The Trespass (29 page)

She had not heard somebody come up behind her, until he coughed discreetly. Harriet froze. It could not be Peters. But the superintendent was also an employee of her father’s. She turned violently to meet her enemy, saw at once, even in the fading light, Lord Ralph Kingdom standing there.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said gravely and in some embarrassment. ‘I certainly did not mean to frighten you.’
How long had he been there?
‘It is almost dark, I assured your maid I would bring you safely back to the carriage. I spoke just now to the superintendent.’

How long had he been there? Why did he follow her? What right did he have to follow her?

‘I came to call on you this afternoon. They said you were here and so I came in the hope, perhaps, that I might find you.’

A bell rang somewhere. The cemetery was closing. A few stragglers lingered still, unable yet to leave so easily the ones they had loved. A cold mist seemed to fall over the perfect lawns and the flowerbeds and the graves.

Still Harriet said nothing, still she stared at him.
Had he been listening?

‘Harriet…’ He stepped forward. She could not step back, she was right beside her sister’s grave. He stood close to her now, the cold air caught his breath, turned it to smoke.
Had he been listening? If he had heard, what would he do – would he help her or hinder her?
Her shoulders drooped. But she suddenly thought of Phyllis in the basement of the theatre, making her tea for the dancers, for Lord Kingdom’s dancer. And then of Cecil, whistling with the furniture, nearer and nearer, even as she stood here, to the
Amaryllis.

And so Harriet Cooper, regaining her balance beside the grave of her sister, stepped past Lord Ralph Kingdom. She did not look back to where her sister lay: she had to believe that Mary’s soul had flown upwards, to where God waited in Heaven. Then she began to walk in the half-light along the path and back to the gate. A gardener trudged ahead of her, carrying a rake over his shoulder.

‘Harriet – wait.’ Ralph came up behind her and this time he laid his hand on her arm to detain her. ‘I would not,’ he said, ‘intrude on your grief. I am very sorry that your sister has been taken from you in this cruel manner.’

‘Thank you, Lord Kingdom.’ She had stopped in the path because he stood in her way.

He spoke very formally. ‘You will recover from this terrible loss.’

She remembered what she had understood in his mother’s carriage. ‘I think – that no-one can know another person’s sorrow, Lord Kingdom,’ she said very simply, and she did not so much shake off his arm as just walk away from it. She turned downhill. A light flickered in the chapel by the gate. His stride easily caught her; he did not speak again until her carriage came into view but she could hear his breathing and suddenly the formal tone was gone.

‘Are you – going away, Harriet?’ he said.

Then she did stop.
He had overheard her then.
He had spoken very quietly yet she could see that he was as greatly agitated as herself.
What had it to do with him?
For a moment she did not speak. The superintendent’s bell rang again and again, calling the mourners back to the gate. Her heart beat too fast, she was sure he could hear it. ‘Lord Kingdom, I do thank you for your very kind condolences. I would like you to think well of me, and – not to think that my wild words to my sister’s grave are more than that. Her death has—’ her voice caught for just a moment, ‘has wounded me more than it is possible for me to convey to you.’ Her heart did not quieten: of course, it would be his duty to tell her father. But the
Amaryllis
would sail tomorrow: he could not conceive of that. By the time he saw her father she would be gone.

Then Ralph Kingdom did an odd thing. From inside his coat – in a mad moment she recoiled, thought it might be a court document or (it flashed wildly into her mind) a
pistol
that he brought forth – he took a small book.

‘Please accept this.’

In the darkness she could not even see the title but she took the book from him, turned it over for a moment in her gloved hands and then put it into her reticule. At least he had not questioned her further.

‘Thank you, Lord Kingdom,’ she said politely. ‘You are very kind.’

They walked in silence down to the colonnade and the carriages. Already the drivers had lighted the lamps on their vehicles and the horses snorted and shook their bridles in the freezing air. The superintendent hovered, rubbing his hands together slightly, anxious that his duty had been well done. Ralph bowed low over Harriet’s hand in the way that he had. Then he handed her into her coach where her cold maid waited.

*   *   *

Her brothers would not be back for dinner, the servants said.

In the quiet, uneasy house Harriet ate (carefully, determinedly, eating slowly, swallowing correctly) in her room. Quintus lay at her feet looking at her with devotion. She gave him some meat, hugged him, ruffled his ears: his cup ran over; all seemed almost well again, although one of his mistresses had disappeared. The servants moved about the house on quiet feet as they had been taught.

Harriet dismissed Lucy early, saying she wished to sleep; she hugged Quintus again as he was led protestingly away.

But she knew she must not lie down. As soon as Lucy had gone Harriet forced open the big window on to the Square, breathed in the cold night air to keep herself awake. She felt distinctly strange, odd: as if she watched herself in all she did. She saw clearly that her hands shook in all that she was doing.
It is almost tomorrow. One more day.
Quickly she rearranged her wardrobe: she had decided to wear as much as she could in the morning; the cold weather was her friend. Mary’s gowns behind the remnants of her own made her wardrobe look untouched: gently she arranged Mary’s linen where her own had once lain on the lemon-scented shelves. From her small reticule Lord Ralph Kingdom’s book tumbled: she looked at it hurriedly, a slim volume by the poet Tennyson, something called ‘The Princess’. It had fallen open at the front; there he had written
For Thee I Love.
In great embarrassment she pushed it back to the bottom of her reticule. She packed one more small bag: the bag she and Mary used to take with their embroidery if they were to stay overnight at weddings, or at funerals. Here she placed her passage papers, her money (counting it one more time), the few pieces of her mother’s jewellery, Walter’s pale notebook, all the laudanum the doctor had given her, Mary’s last letter. And on top of all these she placed her embroidery, for all the world to see.

She had to leave the house early in the morning, she must be early, to take the small steamboat to Gravesend. She walked up and down her room, making herself move, forcing her mind to think of what she had yet to do when all she wanted was to lie down on her bed. She took up her lamp and walked, one more time, into Mary’s room. But Mary was quite gone. The room was empty not only of its belongings but of its owner. There were some marks on the floor where the bed had been which the servants, polishing, had been unable to remove. Only a simple washstand stood there, alone by the window. And the Mona Lisa with the smile. She wished she could take that, but there was no more room. She made a small vow, standing in the empty room, that one day she would find another copy of the secret smile, and hang it where she would see it always, and remember her sister. Then quickly she went back to her own room. She wished she could strip it bare, leave it in the same state of anonymity as Mary’s: knew she must not. Every hour that they did not know where she had gone would be precious. The fire had died down, the room was cold, but she did not notice; somewhere Quintus barked, but she did not hear.

Finally she sat down at the table beside her bed and picked up her pen. It took her a long time to write the few words; she seemed to ponder over every sentence.

Dearest Asobel,

Perhaps this is the first letter ever to arrive at Rusholme addressed to you. I think I did not see you at Mary’s funeral, not properly. Please forgive me, little Asobel. You will understand one day. I hope you are reading your books in the way that I taught you and being a good child for your kind parents and brothers and sisters.

Harriet hesitated then, staring at the page in front of her, thinking of Asobel’s open, happy face in the summerhouse. She wanted to write about Edward, but she did not dare.

I will write to you again, dear Asobel. I promise.

I think of you all very often.

From your affectionate cousin

Harriet

She heard a clock chime midnight from somewhere in the city outside. Once more she moved to the window and stared at the shadows of the Square, at the oak tree and the railings and the gas lamps. A cold mist covered everything. There was the sound, as always, of distant traffic, wheels rumbling along Oxford Street, down Park Lane. The smell of the drains wafted upwards and Quintus barked again. It was this that was her memory of London.

Then Harriet, quite clearly, saw herself walk out into the dark passage in her nightdress and down the wide staircase, down and down to the bottom. The silent house creaked. One small light burned at the last turn.

From the hall she walked to the back of the house and down the small staircase and into the kitchen where another lantern burned. She did not know the kitchen. She saw the knives hanging. She took a small, sharp knife. She walked back into the hall and up the stairs past the portrait of her mother but she looked straight ahead, glancing neither left nor right. She did not see little Lucy standing at the bottom of the servants’ stairs. Harriet came into her room. She placed the knife in her embroidery bag. And then she saw herself walk back at last to the bed and lie down under the quilt.

SEVENTEEN

Walter and Richard were surprised, and alarmed (lounging at the table and yawning, cravats undone, at the damnably early breakfast insisted on by their father), to see their pale sister enter the dining room. Something had made her wish to see them once more, though she was not sure what that feeling was. Her brothers stood up, pulled at their cravats, apologised for not visiting her more often, sat down again, made polite conversation, as the servants bustled about them. She wondered if they would perhaps mention Mary, say something, just something, about their dead sister. But they did not. Harriet was neatly dressed, her hair pulled back from a face that looked as white as parchment; even her brothers could not but notice that her hand shook as she picked up a cup.

‘Harriet, should you not perhaps have stayed in your room a little longer?’ She looked at her elder brother, Richard, hearing his words. It was the first statement of concern she had heard from him that she could ever remember. She must appear well. She must
smile
at Richard. She must have her brother’s permission: one command to the servants from him would overrule any of her own.

‘Father will be home tonight,’ she said. And she smiled at her brother. It seemed to her that her voice was very loud in the room. ‘I am, of course, much better.’

Richard seemed satisfied. But Harriet had not finished.

‘I have decided to go to Church this morning,’ she said. And she smiled again.

Both brothers looked at her, nonplussed.

‘What will you go to Church for today, Harry?’ said Walter, and she saw that he was trying to be kind, thought she was muddled. ‘It is not Sunday.’

Harriet laughed. It seemed to her that her laugh echoed round the room, on and on, in under the dishes on the long table. She tried to hold to the side of the table,
I must not fail now.

‘People do go to Church on other days, Walter,’ she said rather shakily. ‘I wish to talk to the Vicar.’

She saw that Richard looked uneasy.

‘Father thought it might be – good for me. He spoke to me about it. As soon as I felt well enough, he said.’

‘Very well.’ Richard gave his permission, nodded to the head footman.

‘And then I shall call on Lady Kingdom.’

‘You are in mourning. Surely people can come to you.’

‘She has already called here. It is proper that I return her call. Father wishes me to do this.’

Neither Richard nor Walter were expert in the exact niceties, shrugged, lost interest. ‘But he should have mentioned it,’ said Richard. ‘We understood you were to stay in your room, or at least the house. He wants you to be well.’

‘I am trying, Richard,’ said Harriet humbly.

‘Shall I come home early this evening and sit with you before Father comes?’ Walter asked rather guiltily. ‘I don’t mind.’ He knew, in mourning themselves, they would not be gallivanting around London now that their father was returning.

‘Thank you, Walter, but I expect I shall rest. I wish to—’ and again she gave the odd laugh, then held again to the side of the table, ‘I wish to be prepared for Father’s return.’

‘We must all be here for Father’s return.’ Richard, too, knew there would be stricter hours kept from now on.

‘Yes. Of course.’ And for a moment Harriet contemplated the long nights that might stretch ahead; her brothers would go about their business, and she alone in the house, waiting, and listening, for Father.
Never, never, never.
Suddenly her head cleared and the diverse bits of her joined together again and she reached out a firmer hand for a piece of the thin toast and asked her brothers about their day.

When the brothers got up to leave the house Richard bowed to her and was gone. Harriet’s eyes followed him expressionlessly. Walter lingered for a minute.

‘You are quite well, are you, Harriet? You look very pale. Can I – do anything for you?’

She looked up at her younger brother, took in his features, his hair, the way he always looked slightly anxious, not as confident as Richard. No doubt the gambling troubles continued. She did not know if he missed Mary. She did not know if she would ever see him again. And she smiled, and put out her hand.