Jimmy seemed in no hurry to return to his own home after the meal, and Henry was treated to the sight of Jimmy helping himself to the best port. There was little chance of Henry’s drawing Thomas into the men’s conversation with Jimmy there. Jimmy’s main topic of discourse was one that he appeared to find endlessly interesting: himself. After a modest amount of port he was merely boring; given long enough in the vicinity of the decanter, Henry knew he was quite capable of becoming offensive. It was a relief to be able to use the excuse of the ladies waiting in the drawing room to persuade Jimmy to bid the port a reluctant farewell.
Henry saw Susannah’s face light up at the sight of Thomas when the men entered the room,. She indicated the space she had been saving for him, and Thomas took a seat on the sofa at her side.
Constance was looking more her naturally lively self this evening than she had in some time, Henry noted with pleasure. She and her mother had been close, and old Mrs Taylor had lived with the Kendalls for the last few years. Her mother’s long illness had been a strain on Constance. Henry had engaged a nurse as soon as it became apparent that his mother-in-law needed a level of care he considered too much to ask of Constance, but she had still spent much of each day with her mother, and had watched her decline with mounting distress. Mrs Taylor had ceased to show any awareness of those around her some weeks before she finally slipped away. Henry was sure that mingled with Constance’s genuine grief at her mother’s passing was a sense of a burden having been lifted from her.
Laura was at the piano, playing a rather wistful piece that Henry thought might have been by Schumann. She looked up from her music and smiled at her father, then returned her full attention to her playing.
Laura had been a great support to Constance during this time, Henry knew. She had insisted on sharing the duty of sitting at her grandmother’s bedside, so that her mother should not feel obliged to spend all her free moments there. Laura would read to the old lady, or occasionally sing one of her grandmother’s favourite songs.
If anything could have given comfort to the dying woman, Henry thought, it would have been Laura’s presence. Mrs Taylor had always doted on Henry’s children, particularly his daughters. Henry’s father-in-law had left the family home to his widow, causing Jimmy much indignation (and thus leading Henry to remember his late father-in-law with a good deal more affection than he might otherwise have); she had sold the house when she moved in with Constance and Henry, and over the years since had spent most of the proceeds on gifts for her grandchildren. Mrs Taylor’s last major purchase before the onset of her illness had been the beautiful piano that now held pride of place in the drawing room, as she had considered their old one not a fit match for Laura’s talent.
Laura finished the piece and came to sit between her father and Thomas. She spoke quietly with her cousin for a time; Henry had noticed that Thomas spoke more easily to Laura than he did to his older relations.
After a few minutes Constance caught Laura’s eye and indicated the mantel clock. Laura nodded, and rose from her chair. She kissed her parents, and said goodnight to their guests with careful politeness and varying degrees of warmth; Henry fancied that Jimmy was not a favourite with her. Thomas actually stood to see her to the door, increasing Henry’s already favourable opinion of him.
Henry had been impressed by how sensible a young man Thomas was. It took a little effort to draw him out of what Henry realised was shyness, but he found that, making allowances for Thomas’ limited education, he was an interesting conversationalist and an attentive listener. He was also clearly a thoughtful son, constantly consulting his mother’s wishes and checking on her comfort.
Henry had not seen Susannah since her father’s death, nine years before. He found her greatly changed, and very much for the better. Gone was the stiffness that had always made him somewhat uncomfortable around her; gone was the slight air of self-pity; and best of all, gone was her pathetic attachment to Jimmy.
On her previous visit, Henry had observed her attempts to gain any sort of attention from Jimmy, and her distress at being studiously ignored. Susannah had not made herself conspicuous over the matter; her self-control was too rigid for that; but Henry prided himself on being a keen observer of people, and on noticing details others would not. He was quite sure that even if Jimmy had noticed Susannah’s distress, he would not have been particularly concerned by it. As far as Henry could tell, Jimmy Taylor went through life blissfully untroubled by pangs of conscience over any pain he might have caused anyone else.
But this was a new, confident Susannah, who showed polite interest when her brother spoke, but who otherwise ignored him, much as Henry did. She seemed quite indifferent to his comings and goings, paying far more attention to Thomas, and to Henry’s own family.
Her self-confidence had another effect, one that pleased Henry greatly. One of the few matters in which he considered his wife less than sensible was the delight she had always taken in needling Susannah. It was clear to Henry that Constance had been far more fortunate in life than had Susannah, not least in having married him; it seemed to him that that should have inspired her to be kind to her sister, rather than to rub the poor woman’s nose in her deficiencies.
Things had become particularly unpleasant on Susannah’s previous visit, when Charlotte had perceived her as a useful target for whatever her own frustrations were, and had taken what seemed to Henry a malicious pleasure in subtle but pointed attacks. Constance, who had what Henry had noted as an unerring instinct for backing the winning side, had joined forces with Charlotte in goading Susannah, to the point where Henry had been forced to scold his wife in private, and insist that she moderate her conduct.
There was no need for him to consider such a step now. While Charlotte was still making an occasional attempt at unsettling Susannah, Constance had observed Susannah’s new poise much as Henry had, and she appeared to have changed her allegiance accordingly. Henry was relieved at the resulting harmony, especially as Susannah and Thomas were guests in his house.
Henry had noticed Thomas stifling yawns even before the men left the dining room. Thomas stayed in the drawing room just long enough to be sure his mother was comfortable before he made his excuses and went off to bed, only a few minutes after Laura had gone.
‘Goodness, what early hours you must keep in the country, Susannah,’ Charlotte remarked as Thomas left the room. ‘But I imagine there’s very little society of any sort to oblige you to go out.’ She bestowed a condescending smile. ‘It must be wonderful to have such a simple life, and not be bothered with constant invitations.’
‘Actually, Charlotte, there’s a good deal of pleasant society,’ Susannah said calmly. ‘But I do most of my visiting in the daytime. In the evenings I’m happy enough with Thomas for company.’
If Charlotte’s lip had curled just a fraction more, Henry reflected, her smile would be more accurately called a sneer. ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure he’s excellent company for you, though perhaps his conversation is just a little limited?’
‘I must say I’ve been taking a great deal of pleasure in Thomas’s company these last few days,’ Henry put in before Susannah had a chance to respond. ‘He’s a fine young man, Susannah. You must be very proud.’
Susannah turned a warm smile on him. ‘Thank you, Henry. Yes, I’m very proud indeed of Thomas. In fact I’m proud of both my sons. Of course I’m only too ready to hear my sons being praised,’ she said, turning her attention back to Charlotte. Her smile remained, though its warmth had gone. ‘I believe I’m not unusual in that regard. I’m afraid, Charlotte, that you must excuse a mother’s partiality.’
‘You’re quite right, Susannah,’ Constance chimed in. ‘I know I can be positively foolish about my children at times—I always think they’re so clever and talented. We just can’t help it, can we?’ She beamed at Susannah in matronly pride.
Henry glanced from this show of sisterly unity over to Charlotte, in time to see her condescending expression slip for a momen
t, to be briefly replaced by a wounded look. He could find it in his heart to feel a degree of sympathy, both for her childlessness and for having married Jimmy.
He searched for a useful change of subject, and soon latched on one. ‘Susannah, did Constance tell you that we met an acquaintance of yours earlier in the year? Well, I should say a family member—I believe she’s your stepdaughter. Mrs Stewart, was it?’
‘Oh, yes, I remember,’ said Constance. ‘We met her when we were out on Mr Dewar’s boat. She was very smartly turned out, I recall—in quite the latest fashion. And with the prettiest hat.’
‘How interesting,’ Susannah said in a tone that implied otherwise. ‘The evenings do seem to be getting warmer, don’t they?’
Henry was surprised by her evident reluctance to discuss their mutual acquaintance, but he knew that stepmothers and stepdaughters did not always have the smoothest of relationships; this seemed to be the case with Susannah.
Constance seemed oblivious to Susannah’s discomfort. ‘And she was staying with Sarah Millish! Miss Millish hardly ever has anyone to stay, she must have been very taken with Mrs Stewart.’
This seemed a line of discourse that gave Susannah more pleasure. ‘Oh, dear Miss Millish. We all became such good friends when she was staying in Ruatane.’
‘Did you really?’ Constance said, clearly taken aback. ‘How odd. I sent invitations several times to have her bring Mrs Stewart here to dine, but she always made some excuse or other. However did you come to meet her?’
‘We attended the same soirées.’
Charlotte gave a little laugh. ‘You have soirées down there? How droll that must be—are they held in barns?’
‘No,’ Susannah said coolly. ‘They are held in houses. Thomas and I are always invited to the best of them. Jack’s niece married rather well, and she often holds soirées.’
Jimmy snorted, catching Henry’s attention. ‘You mean Lizzie? But she married Frank!’ Jimmy seemed to be taking more notice of this talk of visits and soirées than Henry would have expected. ‘You remember him, Charlotte, we met him on Queen Street one day. Straight from the farm—I almost expected to see the mud still on his boots.’
‘Not really,’ Charlotte said idly. ‘I find it hard to keep track of all these country cousins of yours.’
‘Well, Frank’s not the most memorable of chaps,’ said Jimmy. ‘A decent enough fellow in his own way, I suppose, but hardly what I’d call marrying well.’
‘I beg to differ,’ Susannah said, unperturbed. ‘Frank’s done very well for himself. Among other things, he’s chairman of the dairy co-operative.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Henry, finding himself well-disposed to this Frank fellow if for no other reason than Jimmy’s professed disdain. ‘Then he must be a person of some consequence in the area. Those co-operatives are important affairs these days.’
‘And these farmhouse soirées,’ said Charlotte, her condescending smile restored, ‘what do they have as far as music goes? Does everyone sing along and stamp their feet to rousing tunes?’
‘We’re rather fortunate there,’ said Susannah, still imperturbably calm. ‘We have a very fine pianist who studied under some of the best teachers in Auckland. In fact it’s Lily who provided our introduction to Miss Millish, as they’re cousins.’ She cast a glance around the room, checking that she had everyone’s attention. ‘And Lily is married to one of Jack’s nephews.’
Had Susannah been a man, she might have made a good courtroom lawyer, Henry thought to himself as he admired her performance. She had certainly gained the ascendancy with that piece of information.
She had also irritated Constance. ‘Well,’ Constance sniffed, ‘I’m sure I’ve no idea why Miss Millish should give herself airs and graces. What makes her so grand, when you think about it?’
‘You’re speaking of a young lady who is one of our most valued clients, my dear,’ Henry reminded her.
‘Oh, I know all that,’ Constance said impatiently. ‘But really, with her background? With no one knowing what sort of people she came from? She certainly has no business looking down on anyone.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Susannah asked, clearly startled. ‘Surely the Millishes are one of the best families in Auckland?’
‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Millish were,’ said Constance. ‘But Miss Sarah came from nowhere.’ She observed Susannah’s puzzlement, and her eyes lit up with the delight of having a revelation to impart. ‘But don’t you know, Susannah? They adopted Miss Sarah. Surely you knew that?’
‘I had no idea.’ Susannah’s brow furrowed in thought. ‘She’s younger than Thomas, I think, so that must have happened after I left Auckland.’
‘Miss Millish came of age last year,’ Henry said. ‘I recall a good deal of to-ing and fro-ing in the office when she was taking control of her own affairs.’
‘Then she was born the year after George,’ said Susannah, still looking thoughtful.
‘But surely she was adopted from within the family, or least from among their acquaintance,’ Charlotte said, frowning. ‘They wouldn’t have taken a child they knew nothing about—not people like that, who moved in the best society.’
‘Oh, but that’s just what they did,’ Constance insisted. ‘Henry knows all about it.’
‘Well, I do recall it somewhat,’ Henry allowed. ‘Though I wasn’t directly involved—I’ve never had the honour of handling the Millish affairs myself. But I remember discussions in the office when it was in process. They only had the one child—a son—and Mrs Millish dearly wanted a daughter. Dewar put them in contact with a lady who arranged such things, and that’s how they came to find little Sarah.’
He smiled at the memory. ‘It was supposedly for his wife’s sake that Fred Millish went to so much trouble, but he was as besotted with Sarah as she was—probably more so. Especially after their boy died. I remember he used to bring her into the office occasionally, right from when she was quite a small girl. Such a bright little thing, she was. She had a way about her, even then—she’d look straight at you, with those huge blue eyes of hers, and somehow you felt you needed to make a good account of yourself.’
‘But a child they knew nothing of,’ Charlotte said, her distaste clear from her expression. ‘That would be like taking in one of those grubby urchins one sometimes sees playing in the gutters. It’s likely enough the mother was a woman of ill repute. Think of bringing such a child into one’s house! It might be diseased. Or it might be inclined to wickedness—with a mother like that, it might carry bad blood.’
To Henry’s annoyance, Constance was nodding in prim agreement. ‘I must say I never quite approved of the idea myself,’ she said.
‘Fortunately for the child in question,’ Henry said, making no attempt to keep the sharpness out of his voice, ‘the Millishes didn’t think in that way. Fortunately for them as well—Sarah brought them both a great deal of joy.’ He gave Constance a reproving glance, and was pleased to see a look of chagrin flit across her face. ‘And in fact—not that it’s any of our business—they did know a little about the mother. She was a very young girl, from some tiny place out in the countryside. I can’t find it in my heart to think ill of such a poor, misused creature. As for the father…’ Henry grimaced. ‘I believe we can make a reasonable assessment of his character by the fact that the girl was left to fend for herself in such a state. I have no desire for any further knowledge of such a man as that.’
The room was briefly silent. Constance looked somewhat abashed, and Charlotte’s expression of distaste had slipped a little. And Susannah… Henry looked at Susannah in surprise. She had not said a word for some time, but she was gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that he could see her knuckles whitening.
She became aware that she was being observed. She placed her hands in her lap and looked across the room, as if the far wall had suddenly become of interest to her.
Prudishness, Henry decided. The mention of women of ill repute must have offended her sensibilitie
s. Though it was surely not prudishness leading Jimmy to stare so intently at Susannah, who was resolutely ignoring his attention.
Constance remarked on the likelihood of fine weather the next day; Susannah made an equally inconsequential response, and the strained moment passed. After a few minutes of such idle conversation around the room, Susannah rose from her chair.
‘I think I shall retire for the night. I find myself rather tired this evening. Good night, everyone.’
She left the room too quickly for Charlotte to have the opportunity to make any further remarks about country hours.
Henry stood politely to see her out of the room, then strolled over to the mantelpiece, where he had left his cup of tea. When he looked back, he saw Jimmy slipping out of the room in Susannah’s wake.
Jimmy was certainly taking a good deal more notice of his sister than was his habit. Henry contrived to cross the room without making it obvious he was following Jimmy; fortunately Constance and Charlotte were sharing some piece of interesting gossip. He paused in the doorway, from where he had a good view of the base of the staircase.
Susannah had one hand on the stair rail, and was standing on the lowest step with her face on a level with Jimmy’s. They were conversing rapidly, but in low voices, so that Henry could not make out what they were saying. Susannah was clearly becoming more agitated by the moment. Her voice rose enough for Henry to catch the words, ‘Of course I didn’t know! And I don’t wish to speak of it. Leave me alone.’
She made to turn away and mount the stairs, but Jimmy took hold of her arm. When she attempted to wrest it free, he took a firmer hold and brought his face closer to hers.
Henry took a few steps forward, deliberately making enough noise to be heard. ‘Is everything all right, Susannah?’ he asked.
Susannah gracefully removed her arm from Jimmy’s grasp. ‘Of course. I was just saying good night to James.’ She nodded to both men, and glided off up the stairs.
Henry turned a quizzical look on Jimmy, who met it with his usual bluff smile. ‘It’s about time I took Charlotte home, I suppose,’ said Jimmy. ‘Any chance of a nightcap first, Henry? I noticed your brandy decanter’s looking comfortably full.’
A Second Chance Page 26
