The Gates of Rutherford (12 page)

I have become a bad friend in not writing, and I am already a bad nurse. Do you know what I have done, in addition to living when the girl beside me died? I have sat and watched men and not helped them as I should. That impetus, that instinct, seems to have gone. I think I have lost my senses. I fear it. Even now as the ship's pitching about, I wish it would be hit and go down. That is a dreadful thing to wish upon these men. But all I really want is to stop. Just stop.

And so, dear, I am not such a good person to be associated with. I do not think I am decent company at all. I don't know what they intend to do with me, but whatever it is, I feel the need to avoid it. What I would like you to do is to put me to the back of your mind.

It is proof of my selfishness that I have told you all this when you are dealing with . . . whatever the hell is that you're dealing with, Harry.

Caitlin

•   •   •

I
t was very late in the evening when Octavia arrived at Rutherford.

The Rolls-Royce had been kept in London, and so it was an ordinary taxicab that deposited her on the steps. Bradfield was waiting for her, uncertainly holding an umbrella and glaring from time to time at the threatening sky.

She got out and looked at the house, her gaze swiftly traveling upwards, away from the terracotta Tudor arch and over to the more recent east wing, where one small window close to the roof was still illuminated. It was almost ten o'clock, and so the nursery would be quiet now. But she could hardly wait to see Harry's daughter, Sessy. She might go up despite the hour, she thought to herself. Brave the disapproval of the nursemaid. And then in the morning she would sit down and write to Harry and tell him what she always told him: that Sessy was well, and his image.

Bradfield came hurrying down the steps as best his seventy-year-old legs could carry him. “Welcome home, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Bradfield. Everyone well?”

“Yes indeed, ma'am.”

“And yourself?”

“Very well.”

She walked up the steps and saw that Edward Hardy, their last remaining full-time footman, was holding open the door. She nodded to him: there was no point in trying to hold any kind of conversation. Hardy was a dolt, and that was a fact that had not escaped the recruiting officer in Richmond. That, and his flat feet that even now were turned out at an angle of a-quarter-to-three.

Octavia stood in the hall and breathed in the scent of the house. It was not quite as she would have wanted; the air was musty as if the rooms had not been aired. And, although polished, the reception table had no flowers. She made a mental note to speak to Miss Dodd. Then, down the long Tudor hall with its paneling and ornate ceiling resplendent with the family crest of bluebirds and tropical trees—intricate stucco branches that formed patterns of leaves high above her—she saw William emerge from the direction of his library. He smiled when he saw her. As he walked, his steps echoed.

“Train delayed, I hear.”

She held out her cheek, and he gave her a dry and formal kiss.

“Is Louisa home?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed. But she has gone to bed. She has had a slight cold since the wedding.”

“Oh dear.”

“Shall I call for her to come down?”

“No,” she murmured. “Perhaps it's just as well she isn't here.”

William seemed not to have heard the last part of the sentence. He was already turning away. “Come into the drawing room and get warm,” he said. “A fire is burning.”

This room, at least, felt comfortable. Daylight would show that it faced south, and the magnificent view that it afforded gave it breadth. The garden and parkland unrolled before the windows like a carefully manicured green baize, dissected by the great beechwoods on the drive. Very distantly one could see the roof of the lodge at the parkland gates. Octavia went to the window, and her hands brushed the drawn pleats of the blue-and-white curtains in a heavy Liberty upholstery that she had chosen in another lifetime, another world.

It was so strange to come back; and the truth was that she visited more to see Louisa and Sessy than William. She respected her husband—what he had been, what he still was in his advisory capacity to government; she respected his ancestry, the memories of his parents. But in truth, she did not have any sort of warm feeling to him other than that respect. Of course, everywhere in society he was cast as the wronged husband; she had grown used to that. She felt that it was nobody's business but theirs, and they alone knew the troubles of their marriage; but that did not stop all of society having an opinion, and that opinion routinely cast Octavia as the culprit, and William as the victim.

Twenty years ago she might have been called a scarlet woman; fifty years ago she might have been locked up, literally, in Rutherford
itself. She knew that had been the fate of many an erring wife in the reign of Victoria. One's husband might dally, might have mistresses—indeed, the wife herself might have a lover. But to fall in love—
that
was the disgrace, the ignominy. Aristocratic women simply did not show their hearts so vividly. In fact, to the upper classes, to have a heart at all was an embarrassment.

But the war had taken away some of those boundaries. England had changed. Women had changed. No one would lock her up now, not even William. No one would snub her. She was still received, albeit coldly. She thought that was partly due to John, for his sunny nature and his astonishing wealth tended to open even the most established of doors.

She wondered what those who gave her their frigid stares at the theatre might think if they could see her and William now. He sat close to her, minutely examining her clothes, her face, and her hands as if to commit the sight of her to memory.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Worried,” she told him. “About Harry. And John.” She never lied to him, never pretended that things were other than they were. Once she had obeyed him in everything; now, they occupied some kind of foreign country where the truth was spoken and voices were never raised. They were like two lifelong acquaintances whose manner was always excruciatingly polite.

William said nothing. He never did when John Gould's name was mentioned. Instead, he glanced over at Bradfield. “Would you ask Mrs. Carlisle to have a light supper brought in here? Don't bother with the dining room. Here will be more comfortable.” He glanced at Octavia; she gave a brief nod of approval.

When the butler had gone, Octavia took a letter from her bag. “William,” she asked, “do you think that Louisa is happy here?”

His face showed that he hadn't expected the question. “She seems so.”

“Really happy?” Octavia persisted. “Does she go out, see her friends?”

“Quite frequently, yes. She helps on those fund-raising things. What are they called? Butterfly drives. For the horses, y'know. She went to the picture house in Richmond just two days ago—moving pictures. And I believe she went to York the other day, to shop.”

“What about the Kents?”

“We had the Kents to dinner a month ago.”

“Did you,” Octavia mused, tapping her finger on the letter but still not opening it.

William was frowning. “Is there something the matter?”

Octavia pursed her lips. “I just think it's rather odd, you know,” she murmured. “Naturally she withdrew a little after the elopement, and Paris. But she's only twenty-two years old. She might be going out a little, but it seems rather dour all the same.”

“She seems perfectly happy to me. And she likes to be with Sessy.”

“I know, dear. And she is a most devoted aunt. But she's a young woman. She's not mistress of this house. She is the
daughter
of this house. I would like to see some of the old Louisa back, wouldn't you?”

William sat back in his chair. He seemed to be so very old to her now; after all, he was over twenty years her senior. She tried hard not to pity him, for pity was the last thing he would have wanted—but still, she did feel both pity and guilt. Last year's illness had left its mark; his movements were slower. He seemed to take an age to respond.
My God, time
, she thought . . .
time. I gave him so much time once, when he wasn't interested; he broke my heart with his indifference. And now that he has all the time in the world, I am not here, and have none to give
. It was both ironic and sad.

She smiled, and prompted him. “William?”

He was struggling with mixed emotions, she could tell. Louisa had always been his favorite child; to have her here, at his table, in his house, must be of the utmost comfort to him now. Octavia didn't want to rob him of that pleasure, but at the same time she didn't want Louisa being so centered on Rutherford. Especially with what had been revealed to her in the letter.

She held it out to her husband now. “Perhaps you should read this,” she said quietly.

While he was doing so, supper was delivered. Bradfield placed it before Octavia on a low table; on another at her left-hand side he put a tea tray. “Thank you,” she told him. “I shall manage now, Bradfield. Do go. There's no need to attend.”

She watched him leave, poured her own tea, and considered William's face carefully. At last, he put the letter down. “This is preposterous.”

“I thought so. But you're here all the time, William. Does she receive such letters from Jack Armitage?”

“I've no idea what Louisa receives. I don't stand over her, you know.”

“Has Bradfield mentioned any such thing?” It was Bradfield who brought the post to the breakfast table each morning.

“No, not at all. And how would he know? He's hardly likely to inspect the letters.”

Octavia smiled. “Oh, I don't think a single thing escapes him,” she observed. “Let alone regular missives from France.”

“If they came, he would think they were from Harry.”

“Would Jack write in exactly Harry's hand?”

“Ah,” William murmured. “I see your point.”

Together they sat in silence, then William suddenly slapped his
hand on his knee. “I shall go upstairs and wake her and ask her what it means.”

“No, you shan't,” Octavia retorted. “It will wait until tomorrow. I'll speak to her myself. There's no need to play the heavy-handed patriarch.”

William bridled. “I am not heavy-handed with Louisa.”

“That is evident,” Octavia retorted. “Or even observant.”

“What—I'm meant to know if Jack Armitage, nothing more than a stable hand, is writing to her?” he exclaimed. “Who has written such tripe, at any rate? They haven't the decency to sign the letter.”

Octavia nodded. “Well, that much is obvious, I think. The postmark is Richmond. The sender knew my London address. The phrasing is very awkward, the penmanship clumsy. . .”

“One of the staff here.”

She nodded. “Yes, I rather came to that conclusion.”

“Who disapprove as much as we do.”

Octavia did not reply. She had had pretty much William's own reaction—minor outrage; annoyance at the anonymity; defense of her own child. Disbelief that quickly followed. Oh, she knew of course how much Louisa had adored Jack when she had been growing up. He was older than her, and had helped to teach her to ride. And Octavia well recalled having to speak to Louisa when she was nine or ten years old to tell her that it was not acceptable for a young lady to sit in the stable yard talking to the grooms, and hanging on stable doors to gape in hero-worship at one in particular.

It had been a childish infatuation. Jack was a sturdy-looking chap, of course; kind-hearted, slow to anger. Reliable. Kind. All the nice virtues that one might admire. But it was not his place to hold conversations with Louisa. Let alone write to her.

“Where is Jack now?” she asked. “Where is his corps posted, do you know?”

“I do not. No news is good news, Octavia.”

“Have you spoken to his parents to ask them?”

“I have not.”

“And Nash? Mary's David? Have you heard anything about him?”

William stared at her as if she had asked if he had traveled to the moon recently.

“Never mind,” she murmured. “I shall see Louisa in the morning.” She resolved silently to also speak to Mary and to Jack's father. She folded the letter and put it away. “But for it even to be sent . . . You see now why I think Louisa must be seen to be out, and mixing a great deal more with young people.”

“Young men, you mean.”

“Well, young men of her own class, naturally. She's been hiding away long enough. I don't want her to become silly, but she needs company of some sort.”

Company of some sort
. Octavia could almost see a retort rising to William's lips, a reaction that crossed over his face and he quickly extinguished. Octavia had sought out company of “some sort”—entirely the wrong sort, in his eyes. Not just John Gould, but the Bohemian crowd of the Slade and the Café Royal, whom she seemed to find extremely amusing. Octavia could see all that in his eyes, for she knew her husband. And she was grateful that he said none of it.

She finished the cold supper and laid down her knife and fork. “Tell me about this accident,” she said.

“The mill?”

“Yes.”

William sighed. Here was another source of disagreement. Octavia wanted the rules of employment to be followed as regards children, and conditions; William turned a blind eye, as the overseer did, to regulations in favor of meeting orders. “His name is
Netherfield,” he replied. “He was working in the spinning shed before he enlisted. He was wounded in Ypres. We took him back.”

Octavia nodded. She was feeling tired, and more irritable than she would have liked over this subject. “You might as well say it,” she said. “Taken back at my insistence.”

“On your insistence, yes. To employ wounded servicemen who are not fit to work.”