Indiscretion (7 page)

She tried not to repine: mostly she succeeded; but still there were nights when she threw open her bedroom window to gasp the fresh air that was never allowed to circulate in Mrs Catling’s house, and to hear the near murmur of the sea, which to her young mind, fretted by endless rubbers of whist, seemed the very sound of life going on tantalizingly without her.

Mrs Catling’s ill-humours were not unbearably frequent, and when they did come the storm was soon ridden out. More unpredictable, and more troubling, were the tremendous fits of gloom to which she was subject.

These were referable to no object or event: the widow did not fall to thinking on her husband or her lone state, and there was no question of chivvying her out of them
—
Caroline made the attempt once, and retreated scorched. It was rather as if some alteration came over her vision: the wry satire fell away, and the greedy relish, and instead there was only the world and her vast, bleak contempt for it. At such times Mrs Catling’s hard black eyes seemed to be looking out, not over the liveliness of Brighton, but over a lunar terrain, rocky, blasted, and hopeless.

Caroline tried not to be infected by this, even though it had a peculiarly pervasive effect on the household: at such times even the carriage-horses seemed to hang their heads in depression. The best of all remedies was a letter from her father. These came irregularly, and were full of nonsense, chaos, self-glorification, thumping fibs, and fondness. She could almost physically warm herself at them.

But it was a letter from another source that finally broke through the most forbidding of Mrs Catling’s moods, a spell of cold brooding that seemed set to turn into everlasting winter. Caroline, reading out her correspondence to her one morning when the brilliant sun streaming into the breakfast-parlour seemed to chill and fade as it touched the old lady’s bombazine skirts, had despaired of any communication raising anything but a scowl
—
and then she came to a letter that changed everything.

‘From Mr and Miss Downey, ma’am.’ Ah, the danglers. ‘Shall I read it?’

‘Oh, yes.’ All at once there was a light in Mrs Catling’s eyes
—
a very feline, if not kindly light; like a bored cat that hears a mouse in the wainscot. ‘Oh, yes, read it. Let us hear what they have to say’

‘“My dear aunt,”‘ Caroline began. ‘“It is in no spirit of trifling formality, but with the greatest earnestness, that Maria and I enquire after your health. That we were not able to satisfy ourselves upon that score, before your removal from London, was owing to our not being informed of the exact date of your departure. I called at Dover Street, and found you gone two days since. The disagreement there had been between you and me on my last visit, I take to account for your leaving without affording us the opportunity of goodbyes. I am as far from reprehending this omission, as I am from welcoming it; I fear it was a too natural consequence of our late quarrel
—
which, I hasten to add, was not of my seeking; but the share of blame that is portionable to my impetuosity of temper I willingly accept. You must know, Aunt, that to hear my late father abused is a thing I can never endure
—
however no more of that. If you have any doubt of the strong love and duty that both Maria and I bear to you, then I know not what may suffice to convince you: if I tell you that I have had not a moment’s easiness since our unhappy parting, you will deplore my language as insincere and over-dramatic. Well, you may be in the right of it. We hear, by the by, through mutual acquaintance, that you have found a companion to your satisfaction: it is a satisfaction that finds a willing echo here in Golden Square. We are pleased to think of you no longer solitary
—
I would not say lonely, which, knowing your resources of mind, temper and character, could only be an impudence. I hope the connection prospers, and that the young woman is properly sensible of her good fortune. My dear aunt, Maria and I hope that we will see you very soon. We intend coming to Brighton the day after tomorrow, that is Wednesday, on purpose to do so. You would reprove I am sure the extravagance of travelling post, and so we shall come on the Eclipse coach, which I hear can complete the journey, most remarkably, in under six hours. We shall wait upon you as soon as we arrive, if we may; and I look forward with the eagerest anticipation to the final repairing of the breach, of which this letter is the first attempt. How long we shall stay must wait upon the issue of that meeting
—
until which happy time I sign myself, your most dutiful and affectionate nephew, Matthew Downey.”‘

‘Well! There is a study for you, my dear,’ said Mrs Catling, who throughout the reading of the letter had made faces as if she were sipping an unthinkably dry yet refreshing champagne. ‘Did you ever read such a letter? One hardly knows where to begin. You may know more of these things than I, being fresh from the seminary and all, but one would surely not recommend
portionable
or
eagerest
to the connoisseur of style. But there, my nephew would no doubt put the in elegancies down to his overflowing feelings. He is a great one for his feelings. Notice how even such small blame as he will accept he turns to his own account
—
showing how honest and frank and loyal to his father he is. Oh, excellent! And a most friendly and disinterested reference to
you,
my dear. They are pleased I have you! Oh, of course they are! And they are not coming to Brighton to make sure that I am not growing
too
fond of you, of course they are not!’

‘Mrs Catling, you know I don’t want to be a bone of contention between you and your family. It is fair to no one.’

‘I know that, my dear, of course I do. Why, you are all innocence and sweetness, and you absolutely shudder at the thought of replacing my family in my favour!’

‘I disclaim the innocence and sweetness, ma’am, but as for the rest
—
yes. If you think I have such designs
—’

‘But this is delicious! Now
everyone
is protesting their sincerity’ Mrs Catling cried, with her sharp jangling laugh. ‘You might add, my dear, that you would be just as fond of me if I hadn’t a penny
—
that’s one of my nephew’s old favourites, though he hasn’t used it in this letter. Saving it for our meeting, no doubt.’

‘Ma’am,’ Caroline said, studying her acidly smiling employer with some pain, ‘you truly do not believe I am sincere? And nothing I can do can convince you of it?’

‘My dear Miss Fortune, you must not suppose yourself singled out. I trust your sincerity quite as much as anyone else’s. And I am not in the least displeased with you. I greatly look forward to introducing you to that precious pair. Uff! Indeed I
look forward with anticipation,
as my inimitably redundant nephew would say. Well, so they will be upon us tomorrow! I dare say I should ask them to dine. Friday will do: we have no one else coming.’

‘Won’t they be staying here, ma’am?’

‘Here? Why so?’ Mrs Catling’s eyes narrowed. ‘They do not ask if they can come and stay, and neither were they invited. They merely announce their intention of coming to Brighton. I am not a hotel-keeper. They must do as they please. I have a great deal more to think of than their whims and fancies.’

This was of course not true. Nothing else was to be thought of at West Street from the moment of the letter’s arrival, which the Downeys must surely know; and Mrs Catling surely knew that they knew
—
and so on. Such was the game into which Caroline found herself unwillingly drawn.

For her part the letter aroused various emotions. There was eager curiosity, for she sorely felt the need of new company: something like sympathetic interest too. Reading out Mr Matthew Downey’s words had given her a sense of him as a flatterer, to be sure; but then perhaps being on close terms with a rich aunt made you so. Caroline knew that her own late mother had a sister somewhere still in Huntingdonshire, the one who had retained parental approval, and had the family money settled on her; and perhaps if she herself had been dancing attendance on that mysterious lady for years, now in favour and now out, she would have developed just such a blandishing habit.

However, if there had been only servility, she must have been repulsed. It was the hint of something tindery and spirited in the letter that engaged her attention
—
even perhaps simply the accents of youth, which though she had been with Mrs Catling for only a month, seemed not to have reached her ears in an age. The danglers would not like Caroline, of course; but Caroline was quite prepared to like the danglers.

The Downeys being due to arrive in Brighton on Wednesday afternoon and promising a call as soon as they did, Mrs Catling made sure that her carriage was ready by noon on Wednesday
—
so that she could be out all day. ‘I need an airing,’ she said to Caroline, ‘and so, I have decided, do you. A
long
one.’

So they went on a drive. They trundled about the Downs. They drew up above Brighton Camp, and watched some decidedly unspectacular horse-exercise: they went on to Rottingdean and Saltdean, and looked at churches and views while the shadows lengthened. As Caroline, if asked to name half a dozen things that Mrs Catling did not like, would have placed churches and views high amongst them, she soon gathered the purpose of the jaunt, and resigned herself to a weary day It was evening when the coachman was allowed at last to turn the horses’ heads towards home. There, Mrs Catling had the satisfaction of finding that her relatives had called, and called again, and gone away to their inn much perplexed.

If this was her purpose, then why the old lady could not have simply stayed at home, and had the servants say she was not, Caroline could not fathom. But that was to apply reason to the question
—
and about these relations of hers, Mrs Catling was not reasonable: she was, in fact, mad. From her observation of life, Caroline was coming to the conclusion that every individual, however sane and sensible, had one aspect in which they were to all intents and purposes mad. In her father, for instance, it was his belief that he was a shrewd man of affairs. In Miss Willis, it had been a fixed delusion that if she threw back her head and laughed at the ceiling with her eyes closed she rendered herself instantly more attractive to the opposite sex. Plainly Mrs Catling, who questioned the footman for twenty minutes on
exactly
how the callers had looked on being told she was not at home, when it came to her nephew and niece, was as mad as Ajax.

Caroline herself was, of course, the exception that proved this interesting rule, being all rationality.

The meeting came at last
—
the next morning, when Caroline was accompanying Mrs Catling on her usual promenade along the Steyne, and being treated to the usual scurrilous information on every passer-by. A man’s voice cried, ‘Aunt! Aunt Sophia!’ from some distance behind them.

‘And now this woman on our left, with the crown of curls, is actually as bald as an egg
—’

‘Ma’am,’ Caroline interrupted her, ‘someone is calling you
—
surely Mr Downey’ She turned to look back, but was steered firmly round by Mrs Catling, who could hear perfectly well, and was determined on a last triumph of making her relatives run after her, and get out of breath, and be generally at a disadvantage.

So they were: Mr Matthew Downey, and Miss Maria Downey, stood panting before them, he that same dark and stocky young man Caroline had encountered in the hall at Dover Street, she a golden-fair, long-limbed, languorous sylph of a girl, who looked as if she strongly disliked running, now or ever.

‘Matthew
—
Maria
—
how d’you do, my dears? We are blessed by the weather again, are we not? Though I do smell a shower in the wind,’ Mrs Catling said, with provoking blandness; and gathering Caroline’s arm tightly to her, ‘This is Miss Caroline Fortune, my new companion
—
I say
new,
though we are so wonderfully used to each other, and so entirely in each other’s confidence, that I feel as if I have known her all my life! My dear, what are you thinking? Pray put up your parasol
—
you’ll spoil that beautiful skin.’

This mark of affectionate attention was so utterly unlike Mrs Catling that Caroline could not have been more surprised if her employer had got down upon all fours and invited her to a game of Gee-Up Dobbin. But it succeeded in its chief aim. Mr Matthew Downey, at least, looked thoroughly put out: he could manage only stiff civility as the introductions were made.

‘But, Aunt,’ he went on impatiently, ‘you must know we have tried to call upon you. And you never at home
—
we were quite concerned
—’

‘Were you?’ Mrs Catling said, smiling, with a tremendous question mark. ‘Why? Did you suppose the servants had murdered me, and were concealing the fact? But, my dear Matthew, you forget yourself
—
here is a gentleman unintroduced.’

This was a tall, fine-figured man who had been accompanying the Downeys, and who, having declined altogether to break into a run, only now came up with them. He was dressed with negligent elegance, his coat fashionably tight across his broad shoulders, but not so that it would require two strong men and a winch to get him out of it: his cravat tied with careful carelessness, seals at his waist, his patent boots dazzling. He was about thirty, and in his aquiline good looks the best qualities of youth and maturity stood in such striking balance that Caroline turned a little dry-mouthed at the sight. His smile, though, completed him: it had the right dash of self-mockery in it, and seemed to contradict Caroline’s inward proviso that a man so handsome must be very stupid.

‘This is Mr Leabrook,’ Matthew said, impatient as before. ‘We met on the coach, and came down to Brighton together, and so we became a sort of friends. Oh, hang it
—
’
as Mrs Catling’s satirical eyebrows rose
‘
—
I don’t mean it to sound so
—
only it was
you
we came to see, Aunt, as you well know.’

‘I am flattered,’ Mrs Catling said, ‘and now you see me, and you might, my dear Matthew, be a little more gracious. I shall be very glad to have Mr Leabrook’s acquaintance also. Your name, sir, suggests a Northampton connection ...
?’

‘My family have long been settled in Northamptonshire, yes, ma’am,’ said Mr Leabrook, in an agreeable surprisingly light-toned voice. ‘Your own name is familiar to me from the splendid reputation of the late Colonel
—
also from your young relatives here, who have spoken much of you, and with the warmest admiration, this
last couple of days. I confess it is I who have stuck to them rather, as I have found them such pleasant company, and me an idle fellow without resources. However, here is a family reunion, and I am
de trop;
so I’ll wish you good day.’

But Mrs Catling would not hear of that. Mr Leabrook, fashionable and well connected, was just the sort of gentleman to recommend himself to her taste in any event: he was doubly welcome as another stick with which to beat her relatives, for by giving him a deal of attention she still withheld it from them. While she plied him with questions about how he liked Brighton, and had he seen the latest improvements to the Pavilion, and did he know Lord Fitzwilliam up in Northamptonshire, she retained Caroline’s arm with every appearance of possessive fondness.

Meanwhile Mr and Miss Downey stood by: she had a pretty sulky mouth and looked simply bored, but he was cross and heated, and Caroline felt that the charade had gone on long enough. She disengaged herself from Mrs Catling with the excuse that her bootlace was undone, and hung back, making a long pretence of fixing it. At last she had the satisfaction of seeing her employer walking on with her nephew and niece on each arm, questioning them minutely about the standard of service at the Old Ship, where they were staying. Danglers they might be, she thought, but they had come a long way to see her after all.

‘It was well done,’ quietly said Mr Leabrook, falling into step with her. ‘Whether appreciated, who can say? I caught your name, Miss Fortune, and I have gathered from my new friends the position you have taken up. I do not suppose it to be an easy one. But where do you hail from?’

‘I have lived mostly in London. I suppose that is where I hail from
—
which is a curious expression, isn’t it? Hailing sounds rather strong and decided for me. I fear I drizzle if anything. Or mizzle. They are the same, I dare say, though I always fancy mizzle as that little bit wetter
—
not that you can have rain that
isn’t
wet.’ Caroline listened to herself with rising mortification: if it were possible to blabber worse nonsense, she could not see how.

‘I thought you must be London,’ Mr Leabrook said, looking at her with great attention, only delicately laced with amusement.’There is an air.’

‘Why are you at Brighton?’ She meant a polite enquiry: it came out grossly forensic. ‘I wonder,’ she added limply.

‘I am here on a family errand also. I have a younger sister
—
all of thirteen years younger than me, which means that we are just about on a level
—
and she has been at a boarding-school at Hove, and I have come to bring her home. That
was
the plan. It has all gone rather awry. First the pole of my carriage broke while I was in London, the very day before I was due to come here and fetch her away in it. Hence my taking the public coach instead
—
which, of course, was one of those lucky accidents, as it introduced me to our friends here. And now I find that Georgiana, my sister, does not wish to come home. She is invited to Weymouth for the summer by a schoolfellow, whose father has a pleasure-yacht, and Georgiana has a great fancy for sailing. Our place in Northamptonshire is about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in England, so perhaps that accounts for it. So here I am in Brighton with nothing to do. Are they reconciled now, do you suppose?’ he added in a lower tone, nodding at Mrs Catling and her supporters. ‘Downey has been most anxious about it all. What is the substance of this quarrel, do you know? Of course I realize you must be discreet.’

‘I suspect it is one of those quarrels that will always be breaking out, from the pride of either party. But you are right
—
I must be discreet.’

‘Else they will be making
you
the subject of a quarrel, eh? Never fear me, I shall say no more. So, do you go to the Thursday assemblies, Miss Fortune? And do you find them tolerably well attended?’

‘I think those are polite form questions,’ she said, observing his faint smile.

‘Just so. I thought it time we had a couple. Like bread with your ragout.’

‘Then yes and yes are your answers. It might be easier if one could just hold up a little flag for those social interchanges, don’t you think? Up for “Yes, quite,” half-cock for “Shocking weather”, and down for “I am bored to death”. Why do you say that you and your sister are on a level?’

‘I mean in mental development
—
women being so forward of us in that regard that we men need twelve or thirteen years’ head start to put us on an equality.’

‘That is very flattering, and surely meant to be.’

‘Certainly. But surely you would not have it otherwise?’

‘You mean, being a woman I must like to hear complimentary things said about women? Perhaps. But then each of us always makes an exception for ourselves in such generalizations. Hence that other class of men, who seek to win the favour of the female sex by roundly abusing them. Many a woman sees that as a challenge: “I’ll convert him,” thinks she. And if she can get the man to esteem
her,
whilst despising all her sisterhood, then all the better. Where’s the merit in fascinating a man who admires all women anyway?’

‘Well, I am of the admiring class: I freely admit it
—
and my side has at least the virtue of honesty.’

‘Ah, but isn’t a virtue something exercised for its own sake? Whereas flattery has always an
aim!

‘Not always. There are some men, I believe, who cannot help themselves, and will keep it up with no notion of anything coming of it.’

And are
you
of that sort? Caroline wondered, studying askance his gracefully strolling figure, his clear-cut profile with the grey eye sparked by humour. There were elegant gentlemen aplenty walking that promenade, but beside Mr Leabrook they showed all sorts of awkwardness, asymmetry, affection. Here was such ease and naturalness, combined with polish and civility, that she had been at first a little knocked back by him. Now she suspected he was an accomplished flirt; though even so she remained, if not knocked back, at least half horizontal.

‘You are wanted, I think,’ he said, gently pressing her arm and nodding ahead. Mrs Catling, obviously feeling she had indulged her relatives enough, was turning herself about, and demanding: ‘Where is my Caroline? I am quite lost, you know, without my Caroline
—
quite lost.’ Caroline, who had never even heard her employer use her first name, let alone decorate it with that fond possessive, tried to keep the surprise from her face. But Mr Leabrook missed nothing: he repeated the pressure, and said quietly, ‘My feeling is that if someone tries to use you as a tool, you shouldn’t mind it, because it is their choice and folly, not yours.’

‘My dear,’ Mrs Catling cried, as Caroline rejoined her, ‘we must go home soon, and this mantle is all in a twist from the wind, and I must have your delicate fingers. No one can set it right just as you do
—
here is Matthew making it ten times worse with his fumbling.’