03 Mary Wakefield (27 page)

Noah Binns looked after her reflectively. “Dang it all,” he said to himself, “what’s she fussed up about? I’ve got a right to say what I saw, haven’t I? If she’d seen the bugs I have, she might get fussed up.
Ten
where there was one!”

Lily stood in the porch waiting. She had not allowed herself to think, after she had left Noah Binns, for fear she would not have the courage to go on. Now she stood clutching the bottle of blackberry cordial as pink-cheeked Eliza opened the door.

“Mother sent this,” she said, “please give it to Mrs. Whiteoak.”

“Is that Lily Pink?” called Adeline’s voice from inside.

“Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak.” Eliza drew back and Lily stepped into the hall.

“Come into my room. I want to see you.”

Lily went down the hall to Adeline’s room. The door was open and she was seated before her dressing-table. She had on a wide flounced cambric petticoat, with rows of lace insertion, and a many-gored low-cut “corset cover”. So, all in white, with her hair down and shoulders bare, she had a festive air about her. Boney was perched on the head of the bed. When he saw Lily he opened his beak and screamed, yet with a jocular air:

“
Shaitan! Shaitan ka batka! Shaitkan ka butcka!
”

“Shall I come in?” asked Lily. “Will he mind?”

“No. He’ll not mind. Come right in. My, what a good colour you’ve got! I like to see a young girl with a bright complexion. One doesn’t often see it in this country. Ireland’s the place for that. Look at our little Renny. He’s peaches and cream. But what will he be in twenty years? Weatherbeaten. What’s that you have in the bottle?”

“Blackberry cordial. Mother sent it. It’s good to have when winter comes and there are coughs about.”

Adeline was delighted. She took off the white napkin that wrapped the bottle, held the bottle to the light to admire the colour of the cordial, uncorked it and savoured a sip.

She smacked her lips. “Ha, that’s good. There’s nothing better for the throat. Thank your mother a thousand times … And now I have something for you.”

From a drawer of her dressing-table she produced a small blue velvet box and from it a gold thimble.

“Now give me your hand.” She took Lily’s right hand and placed the thimble on its middle finger. “It was given me by my godmother when I was just your age.”

“But Mrs. Whiteoak, you shouldn’t part with it!”

“Ah, I’ve never been one to sew much. I used to do embroidery when I was young. But now my bit of mending is all I trouble about and a silver thimble is good enough for that.”

Lily’s face glowed. She threw both arms about Adeline’s neck and hugged her. She murmured incoherent thanks. Then suddenly she broke down and clung to her shaken by sobs.

“Well, well, well, now — whatever is the matter with you, Lily?”

She clasped the girl close, her bare arms enfolding her, her body giving off a pleasant scent of Windsor soap, her starched petticoat crackling.

“I don’t know.” But she went on sobbing.

Adeline patted her back. “Tut, tut, now, that’s enough. You’re not into any sort of trouble, are you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Lily … It’s no love affair, is it?”

“No!” she cried hoarsely.

“Then, in God’s name, what is it?”

“It’s … it’s that governess. Mary Wakefield.”

Adeline held her closer. “Whisper to me. What is it she’s done?”

“She’s bad! That’s what she is! Bad.”

“What do you know, my dear? Come, we’ll just sit here quietly on my bed and you’ll tell me.”

Lily stumbled to the bed and sat down leaning heavily against Adeline.

Out of her distorted mouth she sobbed, “I wish I hadn’t said anything.”

“Ah, but ’twas right that you should. It will do you good to clear your mind of what’s troubling you. Besides, Miss Wakefield lives in my house and teaches my two innocent grandchildren. It’s my right to know what she’s been up to.”

Lily sat up and wiped her eyes with the hand on which the gold thimble still shone.

“It’s a shame,” she said, “that I should go on like this just after having such a lovely present given me.” Through blurred eyes she examined the thimble.

“Come, come,” Adeline was growing impatient, “what’s all this about, Lily?”

“Mrs. Whiteoak,
she
’s engaged to Clive Busby, isn’t she?”

Adeline’s brows shot up. “Well — and who told you that?”

“Oh, I know it’s a secret. But Clive told Violet Lacey. He made her promise not to breathe a word of it but he was so happy he couldn’t help telling her.”

“And she told you?”

“Yes, and I promised not to tell and I haven’t except to you and I guess you know already.”

“I do. Now, what has she done?”

“I don’t know … I really don’t … But as I was coming here just now I met Noah Binns and he told me, with a
hateful
smile, not to come past the shed where they keep the barrels and crates at the
far end of the orchard and naturally I asked why and he said — oh, I can’t repeat it!”

“Now Lily, don’t be silly. Go on.”

“He said not to come past that place because there was
love-making
going on there. He said it was Mr. Whiteoak and Mary Wakefield. I don’t know what he meant, do you?” Lily’s eyes were avidly bright, as they looked into Adeline’s.

Adeline smiled. “Noah Binns’ sort have nasty minds. You mustn’t listen to them, Lily. As for my son — he knows of the engagement and he’s as pleased as I am. He was probably making arrangements with her about the children. Is that all Noah said?”

“He said she’d be
traipsing
through the woods with Clive and now she was in the orchard making love to Mr. Whiteoak. It was the way he said it. He
leered
.”

“Ah, well, he’s a nasty fellow and I think I’ll have a word with him. Now you run along, my dear…” She talked to Lily of other things.

When the door had shut behind her, Adeline stood motionless for a space, a very different person from the comforting, kindly woman who had kissed the girl good-bye. Her brows were drawn into a black frown, her lips compressed.

“So … that’s what she’s like,” she thought. “A bitch — a wanton! Just what I thought that night I caught her dancing like a
fille de joie
with my Philip. She’s got the two of them on strings — young fools that they are! And she’s had me on a string — old fool that I am!” Then she said aloud, but softly, “What’s to be done?”

Her anger at the thought that Mary had deceived her burned even more hotly than the thought of her playing with two men. She wondered how she could face her calmly at the supper table. But perhaps that silly girl, Lily, had worked herself up over nothing. Yet why had Noah Binns warned Lily not to go through the orchard? Why had he leered? Adeline had never seen so much as a half-smile on his face. And he seemed a decent fellow. Mr. Pink thought well of him. If only it had been she who had met him instead of Lily!

Mary did not appear at the supper table. She had complained of a headache, Eliza said.

Emotion made Adeline hungry. Never had cold lamb, thick slices of dark red tomatoes with plenty of vinegar and sugar on them, tasted better. All the while she was seething inside. Her daughter and her two elder sons were conscious of this and expected an explosion at any moment. But none came. She finished the meal as she had begun it, in affable description of her visit with Maggie Rutherford. It gave opportunity for her power of mimicry and wit.

It was a wonder she could be lively with Philip facing her from the other end of the table in sombre silence. After supper she played backgammon with Sir Edwin. At the usual time she said good night to her family with the exception of Philip who had taken the dogs for a walk, and retired to her room. Philip had sent a message to Mary by Meg saying he wished to see her. The child had returned with word that Mary was not well and was lying down and would it be all right if she saw him in the morning. “And she really does look ill, Papa,” Meg had said, feeling something in the air. Philip had muttered, “Very well, Meggie. Tell Miss Wakefield I’ll see her first thing in the morning.” He felt baffled. For a moment he had a mind to go to her, but, with family and children about, how could they two have privacy? He would have to wait till morning. But it was now that he wanted her with him. Now, out in the moonlight, he’d make her forget the very existence of Clive Busby.

He could not bear to be near the house or even in his own woods. He turned through the gate to the road that led to the lake. The moon was just past its first quarter but capable of throwing distinct black shadows on the silent road. In all of the two miles he met no vehicle but, in a field, two horses came and looked at him over the fence. The three spaniels and the fox terrier trotted continuously on and off the road, in and out of ditches, snuffed at the openings into burrows, flattened themselves to get under fences into fields, where they ran about with noses to the ground, but always reappeared. There was no need to whistle to them. They would not lose him. They were too joyous in his return.

He passed through a lane, followed a path winding among scrubby cedars and alders and was on the beach. The lake spread cold and tranquil, reflecting the moon. The shingle crunched beneath his feet, and then came the sand at the water’s edge. Wavelets, rimmed with silver, spent themselves soundlessly on the beach. The dogs came to the water’s edge and drank as though in great thirst, letting their forepaws get wet. The fox terrier shivered but he would not stop drinking till the spaniels did.

Philip thought of the countless times he had come to this spot, of how the countryside round about was as familiar to him as the face of one of his family. His brothers had gone away, his sister too, but this was where he wanted to be. This was his life. In this place he had grown up, married, begotten his children, lived his short married life and now loved … If only Mary were here with him by the lake! He would pour out all his new-found love on her — not in words, but he would make her feel it, in the very touch of his hand, in the beat of his heart, in his breast against hers. The air moved cool on his forehead. He raised his face to it and walked along the lake’s rim. If only she were here! No matter how many years they might have together he always would regret this night — the night when they should have walked together by the lake, the night when they should have watched the moon sink into the gleaming water, have walked, with fingers interlocked, along the beach. Was she really ill? Yes, he believed so, otherwise she could not have denied him this night. But a night’s rest would make her well and tomorrow he would settle everything — with his mother — with Clive. His mother — he smiled wryly when he thought of her. He did not feel as angry as he had, but he would show her who was master of Jalna.

Adeline remained in her room reading till she heard Philip put the dogs to bed and mount the stairs. Then she went into the hall and stood there, her fingers resting lovingly on the carved grapes of the newel post till she heard his windows opened for the night. Then she went up the stairs and stood in the passage till the pencil of light under his door was gone. She stood very still now, close to
his door, listening intently. She heard his steady regular breathing. She went up the stairs to the top floor.

Very lightly she tapped on Mary’s door. There was a light inside.

Mary’s voice came from close to the panel. “Yes? Who is there?”

Adeline thought, “She’s expecting Philip.” She said, “May I speak to you for a moment, Miss Wakefield?”

The door was instantly opened and Mary stood there, white-faced, defensive, scarcely seeming to breathe.

“Thank you.” Adeline came into the room and closed the door behind her.

They stood, tall women, eye to eye, in long white night-dresses, up to the throat, down to the wrist, Adeline’s elaborately tucked. About her shoulders she had a brilliantly coloured oriental shawl. Her hair which she had been brushing hung loose about her neck and down her back. She was a superb and deliberately picturesque figure.

Mary’s hair hung in a single plait, she was barefoot.

“Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak?” She found herself trembling like a leaf, already intimidated.

“I want to know,” Adeline said, “what you mean by playing fast and loose with young Busby.”

“I’m not playing fast and loose with him. I mean to marry him.”

Adeline laughed. “You mean to marry him and yet you were in the arms of my son this very afternoon. Kissing him. Now I have the right to know what this means.”

“It doesn’t — I wasn’t —”

“Don’t be a fool,” interrupted Adeline harshly. “You were seen by one of the men — everyone knows it by now. Why, within half an hour the tale was carried to me. I’ve suspected from the first that you were no better than you should be. But carrying on with two men at the same time — one, the son of my friend — one, my own son! Good God, do you imagine you can pull the wool over everybody’s eyes? What
are
you trying to do? That’s what I want to know.”

Mary backed away from her. Her brain would not act. It was in a whirl. She could find no words in which to explain.

“Do you imagine Clive Busby will marry you after this?”

“I don’t know,” Mary answered, in a strangled voice.

“Perhaps you think Philip will marry you! Not he. He’s had quite enough of marriage. Are you his mistress?”

The question was shot at her like a blow.

“Are you his mistress?” repeated Adeline. “Come — how often has he been up to your room?”

Mary put her hand to her throat. She wanted to scream. She was alone! She had no weapons. The figures of Clive and Philip loomed like enormous shadows in the room, Clive looking at her with hate, Philip…

“He has been up to your room, at night, hasn’t he?”

“Will you let me alone!” cried Mary.

“I want an answer.
Are you Philip’s mistress
?”

Mary’s fear, her hysteria, turned to rage.

“Yes,” she answered, in rage, “I am.”

Adeline’s jaw dropped. She had not expected any such confession. For a moment she was too astounded to speak. She looked at Mary as though seeing her for the first time.