Dorothy Eden (11 page)

So Blane had his hands full already with two jealous women, one who may have been his mother, and the other who certainly was his wife.

‘What time is dinner, Lady Malvina?’

The old lady’s eyes met Sarah’s suspiciously.

‘You think I talk too much. Perhaps I do, but I must talk to someone, and Bessie hasn’t a brain in her head.’

‘You have your son home now,’ Sarah pointed out. Again the suspicious glare was on her. Did it hold a hint of uneasiness?

‘My son is a busy man. He has all the estate affairs to manage. I waste as little of his time as possible. However, what am I complaining of?’ The irrepressible vitality was back in the pouchy old face. ‘I have my grandson now. We shall teach him everything, Miss Mildmay. Riding, shooting, fishing, hunting.’

‘And his letters, I hope.’

‘Ah, I like you, Miss Mildmay. You’re not afraid of me like those silly goggling maids. I hope you’ll stay here a long time.’

‘I shall stay as long as I need to, Lady Malvina.’

‘You mean until you get a husband. Well, you’re an attractive young woman. But who are you going to marry, my dear? Governesses fall between two stools, you know, the gentry and the working classes. But don’t despair. We may eventually be able to do something for you. I could persuade the vicar who’s an old friend of mine to get a young marriageable curate. And if it doesn’t work out, then I shall give you a present, at least. Not a gown, but a ring perhaps, or a brooch. But a husband would be the most welcome, eh?’

It was impossible to dislike the old lady who had a streak of earthiness and vulgarity that certainly did not belong to these prim times. Sarah imagined her face when Ambrose came home, and things were as they should be. Would Lady Malvina ever forgive her? It would be sad if she did not.

Nevertheless she dressed for her first dinner with the family with some nervousness. If Lady Malvina was feeling bored, or at odds with Amalie, she was likely to say anything she pleased. The results might be either entertaining or embarrassing.

It was dark now, and lamps had been lit on the stairs, making yellow pools of light and leaving the high ceilings lost in darkness. The house was too far from a town to have had the new gas fittings installed. Now it smelt pleasantly of beeswax and candle-smoke. The heavy curtains, frayed at the edges, had been drawn across the long windows and the sound of the dying wind shut out.

In the drawing-room a fire crackled on the hearth, its flames leaping up the cavernous chimney. Amalie was there already. She stood facing the fire, the light shining on her ice-blue gown. She was a slim graceful figure with her bent head and tiny waist. One would have imagined Blane to be very proud of her, and not seeking reasons to sleep in another room.

But when she turned Sarah saw that the sulkiness was still in her face. Her dark eyes glittered.

‘Well, Miss Mildmay, is Titus settled?’

‘Very well, Lady Mallow. And he likes the new nursemaid.’

‘Splendid. Though what he likes or dislikes is not here or there according to my husband. He must not be spoilt. And he’s such a little boy still. I’ll go up to him presently. Ugh! What a draughty house this is. I’ve been shivering ever since we arrived.’

‘Then, as my mother recommends, you must wear more petticoats, my love,’ came Blane’s deep pleasant voice from the doorway. ‘Good evening, Miss Mildmay. I’m glad to see you’re joining us.’

Sarah dropped her eyes. She would like to have returned his bold stare. She had always known how to deal with men of his kind when Amelia and Charlotte had only blushed and giggled. But now, to play her part, she had to blush, too, and let the wretched man think he was getting away with his impudence.

‘And are you settled comfortably, Miss Mildmay? Do you agree with my wife that this is a cold house?’

‘Perhaps it hasn’t had time to be thoroughly heated yet, Lord Mallow.’

‘That’s what I say. But my wife insists the furnishings are at fault. We’re to import miles of Genoese velvet, and acres of carpet, handpainted wallpapers, new chandeliers, goodness knows what else. What, I ask you, does Titus care for all that?’

‘Blane! This isn’t only for Titus. We’re living here.’

‘I came back solely for Titus, as you know. Let’s simply preserve this place for him, as was our intention.’

Sarah was suddenly conscious of his black gaze on her.

‘Does chat seem strange to you, Miss Mildmay? That I should want to preserve an inheritance for my son?’

He was a better actor than she was. He was also a hypocrite. To pretend not to care for Mallow Hall himself, when he had fought for it for months.

‘Blane, Miss Mildmay isn’t interested in what you’re planning to do,’ Amalie said sharply.

Blane grinned. The deep crevice showed in his cheek.

‘Isn’t she? Not even in hearing I’ve promised to read the lesson in church tomorrow?’

Amalie clapped her hand to her mouth, stifling an exclamation. For the first time she seemed amused.

‘You!’

‘Yes, I. The vicar called while you were resting. It’s the custom to do this. My father always did.’

Amalie was laughing openly.

‘Forgive me, my love. But how long is it since you opened a Bible?’

‘If you think I’m more at home at sea, then I’m prepared to agree with you. All the same, you’ll be at church tomorrow, and you’ll take Titus. He might as well know what’s in store for him.’

After that, dinner at the candlelit dining-table was an amicable enough meal, even Lady Malvina refraining from making any too outrageous remarks. Afterwards Blane sprawled in a chair in front of the fire, his head tilted back, his long nose pointing to the ceiling, while Lady Malvina dozed noisily, and Amalie played the piano in a desultory way. Amalie was trying hard to be a fashionable lady.

‘We must have dinner parties, Blane.’

‘We came down here to rest, don’t you remember?’

‘Oh, nonsense. Nothing makes you tired. And the case was no strain since you knew you must win it. Besides, there’ll be people here who expect to be invited to the Hall. Old friends. Isn’t that so, Mamma?’

Lady Malvina woke with a start.

‘Oh, yes, there’ll be plenty who expect it. But I warn you, everyone in these parts is as dull as ditchwater.’

‘Will you make up a list, Mamma? After all, Blane can’t be expected to know who lives here, after twenty years away.’

‘No,’ Lady Malvina muttered. ‘But you’d remember the Fortescues, Blane?’ Her voice was suddenly uncertain, worried.

‘The Colonel? Of course. Is he still alive?’

Lady Malvina relaxed.

‘Do you think anything would kill him? And the Veseys and the Blounts. They’re all still here.’

‘There you are,’ said Amalie triumphantly. ‘So we’ll give a dinner party as soon as we can. After all we must lead some kind of social life in the depths of the country. We’ll begin by church in the morning. Blane is to read the lesson, Mamma.’

Blane stretched easily.

‘A respectable beginning, you see. But aren’t you afraid, my love, you may dig up too much of my past?’

Amalie’s eyes glinted.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘No fair Marias? Eh, Mamma? Now Miss Mildmay is shocked.’

Sarah shook her head deprecatingly.

‘I’m not shocked, but I am very tired. May I say goodnight?’

Blane sprang to his feet.

‘We’ll expect to see you at church in the morning.’ His gaze lingered quite deliberately on her throat. Then he seemed to collect himself and said lightly, ‘You might even rehearse me in my diction. You look sceptical, as if you really think I’m an illiterate sailor.’

Amalie said crisply, ‘Blane, Miss Mildmay is tired. Don’t keep her standing. Goodnight, Miss Mildmay.’

‘Goodnight,’ Sarah murmured and hastened up the lamplit stairs.

How could the man be such a hypocrite? She believed he knew how suspicious she was, and was finding the situation amusing.

But he didn’t know about Ambrose. She still held the strongest card.

B
UT IT WAS EXTRAORDINARILY
difficult to write her diary that night. She wanted to set down Blane’s blatant hypocrisy about reading the lesson in church, then against that remembered his determination to preserve the Mallow fortune for his son. No one would have doubted his sincerity when he said that. He behaved, too, as if he were used to being master of a place like this. That was instinctive, and not learned in a few short months.

Yet there was no doubt Lady Malvina was uncertain of him. She was scheming to get all that she could, money or jewels, while it was possible. Again, contrarily, she was genuinely deeply attached to Titus, and certainly believed, or deceived herself, that he was her grandson.

Everything is a complex web,
Sarah wrote helplessly by the light of the candle on her bedside table.
So far there is no tangible proof at all. But tomorrow I will observe closely the people at church and the way they greet the new family.

She closed and locked the little book, and put it back in her reticule, so that it was never out of her possession, then blew out the candle and settled to sleep.

It was in the early hours that Sarah heard Titus crying. She fumbled for matches to light her candle. The whimper coming from the nursery was stifled and forlorn. When she reached Titus she found him only half awake, but obviously frightened. He had heard strange noises, he said. His thin arms clung round Sarah’s neck.

‘What sort of noises?’ she asked. The wind had died and the big house seemed quite still.

‘I don’t know. From up there.’

He pointed to the ceiling, and Sarah’s breath caught involuntarily. The floor above this one comprised the attic rooms. The servants slept up there, and it was in one of those rooms that the unhappy maid, fifty years ago, had hanged herself. Now no one slept in that room if it could be avoided. Betsey had told her and a wide-eyed Eliza the story.

‘It was probably a seagull. Or perhaps the canary. Or a mouse behind the wall. You were asleep. You didn’t hear properly.’

‘Was it a mouse?’ Titus asked.

‘I expect so. Lie down and go back to sleep. I’ll leave the candle.’

The little boy looked up at her with his docile gaze. The room was draughty, for the candle flame flickered constantly. Tomorrow Sarah decided to arrange for a night light, something in a globe that did not flicker, creating shadows. A child’s imagination could so easily become distorted.

The house was very still. The uneasiness of the quiet was surely the product of her own distorted imagination.

It was a bright cold morning, and they were all preparing for church. Sarah, going down early with Titus, had an opportunity to talk to Soames who had brought the carriage to the door. This was the man whom Ambrose believed had coached Blane in his knowledge of the past. It could well be, for the man had a narrow face and an air of servility that was displeasing.

‘The young master will be wanting a pony,’ he said. ‘I’ve just the one, a half brother to the one his father used to ride.’

‘Did you teach his father to ride, Soames?’

‘Oh, aye. And a desperate rider he was, wanting to jump before he could canter. This wee lad now will be more cautious.’

‘You’d notice a great change in the master?’

Sarah disliked having to chat to this man who had begun to look at her with sly interest. He would have to be dismissed when Ambrose came home, if only because of this necessary familiarity now.

‘Not that much, miss. He’s still the same devil-may-care person. You wouldn’t mistake that face in a lifetime. You ask old Betsey. She’s the only one of the old staff. She remembers him.’ His eyes slid over Sarah’s neat figure. ‘This is a good day for the old place, miss. Never thought I’d live to see it.’

‘Then you wouldn’t have cared for the—cousin—to be master here?’

‘I’ve nothing against Mr Ambrose.’ The man’s voice was unctuous. ‘Well, nothing personal like. But if you ask me, he’s not the type for Mallow.’

It was time the conversation stopped. Sarah’s cheeks were already hot with indignation. Ambrose not the type for Mallow indeed! He certainly wouldn’t be the type for this nasty sly creature who knew that dismissal would await him the moment Ambrose arrived. This certainly confirmed Ambrose’s opinion that Soames was in the conspiracy. He must have waited all his life for such an opportunity, something that completely suited his foxy talents.

That was two of them, Soames, and the elusive Thomas Whitehouse whom presently Ambrose would track down in Trinidad.

But still where was the tangible proof, the witnesses, the evidence of bribes? Could Ambrose mean her to go to the lengths of striking up a friendship with Soames? Something that would lead to confidences. In this a streak of Lady Malvina’s vulgarity would have served her well. Very well then, she thought, if necessary she would cultivate not only the vulgarity but the unlikeable Soames as well. It was for Mallow and Ambrose.

But in church clarity and good sense left her again. She was hypnotised by Blane’s voice as he stood, tall and confident in the pulpit, reading the lesson. He did it as if he had been doing a similar thing every Sunday of his adult life. His voice had the right touch of sonority and depth. He neither hurried nor stumbled over the words. He obviously hypnotised the entire congregation, for the church, except for the grave beautiful voice, was utterly still.

The man was a complete actor, Sarah thought angrily. How could he read the Bible so beautifully, and be so false?

Amalie’s lips, she noticed, were slightly parted, her whole face eager and queerly hungry. Although she sulked and made extravagant demands and assumed haughtiness, she clearly worshipped her husband. Like this congregation, he had her in his spell. It amused him to play with people, to exert his power. He knew he could twist most of them round his little finger. Even his shrewd old mother who now looked fatuous and doting.

As he slowly closed the Bible on the last words, his curious moody gaze swept the church. It still seemed to hold irony, an almost sad irony, as if even he felt this was going a little too far. But what a victory it was, for when the service was over he was besieged by eager people claiming friendship and recognition. Amalie began to flush and bridle with pleasure. Lady Malvina, for all her air of torpor after a too-long sermon, was always in the right place to say names clearly for the benefit of a possibly lethargic memory.