An Accomplished Woman (20 page)

‘I cannot say until I
know whether I am one of those people you trust, or one of those who must not
be left out.’ She received a quelling look. ‘Very well — I refer again to the
girls. Their education, no doubt, will include a deal of sewing — but please,
let them be taught also to be sensible and rational creatures.’

‘Aha!’

‘Spare me your masculine
aha, Mr Durrant.’

‘I did not suppose it
had a sex. I am merely making a supposition — though almost certainly a correct
one. This has come from your encounter with your young charge.’

Lydia did not deny it. ‘What
do you think of her?’

He shrugged. ‘Very
pretty: and she looks good-tempered enough. But I have only exchanged a few
words with her. You are much better placed than I to give an estimate of Miss
Rae. She is your responsibility, after all.’

‘She is nothing of the
kind,’ Lydia said, aware of her jaw tightening. ‘Lady Eastmond wished me to
befriend her — and that I have been happy to do, as Miss Rae is altogether
delightful.’

‘Aha!’

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘So she’s delightful, is
she? Delightful enough for you to turn chaperon after all?’

She glared at him: she
did hate it when he was pleased with himself.

‘Perhaps,’ she said,
taking a pen from his desk, and beginning to mend it. ‘Who knows? I may do as I
please. I am — thank heaven — a free and independent woman.’

‘Heaven is certainly to
be thanked for that. Well, you may do as you please, as you remark; but if you
were to go with Miss Rae to Bath after all, I would know there was another
reason behind it.’

‘To have the pleasure of
your
company there, of course.’

‘Not that. You would do
it simply because I said you could not do it: that you were unsuited to it, and
not capable. So generally accomplished as you are,
that
suggestion is
unbearable to you, I think; and so you would have to prove me wrong.’

‘You live too much by
yourself, Mr Durrant,’ she said, as collectedly as she could. ‘It encourages
you in the habit of believing that every question, every decision is referable
to you. I regret to inform you that when I choose what soup we are to have for dinner,
I do not ask myself: what would Mr Durrant like?’

‘No, you are more likely
to ask yourself what I would dislike.’

Lydia plied the penknife
rather vigorously. Whether I accompany Miss Rae to Bath or not — and whether I
am any use to her or not — still the project is well meant. Some might consider
me unsuitable — but no one would consider my going an absurdity.’

‘An absurdity — oh, I
see: you still cannot accept the notion of
my
going to seek a wife.’

‘I accept it, but I
cannot help laughing at it.’

‘You’re ruining that
pen.’ He came away from the window, awkward about the arms as ever: folded them
at last. ‘You doubt my success?’

‘No, no,’ she said
lightly, ‘I am sure there are women who would consent to marry on such terms as
yours.’

‘You do not know the
terms.’

‘Well, is it not merely
engaging a wife as you would engage a servant, or a farm-steward? I cannot
imagine, from all you have said, that you go with any more romantic intention
than that.’

‘You assume too much.’
His face remained darkly immobile, but there was a shift in his voice, like the
drop into coolness when a thunder-shower begins. ‘I am resolved to marry: that
does not mean anything will do. I had much rather marry happily — yes, with
true regard, affection — love: why not, if they are to be had? I shall
certainly seek them. Do you find that a matter for laughter?’

‘No: only for
disbelief,’ Lydia said; and saw at once he was offended.

‘I wonder why you credit
me with this insensibility — this incapability of feeling. Because I once proposed
to you, and was declined, pray do not suppose I have been wearing the willow
ever since, and have forsworn marriage because of it.’

Very much what she had
said about him to George in London: but she preferred it when she said it. ‘I
do not suppose that, Mr Durrant,’ she said, putting the pen and knife down, and
then picking them up again. ‘I never think about the matter.’

He roamed to the window
— where the bee, with deplorable lack of judgement, was trying to get in again
— and presented his stiff high-shouldered back to her. ‘After all, one might
lay the same charge against you: for you have shown no inclination to marry
since then either.’

‘Because I am very happy
as I am, Mr Durrant: no more nor less.’

‘Exactly so with me,’ he
said with composure.

‘But not
exactly
so,
surely — as you are now proposing to take a wife.’

‘For sensible reasons
this time,’ he said, on a half-yawning note, ‘rather than stupid ones.’

‘You refer to your
proposal to me, of course — and, of course, you are trying to provoke me with
it. A vain hope, as I view that past event with the purest detachment. So I
will not ask why your reasons for wishing to marry me were, in your exquisite
phrase, stupid. Indeed I do not have to. It is simply because I refused you.
You comfort yourself for not getting what you wanted by pretending you did not
really want it.’

‘My reasons then
belonged to the blind partiality of youth, which is seldom productive of
lasting happiness.’

‘Very well: but these
sensible
reasons of your maturity are really no different. They are still rooted in
your self-regard and arrogance, and that general cold determination of always
having your own way.’

He turned with a polite
attentiveness, as if a piece of music had just ended. ‘Well, and what if they
are? You are detached, as you say: whatever I do cannot trouble you.’

‘Not directly: but if
some poor woman does accept you, I feel for her, in loyalty to my sex.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.
Women are generally cruel to each other: their sympathy only takes the form of pity,
which always has a little triumph in it, and the consciousness of being better
off.’

‘Oh, I pity her, I do
indeed pity her, whoever she may be: and my only triumph, as you call it, is
the knowledge that
I
had the sense to refuse you.’ She flung the penknife
down on the desk: it would have been very satisfying if it had thudded into the
wood like a quivering dagger, but it didn’t.

‘Upon my word, you are
curiously interested in this whole matter. You protest that it has nothing to
do with our past association — but any unprejudiced observer would surely doubt
that. I think rather they would conclude your vanity is at stake. Whatever you
do, all must do. Because you refused me, you are piqued at the idea of anyone
else accepting me. You too, Miss Templeton, are very much addicted to having
your own way — to keeping everything under your hand, and in your control; and
because you
once
had the power of making me happy or unhappy, you wish
to arrogate that power to yourself in perpetuity.’

‘Good God, you have a
more conceited opinion of yourself than even I could have believed. What will
it take to convince you of the simple truth, Mr Durrant, that I do not care in
the least about what you do?’

‘I do not flatter myself
that you
care —
any more than the spoiled, selfish child really cares
about the toy he keeps clutched in his hand, and will not share with others.’

‘Believe me,’ she said,
getting up, ‘the toy is long relinquished, and there was never much amusement
to be had from it. I congratulate you on the school, Mr Durrant. Whatever your
motives for it — whether truly philanthropic, or a mere wish to make yourself
appear so — still it is a good project, and good will come from it. I cannot
say the same of your other project, but I
have
lost my fears on that score.
My opinion is altered. You will not find a woman to marry you — not in Bath,
not in Clifton nor Brighton nor all the watering-places of the kingdom. You may
go where you please, the result will be the same: you may go to the ends of the
earth: indeed, Mr Durrant, to speak candidly, you may go to hell.’

Some moments later she
was walking quickly down the passage, with no memory of having left the study,
and only a tardy realisation that she was going the wrong way. She stopped.
From a portrait on the panelling some ancestral Durrant was looking down his
long nose at her. Spoiled and selfish, he said. She scowled, turned and
retraced her steps, slowly. She was loath to return to the conviviality of the
breakfast-room, irked and flushed as she was: Lydia hated to appear in company
other than in perfect calm and self-possession. Irked. I am on the
i
s.
It was precisely the word for Mr Durrant’s effect on her: the word was like
hairs down the neck or grit under the eyelid. He had irked excessively today:
but she must have caught the sun also, to be in this knotted, queasy, almost
tearful state of feeling. So much for mellow tranquillity. Perhaps she could
quietly hint to her father that she wanted to go home at once: oh, but she
detested that sort of thing — Vawserism, call it: my precious feelings must
always be made room for, like a cripple’s crutch.

Turning the corner into
the hall, she bumped into Phoebe Rae.

‘Oh! Miss Templeton,
there you are. I hope you don’t mind, but I came to see if. . .’ The storm-cloud-coloured
eyes searched, but gently: Lydia felt no prod of intrusion. ‘I just wondered.
So I came to see if — if all was quite well with you.’

‘All,’ said Lydia, after
a moment, taking her arm, ‘is quite well, I thank you - or will be, when you
leave off “Miss Templeton” and begin to call me “Lydia”.’

Phoebe’s face shone. ‘I
shall be glad to, if you will do the same. Well, not call me “Lydia”, of
course, because that isn’t my name, Phoebe is. Can you imagine the trouble I
had learning to spell “Phoebe” when I was a girl? I remember getting quite
angry and saying, “I am not Pu-ho-eeb” and never will be . . .’

She talked on, not from
tactlessness but from its opposite, as they made their way back to the
breakfast-room; and if Lydia’s composure was not quite perfect when they
arrived, it was near enough so to satisfy her; and to deepen significantly her
friendly feeling towards Phoebe. That simple act of coming to look for her had
done much. In fact Lydia found in it — like unwrapping a surprising parcel — more
than she could have guessed.

Mr Durrant was not long
in joining them, and there was something hasty and nearly obliging about him
that Lydia was pleased to think of as discomfort. Mrs Vawser, true to her word,
had eaten nothing in his absence: but she had drunk several glasses of wine,
which rendered her almost operatic in her response to her host’s return. Lydia
vengefully enjoyed the aria of flirtation and recrimination for a while, and
then stepped out on to the terrace: her father was genially declining to agree
with Mr Paige on the necessity of more hangings, Phoebe was listening with
troubled attention to Emma’s account of her children’s illnesses, and she
herself was free to steal away and indulge the luxury of solitary reflection.

She did not wish
always
to be alone: but she wished that the wish to be so was a little more
respected. The requirement of lovers to be undisturbed was always an occasion
of much sentimental indulgence — yet let a single person desire it, and swift
gathered the clouds of disapproval and speculation: what are you
doing?

What she was doing was
looking further into the surprising parcel. And here at the bottom was the very
decision she had steeled herself against. How had it happened? The reproachful
ghosts of the past: Phoebe’s gentle intuitive concern: curiosity: resignation:
conscience: pride — perhaps they had all played a part. And, yes, Lewis
Durrant’s insinuations too. He could still affect her: that had not been a
pleasant revelation, but there, it was an addition to self-knowledge, and for
Lydia all knowledge was good. Of course, he would take the credit for her
change of mind to himself. Well, let him do so. If she was to be an effective
chaperon — wise, self-effacing, dispassionate — she must rise above petty annoyances.

A footstep sounded on
the terrace. Damn it all, was she not to have a moment’s peace?

‘Miss Templeton.’

It was Mr Durrant,
carrying a small tray with wine and glasses. He set it down on the balustrade,
and frowned out at the gardens.

‘Cooler now,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ It was, a little:
but the remark might equally have referred to their tempers, though neither
would have admitted it.

‘Will you take a glass
of wine with me?’

Presumably he meant her,
and not the rosebush to which he apparently addressed the question.

‘Thank you.’
With
pleasure
would have been a little too much.

‘Of course,’ he said,
after they had sipped in distant silence for a while, ‘the gardens are not at
their best. Late June is the best time to see them — late June or early July.’

‘I know,’ she answered,
with a carefully calibrated minimum of cordiality.