinger bowed deeply as the rest of the room seemed to fade. There was only himself and—oh, fetching, taking little thing! Instantly he forgave her her healthy bloom. How could he begrudge it when it suited her so well? “Madam,” he said, rising from his bow to search her face in a quick glance. Was she angry at him for coming?
No!
Sorry to see him?
No again!
Half incredulous, Mr. Mallinger read on her sweet countenance nothing but shy pleasure in his presence. True, she did not beg him to sit down beside her. Though she asked (with what divine timidity!) how he did, she did not set any of an hundred questions which must have kept him there talking to her. But she smiled upon him! Smiled.
Mr. Mallinger was ecstatic.
The reader will perhaps be content to leave him in ecstasy for a little while—goodness knows he has been there infrequently enough of late, and he is quite safe there so long as such a numerous party surrounds him—and turn his attention to how the others passed Christmas Eve. They sat down about nine o’clock to a long table decorated with holly and drank deeply from a steaming bowl of wassail replenished, as needed, by a footman who between times took his place at the board. Mrs. Highet the eldest led the company in a rousing chorus of “Deck the Halls”; Anne, Mr. Highet, and Maria performed their practised versions of “The First Nowell” and “Good Christian Men, Rejoice”; young William Highet, who professed to know all the verses to “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” shepherded the others through that complicated carol with the liberal assistance and correction of Miss Veal; and Augusta Highet, at the tender age of six, sang “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen” all by herself. About ten they were interrupted by a troupe of mummers from Faulding Chase, who enacted the story of St. George and the Turkish Knight most ably, and afterwards ate goose and mince-pie with equal competency. These departing, the
children engaged in a game of blindman’s-buff, dragging their Uncle Henry and their willing father into it. Then all played snap-dragon, Arthur Highet contriving to singe not only his fingers but his tongue with his quick and fearless style. Mr. Rand told a ghost story perfectly likely to deprive a boy of fifteen of a week’s sleep, let alone a girl of six. While Augusta ran shrieking to her mother’s arms, her father suddenly noticed a bough of mistletoe which had mysteriously got fastened up to the ceiling before the fireplace (where, of course, a vast yule log blazed merrily).
