The Reckoning (41 page)

But in the winter the trees stood naked and black. The rain
no longer pattered, but dripped sullenly from bare twigs, and
the deep lanes were scoured ever deeper between the high
slippery banks. Came the time when the depth of mud made
them impassable to wheeled traffic, and Stainton was cut off
from the outside world, except for those hardy enough to struggle through on horseback. Then the black-and-white
house in its green and secret place brooded undisturbed
through the chills and fogs of winter, the smoke trickling
reluctantly from its chimneys to cling like rags to the bare
tree-tops above the roof.

Here lived Flaminia, Lucy's elder daughter and Rosa
mund's sister, and now wife of Lord Harvey Sale, who was
heir presumptive to the Penrith title. One day in May, 1817, she was taking her walk in the garden with her cousin Polly
Haworth, who had lived with her since her marriage.
Flaminia's ideas of exercise were never very energetic. Polly
might well have put on a stouter pair of shoes and taken a
walk through the woods, but Flaminia had decided that the
paths would be too muddy, and that two turns of the garden
would suffice.

It was a warm day, but there was no sunshine. The sun was
hidden behind a hazy sky which was curiously colourless: greyish-white, hanging low and blank over the green, still world. Shut in by the hills here, there was hardly ever any
sound, only the endless drip and trickle of water, and the
sense of green things growing all around — like a murmured conversation just below the level of conscious hearing.

Polly felt her nerves strung out almost to snapping-point.
She hated the monotony of these warm blank days, when
there was nothing to mark out one hour from the next: no
rain, no wind, no sight of the sun, not even the changing
shape of a shadow. Such days seemed to reflect the monotony
of her life. She would have welcomed a raging tempest or a
blistering drought — anything to relieve the endless tedium of
her situation.

Flaminia never seemed to mind the weather. 'I think May
is the best month, don't you?' she said placidly, pausing at the
junction of two paths to look up at the trees. Her pale, plump
face was serene.

Polly envied her the ability not to think. 'You said the same
thing yesterday,' she said, trying not to sound irritable.

Did I? Well, I like all the pretty little leaves that you get in
May. The big dark-green leaves that come later shut out the
sun too much.'

‘
They're the same leaves, Minnie — just grown up, that's
all.' In spite of her effort, Polly's voice took on an edge.
Minnie didn't notice it. 'To be sure, that's what I meant. I
like them when they're young and soft, and they have that
pink bit, like fur, around the bottom. So pretty! It reminds
me of poor Loppy. I wish Loppy hadn't died. He had such
beautiful furry ears. And the sweet little kitten died, too. It's
such a shame.’

Polly shivered involuntarily. The fact of the matter was
that Flaminia's succession of sweet, furry little pets had all
died, and Polly was sure it was because Stainton was so low
and damp. Yet Minnie seemed quite content to live here, even
through the long winter months when they never saw a soul
but the servants, and the occasional carrier who struggled
through for the sake of the higher price Stainton paid — of
necessity — for most goods.

Winter or summer, Flaminia's days were much alike. She
interviewed her housekeeper in the morning — a process
which would have taken Polly half an hour, but which for
Minnie, with her slow speech and inability to make a decision,
could go on for an hour and a half. Then she sat in the
morning-room, dressed to receive callers until it was time to
take a nuncheon.

After that she would take her walk, in the garden or the
woods if it were fair, in the gallery or simply round and round
the drawing-room if the weather were foul. Then she played
with her children for an hour — the twins, Mary and
Elizabeth, were rising two now — which brought her to the
hour for dressing for dinner. After dinner she sat and sewed
until it was time for bed.

The unvarying similarity of her days didn't seem to trouble
her. Polly had once said, rather unkindly, that Minnie had
the sheep's capacity for being perpetually surprised by the
same things. The smallest occurrence — a sunny day, the
arrival of a letter, a squirrel running across the garden path —
seemed enough to engage her interest and secure her content
ment.

For Polly, however, the monotony grew ever harder to bear
as she imagined her youth and beauty fading, and wondered
what the future held for her. Would she go on like this for
ever, trapped in this place, dependent on poor dull Minnie for
companionship; without occupation except to listen to her
cousin's platitudes with patience, without diversion except for
books and the occasional solitary walk in the woods?
She looked with loathing at the black-and-white house in
its lush, green setting, and felt frustration tighten inside her.
Shut in by the trees and the hills and the low empty sky, there
was nothing to see, nothing to do; no sound or movement,
only silent things growing, inch by inch, year by year, imper
ceptibly.

There was no colour anywhere: everything was green and
black and white. Black timbers, black as tree-trunks in the
rain, white plaster, pale as rot, steep green fields and trees
rising to the white sky. Oh God, she thought, for some other
colour! Something scarlet, or blue, or yellow – anything to
give relief to the eye! But the only rose that managed to
survive in this dark garden was a white rambler on an
ancient, age-blackened stem. There were green ferns against
the blackened fencing, black-green moss over the path, dim
white saxifrage flowers growing in the wall, and the green and
white of lily-of-the-valley under the black shadow of the
trees.

Four years they had lived here, but never in such isolation
as they had known this last year. The master of the house,
whose brief and sudden visits Minnie looked forward to with such placid joy, had scarcely troubled them since Christmas. He had been down once for a week in February, and for three
days just after Easter, each time arriving unannounced and
leaving without explanation. And even while he was at
Stainton, he seemed uneasy, nervous and fidgety as a horse
smelling lightning, scowling at the servants, snapping at his
wife and refusing so much as to look at his daughters.

As to the neighbours, it was almost as if they had been
warned off. There had never been many visitors to the old
manor, but even the few who had called regularly before out
of politeness had not been near them for months. Boredom
and isolation were driving Polly to desperation. It was so
unfair! Her beauty, her intellect, her talents were all to waste
away unused, simply because she had no portion; while
Minnie, who had neither beauty nor intelligence, had married
straight from the schoolroom because of her large dowry. And
not only that, but she had married

‘
I wish I had a little dog,' Minnie said, as she had said
almost every day since the last kitten died. 'Shouldn't you like
a little dog, Polly? A spaniel would be nice, with long ears and
a long tail, and lovely soft fur.'

‘
Dogs don't have fur, they have hair,' Polly snapped.
‘That's right,' Minnie agreed. 'But it's soft and silky, like
fur.’

Polly restrained herself. 'There's no reason why you
shouldn't have a dog if you want one,' she said. As long as it
wasn't black and white, she added inwardly.

‘
I should have to ask Harvey,' Minnie said. 'I'll ask him
next time he comes.'

‘
You don't have to ask Harvey. Just ask Tompkins to get
you one. No-one can prevent you from having a pet dog if you
want one. You can buy it out of your pin-money.'

‘
Oh no, I couldn't do that, not without asking Harvey.'
Flaminia was definite on that point as on few others.

‘
Write to him, then. There's no knowing when he'll visit
next.’

But Minnie never wrote letters. The last time she had
taken a pen in her hand was in the schoolroom, to write an
exercise for Miss Trotton. 'He'll come, sometime this
summer. I'll ask him then. There's no hurry.’

Polly clenched her fists in her lap. 'Minnie, why don't you
ever get bored? Don't you ever feel you want to just –' She was going to say 'scream and break things', but a glance at
Minnie's expression, her round brown eyes only mildly
surprised, made her stop. 'Don't you ever want a change of
scene?' she asked instead, in a defeated voice.

‘It's nice here. Why should I want a change?'

‘What's nice about it? Why do you like it here?’

Minnie struggled with unaccustomed analysis. 'It's my
home.'

‘
But do you like it better than being at home with your
mama, in Grosvenor Street?'

‘
Oh, yes. I have my own house and servants here, and I can
order whatever I like for dinner,' Minnie said.

‘But in Grosvenor Street there were always people coming
and going. There was always company. Here you don't see
anyone.'

‘
I don't like lots of people. They make me feel awkward,
and I never know what to say. I have enough company here.
There's Mrs Tompkins, and Hill, and the dear babies to play
with. And you, of course. I shouldn't like it if you weren't
here. And then,' she added, the summit to her worldly joy,
‘there's Harvey's visits to look forward to.'

‘
Yes,' Polly said dully, 'I see. I can see now how it is for
you.

Minnie was not very noticing in general, but where she
loved, she was solicitous, and she did love Polly truly. It had
come to her notice over the last few exchanges that all was not
quite well with her dazzling cousin.

‘
Aren't you happy, dearest Polly? I thought you liked it
here too.'

‘
Whatever made you think that?' Polly said bitterly, before
she could stop herself. It was not fair to take things out on
Minnie – but then, who else was there to strike out at?
Minnie's damp hand crept into hers, and she scanned
Polly's lovely face with a growing anxiety. 'You wouldn't go
away, would you? You wouldn't leave me? I couldn't bear it if
you left me.'