Simon remained restless for a while, then at last flung himself down with a sigh. Linda returned to sleep.
The house guests slept late next morning, Linda breakfasted alone, interviewed Mrs Hart, who, surly before the guests’ arrival, had now cheered up under Richard’s lavish praise of her arrangements, and then gone into the garden, where the first irises of the year were showing colour. She stood admiring them, Simon by her side, when one of his sudden, defensive movements warned her that someone was approaching her from behind. She turned and saw one of ‘the girls’ coming across the lawn from the house, walking rapidly. As the girl drew near Linda made an effort to fix a name to this young body, this pretty face, and succeeded; this was Miss Jackson, the one they called Rose, the one who, by just a trifle, was the youngest and the prettiest of the lot. This morning her face was puffy—with sleep, Linda thought at first; then she noticed that in her clenched hand Rose held a sodden handkerchief.
She said, ‘Good morning, Miss Jackson. Isn’t it a beautiful morning.’
‘Lady Shelmadine, can I speak to you for a minute?’
‘But of course.’
‘Privately,’ the girl said, looking back at the house.
‘We’ll go through here,’ Linda said, and walked towards an opening in the thick yew hedge which backed the border where the irises grew. Another yew hedge grew on the opposite side of a wide grass path, and at the end of the path a third hedge made an enclosure in which stood a sun-dial and a stone bench. At this time of day, at this season, the sun fell on the bench and the yew hedges shielded it from the wind; it had seemed the perfect place to sit, Linda had thought. But it was, she discovered melancholy. The dark hedges were gloomy even in sunshine, and the sun-dial, with its trite little motto, ‘It is later than you think,’ was not cheerful company.
They sat down together on the sun-warmed stone, and after a moment’s silence Linda said:
‘Now, what did you want to ask me?’
‘It’s a favour. I want you to lend me my coach fare back to London. I know it’s a lot to ask—in the circumstances, I mean; but I got to go, and I can’t very well pad the hoof like this. …’ She indicated her flimsy, high-heeled shoes, her long, wide, silken skirts.
‘Of course not,’ Linda agreed. “Why should you? I’m sure my husband will…’
‘Oh.’ said Rose, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘I got off on the wrong foot, as usual—but I did say privately, didn’t I? I meant just between you and me, my lady; nobody else to know till I was safely away. Lend it to me, will you? I swear I’ll pay you back.’
‘That isn’t what bothers me. I’d give it to you … but, to tell you the truth, I haven’t got more than a few shillings.’ She attempted to explain this statement, which was true. Richard allowed her money for current expenses, enough and no more. The allowance for April was spent, and now it was May and he was home and she would have no more money until he went away and left her in charge again. She had not, had never had, the price of the coach fare to London for her own; Richard housed and clothed and fed her—what more did she need?
The attempt to explain was drowned by Rose’s bursting into sobs, noisy, uncontrolled as a child’s with a broken knee. She appeared to be in such distress that Linda’s mind flitted from the financial to the emotional problem; placing her hand on the girl’s smooth silken knee, she said:
‘What is the matter? Is someone ill? I’ll think of some way … if only you’ll hush and let me think. Why can’t you tell my husband and ask him for the money?”
Rose hushed, drew a quavering breath, let it out in a final sob and began to talk.
‘I’m daft,’ she said, ‘that’s what’s-a-matter with me. It all sounded lovely, a ‘oliday in the country and nothing to it but the usual. I ain’t all that particular, else I shouldn’t be … You must of seen through us, my lady; you know what we are, shut your eyes as you may. Even so, even if it was what it looked like, it was a rotten crying shame. I knew that the first night, but what could I do? I got a living to make, same as everybody else. But even me … All right, I’m daft… and I’m scared. I’m too scared to go on with it, promise what they may. I know the difference between right and wrong; I do wrong… I know that, but
a natural sort of wrong if you can understand that, my lady. This is different … nothing else ever scared me. Now I’m scared and I’ve gotta get away without their knowing. They’d be that angry! And I wouldn’t put it past that Mundford to be sitting there in his bedroom and hearing every word I’m saying now….’
And deep down, far under the foundations of reason and experience, something in Linda’s mind popped up its head and said distinctly, ‘Neither would I.’ And that was, of course, absolute sheer nonsense.
‘That is nonsense,’ she said aloud. ‘No one could possibly hear from such a distance; and no one could approach us and listen. My dog would give warning. What is it that has frightened you?’
The girl lifted her head and looked at Linda; her eyes were very beautiful, a clear hazel in colour, with a tinge of blue in their whites and with thick, rather short black lashes.
‘No use asking me that. I took me oath not to say. I dus-sent say, and if I did you wouldn’t believe me. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get out. If you can’t lend me the money I’ll chance me luck and just go. I’ve gotta foot it into this place—Baildon, ain’t it—to get the coach anyway.’
‘On some days the coach runs through Nettleton, which is much nearer.’
‘Let’s hope this is one of them days. I can get into the park without goin’ back to the ‘ouse, can’t I? Then I’m off. Goodbye, your ladyship.’
She jumped to her feet, gathered up a handful of her skirts in either hand, displayed slim ankles and the promise of well-turned calves and set off along the path, running lightly, with something of a swallow’s swoop in her gait. Linda looked after her for a moment and then dropped her head into her hands.
It was possible to ignore or discount everything the girl had said except one thing. ‘You must of seen through us … you know what we are.’ She had seen on the first evening; she had known all along. And she had done nothing,
said nothing, had accepted the situation with a meekness which she now saw was shameful, despicable. ‘You must of seen through us …’ That had been said to her by a pretty little London prostitute—and four others were there, under what was technically her roof, and they were doubtless thinking the same thing … and so were Mundford and Montague and old Dunhill and young Saxstead. She saw suddenly the depths of the abyss into which Richard had thrust her, one small push following another all through these years–-
Suddenly she stood up and began to walk towards the house.
Richard and Alec Mundford were in the breakfast-room. The older man had before him a plate well filled with bacon and grilled kidneys and was making a hearty breakfast, though his pallor was almost phosphorescent; Richard was sipping coffee. His hands were unsteady and so was his head; she had seen that convulsive, only just perceptible tremor shake it on many mornings, in many places.
She greeted neither of them; from the doorway she said:
‘Richard, I want to speak to you—alone.’
‘Oh, do you? Well, I don’t want to be spoken to in that tone of voice,’ Richard said, instantly turning nasty. ‘If you can be civil, you may say anything you wish to say in Alec’s presence.’
‘Come, come,’ said Mr Mundford, balancing food on his fork and speaking good-humouredly, ‘why involve me? If every other room in the house is occupied, I shall be finished in about five minutes and will go into the garden.’
What was the power behind those words, strong enough to make Richard, furious as he was, set down his coffee-cup and get up and open the door which led into the little sitting-room which she used when she was alone, saying as he did so, ‘No, no, finish your breakfast in comfort’?
Inside the room he faced her, ‘Well, what is it?’, and she found that the words which had been ready in her mouth only two minutes ago were now not easily spoken;