The thought buoyed me up, and drove away the worst of my hangover. My housekeeper arrived, and was reassured to see me so recovered; she said she’d been worried about me all night. My morning surgery began, and I applied myself with extra care to my patients’ complaints, wanting to make up for my disgraceful lapse of the evening before. I rang David Graham to tell him that my spell of sickness was past. Relieved, he passed on a list of cases, and I spent the rest of the morning diligently making calls.
And then I went back out to Hundreds. I let myself in through the garden door again and went straight to the little parlour. The house looked so exactly as it had on my last visit, and on every visit before that, that I grew more confident with every step. When I found Caroline at the writing table, going through a heap of papers, I half expected her to rise and greet me with a sheepish sort of smile. I even took a few steps towards her, beginning to lift up my arms. Then I saw her expression, and the dismay in it was unmistakable. She screwed on the lid of her pen and got slowly to her feet.
My arms sank. I said, ‘Caroline, what nonsense this all is. I’ve had a miserable, miserable night. I’ve been so worried about you.’
She frowned, as if troubled and sorry.
‘You mustn’t worry about me now. You mustn’t come out here any more.’
‘Not come out here? Are you mad? How can I not come out here, knowing you’re here, in this kind of state—’
‘But I’m not in any kind of “state”.’
‘It’s only a month since your mother died! You’re grieving. You’re in shock. These things you say you’re doing, these decisions you’re making, about Hundreds, about Rod—you’re going to regret them. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. My darling—’
‘Please don’t call me your darling now,’ she said.
She said it, half pleading, but half with a touch of disapproval; as if I’d spoken a dirty word. I had taken another few steps towards her, but again I came to a halt. And after a silence I changed my tone, became more urgent.
‘Caroline, listen. I understand if you’re having doubts. You and I, we’re not giddy youngsters. Marriage is a big step for us. I worked myself into a panic last week, just as you’re doing now. David Graham had to calm me down with whisky! I think, if you could just calm down, too—’
She shook her head. ‘I feel calmer now than I’ve felt in months. From the moment I agreed to marry you, I knew it wasn’t right, and last night was the first time I felt easy. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t more honest with you—and with myself—right at the start.’
Her tone wasn’t disapproving now so much simply as cool, remote, contained. She was wearing one of her homespun outfits, a ragged cardigan, a darned skirt, her hair tied back with a bit of black ribbon, but she looked oddly handsome and poised, with an air of purposefulness I hadn’t seen about her for weeks. All of the morning’s bright confidence began to crumble away from me. I could feel, just beyond it, the fear and humiliation of the night. For the first time I glanced properly around, and the room looked subtly different to me, tidier and more anonymous, with a heap of ash in the grate as though she’d been burning papers. I saw the cracked window-pane, and remembered with shame some of the things I’d said to her the day before. Then I noticed that on one of the room’s low tables she had made a neat pile of the boxes I had brought her: the dress-box, the flower-box, and the shagreen case.
Seeing me looking at them, she went across to pick them up.
‘You must have these back,’ she said quietly.
I said, ‘Don’t be absurd. What the hell would I do with them?’
‘You could return them to the shop.’
‘A nice idiot I should look doing that! No, I want you to keep them, Caroline. You’re to wear them at our wedding.’
She didn’t answer that, but held them out to me until it became clear that I simply wouldn’t take them. So she put down the two card boxes, but kept the shagreen case in her hand.
She said firmly, ‘You really must take this. If you don’t take it now, I shall just post it to you. I found the ring on the terrace. It’s a lovely ring. I hope—I hope you might give it to somebody else one day.’
I made a sound of disgust. ‘It was made to fit you. Don’t you understand? There won’t be anybody else.’
She held it out to me. ‘Have it. Please.’
Reluctantly, I took the box from her hand. But as I dropped it into my pocket I said, with an attempt at bravado, ‘I’m only taking it back for now. This is a temporary thing. I’m keeping it until I can put it upon your finger. Don’t forget that.’
She looked uncomfortable, but still spoke calmly.
‘Please don’t. I know this is hard, but please don’t make it any harder. Don’t think I’m ill, or afraid, or being foolish. Don’t think I’m doing—I don’t know, one of those things that women are supposed to do sometimes—creating a drama, making their man put up a fight …’ She pulled a face. ‘I hope you know me better than to think I would ever do anything like that.’
I didn’t answer. I’d begun to grow panicked again: panicked and frustrated, at the simple idea that I wanted her and couldn’t have her. She had come close, to give me the ring. All that separated us was a yard or so of cool clear air. My flesh seemed tugged through it towards her. It was tugged so plainly and so urgently, I couldn’t believe that there was no answering tug in her. But when I reached to her, she stepped back. She said again, apologetically, ‘Please don’t.’ Then I reached again, and she moved more quickly. I was reminded of the way she had scuttled from me almost in fear on my last visit. But this time she didn’t look afraid; and when she spoke, even the note of apology had gone from her voice. She sounded rather as I remembered her sounding in the days when I’d first known her and had sometimes thought her hard.
She said, ‘If you care even slightly for me, you won’t ever try and do that again. I think of you with great fondness, and should be sorry for that to change.’
I went back to Lidcote in almost as wretched a state as I had been in the day before. But this time I struggled on through the afternoon, and it was only when my evening surgery had finished and the night loomed ahead of me that my nerve began to fail. I started to pace about again, unable to sit, unable to work, perplexed and tormented by the thought that, in a single moment—in the uttering of a handful of words—I had lost my claim on Caroline, on the Hall, and on our bright future. It made no sense to me. I simply couldn’t let it happen. I put on my hat, and got back into my car, and headed out to Hundreds again. I wanted to catch hold of Caroline, and shake and shake her, until she saw reason.
But then I had what seemed to be a better idea. At the Hundreds crossroads I turned north, on to the Leamington Road, and I drove to the house of Harold Hepton, the Ayres’s solicitor.
I’d lost sense of the time. When the Heptons’ maid let me in I heard voices and the chink of cutlery: I saw from the hall clock that it was just after half past eight, and realised with dismay that the family were gathered in the dining-room for their supper. Hepton himself came out to greet me with a napkin in his hand, still dabbing gravy from his mouth.
I said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve disturbed you. I’ll come back another time.’
But he put the napkin aside good-humouredly.
‘Nonsense! We’ve almost finished, and I shall be glad of a pause before my pudding. Does me good to see a man’s face, too. I’m surrounded by women in this house … Come through here, where it’s quieter, will you?’
He took me into his study, overlooking the twilit garden at the back of the house. The house was a fine one. He and his wife had money behind them, and had managed to hang on to it. They were both big people in the local fox-hunting set, and the walls of the room were hung with various bits of hunting memorabilia, crops and trophies and photographs of meets.
He closed the door and gave me a cigarette, taking one for himself. He perched on the edge of his desk while I sat tensely in one of the chairs.
I said, ‘I won’t mess about. I dare say you know why I’m here.’
He was busy lighting his cigarette, and made a noncommittal gesture.
I said, ‘It’s this business with Caroline, and Hundreds.’
He closed his lighter. ‘You know, of course, that I can’t possibly discuss the family’s financial affairs.’
‘You realise,’ I said, ‘that I was soon to be a member of that family?’
‘Yes, I’d heard that.’
‘Caroline’s called off the wedding.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But you knew that, too. You knew it before I did, as it happens. And you know what she’s planning to do, I believe, with the house, and the estate. She says Roderick’s made some sort of power of attorney. Is that right?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t discuss it, Faraday.’
I said, ‘You mustn’t let her go ahead with it! Roderick’s ill, but he isn’t so ill that he should have his property snatched away from under his nose like this! It isn’t ethical.’
He said, ‘Naturally, I wouldn’t proceed in such a case without seeing a proper medical report.’
‘For God’s sake,’ I cried, ‘I’m his doctor! I’m Caroline’s doctor, come to that!’
‘Keep your voice down, would you, old man?’ he said crisply. ‘You yourself, you might remember, signed a paper putting Roderick into the care of Dr Warren. I made sure to see it. Warren is satisfied that the poor boy’s in no condition to manage his own affairs; nor is he likely to be, apparently, for some time. I’m only telling you what Warren himself would tell you, if he were here.’
‘Well, then perhaps I should speak to Warren.’
‘Speak to him, by all means. But I don’t take my instructions from him. I take them from Caroline.’
His obtuseness exasperated me. I said, ‘You must have an opinion on this. A personal opinion, I mean. You must see the absolute folly of it.’
He studied the tip of his cigarette. ‘I’m not sure that I do. It’s a very great shame for the district, certainly, to lose another of its old families. But that house is falling down around Caroline’s ears. The whole estate needs proper management. How can she possibly hope to maintain it? And what does the place hold for her now but so many unhappy memories? Without her parents, without her brother, without a husband—’
‘I was to be her husband.’
‘That I really can’t comment on … I’m sorry. I don’t quite see what I can do for you.’
I said, ‘You can keep this thing from going any further, until Caroline begins to see sense! You’ve talked about her brother’s illness, but isn’t it obvious? Caroline herself is far from well.’
‘You think so? She seemed very well indeed when I saw her last.’
‘I’m not talking about a physical illness. I’m thinking of her nerves, her mental state. I’m thinking of everything she’s been through in the past few months. The strain of it’s affecting her judgement.’
He looked embarrassed, but also faintly amused.
‘My dear Faraday,’ he said, ‘if every time a fellow was jilted he tried to get his girl certified …’
He spread his hands, and didn’t finish. In his expression I saw what a fool I was making of myself, and just for a second I felt the reality of my situation, and the absolute hopelessness of it. But the knowledge was too hard. I shrank from it. I told myself bitterly that I was wasting my time with him; that he had never liked me; that I wasn’t a part of his ‘set’. I rose and moved away from him. I found an ashtray—a pewter thing, with a fox-hunting motif—and ground out my cigarette.
I said, ‘I must let you get back to your family. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
He rose, too. ‘Not at all. I wish I had some way of putting your mind at rest.’
But we both spoke blandly now. I followed him out into the hall, and shook his hand and thanked him for his time. At the open door he looked up at the luminous evening sky, and we exchanged some pleasantry about the lengthening days. As I went back to my car I glanced through the uncurtained dining-room window and saw him returning to his table: he was explaining my visit to his wife and daughters—shaking his head, shrugging me off, settling back down to his dinner.
I passed a second bad night, followed by another fretful day; the week ground miserably on, until I began to feel almost suffocated by my own grief. I’d confided in no one so far; on the contrary, I’d been keeping up a pretence of jolliness, for by now most of my patients had heard about the forthcoming wedding and wanted to congratulate me and talk over all the details. By the Saturday evening I couldn’t take any more. I went to see David and Anne Graham and confessed the whole story, sitting on the sofa in their happy little house with my head in my hands.
They were very kind to me. Graham said at once, ‘But this is crazy! Caroline can’t be in her right mind. Oh, this is pre-wedding jitters, that’s all. Anne was exactly the same. I lost count of how many times she gave me back her engagement ring. We used to call it “the boomerang”. Do you remember, darling?’
Anne smiled, but looked anxious. In telling them what had happened I had repeated some of Caroline’s own words, and they had clearly made more of an impression on her than they had on her husband.
She said slowly, ‘I’m sure you’re right. Caroline’s never really struck me as the jittery type, of course. But then, things have been so miserable for her lately; and now she’s out there, without a mother … I do wish I’d made more of an effort to be friends with her. She just doesn’t seem to want friends, somehow. But I wish I’d tried harder.’
‘Well, is it too late?’ asked Graham. ‘Why not go and have a word with her, tomorrow, on Faraday’s behalf?’
She looked at me. ‘Would you like me to?’
She spoke, I thought, without enthusiasm. But by now I was desperate.
I said, ‘Oh, Anne, I’d be so grateful. Would you really do it? I’m at my wits’ end.’
She put her hand on mine, and said she’d be happy to help. Graham said, ‘There you are, Faraday. My wife could sweet-talk Stalin. This’ll sort things out, you wait and see.’
He spoke so comfortably, I felt almost a fool for having made such a fuss, and for the first time since the thing had started I slept well, and I woke on the Sunday morning feeling slightly less oppressed. I drove Anne out to Hundreds later that day. I didn’t go into the house myself, but watched nervously from the car as she went up the front steps and rang the doorbell. The door was opened by Betty, who let her in without a word; once it had closed I half expected her to return almost at once, but in fact she was in there for twenty minutes—long enough for me to pass through all the stages of anxiety and begin to feel almost optimistic.
But when she came back—let out by an unsmiling Caroline, who glanced blankly over at the car before moving back into the pinkish gloom of the hall and closing the door—my heart sank.
She climbed in, saying nothing at first. Then she shook her head.
‘I’m so sorry. Caroline seems quite to have made up her mind. She clearly feels dreadful about the whole business. She feels she has shamefully strung you along. But she’s quite decided.’
I said, ‘You’re sure?’ I glanced over at the shut front door. ‘You don’t think she might have resented your coming out here, and spoken more harshly as a result?’
‘I don’t think so. She was perfectly kind; pleased to see me, in fact. She’s been worried about you.’
‘She has?’
‘Yes. She was very glad to know that you’ve confided in David and me.’
She said this as if it would bring me some sort of comfort. But the thought that Caroline was glad that I’d begun to share the news that our affair was over—that she was glad to have, as it were, passed on the responsibility for me to other friends—made me sick with fear.
The fear must have shown in my face. Anne said, ‘I wish things were different. Truly I do. I said all I could on your behalf. Caroli
ne actually spoke very warmly of you! She clearly likes you, a great deal. But she also spoke of what was, well, missing from her feelings for you. I don’t think a woman ever makes a mistake about that sort of thing … And then, all this other business: leaving the house, putting Hundreds up for sale. She clearly means that, too. She’s begun to pack things up, did you know that?’
I said, ‘What?’
‘It looks as though she’s been busy for days. A dealer’s already been out here, she said, to make her an offer on the contents of the house. All those lovely things! It’s such a shame.’
I sat tensely, in silence, for a second. Then, ‘I can’t stand this,’ I said. I plucked at the catch of the door and got out.
I think Anne called after me. I didn’t look back. I strode in an absolute fury over the gravel and went running up the steps, and when I shouldered open the front door I found Caroline almost right behind it, with Betty at her side: they were setting down a tea-chest on the marble floor. Other chests and crates lay scattered in the well of the staircase. The hall itself looked stripped, its walls bare and marked, the ornaments gone, the tables and cabinets standing about at odd angles, like awkward guests at a failed party.
Caroline was dressed in her old drill slacks. Her hair was tucked into a turban. Her sleeves were rolled up and her hands were filthy. But once again, even through my anger, I felt the desperate, diabolical straining of my blood, my nerves, my everything, towards her.
But her expression was cold. She said, ‘I’ve nothing to say to you. I said it all to Anne.’
I said, ‘I can’t give you up, Caroline.’
She almost rolled her eyes. ‘You must! That’s all there is to it.’
‘Caroline, please.’
She didn’t answer. I looked at Betty, standing self-consciously by.
‘Betty,’ I said, ‘will you leave us, for a minute or two?’
But as Betty began to move off, Caroline said to her, ‘No, you needn’t go. Dr Faraday and I have nothing to say to each other that you can’t hear. Get on with packing that case.’