Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Henry Colborne paced the length and breadth of the Longwater drawing room, muttering under his breath. His wife Anne watched him with her usual look of quiet concern; in her arms William fussed and kicked, knowing that he was far too old to be held like a baby.

  ‘Let him go, dear.’ Anne’s sister Lydia looked lovingly at William, who responded with an angelic smile. ‘He wants to run away and break something.’

  ‘That is exactly why I am holding him.’ Anne looked at her sister with a wry glance.

  ‘No, Anne. Let him go.’ Agnes, the youngest sister, smiled as she held her own infant tightly. ‘He needs to play… and besides, Henrietta will be back soon.’

  The adults looked meaningfully at one another. With a resigned nod, Anne let William clamber down from her lap; the small boy hugged her skirts with rapturous gratitude before running into the next room, whooping and yelling with joy. A hush fell over the room in the toddler’s absence; the sisters looked at one another, stealing occasional glances at Henry as he paced up and down.

  Finally, softly, the door to the drawing-room opened. Henrietta Westlake, born Hereford, walked in with a set face; the other sisters looked pleadingly at her, as if waiting for good news.

  ‘Well?’ Henry stared eagerly at Henrietta, who sat down in her chair with a quiet sigh. ‘Any developments?’

  ‘No. I am sorry, Henry, but no.’ Henrietta looked sadly at the assembled group. ‘She never leaves her room, even at night—and she is not using the secret passage behind the bookshelf, either. From what I can hear through the door, she dresses every morning, and brushes her hair, but no-one is seeing the results.’ She looked at Anne, whose face radiated concern. ‘She eats at the same time as she always does. She leaves cutlery, chamber pot and basin outside the door, early in the morning—but even then, she never makes herself seen. There is only her hand.’ A small note of worry intruded upon her impartial tone. ‘She… she seems very unwell. Should we inform those with whom she corresponds?’

  ‘No.’ Henry shook his head. ‘She hates people knowing when she is less than well.’

  ‘Has she ever been this bad before?’ Agnes swaddled the baby more tightly in her woollen blanket; the infant coughed, before settling into sleep once more. ‘She has taken to her room before, but not for this long. Not since we came to Longwater.’

  ‘You are right.’ Henry leaned forward in his chair, one hand on his chin. ‘There has been a lost day or two—normally when something has happened unexpectedly in the gardens. When the tree fell by the kitchen garden, for example. But…’ He sighed deeply. ‘The last time I remember it happening this severely, and for this long, was shortly after Roberto’s death.’

  A hush fell upon the group. Susan’s former husband was never discussed; least of all by Susan herself, who had never mentioned his name. Their marriage had been rich fodder for gossip, as had Roberto’s death—there had even been whispers, before Henry had stamped them out, that Susan had been in some way responsible for the tragedy, either directly through malice, or indirectly thanks to her infamous eccentricities. But Susan had kept silent, vanishing to her room for fourteen days before returning to rejoin the world, resolutely dressed in black.

  ‘Has there been a similar development in Susan’s life?’ Anne addressed the air, musing. ‘The loss of a friend, or… or a suitor?’

  ‘I read her letters.’ Henrietta didn’t even blush at admitting to such a brazen act. ‘At least, the ones that she leaves in the writing table. There seem to be no conflicts between her and her friends, and no missives of a romantic nature.’ She spoke carefully. ‘Susan has never seemed particularly inclined towards romance.’

  ‘She is not. But she cared for Roberto very deeply—after his death, we did not know if she would ever recover.’ Henry’s mouth had set into a hard, grim line. ‘Whatever has occurred this time… well. We will have to wait and see.’

  It was the baby. Susan, lying in bed fully-dressed, finally admitted it to herself; it was Agnes’ new baby, tiny and perfectly-formed, that had been the straw falling upon the overloaded camel’s back.

  How on earth was she meant to respond to it; a child, another child, coming to Longwater? Another explosion of chaos and untidiness; another half-wild creature who could not respect routine, order, seriousness. Susan had looked at the fragile baby, a girl, and felt a violent wave of panic that could not be quelled, even with all of her considerable strength.

  It wasn’t just the chaos that children brought. That was an element of the fear, but not the source of it. What had really terrified Susan, looking down at the cooing new baby, was the fact that another creature now existed that she would, without question, disappoint.

  She disappointed everyone. She had disappointed her parents; they had been the kindest, gentlest people she had known, refusing to confine her to an institution or forbid her the pleasures of a normal life, and yet she had still disappointed them with the very fact of her being; her silence, her fixedness, her insistence on repetition and routine to the exclusion of everything else. She frequently disappointed her friends; she could tell that they withdrew from her when she spoke at irritating length about a passion of hers, or an annoyance, without remembering to ask them the details of their own lives.

  Most of all, she disappointed the people she loved. Henry had always been patient with her, and she felt pathetically grateful to him for it—but even with her legendary lack of awareness for how others were feeling, Susan could sense his irritation whenever she panicked over an out-of-place cup, or a walk that continued for longer than it should. Anne had always been patient too, very patient, very kind… but still, everything had been so much easier when Anne was simply a single woman gardening in secret, and not the Duchess of Longwater.

  She had even disappointed Roberto. She had disappointed Roberto because she did not love him; not as he wanted to be loved, even though he didn’t love her. He believed he was owed her love, as a sort of gift in exchange for his kindness—and although they had become friends over time, true and constant friends, there had never been the closeness that Susan suspected Henry and Anne shared.

  That, as with everything else, had been her own fault. She had never wanted to do the things she saw women doing with the men they loved; the holding of hands, the kissing. Wanting to touch someone was so very rare for Susan, it almost felt like a miracle… and it felt like hell, pure hell, when Henry’s son hugged her legs and saw her wince at the unexpected contact.

  Life was becoming far too complicated. It hadn’t felt this complicated since Roberto’s death, when the bottom had fallen out of her world. When life became complicated, Susan fell sway to the dark, persistent urge that always tugged at her; she had to make life much, much simpler.

  She put on the same clothes every day, in the same order, and brushed her hair one hundred times. Then she read, and ate the food left outside her door, and lay on her bed until evening came—and then she prepared herself for sleep.

  This was what her days had become. What her life had become. Confined to the only space she could control; imprisoned by her own inability to manage what lay beyond her bedroom door. She rose, and dressed, and brushed her hair, for all the world as if she would follow her normal routine… and then the day sunk into a grey soup, time ceasing to have meaning, and all Susan could do was read, and count. Read, and count, until the sun rose on the same eternal day.

  She counted the panes of glass in her windows. She read each and every book in her bookcase in rigid order, then counted her books, then the number of pages in her books. These numbers were fixed; they were not mischievous, changeable, like the human souls she had unaccountably surrounded herself with.

  Susan loved humans, but found it very difficult to understand them—herself included. Reading and counting she could both love and understand, so she did it as much as possible. It was only now, on the seventh day of counting and reading in her bedroom, that she began to fear her routines as deeply as she loved them.


  She had only left her room after Roberto died because of Henry. He had come back from another of his long, disreputable stretches in London; he had needed guidance, a firm hand, and Susan had always been able to provide it. But Henry was married now, married, reformed, a father… and Susan was who she had always been.

  Robert’s loss had almost killed her. They had never loved one another, except as the best and truest of friends—but losing a true, best friend had been one of the worst things in the world.

  Unaccountably, like the bright wings of a rare bird amidst a flock of sparrows, she thought of Oliver Whitstable. That was another thing she read; his letters, over and over again, in the manner of a mantra.

  She looked at the bundle of letters from Oliver, wondering why she kept them here in her bedroom instead of downstairs in her writing desk. There was nothing untoward in them; the only immoderate feature of their correspondence was the space each gave to their special interests—animals for Oliver, plants for Susan—which ran to many densely-written pages, along with the usual discussions of estate management and family life. Still, she kept them close by; almost as a talisman, a link to a happier self that seemed to be rapidly disappearing.

  Did any other writing companion allow her such space to be herself; her exaggerated, unbalanced self? No; only Oliver gave her such freedom. That was why she kept his letters close to her, then. There was no other reason worth considering.

  Leaning back against her pillows, she picked a letter from the neatly-wrapped bundle. Number thirty-four; she knew this one almost by heart, complete with its amusing digression concerning a hungry ibex. The newer letter lay at the bottom of her bed; at night, when she woke at the slightest noise, Susan had been composing her replies.

  She couldn’t send them, of course. She was far too frightened to leave her room, let alone speak to someone for long enough to order them to post a letter. But perhaps, at some uncertain point in the future, she would be able to slide them under the door and hope that Henry—it would have to be Henry, or Anne—would post them without asking.

  She opened the seal, the quiet rustle of the paper calming a part of her that twinged with tension. Oliver’s writing was regular, dependable; the words flowed through Susan’s mind, steady as a river, slowly coaxing her into a dozing state.

  The roses survived! I am glad. Now; tell me some grasses that an ibex could comfortably eat…

  The carriage raced through the silent lanes that led from Rowhaven to Bath as the morning ripened, startled birds flying up in clouds from freshly-planted fields as the horses whinnied their displeasure. Oliver Whitstable paid them no mind; he could tell their species from the shape of their wings, even after a moment’s glance, and already knew that none of them were intriguing enough to study more closely.

  ‘Father!’ Olive Whitstable’s panicked tone floated out of the carriage window, where it was quickly whipped away by the wind. ‘I must, once again, highlight the drawbacks inherent in this particular course of action!’

  Oliver, looking tenderly back at his daughter, ignored her words completely. Olive had always been the worrying kind—much like her mother, before a fever had taken her innumerable years ago—and as wise as she was, with all of the elegant words and fine turns of phrase that expensive tutors had given her, there were some moments in which it was better to pretend she hadn’t said anything.

  He hunched over as the breeze bit into his clothes, and urged the horses onward with a touch of the crop. The beasts, obedient to their master despite their annoyance at having to work so hard, made the carriage wheels rattle as they cantered over the quiet country lanes.

  Above them, the magnificent figure of Sheba the albatross flew steadily overhead.

  Perhaps bringing Sheba had been unwise. Oliver wasn’t sure how receptive the Longwater Estate was to animals; no cats or dogs had ever been mentioned, let alone sea birds the size of foals. But Sheba was proud, and set in her ways; without Oliver to feed her, it was entirely possible that the enormous bird would choose to pine away and die.

  Oliver blinked as he dismissed such thoughts. Susan Colborne hadn’t sent a letter in over a week, and he was beginning to be very worried indeed.

  ‘Father!’ Olive’s voice was a little more strident now; with a tut of annoyance, Oliver turned again. Olive’s head was now halfway out of the carriage window, her bonnet in danger of being blown off. ‘I know speaking to you about this is about as useful as conversing with a garden wall, but try not to imagine the worst! Susan—well, perhaps she is simply busy!’

  Oliver shook his head, pushing the horses to move still faster. ‘She is ordered in her habits, Olive. Just as I am.’ He chuckled at the very thought of Susan simply deciding to miss a week of correspondence; why, the woman’s letters were always the same number of lines. ‘If she has not written in a week, then something very unusual has occurred.’

  ‘And if you had informed me of this after two days, and not an entire week, I could have written to Henrietta and had the whole matter resolved!’ There was a real edge of anger to Olive’s voice. ‘But instead, I am woken a minute after sunrise and ordered to dress for Longwater, for all the world as if I am part of a regiment!’

  Oliver paused. In truth, informing his daughter earlier of the absent letters would have been the wiser course of action; he was a logical man, when pressed. But his correspondence with Susan Colborne was his; he never read Susan’s letters to anyone else, despite their utter innocence in both content and style, and trusted that Susan extended him the same, odd courtesy.

  ‘As loath as I am to mention it, Father—perhaps you wrote something that has been misinterpreted?’ Olive pushed her head further out of the window, her eyes showing a hint of the concern that Oliver felt building in his breast. ‘Something that should not be written down, or should be written differently—’

  ‘Enough.’ Oliver spoke more sharply than he had intended; Olive, her face showing a resigned sort of disappointment, disappeared back inside the carriage.

  Oliver coaxed the horses onward with a mixture of curses and flicks of the reins, the animals’ hooves kicking up a cloud of dust and stones as the carriage kept moving. He realised after a short while that he was frowning; he looked back at the carriage, full of regret for how he had spoken to Olive, but by now it was far too late.

  His daughter was normally correct when it came to such things; if people were offended, and if so, how. For all his mastery of zoology, botany and the finer points of the reproductive systems of large mammals, people’s inner workings were a mystery to Oliver; what drove them, what pleased them and what did not. It was as if he had been born without the ability to taste lemon, or see the colour pink—he could get along perfectly well without it, but it occasionally caused problems. Especially if he were speaking to easily offended people, who didn’t necessarily want to see a sketch of the private workings of walrus congress in the middle of an afternoon tea…

  Susan was different, though. Susan had never responded with indifference or disgust to his many interests, or his habit of writing about them at length—why, she even asked questions, intelligent ones, or pointed out errors which Oliver had overlooked. Her interests, while separate from his own, often overlapped in the particulars; even when they didn’t, Oliver had rather enjoyed learning about the differences in certain soils, or types of apple tree, or which shade of yellow could result from boiling onion skins.

  In his letters to her, he had freed himself from society’s often overwhelming constraints—and she, in turn, appeared to have done the same. They had created a parallel state; one where men and women could speak at length of their passions, to the exclusion of all else, and not be judged for doing so. It was rare, and splendid, and stirring in a way that Oliver had never quite managed to categorise… and now, quite suddenly, it was over?

  No. No it could not be.

  A few mud-thatched houses stood in the distance; they were approaching Longwater, but needed to ride through the village first.
Oliver, thinking of Olive with a fresh wave of regret, brought the horses to a slow walk as they reached the first built-up street.

  ‘Go and buy a pencil and paper, dear, or pay a man to write a letter for you.’ He smiled apologetically as Olive emerged from the carriage, remembering her patiently explaining to him long ago that a smile often worked wonders for improving matters. ‘Get a boy to run it up to the estate. At least then they’ll have news of our coming.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ Olive patted his arm appreciatively, pushing her windswept hair back into place as she began walking towards the village. ‘A little good sense is more than warranted, in circumstances such as these.’

  ‘Quite.’ Oliver nodded as Olive turned away, sinking abruptly back into gloom as soon as his daughter had turned her back.

  They were so very close to Longwater. What could possibly be so wrong about riding directly to their door? He tried to think of the advantages that a letter would bring; at least this way his daughter would be content, and some fish could be found to feed Sheba…

  As if she had heard her name in his head, Sheba spiralled down to sit on the top of the carriage, above Oliver’s head. Leaning down, she gently bit his ear as a token of appreciation.

  ‘She will be perfectly well.’ Oliver looked up at Sheba, finding comfort in the bird’s black eye. ‘Will she not?’

  Sheba blinked. Apparently, as far as albatrosses knew, Susan’s health was anyone’s guess.

  The Longwater day dwindled into evening. Susan lay still in her bed, still rising to eat, brush her hair and count her books in perfect silence, until she heard a very distant clatter.

  It sounded like the dropping of a plate. She rose from her bed, slowly standing as she wondered which plate it had been.