A Song Twice Over (62 page)

‘Not that Mr Moon could ever wish to be ungenerous,' breathed Linnet. ‘But whatever he gave her he knows she would only throw it away – that it would be gone, in no time, like a puff of smoke. In which case it seems utterly pointless to give her anything very much at all. So his lawyers tell him. And, when all is said and done, he has his children to consider.'

Certain more desperate wheels, therefore, would have to be set in motion.

Divorce? Well yes, Mr Moon had certainly thought of that and it was by no means impossible, not for a man at any rate, who would be largely spared the social ostracism and the necessity of going to live abroad, incurred by divorced women. After all – and Linnet was remarkably well-versed on the subject – the divorce laws had been formulated for the express purpose of allowing certain noblemen to free themselves so that they might remarry and produce legitimate heirs to carry on their ancient names. And although Mr Adolphus Moon was no belted earl he was undoubtedly rich enough to afford the considerable cost of divorce proceedings and the private Act of Parliament they entailed. A shade excessive, thought Linnet, for the likes of Marie Moon, but worth it –
well
worth it – if it meant that dear Mr Moon could be at liberty.

Whether or not it was her intention to become his next wife – the third of that name – she did not say. But her dear Aunt Amabel, nevertheless, gave her a nod and a smile of understanding, for although Linnet still enjoyed her elevated position of Mr Uriah Colclough's angel, her thirtieth birthday
was
approaching, Mr Colclough had had plenty of time to make up his mind, and Mr Adolphus Moon was not only rich but appeared to be most eager.

‘He is such a
dear
man,' murmured Linnet. ‘So kind and good. Indeed, it was his very goodness which led him into the clutches of that woman. Impossible, you see, for a man like him to see through her – until afterwards, of course.'

‘Oh yes – yes – I suppose – One sees that,' said Amabel, wishing these things did not make her feel so very uncomfortable.

But divorce, it seemed, was hardly
practical
at the moment, the mere mention of it and the fact that no one could promise to keep Gussie Lark's name out of it, having so distressed Lady Lark and having proved so nearly fatal to her favourite cousin, the erring Gussie's mother, that the humane and sweet-natured Mr Moon had felt unable to proceed. One could not have the demise of a neighbour on one's conscience after all. Nor could one afford – although Linnet did not say this
quite
so plainly – to upset so powerful a woman as Lady Lark, who could, if she so desired, impose a social ban which would probably oblige Mr Moon to leave the neighbourhood.

And since he was so agreeably settled here, in such a charming house, what was to be done?

‘Incarceration,' murmured Linnet, speaking the word so pleasantly, making it sound such a cheerful thing, that, for a moment, Amabel did not understand her.

‘Locked away,' said Linnet sweetly. ‘For her own good, of course. In a – well, does one call them asylums? Although one has every reason to think them most comfortable. And who can doubt that the poor woman has lost her wits?'

All the evidence pointed in that direction. There was the time, for instance, when, dressed in an evening gown – an exact copy of the one Linnet had worn for the hunt ball – she had gone traipsing about all over Far Flatley embarrassing the villagers with gifts of vintage wines for which they could surely have no use. And would a sane woman run after little boys – well, hardly more than boys – in the abandoned fashion she had pursued poor Gussie who, at
his
tender age, would never have thought of it for himself? There was even a reputable body of medical opinion to the effect that the physical appetite in itself – in a woman – was a clear indication of mental instability. Not to mention her drinking, which no one could dispute. Only think of the bruises with which she was constantly covered from falling down when in her cups.

‘Oh dear,' murmured Amabel, not knowing what else to say. ‘And if she entered an – an asylum? – would that ensure Mr Moon his divorce?'

Linnet smiled. ‘Regrettably not. But at least it would rescue Gussie Lark from her toils and set him on the right road to a commission in a good regiment – which I expect Mr Moon might buy for him – and a nice little wife with some money of her own to go with it. And then, should Madame Marie be cured in a year or two, she could come out and find herself another young man who might be named in a divorce action without upsetting anyone – anyone we know, that is … Leaving our Mr Moon free, at last, to find a real mother for his sweet, sad little children.'

‘Oh –' Amabel sounded doubtful. ‘I see.'

Rising to his feet John-William Dallam, a mighty man in his wrath, cast his newspaper down on to the table causing a disruption among the jugs of milk and hot water and the pots of marmalade and honey which exactly suited his humour.

‘So you see, do you, Amabel?' he said, his face deepening once again to that alarming red. ‘Well, lass, I'll tell you what
I
see. A scheming, greedy woman – sitting there, right beside you – so desperate for money and position that she'd wed me – yes,
me
– if she could just think of some way of getting rid of you.'

Amabel gave a cry of pure anguish, Linnet a light titter which said, very clearly, ‘Tut, tut. These quaintly, newly rich.' A red rag to a bull, that morning to John-William.

‘Aye, lass,' he told her, towering over her, his bulk a menace from which she – who had been trained to face mutinous peasants at the castle door – did not recoil. ‘You'd wed me. If I'd have you. Which I wouldn't. Nor will Uriah Colclough. And you'll have your just deserts, my lass, if you manage to get yourself to the altar with that frilly, frizzed-up lecher of an Adolphus Moon.'

Very gracefully Linnet rose to her feet and stood, straight and stern for a moment, a noble lady who would gladly die before she would let the rabble in.

‘Mr Dallam, I cannot allow you to insult my friends …'

‘Sit down,' he bellowed, shaking off his wife's restraining hand. ‘
Now
. And stay there until I've done with you.'

Smiling vaguely in the direction of an imaginary audience – telling them with a faint gesture that the poor man was clearly deranged and must be humoured – she sat.

‘Your friends,' he snorted. ‘What friends? Adolphus Moon? The man's a degenerate, I tell you, and vicious. And what I like least about you, Miss Linnet Gage, is that you know it very well. If anybody wants locking up in a madhouse then it's
him
. Aye, so it is, and I'd take him there myself to keep him away from those two scared rabbits you seem set on being a mother to. If you can get him to commit his legal wife to an institution, that is, to oblige Lady Lark, and then cast the poor woman off with no more than a parlourmaid's wages, I expect, when it's safe to let her out again.'

He paused for breath, needing it.

‘John-William, I implore you …' moaned Amabel.

‘Be quiet, woman,' he said. ‘And those bruises you tell me she gets from falling down drunk.' He snorted his contempt. ‘The man beats her. He drags her about by the hair and takes a dog-whip to her. For his pleasure. Every villager in Far Flatley knows it, Miss Linnet Gage, and so do you. A silly little woman like my Amabel now, oh no, she doesn't know it. Because she doesn't believe that anybody she's ever met could do such a thing. It never enters her head. But you're no milk-and-water innocent, are you, my lass? You
know
what a filthy brute the man is and so long as he puts a ring on your finger and makes you the mistress of that fine house and gives you your horse and carriage, you don't care. And you'll do anything he fancies to pay for it, so long as it can be done in such a manner that nobody will ever know. Aye lass, I've watched the pair of you, him dangling his worldly goods like a carrot in front of you, and you tempting him with your Bartram-Hynde pedigree. Whispering behind your pretty fan, in your pretty little voice, how best to strip his wife bare and put her away. I've watched you. And there's not an ounce of decency in you, Linnet Gage, nor a scrap of human feeling. You're not fit to clean my Amabel's shoes with your Bartram-Hynde connections …'

Scraping back his chair he walked out through the open windows and set off down the garden, away from them, unable to bear either his wife's tears or his own choking contempt for Linnet, walking fast into the heat, towards the sun, he supposed, since something was certainly dazzling him. Damn the woman.
Damn
her. Desperate she may be. In his better moments he could even pity her. Once or twice he'd even considered buying her the kind of husband she needed. Not Colclough, of course. He would have come
too
dear. But somebody with enough prestige to make her feel a success. He hadn't done it because … God knows. When it came to it he hadn't seen why he should. But he'd have to get rid of her now, one way or another and no mistake, although already he was dreading the scenes there would surely be with Amabel. The tears. The supplications. The
nonsense
.

Was that why he was feeling so dizzy? He was feeling sick, too, although that, he supposed, was from losing his temper last night before he'd digested his dinner, and losing it again this morning over his toast and that dreadful weak, scented tea they kept telling him was all the fashion.

But his head was really most peculiar. Was it the heat? He was still asking himself that question when he struck the ground, grunting and snorting, regaining consciousness without realizing he had lost it, just in time to see two female figures, at what seemed the end of a long tunnel, running towards him like giant moths, their wide, muslin skirts coming at him – he was sure of it – to suffocate or drown him.

Amabel. And Linnet Gage.

And there was something wrong with his face, some leaden weight dragging it sideways out of shape. Something wrong with his legs. He couldn't move, couldn't transfer the words in his racing mind to his tongue. Couldn't speak. Dear God. Couldn't make himself understood. Couldn't tell them what he wanted done.
Couldn't defend himself
.

And here was Amabel who would always lean to the strongest will; and Linnet already inviting her to lean.

John-William Dallam, for the first time in his life, was terrified.

‘Gemma,' he said. ‘Fetch Gemma.' And when they failed to translate his harrowing grunts he used what he knew might be his final strength, not caring if it killed him – the sooner the better it now seemed to him – and painfully, grotesquely, like a retarded child fighting for speech, enunciated her name. ‘Gemma.'
‘Gemma.'
Until he was understood.

He had no care any longer for the welfare of his wife. He was afraid now for himself. Not of death but that his present state, not death but not life in any way he valued it, might be prolonged. The helplessness of a child without a child's acceptance of helplessness. His towering will imprisoned, buried alive, in a dead body which lay now at the mercy of women he did not trust. Amabel who would not know what to do. And Linnet who would do anything to gain her own advantage.

Timid, loving, ineffective,
useless
Amabel. And Linnet, her dainty hands already reaching out to take control. Of the house. Of his wife. Of
him
.

Gemma.

The doctor was in attendance when she arrived and although he attempted to prepare her she was deeply shocked by the twisted, mottled face on her father's pillow, the eyes pleading with her as her father had never pleaded with anyone, the gnarled hand on the counterpane that had her father's diamond ring on the little finger, feeble and questing, groping as if those naked, frightened eyes had been blind.

‘Help me,' he said. It was as much as he could say. He had held the words in his mind for what seemed to him an eternity, clinging to them with the dregs of his determination, willing her to understand.

She understood.

‘Gemma, dear,' Linnet had murmured on her arrival. ‘Such a tragedy. Your poor mother. And your father has always been so good to me. I am so distressed. I surely have no need to tell you that you may count on me, absolutely, for anything. And I am no stranger to this, you know. I nursed my mother for a long, slow time and what I have done once I can do again. I know the pitfalls. And since my life is here, in any case, it seems pointless to disrupt yours … And Tristan's – naturally.'

‘Where is my mother, Linnet?'

‘Oh, lying down, dearest. You may imagine the state she was in. I have given her a whisper of laudanum and I doubt if she will wake before evening. Much kinder. And I have settled with Dr Thomas about the nurses. A clean, competent woman for the daytime and one who can be trusted not to fall asleep at night. Although, of course, it always pays to watch the level of the gin bottle. They usually have one with them.'

Linnet had escorted her to her father's bedroom door very ready to go rustling in ahead, crying out, ‘Now then, we have a visitor,' had Gemma not prevented it.

Yes. She understood.

‘Are they fretting and fussing you, father? Don't worry. I'll keep them at bay.'

And, seeing that his mind still actively lived, she knelt down beside him and explained in detail and with care, that she would now make the move to Almsmead that she had promised him. She would be a daughter to Amabel, a wife to Tristan, a prop to her father's old age and the guardian of his dignity. She would do what she had been conceived and conditioned to do. Her duty.

Her measure of time was over. Not full, of course. She had realized, months ago, that it could never be that. But it had run its course. And although she had known full well that the blow must fall it was no less painful when it did.

Returning to Frizingley the following afternoon to supervise the packing of her trunks and boxes, she went first to the mill-school, standing for a long while in the doorway, signifying by a gesture to Daniel that she did not wish to interrupt him. Only to watch him. Only to be here in this place where her joy had started, where she had lived, so briefly, not as John-William Dallam's daughter, but as herself.