Indiscretion (12 page)

‘My colds,’ she informed Caroline, ‘are worse than anyone’s.’ Having made a morbid achievement out of her indisposition, she retired to the drawing-room sofa and devoted herself to it. Her physician, a spruce, obliging little man who knew the value of his fee, agreed that he had never seen a worse case, and prescribed any number of powders and possets, as well as complete rest, and a lowering diet
—
though at a look from his patient, he hastily altered this to a strengthening diet, with as much beef, chicken, lobster, and so on as she could manage to force down. Nursing, tender selfless nursing, she must have also: fortunately there was her young companion to provide that. He further prescribed the regular indulgence of bad temper
—
or he might as well have, from the way Mrs Catling went at it. Recumbent before a blazing fire
—
and requiring the screen to be moved no more than six or seven times an hour
—
surrounded by jars and dropping-bottles and foot-warmers, Mrs Catling settled herself in for a good long bout of demanding illness. And Caroline was the one satisfying the demands.

This was her most testing time so far. Besides the constant attendance of a nurse, Mrs Catling wanted almost as constant amusement
—
reading, cards, backgammon and, when those failed, talk; and even a moment’s distracted silence on Caroline’s part was liable to call forth from her employer a growl of self-pity and abuse, to the effect
that the selfish chit plainly did not give a hang for her sufferings, but no doubt would consider herself illused if she were turned out on the street for an ungrateful hussy. This truly was what it meant not to have a minute to yourself: exhausted sleep was Caroline’s only respite. (And she was made to feel guilty about that, Mrs Catling being unable, as she mournfully declared, to get so much as a wink
—
which made a minor curiosity of the heroic snores that issued from her bedchamber as soon as the candle was out.)
And then there was the mood of gloom to contend with. Being poorly made Mrs Catling depressed and, above all, inclined to fancy herself neglected.

‘I suppose they have not a thought to spare for me,’ was her lament, when a whole week passed without a letter from either of the Downeys in London. ‘I might be on my deathbed for all they care. Mind
—
then
they would care, oh, yes. Care for what they might get. And come to that so would you. Are you quite sure there were no letters this morning?’

Not that morning, or the next, dearly as Caroline wished there were. The desperate idea came to her, as Mrs Catling’s despondency grew daily more savage, of forging a letter from Matthew, just to cheer her up. The handwriting would not matter, as Mrs Catling only gave such letters a glance, and passed them over for Caroline to read out; and she thought she could make a fair stab at counterfeiting Matthew’s style, by frequent references to his feelings, and as many repetitions of the words
I
and
me
as possible. (Weariness had made her rather satirical.) She was on the point of trying the experiment when a letter arrived at West Street that altered everything at a stroke; and the letter was not for Mrs Catling, but for her.

She was permitted to open her letters after breakfast, and she broke the seal of this one
in a sheer blank of puzzled inexpectancy. The hand on the cover was quite unknown to her. She never got letters at all except from her father
—
and it occurred to her, as the paper crackled open, that she had not received one lately: not that he was a regular correspondent, but still
...

Mrs Catling, steeped in coddled eggs, devilled kidneys, and self-pity, waited for a rheumily breathing minute or so, and then demanded impatiently: ‘Well, what have you there? You might tell me, since I never receive any letters of my own. It would be
something.’

Caroline heard herself saying, as if from far off: ‘It is a letter from my aunt.’

‘Aunt? I wasn’t aware you had one.’

‘No
...
I knew of her. We have never met,’ said the far-away voice. ‘This
—
this is my first letter from her.’

‘Aunt on the mother’s side?’ Mrs Catling enquired, morosely sniffing into a handkerchief.

‘Yes. My mother’s sister. Her name is
—
her name is Selina
—’
and then the far-off voice became her own again, and Caroline burst into helpless tears.

‘Oh, come,’ Mrs Catling said, after an open-mouthed moment, ‘come, what’s this? I never supposed you so sentimental. What, this aunt wants to be friends with you at last, hey? Probably she’s heard you’re well placed with me, and now all of a sudden she wants to develop the acquaintance. I know their ways. You should tell her
—’

‘It isn’t that,’ Caroline got out through her sobs. She did not want to pronounce the direful word; and, at any other time, what she came up with instead would have seemed absurd. ‘My father,’ she said, ‘is no more.’

‘No more what?’ croaked Mrs Catling above her handkerchief: then meeting Caroline’s swimming eyes, said: ‘Ah! Ah, dear me. Dear me indeed. Well, that is a great
—
a great nuisance for you.’ She composed her expression
—
with obvious difficulty, with a rusty grinding of long unused cogs and wheels
—
into an approximation of sympathy. ‘You’ll want to go off somewhere and cry, I should think.’

Caroline did. To cry on someone’s shoulder would have been better, but here that was out of the question.

In the solitude of her room she could give full vent to her grief, which shock rendered more overwhelming. Even a lifetime of jolts and reversals had not prepared her for the suddenness of this loss: nor could the unquestionable fact that her father had more often been encumbrance than support to her prevent the doleful cry into her pillow that she was all alone in the world. At last the storm had quieted enough for her to sit up and read over again the fateful letter. Yet it was precious too
—
in a way it was the last of her father, and thus a relic to be touched tenderly. And strange, formal, and remote as were the accents of its writer, they did not lack a sort of tenderness, which made Caroline dwell droopingly on the letter in spite of its painful matter.

Gay-street, Bath
—
September 10th

My dear Caroline,

I pray you will forgive my addressing you thus, when I am scarcely known to you. I am your late mother’s sister, and hence your aunt, Selina Langland: I dare swear even the name may not be familiar to you, the family breach having been so complete. It is not the least of my regrets at this long estrangement, that it should only be ended by the sad event I must tell you of.
—
My dear Caroline, your father died here at Bath last night after a short illness
—
so very short, and mercifully so I think, that there was no time to alert you to its progress.

How I come to be the bearer of this melancholy intelligence I may briefly state. It is simply this: my husband
Dr
Langland and I have been spending a part of this season at Bath as a result of a slight indisposition on his part, for which the physicians recommended the waters. This is a rarity for us, who go about very little
—
we are very far from being people of fashion
—
howsomever, we make our daily visit to the Pump Room, and it was there, not a fortnight since, that I turned and beheld your father.

We recognized one another at once, though we had not met for many years: not since my poor sister’s marriage. Your father appeared to me little changed from the young captain whom our family once considered
—
wrongly, I see now
—
as the destroyer of my sister’s happiness; and he was good enough to pronounce me unaltered by the years, which I know well was more kind than truthful. In short, you will see from this that we met cordially. The door to reconciliation stood open. I must confess that of late I have been a prey to sensations of shame and regret, whenever I have thought of the relatives lost to me through an old bitterness; yet always I lacked the courage to act upon such feelings, until I was as it were surprised into it, by the meeting with your father; whose openness, geniality, and readiness to be friends was a further reproach to me. He invited us to drink tea with him the next day: I accepted: so simply was the breach of years repaired. Or rather, a beginning was made: of course there was much to talk of yet, and much misunderstanding to be resolved, before there could be perfect ease between us.

Yet achieved it was: we met each succeeding day, with increasing friendliness
—
to the great satisfaction of
Dr
Langland, who as a man of the cloth has always deplored such familial disharmony. It was your father’s greatest delight to give us his account of you, my dear, such was his pride in you; and we looked forward to completing the reconciliation, by meeting you, our unknown niece, at the earliest opportunity. Indeed your father had declared his intention of writing you with the cheerful news, the very night before he was taken ill.

This malady at first appeared a mere ague, which your father supposed he had got as a result of trying out the immersion-bath, the friend with whom he was staying having recommended it as a treatment for his lame leg. But he was rapidly prostrated, beyond any ordinary fever: there was evidence, according to the surgeon who attended him, of a severe heart-stroke; and though
Dr
Langland and I waited upon him as soon as we heard the news, he never recovered the power of speech, nor I think did he know us. Yet he left the world, at ten o’clock this morning, with no appearance of suffering: rather I would say he looked pleased.

My dear Caroline, I can only repeat how sorry I am to be the bearer of this news. I knew that the intercourse with you, which I hoped soon to have begun, must have commenced with apologies, but I did not imagine they would be of this sort. I do not like to prate of Providence, as that is too often the easy recourse of the lazy mind. Yet I remain grateful that I was permitted this opportunity of reconciliation before your father’s passing, and hope you may find some comfort in the knowledge that your aunt and uncle await you in Bath, to help you in any way we can through the matter of your father’s
funeral, and the disposal of his effects.
Dr
Langland has such acquaintance among the clergy here, as make it certain we may procure your
father a respectable burial at St Swithin’s Walcot, unless you have some strong wishes to the contrary. If so, I expect to hear them from your lips very soon. I am aware of your situation, your father having told us all, and understand its dependence: nevertheless I know you will be released for such an event as this for as long as is necessary, and my only concern is how soon you may get here.
Dr
Langland agrees that travelling post would be best, and if as I suspect you are not able to bear the expense yourself, do pray assure your employer that if she will arrange it, we will refund the cost to her directly. As for lodging, there is ample room for you here
—
should you wish it: for it occurs to me that I am rather assuming a disposal to forgiveness and cordiality on your part, which may not exist. I should be sorry for it, but would not blame you.

Your affectionate aunt

SELINA LANGLAND

Caroline had just bathed her red eyes, and sat down to read this letter a third time, when there was a tap at the door and to her surprise, in tittuped the Shrewmouse, Mrs Catling’s maid.

‘The mistress thought you might care to use this,’ she announced, thrusting into Caroline’s hand a bottle of sal-volatile. ‘And she wishes to know how long you’re going to be, as she wants the newspaper read to her.
I
can’t do that, you know: it’s not my job.’ And with a short but comprehensive look of disgust around her at the room, as if it were an abode of flagrant, perfumed, harem-like luxury, she minced out.

Caroline stared at the little bottle a moment, then set it down. She folded her letter carefully and placed it in the bureau, tidied herself in front of the mirror, and then went down to read the newspaper to Mrs Catling.

‘Well! You’ve collected yourself, I see,’ Mrs Catling said. ‘Very good. You’ll find it best: no amount of moping will help, you know. Now, there’s the newspaper. Reading will take your mind off it. Oh! This wretched cold: you’ve no conception how I suffer.’ She looked narrowly at Caroline over her trumpeting handkerchief. ‘There was something you wanted to say, perhaps?’

‘Oh
—
yes, Mrs Catling
—
thank you for the smelling-salts.’

Mrs Catling nodded, eyes modestly closed. ‘You can return them to me later.’

In truth the mechanical exercise of reading out
The Times
to her employer suited Caroline as well as any activity just then: there was just enough occupation to keep her from being swallowed up by her grief, while a part of her mind could remain separate from her task, and pursue its own reflections.