As she recollected her grandfather’s diatribes on this topic, Catherine wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, yet her mirth stuck in her throat. Laughter was difficult these days. She sighed, and the shadows of the Long Gallery seemed to sigh with her. Anxiously, she ran her fingernail over the grain in the wood of her seat, carving grooves in the softer part of the wood between the ridges. Even the science books were of no real interest to her now. She’d pored over them looking for some sign what she was feeling was documented and possible, searching for sympathy in the printed word, the educated opinions of men who knew nothing of her. There had been no answers there.
Gloomy though Winter always was, it had appeared to be a brighter place very briefly, in the autumn of the previous year. The harvest winds had brought Maeve to Winter.
Her mother had been pleased there would be another young woman—just two years older than Catherine’s nineteen years—in the house, since she had decreed it was not healthy Catherine spent so much time alone in the library, and thought an acquaintance with a more normal woman would lift her spirits. Then Maeve Greville, who had recently come to reside with her uncle—who lived nearby and frequently went grouse shooting with her own father—arrived to take afternoon tea with Catherine and her mother.
When she entered the hallway, where Catherine waited to greet her, the breeze carried a flutter of brown and yellowed leaves in with her. Maeve could have been a pagan goddess of autumn. Her hair, swept loosely back in two braids secured at the back of her head, was flaming red, her skin pale and delicately freckled. She was an extraordinary sight. She removed a fairly conventional—though longer than was fashionable—outer jacket, and Catherine was astonished to see she appeared to wear no crinoline or hoops at all. Her gown hung loose and narrow. Though her waist was slender, it did not have the artificial dimensions of a corset. In contrast to Catherine’s richly dyed blue silk gown, Maeve’s was delicately coloured in shades of peach and simply styled, apart from the intricate embroidery which decorated the neckline. There was something archaic, almost medieval, about her appearance, yet to Catherine she was a revelation. She’d never seen a woman like Maeve in all her years. Catherine stared, open-mouthed, until alerted by the curious look of Rosie, the housemaid who had opened the door and taken Maeve’s coat, that her behaviour was not polite.
“You’re most welcome to Winter, Miss Greville,” Catherine said, attempting to collect herself.
“Miss Richmond?” Maeve enquired, and receiving an affirmative nod, said, “You must call me Maeve, of course. I’m sure we’re going to be great friends.”
“Of course. You may call me Catherine.” Catherine smiled broadly at such an open declaration of the desire for friendship. She felt her burden of loneliness shift almost instantly, and looking into Maeve’s clear hazel eyes, she was certain that they would indeed be friends forever. A kindred spirit was what she had always longed for. Maeve would be the person with whom she finally found that connection.
Catherine’s mother had been equally taken aback by Maeve’s unusual appearance when they had sat down to tea in the Blue Drawing Room, but her expression showed disapproval rather than admiration.
“You have a beautiful house,” Maeve said, after the introductions, and though Kitty Richmond had smiled graciously and thanked her, her immediate condemnation of Maeve Greville was evident enough in her countenance to make Catherine wince and hope Maeve, being unfamiliar with her mother, would not notice. The conversation was faltering, as they ate salmon sandwiches, buttered crumpets, and almond frangipanes. Catherine had watched Maeve as she ate, taking note of the delicate way she nibbled her sandwiches, how graceful her hands were, with their slender fingers. Now in the warmth, close to the blazing fire in the hearth, her pale white skin grew rosy.
Though naturally shy, Catherine did not usually struggle to make polite conversation with new acquaintances. However, words with which to address Maeve Greville had abandoned her entirely. It was so important that Maeve not think badly of her, that she notice the potential for a very meaningful friendship between them. The tension of creating the impression she desired made it difficult not only to talk, but even to eat the food in front of her.
While they were sipping their second cups of tea, Maeve caused the conversation to take an unexpected turn. “So, Catherine,” she began, leaning towards Catherine in a familiar way, “what do you do all day?”
“What do I do?” Catherine replied, startled, for surely all women of her age and class passed their days in a similar fashion. Avoiding the controversial topic of the science books, she said, “I like to read, and of course I sew. I practise my piano, and I like to take an occasional turn in the park.”
“Oh, I never sew and I can’t get a decent tune from any instrument,” Maeve replied flippantly. “I do read though, some wonderful books. Given the choice, I like to write too.”
“You write?” Catherine asked, surprised and impressed.
“Yes. Poetry mostly, but I am trying my hand at a short novel.”
“You must tell me about it.” Catherine’s enthusiasm was almost a surprise to herself. Her mother glanced at her disapprovingly.
“Miss Greville must have better ways to pass her time than talking about her hobbies with you Catherine,” she said, her smile stiff.
“Actually, no, I love to talk about my writing,” Maeve said. “And one day I hope it will be more than a hobby.”
“You intend to be published?” Catherine asked, excitement suffusing her features.
“I do,” Maeve replied. “I think it would be ever so thrilling to see my name in print and to know that people out there are reading my words.”
Catherine felt almost breathless. “I’ve tried to write, once or twice,” she replied impulsively.
“You must show me,” Maeve replied. That was when Mrs. Richmond interrupted their conversation again.
“Really, Miss Greville, you mustn’t encourage Catherine in such pursuits.”
“Oh,” Maeve said, pausing for a moment and looking thoughtful and knowing at once. “How about painting then? I’m rather fond of all the arts.”
“Do you paint landscape or still life?” Mrs. Richmond asked, apparently relieved.
“Actually, I prefer to study the human form.” Catherine did not miss the flash of defiance in Maeve’s eyes.
“How interesting,” Catherine’s mother said, failing to hide her dismay. “You don’t sew?”
“Not if I can help it.” Maeve shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“I assumed you had made your gown yourself. It is so…unusual.” Mrs. Richmond made the word unusual sound like the worst possible condemnation.
“You wonder perhaps, Mrs. Richmond, why I should choose to dress in this fashion?”
“Yes, Miss Greville, I confess I do.” Catherine flushed with embarrassment at her mother’s tone but turned her gaze towards Maeve, curious as to what her explanation would be. It was impossible not to be impressed by how undaunted Maeve was by Kitty Richmond’s disapproval.
“I dislike fashion,” Maeve said simply, at first. She smiled slightly and then enlightened them further. “Corsets and crinolines are so dishonest. They make all of us women into liars. Uncomfortable liars.” Her tone was conspiratorial, as though she expected Catherine and her mother to agree with her. Catherine looked into her hazel eyes and knew she would agree with every word Maeve uttered, even if she declared the sky to be green and the grass blue. However, her mother was clearly not at all impressed.
“You think us dishonest, Miss Greville?” she enquired coldly.
“No, Mrs. Richmond, I don’t mean any offence to be taken. I simply think the demands of high fashion are rather more than any woman should be asked to bear. What, after all, is wrong with the female form that we should have to constrict it here and accentuate it there, beyond all natural proportions? Nor do we need excessive decoration, which, after all, detracts from our God-given beauty.”
“These a
re highly unusual opinions you hold with, Miss Greville,” Catherine’s mother said with as much politeness as she could muster, which was not a great deal.
“Not so unusual amongst many of my acquaintance, Mrs. Richmond,” Maeve replied evenly. “I suppose it depends upon which circles you move in, does it not?”
“Yes. I cannot imagine yours is a very large circle.” Kitty Richmond’s tone was biting now.
“Larger than you would expect. There are many artists and poets who think in a very similar way to me.”
“It sounds so fascinating,” Catherine said dreamily, picturing such a world of art, and revolutionary views, and poetry. Everyone in that world—men and women both—would be as beautiful as Maeve. They would dress naturally as she did and spend their days composing poetry, or in fierce debates, while others painted their lives away, fingers constantly smeared with oils, little regard paid to the smudges on their clothes and noses.
“Nonsense, Catherine,” Mrs. Richmond snapped sharply, breaking into Catherine’s reverie. Her mother composed her features into a serene smile once again. “I mean, these things are all well and good for someone like Miss Greville, but they’d never suit a girl like you.”
Catherine’s face flushed. To be spoken to like a child in front of Maeve was mortifying. She sipped her tea in silence, her blood on fire as she had never felt it before. She looked at her mother and fury stoked the flames, but when she turned her gaze instead on Maeve, searching for relief, the burning simply grew worse.
Mrs. Richmond brought tea to a close rather earlier than was usual and withdrew to her chamber hurriedly, claiming the onset of a headache. As Maeve prepared to leave, Catherine followed her through the hallway and to the door. “You will come back, won’t you?”
Maeve turned and took Catherine’s hand in cool fingers. Catherine felt frozen to the spot under her touch. “Dear Catherine. I don’t think your mother will like that.”
“For me,” Catherine said, knowing she sounded quite ridiculous but somehow unable to help herself. “You must come here as my guest and visit me. We can walk in the park perhaps—mother won’t even know you’re here.” She could barely believe she’d suggested such deceit, but could not bring herself to retract the suggestion once it had been spoken.
“You would keep me as your secret?” Maeve said, raising her eyebrows.
Catherine blushed and looked at the tiles of the floor. “I wish you would call again,” she said awkwardly, unable to understand why she felt so extraordinarily shy.
Maeve’s fingers squeezed her own. “Then I will, Catherine dear. For you. Until then.” She smiled widely at Catherine, and then turned and made her way down the steps. Halfway down she turned back, glancing at the statue which stood there. “And I’d love to draw this statue,” she called. “Maybe when I return.” Catherine looked at the half-naked stone woman and her throat felt tight. There was no reasonable answer, so she simply let Maeve’s comment hang in the air and drift away on the autumn breeze.
Maeve walked in the direction of the beech avenue. Her carriage waited for her at the end of the driveway, since she claimed it was a shame to deprive herself of the walk on such a lovely evening. Soon she was among the trees with their russet and gold leaves, her glorious red hair, the soft peach of her skirts, and the warm brown of her coat making her appear part of the scene, at one with nature. Catherine watched until she had disappeared.
That night, Catherine could not sleep. She stared at the heavy canopy over her bed and listened to the wood crackling in the hearth. She turned her pillow over and over, needing the cool fabric against her hot face. It felt unnaturally warm in the room and her heartbeat was unusually loud, too thunderous to allow slumber. The image of Maeve filled her mind, no matter how hard she tried to focus on her mother’s righteous disapproval of their unusual visitor. That such a woman existed turned the world upside down. She presented a challenge to everything: the possibilities that lay before her, her sense of her place in the world, the rules of respectability. In such a short amount of time, Maeve had destroyed Catherine’s cloistered yet bewildered perspective on the world, and Catherine could barely contain her impatience to see the beautiful destroyer again.
Maeve was true to her word and visited again the very next week. She delivered a card to the door, which was brought to Catherine as she attempted to read in the library just after lunch. On the back of the calling card was written in flowing handwriting: Come outside, meet me in the park. M. Catherine’s heart beat faster as she read the words. The notion that Maeve had returned, especially to see her, was thrilling enough. The necessity of their meeting being kept a secret simply added to the peculiar excitement beginning to throb through her body. She called for her outdoor coat and bonnet at once and told Rosie the maid, whose loyalty she trusted, to inform her mother she had elected to take a turn in the park for the sake of the fresh air.
That walk with Maeve in the park was to be the first of many. They began to arrange times to meet in advance, to save Maeve the need of coming to the house at all, since Catherine’s subtle questioning of her mother had revealed the “quite improper” Miss Greville was not at all welcome as a visitor at Winter again.
Maeve and Catherine would stroll arm in arm towards the river, even as the air grew frosty and Christmas drew nearer. There were endless topics to discuss, and Catherine always had new questions for Maeve. They talked about poetry and art, artists and nature, and Catherine was delighted to find her knowledge of the sciences, far from meeting with disapproval, actually was a subject of continuing fascination for Maeve.
The days and hours between their last parting and the next time she would see Maeve felt interminable to Catherine. Nothing was the same for her any longer; even the books in the library could not hold her interest. Her life was empty, only those few stolen hours with Maeve felt full and worthwhile. Maeve’s ideas were constantly in her mind, and she imagined she could feel her consciousness expanding with every new topic they broached.
One day, at the beginning of December, they had walked down to the bridge over the river, crossed it, and climbed a little way up the gradual slope of the meadow on the other side. From there they could see the tree-lined river, the bridge, and back up the slight hill to Winter itself. There had been a hard frost that night, and the grass and leaves were still glistening brightly. They paused next to a bush bearing bright red berries and gazed back at the picture before them.
“It’s beautiful from here,” Maeve said. “It could almost inspire me to paint a landscape with Winter as the focal point.”
“Yes. Who’d ever think it was such a prison?” Catherine was used, by now, to expressing her innermost feelings to Maeve and had made no secret of how she felt increasingly trapped in the house.
“People and ideas keep you trapped, Catherine, not the house.” Maeve told her, not for the first time.
“I know. If it was just walls, then I could escape.”
“You’ve escaped in your mind. That’s a very good place to start,” Maeve said, touching her arm lightly. As always, Catherine felt the tension grow through her whole body at the feel of Maeve’s hand. Suddenly hot despite the chill of the day, she tugged uncomfortably at the thick ribbons which held her bonnet in place beneath her chin.
“Why don’t you take that thing off?” Maeve, who wore a loose fur-trimmed hood herself, suggested. “You’re so trussed up against the cold I’m surprised you can breathe at all.”
“I didn’t want to catch a chill,” Catherine replied, thinking it sounded quite a pathetic excuse.
“I promise you won’t die if you take your bonnet off outside, Catherine,” Maeve said, her voice filled with laughter. “Have you ever actually felt the breeze blowing through your hair?”
“Not that I recall.” Catherine removed her gloves hurriedly and reached up to the bow beneath her chin. That loosened, she unfastened the strings concealed beneath it, which actually kept the hat secure, and removed it. The air felt very cold
where it crept over her exposed head. She felt as though she had woken up after a long sleep and washed her face in icy water.
“You might as well be wearing another hat! Loosen your hair,” Maeve instructed, eyeing Catherine’s braided locks and the practical snood which covered the back of her head. Catherine smiled and did as she was told, removing the pins that held the snood in place and releasing the length of her hair from the fine netting. This done, she allowed the braids to fall forwards and untwisted them, until her hair fell in a solid dark brown curtain around her face and shoulders.
“Don’t you feel liberated?” Maeve reached for Catherine’s hair and took several locks between her fingers, lifting them and allowing them to fall back into place slowly. “You have beautiful hair.”
Catherine felt the liberation Maeve talked of. It grew, as Maeve’s fingers slid through the waves of her hair, into an exultation. In these moments it was as though she knew herself for the first time, she was only just seeing the world in all its colours and brightness. The brightest point of all was Maeve, whose beautiful pale face, flushed slightly pink, was only inches away from hers, smiling at the beauty of her hair. Her mind was blank, her body seemed to act on its own impulse, as she leaned closer to Maeve and pressed her lips against her friend’s pink, smiling mouth.
As though she was not at all surprised, Maeve kissed her back without hesitation, and it seemed to Catherine their lips were made to fit together. Heat surged through her, sensations she’d never known pulsed through her veins. For those seconds, everything that had ever been wrong in her world was put right, and there was nothing but the power of the emotions that drew her to Maeve. They were kindred spirits, and more.
Too quickly, Maeve pulled back from her. Catherine reached for her to draw her back, but Maeve pushed her hands away gently. The haze cleared, and Catherine’s vision became suddenly, brutally, clear once more. Maeve was looking back at her with something like fear in her expression. Catherine had never seen her appear so uncertain, and as she read the confusion in those beloved hazel eyes, the ground fell away from beneath her feet.
Ghosts of Winter Page 8
