The Shrouded Walls (14 page)

“I—I’m sorry,” I was stammering, feeling a mere ineffectual child cowed by a maze of subtle nightmares which surrounded me on all sides. “I’m so sorry, Axel—”

“Why should you be sorry?” he said. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Goodnight, my dear, and I hope you sleep well.”

“Thank you,” I whispered wretchedly. “Goodnight.”

But sleep was impossible. I lay in that great bed, my limbs chilled and my feet feeling as ice, but my mind was not as numbed as my body and the longer I lay quietly in the darkness the more vivid my thoughts became. I began to toss and turn and when I finally crept closer to Axel for warmth, he turned abruptly, startling me for I thought he had been asleep.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m a little cold.”

“Cold! You’re frozen! Come here.”

I felt better lying in his arms. I even managed to drift off to sleep but awoke soon in panic after Vere, Alice and Esther had all turned to me in a dream and said: “You’ll really have to die, you know.”

“My dear child,” said Axel astonished as I sat up gasping in fright. “What on earth’s possessed you tonight?” And he fired a match, lit the candle
and
drew me to him in consternation.

Such was my state of nerves that I could endure my silence no longer. “I—I overheard a conversation between Vere and Alice when I was downstairs,” I whispered desperately. “They don’t want me to become pregnant—they want you to die childless so that their children can inherit— they want me to die
...”

“Wait, wait, wait! I’ve never heard such a confused tale! My dear, Vere and Alice may, understandably, wish their children to inherit Haraldsdyke, but I can assure you that your death wouldn’t help them at all, since there’s no guarantee I wouldn’t marry again—and again, if need be, though God forbid it ... if they feel murderously inclined, which, I doubt, then I’m the one they should dispose of, since I’m the only one who stands in their way at present.”

He sounded so sane and balanced that I felt ashamed of my ridiculous panic.

“But they don’t want me to have children, Axel—”

“No,” he said, “I don’t suppose they do. Neither would I, if I were in their situation. However, if you become pregnant there’s nothing whatsoever they could do about it apart from cursing their misfortune anew.”

“But—”

“Yes? What’s troubling you now?”

“Perhaps—would it be possible ... I mean, is it necessary that I have children now? Can I not wait a little and have them later?”

There was a silence. I saw the tolerant amusement die from his face and the old opaque expression descend like a veil over his eyes. At length he said dryly: “And how would you propose to arrange that, may I ask?”

“I—” My face was hot with embarrassment. “Surely—there are ways—
”

“For whores,” he said. “Not for ladies in your position.”

I was without words. I could only lie there in a paralysis of shame and wish I had never spoken.

“You’re not seriously alarmed by these chance remarks you overheard, are you?”

I shook my head in misery.

“Then why are you unanxious for children at present? I would of course see that you had the best medical care and attention throughout your confinement.”

Speech was impossible. I could only stare at the sheet.

“I am most anxious for children,” he said, “and not merely in order to establish myself at Haraldsdyke.”

Hot tears scalded my eyes. It needed all my will-power and concentration to hold them in check. At last I managed to say in a very cold formal voice: “Please forgive me. I suddenly felt inadequate and too young for such a thing, but now I see I was being childish and stupid. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it to you.”

“Far from being inadequate and too young, I would say just the opposite. You will soon be eighteen, you’re intelligent, capable and surprisingly mature in many ways. I’m sure you would be an excellent mother, and besides I think motherhood would probably be the best thing for you. You must have felt very alone in the world these last few weeks, and a child would alleviate your loneliness to some degree.”

I was silent.

He kissed me lightly. “So no more talk about inadequacies and youth.” I did not reply.

He snuffed the candle so that we were in darkness once more and attempted to take me in his arms again, but presently I turned away from him and he made no attempt to stop me. My last conscious thought before I fell asleep was that if I asked Dame Joan the witch for a potion she would be sure to tell her daughter later, and then Alice and Vere would know with certainty that there was no threat to their children’s inheritance for a while.

And once they knew that, I should be safe.

Five

I had planned to steal away into the village some time during the next day, but this proved to be impossible. I had forgotten that Axel had invited the Shermans to dinner and my morning was in fact spent with Alice preparing the menu, talking to the cook and supervising the dusting of the furniture and the cleaning of the silver. The strain of conducting the tasks was considerable even though Alice was at my elbow to advise and instruct me; I retired to my room soon after noon feeling exhausted and glad to be alone for a while before it was time to dress for dinner.

The guests were punctual; I was introduced to Mr. James Sherman, the Brandsons’ lawyer, who was a portly gentleman in his forties, to his wife, Mrs. James, and to their two daughters, Evelina and Annabella, both of whom looked at me with frank jealousy, presumably because I had married the master of Haraldsdyke and they had not. On meeting them I was not surprised that Axel had looked elsewhere, and I turned with relief to greet Mr. Charles Sherman, Mr. James’ younger brother, who was about the same age as Axel himself. Vere and Alice soon appeared upon the scene, Vere making an effort to appear relaxed and at ease, Alice seeming quietly self-effacing. Mary sat in a
corner
and fidgeted, unnoticed. Ned slunk in silently in the hope that no one would see him and presently vanished as unobtrusively as he had arrived. It was left to Esther to make the grand entrance, and she did so superbly, gliding into the room in a swirl of black lace and diamonds, and moving forward to greet each of the guests effusively.

All the men rose, young Mr. Charles Sherman preening himself like a peacock and dancing across at once to escort her to a couch where he could seat himself by her side.

“Dear Esther,” said Mrs. James sweetly, each word barbed as a razor, “how well you look, even though the tragedy was less than a year ago. Mourning does so become you.”

“Dark colors have always suited me,” said Esther with a brilliant smile. “Besides only a young woman can look well in pastel shades, don’t you think?”

Mrs. James’ gown was pale yellow.

“Pray tell us, Mrs. Brandson,” said Miss Annabella from beside me, “had you known your husband long before your marriage?”

I tried to concentrate on the conventional exchanges of formal conversation.

With a remorseless inevitability, the evening crept along its tedious path. In comparison with the small dinner parties which my mother had been accustomed to give from time to time, I found the visitors boring, their outlook provincial and their conversation devoid of any subject which might have interested me. The prospect of the remainder of my life being filled with such gestures in the name of hospitality and entertainment depressed me beyond words.

At long last when they were gone and their carriage was rattling off down the drive to the Marsh road below, I retreated to my room as rapidly as possible, kicked off my dainty high-heeled satin slippers and shouted irritably for Marie-Claire to set me free from the agonies of my tight laced corset. I had already dismissed her and was moodily brushing my hair when Axel came into the room.

I tried to smile. “I hope the evening passed satisfactorily to you, Axel.”

“Yes indeed,” he said with a spontaneity I had not expected. “You were splendid and the Shermans were very impressed with you. I was exceedingly pleased.”

“I’m—very glad.” And indeed I was relieved that my boredom had not been apparent. But later when he emerged from his dressing room he said casually: “No doubt it must have been very dull for you after the sparkling dinner parties of London.”

I felt myself blush. “Different, certainly,” I said, “but not altogether dull.”

“It was dull for me,” he said, “but then I’m accustomed to Vienna and even London would be dull to me in comparison.” He paused to look at me, he standing by the bed, I leaning back upon the pillows, and as our glances met it seemed for one brief instant that a flash of understanding passed between us, a moment of being ‘en rapport’ with one another.

He smiled. I smiled too, hesitantly. For a second I thought he was going to make some complimentary or even affectionate remark, but all he said in the end was simply: “You would like Vienna. I think I shall have to take you there one day.”

Perhaps it was the relief of escaping at last from the tedium of the evening or perhaps it was because of that strange moment when we had exchanged glances and smiled, but for the first time I longed for him, for a release from loneliness, for a glimpse of what marriage might have been. The dinner party, as so often happens when the familiar is placed side by side with the horror of nightmare, had made my frightened thoughts recede into dim shadows from which I had no wish for them to emerge, and in the effort to seek a final oblivion for my unhappiness I turned to him absolutely and sought his embraces with a passion which must have taken him unawares. Passion sparked passion; flame ignited flame. I knew instinctively, as one knows such things, that after his initial astonishment he was conscious of nothing save the burning of our emotions and the whirling painful spiral of desire.

The night passed; sleep when it came was deep and untroubled, and then towards dawn the fears and doubts and anxieties in my mind began to clamor for recognition after the long hours of being forcibly
suppressed
. I awoke at seven in the agonized grip of a nightmare and lay trembling between the sheets for some time. And as I lay waiting for the day to break, the mist rolled in across the Marsh from the sea and thickened in icy shrouds around the walls of Haraldsdyke.

It was Sunday. I learned that the Brandsons customarily attended matins at Haraldsford Church every week, and accordingly after Axel and I had breakfasted together in our rooms I dressed formally in my dark blue woolen traveling habit in preparation for braving the chill of the mist later on.

The weather was not inviting. From our windows it was barely possible to see to the end of the short drive, and beyond the walls surrounding the grounds the dank whiteness blotted out all trace of the view south over the Marsh to Rye and the sea.

“A true November day,” said Axel wryly as he sat down to breakfast with a glance at the scene beyond the window pane.

I felt ill-at-ease with him that morning for reasons I did not fully understand; the nightmare had wakened me with all my fears revived and my sense of being in any way in accord with Axel had vanished, just as my memory of the normality of the dinner party had receded. I now felt curiously ashamed of my demonstrative emotions of the previous night, and my shame manifested itself in an instinctive withdrawal from him. He rose more cheerful and good-humored than I had ever seen him before, but I made no effort at conversation and while not ignoring his attentiveness, I found myself unable to respond to it.

Presently he sensed my mood and fell silent.

“Are you feeling well?” he said at last. “I had forgotten your health had been delicate recently.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I’m quite recovered.”

He said nothi
n
g further but I sensed him watching me carefully and at last, almost in irritation, I raised my glance to meet his. He smiled but I looked away and when I looked at him again the animation was gone from his face and his eyes were opaque and without expression once more.

When he had finished his breakfast he went downstairs, for he was already dressed, and I summoned Marie-Claire. Some time later I followed him downstairs, my muff, bonnet and redingote in my hands so that I would not be obliged to return to my rooms before going to church, and wandered into the saloon to see what time it was according to the grandfather clock there.

The fire was alight in the grate but the room was still damp and cold. At first I thought it was also empty and then I saw Mary huddled in one of the tall armchairs near the hearth. Her hands were outstretched towards the flames and I could see the chilblains on her fingers as I drew closer. She smiled nervously at me, and muttered some half-intelligible greeting.

“It’s a most unpleasant morning, is it not?” I said absently, sitting down opposite her. “Where is everyone? Isn’t it time to leave for church yet?”

“I suppose we’re the first to be ready,” she said, stating the obvious. “Perhaps we’re a trifle early.”

We sat in silence for a while, both feeling awkward in each other’s presence. In the distance I could hear Alice talking and Vere’s indistinct response and then Axel called from somewhere close at hand: “Did you order the carriage to the door, Vere?”