Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  Blanche had written to say she would be coming that morning, and her mother and Ernest were expecting her. As she entered the cottage to be greeted by them she found that its small front parlour had been decorated with homemade paper trimmings and sprigs of holly and mistletoe. Sarah and Ernest asked her at once whether she could stay for Christmas midday dinner. She was afraid she couldn’t, she said. James was coming back for her in an hour, and she was expected back for Christmas luncheon at Hallowford House. Sarah nodded understandingly, and after Blanche was seated before the bright fire they brought her the carefully wrapped gifts that had sat waiting on the piano. From Ernest she received a little book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. From her mother came some lengths of ribbon and a pair of combs. After she had thanked them she gave them the presents she had brought, sitting eagerly watching as they unwrapped the finely-wrapped packages. Ernest first, who took from a box a fine wool muffler and six silk handkerchiefs. As he exclaimed over the gifts Blanche watched as her mother unwrapped a fine cotton night-dress with intricate lace at the throat and down the front. Sarah shook her head in wonder, saying that she had never before had such a fine nightgown. For Jacko, Blanche had brought a fine meaty bone from the Hallowford House kitchen, and he at once lay down and began to gnaw away at it.

  Sarah, meanwhile, clicked her tongue over the gifts they had given Blanche; they were so poor in comparison, she said. Brushing aside such comments, Blanche presented them with the hamper containing various consumable items, including a plum pudding, a cooked ham, an assortment of preserves, gentleman’s relish for Ernest and sugared almonds for her mother. ‘It’s too much,’ Sarah protested, but Blanche said laughingly, ‘No, no, it’s not too much at all.’

  Ernest poured glasses of cider for them then and Sarah brought out some little spiced cakes which she had made early that morning. And as they ate and drank, the cider and the occasion lent to the meeting a lightheartedness that Blanche realized had not been there for some time. But even so, one part of her mind was aware, the camaraderie was only on the surface; the underlying reserve was still present.

  When James knocked at the door close on noon Blanche put on her coat, kissed her mother and Ernest goodbye and, saying that she would call again soon, left the cottage. As the carriage drove along the lane she looked back and saw the two of them, Jacko at their side, standing at the gate.

  The numbers at Hallowford House were swelled that evening by the arrival for dinner of Dr Kelsey and his wife, and also Savill’s brother Harold from Trowbridge. Marianne went downstairs to join her father in greeting them as they arrived; a few minutes afterwards Blanche herself went down. Wearing a new dress bought for the occasion – a long gown of deep blue brocade with lace at the throat – she entered the drawing room where the walls were festooned with the decorations that she, Marianne and Gentry had spent so long arranging. As she gazed at the splendour of the room, the elegantly dressed guests assembled there, and the firelight reflecting in the crystal of the chandeliers and in the tinsel that hung in swathes from the tree, she could not help but contrast it with the little parlour of her mother’s cottage in Colford.

  After all the greetings were over she helped Marianne in handing out canapés and refilling the sherry glasses. When that was done Gentry pointed out that the candles on the tree were still unlit and Marianne brought him a packet of Lucifers and stood beside him watching as, one by one, he lit the array of tiny candles.

  Blanche, standing near Edward Harrow at that moment, noticed how he turned and caught the eye of John Savill; she noticed the brief, subtle glance they exchanged, and how their eyes then turned back to take in the pair at the tree – Gentry, tall and handsome in his dinner jacket, and Marianne beside him looking small and slender in her dress of lilac and lace.

  When dinner was announced Blanche went in on the arm of Harold Savill, who was lavish in his compliments on her appearance. Over dinner he talked to her of his interest in the motor car, saying that on a recent trip to London he had seen numbers of them on the streets. It was the transport of the future, he said, and anyone with the opportunity should waste no time in investing in its promotion and manufacture. Later, the subject got around to the Jubilee celebrations of the previous summer, and Dr Kelsey spoke of the possibilities of the Empire’s expansion. ‘But where else is there to go?’ Savill asked. ‘To the north, south, east and west – a quarter of the earth’s surface, and almost a quarter of its people, are beneath the Queen’s domination. We’ve got to stop somewhere.’

  ‘Why?’ said Harold. ‘There’s South Africa yet. The Transvaal. Though if things had been handled properly twenty years ago it would be part of the Empire already. Those wretched Boers – thinking they can deny English settlers their rights like that. They’ve got a few surprises coming to them.’

  Robert Kelsey said, ‘You don’t think there’ll be another war, do you?’

  His wife groaned. ‘Oh, no. Wasn’t one war with them enough?’

  Harold said, ‘That was seventeen years ago, Mrs Kelsey. And a few skirmishes like that don’t amount to very much.’

  Gentry said, ‘With all due respect, sir, I should think they amount to a great deal when it was Britain who got the bloody nose. And of course we’ve never got over our defeat.’

  ‘You don’t know your history, young man,’ Harold said. ‘We were not beaten. We continued to hold the reins when it was all over. We were victorious.’

  ‘Victorious after a fashion,’ Gentry said. ‘And after some very, ignominious defeats. Look at the battle of Majuba. What a disaster that was. To be beaten by a ragbag of Dutch farmers. For that’s what it amounted to.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, that kind of victory in our history can leave a very sour taste in the mouth.’

  Harold Savill said, a slight edge to his voice, ‘For a young, inexperienced man you seem to hold strong views on the subject.’

  Gentry hesitated then replied: ‘Well, if there is a war, sir, then I shall be very much involved. Therefore I think I should hold views on such a matter.’

  ‘I agree,’ Edward Harrow said, nodding, at which Mrs Kelsey said:

  ‘What I don’t understand is why there is all the talk of war now? What has changed since the last one?’

  Robert Kelsey replied, ‘Well, dear, not to sound too cynical, you mustn’t forget that since the first war there’s been the discovery of gold in the Transvaal.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ said Harold sharply.

  Gentry said, ‘I agree with the doctor. Britain couldn’t really have cared less about the fate of her settlers there before the discovery of the gold.’

  ‘But it’s been the Britons who have gone in and mined the gold,’ Harold said. ‘And they’re as much a part of the country now as the Boers. And they have a right to have a say in the running of the place.’

  ‘With Britain stepping in to make sure that they have that right,’ Gentry said. ‘And of course, with all that gold to be had it would suit her purpose to take over the place on the pretext of putting the country to rights.’

  Blanche spoke up then.

  ‘Allow us some worthy motives, please,’ she said. ‘Have you forgotten that even now the Boers would like to continue slavery? Don’t let your cynicism blind you to everything.’

  Gentry looked at her in surprise as she spoke, then said,

  ‘– Anyway, let’s talk about something else.’ He turned to Marianne. ‘I don’t think you ladies want to discuss such matters, do you? I’m sure you’d much rather talk on some other subject.’

  Blanche said lightly, jokingly, but meaning every word:

  ‘What do you think we’d be happier discussing, Gentry? The latest Paris fashions? – or perhaps a little scandalous gossip concerning the Prince of Wales? Don’t think because we’re female we’ve got no interest in what goes on in the outside world.’

  Savill chuckled at this. ‘Touché, Blanche.’ Then, to Gentry: ‘You don’t really know Blanche as yet, Gentry. But one thing you must learn is not to
underestimate her.’

  Gentry nodded, smiling lightly at his host. ‘No, sir, I’m learning that already.’

  When dinner was over the three women left the men to their port, brandy and cigars and retired to the drawing room. Later when the men joined them Marianne poured coffee and Blanche handed it round. As she came to Gentry he said very softly as he took his cup, ‘Don’t you think we should call a truce, Blanche?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that there was a battle,’ she said, unsmiling, equally softly.

  ‘But you’re not the one who’s constantly in the firing line.’

  She said nothing, but stood waiting with the tray as he spooned sugar into his cup.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ he said, ‘that you can be a little too sensitive where some things are concerned?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. And as for being sensitive, I’m surprised you even know the meaning of the word.’

  A week after Christmas Edward Harrow prepared to leave to return to Sicily. During dinner on his last evening – a bright, happy affair – he invited Marianne and Blanche to spend the next summer in Messina with Gentry and himself before they went on to their finishing school in France. Graciously they accepted the invitation.

  That night Blanche was lying in bed just on the point of drifting off to sleep when she heard her door opening, followed by the sound of soft footfalls across the carpet. Then came Marianne’s voice:

  ‘It’s only me. Are you awake?’

  ‘I am now.’ Sitting up in bed, Blanche struck a match and put the flame to the nightlight on her bedside table. ‘What is it?’ she asked as Marianne sat on the edge of the bed. In the light of the little candle flame Blanche looked at her friend. Marianne was clad in a blue dressing gown, her hair falling in a cascade over her shoulders. In the soft light her eyes were in shadow and Blanche could not read their expression. ‘Is something wrong?’ Blanche said.

  Marianne smiled at her. ‘No, nothing at all. I just wanted to see you for a moment.’

  ‘What for?’

  Marianne shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing really, I suppose.’ She was silent for a moment or two, then she said: ‘We couldn’t do anything else but accept Uncle Edward’s invitation, could we?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But when the time comes we can always think of some excuse.’

  ‘Yes – I suppose so.’

  Marianne sounded doubtful. Blanche looked at her a little keenly. Marianne added:

  ‘– Although of course it might be fun.’

  Fun? Blanche frowned.

  ‘Are you still angry?’ Marianne said after a moment.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh, Blanche, you know what I’m talking about. With him – Gentry – for what he said when he arrived.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Blanche thought she would be glad when the Christmas holidays were over and Gentry went back to Oxford.

  ‘I thought he was quite – funny over dinner this evening, didn’t you?’ Marianne said. ‘Telling the story of his school Shakespeare production.’

  Blanche gave a shrug, allowing a faint, contemptuous smile to touch her mouth. ‘Yes, I suppose so – if you find that kind of thing amusing.’

  ‘Well – it was all right …’ Marianne was avoiding her eyes. After a moment she said, ‘Do you thing he’s – nice-looking?’

  Blanche studied her, and all at once she realized that Marianne’s continued indifference was nothing but a front – it had been bogus for days. She thought back to dinner that evening and to other occasions over the past week. And she could see now that all the time Marianne’s feelings had been changing. As she sat there she examined various little memories as they flitted through her mind; and now she could see the way Marianne hung on Gentry’s words, the way she laughed at his jokes, the way her eyes followed him as he moved across the room. I must have been blind, she thought. Marianne’s antipathy for Gentry was clearly a thing of the past.

  Blanche narrowed her eyes, looking at her friend with contempt. How quickly people change, she thought.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘– you’ve certainly changed your tune, haven’t you? You were singing a very different song not so long ago.’

  Marianne said nothing, but sighed and studied her fingernails.

  Blanche nodded. ‘Oh, yes, a very different tune.’

  Marianne gave a reluctant little shrug. ‘Well, yes – I suppose that’s how it seems.’

  There was a brief silence in the room, then Blanche said:

  ‘I can’t believe it. I thought we were both freezing him out – and all along you’re falling in love with him. You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, I –’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘No, no.’ Marianne shook her head. ‘Love – I don’t even know what love is like.’ But she sounded uncertain. Then she added, ‘But I have to admit: I do think he’s nice.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Yes. And he is handsome, isn’t he? Any girl would think so.’ She paused. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Is that what you came in here to ask me?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Blanche. And he’s very amusing, too. Don’t you think?’

  Blanche shrugged. ‘Well, obviously you do.’

  Marianne looked Blanche in the eyes. ‘I know what you must think of me – especially after all I said. D’you think I’m an idiot, Blanche? You do, don’t you?’

  ‘– I don’t think anything. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Oh, Blanche, please …’

  ‘Look, I’m tired,’ Blanche said.

  Marianne remained there. ‘I really do like him,’ she said. ‘I have to admit it.’

  ‘Good. Now – may I get to sleep?’

  Marianne got up off the bed and started across the room. Near the door she turned and looked back. ‘Goodnight, Blanche.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Marianne reached out for the doorknob, stopped. ‘Blanche …?’

  ‘Yes …?’

  ‘Do you think I’ve made it obvious – that I liked him? Do you think he’ll have – noticed it?’

  ‘Would you notice a snowstorm in August?’

  ‘Oh, Blanche – please.’

  Blanche gazed at her for a moment and then forced a faint smile. ‘Goodnight, Marianne.’

  ‘Goodnight, Blanche.’

  Blanche leaned towards the nightlight. As she took a breath to blow out the flame Marianne’s voice came again, softly: ‘Listen …’

  ‘Yes …?’

  ‘Do you think he likes me?’

  Blanche felt a little flash of irritation which she swiftly quelled. ‘Yes, Marianne,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he does. How could he not?’

  Marianne smiled at her across the room, and gave a little nod of pleasure. ‘Goodnight, Blanche. Sleep well.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  And, Blanche told herself, she was right – as was made very clear to her over the following days before Gentry left for Oxford and she and Marianne left for Clifton. She was right – Marianne was falling in love with him. Was in love with him, already. And was clearly past saving.

  Though the knowledge that she was right brought her no pleasure. She felt betrayed. She would watch how Marianne looked at Gentry across the dining table, dark eyes gazing into his; she would observe Marianne’s shyness in his presence, the way she would sometimes be at a loss for the right thing to say and would end up stumbling over her words like a selfconscious child; she would observe how the most minor incident of teasing from Gentry could be enough to make Marianne all fingers and thumbs – and she felt contempt. For herself she was determined to maintain her position. If Marianne wished to make a fool of herself that was her affair.

  And Marianne seemed to be content to do just that, and as the few remaining days of the vacation went by her feelings for Gentry seemed to become stronger. And as for Gentry, he was obviously fond of her, too. The result was that although she was not physically excluded, Blanche oft
en felt very much in the way. She would be glad, she said to herself, to get back to school.

  On the day Gentry left – the day before Marianne and Blanche themselves left for Clifton – Marianne accompanied Gentry to the station in the landau. Blanche was asked to go with them but had declined. She was in her room when Marianne returned, and Marianne went to her there, sat down on Blanche’s bed and sighed. Blanche turned from her packing and looked at her. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, knowing full well.

  Marianne gave a little smile – which Blanche found infuriating – and sighed again. ‘Nothing,’ she said. Then she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her:

  ‘I shall probably write to Gentry when we’re back at school. He gave me his address.’

  Blanche nodded. ‘Good – that will be nice for you.’

  Marianne shrugged, a gesture of near-indifference that was not in the least convincing. ‘Well – it will be something to do – someone to write to.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Blanche turned back to her packing.

  After a moment Marianne said: ‘Papa’s invited Gentry to come here at Easter for part of the holidays. He’ll be spending the first two weeks in Scotland with friends from university, but then he’ll come to us for the last few days. That’ll be fun, won’t it?’

  ‘Oh – yes.’

  Marianne’s words brought Blanche no pleasure. Gentry’s remark to her on his arrival just before Christmas still rankled. Blanche Farrar – still here after all these years. She could not forget his words and she would not forgive him. And, further, she felt that his sentiments must be echoed by any number of other people who were aware of her situation. Everything she had, or had ever had, she owed to Mr Savill’s generosity – and, she realized, there would always be those who would be ready to remind her of the fact – either doing it maliciously – as by the likes of Helen Webster and Miss Baker – or insensitively, and nonetheless cruelly, by people like Gentry Harrow.

  Turning back from her packing she caught a glimpse of Marianne’s face as she sat on the bed gazing unseeingly out of the window. There was a faraway look in her eyes. Blanche felt she could have slapped her.