A Song Twice Over (45 page)

Sacrifice me, Marie was saying. Everybody else does.

‘No,' said Cara. ‘Mother – go and take Mrs Colclough into the fitting room. Turn the bridesmaids out if you have to. Tell her you are not satisfied with the bodice of the dress we have made her for the wedding. Keep her there until I come. Set her to counting the buttons. And you, Marie Moon – take off that dress.'

Swiftly she pulled and tugged Marie's entirely passive figure into a dress of her own that seemed quite suitable for a morning carriage drive, did up her hair as if she had been a doll, powdered her face and then, when the black eye would not succumb to cosmetic artifice, covered it by a hat with a high brim, tilted rakishly to one side – the strategic side – and a spotted veil, pulled well down.

‘There. No one notices a woman's eyes,' she said with professional satisfaction, ‘when she wears a hat like this.'

‘I will pay you for it, my dear.'

‘I sincerely hope you will. I can hardly take it back for resale, can I, when all those Colclough cousins and Miss Linnet Gage have seen it on your head.'

‘Linnet Gage.' Marie wrinkled a fastidious nose. ‘
That
one offends me.'

Cara shrugged. ‘Are you ready?'

‘I am. And will you worry about me, Cara, once I am off your premises and out of your sight – causing my embarrassment and my alarm elsewhere?'

‘Probably not.'

She smiled. ‘Quite right. Nor would I give a thought to you. And yet – how strange it is … We give all our emotions to men, do we not? And our bodies. They are all in all to us – these gentlemen. Oh yes – everything. And yet one can turn for comfort only to another woman. Or are you too young, as yet, Miss Adeane, to be philosophical?'

They walked together through the shop, the knot of bridesmaids tying and untying themselves in girlish confusion at the approach of Frizingley's acknowledged adulteress, their round, over-innocent eyes fastening avidly on her stylish blue gown, her dashing veiled hat, so that every detail could be recounted later to one's younger sisters who would listen with relish and to one's mamma who would pretend not to listen at all.

Gemma Gage took absolutely no notice. Linnet Gage, being on exceedingly sympathetic terms with Mr Adolphus Moon, looked through his wife as if she did not exist. Miss Rachel Colclough, uncertain as to whether sinners ought to be prayed for or burned at the stake, glanced around apprehensively for her mother, who would be sure to know. Anna Rattrie, slipping noiselessly forward, opened the door. A landau and a pair of chestnut horses stood in the street.

‘Friday then, Miss Adeane, for the black velvet?' called out Marie Moon, negotiating the carriage-step with the help of Cara's strong arm and then collapsing into helpless giggles on her blue-upholstered silk cushions.

‘Black velvet – to go with my new diamonds. Large ones, Miss Adeane – so the neck will need to be very low.'

‘Certainly, madam.' And Cara stood, with her habitual courtesy, on the pavement, while Marie – still giggling beneath her spotted veil – was driven off.

‘Miss Adeane – this will not do, you know,' announced Mrs Colclough stridently as she returned to the shop. ‘I must say a word to you …'

‘Yes, madam?'

‘This bodice, Miss Adeane – We settled, I believe – for three rows of braid. How is it that you have given me four?'

‘I judged it to be smarter, madam. I will gladly remove the extra row, of course, if you wish, but since the price remains the same …?'

Mrs Colclough's eyes brightened, the sharp-edged brain behind them busy enough now with her favourite pastime of getting something for nothing to overlook a dozen Marie Moons.

‘I merely wondered,' she said, quick as a flash, ‘– since the price remains the same – whether four would be enough? Madame Odette, come here a moment and give me your opinion. Shall it be four? Or five?'

The fitting ended, the wedding-party dispersing in several busy directions, the Dallam carriage remaining in Frizingley to collect various parcels for Amabel while Linnet rode back to Almsmead with Gemma who had little to say beyond ‘Yes.' ‘Indeed.' ‘Really?' as Linnet aired her opinion that Mr Adolphus Moon was a man who had a truly heavy cross to bear.

‘Poor little Mr Moon.' He had been figuring rather a great deal in Linnet's conversation lately. ‘So amiable and obliging and so easily put upon. Although I
was
somewhat surprised at seeing Madame Marie in town so early, it being her practice – one hears – to lie in bed all day with slices of cucumber on her eyes. Recovering, one supposes, from whatever a woman of that sort may have to recover from. I am sure I cannot imagine.'

‘No, Linnet. Of course not.'

Only to Daniel could she have said ‘The poor woman drinks. I wonder why?'

‘One feels particularly for the children,' said Linnet, her light voice chirping on like a pretty little bird of bright plumage, the hoarse croak of a bird of another variety hidden well beneath it. Listening now, with Daniel's ears, Gemma had never heard it so clearly.

‘Children?' she said quickly, shocked and then suddenly very amused at her own conviction that if they resembled their father they would have been better drowned at birth.

That too she could have said, easily and happily, to Daniel.

‘Why yes, dear – Mr Moon's children by his first marriage. His
real
marriage, as I once heard him call it in an unguarded moment – with tears in his eyes, poor soul. He has an absolute love of a girl about fourteen and a boy a little older. Very timid and shy, although the girl will talk to me, I find, if I am very patient with her and take an extra special lot of care. And the boy
has
started to follow me about rather – hovering around me looking moonstruck as boys do at that age –
you know
. Poor things. They have that same lost little air as their father. One shudders to think what they may learn from
her
example …'

‘His wife, you mean? Their stepmother?' She knew Daniel Carey would have said that, just as acidly.

‘Oh my dear …' Linnet sounded very much the older sister. Infinitely patient if slightly amused. ‘It is common knowledge that she
enticed
him – quite blatantly – for he is very, very rich, you know – into an entanglement which she has since given him every cause to regret. They say, in fact …'

‘I suppose you mean
he
says?'

There was a moment of chilling silence although Gemma, in fact, was not chilled by it.

‘Yes,' said Linnet crisply. ‘I see no reason to deny that Mr Moon confides in me. One is simply happy to be of service to one's friends. One is even proud to be accorded their trust.'

What game was this? No game at all, of course, since Linnet did nothing with less than serious intent. And how ruthless she was in the pursuit of that ‘position in society'she craved. Her
own
establishment, rather than a dainty toe-hold in some other woman's home. Her own horses to drive, her own servants, instead of Amabel's, at her beck and call. Her own invitations to be sent out for impeccable dinners at which
she
– as the wife of any man who could pay for it – would shine. How very clever she was in her various campaigns to hunt him down – whoever he happened to be. How admirably she would fulfil her chosen role, should she ever gain it. How versatile she was. And, at the same time, how unsuccessful.

Sophisticated confidante to Mr Moon who was not free to bestow upon her his sugar fortunes in Martinique and Antigua even if he so desired. Woman of slow-burning fires to Mr Ben Braithwaite who, even now that he had married the textile fortune of Magda Tannenbaum, still cast ardent glances upon her. Would she fare any better with Uriah Colclough who might well be content just to gaze at her beauty until it withered, scourging his body and thus purifying his soul by denying his lust for her until there should be nothing left to arouse it?

And after Uriah Colclough, who was left in Frizingley with means enough to give Linnet the life she desired? The life, indeed, which in her own view she richly deserved. Would she settle for less? Fervently Gemma hoped so. For, in marrying Tristan, she had made no allowance for having Linnet on her hands – and under her skin – for the rest of her life.

Nor could she reconcile herself to Almsmead. A handsome house, of course, so beautifully set at the bend of Colonel Covington-Pym's river, containing everything – her father kept on telling her bluntly – to make any woman happy. Her mother's house, built to ease her mother's fears of dirt and noise and riotous assembly in the city streets and into which her mother now welcomed her as rapturously as if she had not seen her these ten years.

‘Oh my darling – what joy … I knew, as soon as I opened my eyes, that something wonderful was going to happen today.'

‘Good Lord, mother, I have only come from Frizingley you know, not from Arabia Deserta.'

But, although John-William's brows drew warningly together at Gemma's tone, Amabel did not notice it.

‘I am sure I have no idea where that might be,' she answered sweetly, quaintly, more of a little birthday-party girl than ever in her ribbons and curls.‘I am simply determined that you shall not go back again. We shall keep you here – Tristan and I – you may be certain. Shall we not, Tristan?'

‘Rather,' he said cheerfully, reliably. ‘I should jolly well hope so.' Although, as a matter of fact, he was going off to Leicestershire that afternoon to look at a horse with Felix Lark and a pack of minor Covington-Pyms, and he
did
rather hope that Gemma wouldn't want him to cancel. Unlike her – God bless her! – if she did.

‘I shall stay to lunch and see you off,' she said when, rather hesitantly – not wanting to upset her for the world – he reminded her; swiftly, pleasantly setting his mind at rest before giving her attention to her mother's luncheon guests.

Or were they indeed her mother's guests? Or Linnet's? Ebullient Mr Moon and his two faded, fidgety children, a pair of tame little sparrows to their father's prancing, curly-headed peacock – all three with their eyes forever straying to Linnet – and a serious, middle-aged man, the doctor from Far Flatley, who was looking at Linnet too.

Two grown men and a puny, unhappy boy competing for her attention, which she gave like handfuls of tiny diamonds, just enough to dazzle and then make them long for more when the sparkle was scattered so daintily, so artfully, elsewhere. Her whole, diamond-sharp mind on her task of being the only woman – anywhere she happened to find herself – to be noticed and wanted. Her dear Aunt Amabel watching her with fond amazement.

‘Miss Linnet – do give me your opinion – I cannot rest until I know what you think …'

‘Miss Linnet – may I show you – ask you – tell you …?' And what they were really saying was ‘Linnet, look at me – at me.'

‘Are we to eat today?' enquired John-William Dallam sourly. ‘Or next Tuesday.'

The dining-room at Almsmead was high and enormous and disturbingly unreal to Gemma as she took her place at the table, a screen of thin glass, it seemed having arisen between herself and these others – her family, her husband, their chosen friends – who now appeared, sickeningly if not perhaps suddenly, to be members of one species, she of another.

So had it always been. Now she was ready to acknowledge it, to see herself fully and finally as the cuckoo in this swansdown nest, who had never belonged here and yet had never had any choice but to remain.

She saw it clearly now. She saw, too, that her mother – bound as securely by her father's love as a Chinese emperor might bind the feet of his concubine – had receded more than ever into childhood, her growth irrevocably stunted. (What had Daniel said? ‘He keeps her a child so that she cannot challenge him'? Not entirely, although the result had been the same.) She saw, somehow too plainly, how little it took to make Tristan content. A hearty luncheon. A trip to Leicestershire. The certainty of a good horse and a good meal tomorrow and most days thereafter. The company of like-minded men, ‘good fellows', ‘jolly decent chaps'and – she did not doubt it – chance-met, easily forgotten encounters with ‘obliging'women.

She saw that Linnet would very likely fail to find contentment anywhere.

She saw, most of all, that her father was tired, short-winded and short-tempered. Unwell.

The meal over, they took a stroll, father and daughter together, over Almsmead meadows to the quiet, shallow river, neither of them being much inclined to listen to the schemes of Mr Adolphus Moon for parties and picnics and ‘rustic entertainments'for which – although the presence of his wife forbade him to offer the hospitality of his own home and gardens – he was most enthusiastically willing to pay.

‘A masked ball, even. Why not?' he had been saying as John-William had taken his daughter's arm and led her outdoors. ‘With our dear Mrs Dallam as a Dresden shepherdess. Yes, yes, dear lady. Who better to portray the very heart and soul of porcelain than yourself? And I know of a most highly talented theatrical designer who could whip up the costumes in a trice. You may leave it all to me. And to Miss Linnet, of course, who shall be dressed as – yes – good gracious, I see it all too clear. Diana the Huntress, my dear – or Artemis as the Greeks called her. Beautiful and eternally chaste. Forever. Beyond the reach of mortal man. Alas. Alas.'

‘Damned posing fellow,' grunted John-William as he stumped over the fields towards the water.

‘Mother seems to like him.'

‘Your mother likes anybody who takes the trouble to be civil to her. You know that.'

She knew.

‘And it's Miss Linnet who likes him – or likes what he brings here. The riff-raff he entertains from London and calls “my artistic friends”. The backstage gossip. The money. Always a few bottles – or a few dozen bottles – of some wine nobody but Miss Linnet has ever heard of in his carriage. Always French chocolates and hot-house flowers, which would be all very proper if the sweets didn't come in silver filagree boxes and the flowers tied up with little gold chains that Miss Linnet is wearing now around her wrists – whether she'd care to admit it or not. Always something or other he just happens to have in his possession and wants to get rid of, so that anybody kind enough to take it off his hands would be doing him a service. Trifles, he calls them. Well – damned expensive trifles, in my opinion. I don't like it, Gemma. And I don't like all the whispering and giggling she does with Felix Lark, either, and that idle tribe of cousins and God knows what else he drags around with him, trampling all over my garden, talking their damned hunting jargon and drinking my claret. She even had that scoundrel Goldsborough, from the Fleece, breathing down her neck the other day. And whether he hunts and shoots with the Larks and the Covington-Pyms and is related to half the County – as Miss Linnet pointed out to me – or not, I don't trust him. And that's that. I don't like it at all, Gemma. You'll have to watch our Miss Linnet – one day.'