Rustication (4 page)

That is Mrs Paytress. She is a widow
. The old woman stepped closer to us and, lowering her voice dramatically as if to keep her next utterance from the girls’ hearing, added softly:
Apparently
.

The word was delivered with the smoothness of a hired poniard sliding into a Renaissance neck.

Remembering what Mrs Quance had said, I asked:
Does Mrs Paytress know Lord Thurchester?

The younger girl made an ill-concealed attempt to stifle a laugh. The old woman turned to me a face that was both horrified and thrilled:
What makes you ask that, Master Shenstone?

(
Master Shenstone!
I’m not a schoolboy.)

I told her how Mrs Quance had mentioned the earl and had looked at Mrs Paytress at that moment as if there were some connection.

The old spinster said in tones of hushed awe:
Mrs Quance and the Rector, of course, know Lord Thurchester and have dined at the Castle
.

What an honour
, my mother murmured politely.

And Enid was one of the guests
. She simpered in the elder girl’s direction and said:
She was invited because the earl’s nephew was staying at the Castle. The Honourable Mr Davenant Burgoyne. Such a very charming young man
.

The young lady turned away as if to hide a blush at this tribute to her magnetic power of attraction.

He took her down to dinner
, the old woman crowed.

Though he couldn’t hold her arm
, the younger sister put in slyly.
And he could not dance
.

Poor young man
, the old woman agreed.
He had recently suffered a grave misfortune and as a consequence, he was limping and had his sleeve pinned to his coat
.
So romantic. He looked as if he had just returned like a triumphant hero from a
great victory
.

Miss Bittlestone suddenly blenched. I followed her gaze and saw Mrs Quance summoning her with a menacing smile. With a quick bow in our direction, the old woman scuttled off with the girls behind her.

They were barely out of earshot when Euphemia said:
What a malevolent old gossip that woman is
.
What has Mrs Paytress done to her that she should blacken her name by implying that she is not really a widow and hinting at something improper involving the earl?

The mysterious widow
, I said.

Why do you have to find a mystery everywhere?
she snapped.
Why does everything have to become a thrill from a railway novel for you?

It’s clear that the Lloyds don’t believe Miss Bittlestone’s insinuations
, Mother said emolliently.

Or Mrs Paytress’s quarrel with Mrs Quance
, Euphemia suggested,
has earned her their friendship
.

I said
: In that case, all we have to do is to make enemies of the right people and our social success is assured. And we seem to have made a good beginning
.

Euphemia rounded on me and said:
You turn everything into a joke. One day the joke will be against you
.

· · ·

I was listening for the name “Willy” or something resembling it. Nothing. And I saw no man who looked plausible as an admirer of my sister. There is no curate, for example. Though knowing my sister, I think Effie would aim rather higher than a mere curate—the protozoa of the clerical phylum!

½ past 7 o’clock.

Stuck inside all afternoon. I’d have been out exploring the country if it weren’t for this infernal rain.

Finding mysteries everywhere. I don’t have to manufacture them. They are all around me:

Nr 1.) What were the circumstances of Father’s death and why is Mother so unwilling to talk about it?

Nr 2.) Who is
Willy
or
William
and why was Mother expecting him on Saturday evening?

Nr 3.) Why was Effie dressed up and out in the rain last night?

Nr 4.) And why is she so keen to go to the ball given the distance and the expense?

Nr 5.) Why did the Quance woman refuse her a ticket? And the Lloyds pretend not to know us?

· · ·

Enid
. What an enchanting creature. The delicate features framed by her dark hair. The pale eyes with their long lashes. She exudes a sense of gentle melancholy.

· · ·

Just as we were finishing dinner, I mentioned the quality of the repast and not in flattering terms, and the mater said:
I have engaged someone to take care of that
.

A cook?
I exclaimed.

Mother nodded:
She would have arrived on Thursday but for the bad weather
.
I hope she’ll come when the carter brings your trunk
.

That won’t be until the roads are passable again
, I said.

My tone must have betrayed me because Euphemia asked:
What is in your trunk that is so precious?

Just my books and my flute
.

Is it missing your books that is making you so insupportable? If you can’t be more agreeable, why don’t you find somewhere else to lodge for the vacation?

I’m not lodging here
, I said.
I live here
.

She spoke as if I had not answered:
Did you make any friends at Cambridge? If so, then go and stay with one of them
.

Of course I made friends
, I said.
Some close ones since I count friends by their quality and not by their number
.

She scowled and I could see that had struck home.

You certainly had a large number in Thurchester, Euphemia
, Mother murmured in a placatory manner.

A positive militia
, I said.
How are your senior lieutenants—Maud and Cecily and Lucinda?
I saw a warning glance from my mother. What had I said?
Haven’t you seen them since you moved out here?

It’s too far, Richard
, Mother said.

I could see that Effie was getting more and more irritated, but some spirit of devilry made me go on teasing her:
What? Not even Maud?

She is her best friend. Or was. A handsome creature and very alluring with those darting eyes and that secretive smile. She’s been spoilt by her rich father and is accustomed to getting what she wants. She must have irritated Effie by her assumption of superiority as the daughter of Archdeacon Whitaker-Smith. I went to her house with Effie a few times and all they ever talked about were dresses and suitors. And there was that little brother of hers—whose name I forget—but he was a gifted musician and came to our house to take singing lessons with Father and he joined the Cathedral choir. Then I heard that he had been sent away to public-school and I remember wondering if he was hating it as much as I had since he seemed a quiet, thoughtful boy who would be unsuited to the rough-and-tumble of a place like Harrow.
Perceval!
That’s his name. Occurs to me that Maud and Effie are too alike to have stayed friends for long.

Oh will you be quiet!
Effie cried.
Nobody wants you here. Why don’t you just go?

Effie, Effie
, Mother said soothingly.

It was bad enough before he came but now . . . I can’t bear it. I just can’t bear it. I’m stuck here and I’ve got nothing
.

You’ve got your music
, Mother said.
You must practise diligently and it will stand you in good stead
.

I hate music
, Effie exclaimed.
I hate it
. She got up and ran out of the room. A moment later we heard her angry footsteps going up the stairs.

I looked at my mother in amazement.
I suppose she was looking forward to the ball
, I said.
And to seeing all her friends
.

Richard, please don’t mention Maud to her again
.

Oh
, I said.
Have they quarrelled?

She didn’t answer but that would make it all the more puzzling that Effie was so anxious to go to the ball. Those girls were always squabbling over their “beaux”.

Mother and I moved into the parlour and she seated herself on the old sopha and started knitting grimly. The rain was falling. I felt frowsty, cabined, cribbed, and confined. I wanted to be striding across the fields with the clean fresh air blowing into my face. I picked up my book but after a while we began to talk.

She recounted some of her old stories about her father that I loved as a child. Having inherited a fortune from his father at an early age, he spent it with magnificent generosity. He once gave a great ball and had ordered a huge frozen cake to be made in London but by the time it arrived it had begun to melt and it covered the floor with sugary water so that the dancers skidded in all directions.

Then Mother began a story she had never told me. One of our ancestors living in this very house fell in love with a girl from a neighbouring family but her relatives refused to let them marry. So one night he spirited her back here. But her brothers burst into the house and killed him. Mother concluded:
They say the bride went mad and one day she ventured into the marsh and was swallowed up. They say she still wanders up and down the shore at night
.

That’s a fine tale, Mother. But I’m sure there’s not a word of truth in it
.

Well
, she said,
there is a red stain on the floor outside the back-parlour that is said to be the poor young man’s blood
.

So of course we had to go and find it and while we were looking for it Euphemia suddenly appeared behind us:
Whatever are you doing?
she asked with a laugh that was half mocking and half conciliatory.

So she had to hear the whole story as we went back into the parlour.

Betsy brought us a pot of tea and a plate of round metallic objects that she insisted were biscuits. For the first time we seemed to be as we were in the old days.

· · ·

Have just remembered that Lucy Lloyd was a pert little creature with reddish-gold hair falling in curls over her collar.

· · ·

I can’t help thinking of Mother’s head bent over that stain studying it as intently as if she expected to find some message of encouragement from our ancestors. At that moment I saw that her hair is now almost entirely grey. The events of the last few weeks have dealt her a serious blow. The spring has gone from her step.

· · ·

Three days’ abstinence since I parted from my trunk. Some trouble sleeping but nothing worse.

11 o’clock.

At dinner Effie began talking about Father and what a loss he was not only to his family but to the Church:
He was respected by all who knew him. I would go further than that. I would say he was loved
. I looked up involuntarily. I’m sure Father was respected by his colleagues and parishioners but few of them even liked him, I fear. The Canon Precentor loathed him and I remember once hearing him almost shouting:
I will not allow that man near my choristers!

My gaze met Mother’s and it seemed to me that she was as surprised by Effie’s claim as I was.

· · ·

Effie seems much older than just the two and a half months I’ve been away can account for. She’s not a girl any longer but a woman. She seems fuller of figure. And yet her features are softer. Her temper is no milder, though.

At the end of supper we stayed at the table drinking our tea and I asked Mother to tell me everything.

It’s money, Richard
, she said.
We have
only a tiny income to live on now
.

Surely you will have father’s pension?

There will be no pension
, she said gravely.
Everything had to be sold to pay off your father’s debts
.

What do you mean?

Mr Boddington handled everything
.

Mother is too trusting. Boddington has screwed a fortune out of his clients.

I asked:
So what do we have to live on?

Nothing but my own annuity
.

A hundred pounds! About an eighth of Father’s stipend! How could we live on that?

You said that everything had to be sold
, I said.
But you kept the pianoforte
.

I bought it at the auction
, Effie said coldly.
With my own money
.

There was an auction?

Unseen by Mother, Euphemia frowned at me and shook her head.

Mother said:
But I have something very exciting to tell you, Richard. Uncle Thomas gave me a strong hint that he might offer you a post when you’ve taken your degree
.

What a ghastly prospect. No sooner have I escaped Father’s sentence of death as a clergyman than I have to deal with his brother condemning me to a life in trade! I couldn’t face that topic now.

You say we’re poor and yet you’re hiring a cook!
I exclaimed.

She won’t stay long
, Mother said.
She will teach Betsy to cook
.

(
And to fly at the same time
, I thought.)
Two weeks at the very most
, I said.

Who are you to say that?
Effie demanded.
You’re being very high and mighty but you’re hardly more than a schoolboy. You’ll be living on Uncle Thomas’s charity for the next two years and long before then I’ll be working and independent
.

Euphemia is searching for a post as a governess
, Mother said.

I should have been consulted about that
, I said. My sister a governess! What a humiliation.
I’m the head of the family now
.

Euphemia snorted.

I don’t think you can be until you’re twenty-one
, Mother said.
By then you will have taken your degree and be working for Uncle Thomas. And he has no children so one day
. . .