A Second Chance (34 page)

A family gathering at his house on an
evening soon after the funeral of his mother-in-law was an occasion
for the exercise of such tolerance. Of Henry’s children, only Laura
was present. His sons had returned to Wellington, where they both
had positions in the public service, the day after the funeral, and
his older daughters were at home with their own families. But
Susannah and Thomas were still staying with the Kendalls, and Jimmy
and Charlotte had been invited to dinner.

Jimmy seemed in no hurry to return to his
own home after the meal, and Henry was treated to the sight of
Jimmy helping himself to the best port. There was little chance of
Henry’s drawing Thomas into the men’s conversation with Jimmy
there. Jimmy’s main topic of discourse was one that he appeared to
find endlessly interesting: himself. After a modest amount of port
he was merely boring; given long enough in the vicinity of the
decanter, Henry knew he was quite capable of becoming offensive. It
was a relief to be able to use the excuse of the ladies waiting in
the drawing room to persuade Jimmy to bid the port a reluctant
farewell.

Henry saw Susannah’s face light up at the
sight of Thomas when the men entered the room,. She indicated the
space she had been saving for him, and Thomas took a seat on the
sofa at her side.

Constance was looking more her naturally
lively self this evening than she had in some time, Henry noted
with pleasure. She and her mother had been close, and old Mrs
Taylor had lived with the Kendalls for the last few years. Her
mother’s long illness had been a strain on Constance. Henry had
engaged a nurse as soon as it became apparent that his
mother-in-law needed a level of care he considered too much to ask
of Constance, but she had still spent much of each day with her
mother, and had watched her decline with mounting distress. Mrs
Taylor had ceased to show any awareness of those around her some
weeks before she finally slipped away. Henry was sure that mingled
with Constance’s genuine grief at her mother’s passing was a sense
of a burden having been lifted from her.

Laura was at the piano, playing a rather
wistful piece that Henry thought might have been by Schumann. She
looked up from her music and smiled at her father, then returned
her full attention to her playing.

Laura had been a great support to Constance
during this time, Henry knew. She had insisted on sharing the duty
of sitting at her grandmother’s bedside, so that her mother should
not feel obliged to spend all her free moments there. Laura would
read to the old lady, or occasionally sing one of her grandmother’s
favourite songs.

If anything could have given comfort to the
dying woman, Henry thought, it would have been Laura’s presence.
Mrs Taylor had always doted on Henry’s children, particularly his
daughters. Henry’s father-in-law had left the family home to his
widow, causing Jimmy much indignation (and thus leading Henry to
remember his late father-in-law with a good deal more affection
than he might otherwise have); she had sold the house when she
moved in with Constance and Henry, and over the years since had
spent most of the proceeds on gifts for her grandchildren. Mrs
Taylor’s last major purchase before the onset of her illness had
been the beautiful piano that now held pride of place in the
drawing room, as she had considered their old one not a fit match
for Laura’s talent.

Laura finished the piece and came to sit
between her father and Thomas. She spoke quietly with her cousin
for a time; Henry had noticed that Thomas spoke more easily to
Laura than he did to his older relations.

After a few minutes Constance caught Laura’s
eye and indicated the mantel clock. Laura nodded, and rose from her
chair. She kissed her parents, and said goodnight to their guests
with careful politeness and varying degrees of warmth; Henry
fancied that Jimmy was not a favourite with her. Thomas actually
stood to see her to the door, increasing Henry’s already favourable
opinion of him.

Henry had been impressed by how sensible a
young man Thomas was. It took a little effort to draw him out of
what Henry realised was shyness, but he found that, making
allowances for Thomas’ limited education, he was an interesting
conversationalist and an attentive listener. He was also clearly a
thoughtful son, constantly consulting his mother’s wishes and
checking on her comfort.

Henry had not seen Susannah since her
father’s death, nine years before. He found her greatly changed,
and very much for the better. Gone was the stiffness that had
always made him somewhat uncomfortable around her; gone was the
slight air of self-pity; and best of all, gone was her pathetic
attachment to Jimmy.

On her previous visit, Henry had observed
her attempts to gain any sort of attention from Jimmy, and her
distress at being studiously ignored. Susannah had not made herself
conspicuous over the matter; her self-control was too rigid for
that; but Henry prided himself on being a keen observer of people,
and on noticing details others would not. He was quite sure that
even if Jimmy had noticed Susannah’s distress, he would not have
been particularly concerned by it. As far as Henry could tell,
Jimmy Taylor went through life blissfully untroubled by pangs of
conscience over any pain he might have caused anyone else.

But this was a new, confident Susannah, who
showed polite interest when her brother spoke, but who otherwise
ignored him, much as Henry did. She seemed quite indifferent to his
comings and goings, paying far more attention to Thomas, and to
Henry’s own family.

Her self-confidence had another effect, one
that pleased Henry greatly. One of the few matters in which he
considered his wife less than sensible was the delight she had
always taken in needling Susannah. It was clear to Henry that
Constance had been far more fortunate in life than had Susannah,
not least in having married him; it seemed to him that that should
have inspired her to be kind to her sister, rather than to rub the
poor woman’s nose in her deficiencies.

Things had become particularly unpleasant on
Susannah’s previous visit, when Charlotte had perceived her as a
useful target for whatever her own frustrations were, and had taken
what seemed to Henry a malicious pleasure in subtle but pointed
attacks. Constance, who had what Henry had noted as an unerring
instinct for backing the winning side, had joined forces with
Charlotte in goading Susannah, to the point where Henry had been
forced to scold his wife in private, and insist that she moderate
her conduct.

There was no need for him to consider such a
step now. While Charlotte was still making an occasional attempt at
unsettling Susannah, Constance had observed Susannah’s new poise
much as Henry had, and she appeared to have changed her allegiance
accordingly. Henry was relieved at the resulting harmony,
especially as Susannah and Thomas were guests in his house.

Henry had noticed Thomas stifling yawns even
before the men left the dining room. Thomas stayed in the drawing
room just long enough to be sure his mother was comfortable before
he made his excuses and went off to bed, only a few minutes after
Laura had gone.

‘Goodness, what early hours you must keep in
the country, Susannah,’ Charlotte remarked as Thomas left the room.
‘But I imagine there’s very little society of any sort to oblige
you to go out.’ She bestowed a condescending smile. ‘It must be
wonderful to have such a simple life, and not be bothered with
constant invitations.’

‘Actually, Charlotte, there’s a good deal of
pleasant society,’ Susannah said calmly. ‘But I do most of my
visiting in the daytime. In the evenings I’m happy enough with
Thomas for company.’

If Charlotte’s lip had curled just a
fraction more, Henry reflected, her smile would be more accurately
called a sneer. ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure he’s excellent company for you,
though perhaps his conversation is just a little limited?’

‘I must say I’ve been taking a great deal of
pleasure in Thomas’s company these last few days,’ Henry put in
before Susannah had a chance to respond. ‘He’s a fine young man,
Susannah. You must be very proud.’

Susannah turned a warm smile on him. ‘Thank
you, Henry. Yes, I’m very proud indeed of Thomas. In fact I’m proud
of both my sons. Of course I’m only too ready to hear my sons being
praised,’ she said, turning her attention back to Charlotte. Her
smile remained, though its warmth had gone. ‘I believe I’m not
unusual in that regard. I’m afraid, Charlotte, that you must excuse
a mother’s partiality.’

‘You’re quite right, Susannah,’ Constance
chimed in. ‘I know I can be positively foolish about my children at
times—I always think they’re so clever and talented. We just can’t
help it, can we?’ She beamed at Susannah in matronly pride.

Henry glanced from this show of sisterly
unity over to Charlotte, in time to see her condescending
expression slip for a moment, to be briefly replaced by a wounded
look. He could find it in his heart to feel a degree of sympathy,
both for her childlessness and for having married Jimmy.

He searched for a useful change of subject,
and soon latched on one. ‘Susannah, did Constance tell you that we
met an acquaintance of yours earlier in the year? Well, I should
say a family member—I believe she’s your stepdaughter. Mrs Stewart,
was it?’

‘Oh, yes, I remember,’ said Constance. ‘We
met her when we were out on Mr Dewar’s boat. She was very smartly
turned out, I recall—in quite the latest fashion. And with the
prettiest
hat.’

‘How interesting,’ Susannah said in a tone
that implied otherwise. ‘The evenings do seem to be getting warmer,
don’t they?’

Henry was surprised by her evident
reluctance to discuss their mutual acquaintance, but he knew that
stepmothers and stepdaughters did not always have the smoothest of
relationships; this seemed to be the case with Susannah.

Constance seemed oblivious to Susannah’s
discomfort. ‘And she was staying with Sarah Millish! Miss Millish
hardly ever has anyone to stay, she must have been very taken with
Mrs Stewart.’

This seemed a line of discourse that gave
Susannah more pleasure. ‘Oh, dear Miss Millish. We all became such
good friends when she was staying in Ruatane.’

‘Did you really?’ Constance said, clearly
taken aback. ‘How odd. I sent invitations several times to have her
bring Mrs Stewart here to dine, but she always made some excuse or
other. However did you come to meet her?’

‘We attended the same soirées.’

Charlotte gave a little laugh. ‘You have
soirées down there? How droll that must be—are they held in
barns?’

‘No,’ Susannah said coolly. ‘They are held
in houses. Thomas and I are always invited to the best of them.
Jack’s niece married rather well, and she often holds soirées.’

Jimmy snorted, catching Henry’s attention.
‘You mean Lizzie? But she married Frank!’ Jimmy seemed to be taking
more notice of this talk of visits and soirées than Henry would
have expected. ‘You remember him, Charlotte, we met him on Queen
Street one day. Straight from the farm—I almost expected to see the
mud still on his boots.’

‘Not really,’ Charlotte said idly. ‘I find
it hard to keep track of all these country cousins of yours.’

‘Well, Frank’s not the most memorable of
chaps,’ said Jimmy. ‘A decent enough fellow in his own way, I
suppose, but hardly what I’d call marrying well.’

‘I beg to differ,’ Susannah said,
unperturbed. ‘Frank’s done very well for himself. Among other
things, he’s chairman of the dairy co-operative.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Henry, finding himself
well-disposed to this Frank fellow if for no other reason than
Jimmy’s professed disdain. ‘Then he must be a person of some
consequence in the area. Those co-operatives are important affairs
these days.’

‘And these farmhouse soirées,’ said
Charlotte, her condescending smile restored, ‘what do they have as
far as music goes? Does everyone sing along and stamp their feet to
rousing tunes?’

‘We’re rather fortunate there,’ said
Susannah, still imperturbably calm. ‘We have a very fine pianist
who studied under some of the best teachers in Auckland. In fact
it’s Lily who provided our introduction to Miss Millish, as they’re
cousins.’ She cast a glance around the room, checking that she had
everyone’s attention. ‘And Lily is married to one of Jack’s
nephews.’

Had Susannah been a man, she might have made
a good courtroom lawyer, Henry thought to himself as he admired her
performance. She had certainly gained the ascendancy with that
piece of information.

She had also irritated Constance. ‘Well,’
Constance sniffed, ‘I’m sure I’ve no idea why Miss Millish should
give herself airs and graces. What makes her so grand, when you
think about it?’

‘You’re speaking of a young lady who is one
of our most valued clients, my dear,’ Henry reminded her.

‘Oh, I know all that,’ Constance said
impatiently. ‘But really, with her background? With no one knowing
what sort of people she came from? She certainly has no business
looking down on anyone.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Susannah asked,
clearly startled. ‘Surely the Millishes are one of the best
families in Auckland?’

‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Millish were,’ said
Constance. ‘But Miss Sarah came from nowhere.’ She observed
Susannah’s puzzlement, and her eyes lit up with the delight of
having a revelation to impart. ‘But don’t you know, Susannah? They
adopted Miss Sarah. Surely you knew that?’

‘I had no idea.’ Susannah’s brow furrowed in
thought. ‘She’s younger than Thomas, I think, so that must have
happened after I left Auckland.’

‘Miss Millish came of age last year,’ Henry
said. ‘I recall a good deal of to-ing and fro-ing in the office
when she was taking control of her own affairs.’