The Daughters of Mrs Peacock (15 page)

It could not be denied, even by Catherine, that she was handsome in a bold, exotic fashion: high-arching
eyebrows, regular features, brilliant colouring, an elegant sinuous figure. Her voice was warm and caressing, her every movement had a feline grace. Worst of all, she was mature without being old. Her self-assurance was impregnable: the sight of it made Catherine feel like a schoolgirl battling against impossible odds, a schoolgirl whose crudeness and rudeness were no match for the subtle insolence that gleamed in her rival's eyes and sat like a predatory cat in the curve of her sleek full lips. Catherine perceived that this scene had been carefully staged by Mrs Stapleton with the sole view of demonstrating that she was the woman in possession.

The desultory unmeaning conversation went on, and Catherine, retired into herself, let it flow past her unheeded, till something that Robert was saying stabbed her resentment into quivering life.

‘We came in a hired carriage. You must let us drive you back.'

Catherine said: ‘If you don't mind, Mr Crabbe, I prefer to walk. Shall we go, Sarah?'

‘Very polite of you, Robert.' The voice was velvet, the smile at once bland and satirical. ‘But, thank you, I shall not join your party. Something tells me I should be
de trop.
I wonder what?' Her glance, like a pointing finger, indicated Catherine, and coming back to Robert presented the absurd child for his derision. ‘Good-bye for the present, Robert. I must be on my way. I shall see you on Sunday, no doubt, if by then you are released from your nursemaid duties. Good-bye, Miss Peacock. Good-bye, little Miss Catherine. So delighted to have made your acquaintance.'

Almost before she was out of earshot Sarah remarked, fixing her candid gaze on Robert Crabbe: ‘So that's the notorious Mrs Stapleton! Quite a pretty performance. Is she always like that, Mr Crabbe?'

His brow was dark, whether with anger or discomfort she could only surmise. Painfully aware of Catherine's condition, the burning cheeks, the sullen eyes, the puckered, trembling lips, she refrained from looking her way and resisted, though with difficulty, the impulse to offer comfort. She got no answer to her question: it was doubtful whether he had heard it.

‘I think I'll go back to the carriage now,' she announced, ‘and have a talk with that nice horse. He must be tired of being tied to the gate, poor thing. Come when you're ready, you two. But not too soon, or we shall overtake her on the way back. That would be too much happiness for one evening.'

So far, since Olive Stapleton's departure, neither Robert nor Catherine had uttered a word. Nor did they evince any sign of having heard Sarah's careful speech. Her going found them still silent.

But presently, without looking at him, Catherine said: ‘I apologize, Mr Crabbe, for being rude to your friend.' He made a deprecating gesture. ‘It was childish, unpardonable,' she continued, pale and cold.

‘No, no,' said Robert, avoiding her eyes. ‘Don't be angry, Catherine. Only give me time.'

‘Give you time?' she echoed. Then, suddenly reverting to her natural self, ‘Why did you have to tell her, Robert?' she burst out.

‘Tell her? I didn't tell her. Well, yes. I may have
mentioned in passing that we were coming here. But I never dreamt——'

‘Didn't you? More fool you. Anyone but a baby would have known what she'd do.'

‘I'm sorry, Catherine. I'm more than sorry. Shall we not discuss Mrs Stapleton any more?'

‘Certainly we won't, since the subject is so sacred to you.'

‘You misunderstand me.'

‘On the contrary. I understand everything. Everything. It's all too hatefully clear to me. Shall we go back now? There's no more to be said.'

‘I think perhaps there is. Much more. But … I have no right. Be patient, Catherine. Give me time.'

Time? Time for what? A flicker of hope kindled in her heart, but she could not bring herself to ask the question. In silence they made their way to where Sarah awaited them, on the broad grass verge of the road; and drove back to Newtonbury at a careful walking-pace.

In the home-going train on Monday evening, ‘Well, my children, have you enjoyed your stay at Newtonbury?' asked Mr Peacock.

‘Yes, thank you, Papa,' they answered in chorus. And Catherine said: ‘But we shall be glad to be home again.'

It was true of both, but especially of Catherine. The two days that had passed since their visit to the Ruins had been a weariness, and to Catherine a torment. It had been a comfort on Friday night to join with Sarah in caustic remarks about Mrs Stapleton, and to ask again and again what Robert could see in her that attracted him; but the question was rhetorical, insincere, for Catherine, who had read many a lush contemporary novel about simplehearted gentlemen and predatory charmers, fancied she knew the answer all too well. Conscious of her inexperience, her deplorable youngness, she felt sadly at a disadvantage in this duel with an expert man-catcher. Saturday found her in a fever of hope and fear: she spent it with Sarah and Ellen, chattering and laughing but hearing only half they said. It was maddening to be so near Robert and not see him; yet to visit him in his office, on some specious excuse, would have been worse than useless. It would have been impolitic, it would have
looked ‘forward', and it would have told her nothing of his state of mind. Sunday evening, she decided, would be crucial: against all reason she cherished the crazy hope that despite his previous engagement he might, he just might, turn up at the Skimmers'. Obsessed by her dream she found it difficult to believe him indifferent: how was it possible that her own feelings should evoke no response in him? He is mine, mine, her heart said stubbornly; but cold reason told another story. He is kind, compassionate, brotherly; but he doesn't want me; he wants someone cleverer, older, more artful in the ways of love; I've embarrassed him to no purpose. Looking in her glass she despaired, wishing herself ten years older.

Sunday dawned, bright with delusive promise. Once again there was the chapel-going, the hearty luncheon, the aimless afternoon walk filled with Ellen's incessant prattle about the children she ministered to and the prospect of becoming a fully-fledged teacher. The day, with enormous sloth, dragged on; the crisis of evening loomed ahead; and in due time the same hobnobbery of neighbours arrived, bursting with solemn expectation of improving their minds, in a godly, intellectual fashion, by reading Cary's Dante together: Mr and Mrs Ironmonger Grigg, Mr Purbeck the long-nosed chemist, old Mr Jolly the saddler, and a dried-up spinsterish person, Miss Latti, at whose shop one could buy hosiery, glassware, letter-paper, string, yesterday's newspapers, and honey from her own hives. These came, but no Robert. True, he had said, or implied, that he would not, could not come; but Catherine in her heart of hearts could not quite believe he would be as bad as his word.

‘So you girls have been out gallivanting with my excellent partner, I find,' said Mr Peacock.

‘He took us to see the Ruins,' said Sarah. ‘Wasn't it good of him? We hadn't visited them since we were at school, all those years ago. I'd quite forgotten how dull they were.'

‘Did you mention that to your escort, by any chance? He must have been highly gratified.'

‘When Sarah says dull she doesn't mean dull in a
dull
way,' said Catherine. ‘She means historical. We liked it very much and were
most
polite. You'd have been proud of us, Papa. He told us about the monks and their spiritual exercises, and how all the work was done by the unspiritual ones. Would you have been a monk, Papa, if you'd lived in those days? Think how nice it would have been not having any daughters to worry about.'

‘Very true, my love. A blissful thought. But let's not dwell on it. Tell me more.'

‘There's no more to tell,' said Sarah. ‘Not really. Except that—would you believe it?—the fascinating Mrs Stapleton was there, lying in wait for him.'

‘Ready to pounce,' said Catherine.

‘Like a cat at a mousehole,' said Sarah.

‘Or a scorpion,' Catherine suggested. ‘Or a giant spider.'

‘A versatile lady,' said Mr Peacock. ‘And
did
she pounce?'

‘Not exactly, did she, Sarah? She just waited for him to walk into her parlour. Do you think she means to gobble him up, Papa?'

‘She hasn't acquainted me with any such intention, my dear Kitty. Would you like me to inquire for you?'

‘Well, yes,' Catherine confessed. ‘It would be nice to know.'

‘This passion for knowledge is very commendable in you, my child. Does it extend to other spheres, or only to Mrs Stapleton?'

‘We want to know everything,' Sarah assured him. ‘Don't we, Kitty? What's been happening while we've been away?'

‘Life has gone on,' said her father, ‘in spite of your regretted absence. The sun has risen punctually every morning, much to its credit. The cows have been milked and the pigs fed.'

‘And Mama?'

‘Yes, Sarah, she too has been fed, and she continues to enjoy good health.'

‘What a tease you are, Papa!' cried Catherine. ‘Haven't you any
news
for us?'

‘If by news you mean news of scandal or disaster, as of course you do, I'm afraid I must disappoint you, Kitty. We at Lutterfield, you know, live in a quiet corner of the world, minding our business, and growing a little older every day. But yes,' he went on, in a brighter tone, ‘there
is
one little item. The poor old Vicar has taken to his bed, and young Pardew now conducts the services. That's the best I can do for you, but it's something, you'll admit.'

‘Poor Mr Garnish! Is he very ill?'

‘Julia will tell you all about it. She's been several times to see him. She's a good girl, your sister, and a brave one.'

‘Brave, Papa?'

‘Yes, and needs to be, with the formidable Mrs Budge to tackle. She's a dragon, that woman, by all accounts.'

Catherine's eyes sparkled: with excitement, compassion, and the light of battle. Robert Crabbe for the moment was forgotten in the exhilaration of homecoming, the prospect of family gossip. She found it difficult to imagine that Julia, dear mild Julia, could be a match for the Budge; and as the train slowed to a standstill at Lutterfield station it was more difficult still, for there she was on the platform waiting to welcome them, prim, serious, elegant, her lips slightly parted, her dark eyes full of watchful affection.

‘Well, my dears!' she said, almost in Mama's manner. Her sisters flung themselves upon her. ‘Goodness, you're smothering me!' The kisses over, the laughter and excitement subsiding, ‘There's a letter from Aunt Druid,' she announced. ‘An invitation for Sarah. You'll like that, won't you, Sarah?'

‘Shall I?' said Sarah. ‘I don't know.'

‘But you're not to go till September, thank goodness,' said Julia. ‘We've missed you both dreadfully, Mama and I.'

‘And what about me?' demanded Mr Peacock. ‘Haven't I missed them, the baggages?'

‘Have you really, Papa?' said Catherine, gratified.

‘Well, my dear, I
am
your father, you know. Or so I have been led to believe. It's at least a plausible hypothesis,' he added judicially.

That Aunt Druid should be visited was a family obligation, and this year it was Sarah's turn. The prospect did not allure her; she expected little pleasure from it; but short of making a fuss and displeasing Mama there was nothing she could do about it. To make a fuss was not in her character: to be placid and sensible and do what was required of her was apparently her destiny; and her trick of detachment, her capacity for extracting amusement from little things, and especially from the oddities of her fellow-creatures, made it easier to comply than to rebel. Yet of late, ever since her rejection of Mr Pardew, she had been conscious at intervals of a vague discontent, a half-formed wish that something, she didn't know what, might happen to
her.
Time was passing, life was drifting away, and to be an amused spectator was not, was not always, quite enough. Boredom was an experience unknown to her, but now, at moments, it hovered, a threatening shadow.

Meonthorpe, they said, would be ‘a nice change' for her. She assented to the proposition, but without believing it. No sooner, however, had she said good-bye and boarded the slow-going cross-country train, taking care, as commanded, to choose a compartment containing other female passengers who would protect her from rape, than her mood changed. The unaccustomed sensation of being alone, with no one but herself to consider, was exhilarating, and the journey that had been embarked upon reluctantly began to assume the aspect of adventure. It was two years since she had seen her Meonthorpe relations: by now they would be almost strangers to her.
But Aunt Druid—whom to her face one must remember to call Aunt Bertha—was after all Mama's sister, and therefore worth studying. That she
was
Mama's sister, that the two had been girls together, was a truth stranger than fiction: only by an effort of the imagination could it be believed.

The warmth of her welcome left nothing to be desired.

‘How you've grown, my dear!' said Aunt Druid admiringly. ‘And what nice plump, rosy cheeks!'

‘It's hardly likely, Aunt Bertha. I stopped growing years ago.'

‘Oh, but you have! Hasn't she, Father?'

‘Youth's the time for growth,' said Uncle Druid, earnestly regarding his niece and carefully weighing every word. ‘My meaning, if a body doesn't grow when he's young he never will, nor she neither, if you follow me.' Opening his eyes wider, ‘It stand to reason,' he urged, with the air of one imparting an important discovery. ‘Let me put it another way, young lady. The seed falls to the ground. And presently, what happens? The soil nurridges it, so to say; the rain gives it moisture; the sun gives it warmth; and it begins to grow. Am I right? Very well then. But mark this: when it's finished growing it doesn't grow any more. There's a lesson for us there.'