The Lodger: A Novel (20 page)

“I’d forgotten about your march. Must you really take part? It’s going to get out of hand; you might get hurt.”

“Don’t you
know
that the militant route is the only route to getting what we want? Peaceful means are absolutely useless. The mild suffragists have been asking for votes and having civilized processions for sixty years and more. They are refused time and again, and nothing changes.”

Dorothy sighed. “Promise me, at least, that you’ll be careful.”

“What do you care what happens to me?”

“That’s unfair. You know I care.”

“Show me.”

Slowly and deliberately, Veronica laid a hand on Dorothy’s breast. Her spine arched as pleasure rippled from her breast, down through her belly and between her legs; there seemed to be an invisible thread connecting these places. She saw Veronica watching her helpless reaction, and she closed her eyes.

“Let’s be sensible,” she pleaded, trying to ignore the way her blood was leaping, so hot and sweet and keen.

Veronica replied with a kiss that unleashed a fiery torrent of longing. They sank to the floor. The way her body asserted its autonomy over her mind and drew her irresistibly toward Veronica suggested overwhelmingly that this was her true nature. She vowed to crush it to the death. Then all thought was blotted out by the deep delight coursing through her, and she gave herself over to it.

*   *   *

DOROTHY MOVED HELPLESSLY
between Veronica and Bertie, trapped by confused feelings and the unborn baby. She was adrift: her life had lost direction, there was no order. She was being tested and found flawed and weak-willed. The messiness of her situation made her writhe. She saw it clearly, but she could not find a way out.

Through her own agitation, Dorothy tried to impress on Bertie that he could not vacillate any longer. He needed to think about what he really wanted. Some sort of decision had to be reached.

His first impulse was to run away with Dorothy. Together, they discussed the details of their escape. They would go to the South of France or Italy, and take a house on a sunlit hill by the sea, surrounded by olive groves and vineyards and weathered marble ruins. Dorothy would grow ripe and bronzed; in time, she would bear a sturdy, bronzed baby. Bertie would write the novel of his life. It was pleasurable to talk about, yet the conversation had the quality of children playing make-believe. They knew perfectly well he would never leave Jane. He couldn’t do without her.

They knew also that if the relationship with Dorothy came into the open, he would be shunned by society and would face losing everything.

Certain measures would have to be taken to escape publicity. Dorothy’s family and Jane must be told, and their acquiescence secured. They talked of finding suitable lodgings for Dorothy by the sea, not too close to London, but near enough for Bertie to visit from his home.

Dorothy imagined herself in a desolate house on a wintry and bleak coast. Utterly solitary, except for a sulky impertinent servant, who’d be only too well aware of the irregularity of Dorothy’s situation, and would take it out on her accordingly. Dorothy would be totally dependent on Bertie’s visits for company. Dependent on him for everything.

She felt imprisoned. Stifled, petrified, trapped.

*   *   *

“HAVE YOU TOLD
Jane?”

Bertie nodded.

“Well?”

He sighed and raked his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. “She listened to me without saying anything, but I watched her get paler and paler. When I’d finished, she told me she wanted to think it over, and she went into her study and shut the door. She was in there for what seemed like eternity … When she came back, her eyes were swollen and red with crying. She sat beside me and gripped the sleeve of my jacket, holding on so tightly that when she let go, there were deep creases in the fabric.”

“Oh no.” This was the reaction Dorothy had dreaded.

“Yet her smile held a trace of its old warmth, as she said softly, ‘If it had to be anyone, I’d rather it was Dora.’”

“She really said that?”

“She did, she’s a remarkable woman … I forced myself to look her squarely in the eye. I said, ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine the pain this must give you, and I’m the cause of it.’

“Jane shrugged. ‘If it wasn’t Dora, it would be someone else. It’s the way you’re made, dear. I realized that a long time ago.’

“But despite her reasonable words, her lips quivered, and I thought she was going to break down again. A few moments passed; I watched her force herself into composure. She asked me, in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper, if I meant to go and live with you.”

He paused, looking at the carpet.

“What did you say?”

“I said no, that I would visit you, but everything would go on as before.”

Dorothy inhaled sharply. “What happened then?”

“A few tears fell from her eyes. They trickled down her cheeks and she made no effort to wipe them away. Presently, she admitted that she couldn’t bear to see you again.”

Dorothy swallowed. The bonds of her oldest friendship were severed; bonds with the past. She felt herself cut adrift … falling … Briefly, she wondered if Bertie was worth it. Was any man worth it?

“Jane wanted to know if you’re having a difficult time,” he said, “and she told me to look after you…”

They fell silent. Dorothy was imagining the supreme effort it must have taken Jane to maintain her control during this conversation. She was an accomplished ice queen, but at what cost to herself?

At last, Bertie asked: “Have you told your father or sisters?”

Dorothy gazed at the oil lamp standing in the little fireplace, its single flame glaring nakedly against the black grate. “No. They’ve suffered so much already, I don’t want to add to their pain.”

“You can’t avoid them forever,” he said gently.

Fifteen

A letter from Benjamin arrived. The sight of his familiar handwriting filled Dorothy with trepidation. It was almost certainly another demand or plea for help, and she felt incapable of giving the succor he needed. But his opening lines assured her he was not in trouble. He simply missed talking to her and wanted to call on her. “I come as friend. No requests, no complications. On my honor.”

The letter transported her back to a more carefree past. She wrote a hurried reply, saying she was available the following evening after work, and was looking forward to seeing him again.

On her way back from the postbox, she decided to play the piano, if the drawing room was free. Reaching the house, she paused outside the drawing room door. All sounded quiet within; she turned the handle cautiously and went in. The gas was out and the room was dim, but there was enough light to see two figures talking quietly and earnestly on the sofa. There would be no solitary music making tonight.

It was Mrs. Baker and Mr. Cundy. Her concerns about them had been knocked from her mind by her own troubles. As she moved toward them, a tide of shock and disbelief roared in her ears and made her eyes film over, dimming the forms in front of her.
They were holding hands!

Briefly, she wondered if her vision was playing tricks. Mrs. Baker tried to withdraw her hand when she saw Dorothy, but Mr. Cundy kept firm hold of it.

“I think you’ve realized by now,” he said to Dorothy, “what we mean to each other.”

Dorothy was lost for words. Mrs. Baker managed to free her hand from Mr. Cundy’s; she took Dorothy’s and pressed it ardently. Dorothy bent down to kiss the haggard cheek, and was rewarded with a motherly hug. Straightening up, she offered her hand to Mr. Cundy, who grasped it and pumped it up and down. Looking into his eyes, Dorothy read a confusion of tenderness and half-abashed pride. So his feelings were real. Outside the house, St. Pancras clock chimed the quarter hour into the night.

How in the world had Mrs. Baker allowed such an astonishing thing to happen? But it was also touching and marvelous. Marvelous that Mr. Cundy was discerning enough to see the pure-hearted woman beneath the harassed exterior. He had arrived at the struggling house, just as Mrs. Baker’s vanishing youth was making her failure with it absolutely heartrending to watch. Yet he had fallen in love with her glorious smile and the courage behind it; undaunted by the difference in their ages. He knew she was innocent and rare and beautiful.

When the flurry of congratulations subsided, Mr. Cundy excused himself saying, “I’ll leave you two ladies alone to talk.”

“I feel for him,” breathed Mrs. Baker, as the door closed behind him, “getting tied down to me.”

“Why on earth? He’s the luckiest man alive,” said Dorothy stoutly, sitting down beside her.

“Really? I’m glad you think so; I’ve fretted something awful over him. I’ve been saying no to him this past year and a half.”

There was a brief pause, while Dorothy digested this extraordinary fact. She had been too self-absorbed to see the drama taking place under her nose.

“I worry because he’s ten years younger than me,” Mrs. Baker confessed, blushing. “He’d be better suited to Carrie.”

“But he looks and acts far older.”

“He does, it’s true. His mother passed away when he was young; his father remarried and his stepmother was shockingly hard on him. He says this is the first place he’s felt at home and wanted; he’s happier than he’s ever been in his life.”

The whole time, Mr. Cundy had been hanging around the house, apparently at a loose end, making annoyingly flippant comments and seeming to prey on Mrs. Baker. When in fact, he had been feeling at home and cherished and joyful; his joy growing as their love grew and blossomed … Was he worthy of Mrs. Baker? Dorothy still wasn’t sure if she liked him, or approved of the match.

“It’s wonderful news,” Dorothy said. “Mr. Cundy is a lucky man.”

“Yes, it’s all fine and good for now, but there’s plenty of obstacles in the future. He wants me to sell this house and get a place just for us. But there’s my girls to think of. I can’t give up the boarders till they’re settled. I keep telling him, I must do the right thing for my girls.”

“Of course you must, and you will. He’s a lovely man, I’m sure he understands.” But how noble and bounteous the failing household suddenly seemed, when the alternative was sharing some poky dwelling with Mr. Cundy. Dorothy could see him coming home in the evening, and Mrs. Baker waiting to greet him with the house spotless and dinner on the table, growing more rundown and exhausted every day. She would be an old woman before he turned forty.

While Mrs. Baker talked on, Dorothy found herself torn between pity and wistful admiration. Mrs. Baker had achieved something that Dorothy had failed at. Mrs. Baker was going to be a wife; it was, supposedly, the highest destiny of woman. She had settled triumphantly, justifying her everlasting confident smile.

As Dorothy left the room, there entered her mind an image of herself introducing Benjamin to Veronica. It stood there, vivid and complete, as though it had taken root while she was talking to Mrs. Baker. It seemed to offer a future miraculously cleared of encumbrances. Ridiculous. The whole idea was ridiculous, yet it was compellingly attractive and persuasive, too.

What was left of her conscience checked her, insisting on an examination of her motives. In her current unstable state, she had to be absolutely sure the introduction would not have hurtful or damaging consequences for any of them. As she looked within, trying to analyze her true intentions, she found herself confronted by her own reflection … something deep inside, unattached to any specific motive, had chosen this course of action, was refusing to heed any conflict attached to it, and was already viewing the decision as made. This unequivocal unconscious response, whose purpose was impenetrable, might be harmful or benign, but it was impossible to ignore.

*   *   *

IT WAS A
side to Veronica she had never seen before. Veronica playing hostess to a man she had never met. Veronica, in one of her kimonos with the pale chunky beads around her neck, opening the French doors and leading Benjamin outside; showing him, with a graceful sweep of her arm, the view of the square, and her scented geraniums in their grey-stone basins that brought the small balcony to life. “I feel like a queen up here, watching the world go by,” she said.

As she poured tea from the Empire set, Benjamin stopped her putting milk in his cup. “To a Russian, that is not tea,” he said. “It’s a weak greasy mixture, quite undrinkable.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize. Sugar?”

“Yes, please.” He took a lump and placed it between his lips. Dorothy braced herself for the inevitable sucking of tea through it, while Veronica handed around a plate of small, golden, sugar-dusted biscuits.

“Why don’t you sit over there, Benjamin?” Veronica said, gesturing toward the armchair. She took her place on a little carved wooden stool beside him.

Veronica listened to Benjamin’s stories and gazed with calm gravity at his glowing opulent beauty: the thick black hair and neatly pointed beard, the melancholy eyes, the wide forehead and strong gentle features. He drank his tea through the sugar lump with audible sips, talking all the while in a voice grown thick and slurred, yet she gave no sign of finding the ritual unusual or abhorrent. He was telling a story about his married sister that Dorothy had heard before.

“My brother-in-law was determined she should not go to the Sabbath service at our synagogue. She had a heavy cold; she had been up half the night with the baby, who was also sick, and she absolutely needed to rest. But my sister is headstrong, she will not listen to reason, so he tried to stop her in the only way he knew. He locked her hat cupboard—a married woman is forbidden, you know, to enter the temple bareheaded. But can you guess what he saw when he looked out of the window half an hour later?” Benjamin drained his cup and looked at Veronica, who encouraged him to go on with a gracious smile. “He saw his wife, my sister, walking down the road in
his
big black hat with a blue lace scarf twisted most stylishly around it!”

The laughter with which Veronica met this suggested that she found his idea of how to entertain a lady in a social situation just as funny the story itself. But there was also warmth in her voice, as though she was humoring a particularly winsome child. “I like your sister’s unquenchable spirit,” she told him, when her laughter subsided.