The Beloveds

by Maureen Lindley

  How ridiculous that Henry has built this house for his careless mate. It makes one wonder if he knows his wife at all.

  28

  IN THE UNCOMFORTABLE BED in Alice’s guest room, I dream of the glass house. I see myself on the floating staircase. I am not gliding down it as though in a fairy tale, and the staircase is not the same as it is in real life. In my dream, its steps are so deep that I have to jump from one to the next, the possibility of falling more likely with every leap.

  I run through the big rooms and hear the heels of my shoes clicking on the cement floors: little hammers knocking in nails. There are immense canvases hung along the hallways, all of the same painting: streaks of red and white, blood and bandages.

  A huge tree grows up through the center of the house, breaking through the landings, of which, in the dream, there are many. It has split open the roof on its race to the sky. Through its leaves I can see the stars tangled across the heavens.

  When I wake, it seems that I have been crying. My cheeks and my pillow are wet. Night sweats have soaked my nightdress, and drenched the sheets.

  I am quite surprised. I hardly ever cry. Perhaps in my desire to obliterate the pictures in my mind of Pipits’ successor, I drank a little too much gin last night. I feel sick and have to dash to the bathroom, where I heave up some disgusting yellow bile.

  It is not yet dawn, the bats are still out, but I know I won’t be able to sleep again. I dress quickly and let myself out of the house as soundlessly as I can, so as not to wake Noah.

  Forgetting for a moment that the smart rental car is mine, I look around in the gloom for my old one. Strange how habits are so hard to break.

  It is quite lovely by the river. The water is liquid pewter, a dull silver with green wispy weed performing a slow waltz just below the surface. The relentless engine that drives its depths is dancing to a faster rhythm, though. Clutches of ducks are going with the flow, allowing themselves to be taken downstream. I wonder, as I have often wondered, if water has memory, if it knows me, recalls my deeds. I open the car door, hear the swoosh of the river’s deep swell. Overhead a wedge of geese fly in their v formation, and then, warning his prey, the petulant cry of a buzzard tracing circles in the sky, the early-morning hunter.

  I should be at peace, but I can’t settle. It is the dream, perhaps, or whatever inspired it. I take a swig of gin and wait until I get the hit of heat through my chest.

  I get out of the car and walk to the center of the bridge. Images swirl in my head of cats in sacks and tools sinking to the river’s depths. It makes me sad to think about what I have had to do to keep my own head above water. I think of Mother, and of Pipits, and of my childhood years, which, if not for Gloria, would have been perfect. If not for Gloria.

  When I left London just yesterday, France seemed appealing. This morning, not so. It is useless trying to find my way to a different home. I am indelibly marked by my birthplace. Cold-Upton is my home. But where should I be, now that Pipits is gone? What is to be done?

  29

  I TAKE MY LEAVE OF Gloria and Noah in Alice’s kitchen. Gloria is still in her nightdress, the one she bought for her honeymoon.

  Bridal white then, yellowing now.

  Noah is tottering around the kitchen floor, throwing his wooden bricks about, pleased with the clatter they make. He is talking now, and calls me Bettel, which Gloria thinks is sweet. Before you know it they’ll all be calling me Bettel. How they love nicknames.

  The porridge Noah had for breakfast is stuck hard around his lips, little specks of it on his chin. Not for the first time, it strikes me how like Henry he is. The shy expression, those sandy lashes, his wonky smile.

  “Come back soon,” Gloria says. “Come and help us move in.”

  “I’ll try,” I say. “But I can’t promise.”

  I am dreading going back to London, to the apartment that holds no charm for me now, but I don’t want to stay, not with Gloria, anyway.

  “I have to put Alice’s house on the market,” I inform her. “You will clean it up before you leave, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” she says. I can tell that she is offended.

  “I’ll call at the studio to say goodbye to Henry,” I say. “I’d like a last stroll in the garden.”

  “We are getting someone in to do it,” Gloria says. “On a regular basis, you know. We want to get it back to something like it was in Mother’s day.”

  In my day, too, I want to snap at her. But best to leave on a good note. I have already upset her with the cleaning jibe.

  I throw Noah a smile. He smells of sour milk and the honey he had on his porridge.

  “Be good, sweet boy,” I say. I was going to kiss him, but the sour smell puts me off.

  Gloria picks him up and escorts me to the door. I turn on the path to see that she has grabbed his hand and is making it wave to me.

  “Oh no,” she exclaims. “There is bird shit on your car.”

  * * *

  HENRY, WEARING WHAT LOOK like oven gloves, is in the middle of taking a batch of thin shallow bowls out of the kiln. I glimpse Fi with her head down as she sets up paints and brushes on the long table.

  “Just saying goodbye,” I call through the door. “Don’t stop.”

  “Oh, okay,” Henry says. “Have a good journey.”

  I know that, if it weren’t for Gloria, he wouldn’t keep our friendship up. Some cord between us was frayed when he chose my sister over me, and now that it has snapped, he would like to pretend it was never there.

  Henry doesn’t care to look back. Like a lot of artists, he makes up his past to suit his present. Leave what you don’t like behind, weave a story around yourself of the artist’s difficult start, of the passion and integrity it took to get to where you are now, and pretty soon you will believe it yourself. If it takes integrity to dump one sister and take up with the other, then I’d say that Henry has plenty of it.

  As I walk away, Fi comes to the door. “We’ll miss you,” she says proprietorially. “Have a good journey.”

  “Mmm,” I say, disliking the way that she has found herself a legitimate reason to be around all the time now, and that she makes herself so at home.

  I know that I must go, but something in me is hesitating. I will take my leave of the garden and then motor slowly back to London. The thought is not cheering. I am reluctant to settle back into the apartment, and I do not want to see Anita, the police officer who seemingly has befriended me. How long is she planning for us to stay in touch? Perhaps she thinks that we are buddies now. My heart sinks at the thought of transforming myself once again into Mayfair Lady. I do not wish to do it ever again.

  I pass the belle etoile, man-high already, and just in bud. I think of it as it was in full flower in that last summer before the fire. I think of Gloria, commenting, as she sailed past it, “Mmm, nice pong.” To Gloria, that heady, enchanting perfume was merely, a “nice pong.”

  I bury my head in its leaves and can already smell its faint odor. By the middle of June its flowers will be extravagant creamy cups of clove-like fragrance. In full bloom it lends something of vanilla, and the decadent tuber rose, to the air around it.

  I find myself itching to get to work on the beds, but it would take weeks to sort them out, and even if I gave it a start today, they would be grown over in no time.

  I doubt it will do much good, but I will write to Gloria and list what needs to be done. I will stress that I found it hard to bear seeing all my hard work count for nothing. I cannot believe that whoever she employs to look after the garden will have a good enough eye, or sufficient knowledge of our special plants. And Gloria, who has no eye at all, will be too easily satisfied.

  To soothe the itch, I fetch a spade from the back of the summerhouse, and throw myself into dividing the big clump of iris I warned them would need doing months ago. The cat comes to have a look at what I am up to. Cats, such nosy creatures. I shoo it away with the shovel.

  I wash my hands in the summerhouse
sink, scrape the earth off the soles of my shoes, and settle myself on the wicker sofa. What am I rushing back to, after all? A city that I have fallen out of love with, a life that has utterly failed to please me.

  * * *

  A1234, AND I AM in. Somewhere upstairs a workman is whistling, painting, I think. I block the sound from my mind and wait in the airy space of the hall for my heartbeat to stop racing. I wonder why I feel the way I do. It is not as if Henry or Gloria would mind me looking around again before I leave.

  I suppose it could be the dream that has brought me here. I hadn’t intended to return to the house, after all. But I was drawn back to it through the garden by some unseen, compelling force.

  I stand beneath the floating staircase, just as Henry did the other day, and this time I give myself over to the marvel of it. This time I feel like oohing and aahing.

  It is a strong house, crafted in glass and steel, fashioned to resist storms, and the occasional earth tremors that we are subject to here: a house to inspire confidence. There is no give in it, no dark places to slip into, no pigeonholes to hide trinkets in, yet still it is seductive somehow.

  I make an effort to recall how Pipits had stood on this plot: a gentler, softer version of a home. But along with the emotions attached to it, the image of it is dwindling, too. It is natural for old loves to fade, I suppose.

  The workman comes down, says he heard me, thought that I might be Henry.

  “I am Gloria’s sister,” I say. “Just having a last look.”

  “Take your time, I’m off for a tea break if that’s okay,” he says as though he has to answer to me.

  Through the big windows I watch him walk to his van, wonder why he would rather take his tea in its limited interior, when he could take it in this amazing house.

  Alone now, I am free to wander. I let my leg brush against the silky steel skirting, let my hands linger on the cool marble worktops. In the main bedroom I look down the drive to the gates, and the distant view is the same as always. If the copper beech hadn’t fallen I might be looking out through its branches from the window of my old bedroom.

  The workman has left grimy footprints on the floor; his dust sheet is so filthy that it is more likely to mark the floor than protect it. A tide of irritation floods through me. There is no need for such slackness.

  I picture in my mind the sort of paintings I would hang in these generous halls, a new collection, so as to begin at the beginning: big canvases, simple, unframed, nothing too ornate, inkblots for callers to interpret how they will.

  I feel the need to indulge myself in the modern, in everything vernal, avant-garde. That’s the curse of a creative nature. The need for change, the letting go of what was. Things that once seemed beautiful to me now seem stuffy, overdone, old hat.

  If I were mistress here, it would never be untidy. Everything would be in its place, clean and shining and ordered. Living here, I would feel clean and ordered, too, a counterpart to my beautiful, messy sister.

  Back in what Gloria calls the reception area, I tap the switch that automatically rolls the blinds down, and they slither to the floor, throwing the room into shadow. Stasis overtakes me, so that I feel as if the ground is holding on to me.

  I am attached to these acres by blood, to these ancient ley lines, to the land I was born to own, to this magical place that has been stolen from me.

  As I pause, breathing in the scent of the house, I hear a faint ringing, a soft beelike hum, making its way through the rooms, along the halls, down through the atrium of the house. I go to the kitchen, and the hum follows me. It is there, too, in the long room that is to be the study. I feel it vibrating through the floors, making my feet tingle. I feel it through my hands when I place them on the walls. It sings down the staircase, hovers playfully around me. I put my lips to the stair’s handrail, and I feel it pulsating, the soft thudding of a heartbeat. The house is filling up with sound and movement.

  And then, faint, as though it is whispering from the top of the soaring staircase, I hear it speak.

  “Elizabeth. Elizabeth.”

  GALLERY READERS GROUP GUIDE

  The Beloveds

  MAUREEN LINDLEY

  * * *

  This readers group guide for The Beloveds includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.

  * * *

  Introduction

  As sinister as Daphne du Maurier’s classic Rebecca, The Beloveds plumbs the depths of sibling rivalry with wit and menace.

  Betty Stash is not a Beloved—but her little sister, the delightful Gloria, is. She’s the one with the golden curls and sunny smile, the one whose best friend used to be Betty’s, the one whose husband should have been Betty’s. And then, to everyone’s surprise, Gloria inherits the family estate—a vast, gorgeous pile of ancient stone, imposing timbers, and lush gardens—that was never meant to be hers.

  For Betty, this is the final indignity. As she single-mindedly pursues her plan to see the estate returned to her in all its glory, her determined and increasingly unhinged behavior escalates to the point of no return. The Beloveds will have you wondering if there’s a length to which an envious sister won’t go.

  Topics and Questions for Discussion

  1. How are Betty and Gloria different? What does their behavior tell us about the two sisters?

  2. Describe Betty’s connection with Pipits. What draws her to the family home?

  3. “No matter how my sister and her kind show off their sweetness, their so-called goodness, they are made of more than honey; we are all only half-known.” Would you agree with this statement? Is being “half-known” a good or bad thing? What parts of people are often shared? What do people usually keep to themselves?

  4. Discuss Betty’s earlier relationship with Henry. Why did she like him in the first place? Why did Betty believe Henry had feelings for her, and therefore had betrayed her?

  5. Betty seems to view the world in terms of “me vs. them.” Who are Betty’s enemies and why?

  6. Shortly after the reading of Mother’s will, what does Betty discover about her husband’s relationship and how does she react? Were you surprised?

  7. Why does Betty smash the bowl of pudding and poisonous berries? What does this change indicate in Betty’s character?

  8. How does she feel about Alice’s death? How does her former best friend’s absence influence the atmosphere at Pipits?

  9. Revisit Betty’s reaction when Henry starts packing away Mother’s old possessions. Why does she disagree with her brother-in-law?

  10. Betty says Helen is “nothing but a common thief.” Why does Betty describe Helen this way? How would you describe their conversation? What incites the attack?

  11. “All people really want is for someone to stand by their side so that they are not alone. The thought of being alone terrifies them.” Do you agree with Betty’s thinking? When she denies this statement applies to her, how did you react? Do you believe her?

  12. In the letter that Betty’s father wrote to her mother, he says, “We rarely regret the things we do. Only the things we do not. Marry me, and we will see the world together.” How do his words affect Betty? What happens to her original plan?

  13. What sparks her final plan to burn down Pipits while also sacrificing herself?

  14. Betty takes on the identity of a Mayfair Lady. When in disguise, how does everyone see her? How does Betty view herself? How does this differ from her normal self?

  15. Describe how Betty’s relationship with Gloria, Henry, Fi, and Noah has changed throughout the novel. What’s her state of mind as she leaves the new grounds?

  Enhance Your Book Club

  1. Compare how the sisters treat the house throughout the book. What do their actions toward Pipits say about each
character’s psychology and beliefs?

  2. The conversation between Betty and Gloria on p. 228 alludes to Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper. What other parts of the novel remind you of this influential story?

  3. “And then, faint, as though it is whispering from the top of the soaring staircase, I hear it speak.” Imagine how the story might continue after the novel’s last lines. What happens to Betty?

  4. If you were in Betty’s shoes, how would you have reacted to losing your best friend, lover, and home to your younger sister? How do you think Betty’s life would have unfolded if there were no Gloria or any Beloved? Now imagine your reaction as a Beloved.

  About the Author

  © ALEX POWNALL

  MAUREEN LINDLEY, born in Berkshire and raised in Scotland and Britain, was trained as a psychotherapist. She is the author of two previous novels, The Private Papers of Eastern Jewel and A Girl Like You. She lives in the Wye Valley on the border between southern England and Wales.

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  Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Maureen-Lindley

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