i 57926919a60851a7 (48 page)

The dull day suddenly became bright; her body lost its weight. She opened the letter and once again read her name written by his hand:

"Dear Cecilia, I will be in the city tomorrow on business; could you tolerate another visit from me? I remain always, your obedient servant, Clive Fischel." That was all.

She almost ran to the desk, took up a pen and a sheet of notepaper, then, pen poised, she stopped. How should she address him? Certainly not "Dear Clive," although he had called her Dear Cecilia, and she couldn't say "Your Lordship." The men were waiting. She wrote in a round copperplate handwriting, "I shall be pleased to see you any time you care to call, Cecilia." She put the letter into an envelope; and now she could write his name. Lord Fischel, Houghton Hall.

When she handed the letter to Bowmer he stared at her as if unable to believe his eyes, for he was remembering back. " " Kindly give this to His Lordship," she said; and he replied, " Yes, Ma'am. "

He had not said at which hour he would be coming, and when he arrived at one o'clock he apologized immediately for omitting to state a time and hoped he hadn't kept her from any other appointment. And she assured him he hadn't and asked him if he would care for a glass of wine.

It was all very formal, very polite. He sat in a chair at the side of the drawing-room window and she some distance away. He remarked that the garden was looking exceedingly pretty; he also, after observing a quantity of books about the room, asked if she enjoyed reading.

To which she answered, "Very much."

Who were her favorite authors?

Oh, she liked the Barrett-Brownings, and Shelley, and the writings of the sisters Bronte.

He nodded his approval but again remained silent. And in the silence he asked himself the question that had never left his mind since he had entered this room two days before. Could he do it? Should he do it?

He wanted to, oh yes, he wanted to, even more so now than he had done years ago. But the same question remained now, as then; was it wise?

Seven more days and he'd be gone. The first meeting could have been conclusive. He had paid her his respects, as was due to the mother of his son. He had seen to her comfort, and, although she hadn't availed herself of it until a few months before, that wasn't his fault. It had been there and waiting, and Weir informed him that his allowance to her had now grown into a very comfortable sum, and added to this there would be the miller's portion. She was happily ensconced in this house with her sisters, so why had he to dive into the past in a wild aim at unraveling the threads? What would the unraveling lead to?

Would they accept her as his wife?

He breathed deeply, then gave himself the answer: Some, mostly the wrong sort, and she would be hurt. She would be cut into little pieces by the ladies' tongues and she wouldn't be able to retaliate; she wasn't that kind of woman, she would suffer in silence.

But what was he thinking of? He wouldn't be staying in England, he had no intention of living in England again. He had adopted Spain, and Spain him; he had a house and friends there, and most of his friends were Spanish. With regard to the English ones, they could take her or leave her. But why should they not take her and be entranced by her, as he was? The only difference between her and them was the inflection in her voice, and once away from those of like inflection it would change. But to hell! What did her voice matter, what was he carping about? Her voice was warm and good to his ears; her presence was stirring, exciting, consuming him, making him weak. It was all he could do now not to rise from his chair and fling himself before her and bury his face in her breasts. But it was madness. Apart from everything else there were the conventions to be considered; his father had been dead only a matter of days. The whole thing was preposterous.

"Have you got a permanent home in Spain?"

Her unnecessary use of the word "got" impinged on his mind, but he thrust it roughly aside and replied, "Yes, I have a rather charming house there."

She stared at him and a little smile crept over her lips as she asked quietly, "Is it a long house, low, all white, quite dazzling when the sun shines on it?"

He raised his brows.

"Yes. Yes, that is a very good description. It is quite dazzling when the sun shines on it; the light is reflected from a rock face to the side of it. People have remarked about this. How strange. Have you seen a picture of such a house?"

She moved her head slowly. The smile had spread from her lips to her eyes; it had lifted her cheeks upwards and she said, almost in a whisper, "Yes. Yes, I have seen a picture of a house like that."

"It is a general type of house in that vicinity, but mine is rather unique in that it is built on a plateau on the hillside and has some magnificent views."

She rose to her feet, saying, "May I fill your glass again?"

"Thank you, it is a very good madeira."

She took his glass to the sideboard and from there she now dared to ask, "Your family ... you left your family there?"

He stared towards her straight back. He could make out the outline of her figure under her clothes. She wasn't indulging in the hideous array of skirts that were at present in vogue. She wanted to know about his family. It was a probing question. It pleased him.

A quirk came to his lips and stretched when his silence turned her sharply about and, her face unsmiling, she held his gaze. But he didn't give her the answer until she handed him the wine, and then he said, "Unfortunately, I have no family except that which is in the Hall."

He was grateful now for the fact that he had never housed his mistresses in the villa. The cautious, even puritanical facet of one side of the Fischel nature, he supposed, had been answerable for this discretion:

and although many a time it had irked him with its inconvenience, he had adhered to it with a strictness he considered his only remaining virtue.

When she resumed her seat she asked, "Have you been left the sea long?"

"During these past six years. Since then I have taken up painting again. I had a tendency towards it in my youth." And what a tendency.

But for raping her he would today have been an artist, a real artist, he was sure of that; but the inherent touch was developing.

And so they talked, he about the life in Spain and she, at his inquiry, of what had happened to each member of her family. And when he took his leave he again kissed her fingers and asked if he would be permitted to enjoy her company in two days' time. And as she granted his wish with an incline of her head, she thought, The day after tomorrow, and four days after that he will be gone.

She was looking for something for Jimmy's birthday and had decided on a good pipe in a case and perhaps a few special cigars. Jimmy, she knew, had never smoked a cigar, but he would be tickled by the gift and she could imagine him amusing the others by striking a pose while puffing at the symbol of the gentry.

Ransome's was the place to go to for cigars. She went into the long male-scented shop where there were a few customers present, all men.

The assistant came and offered her a chair, and when she told him what she required he brought her a number of cases holding pipes, also a selection of cigars. She chose the pipe by the look of it, but the cigars she left to his experience.

He was parceling her purchases for her when a door opened at the far end of the room. She had heard about the special room where the gentlemen could take their ease while testing snuff. She looked towards the door. A small man was holding it wide, one arm extended, his body slightly bowed, and past him walked Clive and her son.

She remained seated as she looked down the room.

Her face was straight and pale. She saw Clive glance at his son, at their son, who was looking at her with an expression in his eyes she couldn't translate.

The assistant was speaking to her and she turned to him. When she next looked down the room it was empty.

She was trembling as she left the shop, and her trembling increased when she saw them confronting her on the pavement.

"Good-day." Clive raised his hat to her, and she answered in a wliisper, "Good-day," all the while keeping her eyes tight on his.

"May I ask if you have a little time to spare?"

"My time is my own." Her voice was still a whisper;

"Would it be possible for us to return to your home? The coach is just at the end of the street."

She paused for some seconds. Her horse and trap were stabled but she could come back for them later.

"Very well," she said.

When he took her elbow and guided her through the crowd on the pavement she didn't turn to see if her son was following; not until she was ushered into the carriage and he took his seat to the side of her was she sure that he was coming with them. She was glad of one thing: he wasn't sitting opposite her, for she would have hated to have sat all through the journey with her head bowed. She could hardly bear to look at Clive, for his face now was cold and stiff and his voice had a similar ring to it as he spoke his only words during the journey:

"We'll leave the talking until we get within doors."

No space of time in her previous life, or in the years to come, ever appeared as long as that ride, nor was she ever again to feel more aware of a presence as that of her son sitting stiffly to her side, no part of them touching.

Clive handed her down from the carriage and she led the way into the house. In the hall she stopped for a moment, slipped the cape from her shoulders, and took off her hat and gloves while Ellen relieved the visitors of their hats and gloves. Then they were in the drawing room, and she said with forced calmness, "Please be seated."

But neither took the proffered seats. Clive stood straight and stiff, and his whole attitude, even his voice, was a replica of his father's as he said, "There should be no need for embarrassment, you both know your relationship. Richard, this lady is your mother. Cecilia, your son...."

She was back in the dwelling place. The child was standing in the corner to the side of the fireplace. She was saying coaxingly to him,

"Come on, Richard. Come on, that's a good boy, eat your porridge."

She was putting her hand out towards him and his came out towards her, but to slap at her.

"Don't want porridge. I don't like you." Yes, he had said that to her.

"I don't like you." She had never admitted the words before; in all the memory she had of him she had blocked that one sentence out of her mind, "I don't like you...."

But now she was looking into these same eyes, and but for the veneer and education that was imprinted on him she felt he was saying these words again, looking at this still strange woman and thinking, I don't like her.

"Well?" Again it was the voice of the old lord speaking, and the young man, after glancing at his father, bowed towards Cissie and said, "I am glad at last to make your acquaintance... Ma'am."

The words were stiff, cold, and empty-sounding. But what could she expect? She was a stranger to him. This must be the most trying moment of his life, the most embarrassing, as it was the most painful for her. Nothing she had experienced before was as painful as this.

But she must carry it off . pass herself, and with decorum; time enough later, all the time in the world, all the rest of her life, for tears. She said with just a slight tremor in her voice, "I am aware that this must be very embarrassing for you. I ... I would like you to understand right away that I'm not aiming to...." She stopped and searched for words, then went on, . "to claim an acquaintanceship with you at this late stage. It... it is not with my wish that you are here now;

although. " Again she paused and stopped herself from adding, " Oh, but I'm glad to see you. " Instead she said, " You are welcome and will be any time, but . but you need not trouble yourself that I will take advantage of this encounter. "

Her son's face was red, his whole attitude appeared slightly shamefaced and she couldn't bear it; for this proved to her what she had known all along, that he hadn't wanted to meet her. His future was set, the pattern of his life was set, he didn't want any unknown mother, and a woman of the people besides, intruding on it, and causing ripples of scandal in the society in which he moved.

Clive had said he was a nice person, and she believed this, but she also knew he was human, and that she was too; and that the longing of her arms to go out and around him was almost unbearable, and in case the desire became uncontrollable and she might put her hand out just to touch him, she said on a lighter tone, "Will you excuse me a moment? I will order some coffee."

She had not asked them if they would like coffee, and Clive did not prevent her from leaving the room, and once the door had closed on her he turned on his son, his face dark with anger, and said under his breath, "You are acting like a boot. She is no one to be scorned."

"I am not scorning her. Father, but... but she is a stranger to me."

The tone was stiff, slightly haughty.

"Then she won't be a stranger to you much longer. I have news for you;

I intend to marry her. "

The young man's mouth dropped open, his brown eyes stretched wide. He looked in this moment like a child who had received a slap across the face for no apparent reason, and he whispered, "Marry her?"

"That is what I said, marry her."

He moved his head slowly from side to side before asking, "You ... you will be taking up residence in the Hall then?"

His father gave a short, hard laugh now, then said, "Don't let that worry you, I'm not going back on my word. The Hall and all it stands for are yours, and welcome. You are my heir, it is your rightful place. You will be relieved to know that I am taking her back to Spain with me." The Fischel in him had settled the matter, even before he knew what her answer would be. He said harshly, "The look of relief on your face doesn't do you any credit."

"I am sorry. Father."