The adulteress (36 page)

It was a little peremptory, I thought, and for a moment felt inclined to ignore it; but on second thought I changed my mind.

Secretly I had to admit that I was both unsure and afraid of her.

She was waiting for me, looking distraught, walking up and down impatiently.

She said: "It's quiet here. Nobody comes here. They never did, and since Lordy was buried here it's even more spooky."

"You had something to say to me?"

She nodded and I saw the look of fear in her face.

She said: "It's him. It's John Mather . . . the nephew. Andrew would never want it. He'd turn in his grave. Andrew was all for me ... he was . . . and the boy."

"What about the nephew?"

"Andrew's left everything . . . just everything to me ... in trust for Richard. Richard's to have all this and I'm to share it with him . . . Grasslands . . . and Andrew's money .. . everything. But the nephew is going to contest the will."

"He can't do that, can he?"

"He says he can. He says Andrew was duped ... by me. He says I forced him to marry me. He says Andrew was incapable of having children . . . and Richard can't be his."

"I think he's just trying to frighten you."

"He says it would be better for me to give up Grasslands to him . . . and take a small income which he would be prepared to give me to save a lot of unpleasantness."

There was a short silence while she looked at me appealing-

iy.

"What . . . what do you expect me to do?" I asked.

"I want you to tell me what to do . . . how I can stop him?"

"How should I know? You are Andrew's widow. You have his child. It seems to me his nephew is talking nonsense."

She looked at me steadily. "But if he can prove . . ."

"What do you mean?"

"Suppose Richard . . . " She looked at me steadily. "You know how these things can happen . . . even to people who seem to be so respectable. You've got to help me. You've got to tell me what to do."

"Are you telling me that Richard is not Andrew's son?"

She was silent. I had a sudden inspiration and the words came out before I had time to consider them: "Richard is Dickon's child."

She covered her face with her hands.

"They'll take it all away from me . . . from him. It was the way Andrew wanted it. He loved Richard ... it made a new man of him, he used to say ... no matter whose Richard's father was, he did that for Andrew."

"He was certainly very happy," I said.

"He was. I made him happy. I liked making him happy. He was good to me, he was. He took me in ... he made a pet of me . . . and when it all happened . . . when they found out what my mother was . . . and all that ... he never threw it up at me. All he said was 'My poor little girl.' He understood I never wanted to be like that. I wanted to be good and respectable like you were"—she paused and looked at me with the old sly look in her eyes—"until you came here."

I felt my hatred of her welling up in me and at the same time I was sorry for her. I knew she was very frightened. I thought: She is another of Dickon's victims. He is a devil. He creates mischief wherever he goes. But could I blame him? Evalina was the sort of girl who would frolic in barns with whatever lusty young man beckoned her.

She was looking at me almost defiantly. She had some absurd and childish faith in me; she was begging my help; no, demanding it. I had to make her problem mine or she would make it uncomfortable for me.

Oddly enough I wanted to help her . . . apart from the fact that I was afraid not to.

I said: "Andrew accepted Richard as his, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did. He thought it was a miracle. He'd been told

he could never have children . . . nor could he. Well, I wanted a little one of my own. You can't blame me. So it happened and he thought it was his and there was no harm in it. It made a new man of him. He kept saying that. He was almost crazy with joy when Richard was born. *A boy,' he kept saying, 'my own son.' I felt pretty good, I did, lying in that bed . . . giving him a son. He just couldn't do enough for me. Proved his manhood and all that, he said. What was wrong with it, eh? You tell me that."

"There was some good in it, obviously," I said. "But why are you so worried?"

"Because of this nephew. He's threatening all sorts of things . . . talking of lawyers . . ."

"How can he? The will is there. No one can go against a will."

"Yes, the will's there. Andrew was very careful about that. He made it when Richard was born. He said to me: 'That's taken care of. Everything is for you and the boy. So if anything should happen to me suddenly I know you're safe.' '

"I am sure the nephew can do nothing."

"But you see, if he can prove Andrew couldn't have children . . ."

"Surely no one could be absolutely sure of that?"

"Couldn't he be?"

"No."

"Then no one must know that Richard's not . . ."

"No one must know."

"You know."

We looked at each other steadily. It was like that moment in the bedroom when she had bought my silence with the key of my bedroom.

We understood each other. I felt a tremendous relief because I was free of her. She had played into my hands.

But I wanted to help her now. I was beginning to see her as a sad little creature, born into a world where it was necessary to fight for all the comforts her body craved; she had to fight against a sensuous nature which betrayed her at every turn. Who was I to blame her for that?

I said to her: "He cannot do anything. Andrew made the will. He cannot prove that Richard is not Andrew's. Who should know this? Perhaps it was his."

She was smiling at me shyly, almost gratefully.

"The nephew is trying to browbeat you. Obviously, he

guesses the child is not his uncle's and by showing your fear of him you are playing into his hands. You must insist that the child is Andrew's. I don't see what good can come in denying it. And you should go to a solicitor. Go to Mr. Rosen. I am sure the nephew won't have a leg to stand on."

"Would you come with me to Mr. Rosen? You can talk so much better than I can."

I wanted to laugh out loud. When I thought of how she had disturbed me, the anxious thoughts I had suffered because of her, I felt it had turned out almost comically.

We were blackmailing each other. We had a pact. No word of my misdemeanors and no word of yours.

I said: "We will go to Rosen, Stead and Rosen tomorrow. I will explain the case to Mr. Rosen senior, and I am sure then that you will have nothing to worry about."

A Visit to London

It was as I had said it would be. Mr. Rosen senior took over the matter with calm efficiency; the will was perfectly in order and there could be no doubt of Mr. Mather's intention. Everything with the exception of one or two legacies—including something for the nephew—was left to Evalina in trust for Richard. "Perfectly straightforward," declared Mr. Rosen. "I will see the gentleman who is raising objections."

This he did and that gentleman was soon departing—slinking away might be a more apt description. "He is thoroughly ashamed of himself," Mr. Rosen commented to me. "It is my belief that he thought he could delude an ignorant female."

His parting words to Evalina were: "You did right to come to me. If you are ever in any difficulties I shall be pleased to help you."

Evalina was grateful to me. She looked upon me as a very clever woman. But in everything she said I felt there was a reference to my love affair with Gerard. Even now the implication was: How clever you are. Look how well you managed your own affairs. Jean-Louis has not a suspicion. She had done very well herself in deluding Andrew but she had to admit she had gone to pieces when that sly old nephew had arisen.

However, all was well. He was sent packing by that wily Mr. Rosen and now we were safe . . . both of us.

So although I felt relieved I was still a little uneasy, and I often wondered how far I could trust Evalina.

She settled down without Andrew and quite clearly loved her baby. There were rumors of a somewhat torrid relationship between her and Jack Trent, who looked after the Grasslands farms, but I think everyone felt that something of the sort was to be expected. She was a young woman without a husband and clearly she had a fancy for men and they for her.

I saw her frequently, which was inevitable, our being such close neighbors. She would be at church gatherings; it was quite clear that she wished to be an accepted member of the

community and wanted me to help her. I did so—half because I was sorry for her, half because I felt it would be expedient to do so, and we began to succeed. People could not go on remembering that she was her mother's daughter forever.

Letters came from Clavering. They were well and they were thinking it was a long time since they had seen us. They missed us very much. The estate was being perfectly run. Dickon had a flair for the work. He was so enthusiastic, and it was such fun to see him thinking up new schemes which would be so very advantageous to everyone.

I said to Jean-Louis: "They behave towards him one moment as though he is some blessed infant and the next some towering genius."

"He'll be in his element," said Jean-Louis. "He was always longing to get his hands onto everything."

"Yes," I agreed. "He's a very acquisitive young man."

"We must meet at Christmas," my mother continued. "Dear Zipporah, we can't be separated much longer, can we? I long to see darling Lottie. Perhaps we will come to you for Christmas or you must come to us. We must be together then. ... By the way, a letter came for you and Jean-Louis. I am enclosing it herewith. . . ."

I looked at the letter and recognized the handwriting. We had once been ve*y familiar with it.

"It's James ..." I cried. "James Fenton."

We opened it at once and read it together. James would be staying at the Black Swan in London for a week. He wondered if we could come up and see him. He had given us good warning because he would so much like to see us. He would make the journey to Clavering but we would understand that he had no great wish to come there for fear of unpleasant encounters.

I looked at Jean-Louis. "We must go," I said. "Look, there is time. His week doesn't end until next Thursday."

Jean-Louis looked dismayed. He did not see how he could get away on so little notice. If he had a manager it would be so different, but as it was so much depended on him. I looked at him sadly. It was not only that, I knew. The journey to London would be exhausting for him.

"I will write to him and tell him we are here. There could be no reason why he shouldn't come to Eversleigh."

I said nothing but I was going to do my best to go to London and see James Fenton.

I went to Enderby later that day because my friendship with Isabel Forster had grown even more firmly and I made a habit of talking over my problems with her.

She said: "To catch him you would have to go by the end of the week. It need only take two days to get to London. You could make reservations at the Black Swan."

"Yes," I said, "but I can't very well go alone."

Isabel said: "I don't see why Derek and I shouldn't come. We were going to London later on. As a matter of fact we have stayed at the Black Swan. We could bring forward our visit and make the arrangements now."

"Oh, Isabel," I cried, "that would be wonderful. Jean-Louis would have no fears if I traveled with you."

As soon as Derek came in she put the plan to him.

I said earnestly: "I have an idea that it is rather important for me to see James. I think he might be able to recommend someone who can help Jean-Louis. After Amos Carew he is reluctant to engage anyone."

"Who wouldn't be? I daresay Amos had some good recommendations."

"It just occurred to me that James might know someone . . . well, let me tell you what is exactly in my mind. I was wondering whether I could persuade him to come to Ev-ersleigh."

Jean-Louis was delighted when he heard that the Forsters were going to London for he hated to disappoint me and he knew how much I wanted to go. This seemed an admirable solution.

The day before we were to set out I went over to Enderby to discuss last-minute preparations and found that Charles Forster was there.

"Here's news," said Isabel. "You tell her, Charles."

"It's about London," he said.

My heart sank. I thought there must be some last-minute hitch and so strongly had I convinced myself that I should see James Fenton that I found the momentary anxiety intense.

"I wondered if you would mind my being a member of the party," he went on.

Floods of relief swept over me and with it pleasure. I said: "I am sure we should all like that very much."

"There you are, Charles," said Derek. "I told you Zipporah would be pleased."

So we made our arrangements and when I went back to

Eversleigh and told Jean-Louis he was delighted. "Another man in the party is all to the good," he said.

It was in high spirits that we set out on that June morning. There was a decided chill in the air which made us appreciate the sunshine as the morning wore on.

"It's the best weather for traveling," said Charles. "I made this journey in August and it was intolerable."

"Do you often come to London?" I asked.

"Occasionally. It's necessary to get supplies of medicines and so on. . . . Not more often than I need, I do assure you."

"You are not fond of London?"

"Oh . . . it's a great city . . . full of vitality and interest but . . ."I waited, for I had the idea that he was on the verge of a confidence and I was beginning to realize that this man interested me considerably and I wanted to know more about him. He said: "Shall we say associations . . . ?"

"Something you would rather forget . . . ?"

I was aware that I had gone too far. He nodded and it was as though a mask had come down over his face. His expression warned me that it was not polite to pursue a subject which was not agreeable to one's companion. I was ashamed of myself and asked at once if he had a preference for any of the inns, as a means of changing the topic of conversation.