The Daughters of Mrs Peacock (21 page)

‘That was glorious, Papa. What shall you sing for us next?'

Yes, it was a Sunday evening like many another. The same familiar pattern, the same comfortable cosy feeling. But for Catherine, newly translated into heaven, how different!

Next morning, when she woke, that same heaven was waiting to receive her. Sunlight was a miracle and the solid world a wonder. Everything her hands touched or her eyes looked on had a new, virgin quality. The water in which she washed herself was more lithe and smooth and sparkling than water had ever been before, the cake of soap more deliciously hard, more exquisitely scented, the touch of the towel luxurious, and Sarah, in the first flush of waking, visibly an angel. It was hardly credible that only twenty-four hours had passed since yesterday morning when here in this very bedroom, with Sarah, as now, drowsily regarding her from the bed, she had stood, towel in hand, trembling at the dizzy prospect of Robert's coming. Reverting to a childlike fashion, being unable to contain her happiness, she darted across the room to Sarah and kissed her exuberantly.

‘Thank you kindly, I'm sure,' said Sarah. ‘But hadn't you better save them?'

‘Oh, Sally! Isn't everything lovely!'

For the moment, yes. But as day after day went by, with no word of reassurance that should seal the compact and consolidate her joy, doubts and misgivings began stealing in. She had nothing but a memory to live on, a few spoken words, a single feather-soft kiss. It was precious indeed, but not enough: infinitely precious, but not enough to sustain her faith unimpaired. Aeons of time, time that changes all things, had passed since that Sunday afternoon. He had said he loved her, but did he love her still, after five, six, seven whole days? Another
Sunday came and went. Another Monday dawned. The weeks stretched before her, a monotonously repeating pattern of empty days. She applauded, and detested, the wise caution that prevented—as she supposed—his writing to her. He was wonderful. He was perfect. But she wished he were not quite so sensible. She herself wrote letter after letter, but refrained, heroically, from posting them. He, not she, must break the silence, if he would. And if he would not, it could only mean that his love had been a moment's idle fancy, already repented of and soon to be forgotten in the arms of that Other Woman.

Every day she watched and listened for the postman, and at every delivery either she or Sarah was first at the door to answer his knock. One morning there arrived a letter addressed in a strange handwriting to Mrs Peacock. The two girls, swallowing their disappointment, examined it inquisitively, asking each other whom it could be from, an unidentifiable letter being a rare event in their household. The postmark was Newtonbury, the calligraphy bold and sprawling. They carried it into the breakfast-room and placed it beside Mrs Peacock's plate.

This morning she was the last to come downstairs. Her husband, having a train to catch, had started his breakfast. The three girls waited for their mother. Jenny hovered at the sideboard, watching over the teapot, ready when her mistress should arrive to carry it, in tribute, to the table.

‘Good morning, my dears,' said Mrs Peacock. Her greeting never varied. ‘I'm a little late this morning. I hope you've been looking after your father?'

‘Yes, Mama,' said Julia. ‘Have you had a bad night?'

‘Not as good as I could wish, but that's no excuse for unpunctuality.' She sat down and unfolded her napkin. ‘How is the porridge this morning, Edmund?'

‘In its customary state of rude health, my dear.'

‘Not lumpy again, I hope?' She began pouring out the tea. ‘I really must speak to Cook.'

‘That,' said Mr Peacock, ‘is a course I do not advise. Speaking to Cook is a danger best avoided. Besides, the porridge is excellent. She is to be congratulated on her mastery, belated though it is, of a difficult art.'

The cups circulated. The girls, Catherine in particular, waited for a sign before beginning the meal.

‘Shall I ask a blessing, Mama?'

‘Dear me, yes, child. Of course. How forgetful I am!'

‘For what we are about to receive …' said Catherine.

‘And for what Papa has already received,' murmured Sarah, not quite audibly.

Both she and Catherine had for the moment forgotten the letter, to which now, however, Mrs Peacock turned her attention.

‘Now who can this be from? I don't know the handwriting.'

‘Nor do we, Mama,' said Catherine.

‘Newtonbury,' said Mrs Peacock. ‘Now who can be writing to me from Newtonbury?'

‘Forgive a bold suggestion, my dear,' said her husband. ‘But there is, you know, a way of finding out. You could, for example, open it.'

She was already doing so. She extracted the letter from its envelope, and read. Her eyes widened. Her lips pouted ominously. Her dark brows rose. She
looked up to find three pairs of eyes frankly staring at her. Only Mr Peacock seemed uninterested.

Without a word she folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. Her silence was palpable, pointed. It continued unbroken throughout the meal. When Mr Peacock with a glance at his watch rose to go, she got up, the letter clutched in her hand, and followed him from the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

So abrupt a departure, without explanation or apology, was without precedent. Mrs Peacock had the most precise ideas about good manners and of the need to set her children an example.

‘Can it be bad news?' said Julia. ‘I do hope not.'

All three waited anxiously for the sound of the front door shutting that should tell them Papa had left the house. Five minutes passed. No one dared leave the room. A premonition of disaster dawned gradually in Catherine's mind.

‘Papa will miss his train,' said Julia. ‘He'll be so vexed.'

Neither Sarah nor Catherine thought it worth while to answer her. She looked at them in pained surprise, wondering at their muteness.

At last the expected sound reached them, Catherine, going to the window, saw her father hurrying down the street. Mrs Peacock reappeared and with a face of frozen calm gave them, as usual, their instructions for the morning. No clue to her thoughts, except their sombre colour, was forthcoming.

‘Will Papa miss his train, Mama?' Julia ventured to ask.

‘Possibly. Possibly not. If so, he will no doubt catch the next.'

The next was an hour later. The long wait, spent pacing up and down the brief platform like a trapped animal, gave him plenty of time to think: far more than he needed. There was only one thing to be done, and because it was unpleasant he wished it done quickly and chafed at this intolerable delay. The carefully cultivated ironic detachment that was his defence against life's troubles failed him now. Decisive action, of a kind for which he had a profound distaste, was forced upon him.

Arrived at the office he went straight to Robert's room.

‘Good morning,' said Robert.

He returned the greeting perfunctorily, then turned back to shut the door. Something in his aspect as he turned again and approached the dividing table provoked a sharp glance from Robert.

‘Anything wrong?'

‘I rather fancy there is, Robert.'

‘All well at home, I hope?' said Robert quickly.

‘My wife received a letter this morning. As it concerns you, it's best that you should read it.'

As if to brace himself for a crisis, Robert stood up. The two men faced each other across the table. The letter changed hands. Its anonymous author, self-styled a sincere well-wisher, begged leave to inform Mrs Peacock that her youngest daughter was believed to be innocently encouraging the attentions of a gentleman who, being already committed elsewhere, was not in a position to carry out any
honourable
proposal he might be rash enough to make. In spite of great reluctance to interfere, and
profound sympathy with the ill-used young lady, the writer felt it only proper to warn Mrs Peacock that the gentleman's being her husband's professional partner did not preclude the possibility of legal action being taken against him, should the need arise.

‘I see,'said Robert. ‘Thank you. It's a pretty document.'

‘Is that all you have to say?'

With great deliberation Robert put the letter down and placed a paperweight on it. A contemptuous smile sat in the corners of his mouth.

‘Extraordinary woman! She doesn't even trouble to disguise her handwriting.'

‘You will correct me if I'm wrong,' said Mr Peacock, ‘but it occurs to me that you owe me an explanation. Let me remind you that I am Catherine's father.'

‘I owe you more than an explanation, Peacock. I owe you an apology. This lying letter puts me in the wrong. It is precisely the kind of thing I feared might happen. That is why I kept silent about something you had a right to know. Until the way was clear it seemed to me useless, and worse than useless, to speak. Believe me, my chief anxiety was that if there was to be trouble, you and your family should not be involved in it.'

‘Well?' said Mr Peacock. He waited for more.

‘It's true that I love Catherine. I want nothing so much as to marry her. It's
not
true that I am committed elsewhere. It may have been true, in some sense, once. But not now. All that is past and done with.'

‘On that point,' Mr Peacock suggested, ‘the lady in question seems not to agree with you. She hints, you will observe, at legal action.'

‘That,' said Robert, ‘is merely malicious. A blackmailing point.'

‘Nevertheless I feel bound to inquire, speaking as a lawyer: has she an arguable case?'

‘There has been no promise. There are no incriminating letters. There was no intention, on either side, of marriage. And never will be, for the best of reasons.'

‘And that is?'

‘It's a queer story,' said Robert. He seemed reluctant to continue.

‘I hope I'm not unduly inquisitive, my dear Robert. You'll do me the justice to admit that I've never pried into this affair of yours, obvious though it was. Better, perhaps, if I'd been a thought less scrupulous. But now it's become my business as well as yours. You'd better tell me everything while we're at it.'

‘Very well. But don't you think we might sit down?'

‘I agree that the sedentary posture is less melodramatic,' said Mr Peacock, sinking into the armchair reserved for clients.

‘A fellow came to see me the other day,' said Robert, ‘here in the office. An elderly, loudly-dressed blackguard, with a racecourse accent. You saw him, if you remember, when he was on his way out.'

‘I remember. The fellow who tried to touch you for money.'

‘That's what I told you. And it was true. But not the whole truth. He came, he informed me, as the accredited representative of Mrs Stapleton.'

‘A solicitor?'

‘No. Impossible. But he'd picked up some of the legal lingo.'

‘Well? Go on.'

‘He began by telling me that the poor dear lady (his own words) was brokenhearted, because of my cruel desertion of her; and then gave me to understand that if I did not take steps to comfort her, by resuming our former friendly relationship, she would feel compelled to take proceedings against me for breach of promise. I pointed out that as there had been no promise there could be no breach. I told him, in fact, what I told you just now: that she had no case. He stubbornly disputed that, and said that alternatively a solatium for hurt feelings would perhaps not be unacceptable to his client. He sympathized with me, he said; he knew what young chaps were; he was sure that a gentleman like me would see the logic of paying for his fun; and to oblige me he would gladly undertake, not only to carry my offer to the suffering lady, but to use his best endeavours—he'd got his phrases all pat—to persuade her to accept it. What did I say to five hundred pounds?'

‘And what
did
you say, may I ask?'

‘I told him to go to the devil. Whereupon he turned on an oily confiding smile, said he admired my spirit, and that I left him no alternative but to advise
Mr
Stapleton to bring an action for damages against me for what he was pleased to call criminal conversation. He was some thirteen years out of date in his law, I told him.'

‘An absentee husband, eh?' Mr Peacock did not allow himself to appear surprised. ‘Is there such a person?'

‘Who knows? Needless to say, it was a new idea to me. Otherwise——'

‘Precisely. There are limits, no doubt, to your folly.
The point, however, might be worth looking into. Such an action could hardly succeed, if what you tell me is true: the uncorroborated evidence of a guilty wife not living with her husband would smack too much of conspiracy. But it would make a loud noise, and it would ruin you professionally.'

‘I agree,' said Robert Crabbe. ‘I'm confident myself that it was nothing but an idle threat, but if you would prefer to dissolve our partnership …?'

He left the question unfinished, and Mr Peacock left it unanswered. ‘How, may I ask, did this agreeable interview terminate?'

‘I threatened to give him in charge for attempted blackmail, and he departed, breathing fire and slaughter.'

‘I see,' said Mr Peacock. ‘It's a pretty story, isn't it? But I shall not, I think, communicate it to my wife. Its peculiar fascination would be lost on her.'

That his anger was abated, his sympathy engaged, made it the more not the less difficult to say what had to be said. Though he did not approve of disorderly living, he was no prude, and had Catherine not been involved he could have contrived to take a tolerant, if slightly contemptuous, view of the affair. But, as Catherine's father, that detachment, that escape from responsibility, was denied him. Moreover this conversation had revealed to him a Robert Crabbe hitherto unknown to him.

‘You seem, if I may say so,' he remarked presently, ‘to take a pretty cool view of your ex-mistress. Yet I suppose you had some sort of affection for her?'