Dear Laura (6 page)

‘See how pretty she is, Theodore, even for such a young child.’

‘You must rest now,’ he pronounced. ‘I shall not disturb you further, Laura.’

Nor did he. The next six years found them sharing the same bed like two strangers who are anxious to have no contact. The pattern was set: rigid, sterile, meaningless. He had beaten down any shows of affection early in their marriage. Sure of herself, practised in the arts of charming, she required a sterner
snubbing
than mere indifference. He administered this also.

‘Really, Laura, such behaviour is not only childish, it is distasteful. Do not touch me, if you please!’

So
even the warmth of proximity was rejected. But
appearances
were paramount. He set his cold lips to her cheek each morning and each evening, put a cold hand beneath her elbow to guide her. Knowing the emptiness beneath the show, she came to dread this too. Sometimes, in a fit of perversity, he would inflict his attentions upon her in order to enjoy the shrinking.

The seasons turned, the years passed. Dr Padgett
recommended
sea air. She paced deserted promenades, sat in vacant hotels, took water cures. Her thoughts turned increasingly upon her childhood, when love seemed to be her birthright, but that lover had retreated into old age and silence. There was no
returning
. When he died she wept bitterly and only Titus showed
kindness
. Only Titus was allowed to show kindness, for Theodore was jealous. He permitted compliments at a safe distance, callers who did not stay too long, friends who showed no sign of
becoming
confidantes.

Because he was devoted to his brother he did not mind him, and Titus’s influence became absolute. At first he leaned on Laura, who played the mother. Then they were children
together
and equal. Finally, understanding her, divining the
situation
, he began to make love to her. Her response, in spite of
herself
, worried and exalted him. She made a brave attempt to
interpret
their relationship as the movement of soul towards soul. He helped her to fail. Fifteen years of emotional and physical
deprivation
completed the conquest.

In those two hours at his rooms, while Henry Hann
absent-mindedly
flicked flies from the horses’ necks, Laura endeavoured to feel repulsion and could not. All that her mother had told her, and all she had learned from Theodore, was proved false. Her inability to control either herself or him terrified her. The
remembrance
of her behaviour was agony, the compulsion degrading. Shaken, humiliated, she avoided seeing him for a week
afterwards
, and then found herself beset by a need she had
overlooked
. She had thought that if she could put the incident behind her she might go back to their former relationship. Instead, she
longed to discover the new one, to build stone on shameful stone, and achieve what? And she could not.

The experience sharpened all her senses. She became aware of Theodore as a man, and watched him. For years she had thanked God
whenever her husband left the house, and clutched her
privacy
to herself if he was kept late in the City. Now she wondered why he was late, and noticed discrepancies. She would have shrieked for help, whatever the consequences, however
iron-strong
the proprieties, if he had used her as his wife. But she could not bear the thought of infidelity on his part.

She had been bitterly cheated, and desired that the cheat should be cheated also. If they were bonded even to death he must not go
free, for that left her more sad and solitary than ever before. She required him to be unfulfilled with her, since his was the sin of omission.

The letter from Titus brought one sorry ray of comfort. He, too, had been scorched and wished to burn. She tore it up,
weeping
, and threw the pieces in her wastepaper basket. Later,
frightened
of discovery, she went back to her room to retrieve them but they were gone. There was no reason to suppose that Harriet would know the difference between these and any other torn papers, and Kate’s loyalty was complete. Yet now and again she regretted that she had not set a match to them and so rendered her mind easy.

Now, sitting obediently beside her sleeping husband, she said very softly to herself, ‘I should have died before I met him, and then all this need not have been.

S
UFFICIENTLY
improved to render their lives tedious,
Theodore
insisted on hearing all the details of the epidemic: tutting sympathetically. Oppressed, Laura settled him down for a couple of hours, and retired to her parlour.

It was a quiet time of day, while her staff recuperated from their morning labours and were not involved with the evening meal. Cook snored by the range. Harriet exchanged whispered reminiscences with Annie Cox. Henry Hann drank, unwanted, in his room over the stable. In the linen room, Kate’s needle was dexterous with the lace on Laura’s dressing-jacket. Nanny Nagle, her afternoon free, met Sergeant Malone with whom she had had an understanding for years, and gossiped as he twirled his
moustaches
and swaggered by her side. The boys were back at school, and Blanche had been taken to Mr Barnum’s Circus at Olympia with a party of small friends. Here, Sam Lockhart’s six extraordinary and wonderful performing elephants, just arrived from the Continent, especially and exclusively engaged at enormous cost, enchanted their young audience.

The book of poems slipped from Laura’s lap as she slept, and she returned it with a start and smoothed the page.

The doorbell brought Laura to her feet, then she sat again and slid the book beneath a cushion.

‘Are you at home, ma’am?’ Kate Kipping asked quietly,
popping
a frilled cap round the parlour door. ‘I thought I had best ask first, in case you were resting.’

‘No, Kate, thank you. I am not at home.’

‘Very well, ma’am.’ She paused. ‘Suppose it should be Mr Titus, ma’am?’

‘He will not come before this evening. But would you say that I have a headache? He will have come to see Mr Crozier.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

The bell rang again, imperiously, and Laura reclined on one elbow, listening to the murmur of voices, the sharp closing of the door.

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ said Kate, evidently disturbed, ‘but it was a strange lady, with these,’ and she held out a package, robustly wrapped in brown paper and sealed with red wax. ‘The lady would not leave her name, ma’am, and she said I was only to give this into Mr Crozier’s hands. But, seeing he was resting, I thought it best to bring it to you.’

Laura took the package and read the directions carefully.

‘What did the lady say, Kate?’

‘She said it was private business and could I deliver it to the master personally. I took the liberty to say that the master was still abed poorly, and could it not be given to Mr Titus since it was business? But she said it was a confidential matter for Mr Theodore.’

Laura turned the package over and over. Her husband’s name was underlined twice in red ink, and printed very large and stiff.

‘How strange she did not give her name. What was the lady like?’

‘The lady was not exactly a lady, ma’am,’ said Kate cautiously.

‘I do not comprehend you.’

‘Well, ma’am,’ said Kate, coming closer, ‘she seemed modest and refined enough at first sight, but her dress was not quite … and she wore a heavy veil as if she did not want me to see her face. But perhaps her complexion was poor, ma’am.’

‘A working girl?’

‘Why no, ma’am. Her dress was a deal too showy for that. And her voice, ma’am, the way she spoke. Very mincing, and then
downright common when she spoke fast. And she smelled of patchouli, quite strong.’

A tacit understanding lay between them. Kate had given all the information she could, and Laura had interpreted it. Now both must render the information outwardly acceptable.

‘I think it must have been one of Mr Crozier’s new clerks, Kate. If she was trying to better herself she would perhaps try to make a good impression. We must not be uncharitable if she failed. She would be too shy, possibly, to leave her name.’

‘Yes, ma’am, that would explain it. I hope I did right to bring the package to you.’

‘You were quite right, Kate. I shall see that Mr Crozier
receives
it as soon as he wakes. You may bring me tea here at a half after four. Miss Blanche will not be home until six o’clock.’

Alone, she read and re-read the printing, felt and shook the package. It remained inscrutably sealed, and she neither would nor could open it without detection. Kate had referred to it as ‘these’, and Laura now tried the parcel for flexibility. Letters, probably. These. Letters. For about twenty minutes she sat
thinking
, then mounted the staircase with more resolution than usual.

‘I was sleeping,’ her husband complained. ‘Can I have no peace in this household?’

‘We have been married for fifteen years, Mr Crozier,’ said Laura, her pride and dignity damaged, ‘and I think you will agree that I have been a dutiful wife.’

He sat up amazed, nightcap askew.

‘Well, ma’am, that is a matter of opinion. But what of it? Is this,’ and he waved an arm at the William Morris wallpaper, ‘not evidence enough of my indulgence? I told you it would tire the eyes. We should have been wiser to buy a flocked paper,’ and he glared at the pomegranates.

‘I have endeavoured to please you,’ Laura persisted, ‘and very often against my inclination – sometimes against my personal belief. I had not expected to be insulted in this fashion!’ And she flicked the packet on the bed.

Annoyed, confused, he reached for a paper knife and began to prise off the seals: face set against her.

‘Before you open it, since you appear to think it of little
import
,’
said Laura, one hand at her throat, ‘I must tell you that it was delivered by a woman of doubtful respectability, who wished it to be given only into your hands and described it as
confidentia
l business.’

He laid down the paper knife and looked at her.

‘She was heavily veiled, so Kate told me. Her clothes, her manner, her speech, proclaimed her to be something other than one of your clerks. Yet she dressed too showily for an ordinary working girl. Furthermore, she was most secretive. She did not leave her name, and she implored Kate to deliver this package direct to you.’

‘Then why did Kate not do as she was told?’

Because she was loyal to me.

‘Because she knew you were resting, and so entrusted it naturally to your wife. And why should your wife not be trusted?’

He was as white as herself now, tapping the package
thoughtfully
.

‘This is private business, Laura, and I must be careful.’

‘You must be
secretive
!’ she cried, casting off years of
restraint
. ‘Who is this woman? She stank of cheap perfume. What is her name? What is she to you? Why are you away in the evenings? Do you go to her? Do you? I know you are not always at business. Titus came once, expecting to find you at home, when you told me you were together.’

‘Be silent!’ he said furiously. ‘I will not be questioned in this manner. I have told you this is private business. I have rivals, you know. I have – enemies, even. I employ – certain people – people you would not receive – to watch over certain aspects of my business. So that you can dress as you do, among other things,’ and he gestured at the fine lace blouse and black tailored skirt, at the great cameo pinned to her high collar. ‘My duties towards you, Mrs Crozier, are fulfilled. I beg you to remember your duty towards me. Obedience was one of your vows, if you recollect.’

She was weeping, beside herself. He watched her, angry and puzzled.

‘Then open it, in God’s name,’ she begged, reaching for the
handkerchief tucked at her waist. ‘Open it while I am here, and show me that I am wrong.’

His fingers lingered over the package and withdrew. His expression hardened.

‘You forget yourself, madam. I do not have to prove my honour. It is absolute. Now please to go.’

She stared at him over the handkerchief.

‘You do not care what I suspect?’ she asked, astonished.

‘You are not yourself, Laura. I suggest that you lie down for an hour with the blinds drawn, and come to your senses.’

‘You would leave me, perhaps to the end of our lives together, not knowing what this person meant to you?’

‘I order you to leave this room.’

‘You do not care enough for me even to confide in me?’ she said.

It was a revelation. Dark and withdrawn, he considered his wife and the package.

‘Mrs Crozier, it is
seldom
–
I hope, in most cases,
never
– that a husband finds it necessary to speak to his wife as I must. When we first married I observed some lightness in your nature which I set down as girlish folly, and which I am happy to say has since been eradicated.’

‘Lightness?’

‘A tendency to foolish behaviour. You were pure and
innocent
. I know that. But there are certain duties which – I express myself as delicately as possible – must be performed between husband and wife. They are duties, madam, not pleasures. One does not marry for pleasure.’

Colourless, she sat down in a chair and observed him with cold self-possession. Heedless of her moods, unless they
disquieted
him, he spoke half to her and half to himself, his eyes upon the package.

‘One marries in the Sight of God for the purpose of procreation. I am grateful to you, Mrs Crozier, for my two sons, who will – now they are out of your spoiling – be of some consequence in life. The British Empire is the greatest the world has ever known. Edmund and Lindsey will be dedicated to its service. I can think of no finer goal.’

‘You have a daughter, too,’ said Laura bitterly.

‘Whose tastes, I hope, may not become as extravagant as your own.’

‘Surely you wish me to dress becomingly, and according to your station?’

‘But not so expensively, madam. Your milliner’s bills alone are beyond everything!’

‘Wait!’ she said, dangerously quiet. ‘Let us not interrupt this sermon on my duties, Mr Crozier, by dragging in a
milliner’s
bill for which you have twice reprimanded me already. So I have given you two sons and burdened you with a
daughter
? I keep your home as it should be kept. May I not ask for a little affection and trust in return?’

‘You had both, and a measure of respect which I do not wish to lose – though your behaviour puts it in some peril, madam.’

She swept the packet from the bed with one blow of the hand, and it lay between them like reproach.

‘I have
nothing
,’
she cried,
‘nothing.
And I hoped for so much.’

Regarding her steadfastly, he issued a command.

‘Control yourself, madam. You are hysterical. You do not know what you are saying.’

‘Duties,’ she cried. ‘Duties. No tenderness, no true kindness, no understanding. Do you suppose that Mr Browning spoke of duties to his wife? He spoke of love, Mr Crozier.
I
loved you when we were married.’

‘I thought we had dispelled this nonsense,’ he said, displeased. ‘A lady, Mrs Crozier, a
lady
should be concerned with
decorous
and modest behaviour. I do not ask for poetic phrases and lavish demonstrations. I do not wish for them. I do not require them. The conversation is closed, and I shall endeavour to
forget
that it ever took place.’

Her arms fell to her sides.

‘You have spoiled yourself with weeping,’ he added
dispassionately
. ‘Do not allow the servants to see you in such a wild condition. Now please go.’

Submissively, wretchedly, she dried her eyes and cheeks.
Inclined
her head, beaten. Then, with her hand on the doorknob,
she paused. Torn between fear and misery, the misery came uppermost.

‘How can you bear to live as we do?’ she whispered. ‘How can you endure it?’

Waiting for her to be gone, he spoke to the looking-glass on the wall. In it they were mirrored: she bruised, he adamant.

‘I am at a loss to discern your meaning, Mrs Crozier. I
suggest
that you are not yourself.’