A Song Twice Over (21 page)

Miss Baker departed, clothed in her own virtue and self-righteousness.

‘Oh dear,' said Amabel, relinquishing with some regret that entertaining notion of sugar in little pink and white sachets stitched into a hem. What else might accompany them? Good Heavens. She shuddered, worrying desperately now about all those chemises. If one had them washed, perhaps, very thoroughly, several times before wearing? So pretty. But, Goodness, it was
safety
that counted. And Amabel had started to feel very safe, all over again now, with Miss Ernestine Baker.

‘Oh dear,' echoed Linnet, her mouth drooping down a little at the corners, sadly and sweetly, but her light eyes shining. ‘One feels, perhaps, that one has seen the last of Miss Adeane? It would be wise, I think, dear Aunt Amabel, to ask your stout-hearted Mrs Drubb, perhaps, when she calls again, to tell her so.'

And there was no doubt at all that Amabel would have gladly agreed had not Gemma suddenly spoken, her voice, coming from the window-seat where she had been glancing at the pages of the
Ladies' Magazine
, startling Linnet into light, perhaps slightly nervous, laughter.

‘Do you think so, Linnet? I don't see why.'

‘My dear – you heard what the woman said.'

‘Yes, Linnet. I did.?

‘Can you doubt it?'

The dressmaker, Cara Adeane, was of little importance in herself to Linnet Gage; what mattered to her – the
only
thing which mattered to her – being her own position and the position of her brother for which, against the drawbacks of a criminally extravagant father and a self-indulgent, weak-willed mother, she had always had to fight. And if the exposure of Miss Adeane as a wanton and a slattern could strengthen her influence with Amabel Dallam, could reinforce in Amabel the feeling that Linnet was ever vigilant, ever solicitous, that with Linnet at her side she would always be safe, then she would expose the girl thoroughly, cruelly, making as much capital out of it – for herself and Tristan – as she could. For who knew what either of them may need as time went by? And it was Linnet's opinion that Amabel Dallam, for all her fads and fancies – perhaps because of them – might well live, and thus have favours to bestow, for a hundred years to come.

‘I am so sorry,' she said now to Gemma in her light, Mayfair voice. ‘I realize the girl was your discovery, but any of us can be deceived …'

What an excellent opportunity to let dear Aunt Amabel know that although Gemma had been taken in, she – Linnet – had not.

‘Oh yes indeed,' said Amabel almost obediently. ‘I am sure the girl was most plausible – likeable … No one could blame you, Gemma.'

‘I should think not.' Getting up from the window-seat and coming into the centre of the room, looking very small and brown beside Linnet's silvery fairness, Gemma was smiling. ‘What a storm in a teacup, mother.'

‘Oh darling – hardly …'

‘Yes, mother – most decidedly. And I am sure Linnet thinks so too – or will come to that conclusion when she has had a moment to reflect. Won't you, Linnet?'

‘Gemma – really – I think …'

What
did
she think? Was Gemma challenging her? It rather looked like it. And if so would it be wise to provoke a confrontation now, before the marriage contract was safely signed and sealed? Perhaps not. It was her intention to remain on good terms with Gemma if she could, certainly until she had established herself rather more securely in Frizingley. It might be unwise, therefore, to antagonize her on an issue which could be of little real significance to either of them, just now. Later, of course, when Gemma was married to Tristan and owed him the obedience of a wife, there would be no need for either of the Gages to tread so carefully.

Linnet smiled again, very sweetly.

Gemma, her eyes on Amabel, smiled too.

‘What have we really heard against her, mother? We can hardly blame her for what her father has done. Can we, now?'

Amabel, bending as always to a stronger will, looked endearing and very helpless as she shook her head.

‘I suppose not …'

‘And if she is working hard to support her mother, as Miss Baker tried
not
to tell us, then perhaps we ought to admire her, rather than condemn her, for it. Don't you agree?'

‘Oh dear, I suppose I do. But darling – the
other
matter …?'

Gemma's smile now was frank and open, far too certain of itself for Linnet's peace of mind.

‘Well mother, Miss Adeane is very handsome, you know?'

‘Yes, isn't she. I
do
think so. A little like a gipsy of course, which is not quite the thing for people like us, but
quite
lovely …'

‘In which case, why be surprised that she has a lover? And neither you nor I nor Miss Baker can have any real notion as to his intentions. When Miss Baker saw them together he may have been asking for her hand in honourable matrimony, you know. And anyway, perhaps Miss Baker is not the
best
judge … Do admit, mamma, that it must have been a very long time, if ever, since a handsome young man made an attempt on
her
honour.'

‘Gemma.'
But Amabel, who had never heard her daughter make such a shocking yet, nevertheless, entertaining remark before, burst into a peal of laughter; the kind of merriment women shared in whispers on the corner of a sofa, their heads close together. The kind of faintly malicious, vastly diverting gossip of which she had always been fond and which she had missed, until now, in Gemma.'

Well, then. She had been right after all. Love and marriage had been all her darling daughter needed to make her so refreshingly just like everybody else. Instantly, luminously, Amabel brightened.

‘So you see, mother,
I
think Miss Baker may have rather misjudged the situation. Don't you?'

It rather looked like it. Poor old Miss Ernestine. Worried about the competition too, perhaps. Amabel knew her darling John-William would have come to
that
conclusion at once. Yet a slight wrinkle of doubt still remained. What did Linnet think?

She asked her, and it was Gemma who replied.

‘Oh, Linnet thinks as I do, mother. I expect she saw through Miss Baker right away. Didn't you, Linnet?'

Gemma was not wholly concerned with Miss Cara Adeane either, although she did not care to see an injustice done. But, since she was marrying Tristan in order to free herself from petty restrictions such as these, it seemed an appropriate moment to nip Linnet's interference in the bud. She had always known that Tristan's sister would be a problem. So it was perhaps as well to start as one meant to go on, by claiming the right to choose one's own dressmaker. Paid for, after all – John-William Dallam's daughter felt bound to add – by one's own money.

‘Poor Miss Baker,' murmured Linnet, choosing discretion as her best weapon, for the moment. ‘Jealousy can be a terrible thing.'

And the next morning, when Cara arrived with the very last of her chemises, she was shown, to her astonished delight, a length of brown satin, heavy and rich, quite plain until the light caught it, deepening its sheen to a burnished copper.

‘I have had this for ages,' Gemma told her. ‘It was a gift from an aunt who thought it came from China. Perhaps it does, for I have never seen anything like it before. My mother thinks it far too dark and plain for an evening dress but I rather like it. Could you do something with it for me?'

At once
, before the golden moment had any chance at all of slipping away, before anybody else could dash it to the ground casually or maliciously, by saying ‘Oh no, darling, not
that
,' as Mrs Dallam seemed about to do, Cara produced the pencil and paper she always had about her and began rapidly to sketch.

‘Something like this, Miss Dallam?'

She might not be the best needlewoman in the trade, she knew that, and, when it came to embroidery and fine sewing, would never hold a candle to her mother, but she could translate brown Chinese satin or any other kind of satin – in seconds – into a design to suit not only the shape and size but the
nature
of anybody who asked her, giving this one an uncluttered elegance, even a little severity, to please Miss Dallam, yet narrowing the waist, curving the silhouette, drawing the garment on a taller, slimmer version of Miss Dallam, to please Miss Dallam's mother.

‘Yes, Miss Adeane. I should like that very much.'

‘Oh, darling.' Amabel sounded doubtful. ‘You will surely have some trimming – scallops of blonde lace, perhaps, all over the skirt? That would be nice. And a great swirl of it around the shoulders?'

Gemma shook her head.

‘Darling.'

Amabel bent anxiously over the drawing, and Cara, catching Gemma's eye, held it a moment, signifying ‘Leave it to me.'

‘A little embroidery,' she said. ‘Just a little. Very discreet. Something in the nature of a gold fleur-de-lys.'

‘Yes,' said Gemma. ‘Gold embroidery, mother. You'll like that.'

Miss Adeane, from her miraculous carpet-bag, produced tape, scissors, a length of plain linen which was soon cut into Miss Dallam's personal pattern against Miss Dallam's firm, well-rounded little body, and then stowed away in the bag again with the gleaming Chinese satin.

‘Would it not be wise,' murmured Linnet Gage, by no means defeated, ‘to have the work done
here
rather than – wherever it is Miss Adeane does her work? I am sure Miss Adeane would oblige …'

Her thin voice trailed off into thin air, leaving its faint warning of damage, dirt, even theft. For Miss Baker after all, may have been right. And if Miss Adeane was a wanton then might she not also be a thief? And while cambric for the fashioning of chemises was one thing, costly brown satin from China must surely be another?

Miss Adeane appeared to have become rather deaf.

So did Miss Dallam.

‘Perhaps you would be ready to come and give me a fitting on Friday afternoon?'

Miss Adeane agreed that she would, hurrying back to St Jude's with a shout of triumph in her heart, to find that Odette and Liam had gone out and that Daniel Carey was waiting for her.

She had not seen him for a month. They had said goodbye already. What now? Why say it all over again? But her pulses had started their racing, her heart its pounding at the first sight of him, her stomach lurching, as it always did, clean over and then, for hours afterwards, refusing to be still.

‘For the love of God – what do you want, Daniel Carey?' But already her mind was full of him, her triumph shrinking, slipping between her fingers like that future of silk and satin and feathered bonnets she had been dreaming about so eagerly an hour ago. Miss Cara Adeane. Dressmaker and Milliner. She might even attain that future. Faced now with the future upon which she dare not hazard herself, the other seemed suddenly quite possible. And would she be any better off than Miss Ernestine Baker, at the end of it, without Daniel?

‘Your mother let me in,' he said. ‘And then she took Liam out to the park. Or so she said. I suppose she knew I was wanting to talk to you.'

‘Talk, then.' There was no point in being sweet and understanding and breaking her heart all over again about it.

‘I'm away to London tonight and then to France.'

‘You told me that last month, so you did.'

‘I know. But I have my ticket now. And since it's about all I do have until the end of the month I shall have to use it.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘I've given up my lodging in Leeds, as well. I have a friend in London who'll put me up until I get myself sorted out. A fine man …'

‘Yes. The world's full of them. What has
he
been in prison for?'

He smiled. ‘Selling untaxed newspapers. And handing out broadsheet ballads about the Charter. But he
is
a fine man.'

‘I'll take your word.'

‘Goodbye, Cara.'

She turned her back on him, praying that he would not touch her, her throat so tight now with tears that it seemed to be closing, her chest feeling as if frantic hands were hammering it from the inside, bursting it – in several raw, sore places – wide open.

‘Cara, you can't go on …'

They had been through all this before.

‘Yes I can.'

‘Cara …'

They had said it all. Gone over it, through it, round it, beyond it, and ended, every time, trapped in the same corner, backed up against the same blank wall.

She turned around again to face him.

‘Goodbye.'

It was almost a command. He understood the reason. They had decided to part. Part, then. Do it and have done with it. Since all they were achieving, by these repeated farewells, was to inflict the same wounds over and over.

‘If I leave you an address …?'

‘No,' she said. ‘I won't write to you. Don't be writing to me either. I won't be here much longer in any case. Things are looking up. And if they go on like this I shall need something bigger and lighter. Much bigger, to take a real sewing table …'

‘Cara …'

‘Just go, will you.'

‘Yes. I will.'

‘I don't care, you know.'

‘Why should you? I'm not much of a catch. Just a poor schoolmaster who can't afford to keep you in the style to which you've never been accustomed …'

‘If you were even a schoolmaster. When did you last teach anybody anything except how to get locked up …'

‘Don't quarrel with me, Cara. Not now.'

‘You say that every time.'

‘I know.'

She could force no more words through her aching throat. Nor he. Go then – and be damned. God bless you. Come back to me.

‘Oh Christ,' he said. ‘You're the most glorious creature God ever made, Cara. I swear it.'

‘No. You are.' And she went forward as if some irresistible force, slowly gathering behind her back, had suddenly erupted and hurled her against him.