Anna (62 page)

“Going anywhere?” he asked. “Can I give you a lift?”

Anna placed her hand on the thin flat mudguard.

“I … I suppose you're not going as far as Chislehurst?” she asked.

Captain Webb shook his head.

“Too late,” he said. “Not fair on the horse. Drive you there in the morning if you like.”

Anna turned away from him.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “Really it doesn't.”

“Sure it isn't important?”

“No, really it isn't.”

He bent forward and stared at her closely.

“You been crying?” he asked.

Anna didn't answer, and she saw that Captain Webb had pulled out his watch and was looking at it.

“I'll take you,” he said suddenly, and held out his hand to pull Anna up on to the seat beside him.

It was not until they had reached the gates that Captain Webb spoke again.

“What's the trouble?” he asked.

“I'm unhappy,” Anna said simply.

“Been having a tiff with …” Captain Webb left the rest of the sentence expressively unfinished.

Anna nodded.

“Don't take any notice of her,” Captain Webb advised. “She's probably regretting it by now.”

Then another pause and Captain Webb spoke again.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

“To the station,” Anna told him.

Captain Webb glanced at her.

“Not running away, are you?” he asked.

“Not now,” she said. “But I
am
going.”

Captain Webb whistled.

“What's at the back of all this?” he asked.

To her own surprise she told him. Up there in the cold windy dogcart she told him things that she had not spoken about to any one before—about Annette and the convent and how Sister Veronica had taken pity on her and had asked Lady Yarde to have her. But it was about Annette that she spoke mostly—of her loneliness, and the first letter she had written, even about the tooth that she had sent because she was so proud of it. And all the while Captain Webb listened gravely, occasionally nodding his head to show that he was trying to understand these feelings, these emotions that were so strange to him.

“And so you see I have got to go back to her,” Anna said at last. “It isn't what Lady Yarde wants. Or Delia. Or anyone. It's what I've
got
to do.”

It was then that Captain Webb did something that astonished him, something that was foreign to his whole nature. He placed his big gloved hand over hers and let it rest there for a moment.

“We'll find a way,” he said. “I'll see that you manage it.”

And, having said it, he wondered what had made him do it; wondered how on earth anything that he might do could bring Anna and the child together.

“Often thought of chucking it up myself,” he said. “No appreciation. Doesn't know anything about timber really, but he thinks he does. Very difficult man at times.”

He checked himself and turned towards Anna again.

“All the same,” he said, “great mistake to do anything rash. Always better to sleep on an idea.”

They, were nearing the station by now and Captain Webb had pulled the horse up to a walking pace. The clock in the post office showed four o'clock and Captain Webb thought regretfully of his tea. The housekeeper would have cleared the things away by the
time he got back there; and, now that he knew that Anna had wanted so urgently to go to Chislehurst simply to ask the fare to Paris, the fact irritated him. He began telling himself that she could have written, have found out in some other way, and he resented the sudden unreasonable journey.

“Just like a woman,” he decided.

When he finally helped her down he was still feeling that he had been imposed on.

“Going to buy some tobacco,” he said abruptly. “Find me here when you get back.”

Then as he turned and looked after her, his annoyance vanished.

“What she's been through!” he told himself respectfully. “Damn' difficult world for a pretty woman to be alone in.”

In front of the small mirror in his bedroom Gervase was rubbing just a trifle more pomade into his hair: he didn't want to kill the curls altogether but he did want to suppress their boyishness. And, when he had finished, he rubbed a thin smear of the stuff along his moustache to make it glitter. Altogether, the effect pleased him. Admittedly, he had cut himself in two places while shaving. But the scars, now that the two little tufts of cotton wool had been removed, merely lent a certain robust ruggedness to the countenance that he found gratifying. He studied himself a little longer, twisting his head this way and that. Then, after running his finger round inside the tight dress collar, he sat down on the solitary straight-backed chair and thrust out his legs in front of him for his batman to put his boots on.

It was while he was sitting there that he began thinking on the unpredictable strangeness of life. His thoughts had been moving in unfamiliar circles of late, and a mood of melancholy was obsessing him. He had even turned against his food.

“Damned extraordinary thing,” he told himself. “Here am I with forty-eight hours' leave and an invitation to the Darcys', and I'm going back to Tilliards instead. I'd never have believed it of me: honest to God I wouldn't.”

He bulged out his instep so that he should still be able to walk even after the batman had drawn the laces tight, and went on with his private thoughts again.

“Of course,” he admitted. “She may have forgotten me. There were a hell of a lot of other people at the dance.”

“Dammit,” he said aloud. “I've got to go and find out.”

The batman looked up in surprise but Gervase ignored him. He was too much engrossed in thinking about someone with the fairest hair and the most sharply slanting pair of eyebrows that he had ever seen.

Then the batman got to his feet and helped Gervase into his greatcoat. He handed him his gloves, his cane, and the small Hussar cap. Gervase squared his shoulders and motioned to the man to pick up his valise. He was ready.

The Honourable Gervase Yarde was on his way to spend his precious forty-eight hours' leave in pursuit of a governess.

In front of Lady Yarde, Mrs. Merton was standing. Her eyes were dropped respectfully to the carpet and the hands were folded in front of her.

“There is something that I think that I ought to mention to your Ladyship,” she was saying.

Lady Yarde passed her hand across her forehead.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”

“It's about Mademoiselle Anna,” Mrs. Merton continued.

There was silence for a moment. It was only yesterday when they had last been discussing Anna together. In her agitation, Lady Yarde had summoned Mrs. Merton and told her of Anna's preposterous suggestion. Mrs. Merton had been suitably shocked. She had drawn in her breath and agreed that such a jaunt was unthinkable.

“Her place is in the schoolroom, your Ladyship,” she had said quietly.

In face of that assurance, Lady Yarde wondered what on earth Mrs. Merton now wanted to talk about.

“Well, go on. Don't keep me waiting,” she said irritably.

“One of the maids told me that she heard Mademoiselle Anna inquiring the fare to Paris yésterday afternoon,” Mrs. Merton told her. “She was asking the times of the trains and everything. She wanted to know how soon she could go and get back again.”

Lady Yarde sat bolt upright.

“I don't believe it,” she said.

“She heard her most distinctly, your ladyship,” Mrs. Merton said. “She repeated every word of it to me when she got back.”

Lady Yarde began fluttering. She groped uncertainly for the smelling bottle.

“The duplicity of it,” she said. “The wicked duplicity. And just when I was ready to forgive her, too.”

Mrs. Merton paused. She still had not raised her head.

“And there is another thing that I think your Ladyship should know,” she said apologetically.

Lady Yarde took a deep sniff at the ammoniac fumes and raised her head again.

“Tell me,” she said feebly.

“It was Captain Webb who took her to the station, your Ladyship,” Mrs. Merton added. “The maid saw him waiting for her when she came out. I felt it my duty to report the whole affair.”

She did not add that, as duties went, she happened to find this a particularly agreeable one. She had never liked Anna; had disliked her on sight, in fact. And on the day-on which Anna had been moved into the Tower room she had longed, had prayed, for the moment of her eventual dethronement. As for Captain Webb, she felt no personal bitterness towards him. It was simply that by mentioning his name, by implicating him, she was able to sow just that much more doubt and confusion in her Ladyship's mind.

But Lady Yarde could bear no more. She dismissed her housekeeper with a wave of the hand and sat there with her other hand across her eyes. Then, as soon as Mrs. Merton had left her, she rose hurriedly, re-corked the smelling salts, smoothed out her dress and set off in search of her husband. She was so angry that there were tears running down her cheeks as she walked.

It was unfortunate, extremely unfortunate, that Lady Yarde should have chosen this of all moments to address Lord Yarde. He had been out all day and he was tired. All that he wanted was a hot bath, a very hot one. When she found him, he was sitting in the one easy chair in his dressing-room, with his stockinged feet up on the stool in front of him, and a drink in his hand. He was expecting at any moment to be told that his bath was ready.

And instead of that, it was Lady Yarde who swept in on him. He could see as soon as he glanced at her that something had gone badly wrong, and he felt in no mood for any kind of trouble now. He got up reluctantly and offered her his chair.

“Well,” he asked, “what is it?”

When Lady Yarde had finished, he poured himself out another drink. He had already sent the valet away and told him to keep the hot water running.

“Good Lord,” he said.

“So of course she must go,” Lady Yarde began saying all over
again. “I can't have her here a day longer. I don't trust her now.” She paused for a moment, and clenched her hands together. “And to think,” she said, “that Webb has been plotting with her. The horrible man. After all the years he's been with us.”

“I should leave Webb out of this,” Lord Yarde remarked firmly.

“After what he's done?” Lady Yarde demanded. “You'll be telling me to keep this other creature next.”

“We don't know the facts,” Lord Yarde persisted. “There's probably some perfectly simple explanation. We've only got Merton's word for it.”

“Isn't it sufficient,” Lady Yarde asked, her voice rising, “that he was aiding her? Do you like having someone by you who is capable of doing such a thing.”

When Lord Yarde declined to answer such a question and said that he'd be catching cold if he didn't get into his bath, Lady Yarde's self-control left her. She started crying again, and began breathing in quick short gasps. Lord Yarde could no longer hear what she was saying.

Outside the door, the valet was shifting his weight from one foot to another and wondering when he dared to knock again.

It was into this divided household that Gervase was announced. His arrival was wholly unexpected. He entered the dining-room with the broad grin of a schoolboy who knows that he is playing truant, and stood for a moment at the door as if he expected people to rush forward and embrace him. Then, as he saw that his father was seated there alone, the grin faded and he came forward slowly, rather hesitatingly, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously up and down the gold braid of his trousers.

“The mater not well?” he asked.

Lord Yarde stared at him to see if he had been drinking, and decided that he had been.

“Your mother is in her room,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Short leave,” Gervase told him.

“Have you eaten?” Lord Yarde asked.

“Not yet, sir,” Gervase answered.

“Then perhaps you'll join me instead of standing there,” Lord Yarde replied.

“Don't you think perhaps I ought to go up to see her first?” Gervase suggested a trifle diffidently.

Lord Yarde bowed his head.

“As you prefer,” he said, and went on eating.

The room in which Gervase found his mother was close and suffocating. Two shallow saucers of pine and menthol burned in the corners of the fireplace to relieve Lady Yarde's breathing, and she was sitting supported by a whole stack of cushions. She had removed the combs which she usually wore and the remains of her beautiful hair hung down over her shoulders in limp disorder. She was moaning.

“Evidently one of her bad ones,” Gervase told himself. “Wonder what the old man's been saying to her.”

Lady Yarde gave a little scream when she saw him and struggled to her feet. The short breathing magically stopped and she stood there clasping him.

“Gervase, my little Gervase,” was all she could say.

After allowing her to cry on him for a few minutes he led her back gently to her couch, and consoled her.

“What's the trouble, Mater?” he asked.

It was not until after two or three bouts of crying that she really started to tell him. And by the time she began, Gervase was regretting that he had ever come to Tilliards at all. He had known this kind of situation too often before. It was not until his mother had reached Anna's part in this personal and domestic tragedy that he began to attend. And then he attended very closely. A little shiver of apprehension ran through him.

“Of course, now that it's happened, she's got to go,” he heard Lady Yarde telling him. “I won't have her here.”

Gervase cleared his throat.

“But what's she done?” he asked.

“She knows well enough what she's done,” Lady Yarde replied ominously.