by Susan Hill
She would have said. But did not.
Nor ask, ‘And you? What of you, alone here for almost two years? Tell me that.’
But did not.
The cottage had not changed, nor this room in it, nor the wood behind it, nor the water-meadows that led to the river.
But Marjorie Pepys had changed. Seeing her, first, at the door, Miss Hartshorn had almost recoiled, with shock and distress.
Now, she sat opposite to her across the hearth and saw that she had missed the last years of her friend’s life, and must soon lose her, and then, be alone here, to come to terms with her death, and her own burden of guilt.
Marjorie Pepys’s sight was failing, the eyes rheumy and vague. She had been a plump woman and now, she was thin, thin as a bird, with fragile, brittle bones sticking out through the stretched, dry, parchment skin.
She had been dark, and now was grey, the hair like fluff; had been confident, definite, certain, her movements sure, and now trembled and fumbled and shrank back into herself.
Yet she had said nothing, given no hint of illness in any letter, and so, in what way could it be referred to, this terrible, final change, what words would encompass it? There were none.
Only, within her, Miss Hartshorn’s voice called out, for an answer, an explanation, and tried to comfort and reassure.
But aloud, they merely spoke of the wind in the trees and the rising river and the dog, which lay on the hearthrug between them and still smelled chokingly, and Miss Hartshorn unpacked a little and brought out a gift or two, trivial things. Wondered fleetingly about Kitty. But did not care.
Only once, as she passed close to her chair, on the way out of the stifling little room, Marjorie Pepys reached out and perhaps tried to touch her hand and hold it. But the gesture was vague and made in the wrong direction, and came to nothing, after all.
8
AND THE sun shone and the air was mild, and suddenly, miraculously, for this one day, it was already spring. The light bathed the stones of the buildings and sparkled on the river and played on the arches of the bridges that spanned it.
Waking at dawn, in the pretty new room, and drawing her curtains back, Kitty saw a new world, in a soft, pale light of a kind she had never seen or imagined, rare, beautiful; and at once, all the greyness, the cold and rain of her first days here were swept away, and with them her own apprehensions and low spirits.
‘Oh, but it is beautiful!’ she said, walking up the avenue with her cousin, under the boughs of the bare trees. ‘Oh!’
They stopped. Ahead of them, across the green lawns, King’s chapel soared to heaven, riding, like a great ship moored. Birds wheeled in the sky, above the towers and turrets and pinnacles and tree-tops all around.
‘It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’
And Florence, looking at her rapt face, caught Kitty’s delight and saw it all anew herself and gloried in it and her own spirits rose, too.
They walked slowly on. At their feet, the open cups of crocuses sprouted from the new grass, maundy purple, white and egg-yolk gold. A thrush delved between.
On the river, and in the mud beside the river, ducks dived, and bobbed about in pairs, moorhens swam and the willows were hazed yellow-green.
‘Oh!’ Kitty said again, and again, ‘Oh!’ and turned this way and that as they walked, looking in amazement around her.
And so they went about the whole morning, walked and walked in the limpid sunshine, under archways and through gateways, in and out of courts. Went into a tea-shop to drink hot chocolate (for, out of the sun, the east wind still blew cold down passageways and across the grass from off the far Fens), came out again, among the horses and cabs, young men and the bicycles, to walk further still, Kitty’s head a kaleidoscope of everything she saw, her eyes feasted on it in jubilation, it seemed that she could walk and look for hours and never tire, and so, Florence, walking with her, did not tire either.
And the spring sun shone on old Mrs Gray, sitting in the bay window, who felt it warm on her face, and closed her eyes and dozed a little in pleasure, and Georgiana opened the doors of the window that let onto the garden and went out, lighter of heart than for weeks past, to look for signs of the upturn of the year, among the shrubs and plants.
It was, for this one day, as if the world stood quite still, suspended, between the gales and cold and lowering skies of the long winter and others, perhaps, to come, and within this frail capsule of warmth and new light, people blossomed briefly, and were soothed, smiled at one another and spoke and strolled more quietly through the streets and stood companionably in groups on the paths beside the grass and running down to the river.
At the house in the country, which had been taken over at last by workmen, by joiners and tilers and painters and boys carrying hods, the sun shone through empty window sockets and lay in lemon-coloured fans across the bare, dusty boards, and at noon, the men took their bread outside, to sit on piles of stones and planks about the derelict yards and cobbles, snatching what they could of this unlooked-for spring, before going back, to prepare the place for so many as yet unfallen women.
And other women stood in the open doorways of cottages and for a few minutes, took the sun, and the babies played in the dirt at their feet, and out on the Fens, the warmth briefly stirred men and birds and plants and all the rest into new life.
But in the end, after all, they must return for lunch. Though Kitty protested, feeling that she might walk, or even dance, in the sun here for ever.
Only, in King’s Parade, Florence met a friend, newly returned from away, and must talk, and so, Kitty went on ahead, through the gateway and around the paths, slowly, in the direction of the river, and felt, at once, very, very young, new-born on such a morning, and altogether adult, to be here, for these moments, quite alone.
Which was how Thomas Cavendish saw her, standing quite still on the curved stone bridge.
(And he, head down, was preoccupied, going over and over his talk with Daubeney, and all that might follow from it. Though he was also aware of the day, that it seemed to be spring.)
He did not know her. There was no reason why he should know her.
It was simply that, stepping aside to make way for someone or other, and looking up, he saw her there.
She wore a pale dress and coat and her hair was off her face. Her hand rested on the parapet. And he was reminded of some still, entirely graceful bird, glimpsed on the margin of the shore.
She did not look in his direction.
And so, after a moment, he walked on, towards the streets of the town and the college at which he was to lunch.
And it was not for ten minutes or so more that Florence came, hurrying to rejoin Kitty, he and she did not meet then at all.
Why does the weather affect us so? Georgiana thought. She had carried one of the basket chairs onto the terrace, and sat there, her hands idle in her lap. Why should this sun, this unexpected warmth and how the earth smells, the cloudlessness of the sky, make such a difference to everything, to the way we feel and hope and behave towards one another?
The previous day, and for some weeks past, she had been tired and bleak-spirited, there had seemed to be so little point to anything in her life – in all their lives.
Yet now, in this first spring sunshine, there seemed nothing wrong that could not easily be put right, and she looked to a new future, new prospects – though how, or of what, she could not have told.
And of course, the previous day had not only been cold still, cold and wet with a harsh wind blowing about the curded grey sky, it had been the day of Mary Dundas’s funeral. Georgiana had followed the coffin, had stood in the dark little chapel, and at the burial ground, beside the open grave, and been entirely alone, save for the clergyman and some hospital official, a bald man in a dun-coloured coat, to whom she did not speak. And feeling the harsh, spiteful, pins of rain on her face, she had wept, tears of anger and bitterness and guilt, as well as of sadness, that anyone should have lived through th
eir last weeks – and how many others before? – and died and now should be buried so, without family or friends. Even I, she had thought in shame, I am only here when it is too late. For Mary Dundas sent for me – though I scarcely remembered her – and I delayed and did not come, until after she was dead – and was there any good reason for that?
There are too many alone, she said. And as she stood there, looking down at the crumblings of earth on the bare coffin, had thought of so many. And then of Florence, alone, for all there was her old mother, and Adèle Hemmings, with no one save for the unloved, unloving aunt. And she herself, too, she realised, she and Thomas, for whichever of them died first would leave the other quite alone.
Unless, she supposed vaguely, her brother were to marry. But dismissed the idea at once, knowing that he would not.
She thought of Alice.
So that, as soon as she reached home, she had gone to talk to her, for a long time, sat on the chair beside the range in the kitchen, and told her about Mary Dundas’s funeral, and then, for something else to say, about Florence’s cousin, Kitty Moorehead from India. (Though Alice, used to being left to herself, was disturbed, and looked at Georgiana oddly from time to time, uneasy until, in the end, she left. For Alice had her friends, the others who went with her to the spiritualist church as well as those awaiting them there, and who were always with her now, presences, voices, so that Alice never felt truly alone.)
There was warmth and balminess in the air until late in the afternoon, though the shadows were long, and the sun had gone off the garden. Georgiana walked up to where the clumps of daffodils were bright – brighter even since that morning, against the dark leaves of the laurels and rhododendrons, and the last of the snowdrops hid beside the first of the crocuses, at the foot of the trunk of the great old beech.
And her heart was lighter; she had prayed for the soul of Mary Dundas but then, put the memory of her, and of the previous day, behind her, for she could do nothing else now.
She looked forward to a meeting of the friends of the Missions to China, later that week, and a visit she was to make to a Home for Moral Welfare in London, and to Florence’s coming to dinner with her cousin Kitty Moorehead. She looked forward to the summer and the shouts of the young men as they rowed down the river and the garden parties and the music that would float across from summer balls. Life seemed suddenly to be springing up again all around her, there was brightness and laughter and hope in the world.
So that, arriving home a little early, while she was still outside in the last of the late afternoon light, Thomas saw the change in her at once, something lighter, younger in her face and her eyes, and his own spirits were lifted by it, and he laughed with her over some story, as they took a last, slow turn around the garden, and the sky above the bare trees was streaked rose and violet and gold.
‘I have not spoken to you until now – there was so much to think of.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I am still thinking of it – I have not yet come to terms with the idea.’
‘So you have made no decision?’
‘No, no. And naturally I had to consult you in every way. It is only that you have seemed rather – rather tired. I thought it best not to trouble you.’
‘Yes. I have been very low-spirited. Not completely well. So many things have oppressed me.’
‘But it is not like you to give in to that – you have so much energy, you always face things with such vigour … you know I have always admired that in you – admired your courageousness.’
She looked up at him in astonishment, and flushed a little, for pleasure. Praise from him now was as much her lifeblood as it had ever been, she felt at once prouder, stronger in the light of his approval.
And, looking at him across the room, she began to consider him already as Master of the college, and it seemed to her an inevitable thing, though the idea had never, in truth, occurred to her before now. He had the stature for it and the gravity.
‘Oh, it is what you deserve!’ she said in earnest.
‘Deserve? Why so?’
‘Because you are – oh, you are a fine scholar, you have good judgement, you are wise. You have served the college faithfully … and because … because it seems natural and right.’
For a moment, he smiled, as he had often smiled at her when she was a girl, and had been extravagant in praise of him, believing him, as she had, to be a giant, a hero, a god.
‘And you are exactly the right age, you have many more vigorous years ahead.’
‘But you are speaking as if the matter is settled, decided, and of course you know that it is not. Daubeney has raised the subject …’
‘And told you that you would have the clear majority of the college in your favour.’
‘Yes.’
But then, for a long time he was silent, staring into the fire – for the evening had grown suddenly cold, it was not yet spring after all.
Was it this? Georgiana wondered. This, knowing it, somehow, even before I knew it, this which gave me new hope, and stirred some interest in the future again?
Strangely, she realised that the idea of leaving this house, in which she had lived so comfortably for so many years, did not trouble her at all. They would, she supposed, simply let it, and it would be here for them to return to in old age, at the end of it all.
She thought of the Master’s lodging, tall, finely proportioned, gracing the corner of the inner court, went through what rooms she knew in her mind, and around the beautiful garden, whose lawns ran down to the river.
She had never been ambitious for herself – never, even, to marry and have her own family, she was content, so long as she had a few of her own useful activities, to live through him. But she would enjoy being the mistress of that house, she thought, now, and felt a stirring of excitement, pride even, at the prospect of their new station. And was surprised at herself, and sufficiently human, sufficiently detached, to be a little amused, too.
Thought, suddenly – but Florence would want it. Yes.
Then, looking at her brother’s face again, said, ‘But you are not sure at all.’
‘No.’
‘You don’t doubt your own abilities – or that you would be a fitting man for the position?’
‘No. I think not.’
‘Then what?’
He stood up, and went to the window, drew the curtain back a little. The moon had risen.
‘Perhaps … I am very happy as I am. I have all I have ever wanted. I am simply not ambitious in that way.’
‘No.’
‘Should I be?’
‘Oh, you are as you are, Thomas … you should be true to that. Only …’
‘It is what you want for me.’
‘Only do not dismiss it because you are comfortable … would rather not be disturbed.’
‘Afraid to change?’
‘Yes.’
‘Slothful?’
‘No, no. But … I am only asking you to consider it carefully … look ahead.’
‘I do.’
‘And … and it is an honour, surely?’
He glanced round, hearing the note of pride in her voice, warmed, as he had always been, by her love and support for him. Remembered that she had devoted herself and her life, to him. Perhaps she deserved this. He should think of that.
And he could not pretend that he had not been flattered, and, perhaps, would revel in it all, in the authority, the power even.
But, after a few minutes more, he put it out of his mind, unable to reach any conclusion, and unwilling to fret over it longer, and went into the conservatory, to see to the little birds. And afterwards, worked until very late, on his bird book, and drew more than his usual joy and satisfaction from it, drinking it in like cool water. For this was what he wanted, what he did best, loved best, to be here, in this quiet room, among these books and maps and drawings and birds. Here, or else out on the marshes in his boat. These were the only places.
Everything else,
he thought, must resolve itself as it would, but he would not trouble himself greatly with it.
But, at the back of his mind, there was something else, some other half-remembered thing, some sight, or awareness or emotion. But he could not recall it or name it. It was simply as though there were some area of warmth and brightness which, from time to time, as he worked, he felt himself close to, as he might row out of the shadows into a patch of sunlit water, and it was, in some strange way he did not understand, an inexpressible source of joy and absolute content.
But what? What?
9
LATER, THE weather would change again, later, clouds would bank up and gales rush in, driving rain before them from the west. Later, only a little later, winter would return, and the one bright day of spring be scarcely remembered.
But now, it was a still, mild night, now the moon rode, and shone on the grey houses, the calm fields.
On Florence, sleeping a satisfied sleep, for now she felt that it was her mission to guide her cousin Kitty, and help her take full advantage of England, for the time being, she was happy and full of good purpose.
(Though every night, she remembered the words of the Professor of Fine Art: ‘A woman can make any man marry her, if only she will go about it in the right way.’ For she was not deflected from her purpose.)
On old Mrs Gray, awake, as always, and eating biscuits from a rose-patterned tin, and drinking Malvern water, and contemplating Kitty Moorehead, Eleanor’s child. Plain, she thought, a plain girl, and yet hovering on the brink of beauty. A child, and yet a child no longer.
Well, she would do to occupy Florence, who had had too little to do with the young, never having had children of her own, and might soften her.
Though the diversion would not last. For she was thoroughly aware of her daughter’s desires and frustrations.
She selected another biscuit, and listened with pleasure to the owls in the trees on the far side of the river. The old, she thought, can do anything, say anything, and be indulged, forgiven. Like children. It is our reward, we should make the most of it. But how many did, how many did?
