“Perhaps you are right,” she said thoughtfully. And then, because the question would not be held back: “How is Monty—well, I hope?”
Jane considered this. She frowned. “Unhappy, I think,” she said at last, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “Yes. Well. But unhappy.”
Such frankness, at that juncture, was too much for Maud. She embarked upon a flurry of farewells. Jane, distracted again, scarcely listened to these.
She found herself impatient to be outside, impatient to reach the street, the train.
As the door of the house closed she looked at her watch. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. If she caught the right train, she would be home shortly after six. Acland waited for her. It made no difference whether he replied or not. For once, Jane knew exactly what to say to him.
Constance reached Acland first. Even so, she was delayed, which made her angry.
First, Gwen insisted that she, Gwen, must spend most of the morning with Acland, wheeling him up and down the terrace outside, then returning him to his room, where she read to him. When Gwen finally departed, Denton puffed his way up the stairs to spend half an hour with his son. Then Freddie and Steenie must look in. When they withdrew, the hired nurse insisted her patient must rest. Miss Conyngham had left explicit instructions.
By the time this rest was over, luncheon was served. After luncheon, Montague Stern—to Constance’s fury—insisted she accompany him on a walk. He took the route she most disliked, past the lake, through the woods, and down to the river.
Constance was afraid that her husband, who watched and saw everything, might know what she intended to do. She was therefore at great pains, first to accept the suggestion of a walk, then to appear unhurried.
So, as their walk began, she chattered. She hung upon her husband’s arm; she fixed her gaze upon his face; she teased and provoked. Stern perhaps enjoyed this display; he gave no sign of suspicion or displeasure. He walked at an even pace, his eyes on the landscape ahead; from time to time, when Constance was droll, he smiled.
Constance was encouraged. Although he was silent, and there was a brooding quality to these silences of his, Constance had grown accustomed to them. Once, they had made her cautious, but with familiarity, she began to grow more careless.
When they had walked just over a mile, they crossed the river by a small bridge and strolled to a rise of ground near the boundary of the Winterscombe estate. From there, looking west toward the house and east across fields, it was possible to survey the extent of the Cavendish land, marking the point where it joined the rougher country which had once been Sir Richard Peel’s estate. Stern liked this view. Releasing Constance’s arm, he walked a few paces farther and leaned against a gate. He looked out over fields and hedgerows; he turned his eyes in the direction of the Arlington estate, farther north, and then toward the hill where the Conyngham land began. Since his back was turned, Constance looked at her wristwatch; it was almost three.
“Montague—”
“Yes?”
Stern did not look around. His gaze, Constance saw, was now fixed upon a long avenue of chestnut trees and, beyond them, on the gray bulk and slate roof of a house. Peel’s house, once upon a time, and now in Stern’s possession.
Constance hesitated, and then—seeing that this ill-timed walk might be turned to advantage after all—she advanced a step or two. She laid her arm on the sleeve of Stern’s coat.
“It is a beautiful house.” She glanced up at Stern. “Jane’s may be grander, but Peel’s is the more perfect—even I can see that. An eighteenth-century house—”
“In an eighteenth-century park.” Stern smiled.
“Restrained. Classical. An Adam façade. Gainsborough painted it, you know, with one of the Peel ancestors in the park.”
“So Peel never tired of saying.”
“The ancestor was rather plain. But she had a charming dog. A spaniel, like my Floss.”
“Well, well.” Stern gave a gesture of irritation. “It is just a house.”
“One you own. One you like, I think. An austere house. It suits you, Montague—do you remember? In Scotland, I once said—”
“I remember.” Stern looked away. “I took it for one of your pleasantries. An austere house? Why should that suit me, when my fame is for being vulgar?”
“Ah, but you are not vulgar at all.” Constance crept a little closer, then closer still. “You pretend to vulgarity. Perhaps it amuses you to do so. But you do not fool me with your waistcoats and your white cuffs and your new shoes. I know your mind, and a little of your heart. You are not a vulgarian. Won’t you kiss me, Montague? It is days since you kissed me.”
“I might—since you ask,” Stern replied. He took her in his arms. His embrace ruffled Constance. She felt as if all the boxes in her mind, so neatly stacked a second before, now wavered and shifted and threatened to collapse.
She took a step back.
“That was a passionate kiss.”
“Abstinence has its advantages.”
“Don’t sound bitter.”
“I was not sounding bitter. I was simply stating an obvious truth.”
“Montague …”
“Yes?”
“I might have changed my mind, you know.”
“You change your mind frequently. It is one of the more charming things about you. Changed it about what?”
“About the estates. Where we should live—all the things we discussed in Scotland.” Constance came closer once more. She rested her gloved hands against Stern’s chest, then insinuated one of those hands beneath coat and jacket, so it lay warm against his heart. She bit her lips so that they reddened. She looked up into Stern’s eyes.
“I could perhaps live near Winterscombe after all. I feel less violently now. I begin to let the past go, after all. We must live somewhere—we cannot rent houses forever and ever. I think I could live in Peel’s house, if I lived there with you.”
“You flatter me.”
“Nonsense, Montague. I would not dare. I am just being practical, that is all. We must settle the matter. Now that we are back at Winterscombe—together—I find I cope with it quite well. It has pleasant memories for me, as well as uglier ones. Besides, we should not be here—we should be nearby. So, it is worth an experiment, surely? Then, if we find the Peel house does not suit us, we can move. What could be simpler? It is not an irrevocable thing. As you say, it is just a house.”
“Indeed. What you say is very sensible.”
Constance was encouraged once more by this lack of opposition. She looked up at her husband’s face, at the heavily lidded eyes, which disguised his expressions, at the tawny hair, brushing against the white linen of his shirt collar. She reached up her small hand and fondled a strand of his hair. She coiled her arm once more through his.
“Say yes, Montague. Please do. I’m bored with moving from place to place. I’m bored with looking at houses. Think what fun we could have—we could redecorate from top to bottom. Your paintings—they would look very fine in the library there, don’t you think? We—”
“What made you change your mind?” Stern turned as he interrupted her. He fixed upon Constance his most even gaze. Constance gave a vague wave of the hand.
“Nothing in particular. I told you. We have been married almost a year. Things change. I—”
“Is it because of Acland?”
“Acland? Of course not. Why should that be?”
“When you believed Acland dead, you had no wish to live here. With Acland alive, you change your mind. Perhaps you like the idea of him as a near neighbor.”
“What a ridiculous notion!” Constance drew back. “How you harp on Acland. Besides, he won’t be a neighbor, will he? You can have Winterscombe any time you decide. Call in your debts, Montague—”
“Now?”
“Well, perhaps not immediately—not when he is still so ill. That might look a little …”
“Vulgar?”
“Rapacious.” Constance smiled. Reaching up on tiptoe, she kissed her husband’s cheek. “Well, you can be rapacious—and so can I. We both know that. But it might be prudent, for form’s sake, not to appear so. A little patience—you see, Montague? You have taught me how to wait. The end of the year, perhaps—call in your debts then. After all, in his present condition—and that is unlikely to change—Acland will not even know what is happening. Winterscombe, or a nursing home somewhere—it is all one to him. Speaking of which”—she glanced down at her watch—“I promised Jane most faithfully that I would sit with Acland a while this afternoon. You know how she fusses! I am to read to him, from one of his dreary books. We had better go back.”
“Of course. Take my arm. The path is a little slippery here.”
“Thank you, Montague.”
Constance, who was sure-footed, nevertheless clung to her husband’s arm. Feeling that quickening and gaiety she always experienced when she succeeded in getting her own way, she began the walk back in high spirits.
“Do you remember, Montague—” she began, and then launched herself upon a wave of memories, incident after incident from their brief married life. She left out all the occasions when their encounters had been difficult or pained, and concentrated upon those that could be considered joyous. The kiss by the altar, their walks in Scotland through the snow.
“Do you remember that, Montague?”
“I think of it religiously.”
“It was so cold—and then so warm when we went inside. You liked it there. You should take that house, too, you know—after all, it has special memories for us. We could renew our honeymoon there, every year.”
“We could.”
“And then, that day in London. Oh, Montague, I often think of that! Do you remember—I came in from the park, and you listened to your precious Verdi, and you did not even realize I was there—”
“Wagner.”
“Wagner then—no matter. You surprised me that day. You took me—by surprise. That is why you suit me so well, I think. Because you can always surprise me. So cool and contained one moment, and so … forceful the next.” She tightened her grip upon his arm. They had left the woods and begun the approach to the house.
“Do you remember, Montague, the night in Scotland, when you told me about your estates? When you told me your dream about your son? Did you think I had forgotten that? I have not, you know. Those words are very precious to me. Your holy words—that is how I think of them. It was then we became truly married, I think. And do you know, I feel quite sure that if we were to be settled, if we move to Peel’s house, it might happen then. Our child.” She pressed one small hand against her heart. Stern’s pace slowed.
“Child? What am I saying?” Constance came to a halt. “Why should we stop at one child? I should like us to have a whole tribe. Four boys and four girls. Would you like that, Montague? Peel’s house is the most perfect place for children. All those attics and passages to explore. That huge garden—Montague, what is the matter? You’re hurting me.”
Stern had stopped. As Constance chattered on, he took her wrist in his hand. As she continued to speak, his grip tightened. He bent her hand back, so that for a moment Constance felt her wrist might snap.
She gave a small cry of astonishment and pain. Stern released her hand. He looked down into her face.
“Don’t.”
He said the word with considerable force. Then, thrusting his hands in his pockets, leaving Constance standing on the path, he walked on alone toward the house.
The unexpected violence of Stern’s reaction alarmed Constance somewhat. When she ran into the house and reached the stairs to Acland’s room, she considered it. Was her husband jealous? He always sounded jealous when she mentioned Acland. This idea—that Montague might be capable of jealousy—pleased Constance, who found all reminders of her own power gratifying.
At the head of the stairs she paused. Of course she had been insincere, but Stern could surely not have known that? No, jealous, she decided, and that remark concerning abstinence had certainly sounded bitter. How long since she had slept with her husband? Several weeks. Since the news of Acland’s discovery in France, her need for him had diminished.
To allow her husband to see that was perhaps incautious. Should she ask him to stay with her that night? Constance hesitated. What she was about to do was a betrayal of her husband. It would certainly be a mistake for Stern to discover the extent of her planned disloyalty. On the other hand, to provoke her husband out of his habitual composure, whether through anger or jealousy, excited her. So, of course, Stern must never find out what she did this afternoon—that was far too dangerous. But to encourage him to think of Acland as a rival, just with the smallest hints—there could be no harm in that.
So, thinking of her husband, Constance approached Acland’s room. His nurse was seated outside, in a small anteroom. Constance dismissed the woman and sent her downstairs with instructions to walk her dog, Box, for at least one hour in the park. Once she had left, Constance picked up the book currently being read to an unresponsive Acland:
The Antiquary
by Scott. Constance had always found it tiresome.
She bent its spine back and forth, then tossed the book down. Rather wishing that her husband was there to witness this intended infidelity (let him try and be composed then!) Constance opened the door to Acland’s room. She passed through, paused, then—on consideration—locked it.
For his return to Winterscombe, Acland had been assigned a large guest room, his old bedroom on the second floor being judged too small and too remote. Facing south, it had a bay window overlooking the gardens, lake, and park.
Acland, when Constance entered, was seated in this bay in his wheelchair. He was washed, shaved, dressed—these niceties Jane insisted upon. His thin hands rested on the arms of the chair. His thin face was turned to the window. An angled light, from a declining sun, gave radiance to his hair.
Constance did not greet him. She picked up a chair and set it down directly in front of him, its back to the window. Having made sure the chair was in his field of vision, and that his eyes, if unseeing, were open, she pushed the curtain to one side and looked out at the view.
“A panorama,” she began. “You can see the woods and the lake. You can see the birch grove. That was where Boy killed himself, you know. It was not an accident, as they pretend. He blew his brains out with one of the Purdeys. Freddie and Steenie witnessed it. Before he did that, he confessed to Steenie. He told him he killed my father. I know that was not true. I think—I could be wrong—that you know it, too, Acland.”