I and My True Love (18 page)

“Jennifer?” Sylvia was startled.

“Yes. Haven’t you noticed? She’s changed so much. Worrying, grudging, pinching every penny. What kind of life is that? Just look at the fire—or rather, no fire.”

“We light it later in the evening,” Jennifer said, coming back into the room. “Father’s gone upstairs,” she told Sylvia. “He had some work he wanted to finish. Also,” her voice became suddenly bitter, “we heard Annabel’s car returning. And what’s more,” and now she looked at her mother, “since we are on the subject of your daughters, I’ve got to watch every penny and grudge and worry all the time.
Someone
has to do it.”

“Yes, yes. But you order us all around much too much. I
never
brought you up that way, Jennifer.”

“It’s a pity you hadn’t. We might have made fewer mistakes.”

Millicent Jerold sighed. “I gave you every freedom to develop your own personality. If you made mistakes, it was your own choice. I only wish you’d allow your children as much freedom as you got. Really, Jennifer, it’s dangerous to repress them the way you do. It—it hurts me to watch you.” She pressed her small thin hand to her breast in a vague search for her heart.

“I don’t repress—” Jennifer broke off to listen to the sounds on the porch. “There are the children, with Annabel,” she said, relief in her voice. She went into the hall to welcome them. “Oh, Peter,” Sylvia heard her say, “you’re filthy! You’d better go right upstairs and wash and get all that mud off you. And you, too, Cordelia. Supper is almost ready... Then you’ll see Aunt Sylvia.”

“That’s what I mean,” Millicent Jerold said, shaking her head. “The poor infants
have
to have supper at six, whether they want it or not. Jennifer gives herself twice the work—they could easily eat with us at half-past seven.”

Sylvia glanced at her watch. It was six o’clock. “I’ll have to leave soon.”

“Why the hurry?” Annabel asked as she came into the room. “Rushing home to give Payton a nice cheery welcome after a hard day at the office? Hallo, Milly. How’s the soapbox?” Annabel never expected an answer to her questions, Sylvia reflected, as she watched her oldest sister. Annabel’s conversation had always been a monologue delivered in a husky monotone. People once had thought it amusing: perhaps some still did.

“Do I look as bad as all that?” Annabel wanted to know, returning Sylvia’s stare. “What’s wrong now? My hair? Or is it the dress? You were always the critical one.” She moved over to a small cupboard. “What about a drink?”

“No, thanks,” Sylvia said.

“Of course, you always were careful about your driving, weren’t you?” Annabel was amused. “I’ll have one if you don’t object. Or rather, if Jennifer doesn’t. Why should she? I buy my own liquor, don’t I?”

Sylvia watched her eldest sister worriedly. Annabel was thin now: her slender figure had become brittle and sharp. The flesh was tightly drawn over her cheeks, her brow was too prominent. Her hair was a brilliant gold, and she still wore it long and loose in the style of her successful years. Her dress was fortunately simple, yet the neckline was pointed too low and its colour was red. But it was the puffiness under her sister’s large blue eyes that horrified Sylvia most. She looked at her mother, but Milly seemed perfectly unconcerned. Then, involuntarily, she glanced up at the picture which hung over the mantelpiece. It was a portrait of Annabel and Jennifer, dressed alike in white chiffon, their round shoulders bared, their necks slender and graceful, their faces glowing with youth, their blue eyes filled with merriment.

“Don’t rub it in,” Annabel said bitterly, watching Sylvia. “Don’t rub it in.” She took a long drink from her glass and then came forward to stand in front of the fireplace and look up at the picture. “Why do we keep the damned thing up there, Milly? Some day I’ll—” She raised her glass as if she were about to throw it. “Oh,” she said, turning away, “it ought to be buried along with old Whitestar. God—what a fuss! Can you imagine? A funeral for a horse. Complete with trimmings. Old Ben was in tears. Rose sobbed. The children cried too. And a good time was had by all.”

“Did you go to the funeral?” Sylvia asked curiously.

“Me? My God!”

Jennifer had come back into the room. “Annabel was over at Blairton,” she said. She gave her first smile. “Tell Sylvia all about your new beau, Annabel.”

Annabel scowled, chose a couch where she could stretch her body full length, and placed the half-finished drink down on the floor within easy reach of her dangling arm.

“He’s a garage attendant,” Jennifer said. “He changes tyres, and—”

“Shut up!” Annabel said savagely. “He’s a good joe. Because your love life is all shot to hell, why should you tilt that snooty little nose of yours at other people’s affairs?”

“Really,” Millicent Jerold said mildly. “That’s scarcely the language you learned either at your expensive schools or in this house.”

“And where did that get me?”

“Four husbands,” Jennifer said. “And a fifth being chosen before you are even properly divorced from the fourth.”

“Look,” Annabel said, sitting up on the couch, “I’m not going to take that kind of talk from anyone, not even from the virtuous widow faithful to the memory of her second husband, who forgets her own first marriage so easily. That was a bigger mess than I ever landed in. So, my little ray of sunshine, shut up! For good.” Her voice calmed down. “Don’t we shock you, Sylvia. We always did, didn’t we? Right into Payton’s respectable arms. Well,
chacun à son gout.
I’ll stay this way and you keep Payton Pleydell.” She raised her drink ironically. “To the Jerold sisters, gay or rueful.”

Sylvia gathered up her coat and bag.

Her mother said, “Must you leave, darling? Oh well, we can have our little chat next time you come. It wasn’t anything important you had to tell me, was it?” She rubbed the toe of her sandal against Hannibal’s tangled coat. “He likes that. Don’t you, Hannibal?”

Sylvia hesitated. “You ought to know, all of you. You’re the family and you should know before anyone else.” She took a deep breath. “I’m leaving Payton,” she said quietly.

There was a long silence.

“My God!” Annabel said. Then she stared at Jennifer.

“Why?” asked Jennifer. “But
why,
Sylvia?”

“Another man?” Annabel asked. “Certainly, it can’t be that Payton is interested in another woman.” She began to laugh and then stopped. “I’m sorry, Sylvia,” she said awkwardly. “But in some ways, I congratulate you.” She rose to pour herself another drink.

“I’m sorry, too,” Jennifer said.

Millicent Jerold stared at each of her daughters in turn. “But what is Sylvia going to do?”

“Live here?” Jennifer asked slowly. “Why, we’re crowded out—the children must have separate rooms and—”

“I might say,” Annabel said, “that Milly asked the one practical question. You’re a damned Yankee after all, Milly. I used to think that you were spinning fancy tales when you talked about your girlhood in New York, and Grandpa who was such an astute business-man, amassing hordes of money. But tonight, I know I was wrong. That’s the complete platinum-lined question. What is Sylvia going to do?”

“You shouldn’t be too rash about this,” Millicent Jerold said anxiously. “Please
think,
darling!... Have you told your father?”

Sylvia shook her head.

“And here’s another question,” Annabel said thoughtfully. “Will Payton give you a divorce? What did he say?”

“I—I haven’t told him yet.”

“He’ll never let you go, baby. Not Payton!”

“Then perhaps,” Jennifer said hopefully, exchanging glances with her mother, “perhaps it will all end well. When you’ve calmed down, Sylvia, you may decide to stay with him. After all, you’ve so much to lose...”

“I’m perfectly calm,” Sylvia said. She added bitterly, “And I promise I shan’t add to your troubles.”

“Let me give you one tip,” Annabel said. “Don’t be noble about any settlement. Here’s one girl who was, and now she has run out of alimony.”

“I hope you won’t be too rash,” Millicent Jerold repeated unhappily. “Please, Sylvia.” She smiled wanly, her cheerful round face puckered with bewilderment. She sighed. “But I suppose it’s really your problem. Oh dear...” She shook her head sadly and then gave Sylvia a cheek to kiss.

Sylvia turned away. That had always been her mother’s answer to all her questions:
Well, darling, I suppose that’s really your problem, isn’t it?

13

Sylvia went upstairs to say goodbye to her father. His room seemed oddly silent. When she pushed the door open, she saw he was sitting quite motionless in his armchair. For a moment, her heart stopped. But he was only asleep. On the table at his elbow were some books, some sketches. She stood watching him sadly for a few moments. It wasn’t that he tried to evade unpleasant news; yet, somehow, unconsciously he always managed to do it.

Quietly she left the room, leaving its door slightly ajar. She went downstairs slowly, hesitating, as if she were hoping he would awake and come out to find her there on the staircase. But he didn’t waken.

She reached the dining-room. The children were alone, at supper, sitting at a small table drawn up against one wall. Peter, dark-eyed, black hair falling over his thin little seven-year-old face, waved a fork in welcome. “We had a funeral!” he announced.

“It was a
real
funeral,” Cordelia said, nine years old, snubnosed, freckled. “We all sang a hymn. Rose taught us the tune.”

“Oh for a closer walk with me.”

“With
Thee,”
Cordelia said sharply. “He never remembers the words,” she told Sylvia.

“I didn’t
know
the words,” Peter said. “But I’ve got blisters.” He extended the palms of his hands proudly. “I helped. A lot. Ben said I did. And—”

“We buried Whitestar deep,” Cordelia broke in. “Ben and Jimmy from Straven and two men all made the hole deep. So that the skunks won’t dig him up. And we’re going to get a board with his name and words on it, and we’ll put it on the grave. Ben’s going to carve the board and we’ve to think of the words.”

“I know
them,”
Peter said.

“You don’t!”

“
Whitestar lived here for twenty-four years and died in two minutes.
He did, too. He just lay down, like this.” Peter’s thin shoulders flopped over the table suddenly.

“You’ve spilled the milk,” Cordelia said crossly.

“When’s Kate coming to see us again?” Peter asked.

Sylvia mopped up the pool of milk with a napkin. “It isn’t so much,” she said to Cordelia. To Peter, “Did you like Kate?”

He nodded. “She’s seen a bear.”

Cordelia sniffed.

“Lots and lots of bears,” Peter said indignantly. “She
told
me.”

“Look in my pockets and see what you find,” Sylvia suggested. They forgot their argument and reached eagerly for the candy bars she had brought them. “You’ve got to finish supper first,” she told them, wondering what Jennifer would say to this breach of discipline, or what her mother would say to her interference with their freedom of choice. “I’ll see you—” Her voice hesitated. “I’ll see you soon again.”

The children nodded, accepting that as a matter of course. They began to finish their supper at lightning speed, their eyes on the candy bar in front of each plate. As she left the room, Cordelia was saying, “I’ll trade mine for yours, Peter.”

As Sylvia crossed the porch, Jennifer came running after her. “I’ll see you to the stables,” Jennifer said. “I’m really sorry I was so—” She shook her head, tried to smile.

“The children are in good shape,” Sylvia said quickly. “Tell Mother she needn’t lament over the effects of the funeral.”

“It’s amazing how children rebound. Sometimes, I think it’s heartless. And then I think they’re wise... And how was Father?”

“He was asleep. Give him my love.”

“Sylvia—we weren’t much help to you, were we? Please forgive me if I seemed—well, it’s just that I’ve such a battle, here. But I’m not going to be beaten. I’m staying on, and I’ll bring up the children in the country at least. And there’s a good public school over at Blairton, so that’s one headache cured. And Annabel won’t be here always. You can see she’s restless, now. And if Father only lives—oh, does that sound heartless? I only meant that I wanted Whitecraigs together, not split up and sold in pieces.”

“Kept together for what?”

“For Peter. When he’s eighteen he can start looking after things. He can help me pull the place back into shape. Later, he could manage all our shares of the property. I hope you wouldn’t want to sell yours, would you? That is, when Father dies.”

Sylvia searched for the keys of the car. Her lips tightened.

Jennifer went on, “Annabel may be difficult to persuade. She always wants ready cash. You know Annabel.”

“But what if Peter doesn’t want to be a farmer at eighteen?” Let me get this car started, let me get away from Jennifer.

“You’ll help me persuade Annabel, won’t you?”

Sylvia slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Won’t you?” Jennifer asked, ready to cry.

Sylvia turned on the ignition. “We may die before Father,” she said. Her voice was cold, her eyes contemptuous.

“Of course, we may,” Jennifer said quickly.

“A funeral for a horse and you start thinking of death,” Sylvia said, her anger breaking. “Stop being ridiculous. Father isn’t old.”

“He isn’t young. And he’s never been strong.”

“That didn’t worry you, once.”

“It’s something to worry about, now,” Jennifer said sharply. “I live here—not like you, who can drive away.”

Sylvia was silent.

“Well,” Jennifer added placatingly, “I’m glad we had this little talk. I knew you’d understand.”

“Goodbye.” Sylvia switched on the lights, and then concentrated on swinging the car past the stable, past Annabel’s sleek little red Jaguar (she had salvaged something from her various shipwrecks, it seemed) out into the driveway. Now by the car’s headlights, the road seemed more romantic and less careworn, like a middle-aged woman’s face in a candlelit room.

She looked at the clock worriedly as she neared Ben’s cabin. But she stopped, and walked over the path of soft spring earth to the small porch. The door opened before she arrived, and Ben’s thick-set figure stood waiting. She glanced into the room which lay just inside the front door. Rose was rising from the kitchen table where the family was tightly packed in for its evening meal. They weren’t all Rose’s children: Ben’s first wife had accounted for five before she died, and although most of them had left for Richmond or Detroit, there were four grandchildren to add to Rose’s own count of six.