The Adultress (36 page)

Some of the older people were aloof with Evalina but the younger men found her irresistible. I couldn’t help watching her. I was afraid that she might talk to Jean-Louis. But he was busy with the farmers, who seemed as if they were not going to let him escape. He wouldn’t want to join the dancers on the grass outside. So I felt comparatively safe.

In the great hall on the dais was one of the new pianos and there were violinists, too, to provide the music. The tables were laden with food of all descriptions and people were invited to help themselves whenever they felt the inclination to do so. Needless to say, many constantly felt the inclination and Mrs. Baines and her kitchen staff were in a twitter of excitement and gratification at the fast disappearances from dishes, which needed constant replenishing.

The music floated out to the grounds and in the light of the torches flaring on the walls people wandered through the grounds while others sat and talked and some of the younger ones danced.

I found Charles Forster at my elbow.

I said: “Are you enjoying this? No. It’s an unfair question. It isn’t much to your taste, is it?”

“I’m a bit of a sobersides, I’m afraid.”

“Well, you are occupied with more serious matters. Though this is a serious matter. I think all the tenants are rather pleased that we are here and this is a way of telling them that we are not making great changes but are going on in the way the family have run things for years and years.”

“That’s true,” he said. “It’s a worthy occasion. I’m just not a good socializer. Let’s walk a little, shall we? The night air is refreshing after the heat of the day.”

“It’s certainly wonderful weather. I was terrified that it would rain, which would have meant having it in the hall. I suppose we could have managed but not quite so pleasant. I think.”

“This is ideal. I am pleased you have come here.”

I felt absurdly delighted by that remark.

But he went on: “You are good company for Isabel. She needs a friend.”

“Isabel is the sort who makes friends easily, I am sure. It is I who am grateful for her friendship.”

“Isabel is a fine woman. I often tell Derek how lucky he is. She is calm, good-natured and sound in judgment.”

“I see you are as fond of her as she is of you.”

“They are my family … my brother and his wife. They came here, you know, to be near me.”

“Well, that seems a reasonable thing to do. Families should be together when they can.”

“The hospital was here. … It’s an ideal place for it. It’s facing the sea … an old house which was more or less derelict when I took it. But it had everything I needed. The isolation was important.”

“Why did you have to be so isolated?”

“It was comforting for my patients.”

“They are young mothers, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” he said, “unfortunate young mothers.”

“Unfortunate?”

“Yes, that is the reason why they are there. It is for people whose circumstances are rather distressing. That is why they want to get right away from people. It’s a helpful start.”

“So your hospital is for those who are … friendless.”

“They are often friendless.”

“And unmarried?”

“Some of them.”

“I believe you are doing a wonderful job. Isabel says …”

“Oh, you mustn’t listen too much to Isabel. She will give you an entirely false picture of me.”

“Surely anyone who works as you do for such a cause is worthy of praise?”

“Well, I suppose most of us earn a little praise now and then. It’s a matter of setting the good deeds against the evil … and seeing which weigh more.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see I’m talking in riddles, which is foolish and incredibly boring, I am sure.”

I leaned toward him and touched his hand lightly.

“Not boring in the least.”

At that moment I saw Evalina stroll by. She was arm in arm with one of the young sons of a farmer. She turned her head and smiled at me.

“Having a wonderful time …” she said. “Aren’t we?”

She had spoiled the moment for me. I knew what it was I hated: that inclusive smile … or word. That implication:
We are at the same game, you and me.

I said: “I think we should go in.”

Immediately we turned to the house. I felt frustrated. I wanted to go on talking to the doctor.

Jean-Louis was sitting down in deep conversation. I went over to him. He smiled at me and took my hand.

“All going well,” he said. “It’s a very satisfactory evening. An excellent idea to meet our friends thus.”

Yes, a satisfactory evening … an excellent idea … until Evalina had appeared like the serpent in paradise.

One of the maids was making her way towards me.

“Yes, Rose?” I said.

“It’s one of the men from Grasslands, madam,” she said. “They want to know if the doctor is here so he can go over. Mr. Mather is taken worse.”

Andrew Mather died that night of a heart attack. Charles Forster told me about it the following day when he called to thank me for the party and to ask me if I would go back with him to see Isabel.

As we walked over to Enderby he told me what had happened.

“By the time I arrived at Grasslands he was unconscious. I knew there was only an hour or so left to him. His wife was distraught. She seems really heartbroken. She looked scared too, I thought. I suppose she relied on him to take care of her.”

“I think Evalina would be able to take good care of herself.”

“Yes … that woman’s daughter … you would think so. But somehow she seemed pathetic … vulnerable.”

I smiled at him, wondering if he too had fallen under the spell of Evalina’s fascination.

I had to admit that there was something appealing about her; it was a certain helplessness which I supposed could be called femininity; whatever it was it aroused the interest of men of all ages … even Charles Forster, who was the last man I should have thought would be affected, was taken in by it.

“At least,” he went on, “it was expected. I had warned him … and her … of the state of his heart.”

Isabel greeted me warmly and we talked of the success of the party until the doctor had been called away and had left with Evalina.

“Poor Andrew,” said Isabel. “At least he had some happiness at the end. To see him with that child was heartwarming.”

“I wonder what will happen now?” I said. “Of course Grasslands is not a large estate. How many farms are there? … only two, I think.”

“Yes, I think so. Andrew had a good man in Jack Trent. I daresay he will go on … if Evalina stays here.”

“What else would she do?”

“She might sell up and go.”

I thought that was an outcome which would be very desirable as far as I was concerned.

During the next days members of Andrew’s family began to arrive at Grasslands. I saw one of them—a man who looked to be in his forties. I thought he looked rather grim and disagreeable. Isabel, who had called on Evalina to offer her condolences and to ask if there was anything she could do, told me that the man was a nephew of Andrew’s and that she did not seem to be very pleased that he had come.

The funeral took place about a week after Andrew’s death. I attended the service in the church with Jean-Louis, and Evalina spoke to me as we came out of the church, asking me to come back to the house with the mourners. She looked fragile in deep black with a flowing veil hiding her face.

“Please come,” she said. It was almost like a command; but perhaps that was my imagination as I had begun to feel that she thought she had a right to make demands on me.

This seemed a small thing to ask and I went back.

It was very somber in the hall where refreshments were served. The nephew seemed to be taking charge of the proceedings, which I suppose was natural, as he would be the nearest relative apart from Evalina and the baby.

I was glad when we left. I supposed the reading of the will would take place and that was no concern of ours.

Jean-Louis and I walked back to Eversleigh very slowly. I always slackened my pace when walking with my husband because I knew that he found it painful to walk quickly and that he would not admit this, so I pretended that his pace was mine.

“Poor child,” he said. “She seems so young.”

“Everyone is sorry for Evalina,” I said, a little impatiently. “I am sure as her mother’s daughter she will know how to take care of herself.”

“
She
did no wrong as far as we know,” said Jean-Louis. “Poor child, it was not her fault she had such a mother.”

“She must have known that her mother was stealing things from Eversleigh. She was hiding them for her at Grasslands.”

“That’s understandable. Her mother told her they were gifts.”

I was silent. The men found excuses for her. First Charles Forster and now Jean-Louis.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think we need worry too much about her for I am sure she will be able to take care of herself.”

She was perhaps not so self-sufficient as I had thought, for the next day she sent one of her servants to Eversleigh with a message for me. She wanted me to meet her … “You know the old haunted patch,” she wrote, “where they buried Lord Eversleigh. It’s quiet there. No one ever goes there. It’s near Enderby but sheltered from it. Meet me there at two o’clock this afternoon.”

It was a little peremptory, I thought, and for a moment felt inclined to ignore it; but on second thought I changed my mind.

Secretly I had to admit that I was both unsure and afraid of her.

She was waiting for me, looking distraught, walking up and down impatiently.

She said: “It’s quiet here. Nobody comes here. They never did, and since Lordy was buried here it’s even more spooky.”

“You had something to say to me?”

She nodded and I saw the look of fear in her face.

She said: “It’s him. It’s John Mather … the nephew. Andrew would never want it. He’d turn in his grave. Andrew was all for me … he was … and the boy.”

“What about the nephew?”

“Andrew’s left everything … just everything to me … in trust for Richard. Richard’s to have all this and I’m to share it with him … Grasslands … and Andrew’s money … everything. But the nephew is going to contest the will.”

“He can’t do that, can he?”

“He says he can. He says Andrew was duped … by me. He says I forced him to marry me. He says Andrew was incapable of having children … and Richard can’t be his.”

“I think he’s just trying to frighten you.”

“He says it would be better for me to give up Grasslands to him … and take a small income which he would be prepared to give me to save a lot of unpleasantness.”

There was a short silence while she looked at me appealingly.

“What … what do you expect
me
to do?” I asked.

“I want you to tell me what to do … how I can stop him?”

“How should I know? You are Andrew’s widow. You have his child. It seems to me his nephew is talking nonsense.”

She looked at me steadily. “But if he can prove …”

“What do you mean?”

“Suppose Richard …” She looked at me steadily. “
You
know how these things can happen … even to people who seem to be so respectable. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to tell me what to do.”

“Are you telling me that Richard is not Andrew’s son?”

She was silent. I had a sudden inspiration and the words came out before I had time to consider them: “Richard is Dickon’s child.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“They’ll take it all away from me … from him. It was the way Andrew wanted it. He loved Richard … it made a new man of him, he used to say … no matter who Richard’s father was, he did that for Andrew.”

“He was certainly very happy,” I said.

“He was. I made him happy. I liked making him happy. He was good to me, he was. He took me in … he made a pet of me … and when it all happened … when they found out what my mother was … and all that … he never threw it up at me. All he said was ‘My poor little girl.’ He understood I never wanted to be like that. I wanted to be good and respectable like you were”—she paused and looked at me with the old sly look in her eyes—“until you came here.”

I felt my hatred of her welling up in me and at the same time I was sorry for her. I knew she was very frightened. I thought: She is another of Dickon’s victims. He is a devil. He creates mischief wherever he goes. But could I blame him? Evalina was the sort of girl who would frolic in barns with whatever lusty young man beckoned her.

She was looking at me almost defiantly. She had some absurd and childish faith in me; she was begging my help; no, demanding it. I had to make her problem mine or she would make it uncomfortable for me.

Oddly enough I wanted to help her … apart from the fact that I was afraid not to.

I said: “Andrew accepted Richard as his, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. He thought it was a miracle. He’d been told he could never have children … nor could he. Well, I wanted a little one of my own. You can’t blame me. So it happened and he thought it was his and there was no harm in it. It made a new man of him. He kept saying that. He was almost crazy with joy when Richard was born. ‘A boy,’ he kept saying, ‘my own son.’ I felt pretty good, I did, lying in that bed … giving him a son. He just couldn’t do enough for me. Proved his manhood and all that, he said. What was wrong with it, eh? You tell me that.”

“There was some good in it, obviously,” I said. “But why are you so worried?”

“Because of this nephew. He’s threatening all sorts of things … talking of lawyers. …”

“How can he? The will is there. No one can go against a will.”

“Yes, the will’s there. Andrew was very careful about that. He made it when Richard was born. He said to me: ‘That’s taken care of. Everything is for you and the boy. So if anything should happen to me suddenly I know you’re safe.’”

“I am sure the nephew can do nothing.”

“But you see, if he can prove Andrew couldn’t have children …”

“Surely no one could be absolutely sure of that?”

“Couldn’t he be?”

“No.”

“Then no one must know that Richard’s not …”

“No one must know.”