‘How much does she understand?’
‘Almost everything, I believe. And unless she is in one of her bad days she is very good and biddable.’
‘Affectionate, would you say?’
‘I like to think so. Indeed, it is probable; but the signs are hard to make out.’
Stephen ate wolfishly for a while, and cutting himself another piece of cheese he said ‘Will you tell me about Diana? I mean, what you feel you can properly say.’ Clarissa looked at him doubtfully. ‘I do not mean lovers or anything you cannot tell of a friend. For you were friends, I believe?’
‘Yes. She was very kind when Oakes was at sea, and kinder still when he was killed; although by that time it was already perfectly clear that Brigid was not like ordinary people, which distressed her extremely, so that she drank to much and might then speak wildly and be indiscreet. But she was very kind. She taught me to ride: such joy. Very kind, and I am not an ungrateful creature, you know,’ said Clarissa, laying her hand on Stephen’s arm. ‘But there Were reserves. I believe she was deeply convinced that I was or had been your mistress. When I protested my complete indifference where such matters were concerned she only smiled politely, repeating that catch-phrase Les hommes, cest difficile de s’endormir sans; and I could not prove my point with the confidences that you so kindly listened to on that remote island when we were aboard the Nutmeg, dear ship.
Confidences, I may say, that I have never made to anyone but you, and never shall: and as you and Sir Joseph advised, for the world in general I am a governess who disliked her employment in New South Wales and ran away with a sailor.’
‘When do you suppose her unhappiness began?’
‘Oh, very early; well before I knew her. I believe she missed you cruelly. And from what I have heard the birth was worse than usual – an interminable labour and a fool of a man midwife. The baby was put out to nurse, of course. When it came back it looked enchanting and she thought she would certainly love it. But already there was this total indifference. The child wished neither to love nor to be loved. Diana had never come across anything of the kind and she was completely bewildered as well as being wounded to the heart. When I came I think it was some relief, but it was not nearly enough and she grew more and more unhappy and often difficult. Her aunt Williams was very unkind indeed, I believe. And as time went on there was no improvement in Brigid: rather the reverse. The indifference grew to positive aversion, and even to a cold dislike.’
‘Did any of my letters reach her?’
‘None while I was here: none except that which Oakes and I brought back, of course. They would have been of the greatest help. She began to give up hope: so many ships are lost. And yet she dreaded your return. Obviously. Presently she took against this house: you would not have wished her to buy it; and indeed it is cold, lonely and inconvenient. The horses she loved almost until the end, but then suddenly she told me that she was giving up the stud, though it was quite successful, and the next week they were all sent up to Tattersalls with Mr Wilson, the manager, all except a stallion and two mares who went into the north country – I forget the name of the house. Near Doncaster.
All the grooms except for old Smith, who was to look after my little Arab and the pony and trap, were dismissed, though I know she wrote about among her friends to find new places for them; and she begged me to stay on here with Brigid until she could make arrangements. She left me a quantity of money and said she would write. I did hear from her once, in Harrogate; but not since.’
‘She never was a letter-writer.’
‘No. Yet she did write one that I was to give to you, should
the frigate bring you home. Would you like to see it now?’
‘If you would be so good.’
While she was away he rolled himself a large ball of coca leaves; before she opened the door again he tossed them into
the fire.
‘I am sorry to have been so long,’ she said. ‘Please open it at once, if you wish. I will bring some port, if I can find it.’
Stephen, he read, I know you loathe women who have fortitude, but I have not the courage to bear it any longer. If you come back, if ever you come back, do not, do not despise me.
Clarissa returned with a decanter. They neither of them spoke for a while: the rain could be heard pouring from the eaves. Eventually Stephen poured the wine, and coming back to the commonplace world he said ‘Clarissa, I am infinitely obliged to you for staying and looking after my daughter. I must go to town with Sarah and Emily tomorrow but if I may I shall leave Padeen here with you. Now that the house is empty it is not fit you should be here with no more than one elderly groom. I have promised to be back at Ashgrove a week before the squadron sails, and by then I hope we can make better arrangements.’ There was always Bath, he said, speaking somewhat at random, and the coast of Sussex; while Gosport offered a pleasant naval society, for really so isolated a place as Barham Down would weigh upon an angel’s spirits, in time. Clarissa agreed that the house itself was cold, dark and sad, but it did have glorious rides about it: she had grown much attached to riding.
‘Sure, a cheerful horse is a delightful, understanding companion,’ said Stephen with something of a smile. ‘But now, my dear, when we have drunk our port – and a very decent bottle it is – I should like to retire, if I may. Where am I to sleep?’ He heard himself utter the question: almost immediately he saw that it was, that it might be, equivocal and his mind turned quickly in foolish circles.
Clarissa remained silent, looking grave. ‘I have been thinking,’ she said. ‘Nellie and I turned out Diana’s room on Friday. A mouse had made her nest between one of the bedposts and the curtain, a soft round ball with five pink creatures inside. She ran off, of course, but we left the nest in a box, and when she came back I closed the lid and carried them away to the hay-loft. For the moment I could not remember whether we made up the bed again, but now I am quite certain of it. New sheets and clean curtains.’
Chapter Three
‘Papa,’ shouted Fanny as she ran, still two hundred yards from the coach-house, ‘Papa, your uniform is come.’
‘Fan,’ cried Charlotte, the fatter twin, several lengths behind, ‘you are not to bawl out like that. And Miss O’Hara will hear you. You are to wait for me. Wait, oh do wait.’ Her sister flitted on however, and Charlotte, coming to a halt, clapped her right hand behind her ear, in the manner of her old friend Amos Dray hailing the foretop in a gale of wind, and roared ‘Papa. Papa there, your admiral’s uniform is come.’ Then, hoarse with the effort, she added in little more than an ordinary shout ‘Oh George, shame on you,’ for at
this moment her little brother came racing into the stable-yard from the far end. With a better sense of timing and distance he had cut across the kitchen-garden, burst through the gooseberries regardless of their thorns, and had dropped from the wall into the back lane: now ran at full speed into the coach-house, where he gasped out ‘Papa. Oh sir. Your uniform is come. In Jennings’ own dog-cart.’
‘Thankee, George,’ said his father. ‘Jennings is always punctual. I do love a man that is true to his hour. Hold this strap, will you?’ He had been home long enough for the children to have grown quite used to him again; and now his daughters rushed in without the least ceremony, repeating the news as though vehemence and a wealth of detail –
who saw the dogcart first and from what distance: the colour of the horse and of the packages: their number and shape – would restore something to its freshness.
‘Yes, my dears,’ said Jack, smiling at them – they were pleasant hoydens, between childhood and adolescence, almost pretty, and sometimes as graceful as foals – ‘George told me. Clap on to the buckle, there.’
He was wholly unmoved, and with some indignation Charlotte cried ‘Well, ain’t you going to come and try it on? Mama said you would certainly come and try it on.’