My Cousin Rachel (28 page)

The vapor from the boggy valley rose in a white cloud, and I realized, with a shudder, how cold I had been the livelong day, since I had sat with Louise in the church, and all the while in the fireless parlor at the Rose and Crown. This was another world from yesterday.

I led Gypsy past the path that Rachel and I had taken. Our footmarks were still there, where we had trodden in around the beeches for the primroses. Clumps of them nestled still, dejected, in the moss. The avenue seemed endless, with Gypsy hobbling, my hand upon her bridle guiding her, and the dripping rain found its way down the collar of my coat to chill my back.

When I reached home I was too tired to say good afternoon to Wellington, but threw him the reins without a word, leaving him staring after me. God knows, after the night before, I had little desire to drink anything but water, but being cold and wet I thought a taste of brandy might bring some sort of warmth to me, however raw. I went into the dining room and John was there, laying the table for dinner. He went to fetch me a glass from the pantry, and while I waited I saw he had laid three places on the table.

On his return I pointed to them. “Why three?” I said.

“Miss Pascoe,” he replied, “she’s been here since one o’clock. The mistress went calling there this morning, not long after you had gone. She brought Miss Pascoe back with her. She’s come to stay.”

I stared at him, bewildered. “Miss Pascoe come to stay?” I said.

“That’s so,” he answered, “Miss Mary Pascoe, the one that teaches in the Sunday school. We have been busy getting the pink room ready for her. She and the mistress are in the boudoir now.”

He went on with his laying of the table, and leaving the glass upon the sideboard, without bothering to pour the brandy, I went upstairs. There was a note upon the table in my room, Rachel’s hand upon it. I tore it open. There was no beginning, only the day, and the date. “I have asked Mary Pascoe to stay here with me in the house as a companion. After last night, I cannot be alone with you again. You may join us in the boudoir, if you wish, before and after dinner. I must ask you to be courteous. Rachel.”

She could not mean it. It could not be true. How often we had laughed about the Pascoe daughters, and more especially about chattering Mary, forever working samplers, visiting those poor who had rather be left alone, Mary, a stouter, even a plainer edition of her mother. As a joke, yes, Rachel could have invited her as a joke, merely for dinner, so as to watch my glum face at the end of the table—but the note was not written as a joke.

I went out onto the landing from my room, and saw that the door of the pink bedroom was open. There was no mistake. A fire burned in the grate, shoes and a wrapper were laid out upon a chair, there were brushes, books, the personal paraphernalia of a stranger all about the room, and the further door, usually kept locked, which communicated with Rachel’s suite of rooms, was locked no longer, but wide open too. I could even hear the distant murmur of voices from the boudoir beyond. This, then, was my punishment. This my disgrace. Mary Pascoe had been invited to make a division between Rachel and myself, that we might no longer be alone together, even as she had written in her note.

My first feeling was one of such intense anger that I hardly knew how to contain myself from walking along the corridor to the boudoir, seizing Mary Pascoe by the shoulders and telling her to pack and begone, that I would have Wellington take her home in the carriage without delay. How had Rachel dared to invite her to my house on such a pretext, miserable, flimsy, and insulting, that she could no longer be alone with me? Was I then doomed to Mary Pascoe at every meal, Mary Pascoe in the library and the drawing room, Mary Pascoe walking in the grounds, Mary Pascoe in the boudoir, for evermore the interminable chatter between women that I had only endured through force of habit over Sunday dinner?

I went along the corridor—I did not change, I was still in my wet things. I opened the boudoir door. Rachel was seated in her chair, with Mary Pascoe beside her on the stool, the pair of them looking at the great volume with the illustrations of Italian gardens.

“So you are back?” said Rachel. “It was an odd day to choose to go out riding. The carriage was nearly blown from the road when I went down to call at the Rectory. As you see, we have the good fortune to have Mary here as visitor. She is already quite at home. I am delighted.”

Mary Pascoe gave a trill of laughter.

“Such a surprise, Mr. Ashley,” she said, “when your cousin came to fetch me. The others were green with envy. I can hardly believe yet I am here. And how pleasant and snug it is to sit here in the boudoir. Nicer even than below. Your cousin says it is your habit to sit here of an evening. Do you play cribbage? I am wild for cribbage. If you cannot play I shall be pleased to teach you both.”

“Philip,” said Rachel, “has little use for games of chance. He prefers to sit and smoke in silence. You and I, Mary, will play together.”

She looked across at me, over Mary Pascoe’s head. No, it was no joke. I could see by her hard eyes that she had done this thing with great deliberation.

“Can I speak to you alone?” I said bluntly.

“I see no need for that,” she answered. “You are at liberty to say anything you please in front of Mary.”

The vicar’s daughter rose hurriedly to her feet. “Oh, please,” she said, “I don’t wish to make intrusion. I can easily go to my room.”

“Leave the doors wide open, Mary,” said Rachel, “so that you can hear me if I call.” Her eyes, so hostile, remained fixed on me.

“Yes, certainly, Mrs. Ashley,” said Mary Pascoe. She brushed past me, her eyes goggling, leaving all the doors ajar.

“Why have you done this?” I said to Rachel.

“You know perfectly well,” she answered; “I told you in my note.”

“How long is she to stay?”

“As long as I choose.”

“You will not be able to stand her company for more than one day. You will drive yourself mad, as well as me.”

“You are mistaken,” she said. “Mary Pascoe is a good harmless girl. I shall not talk to her if I do not wish for conversation. At least I feel some measure of security with her in the house. Also, it was time. Things could not have continued as they had been, not after your outburst at the table. Your godfather said as much before he left.”

“What did he say?”

“That there was gossip about my being here, which your boast of marriage will have done little to improve. I don’t know what other people you have chatted to. Mary Pascoe will silence further gossip. I shall take good care of that.”

Was it possible that my action of the night before could bring about such change, such terrible antagonism?

“Rachel,” I said, “this can’t be settled in a moment’s conversation, with the doors open. I beg of you, listen to me, let me talk to you alone, after dinner, when Mary Pascoe goes to bed.”

“You threatened me last night,” she said. “Once was enough. There is nothing to settle. You can go now, if you wish. Or stay and play cribbage here with Mary Pascoe.” She turned again to the book of gardens.

I went from the room. There was nothing else to do. This then was my punishment, for that brief moment of the night before, when I had put my hands about her neck. The action, instantly repented and regretted, was unforgivable. This, then, the reward. As quickly as my anger had come, it went, turning, with heavy dullness, to despair. Oh, God, what had I done?

Such a little while ago, so few hours in time, we had been happy. The exultation of my birthday eve, and all the magic, was now gone, frittered away by my own fault. Sitting in the cold parlor of the Rose and Crown it had seemed to me that perhaps, in a few weeks, her reluctance to become my wife might be overcome. If not immediately, then later; if not later, then what matter, so long as we could be together, in love, as on my birthday morning. Hers the decision, hers the choice, yet surely she would not refuse? I had been almost hopeful when I had come into the house. But now the stranger, the third person, misunderstanding all about us still. Presently as I stood in my room, I heard their voices approach the stair, and then the sweep of gowns descending. It was later than I thought, they must be ready dressed for dinner. I knew I could not face the business of sitting with them. They must dine alone. Anyway, I was not hungry; I felt cold and stiff, probably I had taken chill, and would be better in my room. I rang the bell and told John to make my apologies, but I would not be down to dinner, I was going straight to bed. This made a pother, as I feared it might, and Seecombe came up, concern upon his face.

“Unwell, Mr. Philip, sir?” he said. “May I suggest a mustard bath, and a hot grog? It comes of riding out in such weather.”

“Nothing, thank you, Seecombe,” I replied. “I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

“No dinner, Mr. Philip? We have venison, and apple pie. It is all ready to serve. Both the ladies are in the drawing room now.”

“No, Seecombe. I slept badly last night. I shall be better in the morning.”

“I will tell the mistress,” he said, “she will be much concerned.”

At least by remaining in my room it might give me a chance to see Rachel alone. After dinner, perhaps, she would come up and inquire about me.

I undressed and got into my bed. Undoubtedly I must have caught some sort of chill. The sheets seemed bitter cold, and I threw them off and got between the blankets. I felt stiff and numb and my head throbbed, things most unusual and unknown. I lay there, waiting for them to finish dinner. I heard them pass from the hall into the dining room, the chatter ceaseless—I was spared that, at any rate—and then, after a long interval, back again to the drawing room.

Some time after eight o’clock I heard them come upstairs. I sat up in bed and put my jacket round my shoulders. This, perhaps, was the moment she would choose. In spite of the rough blankets I was still cold, and the stiff pain that was about my legs and neck shifted in full measure to my head, so that it seemed on fire.

I waited, but she did not come. They must be sitting in the boudoir. I heard the clock strike nine, then ten, then eleven. After eleven, I knew that she did not intend to come and see me that night at all. Ignoring me, then, was but a continuation of my punishment.

I got out of bed and stood in the passage. They had retired for the night, for I could hear Mary Pascoe moving about in the pink bedroom, and now and then an irritating little cough to clear her throat—another habit she had taken from her mother.

I went along the corridor to Rachel’s room. I put my hand upon the handle of the door, and turned it. But it did not open. The door was locked. I knocked, very softly. She did not answer. I went slowly back to my own room and to my bed, and lay there, icy cold.

I remember in the morning that I dressed, but I have no recollection of John coming in to call me, nor that I breakfasted, nor of anything at all, but only the strange stiffness in my neck and the agonizing pain in my head. I went and sat on my chair in the office. I wrote no letters, I saw no one. Some time after midday Seecombe came to find me to tell me that the ladies were awaiting luncheon. I said I wanted none. He came near to me and looked into my face.

“Mr. Philip,” he said, “you are ill. What is it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. He took my hand and felt it. He went out of the office and I heard him hurry across the courtyard.

Presently the door opened once again. Rachel stood there, with Mary Pascoe behind her and Seecombe also. She came towards me.

“Seecombe says you are ill,” she said to me. “What is the matter?”

I stared up at her. Nothing of what was happening was real at all. I hardly knew that I was sitting there, in my office chair, but thought myself to be upstairs in my room cold in my bed, as I had been the night before.

“When will you send her home?” I said. “I won’t do anything to harm you. I give you my word of honor.”

She put her hand on my head. She looked into my eyes. She turned swiftly to Seecombe. “Get John,” she said. “Both of you, help Mr. Ashley to bed. Tell Wellington to send the groom quickly for the doctor…”

I saw nothing but her white face and her eyes; and then over her shoulder, ludicrous somehow, out of place and foolish, the startled, shocked gaze of Mary Pascoe fixed upon me. Then nothing. Only the stiffness, and the pain.

Back in my bed again, I was aware that Seecombe stood by the windows, closing the shutters, drawing the curtains, bringing the room to darkness which I craved. Possibly the darkness would ease the blinding pain. I could not move my head upon the pillow, it was as though the muscles of my neck were taut and rigid. I felt her hand in mine. I said again, “I promise not to harm you. Send Mary Pascoe home.”

She answered, “Don’t talk now. Only lie still.”

The room was full of whispers. The door opening, shutting, opening once again. Soft footsteps creeping on the floor. Chinks of light coming from the landing, and always this furtiveness of whispers, so that it seemed to me, in the sudden sharp delirium that must be sweeping me, that the house was filled with people, a guest in every room, and that the house itself was not large enough to contain them, they stood shoulder to shoulder in the drawing room and in the library, with Rachel moving in the midst of them, smiling, talking, holding out her hands. I kept repeating, over and over again, “Send them away.”

Then I saw the round spectacled face of Dr. Gilbert looking down on me; he too, then, was of the company. When I was a lad he had come to treat me for the chickenpox, I had scarce seen him since.

“So you went swimming in the sea at midnight?” he said to me. “That was a very foolish thing to do.” He shook his head at me as if I were still a child, and stroked his beard. I closed my eyes against the light. I heard Rachel say to him, “I know too much about this kind of fever to be mistaken. I have seen children die of it in Florence. It attacks the spine, and then the brain. Do something, for God’s sake…”

They went away. And once again the whispering began. This was followed by the sound of wheels on the drive, and a departing carriage. Later, I heard someone breathing, close to the curtains of my bed. I knew then what had happened. Rachel had gone. She had driven to Bodmin, to take the coach for London. She had left Mary Pascoe in the house to watch me. The servants, Seecombe, John, they had all departed; no one was left but Mary Pascoe.