Greygallows (16 page)

I did not understand the sermon, and I feel sure it was lost on the congregation; it was the most peculiar mixture of erudition and inspiration imaginable. But as the high, sweet voice went on, I ceased to worry about quotations from the early
church fathers, and the Nicene council. The voice was so beautiful, it did not matter what he said. The pure, beardless face, surrounded by a nimbus of light, added to the emotional effect.

When the service ended, an unexpected wave of shyness came over me. It would have been easier if I had been visible to the congregation throughout; but to open the door of the pew and emerge, like an actress making her entrance, seemed hard. I wished Mrs. Andrews were with me.

Then, glancing to my left, I saw the only member of the congregation who was visible to me from my position. She sat alone in the first pew on the left, and I wondered who she could be, to enjoy such a prominent place. Her garments were modest in color and style, but in perfect taste; from them, and from what I could see of her form, as she knelt with her face hidden in her gloved hands, it was clear that she was a person of refinement. I had an impression of relative youth, though only the supple shape of her body and the wealth of black hair, gathered into a net under her bonnet, gave any clue to that.

She rose, and I caught my breath so audibly I feared she must have heard it. Her face was radiantly lovely. Its beauty was so striking it took me several seconds to realize that it was also the image of the young clergyman's features. His looks were delicate, almost feminine; indeed, of the two, the girl's face had the greater strength. Her hair was as black as his was fair, and her eyes were a deeper gray.

The gray eyes met mine. Realizing that I was staring rudely, I smiled and bowed. It was not difficult to deduce that this young lady was the
clergyman's sister; such a resemblance could only stem from a close blood relationship. As such, she was a person I might and should notice. Her beauty and her youth made her even more sympathetic. I was hurt, therefore, when instead of answering my smile she stiffened and turned her head away. Moving quickly, she passed along the bench and walked down the aisle without looking at me again.

I was so surprised at this behavior, I forgot my shyness and issued forth from my cage without further delay. The congregation was not large; most of the others seemed to be workingmen and their families, and all of them made way for me as I walked down the aisle toward the door. Mrs. Andrews was waiting. As she took my arm I saw the young lady walking rapidly down the path toward the gate of the churchyard. I could see her figure to more advantage; she was taller than I, and she moved like a young Diana.

'Who is she?' I asked. 'Who is that lovely girl?'

'The vicar's sister,' said Mrs. Andrews. 'Miss Fleetwood.'

That was almost all she would say, though I plied her with questions. She was somewhat more communicative on the subject of the vicar. Mr. Fleetwood was regarded as the 'next thing to a saint,' but as I discovered, his sanctity rested more in his incomprehensibility than in his acts of benevolence. No one had the faintest notion of what he was talking about most of the time. 'Not of this world,' was Mrs. Andrews' assessment, and remembering the glowing young face addressing its God, I could see what she meant.

With so little to
occupy my mind, it is no
wonder the lovely Miss Fleetwood continued to haunt my thoughts. She had looked intelligent as well as lovely, and I missed companions of my own age and breeding. I might not have ventured to introduce myself to other ladies in the neighborhood, being ignorant of Clare's relation with the local families, but surely there was no reason why I should not associate with a clergyman's sister? It did not take me long, with such specious reasoning, to decide I might call upon the Fleetwoods.

When I ordered the carriage, Mrs. Andrews fell into a bustle. She could not accompany me, she had to supervise the house cleaning ... I cut her short.

'Really, Mrs. Andrews, I am a married woman; I see no reason why I should not go out alone.'

She did not dare ask outright where I meant to go. I saw the question in her eyes, but I did not choose to enlighten her. As I drove off, leaving her gazing helplessly after me, I could not help feeling a childish triumph at eluding her.

The coachman, Williams, was a bulky middle-aged man with a red face. Communication between us was one-sided; he understood me, but his rare remarks were all but unintelligible. I fancied that in any case Clare had not encouraged him to chatter vivaciously. He drove me, without comment, to the vicarage.

I had not seen the house before, except for those parts of its roof and chimneys which were visible through the trees around it. As we approached, along a well-tended drive, I saw that the house was charmingly pretty, and my hopes of friendship with the occupants grew. This was the sort of house I
would have liked—a cottage, with low-hanging eaves and carved wooden shutters,
a la Suisse.
It was large and commodious, however, with a garden and shrubbery to one side.

I thought I saw the edge of a window curtain quiver as I approached the door, but several minutes went by after I rang before someone answered. Finally the door was opened by the lady herself. She wore a simple morning gown of dove gray, with touches of white at throat and wrists. The dress set off her splendid figure. I felt small and insignificant and childish; my fur-trimmed cloak and second-best bonnet seemed ostentatious.

'I am Lady Clare,' I said. 'I hope I do not come at an inconvenient time.'

'Of course.' She bowed slightly. 'Will you step in? My brother is in his library; I will send the servant to fetch him.'

'I shall be happy to meet the vicar,' I said, following her along the hall. 'But to be honest, I came to see you, too. I hope—I trust I do not—'

I was vexed to hear myself stammering like a schoolgirl. Miss Fleetwood did not help me; in silence she opened a door and gestured me into the parlor. It was a charming room, as pretty and neat as the outside of the cottage. A variety of little ornaments and pictures displayed a lady's taste; the books scattered about confirmed my impression of their owner's intelligence—and made me feel even more insignificant.

I took the chair she indicated. My face felt warm. I hated myself for blushing, but could not help it; her manner was so unwelcoming. Under her direction the conversation was purely formal. I
declined, with thanks, her offer of refreshment; I agreed that the mud was a great inconvenience; I said that indeed I found Yorkshire very pretty. It was a relief to both of us when Mr. Fleetwood came into the room.

Meeting him face to face, I saw that he was not as young as I had thought. He greeted me warmly; after his sister's reserved manner, his was almost embarrassingly friendly. He began to apologize for not having called. I could see Miss Fleetwood did not like this, so I cut him short, as kindly as I could.

'I have been ill,' I said.

'Yes, yes,' Mr. Fleetwood said eagerly, 'so we were informed. Are you sure it is wise for you to come?' He stopped and blushed a fiery red as his sister made a sound of vexation. 'This is—I did not mean—'

'Please don't apologize,' I said, with a smile. I had quite a fellow feeling for him, since I suffered from both his handicaps—a thoughtless tongue and a fair complexion that showed every change of emotion. 'I appreciate your concern, but I am quite recovered. I hope to be much abroad now that the weather is fine.'

'Do you find the air of Yorkshire to your taste?'

I was really grateful for the weather; without it, conversation would have been at a loss. We talked of the weather and the beauties of Yorkshire for another ten minutes. Then I rose to leave.

Miss Fleetwood, who had spoken scarcely a word since her brother entered, had little more to say in farewell. Her brother saw me to my carriage. There was something so warm in his manner and his smile that I felt quite a little flutter, and I
wondered how such a man had remained unmarried. He had the looks and the soft heart which should have made him fall prey to a determined miss already. But perhaps his sister did not fancy sharing her home with another lady.

I expected Miss Fleetwood to return my call, so I stayed home next day. She did not appear. When I returned from a short stroll the following morning, I was vexed to find that she had been, and, not finding me within, had left her card. It was almost as if she had chosen the time deliberately. I realized that was foolish. She could hardly have known I was out unless she lurked about the house watching my movements.

On the Thursday there was still no sign of Clare and no message from him. Mrs. Andrews, who knew his habits better than I, said he might be expected at any time. She did not need to say that the house would be in readiness for him whenever he chose to come. However, I saw no reason why I should sit by the fire like a faithful dog, on the chance of his coming. I decided to go for a drive.

I directed Williams to the vicarage. It was no startling coincidence that took me there; there was nowhere else to go, with my limited acquaintance in the neighborhood. As we drove up the road toward the cottage, I saw that the Fleetwoods had a visitor. A horse was tied to the front gate. I was pleased to see it; perhaps, I thought, there will be another new face to beguile my boredom.

The door of the cottage opened and a man came out. I recognized him at once, although I thought
him miles away. It was my husband.

Knowledge comes in strange ways, at unexpected times. If Mrs. Andrews' unusual reticence about the lady had not made me suspicious, this single incident should not have enlightened me. There was no reason why Clare should not call on the vicar. Yet it supplied the final clue—and not because of any look of Clare's; his face expressed no guilt or shame, only an angry surprise at seeing me.

The shock left me oddly cool and clear-headed. I leaned forward and said calmly to the coachman,

'Drive on, Williams.'

The words were scarcely out of my mouth before the carriage jolted into movement. I did not look back, but I sensed Clare had not moved. He was still standing in the doorway of the cottage as I drove off.

Once I was out of sight of the house I could give vent to my feelings. I did—but silently. Williams could not see me, but he could certainly hear. I was determined to show no outward sign of distress. It was not pride that kept me silent, it was the same blind need of privacy that drives a hurt animal into its hole where it can lick its wounds without being seen.

It was painfully clear to me now why I was a wife in name only. How could I have imagined, after seeing that lovely face, that any man could be immune to its fascination? Clare had not needed a wife to love. He had married me for my fortune, and because of an odd paternal kindness. Even his tenderness, rarely expressed, was that of a father toward a delicate child.

But I had known this all along. I knew he would
not have looked at me a second time without that hateful ten thousand pounds. So why was I hurt?

First I thought I would not mention to Mrs. Andrews that I had seen her master. Then I realized that Williams would tell the other servants, and that Mrs. Andrews would know. She would interpret my silence as the result of anger and pain—which, of course, it was. So I sent for her.

Despite my resolution I could not face her directly. I seated myself at my dressing table and spoke to her by way of the mirror.

'Lord Clare has returned,' I said, busily at work among the brushes and jars on the table. 'I am sure you have your usual excellent dinner planned, but just be sure his fire is lit, and—and all the rest. Thank you, Mrs. Andrews.'

At least, I thought desolately, as the door closed behind her, I will keep her respect. I will not be pitied. I may not be loved, but I am the mistress of this house, the wife. This may be a small thing, compared with love, but a small spar of wood is enough to keep a drowning man afloat.

I was in the parlor, making ugly large stitches over my embroidery, when Clare entered. I found it hard to look at him. It was odd to hear his voice, sounding just the same as he inquired after my health and asked how I had been filling my time while he was away.

Under the circumstances, the last question was rather much. I looked up at him, feeling the warm blood of indignation flood my face—and met a look as inexpressive and as final as a wall without a door. If he felt shame or chagrin, there was not the slightest trace of it in his face or manner.

I heard my own voice making polite, vague replies, and inquiring after the success of his trip. When Mrs. Andrews came in to announce dinner we were chatting pleasantly, like any affectionate husband and wife.

During the following weeks Clare was exceedingly busy. Boxes and bundles began arriving, and as the warm weather advanced and the winter-sodden ground dried, a swarm of workmen descended on the house. Scaffolding enfolded the abandoned wing like a wooden spider's web, and agile figures moved over it from early dawn until the last rays of sunset died. Clare was in and out all day long, consulting with and instructing the workers; no detail escaped his care.

We began to have callers. Not many and not often; we were in an isolated region and the few families on our social level lived a considerable distance. To them and to me, Clare gave the same excuse for not sending out formal invitations: once the house was in repair, we would entertain on a proper scale, with dinner parties and perhaps a ball to introduce the new Lady Clare to the neighborhood. At the rate the work was progressing, it seemed to me the house would not be in a state to suit him until the following winter; and then, as my visitors all explained, social activity was at a minimum because of the poor roads.