Indiscretion (25 page)

‘Why then do you regret the hurry?’

‘You are quite forensic today. Why
—
because, as I said last night, there’s no need for it. Only she looks about her at the Manor, and she thinks there is. This is a frankness too far, perhaps: I am trusting to your discretion, Miss Fortune.’

‘You may do so.’

He grunted, as if he doubted it. ‘But come, you said you wanted to be serious: what was it you wanted to speak of?’

She looked up at the dripping canopy of leaves. ‘This tree
—
I wish I knew the name of this tree.’

‘William. Will to his friends. I do not think that is what you wanted to ask at all.’ He looked narrowly at her. ‘But I shall accord you the prerogative of a woman to be mysterious. It’s an alder, by the by. I see the rain is clearing: are you coming on to the Manor, to call on Bella?’

This time her hesitation was only momentary: for though she was no nearer to a final decision, one negative decision was made for her now: she was not going to see Isabella and pour it all out.

‘Thank you, I had better go home: there will be breakfast, and Aunt Selina will be wondering where I am.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘But why were you climbing the stile into the park, if not to call at the Manor?’

‘You are quite forensic today,’ she said, shrugging and half turning.

‘Ah, you were coming to call on
me.
’

‘No, I was coming to poach your pheasants, Mr Milner.’

‘Lucky I don’t keep any, then. You could have poached a hen, perhaps. There’s probably a pun there about poaching eggs, but I won’t pursue it. Oh, but, Miss Fortune
—’
he gave her a stricken look
‘—
will you be able to get home without mishap? I seem to recall quite a large stone, almost as large as an apple, in the middle of Rectory Lane, and if you were to fall over it
—’

‘I know the one, sir, I picked it up and carry it in my pocket in case I need to brain any annoying gentlemen,’ she rapped out, turning away.

‘An unlikely eventuality, but one never knows.’ She could hear, if not see, his grin. ‘Good day, Miss Fortune.’

At the Rectory Aunt Selina was surprised to see her coming in from a walk at such an early hour; and she had further occasion for surprise that day, as Caroline actively sought all the dullest housekeeping tasks, and when she had done all that could be done with storerooms, preserves, hemming, and silver-polishing, was actually to be discovered in the parlour busily quilting: a sight so surprising that even
Dr Langland
was startled out of obtuseness, and asked if she were quite well.

What she sought in industry, of course, was distraction from the ceaseless turning of her mind. Fortunately there was no visit from Isabella today, which spared her the difficulty of keeping her countenance through the inevitable talk of Mr Leabrook. On the other hand, her absence must mean she was busy with wedding plans, as Stephen had said
...
Relief came at last with oblivion: the disturbed night and the busy day sending her drooping to bed even earlier than the Langlands’ custom.

Of course, there must be a waking, and so a return to her dilemma.

But she found that, like a fever, this burden of indecision could be borne, simply because it had to be. She was even able to go on her usual walk with Isabella, and endure the discussion of the wedding: though in fact there was comparatively little of that, for Isabella’s habitual reserve had returned in some degree, besides her well-mannered aversion to being a bore; and altogether there was less torment here than there might have been. Still, the most difficult day of all was coming towards her, and could not be held off by any efforts of resolve or patience: the day of Richard Leabrook’s return.

First, however, there came a welcome distraction in the shape of the Hampsons’ evening-party. Aunt Selina and Uncle John, feeling that the dinner at the Manor made them sufficient gadabouts for this month, chose not to go, but only on the assurance that this would not prevent Caroline, who was already invited to accompany the Manor party. The Milners’ carriage stopped accordingly at the Rectory gate, on the appointed evening, and Stephen Milner stepped out to make room for her, declaring that he would walk the rest of the way to the Old Grange. At this Captain Brunton got down too, saying he could easily do likewise, much to the consternation of Lady Milner.

‘Edward, what are you doing? There is no need for this, there is room enough.’

‘Room enough, but only just room,’ the Captain said, with justice, for the four women — Lady Milner, Isabella, Fanny, and Caroline — filled it comfortably, without the danger of crushed gowns.

‘But I do not think this is proper,’ Lady Milner said fretfully. ‘You leave us unprotected.’

At this Captain Brunton hesitated: but Stephen breezily declared: ‘Never fear, Augusta, we shall be walking at a good pace behind you, and if the last living highwayman in Huntingdonshire should pop out from behind the village pump, we shall wrestle the doddering greybeard to the ground,’ and shut the carriage door.

They moved off: Lady Milner had no choice but to submit; but she kept up a murmur of complaint, to the effect that Sir Henry would never have approved it.

‘Oh, nonsense, Augusta, Papa was never one to make a great fuss about such things,’ Fanny said roundly. ‘Caroline, I do love the dressing of your hair — what is it called? Is it French?’

‘I beg your pardon, Fanny, I think I may claim to know best the ways of my own husband,’ Lady Milner said.

‘As he was our father for a good many years more than he was your husband,’ Isabella said uncontrollably, ‘the claim of knowing
best
might be more plausibly maintained by us.’

‘For most of those years, Isabella, you were a child,’ Lady Milner retorted, very pale.

‘As were you, ma’am,’ said Isabella, ‘and a child living a long way away from Wythorpe Manor.’ Fanny smothered a snort.

‘When you are a married woman, you will better understand these things,’ Lady Milner said, drawing herself up with a great display of cheekbones. ‘Until that time, Isabella, I would counsel you to discretion.’

‘I thank you for your counsel, ma’am, and you may be assured that
that time
cannot come soon enough for me.’

‘A Grecian
coque,’
Caroline said; and as three round-eyed faces turned to her, added with a pacific smile: ‘That’s what it is called — the dressing of my hair.’

The Old Grange was, as its name suggested, a venerable building of grey stone, in which it was possible to imagine a substantial farmer feasting his work-folk at a long oak table: until you got inside, when it became impossible to imagine anything of the kind. Mrs Hampson’s fortune had gone towards a thorough refurbishing in the most modern style, and on the apparent principle that one could not have too much of a good thing. The eye was assaulted by a profusion of Chinese wallpapers, japan-ware, silk screens, flower-stands, Turkey rugs, filigree-work, chaise-longues, cameos, and cheval-glasses. But neither was there any stinting in the welcome extended by their smiling hosts, who had gathered most of the sociable neighbourhood into their large drawing room, where the ladies did their best not to loll on the backless sofas, and the gentlemen not to topple the knick-knacks with their coat-tails. There was a great fire, there was choice wine, there was a highly polished new pianoforte and an angular female relation to play it; and once the carpet was rolled back and the occasional tables shifted, there was room for six couple to dance as many country-dances as they liked, while a similarly generous supper awaited in an adjoining parlour. Even those who came to sneer went away well entertained and well fed, and could report to their friends that the Hampsons were a very good sort of people, and that one could not refuse them the favour of a visit now and then.

Caroline, being civilly handed by Mr Hampson to the sort of sofa on which she could picture a Roman of the decadent sort eating grapes upside-down, enquired how the bridal portrait was coming
on;
and was rewarded not only with a full account of its progress, but with an introduction to the artist. This was a slightly built young man whose long crop of dark curling hair and large, brown, intense eyes gave him a little of a gypsy look; though he was well dressed
m a
style Caroline thought of as elegant negligence, or negligent elegance, and his manners were pleasing. Mr Hampson, like a resourceful host, managed to recollect something about Caroline
—
that she came from London
—
and announcing the happy coincidence that Mr Charles Carraway had trained in London, left them to converse on the strength of it. But this was easy enough, Mr Carraway having a quick, frank way about him.

‘For as long as I could,’ he answered, when she asked him if he had studied at the Royal Academy schools. ‘I was brought up by an uncle
—
the kindest of guardians, but of limited means, who could sponsor me only so long. Then I spent some time in the studio of Signor Almansi — a sort of apprenticeship: painting foliage in the background of his vast canvases. In truth none of this quite suited me — it was simply too academic: I have an odd jumble of a brain that will not be ordered — and I longed to paint from nature. So, I have struck out alone.’

‘I know those paintings you mean. Everybody’s draperies are always blowing about in a complicated manner. So you have returned to native ground in Huntingdonshire, sir?’

‘I have connections here,’ he said, with the vaguely smiling, dreaming look that seemed to descend periodically over him. ‘And a commission for topographical views at Hinchingbrooke was offered which, in my position, I could scarcely refuse. But what I have found so entrancing in this part of the world is the skies. They are incomparable.’

‘Skies, sir?’ put in Fanny Milner, who had been changing her shoes, and now came briskly up with her usual lack of ceremony. ‘We have
those
in this country, to be sure: but the pity is, that there is so little beneath them that is worth noticing.’

‘Do you really find it so?’ Mr Carraway answered, not with mere politeness, but great energy. ‘Tell me how.’

‘Well.’ Fanny for once was a little taken aback. ‘Well, there is nothing very grand, or exciting, or even terrible, to be met with in a district like this: it is all just narrow provincial dullness.’

Mr Carraway, with his dreamy smile, waved a hand. ‘Dullness I abhor — aye, dullness is the true enemy of the soul — not wickedness. Dullness it is that perverts and corrupts the spirit — but you know it is always possible, it always
must
be possible, to look past the dullness, and see the bright, shining heart of things.’

‘It may be so for you, sir,’ Fanny said, with a look part doubtful, part interested. ‘But how I
—’

‘Please,’ Mr Carraway said, leaping up from the sofa, and gracefully whisking Fanny down on to it. ‘I’m not sure how to explain. I express myself poorly in words — poorly enough with the brush in truth, but no matter
—’

‘Oh, you are the painter!’ exclaimed Fanny. ‘The one who is doing the Hampsons’ portrait. Well, I am glad, very glad to see you here.’

‘Are you?’ he said quizzically.

‘Yes, because it is very liberal of the Hampsons, for at most of the parties one goes to there is no one of an artistic sort to be found, because they are not drearily respectable enough — is that offensive? I assure you it isn’t meant to be — quite the reverse!’

‘Oh, the respectable world and I are on easy terms. I ignore it when I choose, and it does likewise with me. Life is shockingly short to trouble about such things. Warmth — frankness — generosity of spirit — if I find these amongst respectability, I love them: if amongst unrespectability, likewise. I don’t know if there is such a word as unrespectability,’ he said, with an engaging laugh, ‘but there should be. If not, I hereby create it.’

‘I like the word. I like the thing, at any rate,’ Fanny said, her eyes shining. ‘There, but you have the artist’s eye
—’

‘Everyone does. At least, everyone has something of the spirit that animates the artist. This is what I wanted to convey to you — let me see, what can I set before you
...
My lodging. It is in Huntingdon. It is above a stationer’s, and the chimney smokes, and the view is of a rooftop adorned only with a dead starling. Here is your dullness, if you like. But what transforms it for me — the stationer has two little children. They play on the landing — wonderfully inventive games, dramas indeed, with numerous characters and hair’s-breadth escapes and sometimes — why not? — a return from the dead, or a transformation from evil to good. I can refresh myself by hearkening to this outside my door at any time when I feel stale and dull.’

‘It is an enchanting picture,’ Fanny said wistfully. ‘But then, you know, one cannot think like a child
now.’

‘That is because you have forgotten how,’ Mr Carraway said. ‘We all do — I think because we lose that spontaneity children possess. We unlearn it. There is another new word. You see, what a child
thinks,
a child
says.
And that is delightful — is it not?’