A Marriage of Convenience (29 page)

The long spell of hot dry weather had ended. Now, after a few hours of broken sunshine, the atmosphere would gather oppressively under heavy clouds which hung low over the fells, seeming to promise immediate storms, but often after a few taunting drops, continuing their brooding presence overhead, sucking at the air and leaving the long afternoons breathless and uncannily still. Even when heavy downpours came they tended to be brief and brought no real freshness. When the sun shone again, the heat seemed to steam about the fields and meadows, blurring the sky until the evenings stole in with a strange yellow haze and rumbles of muffled thunder.

On a particularly sultry afternoon the post-boy from Browsholme brought a telegram for Theresa. The message was that Clinton would not be returning as planned on Sunday, but two days later. No explanation was given, and Theresa’s immediate assumption was that he was enjoying himself and saw no reason to hurry back. Though she told herself she was being absurd, she felt horribly disappointed. At times during the past weeks she had felt the strain of living up to his vision of her and in truth had seen his week away as an opportunity for convalescence: a renewal of strength which she had once drawn from the theatre but no longer knew where to find. But as the days had passed, she had found herself longing for his return. She had been determined that, after marrying her, he should still have the freedom to see old friends without having to face the embarrassment of presenting her to them as his mistress—for all her protestations of not minding the lie, she knew that he would always feel humiliated by it until he could acknowledge her. Yet though she knew this was so, and that she ought to be glad he was happy in London, she now wished she had gone with him. In the months ahead, the growing baby might make her unattractive to him and then she would regret every day that she had lost.

She went out into the garden, still holding the telegram. A recent spattering of rain had intensified the smell of earth and roses; drops shone and trembled on the leaves of the ivy which clothed the whole
house as high as the strange Dutch gables and little bell tower. Without Clinton, Theresa felt a stranger in the place. What to him, after Markenfield, was a small country house, to her seemed
cavernously
large; its corridors as wide as rooms, and in the attics, enough accommodation to house a staff three times as numerous as the six who worked for them. Though Clinton joked about the faces in the portraits on the stairs, Theresa was disconcerted by them. The dark oak furniture and cabinets of oriental porcelain accumulated through the centuries by the landlord’s family, often made her want to be surrounded by possessions of their own. When the peafowl gathered under the cedars at dusk and the rooks returned cawing to their roosts, Theresa’s dislocation was at its strongest; a feeling that the house would rather have lain empty and undisturbed, alone with the fluttering of moths at windows and the wind’s rustling among branches.

Theresa had left the formal gardens and was in the azalea walk that ran beside the park, when the rain started with a sudden flurry that could only herald a downpour. Without time to get back to the house, she sheltered under the only nearby tree, a light aspen, and watched the house and stables grow faint and misty behind a curtain of falling water. A little later, indistinct flashes of lightning lit the whole sky as if projected from behind it. The thin canopy above her soon let through a stream of drops, so that she saw no point in remaining, but walked back in the direction of the house. The drops were coming down so heavily that they splashed up in little fountains where they hit the ground. Already after very few minutes Theresa’s skirt and petticoats clung to her legs, and she knew that her chignon would soon collapse into numerous loose ends like dripping rats’ tails. Standing still, she raised her face to the sky, suddenly enjoying the feel of the rain on her face and on her closed eyelids. She even took pleasure in kicking through the puddles. Unaccountably she no longer felt downcast.

As she emerged from the avenue of elms and passed the terracotta lions at the stable gates, she saw the shining hood of a ‘fly’ in the drive far away across the park. Thinking that Clinton had changed his mind, she started running joyfully towards the carriage sweep, laughing at the shock her appearance would cause him.

Moments later, when the carriage drew up, through the
mud-spotted
glass her eyes met those of a young man she had never seen before. Realising how she must look, she retreated into the house. In the hall she beat the gong until Harris and one of the housemaids appeared. At first she told the girl to fetch her lady’s maid but then changed her mind; it would take over an hour to dry her hair and dress again, and in any case the man had seen her. Rather than drip
all over the carpets, she decided to receive her visitor in the
stone-flagged
dining room. She asked Harris to send him in to see her there.

‘Shall I bring his card?’

‘No, no.’ The valet was staring at the pool of water spreading around the hem of her skirt. ‘It’s raining, Harris. Didn’t you notice?’

After a brief absence, Harris returned and announced a Mr Hopkinson. The young man stood at the far end of the table, awkwardly looking down at the crown of the top hat he was holding.

‘I had hoped to see Lord Ardmore.’

‘He’s in London till next week.’

Hopkinson did his best to smile.

‘How very unfortunate. I’ve just come from there.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘I’m afraid it’s a private matter, madam.’

‘Are you a personal friend? Surely you can tell me that much?’

Whether in her dealing with the servants, or the local people, or this stranger, Theresa was constantly aware of the falseness of her position. Irritated at first by her visitor’s diffident air of propriety, she now sensed his real uneasiness and was alarmed by it.

‘I don’t often wander about in pouring rain,’ she said lightly.

He said nothing for a moment, then he murmured:

‘It’s very awkward for me. I don’t know who you are.’

‘Really, you can’t take me for the housekeeper or a maid.’

‘No.’

Hopkinson looked at her unhappily from behind small
gold-framed
spectacles that made him look like an erudite schoolboy.

‘Perhaps you can think up something for me to tell Lord Ardmore about your visit? He’ll be disappointed to hear you came three hundred miles and said nothing except your name. Does he know you?’

‘My father was Lord Ardmore’s solicitor and the principal trustee under the late Lord Ardmore’s will.’ He paused as if undecided whether to go on, but then said rapidly: ‘A few weeks before my father died, he told me certain facts about recent trust investments … Frankly, madam, I must speak to Lord Ardmore as soon as possible. Perhaps he told you where he was staying?’

‘You can reach him through the Cavalry Club.’ Theresa looked at him imploringly. His strained and anxious face frightened her. ‘Since it’s obviously important, please leave a letter here in case you miss him in London. Use as much sealing wax as you like.’

‘It isn’t a matter of mistrusting you. I daren’t put anything in writing. I have to speak to him.’

‘He said he’d arranged to see his trustees in London.’ The man’s sympathetic silence exasperated her. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Neither of them lives in town. I fear I’ve worried you quite needlessly.’

As he turned to leave, she followed him.

‘Do you think he can have any idea of what you want to tell him?’

‘I couldn’t hazard a guess.’

When Hopkinson had gone, though Theresa felt shivery in her wet clothes, she did not go up to change but instead hurried to the dressing room where Clinton kept his writing box. Thankful to find it unlocked, she was soon disappointed to discover nothing of any consequence. Her heart beat faster as it occurred to her that he might have hidden letters he did not want her to see. Dazed, she found herself staring at a row of coats in his open wardrobe, their empty arms mocking her. The thought that he might have
concealed
grave anxieties shocked her. To try to shield her from worries seemed less a noble shouldering of responsibility than a denial of trust. She sat down with a throbbing head. Of course he might know nothing.

When she felt calmer, she rang for Harris and told him that when she had changed she wanted him to drive her into Browsholme. A telegram sent to Clinton’s club warning him not to leave town till he had been contacted by Hopkinson, seemed the best that she could do. But, even while her maid was helping her with her clothes, Theresa’s uneasiness returned.

Clinton had not wanted to stay on in town and had only done so because of a loss at billiards playing double or quits. Though irritated with himself for losing money at a game in which practice was essential for success, the size of his loss—barely fifty pounds—would normally have caused him little inconvenience. But it had been late at night and the cashier at his club had gone home; and since it was an unwritten rule that gambling debts should be discharged in cash and not by note of hand, he had reluctantly parted with the money he had set aside to buy presents for Theresa and Louise.

At his bank the following morning, Clinton had been astonished to learn from one of the partners that the regular quarterly payment from the trustees was long overdue. Unwilling to admit his ignorance of the reason for the delay, Clinton had promised a letter explaining matters and had accepted without complaint the bank’s decision not to pay out on a cheque larger than twenty guineas. He brushed aside his failure to reply to the bank’s letters by saying that he had been away from home for some weeks.

Convinced that the explanation for what had happened would lie in one of the many unanswered letters at Hathenshaw, Clinton decided against affording Esmond the pleasure of enlightening him. Instead he went to a money lender’s where he had once been a frequent visitor, and could therefore expect to get credit without unseemly wrangling about security. Unfortunately the master was out of town for several days and his clerk refused to accommodate Clinton in his absence. Much against his will, Clinton had been obliged to await the man’s return. When he finally left London, Clinton had borrowed three hundred pounds, signing his acceptance to a bill dated a month hence. By then he was confident that his trust income would be paid. Having bought his presents, Clinton joined Dick Lambert at his house in Hertford Street and went on with him by hansom to Euston Station.

It would later strike Clinton as unfortunate that from the time he sent his telegram to Theresa warning her of his delayed return, he
did not go back to his club. Had he done so, he would have found her message for him and another from a Mr James Hopkinson requesting an urgent meeting.

*

At Hathenshaw Clinton was at once aware of a new tenseness in Theresa’s manner. Wanting to talk to her alone without delay, he did not like to leave Dick on his own immediately after arriving. After talking about their journey, there was an awkward silence and then Theresa began to question them with forced gaiety about their time in London. Seeming unaware of the edge to Theresa’s voice, Dick gave a deliberately heightened account of the inconsequential sort of day young idlers in town were commonly supposed to enjoy: a visit to Tattersall’s watching the riders in the Row, gambling in the evening.

‘Not much of a life day in day out,’ he went on, smiling at Clinton. ‘Remember the morning we met Dudley Glynn? Used to be in the 15th with us,’ he explained to Theresa. ‘Rich as Croesus and never did a useful thing in his life except travel around with a hat box full of bank notes for emergencies. He’s dying of boredom. Suggested we went off and bought a hundred rabbits and let them loose at the opera.’

‘Did you?’ Theresa asked with a show of amusement.

Lambert shook his head.

‘If he’d suggested pigeons …’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘In fact we had some good times with him a few years back.’ Dick then told a story of how Glynn had bet a hundred guineas that nobody dining with him on a particular evening could get himself arrested inside ten minutes without assaulting somebody or doing damage to property. Clinton had given a sovereign to a passing tramp and changed clothes with him; then, dressed as a beggar, he had entered a wine bar and demanded service. When he had offered several of Glynn’s spoons in payment for his drink, the landlord had called in a constable.

As Lambert finished the anecdote, Louise came in. Clinton handed over the musical box he had bought for her, and then took out the small gold watch and diamond bow he had chosen for Theresa. After kissing him, she pinned it on her breast. A moment later she left the room, saying she wanted to see it in a mirror. Clinton followed soon afterwards.

‘For God’s sake tell me,’ she cried as he came into her boudoir. ‘My telegram,’ she said impatiently, when he made no reply.

‘I got no telegram.’

‘Didn’t you go to your club yesterday or the day before?’

He shook his head, astonished by her distress. Several minutes later when she had finished telling him about Hopkinson’s visit, it took all his control to appear calm. His chest felt suddenly tight and filled with panic.

‘You said you were going to see your trustees.’ The reproach in her voice was agony to him.

‘I went to Drummonds instead … spoke to one of the partners. There’s nothing to worry about.’ The lie had been instinctive and spontaneous; but the moment he had spoken, Clinton felt committed to it. What could possibly be gained by frightening her?

‘Why did he come here?’ she insisted. ‘It’s obvious he thinks something’s terribly wrong.’

Clinton shrugged.

‘Maybe he does. I’ll write to the trustees tomorrow.’

‘You will tell me things, Clinton?’ she blurted out, coming to him with outstretched arms. ‘You don’t think it wrong for wives …?’

‘I won’t hide anything from you.’

‘If there are dangers I must share them with you. Together we can face anything on earth.’

‘I know,’ he murmured, holding her tightly, feeling a deep sigh of relief pass through her. But though he sensed that this first crisis was over, her strained face when they moved apart told him that she would not let the matter rest for long.

Dinner that evening was a difficult meal. When the cloth had been removed and Harris had placed port and brandy on the table, Theresa rose to leave but Clinton would not hear of it.

‘There’s nothing Dick and I wouldn’t feel able to say in front of you.’

‘Do you agree, Captain Lambert?’

‘Entirely.’ He stretched out his long legs and chuckled to himself. ‘Strange thing happened at the station. Did Clinton tell you?’ She shook her head. ‘The porter saw me sticking my hand out of the window and thought I was going to give him an extra tip. Anyway as I stuck out my hand, he reached up expecting a coin and got the hot end of my cigar thrust into his palm … I’d been shaking out the ash. God how he yelled.’

The story had not amused Theresa at all, but when in reply she had embarked on an anecdote about Grimaldi, she realised that without having intended it, her story formed a direct rebuke to Dick for his tale. Grimaldi had been in a farce which required him to jump through a window and be caught on the other side by two stagehands. One day he had an argument with one of them, who did not make any effort to break his fall that evening. With two broken
ribs the clown went on with his performance, making the audience howl with laughter at his grimaces of pain

‘That’s not quite the same,’ murmured Clinton after a pause.

‘Somebody expecting one thing gets something quite different. Isn’t that the same joke?’

Lambert looked at her with more amusement than rancour.

‘Perhaps one can be witty without being nasty. I can see I’m going to have to watch myself.’

‘I honestly didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Of course not,’ he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I like quick-witted women who don’t pretend to be anything else.’

In one way Theresa admired Lambert’s bland unruffled tone, in another she was irritated by it.

‘So you don’t mind disagreements, captain?’

‘Don’t have any, Mrs Barr … not with ladies. Does one good to praise what one doesn’t agree with.’

In spite of herself, Theresa found herself smiling. She turned to Clinton.

‘Did you ever hear a better justification of insincerity?’

‘Dick’s always far too hard on himself.’

Later, listening to the two men talking about the Fenians’ recent ignominious defeat on Tallaght Hill, Theresa was troubled by her instinctive dislike for Clinton’s friend. She did not want to be treated by him with the mannered civility he would probably show to women of his own class, but neither did she like the assumption of easy familiarity he obviously thought appropriate for his dealings with a friend’s mistress. At times, with a feeling of indignation that astonished her, she wanted to scream at him that she was Lady Ardmore. The idea that he might think her an adventuress, without concern for Clinton’s future, was very painful to her. Worst of all was the half-admitted fear that being with Dick might make Clinton regret losing his old way of life.

*

Several hours after going to bed with Clinton, Theresa woke with a slight start. It was very dark, but even before she reached out, she sensed that he had gone. A faint yellow light showed under the door. In case any of the servants were still up, she put on a peignoir with a shawl over it and went down carrying a lamp. Harris was sitting in the hall in a deep leather chair reading a paper by the light of a candelabrum.

‘Why are you waiting here?’ she asked as he stood up dutifully.

‘To put out the lights. His lordship’s not retired yet.’

‘I’m aware of that. Where is he?’

‘In the gun room.’

Theresa was aware of Harris’ watchful eyes as she brushed past him. His neatly clipped military moustache and cavalry overalls jarred her nerves—constant reminder of Clinton’s lost career.

She pushed open the gun room door, breathing in the bitter smell of oiled metal. Clinton was sitting by the bench where Harris cleaned the guns. A litter of greasy squares of cotton, knotted cords and percussion caps lay in a heap under the window. A decanter, an empty glass and several crumpled letters were by Clinton’s elbow.

‘Why on earth are you in here?’

He looked up in surprise, but quickly recovered.

‘Looking for some things.’

‘Did you find them?’

He nodded, thrusting the letters into a pocket as she came up to him.

‘In the drawer,’ he gestured. ‘Couldn’t think where I’d put them.’

‘Weren’t they in Esmond’s hand?’

‘What sharp eyes you have, grandmother.’ He stood, and laid an arm on her shoulder, seeming completely at ease. ‘He’s still doting, I’m afraid. Not that I blame him. Anyway the trust worry’s
explained
. I was a fool not to read his scrawl when it first arrived … thought he’d just written to wish me with the devil. A moral to everything—never stuff unopened letters in drawers and forget about them.’

‘What did he say?’ she asked quietly.

The lamplight shone dully on gun barrels and lent faint tints of gold to his brown hair. His skin next to the velvet collar of his coat looked very white. He squeezed her shoulder.

‘My love, the way you’re looking at me …’

‘I only want to know what he wrote. Aren’t you going to tell me?’

‘It’s nothing dramatic. The trustees bought some shipping shares a few months back. They’re wrangling over the premium offered. A misunderstanding over the amount. The company’s hanging onto the dividends till the thing’s settled. Pretty tedious.’

‘Don’t you mean serious?’

‘Esmond doesn’t seem bothered, and he’s got as much to lose as I have.’

Climbing the stairs, Theresa asked if she could read the letters. He was ahead of her and she could not see his face.

‘Tomorrow for God’s sake.’ And though he laughed, his tone rang false to her.

‘Do you think it wise to rely on him?’

‘There are the trustees. You’ll have
me
worried if you go on.’

His breath when he kissed her smelled strongly of smoke and brandy. This was the first time she had ever known him sit drinking by himself late at night. As he leaned over to put out the lamp, he quoted to her:

‘The bright day’s over, dear lady, and we are for the dark.’ He turned down the wick and reached out a hand to her. ‘Did I get it right?’

‘As near as makes no difference,’ she replied, feeling a curious shiver at the pit of her stomach.

They lay on their own sides of the bed for a long time without moving, and this time it was Clinton who slept the sooner; and though she longed to, Theresa did not dare risk waking him by getting up and taking the letters from the pocket of his coat.

*

Clinton left the breakfast table first, and when Theresa followed a few minutes later, she discovered him talking intently to Harris in the hall. As soon as Clinton had finished speaking, Harris walked off hurriedly in the direction of the stables. Suspecting that whatever had passed between master and man had concerned Esmond’s letters, Theresa ran up to the bedroom determined to read them at once.

To her dismay the pile of clothes he had discarded the night before, had been removed by the time she reached the bedroom. Clinton never picked up his own clothes, so Harris had evidently taken them to the dressing room while she had been at breakfast. She looked in the drawers of the dressing table and rummaged in the miniature chest-of-drawers on the table between the fireplace and the door, but found nothing. Suddenly she wondered whether what she had actually seen in the the hall was Clinton giving the letters to Harris so that she would not get hold of them. She sat down disconsolately on the bed. Through the window she was aware of the brooding beauty of the beech and chestnut trees at the end of the lawn; no leaves were stirring in the still morning air. A bee was buzzing and bumping against the ceiling. A faint scent of dried lavender came from the drawers she had opened. Her maid came to dress her, but she sent her away.

When Clinton came in, dressed and shaved, she remained gazing out at the trees.

‘Where was Harris dashing off to?’

‘Lancaster,’ he replied absently. ‘You ought to get dressed. It’s going to be too hot to do anything in an hour or two.’ He sat down next to her. ‘I wish you’d change your mind about learning to ride.’

She glanced sideways at him.

‘You can’t have forgotten, Clinton.’ He tossed back his head in consternation. ‘I’m sure some women do ride in the first months,’ she went on, ‘but they know they’re not likely to fall off.’ She laid a hand on the back of one of his. ‘What’s he going to do in Lancaster?