by Robert Neill
‘Serve him right.’
‘Oh yes.’ He looked up sharply as her tone changed to something he had not quite heard from her before. ‘The damned fool! Is he out of his mind?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to see him again--ever.’
‘I should hope not, after this treatment.’
‘It isn’t me.’ She all but snapped it at him. ‘I’m fairly well used to being pulled about anyway, by some of you men, and it doesn’t do me any harm.’
‘Then what---’
‘My horses, of course. They could have been killed, both of them, or shot--and I’ll not forgive him that.’
‘Horses before yourself? But I’m told they’re all right--not much hurt.’
‘No--just cut and torn, and frightened out of their wits. I wanted to know about them, where they were, and---’
‘They’re with the veterinarian.’
‘I know. I sent Mary Ann to see them, and they were trembling all over, as soon as she went near them. Do you think they’ll be the same again--my own two darlings? Oh, I know they’ll get better, but--do you know what it’s like, to be fond of horses?’
‘I suppose I don’t--from the sea.’
‘You couldn’t. But I love those two. I do really, and I don’t mind if you call it silly. I didn’t buy them for the curricle. I bought the curricle for them. Do you understand? They’re my friends, and I love them, and I think they like me.’
‘But they’ll get better.’
‘Yes, in a way. But why should they have all this to go through--it must be hell for animals--just because Tommy Luttrell---’
‘Easy, Anice!’
‘Oh, all right--blast him! But I won’t see him again, ever. I’ll fly at him if I do.’
‘Splendid. You’re spilling that wine.’
‘Then fill it up. Why do you say splendid?’
‘Does that need answering?’
‘I thought you might have said the opposite.’
‘And why?’
‘Why not? Your health!’ Her tone had changed, and she was looking at him steadily above the wine. ‘Health, fortune--and a happy marriage.’
‘Marriage?’
‘May you be very happy! You are going to marry her, I suppose?’
‘Anice, I---’
‘ Tell me. Are you going to?’
‘Perhaps.’ He was as quiet and steady now as she, knowing that he must face it. ‘It’s not definite, of course. I haven’t asked her yet.’
‘You will, though. She’ll see to that. She’s a Wickham.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘They get what they want. I know, because I am one--more of one than she is.’
‘So she told me.’
‘She didn’t tell you all of it, because she doesn’t know. But you see what I mean, darling?’ She changed suddenly, and with her own abruptness she was mischievous again. ‘If I went off with Tommy I’d be off your hands. Much easier.’
‘Easier or not, I’m glad you’re finishing with him.’
‘Sweetly said--and I am finishing. But it’s all right, darling. You can marry her if you like. I won’t stop you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, I mean it. And it’s time you were married, or some little bitch will gobble you. You’re not safe, with that face, and all that prize money.’
‘Anice!’
‘She’ll look after that, though---once she has you. And if she can’t quite do it, tell her she can send for me. I’ll always help.’
‘It must be the champagne.’
‘Oh no, it’s not. Now listen--no, wait a minute. I’m no good to you, anyway.’
That seemed to be an afterthought, said casually as she sat up from her pillows and reached for a dressing-gown of quilted satin. A moment later she had swung her feet out of the bed and was thrusting them into fleecy slippers while she wrapped herself in the gown. Then she settled herself on his legs as he sat in the chair, and she gave a nicely calculated shiver as she pressed herself close against him.
‘You’re not to let me get cold,’ she told him. ‘Invalid. Ah--that’s better. I must say you’re willing. You just need showing how.’ She sighed happily, pushing her head against his shoulder so that her hair brushed against his face. ‘Now, where were we? What were we talking about?’
‘Mostly nonsense--from you. Your last piece of it said you were no good to me.’ He was stroking her hair now. ‘I don’t know what good means, if it isn’t this--and you.’
‘Pretty!’ She all but purred with content. ‘All the same, it’s true, and you’re going to marry her. I’ll see to it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ She wriggled a little closer while she pushed an arm behind his back. ‘You’ll have to marry someone, because you need looking after, and it’s no good thinking of me. I’d be no use to you at all. I’ll never stick to anyone.’
‘But, Anice, why shouldn’t you? If you’d only---’
‘Because I was born that way. I was born a pretty odd way.’ For a moment she pouted at him while her forehead wrinkled, and then she was herself again. ‘So that’s how it is. You’ve to marry someone, and it may as well be Mary. She’s just right for you. Oh, she is, and she’ll look after you splendidly--all sorts of ways. Very respectable. House well run. Lots of little ones, all round you.’
‘How do you know that?
‘She’s that sort of woman. If you kiss her it’ll nearly be enough. Oh, you’ll be all right, darling.’
‘Are you off your head tonight?’
‘Well, it’s had a knock, of course. Very bad.’
‘I’m beginning to think you need a knock somewhere else.’
‘Keep that for the little ones. Will you call one of them Anice, after me?’
‘What do you take me for?’
‘Hmm! Perhaps you’re right.’ She nodded gravely. ‘But Ann, now? It’s a good name for any girl, and no one would know it was me.’ She was suddenly shaking with laughter, and then, as suddenly, she lifted herself and kissed him.
‘Now I mean it,’ she told him firmly. ‘You’re to go away and marry her, and then you’ll be quite safe and looked after, and I shan’t have to worry about you.’
‘Anice, dear ...’ He had her tightly in his arms as he spoke. ‘You can’t mean this?’
‘Why can’t I?’
‘You bring me here--the way you did--and now I’m with you like this--there’s no one else in the whole world could be like you--and you tell me I can go away and marry someone else?’
‘It’s the sensible thing for you to do.’
‘I’m not sensible when I’m with you. I don’t want to be.’
‘Then it’s time you were. You can’t spend your life chasing after me. You’re not like me, a silly wild thing who’ll never settle with anyone. I’m leaving here next week, by the way. I’m off to Italy, and I don’t know where I shall go after that. That’s the sort of life I shall have.’
‘You can’t go yet. Anice, you mustn’t. You’ve only just---’
‘I’m like that. I’m no use to you at all--that way--and you may as well face it. Besides . . .’
It was another of her lightning changes, in tone and looks together. There was a gleam in her eyes again, and a wicked crinkle in her forehead as she pushed herself a little back.
‘Besides?’ He echoed it suspiciously. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, dear . . .’ Her tongue pushed out at him for an impudent moment. ‘I’ve said you can marry Mary--but you needn’t think I’m going to forget you.’
‘Anice, you couldn’t forget me--you couldn’t. I shall never in this world forget you.’
‘No, dear. I’m taking care of that.’ Again for an instant, her tongue showed, impudent and inviting. ‘You won’t have a chance to. It’s all arranged.’
‘What--what the devil do you mean?’
‘Well . . .’ The impudence had left her, the teasing note had gone from her voice, and suddenly she was almos
t wistful. ‘I had to arrange it. We couldn’t do without it, either of us. You couldn’t get on without me altogether, because I can give you something that nobody else can--and now and then you need it. And of course I need you, the same way, because you give me something nobody else can. There’s no one else I can be quite myself with. I can go off somewhere, perhaps for months, and see all sorts of men, and that’s all right, but just now and then I need you, and very badly.’ There was a pause, and then a hint of mischief came back to her face.
‘So you can marry Mary, and that’s beautiful. But don’t think I’m giving you up altogether, because I’m not. I expect an angel might, but I’m not one. Well, not quite. And it wouldn’t be good for you anyway.’
‘You are the limit.’ He was staring at her now, half angry with her, more angry with himself as a warm glow of excitement swept through him at the thought of what might come. ‘Are you saying I may marry Mary--with your kind leave--and then keep an affair open with you--at your beck and call, so to speak, when you happen to want me? Is that your notion?’
‘Yes, dear. That’s it.’ She nodded brightly. ‘I’m glad you’ve understood it.’
‘You little devil! Now really, Anice, you must---’
‘Don’t worry, dear. It’s all arranged. And don’t look so good. Everybody does it, and they often spend a lot of money on it. You won’t be asked for that.’
‘Does that make it better?’
‘Well, it’s what the wives seem to complain of, and I don’t blame them. But if you’re thinking of Mary---’
‘I am.’
‘She knows about you and me, doesn’t she?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Afraid!’ Her tongue shot out again, deliberately and impishly. ‘Say you’re glad she does--because it means she won’t expect too much. Besides, she’s been married before.’
‘I know she has.’
‘Then ask her about it some time. Ask her how much she had from Charles. Believe me, she’ll think she’s doing pretty well if you only see me now and then--which is all it will be. It’s all it needs to be, and I shall only be there now and then.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Hmm!’ Again her forehead puckered suspiciously. ‘Where do you think you’ll live when you’re married?’
‘How can I tell you that? I don’t even know yet that I’m going to marry.’
‘I’ve said you are. Well, she’ll need to live near her Uncle Barford, won’t she? Getting old, and has to be looked after, and she thinks it’s her duty. Besides, he has the money.’
‘What money?’
‘Oh dear, oh dear! About two hundred thousand of it, darling. He won it at whist, and my brother’s dead. So who will he leave it to? So that’s where you’ll live. Do you know there’s a dower house on the estate?’
‘That’s quite usual.’
‘Yes, dear. But he hasn’t an old mother to live in it, or any sisters, or a wife, so I think he’s going to let Mary have it---and you, of course.’
‘What the devil! Anice, what have you been doing with him--driving him to Tewkesbury and the rest? What have you been up to?’
‘Oh, getting things arranged. You did ask me to be sweet to him.’
‘Not as sweet as that. What have you been doing? What were you arranging?’
‘Now don’t get cross. Little girl does her best. You’re not keeping me very warm.’
‘You’ve a dressing-gown. What have you been doing with Barford?’
‘Oh, all right. But I’m not very warm.’
She jumped suddenly up and dived back into bed, huddling under the blankets for a moment and then rearing her head again to look at him.
‘I’m staying here,’ she told him. ‘If you’re lonely you’ll have to come in too.’
‘Since I’m fully dressed---’
‘You needn’t be.’
‘No?’ He was sitting on the bed now, teasing her hair. ‘All in good time, perhaps.’
‘It’s one o’clock.’
‘Tell me of Barford, please.’
‘All right. I--I think I did start telling you this morning, before Tommy came. Or did I? It’s all muddled now.’
‘Yes . . .’ He had to think hard to remember it. ‘You were starting to say something about your father. Is that it?’
‘It’s difficult.’ She frowned at him for a moment. ‘Open another bottle. I need it.’
He complied in silence, thinking champagne as good a tonic as she could have, and she made an end of the glass before she spoke again. Then she came to it slowly, as if it were distasteful.
‘You’ve to go back sixty years,’ she told him. ‘That was when the Wickhams first came. Grandparents of these two.’
‘Of John and Mary?’
‘Yes, and they were John and Mary too. I think they’d eloped. Her husband had died, or was killed, or something. I don’t know.’
‘Does it matter? You were telling me about yourself, please--and Barford?’
‘Oh, he was a friend of theirs--Barford’s father, I mean. That’s why they came. And my grandmother came with them. She was Mary’s maid, and she might have been a bit more than that.’
‘If she was at all like you, Anice, I’m sure she was more than that.’
‘All right.’ Again she sipped carefully at the champagne. ‘But that John Wickham had an elder brother, Harry, who was the squire where they lived, and by and by he came on a visit. Hmm!’ Anice nodded darkly. ‘He had a look at Granny, too. Of course she was only about my age then, and I think he’d known her before. You know what came?’
‘Your mother, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. So she was Harry Wickham’s daughter, even if she did have to call herself Atkins, and I think she must have been attractive. Anyway, she attracted Barford, and he really was fond of her. Do you know he built a special house for her, on his estate?’
‘No?’
‘Oh yes. That was when my brother was born. I think he’d have put her in the dower house if he could, but his mother was in it so he built the other--just over the brow from the dower house, behind the trees. That’s where I was born.’
‘So he’d let her stay?’
‘He didn’t turn her out when she was with child. I’ll say that for him. But he was very angry.’ Anice dropped her eyes for a moment, staring at the wine in the glass. ‘Has anyone told you why?’
‘Jealousy?’
‘There was more than that. Of course, her father, old Harry, had gone home long ago, and he’d a family of his own there by this time--all proper and respectable, except that they were Wickhams.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘They’d roving eyes.’ For an instant there was a flash of the old smile. ‘All the Wickhams have eyes for a girl--can’t you see it in John?--and all the Wickham girls, let me tell you, have eyes for a man, and it doesn’t matter what they’re called.’
‘Called?’
‘Anice--or Mary. Some hide it better than others, but it’s there. What was I saying?’
‘You said he’d gone home and got a family.’
‘Oh yes. Well, one of his sons--another John, by the way--did what his father had done. He came on a visit. See his cousins, I suppose. And the end of that was--me.’
‘What! You mean . . . ?’
‘Yes, dear. I do.’ She was facing him squarely now. ‘It was kept very quiet, of course, but Granny told me, before she died.’
‘But . . .’ He was staring at her now, horrified, as the meaning came to him. ‘Your father--and mother?’
‘Yes.’ She answered quickly, with her eyes defiant. ‘Harry’s son and daughter. Oh, it was incest all right--and she must have known it, even if he didn’t.’
‘Good God!’
‘Don’t talk like that. It’s common enough in the country. There aren’t enough people. Still, I’m not surprised Barford was upset.’
‘No. If she left him, to do ...’
‘Yes, dea
r, but don’t keep harping on it. It isn’t tactful.’
‘Oh, Anice, dear, I---’
‘All right, all right. I don’t want you upset as well.’ She sank into silence, brooding for a moment before she made an end of her wine. ‘It does queer things, doesn’t it? They say it does with horses, if you let them breed that way.’
‘I think it does.’
‘Well, that’s me.’ A gleam of amusement returned suddenly to her eyes. ‘You must have wondered how I got like this, and there it is. Two lots of Wickhams--all with eyes--and the witch’s girl as well. She was one, whatever they say. Ah well--you’re not going to run away from me, are you, because---’
‘Don’t say things like that.’
‘Why not? All the same, that’s why Barford was upset, and that’s why he hated me. I suppose I reminded him every time he saw me.’
‘But he needn’t have blamed you.’
‘Of course he needn’t, but he did. He seemed to think I was the cause of it, instead of being caused by it. I think it’s in his head now, though. There’s a brain in his head if you dig for it.’
‘So that’s what you’ve been doing with him, is it?’
‘Of course--and a little more.’ There was a tilt of her head now, and a decidedly mischievous look. ‘You did ask me to work at him, and there wasn’t any use in going halfway. I wanted something else, as well.’
‘You would, you little devil! What was it?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ She seemed to wait for him to speak, and then her smile appeared, happy now, but puzzling. ‘He liked that brooch, I may tell you.’
‘It was good of you to give it to him.’
‘I didn’t need it, and it will come back to me some day. But he had a locket which he showed me--one of Dick.’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘Oh, have you?’ Eyebrows lifted for an instant. ‘But he thinks I’m rather like him.’
‘Like Dick? You know very well you are.’
‘But he knows it, and that’s what matters. I think--I think he’s going to treat me a little like Dick.’
‘What! As his daughter?’
‘Oh no, no. I’m not that. But...’ Again her smile was the image of her changing thought. ‘Someone he can care for, and fuss over--now and then. I can remind him of Dick, and my mother, and days he used to like--now he’s changed his thinking. He used to hate the sight of me, and he’s just the opposite. Of course it will only be now and then.’
