Indiscretion (17 page)

‘And she has had to bear up against such a sudden loss,’ her aunt was saying.

‘Certainly,’ came Stephen Milner’s voice, ‘it’s a grief I know myself, and I’m sorry for her. But I’m also sorry for you.’

‘Us?’ cried Uncle John. ‘My dear boy, why?’

‘Because I fear you may come to regret this decision to take her in.’

‘You alarm me. Do you mean you suspect some delinquency in Caroline’s character that has escaped our observation? I cannot believe it
—’

‘Nor can I,’ said Aunt Selina firmly, ‘and I have got to know my niece pretty well, I think, Stephen.’

‘I do not mean that at all,’ Stephen said, quite cool. ‘Except that you are, as I said before, too kind. I would trust to your judgement of character above anyone’s. I am talking about the vast difference that must exist between her experience of the world, and the new life she is to lead. She has been chiefly raised by a rake, and it shows: she knows about the ways of actresses, and how to cure the liver after a drinking-bout, and a deal of other things that are very well in their way, but suggest altogether too much sophistication. Place her in sleepy old Wythorpe, and it would be like putting some brightly plumed exotic in a cage of sparrows.’

‘Oh, come,’ said Uncle John, chuckling, ‘there may be a few ruffled feathers
—
no more than ruffled feathers, my dear boy.’

‘It’s true that her bringing-up has been very different,’ came Aunt Selina’s voice, more serious than ever, ‘and sometimes she quite surprises me. But then that’s not difficult, as I have lived so very retired.’

‘Surprises
—
aye, that’s what I’m afraid of, from that bold little piece,’ Stephen said. ‘But I’ll say no more: I see you are both set upon this course, and you are such excellent people I would never oppose my opinion to yours.’

‘But you don’t
—
you don’t dislike her, Stephen?’ said her aunt.

There came a grunt, so sharp and expressive it made the suspense-fully listening Caroline flinch. ‘Oh,’ he said, in a yawning voice, ‘I can tolerate her, for your sakes. Well, I think I’ll walk to the top of Beechen Cliff
‘Now? But the weather
—
look at the window
—
it’s raining, really quite hard,’ Aunt Selina objected.

‘So it is: never mind: I want to walk now.’ His voice was at its most decided, and was perceptibly getting nearer to the door. Caroline sprang away, and managed to reach the top of the stairs before he came out.

A small satisfaction, to set beside much mortification. It would have been less if he had described her in terms she could absolutely reject; but Stephen Milner had actually echoed her own secret anxieties, and even amplified them. It would have been less if she had cared nothing for his good opinion; but though she found it very easy to be irritated by Stephen Milner, she found it impossible to be indifferent to him. It was all the more difficult to dismiss his strictures, because he was plainly not motivated by such interested considerations as, for example, had determined Mr Leabrook’s behaviour towards her. In his every word and gesture, Mr Leabrook had had an end in view. Mr Milner obviously did not much care one way or another.

And that, Caroline told herself, with a sort of mental shake, was exactly the attitude she must adopt. Her aunt and uncle had placed their trust in her, and to
them
she would justify it, come what may
—
but anyone else, any long-jawed, awkward, satirical-looking Stephen Milners, could go and boil their head.

While her aunt and uncle were still occupied that day with their painstaking packing, Caroline’s was very soon completed. Wrapping the miniature of her mother, in which she could now trace a fascinating resemblance to Aunt Selina, set in train some wistful thoughts. Sitting alone in the front parlour, with the rain strumming at the window, she dwelt on her father with a sorrow softened now yet still profound. She was jolted out of it by the sudden appearance of Stephen Milner at the door
—
jolted into wild, unexpected laughter.

‘It is coming on to rain,’ he pronounced solemnly, while water dripped and pooled around him. The impossible hair hung like seaweed.

‘Oh, Mr Milner, I’m mistook, I thought you going for a walk, not a swim.’

‘Quite refreshing really. In a wretched, dismal, uncomfortable sort of way, I mean. Best change before my aunt sees me
—
she’ll scold.’

‘And rightly. You know, you may catch the most shocking cold. But there, you would insist on going.’

‘Aye, so I did,’ he said, squinting at her through his sodden hair. ‘A little hint, by the by, Miss Fortune: when eavesdropping, always bear in mind your shadow.’ He pointed to the bottom of the door, then offered her a bland smile. ‘Even under a closed door, it can be clearly visible.’

How long she stared at him with her mouth open she couldn’t tell — probably long enough to add extra relish to his triumph; and when she did close it, it was with an unfortunate, resounding, even crocodilian snap.

‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘and so now you must think me dreadfully underhand.’

Mr Milner gave only a tremendous sniff in reply.

‘I will own to the failing,’ she went on, ‘but must add that I can conceive something much
more
underhand, and that is speaking disobligingly of someone behind their back, instead of to their face.’

‘Was I only disobliging?’ he mused. ‘I thought I was ruder than that. Well, never mind, Miss Fortune: I have a lowish opinion of people generally, and I really think no worse of you than of the common run
—
except that, as I shall now candidly state to your face, you do look like trouble.’

It was her turn to sniff. ‘I won’t say, Mr Milner, what
you
look like.’

‘Oh, why not?’

‘Because I am too much of a lady’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, you know,’ he said cheerily, ‘not at all. But yes, I really should go and change
—’
he bowed
‘—
else I shall indeed be rather ill. And I’m sure you would not want that.’

‘Certainly not.
Very
ill
—
horribly ill
—
distressingly ill
—
these I would much prefer.’

‘Ah!’ he cried, as if appreciating some delicate perfume. ‘Would you nurse me?’

‘Devotedly,’ she said, clutching at her heart. ‘But that is, of course, if you could
tolerate
me about, Mr Milner.’

He squelched away laughing, leaving Caroline to conduct until dinner a sharp inward debate as to whether she had scored a victory or suffered a defeat. Going down to the dining room after dressing, she was still undecided, and put aside the question to greet the gentleman who was obviously joining them for dinner
—
and how odd of her aunt not to have mentioned it
...

‘Oh!’ she gasped, as the gentleman, turning round, turned into Stephen Milner. He looked down with amusement at her outstretched hand.

‘A peace offering?’

‘No
—
well, yes, if you like
..
.Why on earth are you dressed like that?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m dressed for dinner.’

‘You know what I mean. Yesterday you went out to dine like a scarecrow, and now
...’
Now, she had to admit to herself, he looked rather well in the swallow-tailed cutaway coat, white silk waistcoat, and starched cravat that had made her mistake him for someone else entirely. ‘Why are we so honoured?’

‘Well, because yesterday you suspected me of making an affectation of casualness.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘No, you thought it.’

‘You can read minds, can you, Mr Milner?’

‘No, only yours. Ah, Uncle John
—
I should tell you I’ve decided against travelling down to Huntingdon with you. I’ve a fancy, while I’m down this way, to visit the old White Horse at Uffington.’

‘My dear boy
—
down this way? That’s a good forty miles, surely.’

‘Yes, really, Mr Milner,’ Caroline said, seating herself, ‘all that way just for an inn.’

‘The White Horse I mean is a great ancient figure cut into the chalk of the Downs,’ Stephen began on a note of stern information: then saw Caroline’s ironically raised eyebrow, realized, coughed, and actually
—
to her infinite satisfaction
—
blushed. ‘As of course you know. Anglo-Saxon perhaps, or perhaps not.’

‘I preferred the inn,’ she said, with composure, picking up her soup spoon.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Uncle John, smiling at them both with benign incomprehension. ‘Popularly supposed to be the spot where St George slew the dragon
...
But, my dear Stephen, I do wish we might prevail on you not to postpone your return any longer
—
considering how much you must be needed at the Manor
—’

‘Considering, Uncle, considering
—
but considering is what I never do, you know, and I shall return to the fold soon enough, and now where’
s
that champagne I sent for?’ Stephen said breezily, beckoning Jane forward with the wine.

He drank off two swift glasses. Caroline, observing curiously, wondered what it was about his home that he was so reluctant to face: and came across the curious reflection also, that where previously she had dreaded the prospect of a long coach journey in Stephen Milner’s company, now the loss of that prospect did not afford the expected delight. Indeed she might almost have supposed
—
if it were not too curious altogether
—
that what she was feeling was disappointment.

Caroline’s first sight of her new home was an indistinct one, for they arrived at Wythorpe late on a rainy night after a long journey from Bath that even the conveniences of travelling post could not prevent from being exhausting. Aunt Selina, from a mixture of solicitude for the horses and anxiety lest the chaise be overturned, had continually restrained their pace, so that their progress had been stately to the point of inertia. Only at the end of the second day did she let the postilion have his head, from a desire to see home before nightfall: at which point the rain came down, the roads of lowland Huntingdonshire turned bad, and the last lap became a jolting, straining nightmare of mud and wind-whipped darkness.

Through this appeared, at last, lights: Caroline’s bleared eyes beheld roofs through trees, a porched door opening to reveal warm welcome radiance, servants with umbrellas. Then, more asleep than awake, she was being ushered on her uncle’s arm into a parlour where candlelight, a blazing fire, and a hot, strong posset handed to her by a politely curious housekeeper all conspired to lull her into absolute numbness. Aunt Selina was all cheerful bustle, greeting the servants, enquiring after their health, and superintending the unpacking: the journey had gone to her entire satisfaction, in spite of the fact that the dreaded tip into a ditch could not have made them more late, wet, and bruised than they were. Nowhere is taste more peculiar than in what counts as an inconvenience. Soon, however, she caught sight of her niece’s drooping look, and declared, to Caroline’s secret joy, that for her there must be no thought of anything but bed.

The same courteously peering housekeeper lit her upstairs, and left her in a bedroom to which she tried to pay the tribute of attention before toppling into bed. Such details as she could take in were exactly like her imaginings. There was the olive-striped wallpaper: it was decidedly odd, giving her the feeling that while she was still awake she was dreaming, and that when she fell asleep she would be waking up.

Ten hours later, all the confusion was resolved by her sitting up in bed refreshed, quite well aware of where she was, and noticing that despite the wallpaper, not everything was as she had envisaged it. For some reason a rectory in a Huntingdonshire village had suggested to her mind creaking, dark-beamed, diamond-paned, even cobwebby age. But neat new sash windows threw the milky light of a clearing day on a whitewashed ceiling. She realized as she dressed on smooth, silent floorboards that the house was quite new.

‘My first mistake about the place,’ she said genially to herself, as she looked out at a pleasant plashy view of a broad village street winding peacefully by beyond the box and holly. For some reason then the thought of Stephen Milner recurred to her, with something troublous about it; and she hurried down.

The Rectory of Wythorpe was, as she soon found, a commodious house of whitewashed brick and red tiles, with two large parlours downstairs as well as a study for
Dr Langland
and the usual offices, and a stable and coach-house adjoining. At the back, on the south side, a shrubbery of laurels and evergreens divided the kitchen-garden and poultry-yard from a pleasant walled garden of lawns and honeysuckle and espaliered fruit-trees, carefully nurtured against the strong winds that blew across the flat meadows from the east. Within, while there was no extravagance, there was some elegance and much comfort, attesting to the fortune that Aunt Selina had brought to her marriage
—
and which Caroline’s mother had forfeited
—
as well as to the worth of the living.
Dr
Langland, besides being conscientious about his duties at the little church, whose grey knobbly tower could be seen beyond the stable roof, also farmed his own glebe land; and altogether the Langlands, busy, easy, rooted, well liked, gave off an
at home
feeling such as Caroline, with her nomadic past, had never experienced.

She relished it. Aunt Selina, going over the house and explaining their daily habits and routines, remarked again more than once on how very different
—
restricted perhaps
—
Caroline would find this new life. Caroline did not fear that; and only loyalty to her father’s memory dissuaded her from mentioning that, as for restriction, she could at least step out of the door here without the fear of a bailiff pouncing on her for a debt.

She was, indeed, eager to explore her new scene, and she had the promise of her aunt’s company on a long walk, as soon as the many domestic matters arising from the mistress’s long absence should be settled. Opportunity came sooner, however, with their first caller.

This was Miss Milner
—
none other than Stephen’s sister Isabella; though Caroline would not have guessed it of the slight, trim young woman, luminous in a white chemise gown, who stepped sedately into the front parlour, and who put out a tentative hand, as if through a delicate mesh of shyness, when
Dr
Langland made the introductions. Beneath that neat buttery-fair hair was a grave, well-shaped face wholly unlike the wry Mr Milner’s
—
quite a beauty indeed, Caroline decided, after the sidelong scrutiny appropriate to the occasion; though in a more solemn style than was usual in a girl of twenty summers. Likewise with the low, fluty voice in which she expressed a hope that Miss Fortune had not taken cold from her wetting last night.

‘Oh, no, I am perfectly well, thank you,’ Caroline answered, before it occurred to her to wonder how Miss Milner knew about that.

But Uncle John, quite unsurprised, said: ‘Ah, you know it was past ten when we got back, then, Bella?’ and it soon became clear, from Miss Milner’s comprehensive replies, that in Wythorpe everything about everybody was very soon known by everybody else.

Which, Caroline thought doubtfully, one no doubt got used to.

‘Well, Uncle John, my nonsensical brother wrote me that he had seen you in Bath,’ Miss Milner said, after some further friendly exchanges, ‘and so I could not forbear calling on you to discover if you had any intelligence of him. I had some hopes that he might have returned with you
—’

‘Our hopes also!’ cried
Dr Langland.
‘I told him, “Stephen: you have been away too long.” Those were my exact words to him, were they not, my dear?’

‘You did tell him so, my dear, indeed, if not in those exact words,’ said Aunt Selina, agreeably, and unwisely.

‘Were they not the exact words? I was convinced they were. Now you mention it
—
and yet I’m sure I did use them
—
unless they were in my mind, and I chose some other expression
—
which I think is an occurrence we are all familiar with
—
yet the question remains then what exact words
did
I use?’

‘The question,’ Aunt Selina said, with infinite, greyly smiling patience, ‘is perhaps not greatly important, my dear: as you spoke very rightly whatever the words. But Stephen elected to pursue his travels a little further. He spoke of coming home soon: that’s all I can tell you, Isabella, I fear.’

‘I did try, Bella, believe me,’ Uncle John said, working his hair up into wildness. ‘I impressed upon him
—
indeed I wish I could recollect my exact words
—’

‘Thank you, Uncle, Aunt,’ Miss Milner said, ‘and never mind. There are things to do with the wedding that I must consult him about: but Stephen will be Stephen.’

‘Oh, you are to be married, Miss Milner?’ Caroline said.

‘At Christmas, I had hoped,’ Miss Milner said, with a faint smile and flush, ‘or if not in the new year.’

‘Oh, I wish you happy
—
many congratulations. That is, if you
want
to be married, of course. Only, you know, there are plenty of marriages for which commiserations might be more appropriate.’

It was the kind of remark that
—
as she was still having to remind herself
—
caused Aunt Selina to look anxious, and Uncle John bewildered; but to her relief a wrinkle and lift at the corner of Miss Milner’s lips showed that she did not share the Langlands’ lovable obtuseness. And also that she did resemble her brother a little after all.

‘I’m very happy in my choice, and very lucky,’ Miss Milner said, ‘thank you, Miss Fortune. And I hope I shall have the pleasure of introducing my fiance to you presently, as you are — well, you are to make your home here: which I really think the nicest thing. As for unfortunate marriages, I know about those, and their unhappy consequences.’

A momentary constraint was lifted by Uncle John’s breezily enquiring: ‘Well, and where is your excellent young man, my dear? Is he at Hethersett?’

‘Not yet. He is still away visiting relatives
—’

‘And acquainting them with his coming good fortune, no doubt!’

‘Perhaps,’ Miss Milner said, smiling, with a most fascinating blush that began at the back of her neck. ‘But we may expect him back soon
—
within the month. And his word is much more to be relied on than my unconscionable brother’s. Well, Uncle, I hope you find yourself improved by Bath?’

‘I do believe the waters have braced my system, and purged the dropsical humours, my dear. But it would not do for me for long
—
too much hurry and bustle. I could never think of retiring there. I hope that won’t disappoint
you,
my dear,’ he added with a benevolent pat on Caroline’s arm, ‘for you are not averse to bustle, I collect, having lived in the great world.’

‘Oh, I have had quite enough of bustle, thank you, Uncle John,’ Caroline said. And now she will hate me, she thought resignedly, as Miss Milner turned her beautiful, rather short-sighted eyes upon her. Here come I from nowhere, calling her uncle Uncle, and making oh-so-light of my worldly sophistication.
Quite enough of bustle
—
what
do
I mean? I think
I
hate me.

But Miss Milner only said pleasantly: ‘I have been at Bath once, when I was thirteen. A fat man trod quite hard on my toes in the Pump Room, and did not say sorry. I remember his face very well, and live in hopes that I may see him again one day. Then I shall stamp on his foot; and I hope it is gouty.’

The effect of this, in Miss Milner’s quiet, proper tones, was irresistible to Caroline. Her uncle, though he smiled too, began to speak about the Christian duty of forgiveness; and Miss Milner gave him a polite attention. But Caroline was sure there was a little flinty core of independence under that mild surface, which she very much liked, Indeed, something quite different began to displace her belief that Isabella Milner must hate her: something opposite.

It is this.

You know Isabella Milner. Oh, the incidental details may vary. This living instance is a young lady with a soft, purposeful step, a habit of murmuring reproachfully to herself when she feels she has acted wrongly, a liking for helpings of potatoes and mutton that may make her plump in ten years’ time, an inability to deceive. Any or all of these qualities may differ: the essence of the figure is unchanged, and you know her or him.

Isabella is the person with whom, in a room full of silly, boastful people, you will exchange a silent, speaking glance that becomes a smile: the person to whom you never need to explain yourself laboriously: the person you will not compete with.

Isabella is that person you realize, deep down and at once, will be your friend.

And ten minutes later Caroline found herself putting on her bonnet and preparing to go on a walk with her new acquaintance. Conversation having reverted to local matters, Aunt Selina had mentioned that she was going to show Caroline something of the village: Miss Milner had promptly said she would be delighted to be her guide. ‘Though it is a little wet still in places, Miss Fortune
—
I don’t know whether you will want overshoes.’

‘Well
—
you have none, I see, Miss Milner.’

‘Oh, I like to jump over the puddles,’ Miss Milner explained seriously.

‘Then we shall jump together.’

It was now a fine fresh autumn day: the pools of water from last night’s downpour made a glittering dapple all about the broad main road of the village, on either side of which clustered the cottages, distinguished by low roofs and peculiarly long, sloping dormer windows, giving Caroline the fancy that their inhabitants must go about bent double. She had conceived this as a flat, bare sort of country, but Wythorpe she found enfolded by a soft swell of hills to the west, and there were venerable trees aplenty, including at the main turning a clump of great horse-chestnuts. Two boys were pelting them with sticks for conkers; and Caroline, watching, hearing the satisfying slither and thump of the spiky green cases in their descent, was filled with an absurd happiness, which was not at all diminished by Miss Milner’s next words.

‘Miss Fortune, I want to say how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t like to say with Uncle and Aunt by, because I know it is awkward, and other people make it feel awkwarder. And I won’t allude to it further, except to say I do know what it is like to lose a father.’