Burnt Norton (12 page)

Dorothy’s mood bounced from hatred to despair and back again, until at last she fell asleep. When she awoke, the fire had died and the room was cold. She stood up, shivering, and dragged herself upstairs. Halfway up, she heard her parents’ angry voices. For once Dorothy had no desire to listen.

She shut her bedroom door and went to her bureau. Inside lay Thomas’s letter to Molly. She picked it up and, striking the tinderbox, watched the flame ignite and grow. She held it to the letter, then dropped the burning paper into the fire. Staring into the flames she felt her anger tighten like a vice in her chest. She climbed onto her bed and tried to sleep, but it was useless. She rose and went to her washstand. As she stared at her exhausted reflection in the mirror, she considered that neither parent was blameless – her mother’s rejection had played its part.

When quiet returned to the house and her father’s door closed, Dorothy went to find her mother. Lady Keyt was in her bedroom, sitting at the foot of her bed, when Dorothy knocked to come in. As her mother looked up to greet her, Dorothy saw more lines of pain etched into her face.

‘Is this my fault, Dotty? Was any of this my fault?’

‘Of course not, Mama,’ she lied.

‘I can’t bear to think of it. I trusted Molly, and I thought I could trust my husband.’ Her words rekindled Dorothy’s indignation. He had betrayed her mother, banished Miss Byrne, and shot her beloved Ophelia. He had ruined all of their lives.

‘Mama, I’m sorry. I’ll look after you,’ she said, putting her arms around her.

Returning to her bedroom, Dorothy sat at her bureau and finding her notebook she wrote furiously. Molly would know of her anger.

Though you would whore with my father, and prey upon my brother’s affections, have no false hope: you will be sent from our house. I saw through you the moment I set eyes on you. You are nothing, Molly Johnson. Nothing.

She crossed it out and started again. By the third draft she was satisfied; she would write it out tomorrow. She climbed into bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

In the middle of the night a scream awakened Molly. She lit the candle on her night table, sat up in bed and listened. For a moment there was silence, but the scream came again. She pulled a robe around her, and unlocking the door to the passage, she ran down to the large, central landing.

Ruth stood by the broom cupboard, white-faced, in her white gown and frizzed brown hair.

‘What’s wrong?’

Molly followed her gaze. Thomas Whitstone’s door lay open.

‘Sir William! He has a sword,’ she whispered. ‘He’s killed Mr Whitstone!’

The servants came, one after the other, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Dorothy arrived with Lady Keyt.

‘Out of my way. Get out of my way.’ Sir William barged out of Whitstone’s room, his sword raised. Everyone drew back. ‘He betrayed me!’ he cried. ‘He betrayed me to my wife.’ He looked wildly around the room until his eyes fixed upon Molly. ‘And you, you have bewitched me,’ he gestured towards her, the sword waving dangerously.

All eyes turned to Molly: Lady Keyt, frozen in shock; Mrs Wright, her lip quivering, her nightcap squashed on her greying curls; Dorothy, her eyes bulging in her pale face.

You do what you can, when you can, my love.
Molly remembered her mother’s words as she walked towards the man who had raped her. He swayed before her, his eyes unfocused. Her heart beat wildly as she gazed at the raised sword. ‘Give that to me, Sir William. Someone else will get hurt.’

She reached up, but he waved it threateningly. She stepped back but maintained her composure.

Dorothy was forced to admire Molly Johnson’s courage, even as it highlighted Dorothy’s own weakness. ‘Sir William, give it to me. I beg of you.’ Molly put out her arm and this time he didn’t resist. Slowly she caught his wrist and lowered his hand, gently prising open the clenched fingers, until the sword clattered to the ground.

He seemed to awaken as if from a dream. ‘What have I done?’ he asked, his muddled brain clearing.

‘Come, sir; let’s go downstairs. It’s all right, sir. You can come with me.’

‘But Molly . . . do you hate me?’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’

He let her take his arm and lead him like a child.

Thomas passed them on the stairs. For a moment Molly looked into his eyes.

‘What’s going on? Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?’

No one answered.

This time Thomas shouted. ‘What has he done?’

‘I think your father has murdered poor Whitstone,’ his mother replied. Dorothy burst into tears, not because of ‘poor Whitstone’, but because of the look that had passed between Thomas and Molly.

‘It’s all right, Dotty,’ her brother said, taking her in his arms. ‘Don’t cry.’ He took her hand and led her to a chair. ‘Dotty, you wait there. Mother, you sit down, too. This won’t take long.’

Dorothy watched him disappear into Whitstone’s room, and within seconds she heard his laughter.

‘It’s fine,’ he called. ‘Come and look. There is no one here. Our drunken father has driven his sword into a pile of pillows.’

She crossed the threshold. A candle burnt on the dresser, and feathers like snowflakes settled on the floor. On the bed, the slashed and torn pillows bore witness to her father’s rage.

‘You see, the bird has flown.’

Dorothy shook her head. ‘Mama warned him. She told him to get away.’

‘What’s going on? Please will someone explain why Father should wish to kill Whitstone?’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, can you not see what is in front of your eyes? Molly is Father’s mistress and Whitstone had the stupidity to tell Mama.’

Thomas looked at his sister, comprehension dawning in his eyes. ‘No, I had no idea. How stupid of me. All these years, I’ve been a fool.’ He turned and stumbled down the stairs.

Dorothy followed. ‘Thomas, forgive me! Please come back.’ He looked at her in amazement, his eyes filling with tears, and continued on, deaf to her voice.

He left the back door open; she ran after him into the garden. It was raining, a freezing rain that pelted down her neck and into her eyes. Her steps were urgent. She ran down the path, stones piercing her thin slippers. ‘Thomas, where are you?’

Reaching the entrance to the pool garden, she heard her brother’s voice shouting against the wind. ‘My father will be rid of me, and I will be rid of the world.’

She saw him near the pools and feared he would drown himself. ‘No, Thomas!’ she yelled. ‘Please God, no.’

He looked up at her for a moment, then laughed hysterically and ran off into the darkness, his wet nightshirt clinging to his body.

She ran after him but he was gone, out through the upper gate and into the woods beyond. ‘He will die if he stays out in this,’ she sobbed. ‘He will surely die.’ She returned through the garden and into the courtyard, hammering on the door of the man whom she trusted above all others.

‘Lorenzo, help me, please help me!’

Lorenzo, unaware of the unfolding drama, put his head through the window. On seeing Dorothy below, he ran downstairs.

‘You are soaked through! Put this around you.’ He laid a coat around her shoulders while Dorothy told him what had happened.

‘You must help me,’ she pleaded.

‘Of course,’ he replied, pulling his breeches over his underclothes and nightshirt. ‘You go back inside the house and I promise I will find him.’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘this is my fault and I’m coming with you.’

They ran through the white gate at the end of the courtyard and down the track towards the Hanging Meadow. They called his name but there was no reply. They looked in the Dingle and the woods above the deer fence, but still there was no sign.

‘Think, Miss Dorothy: where would your brother go?’

Dorothy, panting from exertion, suddenly remembered. ‘He’d go to the tree house,’ she said. ‘He always went to the tree house.’

They ran together towards the stream and stopped underneath the large beech tree. When they called he didn’t answer.

‘I will go up,’ Lorenzo said, his foot already on the first rung of the ladder.

Lorenzo found Thomas huddled in the corner. His arms clutched his knees and his teeth chattered.

‘Leave me in peace,’ he said as the dark head appeared through the entrance.

‘I will not,’ Lorenzo replied, taking a seat beside him. ‘It’s freezing and we should be by a good fire. I have whisky in the cupboard for just such an occasion. Will you have one with me?’

‘I don’t want to live. What is there to live for?’

‘You should not say this, you who have everything. Come now, you crazy Englishman, and get down that ladder.’

Dorothy stared helplessly at the tree house waiting for a sign of progress, until at last Thomas appeared at the doorway. Without looking at her he climbed down the steps and walked into her waiting arms. Lorenzo had only taken the second step down when the wood, rotten from years of neglect, gave way. He plummeted to the ground.

He lay amongst the wet leaves and rotting vegetation, groaning at the sharp pain that shot through his ankle. ‘It may be broken,’ he said. Dorothy knelt beside him.

‘This is all my fault,’ she said miserably.

While Thomas ran to the house to get help, Dorothy remained with Lorenzo. ‘What can I do?’ she asked.

‘I need to take my boot off before the swelling gets too bad.’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said, gently removing the boot. Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of Lorenzo’s coat – still about her own shoulders – she bound it round his ankle. He raised himself onto his elbow and watched her. When the handkerchief was secure, she tore the ends with her teeth so that she could tie a knot. And all the time she was aware of Lorenzo watching her and of her own heart beating.

Thomas arrived with Elizabeth’s nurse, and two footmen ran down the slope, carrying a door between them. They lifted Lorenzo onto the door and carried him back to the lodge. Dorothy jogged along; she wouldn’t leave his side.

It was only a bad sprain, and Lorenzo within a short time was able to return to limited duties. For Dorothy, however, the event was momentous: she had lost her heart to her father’s coachman.

Dorothy awoke the following morning to light streaming through the bedroom curtains and the sound of her father’s desperate voice.

‘You may have The College,’ he continued, ‘and any income from the Stratford estate. I only hope that in time you will come to forgive your contemptible husband who is no longer worthy of you.’

Dorothy held her forehead, trying to ease the pressure. Too much was happening, too quickly. Yesterday she despised her father; today she wanted her mother to forgive him. They couldn’t leave Norton.

‘Thank you,’ she heard her mother say. ‘How sad that we have come to this, when I have loved you so dearly.’

‘Then give me another chance. I beg of you, Ann. You are the only woman I have ever loved.’

‘No, it’s too late,’ she said. ‘How could I live with the indignity of our servants’ knowledge, our children’s knowledge, and the humiliation of last night?’

‘She is not my mistress. It was one night of stupidity; can’t we put it behind us?’

‘It’s impossible. I couldn’t run this house now.’

‘Will you take all of the children?’

‘Elizabeth would be off better with me, but we will have to ask her, for she is old enough to make up her own mind. I will take Mrs Wright and Whitstone. I think it’s better if they were out of your service, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Lorenzo, of course, will wish to remain with you.’

Dorothy heard the door close behind her mother. There was no animosity in their discussion, only sadness. She turned into the pillow and wept.

Her mother supervised the packing. Books, treasured ornaments, pieces of silver and her great-grandmother’s candlesticks were placed carefully in wooden crates. She worked with the servants until the light began to fail.

‘I suppose Miss Johnson has been sent home?’ Dorothy asked, walking into her mother’s bedroom. She saw dresses and slips, the contents of her mother’s drawers strewn all over the floor.

‘To be honest, I have no idea.’ Her mother leant against the bedpost. She pushed the hair from her eyes. ‘I believe I must speak with her first, but at this moment I am too tired to think about it. Oh Dotty, come here and sit down.’ She put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. ‘What a dreadful muddle.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘We were so happy once. When I close my eyes, I can still smell my wedding flowers.’

‘I’m sorry, Mama. Everything seems to have gone wrong,’ Dorothy said, settling into her mother’s arms. ‘I would like to be married some day, but not for a while.’

‘And so you shall, to someone who will cherish you, and love you.’

‘I wonder,’ Dorothy said quietly.

They stood in silence until at last Dorothy whispered, ‘As Thomas will be away at university I shall be on my own. Please say that Lizzie will come with us?’

‘I don’t know, my love; it has to be her choice.’

‘Shall we ask her together? Perhaps if I’m there, it will make the question easier for you both.’

Her mother looked surprised. ‘I would be grateful, for though I believe in my heart that it would be better if she came to Stratford, I don’t want to place pressure upon her.’

They went downstairs, holding hands.

‘Hello, Lizzie.’ She touched her sister’s shoulder.

She looked up at her mother and sister with a sad smile on her face. ‘Dotty, you must go with Mama, but I will remain here with Father.’

Her intuitive sister had pre-empted them both.

‘But we can’t leave you here on your own,’ Dorothy cried, kneeling on the floor beside her.

‘Hush,’ her mother said gently. ‘Let Elizabeth speak.’

‘I will not be on my own,’ she said. ‘One of us must stay with him. I assure you, I will be more than fine.’

Dorothy pulled away from them both and slumped onto the window seat. ‘Why are you so good, Lizzie? You don’t have to stay. Come with us, I can’t bear to leave you.’

‘You can leave me, and you must. You must be with Mama. Is that not so?’ She looked up at their mother.