Air and Angels (24 page)

A buzz of interest, exclamation, among the girls.

And under cover of it, quite quietly, Florence said, ‘And I, in my turn – though no one must know of it yet – I expect to have news of that kind myself before too long.’ And felt her heart leap and quicken, as if the act of speaking it out loud must surely
make it be so.

No one must know it. But, glancing up, she saw that of course Kitty had heard, and was looking at her, taken by surprise, and perhaps in some bewilderment.

Florence returned the child’s gaze, eyes steady and defiant upon her.

THERE HAD never been a spring like it, everyone said so.

On May Day, the lawns and gardens were crowded, straw hats came out. The young men sprawled on the grass or else took to the river. (And some young women too giggling in groups, delighted with themselves. And some of them, being kind, invited Kitty, there was to be a picnic among bluebells under the trees. Kitty wore white, with a silk
sash, her hair down.)

Temperatures neared eighty, or so it was believed.

Now, Thomas thought of no one and nothing else. It was as if he had gone mad. He had seen her only three times. They could scarcely be said to have spoken.

He went out, wandered desperately among the young people, looking, looking. (But turned away and retreated, in shame, just as he was very near and might have seen her,
laughing, beautiful, among the other picnickers on the grass.)

On the staircase, going towards the library, the Dean.

‘Cavendish – I am very glad indeed to see you. I have been a little – a little concerned.’

It was dim here, cool, private. But still, he turned away his face. Daubeney peered.

‘I should very much like to talk. Will you come and see me? Will you dine?’

‘I have been finishing
a piece of work. I …’

‘Of course. But there are things to discuss. Just in a friendly way.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tomorrow? We would be alone …’

He looked round, panicked. He did not know what day tomorrow was.

‘Thank you … I … yes. Yes.’

‘You are not unwell?’

‘Unwell? No.’

He turned.

‘I have a tutorial. If you will excuse me.’

He reached his room. Closed the door. Stood, trying to focus, to come
to his senses.

Unwell. No.

Yes.

Was he? What was he?

The vision rose before him again. Kitty on the stone bridge, looking down into the water. Her dress pale. Hair back from her face. And his only thought was that he must see her. Perhaps then, somehow he would be sane again, and this would be over.

He stood at the window, looking down onto the quiet courtyard. Wagtails bathed, fluttering
about in the shadow of the fountain. But all the people were gone, to the gardens, to the river. He rested his head on the glass and thought nothing. Nothing. Kitty.

IT WAS spring, but it was almost summer.

May blossom curded the hedgerows. At dawn, mist wreathed, ghostly, over the river and far beyond; at dusk, the swifts, newly returned, soared around all the towers of the town.

And the sun shone, every day was cloudless, every day was hot.

Florence had planned the trip to London, to St Faith’s Shelter. They were to go on a Thursday, returning by Saturday
evening. And Georgiana, anxious, preoccupied, would go, not having the energy to do otherwise.

They were sitting in the deep shade of the copper beech.

‘But it is Latin and Greek which are most important, and she has done neither, of course, she will have to make up a very great deal of work.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Scripture. I daresay those should all go together.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But we have so far been
unsuccessful.’

‘Perhaps – one of the schools? Should she not simply go to school?’

But having come this far, Florence would go further.

Looking away from Georgiana, watching a bluetit dart into the bushes, and at once, out again, said, ‘I would welcome advice.’

‘But you have taken advice. Miss Pontifex …’

‘But this is not her field, Thea is a historian. Besides, her thoughts are elsewhere.
She no longer seemed very interested – or committed.’

‘Ah.’

‘Might you not mention it to your brother? Or perhaps I should simply write him a letter?’

A breeze rippled the leaves above them, so that for a few seconds, they were dappled with sunlight – the detail from some painting, two women on wicker chairs, under the great tree.

Brother, Georgiana thought of him, saw him, his face suddenly
older, strained, grey, and almost wept with her own helplessness, shut out. And remembered in childhood days when he had locked his room against her, and she had sat down on the other side of the door, close up to it, touching the cold wood with her hand, leaning her head against it, hating him to be within, private among his own things, unreachable in his own thoughts.

Loved him now as then,
surreptitiously and in silence.

Florence said, ‘I feel sure that he would be able to recommend someone, solve the problem at once.’

‘Yes.’ Though she scarcely heard.

Looking at her, sensing her preoccupation, Florence thought, it is illness perhaps; or simply old age already; and felt concerned. But knew that whatever it was could not touch her, she herself was immune, invincible.

The bird,
through accident or its own stupidity, had caught its leg in the door of the cage. It was not badly injured, it would not die, he thought, unless of fright.

Thomas stood in the middle of the conservatory cradling the soft, bright-feathered thing in his hands. Its eyes gleamed bead-bright. Coming to the doorway, Georgiana watched, and felt excluded again, an intruder here.

His face, looking closely
at the bird, seemed younger, unlined, and tender. But catching sight of her, he frowned, shaking his head, and so, she turned away, and waited in the outer study, among the other birds, those that were dead, or present only in image, and to which she could do no harm.

After some time, he joined her. ‘I am sorry. You wanted to speak to me.’

‘You are dining in college?’

‘I am dining with the
Dean.’

‘You are always rushing away. I feel I have to make an appointment to see you. You never settle, now.’

‘It is full term, you should know how much there is to be done.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘I shall try not to be late back.’

‘But then you will be tired and preoccupied, or I shall be tired, and so it will not do.’

‘Georgiana …’

‘In any case, it was scarcely important, it was simply something
about young Kitty Moorehead.’

Pain flared, pain or pleasure, anxiety, hope, dread?

‘Florence is trying to find tutors for her, and just now, it is Latin and Greek. And Scripture. I am to ask if you might suggest someone suitable, that is all.’

For a second, he paused, his thoughts turbulent, flailed about among them. Then abruptly turned and, going out of the room, said, ‘I am afraid I am already
late. And I could not possibly advise about teaching at that level, for a young girl. What are you thinking of? How could I?’

Georgiana stared after him in the wake of his ill temper, bewildered, surprisingly near to tears.

And the Dean had almost nothing to say, and gleaned nothing at all from him, it was a fruitless, awkward evening, there were too many silences. Thomas was home a little after
ten o’clock. The house was already in darkness.

He went at once into the conservatory. But the injured bird was hours dead.

Daubeney sat alone over a last glass of port.

But after all, there had been nothing more definite at any point than a few words privately spoken, some opinions canvassed. Nothing irrevocable in any way. It would be perfectly easy, if it became necessary, to go back to
the beginning and start again.

He thought, I have failed with Cavendish. Or failed Cavendish. But did not know which, or how. Only drained his glass, and turned down the lamps, and went to bed.

In a narrow, cobbled side lane, leading down to the weir, a small church, tucked sideways into the wall. And behind it, someone had half made a garden, though much of the time it was overgrown, you pushed
aside trailing branches and clambering brambles, trees arched, meeting overhead now, to form a green shade, roses clung to the wall; in February there were snowdrops, in May, bluebells and lily of the valley. The old gravestones leaned between. There was a stone seat.

He sat on it, in the late afternoon, and thought about love. But he knew nothing of love, or not of this kind. How could he know?
He was blind, stumbling forwards in an unfamiliar landscape. For what had he loved in his life?

Places, he thought at once. The house in Ireland, and the low shoreline, and the violet shadow of the mountain. Sky and sea.

The marshes and mud-flats and water stretching to the North Sea. His days alone there. The island. The geese flying. The birds, always.

His mother, he had loved passionately
when small. But the passion had faded.

Nana Quinn, he supposed. He could scarcely remember.

(He did not think at all of Georgiana.)

His work. Did he love that? Or was it merely satisfaction?

His God? No, his religion was not of that kind. But he loved the cadences of Scripture. The old words.

None of these things counted for anything at all. He saw that now. He had never thought that he might
love a woman. If this obsession was love. And how was he to know? He had no possible way of telling. Marriage he had considered, but always in the abstract. He saw it as necessary for some, for companionship, and the establishment of families, and as the way women were provided for. But he had never felt the need of it.

He had watched the years of patient, single-minded devotion of his friend
Cecil Moxton in bewilderment, knowing that what he watched was love of the purest kind. But had never for one moment understood it.

And the case of a young man like Eustace Partridge, who had ruined his life because of the weakness of the flesh, had merely repelled him. And the waste of it had made him angry.

Now, he sat watching a blackbird scurry, close to the earth, head dipping, and knew
himself to be utterly changed. Knew joy, felt as a lightness, a quickening in his breast, thinking of Kitty, seeing her in his mind’s eye.

But love?

The blackbird rose abruptly and flew low to the ground for a few yards, before settling on one of the lichened headstones.

A breeze blew, parting the leaves.

Love?

He got up, and left the churchyard, and began to walk quickly up the lane, away
from the river.

‘You will have tea, of course?’

‘That would be – kind. Thank you. It is very hot.’

‘I will ring in a moment. Hot? Yes. Unseasonably so, do you not think? They say it has been in the eighties – surely that cannot be natural? It is only early May. My mother says that we are going to have a glorious summer, the hottest summer ever. Oh, do please sit down.’

‘I wonder how one would
know.’

‘Know?’

‘Ever? That we are to have the hottest summer
ever
.’

‘Yes, I do see. But in any case, it is only Mother, liking to pretend that she has second sight. Highland blood and so on. It makes her feel interesting. I daresay the weather will break soon and then we shall have rain for a month.’

‘It shows no sign of breaking yet.’

‘Oh, yes, and you are hot. I will ring for tea at once.’

She rang.

‘Of course Kitty does not find it hot at all, after India.’

His heart lurched. Kitty.

But she was not here.

‘This would be a day in the Cold Season, she says, and even then, it is never so fresh, the air is never so clear there. She is looking well, do you not think? Our climate agrees with her.’

‘Yes. I … I am sure it does. She seems … yes.’

For a moment, he struggled, her gaze
upon him. She sat on a small chair which was upholstered in eau-de-Nil, on the other side of the room. Her dress was a deeper shade of the same green. She had placed herself rather carefully.

But he was unaware.

He looked down at the carpet, counted rosebuds on the intricate border. Felt panic.

It has come, Florence thought. It is now. Now, he will surely ask.

The door opened on the maid,
bearing tea.

And so, tea was poured and drunk, and a dundee cake cut, and he felt more than ever out of place in this room, and looked in desperation, at oil portraits that hung from the walls, and china in decorative cabinets, and shelves of the works of the English poets, as if for help. Found none.

And Florence spoke only a little, a few words, and then fell into silence, looking across at
him.

(Old Mrs Gray, it seemed, was resting. And Kitty?)

He said at last, ‘I understand from my sister that you are in need of a tutor for – Miss Moorehead. That you have had some problem?’

‘Oh, for Latin and Greek,’ she said, almost without interest. ‘I had forgotten that I mentioned it to Georgiana.’

‘I gather that she has studied neither subject?’

‘Oh no.’

‘But someone could be found,
I am quite sure. I would be willing to speak to one of my pupils if … but perhaps you would not think that suitable?’

‘Really, you need not trouble. Georgiana suggested that Kitty should go to school. Well, she will not do that, her parents do not seem to wish it. But I am sure a schoolmistress can be found. I have thought of a way round it and that is, I shall advertise. But it is all very trivial,
really you are not to concern yourself.’

‘But I would want to concern myself.’

She looked up, hearing an edge to his voice.

He said, ‘She must have the best tuition from the beginning. Perhaps you will at least allow me to see any applications you may receive – so much harm may be done by bad teaching.’

Florence stood up and crossed to the window. ‘She is only a girl, after all,’ she said,
with a slight laugh, ‘I daresay all this will come to nothing in the end. She is not one of your clever young men.’