Voices in a Haunted Room (22 page)

“Your father does not tell even my mother of his secret work.”

“He can tell no one, of course… not even Lottie. But I think he now does less of this work
because
of her.”

I nodded and he put his arm about me and went on: “Are you sure nothing is wrong, Claudine?”

“Wrong?” I hoped my voice did not betray my fear.

“I thought you seemed preoccupied, as though… I don’t quite know. Are you sure you are feeling quite well?”

I leaned against him and he put his arm about me. I was terrified that in a few moments I should confess. I must not. Jonathan was right about one thing. David must never know. Perhaps if it had been someone else he might have forgiven me. I was sure he would for he was of a forgiving nature. But his own brother! And how was I going to cope with Jonathan’s actually living in the same house?

I forced myself to silence.

“Your mother thinks you should see the doctor,” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m perfectly all right.”

I assumed a gaiety I did not feel and I believed I managed to deceive him, as I had in that other matter.

Jonathan was in London for two weeks that January. I felt easier when he was out of the way, even though that which had occurred to me as a possibility had become a certainty.

I was pregnant after all.

I had told no one as yet. How could I tell David that I was to have a child which might not be his?

I kept my secret for two weeks. At times the prospect of a child overshadowed all else and for a brief spell my joy was boundless until I remembered that I did not know who the child’s father was.

Jonathan came back from London. He was a little preoccupied; something of importance had evidently transpired there. As soon as he returned he was closeted with Dickon, and when they emerged Dickon looked very serious.

At dinner that evening Jonathan wanted to know how Enderby was progressing.

“It’s full of workmen at the moment,” I said pointedly.

“We shan’t know the place,” he replied.

“Sophie insists on going in in early February,” said my mother. “I think she is unwise. She should wait till spring.”

“What of the servants?”

“Jeanne is engaging them. I thank Heaven for Jeanne. She is doing most of the work. Were you busy in London?”

“Very.” He smiled at her in a manner which said: No more questions please. He looked at his father and said: “You remember Jennings—Tom or was it Jack—he’s been transported for publishing seditious literature.”

“Transported! Surely not!” said Dickon.

“Yes, seven years to Botany Bay.”

“Wasn’t that rather harsh?”

“Not as things are. He was lauding Danton and stressing the wrongdoing of the monarchy in France and the rights of the people. Louis and the Queen were the bad ones and Danton and company the heroes.”

“So there is real concern.”

“You can call it that. It’s right, of course. They have to be scented out. It was people like that who started the trouble in France.”

“But transportation!” said Dickon. “That is a little harsh.”

“I hope,” said my mother, “that you are not thinking of making any more trips to London.”

“Not just yet,” Dickon assured her.

“And you, Jonathan?” asked my mother.

He lifted his shoulders, and his eyes rested on me. “I hope to spend a little time here among the joys of Eversleigh.”

“How nice that you appreciate your home,” said my mother lightly.

“Oh I do,” he replied. “I do indeed.”

When we were leaving the room I said to him: “I must talk to you.”

“When?” he asked eagerly.

“Tomorrow. I shall ride in the morning, at ten o’clock.”

The next morning I rode out alone and he was soon at my side.

“What of the house? Let’s go there.”

I replied quickly: “No. I don’t intend to go to Enderby with you again. Moreover it would be impossible now even if—”

“Where shall we go then?”

“I just want to talk to you, Jonathan.”

“I had to go away, you know. I hated leaving you. It was urgent business.”

“It’s nothing to do with that.”

We turned off the road and into a field, where we pulled up.

“Jonathan,” I said, “I’m going to have a child.”

He looked at me in amazement.

“It’s not so surprising, is it?” I went on.

“David’s…?”

“How could I be sure?”

He stared at me and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

“You find it amusing?” I asked angrily.

“Well, there is nothing to worry about, is there?”

“What do you mean? When I don’t know whether it is yours or David’s, you think that is nothing to worry about?”

“You’re married. Married women are entitled to have babies. I find it rather intriguing.”

I said: “You never took any of this seriously, did you? To you it was just a light affair. I daresay you have had many. This was a little different. Your own brother’s wife. You found that rather piquant, didn’t you?”

He was silent, still looking at me with that amused look on his face.

“What am I going to do?” I asked.

“Do? Do you mean shall you have it or not?”

“Are you suggesting…? This is my child. Whoever its father is, it is still mine.”

“Claudine, you are rather dramatic, my dear one. You are worried, but there is nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t think there is anything to worry about in passing off a child, who may be yours, as David’s?”

“Well, if he doesn’t know, what has he got to be upset about?”

How he revealed himself to me! What had I done? I had betrayed the best of men for the sake of a philanderer.

“Jonathan,” I said, “it is clear that you do not take this situation seriously.”

“I take you, Claudine, with the utmost seriousness. I am simply saying that there is nothing for us to worry about.”

“This deceit! This betrayal! This bringing into the world of a child, letting David believe it is his when it might not be?”

“Very high-sounding,” he said. “But, my dear Claudine, let us look at the facts. We have absolutely nothing to worry about. The child will have the best of everything. He’ll inherit his share of Eversleigh. It’s really very convenient, keeping it in the family as it were.”

I turned away and he laid his hand on my arm.

“Claudine,” he said pleadingly. “What a curse it is that all those people are working in Enderby. I’ve thought of you constantly all the time I’ve been away.”

I had changed. That pleased me. I was no longer moved. I saw him too clearly, or was it because the child had already made me into a different woman?

I thought exultantly: It’s over. He has no power over me now.

But it was too late.

I saw his expression of dismay change to resignation as I turned from him and galloped back to the house.

I was absolutely sure now, but I hesitated to tell David. That was going to be very hard. I knew that he would be delighted and I should feel this sick remorse because of the truth.

I went to my mother’s room. She was resting, which was unusual for her. She was lying on her bed in a peacock-blue peignoir, looking rather languid and as beautiful as ever—no, more so because there was a special radiance about her.

“I’ve come to talk to you,” I said. “No, don’t get up. I’ll sit here.”

I sat on the bed and she looked intently at me. “I think I know what you are going to tell me, Claudine.”

“Do you?”

She nodded. “I recognized the signs some time ago. My dearest, I’m so happy for you. It
is
a baby, isn’t it?”

I nodded. She began to laugh suddenly.

“You find it amusing?” I asked.

“Very. Wait till you hear.”

I looked at her in puzzlement and it was some seconds before she spoke. Then she said: “Me, too.”

“What?”

“I’m so happy, Claudine. It was all I lacked and now, I’m going to have a child, too. Isn’t that funny, gloriously funny. You and I, mother and daughter, in the same predicament.”

She had sat up and caught me to her. We rocked to and fro for a moment laughing. Perhaps my laughter was a little hysterical, but in her joy she did not notice it.

I thought: If only I could tell her. A burden shared is a burden halved, someone had said. But then was it fair to make others carry your troubles? I had made them myself. They were my affair. I must not involve her. I must not put a cloud into all the happiness I saw in her face.

“Of course you think I’m old,” she said. “But I’m not too old, Claudine. I can just about make it.”

“You’ll never be old. You’re eternally youthful.”

“There speaks my dutiful daughter, saying what she thinks Mother likes best to hear. You’re right. I do. But truth is truth, is it not, and I am no longer in my first flush of youth.”

“What does Dickon say?”

“Pure delight. Well, not exactly complete delight. Thrilled about the child, of course, but like you he remembers that I am not so young. I think he is going to fuss a bit. It will be odd to see him like that. He is already looking at me as though I might break at any minute.”

“How lucky you are to love like that.”

“Well, isn’t it the same with you and David?”

I nodded because I could not speak.

“I’m glad it was David you cared for,” she said. “Jonathan is very like his father… David is quite different.”

“And you think Dickon is the perfect man.”

“Oh, far from it. I soon discovered Dickon’s weaknesses. Odd, that I should love them more than other people’s virtues. Jonathan reminds me very much of what Dickon was at his age. I think he and Millicent will make a match of it. The Pettigrews want it. It joins up the banking interests, and Lord Pettigrew is very much involved with—that other work, I gather. But what about us? Two mothers, eh? What does David say?”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“You haven’t told him! You mean I am the first to know.”

“You didn’t tell me first,” I said reproachfully.

“As a matter of fact I was a trifle embarrassed… at my time of life with a grown-up son and a married daughter. It seems indecent somehow.”

“How absurd, Maman.”

“Wait till Dickon hears your news. He’ll be so delighted. He always wanted a grandson. I suppose you want a boy.”

“I don’t care what it is.”

“No. And I feel the same. It’s not so important for us. Dickon already has two sons. I think I should like a little girl.” She looked tenderly at me and I put my arms round her. “Girls are closer in a way,” she added.

I felt it would be a great luxury then to let myself weep, and to tell her everything that had happened.

She stroked my hair. “You mustn’t be afraid, Claudine. I sensed that you have been a little, lately. Now I know why. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“No, no…” I said. “It’s not that. It’s just a little—overwhelming, isn’t it?”

She agreed solemnly that it was.

I found it an ordeal telling David. How different it would have been if I had been sure the child was his, if I had never gone to Enderby and let myself be overpowered by my emotions, if I had never let that house spread its tentacles about me…

There I was, blaming the house again, blaming anything but my own weakness.

I had sinned and must pay for my sins.

David took my hands and kissed them.

“Oh, Claudine, I hoped and hoped… It is wonderful news. And you’re happy, aren’t you? You want this.”

“Of course I want this… a baby of my own.”

“Our own, Claudine.”

I shivered a little. I wanted so much to tell, to rid myself of this burden of guilt. But I should have to carry it alone… all through my life.

I could not tell David any more than I could tell my mother.

What a celebration there was that night! The news was out.

Sophie was induced to join us at the table. It was a very special occasion, she was told. Sabrina came down too. She looked rather wan; she found the winters very trying and spent a great deal of time in bed now.

When we were all seated Dickon said: “I have an announcement to make. We have to drink the health of newcomers who will shortly be making their appearance at Eversleigh.”

Sabrina and Sophie listened intently.

Dickon then waved his hand first to my mother and then to me.

“Lottie and I are going to have a child—and so are Claudine and David. It is a most auspicious occasion. One would have been a matter for rejoicing, but two—that means jubilation. We are going to drink the very best wine we have in the cellars to the health of our mothers. God bless them, and may all they desire be theirs.”

Jonathan smiled at me as he lifted his glass.

Sabrina was shaking with emotion and I noticed that Sophie’s lips were drawn down at the corners. Poor Sophie, once more she was thinking of all that she had missed.

The tears were running down Sabrina’s cheeks.

“Come, come, Mother,” said Dickon, “this is supposed to be a happy occasion.”

“Tears of happiness, my darling boy,” she said. “I know this is what you wanted to complete your happiness. A dear child… Lottie’s… and another grandchild for me. I hope I live to see it.”

“What nonsense!” said Dickon. “Of course you’ll live to see it. I insist, and Lottie says you always do what I want.”

They drank to the future; and in the kitchens the servants drank a toast to us.

There was a great deal of talk about babies at the table. My mother told of the births of my brother and myself and all the difficulties of pregnancies as though this was the most enjoyable experience known to womankind.

“I suppose,” said Dickon, with feigned resignation, “this will be the burden of our conversation for months to come. I doubt we shall ever escape from nursery topics.”

“It is a great deal more healthy than this continuous talk of revolution, and spies, and poor men transported merely for speaking their minds,” retorted my mother.

“Wise men know when to keep silent,” said Jonathan, “and that goes for women too.”

He was looking straight at me and smiling.

I thought: Yes, he and Dickon are alike. Dickon must have been very like Jonathan when he was making his way to becoming one of the richest men in the country and not caring very much how he did it. Amoral, that was the word. Immoral too. But who was I to talk? I was realizing now how much I loved David; and yet I had played on him about the worst deception any woman can play upon a man.