Dorothy Eden (55 page)

Prissie was crossing the lawn with her shopping basket. She moved with a light step, her black hair blown back from her face. She looked very thin and slight, but full of vitality and happiness. Her red skirt billowed about her like a full-blown poppy. In the month she had been with them she hadn’t put on any weight, nor had she lost her tenseness. Indeed, she had a look of inner excitement as if she were burning up inside, but that, Brigit realized, was natural to her and a part of her fascination. Frequently she stopped and hung over things in the house, stroking the polished stair railing, picking up a good piece of china, such as the Royal Worcester plate with its small perfect country scene, like a delicate bubble in its circle of rich crimson and gold, smoothing the silk sheets on the beds and looking all the time as if she were a child with her first Christmas tree. It was satisfying to observe the pleasure she derived from her surroundings. In its turn it made Brigit herself doubly appreciate them, and she was also satisfied now about the genuineness of Prissie’s desire to leave the airline.

Guy, Brigit noticed, made no answer to Uncle Saunders, but his eyes were fixed on Prissie and his face had lost a little of its sullenness. She tried to concentrate on Guy’s interest in Prissie, and to think how nice it would be if Guy found happiness as she had done. In that way she could control her anger against Uncle Saunders.

‘Uncle Saunders, I’d rather you didn’t refer to Prissie as that girl of Fergus’s.’

Uncle Saunders looked at her in genuine surprise.

‘Why, my dear, he brought her here, didn’t he? Must have been attracted by her. Because I’m quite sure your budget doesn’t run to companion helps, or whatever you call these people? Does it, my dear? No matter what Fergus says about diamond ear-rings being the alternative, I shouldn’t be surprised if the ear-rings were necessary, eventually.’ His prominent eyes were unbearably waggish, his full lips smiling suggestively.

‘Saunders, that’s abominable,’ protested Aunt Annabel.

‘And I think a little far-fetched,’ suggested Guy, his eyes defensively on his sister.

Brigit had stiffened and could not relax. This time she could not tolerate her family. When Uncle Saunders, actually seeing that he had gone too far, lumbered over and patted her on the arm, saying, ‘Sorry, my dear. Only joking, you know. The girl is damned attractive, you must admit that, if you like ’em small,’ she could only draw away rigidly, fighting her anger. After all, if she gave way to anger and shouted she was no better than they were. Oh, why did her family have such a devastating effect on her?

‘Come along, Biddy. Men will be men, eh?’

It was no use. She didn’t shout, but she gave way to a low controlled anger.

‘Oh, I hate you with your filthy mind! But how can I expect you to have anything else? You’re a Templar! I suppose I have one myself without knowing. I suppose Nicky and Sarah have one. And now, heaven forgive me, I’m bringing another Templar into the world.’ Uncle Saunders’s large red face, Guy’s supercilious one, Aunt Annabel’s kind shapeless bewildered one seemed to float before her in a mist. She was aware, suddenly, of Prissie, the innocent cause of the quarrel, looking in the doorway, and her face, too, pale and cool, swam like a water lily. The uncontrollable tide of her anger swept over her.

‘Oh, I hope my baby will never be born!’ she cried, and rushed out of the room.

The one thought in her mind was to get to Fergus. Only his arms about her and his sane voice in her ears would rid her of this loathsome feeling of decadence that her family gave her. He would say, ‘Don’t be silly, my sweet. You’re out of sorts, that’s all. Uncle Saunders is only a noisy pompous ass, puffed up by too much money—I expect he eats bank notes, and probably sharpens his teeth on sovereigns—and Aunt Annabel is a gentle old tabby. Guy will be all right when he marries a nice girl. Perhaps he’ll marry Prissie. She would be just right for him, plenty of sense and shrewdness in that little head of hers. No one is completely evil, darling. They all have some saving grace, even the Templars…’

That was what Fergus would say. Brigit almost smiled to herself in a tense overwrought way as she crossed the lawn towards the stables. But she had to hear him saying it quickly. He would be on his way home now. She would ride to meet him, so that they could come the rest of the way alone, unintruded on by either children, elderly relations, or companion helps. She hadn’t ridden since she had known the baby was coming, but if she took quiet old Polly and rode very gently she would be all right. They might even have lunch at the Mitre on the way, and to hell with the family…

Afterwards she could remember only the scarf on the stick poking at her suddenly from the thick hawthorn hedge, and Polly rearing sideways in fright…

The brilliant colour of it fluttered before her eyes for days afterwards. It was the colour of pain, she thought. She only wept when she was told that it was Fergus who had found her, and that she had been unconscious and unable to hear all the reassuring things he had been going to say to her. So she never did hear from his own lips that Uncle Saunders was a pompous ass, and no one to be afraid of, and that Prissie had been provided purely for her and the children’s comfort and pleasure, and that any other thought regarding her had never entered his mind.

The opportunity to ask him those things and to hear his reassurances had gone for ever. For she lay in hospital with an injured spine, and it looked as if Fergus, young and full of vitality, had an invalid wife for the rest of his life.

There was the baby, too, that now would never be born. Over and over again Brigit heard her last spoken words, like doom, inside her head, ‘I hope my baby will never be born,’ and the slow tears trickled down her cheeks until the sister lost patience with her and said:

‘You must cheer up, Mrs Gaye. You’ll soon be walking again, and if I had a husband as good-looking as yours I’m darned if I’d be crying.

‘And those adorable children,’ she went on, as she saw a tremulous smile coming to Brigit’s face. ‘And that nice little girl who brings them in. You’re so lucky, knowing they’re well looked after.’

Brigit did remember the children at her bedside one day, Sarah poking inquisitively into her bedside locker, Nicky holding back, white and strained and obviously trying not to cry. And Prissie smiling gently, whispering, ‘There’s nothing to worry about at all. The children are fine. All you have to do is get well.’ Prissie with her elfin face, and glowing eyes that could will you to think anything she chose. Or was that imagination, too?

And had anyone told Fergus of those last angry words she had spoken before she had left the house? She had to know that.

She remembered Fergus at her bedside. She had wanted to lift her hands and stroke his worried face. But she couldn’t. Her arms were lead, her mind full of misery.

‘Fergus! You know about the baby?’ Her voice seemed far-off and remote, as if it were not a thing of any importance.

‘Yes, of course, darling. But you mustn’t worry about it. There’s plenty of time to have more.’

‘But there’s not! There’s not! I can’t walk.’

It was Fergus now, stroking her face, leaning over her with his eyes full of gentleness.

‘You will soon. Don’t be so impatient.’

‘Impatient! How long is it now?’

‘Only a fortnight.’

‘But I can’t move my legs,’ she cried desolately.

‘Darling, you will. It’s something to do with the nerves.’

She clutched his hand.

‘Did they tell you what I said about not wanting the baby?’

‘Darling, anyone could say a thing like that under stress. And I admit Uncle Saunders does cause a state of stress if you take him seriously.’

‘They always were murderers,’ Brigit muttered.

Fergus bent closer. ‘What did you say, sweet?’

‘Murderers! My family.’

Then there came his hearty outburst of laughter, and all at once the miasma of misery cleared, and she felt the tears running down her cheeks.

‘Fergus, don’t you mind that I killed the baby?’

‘Complete nonsense, my sweet stupid!’

She clung to his hand. ‘Darling, I didn’t mean to. It was that stick with the scarf on it poking at me.’ Suddenly she was saying,
‘Who did that?’

‘No one did it. It was a handkerchief caught in the hawthorn hedge. We found it afterwards. We told you, don’t you remember? A red and white spotted handkerchief like tramps use. I didn’t know you could still buy them.’

‘It waved in front of me. Suddenly. It was on a stick,’ Brigit insisted.

‘Yes, darling. I suppose the wind was blowing it.’

‘No. Someone was waving it. I know. I have nightmares about it. Sister will tell you.’

Fergus said uncomfortably, ‘I think you ought to rest.’

‘I don’t want to rest! I want to know who didn’t want us to have the new baby!’ Her voice had risen, and the sister was approaching. She looked significantly at Fergus.

‘Now, Mrs Gaye. Time for your rest.’

‘But I can’t rest until I find out the truth.’

‘Well, you’ll do better about that when you’ve had a sleep.’

Fergus was kissing her and then moving away. Brigit reached towards him despairingly. Then her hand fell to the coverlet. Could it be that he hadn’t wanted the baby either? Could it be that? Was he perhaps even glad that she had lost it?

The prick of the needle administered by the sister was merciful.

But she was not in that state verging on hysteria all the time. The day Fergus told her that she would have to go to the family’s house in Montpelier Square she was quite calm and rational.

She said, ‘Is that what you want?’

‘It’s the only practical thing, darling. You’ll have to stay in London for treatment, and you don’t want to stay in a hospital indefinitely. Besides, to be quite honest, we can’t afford it. There’s the big house in Montpelier Square, and they’re delighted to have you. The children and Prissie have settled in very well. Truly, it’s the most sensible thing. And it won’t be for long.’

Brigit’s eyes beseeched him. He smiled with his familiar loving gentleness. (But it wasn’t gentleness she wanted, it was the old flashing look of equality and passion, and his mouth hard on hers. Had that gone for ever?)

‘The doctor says any day you’ll find you can move your legs again. There isn’t anything organic, as he has told you. It’s purely nervous. So just rest, and no worrying or tension. Understand?’

He stroked her hair. She whispered, ‘Fergus!’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Am I still—nice to look at?’

‘Don’t be an idiot, darling. Here, wait till I get a mirror.’

It seemed to her that she had grown very thin and pale; She was all eyes and mouth, her eyebrows were dark half-moons against the paleness of her skin, her lips colourless.

‘Oh, Fergus! My lipstick, please. Why didn’t you tell me what I looked like?’

‘I shall only kiss it off.’

‘Not with sister watching.’

‘Sister will give me her blessing.’

It was so strange to be smiling again, to be feeling almost light-hearted. Perhaps because leaving hospital was the first step towards being well. She wouldn’t let herself think of how she disliked the big house in Montpelier Square. As Fergus said, to go there was the sensible thing to do. And it would not be for long. She was determined to overcome this peculiar paralysis and be well as soon as possible.

‘Tell me about the children and Prissie,’ she said. ‘What do they do all day? And isn’t it a blessing we have Prissie. What on earth would we have done without her?’

She could see that Fergus was pleased with her, whether for agreeing without a fuss to go to Montpelier Square or for approving of Prissie, she didn’t know which. But it didn’t matter. As long as he was pleased, and no longer looking strained and worried. It had been a bad time for him, too. She had to remember that.

‘Oh, Prissie’s completely organized,’ Fergus said. ‘She’s turned the top floor into a temporary nursery and bedrooms. The children don’t worry anyone up there, though really they make much less noise than Uncle Saunders. Prissie, actually, is delighted with the move, because now she can visit her aunt in Putney. She seems very fond of her. Really, she gets on extraordinarily well with everyone. Aunt Annabel was afraid Mrs Hatchett would be disturbed about this sort of invasion, but Prissie manages her, too. She’s rather a witch in her own way.’

‘I know,’ said Brigit rather briefly. Then, regretting her brevity she said with amusement, ‘She must be a witch if she can manage Mrs Hatchett. Has she still this thing about ghosts?’

Fergus laughed. ‘There are more cats than ghosts in the house at present. Uncle Saunders is getting extremely touchy. The whole place is rather a circus, with the accent on comedy. You’ll enjoy it.’

In spite of her determination to be light-hearted, the shadow of the house in Montpelier Square slipped over her. Suddenly she was reaching for Fergus’s hand.

‘Darling, you’ll be there?’

‘As much as I possibly can. Silly child. What are you worrying about? They’ve prepared the best bedroom for you, and your nurse is called Ellen and she’s a blonde.’

‘My nurse?’ The fear was inside her again, a living thing, choking her. ‘Fergus—am I that ill?’

‘Well, my darling, who’s going to wash you and feed you? Certainly not Aunt Annabel. She would be giving you cat’s meat by mistake. And someone has to talk to you in the night when I’m away.’

Brigit watched him speechlessly. So he knew about her nightmares, when she awoke crying because someone was waving a red scarf on a stick at her, trying to make her have an accident. Or to kill her…

‘Can’t have Mrs Hatchett’s ghosts frightening you,’ he said lightly.

‘Ghosts?’

‘Actually I believe there’s only one. A little man in a brown coat who stands at the foot of her bed and says nothing. She’s rather attached to him. She’s convinced that one night he will speak to her, and she can’t wait for the revelation.’

Brigit began helplessly to chuckle. Then she realized that this was what Fergus had meant her to do, and it was all she could do to keep on laughing for him.
Oh, Fergus, if I can’t ever walk again, oh, darling, what shall I do?