The Reckoning (10 page)

‘
I'm merely being silly, however,' Héloïse said firmly. 'Tell
me, how is your new house coming along?’

Mathilde was easily distracted on that subject. The house
had been building since the second month of her marriage.
‘Oh, very well. It's beginning to look like a house at last. In
fact, it would be finished by now,' she laughed, ‘if John didn't
keep thinking of new things to add. He's decided to have a
sort of turret room now, on the side — like a French castle, you know. It will have splendid views over the moors. John
says he'll use it as his study. I expect he'll get even more and
better ideas, up in the clouds like that.’

She was silent a moment, looking at some agreeable
internal landscape. Benedict slaughtered some more French
infantry, and resurrected Boney to meet his fate again.
Mathilde came to the end of a train of thought and sighed,
and looked at Héloïse.

‘
There is something particular I wanted to talk to you
about, if you don't mind.'

‘
Of course not,' Héloïse said. 'I hope you will always feel
you can bring your problems to me.'

‘
Oh, it isn't a problem. Well, yes, it is in a way, but it's
good news — the best news. I wonder if you've guessed
already?' She blushed, and Héloïse looked at her blankly, but
it was enough for Mathilde. 'You have guessed. I can see.’

Enlightenment crept in slowly. ‘Mathilde —
ma chère petite
—
can you mean —?'

‘
Yes! I'm expecting a child! John and I are to have a child!’

‘
Oh my dear! I am so very happy for you! When does it
come?'

‘
Oh, not for ages yet. Not until January. I wish it could be
sooner. January seems such a long way away, and I want it to
be here now.'

‘
It will pass soon enough,' Héloïse smiled. 'Oh, but this is
wonderful news! You are so like a daughter to me, dear
Mathilde, that it will be like being a grandmother, and I have
long wanted to be a grandmother!’

Mathilde blushed more deeply. 'Well, that's rather what I wanted to talk to you about. I mean — well, in a sense, you
will be the grandmother, won't you?’

Héloïse's attention sharpened. She looked at Mathilde
carefully, but said nothing.

‘
So I wondered if you could advise me how — or rather
what, exactly — we should tell James.' Héloïse was too
surprised to speak, and Mathilde's eyes clouded. 'You do
know about it, don't you?' she said anxiously. 'I haven't said
the wrong thing? She swore you knew all along.’

This was painful. 'Who swore?'

‘
Mrs Skelwith. It was she who told me. Last Christmas.'
She paused, and her mouth quivered. 'I think she did it to spoil things for me. She didn't like me, you know. Only it
didn't, of course, because I like James very much. How could I not? Only, you see, I don't really know who knows what, or
who's supposed to know what, and —'

‘
Mathilde, let us be clear about this at once. What was it
that Mrs Skelwith told you?’

Mathilde looked frightened. 'That James is really my
John's father,' she said in a small voice. 'You did know, didn't
you? Oh please, say you did! If I've said the wrong thing I
shall never forgive myself!’

Héloïse let out a long breath. 'Yes, my dear, I knew. I just
didn't know that you did.'

‘
Oh, thank heaven! Well, that's all right, then,' Mathilde
said with a shaky laugh. 'Only John's mother was such an
odd
person, you see –'

‘
Yes,' Héloïse said. 'And she may well have told you only to
upset you, as you suspected.'

‘
It did upset me at first, because I didn't know whether it
was true or not, and whether I was supposed to admit I knew. But in the end, after Mrs Skelwith died, I decided to speak to
John about it, and we had a long talk and brought it all out into the open, which was such a relief. He said he'd known
about it for a long time, but that it was supposed to be a
secret. So I said, surely it didn't matter any more, now that his mother was dead, and he said that there might still be a
scandal if it became public knowledge. He said there was no
sense in opening old wounds, and that we'd better simply
forget about it. As if,' she added in a burst of feminine reason,
‘you
could
forget about something like that!’

No, Héloïse thought, it was not something you could just
forget.

‘
But now there's a baby coming,' Mathilde went on, 'it
does change things, doesn't it? Because James will be the
baby's grandfather, won't he? And the poor little thing won't
have any other grandparents – or any other relatives at all,
come to that, with both of us being orphans. So I thought I'd
ask you what's best to be done.’

She stopped, and looked at Héloïse so hopefully that
Héloïse wanted to laugh. An absurd spring of laughter was
bubbling up inside her over the whole nonsensical, incon
gruous, painful business. All the secrecy and deceit, the jeal
ousy and suffering and bitterness that had marred the thirty
years of John Skelwith's innocent life, were wiped away in an
instant by the open-hearted innocence of this young woman,
who saw with a mother's single-mindedness only that her
baby ought to have a family. Perhaps Mary Skelwith's death
had finally purged the evil. Perhaps they might all live in the
sunlight from now on.

‘I think,' she said, a little unsteadily, 'that honesty is always
the best policy, and that secrets are dangerous, disagreeable
things. I think I had best talk to James about it.’

Mathilde looked relieved, and then faintly doubtful. 'You –
you are still pleased, aren't you, Madame? About the baby?’

Héloïse took her hands and reached up on tiptoe to kiss the
rosy cheek. 'More pleased than I can tell you. Now I can be a
real grandmother.’

 
Scarborough was enjoying a rare fine day that wet summer.
Inland, indeed, a band of heavy grey clouds could be seen,
raining away over the rest of Yorkshire as if it never meant to
stop; but here along the coast there was a thin, blue sky high
above, and a breezy sunshine chasing across the sparkling,
white-capped sea.

Sophie and Rosamund had gone out early for their walk.
They both had early habits – Sophie from living in the
country, and Rosamund from riding with her mother before
the Park grew crowded – and when the weather allowed they
liked to get out and have the town and the sands as much as
possible to themselves.

‘
I think this is the best sort of day at Scarborough,' Sophie
said, watching the waves come bounding in, glittering and foaming, to dash half-way up the sand in the vain effort to
reach the Promenade wall. The breeze tugged at the poke of her bonnet and fluttered the ribbons under her chin. 'It feels so fresh and glad, as though it might really blow everything inside your head away, and leave it all clean and empty and
new.'

‘
I don't think I want my furniture blown away. I've
arranged it the way I like it, and I don't want it interfered
with,' Rosamund said firmly.

Miss Rosedale, walking a little behind them to pursue her
own solitary thoughts, heard the exchange and smiled to
herself. Yes, that would always be the difference between
them, she thought. Rosamund liked to take hold of the stuff
of her life and wrestle it into submission; Sophie survived by
enduring.

The curve of the bay was marked by high cliffs, dazzling-
white in the early sun, topped with lush green folds of hill,
and circled this morning by whimpering grey gulls. Below lay
the crescent of the sands, still smooth and firm from the high
water – the tide was going out now. Sophie turned an eager
face back.

‘
May we walk on the sand, Rosey? It will be lovely to make
the very first marks.’

Miss Rosedale thought of the fury of Rosamund's maid,
Moss, if she were presented with two pairs of sandy, water
marked boots to put to rights. On the other hand, who could
resist that virgin expanse? Certainly no woman of spirit.

‘
If you aren't afraid of the horses,' she said. 'They'll be
arriving at any minute.’

No, of course not,' Sophie said at once, and then, 'They
won't run us down, will they?'

‘
Of course they won't,' Rosamund said impatiently. 'Do
you think grooms are blind? Come on, foolish.’

They descended the steps, crossed the band of dry sand
above the tide-mark, still rough from yesterday's footprints,
and gained the firm, sleek dark-golden strand, unmarked
except for the tiny airholes of whatever secret beasts lived
below. Then they turned and walked along parallel to the sea,
examining their own footmarks and exclaiming like children
over them.

Looking at the two straight young backs in front of her, Miss Rosedale felt that the time here had been well-spent.
Sophie was definitely feeling more cheerful and at peace with
herself. The sadness of loss was finding its own level inside
her, settling into the shape it would probably bear for the rest
of her life. Growing tolerable, it would eventually become
unnoticed, she hoped.

Rosamund had not been her pupil and in any case had a
less transparent character, and so it was harder to judge how
she felt. Outwardly she seemed calm and contented. It was
only when she didn't know she was being watched, and
relaxed her guard, that Miss Rosedale could see evidence in
her face of the shock and grief she had suffered last year. Pleasure was now a conscious, rather than an unconscious
thing: to that extent she had grown up.

But Rosamund had enjoyed her time here, too. Like
Sophie, she had bathed in the sea for the first time in her life,
made a formidable collection of shells and interesting pebbles,
and sketched the foreshore from every possible angle. And in
her own inimitable manner, she had made friends with the
man who hired out the donkey-carts, heard the life-history of
every servant in their lodgings, and learned the name of every gentleman's groom in Scarborough.

The first of these were coming onto the sands now,
bringing their masters' horses for exercise, riding one and
leading one or two others. The glossy animals, beautiful in
their nakedness, lifted their heads enquiringly to snuff the
strange, exhilarating air, and whickered softly in excitement.
It was good, Miss Rosedale thought, to see them enjoying themselves, their eyes shining with pleasure as they went
down the beach, trotting to the end, and then cantering,
pulling a little and tossing their heads playfully, back the
other way.