An Accomplished Woman (52 page)

‘You have done
everything you could,’ Lydia said, trying to conceal her own alarm. ‘Wherever
Phoebe has gone, it must be better than . . . Perhaps instead she stayed at
Worcester — left the Crown, and took some other lodging in the town.’

Mr Durrant inclined his
head. ‘It is a possibility. Though how long she can stay there, without money .
. .’

‘Then we must go on to
Worcester — search — search the whole town,’ cried Mr Beck, jumping up and
bounding to the window. ‘Is that wretched, thrice-damned wheel mended yet? What
are they about? I shall mend it myself— I shall . . . Good God.’

‘What is it?’ Lydia
said. ‘Mr Beck . . .?’

He was gone, clattering into
chairs, stumbling, almost falling: out to the yard. Mr Durrant strode to the
window

‘What on earth is he . .
.? Good God. The carrier’s cart.’ He uttered a broken laugh. ‘I never thought
of the carrier’s cart.’

Still laughing, he took
Lydia’s arm and guided her outside. The great broad wagon of the Bath and
Bristol carrier, with its elephantine horse, its curiously assorted freight of
sacks, odd-shaped parcels, caged hens, and patient passengers, had lumbered
into the yard, and the carrier in his smock and gaiters was climbing down with
infinite slowness. Half clambering into the cart, extending his hand, gasping
out her name, was Mr Beck: one of the passengers, demurely seated beside a
large string of onions, was Phoebe.

Well, there was so much
to say, and so little to say: Lydia could only murmur, ‘Phoebe,’ and then
embrace her fiercely as she got down. Mr Durrant was still chuckling ruefully;
and Mr Beck looked like a man transported at least several post-houses towards
Paradise.

It was Phoebe who found
her voice at last: looking round at them all, and saying with resolute
firmness, in spite of the tremor in her throat: ‘I am sorry. I am so very
sorry. I have better friends than I deserve.’

‘Oh, we all do,’ Mr
Durrant said. ‘Good God, the carrier’s cart. I simply never thought of it.’

‘Well — it was the most
inexpensive means of getting back to Bath,’ Phoebe said soberly. ‘So I thought
to save a little money. It is the beginning, you see, of my being sensible.’

Did you ever see such
bed-curtains?’ Lydia said. ‘I wonder I did not dream of being strangled to
death by rampaging lilies.’

After the incoherent
greetings, explanations, questions, and half-tearful replies, all accompanied
by Mr Beck’s burning and worshipful gaze, it had been Mr Durrant who suggested
that Lydia might like to take Phoebe to her room to tidy herself, and proposed
that Mr Beck be his companion for breakfast. He supposed, no doubt, that they
would have much to talk of — and no doubt he was right: but Lydia, not normally
at a loss for words, did not know how to begin, or even whether she wanted to.
Relief seemed to have drained every other faculty out of her.

But while she was
nervous and inconsequent, Phoebe was direct. She took off her bonnet, gave a
level, unimpressed glance at herself in the looking-glass, and said: ‘I am sure
you had a troubled night, but it was not the curtains that gave you bad dreams.
Lord: I am lucky — so very lucky.’

Lydia hesitated.
‘Certainly I think it is fortunate that you — that you thought better of this
scheme so quickly. But then, that is not so much luck as — well, your better
judgement. Was it not so?’

‘I thought better of it
from, I think, about half a mile out of Bath. But then I could hardly think
worse of it. I hated myself, and the whole business, as soon as I said yes. But
then, in some terrible absurd way, I liked the hating. It was like eating a lot
of sugar, a great deal of it, more than is good for you, but not caring. And
then, all at once, I sickened of it.’

‘Was he — was Mr Hanley
altered to you?’

‘In his conduct? Oh, not
at all — not until last evening, that is, when I told him that I had made a
mistake and could not go on with it. Then he was unpleasant, which I dare say
was understandable: I didn’t mind that. No, before that he kept swearing the
same devotion. Only I realised I didn’t want it. That is, I do — I’m afraid
that is my nature — but I didn’t want it from him. There was the ridiculous,
simple error.’ She sat down heavily, in sudden weariness.

‘Did you — did you read
Mr Beck’s review — before you went away?’

Phoebe nodded. ‘His
verses . . . They could not help but affect me. But it was in a strange, deadly
sort of way. They added to the self-hating. “There you are,” they said:
“there’s another folly behind you. Think of what you have lost there.” Now,
what other folly could be worse? What could possibly be worse?’ She folded her
hands, and fixed Lydia’s eyes with her own. ‘However, this has been my last
folly, Lydia. And though I owe you a thousand apologies, I shall just make this
one, because you will be tired of them.’

‘Oh, Phoebe, I have no
reproaches to make — none. Only a request that you don’t do anything
quite
like
this again soon, because your poor old chaperon’s nerves won’t stand it. You know,
Mr Beck—’ She stopped.

‘He has been very kind,
hasn’t he? It is excessively good of him. When I saw him in the yard, I really
thought
I
was dreaming. I hope I may thank him properly for his concern,
though he may not much care for my thanks.’

Lydia shook her head. ‘I
don’t know whether I should say this — but, Phoebe, Mr Beck is still very fond
of you. Very Lord knows I have learned my lesson about meddling, and giving
false impressions — but this I know.’

Phoebe swallowed, and
tore her gaze away. ‘It hardly seems possible that he should — but I believe
you. I was very angry with myself downstairs — allowing myself to think, from
the way he looked at me . . . Lydia,
is
it possible?’

‘I think it is more than
possible. I have come to know Mr Beck a little better: I see his nature is a
forgiving one — warm — I was going to say perhaps too warm, but then how can
one have
too
warm a nature? No, he has — he has as great a regard for
you as ever. And if you find that this is a pleasing thought to you, then all
the better. Let us see what happens. There is no need for haste. After all, a
great deal has — has happened: and so perhaps the best thing is to begin your
relation again, without undue expectations on either side: enjoying each
other’s company, and . . .’ All at once Lydia caught sight of herself in the
looking-glass, talking away: her mouth making dull pruny shapes: propriety. She
twitched away from it, and caught Phoebe’s hands tightly in her own. ‘Oh, be
damned to that. Phoebe, do you love Mr Beck?’

‘Yes!’ she half sobbed.

‘Well, by God, he loves
you. And there’s an end! Or a beginning. A splendid beginning. Oh, my dear
Phoebe, don’t weep for it! Well, weep if you like — I feel a little like it
myself.’ Lydia knelt down beside her. ‘What with tiredness — and relief — and
horticultural curtains — and knowing that you are going to be happy . . .’

Sniffing, searching for
a handkerchief, and tearfully laughing, Phoebe said: ‘I have loved him all
along. How simple it sounds. But the simplest things can be the most difficult
to apprehend. It was when he proposed to me — and I saw his love, and I saw my
own love — I was frightened of it. I wanted to say yes, but I was afraid of the
— the
leap
of saying yes: though so much that I longed for in life lay
there, just on the other side, if only the leap could be made . . .’ She wiped
her eyes, and suddenly the old Phoebe smile was restored. ‘Dear me — am I being
metaphorical? And is that the word? I do believe I am going to use them all at
last.’

‘It is a very good word,’
Lydia said, ‘and a very good metaphor. And I would add that I can think of no
one who better understands that leap than Mr Beck.’ She patted her hand, with a
strange brief plunge of sadness. ‘Now, have you breakfasted? Surely not, unless
you were helping yourself to those onions. Go down, and join the gentlemen. The
ham is good. I don’t advise the eggs.’

Phoebe rose, and with a
little shy dart kissed her cheek. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

‘By and by. I need to —
to do something with this unfortunate hair.’

In truth she did feel
like weeping — the relief, perhaps: she couldn’t tell: she only felt that she
must be alone for a space. She bathed her eyes with cold water, and ventured
near the looking-glass again. Where was that tedious woman she had caught sight
of? Was that her? She gazed at herself until her head began to swim. It was
perturbing to look long at your reflection: to realise that all the time you
were there in the world, visible, undeniable.

There was a knock at the
door. She had only taken the room for the night, and no doubt the chambermaid
would be waiting to turn her out and make up the bed . . . But it was Mr
Durrant who came in.

‘I hope you don’t mind.
I wanted to see how you are. You must have had a fatiguing time of it —
travelling through the night like that. Yes, I know, no feminine frailty. Also
I wanted to scold you for disobeying me and not staying in Bath. Also — well,
there is a lot of soulful gazing and blushing going on down there and, feeling
rather
de trop,
I thought I had better leave them to it. Is that — I
mean, will they do, do you suppose?’

‘Yes,’ she said
decisively, with a glance at herself in the looking-glass: better. ‘Yes, they
will.’

‘Hum! Well, I also
wanted to know . . .’ He began prowling, hands in pockets, and then caught
sight of her nightgown folded on a chair. ‘You — you are sure you don’t mind me
being here?’

‘There is
impropriety
in it,’ Lydia said, ‘but it may be overlooked.’

He repressed a smile.
‘The thing is this — I hope you don’t think ill of me for what I did to Hugh. I
have never done anything — ruffianly before, and now my blood has cooled I
don’t like it.’

‘Mr Durrant, I assure
you, if I had been there I would have assisted you by taking hold of his boots.
And I know you are no ruffian. But tell me, you did not disabuse him? You did
not tell him that there is no — no engagement after all? That his fears were
groundless?’

‘No . . . No, and not
because I wanted him to go on suffering, though of course I do. It was simply a
subject that I would not care to touch on with someone like him.’ He pondered
silently a moment. ‘Lord above, look at those curtains.’

‘What do you think he
will do now?’

‘Oh, join his regiment,
as he must eventually; and then, I don’t doubt, he will seek out another
heiress. Hugh will soon bounce back, and though this didn’t work, I am sure he
will keep hold of the idea, and try it again.’

‘Well, if he does, so be
it: you cannot hold yourself responsible for that. You had every right to
decide to marry, after all.’

‘Had I?’ He stood gaunt and
irresolute at the window. ‘I don’t know. This sorry business has had,
thankfully, one happy result — downstairs. And also another, in a curious way.
It has made me realise that I was wrong — wrong to do it — to come to Bath, and
. . . everything.’ He dug into his pockets. ‘No ... I thought not. Miss
Templeton, I don’t have fifty pounds about me: but as soon as I can make a
draft on the bank, it is yours. The wager is lost, and I am glad of it.’

She shook her head. ‘I
do not have the sum either — for I was going to give it to you. I did not
succeed. Perhaps, after all, one should not make wagers on matters of the
heart. That sounds very portentous . . . But you know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ he said, his
face dark.

‘I am sorry for what
happened,’ she said as levelly as she could: this stupid urge to weep was upon
her again. ‘I do not really blame Juliet — of course she had to keep her
engagement secret, because of Mrs Allardyce, as you said — but it was rather
hard on you, finding out so late.’

He was so still and
silent that she thought she had offended. Then he stirred and cleared his
throat. ‘Well, I’ll tell you how it was.’ He did not look at her. ‘First, it
was simply a matter of Hugh. Yes — here was a sensible sympathetic woman: I got
along very well with her: let Hugh hear of it, and gnash his teeth: excellent.
Then it became something more. I found I was drawn to her — that courtship was
not a mere mechanical business — that I did have, if you like, a heart, even if
it was not entirely captured.’

‘Not entirely . . .?’
She could not look at him either: she tried the looking-glass, but there was a
very odd, stricken creature in there.

‘She is an uncommonly
perceptive woman, Juliet Allardyce,’ he said, with a brief rasp of a laugh. ‘At
the Dress Ball — that mother of hers was making much of our being together, and
other people were noticing, and I asked her if she minded. As I didn’t: I was
all rather pleased with myself, and said I had come to Bath with the very
purpose of forming an attachment, and so on. And she took me aside, in the
cloakroom: and that’s when she told me that she was already engaged. And yes, I
felt it rather a blow. To my pride, most of all.’ He offered a twinge of a
smile. ‘You would know about that. But anyhow, I thanked her for her frankness,
and said there could now be no possibility of a misunderstanding, and whatnot —
but she stopped me, and insisted that we should remain on as friendly terms as
ever; and that’s when she suggested that if I wanted my rascally nephew to
think there
was
an attachment, she would be quite happy to play along. I
said I hoped she didn’t think I had paid her attentions merely for that; and
she smiled and said no, but there was another person in the case. You.’