Rustication

  So after dinner I waited until Euphemia had left the room and said: The shirt is beautiful. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you properly. I’m very grateful.

  She smiled and said: That’s better, Richard. And now I hope you’ll make it up with your sister and drop this silly refusal to accompany us to the ball.

  That is a concession I don’t feel ready to make.

  Later on, heroic Mother, bloodied but unbowed after the goose, began to talk of her intention to cook a fine dinner on New Year’s Eve.

  11 o’clock.

  Effie came back into the room and gave me what seemed to be a warning look and then started talking about the stories she had heard from friends and their brothers about the decline in morals of undergraduates.

  While Mother was preoccupied with her knitting, Effie was signalling to me her intention to approach closer and closer to the subject she had raised with me this morning.

  She said: There have grown up a number of very self-indulgent and dangerous habits amongst the young men at both the Universities.

  Mother nodded absent-mindedly.

  Effie went on: The excessive drinking has, of course, been traditional for many years and can hardly now be regarded as a vice. But there are new dangers that have arisen in recent years.

  Like any blackmailer, her power ends at the point where the truth is revealed and so she adroitly held back. She had fired a warning-shot. The next broadside would be aimed below my waterline.

  After half an hour Mother went into the kitchen to give Betsy some instructions. Effie asked me to help her move the pianoforte a few inches to avoid a loose floorboard. As I bent to push the instrument, her shoulder brushed against me and then she turned and her bosom was against my chest.

  I’m so sorry, she said and when we had completed the task she said: It hasn’t made you dusty, has it? She ran her hand down my chest and then down to the top of my leg, brushing gently. She gazed up at me with eyes sparkling. Then she flung herself onto the stool and burst into a fast waltz.

  Mother came back and resumed her knitting. Effie was now playing very softly and I went closer. In a low voice she said, while her fingers still danced over the keys: I often see your candle burning till late when I look out of my window. I wonder when you intend to sleep tonight?

  I muttered: Late. I felt my voice croaking as I said it.

  She made no response but continued to play. Why did she ask me that?

  Midnight.

  I will never smoke again. Tomorrow I will destroy everything: the pipe, the stuff itself. I will not let it have power over me.

  Am still haunted by the agony of that wretched animal. Who is carrying out these deranged attacks? (I can’t believe it is Frederick, though he was clearly enjoying using his knife.) Whoever cut open the animal’s belly must have been very near us. Could it have been that angry young countryman I talked to?

  · · ·

  Pleasure in inflicting pain. An interesting phenomenon. Frederick stabbing the sheep. Amelia enjoying it as much as he. Mrs Quance at any opportunity. That man beating the chained dog. Effie now and then, I’m afraid.

  ½ past midnight.

  I was writing that when there was a gentle tap at the door and Effie glided in! She smiled and said: I’m not disturbing you, I hope?

  I said she was not and asked her to sit. There was only the bed and she seated herself on that so I turned my chair full-circle and sat facing her.

  She looked round: It’s very cosy. I can see why you spend so much time up here.

  I found it hard to speak. She was wearing a robe that she was clutching around herself as if it might fall open at any moment. I was trying to keep my eyes on her face. She was perfumed with the scent of soap and had the rosy glow that showed she had just come from her bath.

  We talked for a few minutes and I hardly recall what was said. We expressed our concern for Mother and the strain she was under. Then she brought the subject round to the ball and talked of the pleasure she was sure I would derive from it. As she was speaking her gown began to open and I found it hard to attend to her words.

  I hardly knew what I was saying and was not surprised to hear myself agreeing to attend the ball. She rose and came towards me and I stood up and she thanked me and then kissed me on the cheek, her hand pressing on the back of my neck to bring my head closer and lingering there as she said goodnight. I put my arms around her briefly and felt her warm body and my hands touched her back low down and it felt almost naked under the thin material.

  Then she was gone.

  · · ·

  Δ

  Sunday 27th of December, noon.

  Iwas spared church today because we are going to Stratton Peverel this afternoon. My strategy for the tea-party: Say as little as possible and listen for any fragments of information that I can make sense of. Both we and the Quances now have an animus against Davenant Burgoyne for the same reason: Each has a daughter who has been humiliatingly rejected by him. A strong alliance might well be constructed on such a foundation.

  · · ·

  Managed to get Effie alone for a few minutes. I said I wasn’t going back on what I had agreed last night but that in return for consenting to go to the ball, I required her to make a promise: She must stop threatening to tell Mother about various imagined offences of mine and prying into whatever it was that I was rusticated for.

  She accepted those terms.

  · · ·

  Drowned in the deep brown. I don’t feel happy with that.

  6 o’clock.

  As we neared the village, I spotted Miss Bittlestone ahead and increased my pace. I went straight to the point and mentioned that I had encountered Mr Davenant Burgoyne on Christmas Eve.

  She needed no further prompting: He came to tell the Lloyds about his betrothal to that brazen creature in Thurchester but he did not have the decency to come and tell us.

  (Us!)

  I reminded her that when she came to tea we had discussed what would happen if he died without an heir. Now I asked bluntly: Who is the “connection of the earl’s late brother” who would inherit the money at his death?

  She shuddered at that last word and looked at me in dismay. Why, Mr Davenant Burgoyne’s brother.

  His brother!

  Well, his half-brother.

  I’ve never heard that he had any kind of brother!

  At that moment, unfortunately, Mother and Euphemia caught up with us and Mother asked the old trout: Are you going to tea at the Rectory?

  She jumped as if she’d been accused of some discreditable act. I’m going there but I’m to sit with Miss Quance. She’s not very well, poor lamb.

  It was strange to find ourselves ushered into the Rectory and to be greeted warmly by Mrs Quance and Guinevere. (Warmly except that Mrs Quance stared at me as if in surprise at my presence.)

  While we were unhatting and uncoating in the hall, Miss Bittlestone scurried up the stairs and Mother said: I’m very sorry to hear that your elder daughter is unwell.

  The chatelaine of Castle Quance shook her head as she directed us into the drawing-room saying: The poor child has suffered a shock to her delicate sensibilities.

  Yes, her most sensitive parts: her vanity and ambition!

  The room was light and airy and there was a cheerful fire blazing in the hearth. We all sat on one or other of the sophas disposed about the room and Guinevere came and placed herself beside me.

  Mother began to babble: It’s very kind of you to invite us, Mrs Quance, and I’m embarrassed that we are unable to return your hospitality with our own house still in a dreadful state.

  Please don’t apologise, Mrs Quance said magnificently. I understand completely. This house was in an appalling condition when we moved from Bath two years ago.

  Bath! Confirmation—not that I needed it—that Miss Bittlestone’s story was about the Quances.

  Without warning Mrs Quance swung her heavy artillery in my direction. I am flattered, Master Shenstone, that you have be
stowed some of your valuable time upon my daughter and myself.

  I took cover behind a convenient banality: Our stroll here this afternoon has been a pleasure, Mrs Quance. I love to walk.

  At night? she demanded.

  Odd question! Why the devil should she care? I didn’t feel I owed her the truth.

  I never leave the house after dark, Mrs Quance. In the evenings I stay at home and lucubrate.

  Her eyes came out on stalks. You do what? You lubricate?

  Ignorant old bitch. Failing to hide my smile at her stupidity, I said: I lucubrate. It is from the Latin and means “to work by artificial light”. I mean that I read and think.

  She received with complete impassivity this piece of information. What she did not already know could not be worth knowing. Then she fixed me with her stony gaze and demanded: How long is it since you came to the neighbourhood?

  Just over two weeks.

  And would you have the goodness to remind me of the name of the school you attended?

  Harrow, I said.

  She nodded as if I had confirmed some dark suspicion of hers. Then she turned from me abruptly like a bird dropping a worm from its beak and addressed my mother.

  From this point onwards she did not speak another word to me but several times I found her looking at me with an expression of deep malevolence mixed with speculation.

  I wanted to hear what she was saying but unfortunately Guinevere began to prattle about some trivial matter.

  I heard Mrs Quance say something about “farm-animals” and “paint”.

  Guinevere noticed that I was distracted and began to frown. She said: Who do you believe is doing these dreadful things?

  I shrugged. A moment later she raised her voice and, ignoring the fact that her mother was speaking, said: Mama, be sure not to forget about the tickets.

  You’re quite right, my dearest, her mother said with remarkable amiability.

  What a paradox that the bullying Mrs Quance is as soft as warm beeswax in the hands of her daughters. I suppose they are versions of herself, colonies of her imperial ego.

  Euphemia began to talk of how much she was looking forward to the ball. She discovered that the four Quances were going in their carriage and was delighted to find that they would be perfectly comfortable in a vehicle that was, as her hostess was only too pleased to point out, designed to carry six in comfort. It was clear to me what my sister was driving at and eventually the slow-witted Mrs Quance saw the danger that was approaching. However, by her boasting she had left herself open to attack. Effie mentioned how worried she was at having to entrust herself and her mother to an unknown coachman hired from Thurchester.

  Mrs Quance fought hand-to-hand at the end: While you and your mother would be most welcome to ride with us, a difficulty arises from the fact that our horses would be too fatigued to go all the way to Herriard House.

  Euphemia routed that attack: The walk from the village would be very welcome after the excitement of the ball.

  Mrs Quance raised the white flag of surrender and Euphemia and Mother thanked her. So that saves the expense of both a carriage and the rooms. Clever Effie! Though it was embarrassing to see her do it. Mrs Quance produced the tickets and Euphemia her money.

  Then Effie, bless her, said: My brother is unexpectedly here on the night of the ball and so I would very much like a half-ticket for him as well.

  Mrs Quance shot me a glance of undisguised loathing and handed over the three tickets saying: I’m afraid there is no question of the carriage being able to accommodate Master Shenstone.

  · · ·

  Drowned in the deep hazel of your eyes.

  · · ·

  Guinevere Guinevere Guinevere! I can’t stop seeing her sitting with her long golden hair flowing down her back. How old is she? Too young for me to care about her.

  [This is the first of the anonymous letters which, at some point in the past, have been pasted into the Journal at the relevant place. This one is addressed to Enid Quance. Note by CP.]

  Monday 28th of December, 10 o’clock.

  The damned Feast of the Holy Innocents so we have to go to church this evening.

  I asked Euphemia at breakfast what she was going to do today and she said in a very strange manner that she was going to Thrubwell as normal. But there’s nothing normal about the way she battles through any sort of weather to sit beside a dying old woman. I’m convinced there is more to it than she has revealed. I suspect she’s up to something and I’m going to follow her.

  5 o’clock.

  When she left the house I tracked her from a couple of hundred yards back. As I guessed she had barely reached the end of our lane when a tall man appeared from the direction of the village. From his height I’m sure it was Davenant Burgoyne though I could not get close enough to see his face and he did not seem to be limping. They turned up the lane onto the Battlefield and walked slowly towards Monument Hill and I suddenly lost sight of them in the spinney there.

  She always got away with things as a child. If we were both in disgrace, she only had to smile at Father and he would let her off and beat me all the harder. It’s not fair.

  I’m beginning to wonder about that tower. Can’t get out of my mind what that old fool, Fourdrinier, told me about it: that it was built for the most immoral purposes. Does it have an entrance? I’m going to have to take a closer look.

  10 o’clock.

  Another strange scene at the evening service. We had all taken our places when Mrs Paytress arrived late. She walked down the aisle averting her gaze from everyone until she reached Mr and Mrs Lloyd and Lucy when she raised her veil and smiled. As one they turned away or dropped their gaze to their prayerbooks. She flinched and lowered the veil and walked on.

  After the service I noticed Mother talking to an old lady who had arrived with the Lloyds. On the way home I asked if she had learned why they had snubbed Mrs Paytress. She shook her head distractedly and said they had been talking of another topic but that the Lloyds had “received evidence” that Mrs Paytress was not what she seemed.

  · · ·

  Mother seemed restless and distracted this evening. To my surprise she asked at dinner: Are you going out tonight?

  Was that prompted by Mrs Quance’s questions? Does she know that I have sallied forth a few times after dark? I blurted out: No, certainly not.

  11 o’clock.

  We were sitting in the parlour less than an hour ago when Betsy suddenly came running in without a warning knock and, white-faced and with her eyes starting from her head, cried out: There’s someone out at the back! I heard them!

  Mother rose to her feet. What do you mean? A visitor? At this hour? At the back-door?

  She and Effie exchanged a look and my sister shrugged as if to disclaim any knowledge of the matter.

  No, Betsy shrieked. It’s not a living being. It’s a dead child!

  Effie stood up at that. She gasped: What are you talking about?

  Betsy, shaking with fright, stammered: I heard it weeping! It’s come out from the mere! It’s at the back-door.

  It was immediately obvious to me that the girl had been out there on her own in the dark kitchen scaring herself with stories of apparitions on the night of Holy Innocents when the dead—especially children—return to haunt the living.

  Her fear had infected Mother and Effie.

  I said briskly: Come along, Betsy. I’ll open the door and show you there’s nothing there.

  She was petrified and dumbly shook her head. I said: I need you to hold the lamp.

  I took her warm hand and led her along the dark passage to the kitchen. I handed the lamp to her and unbolted the back-door and we stood listening. It was a cold starless night. I was struck by how indifferent—even inimical—to humankind the dark landscape seemed: the flat expanse of marshland and the dark shapes of the slopes rising from the mere. A thought that had nothing to do with reason and daylight came to me: when we die do we wander at night across a cold expanse of
desolate land wailing for attention from the living? Betsy was standing behind me and I could hear terror in her shortness of breath.

  I must have caught something of the contagion of fear for although I knew they were creatures of my imagination, I could almost believe I saw figures in the misty darkness dancing around the house in antic shapes.

  Then there came a strange sound—high, unearthly and apparently very close to us. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. A bird or a fox? Immediately Betsy gave a shriek and retreated into the kitchen. I closed and bolted the door.

  In that instant I felt the most powerful conviction that whatever it was that was causing me unease wasn’t outside—that was a fox or a bird—but inside the house. There was some evil creature locked in with us, something that had suffered unendurable pain and was trying to inflict it on others.

  The girl had put the lamp on the floor and was cowering in the opposite corner. I went over to her saying: It’s just the cry of some wild creature, Betsy.

  I put my hand on her arm and tried to pull her to her feet. To my astonishment she tore my grasp from her and screamed: You keep away from me, you dirty thing. I’m not having any more of that.

  Any more? What did she mean? I have hardly touched her.

  I hurried back to the parlour. Mother and Effie were sitting on the sopha, Mother holding a handkerchief to her face and weeping into it while my sister tried to comfort her. Mother hadn’t heard me and as I entered, she said: That poor boy.

  It’s just an animal, I said in bewilderment.

  I’m all right now, Mother said, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. I became frightened because there isn’t a man here now.

  Because she was still upset, I didn’t say: Of course there’s a man here.

  A ¼ to midnight.