To Say Nothing of the Dog (63 page)

“Yesterday?” I said. “When did you take Professor Peddick to Oxford? The day before yesterday?”

“Yesterday?” Terence said vaguely. “Or was it an eon ago? Or a single moment? ‘We shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.’ There one is on one’s island, weaving away, and the next thing one knows . . . I didn’t properly understand poetry, you know. I thought it was all just a way of speaking.”

“What was?”

“Poetry. All that about dying for love. And mirrors cracking from side to side. It did, you know. Clean across.” He shook his head sadly. “I never understood why she didn’t just row down to Camelot and tell Lancelot she loved him.” He stared gloomily out at the water. “Well, I know now. He was already engaged to Guinevere.”

Well, not exactly engaged, since Guinevere was already married to King Arthur, and at any rate, there were more important things to be addressed.

“Cyril’s too sensitive to be chained up,” I said.

“We are all, all in chains. Bound, helpless and raging, in the adamantine chains of fate. Fate!” he said bitterly. “Oh, wretched Fate that let us meet too late. I thought she’d be one of those dreadful modern girls, all bloomers and bluestocking ideas. He told me I’d like her, you know. Like her!”

“Maud,” I said, the light finally dawning. “You’ve met Professor Peddick’s niece Maud.”

“There she was, standing on the railway platform at Oxford. ‘Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.’ ”

“The railway platform,” I said wonderingly. “You met her on the railway platform at Oxford. But that’s wonderful!”

“Wonderful?” he said bitterly. “ ‘Too late I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient and ever new! Too late I loved you!’ I am engaged to Miss Mering.”

“But can’t you break the engagement? Miss Mering surely wouldn’t want you to marry her knowing you loved Miss Peddick.”

“I am not free to love anyone. I bound that love to Miss Mering when I pledged my troth to her, and Miss Peddick would not want a love without honor, a love I had already promised to another. Oh, if I had only met Miss Peddick that day in Oxford, how different things—”

“Mr. Henry, sorr,” Jane interrupted, running up to us, her cap askew and her red hair coming down. “Have you seen Colonel Mering?”

Oh, no, I thought. Mrs. Mering caught Verity on her way up the stairs. “What’s wrong?” I said.

“I must find the Colonel first,” she said, which was no answer. “He said I was to be giving it to him at breakfast but he isn’t there, and the mail’s come and all.”

“I saw the Colonel going out to the fishpond,” I said. “Give him what? What’s happened?”

“Oh, sorr, you gentlemen had best both go inside,” she said, in an agony. “They’re in the parlor.”

“Who? Is Verity there? What’s happened?” I said, but she had already taken off at a run for the fishpond, her skirts flying.

“Terence,” I said urgently. “What day is it?”

“What does it matter?” Terence said. “ ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, lighting fools the way to dusty death.’ Fools!”

“This is important,” I said, yanking him to his feet. “The date, man!”

“Monday,” he said. “The eighteenth of June.”

Oh, Lord, we’d been gone three days!

I took off for the house, Cyril at my heels.

“ ‘ “The curse has come upon us,” ’ ” Terence quoted, “ ‘cried the Lady of Shalott.’ ”

I could hear Mrs. Mering before we were in the front door. “Your behavior has truly been inexcusable, Verity. I should not have expected my cousin’s daughter to have been so selfish and thoughtless.”

She knew we’d been gone three days, and poor Verity didn’t. I skidded down the corridor toward the parlor, Cyril hot on my heels. I had to tell her before she said anything.

“I had all the care of the patient,” Mrs. Mering said. “I’m utterly exhausted. Three days and nights in that sickroom, and not so much as a moment to rest.”

I had my hand on the doorknob. I stopped. Three days and three nights in a sickroom? Then she might not know after all, she was only chastising Verity for not helping. But who was ill? Tossie? She had looked wan and pale that night after Coventry.

I put my ear to the door and listened, hoping the eavesdroppees would be more informative than they usually were.

“You might at least have offered to sit with the patient for a few minutes,” Mrs. Mering said.

“I am so sorry, Aunt,” Verity said. “I thought you would be afraid of infection.”

Why
can’t
people say who and what they are talking about so the eavesdropper has a chance? I thought. The patient. Infection. Be more specific.

“And I thought she would insist on you and Tossie nursing him,” Verity said.

Him? Had Mr. C shown up and promptly fallen ill? And fallen in love with his nurse Tossie?

“I would not
dream
of allowing Tocelyn in the sickroom,” Mrs. Mering said. “She is such a delicate girl.”

Down the corridor I saw Terence open the front door. I was going to have to go in, information or no. I looked down at Cyril. Mrs. Mering would no doubt demand to know what he was doing in the house. Then again, that might be a welcome diversion under the circumstances.

“Tocelyn has far too delicate a constitution for nursing,” Mrs. Mering was saying, “and the sight of her poor father ill would be much too upsetting for her.”

Her poor father. Then it was Colonel Mering who’d been ill. But then what was he doing heading down to the fishpond?

I opened the door.

“I thought you might show more concern for your poor uncle, Verity,” Mrs. Mering said. “I am dreadfully disappointed in—”

“Good morning,” I said.

Verity looked gratefully at me.

“And how is Colonel Mering this morning?” I said. “I trust he is feeling better. I saw him outside just now.”

“Outside?” Mrs. Mering said, clutching at her bosom. “He was
told
not to come down this morning. He will catch his death. Mr. St. Trewes,” she said to Terence, who had just come in and was standing, looking hangdog, by the parlor door. “Is it true? Has my husband gone outside? You must go and fetch him at once.”

Terence turned obediently to go.

“Where is Tossie?” Mrs. Mering said petulantly. “Why isn’t she down yet? Verity, tell Jane to fetch her.”

Terence reappeared, with the Colonel and Jane behind him.

“Mesiel!” Mrs. Mering cried. “What did you mean by going outside? You have been deathly ill.”

“Had to get out to the fishpond,” the Colonel said, harrumphing. “Check on things. Can’t just leave my Japanese demekins out there with that cat about. Stopped on my way out by that silly girl—can never remember her name—the maid—”

“Colleen,” Verity said automatically.

“Jane.”
Mrs. Mering glared at Verity.

“Told me I had to come in here immediately,” Colonel Mering said. “Made a huge fuss. What’s it all about?”

He turned to Jane, who swallowed, took a deep, sobbing breath, and stuck out a letter on a silver salver.

“Harrumph, what’s this?” the Colonel said.

“The mail, sorr,” Jane said.

“Why didn’t Baine bring it?” Mrs. Mering demanded. She took the letter off the salver. “No doubt it is from Madame Iritosky,” she said, opening it, “explaining why she had to leave so suddenly.” She turned to Jane. “Tell Mr. Baine to come here. And tell Tossie to come down. She will want to hear this letter.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jane said, and fled.

“I do hope she has enclosed her address,” Mrs. Mering said, unfolding several closely written pages, “so that I can write and tell her of our experience with the spirits at Coventry.” She frowned. “Why, it is not from Madame—” she stopped, reading the letter silently.

“Who is the letter from, my dear?” the Colonel said.

“O,” Mrs. Mering said, and fainted dead away.

It was a real faint this time. Mrs. Mering crashed into the credenza, decapitated the potted palm, broke the glass dome over the feather arrangement, and ended up with her head on the velvet footstool. The pages of the letter fluttered down around her.

Terence and I dived for her. “Baine!” the Colonel thundered, yanking on the bellpull. “Baine!” Verity stuck a cushion under her head and began fanning her with the letter.

“Baine!” the Colonel bellowed.

Jane appeared in the door, looking terrified.

“Tell Baine to come here immediately,” he shouted.

“I can’t, sorr,” she said, twisting her apron.

“Why not?” he bellowed.

She cringed away from him. “He’s gone, sir.”

“What do you mean, gone?” the Colonel demanded. “Gone where?”

She’d twisted her apron completely into a knot. “The letter,” she said, wringing the ends of it.

“What do you mean, that he’s gone to the postal office? Well, go and fetch him.” He waved her out of the room. “Damn Madame Iritosky! Upsetting my wife even when she isn’t here! Damned spiritist nonsense!”

“Our daughter,” Mrs. Mering said, her eyelids fluttering. She focused on the letter Verity was fanning her with. “O, the letter! The fated letter . . .” and went out again.

Jane ran in with the smelling salts.

“Where’s Baine?” Colonel Mering thundered. “Didn’t you fetch him? And go tell Tossie to come down immediately. Her mother needs her.”

Jane sat down on the gilt chair, flung her apron over her head, and began to bawl.

“Here, here, what’s this?” Colonel Mering harrumphed. “Get up, girl.”

“Verity,” Mrs. Mering said, clutching weakly at Verity’s arm. “The letter. Read it. I cannot bear—”

Verity obediently stopped fanning and held the letter up. “ ‘Dearest Papa and Darling Mumsy,’ ” she said, and looked like
she
was going to faint.

I started toward her, and she shook her head wordlessly at me and read on. “ ‘Dearest Papa and Darling Mumsy, By the time you read this I shall be a married woman.’ ”

“Married?” Colonel Mering said. “What does she mean, married?”

“ ‘. . . and I shall be happier than I have ever been or ever thought of being,’ ” Verity read on. “ ‘I am very sorry to have deceived you in this way, especially Papa, who is ill, but I feared if you knew of our intentions, you would forbid my marrying, and I know that when you come to know dear Baine as I do,’ ” Verity’s voice caught, and then she went on, pale as death, “ ‘as I do, you will see him not as a servant but as the dearest, kindest, best man in the world, and will forgive us both.’ ”

“Baine?” Colonel Mering said blankly.

“Baine,” Verity breathed. She let the letter fall to her lap and looked up desperately at me, shaking her head. “No. She can’t have.”

“She’s eloped with the butler?” Terence said.

“Oh, Mr. St. Trewes, my poor boy!” Mrs. Mering cried, clutching her bosom. “Are you quite destroyed?”

He didn’t look destroyed. What he looked was blank, with that vague, undecided look soldiers get when they’ve just lost a leg or been told they’re being shipped home and haven’t yet taken it in.

“Baine?” Colonel Mering said, glowering at Jane. “How did a thing like this happen?”

“Read on, Verity,” Mrs. Mering said. “We must know the worst.”

“The worst,” Verity murmured and picked up the letter. “ ‘No doubt you are curious as to how this all came about so quickly.’ ”

Which was putting it mildly.

“ ‘It all began with our trip to Coventry.’ ” She stopped, unable to go on.

Mrs. Mering snatched the letter from her impatiently. “ ‘. . . our trip to Coventry,’ ” she read, “ ‘a trip I know now the spirits were guiding us to that I might find my true love.’ Lady Godiva! I hold her entirely responsible for this!” She took the letter up again. “ ‘While we were there I admired a cast-iron footed pedestal firugeal urn which I know now to be in execrable taste, completely lacking in simplicity of form and design, but I had never been properly trained in matters of Artistic Sensibility or educated in Literature and Poetry, and was only an ignorant, thoughtless spoilt girl.

“ ‘I asked Baine, for that is how I still think of him, though now I must learn to call him William and beloved husband! Husband! How sweet the sound of that precious word! I asked him to concur in my praise of the footed firugeal urn. He would not. Not only would he not, but he called it hideous and told me that my taste in liking it was ignorant.

“ ‘No one had ever contradicted me before. Everyone around me had always indulged me in all my opinions and agreed with everything I said, except for Cousin Verity, who had corrected me once or twice, but I put that down to her not being married and having no prospects. I tried to help her to wear her hair in a more attractive way, but was unable to do much for her, poor thing.’ ”

“What is known as burning your bridges,” I murmured.

“ ‘Perhaps now that I am wed, Mr. Henry will notice her,’ ” Mrs. Mering read. “ ‘I tried to promote her to him, but, alas, he had eyes only for me. They would make a good couple, not handsome or clever, but well-suited nonetheless.’ ”

“All
her bridges.”

“ ‘I was not at all used to being contradicted, and at first I was angry, but when you swooned on the train on the way home, Mama, and I went to fetch him, he was so strong and quick-witted and helpful in assisting you, Mama, that it was as if I saw him with new eyes, and I fell in love with him right there in the railway carriage.’ ”

“It’s all my fault,” Verity murmured. “If I hadn’t insisted we go to Coventry—”

“ ‘But I was too stubborn to admit my feelings,’ ” Mrs. Mering read, “ ‘and the next day I confronted him and demanded he apologize. He refused, we quarreled, and he
threw me in the river,
and then he kissed me, and oh, Mama, it was so romantic! Just like Shakespeare, whose plays my beloved husband is having me read, beginning with
The Taming of the Shrew.’
”

Mrs. Mering flung the letter down. “Reading books!
That
is the cause of all this! Mesiel, you should never have hired a servant who read books! I blame you entirely for this. Always reading Ruskin and Darwin and Trollope. Trollope! What sort of name is that for an author? And
his
name. Servants should have solid English names. ‘I used it when I worked for Lord Dunsany,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re certainly not using it here,’ I said. Of course what can one expect from a man who refused to dress for dinner?
He
read books, too. Dreadful socialist things. Bentham and Samuel Butler.”