‘No, I’m sure they didn’t,’ said Belinda inadequately, for she was never quite clear as to what had happened there except that poor John had been killed in a riot.
There was a silence, during which Belinda racked her brains for something intelligent to say. But she was too late to stop Ricardo from getting back on to the subject of Harriet.
‘It is many days since I have seen your sister,’ he said. ‘It may be that there is something she does not wish to tell me.’
The warmth of the room and the unaccustomed effect of sherry in the morning were beginning to make Belinda feel a little vague and carefree, in the mood to make rash promises.
‘Harriet is coming to see you very soon,’ she said. ‘I can promise you that.’
‘She will never marry me, she does not love me,’ said Ricardo as if speaking his thoughts aloud.
‘Now, Ricardo, you mustn’t lose hope,’ said Belinda comfortably. ‘I know she is fond of you and even if she will not love you, always remember’ – her eyes lighted on the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson – ‘that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I always think those lines are such a great comfort; so many of us have loved and lost.’ She frowned: nobody wanted to be one of many, and she did not like this picture of herself, only one of a great crowd of dreary women. Perhaps Tennyson was rather hackneyed after all.
But Ricardo did not appear to think so. ‘You are so kind and understanding,’ he said. ‘I feel that there is a great bond between us.’
Belinda did not quite know what to say, so she merely smiled and said that she was sure that some day everything would be just as Ricardo wished.
‘Then I shall ask her again,’ he declared, fired with fresh courage and looking as if he were about to quote Dante or Tacitus at any moment; probably the former, Belinda thought, for it seemed unlikely that there would be anything suitable in Tacitus.
‘Yes, Ricardo, do,’ she said, ‘but not yet. Wait until the spring, when the daffodils are out in your meadow.’
‘If I am spared till then,’ said Ricardo sadly, looking down at his bandaged foot. He then went on to talk of the fine new bulbs that he had planted in the meadow and to calculate when they would be at their best.
Belinda left the house feeling that she had done good, and with a picture of daffodils and scyllas in her mind. She saw Harriet, the radiant Countess, picking grapes in the conservatory, adorning the head of Ricardo’s dinner table, opening a garden fete or bazaar. But all this was in the distant future. For the present Belinda was glad that she had been able to cheer Ricardo and to give him a little hope. What a good thing it was that hope sprang eternal in the human breast! What would she herself have done without hope? Even if nothing came of it, she thought obscurely, for she could not have said exactly what it was that she hoped for now. It would be enough if things could return to normal and be as they were before Mr Mold and the Bishop had appeared in the village. They could get on very well without them.
Belinda took out her shopping list and stopped for a moment, deep in contemplation of it. Coffee, rice, steel wool, kitchen soap, written in her own hand and then, in Harriet’s, tinned peaches, sponge cakes, sherry (not cooking), set of no. 14 knitting needles (steel) … Belinda frowned. They had plenty of knitting needles of all sizes and did they really need sherry or peaches or sponge cakes? Perhaps Mr Donne was coming to supper again.
‘Good morning!’ said a bright, cheerful voice, which Belinda did not at first recognize as Agatha’s, calling to her from the other side of the narrow street.
‘Good morning,’ Belinda called back, and was just moving on when she saw that Agatha was hurrying across to speak to her.
‘Isn’t it a lovely morning?’ she said, beaming with such unusual good humour that Belinda stared at her quite curiously, wondering what could have happened to bring about this change.
‘Yes, isn’t it. Really quite mild,’ murmured Belinda expectantly.
‘I have some great news for you,’ said Agatha, smiling.
‘News? For me?’ All kinds of wild ideas rushed through Belinda’s head, most of which she rejected hastily. Henry had been made a dean or a bishop, that was it. It seemed unlikely, in a way, and yet what else could it be?
‘I had a letter from my niece Olivia this morning,’ went on Agatha. ‘She and Edgar are to be married – quite soon.’ She paused and peered so intently and beamingly at Belinda that the latter drew back, a little embarrassed.
‘Edgar?’ said Belinda stupidly. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Why, of course you do! Our curate, Mr Donne,’ said Agatha with some of her usual impatience which made Belinda feel more at home. ‘Such a suitable thing altogether, I’ve been hoping all along that it would happen like this.’
‘But isn’t she a lot older than he is,’ said Belinda tactlessly.
‘Oh, well, a year or two, but Mr Donne needs an older woman. Besides, he’s rather shy and an older woman can often help things along, you know.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Belinda. ‘I suppose if young people want to marry, they will. I mean if they both do.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Agatha, ‘but there is often a natural hesitation on the part of the man, especially if he feels, as I know Edgar does, that a woman is far superior to him intellectually.’
And older too, thought Belinda perversely. ‘Yes, I suppose a young man might well hesitate in those circumstances,’ she said aloud.
‘He who hesitates is lost,’ said Agatha briskly. ‘I told Edgar that and I dropped a hint to Olivia.’
‘Oh, did she propose to him?’ asked Belinda in a loud, interested tone. ‘I’ve often wondered if it was done very much. I suppose it must be done a good deal more than one realizes.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Agatha casually, ‘it is not at all unusual. Men are understandably shy about offering what seems to them very little and when a woman realizes this she is perfectly justified in helping him on a bit, as it were.’
At this moment an idea came into Belinda’s head. At first it seemed fantastic, then quite likely, and finally almost a certainty. Agatha had proposed to Henry. Why had this never occurred to her before? And now that it had, what was the use of it? Belinda could not answer this, but she knew that she could put it away in her mind and take it out again when she was feeling in need of comfort.
‘Yes, I suppose it can happen like that,’ she agreed calmly. ‘There is no reason why it shouldn’t. And yet,’ she ventured, ‘I don’t think I should ever feel certain enough to take on that responsibility myself. I know men have to take it, but supposing one met somebody else afterwards …’ she stopped in confusion.
‘Ah, yes,’ Agatha’s face seemed to soften for a moment, ‘That can happen too. One wonders how often it does happen when one knows that it can.’
Belinda hurried home in a great turmoil. So many exciting things to tell Harriet and somehow the curate’s engagement seemed to be the least exciting of them all. Nevertheless, she could not help wondering how her sister would take the news. Not that one could say it had really been a ‘disappointment’ to Harriet in the usual sense, but what would she do without a curate to dote upon? It was unlikely that Miss Berridge – perhaps they would soon be calling her Olivia – would approve of anybody else doting on her husband, for Harriet would not like it to be suggested that she was too old and unattractive for there to be any danger, which led Belinda to speculate upon the age at which a single woman could safely have a curate to live with her without fear of scandal. She feared that whatever the age might be, seventy-five or even eighty, it would be many years before Harriet would attain it. What a solution it would be! Belinda sighed as she walked through the gate, fearful of what might happen.
But Harriet had already heard the news and although it was obvious that she was rather upset, her attitude was rather one of indignation and pity for Mr Donne.
‘Poor young man,’ she said, ‘I could hardly believe it when I heard the news. Of cours
e it’s obvious that she’s been after him for a long time. I expect she proposed to him.’
‘Why, yes,’ said Belinda eagerly, ‘Agatha as good as told me so. And I think she proposed to Henry, and now she finds that she prefers the Bishop. At least,’ she added, feeling that she had gone rather too far, ‘she might not necessarily have meant that, but she did hint at it.’
‘I can quite imagine it,’ said Harriet. ‘If only you could have thought of proposing, Belinda.’
‘It wouldn’t have occurred to me, I’m afraid. And think how dreadful it would be to be refused. I sometimes wonder how men can bear it, though they usually go off and ask somebody else, don’t they, all except Ricardo, that is. But I think it’s much better not to have asked, not to know definitely that one wasn’t wanted,’ said Belinda hastily. ‘I always feel that a man should do his own proposing.’
‘Yes, and then he can be blamed for the results,’ said Harriet stoutly.
‘Perhaps clergymen feel that they ought not to ask people to marry them,’ said Belinda. ‘The celibacy of the clergy, you know,’ she added vaguely.
‘It’s much better for a curate not to marry. Just imagine, a married curate,’ said Harriet in disgust.
‘Ricardo has given me the recipe for ravioli,’ said Belinda. ‘He seemed rather low, I thought, and I promised that you would go up and see him.’
‘Oh, yes, I really ought to go,’ said Harriet, ‘perhaps this afternoon,’ she added, brightening up a little, as if the thought of the Count’s admiration would do something to make up for the prospect of a married curate. ‘No, this afternoon won’t do. I shall go tomorrow after I’ve had my hair done.’
‘All right, but let it be soon,’ said Belinda. ‘It would cheer him up so much. I think I shall make some ravioli for supper; it seems quite easy.’
‘Yes, that would be nice. We have some cold meat, haven’t we, for the filling?’ Harriet suddenly chuckled. ‘I wonder if Agatha does prefer the Bishop to Henry,’ she said. ‘How ironical life is; he sent you those flowers and you weren’t at all pleased.’
Belinda looked startled, almost as if she expected to see the chrysanthemums still there. But the place where they had stood was reassuringly filled with dried Cape gooseberries and honesty.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Belinda always liked working in the kitchen when Emily was not there and was glad that she had decided to make the ravioli on her afternoon out. Emily always seemed so critical, though generally in a silent way which was far more unnerving than if she had put it into words. Belinda could feel her scornful, pitying glances as she creamed butter and sugar or rubbed fat into flour. For this reason she usually chose some foreign dish of which Emily would be unlikely to have knowledge.
This afternoon she felt a great sense of freedom and spread the things around her in a most wanton manner, though the recipe did not need complicated ingredients. The secret seemed to lie in the kneading or rolling, which was to be carried out for a full half-hour or until the paste was quite smooth and ‘of the consistency of the finest chamois leather’, as the Count’s translation of the Italian read.
When Belinda had been kneading and rolling for about ten minutes she felt she must rest. It was exhausting work, and the paste was nowhere near the desired consistency yet. It was sticky, full of little lumps and greyish looking – not at all like any kind of chamois leather.
Harriet was bustling in and out of the kitchen as she was expecting a visit from Mrs Ramage, the wardrobe woman. She had spread practically the whole of Belinda’s wardrobe out on the floor, and was quite ruthless in brushing aside Belinda’s feeble protest on seeing a nearly new green crêpe afternoon frock among the things to be sold.
‘Oh, but Harriet, I rather like that dress,’ said Belinda, ‘and there’s still a lot of wear in it. I’m sure Miss Prior could bring it up to date in some way, if it needs it. Perhaps a little lace collar or a contrasting jabot,’ she suggested uncertainly.
‘Neither lace collars nor jabots are being worn at the moment,’ said Harriet firmly, ‘and I’ve always thought it rather a trying shade of green. It makes you look yellow.’
Belinda paused in her kneading, remembering the many times she had worn the dress. Had she always looked yellow in it? It was a disturbing thought. ‘I suppose that old tweed coat is past wearing,’ she went on sadly, ‘but I’ve always liked it so much.’
‘It’s no use being sentimental about things,’ said Harriet. ‘You shouldn’t keep a clutter of clothes you never wear just because you once liked them.’
Belinda made no comment on this, for she was thinking that Harriet’s words might be applied to more serious things than clothes. If only one could clear out one’s mind and heart as ruthlessly as one did one’s wardrobe…
‘I shall see Mrs Ramage in the dining-room,’ declared Harriet. ‘I shall not take more than two or three things in at once. I shall start by asking £5 for your green dress.’
‘But I believe it hardly cost that when it was new,’ protested Belinda. ‘What a good thing you are seeing her,’ she added, thinking also that it was just as well that Harriet had something to take her mind off Mr Donne’s engagement. ‘I’m afraid I never have the courage to ask a big price but just agree to what she offers.’
Harriet snorted. ‘She’d probably offer a pound for the lot if you asked her.’ The front-door bell rang. ‘There, that must be her now.’ Harriet strode out with a purposeful step, carrying Belinda’s old tweed coat and an old jumper suit of her own over her arm. She would lead up to the green crêpe dress artistically and not bring it out until the last moment.
Belinda returned to her kneading and rolling. The paste still did not seem quite right. Perhaps it was too sticky. She sprinkled more flour on the board and on her hands and went on rather grimly. Her back was aching a little now and she was startled when the front-door bell rang again, and stood for a moment undecided what to do. It was no use expecting Harriet to answer it and she herself with her floury hands and generally dishevelled appearance was really in no fit state to go. But of course it probably wouldn’t be anybody who mattered. It certainly wouldn’t be the Archdeacon at ten to three in the afternoon.
The bell rang again, a long ring, as if it had been firmly pressed. Belinda wiped her floury hands on her apron and hurried into the hall.
A man’s figure showed through the frosted glass panel of the front door. A tall figure, but definitely not the Archdeacon’s. It was probably a man selling something. A suitcase would be opened on the doorstep, full of combs, cards of safety pins and darning wool, packets of needles … Still, such things were useful, one could always do with them, thought Belinda opening the door, for she felt much too sorry for the men not to buy something.
‘Ah, Miss Bede, good afternoon.’ It was an unctuous voice, a clergyman’s voice, a Bishop’s voice. Why was it that they were so unmistakable? Only the Archdeacon’s was different.
‘Oh, dear, Bishop Grote.’ Theodore Mbawawa. Belinda rubbed her hands vigorously on her grey tweed skirt – for her apron was already too floury to be of much use – and backed into the hall. ‘I’m afraid I’m hardly in a fit state to receive visitors, but do come in.’ She edged towards the drawing-room door and put out a still floury hand to open it.
But the Bishop was almost too quick for her. His hand reached the knob simultaneously with hers. For one panic-stricken moment she even imagined that it lingered for a fraction of a second, but then dismissed the unworthy thought almost before it had time to register in her mind. She was in an agitated state, and she had read somewhere that in any case middle-aged spinsters were apt to imagine things of this kind…
Inside the drawing-room Belinda stood uncertainly, while the Bishop advanced towards the fireplace, where a fire was laid but not yet lit. He made a remark about the weather, observing that it was a raw and chilly afternoon. In his diocese, he added, they would be enjoying some of the hottest weather now.
‘It must be a lovely climate,??
? said Belinda, fumbling in the Toby jug on the mantelpiece for a box of matches. ‘I’m so sorry about there being no fire. We usually light it just before tea.’ She wondered if she could perhaps offer him a cup now. It was certainly a little early, but it would at least fill in the time until Harriet had finished with Mrs Ramage and would also give Belinda an opportunity to slip away and make herself more presentable. ‘I will go and tell my sister that you are here,’ she said crouching over the fire and setting a match to a corner of the Church Times. ‘She will be so pleased to see you.’
The Bishop held up his hand. ‘No, please, Miss Bede. It is you I have come to see.’
Belinda stood up. ‘Oh?’ Whatever could he want? ‘Me? Please sit down, won’t you? I must apologize again for my untidiness, but I was doing something in the kitchen.’
The Bishop smiled. ‘And doing it admirably, I’m sure.’
Belinda smiled uneasily. She began to wonder whether she had thanked him enough for the flowers, though that was some weeks ago now, and was just going to make a remark about them when he began to speak in a hurrying way, as if he were not quite sure of himself.
‘Miss Bede, I am sure you must have realized – have noticed, that is – my preference for you above all the other ladies of the village,’ he said, and peered at her so intently that Belinda – they were sitting together on the sofa – drew back, considerably alarmed.
‘No, I don’t think I have,’ she said anxiously. ‘In any case you can hardly know me very well or you would realize that there is nothing very special about me.’
‘Ah, well, one hardly looks for beauty at our time of life,’ he said, with a return of some of his usual complacency. ‘She is not fair to outward view … how does Wordsworth put it?’
‘Not Wordsworth,’ said Belinda automatically. ‘Coleridge, Hartley Coleridge, I think.’ She felt rather annoyed. Not even a middle-aged spinster likes to be told in so many words that she is not fair to outward view. Besides, she felt that the Bishop had taken an unfair advantage of her, calling on Emily’s afternoon off, when she had had no opportunity to tidy herself. ‘Although I am not beautiful myself and never have been,’ she went on, ‘I must confess that I like to see beauty in other people.’