The Shivering Sands (13 page)

“I’ve some gypsy in me but I’m a Stacy too. I’d never give up my goosefeather bed nor pluck off my high heeled shoes—not that I’m allowed to wear them yet. But I’ll have them, and I’ll have jewels in my hair and I’ll go to balls and I’ll never, never…never leave Lovat Stacy.”

“I am glad,” I said coolly, “that you appreciate your home. Now let us try this piece. It’s very simple. Take it slowly at first and try to feel what the music is saying.”

She grimaced and turned to the piano. But she was not attending; her thoughts were far away; so were mine. I was thinking of Napier, the bad boy who had brought such disaster to his home that he had had to be sent away.

“I often wonder,” said Allegra, apropos of nothing, “what became of that woman who disappeared.”

We were having tea in the schoolroom—the four girls and myself, for Sylvia was with us.

I almost dropped my teacup. I had tried to make people talk of Roma and yet it was a shock when they did without prompting.

“Which woman?” I asked—I hoped guilelessly.

“Why the woman who came down here and dug up things,” said Allegra. “People don’t talk about it much now.”

“At one time,” put in Sylvia, “they talked of nothing else.”

“Well, people don’t disappear every day.” I spoke casually. “What did you think happened?”

Sylvia said: “My mother says they arranged it all just to make a lot of talk. Some people are like that.”

“For what purpose?” I demanded.

“To be important.”

“But she wouldn’t have stayed hidden. How could that make her important?”

“It’s what my mother says,” insisted Sylvia.

“Alice wrote a story about it,” said Edith quietly.

Alice blushed and lowered her eyes.

“It was very good,” added Allegra. “It made our hair stand on end…at least it would if hair ever did stand on end. Has yours ever, Mrs. Verlaine?”

I said I could not recall its having done so.

“Mrs. Verlaine reminds me of Miss Brandon,” said Alice.

My heart began to beat fast in dismay.

“How?” I asked. “In what way?”

“Being
accurate
, as so few other people are,” explained Alice. “Most people would say ‘No, my hair hasn’t stood on end’ or ‘Yes it has’ and then tell some story very exaggeratedly. You say you can’t recall its having done so, which is very accurate. Miss Brandon was very accurate. She said she had to be in her kind of work.”

“You seem to have talked to her quite frequently.”

“We all talked to her at times,” said Alice. “Mr. Napier did too. He was very interested. She was always showing him things.”

“Yes,” said Sylvia. “I remember my mother’s noticing it.”

“Your mother notices everything…especially things that are not very nice,” put in Allegra.

“What wasn’t nice about Mr. Napier’s being interested in the Roman remains?” I asked.

The girls were all silent although Allegra had opened her mouth to say something.

Alice said suddenly: “It’s a very good thing to be interested in the Roman remains. They had catacombs, Mrs. Verlaine, did you know?”

“Yes.”

“Of course she knew!” scolded Allegra. “Mrs. Verlaine knows a great deal.”

“A labyrinth of passages,” said Alice, her eyes dreamy. “Christians used to hide in them and their enemies couldn’t find them.”

“She’ll be writing a story about that,” commented Allegra.

“I have never seen them, so how could I?”

“But you wrote about the disappearance of Miss Brandon,” Edith pointed out. “It was a wonderful story. You should read it too, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“It’s about the gods being angry and turning her into something else,” explained Sylvia.

“They did, you know,” put in Alice eagerly. “They turned people into stars and trees and bulls and bushes when they were offended, so it seems natural that they should turn Miss Brandon into something.”

“What did they turn her into in your story?” I asked.

“That’s the odd thing about it,” said Edith. “We don’t know. Alice doesn’t tell us. In the story the gods take their revenge and they turn her into something, but Alice just doesn’t tell what.”

“It has to be left to the reader’s imagination,” Alice explained. “
You
can turn Miss Brandon into anything you want.”

“It gives me a funny feeling,” cried Allegra. “Imagine Miss Brandon being turned into something, and we don’t know what it is.”

“Oh…exciting!” squealed Sylvia.

“Even your mother doesn’t know what,” teased Allegra. Then she cried out: “What if it’s Mrs. Verlaine?”

Four pairs of eyes studied me intently.

“Come to think of it,” said Allegra, mocking and mischievous, “she has got a look of her.”

“How do you mean?” I demanded.

“It’s the way you talk perhaps. But something…”

“I think,” said Edith, “that we are embarrassing Mrs. Verlaine.”

I was touched when Edith seemed to find some comfort in my company. It seemed to me reasonable that she should turn to me. Although she was nearer in years to the girls, I had been married and that must draw us together. She seemed to me a pathetic creature and I longed to help her.

One afternoon she asked me if I rode and when I explained that I had done a little riding but was far from proficient in the art she asked me if I would ride with her.

“But I haven’t the necessary clothes.”

“I could lend you something. We aren’t so very different in shape, are we?”

I was taller than she and not so slender but she insisted that one of her habits would fit me very well.

She was pathetically eager. Why? I knew of course. She was a nervous rider; she wanted to improve and she could do so by practice. Why should she not practice with me, so that when she went out with her husband she would be more accustomed to being in the saddle.

I gave in—with some misgivings—and she took me along to her room and I was soon fitted out in a riding habit—a long skirt, a tailored jacket in olive green, and a black riding hat.

“You look elegant,” she cried with pleasure, and I was not displeased with what I saw. “I’m so glad.” Her eyes were anxious. “We can ride often together, can’t we?”

“Well, I have come here to teach music, you know.”

“But not all the time surely. You must have some exercise.” She twisted her hands together. “Oh, Mrs. Verlaine. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

I was puzzled that she should feel so strongly. It was not, I was sure, because of any great affection she felt for me. She had sensed my interest in people; she had a faith in my knowledge of the world; she wanted to confide. Poor Edith, she was a very worried young bride.

We went down to the stables together, and one of the grooms selected horses for us.

I explained that I was something of a novice. “My riding has been confined to a London riding school though I’ve ridden occasionally in the Row.”

“Well you take Honey. She’s as mild as her name. And Mrs. Stacy, madam. I suppose it’ll be Venus.”

Edith said nervously: No, she thought not. She would like a mount as mild as Honey.

As we rode out of the stables Edith said: “My husband likes me to ride Venus. He says that Sugar-Plum…” she tapped her mount gently as she said her name… “is for children to practice on. The girls learned on her. Her mouth is quite insensitive. But I feel very comfortable on her.”

“Then you can enjoy your ride.”

“I am enjoying this with you, Mrs. Verlaine. Sometimes I think I shall never make a rider. I’m afraid I’m a great disappointment to my husband.”

“Well, riding is not the whole meaning of life, is it?”

“No…no. I suppose not.”

“You lead the way. You know it better than I.”

“I’ll take you toward Dover. I think the scenery’s magnificent. The castle on the skyline, and then that drop down to the harbor.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

It was a wonderful day; I saw things about the country which I had never noticed before. I was enchanted by the rich purples of nettles in a field and yellow cowslips in meadows.

“You can see the Roman remains from here,” Edith told me. “If you look back.”

I did, thinking of Roma.

“I suppose we should have heard if they ever found out what happened to that woman,” said Edith. “It’s horrible, isn’t it…to think of someone…just disappearing like that I wonder if there was someone who…who wanted her out of the way.”

“There couldn’t have been,” I said too fiercely.

I turned away from the remains and we went forward, keeping to the coast road.

The sea was a pellucid green and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky; the air was so clear that I could see the outline of the French coast.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. As we came within a short distance of Dover, she pointed out a haunted house on the road. “A lady in gray comes out when she hears the sound of horses’ hoofs. They say she was running away and came out to stop the coach as it passed. The driver didn’t see her and ran her down…and killed her. She was running away from a husband who was trying to poison her.”

“Do you think she will come out when she hears our horses?”

“It has to be by night. Most horrible things happen at night, don’t they? Although they say that woman archaeologist walked out in broad daylight.”

I did not answer. I was remembering standing with Roma not far from this very spot looking at that magnificent castle—the key and stronghold of all England, as it has been called. There it had stood for eight hundred years defying time and the elements, a grim warning to any unwelcome invader. Set proudly on the grassy slope it was a masterpiece in gray stone, dominated by the Keep—holding watch over that narrow strip of Channel. The rectangular Keep, the Constable’s Tower defended by the drawbridge and portcullis, the medieval semi-circular towers, the deep tree-lined moat, the mighty buttresses, the solid walls—all were so impressive that I could not take my eyes from them.

“It’s so strong, is it not?” said Edith, almost timidly. “So formidable.”

“Magnificent,” I replied.

“That’s Peverel’s Tower with the arched gateway, and over there on the northeast wall is the Avranches Tower. There’s a platform there on which the archers used to stand to shoot out their arrows. There are trapdoors in St. John’s Tower and platforms on which there are all sorts of appliances for pouring down molten lead and boiling oil.” She shivered. “It’s rather horrible—but fascinating.”

I was able to point something out to Edith—the remains of the Roman lighthouse which was older than the castle itself. Pharos, I remembered Roma’s calling it.

“Oh yes,” said Edith, “this is indeed Roman country.”

“Isn’t the whole of Britain?”

“Yes, but this is where they came first. Imagine! That lighthouse used to guide them across the sea.” She laughed, a little nervously. “I didn’t think about Romans until those people came. It’s because all that was discovered in our own park.”

And as we looked a horseman came up the hill toward us. I recognized him a second or so before Edith did. She was shortsighted, I learned—so I was able to witness the change in her.

She grew perceptibly paler and then flushed deeply.

Napier swept off his hat and called: “An unexpected pleasure!”

“Oh!” said Edith. It was an exclamation of dismay; he was aware of this, I sensed, and his reply was to give her a sardonic look. “What have they given you to ride?” he demanded. “Old Dobbin from the nursery?”

“It’s…it’s Sugar-Plum.”

“And Mrs. Verlaine? Oh, why didn’t you tell me you wished to ride. I should have seen you had a worthy mount.”

“And one of which I should have been far from worthy. I am no rider, Mr. Stacy. This mount suits me perfectly. I am assured she is mild as her name and that’s what I need.”

“Oh no. You are quite wrong. I shall insist you ride a real horse.”

“I don’t think you understand. I have been so rarely on horseback.”

“An omission you must rectify. Riding is a pleasure you should indulge in frequently. It’s superb exercise and most enjoyable.”

“In your opinion. Perhaps others might find different pursuits more to their taste.”

Edith looked uneasy; she had immediately lost confidence.

“Were you returning to the house?” he said. “Then let us go back together.”