Indiscretion (39 page)

After nuncheon, arming herself with stout gloves and secateurs, she went out to the front garden and began cutting holly-boughs to dress the Rectory windows. There was still just room, beside the crowding anxiety and vexation, to find pleasure in this task, and hope of appropriate snow in the colour of the western sky, egg-white touched with lime.

‘Miss Fortune, I wish to pick your brains.’

Stephen Milner had stolen upon her so quietly, and broken into her thoughts so abruptly, that she bit her tongue, nearly dropped the secateurs and turned round on him with a yelp. ‘Mr Milner! Really, you could have made me cut off my finger!’

‘Oh, the gloves look very strong. A minor incision perhaps, no more. I
am
sorry to interrupt you, because you looked so splendidly pagan.’ He picked up a cut sprig of holly. ‘Roman feast started this custom. Saturnalia. Guzzle, gobble, and grope. Not so very different from Christmas.’ He had, she saw, shaved; but looked weary, his face all bony angles. ‘Now about those brains. Ow, I’ve pricked myself.’

‘Curious consequence of handling sharp objects. I’d say how d’you do, but I gather we are missing out the usual exchange of greetings and compliments.’

‘Well, time is pressing,’ he said, sucking his long finger. ‘What with Fanny’s reputation imperilled every moment. If it ain’t gone already. I don’t know why I’m being flippant, I don’t feel it. I would love her still whatever happened, and so would you, but the rest of the world won’t.’

Caroline did not know what to say. She felt as if she had reached out to grasp a holly-branch and found herself holding a blossom.

‘God! Why did she have to be such a fool?’ he burst out. ‘Why couldn’t she just come to me and say she wanted to marry Carraway?’

‘You weren’t here to ask,’ Caroline said, as gently as she could. ‘And what would you have said?’

‘I’d have said, “No, you’re too young, and besides he gazes through his curls too much.” But it would have been a start. The battleground would have been decided, at any rate.’

‘And then, I rather fear, she would have proceeded to run off with him. You said marry
—
do you think that’s what she hopes? Or he intends? Or is she not thinking at all?’

‘The last sounds more like Fanny. But these are precisely the questions I wanted to put to you. You were the one she was so thick with just lately
—
or so I hear.’

‘Well, you cannot believe everything you hear,’ Caroline said, thinking: Now I know what to have on my gravestone. ‘If you had been here at home, Mr
Millier,
instead of gadding about-
—’

‘Why is it when anyone makes the slightest motion we disapprove of, we call it
gadding about?
And what is this business of wanting me here?’

‘I am not wanting
—
I am not speaking on my own behalf, but on Fanny’s. I fear she has lacked guidance
—’

‘Ah, has she? I have caught a whiff of suggestion that she has had altogether too much guidance, in a certain direction.’

‘I will say, for the last time, that I did not know of Fanny’s plan or encourage her towards it. And a gentleman should beware, Mr Milner, of vexing a lady when she has an instrument like this in her hand.’

He did smile then, with a softening of the bony lines that she found she had been somehow anticipating. But she still thought she saw a sparkle of distrust as he bowed and offered her his arm.

‘Where are we going?’ she said, just before taking it.

‘Around the garden. Perambulation aids cogitation. I am still brain-picking, you see. Because if anyone knows something, it must be you. I mean,’ he said, holding up a shielding hand, ‘because Fanny talked to you more than anyone. And she may have let something slip that you hardly noticed or have forgotten. What about family? Has Carraway any that you know of?’

‘I remember him saying he was an orphan, brought up by an uncle,’ Caroline said: then thought of the tearful betrayed face of the stationer’s daughter, and coughed. ‘This is to assume, of course, that we
—
we can believe everything Mr Carraway said.’

‘Hm, that doesn’t sound promising. There’s nothing like a stern father with an unsigned will to make a young man decide to behave respectably. Well, they must live on something. I hear the Hampsons paid him well for the wedding-portrait, and Bella tells me Fanny’s jewels are gone with her; but none of this is a fortune. One hope, a slight hope, is that Fanny will apply to us for funds, and give at least a forwarding address. Slight, because I’m sure Fanny, if anyone, believes that human beings can live on air. I know, she makes it seem charming, but still
...
So, if they are in London, they will be residing modestly at least, and not in the west-end squares. Therefore, that is one place I need not look.’

‘You’re going to search for them?’

‘Yes. I’m only here to garner what information I can, and then I’ll be off after them.’ His quizzical face angled down at hers. ‘Does that count as gadding about?’

‘No — no, of course it doesn’t,’ she said, slapping at his arm, somewhat tentatively, ‘only
—
well, it’s as Isabella said, London is so big
—
how many people live there, do you suppose?’

‘At the census five years ago, the population was recorded as about one million and fifty thousand.’

‘Do you write these things down on tablets and keep them in your pockets, Mr Milner? No, don’t answer that. It’s enough. I can’t see — I don’t mean to doubt you, but I can’t see how you will find them.’

‘Well, Miss Fortune, fortify your heart, brace your mind, and prepare yourself for a considerable privilege, because I am about to make a confession. When my father was dying, he addressed me in the terms that everyone must at that moment, and told me that Augusta was an irreproachable angel, which was excessive if understandable from a husband; that Isabella was sweet, sensible, and just a little stubborn
—
true; and as for Fanny, he wasn’t sure, because she was not quite finished. Like pottery not yet fired in the kiln, I seem to remember him saying. What he was doing thinking about kilns at such a time I cannot imagine. Unless he could already feel the heat from where he was going. At any rate, he was right, alas. And so I am going to London to search for Fanny, because I don’t think she was quite finished when she made the decision to run off with Carraway, and such a decision can’t be trusted. He may
be
the one for her, and if so good luck to them: but I’ll have to be convinced of it first. If they are truly in love, then he should marry her. If not, then
...
well, I’m not sure. I ought to make him marry her nonetheless. At least, I will make him stop using her.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in marriage.’

‘A man who never contradicts himself must become horribly bored with his own conversation. Oh, on the whole I don’t believe in it, except when there is genuine love, which is such a compound of affection, warmth, ease, esteem, and various other spices and condiments rarer than powdered hen’s teeth that one hardly expects to come across it once in a lifetime.’

She studied him. ‘You know, in your way you are quite as romantic as Fanny.’

He conceded a smile. ‘That’s what my father said
...
However, endlessly fascinating subject though I am, we are not here to discuss me but Fanny. I was in the not very productive process of picking your brains.’

‘I’m afraid there is nothing to pick — and don’t burst yourself with wit
on
that remark, Mr Milner. I mean I cannot think of anything that may help you. There is only — well, Fanny did have an absurd veneration for my past. My life with my father — it all seemed wonderfully exciting to her, the regiment and the theatre and the gaming-clubs and the — well, I’m afraid even the debts and the flitting seemed to her a great adventure.’

‘Ah!’ he said, and with a sort of tactful lightness: ‘I imagine the adventure would pall after a time.’

‘I tried to suggest as much. Perhaps I didn’t try hard enough. But if she is in London, I fancy that is the world she will be drawn to. The theatre districts — Covent Garden, Haymarket — and then all the little places along the Strand towards St Paul’s where the authors and artists and fiddlers gather. Which is also where cheap lodgings are to be had, of course.’

Also the very places where the muslin sisterhood walked
—
as neither of them said, though their short silence did.

‘Well, I thank you, Miss Fortune, that may help indeed. If I do have any news, I shall write at once to Augusta and Bella
—’

‘Will you write to me?’ Her cheeks were stinging: the afternoon had turned so cold. ‘There, you knew I was a bold-faced hussy, so that shocking request can be no surprise to you. But as you are so elusive, Mr Milner, I could at least then pin you down to a postal address.’

‘Certainly I shall write, Miss Fortune, at your request,’ he said, with a smothered wry look, and a short bow. ‘But surely you are able to call at the Manor now without tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth?’

‘In a way
...
Tell me, how
is
Bella? Yes, I’ve seen her — but it hasn’t been the same. Even you must understand that.’

‘Even I?’

‘Even you as a typically blinkered insensible obtuse dunderheaded male, of course, and now do answer my question.’

‘Well,’ he said, suppressing a smile, ‘she is still in the dismals, because she is Isabella and she takes things seriously; but she is not in a decline, and she has, I must confess, a good solid friend in Augusta, pompous and plaguey as she can be; and I have hopes she will come to the realization that she is after all pretty well placed, and be in no hurry to change. I’ve told her so — but when are we dunderheaded males ever listened to?’

‘Hm? I beg your pardon, I was thinking of something else.’

‘I gave you that one. I must go. Must eat, change, pack again, sleep, then off in the morning. Will you present my compliments to my uncle and aunt? And can I have a little sprig of your holly?’

‘What for?’

‘Has anyone ever told you that you ask far too many questions?’

‘Why do you ask?’

He breathed and glowered at her, broke into a laugh. ‘I want a sprig as a little piece of Wythorpe. I don’t know how long I shall be in populous city pent.’

‘Oh, I thought you wanted to keep it next to your heart to remind you of me.’

‘As it would prickle and irritate, it probably would. I’m glad to see, by the by, that you’re — well, in spirits. That you’re still yourself. And don’t ask me why.’

Yes, she thought, with a vague surprise, I am myself again now. Where did I go? In confusion she turned and blunderingly hacked off a whole bough of holly.

‘I said a sprig, not a tree. Here, let me
...’
He snipped, pocketed. ‘Perhaps it will make Fanny homesick, though I doubt it.’

‘Perhaps it will make you homesick — though I doubt it.’

His hand on the gate, he wore an arrested, thoughtful look, as if stirred by some long-buried memory. ‘You asked me once what it

was like to be always right,’ he said. ‘And though I’m sure I replied with something characteristically brilliant, in truth it’s hard to say. When you’ve never known anything else, you’ve no means of comparison: you don’t know what it means to be well until you’re ill. I’m working my way round to another confession. Yes: I have been wrong. Wrong about Fanny. I thought she would come to no harm, left to her own devices. I thought there was no need for fuss.’ He followed the flight of a rook overhead as he spoke, though his eyes were not seeing. ‘I thought I didn’t have to be my father.’

A new world of Stephen was opened up to her then. Some instinct told her, even as she gazed at it, that she should respond to it only in the old style, if he were not to regret the revelation.

‘Well, I’m pleased to know you have joined the rest of the fallible human race at last, Mr Milner,’ she said. ‘And I hope you will live to be wrong many, many times again.’

‘Including about you?’ he said, with his feline look.

‘Fascinating subject as I am, we are not here to discuss me,’ she said lightly, yet with an inner feeling of lifting some horribly heavy weight.

‘True. I must say goodbye. I suppose I should wish you a merry Christmas also, as I don’t know whether I shall be back for it.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Milner.’ She put out her hand. ‘Please - please scold Fanny for me if you find her.’

‘With pleasure. Goodbye, Miss Fortune.’ He looked down, with a faint smile and shake of his head, at her hand: it was still encased in the thick glove. She thought he said, ‘May I?’ but could not be sure, as she was overtaken by such an odd swarming sensation, as he delicately slipped off the glove and pressed her bare hand, a sensation that remained with her after he had gone and she walked slowly back into the house: it was as if he had taken off a lot more than the glove.

Seasonal migrations: to the Grange for Christmas came Mrs Hampson’s mother from Bristol, a little squint parroty woman in a frizzed wig, prematurely aged by deafness, whom Caroline had the pleasure of meeting at an evening-party.

‘Who? Who? Oh, is this the flighty one who steals the men?’

Caroline, unblushing, brushed away her hosts’ emollient apologies: she could even laugh at such stuff now. More sobering was the wedding portrait hanging above the drawing-room mantel, with the dashing signature of C.
Carraway
visible in the corner. It was, as far as she could judge, a good painting: handled with assurance and a warm colourism, even if there was a sketchy tendency to make empty brush work-flourishes out of lace and ribbons. But its associations were less happy.

The Hampsons were apologetic about that too. Attempts to keep the matter of Fanny secret had met with all the success that might be expected in that voraciously inquisitive neighbourhood; and as Mr Hampson said, while they deeply regretted what
seemed
to be suggested lately about Mr Carraway’
s
character, for their part they had never found him to be anything but a gentleman, and Felicity was so very fond of the portrait ..
.
As well she might be, since it was outrageously flattering, a fact urbanely remarked upon by her mother, who remarked after long scrutiny: ‘Well, that’s never you, Lissie: you’re twice as fat as that.’

‘There is, I suppose, Miss Fortune, no
—
how shall I put it?
—
no word?’ enquired Mr Hampson, one great awkward perspiring smile. ‘No word about
—
how shall I put it?
—
the young lady from the Manor whom we, to our great regret, do not see any more?’

‘No.’ No: though Caroline had received a letter from Stephen Milner in London, to tell her that he was staying at Batt’s Hotel in Jermyn Street, that London was foggy, murky, smoky, and muddy, but that he was not without hopes of success, as so many people had left Town for Christmas that the population must be down to only a million. Reading, she smiled as she ached.

Seasonal migrations: ‘I do hear,’ now said Mr Hampson, abandoning an unpromising subject, ‘that there are visitors again at Hethersett for Christmas. Mr and Miss Downey
—
charming people
—
Mr Leabrook introduced them last time ...’ And then, realizing that this was also an unpromising subject with Caroline, Mr Hampson smiled and perspired himself into silence, and hailing an invisible new arrival escaped across the room.

Well: she wondered if she was to expect another visit, or rather visitation, from Matthew Downey, accusing her of fresh enormities, or whether there had been a peace treaty with his aunt. Not much caring, she only mildly wondered; and then, two days before Christmas, she greatly wondered at seeing a carriage pull up at the Rectory gate.

For she recognized this as Mr Richard Leabrook’s carriage. Even without recognition, it could have been no one else’s
—
black and sleek and shining, the horses not only well groomed but looking
—
somehow
—
well dressed and polite. Maria Downey got out; though she was, as Caroline could see from the two dark male heads within, not the only occupant of the carriage, which then drove on.

‘There, my dear, you see I keep my promises.’ Maria pressed a cold, fresh-smelling cheek against hers with a dry kiss, floated over to the parlour fireplace to warm her hands. She was in travelling dress: fur-trimmed pelisse, casquet bonnet, muff. ‘I promised I would come and see you next time I was at Hethersett
—
didn’t I? Perhaps I didn’t. I certainly
thought
it. And so how do you do, my dear, and now are you ready? Are you ready for the most astounding piece of news? It is like the sun falling out of the sky. Though judging by this odious weather that has already happened. Well, it is like
—
oh, I can’t think of any more comparisons, it’s too exhausting.’ Maria sat down, or rather ornamented the sofa with herself. ‘My dear, would you believe that Aunt Sophia is no more?’

‘No,’ Caroline answered, simply and truthfully: because she could not imagine Mrs Catling dying. Undergoing a slow petrifaction into a graven image, perhaps, or being clawed down to hell like Don Giovanni, but not suffering the common fate. She sat down, then reminded herself of what was appropriate. ‘Oh, Miss Downey, I am sorry.’

‘My dear, you
sound
it!’ Maria said, with a chuckle. ‘Come, I’m sure we may be frank. Even I am only a little sorry, for after all she was not exactly a woman to inspire affection, and you can hardly be expected to feel anything. Except surprise, of course, because I’m sure like me you conceived her immortal. Well! Matthew and I had only just settled ourselves at Hethersett for a proper traditional Christmas season of gluttony and sloth, and then comes this letter from a solicitor in London
—
Mr Coker of Symond’s Inn
—
acquainting us with what he fancifully calls the sad news. She died at Brighton last Friday
—
quite suddenly, it seems,
of
a heart-stroke. I know, an unlikely organ for Aunt Sophia. All matters pertaining to the estate are in the hands of this gentleman, who writes
—
well, he writes in true slippery legal fashion, but he says we may learn something to our advantage if we will be so good as to attend him et cetera. Well, you know what that means, my dear: the will. Aunt Sophia’s long-anticipated will
—
what will it say? You may imagine how Matthew is feeling.’

‘I can indeed.’ Not, though, with any lively sympathy. And that was the pity of it all, she thought: little moved as she was herself by Mrs Catling’s demise, the general absence of grief told a sad tale. ‘I gather there was no reconciliation before ... ?’

Maria shook her head. ‘Not for want of trying on Matthew’s part. But Aunt Sophia remained
—
oh, that word that’s like obstinate.’

‘Obdurate. Was that Matthew I saw in the carriage?’

‘Yes. Matthew
—
and Mr Leabrook.’ Maria’s smile was a little diffident. ‘The fact is, he is taking us to London directly in his carriage, which is excessively civil of him. He knows this may be a rather testing time, and so he has placed himself at our disposal — at Matthew’s especially — to be a prop and stay to him as it were. And so, on our way we thought to say some goodbyes. That is — Matthew and Mr Leabrook have gone on to call at the Manor, to present their compliments. Whereas I — well, I elected to call on
you,
my dear. I do gather the unpleasantness still lingers. All I can do is apologize for my brother’s rudeness, but he still has those peculiar ideas about you
—’

‘And Mr Leabrook, I’m sure, is always happy to back them up.’

‘Now you mustn’t be provoking, my dear,’ Maria said, lips twitching. ‘He may well have his wicked side, as which of us does not, but he has been excessively obliging to us. If I didn’t know better, Caroline Fortune, I would suspect you of harbouring a little
tendresse
for him. Oh, but enough of all that. Tell me, what do you think? Aunt Sophia actually gone — am I dreaming? Selfish beast that I am, I wish it might have happened at another time, because I don’t fancy the journey back to London in this weather, even in the comfort of Mr Leabrook’s carriage — but of course we must go. You may imagine that Matthew was packing even before he had finished reading the letter.’

Dr Langland
came in at that moment, full of hearty enquiries, and so was soon acquainted with Miss Downey’s news. He was solemn. ‘I hope your late aunt was offered spiritual comfort before the end, Miss Downey.’

‘It’s enchanting and dear of you to hope so, sir, but I’m rather afraid the only comforts Aunt Sophia cared for were a glass of port-wine and a hand of cards.’

‘Sad, sad!’ cried
Dr
Langland, with a shake of his great head.

‘Isn’t it?’ yawned Maria. ‘Ah, I think I hear the carriage. We are always parting! It’s supposed to be sweet sorrow or something, isn’t it? Those poets. They’ll say anything. Oh, by the by, Caro, where is my beau with the long legs?’

‘In London,’ she answered, a little shortly.

‘Oh, indeed? Perhaps we shall run into him. Where is he staying, do you know?’

‘I’m afraid not. Present my compliments to the two gentlemen, won’t you?’

Why did she lie? She couldn’t say, except
...
‘Well, Stephen has important business on hand,’ as she said afterwards to Uncle John who, for once, had been subtle enough not to take her up on it, ‘and he can well do without Maria Downey flibbertigibbeting around him.’

‘I’m not sure that’s correct as a verb, my dear,’ her uncle said: then smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t know, though.’

Aunt Selina had been at the Manor that morning, and on her return she confirmed that Mr Downey and Mr Leabrook had called there
—
to some surprise and awkwardness at first. But Mr Leabrook had been thoroughly correct: had explained the situation, said that he wished to accompany his friend to London at this difficult time, considered it was proper to call and make his formal goodbyes. By the end, Aunt Selina said, there seemed to be a certain thawing in the atmosphere, and Isabella
—
‘Well, Isabella did not exactly look happy — but rather as if she wanted to be happy if she could just manage it,’ Aunt Selina said, with a thoughtful look. ‘Not that it was a long visit. Mr Downey was anxious to be off
— what a high-strung young man he is! — and besides Lady Milner could not be
very
welcoming, for it seems Stephen left strict instructions that there was to be no sort of
rapprochement
between Isabella and Mr Leabrook without his presence and consent.’

‘Oh, high and mighty!’ remarked Caroline: with an electric inward cry of
Good for you, Stephen.

Later she thought of the Brighton days and strove to feel something profound for a woman who, after all, had met death, perhaps with incomprehension, fear, realization. But the way Mrs Catling had lived made it impossible to think of her in death as anything but an estate, a will and testament: one imagined her being filed rather than buried.

Far more perturbing to Caroline’s spirit was Aunt Selina’s account of Isabella. If her friend was yearning back towards Leabrook, there was nothing she could do about it — except feel this nagging dread and trouble, which she did her best to conceal through the festivities of Christmas. These in turn prompted wistful thoughts: compassionate comparisons. Here, the Yule log borne in and heaved to the back of the parlour fire, here the carollers from the village singing ‘Remember O Thou Man’ while the spiced ale steamed, here the ivy round the fire, the plum-cake, the wassail-bowl; and somewhere, unknown, far from home and friends, Fanny; and likewise, in a hotel at least but alone, Stephen. When they dined at the Manor on Christmas Day, no amount of goose and chestnut-stuffing could divert the mind from the empty chairs.

One welcome addition, though: last of the seasonal migrations. Captain Brunton had arrived late last night after a punishing journey by public coach and carrier. That, perhaps, accounted for his appearance — pale, heavy-eyed, close-mouthed, and seemingly wrapped in gloom. Unusually, he drank glass after glass of wine at dinner, though it had no visible effect on him. When the ladies withdrew, Caroline took the opportunity of quietly asking Lady Milner: was Captain Brunton not quite well?

Quite well: a little tired and shaken. ‘And then, you know,’ Lady Milner said, after a slight pause, ‘he was dreadfully shocked to hear of Fanny’s elopement. I declare it hit him quite like a blow. But Edward is a man of tender feelings, even if he does not choose to parade them.’

Caroline didn’t doubt that: still, it was odd, for she knew, or thought she knew, that it wasn’t Fanny who was closest to the Captain’s heart.

His flush, when the men rejoined them, showed that he had made free with the port. But he drank his tea in separate silence. Caroline intercepted a few curiously baleful looks, as if somehow he felt himself accused, and needed to appeal to her: still, it was long before he sauntered over to her, picked up and examined her teaspoon with great care, then grumbled: ‘Miss Fortune. I trust I find you well.’

‘Thank you, Captain Brunton. I’m glad to see you. I didn’t know
—’

‘I didn’t know. That I would be coming. That is, I was invited. I had a long-standing invitation. For Christmas.’ He spoke in a series of small, controlled explosions. ‘I thought at first I should not come. Then I thought I should.’ He put down the teaspoon as if she had offered him a fake for silver. ‘Doesn’t matter really.’

‘I’m afraid you are not in spirits, Captain Brunton.’

‘Not at all. Not at all. That is, I have had good news. An opening for a command in the packet service out of Falmouth. Cornwall. I believe I have secured it.’

‘I am pleased
—
particularly pleased, for I believe they don’t shoot at packet-boats, do they? Though to be sure Falmouth is a long way away.’