‘Yet I was astonished when she began discussing my future with Papa. Her plan was to rent a house in Town for “the season” and “bring me out”. The mere idea was disagreeable to me beyond words; if I dreaded the ordeal of “coming out”, I dreaded even more the idea of being perpetually in Sophia’s company. But my opinion was not of course asked, although I was obliged to be present and attend this humiliating discussion, with Sophia’s sweet sharp decisions cutting through Papa’s irritable refusal to see any need for such senseless waste of money.
‘“She is eighteen,” Sophia said, “and we must do something for the poor child.” (She always called me “the poor child”.) “What will become of her otherwise? I am not going to pretend that it will be easy to find her a husband, but it seems to me no more than our duty to do what we can for the poor child, unless you are prepared to have her on your hands for the rest of your life,” and she gave Papa that demurely intimate and secretive little smile of hers that seemed to say, “You know all I want is to be alone with you.”
‘“I cannot afford it. It means keeping up two establishments; and who will look after the other children?”
‘“But, Edward, don’t you see that it is for your convenience?” she said in an impatient undertone. “As for this place, we can shut it up for a few months and take the other children with us, it will do them no harm. I shall prefer to have them under my eye. You see how seriously I take my duties towards my stepchildren, Mr Sheridan? They need a mother’s watchful care at their age, you have no idea how abominably sly girls are in their teens,’ she said, as if I were not present.
‘Papa promised to think about it.
‘Sophia demurely turned away her eyes and said, “Also my consideration is that my dear husband will be spared his tiring railway journey twice a day, and will return to me sooner every evening. Weigh that in the balance too, Edward, won’t you?”
‘They sent me away then, and, grown girl though I was, I scrambled up the heights of the cedar of Lebanon and there in its private shade considered the tormenting problem of the future. What did puzzle me immensely was why Sophia should go to all this trouble, for I knew it did mean a lot of trouble, for my sake. I thought perhaps the London-bred Miss Falk found she could not be happy in the country, and the town-house was to be the thin end of a wedge. I should hate to live in a city, I knew; even the thought of a “season”, of dinner parties and balls, filled me with terror. I should never learn how to talk to men, and I certainly did not want to be taught by Sophia with her smarmy sneery ways that made one feel now hot, now cold, which I had so quickly learnt to dread. I prayed fervently that this particular cup of gaiety would pass from me.
‘But that was not to be. And presently I heard Father talking about a house in Kensington Gore. My heart sank. “Oh, Papa, please not,” I said involuntarily. Papa looked vexed and I hastily stared down at my plate so that he should not see my unhappy face.
‘I did not get another chance of pleading with him until the next Sunday on our way to church for Evensong, because Sophia had stayed at home with a headache. Lucy and Harry walked ahead of us, and I began to wish I had not secretly asked them to, I felt so ill at ease with Papa. It occurred to me with a little shock that this was actually the first time I had been alone with him since his re-marriage. I suppose we had both been avoiding one another. I was always afraid he would talk to me about Sophia. Only necessity had obliged me now to confront him and I was surprised by the turmoil it aroused in my bosom, the conflict of my jealous hatred and my jealous love. I found myself sunk into an awkward silence ... Everything was bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, the cottages and fields shared impartially the same benign influence. I heard a curlew’s bubbling cry rise up. I clenched my fingers over my prayer-book, hard, and said quickly: “Papa, need I go to London?” He woke from his thoughts and looked at me absently.
‘He said in a not pleased voice: “What can you be thinking of, Blanche Rose? You know very well we are only going to all this trouble and expense for your sake.”
‘“I should so very much rather not, Papa.”
‘He told me how lucky I was, how grateful I should be, how exceedingly kind it was of Sophia to do all this for me. I must do my part and show that I appreciated it. I must try and be more of a companion to Sophia, who after all was only like an elder sister to me, she was scarcely more than a child just out of the schoolroom herself, only twenty-four now, the dear plucky girl, he said.
‘I heard what he said but my heart and mind were inexorably shut. I said: “Papa, please don’t make me Come Out, I should hate it so awfully!”
‘He said sternly: “No more of this, Blanche. You will make me annoyed. In any event, it is too late now for the decision to be reversed, the house is rented.”
‘I could feel myself go white. I stopped, and the beckoning bell was noisy in my head. I said in a low faltering voice: “Papa, I beseech you ... ” But he would not hear any more. The church in the distance and the tiny dark people moving along the road banked with grass were all blurred with my tears, tears I would not let fall. “I shall never marry!” I promised him with bitter defiance.
‘He stopped too and faced me then. The bell had ceased. And in the sudden peaceful silence he said, “My dear daughter, I think you will do well to reconsider that decision. The alternative if you do not marry will be to remain at home with your stepmother and me for the rest of your life. Had you thought of that?” He turned and walked on, and I followed him in a daze.
‘I made no more protest. I had not somehow realised that he would be married to Sophia for ever. Now in my mind the shadowy usurper took my place and I became the interloper. No, Papa was right, I did not want to stay at home, year after year, dwindling into Sophia’s butt, the dowdy, unwanted, unmarried daughter.
‘So I came to Town and spent many tedious hours in fitting-rooms and many tedious afternoons driving with Sophia in our hired barouche from one house to another in Belgravia and Cadogan Square to make our fifteen-minute calls.
‘The house in Kensington Gore was heavily furnished in the old-fashioned style that reminded me of The Grange when Mama was alive; I obstinately liked its stuffy hangings. I had very little time to myself, very little time to spend with Lucy and Harry in the schoolroom thinking up “larks”. London made them listless too; or perhaps it was just that they were growing up. Usually I went to see them when Sophia’s cousin, Oliver Bridgewater, came to talk business with her, mostly, I believe, about Sophia’s mother, who lived by herself somewhere in South London. At any rate, I always was glad to escape for a while. Mr Bridgewater’s affectation of superiority and boredom alarmed me. He was indifferent even to Sophia, who treated him just as carelessly back. He came often to the house now, was invited to all Sophia’s little dinner parties (where he was usually obliged to be nothing more exciting than my dinner-partner), and sometimes would accompany us on our drives. It struck me that although they were obliged to see so much of each other, they were really antagonistic. They spoke curtly and coldly to one another, like polite enemies, and took care to avoid one another’s eyes.
‘The season started, and I began to be invited to balls. That meant hours of having my hair frizzed out unbecomingly with the tongs and crammed agonisingly with pins to keep it in place. I was dressed absurdly in girlish white muslins, in which I looked ridiculous, but they were considered to be “so suitable, so appropriate” to a young girl, that it was useless for me to question it. But I resented being made to look a fool and showed it in my sullen unhappy face. And almost every day there was this ordeal to be gone through; and Sophia would never allow me to leave before 2 a.m. It was strictly understood that even if I was not enjoying myself we must give the impression that I was. For me a ball was made up of mauvais quarts d’heures leaning against a wall watching the dancers with a brilliant smile on my aching cheeks. When I did have the luxury of a partner it was not much better. I was no good at dancing,
much too stiff and hesitating (except when I danced by myself in the garden at home or in the attics in an unaccustomed ecstasy of spirits). And I could never master the mysteries of small-talk. There was nevertheless one dancing-partner I could rely on to rescue me if things got too bad: Oliver Bridgewater always asked me for a certain number of dances, if only he were there. It was also something of a relief that he did not expect me to talk, he preferred, I think, to dance in silence. Twice he took me down to supper when he saw I had not been engaged for the supper-dance. I could not but feel grateful to him even though I still did not like him much.
‘I had never asked myself why he troubled to dance with me so often; since he never looked other than supremely disenthralled, I imagined it was to oblige Sophia that he paid me this duty. It made it the more astounding therefore when one evening he suddenly took both my hands in his and said, a trifle breathlessly, “Blanche Rose, will you — could you marry me?” I drew my hands sharply away and flushed. I thought he was jesting.
‘He said:
‘“I mean it.”
‘I could feel tears of shock pricking my eyes. I said:
‘“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. I had no idea. I don’t think I could.”
‘“Don’t answer now,” he said. “Think it over, Blanche Rose, please. I should do my best to make you happy.”
‘“It is an honour, I know,” I muttered, fingering the ruching on my muslin skirt. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to say.” There was something so bitterly disappointing to me about my first proposal that my heart felt squeezed down into my satin slippers, so profoundly and painfully had it sunk.
‘I escaped from him and found my stepmother, and told her I wanted to leave, I said I was not feeling well. I thought she looked at me oddly, but she said nothing. We drove home in silence.
‘Suddenly I burst out against the rumble of wheels:
‘“Oliver has asked me to marry him!”
‘“And what did you answer?” asked my stepmother apparently unsurprised.
‘“I couldn’t,” I said desperately. “I said I couldn’t. Well, how can I?”
‘“You must please yourself, of course,” she shrugged. “But I should hardly have thought you could afford to turn down a serious offer just for some girlish whim.” She looked at me switftly from the corner of her eye. “One has to admit you have not so far been a wild success, my poor child.”
‘“Which makes me wonder all the more what he wants to marry me for.”
‘“To begin with a rising young barrister needs a suitable wife. A really clever girl can be of great use to her husband, seeing to it that he meets the sort of people he needs to know.”
‘“He doesn’t love me.”
‘“My poor child, what do you know about it?”
‘“He’s never — I can’t describe what I mean — he’s never said anything, the way I imagine men do,” I stumbled.
‘“I daresay he’s too shy. He wouldn’t want to frighten you. Besides, you know, that’s not the whole of marriage.” She looked out of the window at the gas-lamps on the kerb. “Sometimes love can wreck a marriage,” she remarked.
‘In my room that night I undressed and then for hours paced the floor trying to resolve the situation wisely. It is true, after that conversation with Papa, I had vowed to marry the first man who asked me — since he might well be the only one. But now that it came to the point, I shrank from the plunge. It is true that I had always found Oliver rather intimidating, but perhaps that was mainly because of his association with Sophia. Certainly I liked him much better now that I knew he liked me. And he must at least like me to want to marry me. That he had appeared so often to ignore me I must now put down to shyness. It made him easier to understand. He would be, I supposed, considered rather handsome in his unrugged way, with his insolent green eyes and the beautiful pale bow of his mouth. He was reputed to be brilliant but idle in his profession. He had just finished “eating his dinners” in the Temple, and was helping to prepare briefs in someone’s Chambers. A wife behind him would cure him of his indolence, I thought. I sat hunched on the bed with my arms wrapped about my knees. I would have my own home. I would be free of Sophia. I would no longer have to endure the sight of Papa being pleasantly tormented by her, nor be tortured myself by the perpetual realisation that she — the witch-stepmother — had supplanted me in his heart. I stretched myself out on the bed and fell instantly asleep.
‘I thought the carnations that arrived the next day were for Sophia, but they were for me with a note tucked in them from Oliver. I told the maid to put them in water and turned away, almost ready to change my mind. He came that evening. When I saw him there, slim and bareheaded with his silk hat in his hand, I hesitated. Then I forced myself to go up to him and thank him for the flowers.
‘He bowed gravely.
‘“I hope you were pleased with them,” he said.
‘I said, very much aware of my ungraciousness: “I don’t like carnations. Please never send me them again.” (Though the significance of their message had totally escaped me.)
‘“How remiss of me not to have realised that. Forgive me, Blanche Rose; I should of course have sent you white roses. May I send you some as a peace-offering?” he said quite charmingly, with his rare smile.
‘I smiled back at him shyly.
‘We stood there for what seemed to me a long while in silence. And he looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. I was wretchedly conscious of my ill-dressed hair and my stern unprovocative features, I knew my solemn young face was already too full of character for the taste of the period, but I held my head proudly high and bore his scrutiny as well as I could. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward and turned my face to his and kissed my mouth. It was the first time I had ever been kissed on the mouth, and I found the cool firm pressure of his lips not unpleasant; but I was less aware of that, in the confusion of my thoughts and my racing heart, than of his silk hat bowling in half a circle across the tessellated floor to the feet of the parlourmaid, who stooped and picked it up with a sly expression, which, though she tried to conceal it, said to me as plainly as words: “Fancy, Miss Blanche! That plain thing!” I was horribly ashamed. I knew that “fast” girls sometimes allowed themselves to be kissed, and I had no idea how far I was committed by it. In my pathetic ignorance I believed I now was trapped. I drew away from him sharply, angrily humiliated.
‘“You shouldn’t have done that,” I stormed. “You had no right. It was mean! I meant to tell you later; you said you’d wait.”’
He gave an amused exclamation. “A prickly white rose, he said. “Was I expected to ask permission to kiss you? If I had, you would only have said No, wouldn’t you?”
‘“Not if we were engaged,” I said.
‘He picked up my hand. “But we can be, as soon as you say so and your father gives his consent. I thought you were going to refuse me. Why did you look so angry and frighten me, cruel girl?” he said with his small sardonic smile.
‘“You are so unexpected,” I complained. “I never dreamed you were going to propose. You’ve always been so — never noticing me. I don’t know why you should want to marry me.”
“Why do you imagine men ever marry girls, my innocent little rose?”
“I suppose because they love them,” I said soberly. “But I don’t think you love me, do you?”
‘“Why else should I want to marry you?” he answered.
‘I could not understand this. But what did I know about love? I said unsteadily, “Then — then are we engaged?”
‘“I believe we are,” he said with a mocking seriousness to match my own.
‘And we were.’
CHAPTER FOUR
A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED
‘I found being engaged pleasant but bewildering. I was considered notably more important now and I was asked for my opinion just as if I were an a
dult. It was evidently regarded as a triumph for the Ugly Duckling, and I was not much used to being admired. I was disconcerted by this unlooked-for approval, I had the uneasy feeling that I was being commended for something I had not even tried to accomplish,’ said old Miss Hine with irony.
‘Not that the course of true love ran as smoothly as that implies. To begin with Papa refused his consent. His first impulse was to banish Oliver from the house. He was not, Papa said firmly, a suitable parti. He was not the husband Papa wanted for his daughter at all ... a man who had still his way to make in the world and who was quite unable to provide for a wife.
‘“He is not the right person to make you happy,” Papa said.
‘“I should at any rate be happier than living at home with you and Stepmama,” I said hardly.
‘“My child,” Papa said in a low voice. “You do not know what marriage is. You cannot know the wretchedness of an unhappy marriage.”
‘I said stubbornly that I saw no reason why it should be unhappy. I wanted to marry Oliver, I was immensely proud that he should want to marry me, and Papa’s unfairness only stiffened my resolve. Without it, I might have weakened from fright and backed out. But indignation was like starch in my veins, stiffening me. I summoned angry tears.
‘Papa said gently, “When you are older and happily married to the right person, you will thank me. I’m not denying young Bridgewater has charm and good looks and so forth, but that is not enough in a husband. He must be able to provide for his family as well, you know; and I’m bound to say I have no confidence in his abilities.”
An Afternoon to Kill Page 4
