My Cousin Rachel (18 page)

Now, once again, I gave my orders to the woodmen, in fact I went out myself into the woods to choose the tree. Rachel was all delight. No celebration could have pleased her better. She held earnest consultation with Seecombe and the cook, she visited the larders, and the storage chambers, and the gamehouse; she even prevailed upon my male household to allow two girls from the Barton to come up and make French pastry under her supervision. All was excitement, and mystery too; because I would have it that she should not see the tree, and she insisted that I must not know what would be put before us for the dinner.

Packages arrived for her, and were whisked away upstairs. When I knocked upon her boudoir door I would hear crackling of paper, and then, an age afterwards it seemed, her voice would answer me, “Come in.” And she would be kneeling on the floor, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, with a covering flung over several objects strewn about the carpet, and she would tell me not to look.

I was back to childhood once again, back to the old fever of standing in my nightshirt tiptoe on the stairs, hearing the murmur of voices from below, and Ambrose coming suddenly from the library and laughing at me, “Go up to bed, you rascal, I’ll flay the hide off you.”

One thing gave me anxiety. What could I give Rachel for a present? I took a day in Truro, browsing in the bookshops for a book on gardens, but could find nothing. And what was more, the books from Italy she had brought with her were finer than any I could give her. I had no idea what present pleased a woman. My godfather used to buy stuff to make a gown, when he gave anything to Louise, but Rachel wore mourning only. I could not give her that. Once, I remember, Louise had been much delighted with a locket that he had brought from London. She used to wear it of an evening, when she ate Sunday dinner with us. And then the solution came to me.

There must be something, among the jewels belonging to my family, that I could give to Rachel. They were not kept at home in the safe, with the Ashley documents and papers, but at the bank. Ambrose had thought it best, in case of fire. I had no knowledge what was there. I had a hazy recollection of going to the bank one day with Ambrose, when I was very young, and of his picking up some necklace and telling me, smiling, that it had belonged to our grandmother, and that my mother had worn it on her wedding day, but for the day only, as a loan, my father not being in the direct line of succession, and that one day, if I behaved myself well, Ambrose would permit me to give it to my wife. I realized, now, that whatever there was in the bank belonged to me. Or would do, in three months’ time; but that was quibbling.

My godfather would know, of course, what jewels there were, but he had gone up to Exeter on business and would not be home until Christmas Eve, when he and Louise were invited to the dinner. I determined to go to the bank myself and demand to see the jewels.

Mr. Couch received me with his usual courtesy, and taking me into his private room, facing the harbor, he listened to my request.

“I take it Mr. Kendall would have no objection?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I said impatiently, “the matter is quite understood.” Which was untruthful, but at twenty-four, within a few months of my birthday, to have to ask my godfather for permission to do every little thing was quite ridiculous. And it riled me.

Mr. Couch sent to the vaults for the jewels. They came up, in sealed boxes. He broke the seal, and, placing a cloth on the desk in front of him, laid the jewels out upon it, one by one.

I had no idea the collection was so fine. There were rings, bracelets, earrings, brooches; and many of the pieces went together, such as a ruby headpiece for the hair and ruby earrings to go with it, likewise a sapphire bracelet and pendant and ring. Yet as I looked at them, not liking to touch them even with my finger, I remembered, with disappointment, that Rachel was in mourning, and wore no colored stones. If I presented her with these, it would be pointless; she would have no use for them.

Then Mr. Couch opened the last box, and drew from it a collar of pearls. There were four strands. They fastened round the neck like a band, with a single diamond clasp. I recognized it instantly. It was the necklace that Ambrose had shown me as a child.

“I like this,” I said, “this is the finest thing in the whole collection. I remember my cousin Ambrose showing it to me.”

“Why, there might be a difference of opinion,” said Mr. Couch; “for my part, I would price the rubies highest. But there is family feeling about the pearl collar. Your grandmother, Mrs. Ambrose Ashley, wore it first as a bride, at the Court of St. James. Then your aunt, Mrs. Philip, had it given to her, as a matter of course, when the estate passed down to your uncle. Various members of the family have worn it on their wedding day. Your own mother was among them; in point of fact, I think she was the last to do so. Your cousin, Mr. Ambrose Ashley, would never permit it to go out of the country, when there were weddings elsewhere.” He held the collar in his hand, and the light from the window fell upon the smooth round pearls.

“Yes,” he said, “it is a beautiful thing. And no woman has put it on for five-and-twenty years. I attended your mother’s wedding. She was a pretty creature. It became her well.”

I put out my hand and took the collar from him.

“Well, I want to keep it now,” I said, and I placed the collar with its wrappings in the box. He looked a little taken aback.

“I do not know if that is wise, Mr. Ashley,” he said. “If this should be lost or mislaid it would be a terrible thing.”

“It won’t be lost,” I answered briefly.

He did not seem happy, and I made haste to go, lest he should produce some argument more forceful.

“If you are worried what my guardian will say,” I told him, “please rest assured. I will make it right with him when he returns from Exeter.”

“I hope so,” said Mr. Couch, “but I had preferred it had he been present. Of course in April, when you come into the property legally, it would not matter if you took the whole collection, and did as you wished with them. I should not advise such a step, but it would be strictly legal.”

I held out my hand to him and wished him a pleasant Christmas and rode home, much elated. If I had searched the whole country I could not have found a better present for her. Thank heaven pearls were white. And it made a bond to think that the last woman to wear them had been my mother. I would tell her that. Now I could face the prospect of Christmas Eve with a lighter heart.

Two days to wait… The weather was fine, the frost was light, and there was all the promise of a clear dry evening for the dinner. The servants were much excited, and on the morning of Christmas Eve, when the trestle tables and the benches had been set down the room, and the knives and forks and platters all laid ready, with evergreen hanging from the beams, I asked Seecombe and the lads to come with me and decorate the tree. Seecombe made himself master of the ceremony. He stood a little apart from the rest of us, to give himself a longer view, and as we turned the tree this way and that, and lifted one branch and then another, to balance the frosty fir cones on it and the holly berries, he waved his hands at us, looking for all the world like the conductor of a string sextet.

“The angle does not please me, Mr. Philip,” he said, “the tree would appear to better advantage if moved a trifle to the left. Ah! too far… Yes, that is better. John, the fourth branch on the right is bent. Raise it somewhat. Tch, tch… your touch is heavy. Spread out the branches, Arthur, spread them. The tree must seem to be standing as nature placed it. Don’t stamp upon the berries, Jim. Mr. Philip, let it stay now as it is. One further movement, and the whole is wrecked.”

I had never thought him to possess such a sense of artistry.

He stood back, his hands under his coattails, his eyes near closed. “Mr. Philip,” he said to me, “we have attained perfection.” I saw young John nudge Arthur in the ribs and turn away.

Dinner was set to start at five. The Kendalls and the Pascoes would be the only “carriage folk,” as the expression had it. The rest would come by wagonette or trap, or even on their own feet, those who lived nearby. I had written out all the names on pieces of paper, and placed them on the appropriate platters. Those who had difficulty in reading, or who could not read at all, had neighbors who could do so. There were three tables. I was to head one, with Rachel at the further end. The second was headed by Billy Rowe from the Barton, and the third by Peter Johns, from Coombe.

The custom was for all the company to be assembled in the long room, ready seated, soon after five; and when everyone was in place we would walk into the room. When dinner was over, Ambrose and I used to give the people their presents from the tree, always money for the men, and new shawls for the women, and hampers of food for all of them. The presents never varied. Any change of routine would have shocked them, every one. This Christmas, though, I had asked Rachel to give out the presents with me.

Before dressing for dinner, I had sent along to Rachel’s room the collar of pearls. I had left it in its wrappings, but had placed a note inside. On the note I had written these words, “My mother wore this last. Now it belongs to you. I want you to wear it tonight, and always. Philip.”

I had my bath, and dressed, and was ready before a quarter to five.

The Kendalls and the Pascoes would not call for us at the house; the custom was for them to go straight to the long room, where they chatted with the tenants and helped to break the ice. Ambrose had always considered this a sound idea. The servants would be in the long room also, and Ambrose and I used to walk through the stone passages at the back of the house, and across the court, and out and up the flight of steps to the long room above the coach-houses. Tonight, Rachel and I would walk the passages alone.

I came downstairs and waited in the drawing room. I felt some trepidation, as I stood there, for never in my life had I given a present to a woman. It might be that it was a breach of etiquette, that flowers only were acceptable, or books, or pictures. What if she should be angry, as she had been over that business of the quarterly allowance, and should imagine, in some queer fashion, that I did this to insult her? It was a desperate thought. The passing minutes were slow torture. At last I heard her footstep on the stairs. No dogs preceded her tonight. They had all been locked early in their kennels.

She came slowly; the familiar rustle of her gown drew near. The door was open, and she came into the room and stood before me. She wore deep black, as I had expected, but I had not seen the gown before. It stood out, away from her, clinging only about the bodice and the waist, and the stuff had a sheen to it as though the light was upon it. Her shoulders were bare. She had dressed her hair higher than usual, the roll of it was looped up and drawn back, showing her ears. Around her neck was the collar of pearls. It was the only piece of jewelry upon her person. It glowed soft and white against her skin. I had never seen her look so radiant, or so happy. Louise and the Pascoes had been right after all. Rachel was beautiful.

She stood there a moment watching me, and then she put out her hands to me and said, “Philip.” I walked towards her. I stood in front of her. She put her arms about me and held me to her. There were tears in her eyes, but tonight I did not mind. She took her arms from my shoulders, and raised them to the back of my head, and touched my hair.

Then she kissed me. Not as she had done before. And as I stood there, holding her, I thought to myself, “It was not yearning for home, nor sickness of the blood, nor fever of the brain—but for this, that Ambrose died.”

I kissed her in return. In the belfry the clock struck five. She said nothing to me, nor I to her. She gave me her hand. We went down the dark kitchen passages together, across the court, and so to the long room above the coach-house, where the windows were brightly lit. To the laughing surge of voices and the bright expectant faces.

The whole company stood up as we came into the room. The tables were pushed back, there was shuffling of feet, the murmur of voices hushed; the heads of one and all turned round to look at us. Rachel paused a moment on the threshold; I think she had not expected such a sea of faces. Then she saw the Christmas tree at the far end, and gave a cry of pleasure. The pause was broken, and a murmur of sympathy and gladness at her surprise arose from everyone.

We took our places at our respective ends of the top table, and Rachel sat down. The rest of us did the same, and at once a clamor of chat and talk began, with clattering of knives, and moving of platters, and each man jostling his neighbor in laughter and apology. I had for partner on my right Mrs. Bill Rowe, from the Barton, sprigged out to beat all comers in her muslins, and I noticed that Mrs. Johns of Coombe, upon my left, looked at her in disfavor. I had forgotten, in my desire for protocol, that neither of them “spoke” to the other. Some rift, dating back to a misunderstanding about eggs on market day, had lasted fifteen years. No matter, I would be gallant to the pair of them and cover all distress. Flagons of cider would come to my assistance, and seizing the nearest jug I helped them, and myself, most liberally, then turned to the bill of fare. The kitchens had done us well. Never, in my long memories of Christmas dinners, had we been offered plenty such as this. Roast goose, roast turkey, sides of beef and mutton, great smoked hams decorated with a frill, pastries and pies of all shapes and sizes, puddings bulging with dried fruits; and between the heavier fare were platters of that delicate fragile pastry, airy as thistledown, that Rachel had concocted with the Barton maids.

Smiles of anticipation and of greed wreathed the faces of the hungry guests, my own among them, and already great gusts of laughter came from the other tables, where, undaunted by the immediate presence of the “master,” the broader-tongued among my tenants let themselves go with loosening of belts and collars. I heard Jack Libby, of bibulous eye, utter hoarsely to his neighbor—I think he had already had a glass or two of cider on the road—“By Gor… after this lot they could feed us to the crows and we wouldn’t feel et.” Little thin-lipped Mrs. Johns upon my left pricked at her wing of goose with a fork poised between her fingers like a quill, and the fellow whispered to her, with a wink in my direction, “Go to it m’dear, with thumb and finger. Tear ’un asunder.”

It was then I noticed that each one of us had a small package put beside his plate, the packages addressed in Rachel’s handwriting. Everybody seemed to perceive this at the same time, and for a brief moment the food was forgotten, in the excited tearing of the paper. I watched, and waited, before opening my own. I realized, with a sudden ache in my heart, what she had done. She had given every man and woman assembled there a present. She had wrapped them up herself, and enclosed with each a note. Nothing big, or fine, but a little trifle that would please them well. So that was the reason for the mysterious wrappings behind the boudoir door. I understood it all.

When each of my neighbors had fallen to their food again I opened my own. I unwrapped it on my knees, beneath the table, determined that only I myself should see what had been given me. It was a gold chain for my keys, with a disk upon it bearing our initials, P.A.R.A., and the date beneath. I held it for a moment in my hands, then put it, furtively, into my waistcoat pocket. I looked up at her and smiled. She was watching me. I raised my glass to her, she raised hers in reply. God! I was happy.

Dinner proceeded, uproarious and gay. Greasy platters, heaped with food, were emptied, I know not how. Glasses were filled, and filled again. Someone, halfway down the table, began to sing, and the song was taken up and joined by those from the other tables. Boots hummed a measure on the floor, knives and forks beat time upon the platters, bodies swayed to and fro in rollicking rhythmic fashion; and thin-lipped Mrs. Johns of Coombe told me that, for a man, my lashes were far too long. I helped her to more cider.

At last, remembering how Ambrose timed his moment to perfection, I rapped long and loud upon the table. The voices died away. “Those who desire to do so,” I said, “may go outside, and then return again. In five minutes’ time Mrs. Ashley and I will give the presents from the tree. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

The pressure to the doors was precisely what I had expected. And with a smile on my lips I watched Seecombe, walking stiff and straight yet treading the ground lest it should give way beneath his feet, bring up the rear. Those who remained pushed the benches and the trestles against the wall. After the presents had been given from the tree, and we had departed, those who were able to do so would take their partners in a dance. High revelry would last until midnight. I used to listen to the stamping, as a boy, from my nursery window. Tonight I made my way over to the little group standing by the tree. The vicar was there, and Mrs. Pascoe, three daughters and a curate. Likewise my godfather and Louise. Louise looked well, but a trifle pale. I shook hands with them. Mrs. Pascoe gushed at me, all teeth, “You have surpassed yourself. Never have we enjoyed ourselves so much. The girls are quite in ecstasy.”

They looked it, with one curate between three of them.

“I’m glad you thought it went off well,” I said, and, turning to Rachel, “Have you been happy?”

Her eyes met mine and smiled. “What do you think?” she said. “So happy, I could cry.”

I saluted my godfather. “Good evening to you, sir, and happy Christmas,” I said. “How did you find Exeter?”

“Cold,” he said shortly, “cold and drear.”

His manner was abrupt. He stood with one hand behind his back, the other tugged at his white mustache. I wondered if something about the dinner had upset him. Had the cider flowed too freely for his liking? Then I saw him stare at Rachel. His eyes were fixed upon the collar of pearls around her throat. He saw me staring, and he turned away. For a moment I felt back again in the Fourth Form at Harrow, with the master discovering the crib hidden under my Latin book. Then I shrugged my shoulders. I was Philip Ashley, aged four-and-twenty years. And no one in the world, certainly not my godfather, could dictate to me to whom I should, or should not, give Christmas presents. I wondered if Mrs. Pascoe had already dropped some fell remark. Possibly good manners would prevent her. And anyway, she could not know the collar. My mother had been dead before Mr. Pascoe held the living. Louise had noticed it. That was already plain. I saw her blue eyes waver towards Rachel, and then drop again.

The people came stumping back into the room. Laughing, murmuring, pressing together, they came nearer to the tree, as Rachel and I took our stand before it. Then I bent to the presents, and, reading out the names, gave the parcels to Rachel; and one by one they came to take their gifts. She stood there, before the tree, flushed, and gay, and smiling. It was all I could do to read the names instead of looking at her. “Thank you, God bless you, sir,” they said to me; and passing onto her, “Thank you, m’am. God bless you, too.”

It took us the best part of half an hour to give the presents and to say a word to each. When it was over and done with, the last present accepted with a curtsey, a sudden silence fell. The people, standing all together in a great group against the wall, waited for me. “A happy Christmas to you, one and all,” I said. And back came the shout from the whole lot of them as one, “A happy Christmas to you, sir, and to Mrs. Ashley.”

Then Billy Rowe, his one lock plastered down upon his brow for the occasion, piped up in a high reedy voice, “Three cheers, then, for the pair of ’en.” And the cheers that echoed through the rafters of the long room nearly shook the boards and brought us all down upon the carriages below. I glanced at Rachel. There were tears now. I shook my head at her. She smiled, and blinked them back, and gave her hand to me. I saw my godfather looking at us with a stiff nipped face. I thought, most unpardonably, of that retort, passed from one schoolboy to another, to silence criticism. “If you don’t like it, you can go…” The blast would be appropriate. Instead of which I smiled, and drawing Rachel’s hand inside my arm I led her back from the long room to the house.

Someone, young John I should imagine, for Seecombe had been moving as though to a distant drum, had bolted back to the drawing room between present giving and placed cake and wine in the drawing room. We were too well-filled. Both remained untouched, though I saw the curate crumble a sugared bun. Perhaps he eats for three. Then Mrs. Pascoe, who was surely born into this world, heaven save her, to wreck all harmony with her blabbing tongue, turned to Rachel and said, “Mrs. Ashley, forgive me, I really must comment upon it. What a beautiful pearl collar you are wearing. I have had eyes for nothing else all evening.”

Rachel smiled at her, and touched the collar with her fingers. “Yes,” she said, “it is a very proud possession.”

“Proud indeed,” said my godfather drily; “it’s worth a small fortune.”

I think only Rachel and myself noticed his tone of voice. She glanced at my godfather, puzzled, and from him to me, and was about to speak when I moved forward. “I think the carriages have come,” I said.

I went and stood by the drawing room door. Even Mrs. Pascoe, usually deaf to suggestions of departure, saw by my manner that her evening had reached its climax. “Come, girls,” she said, “you must all be tired, and we have a busy day before us. No rest for a clergyman’s family, Mr. Ashley, on Christmas Day.” I escorted the Pascoe family to the door. Luckily, I had been right in my surmise. Their carriage was ready waiting. They took the curate with them. He crouched like a small bird between two daughters, fully fledged. As they drove away the Kendall carriage drew forward in its turn. I turned back to the drawing room and found it empty, save for my godfather.

“Where are the others?” I asked.

“Louise and Mrs. Ashley went upstairs,” he said; “they will be down in a moment or two. I am glad of the opportunity to have a word with you, Philip.”

I crossed over to the fireplace and stood there, with my hands behind my back.

“Yes?” I said. “What is it?”

He did not answer for a moment. He was plainly embarrassed.

“I had no chance to see you before I left for Exeter,” he said, “or I would have spoken of this before. The fact is, Philip, I have had a communication from the bank that I find decidedly disturbing.”

The collar, of course, I thought. Well, that was my affair.

“From Mr. Couch, I suppose?” I said to him.

“Yes,” he answered. “He advises me, as is very right and proper, that Mrs. Ashley is already several hundred pounds overdrawn on her account.”

I felt myself go cold. I stared back at him; then the tension snapped, and the color flamed into my face.

“Oh?” I said.

“I don’t understand it,” he continued, pacing the floor. “She can have few expenses here. She is living as your guest, and her wants must be few. The only thing that occurs to me is that she is sending the money out of the country.”

I went on standing by the fire and my heart was beating against my ribs. “She is very generous,” I said, “you must have noticed that, tonight. A present for each one of us. That cannot be done on a few shillings.”

“Several hundred pounds would pay for them a dozen times over,” he replied. “I don’t doubt her generosity, but presents alone cannot account for an overdraft.”

“She has taken it upon herself to spend money on the house,” I said. “There have been furnishings bought for the blue bedroom. You can take all that into consideration.”

“Possibly,” said my godfather, “but nevertheless the fact remains that the sum we decided to give her quarterly has already been doubled, nearly trebled, by the amount she has withdrawn. What are we to decide for the future?”

“Double, treble, the amount we give her now,” I said. “Obviously what we gave was not sufficient.”

“But that is preposterous, Philip,” he exclaimed. “No woman, living as she does here, could possibly desire to spend so much. A lady of quality in London would be hard put to it to fritter so much away.”

“There may be debts,” I said, “of which we know nothing. There may be creditors, pressing for money, back in Florence. It is not our business. I want you to increase the allowance and cover that overdraft.”

He stood before me, with pursed lips. I wanted the matter over, done with. My ears were awake for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

“Another thing,” he said, uneasily. “You had no right, Philip, to take that collar from the bank. You realize, don’t you, that it is part of the collection, part of the estate, and you have not the right to remove it?”

“It is mine,” I said; “I can do what I like with my property.”

“The property is not yet yours,” he said, “for a further three months.”

“What of it?” I gestured. “Three months pass quickly. No harm can come to the collar in her keeping.”

He glanced up at me.

“I am not so sure,” he said.

The implication in his words drove me to fury.

“Good God!” I said. “What are you suggesting? That she might take that collar and sell it?”

For a moment he did not reply. He tugged at his mustache.

“Since going to Exeter,” he said, “I have come to learn a little more about your cousin Rachel.”

“What the devil do you mean?” I asked.

His eyes went from me to the door, then back again.

“It happened that I came across old friends,” he said, “people you would not know, who are great travelers. They have wintered in Italy and France over a period of years. It seems that they met your cousin when she was married to her first husband, Sangalletti.”

“Well?”

“Both were notorious. For unbridled extravagance, and, I must add, for loose living also. The duel in which Sangalletti died was fought because of another man. These people said that when they learned of Ambrose Ashley’s marriage to the countess Sangalletti they were horrified. They predicted that she would run through his entire fortune within a few months. Luckily, it was not so. Ambrose died before it was possible for her to do it. I am sorry, Philip. But this news has much disturbed me.” Once again he paced the floor.