“That’s the next village over,” Mrs. Thoroughgood put in, passing her empty plate to Tabby. “My husband was a foreigner too, from Crediton; that’s on the other side of the moor. He passed away some years ago.”
“I was born here,” Miss Pine worked up the courage to say, “and so were my parents.” She was a small, dark, wrinkled old woman with nervous hands and intense black eyes. She lived in two rooms in her own small cottage and rented the other two out to boarders.
“We’re all great friends,” Mrs. Weedie said unexpectedly from the inglenook. “How long have you and I known each other, Miss Pine?”
“Fifty-one years, Mrs. Weedie. We met the day you came to Wyckerley to marry Mr. Weedie.”
Mrs. Thoroughgood was warming up. “Oh, yes, we’re great friends, all four of us. Jessica’s the baby, we like to say.” Miss Weedie bowed her head in acknowledgment. “We meet in one of our houses at least three afternoons a week, rain or shine, for tea or sewing, or just a nice gossip. I don’t believe we’ve missed a day in ten years.”
“Why, we missed the third and the fifth of February in fifty-two,” Miss Pine corrected timidly. “Don’t you remember? Jessie had the grippe, and we were afraid we’d all catch it.”
The ladies nodded and laughed gently, their affection for each other obvious. What Mrs. Thoroughgood hadn’t mentioned, Christy thought to himself, was that all four of them were as poor as churchmice, getting by on the minuscule livings and stipends left by their various male relatives. Constrained by good manners, fiercely proud of their independence, there was only one subject they never discussed at their thrice-weekly gatherings: money.
“Will you do any renovations to the Hall, do you think?” Honoria broke in, bored and wanting attention. “Lord D’Aubrey—the new lord’s father, that is—invited Papa and me to tea last Christmas,” she continued, with an air of satisfaction that came from knowing that no one else in the room except Reverend Morrell could make that claim. “I must say, I couldn’t help noticing how . . . how . . .” She stumbled as an idea of where her tactlessness was leading finally dawned on her.
“How run-down the place is,” Anne finished for her, smiling faintly. “It’s true, the viscount’s first priority doesn’t seem to have been domestic comfort. My husband and I haven’t discussed any changes to the house yet. From what Mr. Holyoake tells me, there are many things that need tending to more urgently than the Hall.”
That was Mayor Vanstone’s cue to fill her ear with a recitation of as many improvements and pet projects for the district as the social nature of the occasion permitted. While he spoke, Christy studied Anne over the rim of his cup, trying to fathom exactly what it was about her that intrigued him so. Geoffrey had told him that she’d lived much of her life in Italy, where her father had made a modest living as a painter. That made sense: her accent was British and so was her roses-and-cream complexion, now that she’d lost what he thought of as her city pallor; but everything else about her was emphatically un-English, from her dress to her hair to the way she listened when someone spoke to her—alertly, directly, without affectation or excessive demureness. The clothes she wore were respectable but a trifle odd, a little off, not quite what Christy imagined was the fashion in London nowadays, and she wore them with a careless panache that fit with his—perhaps naive—image of impoverished bohemianism on the Continent. For that and a number of other reasons, he couldn’t get over how little she resembled his idea of any woman Geoffrey would have married.
Did they love each other? His curiosity was inexplicably strong, stronger even than the tense, ambiguous atmosphere he’d observed between them warranted. Geoffrey, for all that Christy had loved him, had never struck him as a deep man, or even a particularly thoughtful man, and his adult career as a perennial soldier had surprised everyone in Wyckerley except Christy. And although they’d parted when they were only sixteen, Geoffrey’s predilection for coarse, undemanding women was already well established. Unless he’d radically changed, his choice of Anne Verlaine for a wife made no sense. She was lovely, yes, but subtly so, and her sexuality was anything—everything—but overt. Her social smiles were frequent and reassuring, but she never laughed, never; in fact, the longer Christy knew her, the more unthinkable it became to imagine her gay or exuberant, playful or silly, convulsed with helpless hilarity. “Tragic” was too strong a word to describe the fine, elusive essence of her—he hoped; yet beneath her limitless composure he sensed the soul-sick desperation of a life gone out of control.
Mrs. Thoroughgood was speaking to him. “I say, have you given Lady D’Aubrey a tour of the church yet, Vicar?” He said that he hadn’t. “It dates from Norman times, you know,” she told Anne, whose interest appeared genuine. “You can see the Norman influence in the chancel arch and the carvings on the pillars, but most of the rest was added later.”
“Our village was named by the Saxons in the seventh century,” Miss Pine said softly. “We’ve been invaded by the Celts, the Romans, the Saxons, and the Normans.”
“‘Wic’ is Old English for hamlet,” Mrs. Thoroughgood contributed. “Reverend Morrell must take you through the rectory as well. It’s a lovely old house, as fine as any of its kind in England.”
“Elizabethan,” Miss Pine chimed in.
“I look forward to it,” said her ladyship, smiling across at Christy.
Old Mrs. Weedie, who had been following the conversation only intermittently, got up suddenly from her place by the fireplace and sidled toward the door to the scullery. On the way, her hand grazed Christy’s shoulder, and he thought she murmured, “Follow me.” Her surreptitious tone prompted him to stay seated until Honoria launched a new topic, the sad state in which the old lord had left the once-beautiful gardens at Lynton Great Hall. Then, as inconspicuously as possible, he got up and followed Mrs. Weedie into the passage.
She was already at the far end of the pantry, bending over the shelves, running her hand along the stacked foodstuffs and crockery. The frail curve of her back made him think of the time, not so long ago, when she had been tall and upright, a vigorous, no-nonsense woman. Now, every day, she depended more and more on her self-effacing daughter, and the change frightened both of them.
“Here it is.” She pulled a folded piece of paper out from between two flour bags. “If you mail it, it’ll get there,” she told him, pushing the paper into his hands, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of conspiracy.
He looked down and saw the name “Robert James Weedie” scrawled on the outer fold, but no address. Perplexed, he asked, “Who is it?”
“My son,” she said in a fierce whisper. “I’ve never written to him before. I was wrong not to. They need guidance at that age. Bobby—”
“Mother?” The casual trilling note in her voice couldn’t disguise Miss Weedie’s anxiety.
The old lady put her finger to her lips and pressed the letter in Christy’s hand to his waistcoat. “Put it away and don’t tell Jessie,” she warned. “She disapproves. More tea, Vicar?” she asked in her normal voice, ushering him past her daughter in the narrow passage without looking at her.
Christy only had time to give Miss Weedie a reassuring smile and a quick shake of the head. Later, he would decide whether she needed to know that her mother was writing letters to a son who had been dead for thirty years.
Shortly after that, Lady D’Aubrey said she had better be going. Everyone stood up. Amid the thanks and farewells, Christy surprised himself by asking if he might walk back with her to the Hall. She thanked him and said she would like that very much.
V
16 April—Easter Sunday
Reverend Morrell is the first clergyman I’ve known—not that I’ve known very many—who listens more than he talks. I think he has no idea of the effect he has on people when he does speak, either—another appealing quality. It’s fascinating to watch the faces of the four old ladies (I call them that, and it’s n
ot fair; Miss Weedie is not old) when they look at him; they listen intently, hanging on every word he utters. It’s no wonder they love him, he is so very kind to them. He told me a little of their history as he walked home with me this afternoon, and the very real affection he has for them shone in his face like a soft light. I like them, too—who would not? Particularly Miss Weedie—Jessica. She’s a gentle woman, nervous and high-strung, anxious to please. I can’t help wondering if she ever had hopes of something more than the companionship of women and the satisfactions of self-sacrifice. If so, she seems to have forgotten them. And if she’s lonely, she’s much too well-bred to let it show.
But I don’t think she will be my friend. She and the others will maintain the social gap they think is between us, in spite of anything I could do to bridge it. The irony is that it’s a false gap, this peeress-commoner nonsense. The real gap is even wider; it’s the one that separates goodness and simplicity (theirs) from emptiness and ennui (mine).
Honoria Vanstone, on the other hand, would be my friend in a minute if I wanted her to be. But alas, I can’t like her. She reminds me of a mistress Papa had in Aix-en-Provence—Mademoiselle Bected was her name. Bected the Affected, I called her. Miss Vanstone might be slightly less insincere, but I doubt she’s any less ambitious. Reverend Morrell would probably find excuses for her, mitigating influences such as her self-important father, or the lack of strong female guidance—but I am not nearly so charitable. I see a stiff-necked, humorless woman who dislikes and distrusts me even while she tries to ingratiate herself with me. Perhaps being Lady D’Aubrey won’t be quite so tiring after all if it means I can lord it occasionally over the likes of Honoria Vanstone.
Now, that’s a petty notion. What would the Archangel think if he knew I harbored such mean sentiments toward one of his flock? He watches me when he believes I’m not looking. I can’t begin to imagine what he thinks of me, what kind of woman he’s decided I am. Fallen? Lost? In need of saving? All of those, I suppose, and too far gone even for the best efforts of the very Reverend Morrell.
I must call him Christy, he says. His coloring is so fair, I always know when he’s blushing. He has a big, strong-boned head, almost bust-like, and fine silver-blue eyes, gentle, not cold, in spite of their icy color. A good-humored mouth, very expressive. I see tolerance in his face, a deep sympathy for other people’s pain and uncertainty. And he’s the opposite of pompous. He strikes me as a man who could forgive anything in others, perhaps not as much in himself. Today he made me think of Rubens’ painting Daniel in the Lion’s Den. Only it’s not Daniel he looks like, it’s the lion in the middle, the standing one with the gorgeous mane and the fierce but worried look in his yellow eyes.
In church, giving his interminable sermon, he was so very earnest, so heartbreakingly sincere, I felt almost like weeping. Most unusual, not like me at all; I still can’t quite account for it. And no doubt I would have been crying for myself, not him. I wonder what he would think if I told him the truth: that I have no religious faith at all, that his God is as apocryphal to me as Zeus or Apollo are to him. Would he try to convert me? What an amusing prospect. There was a mesmerist in Papa’s artist circle one summer in Aix who attempted to hypnotize me, but without success; I remained disappointingly wide awake and rational. As I would, I’m afraid, if Reverend Morrell tried his Anglican catechism on me.
Too bad. Faith in God must be a very comforting thing. A merciful analgesic. A painkiller for the soul. Yes, it’s too bad.
5 May
They delivered Geoffrey’s horse today. He calls it Devil, even though it came with another name; Cupcake, for all I know. At any rate, Devil is a black stallion with a white blaze on its nose and two white socks. He’s “a real cracker,” and racing him against Reverend Morrell’s horse has become Geoffrey’s latest idée fixe. Are ministers allowed to run in horse races? Probably not; too worldly, I should think.
Geoffrey’s captain’s commission hasn’t come yet (which is why he has time on his hands to entice innocent clergymen into sinful pursuits). The English army hasn’t fought in a real war in thirty years, and the men at the top, says Geoffrey, are all doddering veterans of the Peninsula. In my (unspoken) opinion, that’s to his advantage, since I can imagine only senile old men allowing him into their ranks during wartime. But he looks better lately, and he isn’t drinking so much. I suppose he’s a good soldier when he’s healthy. God knows he loves it; the only time he seems truly alive is when he’s recounting the gory particulars of some battle he’s fought. So I watch the mail as anxiously as he does, and offer consolation when he’s disappointed. Better that only one of us is completely miserable, after all, and for now Geoffrey has a better chance than I of climbing out of this hell we call our life together.
Sorry for myself today. Unattractive quality. I shall try to do better.
Mr. Holyoake is beginning to get an inkling that the new lord of the manor may not be the radical improvement over the old that he’d hoped for. Poor Geoffrey: he comes ill-equipped to manage twenty thousand acres of corn, cattle, sheep, and apple orchard, not to mention the men and women who labor on the land for him. What’s really needed here is a sort of working viscount, something between a peer and a squire—but alas, that man isn’t Geoffrey. At first Mr. Holyoake, in his innocence, came to him with questions about steam threshers and zigzag harrows, crop rotations and imported proteins to fatten the stock. He comes no more, the futility of it having been borne in on him rather forcefully the afternoon Geoffrey passed out while he was speaking. Now (unfortunate man!) he actually directs his questions to me—questions about whether we can afford a new corn dresser or if the dairy parlor needs a new roof, how much to ask for our oats at the Corn Market next month. I listen to his slow, measured opinions, pretend to weigh them, and then agree with him. It’s a polite fiction we uphold religiously, and then we part ways with identically furrowed brows and, I don’t doubt, troubled minds.
In spite of my crushing ignorance, I find myself unexpectedly delighted with the beauty of this countryside, the rural peacefulness, the wary kindness of the villagers. I’ve lived in pastoral settings before, but never so intimately; I was a visitor, my father’s daughter, and ironically, his painting distanced me further by making the countryside other, an object to be studied and measured and then rendered in oils or pastels. But here I am, in a sense, of the land, even a caretaker of it (albeit a spectacularly stupid one), and when I’m not quaking with fear of the responsibility for it, I feel strangely exhilarated. Oh, I shall make an abysmal lady of the manor if—when—Geoffrey goes away and leaves me alone! And yet I’m almost looking forward to it. By default, I will be the only one with responsibility for this sprawling country fiefdom. That thought terrifies me; if I believed in God I would be on my knees, praying for strength and guidance. Well, well, I will simply do my best, and hope I don’t bring plague and famine down on these good people.
Mayor Eustace Vanstone paid us a visit yesterday. He reminds me of a sleek gray fox with his silvery hair and bony, ascetic face, his cheekbones as sharp as knives. He is a perfect politician, and if he has his sights set on higher game than mayor and local magistrate, I would not be at all surprised. I enjoy watching him flatter Geoffrey, while he runs his thumb and forefinger down the two ends of the elegant mustache that overhangs his upper lip. He ruled Wyckerley, I gather, when the old viscount, for all intents and purposes, abdicated, and now he fears being displaced by the new regime. A groundless fear, as he’ll soon discover, but in the meantime it’s amusing to . . .
***
A STEP ON the stair, heavier than Violet’s or Susan’s, made Anne look up from her writing desk and listen, her muscles tense, fingers whitening around her pen.
“Anne? You up there?” Geoffrey’s voice from the landing sounded querulous.
She reached for a clean sheet of paper and slid it over the one she’d been writing on. “I’m here,” she called back, and a moment la
ter Geoffrey appeared in the doorway. He wore riding clothes and he smelled of horse and sweat. He had a drink in his hand, but she couldn’t tell if he was drunk.
“So,” he greeted her, thin lips curling in his mocking smile. “This is where you’ve been hiding.”
She slumped a little, and draped an apparently negligent wrist over the arm of her chair. She didn’t answer.
He walked to the south window and peered out, straightened, went to the fireplace mantel, trailed a finger across the line of books she’d put there. She recognized his mood from his movements. He was restless and bored. When he was bored, he could be dangerous.
“I want you to invite Christy Morrell for supper,” he said abruptly, coming to a halt in front of her.
“When? You mean tonight?”
“Yes, why not? Send him a note, ask him to come.”
She regarded him in silence for a few seconds. “Very well,” she said slowly. “It’s short notice; he may not come.”
“I know that,” he snapped. “Invite him anyway. I feel like seeing him.”
His voice had a cranky, childish tone that was relatively new; he’d begun using it about the time they’d left London, she recalled. She wondered if he could hear it himself. He’d put on more weight in the last week or so; in fact, he ate like a starving man at the few meals they shared together, stuffing food into his mouth until he almost choked. Making sure her voice stayed flat and neutral, she asked, “Geoffrey, are you still taking your medicine?”
Instead of answering, he started humming. Something soft and tuneless; it sounded like a nursery rhyme. He walked around until he was behind the chair. She didn’t move. “The little blue pills and the little gray pills,” he said in a soft, singsong voice. The chair shifted a fraction as he leaned his weight against it. “What are you writing?”