chapter Seven
Maude Barrington had suffered a monstrous injustice. She had borne it apparently without bitterness. If it had marred an earlier part of her life, perhaps when she first went abroad, she had healed her own spirit from the damage and gone on to live a passionate and adventurous life. Perhaps it had never been comfortable, but what was comfort worth? Bitterness, blame, and self-hatred were never comfortable either. And perhaps they were also not as safe as she had once imagined. They were a slow-growing disease within, killing inch by inch.
It was snowing quite hard now, lying thick and light on the ground, beginning to drift on the windward side of the furrows left in the fields after their winter plowing, and on the trunks of the trees. The wind was blowing too hard for the snow to stay on the branches as they swayed against the sky. There was little sound from the pony's hooves because the ground was blanketed already, just the deep moan of the wind and the creak of the wheels. It was a hard, beautiful world, invigorating, ice-cold, and on every side, sweet and sharp-smelling from the sea, infinitely wide.
She arrived back at Snave before she was really ready, but there was no help for it. And maybe she would never feel as if it were time. She allowed the stable boy to assist her, and to his surprise thanked him for his care.
Inside she took off her cape and shawl and was very glad to be in the warmth again. Her hands were almost numb from the cold and her face was stinging, her eyes watering, but she had never felt more intensely alive. She was terrified, and yet there was an unmistakable bubble of courage inside her, as if something of Maude's vitality and hunger for life had been bequeathed to her.
She was too late for luncheon, and too excited to eat much anyway. Cook had prepared a tray for her with soup and new, warm bread, and that was really all she required. She thanked her sincerely, with a compliment, and after finishing it all, went upstairs with the excuse that she wished to lie down. In reality she wanted to prepare herself for the evening. It was going to be one of the biggest of her life, perhaps her only real achievement. It would require all the nerve and the intelligence she possessed. There was in her mind no doubt of the truth now. Proving it would be altogether another matter, but if she did not attempt it, whatever it cost her, then she would have failed the last chance that fate had offered.
***
She dressed very carefully, in the housekeeper's best black gown, and thanked the maid. It seemed appropriate. She was going to be a different person from the woman she had been as long as she could clearly remember. She was going to be brave, face all the ugliness, the shame, and the failure, and be gentle toward them, because she understood them intimately. She had been a liar herself, and every stupid ugly corner of it was familiar. She had been a coward, and its corroding shroud had covered every part of her life. She had tried to touch other people's lives with her own meanness of spirit, her belief in failure. There was no victory in that. One could spoil others, dirty them, damage what could have been whole. Now she could touch all their wounds with pity, but none of them could deceive her.
She regarded herself in the glass. She looked different from the way she was accustomed. It was more than the dress that was not her own; the face also was not the one that had been hers for so long. There was color in her skin. Her eyes were brighter. Most of all the sulk had gone from her lips, and the lines seemed to be curving upward, not down.
Ridiculous! She had never been pretty, and she wasn't now. If she did not know better, she would think she had been imbibing rather too freely of the Christmas spirit, of that nature that comes in a bottle!
She straightened her skirt a last time, and went down to join the family for dinner. Tomorrow she would leave. She would probably have to, even if the snow were up to the eaves! There was something exhilarating, and a little mad, in casting the last die, crossing the Rubicon, if she were remembering her schoolroom history correctly. It was war! Triumph or disaster, because she could not stop until it was over.
PART THREE
SHE WAS A FEW MINUTES LATE, AS SHE HAD intended. There was very little time before dinner was announced and they all went into the dining room. It was now looking even more festive, with scarlet berries intertwined in the wreaths and the swags along the mantelpiece, all tied with gold ribbons. There were scarlet candles on the table, even though they were not yet lit, and everything seemed to be touched with light from the chandeliers.
"I hope you are recovered from your journey, Mrs. Ellison?" Arthur asked with concern. "I'm afraid the weather turned most unpleasant before you were able to return."
"I should not have allowed you to go," Bedelia added. "I had not realized it would take you so long."
"It was entirely my own fault," Grandmama replied. "I could have been back earlier, and I should have, for the stable boy's and the pony's sake, if nothing else. To tell you the truth, the ride back was very beautiful. I have not been out in a snowstorm for so long that I had forgotten how amazing it is. The sense of the power and magnitude of nature is very marvelous."
"What a refreshing view," Arthur said, then suddenly the sadness filled his eyes, overwhelming him. "You remind me of Maude." He stopped, unable to continue.
It was the greatest compliment Grandmama had ever received, but she could not afford to stop and savor it now.
She continued with what she had intended to say, regardless of their responses. She even ignored the butler and the footman serving the soup.
"Thank you, Mr. Harcourt. The more I learn of Maude, the more I appreciate how very much that means. I know that for you it is as profound as it could be, and I wish more than you can be aware of to live up to it."
Bedelia was startled, then her mouth curled in a smile more of disdain than amusement. "We all grieve for Maude, Mrs. Ellison, but there is no requirement for you to cater to our family perception with such praise." She left the implied adjective "fulsome" unsaid, but it hung in the air.
"Oh, I'm not!" Grandmama said candidly, her eyes wide. "Maude was a most remarkable person. I learned far more of just how amazing from Mrs. Dowson. That, I'm afraid, is why I stayed so long."
Bedelia was stiff, her shoulders like carved ivory beneath her violet taffeta gown. "Mrs. Dowson is sentimental," she replied coolly. "A vicar's widow and obliged to see the best in people."
"Perhaps the vicar did," Grandmama corrected her. "Mrs. Dowson certainly does not. She is quite capable of seeing pride, greed, selfishness, and other things; cowardice in particular." She smiled at Agnes. "The acceptance of failure because one does not have the courage to face what one is afraid of, and pay the price in comfort that is sometimes necessary for success."
The blood drained from Agnes's face, leaving her ashen. Her spoon slithered into her soup dish and she ignored it.
Zachary started to speak, and then choked on whatever it was he had been going to say.
It was Randolph who came to her rescue. "That sounds extremely harsh, Mrs. Ellison. How on earth would Mrs. Dowson be in a position to know anything of that sort about anybody? And what she did know must have come to her in a privileged position, and therefore should not be repeated."
"Most un-Christian," Clara added.
"It can be very difficult to recognize the right thing to do, at times," Grandmama continued, grateful for the extraordinary ease with which the opportunities she needed were opening up for her. "But I must not misrepresent Mrs. Dowson. Actually she said nothing, except to praise Maude's love of beauty, her laughter, and above all her courage to make the best of her life, even after so great a sacrifice, which was given silently and with the utmost dignity."
Zachary looked totally confused. Arthur was pale, his breathing seemed painful. Bedelia was as white as Agnes now and her hands on her lap were clenched. No one ate.
"I am not sure what you imagine you are referring to, Mrs. Ellison," she said icily. "It appears you are a lonely woman with nothing to do, and you have concerned yourself in our family's affairs in a way that exceeds even your imagined duty to Maude, whom you barely met. Your meddlesomeness has run away with you. I think we had better find a way to return you to St. Mary in the Marsh tomorrow, regardless of the weather. I am sure that would be better for all of us."
Randolph blushed scarlet.
It was Arthur who spoke. "Bedelia, that is unnecessary. I apologize, Mrs. Ellison. I don't know what Maude told you, but I think you must have misunderstood her."
"She told me nothing," Grandmama said, meeting his eyes. "She would never betray you like that! And surely by now you must know beyond any question at all that she would not betray Bedelia either! She did not come here to cause any kind of trouble. The man who had loved her and protected her in Persia died, and she could no longer remain there. She came back home because she wished to. Perhaps she even imagined that after all these years she would be welcome. Which of course was an error. Quite obviously she was not."
"You have no right to say that!" Clara cut in. "She had been living in the desert, in tents and by campfires, like a...a gypsy! And with a foreign man to whom she was not married! We could hardly have her in the house at the same time as Lord Woollard! My father-in-law has given more to society than you have any idea. This peerage would have been not only a just reward but an opportunity to do even more good. We could not jeopardize that!"
"And it would, in time, have made you Lady Harcourt," Grandmama added. "With all that that means. Of course you did not wish to lose such a prize."
"Oh, no...I..." Clara faded into silence. She had the grace to be ashamed.
"Stuff and nonsense!" Bedelia snapped. "You overstep yourself, Mrs. Ellison. Your behavior is disgraceful!"
"She came home because she had nowhere else to go?" Agnes asked, her face pinched with sorrow. "We should have forgiven her, Bedelia. It was a very long time ago."
"Bedelia does not forgive," Grandmama answered Agnes. "Not that there was anything of Maude's that needed pardon. Tragically there are some people who can never forgive a gift, especially from someone who is aware of their vulnerability. Sometimes it is harder to forgive a gift than an injury, because you have incurred a debt, and in your own eyes you have lost control, and your superiority."
There was an electric silence.
"Those who themselves do not forgive find it impossible to believe that others do," Grandmama went on. "So they expect vengeance where there is none, and strike out to defend themselves from a blow that existed only in their own guilty imaginations."
Arthur leaned forward. "I think you had better stop speaking in riddles, Mrs. Ellison. I have very little idea of what you are talking about..."
"Neither has she!" Bedelia said tartly. "Really Arthur, you should have more sense than to encourage her. Can't you see that she has been drinking? Let us speak of something civilized and stop descending into personal remarks. It is extremely vulgar." She spoke as if that was the end of the matter.
Arthur drew in his breath, but it was Agnes who answered. She looked at Grandmama directly. "Was Maude ill? Did she know she was going to die, and that was why she came home at last? To make peace?"
"No," Grandmama replied with authority. "As I said, there was nothing to keep her in Persia anymore, nor was it safe."
"She had made enemies, no doubt," Bedelia observed. "You did not say that this man was married to someone else, but knowing Maude, I have no doubt that it was true."
"Oh, Bedelia, you should forgive her that!" Agnes pleaded. "It was forty years ago! And she is gone now. It's Christmas!"
"Don't be so feeble!" Bedelia accused her. "Wrong does not suddenly become right just because of the season."
Agnes blushed scarlet.
"Of course it doesn't," Grandmama agreed vehemently. "Some debts can be forgiven, but there are some that have to be paid, one way or another."
"I don't care for your opinion, Mrs. Ellison," Bedelia said frigidly.
"There is no reason why you should," again Grandmama agreed with her. "But you care about your family's opinions. In the end it is really all you have. That, and the knowledge within yourself, of course. Perhaps that is why Maude was happy, in the deepest sense. She knew she was loved, and no matter what the cost, she had done the right thing."
"I have no idea what you are talking about!"
"Yes you do. You are probably the only one who does." Nothing was going to stop Grandmama. "When you were a young woman, and even more beautiful than you are now, Mrs. Harcourt,"-she glanced at Zachary-"he fell in love with you. And like many young people, you did not deny yourselves the pleasure of love."
Bedelia hissed in her breath, but the shame in Zachary's face made her denial impossible.
"But then Mr. Harcourt came along, and he was a far better catch, so you went after him instead," Grandmama continued relentlessly. "And you caught him, at least his admiration for your beauty, and a certain physical appetite. You also did not deny yourselves. After all, you fully intended to marry him. Which would all have gone very well, had not Maude returned home, and Mr. Harcourt fell truly in love with her."
Bedelia's eyes on her were like daggers.
Grandmama ignored them, but her heart was pounding almost in her throat. If she were wrong, catastrophically, insanely wrong, she would be ruined forever. Her mouth was dry, her voice rasping. "You were furious that Maude, of all people, should take your lover, but there was worse to follow. You learned that you were with child. Mr. Sullivan's of course. But it could have been Mr. Harcourt's, for all he knew. That gave you your perfect weapon for regaining everything. You told him. Being a man of honor, in spite of his lapse of self-control, he broke off his relationship with Maude, whom he truly loved, as she loved him, and he married you. He paid a bitter price for his self-indulgence. So did your sister, rather than allow you to be shamed."
There were gasps of breath, the clink of cutlery, even a broken glass stem. "That is what you cannot forgive-that you wronged her," she went on regardless. "And she sacrificed her happiness for yours-and perhaps for Mr. Harcourt's honor. Although I believe it was actually Mr. Sullivan's, in fact."
Arthur stared at Bedelia, a stunned and terrible look in his eyes. " Randolph is not mine, and you know it," he said very quietly.
"Are...are you sure?" Agnes asked. Then she looked more closely at Bedelia, and did not ask again.
"What does she mean that you could not forgive?" Arthur asked Bedelia.
"I have no idea!" Bedelia replied. "She is an inquisitive, meddling old woman who listens at doors and hears half stories, gossips with other old women who should know better, and apparently listened to Maude's self-delusions of her own romantic youth."
"It wasn't a delusion," Arthur told her very quietly. "I loved Maude as I have never loved anyone else in my life, before or since. But I could not marry her because you told me that you were carrying my child. I can't blame you for that, it was my doing as much as yours. Nor can I blame Zachary. He was no worse than I, and by heaven you were beautiful. But Maude was funny and kind. She was brave and warm and honest, and she was generous with life, with her own spirit. Her beauty would have lasted forever, and grown with time rather than fade. I knew it then, and I was proved right when she came back, even after forty years, which were like a lifetime while she was gone, and nothing at all once she returned."
"Oh, Arthur!" Agnes breathed out. "How terrible for you."
Zachary was looking at Agnes with amazement.
"I found the rest of the peppermint water," Grandmama said in the silence.
"I beg your pardon?" Arthur frowned.
Grandmama wavered for an instant. Should she tell them, or was this enough? But would it last? There would be no further chance. She turned to Bedelia and saw the fury in her eyes.
"You told Maude when you gave her the macadamia nuts, which are so indigestible to some of us, that you had very little peppermint water, just the end of one bottle, sufficient for a single dose. But actually you had plenty. There is some in my room, and some in the other guest rooms also. A nice courtesy, especially over a festive season when we will all eat a little heavily."
"What has that to do with anything at all?" Clara demanded. "Why are we talking about peppermint water? Are you quite mad?"
"I wish I were," Grandmama answered. "It would be so much less ugly an answer than the truth. I don't eat macadamia nuts myself. They give me indigestion..."
Zachary was staring at her as if he could not believe his ears.
Agnes looked appalled.
"But peppermint water would help," Grandmama carried on. "Unless of course, it were laced with foxglove leaves. Then it would kill. Most of us who have ever arranged flowers know that. There are a few one must be careful of, especially with children about: laburnum, monk's hood, belladonna, and of course foxgloves. Such handsome flowers, but the distilled juice can cause the heart to fail. It is used in medicine to slow it down if it is racing, but only a very little, naturally."
"That is a wicked thing to suggest!" Clara was horrified. "How...how dare you?"
Randolph touched her gently. "There is no need to be afraid, my dear. She could not possibly prove it." He gulped. "Could you?"
Grandmama looked at him and realized it was a question. "I don't know," she replied. "I had not considered trying to, although it might not be too difficult. I don't think that is what matters. It is knowing the truth that is important. It gives you the freedom to do whatever you choose to, knowing right from wrong." She turned to Arthur, waiting for him to speak.
But he was not looking at her. His gaze did not move from Bedelia's face, and he read in it the fear and the hatred that betrayed her. Whatever she had said, he would know what she had done.
Randolph was staring at his mother with horror and pity in his face, and a revulsion he could not hide. He turned swiftly to Zachary, then embarrassed, away again. Zachary was looking at him with wonder, and an intensity quite naked in his eyes.
Arthur sighed. He spoke to Grandmama as if Bedelia had ceased to exist. "You mentioned a garden in Persia that Maude described to you as if she loved it. Have you any idea where it was, exactly?"
"No, but I believe Mrs. Dowson would know," Grandmama replied. "Maude wrote to her quite regularly. I imagine she would be happy to tell you."
"Good. I have a great desire to see it, since she loved it so much. You made it sound marvelous also, Mrs. Ellison, and for that I shall always be grateful to you. The truth you have shown us is terrible, but deep as it cuts, a clean wound will heal, in time."
"You...you can't go to Persia now, Papa...I mean...," Randolph faltered and stopped.
Arthur smiled at him, gently and with great affection. "You will always be my son in spirit, Randolph, and I will always love you as such. But I can go to Persia and I will. I shall write to Lord Woollard and decline a peerage. I may return from Persia one day, and I may not. The estate will provide for your mother. Please see that Mrs. Ellison is safely returned to St. Mary in the Marsh tomorrow. Now I shall wish you good night." He rose to his feet. He was still a startlingly handsome man, but it was his dignity that remained in the mind. "And good-bye," he added, before turning and leaving the room without looking behind him. He did not once glance at Bedelia.
Zachary reached out his hand to Agnes, and very slowly, as if uncertain that it could be true, she took it.
Reluctantly Grandmama abandoned her dinner and excused herself also. It was quite impossible to remain. She had shown them the truth. What they did with it she should not influence, only hope.
Upstairs in her bedroom she sank down into the chair. Suddenly her legs were weak and she found she was trembling. Had she done enough? Should she have tried harder to prove something that would stand the test of trial and the law?
As it was now, the family knew the truth. There could be no denying that. Arthur would leave, perhaps forever. Bedelia would probably never see him again. People would know, in the way that they do. They would look at her and whisper. There would be speculation, most of it ugly. The kindest she would receive would be pity, and that would be the most painful of all to a woman like Bedelia. She would see it in their glances in the street, the half-hidden smiles.
Gradually perhaps even some of the truth would emerge, but imagination would be more colorful, and crueler. Agnes and Zachary would be happy with each other at last, and perhaps with Randolph too, and Clara. Old Mrs. Dowson would understand a great deal. She might be discreet, but Bedelia would know that she knew, and would never allow Maude's name to be blackened.
Bedelia would be provided for, waited on, but starved of friendship or admiration. No one would care how beautiful she had been, or how clever. She would be alone, a woman unloved.
At a glance, that was a gentler punishment than trial, and possibly the gallows, or possibly a verdict of innocence. But it would be more certain, and far, far longer. She would taste it for the rest of her life.
But the others would be happy, perhaps for the first time in their lives.
Grandmama stopped shaking and sat still, slowly beginning to smile, even if there was sadness in it, and pity.
***
In the morning Zachary drove her back through the deepening snow to St. Mary in the Marsh. He did not speak much, but she felt a great certainty that he had at last realized that Agnes was not a paler, second-best version of Bedelia, but a kinder if less brave person, a gentler, more generous one, who might now, at last, find the courage to be the best. And she had always truly loved him.
"Thank you, Mrs. Ellison," he said as the trap rounded the last corner through the dazzling snow and she saw Joshua and Caroline's house blazing with lights.
"I hope you will be happy," she replied, meaning it far more than the simple words could convey.
"I...I understand why you and Maude were such good friends," he said earnestly. "Even in so short a time. You are like her. You have such courage to tell the truth, however difficult, and such joy for life. I am amazed at your compassion for even the weakest of us. I imagine you will have a wonderful Christmas, because you will make it so. But I wish it for you just the same."
"I will," she assured him as they drew up in front of the door. It opened and Joshua came down the step and across the grass to the trap to assist her. "I shall have the best Christmas of my life," she went on, still speaking to Zachary. "I am beginning to understand what it truly means."
"Welcome home, Mama-in-law," Joshua said with surprise lifting his eyebrows. He gave her his arm and she alighted.
"Thank you, Joshua." She smiled at him. "Happy Christmas, my dear. I have wonderful things to tell you, brave and beautiful things, when I can think how to find words for them. About hope and honor, and what love really means. Your aunt Maude was a very wonderful woman. She has given me the greatest gift of all-an understanding of Christmas itself."
"Yes, I see that," Joshua said with sudden conviction. "It is perfectly plain. Happy Christmas, Mama-in-law."