Some Tame Gazelle (20 page)

‘I can quite imagine it,’ said Harriet. ‘If only
you
could have thought of proposing, Belinda.’

‘It wouldn’t have occurred to me, I’m afraid. And think how dreadful it would be to be refused. I sometimes wonder how men can bear it, though they usually go off and ask somebody else, don’t they, all except Ricardo, that is. But I think it’s much better not to have asked, not to know definitely that one wasn’t wanted,’ said Belinda hastily. ‘I always feel that a man should do his own proposing.’

‘Yes, and then he can be blamed for the results,’ said Harriet stoutly.

‘Perhaps clergymen feel that they ought not to ask people to marry them,’ said Belinda. ‘The celibacy of the clergy, you know,’ she added vaguely.

‘It’s much better for a curate not to marry. Just imagine, a
married
curate,’ said Harriet in disgust.

‘Ricardo has given me the recipe for ravioli,’ said Belinda. ‘He seemed rather low, I thought, and I promised that you would go up and see him.’

‘Oh, yes, I really ought to go,’ said Harriet, ‘perhaps this afternoon,’ she added, brightening up a little, as if the thought of the Count’s admiration would do something to make up for the prospect of a married curate. ‘No, this afternoon won’t do. I shall go tomorrow after I’ve had my hair done.’

‘All right, but let it be soon,’ said Belinda. ‘It would cheer him up so much. I think I shall make some ravioli for supper; it seems quite easy.’

‘Yes, that would be nice. We have some cold meat, haven’t we, for the filling?’ Harriet suddenly chuckled. ‘I wonder if Agatha
does
prefer the Bishop to Henry,’ she said. ‘How ironical life is; he sent you those flowers and you weren’t at all pleased.’

Belinda looked startled, almost as if she expected to see the chrysanthemums still there. But the place where they had stood was reassuringly filled with dried Cape gooseberries and honesty.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Belinda always liked working in the kitchen when Emily was not there and was glad that she had decided to make the ravioli on her afternoon out. Emily always seemed so critical, though generally in a silent way which was far more unnerving than if she had put it into words. Belinda could feel her scornful, pitying glances as she creamed butter and sugar or rubbed fat into flour. For this reason she usually chose some foreign dish of which Emily would be unlikely to have knowledge.

This afternoon she felt a great sense of freedom and spread the things around her in a most wanton manner, though the recipe did not need complicated ingredients. The secret seemed to lie in the kneading or rolling, which was to be carried out for a full half-hour or until the paste was quite smooth and ‘of the consistency of the finest chamois leather’, as the Count’s translation of the Italian read.

When Belinda had been kneading and rolling for about ten minutes she felt she must rest. It was exhausting work, and the paste was nowhere near the desired consistency yet. It was sticky, full of little lumps and greyish looking – not at all like any kind of chamois leather.

Harriet was bustling in and out of the kitchen as she was expecting a visit from Mrs Ramage, the wardrobe woman. She had spread practically the whole of Belinda’s wardrobe out on the floor, and was quite ruthless in brushing aside Belinda’s feeble protest on seeing a nearly new green crêpe afternoon frock among the things to be sold.

‘Oh, but Harriet, I rather like that dress,’ said Belinda, ‘and there’s still a lot of wear in it. I’m sure Miss Prior could bring it up to date in some way, if it needs it. Perhaps a little lace collar or a contrasting jabot,’ she suggested uncertainly.

‘Neither lace collars nor jabots are being worn at the moment,’ said Harriet firmly, ‘and I’ve always thought it rather a trying shade of green. It makes you look yellow.’

Belinda paused in her kneading, remembering the many times she had worn the dress. Had she always looked yellow in it? It was a disturbing thought. ‘I suppose that old tweed coat is past wearing,’ she went on sadly, ‘but I’ve always liked it so much.’

‘It’s no use being sentimental about things,’ said Harriet. ‘You shouldn’t keep a clutter of clothes you never wear just because you once liked them.’

Belinda made no comment on this, for she was thinking that Harriet’s words might be applied to more serious things than clothes. If only one could clear out one’s mind and heart as ruthlessly as one did one’s wardrobe…

‘I shall see Mrs Ramage in the dining-room,’ declared Harriet. ‘I shall not take more than two or three things in at once. I shall start by asking £5 for your green dress.’

‘But I believe it hardly cost that when it was new,’ protested Belinda. ‘What a good thing
you
are seeing her,’ she added, thinking also that it was just as well that Harriet had something to take her mind off Mr Donne’s engagement. ‘I’m afraid I never have the courage to ask a big price but just agree to what she offers.’

Harriet snorted. ‘She’d probably offer a pound for the lot if you asked her.’ The front-door bell rang. ‘There, that must be her now.’ Harriet strode out with a purposeful step, carrying Belinda’s old tweed coat and an old jumper suit of her own over her arm. She would lead up to the green crêpe dress artistically and not bring it out until the last moment.

Belinda returned to her kneading and rolling. The paste still did not seem quite right. Perhaps it was too sticky. She sprinkled more flour on the board and on her hands and went on rather grimly. Her back was aching a little now and she was startled when the front-door bell rang again, and stood for a moment undecided what to do. It was no use expecting Harriet to answer it and she herself with her floury hands and generally dishevelled appearance was really in no fit state to go. But of course it probably wouldn’t be anybody who mattered. It certainly wouldn’t be the Archdeacon at ten to three in the afternoon.

The bell rang again, a long ring, as if it had been firmly pressed. Belinda wiped her floury hands on her apron and hurried into the hall.

A man’s figure showed through the frosted glass panel of the front door. A tall figure, but definitely not the Archdeacon’s. It was probably a man selling something. A suitcase would be opened on the doorstep, full of combs, cards of safety pins and darning wool, packets of needles … Still, such things were useful, one could always do with them, thought Belinda opening the door, for she felt much too sorry for the men not to buy something.

‘Ah, Miss Bede, good afternoon.’ It was an unctuous voice, a clergyman’s voice, a Bishop’s voice. Why was it that they were so unmistakable? Only the Archdeacon’s was different.

‘Oh, dear, Bishop Grote.’ Theodore Mbawawa. Belinda rubbed her hands vigorously on her grey tweed skirt – for her apron was already too floury to be of much use – and backed into the hall. ‘I’m afraid I’m hardly in a fit state to receive visitors, but do come in.’ She edged towards the drawing-room door and put out a still floury hand to open it.

But the Bishop was almost too quick for her. His hand reached the knob simultaneously with hers. For one panic-stricken moment she even imagined that it lingered for a fraction of a second, but then dismissed the unworthy thought almost before it had time to register in her mind. She was in an agitated state, and she had read somewhere that in any case middle-aged spinsters were apt to imagine things of this kind…

Inside the drawing-room Belinda stood uncertainly, while the Bishop advanced towards the fireplace, where a fire was laid but not yet lit. He made a remark about the weather, observing that it was a raw and chilly afternoon. In his diocese, he added, they would be enjoying some of the hottest weather now.

‘It must be a lovely climate,’ said Belinda, fumbling in the Toby jug on the mantelpiece for a box of matches. ‘I’m so sorry about there being no fire. We usually light it just before tea.’ She wondered if she could perhaps offer him a cup now. It was certainly a little early, but it would at least fill in the time until Harriet had finished with Mrs Ramage and would also give Belinda an opportunity to slip away and make herself more presentable. ‘I will go and tell my sister that you are here,’ she said crouching over the fire and setting a match to a corner of the
Church Times.
‘She will be so pleased to see you.’

The Bishop held up his hand. ‘No, please, Miss Bede. It is
you
I have come to see.’

Belinda stood up. ‘Oh?’ Whatever could he want? ‘
Me?
Please sit down, won’t you? I must apologize again for my untidiness, but I was doing something in the kitchen.’

The Bishop smiled. ‘And doing it admirably, I’m sure.’

Belinda smiled uneasily. She began to wonder whether she had thanked him enough for the flowers, though that was some weeks ago now, and was just going to make a remark about them when he began to speak in a hurrying way, as if he were not quite sure of himself.

‘Miss Bede, I am sure you must have realized – have noticed, that is – my preference for you above all the other ladies of the village,’ he said, and peered at her so intently that Belinda – they were sitting together on the sofa – drew back, considerably alarmed.

‘No, I don’t think I have,’ she said anxiously. ‘In any case you can hardly know me very well or you would realize that there is nothing very special about me.’

‘Ah, well, one hardly looks for beauty at our time of life,’ he said, with a return of some of his usual complacency. ‘
She is not fair to outward view
… how does Wordsworth put it?’

‘Not
Wordsworth
,’ said Belinda automatically. ‘Coleridge, Hartley Coleridge, I think.’ She felt rather annoyed. Not even a middle-aged spinster likes to be told in so many words that she is not fair to outward view. Besides, she felt that the Bishop had taken an unfair advantage of her, calling on Emily’s afternoon off, when she had had no opportunity to tidy herself. ‘Although I am not beautiful myself and never have been,’ she went on, ‘I must confess that I like to see beauty in other people.’

‘You mean beauty of character, ah, yes. That is something we all like to see.’

‘No, I mean beauty of person,’ said Belinda obstinately.

The Bishop smiled. ‘Then perhaps you will not be so ready to accept what I have to offer,’ he said, though it was obvious that he really thought quite otherwise.

‘Offer?’ said Belinda in a startled tone. ‘I don’t think I understand.’ The man on the doorstep opening his suitcase was simpler and less alarming than this. She hardly dared to let herself guess what the Bishop meant; it was too fantastic and terrible to be thought of.

‘Perhaps you are not accustomed to receiving such offers?’ he went on. ‘Or perhaps it is some time since you last had one? After all, this is a quiet country village; it is unlikely that you would meet many strangers.’

‘That may be,’ said Belinda feeling very angry, ‘but I think I can say that I have had my share, in the past, that is. Naturally not lately,’ she fumbled, her natural honesty getting the better of her.

‘I think I had better speak more plainly,’ the Bishop went on. ‘I am asking you to marry me.’

There was a short but awkward silence, and then Belinda heard herself stammering out the first words that came into her head, ‘Oh, but I
couldn’t
…’

‘My dear, you are equal to being the wife of a bishop,’ he said kindly, making a movement towards her. ‘You need have no fears on that account. When I was a younger man I held views about the celibacy of the clergy, young curates often do, you know,’ he smiled indulgently, ‘it is a kind of protection, if you see what I mean. But a man does need a helpmeet, you remember in
Paradise Lost
…’

Belinda interrupted him with a startled exclamation. ‘
Paradise Lost!
’ she echoed in horror. ‘
Milton
…’

‘I think when one has reached er – riper years,’ the Bishop continued, ‘things are different, aren’t they?’

A man needs a woman to help him into his grave, thought Belinda, remembering a remark Dr Parnell had made. Well, there would be plenty who would be willing to do that.

‘I’m afraid I can’t marry you,’ she said, looking down at her floury hands. ‘I don’t love you.’

‘But you respect and like me,’ said the Bishop, as if that went without saying. ‘We need not speak of love – one would hardly expect that now.’

‘No,’ said Belinda miserably, ‘I suppose one would not
expect
it. But you see,’ she went on, ‘I did love somebody once and perhaps I still do.’

‘Ah …’ the Bishop shook his head, ‘he died, perhaps? A very sad thing.’

They were both silent. He died, yes, it was better that the Bishop should think that, it sounded more suitable; there was even something a little noble about it.
She never marred
… Belinda began to see herself as a romantically tragic figure.

‘Of course, as Lord Byron says,’ began the Bishop, and then paused.

Could Lord Byron have said anything at all suitable? Belinda wondered.
When we two parted in silence and tears?
Possibly, though the poem was not really applicable. ‘Do tell me,’ she said, her literary curiosity driving other thoughts from her mind. ‘What
did
Lord Byron say?’

But the Bishop was standing up now and saying that he did not think he would be able to stay for tea, although Belinda was not conscious of having offered it. ‘I think it is perhaps a little early for tea, Miss Bede, and I have still another call to make.’

‘Oh, I expect you will get tea there,’ said Belinda in a full, relieved tone. ‘Now that I come to think of it, we have only very little cake, just a small piece of gingerbread, I believe. When one has guests one likes to have rather more than that to offer them.’ She frowned, wishing she had not used the word ‘offer’, but the Bishop did not seem to be at all upset, or even, indeed, to have noticed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Belinda ambiguously. ‘I am really most honoured that you should have felt … but I’m sure you will understand how it is.’

‘Do not give it another thought, Miss Bede,’ he said briskly, ‘I assure you that I shall not. After all, we must remember that
God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform
.’

‘Yes, certainly,’ agreed Belinda, feeling a little annoyed that he should quote her favourite hymn. But perhaps it was presumptuous to suppose that God would be more likely to reveal His ways to her than to the Bishop. She did not quite see how the lines applied here, no doubt he had something else in mind. Perhaps he would come another day and ask Harriet? At all events he was not going to give her refusal another thought, so he could not care very much. It was not very flattering to her, though she supposed that as she was not fair to outward view she could hardly expect anything else.

It was not until they were in the hall that she realized that she had been offered and refused something that Agatha wanted, or that she may have wanted, for the hint she had given had been very slight. She wondered if the Bishop had any idea of it.

‘It is nice that you have been able to stay so long here,’ she said, with unaccustomed guile. ‘I expect the Archdeacon and Mrs Hoccleve will miss you when you go back.’

‘Yes, I think I can say that they will.’ The Bishop smiled to himself. ‘I have been able to give the Archdeacon a few tips, although a small country parish hardly presents the same problems as a large African diocese.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Belinda. ‘Nobody would imagine that it did.’

‘Mrs Hoccleve has been most kind in helping me to buy various things that I need to take back to Africa with me. She has also knitted me some socks.’

‘Oh, how kind!’ exclaimed Belinda. ‘There is nothing like hand-knitted socks.’

‘No, indeed, there isn’t. Particularly when they are not quite long enough in the foot.’ The Bishop laughed with a silly, bleating noise. ‘Quite between ourselves, of course,’ he added.

‘Of course,’ repeated Belinda, closing the front door behind him. She felt that she could almost love Agatha as a sister now. The pullover that she might have made for the Archdeacon would surely have been wrong somewhere, but as it had never even been started, it lacked the pathos of the socks not quite long enough in the foot. To think of Agatha as pathetic was something so new that Belinda had to sit down on a chair in the hall, quite overcome by the sensation. She began to find ways of making things better and more bearable. Agatha couldn’t really have meant that she cared for the Bishop; nobody could love a man like that. She almost longed to see Agatha and to be crushed by one of her sharp retorts, to know that she was still the same.