Distant Choices (15 page)

‘Mr Keith has crammed them into those huts like sardines I do assure you, in circumstances which cannot help but lead to – well – all manner of dreadful things, certainly fever. I have done my share of parish visiting in Hepplefield, as everyone knows, where the slums are quite as bad as anything to be found in Leeds, or even in Bradford. So no one ought to think me squeamish or naïve, as Mr Keith seems to do.'

‘Certainly not, my dear,' murmured Evangeline. ‘Does Mr Keith not see that you are altogether a woman of the world?'

‘I believe', said Susannah, in the tone of one making a revelation, ‘that he thinks me meddlesome.'

Evangeline looked shocked. ‘Good heavens …'

‘Yes. But, just the same, if it is meddlesome to point out to him the evils which he can surely remedy then I see no help for it. And I have never in my life seen so unruly a place as Merton Ridge has become. Had our curate, Mr Field, not been with me when I went to distribute those extracts from the Gospels then I believe I would have lacked the courage to proceed. Children in swarms, of course, running wild, and speaking so roughly one felt almost grateful not to quite understand them. And all the women smoking clay pipes and lounging and sprawling in their doorways – their legs quite apart. Or brewing beer for sale and then carrying it in buckets on poles across their shoulders, like milkmaids, to the men as they worked. I felt obliged to speak to Mr Keith about that, although I made little impression. He merely said digging is thirsty work and, considering the state of our wells and sewage channels, beer is safer to drink than water.'

Would her mind have been so full of Merton Ridge and Mr Garron Keith had she known of the insulting rejection suffered by her brother? And when Quentin himself came into the room, instead of making the announcement then and there as Kate had feared, he said his usual good evenings in his usual bloodless manner, accepted his mother's adoration with no more than his usual, only partially veiled disdain, and began a discussion on the coolness of the Spring and the subsequent late flowering of the apple blossom.

Very clearly he had told no one as yet.

‘He is playing cat-and-mouse with me,' muttered Kate, her stomach tightening to a nausea that was quite visible to Oriel. And what a clever cat, to Kate's already exhausted mouse, he seemed to be, prolonging her agony so skilfully, so cruelly, that in the end she might well break down, confess, and beg for her punishment.

Now. And get it over.

Yet the ‘now'would very evidently be of Quentin's choosing. After dinner, perhaps, when he and Matthew would retire to the book-room to discuss those entirely male mysteries of ‘business'in the world outside.

‘Uncle Matthew – I have a most shocking matter to report to you …'

‘Good Lord – my dear boy – we can't have this. In fact we won't have it. Send for Maud. Maud will see to her.'

Dinner that night was sparse – Evangeline seeing no reason to waste the substance of her larders on her in-laws – and silent, even Susannah abandoning her latest tale of Merton Ridge when she realized no one was listening.

But, the uncomfortable meal over, although Quentin and Matthew did retire to the book-room with an air clearly marked ‘serious matters', Maud – that expert in the bringing of wayward girls to just retribution – was not sent for, remaining at her place by the coffee tray from where she issued no more than the standard number of official reminders to Kate about her posture, her slovenliness, could she not condescend to pay just a
little
attention to what was being said to her, and why did she seem to be finding it so hard to swallow? Was something the matter with her throat?

‘Diphtheria, I expect,' said Kate.

‘Oh, my goodness,' said Letty, thinking of the risk of infection to Quentin.

‘Nonsense,' said Maud, who subscribed to the theory that if one ignored a disease long enough it would go away.

‘That is one of the things I fear most for the navvy children,' said Susannah. ‘And the cholera, of course. And their constant exposure to so much really
foul
language which Mr Keith condones because – he says – they are not likely to die of it.'

‘Is that Quentin coming?' muttered Kate, straining to detect his footsteps as intently, tonight, as his mother.

But when he came it was only to bring the information that his Uncle Matthew had gone to bed and to begin yet another bland discussion on the progress of the weather. A most accomplished, most immaculate cat stalking his frayed and hectic little mouse again.

Unable to bear the strain Kate got to her feet. ‘I have a headache. I am going upstairs. Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight, Kate.' He let her go without a tremor although he waited, Oriel noticed, until she was out of hearing before announcing that he must be going too, thus denying her the reprieve of knowing that he would say nothing now until tomorrow.

If reprieve it was.

‘Goodnight,' he said to the room in general, bowing slightly. ‘I may call tomorrow – perhaps in the afternoon. Or – if not – on Wednesday.'

Were his words directed at Oriel, in further proof of his power to prolong Kate's agony, or end it, as and when he chose? Oriel thought so and, making swift, expert excuses, followed him into the hall, waiting at the foot of the stairs while he was given his hat and cloak and gloves, her manner apparently composed but, in reality most ill at ease since she believed herself to be dealing with a man who was cold and shrewd and devious; and merciless too, perhaps, when it concerned his self-esteem, his precious self-interest. And, after all, he had been insulted.

‘Quentin …'

‘Yes, Oriel? And what may I do for you?' Immediate courtesy, of course, she had expected, although the texture of it was like a needle-fine shower of ice.

‘Quentin, what I want to say is actually none of my business. I do know that.'

‘Ah.' She had also known how swiftly he would move in to the attack. ‘Then if you
know
yourself to be in the wrong perhaps you ought not to say anything at all. I am merely making a suggestion – naturally.'

Ice again, smilingly delivered, bitterly cold.

‘It is about Kate.'

‘Yes, Oriel. I know.'

And when she hesitated, wondering how best to explain why Kate disliked and feared him without implying that he was indeed dislikeable and fearful, he said crisply, ‘Go on.'

‘Yes.' Having set out to do battle, very much against her nature, she knew she had no choice but to proceed. ‘I am sorry, Quentin. I am not insensitive to your position in this. But I would like you to realize that Kate is most distressed …'

‘But I do realize it. Oriel.' Only in her mother had she seen so cold a smile. ‘In fact her distress is not in question. Only its cause eludes me.'

‘That should be obvious …'

‘Do you think so? Then tell me – is it because she may have hurt my feelings? Or because she is afraid of being found out?'

She looked at him levelly, as calmly as she could which, to an onlooker, would have seemed very calm indeed.

‘I think, Quentin, that allowances should be made. After all, she
is
only eighteen …'

‘And you only twenty.'

‘That has nothing to do with it. My experience of life has been entirely different …'

‘And your nerves are stronger.'

‘Perhaps I have had less to bear.'

‘Oh,' he smiled at her, coldly it seemed, once again, ‘I shouldn't think so, Oriel. We all have our burdens. And our defences.'

‘Exactly. And if you mean Kate's defences are weak then I see no shame in that. Her life has not been easy …'

‘Nor yours. Although mine, of course, has been most privileged – full of every advantage one could wish for at least twice over. I am sure you will agree with that.'

Levelly, calmly, she stared at him again, the only device she could muster to conceal that she was, in fact, at a loss for words, needing a breathing-space to somehow gather together the threads of her attack which he had taken away from her. unravelled, dispersed.

‘I am sorry, Quentin …'

‘So you have said already.'

‘Yes. I know. But I think you will just have to make allowances. She has been brought up very badly and I don't see how one can blame her for it – since
she
didn't do the bringing up. And I don't know why you should expect her to be kind and gracious and considerate when no one ever seems to have been particularly kind to her.'

‘A most unusual theory, Oriel – although not likely to be popular, one would have thought …'

‘I dare say. But nevertheless, Kate has suffered all her life – and suffered severely, I think – from the lack of anyone to appreciate her …'

‘As you appreciate her, Oriel.'

‘Yes.' Her gaze was truly level now, her voice steady. ‘I am very fond of her. That is no secret. I see qualities in her which have been very far from encouraged – which I think a great waste and a great pity.'

He smiled, very briefly this time. ‘Then I dare say you will be pleased to know that the allowances you mention had already occurred to me and have been duly allowed for. Does that surprise you?'

It made her angry.

‘In that case what
does
surprise me is that you have kept her in such cruel suspense all evening.'

‘What suspense, Oriel? By not telling her father, I suppose you mean?'

‘You didn't tell him, then?'

‘As it happens – no, I did not.'

‘Then – whether you think me a busybody or not – I am going to ask
when
you mean to do so?'

‘Is it necessary that he should be told at all?'

And because he spoke the words coldly and curtly, like a reprimand, she thought for a moment that she had misheard him.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I said,' and his voice was
very
curt now, ‘is it necessary to inform him?
I
see no need for it. You may tell her so.'

She paused, drew breath. ‘Then –
yes
– I must apologize to you, I think.'

‘There is no need for that either.'

Again she offered her level glance, uncertain of his motives but, if she had misjudged him, very ready to make amends.

‘Nevertheless – I
do
apologize.'

He gave the merest sketch of a shrug, containing a hint of dismissal, a faint but very potent measure of disdain. ‘As you wish, of course. But it might be rash, you know – or premature – to assume I am acting out of consideration for Kate. I may well have other reasons.'

So, indeed, thought Kate, when Oriel went to her with the glad tidings. So thought Oriel herself; although, the crisis over, she was glad to return to her own quiet room, her own thoughts, her own happy though still very private astonishment at being in love.

She had never expected it, having made up her mind long ago to be content with her life's probabilities, wasting neither time nor tears nor effort in futile cravings. She was who she was, as she was, and must therefore accept her situation as naturally as the colour of her eyes. Not with the calculation of Evangeline but as a simple turning of self-control into self-defence, coming to terms with her limitations in order not to be soured by them, safeguarding herself from the ravages of shattered hopes and unfulfilled desires by taking care never to hope or desire too much.

So she had reasoned, until Francis Ashington had swept her careful edifice of good sense away.

‘I believe our Mr Ashington has an eye for you,' murmured Evangeline. How commonplace her mother's choice of words sounded to Oriel. How crude. And then, abruptly, how terrifying. ‘
Please
, mamma – don't breathe a word about it – to anyone. Please. It's too soon.'

Don't startle it. Don't scare it away. Don't tempt those demons who must be flying everywhere around me now, those jealous sprites who don't like to see us mortals too happy. Don't attract their notice to me now.

But how could she tell her mother not to meddle? Even in the throes of her unexpected, irreplaceable, one and only love, she clearly could not. Although, as the cool Spring became a sudden, fragrant summer, she could not deny the soundness of the strategy by which Evangeline, too delicate a huntress ever to alarm her prey, merely created situations for lovers'meetings and then stood back so that the lovers might come together of their own accord, or not, as they chose. When Evangeline invited Francis Ashington to dinner she did not seat him next to Oriel but rather in a position where he could best see the effect of candlelight on her pale hair and shoulders, the pure lines of her profile as she turned to smile at another man. When he joined them for picnics or drives in the country, or expeditions to look at abbey ruins, a few stones that were all that was left in the valley of Imperial Rome, a litter of white kittens at a distant farm, the first lilacs or elderflowers, or roses, she filled the carriage with such a bevy of unattached femininity – untidy Kate, mousy Susannah, high and mighty Dora Merton – that he had need of skill and effort to separate Oriel from the throng. When he, in turn, invited them to inspect his home at Dessborough, she kept her own daughter rather better chaperoned than the rest, allowing Kate to wander where she pleased, and Susannah to spend ten evidently excited minutes in argument with Mr Keith who happened to be passing by, but putting off ‘to another day'Francis'suggestion of taking Oriel to look at his rose-garden.

Yet the day came and she did go with him – alone although not out of sight – to see the roses, smiling through the glow of her deep contentment both in him and in this place to which he belonged, this ancient house, this lovely, peaceful garden, as he played the courtly game of selecting the flower he thought most resembled her, ivory petals just ready to open with a blush of deep cream at the heart. Rose Oriel. So that when he sent a basket of them to High Grange the next day both she and her mother knew they were intended as a personal gift to her.