Gwendolen

by Diana Souhami

  I did not doubt that Uncle cared for me and wanted my happiness. I told him I knew I must be married and did not see how I could do better than Grandcourt, so I intended to accept him. What I could not say, to Mama, to him, or to myself, was that I loved Grandcourt, for I did not. I had known him a fortnight. I did not know if he took sugar with his coffee, if he could swim, if he had brothers and sisters, or a mother who drank gin. Uncle hoped I would find “a fountain of duty and affection” in the marriage. “Marriage is the only true and satisfactory sphere of a woman,” he said. “And if your marriage with Mr. Grandcourt should be happily decided upon, you will have probably an increasing power both of rank and wealth, which may be used for the benefit of others. You are fitted by natural gifts for a position which, considering your birth and early prospects, could hardly be looked forward to as in the ordinary course of things; and I trust that you will grace it not only by those personal gifts but by a good and consistent life.”

  “I hope Mama will be the happier” was all I could say. For there it was spelled out for me: marriage was the only way. My “natural gifts” were the length of my legs, the curve of my breasts, the whiteness of my teeth, the wave of my hair, and the slant of my eyes. Given the misfortune of my social position, such gifts raised me above the “ordinary course of things.”

  Later I came to forgive Mama’s enthusiasm for she was even more naive than I. But Uncle knew more. In the gentlemen’s dining rooms he had heard of profound irregularities in Grandcourt’s life. Alarming rumors which he ought to have investigated. Perhaps he chose not to remember what he heard. Money was what mattered, money and rank. Uncle pressed me into this union as if it was a moral imperative. And he a man of God.

  * * *

  I FELT RADIANT, confident, on the day of the roving archery match in Cardell Chase. I wore white, as on the previous shoot. I anticipated Grandcourt’s reserved proposal and my unequivocal but equally reserved acceptance. We congregated at Green Arbor, a grassy spot ringed by fir trees. The sun shone. A coachful of servants organized our picnics. The archery targets were positioned within a wide curve, landmarked by the Double Oak, the Whispering Stones, the High Cross. The agenda was to explore the course with the warden in the morning, have lunch, make the roving expedition in the afternoon, then picnic again as the sun set.

  Grandcourt was beside me as, lagging behind the other guests, we toured the course. He asked, “Do you know how long it is since I first saw you in that dress?”

  “The archery meeting was on the twenty-fifth of June; this is the thirteenth of July. I’m not good at calculating, but I venture to say it must be nearly three weeks.”

  “That is a great loss of time,” he said in his considered monotone.

  “That knowing me has caused you? Pray don’t be uncomplimentary. I don’t like it.”

  Another careful pause. “It is because of the gain that I feel the loss.”

  I was silent. I thought his conversation ingenious, clever, courteous, stylish, and oh so flattering. “The gain of knowing you makes me feel the time I lose in uncertainty,” he said. “Do you like uncertainty?”

  Uncertainty, it seemed, was a state he wished to overcome. “I think I do,” I truthfully replied. “There is more in it.”

  He did not raise his voice or seem eager to please. He looked into my eyes with his translucent, unblinking gaze. “Do you mean more torment for me?” he said.

  I supposed him to be sincere. I thought he voiced vulnerability. “That would make me sorry,” I said.

  His declaration was so unlike poor Rex’s earnest and blushing outburst. I did not reflect on how ludicrously short a span three weeks is, or how I knew nothing of this man and he knew nothing of me beyond my appearances on summer days in a white dress. I intended to marry him; to do well for myself and Mama and to please Uncle, though it was as hard for me to say an unqualified yes to the prospect as to leap to my death from the high chalk cliffs at Bat’s Head.

  * * *

  COMPLETING THE TOUR, we rejoined the group. The tables were loaded with food and champagne. The men smoked cigars; the women looked as if they had stepped from a painting by Tissot. Lush smarmed and pandered, but even he could not spoil my perfect day. Or so I thought.

  To avoid his help or attention, I went to collect my own bow from the carriage. Lord Brackenshaw’s valet saw me approaching and brought it to me together with a letter. The handwriting was a woman’s, smaller than a man’s, and not from anyone I knew. I felt no apprehension, but I moved behind a tree to read unobserved.

  If Miss Harleth is in doubt whether she should accept Mr. Grandcourt, let her break from her party after they have passed the Whispering Stones and return to that spot. She will then hear something to decide her, but she can only hear it by keeping this letter a strict secret from everyone. If she does not act according to this letter, she will repent, as the woman who writes it has repented.

  The secrecy Miss Harleth will feel herself bound in honor to guard.

  I felt shocked excitement but not fear. It has come in time, I thought. As You Like It was perhaps now the play. I was Rosalind and Grandcourt my Orlando. There were to be diversions in the Forest of Arden before our marriage was made. Yet the intrigue of this letter seemed intrinsic to the drama of the afternoon and did not diminish my self-assurance.

  We picnicked on cold salmon, pigeon pie, jellies, strawberries, grapes, cheese. But when we were ready to set off for the match, Grandcourt said he preferred to stay at Green Arbor and smoke a cigar, and Mama said she preferred a quiet stroll.

  The archery was spirited; I was elated; the landscape shifted from forest to open glade. It took an hour for us to reach the Whispering Stones: two granite blocks that leaned toward each other as if imparting a secret. That afternoon they were dappled by sunlight, though I had heard on starlit nights they turned into ghosts. Behind them was a grove of beech trees.

  There were a couple of miles more for the party to circle before the return to Green Arbor. I held back. The others, under Lush’s guidance, moved forward toward High Cross. This felt like adventure. I wanted something to happen, I anticipated revelation and feared no one would be there. But then I was startled when a woman appeared from behind one of the stones. I supposed her to be about forty. She had intense dark eyes and black hair and must once have been very handsome. Her demeanor was poised and determined. A few yards from her, two children sat playing on the grass, a dark-haired girl of about six and a small boy of five with light brown curls.

  “Miss Harleth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you accepted Mr. Grandcourt?”

  “No.”

  “I have something to tell you. And you will promise to keep my secret. However you may decide, promise me you will not tell Mr. Grandcourt or anyone else that you have seen me.”

  “I promise.”

  “My name is Lydia Glasher. Mr. Grandcourt ought not to marry any one but me. I left my husband and child for him nine years ago. Those two children are his, and we have two others—girls who are older. My husband is dead now, and Mr. Grandcourt ought to marry me. He ought to make that boy his heir.”

  The small boy was pretending to play a toy trumpet; he looked cherubic. “You are very attractive, Miss Harleth.” The woman’s voice was cold, angry, and controlled. “When Mr. Grandcourt first knew me, I too was young. Since then my life has been broken up and embittered. It is not fair that he should be happy and I miserable and my boy thrust out of sight for another.”

  She stared into my eyes. My sense of adventure died; my courage drained; I felt icy tentacles around me. Here was the specter of death from the wainscot. Here was my fear. I sensed she was desperate enough to do anything. A voice in my head said, I am a woman’s life. I struggled to breathe. I told the woman I would not interfere with her wishes. There was silence. I asked if she had more to say. “Nothing,” she replied. “I have told you what I wished you to know. Inquire about me if you like. My husband was Colonel Glasher.”r />
  Within a minute I was back in the beech grove. The day had become unreal. The party had moved from sight. I did not try to catch up with them. I took a short route back to Green Arbor. Mama was astonished to see me return alone. My excuse was that I had lingered to look at the Whispering Stones and grown tired of walking. Mrs. Arrowpoint probingly asked the whereabouts of Grandcourt. “Where can he be?” I said. “I should think he has fallen into the pool or had an apoplectic fit.”

  My tone was worse than sarcastic. Mama looked troubled by my distress. I told her I was tired and needed to go home. I ordered the carriage. Then Grandcourt appeared with the rest of the party. He supposed my froideur was because I felt neglected by him on the shoot. He asked if he might call at Offendene tomorrow.

  “Oh yes, if you like,” I said. I hurried into the carriage to avoid the sight of him. He raised his hat and walked away.

  Journeying back to Offendene, I told Mama I intended to telegraph our friends the von Langens, whom I knew to be in Homburg, to say I would join them on their trip. I would pack as soon as I got home and set off for Dover on the early morning train.

  Mama made no sense of it. She too thought I was offended by Grandcourt not accompanying me on the shoot. She protested that my response was extreme. I said it was useless to quiz me; I was not going to marry Grandcourt.

  “Gwendolen, what can I say to your uncle? Consider the position you place me in,” Mama pleaded. “Only last night you led him to believe you had made up your mind in favor of Mr. Grandcourt.”

  I told Mama I would not alter my resolve or give reasons, other than that I hated all men and believed them evil and did not care were I never to marry anyone. I apologized for causing confusion. The woman at the Whispering Stones had made my situation invidious: She exacted from me a promise to tell no one of our meeting. To break that promise would rebound on her and her children and achieve nothing for me. I could confide in no one. I was alone with my misery and the cause of upset to Mama and Uncle.

  Mama sat in speechless misery in the carriage. She wept. I chastised her for her tears and told her to remember the troubles in her own life and leave me to be miserable if that was what I chose.

  Back home I packed. Nothing had prepared me for this reversal. I felt locked out of my own life. I hated causing Mama pain. At dawn she accompanied me to the railway station. I was running away, not running to anything or anyone. At the station I watched the carriage turn back to Offendene with Mama in it. When Mr. Grandcourt called, no one was at home.

  * * *

  I SAT ALONE in the ladies’ carriage on the train to Dover. My thoughts raced as the landscape slipped by, taking with it my plans and expectations. Lush, I suspected, had schemed for Mrs. Glasher to lie in wait for me at the Whispering Stones. Later I learned I was right. I sensed his loathing of me.

  I pondered Mrs. Glasher’s letter, her threats and hatred. She was chasing me away, and I was resentful. Perhaps Grandcourt ought to have married her, but how could it be my fault that he had not? She said she was young, lovely, and happy when she met him, but what of Colonel Glasher and their son? Where were they when she was young and happy with Grandcourt? She implied I held her happiness and that of her children’s fortune in my power. But arrangements and matters of the heart between her and Grandcourt ought not have involved me. Why should the onus of correct behavior be mine? Grandcourt pursued me. In Society’s terms she was his mistress, and he wanted me as his wife. She was urging me to put her wishes above his choice and my own self-interest. She implied that were I to refuse Grandcourt, he would marry her, but there was no certainty of that. They had had nine years to establish their feelings for each other and make plans. Colonel Glasher was now dead, so there was no obstruction to legitimizing their union other than Grandcourt’s reluctance. I had hardly pushed my way into his view. She did not speak well of him or want good for him. It seemed she hated him for robbing her of her youth. She wanted his money and status for their son.

  I was not in love with Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt, though if, as seemed inevitable, I had to marry, I wanted to marry well, please Uncle, and above all provide for Mama. But I again realized, as I sat alone on my desperate journey of escape, that I knew almost nothing about him. Why had he not told me of Mrs. Glasher and their four children? What else might there be about his past and present to alarm me? He was vain about how he appeared in Society; he would sooner marry me than a woman no longer beautiful, but perhaps his concern was for himself alone. Would he act as he pleased whatever vows he made, whatever contract he signed? How, I wondered, would he treat me when I showed signs of wear?

  The countryside flattened, the dividing sea approached. I did not know what choice to make, where to turn for help, or whom to trust. I would be damned if I married Grandcourt, damned if I did not. I wanted to make this journey to escape the muddle that troubled and tormented me, and take me to a resolution.

  That was how, on that September afternoon, I found myself at the mercy of the roulette wheel, hoping for luck to bring me wealth and set me free. Such was the turmoil of my life when I met your gaze. Your gaze that seared into me and that I see now.

  Mama knew only of my distress and reversal of plan; she did not know my confusion’s cause. Uncle interpreted my flurried departure as a coquettish flounce, designed to tease the interest of my admirer. Grandcourt saw my leaving as a challenge. Had events not followed in the way they did, he would probably have forgotten me before autumn was through and pursued an alternative quarry. But accompanied by Lush, he set off for Homburg in slow pursuit of me. In his bored, languid manner he stopped for a few days yachting in the Baltic, then to gamble in Baden-Baden, and reached Homburg five days after I had left. There he met with Sir Hugo, the Mallinger family, and you. From you he learned I had received disturbing news, you did not know what, and gone home to Pennicote. From Lush you learned that Grandcourt had been on the point of marrying me, but I had run off without explanation. I do not know what you made of all you saw and heard.

  * * *

  I HAD LURCHED from one disaster to the next. No one was at Wancester station to meet me when I returned from Homburg to face our bankrupt future. Alone in the waiting room I felt defined by the dirty paint, the dusty decanter of water, the poster calling on us all to repent and find Jesus, and the melancholy lanes and fields outside. A sullen porter with a squint in one eye ignored me. I was a woman without status or prospect. I, Mama, and my sisters had no money and no home. I could not think what we would do; wander abroad perhaps—out of view from social scorn.

  A dirty old barouche eventually was brought from the railway inn. Squashed in the back of it, with my two large trunks, I felt hatred for Grandcourt, his deceit that had led me to this impasse, and for men in general, including you. Had you not watched me with such disapproval, I might again have won at the tables.

  At Offendene, Mama and my sisters waited on the porch to greet me. Mama wept as I kissed her. Fresh lines of sorrow had etched into her face. I tried to console her and lift her mood, conscious that any strength she might have must be drawn from me. I assured her I would make things right. “I will be something, I will do something,” I promised, for in my heart I thought my charm or luck, or some benevolent spirit, would shape our destiny.

  Mama and I spent the day alone together, our food brought to us on trays. Misfortune did not seem so evident in the large friendly house and in each other’s loving company. In our black and yellow bedroom I did not mention Grandcourt, and she dared not ask. We did not mention our problems until evening came. I then said I felt sure Lord Brackenshaw would let us stay on for a while rent free at Offendene.

  Mama countered he was in Scotland and knew nothing about us, and anyway neither she nor my uncle would ask favors of him. Moreover, even if he agreed, we had no money to pay bills or the servants, nor did we have money to travel abroad. Uncle intended to adapt to penury: keep no carriage, buy no new clothes, eat no meat for breakfast, subscribe to no periodicals, and
tutor his sons himself. It all sounded utterly dismal. As for Mama and me, Alice, Bertha, Fanny, Isabel, we were all to move to Sawyer’s Cottage and make do with basic furnishings gleaned from the rectory.

  I knew Sawyer’s Cottage. Mr. Partridge, an exciseman, had died there. I knew its scrubby cabbage patch, steep narrow staircase, four tiny bedrooms, two cramped parlors with green and yellow wallpaper. Mama said she and the girls might earn a pittance wage by sewing. “Sewing what?” I asked. “A tablecloth border for the ladies’ charity at Wancester? A communion cloth for Pennicote church?”

  I could not bear her choked-back tears. We must go to law, I said, to recover our fortune such as it had been. This man Lassman, the land agent who so carelessly speculated with and lost our money by investing in mines and risky dealings, must be held accountable. Mama said we had no money to go to law, and anyway there was no law for people who are ruined.

  She had discussed my fate with Uncle. I was to be a governess or teacher. Uncle knew of two possible openings: I could live with a bishop’s family, a Dr. Mompert, and teach French and music to his three dismal daughters, or teach the dull narrow curriculum for girls in a school for a wage of eighty pounds a year.

  I vowed to Mama I would not see her cooped in Sawyer’s Cottage, be dictated to by Uncle or anyone else, or sink so low as to be a governess. I would sooner emigrate. I assured her my determination would prevail; I would devise a rescue plan; I had talent I could employ that had not yet been tapped or recognized. And to provide in the short term, I had pieces of jewelry to sell.

  I went to my desk and without reflection wrote a note to Herr Klesmer. I urgently requested him to call the next day. I said unfortunate family circumstances of a very serious nature obliged me to turn for advice to his great knowledge and judgment.