Beyond the Blue Mountains

by Jean Plaidy

  She had made Esther drink gin that night, a lot of it. It was easy enough to keep filling her glass. And he had drunk too, and got reckless, and that was the beginning. Esther was pretty enough when she was lively, when she wasn’t saving her prayers, when she was wanting a bit of life like other girls wanted. He was never the man to miss his opportunities; it was as natural and easy as eating and drinking to him. He was made that way. That was how it happened … and give young people a taste for that sort of thing, and there you are. They don’t stop at once… not if she knew anything about it! And there was her ladyship, tripping about upstairs, getting dresses out of the mistress, altering them, like some queen’s favourite, making her lover wait a while to show her displeasure. Ha! Ha! It was funny, whatever way you looked at it.

  Carolan came in from the yard. She looked like a sleepwalker, with all the life taken out of her.

  “Now, lovey,” said Margery, ‘it don’t do to take these things to heart, and all this keeping a man waiting never did pay, to my mind.”

  But she had walked through the kitchen as though Margery was not there.

  “Draw the curtains, Carolan. I think I will have a rest for a while.”

  “I will leave you, M’am; you will rest better without me.” Her voice was hard, determined. She could not stay in this room; she could not bear it. She would scream, be rude to the woman, would cry out: “Oh, stop talking of your silly ailments! What do you think I am suffering … I have lost Marcus! First Everard Then Marcus!”

  “I wish to turn out one of the cupboards in the toilet-room. If you need me, you can knock on the wall.”

  Docilely Lucille Masterman nodded, and Carolan went out.

  She looked at herself in the long mirror. How strange she looked! If that selfish woman in there had been the least bit interested in anything but herself and her silly medicines she would have noticed. There was no one to condole with Carolan. Margery was laughing up her sleeve. Esther could weep till she could not see, but she was weeping for herself and her predicament. Esther! The virtuous Esther whom she had looked upon as something near a saint, creeping out to him like a servant girl. Esther! Her friend no longer. She wished she had never seen her, never listened to her whining voice. Esther and Marcus. Marcus and Esther. Together. Making love.

  “I hope you said your prayers, Esther, before you began!” The words had made the girl flinch, and serve her right. Sly, deceitful little hypocrite! And Marcus, the beast! She was well rid of him. Had she married him, what would her life have been? He would not have been true to her for a week. I hate them both. I hate them. She had said: “Mr. Masterman will be furious when he hears. He will want to know how it happened, who the man is. He will want to know how you came to be entertaining convicts in his house. I would not be in your shoes, Esther.” She had had the satisfaction of hearing Esther’s strangled words “I wish I were .dead.”

  Weak, snivelling Esther. What will become of her now? What will Mr. Masterman say? Momentarily she tore herself away from her sorrow to visualize the man. Cold profile, eyes that could glow warm enough for her; but his sort, when they knew what it meant to feel desire, were harsher to those who gave way to it.

  I would not be in your shoes, Esther! But she would, of course. She, who loved Marcus, would have given a good deal to be in Esther’s shoes, bearing Marcus’s child, having been loved by Marcus.

  Why does everything go wrong with me? she asked her, reflection. First Everard, now Marcus. Why, why?

  The answer was there in the headstrong line of her jaw, in the tilt of her head, in the shine of her eyes. She herself was the answer, and the losing of Marcus was more her own fault than anything that had happened to her.

  She wanted Marcus, She loved Marcus. Only now did she know how much. Only now when it was too late; for it was too late. She must face that. She could never marry Marcus now. How could she? When Esther was to have his child.

  Let Esther have the child; what did it matter? Queer thoughts darted into her mind. There was a doctor, an ex-convict; he had helped Mrs. Masterman why should he not help Esther?

  No! Let Esther find her own way out of her difficulties. She would not help her. She imagined Esther, standing before Mr. Masterman, explaining her guilt What would happen to Esther! Who cared what happened to Esther! Esther had acted without thought of the morrow. Let the morrow take care of itself. All right, let it!

  And meanwhile, what of herself? Lonely and sad, loving Marcus who did not love her whatever he might say. she sank down on a pile of clothes she had turned out of one of the cupboards. All her pride left her. and she sobbed brokenheartedly.

  Quite suddenly she was aware of not being alone. She turned slowly, saw first his shapely legs in well-cut riding breeches, his good though sober coat, his fair face pale like a statue she had seen carved in stone at Vauxhall Gardens.

  He did not move; he was embarrassed. He said: “I am afraid you are very unhappy. If there is anything I can do to help…” She smiled sadly and shook her head.

  “There is nothing, thank you.”

  “Oh, but surely there is?”

  He knelt down on the pile of clothes beside her.

  “You are very kind.” she said, and she thought, for seven years I shall stay here working in this house, for him and the woman in there. There will be no hope of escape now. And she realized how, even while she tossed her head and refused to be friends with him she had been longing for reunion with Marcus, for the life he had talked of, on the station. The thought of her blind folly set the tears gushing out of her eyes again.

  “Oh, come,” he said, “you must not be so upset. Will you not tell me your trouble?”

  She saw the pulse hammer in his temple, and she knew that his general serenity was disturbed by close contact with her.

  “It is nothing…”

  He was still kneeling. He put out a hand to touch her shoulder.

  “My poor child,” he said.

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen!”

  “It is very young.”

  “It feels old,” she told him, and her mouth quivered.

  “Just over a year ago I was young. Now I am old.”

  “You must tell me about it. Oh … not now, when you are feeling better. It is a momentary depression, I believe. Yesterday I thought you were the gayest person I had ever seen in my life.”

  There was great satisfaction in such solicitude. She began comparing him with Marcus. There was the same eager burning light in his pale eyes as there had been in Marcus’s blue ones, but there any resemblance between them ended. Here was an upright man, kindly though cold. He seemed very youthful in his eagerness, although he was probably older than Marcus, but not old in experience; in experience, just a boy.

  She put out her hand and he took it.

  She said: “I cannot think why you are so good to me.” Which was untrue, for she knew full well.

  He gripped her hand more tightly, and said: “It grieves me very much that you should be unhappy here. You are homesick perhaps.”

  “Nor she said.

  “No!” Defiance returned to her eyes; they glittered behind the tears.

  “I do not feel homesick.” do not care if I never see England again. Why should I want to? What are trees and grass? Are they England? There are trees and grass here. No. England is Newgate, cruelty, injustice. I do not care if I never see it again.”

  “How badly they have hurt you.” he said.

  She nodded. He drew her towards him.

  “I am so sorry. I have wanted to tell you so before.”

  She lifted her, face to his, until their lips were very close. She thought, Marcus is finished now; I will remember nothing of him except his rogue’s philosophy. I will never love anyone again as long as I live.

  He was staring at her. In a moment he would kiss her unless she moved away. She only had to repulse him once, and he would keep right out of her way for evermore; he was that sort of man. Now he was fighting
with himself; he was thinking, I must not; I must get rid of this mad infatuation for one of out servants, a convict of whom I know nothing except that she is beautiful and more than beautiful.

  Let him escape, and he would disappear for days; he would go to church and hold his head high and thank his God to have been delivered from temptation. Like Esther! Waves of anger swept over her. The cowards! They wanted what others wanted, and hadn’t the courage to take it. They did not do these things naturally, gloriously; they did them because the temptation had been too strong for them to resist. Weaklings, all of them!

  She moved nearer to him; he put his arms round her suddenly and kissed her. She kissed him triumphantly and angrily. Oh, you good man! she thought. Oh, you good, good man! How amusing to think of you here, kissing your wife’s convict maid while she sleeps in the next room!

  She struggled free. She saw that his face was pale pink; he looked comical kneeling there, with those arms, from which she had just escaped, hanging at his sides.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You must forgive me.”

  She regarded his downcast head. Mt. Masterman, the master! And she thought then of how he had come aboard, and how she had tried to will him to look at her, and how she had appealed to him with her eyes. The master! He was no longer that.

  “It does not matter,” she said.

  “It is of no importance.”

  “It is of the greatest importance,” he insisted.

  “I am afraid that you will think I wished to insult you.”

  Inwardly she laughed. He was not grownup at all. He might be Mr. Masterman, a power in the colony, but he was also a young man embarking on his first passionate love affair.

  She shrugged her shoulders and stood up.

  “One gets used to that… insults, I mean. You are sorry. I know.”

  He was standing beside her. and Madam’s blue velvet dinner gown was a carpet beneath their feet.

  “I must explain.” he said.

  “You have disturbed me for a long time.”

  She opened her eyes very wide.

  “I… disturbed you?”

  “You do not understand. The fault is entirely mine. It is nothing you have done, except to be so beautiful and so young and so different from other people.”

  In spite of herself she felt a tenderness for him.

  He went on: “Many times I have wanted to do that… many times before.”

  “Oh, but…”

  “It is wrong of course, very wrong. But I have told you now. and in future…” She watched him closely now; he was uneasy. There is so much unpleasantness here in this place. I would not wish anyone who comes under my authority to suffer from that.”

  He walked over to the mirror; he stood there, facing it, looking into it but not seeing himself. Seeing her perhaps, with his wife’s dress half over her head.

  Therefore,” he said, in the judicial voice with which he must surely address his committee meetings, “I want you to accept my apology. I must make you believe it will not happen again.”

  He walked slowly to the door.

  She folded the dresses and put them back. The pain of her discovery about Esther and Marcus was less acute. She went back to the kitchen, and she tried to think of Mr. Masterman, that cold, stern man, who, kneeling on his wife’s blue dinner dress, had humbly asked her to forgive him. She was cold to Margery, she was distant to Esther.

  Esther tried to catch her hand once, but she made her own go limp, and she saw the look of pain and fear cross Esther’s face.

  James came in. Carolan was wanted in the mistress’s room.

  “Oh, Carolan. I have such a headache! Give me one of my powders. The master has been in; he is going away for some days, he says. To one of the stations. He says it is time he looked in on the men.”

  Carolan thought. Days of it, days of monotony; and it will go on like this for years … seven perhaps. Men grew out of desire. Marcus had. Everard had. I am so tired of being a servant and listening to her wearying talk.

  “When does he go, M’am?”

  “Early tomorrow morning. He will be up by sunrise; it’s a good day’s ride out to the station. He is so energetic!”

  “You look very fatigued, M’am.”

  “Fatigued!” She closed her eyes.

  “I am worn out.”

  “It will be dark at any moment now, M’am,” said Carolan. It was still light, and she had never got over the wonder of the sudden descent of darkness, the absence of the English twilight hour.

  “Shall I light the candles?”

  “My powder first.”

  “Oh, yes… I should rest all day tomorrow, M’am… with the master away. I have rarely seen you look so fatigued.”

  “Give me my mirror.”

  Carolan sat on the bed and held out the mirror. Oh, to recline on such a soft bed. How she hated the dampness of the basement! How she hated this life of a convict servant! So monotonous, and she should be grateful for its monotony when others, less fortunate, must endure horrors. Nothing to look forward to. She could still feel the imprint of that kiss on her lips. The master! The desire in his eyes had made them like Marcus’s eyes. I am so tired of being a servant; so tired of being unloved. My mother had had lovers when she was my age. My grandmother … It is not natural for the women of our family to go unloved.

  Her heart began to hammer inside her; she thought it would burst. She was hardly thinking of Marcus at all now.

  “I must get you your medicine,” she said. And she went to the drawer and unlocked it. She took out the bottle and shook it.

  Lucille watched her with startled eyes.

  “I said the powder.”

  “Oh, yes, the powder. I thought, as you looked so tired… But as you say, it is just a headache. The powder.”

  “No, no, Carolan. Give me that… I will have that. I never felt so tired in all my life, and what Doctor Martin said was that I needed to sleep more than anything.”

  Lucille drained the glass.

  “I will wash it; then I will draw the curtains, shall I? And I will leave you to sleep.”

  “I do not know what I should do without you, Carolan!”

  Carolan locked the bottle in the drawer, washed the glass, smoothed her mistress’s bed, drew the curtains.

  “Sleep well, M’am.”

  Lucille nodded drowsily.

  In the toilet-room Carolan lit a candle. She held it high and looked at her face in the mirror. Her lips were parted, her eyes brilliant, recklessness was in her face.

  I am so tired of being a servant!

  Deliberately she went across the room and knocked at the door.

  “Come in,” he said. She went in. Two candles burned on the mantel shelf. She blew hers out.

  “I hear you are going away early tomorrow morning. I thought there might be something I could pack for you.”

  She leaned against the door.

  He said: “Pack? No. I do not think so. Pack? There is nothing to pack…”

  “I see. Goodnight.”

  Her voice was a breathless whisper.

  He said: “Goodnight!” very steadily, and then: “Carolan!”

  He was standing before her, looking down at her.

  “You should not have come,” he said breathlessly.

  “No,” she answered, “I should not. But tomorrow you are going away… I will leave you now. I thought…”

  But he would not let her leave him now. He lifted her up; she put her arms round his neck. She was not sure whether this was her revenge on Marcus, or whether she had been unloved too long.

  “Carolan,” he said, as they lay on his bed, ‘what are you thinking?”

  “Of you… and of myself.”

  “What of us?”

  “It was wonderful, was it not?”

  “It was wonderful.”

  “You look exalted … and damned. Such a queer mixture!”

  “You say such things! Adultery is one of the mortal
sins.”

  “It is a great tragedy, my coming here.” She put her arms round his neck.

  “If you could go back, back to where I came in with the candle, would you tell me to go?”

  “I believe I would commit any sin rather than not have had that.” She smiled, but he could not see the smile, for her face was pressed against his. She was thinking of Esther in her passion for Marcus, as reckless as this man, denying her God with the ease that he denied his. Esther and Masterman. Herself and Marcus. That was how it should have been. Yet it was as though life had carelessly shuffled them like cards in a pack, and then had turned up herself with this man. Esther and Marcus, in the wrong places.

  She stroked the fine hair on his hands. There was the glimmer of a scheme in her mind. She was not sure what it was; she was not even sure that it was a scheme.

  It was amusing to see anxiety breaking through his ecstasy.

  “What a brute I am! You … so young and innocent … To think that I… I have always wanted to do the honourable thing by the people who came into my house …”

  She laid her lips gently against his. Like her mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother, she had the arts of loving at her fingertips.

  “If I tell you something, promise not to despise me… Gunnar.

  It is such a queer name!” His arms tightened about her.