Air and Angels (13 page)

Rain in Cambridge, more steady, insistent rain, so that the river overflowed its banks at last, and all the paths alongside it were under water, and in places, quite unsafe.

Rain pattering onto courts and sliding down ancient roofs, and the sweet smell of the wet earth rising, and a cloud of rain
overhanging the streets and gardens, so that breathing made the lungs spongy; and Georgiana, walking through the wet streets, splashed from passing cabs, passing cycles, could not throw off the cold that had settled miserably on her chest.

And she could perfectly well have taken a cab herself, but somehow, had felt defiant.

And had been rather lonely too, indoors, unwell for several days, and
her brother in Norfolk, and Alice behaving oddly, she had felt the need to be among others, going purposefully about, the bustle of the street, shops, doors opening and closing, cheerful faces. And all the young men.

She was on her way to Lady Lawne’s house, to a meeting of the Committee for Moral Welfare.

And now, round the corner of Petty Cury, one of the young men, who had almost collided
with her, raised his hat and said, ‘Good morning’ – smiled at her, gown flying, arms full of books and brown paper bags – and, smiling back, dismissing his apology, she thought suddenly that that was what she had been missing, and that when Thomas was back, they must have some of the young men in, to tea, to sherry, to Sunday luncheon. For she greatly enjoyed it, their graceful, yet at the same time,
clumsy bodies, all over her drawing-room, their legs under her dining-room table, and their voices, and their politeness, and the way she could coax them out of themselves. And there was always one very difficult one, who hung back, and one too boisterous, but charming. Oh, always. Yes, the young men must come again to tea.

So that the rain, running off her umbrella suddenly, and down her neck
in a cold channel, and the pile of leaves in a mulch in the gutter, making her slip and almost fall, did not put her into a bad humour, after all.

And at Lady Lawne’s house, she found that she was early, the first, in fact, her Ladyship was not even down, and so, she could dry and warm herself by standing very close to the bright fire. For the walk had tired her, she was glad of the pause, the
breath rasped in her chest. She was not yet by any means well.

He woke to the sound of rain, water dropping softly on water, and tapping on the wooden roof of the houseboat. Above and all around him, it was grey, pale, dull, undefined. There were no birds to be seen.

And the rain soaked his hair and his shoulders as he rowed away, and the oars made perfect furrows behind him, and before he was
halfway to the jetty and the Wherry Inn, the houseboat and the island itself were lost in the veils of rain and mist and greyness. It was not yet cold, yet the damp air felt chill, it penetrated to the bone. There was no wind. No sound, save the sound of the rain.

By eleven o’clock, he was on the road, wrapped in a rug, sitting up behind the brisk little pony. And all over the flat fields, rain,
rain and greyness.

But he carried Norfolk with him, and the sights he had seen, the moonlight on the water, the stock-still heron, the graceful curlew, the cries of the geese, carried the whole place, and the peace and silence and beauty of it, in his head and in his heart.

The road turned inland. He was to spend one more night away, before returning home.

Running up the stairs to change –
for she is late, she is to accompany her mother to the shops, to Whiteaway and Laidlaw, and then to the bazaar – Kitty stops dead.

Thinks, and cannot imagine why the thought has not occurred to her before, but then how did she ever come to leave her friend and the cottage in Warwickshire? Why did Amelia Hartshorn come to India at all?

AFTERNOON. THEY have had a light luncheon at the club. And tonight there is a reception. Afterwards, they will go on to a dinner, and for the first time, they are to take Kitty. Her new frock hangs in the great, mahogany wardrobe.

But she will be brought home early.

And the shopping expedition has been a great success, though they have bought far too much.

(Though the shops in Calcutta make
Eleanor long, sometimes, for those in London, for Piccadilly and Knightsbridge and St James, just once, every now and then, it comes over her, like a craving for something very sweet.)

But it is all great fun.

Now, they lie together on the bed, Eleanor and Kitty, mother and daughter, as they used to lie when Kitty was small. But do not sleep. Kitty has been talking about the cottage in Warwickshire.
Eleanor listens, listens. Strokes her child’s hair.

Thinks, with a dart of pure anguish, but I cannot, I
cannot
let her go! And loves her passionately at this moment. And fears too how things would be with her, if Kitty were gone. For what purpose would there be in her life then?

She sees herself, getting older at the receptions, parties, dinners, visits, weddings, gymkhanas, balls. And all
the afternoons and evenings at the club.

Turns, to look again at Kitty, quiet now. But her eyes are not closed. Pulls her closer.

Thinks, an abrupt realisation, but she has already gone!

In the garden, the fountains cascade, up and over and down, up and over and down, so gracefully.

The rest of the shooting party, his father and brothers-in-law, went earlier.

Now, Eustace Partridge walked
home alone across the stubble fields, his gun beneath his arm, wet through, chilled.

But his mind was not tired, his mind would never be still, all day long, there were pictures in his head. Scenes, glimpses.

The past.

It was barely six o’clock, but dense dark.

He stopped to get his bearings. And became aware, all around him, of the night creatures, the cowering birds, the secret fox, the
wild-eyed, palpitating rabbits.

But almost at once, plodded on again in the direction of home. (For of course, a house had been found for them, on the estate, it was all perfectly in order, perfectly satisfactory now, things have been accepted.)

He had begun to grow accustomed to not thinking, diverting his attention. Though his mind would never be still, night or day, and the pictures, the
glimpses, ran on of their own accord through his head.

And at home, his wife sat beside the drawing-room fire. Or was with his parents, and seemed contented enough.

‘It has all turned out better than we dared to hope.’ Or so his mother had said.

It began to rain again. There was no moon, the owls lurked, huddled down into themselves, in the heart of the woods.

He walked on.

The long windows
of the parsonage gave onto a terrace, and then, to the sloping lawn.

The proportions of the house were perfect, he had always thought so.

And by the time the trap had turned into the drive, the sun, a fuzzy, reddish sun, was just shining.

And they all came out to greet him, or so it seemed, there were small children and young people everywhere, and his friend Cecil Moxton standing shyly behind
– for he was the shyest, the most diffident of men. Short, sturdy, with a pale, bald, domed head.

But Isobel was nowhere to be seen.

They climbed up onto the trap, patted the pony, hung onto Thomas’s arms, took his bag, danced backwards up the path before him.

He was their favourite visitor, the honorary Uncle.

He did not know about children, was inhibited with them – though now some of them
were growing up, it was perhaps easier. But in any case, they ignored his inhibitions, refused to notice them, brushed them aside, as if they were simply of no account.

And so, they were not.

Later, after tea, the two men walked in the fields, the terrier dog running before them.

The sun was low, poppy red.

‘Isobel seems – seems rather better?’

Cecil glanced up. Stopped, looking around vaguely.
Watched the terrier dog bolt away towards the far hedge.

Thomas had known him for twenty years. And in those years, eleven children had been born. Two dead. After each one, Isobel had been unwell, had grown melancholy, nervous, hidden herself away.

But today, she had lunched with them, had welcomed Thomas with unusual warmth, clung to his arm.

In the hedge, the terrier dog was crouched forward
on front paws, nose frantically probing.

Cecil Moxton said, ‘There is to be another child in March.’

The sun dropped half below the far horizon, flushing the grey skeins of cloud.

Thomas stood, watching it, watching the dog. Silent. Appalled.

Yet at dinner, seeing all their bright faces around the table, and aware of their closeness, their mutual, loving concern, in spite of his own misgivings,
he envied them.

‘THINGS HAVE been coming to a head. I know that. You think I don’t notice things, but that is simply not true. So we must discuss it and settle something. I do so hate it when you fret.’

‘Miss Hartshorn …’

‘Wretched woman.’

‘No, it is
not
her fault.’

‘Well, she’ll be off soon after Christmas and I for one will not be sorry.’

‘Taking Kitty with her?’

‘
What?
’

‘That has been the talk. You
know I have said this to you before – that Kitty is restless – she longs to go to England … to … to reconcile it with her own dreams. And to spread her wings. To be better educated.’

‘Yes and that is all very well.’

‘
I
don’t want her to go. Of course I do not. I shall hate it if she goes. But it isn’t a question of my needs, my wants. My selfishness.’

‘So I suppose it has all been decided.’

‘Of course it has not. But it must be.’

‘You think she should go for a spell, a holiday … why not? Yes, let her go.’

‘She seems happy enough now.’

‘Superficially.’

‘You think she should go.’

‘I wish you would not simply jump at a solution and then dismiss the whole matter from your mind, Lewis. I need you to support me.’

‘You know I always do.’

‘Miss Hartshorn has a friend … a Marjorie Pepys.
They have a cottage in Warwickshire. There has been a good deal of talk about that. Kitty would live there – that is her idea … she would continue to tutor her, but there is also a girls’ school, apparently. In Leamington Spa.’

‘Well then, why not let her go?’

‘I do dislike having to conduct a conversation like this through the open door of your dressing-room.’

‘Well, I suppose you’ve discussed
these plans with Kitty – and so forth.’

‘I’ve listened.’

‘It sounds perfectly reasonable, for a month or so.’

‘If you want to know what I think … I think it sounds
sapphic
.’

‘Good God!’

‘Oh … and … and narrow … and after all, we don’t really know …’

‘No. No, I suppose not.’

‘She is still a child – she will not even be sixteen. I want the best for Kitty. The best education … and care … the
best environment – the best future.’

Eleanor stands, tall, her hair long and loose on her shoulders. Beautiful hair. But this way, it makes her face look older.

‘I thought that I would write to Florence. In Cambridge.’

‘Yes,’ he says at once. Turns on his side. ‘Yes, of course.’

Which she sensibly takes for his approval.

And so, the following day, she does write.

And so – and all, really,
very quickly, and easily – and so, it is arranged.

DECEMBER. the snow fell early. It was a white Christmas, for once in a lifetime. People even skated on the river. There are photographs in attics, to prove it.

And out on the fens, the birds froze quietly to death and the reeds rattled together in the bitter wind, and then were still.

Snow all over England. And in the midst of the snow, the old images, the old words, spoken
again. But to some, they sounded freshly.

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.

On Christmas Eve, Florence dined with a bishop and was bored, but not disagreeably, and later, went to church, and, hearing the old words, bent her head suddenly, and vowed to work for good.

Old Mrs Gray, waking at three on Christmas
morning, made up her mind to go to Scotland again, and well before the spring, and so lay awake, planning, dreaming, remembering, listening to the clocks, excited as any child.

In the college chapel, the candlelight shone on the great scene of the Nativity, and on the face of the one, rapt, kneeling figure of no importance and Thomas recognised it afresh, and, reading the old words aloud, admired
their beauty. But no more, perhaps, the beauty did not pierce the heart.

Snow fell. Eustace Partridge walked the fields, gun under arm, and hares fled and shrews stiffened, cold in ditches, and he went on doggedly, and did not think of the college chapel, nor of the narrow streets, the books, the firesides, the friends, his own, once dazzling future.

And in another country place, Cecil Moxton
spoke the old words, too, before trudging back towards his parsonage through the snow. And, seeing the lighted windows ahead of him, was lifted up a little in gladness for the child to come, and turned his face aside from the gathering shadows, the same ones that always darkened around his wife, after a birth.

Snow fell. The year turned.

Impatient with the meanderings of the Committee for Moral
Welfare, Florence abruptly offered most of the money for the house in the country from her own purse, and got the rest out of rich Miss Quayle the brewer’s daughter, who was ill, and anxious to buy off death by almsgiving.

And so, the purchase was quickly secured.

On the second day of the new year, Eustace Partridge’s wife miscarried her child.

The snow melted.

A pair of wagtails scurried
and bobbed about the grass of the Fellows’ court, beneath the little fountain.

Florence and Georgiana had talked of a week’s holiday together, walking in Switzerland, made tentative plans.