Maulever Hall (23 page)

Marianne let the paper fall. It was impossible. It must be true. It was unbearable. She had to bear it. But how
could
he? She would never know. “We have not finished digging up the dahlias,” she said, and went strenuously back to work. Mrs. Bundy left her alone, and for that small mercy she was grateful.

From then on, political and social notes alike kept Marianne informed that Mauleverer was still in town. His name was constantly mentioned in connection with the committee that was redrafting the Reform Bill. This would have been all very well, but it appeared, too, in the notes of an unusually brilliant winter season—and always coupled with that of Lady Heverdon. A kind woman, Mrs. Bundy forebore to comment, but then, no comment was needed. He had forgotten her already. Marianne set herself, resolutely, to forget him.

It was easier determined on, than done. At last she came to the conclusion that it was partly anxiety for Mrs. Mauleverer and little Thomas that kept her so sleepless and so drawn. Since Mauleverer was still in London, and had by all the evidence entirely forgotten her, was there any reason why she should not pay just one visit to the Hall and find out how things went there? She put this, one wet October evening, to Mrs. Bundy.

“How would you get there?” Mrs. Bundy could be relied on to be practical.

“There is a farm cart, George tells me, that goes most
of the way, on Thursdays. It is but to walk the last two miles or so.”

“You have it all worked out, I can see. Well, I can’t say that I blame you. But wait, at least, until I have my answer from London. Suppose you find that you are not married after all?”

“It would be rather late in the day,” said Marianne bitterly.

And yet, she could not help hoping, had indeed decided long since that hope was her worst enemy. When the long-awaited letter arrived, at last, from London, she knew that she had been right. Mrs. Bundy read it through quickly. “Yes,” she said at last, “Marianne Loudon to Paul Rossand, April 14, 1829. You were married some time, my dear.” And then: “Wretched man, why does he never carry out my instructions in their entirety! He has not sent me a copy of the license: we still do not know where the marriage took place, and I should like to know where your church on the hill was situated. After all, someone must know something about you there. I will write again.”

“Thank you.” Marianne tried to sound as if she cared. It was all over, all totally, hopelessly over. How right Mauleverer had been to embark, at once, on a new life. Now, she must make herself do likewise. But, first, she would pay her visit to Maulever Hall and free herself of her anxiety on account of her friend there, and of Thomas. If she might also learn a little more news of Mauleverer himself, well, that was not the main purpose of the visit.

“You really think it wise?” asked Mrs. Bundy when she spoke of her plan.

“I do not see how I can bear not to.”

“Very well then.”

There seemed to be about six Wednesdays in that week, but Marianne woke at last to the excitement of Thursday morning—and the sound of rain on the roof. “You will never go in this,” said Mrs. Bundy, over home-baked rolls and coffee.

“I must. If I wait, Mark Mauleverer may return to the Hall, and then, of course, it would be impossible.”

“True,” said the old lady thoughtfully, “but surely, with the excitement over the Bill so intense, he will not be returning now?”

“Probably not,” Marianne admitted. “But—oh, please understand ... I feel I must go.”

Mrs. Bundy laughed. “If it will make you better company
than you have been all week, you had best go and get it over with. But I am afraid you will have a sad wet time of it in the farm cart. Here”—she reached into one of the many cupboards in which the house abounded and brought out a man’s military cloak—“this will keep you dry if anything can; it saw much service in the Peninsula.” Her hands were curiously gentle as she shook out its folds. “I never thought I’d lend it to anyone. You see, child, broken hearts do mend—at last.”

Twenty years ago. Marianne gave a little shiver as she wrapped the capacious cloak around her. Thirty days of absence from Mauleverer had been hard enough to bear. Impulsively, she turned and kissed the old lady. “You are very good to me, ma’am.”

“I thought I should never love anyone again,” said Mrs. Bundy. “But since I find I do, you will have the goodness to take care of yourself. To lose you, would be too much.”

“Never fear,” Marianne laughed rather ruefully. “I think you have me on your hands for good.”

“Selfishly, I hope so. Well, if you must go, you must. He was obstinate too. If he had not been, I might be a grandmother today.” And then, lapsing into her usual style. “Best make haste. Farmer Tho
rn
e never waits; not even for me.”

And indeed when Marianne had picked her way down the muddy lane to the farm she found the cart about to start. “So you’ve come.” Tho
rn
e moved over to make room for her on the hard seat beside him. “I thought you’d have more sense.” He spoke in the broad Devon that Marianne found so difficult to understand, but she knew
him
for a blessedly taciturn man, merely said, “Yes, I’ve come,” and climbed up and set
tl
ed herself beside
him.

That was the sum total of their conversation. From time to time Farmer Tho
rn
e addressed a remark of encouragement or warning to his steadily plodding horse. Otherwise he sat in stolid silence while the rain poured in little rivers from the brim of his hat, and Marianne’s cloak became slowly saturated with it. At last he halted the horse and turned to Marianne. “Here you are,” he said. “I can’t take you any nearer, not without I go out of my way.”

It was almost an apology and she took it in the spirit in which it was meant: “Of course not.”

“You walk through there.” Farmer Tho
rn
e indicated a foot-path with his whip. “It won’t take more than an hour or so. You’ll get wet.”

Marianne laughed. “I am wet. Thank you, Mr. Thorne.” Her spirits were rising mercuria
ll
y just at the nearness of Maulever Hall.

He detained her for a minute. “But how’ll you get back?”

“Oh, they’ll send me, I expect.”

“Pity they didn’t send
for
you in that case.” He spoke to his reluctant horse and they moved slowly forward down the lane.

Marianne, on the other hand, climbed lightly over the stile he had indicated and started oil along the short cut over the hill. She had never come this way before, but knew well enough where it would bring her out on the main driveway of the house. She was stiff with cold, though still comparatively dry inside the heavy cloak, but the exercise soon warmed her and she walked swiftly on, her hopes soaring still faster ahead of her. In vain she tried to steady her racing imagination. She had come simply because Mauleverer was not here. There was not the slightest hope of seeing him. But at least, answered hope, she would have news of him, know at last how he had taken her disappearance, understand, perhaps, what lay behind his renewed association with Lady Heverdon.

Hope was incorrigible, and at last she gave way to it, and let herself dream, as she walked, of a happy encounter with Mauleverer, all their difficulties smoothed away; her marriage no marriage; his arms around her once more. The few miles of her walk seemed nothing and she was amazed when she emerged, quite suddenly, on the carriage drive a little below the house. She stopped for a moment. Hope had painted in other colors. When she had dreamed of the Hall, it had lain as she had so often seen it, in sunshine, the gray stone softened and the red roofs mellowed by the play of cloud shadow from above. The reality was quite different. Steady November rain made a curtain between her and the low, rambling front of the house. Heavy November cloud cast its shadow over everything. The house looked blind
...
dead. In a moment, she realized why. The shutters were closed over the windows of all the principal apartments. She had never seen Maulever Hall like this before. What could be the matter? Was Mrs. Mauleverer ill? Or even dead? No smoke rose from the
f
amil
y’s
end of the house; only, from the kitchen quarters, a thin gray column spoke of life continuing. She hurried forward, angry with herself because the idea of Mrs. Mauleverer’s illness had instantly suggested the possibility that her son might have come to bear her company.

The closer she got, the more forbidding the house looked, and she found herself hesitating, at last, in the drive. It seemed, all of a sudden, presumptuous to go up to the great, closed front door and ring a peal on the bell. Should she not go round to a side entrance and announce herself more discreetly? She dismissed the idea as soon as it had been formed; she had nearly been the mistress of this house; she would never behave like less than an honored guest. And yet, ringing a rather timid peal on the bell, she felt herself the most wretched of intruders and suddenly, passionately wished that she had taken Mrs. Bundy’s delicately implied advice and stayed away. This was not her place. She should not be here.

But the door was opened slowly, almost, it seemed, reluctantly. James, the under footman, stood there in his shirtsleeves and stared as at a ghost. “Miss Lamb,” he said at last. “Well, I’ll be jiggered.”

“Good day, James.” She stepped past him into the hall, noting as she did so the dust sheets that covered everything. The big chandelier that hung high above the stairwell was hidden in a cotton bag; the red Turkish carpet on the stairs was covered by a piece of drugget. This was not how she had imagined her homecoming. Home? Bitter word. She turned to face the man, who was still muttering his amazement to himself. “Where is your mistress, James? I am come to see her.”

“Then you’ve had your journey for your pains, miss. The mistress is in London with”—he hesitated for a moment, an intolerably knowing look on his face—“with Mr. Mauleverer.”

“In London!”

“Yes, miss.” His face was wooden now. “Reckon Martha can tell you the rights of it, best of anyone.
Miss
Martha, I should say, since she was left in charge here.” His tone was scornful as he turned away. “I’ll tell her you’re here, miss.”

Marianne had meant to ask him to take her wet cloak and get it at least partially dried for her, but surprise at what he had told her had combined with something oddly repellent in his manner to make her forget. He had never been a favorite of hers, but had certainly never before treated her with such scant courtesy. Aware of chill, she took an impatient turn about the hall, glancing as she went into the open doors of the familiar rooms, all strange and
forbidding now, in their shroud of dust sheets. Mauleverer had taken his mother to London with him, and, stranger still, had left Martha behind. Both bits of information were equally baffling. Mrs. Mauleverer exposed to the temptations of London—and without Martha to look after her: What could it mean? She had stopped at the foot of the stairs and was gazing with misty eyes in at the doorway of Mauleverer’s study when a peal of childish laughter made her look up. As she did so, something cold, damp, and repulsive fell on her face, blinding her for a moment. At first, imagining horrors, she thought she would be sick, then she saw that it was only a floorcloth, damp and filthy from some housemaid’s bucket. Another peal of laughter, this time from farther down the upstairs hall, told her—if she had not known it already—that she had Thomas to thank for the foul welcome. Horrible child. She shuddered and angrily told her conscience that she had been right to leave him behind. Imagine such carryings-on at Mrs. Bundy’s.

Martha came rustling down the front stairs, something she would never have done in the past. And—she was a Martha transformed by black bombazine and a jingling bunch of household keys. No wonder she was known as “Miss Martha” now. She greeted Marianne coolly, as an equal and without either surprise or pleasure. “Mrs. Mauleverer will be sorry to have missed you.”

“I am sorry not to find her here. How long is she to be in London?”

“So far as I know, for good. There was no talk of a return when they left. Mr. Mauleverer has much to keep him in town.” Her tone made it clear that she was not speaking only of politics.

“And his mother stays with him?”

“Yes, they have taken a house.” She volunteered no further explanation, and Marianne could not bring herself to question her. Impossible to ask this patently hostile woman the thousand questions she had intended to put to Mrs. Mauleverer. She faced the bitter truth that her journey had been for nothing. Even if she could bring herself to ask, Martha would never tell her the things she really wanted to know—how Mauleverer had taken her disappearance, how he had seemed, what he had said
...

Martha was looking at her with faintly insolent enquiry: “You are come, I take it, for your things? Mr. Mauleverer had them packed up for you and said you must have them if you should happen to come.”

Could that have been all he had said? Impossible to ask. And out of the question, of course, to take them. In her bitter disappointment at Mrs. Mauleverer’s absence, she was only now realizing another problem with which it faced her. She had taken it for granted that she would be sent back in the carriage, at least so far as she would take it; now she would have to make her own way. “No,” she said, “I came merely for news of the family. I will send for my things another time.” They were still standing in the cold hall, since Martha had made no move to ask her in, or even suggest she take off her wet things. For a moment, she thought, angrily, of insisting on some semblance of civility, but after all what was the use? Much better to take her leave at once and face her wretchedness alone.