Air and Angels (18 page)

Which was how Thomas Cavendish saw her, standing quite still on the curved stone bridge.

(And he, head down, was preoccupied, going over and over his talk with Daubeney, and all that might follow from it. Though he was also aware of the day, that it seemed to be
spring.)

He did not know her. There was no reason why he should know her.

It was simply that, stepping aside to make way for someone or other, and looking up, he saw her there.

She wore a pale dress and coat and her hair was off her face. Her hand rested on the parapet. And he was reminded of some still, entirely graceful bird, glimpsed on the margin of the shore.

She did not look in his direction.

And so, after a moment, he walked on, towards the streets of the town and the college at which he was to lunch.

And it was not for ten minutes or so more that Florence came, hurrying to rejoin Kitty, he and she did not meet then at all.

Why does the weather affect us so? Georgiana thought. She had carried one of the basket chairs onto the terrace, and sat there, her hands idle in her lap. Why
should this sun, this unexpected warmth and how the earth smells, the cloudlessness of the sky, make such a difference to everything, to the way we feel and hope and behave towards one another?

The previous day, and for some weeks past, she had been tired and bleak-spirited, there had seemed to be so little point to anything in her life – in all their lives.

Yet now, in this first spring sunshine,
there seemed nothing wrong that could not easily be put right, and she looked to a new future, new prospects – though how, or of what, she could not have told.

And of course, the previous day had not only been cold still, cold and wet with a harsh wind blowing about the curded grey sky, it had been the day of Mary Dundas’s funeral. Georgiana had followed the coffin, had stood in the dark little
chapel, and at the burial ground, beside the open grave, and been entirely alone, save for the clergyman and some hospital official, a bald man in a dun-coloured coat, to whom she did not speak. And feeling the harsh, spiteful, pins of rain on her face, she had wept, tears of anger and bitterness and guilt, as well as of sadness, that anyone should have lived through their last weeks – and how
many others before? – and died and now should be buried so, without family or friends. Even I, she had thought in shame, I am only here when it is too late. For Mary Dundas sent for me – though I scarcely remembered her – and I delayed and did not come, until after she was dead – and was there any good reason for that?

There are too many alone, she said. And as she stood there, looking down at
the crumblings of earth on the bare coffin, had thought of so many. And then of Florence, alone, for all there was her old mother, and Adèle Hemmings, with no one save for the unloved, unloving aunt. And she herself, too, she realised, she and Thomas, for whichever of them died first would leave the other quite alone.

Unless, she supposed vaguely, her brother were to marry. But dismissed the
idea at once, knowing that he would not.

She thought of Alice.

So that, as soon as she reached home, she had gone to talk to her, for a long time, sat on the chair beside the range in the kitchen, and told her about Mary Dundas’s funeral, and then, for something else to say, about Florence’s cousin, Kitty Moorehead from India. (Though Alice, used to being left to herself, was disturbed, and
looked at Georgiana oddly from time to time, uneasy until, in the end, she left. For Alice had her friends, the others who went with her to the spiritualist church as well as those awaiting them there, and who were always with her now, presences, voices, so that Alice never felt truly alone.)

There was warmth and balminess in the air until late in the afternoon, though the shadows were long,
and the sun had gone off the garden. Georgiana walked up to where the clumps of daffodils were bright – brighter even since that morning, against the dark leaves of the laurels and rhododendrons, and the last of the snowdrops hid beside the first of the crocuses, at the foot of the trunk of the great old beech.

And her heart was lighter; she had prayed for the soul of Mary Dundas but then, put
the memory of her, and of the previous day, behind her, for she could do nothing else now.

She looked forward to a meeting of the friends of the Missions to China, later that week, and a visit she was to make to a Home for Moral Welfare in London, and to Florence’s coming to dinner with her cousin Kitty Moorehead. She looked forward to the summer and the shouts of the young men as they rowed
down the river and the garden parties and the music that would float across from summer balls. Life seemed suddenly to be springing up again all around her, there was brightness and laughter and hope in the world.

So that, arriving home a little early, while she was still outside in the last of the late afternoon light, Thomas saw the change in her at once, something lighter, younger in her face
and her eyes, and his own spirits were lifted by it, and he laughed with her over some story, as they took a last, slow turn around the garden, and the sky above the bare trees was streaked rose and violet and gold.

‘I have not spoken to you until now – there was so much to think of.’

‘Of course.’

‘And I am still thinking of it – I have not yet come to terms with the idea.’

‘So you have made
no decision?’

‘No, no. And naturally I had to consult you in every way. It is only that you have seemed rather – rather tired. I thought it best not to trouble you.’

‘Yes. I have been very low-spirited. Not completely well. So many things have oppressed me.’

‘But it is not like you to give in to that – you have so much energy, you always face things with such vigour … you know I have always
admired that in you – admired your courageousness.’

She looked up at him in astonishment, and flushed a little, for pleasure. Praise from him now was as much her lifeblood as it had ever been, she felt at once prouder, stronger in the light of his approval.

And, looking at him across the room, she began to consider him already as Master of the college, and it seemed to her an inevitable thing,
though the idea had never, in truth, occurred to her before now. He had the stature for it and the gravity.

‘Oh, it is what you
deserve
!’ she said in earnest.

‘Deserve? Why so?’

‘Because you are – oh, you are a fine scholar, you have good judgement, you are
wise
. You have served the college faithfully … and because … because it seems natural and right.’

For a moment, he smiled, as he had often
smiled at her when she was a girl, and had been extravagant in praise of him, believing him, as she had, to be a giant, a hero, a god.

‘And you are exactly the right age, you have many more vigorous years ahead.’

‘But you are speaking as if the matter is settled, decided, and of course you know that it is not. Daubeney has raised the subject …’

‘And told you that you would have the clear majority
of the college in your favour.’

‘Yes.’

But then, for a long time he was silent, staring into the fire – for the evening had grown suddenly cold, it was not yet spring after all.

Was it this? Georgiana wondered. This, knowing it, somehow, even before I knew it,
this
which gave me new hope, and stirred some interest in the future again?

Strangely, she realised that the idea of leaving this house,
in which she had lived so comfortably for so many years, did not trouble her at all. They would, she supposed, simply let it, and it would be here for them to return to in old age, at the end of it all.

She thought of the Master’s lodging, tall, finely proportioned, gracing the corner of the inner court, went through what rooms she knew in her mind, and around the beautiful garden, whose lawns
ran down to the river.

She had never been ambitious for herself – never, even, to marry and have her own family, she was content, so long as she had a few of her own useful activities, to live through him. But she would enjoy being the mistress of that house, she thought, now, and felt a stirring of excitement, pride even, at the prospect of their new station. And was surprised at herself, and
sufficiently human, sufficiently detached, to be a little amused, too.

Thought, suddenly – but Florence would want it. Yes.

Then, looking at her brother’s face again, said, ‘But you are not sure at all.’

‘No.’

‘You don’t doubt your own abilities – or that you would be a fitting man for the position?’

‘No. I think not.’

‘Then what?’

He stood up, and went to the window, drew the curtain back
a little. The moon had risen.

‘Perhaps … I am very happy as I am. I have all I have ever wanted. I am simply not ambitious in that way.’

‘No.’

‘Should I be?’

‘Oh, you are as you are, Thomas … you should be true to that. Only …’

‘It is what
you
want for me.’

‘Only do not dismiss it because you are comfortable … would rather not be disturbed.’

‘Afraid to change?’

‘Yes.’

‘Slothful?’

‘No,
no. But … I am only asking you to consider it carefully … look ahead.’

‘I do.’

‘And … and it is an
honour
, surely?’

He glanced round, hearing the note of pride in her voice, warmed, as he had always been, by her love and support for him. Remembered that she had devoted herself and her life, to him. Perhaps she deserved this. He should think of that.

And he could not pretend that he had not
been flattered, and, perhaps, would revel in it all, in the authority, the power even.

But, after a few minutes more, he put it out of his mind, unable to reach any conclusion, and unwilling to fret over it longer, and went into the conservatory, to see to the little birds. And afterwards, worked until very late, on his bird book, and drew more than his usual joy and satisfaction from it, drinking
it in like cool water. For this was what he wanted, what he did best, loved best, to be here, in this quiet room, among these books and maps and drawings and birds. Here, or else out on the marshes in his boat. These were the only places.

Everything else, he thought, must resolve itself as it would, but he would not trouble himself greatly with it.

But, at the back of his mind, there was something
else, some other half-remembered thing, some sight, or awareness or emotion. But he could not recall it or name it. It was simply as though there were some area of warmth and brightness which, from time to time, as he worked, he felt himself close to, as he might row out of the shadows into a patch of sunlit water, and it was, in some strange way he did not understand, an inexpressible source
of joy and absolute content.

But what? What?

LATER, THE weather would change again, later, clouds would bank up and gales rush in, driving rain before them from the west. Later, only a little later, winter would return, and the one bright day of spring be scarcely remembered.

But now, it was a still, mild night, now the moon rode, and shone on the grey houses, the calm fields.

On Florence, sleeping a satisfied sleep, for now she felt
that it was her mission to guide her cousin Kitty, and help her take full advantage of England, for the time being, she was happy and full of good purpose.

(Though every night, she remembered the words of the Professor of Fine Art: ‘A woman can make any man marry her, if only she will go about it in the right way.’ For she was not deflected from her purpose.)

On old Mrs Gray, awake, as always,
and eating biscuits from a rose-patterned tin, and drinking Malvern water, and contemplating Kitty Moorehead, Eleanor’s child. Plain, she thought, a plain girl, and yet hovering on the brink of beauty. A child, and yet a child no longer.

Well, she would do to occupy Florence, who had had too little to do with the young, never having had children of her own, and might soften her.

Though the diversion
would not last. For she was thoroughly aware of her daughter’s desires and frustrations.

She selected another biscuit, and listened with pleasure to the owls in the trees on the far side of the river. The old, she thought, can do anything, say anything, and be indulged, forgiven. Like children. It is our reward, we should make the most of it. But how many did, how many did?

Now, the moon rode
higher in the sky. Rode over the parsonage, where Cecil Moxton lay asleep and his wife lay awake, heavy with child for these few, last days, and over the house where Eustace Partridge slept fitfully, though not in the same bed, or even in the same room, now, as his young, bewildered wife. Who was no longer with child and would never be so, again, and who was not to blame but could not believe it.
And the gulf between them was wider than any dividing wall, wider than continents. Though he treated her kindly, and with infinite concern, and so, in a way, she was happy.

Rode over Miss Hartshorn and Miss Pepys, in the cottage in Warwickshire, where a rabbit screamed in terror of a stoat, in the woods that came up to the house.

And on the empty house in Norfolk, and the grave of Mary Dundas,
that would never be tended, never be dear to any heart, and over the sea, which was Miss Lovelady’s grave, where no gravestone would ever be.

Over the colleges and the chapels, the river and the meadows and all the fields around, out to the house in the country, waiting, waiting.

And on Adèle Hemmings who tonight slipped out of the house and out of her coat to walk naked through the dark streets
and over the sweet, cold grass.

The moon rode, until the first of the clouds came over it, and the rain spattered on the wind, as, far away, the storm gathered.

AT FIRST, as he came suddenly awake, it was his mother who filled his mind, and he was taken aback by it, for he thought of her so rarely – of either of his parents – he was not a man who had ever dwelled greatly on the past, though sometimes, he allowed himself to think fondly of Nana Quinn, and of the holidays at the house in Ireland, remembered with a spurt of joy his days out in the boat
with Collum O’Cool. But he never thought – as he suspected that Georgiana did think – of the past as being a perfect place, for ever to be mourned and yearned for, always to be preferred to the present. That seemed to him something like a weakness, a kind of ingratitude. He would have said, always, I am perfectly content to live here, in the present.