by Mary Mackie
‘Oh – yes. Yes, I probably would,’ I agreed.
‘And would you, indeed?’ The hiss came from Agnes, who strode suddenly to the centre of the room. In her unrelieved black with her grey hair flowing wildly, she reminded me of one of Macbeth’s witches – Basil and I had seen the play in London. ‘Would you?! I must speak with you, Rose. I must speak with you alone. Come…’
She stumped to the door, went out.
‘Yes, go with her,’ Mrs Wyatt said. ‘Maybe you can ease her mind. She’s taking it hard.’
Agnes had gone ahead. I followed her receding figure up the main stairs, around the gallery, along the bedroom corridor and up the bare back stairs. Seeming anxious to put as much space as possible between us and the family, she led me all the way up to the old schoolroom in the attic.
Two small windows looked out under eaves, across a parapet roofed with lead, to distant woods veiled behind a flurry of falling snow. It was cold there, echoing and dusty, filled with memories, the desks still set in two rows, the board still bearing scrawls of chalk; even the pointer that Fraulein Griebel had used to emphasise her lessons lay as she might have left it minutes before. ‘Now come, my young ladies, you will pay attention to me please!’ Her voice came clear in my head and I saw dusty sunlight stream, and the three of us – Felicity, Cassie and myself – sitting at the desks. Those days of a merry long ago were almost tangible.
‘And where were you?’ Aunt Agnes’s cry seemed to come from far distances, as if she were the ghost in this scene. ‘Where were you when she was asking for you so pitifully? Off in London, with that… that creature you call a husband. It’s unforgivable. Unforgivable!’ The bare floor echoed to the thud of her heels as she strode, her arms wrapped about herself as if she were in pain. ‘You helped to kill her. Do you know that?’
The charge brought me back to the present. ‘What?’
‘When she knew what you’d done – when she heard that you’d married in secret and run off – she wept bitterly for you. She blamed herself for it.’
‘Why should she blame herself for what happened to me?’
‘She felt she should have been able to save you from yourself. She wouldn’t accept that you have always gone your own wilful way, that no one on this earth could ever divert you once your mind was made up. God knows I’ve tried often enough. And your father. You were his despair.’
‘No!’ Lifting my head I faced her squarely in the dim weird snowlight. ‘No, don’t make me feel guilty about that too. I won’t accept it. I know you’re grieving. But you’re not alone in that. If I had known Cassie was so ill…’
‘You never cared how ill she was!’
Watching her eyes glimmer in her pale, lined face with its frame of lank grey hair, I felt only a numb bewilderment. ‘Why do you hate me so, Aunt Agnes? I know I disappointed you, but—’
‘Disappointed! That tells only half of it. I believed you were truly sorry. I believed you had learned your lesson. Once I could forgive. But twice is too much. Twice is wilful stupidity.’
Knowing well what she meant, I straightened my back, feeling calm and clear-headed. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Are you going to make me say it – what the entire county is saying - that, with her father scarcely cold in his grave, Rose Hamilton went and got herself in the family way and had to get married, in secret and in shame?’
I was trembling, but my voice sounded level enough. ‘Is that what Cassie believed?’
‘Yes!’ As the cry hung between us she seemed to feel it turn on her. She sank down on one of the small chairs, leaning her elbows on a desk, head in hands, saying in a muffled voice, ‘No… No, Cassie never believed ill of you. She always made excuses for you. Cassie was an angel. Too good for this earth.’
Drawing a long, deep breath, I let it sigh out of me. ‘Thank you. I needed to know that.’
She flung me a scornful glance as she stood up again and paced away. ‘I had to tell the truth for her sake. Not for yours. She was a saint. So sweet and good herself she could never think ill of anyone – even if it was so blatantly obvious that—’
‘I married Basil because of the farm, because my father asked me to keep Orchards. No other reason.’
Agnes stared at me, reading my thoughts, believing me and yet still finding reason to hate me.
Fierce emotion welled up in me, a mixture of grief and anger and deep hurt. ‘I never did understand what you expected of me, Aunt. Something I couldn’t give, evidently. Did you expect me to be a replica of you? To live the life you planned for me? But I’m not you. I never could be.’
‘God forbid!’ she got out, choking on the words. She stood erect, a statue with grief hammered into every line, and then her whole body shook, shuddered. Sobs dredged up from deep within her and she fell to her knees, her mouth an ugly shape letting forth ugly sounds.
I stood beside her, awkwardly stroking her shoulder, not knowing how to cope with my aunt in this strange state. ‘Agnes… Yes, weep for her. Weep for us all. We shall miss her. You’re right, she was a good sweet soul. And now she’s at rest. Gone to a better place, where she’ll be whole again, able to run and ride and laugh…’
A cry jerked out of her and she threw back her head, laughing bitterly. ‘You don’t believe that. You don’t believe it any more than I do. There’s no heaven. There’s a hell, but that’s here on earth and we create it for ourselves. Beyond the grave there’s nothing. Only darkness, and silence – and peace. That’s so, isn’t it?’ She clutched at my hand, holding it in fingers like clawing talons, her eyes full of fear. ‘Tell me that’s so. It can’t go on, surely. Oh, it can’t!’ The last words came on a deep, shuddering cry of despair as she sank back on her heels, hiding her face in her hands.
Fearing that grief had made her mad, I bent over her, trying to persuade her to her feet. ‘Come, Aunt. It’s cold in here. Get up and come back where it’s warm. Cassie wouldn’t have wanted you to distress yourself. For her sake…’
She allowed me to help her up. She seemed feeble, like an old, old woman, weeping softly and quietly now as if all her defences were gone. Leaning on me, she let me guide her down the narrow back stairs to her room, where a fire burned and her familiar books crowded every space.
I rang for the maid and ordered hot chocolate to be brought. While we waited I brushed Agnes’s coarse hair, braiding it so that she looked tidier, less like a witch.
‘Cassie used to brush my hair,’ she said as if to herself, then reached up and caught my hand, lifting her face to look at me. ‘Tragedies come in threes, Rose. Your father, now Cassie… Who will be next, I wonder? Who will be next?’
Could this be my aunt – my practical, logical aunt? ‘You’re upset. In a few days you’ll see it differently.’
She gazed at me with anxious, brimming eyes. ‘Is there a heaven, Rose? Is there? Tell me it’s not so! Because if there is… if there is, then there must also be hellfire and damnation waiting for wicked sinners like me.’
By the time I left she seemed calmer, but even so the memory of the encounter troubled me deeply.
* * *
A letter from Mama awaited me at the farm. Sentences wandering off in strange directions, she wrote that she understood about our being married, that she was happy to welcome Basil as her son-in-law.
I was always exceedingly fond of him, as you know, Rose, and his dear uncle George who has always been so kind and brought those tasty pheasants that first Christmas. Grace sends her love and good wishes. She is becoming a little heavy round the waist but that’s only to be expected. I only pray she will not have the troubles I had. I shall be staying with her, of course, until the baby is born. Some time in May, the doctor tells us…
In her usual vague way, Mama glossed over difficulties, like a skater scribbling over the surface of ice until the depths are hidden beneath a white frosting.
Meanwhile the boy Jack settled in. He ate in the farm kitchen and slept in a corner of a store-r
oom over the stables, from where he acted as a general yard-hand for both Benstead and Ned Plant. They complained of his cheekiness, but they both agreed he was a good worker. Mrs Benstead reported approvingly that the boy had a good appetite; she had seldom seen a child eat so heartily. It made her feel proud to see the way he tucked in, and to hear the way he praised her cooking.
Jack Huggins flourished. He had an easy charm, a silver tongue. I doubted he would ever contend for sainthood, but he worked hard and, as far as I knew, he never stole again. Not from me, anyway.
* * *
They buried Cassie in Feltham churchyard, with full pomp. Young girls dressed in white accompanied the coffin. It pleased Mrs Wyatt to dress all her daughters in white, too, as a tribute to Cassie’s purity of mind and body. My aunt wore deepest black, and behind her heavy veil her eyes were dead. She remained aloof, distanced by some extremity of emotion that was more than grief. I could not reach her.
During the ceremony I thought about Cassie and our long friendship: the accident, the years of girlhood when she and I had been so close, and the events that had separated us. I had not been a constant friend, that I knew. My own selfish needs had come first. Now, too late, I wished I had taken more time to talk with Cassie and benefit from her gentle wisdom. And I wished I had come home in time to say goodbye to her.
All the time, in the back of my mind, I wondered if Geoffrey was there. I tried not to look for him, but as we moved from church to graveside, umbrellas raised against a cold, persistent February drizzle, I caught a glimpse of his profile among the crowd and pain skewered through me. Pain, and shame, and the damning knowledge that I would go through life in this same way, catching glimpses of him and hurting for what might have been. Fate drove us ever further apart, but nothing changed my feelings for him.
Later, at the Grange, I happened to be crossing the hall with Felicity as Geoffrey was taking his leave of Mr Wyatt. Felicity paused to speak to him while I stood apart watching them, wondering why Geoffrey looked so drawn and tired.
‘Everyone who knew Miss Cassie will sorely miss her,’ he said.
We all murmured our assent to that.
A footman approached, bearing Geoffrey’s hat and coat which he took, saying, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me. My wife…’
‘Of course, dear boy, of course,’ Mr Wyatt murmured. ‘Give her our best wishes. I trust she’ll be fit again very soon.’
‘Thank you. Goodbye, Mr Wyatt. Miss Wyatt. Mis… Mrs Pooley.’
Once we had read each other’s thoughts with uncanny ease, empathy flowing between us. Now the slate-blue eyes were shuttered against me, like opening a familiar door and finding a blank wall.
When he had gone, I said, ‘Is young Mrs Devlin unwell?’
‘Just a slight indisposition,’ Felicity replied. ‘Poor Lucy is not the strongest of women, I fear.’
Her father blew down his nose, shaking his head. ‘Geoffrey’s too protective, that’s the trouble. She should be drawn out of that shyness of hers, not allowed to indulge it.’
Returning to Orchards, I remained enwrapped in a cocoon of hurt and grief, having no appetite and no wish for conversation. I went early to bed, but such were my thoughts that I was still wakeful when Basil came up. We exchanged a few desultory words as he undressed, but when he put out the candles and climbed in beside me, reaching for me, I moved away.
‘Not tonight.’
‘That’s what you’ve been saying since we got back! Wait until after the funeral, you said.’
‘But not immediately after! Can’t you understand how I feel? Cassie was my best friend.’
Making his reluctance clear, he drew away and turned over, thumping the pillow angrily before settling down.
How strange the mind is. On that night of all nights, I dreamed vividly of Geoffrey, of running through sunlit woods with him, laughing with him, embracing him. In my dream I knew we were about to make love. I ran to meet him through a house with long, echoing corridors, where I burst into the attic schoolroom knowing my young lover was waiting for me – and found there a coffin set on bare trestles. Pierced by the unbearable thought of Geoffrey lying dead, I approached with fearful step. But the man in the coffin was my father, and as I saw him he opened his eyes and sat up—
I woke with a gasp, relieved to find it just a dream, breathing hard to calm my pulse and drive away the lingering shreds of fear. It was dawn. Grey light filtered between the curtains, turning the furniture in the room to murky shapes.
It was then I heard a sound, faint and far away. I identified it as a shot – a single distant blast. It made me sit half up, listening.
‘Whassup?’ Basil muttered.
‘There was a shot. I heard a shot.’
‘In the middle of the night? Don’t be stupid, Rose. Go to sleep.’
‘It’s not the middle of the night. It’s time we were up.’ I threw the covers back, reaching for my wrap.
‘What?’ He groped for the pocket-watch he had left on the bedside table, peering at it in the dim light. ‘It’s not yet five-thirty!’
‘We ought to go down to the yards and see the men. We can’t leave it to McDowall much longer. He needs guidance.’
Basil lay down, wrapping the sheets close about his neck and over his face. ‘Then you go.’ After a moment, goaded by my silence, he threw himself round to look at me. ‘I’m no farmer. You knew that when you married me. You’ve got a steward to manage the place. If you can’t trust him to do the job properly, then you’ll just have to see to it yourself. I’ve got other fish to fry.’
‘But I thought…’
‘What did you think?’
‘Nothing,’ I sighed. In truth, I hadn’t really thought about it at all. I had just assumed that he would at least take an interest. On reflection, it suited me not to have him interfering. With McDowall’s help, I was perfectly capable of running the farm.
* * *
Before eight o’clock, a messenger came from the Grange to enquire if my aunt was with me. A maid had found her room empty, her rumpled bed cold. A search of the house had discovered no trace of her. Yet her belongings remained – including all her clothes. It appeared that she must have gone out in her nightdress and blue velvet wrap.
All that might offer a clue was a sealed envelope, addressed to me. But the note inside it read only, ‘Forgive me, Rose. Please forgive me.’
The search ranged across fields and through woods, which was where she was eventually found. Lying cold and dead. Shot through the head.
Afterwards, my own imagination supplied the details of Agnes’s last walk through wet winter woods, as the sky lightened with dawn. Her bare feet muddied and scratched, her nightgown wet and torn, her hair wild and her eyes empty, she had wandered from the Grange and sought the shelter of the woods that lay between Orchards and Ambleford. In her hand she had carried one of Mr Wyatt’s shot-guns.
It could not have been an accident. She placed the muzzle of the shot-gun in her mouth. She used a cord to pull both triggers. A gamekeeper found her – not far from the place where an old hut stood rotting.
Two
Battered by all the blows of recent months, I sat with Basil in the parlour at Orchards as shadows gathered and the fire blazed brighter through the gloom. Because I needed to talk of it, I told him about my last conversation with Agnes. ‘She talked about hell. As if she was afraid of it. Do you think she meant to kill herself, even then?’
‘Who knows?’ he replied. ‘She was always half mad.’
‘Don’t say that!’
‘Well, she wasn’t normal. I remember tales being told about her from the time I was knee-high to a grasshopper.’
‘She was unconventional. People didn’t understand her, any more than they understand me. People are so narrow-minded. Break one or two of their petty rules and you’re outcast for ever.’
He looked at me sidelong, under his lashes. ‘It was more than a petty rule or two she broke, if what they say is true.’
‘Oh?’ I felt myself bristle, ready to defend my aunt. ‘And what do “they” say, pray?’
‘Never mind.’ He looked uncomfortable, as if he wished he had never said anything about it.
‘But I do mind. I want to know.’
‘You won’t like it.’
‘I’ll decide that for myself. Tell me. What are they saying about Agnes?’
Before replying, he took a cigar from a leather case and lit it with a spill from the hearth, drawing in a good lungful of smoke. I watched him with distaste. My father had always kept his smoking to the office and until now Basil had respected that tradition. Just as I was about to object, he said, ‘Never had any men-friends, did she? Always preferred women.’
‘And so?’
‘There’s a word for immoral practices like that.’
Rumours of such things had been whispered at school. Now the implications so frightened and incensed me that I threw myself at him, raining blows on the arms he threw up to defend himself. ‘How dare you! How dare you!’
He leapt up, easily fending off my attack. He drew back his arm and hit me. My head seemed to explode as his open palm spat against my cheek.
I staggered back and hung there, staring at him in disbelief, a hand cooling my aching flesh.
‘You forced me to do that,’ he said levelly. ‘Some things I’ll take. Some things I’ll not. Being slapped by my own wife’s one of them. You asked me to tell you.’
‘It’s not true! It’s not!’
He looked about to argue, but his expression changed and with one step he was beside me, his hands grasping my arms. ‘It’s not true about you, anyway, and that’s all I care.’
‘Me?’ I managed. ‘Did they say that I…?’ My grief and despair rose up and I turned away from him, a hand to my stinging eyes. ‘I’m going to rest for a while.’ Basil didn’t attempt to delay me.
In the room we now shared, I removed my outer clothes, loosened my stays and lay down under the coverlet. Agnes… Memory produced a hundred tiny glimpses – things my aunt had said, looks and caresses she had exchanged with female friends; her antipathy towards men, her delight when I seemed to be like her; her cold fury when I allowed myself to be seduced by a man. And… and, yes, dear heaven, her intimate closeness with Cassie which had made me feel so uncomfortable.
