The Face of a Stranger (26 page)

"He was very charming," she said, watching ahead.
"Sometimes. He had a great laugh when he was happy-he also had a filthy
temper and was terribly bossy—even with Aunt Callandra. He was always
interfering, telling her how she ought to do everything—when he got the whim
for it. Then he would forget about whatever it was, and leave her to clear up
the mess."

She reined in the horse a little, getting it under better control.

"But he was very generous," she added. "He never betrayed
a friend's confidence. And the best horseman I ever saw—far better than either
Menard or Lovel—and far better than General Wadham." Her hair was coming
undone in the wind, and she ignored it. She giggled happily. "They
couldn't bear each other."

It opened up an understanding of Callandra that Hester had never
imagined before—a loneliness, and a freedom which explained why she had never
entertained the idea of remarriage. Who could follow such a highly individual
man? And perhaps also her independence had become more precious as she became
more used to its pleasures. And perhaps also there had been more unhappiness
there

than Hester had imagined in her swift and rather shallow judgments?

She smiled and made some acknowledgment of having heard Rosamond's
remark, then changed the subject. They arrived at the small hamlet where their
further visiting was to be conducted, and it was late in the afternoon, hot and
vividly blue and gold as they returned through the heavy fields past the
reapers, whose backs were still bent, arms bare. Hester was glad of the breeze
of their movement and passing beneath the huge shade trees that leaned over
the narrow road was a pleasure. There was no sound but the thud of the horse's
hooves, the hiss of the wheels and the occasional bird song. The light gleamed
pale on the straw stalks where the laborers had already passed, and darker on
the ungathered heads. A few faint clouds, frail as spun floss, drifted across
the horizon.

Hester looked at Rosamond's hands on the reins and her quiet, tense
face, and wondered if she saw the timeless beauty of it, or only the unceasing
sameness, but it was a question she could not ask.

* * * * *

Hester Spent the evening with Callandra in her rooms and did not dine
with the family, but she took breakfast in the main dining room the following
morning and Rosamond greeted her with evident pleasure.

"Would you like to see my son?" she invited with a faint blush
for her assumption, and her vulnerability.

"Of course I would," Hester answered immediately; it was the
only possible thing to say. "I cannot think of anything nicer."
Indeed that was probably true. She was not looking forward to her next
encounter with Fabia and she certainly did not wish to do any more visiting
with General Wadham, any more "good works" among those whom Fabia
considered "the deserving poor," nor to walk in the park again where
she might meet that peculiarly offensive policeman. His remarks had been
impertinent, and really very unjust. "It will make a beautiful beginning
to the day," she added.

The nursery was a bright south-facing room full of sunlight and chintz,
with a low nursing chair by the window, a rocking chair next to the large,
well-railed and guarded fireplace, and at present, since the child was so
young, a day crib. The nursery maid, a young girl with a handsome face and skin
like cream, was busy feeding the baby, about a year and a half old, with
fingers of bread and butter dipped in a chopped and buttered boiled egg. Hester
and Rosamond did not interrupt but stood watching.

The baby, a quiff of blond hair along the crown of his head like a
little bird's comb, was obviously enjoying himself immensely. He accepted
every mouthful with perfect obedience and his cheeks grew fatter and fatter.
Then with shining eyes he took a deep breath and blew it all out, to the
nursery maid's utter consternation. He laughed so hard his face was bright pink
and he fell over sideways in his chair, helpless with delight.

Rosamond was filled with embarrassment, but all Hester could do was
laugh with the baby, while the maid dabbed at her once spotless apron with a
damp cloth.

"Master Harry, you shouldn't do that!" the maid said as
fiercely as she dared, but there was no real anger in her voice, more simple
exasperation at having been caught yet again.

"Oh you dreadful child." Rosamond went and picked him up,
holding him close to her and laying the pale head with its wave of hair close
to her cheek. He was still crowing with joy, and looked over his mother's
shoulder at Hester with total confidence that she would love him.

They spent a happy hour in gentle conversation, then left the maid to
continue with her duties, and Rosamond showed Hester the main nursery where
Lovel, Menard and Joscelin had played as children: the rocking horse, the toy
soldiers, the wooden swords, the musical boxes, and the kaleidoscope; and the
dolls' houses left by an earlier generation of girls—perhaps Callandra
herself?

Next they looked at the schoolroom with its tables and shelves of books.
Hester found her hands picking at first

idly over old exercises of copperplate writing, a child's early, careful
attempts. Then as she progressed to adolescent years and essays she found
herself absorbed in reading the maturing hand. It was an essay in light,
fluent style, surprisingly sharp for one so young and with a penetrating,
often unkind wit. The subject was a family picnic, and she found herself
smiling as she read, but there was pain in it, an awareness under the humor of
cruelty. She did not need to look at the spine of the book to know it was
Joscelin's.

She found one of Lovel's and turned the pages till she discovered an
essay of similar length. Rosamond was searching a small desk for a copy of some
verses, and there was time to read it carefully. It was utterly unlike,
diffident, romantic, seeing beyond the simple woodland of Shelburne a forest
where great deeds could be done, an ideal woman wooed and loved with a clean
and untroubled emotion so far from the realities of human need and difficulty
Hester found her eyes prickling for the disillusion that must come to such a
youth.

She closed the pages with their faded ink and looked across at Rosamond,
the sunlight on her bent head as she fingered through duty books looking for
some special poem that caught her own high dream. Did either she or Lovel see
beyond the princesses and the knights in armor the fallible, sometimes weak,
sometimes frightened, often foolish people beneath—who needed immeasurably more
courage, generosity and power to forgive than the creatures of youth's
dreams—and were so much more precious?

She wanted to find the third essay, Menard's—and it took her several
minutes to locate a book of his and read it. It was stiff, far less comfortable
with words, and all through it there was a passionate love of honor, a loyalty
to friendship and a sense of history as an unending cavalcade of the proud and
the good, with sudden images borrowed from the tales of King Arthur. It was
derivative and stilted, but the sincerity still shone through, and she

doubted the man had lost the values of the boy who had written so
intensely—and awkwardly.

Rosamond had found her poem at last, and was so absorbed in it that she
was unaware of Hester's movement towards her, or that Hester glanced over her
shoulder and saw that it was an anonymous love poem, very small and very
tender.

Hester looked away and walked to the door. It was not something upon
which to intrude.

Rosamond closed the book and followed a moment after, recapturing her
previous gaiety with an effort which Hester pretended not to notice.

"Thank you for coming up," she said as they came back into the
main landing with its huge jardinieres of flowers. "It was kind of you to
be so interested."

"It is not kindness at all," Hester denied quickly. "I
think it is a privilege to see into the past as one does in nurseries and old
schoolrooms. I thank you for allowing me to come. And of course Harry is
delightful! Who could fail to be happy in his presence?"

Rosamond laughed and made a small gesture of denial with her hand, but
she was obviously pleased. They made their way downstairs together and into the
dining room, where luncheon was already served and Lovel was waiting for them.
He stood up as they came in, and took a step towards Rosamond. For a moment he
seemed about to._ speak, then the impulse died.

She waited a moment, her eyes full of hope. Hester hated herself for
being there, but to leave now would be absurd; the meal was set and the footman
waiting to serve it. She knew Callandra had gone to visit an old acquaintance,
because it was on Hester's behalf that she had made the journey, but Fabia was
also absent and her place was not set.

Lovel saw her glance.

"Mama is not well," he said with a faint chill. "She has
remained in her room."

"I am sorry," Hester said automatically. "I hope it is
nothing serious?"

"I hope not," he agreed, and as soon as they were seated,
resumed his own seat and indicated that the footman might begin to serve them.

Rosamond nudged Hester under the table with her foot, and Hester
gathered that the situation was delicate, and wisely did not pursue it.

The meal was conducted with stilted and trivial conversation, layered
with meanings, and Hester thought of the boy's essay, the old poem, and all the
levels of dreams and realities where so much fell through between one set of
meanings and another, and was lost.

Afterwards she excused herself and went to do what she realized was her
duty. She must call on Fabia and apologize for having been rude to General
Wadham. He had deserved it, but she was Fabia's guest, and she should not have
embarrassed her, regardless of the provocation.

It was best done immediately; the longer she thought about it the harder
it would be. She had little patience with minor ailments; she had seen too much
desperate disease, and her own health was good enough she did not know from
experience how debilitating even a minor pain can be when stretched over time.

She knocked on Fabia's door and waited until she heard the command to
enter, then she turned the handle and went in.

It was a less feminine room than she had expected. It was plain light
Wedgwood blue and sparsely furnished compared with the usual cluttered style. A
single silver vase held summer roses in full bloom on the table by the window;
the bed was canopied in white muslin, like the inner curtains. On the farthest
wall, where the sun was diffused, hung a fine portrait of a young man in the
uniform of a cavalry officer. He was slender and straight, his fair hair
falling over a broad brow, pale, intelligent eyes and a mobile mouth, humorous,
articulate, and she thought in that fleeting instant, a little weak.

Fabia was sitting up in her bed, a blue satin bedjacket covering her
shoulders and her hair brushed and knotted loosely so it fell in a faded coil
over her breast. She looked thin and much older than Hester was prepared for.
Suddenly the apology was not difficult. She could see all the loneliness of years
in the pale
face,
the loss which would never be repaired.

"Yes?" Fabia said with distinct chill.

"I came to apologize, Lady Fabia," Hester replied quietly.
"I was very rude to General Wadham yesterday, and as your guest it was
inexcusable. I am truly sorry."

Fabia's eyebrows rose in surprise, then she smiled very slightly.

"I accept your apology. I am surprised you had the grace to come—I
had not expected it of you. It is not often I misjudge a young woman." Her
smile lifted the corners of her mouth fractionally, giving her face a sudden
life, echoing the girl she must once have been. "It was most embarrassing
for me that General Wadham should be so-so deflated. But it was not entirely without
its satisfactions. He is a condescending old fool—and I sometimes get very
weary of being patronized."

Hester was too surprised to say anything at all. For the first time
since arriving at Shelburne Hall she actually liked Fabia.

"You may sit down," Fabia offered with a gleam of humor in her
eyes.

"Thank you." Hester sat on the dressing chair covered with
blue velvet, and looked around the room at the other, lesser paintings and the
few photographs, stiff and very posed for the long time that the camera
required to set the image. There was a picture of Rosamond and Lovel, probably
at their wedding. She looked fragile and very happy; he was facing the lens
squarely, full of hope.

On the other chest there was an early daguerreotype of a middle-aged man
with handsome side-whiskers, black hair and a vain, whimsical face. From the
resemblance to Joscelin, Hester assumed it to be the late Lord Shelburne.

There was also a pencil sketch of all three brothers as boys,
sentimental, features a little idealized, the way one remembers summers of the
past.

"I'm sorry you are feeling unwell," Hester said quietly.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I should think it highly unlikely; I am not a casualty of war—at
least not in the sense that you are accustomed to," Fabia replied.

Hester did not argue. It rose to the tip of her tongue to say she was
accustomed to all sorts of hurt, but then she knew it would be trite—she had
not lost a son, and that was the only grief Fabia was concerned with.