Menfreya in the Morning (11 page)

“I’m so gad.”

“Hal” said my father. **I told you you need have nothing to fear, did I not?1*

“You did, Teddy, you did.**

Teddy? That was new to me. Teddy! How absolutely incongruous I But more so that he should actually tike itl What miracle had this woman been able to work?

“And was I not right?”

“Teddy dear, you know you are always right**

She was dimpling, and he was smiling at her as though she were one of the wonders of the world. I felt I had stepped into one of my dreams; they appeared to be so content with each other that they were allowing some of that contentment to lap over onto me.

“You’re looking puzzled … Harriet” She spoke my name shyly.

“I had no idea… It was a surprise.”

“You didn’t warn herl Oh, Teddy, how naughty of you! And I’m really a stepmother. Fancy that Stepmothers are supposed to be such horrid creatures.”

“I am sure you will be a kind stepmother,” I said.

My father looked emotional. Could it be, I wondered, that I had never know him before?

“Thank you … Harriet.” Always the little pause before she spoke my name, as though she were frightened of using it

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“Stepmother indeed!” said my father. “You are not six years older than Harriet”

She gave one of her little pouts and said: “Well, I shall try to do my best to be a good stepmother.”

“In fact” I said, “I am too old to need a stepmother, so perhaps we could be friends instead.”

She clasped her hands ecstatically, and my father looked pleased.

“You will have time to get to know each other during Harriet’s holidays,” said my father.

“That,” she announced, “will be the greatest fun.”

When I was in my room I shut the door and looked about ft, expecting it to have changed. Here were the same four walls which had seen so much of my childhood misery; here I had come after hearing those cruel words of Aunt Clarissa and made my plans for escape; here I had often cried myself to sleep because I had believed myself to be ugly and unloved. There was the picture of the Christian Martyr, which for some reason had always frightened me when I was young. It portrayed a young woman waist high in water, bound to a stake; her hands were tied with the palms together so that she could pray, and her eyes were raised to heaven. It used to give me nightmares until Fanny explained that she was happy to die because she was dying for her faith, and it would soon be over when the tide rose, for then she would be completely submerged. There was the little bookcase with my old books which had delighted my childhood. There was the moneybox from which I had extracted the shillings and sixpences to pay my fare to Cornwall. The same room where I had been kept on a diet of bread and water as a punishment for some misdemeanor, where I had struggled to learn the collect of the day or lines from Shakespeare as penance.

The same room—but the house was different. My father’s resentment, the unhappiness of years had dropped from him —or rather it had been removed like a cloak by the delicate fingers of this frivolous-looking piece of confectionery who was my stepmother.

I studied my reflection in the dressing-table looking glass. Yes, I had changed. That little kindness my father had shown me had lifted the scowl from my brow. I promised myself that I was growing better-looking. Gwennan was right when she

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said I reminded people that I was unattractive because of my own attitude.

I was excited because getting to know oneself was exciting. I was beginning to believe that I had the power to influence my own personality. I saw how happiness with bis Jenny was changing him. It was a wonderful discovery.

My astonishment grew as the days passed. My father did not exactly allow me to penetrate their magic circle, but at the same tune he did not want me shut out entirely. It seemed that my acceptance of Jenny, and hers of me, was needed to make his happiness complete. I suppose the child I had been —bitter, resentful—would have refused to give him what he wanted how. But I had changed when I had put on the topaz-colored dress, when Bevil had shown clearly that he had been attracted by me. I had softened in some way; and the new Harriet had lost her vindictiveness—she wanted to please.

So I became Jenny’s friend.

Meals were different now, with William Lister and myself, Papa and his new wife. Conversation flowed more easily; neither William nor I had to worry now about making aimless remarks. Jenny did that to perfection, and all her inanities were greeted by smiles from her husband.

They often went to the theater—which was something new to my father, who had never had time for it before; but the theater had been Jenny’s life, and she loved it. Jenny would prattle through dinner about the show they had seen or were going to see and the stage personalities whom she obviously admired. Papa listened and quickly learned what she had to tell him about the different actors and actresses, so that he could aspire to her kind of conversation.

One day my father said: “I want a word with you, Harriet. Pray come into the library.”

I followed him there. He sat down and signed to me to be seated, looking at me with the cold distaste which had wounded me so deeply before Jenny’s coming. So it was only when he was with her that he felt more kindly towards me! The assurance which had grown about me like a shell was only a brittle covering and ready to crack at the least ill-usage, and the sullen expression, I knew, was creeping over my face; I felt ugly, for I was sure that he was comparing me with his exquisite little Jenny.

“I have been thinking of your education,” he said.

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I nodded, and he looked at me with exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, show some enthusiasm.”

“I’m … interested,” I said.

“I should hope so. I have been thinking that it is time you left that school. You certainly need some grooming to fit you for society. Your Aunt Clarissa will see you launched eventually, but you are by no means ready for that How old are you now?”

So he didn’t remember! He remembered that Jenny liked her bonbons tied with pink ribbon, but he couldn’t remember his daughter’s age. But perhaps he was pretending to forget, for surely be must remember the day which had been the most tragic in his life, until he had met his Jenny, who had made a new man of him.

“Sixteen and a half.”

“It is a little early. I had thought you should wait until you were at least seventeen, and then have a year or two abroad. But I see no reason why you should not go now. Your reports from school are not bad. They could, of course, be better, but they are adequate. The place to which Gwennan Menfrey has been sent seems to satisfy her parents. I do not see why it should not be equally good for you. So you will not be returning to Cheltenham.”

I was excited. Soon to be with Gwennan again! It was the next best thing to being at Menfrey.

“The school is near Tours,” he said. As if I didn’t know! “We will see what it has done for you in, say … six months, and if it gives satisfaction you will stay for a year, perhaps two.”

“Yes, Papa,” I said.

He nodded a sign of dismissal, and I went to the door very conscious of my limp.

On such occasions I could see how we needed Jenny. If she went away, the old relationship between my father and myself would soon return. That realization made me very sad, but I was excited at the prospect of joining Gwennan.

They were going to the theater that night. William Lister told me that he had had difficulty in procuring the tickets, but he had to get them somehow because Lady Delvaney was so eager to go. It was a new departure from his duties of the past—this securing of theater tickets.

At dinner that evening, which was served half an hour

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earlier on account of the theater jaunt, Jenny looked prettier than ever. She was in mauve chiffon over a green satin, and I had to admit to myself that the effect was enchanting; she wore her fair hair piled high on her bead, which had the effect of making her seem more childish than ever. My fa* ther, I thought, was drinking more than usual, and Jenny was affecting a pretty concern.

“But, Teddy, I am really serious. If your poor head is not better, I shall insist that we do not go.”

“It is nothing, my love, nothing at all,” he assured her.

She turned to me. “But, Harriet, his poor head was so bad this afternoon. I made him rest and I put some of my Eau de Cologne on his forehead. It is wonderful. It always makes me feel better when I’m fatigued. If you ever need it, Harriet…”

“I don’t have headaches, thank you.**

“Oh no, you are so young … But, Teddy, you must take greater care. And if your head is not completely cured, it shall be no play for you.**

My father smiled at her fondly and declared that she had charmed away his headache.

I glanced at William, wondering what he thought of all this lovers* talk, and I saw that he was embarrassed, as I was.

Just before midnight I went to my window and saw my top-hatted, black-coated father, and my glittering stepmother returning from the theater. She was chattering. I could hear her high-pitched, excited voice as they came up to their room. I sat for some time at the window, wondering whether it had been like that with my mother and whether they had been delighted when they knew they were going to be parents. I tried to assure myself that he had been as excited then at the prospect of becoming a father as he was now to be the husband of a pretty young girl.

Perhaps under Jenny’s influence he would grow more and more mellow and tell me.

I undressed, went to bed and was soon asleep—to be startled by the sound of knocking on my door, which was flung open even as I opened my eyes.

My stepmother in a negligee all frills of lace and satin, her fair hair in confusion about her shoulders, her blue eyes wider than I had ever seen them, and fear written all over her pale face, was shouting incoherently at me.

“Harriet … for God sake … come. Your father

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… Teddy … something’s happened. Oh, Harriet Come quickly.’*

My father died early next morning. Never had I felt so blank, such a sense of unreality. I could only think: Now I shall never be able to win his approval … never … never… neverl

The strange night was over. The doctor had told us that my father had had a stroke and that there was just a possibility that he might recover; but before morning that possibility vanished. Jenny could only tremble and murmur: “It can’t be true. It can’t be true.” The doctor talked to me instead of her.

“Had he recovered,** he said, “he would have been an invalid. I do not think he would have enjoyed living in such a condition.”

We were all grateful to William Lister who took charge of the household in his calm, efficient way.

The doctor gave Jenny and me mild sedatives because, he said, we needed to sleep. She kept close to my side. “Can I be with you, Harriet? I can’t go back to our room.” I felt fond of her in that moment “Of course,** I said. So she slept in my bed until the morning. I awoke with a feeling that I had had a nightmare. Nothing would ever be the same again. My father, of whom I had seen very little, had in spite of that been at the very center of my existence. A burden had been lifted, but something vital to me had been taken away. I could not explain my feelings.

Jenny’s were less complicated. She had lost the great provider—the fairy godfather who had found her in rags and taken her to the ball. She was frankly distressed, and although anxiety for her future may have been at the root of this, she had, I believe, been fond of him.

In due course Aunt Clarissa arrived and immediately manifested her dislike of Jenny. I found myself hoping that Jenny did not notice.

She came to my room and looked at me with a criticism which even at such a time made me wonder whether she was picturing the difficulty of finding a husband for me. “Such a shocking thing!” She shut the door. *’I never did approve of this marriage. I have never known Edward to act foolishly before. But that … creature. Most unsuitablel What ever possessed him?*’

b.

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“Love,” I answered.

“Harriet, are you trying to be clever? It’s not very becoming—and at such a time.”

“It is not in the least clever to see the obvious. Papa was very much in tove with her, so he married her and gave her all the things which she had never had before.”

“H’m, and she took them with the utmost eagerness.**

“Her eagerness to take could not compare with his to give.”

“What nonsense is this! I am deeply shocked and filled with grief, but that will not prevent my making sure that we really get to the bottom of this mystery.”

“Mystery? Papa died of a stroke. The doctor said so.”

“Well, we shall see at the autopsy, shall we not?”

“An autopsy!”

“My dear child, there is always an autopsy after sudden death, and your father’s was very sudden.”

“Aunt Clarissa, what are you suggesting?”

“Merely that an aging man, a very rich man, decides to marry a young adventuress. He does so, and very shortly he dies.”

“But what has she to gain?”

“Doubtless we shall hear when the will is read after the funeral. But the autopsy, I am thankful to say, comes first”

“I am sure you are quite wrong.”

“And you, Harriet, are far too self-opinionated. I can see your manners are as atrocious as ever.” She turned and was about to leave me, but at the door she paused. “Not a word of this,” she said, “to her. If she thinks she has deceived us all, let her go on thinking it for a little while.”

She left me alone and thoughtful.

Poor Jenny! I thought She is going to miss my father’s care and protection.

Later, when I went down to the servants* quarters I could not help overhearing then* comments.

“That’s what comes of an old man trying to be a young one.”

“You don’t think that she…”

“Get away with you! But … I don’t know. I reckon he’s left her pretty comfortable. Well, if she wanted to be rid of him … and go off with some young man …”