The Moth, page 26
‘No, I can’t say I have. Things are black and white or brown and grey. You see I’ve dealt with wood mostly all my life, I see the trunk of a tree as different shades of brown, and the inside, the timber is off-white. Then there were the ships. Well, iron always looks a rusty brown.’
‘What colour do you think these flowers are on the brim of my hat?’ She pointed, at the same time putting her head to the side, and he, half raising himself, looked down and examined the felt flowers, saying, ‘Some look a sort of dull white, not a pure white, and the others . . . well, I don’t know what name to put to them, except a kind of blue.’
‘They are pink and mauve.’
‘Pink and mauve?’
They were laughing again. ‘Hadn’t you any idea that you weren’t seeing colours as they really are?’
‘No, no idea at all. It’s never come up. I’ve either picked a black or brown suit. The same with me shoes or boots. Oh . . . boots were always black. As for shirts, well, they were always white for best and a kind of dull colour, which my mother referred to as blue, for work.’
‘Have you never been round an art gallery?’
‘Yes. Yes, I have, in the city.’
‘Well, didn’t you notice the difference there? I mean some of the colours are so striking.’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but I had nothing to go on. I enjoyed the shapes and the pictures. Anyway, when you go to the cinema . . . the pictures, they’re all black and white. No, I’ve had nothing to go on. Well, fancy that’ – he nodded his head now – ‘I’m colour-blind. I’ve had a defect all of my life and I haven’t known it.’
He was laughing at it as if it was a joke, and she too was smiling as they entered the yard, and Peggy, happening to be looking out from the window saw them and brought out a startled ‘My God! Eeh, my God! He’s right. And her talking of going to Newcastle; ’twas just an excuse. An’ what’s that she’s got on her head? ’Tis a new hat. ’Tisn’t her at all, she looks . . . ’ And she searched for a word to fit how she thought her mistress looked and when she found it she dismissed it with a neck-cricking shake of her head because the word was wanton.
Six
The weeks passed. Spring came and moved into early summer, and it was the beginning of June before John Bradley came downstairs, for, following the fever, he had a slight stroke. He was a man now who would never work again. Most of the time he sat propped up in a chair in the sitting room looking out of the window and waiting, as Alice said, for Robert’s visits.
Practically every other night over the past months Robert had made his way to the house. He had now acquired a bicycle which got him over the three miles there and the three miles back in a very short space of time. He enjoyed the ride so much that he wondered why he hadn’t taken it up years ago. Sometimes on his way back he would call in at The Bull. The feeling in the taproom against his uncle had changed: poor old devil, they said, to end up like that. And why, Billy Taggart had asked him, didn’t he go back and take up his old job because he could be on a good thing there if anything happened to the old fellow.
He was all right where he was, he said, at least for the present.
Well he was daft. Was he still getting ten shillings a week?
And yes, at times he thought he must be daft for he was working twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day now. The extra hours he put in were used to help bring to fruition the plans she had for restoring part of the kitchen garden to its old use and bringing the rose gardens back to a semblance of what they once were. What amazed him was how hard she herself could work in the garden. She certainly wasn’t afraid of soiling her hands. And Miss Millie was in her element too. He had never seen that lass so happy, or so normal, as she had been these past months.
They had gone through a sort of standing still period, as he put it to himself. Whenever Arthur Bloom or Greg were absent, he talked to Millie, and if she was there she joined in. At other times, when the men were present, he just let Millie talk to him, and for most of the time she didn’t need any answers.
But if everything was standing still between him and her, that certainly wasn’t the case in the kitchen, for he knew he was under suspicion there right enough. At times old Waters would look at him as if he could throttle him. As for Peggy, her manner had changed too. Of them all, only Maggie remained the same. But Maggie was in a kind of seventh heaven, because she was going to marry Greg, and she hardly let an opportunity pass but she told him that it was all due to his manoeuvring.
He was happy for her. She was a grand soul, and Hubbard was a decent fellow.
On this particular July day, the sun was hot on his neck as he turned over a new patch of ground and he paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from around the collar of his open shirt with his handkerchief, then looked to the side to where Agnes and Millie were clearing the old straw away from between the strawberry plants. He smiled to himself as he recalled Bloom’s reactions yesterday when she had wanted to put in the strawberry runners to make a new row. It was too early, he said. But she had been reading about such things, she said. ‘Aye, miss, you might,’ he had replied; ‘but reading and experience are two different things, and them that write them books for most part know nowt about what they are saying, they go on greenhouse growing or undercover things.’
He had won the day, and now she seemed to be content in just clearing up the beds.
She seemed happier these days, more content. Perhaps it was, he thought, because she had found an interest. And there was nothing like fresh air and working in it to ease the mind. He had found that out himself. But he also found out that there was no such similar palliative for night-time, other than getting yourself too tired to care or having a good drink. And he had been drinking more of late. He’d have to watch it. Aye, yes, he’d have to watch that, if only because he didn’t want to become pot-bellied.
He saw young Betty come running round by the hedge and say something to her. Then he saw her hurrying away back towards the house, leaving Betty with Miss Millie. And Betty, coming up to him now, said, ‘’Tis a visitor, the Lady Emily Clinton-Smyth. Eeh, the way she’s made up! Talk about a dog’s dinner! By! I wouldn’t like to work under her. You’d have to watch your p’s and q’s there.’
‘Look,’ he suddenly said to her, ‘Millie’s going after her. Bring her back and leave her with me; she’ll be all right.’
Lady Emily Clinton-Smyth. That was the old girl who was at the funeral and who stayed till last. She hadn’t been back here since. She was known as a character, that old girl! He wondered what she wanted; surely if she had been concerned for the miss, she would have put in an appearance before now . . .
Agnes was thinking much the same thing as she hurried into the kitchen where, after washing her hands at the sink, she turned to Peggy, saying, ‘Have you a comb handy, Peggy?’
Peggy went to the corner of the mantelpiece and, taking down a comb, she extracted loose hair from it before handing it to her mistress, saying, ‘Tidy hair and clean hands are not going to do much for your dress, and you can’t keep her waiting.’
‘Well, I’ve been gardening, she’ll understand. She should for she was keen on it herself at one time, so I heard.’
She handed the comb back to Peggy, then went hurriedly up the room, across the hall and into the drawing room, to find Lady Emily sitting on a straight-backed chair to the side of the window and from where she had a good view of the drive. She turned her head as Agnes entered the room and started talking before she had hardly closed the door, saying, ‘I see you’ve had the drive tidied up, not before time. Have you engaged more staff?’
‘No; we have just the same men. How are you, Lady Emily?’
‘Oh, just as you see me, I seem to have been like this for the last twenty years, and will likely remain the same for the next twenty. I’ve left word that I’m to be buried standing up and with all my clothes on.’ There was a sign of an attempted smile at the corner of her mouth. Then looking Agnes up and down, she said, ‘What have you been up to? Not very presentable.’
‘I’ve been gardening. We’re enlarging the vegetable garden.’
‘Well, well! Gardening. Well, you could do worse. But it plays havoc with the hands and cripples your back, and what for? The annuals die and the others take years to grow and few people live long enough to have the pleasure of them. We have an avenue of trees that my great-great grandfather planted. What good did they do him I ask you? Life’s a waste of time; I sometimes wonder why we’ve been put into it? For the glory of God, parsons tell you. Damn nonsense. Glory of God, indeed! We’ll be very lucky if any of us see Him, that’s my opinion. And we’ll be very lucky if any of us are still alive this time next year. Do you know that, girl?’
Agnes now smiled gently as she said, ‘Are you expecting a plague, Lady Emily?’
‘No girl, I’m not expecting a plague, I’m expecting a war. The majority of people in this country are asleep, they can’t see what’s coming. Austria-Hungary and Serbia at each other’s throats. You mark my words, there’ll be an explosion shortly. And who’ll set the fuse? That Kaiser of course. I’ve lived abroad half my life so I should know what I’m talking about. I’ve never liked the French, no sensible Englishman would, we are more akin to the Germans. Yet they are up to something, they always are, the Germans. That Mr Lloyd George standing with a foot on each boat, I know where he’s going to land. It’ll take Asquith to pull us out of this and Sir Edward Grey. That man’s been doing his best to get those Germans to toe the line, but that Kaiser wants to goose-step it over everybody. Somebody wants to do to him what they did to poor Archduke Franz Ferdinand last month. Scandalous, scandalous. I tell you, girl, we’ll be lucky if we’re alive next year. My remark about living twenty years ahead was simply prattle, I’ve no desire to live any longer. But I suppose I will have to go on as long as there’s a duty to perform and that’s why I’m here today, I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m on my way to the castle . . . Ravensworth. You haven’t been there lately, have you? No, no, of course not. Your mother used to go. Your mother was a lady, always remember that. Do you hear?’
‘Yes, yes, Lady Emily, I hear.’ Agnes’ voice was flat. There was something coming. She didn’t know what, but when someone like Lady Emily talked about doing her duty, she knew that it wouldn’t be anything pleasant, and now again she was talking of duty.
‘We have our duty, we of the upper class are bred for a purpose and the main point of that purpose is to show an example. We can be reduced to penury as you and your family have almost been, but nothing can take away your breeding. Your father was a weak man but he came of quite good stock, industrial perhaps, but then we all must get our money from somewhere. And those of us who have enough money to employ large staffs have a responsibility. Well, not only those with large staffs, those with any staff have a responsibility towards them, and, too, part of that responsibility consists in seeing that they maintain their place. Do you follow me?’
She now bent forward, her head bobbing so that her high hat which was perched on the top of her mass of white hair looked for the moment as if it was going to slip over her brow, but with an impatient sweep of her head she pushed it back; then she ended, ‘Oh, oh yes, miss, you do, you do. I can see by your face you do.’
Agnes felt faint. The purpose of this woman’s visit was now clear to her, but she felt she wanted to get up and run, to hide her face and stuff her ears from what was coming.
‘Now’ – Lady Emily straightened up again and drew her pointed chin into the fleshy folds of her neck – ‘I’m known and feared among women of my own class. I have talked scandal and enjoyed listening to it all my life, again with my own class. There are liberties one can take, there are indiscretions one can commit, there are lengths to which one can go, great lengths, but within the borders of one’s own class. But should one be so foolish or stupid as to step out of one’s class, and down, even to the lower middle class, that is a great mistake, but to go further is a tragedy, a disaster, equal to that of cohabiting with someone of a different colour.’
Agnes was trembling: her hands were joined on her lap and her nails were digging into each other. She told herself to speak, to put a stop to this, yet she wanted to know more, she wanted to know how this had come about. She had done nothing to merit these accusations, because what stooping she had done had been simply in her mind. But Lady Emily was talking again.
‘As I said in the beginning, I’ve enjoyed talking scandal but since I’ve been acquainted with this matter that concerns you I have not mentioned it to anyone, because I am concerned for you. I am concerned that you have been burdened with the running of this establishment, and that your marriage to the Crockford man did not materialise. Although that certainly wouldn’t have had my blessing either, because he is a vain weak-kneed individual, and he certainly doesn’t take after his mother. And I’m also sorry that you have brothers such as they are. Two to go off to Australia of all places. No gentleman would be found dead there. And then Stanley, he’s never at home, is he? He spends his time at the Cunninghams. Oh yes’ – she was nodding again – ‘I know all about the Cunninghams. He’s got his eye on Diana. But he’s barking up the wrong tree; she’s got to marry money. Somebody’s got to provide the cash to keep the stud going, they are all horse mad. But that won’t stop either her or him enjoying themselves, for if I recall anything about that young lady she’s a way ahead of anything in their stable.’
When again she paused for breath, Agnes, getting to her feet, said, ‘Have you finished, Lady Emily?’
‘No, I haven’t, not quite, girl. And sit down . . . do, do sit down, because, believe me, I’m here for your own good. You see, there’s someone in your household, or out of it, I don’t know, who seems to be very interested in your movements, as this letter indicates.’ She now opened her long bead purse and from it withdrew a sheet of paper, and on the sight of it Agnes sat down again and watched the thin bony fingers open out the letter, then hand it towards her, as she said, ‘Can you recognise that handwriting?’
Agnes, her breath now coming in gasps, looked down on the writing. She did not read what was on the paper, she only took in that the writing was very ill-formed. Lifting her head she looked at Lady Emily, saying, ‘People who write anonymous letters usually disguise their hand I understand. But . . . but why should anyone write a letter about me? May I read it?’
‘That’s what I want you to do.’ The old lady’s head was bobbing again.
Agnes took the letter from Lady Emily’s hand, but she had to blink her eyes to clear away the blur before she could read. The letter began simply:
Lady Emily,
You being a lady of quality and a friend of the Thorman family, I think you should know that Miss Agnes is in need of advice because she is being tempted into a situation that is lowering to her by a man in her employ. This man has a way with women. He has such a hold over her that she follows him about, and even works with him. It is a scandalous situation that a lady of her class should so lower herself. But it is not really her fault, as he is that kind of man. They meet in the wood under the pretext that they are looking for her sister. I feel you could do something about it, Lady Emily, as it is a disgrace.
I am, your Ladyship, a wellwisher.
‘It isn’t true. It isn’t true.’ The letter was shaking like a leaf in her hand and she repeated, ‘It isn’t true, I tell you. It isn’t true, not a word of it. The man this letter refers to is Mr Bradley . . . ’
‘You call him Mr Bradley?’
‘Yes, that is his name, Mr Bradley. Although I address him as Bradley, while those in . . . in the kitchen do so by his Christian name.’
‘Well then, we’ll call him Bradley. And you say that nothing in this letter is true?’
‘One thing maybe, we have worked together in the garden. But Millie is always with us and most times Bloom . . . Arthur Bloom too. This letter is infamous.’ Her lips were trembling, and now the tears spilled over from her eyes, and Lady Emily, bending forward, patted her knee, saying, ‘There, there. I’ll take your word for it. But why? Can you think why anyone should write such a letter to me, accusing you of such indiscretion?’
‘Yes, yes, I can.’ Agnes leant her head back against the wing of the chair. Yes, she knew who had written that letter. It was Dave. He had been acting strangely for weeks now; he had even followed her when she had taken a walk in the garden. The time he referred to – her meeting with Bradley – was at the last full moon, when Millie had taken to wandering again. There had been other full moons that hadn’t seemed to affect her, but on this night she had been missing and Bradley had gone out to look for her. But so had Maggie and Betty Trollop. It should happen that Bradley had found Millie and that just when she had come across them Dave had appeared on the scene. She remembered this very clearly for the following day he had almost been rude to her. She had put down the rudeness to the fact that it was Bradley who had found Millie and that Dave resented Millie’s open affection for the man.
‘Who is it then? Who wrote this letter?’
‘It doesn’t matter who wrote it, I can only assure you the contents are not true, all that has taken place between Bradley and myself is ordinary conversation.’
‘You converse with the man then?’
‘We’ve talked.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps because I have no-one else to talk to.’ She had shouted; and now she was on her feet, her hand over her mouth and the tears raining from her eyes.
Lady Emily rose stiffly from the chair and, putting her arms out, she drew Agnes into her embrace, saying, ‘There, there, my dear. There, there. These situations come about. Those brothers of yours should be shot. And me and my like round about are not blameless either; we should have called on you. But that sister of yours, you know, is something of an embarrassment and puts people off. I know the tales about her are quite exaggerated, I have said so. It is the common folk who start such things. Why, one of my maids was heard to say that when she got a hold of you she clawed at your hair like a bat. I told my maid Hewston to go and slap the wench’s face. Millicent isn’t sane, we all know that, but she is no maniac.’
‘What colour do you think these flowers are on the brim of my hat?’ She pointed, at the same time putting her head to the side, and he, half raising himself, looked down and examined the felt flowers, saying, ‘Some look a sort of dull white, not a pure white, and the others . . . well, I don’t know what name to put to them, except a kind of blue.’
‘They are pink and mauve.’
‘Pink and mauve?’
They were laughing again. ‘Hadn’t you any idea that you weren’t seeing colours as they really are?’
‘No, no idea at all. It’s never come up. I’ve either picked a black or brown suit. The same with me shoes or boots. Oh . . . boots were always black. As for shirts, well, they were always white for best and a kind of dull colour, which my mother referred to as blue, for work.’
‘Have you never been round an art gallery?’
‘Yes. Yes, I have, in the city.’
‘Well, didn’t you notice the difference there? I mean some of the colours are so striking.’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but I had nothing to go on. I enjoyed the shapes and the pictures. Anyway, when you go to the cinema . . . the pictures, they’re all black and white. No, I’ve had nothing to go on. Well, fancy that’ – he nodded his head now – ‘I’m colour-blind. I’ve had a defect all of my life and I haven’t known it.’
He was laughing at it as if it was a joke, and she too was smiling as they entered the yard, and Peggy, happening to be looking out from the window saw them and brought out a startled ‘My God! Eeh, my God! He’s right. And her talking of going to Newcastle; ’twas just an excuse. An’ what’s that she’s got on her head? ’Tis a new hat. ’Tisn’t her at all, she looks . . . ’ And she searched for a word to fit how she thought her mistress looked and when she found it she dismissed it with a neck-cricking shake of her head because the word was wanton.
Six
The weeks passed. Spring came and moved into early summer, and it was the beginning of June before John Bradley came downstairs, for, following the fever, he had a slight stroke. He was a man now who would never work again. Most of the time he sat propped up in a chair in the sitting room looking out of the window and waiting, as Alice said, for Robert’s visits.
Practically every other night over the past months Robert had made his way to the house. He had now acquired a bicycle which got him over the three miles there and the three miles back in a very short space of time. He enjoyed the ride so much that he wondered why he hadn’t taken it up years ago. Sometimes on his way back he would call in at The Bull. The feeling in the taproom against his uncle had changed: poor old devil, they said, to end up like that. And why, Billy Taggart had asked him, didn’t he go back and take up his old job because he could be on a good thing there if anything happened to the old fellow.
He was all right where he was, he said, at least for the present.
Well he was daft. Was he still getting ten shillings a week?
And yes, at times he thought he must be daft for he was working twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day now. The extra hours he put in were used to help bring to fruition the plans she had for restoring part of the kitchen garden to its old use and bringing the rose gardens back to a semblance of what they once were. What amazed him was how hard she herself could work in the garden. She certainly wasn’t afraid of soiling her hands. And Miss Millie was in her element too. He had never seen that lass so happy, or so normal, as she had been these past months.
They had gone through a sort of standing still period, as he put it to himself. Whenever Arthur Bloom or Greg were absent, he talked to Millie, and if she was there she joined in. At other times, when the men were present, he just let Millie talk to him, and for most of the time she didn’t need any answers.
But if everything was standing still between him and her, that certainly wasn’t the case in the kitchen, for he knew he was under suspicion there right enough. At times old Waters would look at him as if he could throttle him. As for Peggy, her manner had changed too. Of them all, only Maggie remained the same. But Maggie was in a kind of seventh heaven, because she was going to marry Greg, and she hardly let an opportunity pass but she told him that it was all due to his manoeuvring.
He was happy for her. She was a grand soul, and Hubbard was a decent fellow.
On this particular July day, the sun was hot on his neck as he turned over a new patch of ground and he paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from around the collar of his open shirt with his handkerchief, then looked to the side to where Agnes and Millie were clearing the old straw away from between the strawberry plants. He smiled to himself as he recalled Bloom’s reactions yesterday when she had wanted to put in the strawberry runners to make a new row. It was too early, he said. But she had been reading about such things, she said. ‘Aye, miss, you might,’ he had replied; ‘but reading and experience are two different things, and them that write them books for most part know nowt about what they are saying, they go on greenhouse growing or undercover things.’
He had won the day, and now she seemed to be content in just clearing up the beds.
She seemed happier these days, more content. Perhaps it was, he thought, because she had found an interest. And there was nothing like fresh air and working in it to ease the mind. He had found that out himself. But he also found out that there was no such similar palliative for night-time, other than getting yourself too tired to care or having a good drink. And he had been drinking more of late. He’d have to watch it. Aye, yes, he’d have to watch that, if only because he didn’t want to become pot-bellied.
He saw young Betty come running round by the hedge and say something to her. Then he saw her hurrying away back towards the house, leaving Betty with Miss Millie. And Betty, coming up to him now, said, ‘’Tis a visitor, the Lady Emily Clinton-Smyth. Eeh, the way she’s made up! Talk about a dog’s dinner! By! I wouldn’t like to work under her. You’d have to watch your p’s and q’s there.’
‘Look,’ he suddenly said to her, ‘Millie’s going after her. Bring her back and leave her with me; she’ll be all right.’
Lady Emily Clinton-Smyth. That was the old girl who was at the funeral and who stayed till last. She hadn’t been back here since. She was known as a character, that old girl! He wondered what she wanted; surely if she had been concerned for the miss, she would have put in an appearance before now . . .
Agnes was thinking much the same thing as she hurried into the kitchen where, after washing her hands at the sink, she turned to Peggy, saying, ‘Have you a comb handy, Peggy?’
Peggy went to the corner of the mantelpiece and, taking down a comb, she extracted loose hair from it before handing it to her mistress, saying, ‘Tidy hair and clean hands are not going to do much for your dress, and you can’t keep her waiting.’
‘Well, I’ve been gardening, she’ll understand. She should for she was keen on it herself at one time, so I heard.’
She handed the comb back to Peggy, then went hurriedly up the room, across the hall and into the drawing room, to find Lady Emily sitting on a straight-backed chair to the side of the window and from where she had a good view of the drive. She turned her head as Agnes entered the room and started talking before she had hardly closed the door, saying, ‘I see you’ve had the drive tidied up, not before time. Have you engaged more staff?’
‘No; we have just the same men. How are you, Lady Emily?’
‘Oh, just as you see me, I seem to have been like this for the last twenty years, and will likely remain the same for the next twenty. I’ve left word that I’m to be buried standing up and with all my clothes on.’ There was a sign of an attempted smile at the corner of her mouth. Then looking Agnes up and down, she said, ‘What have you been up to? Not very presentable.’
‘I’ve been gardening. We’re enlarging the vegetable garden.’
‘Well, well! Gardening. Well, you could do worse. But it plays havoc with the hands and cripples your back, and what for? The annuals die and the others take years to grow and few people live long enough to have the pleasure of them. We have an avenue of trees that my great-great grandfather planted. What good did they do him I ask you? Life’s a waste of time; I sometimes wonder why we’ve been put into it? For the glory of God, parsons tell you. Damn nonsense. Glory of God, indeed! We’ll be very lucky if any of us see Him, that’s my opinion. And we’ll be very lucky if any of us are still alive this time next year. Do you know that, girl?’
Agnes now smiled gently as she said, ‘Are you expecting a plague, Lady Emily?’
‘No girl, I’m not expecting a plague, I’m expecting a war. The majority of people in this country are asleep, they can’t see what’s coming. Austria-Hungary and Serbia at each other’s throats. You mark my words, there’ll be an explosion shortly. And who’ll set the fuse? That Kaiser of course. I’ve lived abroad half my life so I should know what I’m talking about. I’ve never liked the French, no sensible Englishman would, we are more akin to the Germans. Yet they are up to something, they always are, the Germans. That Mr Lloyd George standing with a foot on each boat, I know where he’s going to land. It’ll take Asquith to pull us out of this and Sir Edward Grey. That man’s been doing his best to get those Germans to toe the line, but that Kaiser wants to goose-step it over everybody. Somebody wants to do to him what they did to poor Archduke Franz Ferdinand last month. Scandalous, scandalous. I tell you, girl, we’ll be lucky if we’re alive next year. My remark about living twenty years ahead was simply prattle, I’ve no desire to live any longer. But I suppose I will have to go on as long as there’s a duty to perform and that’s why I’m here today, I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m on my way to the castle . . . Ravensworth. You haven’t been there lately, have you? No, no, of course not. Your mother used to go. Your mother was a lady, always remember that. Do you hear?’
‘Yes, yes, Lady Emily, I hear.’ Agnes’ voice was flat. There was something coming. She didn’t know what, but when someone like Lady Emily talked about doing her duty, she knew that it wouldn’t be anything pleasant, and now again she was talking of duty.
‘We have our duty, we of the upper class are bred for a purpose and the main point of that purpose is to show an example. We can be reduced to penury as you and your family have almost been, but nothing can take away your breeding. Your father was a weak man but he came of quite good stock, industrial perhaps, but then we all must get our money from somewhere. And those of us who have enough money to employ large staffs have a responsibility. Well, not only those with large staffs, those with any staff have a responsibility towards them, and, too, part of that responsibility consists in seeing that they maintain their place. Do you follow me?’
She now bent forward, her head bobbing so that her high hat which was perched on the top of her mass of white hair looked for the moment as if it was going to slip over her brow, but with an impatient sweep of her head she pushed it back; then she ended, ‘Oh, oh yes, miss, you do, you do. I can see by your face you do.’
Agnes felt faint. The purpose of this woman’s visit was now clear to her, but she felt she wanted to get up and run, to hide her face and stuff her ears from what was coming.
‘Now’ – Lady Emily straightened up again and drew her pointed chin into the fleshy folds of her neck – ‘I’m known and feared among women of my own class. I have talked scandal and enjoyed listening to it all my life, again with my own class. There are liberties one can take, there are indiscretions one can commit, there are lengths to which one can go, great lengths, but within the borders of one’s own class. But should one be so foolish or stupid as to step out of one’s class, and down, even to the lower middle class, that is a great mistake, but to go further is a tragedy, a disaster, equal to that of cohabiting with someone of a different colour.’
Agnes was trembling: her hands were joined on her lap and her nails were digging into each other. She told herself to speak, to put a stop to this, yet she wanted to know more, she wanted to know how this had come about. She had done nothing to merit these accusations, because what stooping she had done had been simply in her mind. But Lady Emily was talking again.
‘As I said in the beginning, I’ve enjoyed talking scandal but since I’ve been acquainted with this matter that concerns you I have not mentioned it to anyone, because I am concerned for you. I am concerned that you have been burdened with the running of this establishment, and that your marriage to the Crockford man did not materialise. Although that certainly wouldn’t have had my blessing either, because he is a vain weak-kneed individual, and he certainly doesn’t take after his mother. And I’m also sorry that you have brothers such as they are. Two to go off to Australia of all places. No gentleman would be found dead there. And then Stanley, he’s never at home, is he? He spends his time at the Cunninghams. Oh yes’ – she was nodding again – ‘I know all about the Cunninghams. He’s got his eye on Diana. But he’s barking up the wrong tree; she’s got to marry money. Somebody’s got to provide the cash to keep the stud going, they are all horse mad. But that won’t stop either her or him enjoying themselves, for if I recall anything about that young lady she’s a way ahead of anything in their stable.’
When again she paused for breath, Agnes, getting to her feet, said, ‘Have you finished, Lady Emily?’
‘No, I haven’t, not quite, girl. And sit down . . . do, do sit down, because, believe me, I’m here for your own good. You see, there’s someone in your household, or out of it, I don’t know, who seems to be very interested in your movements, as this letter indicates.’ She now opened her long bead purse and from it withdrew a sheet of paper, and on the sight of it Agnes sat down again and watched the thin bony fingers open out the letter, then hand it towards her, as she said, ‘Can you recognise that handwriting?’
Agnes, her breath now coming in gasps, looked down on the writing. She did not read what was on the paper, she only took in that the writing was very ill-formed. Lifting her head she looked at Lady Emily, saying, ‘People who write anonymous letters usually disguise their hand I understand. But . . . but why should anyone write a letter about me? May I read it?’
‘That’s what I want you to do.’ The old lady’s head was bobbing again.
Agnes took the letter from Lady Emily’s hand, but she had to blink her eyes to clear away the blur before she could read. The letter began simply:
Lady Emily,
You being a lady of quality and a friend of the Thorman family, I think you should know that Miss Agnes is in need of advice because she is being tempted into a situation that is lowering to her by a man in her employ. This man has a way with women. He has such a hold over her that she follows him about, and even works with him. It is a scandalous situation that a lady of her class should so lower herself. But it is not really her fault, as he is that kind of man. They meet in the wood under the pretext that they are looking for her sister. I feel you could do something about it, Lady Emily, as it is a disgrace.
I am, your Ladyship, a wellwisher.
‘It isn’t true. It isn’t true.’ The letter was shaking like a leaf in her hand and she repeated, ‘It isn’t true, I tell you. It isn’t true, not a word of it. The man this letter refers to is Mr Bradley . . . ’
‘You call him Mr Bradley?’
‘Yes, that is his name, Mr Bradley. Although I address him as Bradley, while those in . . . in the kitchen do so by his Christian name.’
‘Well then, we’ll call him Bradley. And you say that nothing in this letter is true?’
‘One thing maybe, we have worked together in the garden. But Millie is always with us and most times Bloom . . . Arthur Bloom too. This letter is infamous.’ Her lips were trembling, and now the tears spilled over from her eyes, and Lady Emily, bending forward, patted her knee, saying, ‘There, there. I’ll take your word for it. But why? Can you think why anyone should write such a letter to me, accusing you of such indiscretion?’
‘Yes, yes, I can.’ Agnes leant her head back against the wing of the chair. Yes, she knew who had written that letter. It was Dave. He had been acting strangely for weeks now; he had even followed her when she had taken a walk in the garden. The time he referred to – her meeting with Bradley – was at the last full moon, when Millie had taken to wandering again. There had been other full moons that hadn’t seemed to affect her, but on this night she had been missing and Bradley had gone out to look for her. But so had Maggie and Betty Trollop. It should happen that Bradley had found Millie and that just when she had come across them Dave had appeared on the scene. She remembered this very clearly for the following day he had almost been rude to her. She had put down the rudeness to the fact that it was Bradley who had found Millie and that Dave resented Millie’s open affection for the man.
‘Who is it then? Who wrote this letter?’
‘It doesn’t matter who wrote it, I can only assure you the contents are not true, all that has taken place between Bradley and myself is ordinary conversation.’
‘You converse with the man then?’
‘We’ve talked.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps because I have no-one else to talk to.’ She had shouted; and now she was on her feet, her hand over her mouth and the tears raining from her eyes.
Lady Emily rose stiffly from the chair and, putting her arms out, she drew Agnes into her embrace, saying, ‘There, there, my dear. There, there. These situations come about. Those brothers of yours should be shot. And me and my like round about are not blameless either; we should have called on you. But that sister of yours, you know, is something of an embarrassment and puts people off. I know the tales about her are quite exaggerated, I have said so. It is the common folk who start such things. Why, one of my maids was heard to say that when she got a hold of you she clawed at your hair like a bat. I told my maid Hewston to go and slap the wench’s face. Millicent isn’t sane, we all know that, but she is no maniac.’
