Greygallows (29 page)

The housekeeper's mouth tightened. I had made a mistake in expressing concern over Jonathan; but if she had not been prejudiced against me to begin with, she would not have taken my words as she
did. She had always been kind. It hurt me to see her looking at me as she did now.

'I came to say good-bye, my lady,' she said stiffly. 'And to wish you well; and if there is anything I can do—'

'Good-bye?' The word destroyed my self-control. She might hate me, she might take Clare's part; but her honesty and rectitude acted as a shield. With her in the house there were limits to what Clare would do. With her gone...

I ran to her and caught at the pudgy little hands folded primly at her waist.

'Mrs. Andrews, don't abandon me! Please—I am afraid—'

'My lady, I am not abandoning you; I am only going ahead of you, to London, to see to opening up the house there. I will see you again in a few days. If there is any errand—'

'Oh, don't speak to me of errands! You don't know what he will do to me!'

Her pink face pursed up again. She had adored her Master Edward too long to admit the slightest criticism. He was a male, and a peer of the realm, and her employer. If he came after me with a club, she might begin to doubt his good intentions; even then she would probably make excuses for him.

'Now, my lady,' she said firmly, 'I must be frank; I do it for you own good. You have hurt his Lordship terribly—'

I laughed. I could not help it; but it was not the wisest thing to do.

'Terribly,' Mrs. Andrews went on, frowning. 'And you would hurt him even more if you persist in speaking so—so—well, so madly, so wildly. Can you imagine that he would ever...' At that point
she remembered that he had, in fact, struck me; her face reddened, but she went on, with the dogged illogic of the prejudiced. 'That was nothing; a man might do such a thing, in a fit of passion; and if you will be so thoughtless with other men—'

'You can't believe that,' I said; but my voice was hopeless. I knew she would rather believe ill of me than of him.

'I don't believe you are wicked,' she said, more gently. 'Only young and foolish; but you do not think how he feels.'

'Never mind,' I said. I lifted the teapot and poured some of the hot liquid into a cup. 'Will you join me? Forgive me, then; I am really quite weak with hunger and thirst.'

'You must forgive me,' she said coldly. 'I forgot my place.'

'You can say anything you like.' I took a bite of toast. 'I will listen to you. I only wish
you
would listen to
me.
Why has he decided to go to London? Or am I to go alone, and be imprisoned there?'

'He is trying to be kind. He thinks you have been bored and lonely here, and so have made the wrong friends. Most husbands would not be so thoughtful.'

'I see.' I took another piece of toast; it was good. 'So he is taking me into the world of gaiety and pleasure. I thought the London house was unfit for occupation.'

'It is for that reason that I am being sent ahead, with the household staff. It is to spare
you
discomfort.'

'I see,' I said again. I finished the toast.

Mrs. Andrews stood watching me, her
look
openly hostile now. My forced calm was creating a bad impression. She would have preferred to see me prostrate and repentant, wiping away my tears with my hair, perhaps.

'Then if you have no instructions...' She moved toward the door.

'Mrs. Andrews. If I asked you to take a letter ... No, you would give it to his Lordship, would you not?' Her face answered me. I said wearily, 'You would. And no doubt Mr. Beam would also think me mad—or bad ... Will you carry a message to the vicar for me? You cannot object to my asking him to come to see me. Unless you think that he and I ... No? You look shocked; I am surprised you think me incapable of corrupting him. He is a personable young man, after all.'

'He is a man of God,' said Mrs. Andrews, through tight lips. 'I will deliver your message, my lady. You might profit from seeing a clergyman, certainly.'

The cup I was holding rattled in its saucer as my hands began to shake.

'I may not see you again,' I said. 'If I do not—please think well of me, Mrs. Andrews, as I do of you. You can't help it. You were kind to me, once.'

Tears welled into her eyes. She glanced uneasily back at the open door; it was strange and pitiful to see how she feared him, and yet stubbornly maintained her belief in his goodwill.

'Child,' she said, in a voice so soft I could hardly hear it, 'if you would only—'

'It's no use,' I said. 'But I thank you.' Automatically, like a good housewife, she picked up the tray containing the remains of my dinner.

There were enough broken bits remaining to show that in that meal, at least, I had conformed to the expected picture of distress. She glanced slyly at me.

'I sent Mr. Scott's valise and coat to the village,' she whispered. 'He is staying with the Millers. He took no harm, my lady.'

From my window I saw Mrs. Andrews' departure. Williams was driving the large traveling carriage. With the housekeeper went the butler and three of the housemaids, as well as Williams and a pair of grooms. I wondered how many servants were left. I had never kept count; a dozen, perhaps? It did not matter. With Anna and Mrs. Andrews gone, there was no one left who had the power or the will to come to my aid. There was no one anywhere. The villagers were helpless against Clare's wealth and power, and any gesture from Jonathan would only confirm the vile slanders about us.

Late in the afternoon Betty came with another tray. She was grinning with gratified pleasure in my disgrace, and her eyes followed me greedily, hoping for signs of grief or guilt. Her hatred was not a personal thing; she hated all of us, all those who had wealth and position and security. In a way, I could not blame her, but I would not give her the satisfaction of seeing my distress. I said 'Thank you' when she brought the tray, and 'You may go,' and that was all.

Night fell, and my faith in Mrs. Andrews as a messenger began to dim. Mr. Fleetwood had not come, and I did not think he would now. It was still raining heavily, and the incessant pound of it
was weighing on my nerves. The puddle on the driveway had spread another foot by the time it grew too dark to see out. There was a skin of ice on it, and the rain had begun to sound like sleet.

I tried to start a fire. I would not call Betty to help, but I had a frightful time with it. It had seemed so easy when I saw the servants do it, but the wood would not catch, it only smoldered. My hands were black and my back ached before I had achieved a small blaze. I crouched down before it, holding my hands to the warmth and feeling like Cinderella in my wrinkled gown and ash-smeared face.

It was then, of course, that Mr. Fleetwood arrived. I didn't care; I was past worrying about how I looked. I left a smear of soot on his cuff as I caught the hand he extended to me; his look of chagrin would have amused me if I had been less distracted.

'Thank you for coming,' I babbled. 'Oh, thank you! I am sorry to receive you so ... I look so ... And the room is so cold!'

'Now don't distress yourself,' he said cheerfully. 'The room
is
cold. You have been a careless child; you will make yourself ill.'

He was very deft; before long he had picked up the fire without even dirtying his hands. He sat down across the hearth from me and smiled.

'The worst is over. There is nothing to be afraid of. You may cry, if you like.'

'I don't want to cry,' I said; 'I want to smash something. Why am I subjected to this? Before God, I am innocent! But if Clare persists in treating me as if I were guilty...'

A spark flared up in the placid gray of his eyes.

'By heaven, I admire your courage!' he exclaimed.

My eyes fell.

'You would not,' I muttered, 'if you could read my thoughts.'

'I do read them. I do not approve of what you were about to say; I can hardly do so, as a clergyman. But as a man, I understand and sympathize. I have often wondered how many unfortunates have been driven to sin by the expectation that they would.'

'I thought of running away,' I admitted. 'But where would I run to?'

'You have no friends hereabouts? No relatives?'

'Only an aunt. And she would not receive me.'

'Not even temporarily?'

'Mr. Fleetwood,' I said uneasily, 'you do not mean to do so, I know ... But you alarm me, you really do. Are you suggesting that I should leave my husband?'

'My dear Lucy—I may take that liberty? I may call you Lucy?'

'Of course,' I said impatiently. 'Go on.'

'My dear Lucy, I will speak honestly. I make it a rule never to interfere between husband and wife. But there are advantages to—what shall I call it?—a truce, a brief separation, to give you both time to think. You need not assure me of your innocence; I believe in it as I believe in that of my own sister. But in Clare's present mood...'

'If I could talk to Clare...'

'Good heaven no! That would be the worst thing you could do. Give him time to calm down.'

'I may not have time. He means to take me to London.'

Mr. Fleetwood shook his head. He looked grave.

'Do you think I should not go?'

'You must go,' he said heavily. 'I only wish I were not going away myself. I am not worried, mind you; but...'

'You are going?' If he was not worried, I was. One by one, every person on whom I might depend was being taken from me. 'But you—oh, yes, I forgot. Forgive me for not inquiring after your sister. How does she do?'

'Badly. I am anxious to get her away.'

'And you came here, when you have so much to do. I am ashamed. Of course you must think first of her. When do you go?'

'Tomorrow, at first light.'

'In such weather? Is that wise, in her state of health?'

'All the more reason why I am anxious to be away. If I dared delay I would, for your sake. But the rain is only beginning, and the weather is much colder tonight. If this continues, the roads will soon be impassable.'

'Then Clare must mean to leave soon,' I muttered.

'I think I heard him speak of tomorrow.'

'It makes no difference.'

'It means you have only tonight,' said Mr. Fleetwood. Then he raised his hand to his mouth. 'I did not mean to say that. Forget I said it.'

'I don't know what to do ...'

'It will all come right in the end,' said Mr. Fleetwood, with a smile that looked like a snarl, it was so obviously forced. He rose. 'I must go. Charlotte will be expecting me.'

'Give her my best.'

'Thank you.' He hesitated, and then said, 'I will take Edward to sleep tonight at the vicarage. You may rest more easily, knowing that.'

I had read of people wringing their hands, but I never thought they really did, until that night. I paced the floor, twisting my hands until they hurt. Instead of bringing the reassurance I had hoped for, Mr. Fleetwood's visit had only increased my fears. His vague, indefinite habit of speech had never been so irritating. But surely he would not have left me if he really feared for my safety? He might reasonably fear for my peace of mind; but no man, much less a clergyman, would abandon a woman to real danger.

I felt more relieved when I saw Clare go. The carriage came round, and by its flickering side lamps I recognized my husband and the vicar as they got in. The carriage drove off, looking like one of those ghostly chariots Clare was so fond of describing, as it vanished into the rain, and I drew a long breath as I turned from the window. I was really very tired, not having slept well for several days. Since Mr. Fleetwood's visit I was painfully conscious of my disheveled state. I forced myself to call Betty. She answered so promptly that another half-formed suspicion was confirmed; no doubt Clare had ordered her to hide in the hall and watch me.

I ordered her to bring hot water and then sent her away; I could not have her watching me with that sly look in her eye. I washed myself and changed my clothing, and then I felt much better.

In spite of everything, I had no intention of trying to escape from the house. Aside from the fact that I had nowhere to go, I felt sure Clare had
people watching me. It would be too degrading to be caught and forced back to my room. I remembered the big rough hands of the London pugilist, and his sneering smile, and I literally turned sick at the notion that those hands might touch me.

I took up a book, to try and distract myself, but it did not hold my attention, and I sat staring into the dying fire while my thoughts went over and over the same well-worn track. The firelight made me sleepy; I was drowsing when a sound at the door brought me wide awake.

It was not a knock or a rattle of the knob, but a scratching sound such as a dog might have made. I had not locked the door. It had not seemed necessary, with Clare gone from the house. Now I regretted that omission, as I watched the door slowly begin to open.

It opened only a crack. Then something white appeared in the slit, and fell to the floor. Sounds and movement stopped; but I thought I detected a faint creak, as if someone tiptoeing down the hall had stepped on a squeaking board.

I went to the door and nerved myself to open it. There was no one in sight; the lamps shone steadily on emptiness. At my feet lay a folded piece of paper.

This time, before I opened the note, I locked the door. I can still remember every word it contained.

'My love: Come to me. I wait for you without, at the foot of the stone staircase. Do not fail me; my very life depends on your actions now.'

It was sighed 'Jonathan.'