An Accomplished Woman (53 page)

‘Me?’ Lydia sat down:
legs weak: fatigue of travel.

‘There was another
person I wanted to impress, she said — very gently, kindly: someone to whom I
wanted to demonstrate that I was heart-free, that I could marry a girl any time
if I chose. Lydia Templeton, said she. Uncommonly perceptive . . .’ He ran his
hand along the windowsill, looked in surprise at the dust on his long fingers.
‘Of course I spluttered and retorted like any pigheaded fellow — but she wasn’t
having it. It was not only that she was already engaged, she said: much as she
esteemed me, she could never have felt there could be anything between us, when
it was so plain that my heart was not mine to give. However I tried to deceive
myself, I could not be in love with her — because I was plainly still in love
with — with Lydia Templeton.’ He turned, braced like a soldier facing the
enemy. ‘With you.’

‘I . . .’ All at once
the room seemed very small, and yet somehow very large too: she could not place
herself in the world any more. ‘Phoebe saw you. In the cloakroom. She thought —
I
thought . . . What did you say to this — this peculiar speculation of
Juliet’s?’

‘Oh, I thanked her. I
thanked her from the bottom of my heart. She had told me the truth, and there
must always be a value in that: even if it is a truth that can — that can lead
to nothing, no alteration, no action . . . Indeed it was as if a weight fell
from me — or rather — I don’t know — like some jagged splinter drawn from your
flesh, and you realise how much it has been hurting and nagging away all this
time . . .’

‘A splinter,’ she repeated,
hardly knowing what she was saying.

‘Yes — or any damn thing
you please — a nail — something that hurts, that can fester and poison. That’s
what it did to me: denying that I was still in love with you.’

Lydia bit her lip: this
damnable weeping. ‘I’m sorry you were hurt, Mr Durrant.’

He sighed. ‘You don’t
understand. I inflicted that pain on myself. After you turned me down — well, I
should have been like Beck. I should have beaten my breast — written poetry — cursed
the heavens — and still have been ready to show you, at a moment’s notice, that
you were the love of my life, and nothing could change that. Well, at least now
I have learned better, and that is why I thanked Juliet, and remain grateful to
her. It is difficult to know yourself, to be at peace with yourself, when you
are actually two people. One was the man who didn’t care — content to be a
bachelor — thankful, aye, thankful for his lucky escape: and the other was the
man whose heart still skipped a beat when he drew near to Heystead — who lived
only to see you, to hear your voice, even to quarrel with you. Now I am only
one: the true one; and so, you see, I had to tell you.’

She broke from her seat,
but there was nowhere to go. The window — he was there. The looking-glass — she
was afraid of what it might show her. ‘Mr Durrant, I — I don’t know what to
say. Upon my word, you do choose your moments — I have felt the world turn
inside out so many times this last day or two that really I am giddy with it,
and could almost wish for a little dullness . . .’

‘Ah, the right moment.
That’s another thing I have learned: there is no such thing. Miss Templeton, I
ask nothing of you—’

‘Don’t you?’ she said,
surprising herself: facing the looking-glass after all, and seeming also to ask
the question of the woman she saw there. Not a bad-looking woman at all, in
some ways; and with something — well, something radiant about her.

‘No — because I have
asked enough. I have asked you to accept something that cannot conduce to your
peace of mind — that must, to however slight a degree, be a trouble and
embarrassment to you in our future relation. Yet I cannot regret saying it. I
have done with regrets.’

‘Regrets are indeed unpleasant
things. They dig in — and poison — as you say. But speaking of right moments
... is this not the right moment for you to call me Lydia?’

He started: seemed
forcefully to gather himself in. ‘Gladly. But does this mean — Lydia, does this
mean—’

‘I don’t know what it
means, Mr Durrant — I don’t know anything any more, except — yes, I do: I was
afraid to leap. And I am still afraid to leap. Isn’t that absurd? When
everything you want is on the other side. My dear Mr Durrant, you are assuredly
no charmer like your nephew — you with your nails and your festering — and yet
when I think of you all these years — feeling so . . .’ She fought down the
urge to weep, though it seemed to be half transformed into an urge to laugh.
‘And yet did you — did you not take heart from the fact that all that time I
never married — that I never looked at another man with the slightest
interest?’

He took a soft step
towards her, then paused. ‘I wondered at it. I greatly wondered at it.’

‘I always maintained
that I was content as I was, and had no intention of marrying. But that, I
began to see — or pretended not to see — was only because I could not marry
you: because I had lost you. For ever.’

‘For ever?’ he queried
gently.

‘You are a proud man —
insufferably proud, sometimes,’ she said, wiping irritably at her eyes, ‘and I
did not think you would ask again. Oh.’

The ‘oh’ was because he
was kissing her, or she was kissing him: it did not seem important to allocate
responsibility. For some time speech was both unnecessary and impossible.

‘Lydia,’ he breathed,
‘I’m going to ask again.’

‘Oh, are you?’ she said
vaguely. ‘Dear me, now we
are
being improper. Lewis, you haven’t shaved,
or brushed your hair. Neither have I, mind. Not shaved, I don’t mean that.
Lord, one wonders whether it is right to feel so happy. And there goes my
splinter — you were right, it is just like that. Lewis, am I talking too much?’

‘Yes.’

Her smile grazed his.
‘You had better put a stop to it, then.’

Presently breath was
required, and her trembling legs demanded a seat: his knee did very well. For a
silent moment they gazed at each other with profound interest. He looked
tremendously young.

‘About our wager,’ she
said. ‘However are we going to work it out? I failed on my side — and yet
looking at Phoebe and Mr Beck, I think I may have succeeded after all. And on
your side, you were to find a bride in Bath, and you didn’t. But you
have
found
a bride. Here, in a coaching-inn in Tewkesbury, to be exact.’ She traced the
shape of his lips with her finger. She didn’t mind the world turning inside out
now: she had found her place in it. ‘So how are we to decide it?’

‘I am content to be
called the loser,’ he said, drawing her close. ‘For I have won everything
else.’