You needn’t think I’ll go.
Every rational argument was against my going: it was playing Harriet’s game, my father would be distraught if he found me out, and there was an excellent chance of my coming home still more beaten and wretched than before. I do not know how long I stood in the lane, torn between reason and desire, before I was obliged to jump aside to let pass a cart – the boy at the reins must have been calling to me for some time if I may judge by the perfect shriek he gave just before it rattled by, which finally alerted me to my danger. In the end, what decided me was no kind of reason at all, but something I felt in my bones: that if I hung back now I was no man and never would be, only Mathew Dymond’s boy.
Though I had heard of Chitton, I had never been there and had not the faintest notion how I might reach it from End House. I must find out, and quickly, for with luck I might find Tamar and hurry back home in one day, and my parents be never the wiser.
It was not yet noon. After a moment’s thought I made my way to the inn and asked if anyone could tell me how to get to Chitton, for I was called there on urgent business. I was proud of my quick-wittedness, and prouder still when a gentleman finishing up a plate of cold meat said the village lay in his way, and he would take me in his coach if anyone could vouch for my respectability. That was easy enough, since several of the men in there could attest that I was Mrs Dymond’s nephew and (so they believed) her heir. It was scarcely the moment to disabuse them.
‘Can’t she spare him a horse?’ someone murmured behind my back, but fortunately the stranger did not hear. Despite everything Aunt Harriet could do, the world was still on my side and of my mind.
I got into the coach with this benefactor, who seemed a generous, Christian man: the sort of man, indeed, whose company acted as a restorative after the hellish atmosphere of my aunt’s house. When I pulled some bread and beef from my pocket (I had not eaten since raiding Mother’s pantry early that morning) he produced a bottle of wine and offered me a pull at it to help the meat down. I took only one swig, but as I was already drunk with my good fortune, and the food, and being free of my aunt, and going to see Tamar, I grew so excited and flushed and repeated my gratitude so often that he must have thought me overcome by a single mouthful of drink; I suspect that by the end of the journey the poor man heartily repented of his kindness.
‘I’m forever in your debt, Sir,’ I cried, leaping at last from the coach onto the grass. ‘May God reward you.’
‘And also protect you, young man,’ was his wary reply from the window as the coach rattled off again.
I was standing on a low bank or bailey surrounding the church, the village sloping away below. Those houses I could see were large and handsome, much in the style of Tetton Green, but of a lighter-coloured stone. However, they were laid out differently; whereas Tetton Green stretched itself out in a line, the buildings here huddled in a flock. A fresh, clean scent came to my nostrils: somebody was cutting up wood. I stood breathing its perfume for a moment, clearing my mind and allowing my cheeks to cool, for I was still a little flushed. Then I crossed the road to where a maidservant was spreading washed shifts on bushes. Watching me approach, the girl giggled as if she liked me, but she could tell me nothing of the lady I sought. Nor could a man hoeing in another garden across the way. I began to wonder if my aunt had made a fool of me; had she perhaps, in one last act of spite, sent me on a wild goose chase?
At the third place where I asked, a woman came to the door and said she knew of a Mrs Eliot, yes, and I would find her at the house round the corner. ‘A big one with a big gate. There’s a mulberry leaning out into the street,’ she said. As I went away she did not close the door. When I looked back she was still there, staring after me as if at some freak of nature. I suppose I was a strange object, my chest working like a bellows from the fear that I might find myself unwelcome and come away from the house more wretched than before.
I rounded the corner and at once observed the mulberry in the distance. As I approached, I saw it was intended to form one of a pair stationed on either side of the front gate, but this tree was diseased; that was why it drooped through the fence and into the way. When I came up to the house I was struck by how much more fitting a healthy tree, a flourishing emblem of prosperity, would have been, for the house was prosperous. It stood back from the road, imposing beyond anything I had imagined, with a fine staircase sweeping up to the door. Betwee and me stretched a garden laid out for show, its beds in formal knots and a yew avenue trimmed into fantastical shapes. I have never seen the point of such extravagances. I am not even fond of espaliers: the best shapes for plants are the ones God makes them in. Mrs Eliot evidently had other ideas and employed gardeners to keep her trees fashionably deformed.
The tall gate in front of me looked so discouraging that I was surprised to find it open. Passing through, I made my way along a gravelled alleyway between the beds, intended for carts and coaches but also catering admirably for gentlemen and ladies who might wish to stroll and admire the garden.
The front doorknocker was a great coiling, toiling knot in brass, difficult to lift: it seemed that in this house nothing was undertaken lightly or unadvisedly. For a brief eternity, I weighed it in my hand – there was still time to go away – then let it drop.
A manservant answered and would have sent me round the back of the house, but I said I was not there as a tradesman; I was come to visit Mrs Eliot; upon which he made an insulting show of looking round for my horse and servant. I was in no mood to bear with this and said, ‘Pray do as you are bid.’ At last he took my name and went off to enquire, leaving me in a small damp-smelling room where the warmth of the spring day was yet to penetrate. Against one wall stood a musical instrument, the lid painted to show scenes of gay life: cavaliers drinking and a gentleman and lady playing lutes together. I admired it from a distance, not liking to touch.
After a few minutes the manservant came back and showed me into a long, thin, chilly apartment that left the musical instrument in the dust, as it were, since its entire ceiling was painted. At the same time as I observed this, I became aware of a lady seated at the far end of the room. It would not do to approach her with my eyes rolling in my head, so I ignored the marvels above me in order to appear before Mrs Eliot as a sane, though horseless, man.
She was arranged in a gilt chair by the fire, her feet propped up on a little stool. As I neared her, I put my hand to my hat, in preparation. I had my story ready: I was come from Mathew Dymond of Spadboro to enquire after the health of Joan Seaton, and to ask if I might have a few words with her. No mention of the younger woman; that must come later. If Mrs Eliot believed Tamar to be a widow there was no reason why she should think ill of me; I was resolved to be careful nonetheless.
The manservant went on ahead and murmured something to his mistress. He then stepped aside and indicated that I might approach. I had the hat off my head, and was sweeping it before me in the approved style, in the same instant that I realised the woman in the chair was Tamar.
‘Jon! Welcome!’ was the first thing she said, while my heart whirred like a beetle under a glass. The second was, ‘Fetch refreshments,’ to the manservant, and the third, ‘Is there bad news?’
‘Bad?’ I stammered. The man left the room with a suspicious backward glance at this nobody from nowhere. ‘No, I mean, not that I know of.’
I would have given anything not to speak in that ridiculous, squeaking fashion but her eyes showed only delight.
‘Doubly welcome, then,’ as , indicating a chair. ‘Pray sit – rest. You look bone-weary.’
I could not have said the same of her. Gone was the tough, mannish frame of the drudge I used to know. Health glowed in her cheeks, in the thickness of her red-gold hair, in the creamy softness of her bosom. This was a woman who ate well and slept well, a woman who knew what it was to be warm. My eyes crept lower: yes, she was plumper in the belly than elsewhere.
As I sat down Tamar took a small pot, dug a finger into
it and began rubbing ointment into her hands, pausing from time to time to observe the effect. A scent of roses and beeswax wafted across to me; either the perfume, or the heavy ring she wore (not my keepsake, by the by) reminded me of Aunt Harriet.
‘See that, Jon?’
‘What?’
She held her hands out towards me.
‘White as snow,’ I said.
‘Liar!’ She grinned. ‘But they’re growing whiter. I’ve no work to do – nothing at all.’
I pictured her poor blue feet in the lock-up and wondered if she put beeswax ointment on those, too, and if the flesh of her entire body was now creamy and perfumed. As soon as this thought took root in my mind, I plucked it up: it was a poisonous weed.
‘What must I say to Mrs Eliot?’ I asked.
‘Shhh!’ She giggled. ‘I am Mrs Eliot. The mistress of the house is Mrs Godolphin.’
‘Is that why you wear a ring?’
‘Mr Eliot died of the plague. He was a coarse, common sort; I’m the daughter of gentlefolks.’
‘And Mrs Godolphin believes all that?’
‘She says she does, and that’s the same. Besides,’ she gave me a hard look, ‘they were gentlefolks.’
I supposed so, if gentry compensated for bastardy. What else gave me the right to look down on Hannah Reele?
‘Did my father pay for you to be lodged like this?’
She laughed. ‘Of course not! Not that he pinched us, mind; I don’t complain of him, only we pay more now. Mrs Godolphin allows us the run of the house.’
‘Do you dine with her?’
‘She’s all the company we have but Mathew – and now you. But never you mind her! She’s not here to see us.’ In those words I heard the old Tamar, not yet polished away.
‘And Joan? How is she?’
‘She cried when Hob flew off –’
‘Oh, did –’
‘– but she’s better than she was. Her bad teeth have been pulled. She’s the widow Seaton, now.’
I said, compelled by politeness, ‘Would she wish to see me, do you think?’
Tamar put her head on one side as if considering. ‘She’s asleep.’
The sullen manservant knocked and entered with a tray. She signalled to him to set it down on a nearby table.
‘Will you take something, Jon? Some wine? Gingerbread?’
‘Thank you, I’ll wait,’ I said and then, yielding to impulse, ‘No, I’ll have the wine if you please.’
The man’s nostrils flared as if he had expected nothing more from such a boorish visitor. I flushed as he poured a glassful and brought it over to me.
‘Go now.’ Tamar spoke sharply; perhaps she, too, had suffered his contempt. When he was gone she rose and waited on me herself. Standing, she was heavier round the middle than I had first perceived.
‘The best wine I’ve ever tasted,’ I said. ‘Better even than my aunt’s.’
‘And the gingerbread? Can’t I tempt you?’ Dangerous words, between us two. I smiled in answer, she returned my smile, and for an instant, despite the delicate sweetmeat laid so neatly upon the salver, there was a whiff of the wood and the cave.
As if to restore us to our civilised selves, Tamar went back to her seat and began to prattle like any pampered miss. ‘How did you know I was here? Come, you shall tell me.’
‘Aunt Harriet found you out. She must have a spy.’
Tamar at once grew serious. ‘Here, in this house?’
‘No, no. She only wished to know where you lodged.’ Even as I said this, I knew it was a lie. ‘I can’t say,’ I admitted at last. ‘Perhaps she has a spy here; I don’t know.’
‘The servants dislike me,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘She did it to spite my father.’ And she had succeeded, thanks to me and my dishonest, promise-breaking ways. ‘He mustn’t know of this visit. You won’t tell him, will you?’
‘Never.’ She was protecting Father, not me. ‘Why are you come, then? To find out how we live?’
‘I can see you’re thriving – both of you.’
Another woman might have blushed, but she gazed on me in such a frank and friendly manner that I could not care about the blush. She said, ‘Joan hopes the little one’ll favour Robin. She thinks I favour Robin, now I’ve got some flesh on me; you’re your father’s child, she says.’
‘Your hair curls like his.’ And like mine. Yes, I thought drily: all considered, the child had every chance of favouring Robin. But then Tamar’s hair was reddish, and she had those tawny eyes. Could it be, after all, that she was not his daughter? Not that it made any difference: full sister, half sister! I took another sip of wine to give me courage and said, watching her face for signs of jealousy, ‘Father wishes me to marry.’
She nodded. ‘Aye, you should! Who is she?’
‘Nobody you know. Poll Parfitt.’
‘Poll Parfitt. Poll Dymond.’ She tried out the name. ‘Does she love you?’
‘She’s foolish enough.’
Tamar smiled.
‘You don’t care,’ I accused her. ‘Did you never think we might marry? I mean if … I could marry you.’
‘I shan’t marry anyone,’ Tamar retorted. ‘I haven’t lived poor so long, and got a bit of money at last, only to give it away to a husband!’ She laughed at the very idea.
‘Well,’ I said, striving to appear cheerful, ‘When I’m wed, my father may perhaps allow me to visit you – at End House, I mean.’
‘Oh, no, Jon! Mathew says we must rent it out.’
I stared. ‘In God’s name, why?’
‘We’re known. I can’t be Mrs Eliot, not in Tetton.’
‘No,’ I said dully. Had anyone told me how much I would suffer on hearing that news, I would have called him a liar. I tried another way. ‘Tamar, when I said you don’t care, what I meant was –’
‘Don’t, Jon! You’ve surely not come for that, to ask if I would’ve married you, things being different? Things are as they are!’
‘Tamar,’ I said, trembling because it was agony to speak, and worse to remain silent, ‘I swear to God, if I could marry you, I would. There’s nobody I love more.’ She turned her face away from me, towards the fire. I said, ‘Things being as they are, then, I repent of it all – all the harm I did you.’
‘You took me out of the lock-up,’ she replied, still looking away. ‘Got us blankets – food. You did more good than bad.’
‘Not enough,’ I said. ‘It can never be enough, not now.’
‘I bear you no grudge. I want for nothing.’
‘That’s the worst part. There’s nothing I can give you, and I, I –’
‘You love me best.’ Tamar nodded to herself, as if she was only now coming to understand. Then she added, more mockingly, ‘Hark at me. I sound like Joan.’
I thought: And I, like Robin.
The room was growing dark. We sat side by side listening to the spit and crackle of the flames, she smiling on me from time to time, I swallowing down a lump of sadness that kept rising in my throat and would not let me speak.
At last I took her hand. ‘Tamar, there’s one thing I must ask.’
She glanced around the fire-lit room. ‘Here we are, all peaceful. Don’t spoil it.’
‘I must. Please, Tamar, don’t look away.’
She obeyed; yet her fox-eyes, as she gazed into mine, held a reproach.
I asked, ‘Do you know why I can’t marry you? What we are to one another?’
‘Why will you – !’ she exclaimed with the quick anger born of fear.
A thread snapped in my heart. I had scarcely strength to go on, but go on I must, or live the rest of my life in ignorance. I said, ‘Be patient, I beg of you. The day we went to the inn … did you know then?’
‘So that’s your Great Question?’ She pulled her hand out of my grasp. ‘No, I did not!’
I was like one stunned. ‘But surely Joan, did Joan never –?’
‘It was Mathew told me.’
I stared.
‘When he brought me here. He told me why I mustn’t see you.’
‘You had no notion of it?’
She shook her head violently. ‘None. I cried myself to sleep, nights and nights. But then I got to thinking there was nothing to be done, and if I kept up my crying the child might be born blind. So each time I started, I would say to myself, Nothing to be done, and in time I came to feel a little better.’
I thought how like Tamar this was. She might be a mere scrap thrown onto raging seas, but she was a scrap of cork. Even as she was speaking, however, a troubling recollection came to mind. I said, ‘But, Tamar, you asked me to touch the wilding. You knew it was my tree.’
Again she shook her head. ‘Joan’s tree.’
‘So why … ?’
‘Oh, to see what you’d do.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t think you were the only one. Lots of folk touched it.’ I was wondering whether I believed this when she added, ‘Why d’you ask? The wilding’s nothing, only a tree; it makes no difference, does it?’
‘I want to think well of you,’ I burst out. ‘Not to believe you apable … Tamar, don’t laugh, I beg of you – don’t laugh –’
My voice thickened and I broke off, humiliated. What a ridiculous creature I was; I was afraid to look at her. When at last I forced myself to do so, I saw her eyes were wide and glistening and very beautiful.
‘Nobody ever spoke to me like that,’ she said soberly.
I muttered, ‘I won’t again.’
‘To want to think well of me. Not even Mathew wanted to think well of me.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘Nobody. Ever.’
Her tears and sobs were fierce. I was witness to a rare transformation: Tamar moved. For years she had been driven with stones and blows, like an animal, from one place to another. An animal can only be punished; a human soul can be shamed and implored. I wanted to think well of her. I had spoken to her as to a human soul.
* * *
We sat in the darkness, holding hands. I would prefer to write, Not like lovers, like brother and sister, but it was not quite that; I cannot tell exactly how it was. A maid came in and went out from time to time, fetching and carrying. I am sure she came in more than was needful – she was perhaps that spy of my aunt’s – but we cared nothing for her as we sat in quiet talk, weaving together our two-sided tapestry. These were perhaps the sweetest hours of my life, passed not in lust but in mutual forgiveness, than which there is nothing more tender. I was at once a man who had at last come home, and a man who must go away forever; after that night we could be nothing to one another, and I must content myself with picturing her happiness. So that I should have some knowledge of her in the barren times to come, I asked how she was progressing in her studies.
The Wilding Page 30
