All the men rose, young Mr. Charles Sherman preening himself like a peacock and dancing across at once to escort her to a couch where he could seat himself by her side.
“Dear Esther,” said Mrs. James sweetly, each word barbed as a razor, “how well you look, even though the tragedy was less than a year ago. Mourning does so become you.”
“Dark colors have always suited me,” said Esther with a brilliant smile. “Besides only a young woman can look well in pastel shades, don’t you think?”
Mrs. James’ gown was pale yellow.
“Pray tell us, Mrs. Brandson,” said Miss Annabella from beside me, “had you known your husband long before your marriage?”
I tried to concentrate on the conventional exchanges of formal conversation.
With a remorseless inevitability, the evening crept along its tedious path. In comparison with the small dinner parties which my mother had been accustomed to give from time to time, I found the visitors boring, their outlook provincial and their conversation devoid of any subject which might have interested me. The prospect of the remainder of my life being filled with such gestures in the name of hospitality and entertainment depressed me beyond words.
At long last when they were gone and their carriage was rattling off down the drive to the Marsh road below, I retreated to my room as rapidly as possible, kicked off my dainty high-heeled satin slippers and shouted irritably for Marie-Claire to set me free from the agonies of my tight laced corset. I had already dismissed her and was moodily brushing my hair when Axel came into the room.
I tried to smile. “I hope the evening passed satisfactorily to you, Axel.”
“Yes indeed,” he said with a spontaneity I had not expected. “You were splendid and the Shermans were very impressed with you. I was exceedingly pleased.”
“I’m—very glad.” And indeed I was relieved that my boredom had not been apparent. But later when he emerged from his dressing room he said casually: “No doubt it must have been very dull for you after the sparkling dinner parties of London.”
I felt myself blush. “Different, certainly,” I said, “but not altogether dull.”
“It was dull for me,” he said, “but then I’m accustomed to Vienna and even London would be dull to me in comparison.” He paused to look at me, he standing by the bed, I leaning back upon the pillows, and as our glances met it seemed for one brief instant that a flash of understanding passed between us, a moment of being ‘en rapport’ with one another.
He smiled. I smiled too, hesitantly. For a second I thought he was going to make some complimentary or even affectionate remark, but all he said in the end was simply: “You would like Vienna. I think I shall have to take you there one day.”
Perhaps it was the relief of escaping at last from the tedium of the evening or perhaps it was because of that strange moment when we had exchanged glances and smiled, but for the first time I longed for him, for a release from loneliness, for a glimpse of what marriage might have been. The dinner party, as so often happens when the familiar is placed side by side with the horror of nightmare, had made my frightened thoughts recede into dim shadows from which I had no wish for them to emerge, and in the effort to seek a final oblivion for my unhappiness I turned to him absolutely and sought his embraces with a passion which must have taken him unawares. Passion sparked passion; flame ignited flame. I knew instinctively, as one knows such things, that after his initial astonishment he was conscious of nothing save the burning of our emotions and the whirling painful spiral of desire.
The night passed; sleep when it came was deep and untroubled, and then towards dawn the fears and doubts and anxieties in my mind began to clamor for recognition after the long hours of being forcibly suppressed. I awoke at seven in the agonized grip of a nightmare and lay trembling between the sheets for some time. And as I lay waiting for the day to break, the mist rolled in across the Marsh from the sea and thickened in icy shrouds around the walls of Haraldsdyke.
It was Sunday. I learned that the Brandsons customarily attended matins at Haraldsford Church every week, and accordingly after Axel and I had breakfasted together in our rooms I dressed formally in my dark blue woolen traveling habit in preparation for braving the chill of the mist later on.
The weather was not inviting. From our windows it was barely possible to see to the end of the short drive, and beyond the walls surrounding the grounds the dank whiteness blotted out all trace of the view south over the Marsh to Rye and the sea.
“A true November day,” said Axel wryly as he sat down to breakfast with a glance at the scene beyond the window pane.
I felt ill-at-ease with him that morning for reasons I did not fully understand; the nightmare had wakened me with all my fears revived and my sense of being in any way in accord with Axel had vanished, just as my memory of the normality of the dinner party had receded. I now felt curiously ashamed of my demonstrative emotions of the previous night, and my shame manifested itself in an instinctive withdrawal from him. He rose more cheerful and good-humored than I had ever seen him before, but I made no effort at conversation and while not ignoring his attentiveness, I found myself unable to respond to it.
Presently he sensed my mood and fell silent.
“Are you feeling well?” he said at last. “I had forgotten your health had been delicate recently.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I’m quite recovered.”
He said nothing further but I sensed him watching me carefully and at last, almost in irritation, I raised my glance to meet his. He smiled but I looked away and when I looked at him again the animation was gone from his face and his eyes were opaque and without expression once more.
When he had finished his breakfast he went downstairs, for he was already dressed, and I summoned Marie-Claire. Some time later I followed him downstairs, my muff, bonnet and redingote in my hands so that I would not be obliged to return to my rooms before going to church, and wandered into the saloon to see what time it was according to the grandfather clock there.
The fire was alight in the grate but the room was still damp and cold. At first I thought it was also empty and then I saw Mary huddled in one of the tall armchairs near the hearth. Her hands were outstretched towards the flames and I could see the chilblains on her fingers as I drew closer. She smiled nervously at me, and muttered some half-intelligible greeting.
“It’s a most unpleasant morning, is it not?” I said absently, sitting down opposite her. “Where is everyone? Isn’t it time to leave for church yet?”
“I suppose we’re the first to be ready,” she said, stating the obvious. “Perhaps we’re a trifle early.”
We sat in silence for a while, both feeling awkward in each other’s presence. In the distance I could hear Alice talking and Vere’s indistinct response and then Axel called from somewhere close at hand: “Did you order the carriage to the door, Vere?”
“I sent Ned to the stables with the message.”
There was more conversation. I heard Esther’s voice then and Axel saying “Good morning” to her. Footsteps echoed in the hall.
“Everyone seems to be assembling now,” I murmured to Mary, and then saw to my astonishment that there were tears in her eyes. As she saw that I had noticed them she blushed and made an awkward gesture with her hands.
“Sunday mornings always remind me of Rodric,” she said shame-faced. “I so much used to enjoy traveling with him to church. He is not—was not—very reverent towards the rector but he used to make me laugh no matter how much I disapproved of his jokes on principle.”
I stared at her curiously. It was not the first time, I suddenly realized, that she had referred to Rodric in the present tense. To do so once was a natural enough mistake; twice was still excusable, but I was sure she had made the error on more than two occasions. Wondering whether it was simply an affectation assumed to underline her grief or whether it had any other possible significance, I said off-handedly: “Why do you so often talk about Rodric as if he
’s not dead at all? You’re constantly forgetting to talk of him in the past tense! Is it because you think he may be still alive?” She stared at me round-eyed. Her mouth was open in surprise and I could see that one of her teeth was discolored with decay. And then as I watched her in mounting fascination she turned bright red, licked her lips and glanced wildly around the room to see if anyone had slipped in to eavesdrop while her back had been turned. I glanced around too, but of course there was no one there. The door was slightly open, just as I had left it, and from the hall came the vague sounds of footsteps and snatches of conversation.
“—My best fur,” Esther was saying far away. “Quite ravaged by moth ... Vere, you’re not taking the child to church, are you?”
“Stephen behaves very well in church,” said Alice, “and I shall take him to see my mother afterwards. Let me take him, Vere. Here, precious, come to Mama...”
“Where’s your wife, George?”
“And Mary!” said Esther, faintly exasperated. “Where’s Mary? That child is always late...”
“Mary?” I said in a low voice.
But she was shifting uneasily in her chair. “He’s dead,” she mumbled. I had never heard a lie told so badly. “Dead.” She stood up, fumbling with her gloves, not looking at me.
“I don’t believe you,” I said, curiosity making my voice sharp and hard. “You’re lying. Tell me the truth.”
The poor girl was so nervous of me that she dropped both her gloves on the floor and started to grovel for them helplessly, but I was ruthless. “So he’s alive,” I said, pitting my will against hers and watching her defenses crumble beneath the pressure. “How do you know? Answer me! How do you know he didn’t drown in the Marsh that day?”
My voice had risen in my determination to extract the truth. I saw her put her finger to her lips in an agony of worry lest someone should hear us.
“Shhh ... oh please—”
“How do you know he didn’t—”
“I saw him.” She was half-whispering, still motioning me to speak more softly. “I saw him come back to the house after George had told us he had found Rodric’s horse and hat by a bog in the Marsh.”
I stared at her.
“I—I was so upset when I heard the news of his death,” she said “that I went to see Ned first, but Ned was too upset himself to comfort me. Then I went to Rodric’s room to sit for a while with his possessions around me, I couldn’t believe he was dead...”
“And he came back.”
“Yes, I heard footsteps and hid behind a curtain because I didn’t want to be found there. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. And then—and then ... he came in. At first I thought it was a ghost—I—I nearly fainted ... He came into the room, took some money out of a drawer, glanced at his watch and then went out again. He wasn’t in the room for more than a few seconds.”
“And you didn’t speak to him? You didn’t call out?”
“I was too stunned—I was nearly fainting with the shock.”
“Quite. What did you do then?”
“I waited for him to come back.”
“And didn’t he?”
“No, that was what was so strange. I waited and waited and waited but he never came. I never saw him again.”
“But didn’t you tell anyone what you’d seen? Didn’t you—”
“Only George.”
“Axel!” I felt a sudden weakness in my knees. “Why Axel?”
“Well, I thought and thought about what I should do and then since George was the one who broke the news about Rodric’s death I decided to tell him what had happened. But he didn’t believe me. He said it was a—a hallucination born of shock and he advised me not to tell anyone or people would think my reason had been affected ... So I said nothing more. But I have gone on hoping. Every day I go to wait in his room in case—”
“But you did see him,” I said slowly, “didn’t you. It wasn’t your imagination. You really did see him.”
My belief in her story gave her confidence. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I swear I did. I did see him. I know Rodric was alive after George told me he was dead.”
There was a draft from the threshold as the door swung wider on its hinges. Esther’s voice said harshly: “What nonsense! What a despicable tale to tell, Mary Moore! You should be ashamed of yourself!” As I whirled around with a start I saw she was trembling in every limb. “Rodric’s dead,” she said, and her voice too was trembling now. “I loved him but he’s dead and I accepted his death, but you—you stupid foolish child—have to invent fantastic stories of him being alive just to please your sense of the dramatic!” She was crying; tears welled in her eyes and she pressed her hands against her cheeks. “How dare you upset me like this—”
Vere was behind her suddenly, and Alice. Vere said: “Mama, what is it? What’s the matter?” and beyond Alice I heard Axel’s voice say sharply: “Esther?”
But Esther did not hear him. Fortified by Vere’s arms around her she was weeping beautifully into a delicate lace handkerchief while poor Mary, also smitten with tears, howled that she hadn’t meant what she said, Rodric was dead, she had never seen him return to his room late last Christmas Eve, she was merely indulging in wishful thinking...
“Stop!” Axel exclaimed sternly in his most incisive voice,' and there was an abrupt silence broken only by Mary’s snuffles. “Mary, you should surely know by now that you must not try to impose your own dream world on other people. Haven’t I warned you about that before? Day-dreaming is selfish at the best of times, a dangerous self-indulgence ... Come, Esther, the child didn’t mean to upset you. Forgive her—it wasn’t done maliciously. Now, are we all ready to leave? We shall be very late if we delay here much longer.”
We were all ready. Within two minutes we were on our way to the church at Haraldsford, and throughout the service that followed I tried to make up my mind whether Mary had been telling the truth or not. In the end I came to the conclusion, as Axel had done, that her “vision” of Rodric must have been a hallucination born of shock. After all, I reasoned, if Rodric really had arranged a faked death for himself in the Marsh, why had he then risked discovery by returning to the house? And if he had indeed returned to the house, how had he managed to vanish into thin air after Mary had seen him? And finally if he were alive today, where was he? Despite my romantic inclination to believe him alive, my common sense would not wholly allow me to do so. He must be dead, I told myself. If he were alive, the situation would make no sense.
And yet for some hours to come I found myself wondering.
My mother had been a Roman Catholic once long ago before her flight from France and her struggles for existence in England, but her faith had ebbed with her fortunes and she had made no protest when a succession of nannies, governesses and finally schools had firmly imprinted Alexander and myself with the stamp of the Church of England. This was probably for the best; at that time there was still a large amount of prejudice against Catholics and besides, my father, although amoral and irreligious, was always quick to champion the Church of England against what he called “damned Papist nonsense.”
The little church at Haraldsford was, of course, as are all Parish churches in this country, Protestant, the rector firmly adhering to the principles of the Church of England. As we entered the ancient porch that morning and stepped into the nave I saw a host of curious eyes feast upon us in welcome and realized that the villagers had flocked to church en masse for a glimpse of the new master of Haraldsdyke and his wife. Axel led the way to the Brandson pew without looking to right or to left but I glanced quickly over the gaping faces and wondered what they were thinking. It was, after all, less than a year since Robert Brandson and Rodric had come to this church. I sat down beside Axel, imagining more clearly than ever now the scandal that must have thrived at the time of their deaths, the gossip and speculation, the endless rumors whispering and reverberating through the community.
Throughout the service it seemed to me that I could almost
feel the gaze of several dozen pairs of eyes boring remorselessly into my back, but of course that was a mere fantasy, and when I stole a glance over my shoulder during the prayers I saw that no one was watching me.
The sermon began. The child Stephen began to shift restlessly between his parents, and then Alice pulled him on to her lap and he was content for a while. I remembered that Alice was taking him to see her mother after the service was over, and I began to wonder how I could also manage to see Dame Joan that morning. Perhaps this afternoon I would be able to slip away from the house and walk back to the village. It was a mere mile, after all. It wouldn’t take long. But supposing someone saw me leave, asked questions when I came back ... I should have to have an excuse for returning to the village on such a chill misty afternoon.
During the final prayers and blessing I managed to roll my muff surreptitiously under the pew. No one noticed.
After the service was over, we paused to exchange greetings with the rector and then returned to the carriage while Alice took the child down the road to her mother’s house and Ned disappeared silently in the direction of the “Black Ram” for a tankard of ale. Within ten minutes we were back at Haraldsdyke. I managed to hide my bare hands in my wide sleeves so that no one should notice my muff was missing, and hastened to my rooms to change into a fresh gown.
Dinner was served earlier that day, I discovered, partly to revive everyone after the visit to church and partly to help the servants have a more restful evening than usual. With the exception of Alice, who had evidently decided to spend some time with her mother, we all sat down in the dining room soon after two o’clock.
The Shrouded Walls Page 13
