The Velvet Glove (18 page)

11

The days passed into weeks and Kate lay for most of the time half-conscious in bed at Woodgate, after a bad attack of pneumonia followed by exhaustion.
No one – not even her parents – was allowed to see her except Rick, and on the rare occasions of consciousness she turned her head away refusing to look at him. He spent much of each day in the room waiting for a sign of recognition, stony-faced and silent. But none came, no sign of emotion from the white face on the bed that could have been some marble effigy except for the luxurious surround of shadowed hair. She ate and drank what was held to her lips obediently, but without life or interest. With Blanche-Rose she would have nothing to do at all. Whenever her tiny prematurely-born daughter was brought to her, her eyes widened with something between terror and dislike; she’d put her head under the bedclothes and a muffled ‘No – no’ would come from her lips. No one had any idea why, except perhaps Rick who naturally kept the grim knowledge to himself.

The baby, with perfect tiny features, had a crop of very fine pale hair giving her at first glance an uncanny likeness to a miniature Jon.

Whatever feelings Rick might have had on the infant’s perfect small features and extraordinary fair skin and pale hair, he made no comment except to say to the housekeeper, ‘Another girl to name. Now what do you suggest, Mrs Rook?’ Thinking it was a matter for Rick and Kate, but guessing he might already have asked and been rebuffed, Mrs Rook answered, ‘Well now, what about Blanche? Isn’t that French for “white”? And as she was born in the snow it seems fitting somehow.’

‘
Hm, and very cold,’ he agreed with an underlying sting in his voice. ‘Blanche? Yes, but let’s have a bit of colour too. Rose, perhaps. Blanche-Rose. What do you think?’

‘
Oh, Mr Ferris, sir, that’s perfect. And suitable too with that pink little bud of a mouth.’

So the matter was settled as quickly as that.

Comment was naturally caused in the kitchen when the name was known, and Cook was critical of Mrs Rook. ‘Pretty enough,’ she said, ‘but a bit fancy. To my mind the mistress might have shown an interest. It’s not right the master should have to shoulder such things on his own. And if what I heard’s true the doctor says there’s nothing wrong with Madam now except exhaustion following the pneumonia and that night in the snow. If you ask me, things are sometimes made too easy for rich folk—’

‘
But no one
has
asked you,’ came the tart reply. ‘Mr Ferris has the right. It’s his choice, and no one else’s to criticize.’

During the first fortnight of Kate
’s recovery following the crisis of her illness Emily and Walter had been allowed to see their daughter and the baby for a few minutes; but it was not a success.

Although so weak, Kate was by then aware
of the gossip that must have emerged over her flight from Woodgate, and was resentful of wagging tongues that might have upset them. This happened to be true. The note, for instance, had been seen by a maid on the dressing-table before Rick returned, and the envelope was not stuck down. She could have opened it, probably had, the girl was only human, and had a boyfriend. It was hardly likely she hadn’t dropped a hint to him; then the old Mumper, having been treated to a pint at a wayside inn after his wanderings that evening, had told a garbled tale about a fine lady wandering all bloodied in the woods. There was the farmworker – a word here, a word there – their strange stories that couldn’t be disproved.

For a time the Ferris family was bound to be a source of wild conjecture and rumours.

So when Emily tried with soothing words to get at the truth, at the same time doing her best to comfort her daughter, Kate passed a hand over her forehead and said, ‘Oh, do leave me alone Mama. So many questions, and I’m so tired. I don’t want your sympathy.
Please
.’

Her quick flashing glance at her mother was so intense Emily was hurt. And, with a hint of annoyance said,
‘Very well. If that’s how you feel to those who care for you, I’m sure your father and I don’t want to intrude.’ She picked up her handbag and went to the door. Walter followed, looked back with a placating gesture to the bed, shook his head, winked and raised a finger to his lips.

‘
Shsh,’ he murmured, and blew a kiss before disappearing after Emily.

Following this unsatisfactory interlude it was some
time before Emily visited Woodgate again, and by then Kate was mobile and able, the doctor said, to get dressed and go downstairs when she felt like it. But her lethargy continued, and she still took no apparent interest in tiny Blanche-Rose whose fragile looks and fairness disturbed her, bringing always a bitter reminder of Jon. That she could bear a child so unlike herself or Rick was ironic. She was under no illusion that her husband had not noticed it. But he said nothing. He remained polite, thoughtful, though outwardly cold.

Once he said on his morning visit to enquire about her health,
‘I hope you approve of my choice of name for the baby?’

She was standing by the french window, wearing a sea-green velvet housecoat with her rich hair loose on her shoulders. She turned and answered with chill indifference,
‘I don’t care what she’s called.’

‘
Then I think perhaps you should,’ he told her. ‘In the doctor’s opinion it would be better for you now if you could bring yourself to take a little interest in the normal things of life.’

She regarded him coolly and replied with no sign of emotion on her face,
‘But things aren’t normal here, are they?’

His mouth half-opened to speak, then he thought better of it, and closed it, turned away and made to leave.

‘I hope you have a good day,’ he said a moment later. ‘I’m going to London and won’t see you again until tomorrow. So if you’re wise you’ll make your mother welcome if she decides to call. And try and look a little more cheerful. Harshness doesn’t suit you.’

The latch clicked; she was alone.

He was not to know how, after a moment or two, her tension broke, and she flung herself on the bed with tears gushing from her eyes. Nor had she any idea of the futility he felt – the sense of failure, and sterility of an existence without the woman to whom at that moment he would gladly have sacrificed all else he possessed if she’d wanted it.

*

Later he was ashamed of his own fleeting emotional lapse, and stayed in London an extra day. During that time he had dinner with Linda Wade, but if she had any optimistic hopes the occasion was meant to convey a feeling on his part of more than mere friendship, she was disappointed. She quickly discovered – despite the excellent champagne they drank – that his thoughts were elsewhere, and correctly divined where. That something was wrong between him and his young wife became painfully obvious – not through what he said, but what he did not; and later after bidding her a cordial but abstracted, ‘Good night, Linda,’ adding, ‘It’s been nice seeing you again,’ she gave a regretful smile and rueful shake of the head.

‘
But not nice enough,’ she said. ‘I never was, was I? Never mind, we’ve the magazine and business in common. But your heart’s with Kate, and I reckon it always will be. So get back on the next train, that’s my advice; a good thing’s worth hanging on to.’

He did just that, and arrived at Lynchester in the early hours of the morning.

*

It was 4 a.m. when Rick inserted his key into his own front door and entered the house. He walked as quietly as possible along the
wide hall and up the main staircase to the first floor and his study. Having dozed on and off through the journey from London he was not so physically tired as mentally. Instead of providing the emotional ballast he’d hoped for from his interlude with Linda, the meeting had proved to be merely dead sea fruit – a proof of a lack in his life that could be filled completely by only one woman – Kate.

For the first time in his life he was faced
with a problem he felt unable to solve. His mind – usually so needle sharp and clear was torn ruthlessly in two directions – one the unquenchable desire for her and to believe in her innocence concerning Jon Wentworth, the other to follow the line of reasoning and common sense, taking her story with a grain of salt, but outwardly accepting it because he needed her so much. The latter course perhaps might eventually end in complete forgiveness. On the other hand the shadow could always linger between them.

Who could say?

Wearily, feeling curiously drained and defeated, he entered his study and lit the incandescent wall lamp. It was still dark outside, although the pale thin grey of dawn would soon be lifting over the gardens spreading a blurred light against the Gothic-styled long widow. At the moment everything in the book-lined interior was a cheerless pattern of shadowed distorted forms – cupboards and office equipment, plus the addition of a large leather armchair and sofa and valuable antique secretaire.

A man
’s room.

No lingering aroma of feminine perfume here, no glimmer of a woman
’s white arms and shadowed sweet smile.

No Kate.

Just chill negation of emotion. A reminder of finance and committee, sterile business days ahead. He flung his scarf over the table, fetched a decanter and glass from the cabinet and poured a stiff drink, taking it neat. Then he slumped into the armchair, stretched out his legs and threw his head back against the leather cushion. Gradually the liquor warmed his spirits. But, despite the fact he was still wearing his coat, the early morning spring air felt chill. He braced himself to move, not worth lighting the fire. Soon there’d be the first sounds of domestic life beginning from the kitchen below. He reached for his scarf and went upstairs to the quarters he now occupied. In spite of his efforts to make no noise, the door creaked when he unlocked it and went in.

Then the shock hit him.

The small round lamp glowed by the bed, and someone was lying there. A woman. He stood quite still for a moment angered by this violation of his privacy until, as he stepped forward, he saw who it was, the first reaction collapsed, shattered by bewilderment that was almost disbelief.

Kate.

He approached the bed quietly. She was lying on her side with one cheek pressed against the pillow, her shining hair spread over the fine linen. The quilt was loose over her shoulders revealing the gentle curve of a breast under her blue silk nightdress. He bent down and saw she was sleeping, but he fancied the glint of tears still lingered on the soft thick fringe of her lashes; and there was something else – or was he mistaken? No. As he peered closer he recognized the collar of one of his own shirts protruding from the sheets. She was clutching it to her body as though it was a child or something she could not bear to be without.

Good heavens, he thought, completely disorientated by a conflict of emotions, had it been as bad for her as that?

His heart quickened. She appeared so young and vulnerable, only a girl in innocent dreamless slumber. Yet she was his wife and had already borne his children. That, and what else?

If only he knew. If only he could whisper her name, press his lips to hers gently, and watch those deep golden-dark eyes open with the truth clarified in their clear gaze.

But he had not the heart or the will to wake her at that moment for fear of what he found there. As he waited she stirred. He turned away, and swiftly, quiet-footed as a panther, crossed the thick carpet in three strides and was closing the door behind him.

No doubt she
’d soon be fully awake and back in her own bedroom. She’d better be, he thought, with a touch of wry humour, or heaven only knew what the maid would think who brought her early cup of tea, to find her mistress clutching a shirt in the master’s room. Not that domestic gossip worried him anymore. There’d been sufficient, as he well knew, to fill a book, concerning life at Woodgate during recent months. And none of it important or holding a grain of the tragic truth.

Which was? Again the same question.

He returned to his study, and knew suddenly that there had to be an answer. He and Kate had to face each other and solve the future. Life could not continue as it had.

In a flash an idea took shape from the conflict of his thoughts.

He went to his desk, took up pen and paper and wrote a short note.

Kate
,

We
have
to
talk
.

I
returned
on
the
night
train
and
am
having
an
early
breakfast
before
taking
off
to
the
stud
.

Could
we
meet
about
12
at
Brad
Hill
?
After
long
business
sessions
I
need
a
leg
stretch
,
and
a
dose
of
fresh
air
will
do
you
good
.
You
know
the
spot
near
the
ancient
Folly
? –
far
enough
away
from
Woodgate
hopefully
to
get
an
objective
clear
slant
on
our
relationship
,
but
not
too
far
to
tire
you
.