Withering Heights

by Dorothy Cannell

  I let this pass. “You think her ladyship is looking out that window, hoping to see Mr. Gallagher come riding up on his white horse?”

  “No, I think it was the other one.”

  “Who?”

  “The man she was madly in love with, the man her parents wouldn’t let her marry because he was too common. Mrs. Cake told me about him. She’s a great one for reminiscing about the past: quite fun, really. She said the two of them met on the sly down by the old mill and used to hide love letters in a hollow tree, just like in a book. Only to be really exciting, they’d have had to run off and get married and then been found out and dragged home-”

  “By her hard-hearted parents, blast their interference!” I thought of Tom’s parents, who had objected to his first love on religious grounds.

  “And he’d have been murdered by them.” Ariel was warming to her theme.

  “Or the jealous rival. That would be Mr. Gallagher. Oh, the horror of it!” Obviously, I was also getting caught up in the story.

  “Lady Fiona would never have recovered from the tragedy.” Ariel reclaimed her narrative.

  “Whatever really happened she appears to have done so, at least sufficiently to marry Mr. Gallagher.”

  “That would have been on the rebound. Mrs. Cake says that one person who didn’t attend the wedding was Miss Pierce-”

  “Nanny?”

  “That’s right. She claimed to have the flu, but I bet that was an act. I think she hates Lady Fiona. You can see it in her eyes, even when she’s pretending to talk nicely about her. She didn’t think her good enough for her Nigel. Mrs. Cake says the title and the fortune didn’t cut any ice with Nanny. Only a princess would have been up to scratch, and there’d probably have been something wrong with her.”

  “Maybe what Nanny wanted was to keep Nigel all to herself in the nursery.”

  “Ugh!” Ariel pulled a face. “That’s really creepy.”

  As was the idea of Lady Fiona murdering her husband. I kept this thought to myself while continuing to look at the face in the portrait. Surely it was a travesty to imagine that lovely girl committing so monstrous an act later in life. Giving myself a mental shake, I said cheerfully that Mrs. Cake sounded like a great conversationalist.

  “Having lived in Milton Moor her whole life, she knows everyone in the area.”

  “That helps.”

  “She does know stuff. Like Sergeant Walters being too busy knitting to get married. And the butcher being a closet vegetarian. Anyway, I find it interesting. And there’s no one else for me to talk to around here. Mavis hardly ever looks up from her work.”

  “There has to be an enormous amount for her to do.”

  “Yes. It isn’t fair for Betty to say she’s useless.”

  I kept my mouth shut. In former times a place of this size would have employed dozens of servants. Housekeeper, butler, footmen, upstairs and downstairs maids, boot boys… the list went on. Finding people eager to do that sort of work these days probably wasn’t easy. But that should have led Betty to value Mavis more highly. Were she and Tom reluctant to spend their newfound money on sufficient hired help? They’d managed to avoid paying for an interior designer, hadn’t they?

  Ariel read my mind. “We do have a team of cleaners come in every other week for three days. They go through the whole place, except for the west wing; it’s shut off and there’s hardly anything in there. On the off week, it’s the gardening people. Betty didn’t want a lot of people underfoot all the time. Mavis is all right. I don’t see what’s wrong with her, except she’s so quiet. But Mrs. Cake is better. She says she has a soft heart and a fondness for romance, but she knows when it’s important to keep her mouth shut.”

  “I hope she won’t feel that way when talking to me and Mrs. Malloy. Speaking of whom”-I reluctantly withdrew my gaze from the portrait-“it won’t do to keep her waiting when she’s eager to set off to see her sister.”

  Ariel followed me into the bedroom that would be Ben’s and mine during our stay at Cragstone House. “Can I come, Ellie? I could show you where Mr. Scrimshank has his office; that would save you time.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you, but better not.”

  “Then I won’t tell you my surprise.” She sat down with a thump on the dressing-table stool.

  This was another lovely room: luxury converted into cozy comfort. The wallpaper was striped green and white; the daffodil-yellow curtains matched the slipcovers on the two easy chairs by the fireplace. The bleached pine of the four-poster bed and armoire, the perfect placement of the lamps, the velvety sage carpet underfoot: all whispered of relaxation and ease. Ariel sat raking a tortoiseshell comb through her lank hair as I nipped into the bathroom with its tasteful appointments to freshen up, to use Betty’s phrase rather than Mrs. Malloy’s more blunt talk of going to the lav.

  Betty’s words were far more suitable, given that the toilet handle, as well as the taps for the shell-shaped sink, looked as though they’d been hand-picked for Versailles by Marie Antoinette, with a little help from the royal decorator. (Somehow, I doubted that that soon-to-be-headless wonder had made do with the suggestions of an amateur.) Looking up from washing my hands with rose soap from a crystal dish, I searched my reflection in the mirror. Was I jealous of the yet unseen Val’s accomplishments throughout the house? Or merely amazed that according to Betty she was untrained?

  I frequently advise my clients that an excess of perfection can be not only monotonous but stressful. You can’t wear the wrong clothes without the fear of failing your surroundings. Something always needs to be just a little off: a picture looking as though it has been randomly chosen, a mismatched cup and saucer placed where they seem to be left out by mistake, a brass or silver candlestick in need of polishing. It was advice I had received from a guru designer, a former teacher and now friend of mine, who knew everyone in the business and, in my opinion, more than all of them combined. But getting things too right wasn’t the kind of mistake likely to be made by even the most gifted nonprofessional. The risks of such a person’s efforts looking more like a five-star hotel than a home were minimal.

  The chances were good I’d meet the woman behind the enigma, I told my reflection as I toweled off my face. No point in dredging up excuses for disliking her unseen. So what if I hadn’t slept well the night before, was missing the children, had got drawn into another family’s problems. Laying down the monogrammed hand towel and sticking a smile on in lieu of lipstick, I went back into the bedroom and said to Ariel, still seated on the dressing-table stool, that we should go and look for Mrs. Malloy.

  “She just popped her head around the door to say she’d like another ten minutes to finish her makeup.”

  “Then we might as well stay put until we hear her coming.” I perched on the side of the bed. “There’s never any missing the sound of her high heels clicking down a wooden floor.”

  I pictured Mrs. Malloy in her bathroom, mixing one facial cream with another, intent on concocting an instant rejuvenating formula of the sort that had eluded scientists for the last fifty years. I doubted we would hear her high heels tapping along the gallery very soon, which was all to the good, seeing that there was a matter I wished to broach to Ariel without seeming to pounce.

  “What a lovely room. Ben and I will be really comfortable here,” I said from the bed.

  “Yes, I suppose Val didn’t do a bad job. Better anyway than Betty’s attempts. She kept ordering furniture that she didn’t like when it showed up in the van. Poor Dad; she made him move it from place to place before sending it back. He’d get fed up, but most of the time he didn’t say anything, because she goes off at the drop of a hat, just like she did at Mavis.”

  “We all lose our tempers from time to time.”

  “Not the way she does.”

  “Let’s discuss why she was on edge.” I shifted farther around to face her squarely.

  “Why?”

  “That business about the phone call to the catering firm.
The one Betty said she didn’t make, canceling the arrangements for the garden party on Thursday.”

  “What about it?” Ariel was now scraping the tortoiseshell comb along the edge of the dressing table.

  “Who would have made that call?”

  “How would I know? She should have kept her temper when she rang yesterday and got the news, but no! She had to go into one of her screaming rages. I’ll bet she was the one who threw the dishcloth at Mavis.”

  “And now she’s been forced to invite us to stay so Ben can take on the catering.”

  “Well, I didn’t set that up, but only because I didn’t think of it,” Ariel replied defiantly. “Maybe it was Mavis, out to get back at Betty for not letting her bring her son to work. That’s pretty scummy, don’t you think?”

  “Not if he’s as destructive as she said.”

  “Oh, I might have known she’d get you on her side!”

  I looked at her, still fiddling with the comb, and, despite the rudeness, felt a pang of pity. Why wasn’t something done about her hair? A more attractive cut and frequent washing could make all the difference. And then there were the oversized spectacles and the clothes, which did nothing to give her life and color. I had been far from a childhood beauty, but my parents-my mother in particular-had always boosted me up, pointed out my good points, made sure that what I wore suited me and helped me feel good about myself. And they hadn’t had the money that was now at the Hopkinses’ disposal. Again I was making judgments. Suggestions, especially if coming from Betty, were apt to be summarily spurned by Ariel.

  “I’m not on anyone’s side,” I said gently, “but I don’t think you should criticize your stepmother to me. Last night was a little different; you had to give me your account of why you ran away. Now I’m a guest in her home. Isn’t there someone else you can talk to about your feelings?”

  “Such as a psychiatrist?” She pounced to her feet to stand glaring at me, skinny arms folded. “You’re saying I’m crazy, aren’t you?”

  It was too much… the scared look in her eyes, the quiver of her lips before she tightened them; the sight tore at my heart. I could have been looking at one of my own children, but I didn’t dare go over and put my arms around her. She would have pushed me away, become even more upset. Her pride was something she held on to grimly. I understood. I’d been there. And my childhood had been a day at the seaside compared to hers. No devastating loss of a parent in a tragic accident.

  “That’s not it at all,” I said crisply, setting my mood to hers. “We all need to get things off our chests from time to time. Have someone really listen to us. What about one of your teachers at school?”

  Ariel hunched a shoulder.

  “What about your church?” I asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Is there anyone there you could talk to? The vicar’s wife, for instance?”

  “We go to the Catholic church, remember? And Mr. Hard-castle, the Anglican vicar who’s coming to tea tomorrow, doesn’t have a wife. She ran off with one of the altar boys.”

  “No!” I stalled on my way to the door, having heard Mrs. Malloy’s heels clicking down the gallery.

  “You’re right.” Ariel trailed after me. “I remember now; it was one of the vergers. Okay! I’m kidding. Mr. Hardcastle hasn’t ever been married. Mrs. Cake says many a woman has pricked her little fingers to the bone embroidering altar cloths and kneelers, but it hasn’t got them measuring for curtains at the vicarage. She said he’s a confirmed bachelor. And I told her he should be. A bad example if he wasn’t confirmed. It was a joke, but I don’t think she got it. She spent twenty minutes explaining she meant he’s happy as he is.”

  “That’s nice.” I opened the door carefully, not wanting Mrs. Malloy to have a black eye on meeting her sister. “We’ll have another talk later, if you like, Ariel.”

  “I asked Mrs. Cake if Mr. Hardcastle knits like Seargent Walters does. She said it wouldn’t surprise her, seeing it’s getting popular again with both women and men. She prefers a night out at the Bingo hall.”

  “Bingo?” Mrs. Malloy uttered the word in throbbing accents. She stood facing us at the top of the stairs, but had she been in Angola she would have overheard just as well. Not only is Bingo one of her consuming passions, she obviously grasped the implications of Mrs. Cake’s being a fellow enthusiast. A way had been provided to open up a conversation that would weave its way to the recent unsettling events at Cragstone.

  “Oh, no!” Ariel exclaimed as we rounded the final curve of the staircase and saw the group below us in the hall. “It’s them!”

  “Who?” I lowered my voice, hoping she would take the hint and do likewise. Alongside Tom and Betty I saw two people, neither of whom was Ben. Mrs. Malloy, equally interested, strained to see over my shoulder. We must have looked like those ghouls who stop to stare at an accident: for the thrill, not to offer assistance.

  “The Edmondses. Frances and her husband, Stan.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” Mrs. Malloy asked, out the side of her mouth.

  “Frances steals stuff; she’s a klepto. Stan’s a weasel. Ugh! Just look at him hugging and kissing Betty. It’s not like he’s even keen on her. No chance of them being desperate for each other. He’s like that with everyone. All smoochy-woochy.” Ariel’s whisper turned into a giggle. “Old Slop Face! Doesn’t he make you want to throw your shoes at him and hit him on the head?”

  That would have been extreme in my case; so far I’d only seen a squidge of profile and an ear. Tom was blocking most of the view, preventing a full sight of Frances as well. But when Mrs. Malloy and I reached the hall, Ariel having ducked back upstairs, he stepped aside and beckoned us forward.

  “Come and meet our friends the Edmondses.” He might have been telling us that the doctor had arrived to take out his tonsils.

  Stan, who did look like a weasel, stopped squeezing Betty’s hand to flash a sharp-toothed grin and wave a paw. His slicked-back brown hair and small darting eyes were enough to make me hope he wouldn’t decide to hasten over and kiss me. His wife made a better picture. True, she had a lumpish figure, her complexion wasn’t great, and her hair too brassily blond, but there was something appealing about her bright eyes and broad smile.

  I didn’t look at Mrs. Malloy to try to assess her opinion of the Edmondses. We needed to get off to see Melody and perhaps even get a glimpse of Mr. Scrimshank. Betty explained that she and Tom had lived next door but one to the Edmondses in London. Stan poked Tom playfully in the ribs, saying some got lucky after playing the lottery only once, while their friends who played every week never won a bean.

  Just as I was starting to miss Ben, he came into the hall from the other end of the house, which made for another buzz of greetings and a flurry of handshaking. I wove my way toward him, intent on telling him that Mrs. Malloy and I were heading out the door. He looked up from listening to something Frances Edmonds was telling him, but he didn’t catch my eye.

  The front door had opened, a woman came into the hall, and all conversation and movement stopped. It would have been impolite to go on talking. But there was more to it. Any entrance by this woman would have had a similar impact. Impossible for all eyes not to be drawn to her. She was wearing a peasant skirt, which swirled softly with each step, and an off-the-shoulder lawn blouse. Her legs were bare, and she was wearing a pair of high-heeled shoes with narrow crisscrossed straps. I knew they had a gold-leaf design on the back, because Mrs. Malloy had a pair exactly like them. My cousin Vanessa is a fashion model and stunning, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone this lovely. Hair the color and shine of blackberries, skin like cream, eyes bluer than any sky, and cheeks brushed with rose. The ideal of Irish beauty proclaimed in soulful ballads.

  “Hello, Val.” Tom shifted his gaze between Mrs. Malloy and me. More introductions, he had to be thinking.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” The voice had the slightest of lilts. Betty said something, I didn’t catch what, because Ben bru
shed past me without a glance. It seemed to me that what happened next did so in slow motion. I saw him take hold of the woman’s hands, heard the surprised query in his voice.

  “Valeria? How do you come to be here?”

  “Ben?” I could hear her intake of breath. “It can’t be! We’re imagining this, aren’t we?” She leaned into him, her face hidden on his shoulder. The smallest sound-a shifting foot, Tom’s hand smoothing down the lapel of his sports jacket-became magnified. The ticking of the long case clock seemed to be coming from inside me. In a moment it would explode. I saw Val-Valeria-draw back from my husband as if it required all the strength at her disposal to do so. She was still holding his hands. They were holding hands. At last she spoke, in a voice between a sob and a laugh.

  “Betty, Tom… however did this happen? Ben and I know each other! We met when I was training in the travel agency and he was working in his uncle’s restaurant.”

  There was nothing to disturb me in this disclosure. Old friends meeting again; what could be nicer? The way Ben avoided looking at me when going up to her had been bothersome. But that was nothing compared to the shuttered expression on his face when his eyes finally met mine.

  6

  I don’t know as I like to bring it up,” Mrs. Malloy said in a deplorably smug voice, as I drove past the Dower House and turned onto the road in the direction of Milton’s Moor’s business area.

  “Then don’t.” My voice was tart, and I didn’t regret it.

  “All right. Keep your hair on, Mrs. H!”

  She should have said chauffeur’s cap. I was proud of my professional handling of the car. My hands were steady on the wheel, my nose pointed in the right direction. I wasn’t blubbering, begging for the loan of a hanky, or leaning my head on her shoulder, any of which many a woman would have done under the circumstances. She was the one looking as if she had been struck a mortal blow.