The Bohemian Girl (17 page)

‘Yes, yes.’ Lady Blentham looked at the baby. ‘It’s been too long, in any case. Diana, where is your husband?’

‘In Bloomsbury.’

‘This room is most – artistic. Are you comfortable here, Diana?’

‘Oh, yes. It’s extraordinary how quickly one grows used to having very few luxuries – to lacking what one used to consider not so much as essentials but as part of nature’s order.’

‘I daresay. Could your maid bring us some tea, do you suppose?’

Diana smiled. ‘I’ll ring the bell. This is not her first place, she does know the sound of a bell.’

‘I imagine you found her in a somewhat unorthodox way?’

Diana began to enjoy herself, and to feel a little ashamed of it as she rang the bell. ‘Oh, yes. Michael discovered her in the pub – the public house round the corner, weeping because she’d lost her place, poor child.’

Angelina studied her gloved fingers and, to her own horror, quiet tears began to glide down her cheeks. ‘This is the way you prefer to live, Diana?’

‘Yes, Mamma. I should hate to be very poor, but we’re not. Don’t cry!’ she said lightly. After a moment’s thought, she presented her mother with Alice. ‘Do you know, I’ve earned a
little money myself – I published two short poems in a small journal the other day? Publishing is not easy.’

‘A charming child,’ said Lady Blentham. ‘Yes. I came chiefly to talk to you about Alice, my dear. You understand that your father will not – can never – forgive this marriage of yours? I forgave you long ago, as you know, Diana.’ She stopped. ‘I had no right – cowardice has kept me from visiting you before.’

‘Don’t let it distress you too much, Mamma.’

‘I wish I could invite you, and Alice, down to Dunstanton, but your father makes that impossible. Did you expect him – ever – to be so cruel?’

‘No. Only bombastic’

‘He is not bombastic. He is a highly determined and
intelligent
man, whose mind I have – whose mind it is impossible to change. He holds to his original intention of cutting you out of the family, his will, but he says – he is just beginning to consider … You see, I have explained to him that there can be no reason for Alice’s suffering from your – I ought perhaps to quote him exactly … from your disgusting folly and ingratitude.’

Lady Blentham hesitated, and Bridget came into the room, carrying a tray on which there stood two chipped cups, a silver teapot and a Toby jug. Although she had not yet been asked to bring it, she was beaming.

‘I thought as you might like a drop of tea, mam.’

‘Thank you, Bridget, I was about to ring a second time.’

‘Glad I am then that I saved you the trouble, mam.’ She nodded, smiled, and went, banging the door. The theatrical noise made Diana want to laugh, and made Angelina close her eyes.

‘Diana, I suggested to him that he leave three thousand pounds in trust for Alice. It would have gone to you, of course. The others are all well enough provided for, even Maud – your father agreed with me that it might be possible to do this. He has even been thinking of possible trustees, if he should decide to set it up.’

‘Three thousand. Who is he considering as a possible
trustee?’ said Diana a moment later, setting down the teapot.

‘Her father – and your brother, Roderick.’

‘Her father? Michael?’

‘He – would think it proper. His views on a father’s duties, whoever he may be, whatever … Of course, because he insists on your husband’s being a trustee, he may never make the trust at all.’

‘So he can forgive my poor old Fenian seducer, but not me,’ said Diana very quietly.

‘I consider it abominable.’ Angelina did not use such words easily, Diana remembered.

‘If it happens, of course I shall be very glad for Alice’s sake. I shan’t be especially grateful, I’m afraid, Mamma.’

‘No, you won’t be.’ Lady Blentham’s tears had stopped.

‘Michael too would be delighted.’

Angelina got up and changed her chair. She gave Alice back to Diana, then said after a little while, watching the baby: ‘Diana, tell me, did you marry that – did you marry him for love?’

‘Mamma.’ Diana stared at her. ‘Did you think it was for his social position – I’m not being sarcastic?’

‘Yes – no. But love, Diana. Did you not find married love, after all my warnings … has nothing been a disappointment to you?’

‘Almost nothing. Certainly not love.’

‘You are too thin for a woman in your condition,’ said Lady Blentham, though her daughter’s bosoms were the normal size of any nursing mother’s. She felt it impossible to discuss Diana’s confinement in detail. ‘Far too thin, but I must admit that you are still a beauty!’ There was a glow in Diana’s face, which might be mischief, not motherhood’s fulfilment. ‘How did you bruise yourself? You have a bruise on your wrist.’

‘Michael hit me with a paint-brush. I do bruise very easily,’ said Diana after a little hesitation. She smiled.

Angelina raised her face. ‘He does not – oh, my God.’

‘Oh,
Mamma
, he isn’t what one might call a – a police-court wife-beater! I oughtn’t to have have told you, but the
fact is, we rather like a little mild fighting, in an odd sort of way.
I
hit
him
a great deal harder than he hit me on that occasion. I can promise you I did.’ For the first time, she looked a little embarrassed. ‘It’s quite a little bruise, look. His is much larger.’ She laughed, and fiddled with Alice.

And then they went to bed, thought Lady Blentham.

‘Your Irish girl’s tea is so stewed – it makes me feel quite unwell,’ she said.

Angelina would have liked to hit Charles in the past, to beat him for assaulting her in the name of love, with what he called when speaking to her ‘the instrument of love, you know’. And for refusing to become a Tory and a Cabinet Minister, and refusing to forgive Diana; and even for liking Walter Montrose, whose self-centred vagueness and feeble, poetic affection was now making Violet unhappy.

‘Don’t drink it,’ said Diana. ‘Next time you come, I shall make it myself. Formosa Oolong is the kind you like, isn’t it? Can I offer you a little brandy – a restorative?’ She was not being too ironical.

‘I understand, Diana,’ said Lady Blentham, thinking only of her own desire to inflict pain to induce understanding.

Of course, Diana could not really enjoy married love. She felt it her perverse duty to claim that she did, because she was now living a world of forbidden novels, in low, eccentric company. Angelina longed to protect and embrace her small daughter more than she had ever done, even when Diana was a faultless child of three.

*

When Violet came back, she was very cheerful, and told her mother and sister that she had had a most instructive gossip with Bridget. She folded Diana in her arms, and made her promise to bring Michael, Alice and Bridget up to Auchingilloch in the summer. Diana agreed, and after that there did not seem to be much to say except about Alice’s beauty and goodness. Very shortly, the Blentham ladies took their leave. Diana remained in her sitting-room trying to re-read
Leaves
of
Grass
as she waited for her husband to come back and embrace her.

The dining-room at Auchingilloch was big enough for twenty, but Sir Walter liked to use it even when he and Violet were alone. It was not a particularly pompous room despite its size, for Violet had had it painted green, taken up the florid carpet and replaced the Landseers with family portraits of children. She had even had these cleaned. Diana, looking across the silver and fruit and flowers, objected only to the overmantel loaded with Benares brass.

Sir Walter had aged in appearance since his marriage, and his hair was entirely white. He was now talking in a rather ignorant way about the pleasures of Bohemia. His wife and her sister had returned from a long walk too late to change for dinner; Diana was wearing her old suit of Rational Dress, and seemed perfectly at ease.

‘How one longs to be freed from convention,’ Sir Walter said. ‘But it is rather difficult for some of us.’

‘To be sure,’ said Michael.

‘I think my father rather longed to be freed from convention, sometimes,’ said Diana, who had never thought of this before.

Lord Blentham had died six months ago, in January, before he had quite made up his mind about Alice’s prospective trust. All the Blenthams but Diana were still in full mourning; and yet it seemed to them that he had died a long time ago. It was as though they had not fully realised until his death that Charles had been the head of their house, the person who bound them together as children.

Kitty and Edward were already at Dunstanton, and Lady
Blentham, in deepest mourning of all, had gone to live permanently in London which she hated. Maud had amazed the whole family by taking rooms of her own in a mansion block in Wigmore Street, instead of going with her mother. The Blenthams had always supposed that it was Angelina who had perfect authority over her middle-aged daughter, not Charles at all.

Everyone in the family was richer than before, but only Roderick was glad that Charles was dead. Lord Blentham had told his second son that he disliked him only a few weeks before his stroke; but on the other hand, he had relented towards Diana. He had added a codicil to his will, leaving her three bits of good jewellery and £200.

Walter said: ‘It’s rather a strange thing, to find oneself deprived of a parent in adult life, though of course it ought not to be, when one considers the matter rationally. To find oneself the oldest generation – really and truly grown-up, as the children say!’

Violet laughed, and remembered why she had married him. She reached for a nectarine, though she was in the middle of eating a lark, and said: ‘Well, Didie, Walter’s awfully keen on talking about
Bohemianism
, but what
is
it, precisely? In essence, as Walter likes to say?’

‘Oh – well, it’s not dressing unsuitably, or painting or writing, or caring very little for – formal meals and the rules of mourning shall we say – or making friends of one’s servants, or visiting Scotland in June,’ said Diana, gazing at the door. ‘No – in essence – I suppose the difference is that in polite society, at least when women are present, one never, ever contradicts or argues. And also, it’s not done in the best circles to supply information – not even when one is asked, do you know, in so many words. One must pretend courteous ignorance, unless one’s talking scandal, of course.’

Sir Walter laughed flirtatiously. Violet assumed her struck expression: the same she had used since schoolroom days.

‘Ah,’ said Michael, smoothing his dinner-jacket. ‘Now I understand. Well do I remember, Violet, talking with some man or other at Arthur Cornwallis’s.’

‘Arthur’s?’ said Violet, surprised.

‘“In that part of southern Poland – what used to be Poland – what is its name?” he said. “Galicia,” I said, and he couldn’t have looked more offended if I’d said Saskatchewan.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ laughed Diana, ‘when you say he couldn’t have looked
more
offended! He’d have been rather pleased if you’d said Saskatchewan, and the subject would have been changed, gracefully.’ She paused, smiling. ‘No. Anyone who says directly, in mixed company, “No,
that
’
s
not
true
,
this
is
” is essentially a bohemian and not someone who belongs in polite society, however literary and artistic!’ As she said this, she felt satisfied, and quite at home.

‘My Diana,’ said Michael, before Walter could pay her a compliment.

*

Diana sat down on a stone in the middle of the moor, and Violet flopped down beside her with an exaggerated sigh. They had brought a picnic basket, which they meant to share with Michael, but it was early yet and there was time to be filled in with conversation.

There was no animosity between them, and little irritation, and yet it was hard to remember that once they had been very much in harmony. People who met them casually had been surprised to learn they were sisters. They felt now like women who kept up a schoolgirl acquaintance only from habit. It chilled Diana to think that such a strong emotion need not die or even change its nature, but could simply become less of the same old thing. She believed she could only understand and cope with disastrous or glorious, enormous change.

Diana squinted down the slope of the valley to the white-lit stream where Michael was now fishing for anything that would take his bait. His tweed figure was just perceptible. The truth, thought Diana, was of course that nothing mattered to her now but him, and his world, which no one else could understand.

She turned her thoughts towards her sister’s husband, and tried not to compare him with her own. So long as he was not challenged or criticised in earnest, Sir Walter remained a fond,
indulgent but indifferent husband, and a very great bore. But Diana knew that he could be very frightening, and that Violet, who had married him because he seemed the least frightening of men, did not dare oppose him seriously even over little things. Though Walter often said lightly that he was in the wrong, he never believed it. Diana could see that in his eyes when he took off his spectacles.

She wished she could feel more for Violet, and asked now: ‘Dearest, tell me – when you row with Walter, is he ever –
violently
disagreeable?’

Violet was startled. ‘
Violently
? Didie, gracious. He couldn’t swat a fly, let alone his wife. Besides, we don’t
row
. We’re not like you and Michael, my dear Diana!’

Diana saw that she was telling the truth. ‘It’s a good thing, to be able to fight openly,’ she said, and kicked the grass.

‘To be able to say clearly, “You’re wrong, I’m right,” like a child?’ said Violet. ‘I don’t in fact see – oh, never mind! Dearest, must you really go on Wednesday? I thought you would be able to stop with us for three weeks at least.’

Diana repeated her explanation of the previous day. ‘It’s partly Michael’s work, and partly Bridget. She says the air up here is bad for Alice.’

‘What nonsense!
Bad
for her? How the child can be
healthy
, growing up in the
fumes
of King’s Cross and Euston –’

‘But she thrives on it.’

‘Oh, Didie. I know.’

‘Sometimes I wonder whether Michael does. He’s far too thin, and his cough worries me – the London fogs, I’m sure, make it far worse in the winter than it would otherwise be.’

Violet opened her eyes wide. ‘Didie, he’s not consumptive? People do say it’s the Celtic scourge, you know.’ She rubbed her knees with her palms, then rubbed her hands together.

‘No, I don’t think so. Occasionally he claims to be so, which is what makes me think it rather unlikely.’ They smiled at husbands.

At that moment they heard a faint splash. Then a curse was caught up by the little valley’s echo, and its hollow roar made them laugh with comprehension.

‘Hoy!’ called Violet, and her voice came pounding back – O-yy. ‘Hoy!’ Oy – oy.

‘Michael!’ cried Diana, standing up and facing the right direction.

‘Uhl-l-l,’ said the echo.

The noon sun was high over the far hill, and it turned the moors pale. Diana turned round, away from the view, and glanced behind her.

‘Botheration,’ she said, pushing back a strand of hair. ‘Look at that cloud coming up, it’s going to rain soon. I –’ she stopped.

Violet said in a lower voice than her sister’s: ‘Ought we to go and see what’s happened to Michael?’

‘Of course!’ whispered Diana, quite angrily. They left their small picnic-basket on the rock, and tripped down towards the stream.

‘If either of you giggles, I’ll hit her!’ said Michael when they came upon him five minutes later. He was drenched, and puffing far more loudly than they were.

‘Wind up your tackle and don’t talk nonsense,’ said Diana. ‘Dearest, did you lean too far forward? Did you fall? My poor one.’ His appearance, though she had expected it, shocked her into making foolish remarks.

‘No, Diana, a great brute of a killer-whale pulled me in and tried to swallow me.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Diana, recovering. ‘Just take off your wet clothes behind that gorsebush over there, you can very well wear my knickerbockers, and Violet’s coat – Vio, I’ll borrow your petticoat, please.’

‘Women!’

‘Thank goodness you did give me a bicycling-suit, all those years ago,’ said Diana. ‘Go on, Michael!’ She was enjoying herself. Self-confidence was the next best thing in the world to love.

Grey-lipped and shivering, Michael retired. Diana stripped off her breeches, took Violet’s coat, and went in her stockings to join him in the gorse. Violet, holding out her petticoat, heard their argument. When they came back, Michael looked ridiculous, but no warmer.

‘We must go straight back to the house,’ said Diana.

‘But he ought to be fed before attempting such a horrid walk, surely?’ said Violet, as her sister took the petticoat from her. ‘There’s our little picnic waiting for us, and the sun will
soon
dry you, Michael.’

‘I want to go back,’ said Michael. ‘Will you look at those storm-clouds, sister-in-law!’

Diana looked at Violet. ‘Very well,’ Violet said. ‘Just leave those wet clothes here, one of the servants will come down and fetch them.’

‘Oh, one of the servants will, will he!’ said Michael.

They had a difficult walk, back up the hill and on to the stony moorland path. There were two miles more to go when they reached it, and the heather-coloured clouds were advancing from the north. They did not drop so much rain as they might have done, but they cut out all warmth, brought midges swarming from the damp ground, and drew behind them an ugly cold wind. The moor was utterly empty.

‘Oh, Mother of God, I’ll die,’ said Michael, now in tears.

Diana slapped his face, and he lunged at her. She laughed, tired out. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said when he was warmer. Diana did not stop laughing. Violet, twenty paces behind them, could not speak.

‘Leddy Montrose!’ called a horrified voice.

‘Oh!’ she said. Rushing round on the spot, she saw a man with a beard, driving a gig, and recognised him within a moment. ‘Oh, you deliverer, Dr Graham! You don’t know what straits we’re in. I –’

‘What’s this, you’ve noo coat on – and who are they?’ The doctor gestured with his whip.

Violet ran towards him. ‘My brother and sister-in-law – I mean sister and brother-in-law – Mr and Mrs Molloy. Mr Molloy fell into the water and he’s so dreadfully cold.
Please
, could you drive us back to the Lodge?’ She was now quite composed.

Diana and Michael hurried towards the gig.

‘You’re a doctor?’ said Michael.

‘Well, ye’re properly soaked, sir. Climb up, man, and
cover yourself with this! The doctor looked at Michael’s bare calves and pulled up a horse-blanket from the floor of the gig. Diana and Violet crawled up unaided, shaking the carriage. ‘A brisk drive, a tot of whisky, and to bed with a hot brick,’ said Dr Graham, whipping the horse and facing Violet, ‘and a good thing I happened to be driving to Mollie Campbell’s – she’s expecting her fifth, and if it’s not a breech-birth I’m a Dutchman – else you’d be in trouble by the looks of you, Mr Molloy.’ He turned back to Violet. ‘I can’t be staying a moment at the Lodge, Leddy Montrose, not with a difficult confinement on my hands.’

*

As soon as Michael’s chill turned to pneumonia, and the others became seriously worried, he himself began to maintain he was perfectly well.

Diana did not leave his room except for meals, and Violet cried over the whole inconvenient, frightening, embarrassing affair. Walter told her kindly not to do so, and that every man must die at some time.

A week after Michael’s fall into the stream, Dr Graham said to Diana: ‘You’re a faithful wee nurse, Mrs Molloy, but as things have turned out, I’d rather have had a professional – I thought at first, I admit, ’twould not be necessary.’ He folded up his stethoscope and put it in his bag. ‘It happens there’s no trained nurse in the district just now, but if you’ve a mind to send now to Glasgow, Oban even, mebbe –’

‘Dr Graham, how seriously is he in danger?’

The doctor paused. ‘He’s no reached the crisis yet, ma’am. When it’s upon him, we can say just how seriously.’

Diana clenched her fists. Until now, the doctor had agreed with Michael that his illness was trifling. ‘He has weak lungs,’ she said.

‘So you told me before, ma’am.’ He returned to his old, severely jocular manner. ‘But I dinna think ye’ll be a widow yet a while. He’s wiry, and he’s fighting.’ Michael, asleep and exhausted, did not look like a fighter at the moment.

‘His mother died of consumption – tuberculosis.’ Her voice rose.

‘Consumption, as you call it, is by no means the same things as pneumonia.’

‘I know!’

‘Had I only been able to see him into bed that day I found ye – I didna think it would be so serious, a ducking in the burn.’

‘Your instructions were followed.’

‘Ay.’

‘We put him to bed, we gave him hot bricks, and a hot toddy,’ said Diana, looking very self-controlled. ‘Are you going to stay now?’

‘Give him another poultice, ma’am, and bind it tightly mind, about the chest. You can do that as well as I.’