Withering Heights

by Dorothy Cannell

  He gently removed my hand. “Ellie, I was trying to contain my shock. Here was the girl-the woman Tom had been madly in love with. She was right there in his house, and Betty obviously didn’t have a clue. I felt as though I were in the middle of a minefield. If I were to so much as change expression, there’d be an explosion.”

  “It’s all clear as glass now, but… I was a fool.”

  “Don’t say that.” He spun a chair away from the table and sat down, drawing me onto his lap. “I can see now how it may have looked.”

  “You called her Valeria when no one else did.”

  “It has to be one of the worst names ever. Rhymes with malaria.”

  “That’s what Ariel said.” I laid my cheek against his and stroked his dark hair.

  “And why it stuck in my mind.” He kissed me slowly, and I melted into his warmth, loving his tenderness, his strength, our knowledge of each other that was the reward of having been together for so long, coupled with the feeling of beginning all over again.

  I continued to nestle in his arms when speaking about Tom and Betty. “Do you think he had forgotten that you’d met her and was appalled when he saw you recognize each other?”

  “Tom has always had the ability to block out what he didn’t want to remember, but in this case it isn’t that surprising that he’d forget. I only saw him with Val, as she’s now called, on a few brief occasions. But I happen to be good with faces.”

  “Hers is particularly beautiful.” I was able to say this without rancor.

  “Yes, she’s lovely.”

  “She’s also a great decorator.”

  “There’s no better judge of that than you.” He kissed me again.

  “Mmm!” I savored the taste and texture of his lips. “Ben, I don’t think I would have been quite so ready to leap to the wrong conclusion about Val if we hadn’t had the evening we did, before leaving home. I said all the wrong things about that review in Cuisine Anglaise and then got in a snit, as Mrs. Malloy would say, when you went off to the Dark Horse with Freddy.”

  “I was the one in a foul mood.”

  “I shouldn’t have agreed to Mrs. M’s spending the night, when it was our first chance to be alone with the children gone.”

  “It all worked out for the best. We’ve discovered from being here with Tom and Betty how very blessed we are.” He gathered me closer and the kitchen was really heating up when the door creaked open. We got to our feet as Betty came in. He had been right; I did feel uncomfortable with her, knowing what I did. I would probably have blushed regardless of my tousled appearance. Fortunately, she appeared oblivious. Was that her Achilles’ heel? Did she generally fail to see what was right in front of her, I wondered, or was she exceptionally good at hiding her true emotions?

  She asked me if I would like to join her and Ariel on a shopping trip.

  “Please come, Ellie. We’ll stop somewhere fun for lunch, and then we’ll scour every boutique we can find for an outfit for Ariel to wear on Thursday. I think she’d like it better if you’re with us.”

  “Don’t you think the two of you should have the time alone?” I was hesitant to intrude, but at the same time it would be a good idea to get over the hump of being around any of the Hopkinses, especially Betty.

  “Getting Ariel to agree to the outing is triumph enough for me. I don’t intend to rush things by foisting myself on her without any distractions.”

  “Ellie is the best of distractions,” Ben assured her. “You need to take her with you if I’m going to get started planning the food for the garden party.”

  “Well, if it’s like that!” I pretended to glower at him in lieu of kissing him good-bye. Somehow that wouldn’t have seemed kind in front of Betty.

  Ten minutes later, she and I met up with Ariel on the drive in front of the coverted carriage house, now used as a garage. Betty proved to be a relaxed and skillful driver. I had been quick to get in the back so Ariel could sit beside her. The expedition began well. They chatted, almost like any other mother and daughter, bringing me into the conversation and occasionally pointing out passing places of interest. Lunch was everything to be hoped: delicious food in a charming Georgian house converted into restaurant and gift shop.

  It was while we were eating our treacle pudding and custard that Betty brought up her husband’s name for the first time.

  “The thought has crossed my mind a few times, Ellie, since you and Ben came to Cragstone, that maybe Tom and I should consider converting the west wing into a place similar to this one. He’s so handy he could do much of the remodeling himself. Also, he did have that experience working in Ben’s uncle’s restaurant in London. I know he was at the cash register, not in management or involved with the meals. I think he may regret having gone in a different direction. He had a lot going on at the time.”

  “Oh?” I spooned up custard while blocking out Val’s image.

  “That’s when he was about to get married.”

  “Really?”

  “To Angela.” Betty looked at Ariel.

  “My mother.” The girl continued a composed demolition of her pudding.

  “That would have preoccupied him,” I said, wondering if it would appear odd if I jumped up and suggested we explore the gift shop.

  “As I’ve said, Tom knows the restaurant environment and I’ve seen him watching Ben while he’s cooking. Maybe he’s thinking he might like to have a go at learning to be a chef.”

  Was that the only reason for those looks? Or was her mild-eyed husband inwardly seething with jealousy and resentment over Val? If so, was this why Tom had said he didn’t feel well in church and had gone outside for some air? I felt sorry for him, even while thinking he had brought most of his problems on himself by buckling under to his parents instead of waiting for the right woman to turn up. Angela would probably still be alive, married to someone else, and Betty might be with a man who worshiped her, from the top of her red head to her Barbie-doll shoes. But of course there wouldn’t have been Ariel.

  Half an hour later, she said she wished she were home; she was bored, she was tired, and she was sick of looking in stupid shops at stupid clothes. It didn’t matter, anyway, what she wore to the garden party; nobody would be looking at her even if she did go outside for it. And Betty needn’t expect her to play any childish games, or run any three-legged races, because she wouldn’t. She’d just sit at a table under an umbrella and pretend she was having a wonderful time in school doing algebra.

  My patience was soon exhausted and Betty, having showed magnificent restraint, flared at her. “Keep this up,” she said, “and it will be boarding school for you.”

  “You don’t think I’d like that?”

  “At this point I really don’t care, Ariel.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice, after you pretended to be so sympathetic when I was upset about Mr. Tribble dying!”

  Betty pressed a hand to her brow, and we returned to the car. This time it was Ariel who nipped into the back and we made the return journey to Cragstone House in silence. Anything I could have said would have been jarring. I truly felt sorry for both of them. Ariel had been a little snot, but there was something about her current quiet that tugged at my heart. It seemed fitting that it should start to rain as we drove between the gateposts.

  “Probably only a shower,” said Betty, as we pulled into the garage.

  But she was wrong about that. Mother Nature having been dry-eyed and eager to show her best colors, by being sunshine and light over the past few days, decided on making up for it by being utterly miserable. It drizzled continuously for the rest of that day and evening.

  There was a brief letup the next morning, which was particularly welcome because a team of gardeners arrived and got to work, as apparently they did every other Tuesday. The lawns were too damp for mowing, but there was plenty of weeding and clipping to keep them occupied until the skies, which had darkened rapidly, unleashed a deluge that sent them scurrying into their vans. I watched this from
the conservatory windows while halfway occupying myself arranging cut flowers in vases. Tom ambled in and said the gardeners had promised to return early Thursday morning, weather permitting, to do the mowing and set up the marquees and umbrella tables that would have been delivered by then. I had the feeling that he would have liked to follow this up with something more but didn’t know how to begin. After shifting from one foot to the other, he wandered out. Mrs. Malloy, who came in to tell me about her evening with Melody, replaced him.

  “She’s got a nice little flat. The furnishings wouldn’t be my choice, but they suit her. I don’t care for knitted curtains.”

  “Although interesting,” I commented.

  “Or wall arrangements of tea cozies. ‘Course I didn’t let on. I said she’d fixed the place up a treat and asked if her gentleman friend had contributed his handiwork. She shied away from that one, and I knew there was no use trying get more out of her about him. Mel always did clam up when she’d the mind. But that had its good side last night.”

  “How?”

  “It gave me the chance to bring up Mavis’s husband. I told Mel she was like a safe that only a locksmith could open without knowing the combination. And I’m pleased to tell you, Mrs. H, that she was all for the idea of phoning him up. She’s going to choose her time, when Mr. Scrimshank is out of the office.”

  “Yes?”

  “She’ll tell Mavis’s hubby as how there’s some important papers she needs on the double but can’t get into the safe because she’s forgotten the numbers.”

  “Have you run this by Mrs. Cake?” I asked, feeling more and more doubtful, being the one who had come up with the idea.

  “Just now. She don’t think it would be right to drag Mavis and her husband further in than necessary by telling them what’s really going on. She thinks Mel should just say the papers have to do with Lady Fiona’s future financial welfare. Seeing as Mavis is so fond of her ladyship and eager to see her back on her feet, Mrs. Cake is sure that’ll do the trick with the husband. Otherwise, he might say he’d only come out if he had Mr. Scrimshank’s okay.”

  “It may still take some persuasion on Melody’s part. Do you have a phone number to give her?”

  “Mrs. Cake said it’s in the directory under Ed the Locksmith.”

  “Oh, do let’s hope that nothing goes wrong if he agrees.” I shivered, not only because it was chill and damp in the conservatory, even without water dripping from the ceiling, but I also kept seeing little Mr. Tribble’s ghost sitting perilously close to the edge of his chair. If only he had been wearing a seat belt and not been drinking while perched. O vain regrets!

  “Death casts a long shadow,” quoth Mrs. Malloy.

  “Shadows I can take,” I replied. “I just don’t want any more of the real thing.”

  “I’m not going to phone Mel at the office, just in case Big Ears should be listening; I’ll go round and see her again this evening. For right now, if you should want me I’ll be in me bedroom, writing a eulogy to Mr. Tribble. It’s amazing how I’m getting the hang of this poetry business.”

  The rest of that day blurred into the rain that sheeted down the windows with very few letups. Ben was fully occupied in shopping for and preparing what could be made ahead for the garden party. We had the occasional idyll, when meeting on the stairs or in the hall. But I stayed out of the kitchen and mealtimes naturally included other people, making it impossible for any real conversation between the two of us. But given what had so recently transpired, I would have basked in our restored happiness, had the feeling not lingered that something of a distressing nature was about to happen.

  Wednesday arrived in an uncertain mood. The sky was a watery blue, and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds every now and then. The rain had turned to fitful drizzle, but every so often there was a rumble of thunder. When I met Mavis on the stairs, as I was going down and she was coming up, she said, somewhat morosely, that this looked to be a better day than yesterday. I hoped she would be proved right, as I was eager to get out of the house, if only for ten minutes. This became increasingly appealing when an army of cleaners came marching through with enough equipment to scour Buckingham Palace from top to bottom in no time flat.

  This convergence put Ariel, who had come fairly speedily out of her Monday shopping sulk, back in a snit. This time it was her father who annoyed her by getting on her again about her hair.

  “He’s mad because I wouldn’t go with Betty when she left to have hers done,” she told me. “But I didn’t feel like sticking my head in one of those cooker things.”

  “You could have told the hairdresser you like to let your hair dry naturally.”

  “I don’t. I hate having it damp around my face.”

  I was tempted to tell her to suit herself, as Betty might have done, but a peek out the front door showed clearing skies and I decided not to delay my walk in the grounds any longer. It was not yet noon, which would give me sufficient time before lunch. I felt a little guilty slinking off when the house was swarming with workers, which included Ben in the kitchen and Mavis, whom I’d not seen since she had gone upstairs.

  Begrudgingly, Ariel offered to accompany me. So we each donned a waterproof jacket and set off down the drive before crossing onto the lawn that separated Cragstone from the Dower House.

  “What does Mavis do when the cleaning crew comes in?” I asked, as we trudged soggily past ornamental trellises and beds filled with flowers now even more lush and fragrant for their good soaking.

  “I think she sorts out cupboards, that sort of thing.” Ariel dragged her hood over her head. “Betty says it isn’t fair to make her take every other Wednesday off. It would mess her about where her pay is concerned.”

  “That’s thoughtful of Betty.”

  “I’ve said she doesn’t have a lot of good qualities. I didn’t mean she has none.”

  “She tried hard to find you something nice to wear on Thursday.” Suddenly I realized that was tomorrow.

  “I know.” Ariel plodded on, head down. “Next you’ll be telling me a psychologist would say I’m afraid of getting close to her in case one day she isn’t there-just like with my mother.”

  “There are always huge risks in loving anyone,” I said.

  “Speaking from experience?” She stopped and pushed back the hood.

  “Absolutely. I’ve been the worst coward when it came to relationships, and I still have relapses.”

  I felt her hand slip into mine as we continued walking. A small glimpse of sunlight warmed my heart. Let her be happy, I thought; she has the possibility of growing into a special woman if her family of three can find their way to one another.

  “See who’s coming our way.” She pointed toward the Dower House. “She looks like she’s in a hurry from the way she’s galloping along.”

  “She certainly does.” As we drew closer, I could see that Val’s black hair was windblown and heightened color had been whipped into her face. She was wearing a raincoat that was misbuttoned, the belt left dangling.

  “Oh, dear!” She shoved back her sleeve to look at her watch. “I’ll have missed it. The bus, I mean. I didn’t hear Aunt Valeria leave and was hoping she was only a few moments ahead and I could catch her on foot. But she must have set off at least ten minutes ago to walk to the bus stop. She’s meeting Lady Fiona in the high street for lunch and she’s forgotten her senior citizen pass, which will ruin her whole afternoon.”

  “What a shame,” I said.

  Val smiled distractedly. “I don’t understand why she always refuses to let me drive her… Yes, I do.” She paused to exhale. “She wants to keep doing things the way she always has. And everything about her Wednesday afternoon has its routine: the ten-past-twelve bus going and the four-thirty coming back.”

  “Ritual has its security,” I said lamely, and heard Ariel giggle.

  “It’s not fair for me to try and change her at this stage of her life.” Val plucked at her black curls, and they responded charming
ly. “I’ll get my car and go after her. There are several places where she and Lady Fiona could have lunch, but I’ll find them. And if Aunt Valeria has her pass for coming back it should cheer her up a bit.”

  “Wouldn’t the driver, seeing her age, overlook her not having it with her?”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But there are always those officious types who insist on going by the book.” Val waved as she walked back to the Dower House, where I could see the outline of a car parked outside. In the short time we had spent talking, the mist had thickened.

  “Let’s go back inside.” Ariel gave an elaborate shiver.

  “Okay.” I turned with her toward Cragstone’s soaring roofline and imposing gloom. “Now tell me, why did you giggle just now when I was talking to Val?”

  “You sounded so preachy!”

  “Grown-ups do that. It’s to mask our horrible sense of inferiority in the presence of children. We know we are doomed to disappointment where most of them are concerned, and it inevitably takes its toll.”

  “You are ridiculous!” She skipped along beside me.

  “You need to talk to my brood of three sometime; they’ll be in complete agreement. They don’t find Ben quite so trying. It’s a scientifically proven fact of nature that fathers in seventy-two point three percent of cases get off easier than mothers.”

  “Men being the weaker sex? Poor things!” Ariel raised her face to the now sharply blowing wind.

  “I hope Val catches up with her aunt,” I said, as we walked up the drive.

  “She doesn’t approve of us.”

  “Val?”

  “No, silly, Nanny Pierce. For one thing, she’s made it clear that she’s not keen on Roman Catholics. That’s why she’s upset that Val’s brother went to live in Ireland, where the place is full of them.”

  “But aren’t they Irish?”

  “Only way way back, Miss Pierce told me, and she added, ‘Thank God.’ I’m sorry she’s old, but she’s not a nice person. She disapproves of everyone except her dear Mr. Nigel. Would you believe that the other reason she disapproves of us is that she thinks Dad and Betty have a wild lifestyle?”