The Snow Globe (34 page)

Unlike his father, Howard wasn't a particularly religious man, but Mabel knew that something had happened to him during her long absence. Howard had called it “a reawakening”: a powerful recognition of love, accompanied by a feeling of immense gratitude. It was something he'd felt often as a young man, he'd said, but had lost.

“Do you remember when my hair was so long and you used to help me plait it each night?” Mabel asked now, her head on his chest, his hand upon it.

“I remember.”

“Do you wish I was still like that, young and beautiful, and with long, long hair to plait each night?”

“I loved you then, and I love you even more now . . . the way you are now.”

Mabel lifted her head and glanced up at him. “Well, you said the right thing, but I'm not sure I believe you.”

“It's the truth. I don't see your age; I see you. You've always been beautiful to me, and perhaps more so now than ever.”

“Daisy has no idea of her beauty. None whatsoever.”

“A good thing, too.”

“She's never been concerned about how she looks, how anyone looks . . . so different from Iris. Peculiar, really,” Mabel added. They lay in silence for a minute or two; then she said, “And she's finally got all of her pieces . . . got them all lined up and ready to place.”

“What do you mean?”

“You . . . Clara, Nellie . . . and Stephen.”

“Ah yes, Stephen,” he said, laying his head back down.

“Are you still worried about her?”

“A little, but I'm also rather proud of her.”

“She was always going to be the one to find any skeletons.”

Howard smiled. “Is that what they are?”

“No, she'll find only angels in your closet,” said Mabel, glancing up at him again, stroking his cheek with her finger.

The gurgling of a wood pigeon drifted in through the open window. The sounds of activity and people, and murmurings of conversation, although mere yards away, felt like another world to Mabel. A world she had no desire to be part of at that moment.

“She's not too upset about Gifford, is she?” Howard asked.

“No, rather relieved, I think . . . like the rest of us.”

“I hope so. I can't stand the thought of her suffering over it.”

“Her heart is very much intact and remains devoted. I don't suppose anything's going to alter how she feels, not now.”

“And you're sure . . . sure she loves him?”

“Oh, I'm quite certain,” said Mabel. “She loves him—just as I love you . . . I'm just not sure
she's
realized it yet.”

Mabel got up from the bed and walked over to the window. The tent was down. Like a deflated air balloon, the white canvas lay in an exhausted long heap on the lawn. Below, Hilda stood on the gritted pathway holding a tray of lemonade, laughing and flirting with one of the men. In the distance, Mrs. Wintrip paused in her stroll to bend over a rosebush, then jumped and waved an arm about her head. And Mabel laughed. Then she saw Daisy. She watched her daughter stride out onto the grass, stop, stand perfectly still for a minute, as though reconsidering something, kiss her hands and raise them up to the sky. And then she watched her daughter turn, march back across the lawn toward the house.

“Where's she off to now? I wonder. She looks very purposeful . . .”

“No doubt on another one of her missions,” said Howard as he joined her by the window. “You think you did the right thing in sending her to speak with Mrs. J?”

“Yes . . . It's not our story to tell.”

They stood in silence for a while; then Howard said, “You know, I sometimes feel guilty, wish I'd done more . . . I can't help but feel sad that Stephen and his mother were ever parted.”

“Guilty?”
Mabel turned to him. “Oh, darling, you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Hmm. I don't know . . .”

“No, Daddy, you did the right thing.”

Howard and Mabel turned.

Daisy walked over to where they stood. “You did the right thing,” she said again, standing in front of them, staring at her father. “It was the only way . . . You knew Mrs. Jessop couldn't tell anyone, you knew she hadn't told her husband about the baby. And she trusted you. She knew she could trust you never to tell, and she knew she could trust you to bring Stephen back to her.”

“I didn't bring him back to her; Nellie Wintrip did.”

Daisy shook her head. “No, you arranged it all. Everything. Without your help Stephen would have been placed in a home, then adopted, perhaps . . . but he would never have grown up with his mother, he would never have come here, and I would never have known him.”

She paused for a moment, then continued: “I thought you knew nothing,” she said, addressing her mother. “When I found out about Margot Vincent last Christmas, I couldn't believe that you knew . . . that you knew and accepted her. And I was so angry with
you
,” she said, turning to her father again. “I hated you. I hated you for deceiving my mother, and me, for lying to us all . . . And I couldn't for the life of me fathom why Nellie Wintrip and Mrs. Jessop were so protective of you, why they had so much respect for you, but now I understand. And I understand why my mother loves you, and why she forgives you . . . because I do.”

Daisy had been back and forth to the kitchen all afternoon to ask Mrs. Jessop if Stephen had returned to the house yet. She had asked Hilda, Mrs. Wintrip, Iris—and anyone else she could find—if they had seen him. No one had. She'd wandered about the grounds, the lawn—scarred from the party of the previous night—and sat on the bench in the Japanese garden, remembering that sunrise, that dance. And as the day wore on she became more desperate.

It wasn't a matter of life and death, and yet it felt like that. There was the revelation of his mother, but that was not why she wished to see him, nor was it for her to explain. There was Benedict Gifford and Tabitha: But it was most definitely not that. It was quite simply everything else. Every flickering thought that occurred and needed to be shared; every single thing he needed to know about
how she felt now. And
now
was agony: a torturous wretched state between each passing moment and his presence.

It was early evening by the time Daisy walked down through the woods into the valley—calling out the name and listening to it bouncing off trees and echoing back to her. She stood on the ridge, scanning the vast wilderness below, searching for his shape. Then she retraced her steps through nettles and ferns, through the still open gate and back to the courtyard. She banged on the door with her fist.

Old Jessop shook his head. “Gone . . . gone back to London,” he said with lugubrious slowness.

“But when—just recently?”

The man nodded.

Daisy turned and ran back to the house.

“Can you take me to the station?” she asked, skidding on the wooden floor and into Howard's study at the same moment the dressing bell rang out.

“But you're not going back to London yet, are you?”

“No, but Stephen has . . . he's gone for the train.”

Daisy wasn't sure where her father had learned to drive like that, or if it was legal, and for most of the journey she sat with her hands clasped over her eyes. When Howard slammed on the brakes outside the station, Daisy jumped from the car and raced through the archway. She saw old Peabody, the stationmaster, watering a tub at the other end of the deserted platform and ran toward him.

“Has it gone . . . has the train for London gone?” she asked, breathless.

“Well, hello there, young miss,” he said, straightening himself and all ready for a chat.

“Has it gone?” she asked again, her voice shrill.

“Yes, but don't fret now, there'll be another in . . .” He reached to his breast and pulled out his pocket watch.

“No . . . ,” said Daisy. “I'm not going anywhere. I needed to catch someone; that was all.”

“And who might that be?”

“Stephen . . . Stephen Jessop.”

“Ah yes, young Jessop.” He pushed back his cap and scratched his head. “Well now, I'm not rightly sure, but I think he might have been on that last train.”

“Too late?” Howard asked as she walked back toward him.

Daisy nodded.

“I suppose we could drive up to London . . . do you know where he lives? Have you any address?”

Daisy shook her head.

Howard reached out and pulled her to him. He wrapped his arms around her, and the feel of her father—so missed, so long absent from her life—was enough. She sobbed onto his chest, soaking his shirt and silk tie in her tears. She heard him exchange a few words with Peabody, asking after the man's extensive family and grandchildren, never releasing his hold. Then, finally, she stopped crying and raised her head.

“Important, was it?” Peabody asked, bending his head, smiling kindly at Daisy.

“Yes,” Howard replied. “It was rather important.” Then he took
Daisy's hand and led her from the platform, out of the station and back toward the car.

They drove slowly, and Howard took an unusual route, for they seemed to take in far more villages than those between the station and Eden Hall. Daisy sat in silence, staring out the window at hedgerows and fields. She felt spent of words, as though they were like pennies and she simply had none left. The last forty-eight hours had been emotionally and physically draining, and the past eight months—too much.

The car made another turn, down a narrow sun-dappled lane, and minutes later drew to a halt outside an old inn.

Daisy turned to her father. “What are we doing here?”

“I thought we'd have a drink,” he said, turning off the engine.

Inside, Howard ordered himself a whiskey and soda and Daisy a lemonade. Then he changed his mind and called over to the barman: “Make that two.”

“I'm not sure I like whiskey,” said Daisy, as the two of them sat down on a bench outside with their drinks.

Howard watched Daisy take a sip and raised his eyebrows in a question.

“Mm . . . all right, I suppose. Might be nicer with lemonade.”

“I've missed you,” he said.

He lifted his hand to her face, traced her cheek with his finger. “I can't bear to see you unhappy . . .”

They sat in silence for some time, side by side, staring ahead, listening to the bleating of sheep in the sloping field beyond.

Eventually, he said, “Do you love him?”

“Yes,” she replied.

Mrs. Jessop had let Hilda finish early. The poor thing had been dead on her feet all day and no use to man after dinner. It was also Nancy's day off, so Mrs. Jessop had done the washing up alone, quietly humming to herself as she stared out of the kitchen window, smiling, remembering the glamour of the previous evening. As her cousin Nellie had so eloquently put it, never again would they see “a function of such magnitude.” She had just picked up a linen tea towel and was about to start drying when Mr. Forbes appeared, carrying two glasses.

He asked her to sit down, then handed her a glass and said, “I know you like a sherry at Christmas, and though it's not Christmas I thought you might . . . well, I thought you might appreciate one tonight.”

He was ever so kind like that, Mrs. Jessop thought. Thoughtful. Always had been. And it was quite a large glass as well. He said, “Isn't life a funny old game, Clara?” He hadn't called her by her first name for years, not since before she was married, before she was made cook. “Anyway, good health,” he said. They chinked their glasses and took a sip of their drinks. “I do hope everything was all right with Stephen . . . before he left.”

“Before he left?”

“Before he went back to London.”

Clara shook her head. “He's not gone to London. He's been down the valley all day . . . and only just come back. But no time to talk to me,” she said, fluttering her eyelids, feigning a little umbrage. “Said he has something important to do,” she added.

Howard stared at her. “He's still
here
? But Old Jessop—Isaac—he told Daisy Stephen had gone back to London.”

Clara looked heavenward. “He's getting worse, that man, and for the—”

“Where's Stephen now?”

“Well, at the cottage I expect . . .”

But Howard was already on his feet. “Back in a jiffy,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the passageway. Clara took another sip of her drink. She wasn't sure what it was that was so urgent, but she hoped he wasn't going to drag Stephen over to the house, to sit with them there. She wanted to tell Stephen on her own. Minutes later, she heard the back door slam shut and Howard Forbes's unmistakable stride on the tiled floor. “Won't be a minute,” he said as he sailed past her through the kitchen and out the other door. And as Clara took another sip of her drink, she thought she could hear him calling up the stairs for Daisy.

A few minutes more elapsed before he reappeared—clutching the sherry decanter—and sat back down at the table. He smiled over at her, his dark eyes shining. He was ever such a handsome man: You could understand why women wanted to throw themselves at him, she thought. He refilled their glasses and toasted their health again. He said, “Everything is going to be tickety-boo, Clara. I don't want you to worry about a thing . . . And if you need me, wish me to talk to Stephen about Michael, you know I'm more than happy to.”

“No,” she said, “it's better I talk to him, explain . . . at first, anyway. But maybe later; yes, maybe later it would be nice for him to
hear about his father from another. And you knew him, you knew Michael.”

“I did indeed, and I remember him well.”

“Stephen's just like him, isn't he?”

“Uncannily so.”

“Do you remember that day at Clanricarde, when there was all that work being done to your study and you said him, you said to Michael, ‘Never mind about my cabinets, what about my Clara? When are you going to make an honest woman of her?' And he asked me to marry him later that same day?”

“Yes, and I think I made a toast . . .”

“You did! You brought up a bottle of
real
champagne from the cellar. Oh my, how it popped, and then—do you remember—the cork shot up and hit the chandelier? And you said, ‘To Michael and Clara, long life and happiness . . .'”

“Well, we shan't tempt fate, Clara, but I think I might be popping a cork and making a toast again soon . . . I think we might be enjoying some fine champagne again
very
soon.”

Clara wasn't sure what he meant by that and didn't like to ask—what with fate having been mentioned, and her already feeling emotional. Remembering that time and Stephen's first months had made her wobbly all day.

But it had been a funny few months; a funny year, she thought later, after Mr. Forbes had left the kitchen. And she still couldn't get over Nancy's announcement about her and Mr. Brown, the butler from Beacon House, and they'd be stretched this Christmas without her, even with Hilda's younger sister helping out. Though why Nancy wanted to go on a ship—a pleasure cruise—was beyond
her. The
Titanic
had put Clara off ships for life, not that she'd ever been on one, and she certainly wouldn't want to now. No. The idea of being stuck on a boat out at sea with a bunch of strangers . . . She shook her head. She couldn't rightly remember now where Nancy had said she was going on her cruise, but it was somewhere warm, and with islands.

But Clara had to give Mr. Brown his due: He'd been very attentive of Nancy. The romance, if that's what it was, had first blossomed around Easter, when Mr. Brown began to call and take Nancy out for an early evening walk. Nancy had said that he wasn't at all how he first seemed, for he had a very good sense of humor, and the manners of a true gentleman, she said. The latter, Clara knew, was most important to Nancy.

Earlier that evening, she'd bumped into Nancy, returned from another one of her walks and looking just as though she'd been rolling about in the heather, with bits of earth and leaves stuck to her dress and in her hair. She'd been sheepish with Clara, guilty-looking and quite flushed.

“You look like you've been through a hedge backward,” Clara had said when Nancy appeared in the servants' hall.

“Oh,” Nancy said, her face turning pinker as she brushed off her dress and then fiddled with her hair. “I slipped.”

Clara had smiled and turned away. She knew all about courting couples slipping in the heather, or in the long grass.

When Nancy had first told her that she was thinking about going on a pleasure cruise with Ralph—as he'd become by then—Clara had been concerned, but only because she didn't want Nancy to be let down by life again. To have her hopes raised and then
crushed. But Nancy insisted that they were friends above and beyond all else, and that the change would be good for her.

Yes, a change was as good as a rest, and the cruise would surely do Nancy good . . . as long as she didn't get seasick, or sick of Ralph Brown, Clara thought, trying for a moment to picture her colleague on a ship. But try as she might, she could only ever picture the
Titanic
, sinking.

Clara moved over to the chair by the range. She settled back into it, took a sip of the warm liquid in her glass. She didn't need to close her eyes. She could see the field, see him, still there, waiting for her to join him . . .

The sun is high in the sky and the grass is long and filled with buttercups and poppies. She can hear the stream, the sound of bees, nothing more. Nothing more. He says, “This is perfect.” He says, “You're perfect.” He says, “Remember this always.”

She would never forget.