Midnight at Mallyncourt (17 page)

“How gallant of you, pet. Not that I
believe
it, mind you.”

“Has my horse returned?” he asked gruffly.

“He came galloping back to his stall a few minutes ago. I wondered if you'd had an
ac
cident or something, pet. I must say I'm relieved to see that wasn't the case.

Lyman moved briskly on toward the stall where his horse was kept. Vanessa turned to watch him, that mocking smile still playing on her lips, and when she turned back to me her violet-blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

“I think it's divine you're getting on so
well
, Jenny. My husband is an extraordinary man, extremely virile, smouldering with banked-up passion. You needn't be upset, luv. I shan't breathe a word about it. What Edward doesn't know certainly can't hurt him.”

Then, before I could make a rejoinder, she turned and sauntered back toward the stables, her step light and graceful, the long white plumes on her hat bobbing merrily. She had been deliberately baiting me. I knew that. She had hoped to upset me. Well, it wasn't quite that easy. Sooner or later I was going to cross swords with Vanessa, and that occasion would be spectacular to behold, but now wasn't the time for it. Clutching the parcel under my arm, thoroughly exhausted, I crossed the drive and moved slowly over the lawn to Mallyncourt.

Chapter Nine

L
ORD MALLYN
stoutly declared that he would be on his feet and downstairs to greet each and every guest when they arrived for the ball. I had no doubt he would. There was absolutely no question about his recovery now. It was merely a matter of his regaining the strength that had been drained out of him during those months of severe illness. The night of the ball was just six days away now, and the old man was looking forward to it with the eager anticipation of a child. He had given orders to have the ballroom completely overhauled, the floor waxed, the chandeliers taken down and cleaned, the gold leaf panels touched up by a crew of artisans who had come all the way from London to do the job. He held conferences with Vanessa about the food and wine, the flowers, the special musicians to be hired for the occasion, and, vain old peacock that he was, had ordered a new suit and waistcoat from his tailor in London, sending minute instructions about each detail of cut and color.

Rapidly recovering his strength now, the old man was more querulous, more dictatorial than ever. This morning he had insisted on going outside to enjoy the sunlight, waving aside all protests, ordering the footmen to fetch a chair. Wearing a dark satin robe and half a dozen rings, snapping orders and making peevish comments every step of the way, he sat enthroned like some Eastern monarch as George and another footman bore the chair down the wide steps and out onto the back lawn. I had accompanied them, and for the next hour and a half kept Lord Mallyn company as he cursed the twittering birds, made insulting remarks about the gardener and, holding my arm, tottered slowly about the lawn, finally saying he was ready to go back up to his room. The return journey had been even more perilous as he refused to sit still. George and his partner almost dropped the chair on two different occasions, and both men were in a state of nervous exhaustion when they finally deposited their ungrateful charge on his bed.

Fortunately, he was too exhausted to have our customary game of cards after lunch, and I was able to fetch my sewing basket and go upstairs to the nursery, a large, rather drab apartment with low ceilings and windows looking down over the front gardens. Seeing me enter, Miss Partridge gave a sigh of relief and went on to her room to read a romantic novel. Lettice was sitting at the largd table, a suspicious look on her face. A strong wind caused the windows to rattle in their frames. A fire crackled nosily in the fireplace.

“I didn't think you'd come,” she said snappishly.

“You didn't? I promised, dear. Haven't I come every afternoon for the past week?”

“That doesn't mean anything.”

“Well, dear, if you're going to sulk I can leave. There are dozens of other things I could be doing—”

“N-no,” she said. “I—I'm
glad
you came.”

I smiled. Lettice looked at me with grave eyes. She was beginning to trust me. She was beginning to respond. Yesterday, while I made a bright silk dress for one of her dolls, she had been her usual solemn self, but there had been a timid, tremulous note in her voice as she thanked me, and she had answered my frivolous inquiries with less stiffness than before. I was making considerable progress, I knew, and it was a joy to watch the thorny, prickly child begin to blossom.

“Did you practice the stitches I showed you?” I asked.

She nodded. “I—I'm still not very good at it.”

“It takes practice, Lettice. Took me
weeks
to learn, but then I didn't have a teacher. Let me see—” I took the piece of cloth she held up. “Why, you're making wonderful progress. Your stitches are a bit
large
, true, but they're so
even
. That's the important thing. Today I thought we'd make a dress for Amanda, poor thing. Red silk, perhaps, or perhaps purple velvet. I've brought a whole basket full of scraps and ribbons. Now, let's put on our thimbles and begin—”

The table was soon littered with vividly colored scraps of cloth, bits of ribbon, scissors, dolls, spools of thread, a magpie's nest that added a bright warmth to the drab room. I sewed, I chattered, I insisted that Lettice help, gave her instructions, corrected her errors, praised her accomplishments. The child was quiet, that plain, pale face still solemn, but there was a pensive look in her eyes, and, in the light that slanted through the windows, her long brown hair was the color of ripening wheat. Amanda, whom she had adopted, who now lived with the other dolls, was soon wearing a splendid new dress, and, with cardboard, glue and feathers, I was making her a new hat. Lettice watched, silent, chin in hand, elbow on tabletop.

“I'll have to give them up soon,” she said after a while.

“Give what up?”

“My dolls,” she replied. “I'm too old for dolls. I know that. I'll have to give them up. It's sad.”

“I know, dear.”

“You can love them, you see, and you can pretend they love back. You don't have to be afraid. They don't expect you to be something you're not. They don't care if you're not pretty.”

“Being pretty isn't—isn't all that important, Lettice.”

“You're beautiful,” the child said, “and you must have been beautiful when you were my age. It's easy for you to say it isn't important.”

“Beauty—well, dear, beauty is a—a special quality. It doesn't have anything to do with how one looks. There was a writer, a woman, her name was Mary Ann Evans, but her books were written under the name of George Eliot—you're too young to have read any of them yet. Anyway, she was a very plain woman, ugly, in fact, as far as her physical appearance was concerned, but after they'd been with her a few minutes, people never noticed that. They went away with the impression that she was one of the most beautiful women in England, because of that quality she had.”

Lettice made no comment. A bitter, disbelieving smile played on her lips, and I could see that she thought I was merely trying to humor her. I fastened a tiny black feather on the circle of cardboard covered with green silk, hunted for a bit of black ribbon to fasten the hat to Amanda's head. When I continued, my voice was extremely casual.

“In her last years, she was widowed. She had known great love with her husband, and she never thought she'd be happy again. But she still had that quality. It glowed inside of her. It made her beautiful. There was a young man named John Cross. He was golden haired, dashing, handsome, pursued by some of the most attractive women in society, but he ignored them. He fell in love with Mary Ann. People laughed, because he was young and she was old, because he looked like a Greek god and she looked like a sack of potatoes, but he didn't care. He was determined to marry her, and he finally persuaded her to accept him.”

“What happened?” she asked in a bored voice.

“Mary Ann died—that was two years ago. She and John Cross only had a year together, but he told the newspapers it was the happiest year of his life. At the funeral he stood at her graveside, tears streaming down his cheeks. I think it's a great love story, and Mary Ann Evans was one of the plainest women who ever drew breath.”

“You made it up,” she said sullenly.

“No, dear. It's all quite true. I'm sure there are some of her books in the library here—
Silas Marner, Adam Bede, The Mill on the Floss
. Perhaps one of them has her picture in the front. You can see for yourself. There, the hat's finished. Amanda looks terribly stylish—”

We continued to sew, Lettice as grave and unresponsive as ever. I was relaxed, curiously content. It was satisfying to be here with the child, to be doing something constructive. I felt that I was serving some purpose, and, while I was in the nursery, Mallyncourt didn't seem nearly so brooding, so tension filled. It was as beneficial to me as it was to Lettice. She needed a friend. I needed an outlet. There was something touching about the thin, pale, hostile child, and the hours I spent with her were the most peaceful I had spent in the house. I was surprised when there was a knock on the door and a maid came in with the afternoon tea tray. I hadn't realized it was so late.

Book clasped to her bosom, a dreamy expression on her plump face, Miss Partridge peeked out of her room and, seeing that I was still with Lettice, declared that she was far more interested in the fate of Jane Eyre than in cakes, crumpets or tongue sandwiches and asked to be excused. Lettice and I had our tea together, sitting in front of the fire. The child was uncommunicative, deep in thought, staring at the heap of glowing orange-black logs, barely touching her food. When the maid returned to fetch the tray, she still hadn't said anything.

I stood up, brushing my skirts.

“I'd better go now,” I said. “I'll leave all the sewing things here, Lettice.”

“You'll be back tomorrow?”

“I promise.”

“Jenny—”

I was at the door. I turned. It was the first time she had called me by my first name.

“Yes?”

“Was there
really
a Mary Ann Evans?”

“There really was. Miss Partridge seems quite literary. She's probably read some of her books. You can ask her if you refuse to believe me.”

“I—I believe you,” the child said. “If—” she hesitated, a deep frown creasing her brow, and when she continued she spoke rapidly, crossly. “I just wanted to say that if
you
were plain, if
you
looked like a sack of potatoes, you'd still be beautiful, too, just like that writer.”

“Why—” My voice trembled. I couldn't help myself. “That—that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“It's true,” she snapped.

Lettice glared at me, looking even crosser than before, and then, suddenly, she ran across the room and threw her arms around my waist, holding me tightly. I folded that thin, brittle little body against me. I stroked the long, wheat-colored hair. Several moments passed, and Lettice finally pulled away.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Lettice, you needn't apologize for showing affection, ever.”

Lettice looked up at me with grave eyes, her pinched face heartbreakingly serious. “You're the first real friend I've ever had.”

“That's a wonderful honor, dear.”

“I'm going to be beautiful, too,” she said in a severe voice. “I'll never be
pretty
, but—I can be beautiful.”

“Of course you can.”

“I don't imagine it'll be easy,” she said, frowning. “I have a very sour disposition, everyone says so, and I can never be one of those sweet, sunny children, but—I'm going to try.”

She scowled, squaring her shoulders. Miraculous transformations never occur in real life, and Lettice seemed embarrassed now, slightly resentful, but the barrier had finally broken down. She looked much, much older than her ten years, and, paradoxically, much younger, too, tough and vulnerable. How would that young-old face look wearing a smile? I hoped to find out very soon.

“I'd better go color my geography maps now,” she said stiffly. “I told Miss Partridge I'd done them already, and she'd be distressed if she finds I told a story. I'm
always
kind to Partridge, because she's an outsider, too, like me, and she needs kindness. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Good-bye, dear.”

I left the nursery, deeply touched by what had happened. Lettice was a peculiar child, but it wasn't difficult to understand her, nor was it difficult to understand what had made her the way she was. Unwanted in the first place, unloved, ignored and neglected, she was the product of her environment, independent, hostile, inverted, but with the proper nourishment she could bloom like those thorny plants that grew in the desert. Inside, beneath that prickly facade, there was a wealth of tenderness and affection that, fearing rebuff, she had revealed heretofore only when she was alone with her dolls. Her parents were to blame. Vanessa was openly derisive about her daughter, not even pretending to care for her, but I wondered about Lyman. He took up for the child when his wife made slighting remarks about her, and he refused to send her away to school, but was he genuinely concerned about her welfare? I doubted it. Lyman's ruthless obsession with Mallyncourt left little room for anything else.

Having nothing in particular to do the rest of the afternoon, I went to my room, fetched the book I had recently finished and took it back down to the library, an enormous room, dim, musty, with dark garnet drapes at the windows, a vast marble fireplace and towering walls of books. Putting the novel back on its shelf, I spent half an hour browsing, finally selecting a book on Roman ruins in this part of England. As I left the library I could hear the bustle of servants in the ballroom at the end of the hall. The great night would be upon us soon. I wasn't looking forward to it. Moving up the wide, flat stone steps, I crossed the long gallery and stepped into one of the sun-filled window recesses, curling up on the dusty velvet window seat with the book.