A Marriage of Convenience (16 page)

‘We live with Esmond,’ said Louise in a small shocked voice.
‘Both of us. We ought to side with him. If you love people you ought to take their part.’

‘But that doesn’t mean pushing one’s way into their private quarrels.’

‘And it doesn’t mean going out with people they don’t like. You know it doesn’t.’

Theresa did not know what to say as Louise stared at the floor in accusing silence. At last Louise said quietly:

‘I don’t believe you love him any more.’

Suddenly Theresa knew that she was not going to lie. To girls of Louise’s age love or its absence explained every otherwise
inexplicable
contradiction in adult behaviour.

‘I did think I loved him. And I’m still fond of him…’

Louise was staring at her with sympathy and disbelief.

‘But couldn’t you tell … about loving him? I know who I love. Why don’t you know? It’s easy.’

‘I wish it was,’ said Theresa after a long silence. Louise seemed disillusioned rather than hostile.

‘It must be awful to be grown-up … Not to know things like that. To live years and years with parents, loving them—then to meet a man and not know; and afterwards be with him all the time, even at night. I’ll never live with a man or marry.’

With a shiver of recognition as vivid as a personal memory, Theresa knew what she meant. The sense of being on show during the day, and needing to escape at the end of it to restore oneself. And Theresa remembered too being terrified by the thought that the whole of one’s past could be swallowed up by a wrong decision over some unknown man.

‘Are you going to tell Esmond?’ asked Louise fearfully.

‘I think I’ll have to.’

‘Will he be angry?’

‘And sad … I expect more sad.’

‘I’d be angry,’ Louise replied firmly. ‘Will we have to live somewhere else?’

‘Will that be awful?’

‘How do I know?’ She bowed her head. ‘I knew it really—knew we’d have to leave some day, ever since grandpa told me you hadn’t accepted.’

Louise’s pinched and worried face made Theresa’s eyes sting. She remembered her as a small child, delighted by stage jewellery, fussed over by actresses and stage hands, always contented and trusting. And where was that trust now? The child swung her feet to the ground and strolled across to examine a porcelain bowl on the console table behind her mother’s chair; almost, thought Theresa,
as if she had become bored with emotional concerns. With a glance at the clock, she said calmly:

‘Perhaps we ought to play something.’

‘What would you like?’

‘The Grand Mufti,’ replied Louise after a short pause. ‘I’ll play if I can be the Mufti. And you must stand on a chair, like we used to do it.’

‘Must I?’ murmured Theresa, not feeling at all like a game, least of all the one suggested. But when Louise insisted she got on a chair; and when the Grand Mufti told her to put her hands on her head, to stand on one foot, to squint, and do other ridiculous things, Theresa finally laughed and lost the game, as the Grand Mufti’s victims invariably did. Louise looked at her sternly one moment longer, and then, when Theresa did not at all expect it, flung her arms around her.

Not long after Louise left her, Theresa was plagued with a shivering nervousness. In a little while she would have to dine at the same table as Clinton and show him no more than the bland politeness of an acquaintance. The thought of betraying herself made her heart beat wildly. Later, she lit the candles on the dressing table with a spill from the fire and sat down in front of the mirror to brush her hair. The glass was very old and spotted under its dull silvery surface with small brown and grey marks, making her face seem blurred and misty. Only her eyes, liquid and shining in the candlelight gave her an illusion of depth and clarity. To be in love, she thought, is to see oneself as another sees one and to value only his distorted and ideal image. She moved the candles closer to the glass and leaned forward.

When she dressed for dinner, she chose one of her plainest evening gowns, not through penitence or a desire to look chaste, but because her mood demanded it. In front of Esmond, she could not dress herself to attract admiration. The thought of seeing both brothers together scared her.

*

Just as in the theatre she could blind herself to the faces in the pit beyond the footlights, at dinner that evening, facing Clinton, Theresa managed to create a sense of distance. In the drawing room earlier, Esmond had been arguing with Clinton about success and ambition, and now he returned to the task, confidently telling Theresa that, in spite of Clinton’s claims, the army was like any other profession.

‘Success is the only justification. To win battles, win esteem … In the end it’s not the thing itself that counts but what others think of the result.’

‘Do you agree, Miss Simmonds?’ asked Clinton.

‘I’m not a soldier, my lord.’

‘But you do battle with your audiences.’

‘They must be wooed, not crushed.’

‘Quite so,’ murmured Clinton. ‘And wooing can take many forms.’ How confident he is in me, she thought with pride. ‘You
can delight them by bad acting just as you can by good. The applause may be the same, but it won’t please you unless you’ve pleased yourself.’

‘So?’ asked Esmond.

‘So you’re wrong,’ laughed Clinton. ‘The performance matters more than what people think of it. The thing itself is more important than success.’

‘We weren’t talking about the theatre,’ said Esmond, concealing his irritation.

‘It’s the same with a cavalry action … skill’s always more satisfying than brute force.’ He smiled at Theresa with a hint of apology. ‘I fear soldiers always seem purely concerned with results, but battles are really more often won by numbers frightened than numbers killed. The good commander masks his intentions till the last moment, does everything he can to confuse the enemy, moves men here and there, uses the ground to advantage. The enemy must expect duplicity even when he moves in earnest. A feint and an unexpected wheel can force a squadron to change direction before coming to the charge … leaving gaps in his formation as wide as streets. He’s beaten before a blow’s been struck.’

Esmond waited impatiently for the footman to remove plates and bring in others.

‘That’s only saying that the best means to an end succeed best and are praised most. Of course you employ them to get your result. But success is still the only justification.’

‘I admire intentions as well as achievements,’ replied Clinton mildly. ‘There’s nothing shameful about failing against the odds. Failure can be an inspiration.’

‘To romantics and children.’

‘If they’re the only ones who can do a thing for its own sake, I’ll take that as a compliment,’ replied Clinton.

In the silence that followed, Theresa thought how extraordinary Esmond was to risk appearing odious simply in order to force Clinton into agreement with an idea that he disliked; like putting out one’s own eye in order to do the same to an adversary.

When dessert came, Lady Ardmore insisted that Theresa should tell them some theatrical anecdotes. So reluctantly she trotted out tales of pistols that had not gone off when expected, vital letters not placed in pockets where they should have been, and price tags not removed from the new shoes of a stage corpse. The bitchery of lines ruined by unscripted business or cues deliberately mistimed, she did not mention. She herself had once switched round Lady Sneerwell’s words at the beginning of the
School
for
Scandal,
changing ‘Have you inserted those paragraphs, Mr Snake?’ to ‘Have you inserted
those snakes, Mr Paragraph?’ causing the hapless actor to reply with a speech from another play. On numerous occasions she had experienced just such changes put in almost as a game: a test of composure.

As the meal had progressed she had allowed herself to look at Clinton more often, no longer scared of doing so, once she realised how enviably at ease he was. The thought that he would have learnt this equanimity from past deceptions did not hurt her. Tomorrow his seat would be empty, tomorrow he was going: this thought alone absorbed her; so that with every casual glance she tried to store up a little more of him against the coming months. Of all love’s many pains, the ache of absence was the simplest and most complete. He was with me; he has gone. At that moment she thought herself ready to stoop to any deceit or falsehood that might make him stay.

*

Shortly after eleven, Theresa was sitting by the fire in her room talking to Esmond, trying to make him understand by indirect hints that she wanted him to go to his own room, but, in spite of all her efforts, he remained impervious. The absorbed patient way he was looking at her told her more clearly than words that he was determined to make love to her. His legs were crossed, and she noticed the little jerks of his raised foot, registering the faster beating of his heart. A slight chill passed through her limbs as she thought of his smooth hands touching her as cautiously as they might some rare and fragile ornament. She knew that she had made his love anxious and possessive by her reserve, and that their lovemaking was vital to him now as proof of her affection.

His absolute immobility, except for the little rhythmic
movements
of his foot, filled her with apprehension. Sitting there in his black dress coat, the circle of lamplight defining his profile in cameo, he looked distinguished, self-possessed. Yet she knew that a word from her could melt that pale ascetic face to tenderness or misery. Her eyes had become fixed on the prominent veins on the back of his hands. Ashamed of her revulsion, she could not master it. Guilt sharpened her distress. She could no more explain the power of her attraction to Clinton than she could justify it. The suddenness of her involvement had scarcely given her opportunity to guess how she would behave with Esmond. With mounting panic she realised that she could not endure it if he touched her.

The burning peat hissed gently in the hearth; from the landing came the low ticking of a grandfather clock. At the creak of a board, she turned and saw him rise. Even before he moved, he seemed to thrust his face and his eyes forward at her. She jumped up, knocking
over a polescreen, as she moved behind the table where the lamp stood. He looked at her with surprise and dismay; probably he had thought the silence restful; a token of their harmony.

‘It was getting low … the wick,’ she said rapidly, lifting the porcelain globe, and then replacing it in confusion. The wick was adjusted by turning a wide screw easily accessible without touching either globe or chimney.

‘I know you want me to go.’ he said quietly, placing the tips of his fingers on the table. ‘Do you wonder why I don’t, when you make yourself so clear?’ His eyes were sad but a curious twisted smile curled his lips. ‘You see I never really expected you to love me; I never saw why you should. I only asked to be allowed to love you. To be with you and love you …’ He leant over the lamp, casting a long shadow on the ceiling. ‘What must I do to regain that privilege?’

The pain in his voice was like acid to her. His words had shocked her and she had lost the sense of them.

‘I can’t help it,’ she murmured.

‘What can’t you help?’ He sounded suddenly hopeful. ‘If I knew what you wanted me to be … if you told me that …’

‘It’s what you are,’ she cried, appalled by his humility, frightened that he was about to go down on his knees. Instead he turned away and stood with his head bowed.

‘You think you’re so different from everybody else. Like children do. Won’t you ever learn how much alike we all are? You expect the impossible from people.’

‘I do. I know it,’ she agreed with shrill vehemence, seeing the surprise on his face turn to suspicion.

‘No,’ he shouted. ‘You think it an excuse … what I said. I’m worthless, so I say everybody else is too, to make myself feel better. That’s what you think.’

‘I don’t care,’ she moaned. ‘That’s all. You could be a genius or a block of wood and I still wouldn’t care.’

‘But you came here,’ he said doggedly as though he had not heard what she had said, but only her strident way of saying it. He seemed to take her anger as a sign of hope. While he could make her angry, she could not be indifferent to him. She knew from her experience of past quarrels that he had already passed the point where indignity could hurt him. So often he had used his humility as a weapon to make her surrender to him. Tonight she could not give in. She sensed he knew this from a glint of hard opposition in his eyes; an expression that scared her.

The same look as he came towards her with outstretched arms, forcing her back against the heavy oak wardrobe beside the bed.

‘Please,’ she implored as he bent over her so close that she could
feel his breath on her cheek. She swayed back, face averted, hearing him murmur endearments, knowing her resistance was inflaming him further, but unable willingly to let him touch her, fighting an impulse to hit out with her hands, to scratch and tear. Just bodies … nothing more. Nothing, nothing. But when he kissed her mouth, she started to sob though no tears came and only a stifled sound came from her throat.

He backed away, his face deathly pale and his hands trembling.

‘Why … tell me why?’ he said with the choked restraint of a man frightened to release the pent-up flood of his inner rage. She leant against the wardrobe without answering. How could he look at her so steadily without even blinking? ‘Tell me,’ he insisted, his voice no more than a rasping whisper.

‘It’s me … my fault. Not yours.’

‘Fault?’ he snapped, pouncing on the word.

She hung her head, feeling a sickness like vertigo on the brink of a precipice; she both dreaded and longed for the relief of jumping.

‘Do you love him?’ he asked softly. ‘Love Clinton?’ Again she sensed the effort of his restraint; he had breathed the words with the careful delicacy of a woman threading a needle.

‘Can everything only be explained like that? A crumpled letter … furtive infidelity … the shadow of another man?’ Her derision rang true, but she was sure he would only accept a direct denial and she dreaded uttering that simple lie. She dreaded it without knowing why. ‘Have I the right to ask why you suspect me?’ she asked sharply.

‘Just now … the way you treated me.’

‘Is that all?’

‘My mother,’ he said reluctantly. ‘She thought …’

‘I shouldn’t rely too much on what Lady Ardmore thinks.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked with an edge of anger that immediately made her regret what she had said. But now it was too late to retract.

‘She wanted me to pretend to be captivated. The best way to cure you … That’s what she said. I don’t expect you to believe it.’

Indeed the disbelief on his face was so total that she at once saw the futility of trying to convince him. Already she had dangerously increased his suspicions. He walked into the deep shadows by the window.

‘You drove with him today,’ he said in a dry ironic voice.

‘Certainly.’

‘My mother’s maid said you came back without your hat.’

‘And what about my shoes?’ she asked with a forced laugh.

‘Without your hat,’ he repeated coldly.

‘It blew off,’ she said lightly, knowing it must have been left in the barn.

‘You didn’t stop to pick it up?’

His persistent logic enraged and frightened her. He was watching her and she could think of no answer. Where he was standing she could not see his face.

‘You’re being absurd, Esmond.’

‘As absurd as not retrieving a perfectly good hat?’

‘We went to Clonmore,’ she replied, thinking quickly. ‘Some people jostled us; it was knocked off. We couldn’t go back for it.’

He came closer and she saw the same twisted little smile that had already disconcerted her.

‘You said it blew off. Now it’s been knocked off.’

‘Your brother didn’t want me to say that we went to Clonmore. He thought you’d blame him for not anticipating trouble.’

‘You’re very eager to protect him …’

‘Is a trivial lie so terrible if it stops a stupid quarrel between you?’

She knew by his silence that she had come through unscathed, but as he moved slowly to the fire and leant against the mantelpiece with his back to her, she felt remorse rather than relief. When he turned she thought she saw a gleam of moisture on his cheeks. After a long silence he looked at her.

‘Jealousy’s like madness,’ he murmured. ‘At night I sometimes dream you’re with other men … saying what you once said to me … the very words.’ He came closer and now she could see the tears. ‘You have to be in love to see betrayal everywhere, to find treachery in any harmless lie … Forgive me.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

To see him so bowed-down and despairing was agony to her, but she knew that if she tried to comfort him, he would kiss her again. His bent shoulders and desolate face made her feel a murderess. What had she done to the confident worldly man she remembered? The driving purpose of his work, the order of his life—all shattered by his infatuation. Suddenly her knees were shaking, but not because of guilt or any distant fears. The idea had come to her with the clarity of a match flaring in a darkened room. Only if I make him hate me, only then, she thought, will he survive my going. All her sensations were concentrated to a single needlepoint of fear, not for what he might do to her, but in case she lacked the courage.