Five minutes later they were seated in Marie Anne’s workroom: she had avoided the sitting room and made for this seemingly more private apartment.
‘Well! It won’t open itself; you’ll have to open it sometime.’
‘I know that! I know that!’ Marie Anne almost snapped the words at Sarah.
When Sarah’s head drooped and she looked away, Marie Anne said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But what if he’s now coming back and wants to see not only me but also the child.’
‘In that case,’ Sarah said flatly, ‘I don’t see how you could stop him seeing his child, as a court would give him that much leave. They’re always for the man’s side of it, good, bad, or indifferent. Anyway, what are we yammering on about? Open the thing.’ She reached out and picked up a paperknife from the writing desk and handed it to Marie Anne.
Marie Anne unfolded the four-square piece of paper and looked at the small squiggly writing. Then she began to read:
Marie Anne, my dear,
When you receive this letter I shall no longer be on this earth…’
At this point, her head jerked upwards and she stared wide-eyed and with open mouth at Sarah; but she said nothing, and her gaze dropped to the letter again:
and I fear to die without saying to you that I am sorry, and deeply, to have brought disgrace on you, and sorrow.
Your child…my child, will have been born by now, and daily I think of it…of you both, oh yes, indeed of you both—and it was an intention in my mind some day to see you. This was to be when I had got my letters to enable me to teach without hiding. And it was coming about, for my dear and old friend…with whose family I have lived since I came back to Madrid, had got me a half-time position at The Academy, whereon I could use the rest of the time to practise for the valued letters.
But it was destined not to be, for after two attacks to my heart, I am in a seizure, which has taken part of my body, evident in my handwriting, you will see. I know that my time, as you might say, is running out; and so I write this letter with the promise from my friend that he will post it to you after I am gone.
Put your mind at rest: he knows nothing about you other than that you are a friend.
Lastly, I will say, my dear Infanta, that what happened between us was out of pure love, for there had never been anyone to come to my life like you.
I go to God, or whatever, with thoughts of you still deep in my heart.
Think of me kindly, my Infanta.
Carlos.
Marie Anne now lay back and pressed the letter to her chest; then she added, ‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes, dead. That’s what I said; he’s dead.’
‘God help him! God rest his soul,’ Sarah said.
The words had been muttered, but now she added aloud, ‘You seem pleased; not a bit sorry,’ which brought Marie Anne to sit up straight and say, ‘Don’t say that! I am not pleased, but I suppose I am relieved, for, at first, I thought he might be aiming to come. And that would have been dreadful.’
‘Why so dreadful? He could have been doing what he thought was the honourable thing and offering you marriage.’
‘Sarah!’ There was a shocked note in Marie Anne’s voice.
‘Yes, Marie Anne…Miss. At one time, you liked him, more than liked him; and he wasn’t a bad fellow. No, he wasn’t; quite a gentleman, in a way.’
There was silence between them now while they stared at each other; then, in a much softer voice, Sarah said, ‘What did he die of? And who told you he is dead?’
Marie Anne slowly handed Sarah the letter; then watched her expression change as her eyes travelled down the page.
After Sarah had finished reading it, she did not hand the letter back to Marie Anne but laid it on her knee, and looking down on it, she murmured; ‘Poor devil! You can say only one good thing; he lived with kind friends, and died among them, too.’ Then raising her eyes again to Marie Anne, she said, ‘You’ll have to write and thank him…the man.’
‘Write and thank him! I shall do no such thing. What are you saying? Start up a connection there? You would have them over here then; and they are supposed to know nothing about the child. That’s how it should be, and that’s how it’s going to be. She is mine, and mine alone now. Anyway, there’s neither the man’s name, nor the address.’
‘You could write to The Academy he mentions.’
Slowly, Sarah rose to her feet and, looking down on Marie Anne, she asked quietly, ‘How long do you think she’ll be yours alone? Come the day, she’ll ask questions.’
‘She won’t ask questions; she need never know.’
‘Don’t be silly! Anyway, what if you should marry?’
Marie Anne, too, was now on her feet, and vehemently she said, ‘I won’t marry! I’ll never marry.’
Again they were staring at each other in silence. Then drawing in a long slow breath, Sarah now uttered words that held both bitterness and sadness: ‘Don’t be a hypocrite! You’d be married tomorrow, given the chance. You know it, and I know it.’ And on this, she turned and strode from the room, and the door banged behind her.
Marie Anne stood, part of the letter crumpled in one hand, the other hand across her mouth.
Sarah! Sarah! What could she mean? Surely she hadn’t given herself away. Yet those words had been plain enough.
For a moment she wished she had never insisted on bringing her back here; yet she knew she couldn’t go on without her, for she needed her in so many and different ways. But she saw too much.
What now?…Yes, what now?
Thirteen
It was the day of the christening. Emanuel, James, and Marie Anne were in the sitting room dressed and waiting for the others to arrive. Emanuel, who was sitting in the big chair, leaned forward and took hold of Marie Anne’s hand, saying, ‘You are satisfied that her name is to be Anne Marie?’
‘Yes, Grandpa; quite satisfied.’ Then on the sound of voices coming from the hall, she said, ‘Here are the others.’
When the door opened, Pat and Anita came in ahead of Evelyn and Nick, followed by Dr Ridley. The latter surprised her, for she had expected him to go straight to the church.
Amid the chatter, she watched him cross the room to greet her grandfather: ‘How d’you do, sir? I hope I see you well?’
‘Yes; yes, I’m well enough, Doctor. And I am glad to have a word with you and ask you a question, one that is troubling us all, and it’s just this. Is there anything wrong with McAlister?’
‘No, sir; much the reverse.’
‘Well, from what I understand, people don’t visit doctors when they’re well; in fact, if they’re wise they’ll keep out of their way. However, I must speak as I find about you.’
‘That’s very civil of you, sir, very civil. It is this very point I have come a little early to explain about Don and his visiting, which really wasn’t to me at all. I was just the go-between.’
He turned and glanced at the company and saw he had all their attention now. Then, addressing Emanuel again, he said, ‘It was like this. As a doctor, I couldn’t help but see that that contraption he wore must be hiding something pretty bad to need a mask. This set my mind working, until I felt obliged to present him with a plan. This would bring in a legless young man named Joe, who, I am sure, has been given the power to perform little miracles. It was like this.’
John Ridley proceeded to tell them about Joe’s artistic bent, finishing by saying, ‘He has created a mould of the finest papier mâché, tinted to appear like flesh, Don’s flesh, and kept in place by a cap-like crown of doeskin. And you’ll never believe where the doeskin came from. His mother had picked up a pair of ladies’ long evening gloves from a church bazaar. They were of a pale fawn colour, merging into a light tan. And although I say this, and with some pride, the whole has made a new man of our Mr McAlister, one entirely acceptable to himself. I can also say that it was no easy job to get him to Joe’s; nor was it easy to get Joe to take on what, at first, seemed
an impossible task. But now they are firm friends; I can even say Don has found a new family.
‘I don’t know what your reactions to him would have been had I not put you in the picture. Likely, he would have been overwhelmed by questions, and not a little embarrassed. So how you receive him, I leave to you all.’
‘Ah! Here he is now.’
Pat was about to hurry to the door when his father said, ‘Take it slowly.’
‘Oh yes; yes, of course.’ …
Fanny Carter had opened the door to Don and her reaction was, ‘Eeh! Mr McAlister,’ and Don, forcing himself to reply lightly, bent towards her over the bulky object he was carrying in his arms and said, ‘Eeh! Miss Fanny Carter,’ which brought a high giggle from her. Then he jerked off his soft hat as the sitting room door opened, and Pat stood there. But it was some seconds before Pat spoke; moving slowly forward, he said, ‘Well I never! What a transformation, Don; it’s marvellous.’
‘Thanks, Pat.’
Pat stood aside to let Don enter the room. He did not look towards the group of people all staring at him, but went straight to a chair and gently laid on it the bulky, cloth-wrapped article he was carrying. When he straightened up they swarmed towards him, their voices and opinions mingling like spray about him.
‘Why! Don.’
‘Oh, you look marvellous.’
‘Really! Don. Your hair looks lovely.’
Even Emanuel had risen to his feet.
When Don stood in their midst it was as much as he could do to stem the rush of hot tears.
Marie Anne had moved forward with the rest but now remained somewhat apart and voiced no opinion, until he looked her fully in the face, when she said softly, ‘It’s so lifelike; I mean, it’s almost the colour of your skin. And the way it’s moulded to your face…it’s amazing.’ She shook her head almost in disbelief at what she was seeing.
Don did not respond to this, but said, ‘I have your birthday present here.’ At this, he moved from among them and went to the chair and unwrapped the object lying there.
When he straightened and held towards her the piece of sculpted marble, there was a concerted gasp.
Together, Marie Anne and Emanuel walked towards him, and it was Emanuel who emitted the soft words, ‘Dear Lord!’ as Marie Anne took from Don the pair of hands on which, partly swathed in a rough garment, lay a new-born child, whose facial structure depicted the features of Anne Marie. It was the child. The mouth was slightly open as if it were gasping for its first breath of air. Even the hair on the head was there. And the hands that were holding it were live hands, his hands, each finger long, the knuckles over-large, the flesh seeming to have been scraped on the bones between the joints. They were live hands.
She heard him saying, ‘It’s a kind of two-way gift, a much belated birthday present and the reminder to my god-daughter-to-be that, after the doctor and Sally, I was the first to hold her.’ Then his voice very soft, he entreated her, ‘Oh, please! Please, don’t cry.’
When there came a slight pause in the adulation of the work, during which Marie Anne had handed the sculpted child back to Don, her grandfather, standing to Don’s side, now put out his hand and stroked the folds of the garment that covered the child, murmuring, ‘Such work. Such work.’
When Don took his work of love to stand it on a nearby table, James said, ‘I think we had better be going. Surely that child is dressed by now,’ and at this there was a concerted movement into the hall, there to see the nurse descending the stairs, carrying the child in its christening robes, and followed at a distance by Sarah, whose sudden cry of ‘Don! Don!’ startled everybody, and more so when she jumped from the second stair and almost straight into Don’s arms, crying, ‘It’s wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful! You look splendid.’ And then, as if unaware of the company or where she was or even her position in the household, she lifted her arms and pulled down Don’s head towards her and kissed him on the mouth. It seemed to have all happened within a second.
The ensuing laughter was slightly forced, but Don, putting his hands on each side of her cheeks, bent towards her and, softly but for all to hear, he said, ‘Sarah, that to my knowledge is the first time in my life I’ve been kissed by a woman; and it couldn’t have been by a finer one,’ and with this he returned the kiss, gently but firmly.
If it hadn’t been the day it was, the day on which the child was to be christened; if it hadn’t also been the day when they saw this man appear in a different light; if it hadn’t been the day he had brought into the house a beautiful piece of sculpture, then perhaps the verdict on that last scene would have been, ‘Too theatrical for words’ or ‘She’s been made too much of, she doesn’t know her place’. Instead, the embarrassing situation was made laughable by Anita, of all people, approaching Don and saying, ‘Now why didn’t you give me a hint; I’d have obliged at any time,’ only to be pulled away quite roughly by Pat, saying, ‘That’s enough of that! Behave yourself.’
‘Are we going to a christening or not?’ demanded Emanuel, as he made for the door and the waiting carriages.
However, it seemed that Marie Anne had purposely lingered, as, too, had Sarah. They exchanged looks that were deep with feeling, which on the one side could have expressed hate …
Everyone said it had been a wonderful day. So many odd things had happened and there had been so much laughter and bantering among them all; but now the house was quiet and at rest; at least, some of its occupants were at rest.
In Marie Anne’s room the lamp was burning low. She herself was sitting propped up by pillows. Her hands lay on top of the counterpane, the right fingernails picking at the left ones, a sure sign of her inward irritation.
She was telling herself that she had never felt so unhappy in her life. Until today she had thought that never again would she be consumed by blind anger; she could foresee no need for it. But after witnessing the kissing scene in the hall she’d had to make the greatest effort to control her rage; she had experienced a great desire to slap Sarah’s face, as she had done Evelyn’s some years ago; that she should have made a spectacle of herself and her feelings like that…And him. That was something she couldn’t understand, her anger against him too. For him to openly state, ‘This is the first time I have been kissed by a woman;’ how could he say such a thing? and in public; to admit such a thing in front of other men, not to mention all the staff grouped at the end of the hall. She had told herself that it wasn’t likely he would have been kissed by a woman, because of how he looked, only for her mind to come pelting back at her, throwing the truth at her until she was stunned by it: ‘You are mad because time and time again he has thrown away the opportunity to kiss you, and if he really loved you he would have risked it, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?’
When the denial came, ‘No; not him,’ she had screamed back, ‘Don’t make excuses for him. If his feelings for me are as he has implied in so many ways, they would have been strong enough for him to take advantage of one kiss in private. But what does he do? He waits until there’s an audience. And with her of all people!’
Never before in their association had she ever thought of Sarah as her.
Her grandpa had been right the other evening. He had said in a joke that she must put her foot down and put her in her place. Well, now she would do it; yes, she would. But how? How? Perhaps tomorrow things would look clearer, when she would know what to do, what to say.
No, she wouldn’t. She flung herself round in the bed. Tomorrow things would be worse, because whatever she said would bring emotions into the open and expose her own feelings. She couldn’t say that she didn’t want her to leave. Then what did she want her to do? …
Sarah was in her own sitting room. She was fully dressed. She would have liked to go up to her now and deliver her decision; but she would wait until tomorrow and do it in a way that would make her absence acceptable, at least for a time.
As she rose from her chair to go to her bedroom she told herself two simple truths: all good thin
gs came to an end, and hearts did break …
In the bedroom next to his grandfather’s, Pat lay on his back with his hands behind his head. It had been an odd day; he couldn’t think of a stranger one. So many things had happened. And then there was that business in the hall. Anita hadn’t spoken about it until he was taking her home, when she had surprised him by saying, ‘You were annoyed, weren’t you, at what you thought of as my silly remarks to Don? Well, I want to tell you that it was in response to the knowledge that I was witnessing a man baring his soul, but in the wrong place, and that it would be causing embarrassment to your sister. There was that telling pause. It was in the hope that a little frivolity would lessen the drama of the moment and give her time to recover herself, that I said what I did.’ And when Pat had asked her, ‘What are you talking about?’ she had answered, ‘Are you blind? Marie Anne is in love with that man. What she witnessed caused her to drop her smiling mask for a moment. I happened to be looking her way and was amazed to see that she looked so furious, and I’m sure it wasn’t only with him but also with her beloved friend, who, I understand, is never out of her sight. You once told me that she wasn’t the serene individual I imagined, but that she had the devil of a temper and that she had once actually slapped Evelyn’s face. Well, today she looked as if again she could have slapped someone’s face; perhaps both their faces. I was trying to prevent another slapping session, this one likely just verbal. So, Mr Lawson,’ she had ended, ‘remember that there’s more ways of killing a cat than drowning it, and that my frivolous remarks were of good intention and were not the self-exposure of my so far hidden flirtatious character.’
He brought his hands from behind his head and punched the pillows into a comfortable position, then turned on his side and prepared for sleep, thinking that he was glad he had met Anita: so sensible, so kind and so loving, and definitely understanding. Nevertheless the kissing business had annoyed him, and now, according to Anita, Marie Anne was in love with the fellow. He liked the fellow all right; yes, he did; but for Marie Anne to think of marrying him…for, new mask, or no new mask, there was still his face, and always would be.
The Branded Man Page 37
