The adulteress (35 page)

I heard through Charles that Andrew Mather was confined to his bed with rheumatism, so I felt that I was justified in not sending an invitation to Grasslands.

The new cook, Mrs. Baines, was in her element: the servants were in a state of perpetual excitement decorating the place with the help of the gardeners; the house was filled with the smells of cooking, and the main topic of conversation was the party.

Lottie seemed to be everywhere; she tried on her dress ten times a day, danced round the ball room with imaginary partners, was in the kitchen tasting the various cakes and sweetmeats; prevailing on Mrs. Baines to cook her what she called little tasters.

"I wish," said Lottie, "that we had a party every day."

"That would be far too much," I assured her.

"Well, one a week," she temporized.

Lessons which she had taken with me since we came to Eversleigh we passed over for a few days. I had warned her that as soon as we were settled we must look for a governess. Lottie grimaced but she could not think beyond the party.

It was about three days before the party when having walked over to Enderby for a chat with Isabel to tell her of the final plans for the great day, I encountered Evalina.

I believed that she had lain in wait for me.

"Oh . . . good day to you," she cried. "You must be very busy getting ready for your party."

"Good day," I replied. "Yes, I am." I prepared to pass on. But she was barring my way with that sly look in her eyes.

"All the neighborhood will be there," she said. "So I hear . . . but there are exceptions."

"It is impossible to ask everyone, I suppose," I said.

"Impossible? Oh no, not that. Unneighborly, I'd say."

I replied: "I didn't send you an invitation. I know that your husband is not fit to come."

"But I am," she said.

"I had not thought you would wish to . . . without him."

"Andrew is a kind husband. He wouldn't want to spoil my fun."

She was leering at me in a way I found most unpleasant. I thought, somewhat irrelevantly, that I preferred Jessie to her daughter.

"Well," I said lamely, "the invitations have all gone out now. I naturally thought . . ."

"There's time to send out one more."

This was blatant. She was asking for an invitation. Asking? She was demanding it.

"I reckon," she said, "it would look funny if I wasn't there. People would say: 'Why weren't you there?' I'd have to think up something to tell them, wouldn't I? I wouldn't want to but I couldn't let that pass . . . somehow . . . could I?"

This is blackmail, I thought.

She was smiling at me sweetly, helplessly, as though I were forcing her into a situation which had no charm for her.

Standing there in that lane I was suddenly afraid. I wished I was back at Clavering. I thought of her whispering something into Jean-Louis's ear and a vision of his kind, patient face rose before me.

I loved him; I would do anything rather than hurt him. I know I had forgotten him when I had been caught in the fascination of passionate love with another man. If I could go back I would be different. I would never let it happen. But that was not true. It would be exactly the same, I knew it. I yearned for Gerard. I longed for Gerard. I loved Jean-Louis, yes . . . but what I had felt for Gerard was something different . . . beyond love, perhaps.

There was one thought hammering in my brain. Jean-Louis must never know.

I looked at this girl with her hateful sly face, with her veiled threats, and I loathed myself as I said: "Well, it is not too late, as you say. If you really want to come."

She smiled at me, looking young and innocent.

"Oh, thank you. So I shall get my invitation? I don't suppose Andrew will be able to come but he wouldn't want to stop me enjoying myself."

I couldn't look at her, I turned away hating her, hating myself.

The party was in full swing. It had been a glorious spring day—as hot as summer—and everyone was saying that it was like old times. Eversleigh was coming into its own again. The farmers with their wives and families were delighted to have what they called the "Family" in command. I suppose poor Uncle Carl had been an invalid almost from the moment he had arrived and he had taken little interest in the estate. It was different with Jean-Louis; he had managed an estate before he came and all those who had talked with him recognized a man who knew his job.

Many of them remembered my mother and one or two of the really aged remembered the great Carleton Eversleigh, who, a hundred years before, when he had been a young man, had saved the mansion and estate from Cromwell's rule.

They liked to feel that the family was in command again and things were not being left to the rogue Amos Carew had turned out to be. And as for that Jessie . . . they had all deplored her presence.

So it was a happy occasion until Evalina came.

It was asking too much to expect these people to forget who she was. She was the daughter of the infamous Jessie, who had been the mistress of the old lord at the same time as she was carrying on (as they said) with Amos Carew.

Some of the older people were aloof with Evalina but the younger men found her irresistible. I couldn't help watching her. I was afraid that she might talk to Jean-Louis. But he was busy with the farmers, who seemed as if they were not going to let him escape. He wouldn't want to join the dancers on the grass outside. So I felt comparatively safe.

In the great hall on the dais was one of the new pianos and there were violinists, too, to provide the music. The tables

were laden with food of all descriptions and people were invited to help themselves whenever they felt the inclination to do so. Needless to say, many constantly felt the inclination and Mrs. Baines and her kitchen staff were in a twitter of excitement and gratification at the fast disappearances from dishes which needed constant replenishing.

The music floated out to the grounds and in the light of the torches flaring on the walls people wandered through the grounds while others sat and talked and some of the younger ones danced.

I found Charles Forster at my elbow.

I said: "Are you enjoying this? No. It's an unfair question. It isn't much to your taste, is it?"

"I'm a bit of a sobersides, I'm afraid."

"Well, you are occupied with more serious matters. Though this is a serious matter. I think all the tenants are rather pleased that we are here and this is a way of telling them that we are not making great changes but are going on in the way the family have run things for years and years."

"That's true," he said. "It's a worthy occasion. I'm just not a good socializer. Let's walk a little, shall we? The night air is refreshing after the heat of the day."

"It's certainly wonderful weather. I was terrified that it would rain, which would have meant having it in the hall. I suppose we could have managed but not quite so pleasant, I think."

"This is ideal. I am pleased you have come here."

I felt absurdly delighted by that remark.

But he went on: "You are good company for Is-ibel. She needs a friend."

"Isabel is the sort who makes friends easily, I am sure. It is I who am grateful for her friendship."

"Isabel is a fine woman. I often tell Derek how lucky he is. She is calm, good-natured and sound in judgment."

"I see you are as fond of her as she is of you."

"They are my family . . . my brother and his wife. They came here, you know, to be near me."

"Well, that seems a reasonable thing to do. Families should be together when they can."

"The hospital was here. . . . It's an ideal place for it. It's facing the sea ... an old house which was more or less derelict when I took it. But it had everything I needed. The isolation was important."

"Why did you have to be so isolated?"

"It was comforting for my patients."

"They are young mothers, aren't they?"

"Yes," he said, "unfortunate young mothers."

"Unfortunate?"

"Yes, that is the reason why they are there. It is for people whose circumstances are rather distressing. That is why they want to get right away from people. It's a helpful start."

"So your hospital is for those who are . . . friendless."

"They are often friendless."

"And unmarried?"

"Some of them."

"I believe you are doing a wonderful job. Isabel says . . ."

"Oh, you mustn't listen too much to Isabel. She will give you an entirely false picture of me."

"Surely anyone who works as you do for such a cause is worthy of praise?"

"Well, I suppose most of us earn a little praise now and then. It's a matter of setting the good deeds against the evil . . . and seeing which weighs more."

"What do you mean?"

"I see I'm talking in riddles, which is foolish and incredibly boring, I am sure."

I leaned toward him and touched his hand lightly.

"Not boring in the least."

At that moment I saw Evalina stroll by. She was arm in arm with one of the young sons of a farmer. She turned her head and smiled at me.

"Having a wonderful time . . ." she said. "Aren't we?"

She had spoiled the moment for me. I knew what it was I hated: that inclusive smile ... or word. That implication: We are at the same game, you and me.

I said: "I think we should go in."

Immediately we turned to the house. I felt frustrated. I wanted to go on talking to the doctor.

Jean-Louis was sitting down in deep conversation. I went over to him. He smiled at me and took my hand.

"All going well," he said. "It's a very satisfactory evening. An excellent idea to meet our friends thus."

Yes, a satisfactory evening ... an excellent idea . . . until Evalina had appeared like the serpent in paradise.

One of the maids was making her way toward me.

"Yes, Rose?" I said.

"It's one of the men from Grasslands, madam," she said. "They want to know if the doctor is here so he can go over. Mr. Mather is taken worse."

Andrew Mather died that night of a heart attack. Charles Forster told me about it the following day when he called to thank me for the party and to ask me if I would go back with him to see Isabel.

As we walked over to Enderby he told me what had happened.

"By the time I arrived at Grasslands he was unconscious. I knew there was only an hour or so left to him. His wife was distraught. She seems really heartbroken. She looked scared too, I thought. I suppose she relied on him to take care of her."

"I think Evalina would be able to take good care of herself."

"Yes . . . that woman's daughter . . . you would think so. But somehow she seemed pathetic . . . vulnerable."

I smiled at him, wondering if he too had fallen under the spell of Evalina's fascination.

I had to admit that there was something appealing about her; it was a certain helplessness which I supposed could be called femininity; whatever it was it aroused the interest of men of all ages . . . even Charles Forster, who was the last man I should have thought would be affected, was taken in by it.

"At least," he went on, "it was expected. I had warned him . . . and her ... of the state of his heart."

Isabel greeted me warmly and we talked of the success of the party until the doctor had been called away and had left with Evalina.

"Poor Andrew," said Isabel. "At least he had some happiness at the end. To see him with that child was heartwarming."

"I wonder what will happen now?" I said. "Of course Grasslands is not a large estate. How many farms are there? . . . only two, I think."

"Yes, I think so. Andrew had a good man in Jack Trent. I daresay he will go on ... if Evalina stays here."

"What else would she do?"

"She might sell up and go."

I thought that was an outcome which would be very desirable as far as I was concerned.

During the next days members of Andrew's family began to arrive at Grasslands. I saw one of them—a man who looked to be in his forties. I thought he looked rather grim and disagreeable. Isabel, who had called on Evalina to offer her condolences and to ask if there was anything she could do, told me that the man was a nephew of Andrew's and that she did not seem to be very pleased that he had come.

The funeral took place about a week after Andrew's death. I attended the service in the church with Jean-Louis, and Evalina spoke to me as we came out of the church asking me to come back to the house with the mourners. She looked fragile in deep black with a flowing veil hiding her face.

"Please come," she said. It was almost like a command; but perhaps that was my imagination as I had begun to feel that she thought she had a right to make demands on me.

This seemed a small thing to ask and I went back.

It was very somber in the hall where refreshments were served. The nephew seemed to be taking charge of the proceedings, which I suppose was natural, as he would be the nearest relative apart from Evalina and the baby.

I was glad when we left. I supposed the reading of the will would take place and that was no concern of ours.

Jean-Louis and I walked back to Eversleigh very slowly. I always slackened my pace when walking with my husband because I knew that he found it painful to walk quickly and that he would not admit this, so I pretended that his pace was mine.

"Poor child," he said. "She seems so young."

"Everyone is sorry for Evalina," I said, a little impatiently. "I am sure as her mother's daughter she will know how to take care of herself."

"She did no wrong as far as we know," said Jean-Louis. "Poor child, it was not her fault she had such a mother."

"She must have known that her mother was stealing things from Eversleigh. She was hiding them for her at Grasslands."

"That's understandable. Her mother told her they were gifts."

I was silent. The men found excuses for her. First Charles Forster and now Jean-Louis.

"Well," I said, "I don't think we need worry too much

about her for I am sure she will be able to take care of herself."

She was perhaps not so self-sufficient as I had thought, for the next day she sent one of her servants to Eversleigh with a message for me. She wanted me to meet her . . . "You know the old haunted patch," she wrote, "where they buried Lord Eversleigh. It's quiet there. No one ever goes there. It's near Enderby but sheltered from it. Meet me there at two o'clock this afternoon."