Part 8 (1/2)

”Because I go on Monday. I came for the weekend only. Your G.o.dfather, Nick Kendall, has invited me to Pelyn.”

It seemed to me absurd, and altogether pointless, that she should s.h.i.+ft her quarters quite so soon.

”There's no need to go there,” I said, ”when you have only just arrived. You have plenty of time to visit Pelyn. You have not seen the half of this yet. I don't know what the servants would think, or the people on the estate. They would be deeply offended.”

”Would they?” she asked.

”Besides,” I said, ”there is the carrier coming from Plymouth, with all the plants and cuttings. You have to discuss it with Tamlyn. And there are Ambrose's things to go through and sort.”

”I thought you could do that by yourself,” she said.

”Why,” I said, ”when we could do it both of us together?”

I stood up from my chair and stretched my arms above my head. I kicked Don with my foot. ”Wake up,” I said, ”it's time you stopped that snoring and went out with the others to the kennels.” He stirred himself, and grunted. ”Lazy old devil,” I said. I glanced down at her, and she was looking up at me with such a strange expression in her eyes, almost as though she saw right through me into someone else.

”What is it?” I asked.

”Nothing,” she answered, ”nothing at all... Can you find me a candle, Philip, and light me up to bed?”

”Very well,” I said. ”I'll take Don to his kennel afterwards.”

The candlesticks were waiting on the table by the door. She took hers, and I lighted the candle for her. It was dark in the hall but above, on the landing, Seecombe had left a light to the further corridor.

”That will do,” she said. ”I can find my way alone.”

She stood a moment on one step of the staircase, her face in the shadow. One hand held the candlestick, the other held her dress.

”You don't hate me anymore?” she asked.

”No,” I said, ”I told you it was not you. It was another woman.”

”Are you sure it was another woman?”

”Quite sure.”

”Good night, then. And sleep well.”

She turned to go, but I put my hand on her arm and held her back.

”Wait,” I said, ”it's my turn to ask you a question.”

”What is it, Philip?”

”Are you still jealous of me, or was that also some other man, and never me at all?”

She laughed and gave me her hand, and because she stood above me on the stairs there seemed a new sort of grace about her that I had not realized before. Her eyes looked large in the flickering candlelight.

”That horrid boy, so spoiled and prim?” she said. ”Why, he went yesterday, as soon as you walked into aunt Phoebe's boudoir.”

Suddenly she bent, and kissed my cheek.

”The first you have ever had,” she said, ”and if you don't like it, you can pretend I did not give it to you, but that it came from the other woman.”

She walked up the stairs away from me, and the light of the candle threw a shadow, dark and distant, on the wall.

11.

We always carried out a strict routine upon a Sunday. Breakfast was later, at nine o'clock, and at a quarter past ten the carriage came to take Ambrose and me to church. The servants followed in the wagonette. When church was over, they returned to eat their midday dinner, later again, at one; and then at four we dined ourselves, with the vicar and Mrs. Pascoe, possibly one or two of the unmarried daughters, and generally my G.o.dfather and Louise. Since Ambrose had gone abroad I had not used the carriage but had ridden down to church on Gypsy, causing, I believe, some small amount of talk, I know not why.

This Sunday, in honor of my visitor, I gave orders for the carriage to come as of old custom, and my cousin Rachel, prepared for the event by Seecombe when he took her breakfast, descended to the hall upon the stroke of ten. A kind of ease had come upon me since the night before, and it seemed to me, as I looked upon her, that I could in future say to her what I pleased. Nothing need hold me back, neither anxiety, nor resentment, nor even common courtesy.

”A word of warning,” I said, after I had wished her a good morning. ”All eyes will be upon you in the church. Even the laggards, who sometimes make excuse to stay in bed, will not remain at home today. They will be standing in the aisles, maybe on tiptoe.”

”You terrify me,” she said. ”I shall not go at all.”

”That would be disgrace,” I said, ”for which neither you nor I would ever be forgiven.”

She looked at me with solemn eyes.

”I am not sure,” she said, ”that I know how to behave. I was bred a Catholic.”

”Keep it to yourself,” I told her. ”Papists, in this part of the world, are fit only for h.e.l.lfire. Or so they tell me. Watch everything I do. I won't mislead you.”

The carriage came to the door. Wellington, with brushed hat and trim c.o.c.kade, the groom beside him, was swollen with importance like a pouter pigeon. Seecombe, in starched clean stock and his Sunday coat, stood at the front door with no less dignity. It was the occasion of a lifetime.

I handed my cousin Rachel into the carriage and took my place beside her. She had a dark mantle around her shoulders, and the veil from her hat concealed her face.

”The people will want to see your face,” I said to her.

”Then they must want,” she answered.

”You don't understand,” I said. ”Nothing like this has happened in their lives. Not for nearly thirty years. The old people remember my aunt, I suppose, and my mother, but for the younger ones there has never been a Mrs. Ashley come to church before. Besides, you must enlighten their ignorance. They know you come from what they term outlandish parts. For all they know Italians may be black.”

”Will you please be quiet?” she whispered. ”I can tell from Wellington's back there, up on the box, that he can hear what you are saying.”

”I shall not be quiet,” I said, ”the matter is of grave importance. I know how rumor spreads. All the countryside will go back to Sunday dinner shaking their heads and saying Mrs. Ashley is a negress.”

”I will lift my veil in church, but not before,” she said, ”when I am kneeling. They can look then, if they have the mind, but by rights they should do no such thing. Their eyes should be on their prayer books.”

”A high bench surrounds the pew, with curtains to it,” I told her. ”Once kneeling there you will be concealed from view. You can even play marbles if you want to. I used to, as a child.”

”Your childhood,” she said; ”don't speak of it. I know every detail. How Ambrose dismissed your nurse when you were three. How he took you out of petticoats and put you into breeches. The monstrous way in which you learned your alphabet. I am not surprised you played at marbles in the church pew. I wonder you did no worse.”

”I did once,” I said. ”I brought white mice in my pocket and they ran under the seat. They scampered up the petticoat of an old lady in the pew behind. She had the vapors, and had to be removed.”

”Didn't Ambrose beat you for it?”