“I thought so. The loss of my son affected her deeply. As it did us all. But in her case...”
His voice trailed off. He was clearly thinking of that terrible day when Beaumont had died ... and afterwards when his wife had taken the gun into the woods. A double tragedy. I was so sorry for him. I was even sorry for Napier.
Sir William was speaking of Napier and his voice was quite lacking in any emotion. “Now that my son is married we shall be entertaining a little more than in the past. As you know, Mrs. Verlaine, I should like you to entertain my guests.”
“I should be delighted. What would you suggest I play?”
“That shall be decided later. My wife used to play for our guests...”
“Yes,” I said gently.
“Well, now you will do the same, and it will be like...”
He seemed unaware that he had stopped speaking.
He leaned forward and touched a bell and Mrs. Lincroft appeared so quickly that I felt she must have been outside the door listening.
I realized what was expected of me and left.
I was beginning to feel alive again—not exactly happy, but interested in what was going on around me. A fervent curiosity was growing up within me and at the heart of it was Napier Stacy, as in Paris Pietro had been the center of everything. Then it had been love; now it was hate. No, that was too strong a word. Dislike. That was all, but of one thing I was certain and this was that my feelings for Napier Stacy would never be mild. Dislike could easily flare into hatred. He had suffered because of that dreadful accident—and in my heart I refused to believe it was anything but an accident—but that was no reason why he should torment his poor little wife. He was a man who having been hurt himself, found satisfaction in hurting others and for this I despised him; I distrusted him; I disliked him; but at least I should be grateful to him for making me feel some emotion again. But perhaps no emotion was better than this violent dislike.
I had thought less of Pietro in the last weeks. There would be a lapse of hours when I did not give him one thought. I was shocked for I was, I told myself, being unfaithful to his memory.
One afternoon—during my off-duty period—I decided to take a long walk alone to think about the change in my attitude and my footsteps led me to the sea. It was a bright day and a fresh wind was blowing. I took pleasure in filling my lungs with that exhilarating air.
Whither was I going? I asked myself. I should not stay at Lovat Stacy forever. In fact my position there seemed most insecure. Three girls to whom I must teach music ... and none of them, with the exception of Edith, musical. She was a married woman who might soon have a family. The idea struck me as incongruous. Napier a father ... and the father of Edith’s children! But they were married, so why not. And when she was a mother would she want music lessons? I was to play for Sir William’s guests—but no one kept a pianist on the premises for the occasional musical evening. No, my post was a very insecure one and soon I should be dismissed. And then what? I was alone in the world. I had little money.
I was no longer young. Should I not be planning my future? But how could anyone know what the future held. Once I had believed that Pietro and I would be together for the rest of our lives. There was no knowing, of course; but wise people planned for the years ahead so that they were not caught, like the foolish virgins, without oil in their lamps.
I had taken a winding path down to the sea and had come to a sandy shore. Above me rose the stark white cliff; overhead was Lovat Stacy but I could not see it, for the projecting cliff made a kind of shelf over my head.
The melancholy cry of a gull broke the peace and then I heard a voice calling me. “Mrs. Verlaine. Mrs. Verlaine. Where are you going?”
I turned and there was Alice running towards me, her light brown hair streaming behind her.
She came running up to me, breathlessly, faintly flushed.
“I saw you coming down here,” she panted. “And I came to get you. It’s dangerous.”
I looked at her in disbelief.
“Oh yes,” she reiterated, “it is dangerous. Look.” She waved her arms. “We’re in a little cove. The sea comes right in ... and long before high tide you could get cut off. Then what would you do?”
She folded her arms behind her back and looked up at the overhanging cliff. “You couldn’t go that way, you see. You’d be quite cut off. You shouldn’t come here—only at low tide.”
“Thanks for warning me.”
She said: “It’s all right now, but in ten minutes or so it won’t be. Do come now, Mrs. Verlaine.”
She led me back the way I had come and as I rounded a rock I saw how far the tide had come in. She was right; this part of the beach would be entirely cut off.
“You see,” she said.
“Yes, I do.”
“It can be dangerous. People have been drowned here.”
I said suddenly: “I wonder if that was what happened to Ro ... to the archaeologist”
“Why, I think that could be an explanation. You’re very interested in her, aren’t you?”
“It is interesting surely, when someone disappears.”
“Yes, of course.” She put out a hand to help me over the rock. “It could be the answer,” she said.
“She came here and was drowned. Yes, I do think that could be the answer.”
I looked out at the water and imagined it creeping up. Roma was not a strong swimmer. She could have been carried out to sea.
“I should have thought her body would have been washed up.”
Yes,” agreed Alice. “But I suppose sometimes bodies are carried out to sea. I think people ought to be careful. Particularly those who are new to the place.”
I laughed. “I will,” I said; and she seemed relieved, which was charming of her.
“Do you wish to continue your walk alone?” asked Alice.
“Do you mean that you will accompany me?”
“Only if you wanted me to.”
“But I should be glad of your company.”
Her smile was dazzling and I warmed to her. I wondered how keenly Allegra made her feel her position as housekeeper’s daughter.
She walked sedately by my side and pointed out some of the flowers in the hedgerows.
“Isn’t that blue lovely, Mrs. Verlaine? It’s germander speedwell and ground ivy. Mr. Brown gives us lessons and brings us for walks so that we can see the flowers he talks about Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
“Excellent.”
“It’s botany. Edith used to love it. I expect she misses it now. Sometimes I think she’d like to go on taking lessons. But a married lady could hardly go to the vicarage for lessons could she? Oh look, Mrs. Verlaine, there’s a swift. Do you see it? I like to come out at dusk. Then I might see a churn owl. Mr. Brown told us about them. They sound like an old spinning wheel going round and round and they chase ghost moths in the fields.”
“You seem to enjoy your botany lessons.”
“Oh yes, but not so much now that Edith doesn’t come. I think Mr. Brown enjoyed them more then.”
I felt again that uneasiness and remembered afresh my suspicions.
“The gulls are coming inland, Mrs. Verlaine. That’s a sign of stormy weather at sea. They come in by the hundreds and when I see them I think of the sailors at sea.” She began to sing in her highpitched clear young voice:
“ ‘Lord hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.’ ”
She shivered. “It must be terrible to drown, Mrs. Verlaine. They say you relive your life while you’re drowning. Do you think that’s true?”
“I don’t know and I’d hate to put it to the test.”
“The trouble is,” she went on thoughtfully, “that the people who have drowned can’t tell us if it’s true. If they came back ... But they say only those who have died violently come back. They can’t rest Do you believe it?”
“No,” I said firmly.
“The servants think that Beaumont comes back.
”
“Surely not.”
“Yes, they do. And they think he comes back more now that Mr. Napier is back.”
“Oh, but why?”
“Because he’s angry that Napier’s back. Napier sent him away didn’t he, and he wants Napier to be banished because of it.”
“I thought Beaumont was such a good character. It doesn’t sound so if he wants to punish his brother for what was an accident.”
“No," she said slowly, “it doesn’t, does it. But perhaps he has to. People who die like that may have to haunt people. Do you think that’s so?”
“I think it’s a pack of nonsense.”
“But what about the lights in the ruined chapel? They say it’s haunted. And there are lights there. I’ve seen them.”
“You’ve imagined them.”
“I don’t think so. My room is at the top of the house, above the schoolroom. I can see a long way, and I’ve seen the lights. Truly I have.”
I was silent and she went on earnestly: “You don’t believe me. You think I’ve imagined it. If I see it sometime may I show it to you? But perhaps you don’t want to see it.”
“If it existed I should,” I said.
“Then I will.”
I smiled. “I’m rather surprised at you, Alice. I thought you were a very practical girl.”
“Oh, I am, Mrs. Verlaine, but if something is there it wouldn’t be very practical to pretend it wasn’t, would it?”
“The practical thing would be to try to find out the cause.”
“The cause would be because Beaumont couldn’t rest.”
“Or someone playing a trick. I’ll wait and see the light first before I wonder what caused it.”
“You are certainly very practical, Mrs. Verlaine,” said Alice.
I admitted to it and dismissing the subject talked of music and musicians all the way back to the house.
“I must say,” said Mrs. Rendall, “that I find this most inconvenient. After all we have done ... I am surprised. As for the vicar...”
Her plump cheeks shook with indignation as I walked with her up the path to the vicarage door. I had come over to give Sylvia a piano lesson while Allegra and Alice were with me curate.
Mrs. Rendall went on in this strain for some minutes before I discovered the cause of her indignation.
“He’s such a good curate ... and what he flunks he is going to do in that outlandish place I can’t imagine. Sometimes there is more useful work to be done at home. I think it is time some of these earnest young men realized this.”
“Don’t tell me that Mr. Brown is going away.”
“That is precisely what he intends to do. What we are going to do, I can’t imagine. He is going to some village in Africa, if you please, to teach heathens! A nice thing. I’ve told him that he will no doubt end up by being served for dinner.”
“I suppose he feels he has a vocation.”
“Vocation fiddlesticks! He can have a vocation for working here at home. Why does he want to go to one of these far off places. I said to him, ‘The heat will kill you Mr. Brown, if the cannibals don’t.’ And I didn’t mince my words. I told him straight out that I for one should consider it his own fault.”
I was thinking of the quiet young man ... and Edith. And I wondered whether his decision to go right away had any connection with his feeling for her. I was sorry for them both, they seemed like two helpless children caught up in their emotions.
“I’ve told the vicar to talk to him. Good curates are hard to come by, and the vicar is overworked. In fact I have thought of telling the vicar that the bishop might be able to help. If Mr. Brown was told by the bishop that it was his duty to stay...”
“Is Mr. Brown very eager to go?” I asked.
“Eager! The young idiot is determined. Mind you, since he told the vicar of his decision he has been growing more and more mournful every day. I cannot imagine how he could have got such a foolish notion. Just when the vicar ... and I ... had taught him to make himself so useful.”
“And you can’t persuade him?”
“I shall go on attempting to,” she answered firmly.
“And the vicar?”
“My dear Mrs. Verlaine, if I can’t persuade him, nobody can.”
What about Edith? I asked myself as I went into the house.
When I saw Edith that morning, I noticed how desolate she looked. She stumbled through the Schumann piece, not in time, playing several false notes.
Poor Edith—so young and so bitterly buffeted by life. I wished I could help her.
After I had played for Sir William, Mrs. Lincroft came into the room and said that he wished to speak to me.
I took the chair beside him and he told me that he had fixed a date for the occasion when he wished me to play for his guests.
“You could play for about an hour, I thought, Mrs. Verlaine, and I shall choose the music. I will let you know in good time so that you can run through it a few times if you feel that is necessary.”
“I should like to do that.”
He nodded. “My wife used to be rather nervous on these occasions. Mind you, she enjoyed them ... but that was afterwards. She would never have been able to perform in public. It was quite different in the family circle.”
“I think one is always a little nervous when one is going to perform before an audience. My husband was and he...”
“Ah, he was a genius.”
He closed his eyes, which was an indication for me to leave. Mrs. Lincroft told me that he became tired suddenly and the doctor had warned her that when he showed the least signs of fatigue he needed absolute quiet.
So I rose and went away. Mrs. Lincroft came in as I was leaving. She smiled her appreciative smile. I had the notion that she liked and approved of me, which was pleasant.
The musical evening was obviously a great event.
The girls were always talking of it.
Allegra said: “It will be like old times ... before I was born.”
“So,” Alice said gravely, “we shall know what it was like before we were here.”
“No, we shan’t,” contradicted Allegra, “because it’ll be quite different. Mrs. Verlaine will be playing instead of Lady Stacy. And then nobody had been shot nor committed suicide, nor got the gypsy servant into trouble.”
I pretended not to hear.
They were excited though because although they would not be at the dinner party, they were to be allowed into the hall to hear my playing, which was to take place between nine and ten o’clock.
They were having new dresses for the occasion and they were very pleased about this.
I had decided to wear a dress which I had not worn since Pietro’s death. I had worn it only once—on the night of his last concert. A special dress for a special occasion. It was of burgundy-colored velvet—a long flowing skirt, a tightly fitting bodice which fell slightly off the shoulders. On the front was an artificial flower—a mauve orchid—so delicately colored, so beautifully made that it looked like a perfect bloom. Pietro had seen it in the window of one of the boutiques in the Rue St. Honore and had bought it for me.
I had thought never to wear that dress again. I had kept it in a box and never looked at it until now. I had told myself it would be too painful to look at it. Yet when I had known that I was to play before these people I had thought of this dress and I knew that it was just right for the occasion and that it would give me the confidence I needed.
I took the dress from its box, lifting it out from the layers of tissue paper and spread it on my bed. How it came back to me ... Pietro ... coming onto the platform, that almost arrogant bow; the quick searching for me, finding me and smiling, comforted because I was there, because he knew that I shared every triumph and that I cared as deeply for his success as he did himself, and at the same time he would be telling me: You could never have done this.
When I thought of that night I wanted to throw myself onto that soft velvet and weep for the past.
&
nbsp; Put it away. Forget it. Wear something else.
But no. I was going to wear that dress and nothing must prevent me.
While I was looking at it the door of my room opened stealthily and Miss Stacy looked in.
“Oh, there you are.” She tripped to the bed. Her lips formed a round oh. “It’s lovely. Is it your dress?”
I nodded.
“I didn’t know you had anything so grand.”
“I had it... long ago.”
“Ah, when your famous husband was alive.”
I nodded.
She peered up at me and said: “Your eyes are very bright. Are you going to cry?”
“No,” I told her. And then to excuse my emotion, I added: “I wore it at his last concert.”
She did her mandarin’s nodding but I sensed her sympathy.
“I suffered too,” she said. “It was the same ... in a way. I understand.”
Then she went to the bed and stroked the velvet.
“Bows of the same velvet would look so pretty in your hair,” she said. “I think I’ll have a new velvet dress. Not this color though ... blue, powder blue. Don’t you think that will be pretty?”
“Very,” I said.
She nodded and went out thinking, I was sure, of the powder blue velvet dress she would have and the little bows to go with it.
A few days later Sir William had a bad turn and Mrs. Lincroft was worried. For a whole day and night she scarcely left his room and when I did see her she told me he was a little better.
“We have to be very careful,” she explained. “Another stroke could be fatal and of course he’s vulnerable.”
She was clearly deeply moved and I thought how lucky he was to have such a good housekeeper who could at a moment’s notice become a first-class nurse.
I mentioned this and she turned away slightly to hide her emotion, I imagined. “I shall never forget,” she said, “what he has done for Alice.”
Because she seemed so overcome by her feelings I sought to change the subject briskly and said: “I suppose this means the dinner party will be canceled?”