Burnt Norton (28 page)

Each time she awoke the awful truth overwhelmed her again. Her son was dead. The child she had strived for was gone.

A week later, the sisters departed for London.

‘Will you be all right, dear? We must return to our customers and clients.’

‘You are so good to have come. Thank you. I wouldn’t have survived without you. ‘

‘Molly, we treasure your friendship. How could we let you hear any other way? Besides, we gave you our word.’

When they had departed, Molly shut the door behind them. Her cat jumped through the kitchen window, pushing aside the checked curtains, rubbing his back against the wall. She had created a home for her son, and he would never see it. He would never know his mother; he would never know her struggle to win security for them both. Ruth came to see her, her arms filled with flowers. ‘I know you love roses so I brought you some. Poor love, you look a wreck. Have you eaten?’

‘I don’t want to eat, I want to die. What is there left?’

‘There’s always something, love.’

‘No, not now. There is nothing, no one.’

‘Someone as pretty as you will find love again.’ She stroked her hair.

‘I’ve lost my son, Ruth. Don’t you see I can never be happy again?’

Ruth looked into her lap. ‘I have other news. Sir Thomas wants to see you; he calls your name through the fever.’

‘So he’s ill, is he?’ Molly looked at her furiously. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I think: he deserves to die. He sent our son to his death. He’s ruined my life. I hate the Keyts. May God curse each and every one of them.’

‘I understand your feelings, but he is dying, Molly – you can’t deny a dying man.’

‘Trust me, I can.’

‘I’ll take you on the cart. Please come. Her ladyship asked me to find you. Please come; I fear there’s not much time left.’

Molly went, not for Thomas or his mother, but for Ruth, who had proven herself a most loyal friend.

They arrived late in the afternoon. Molly climbed from the cart. The farmhouse had turned a salmon pink in the setting sun, and smoke curled from the chimneys.

‘This way, madam,’ the housekeeper said, wiping her floury hands. ‘Come in. Please forgive me, but I’ve just been baking. We are trying to encourage Sir Thomas to eat.’

She followed her down a short passageway to the foot of the stairs.

‘Up there, madam,’ she said, indicating a room off the landing above. ‘I won’t come up, if you don’t mind. Her ladyship is waiting for you.’ Molly climbed the stairs, smoothed her hair, and knocked on the bedroom door.

‘Is that you, Molly?’

‘Yes, my lady, I’m here.’ Molly entered the room; in the corner a small elderly woman sat in a Windsor chair. Molly was shocked, but when the woman spoke it was the same refined voice.

‘Will you take me downstairs, for I can’t see. I have been waiting for you; Thomas has, too.’

Molly took her by the arm and settled her in a chair by the fire.

‘Thank you. You have always been so patient.’ Lady Keyt sighed. ‘Have we wronged you, Miss Johnson?’ she asked.

A thousand replies clamoured in Molly’s head. ‘No, my lady,’ she replied. ‘You have never wronged me.’ She longed to ask if Lady Keyt had known the truth, but thought the better of it. What good would come of it now?

She returned upstairs, pausing on the threshold. Books lined the shelves, and in the corner a desk overflowed with papers. It was a simple room, but somehow it was appropriate. Elizabeth’s paintings covered the walls. One stood apart from the rest; she remembered the afternoon it was painted.

‘Molly, be still. You are hopeless. How can I make a likeness when you fidget thus?’

‘Why would you wish to, when I am such a poor sitter?’

She could hear their laughter echoing through the years; she could see Elizabeth’s sweet face, and now to her amazement, she could see her portrait hanging on Thomas’s wall.

Walking over to the bed, she stood over the dying man.

‘Is that you, Molly? It cannot be.’

‘It’s me, Thomas,’ she replied, appalled by the change in his appearance: the sunken cheeks, the yellow complexion. The arm that protruded from the covers was no more than bones with a papery covering of skin. It was as if his life had already gone, leaving only a phantom behind.

He grasped her hand and looked at her with dull eyes. ‘Why did you run away? I loved you so much, and you deserted me.’

‘Too many reasons,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Guilt, fear, and I thought you deserved more. We were from different worlds; I believed you would never survive the disgrace.’

‘Was that not for me to decide? Have I married, had children, happiness? There was only ever one woman in my life. Look around you. I live in a simple farmhouse. Do you see extravagance, excess? This is me, Molly. This is who I am.’

Molly’s anger returned. ‘Then why did you betray me? Why did you force me to give up our son? You took him away from me, when I could have looked after him. I worked for years to be able to look after him.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘If it were not for your family, he would be alive today.’

He dragged himself up in the bed. ‘What are you saying? I have no child. Please don’t torment me.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Thomas. I’m not a fool. When I saw you together at the concert, I knew immediately. How could you let your own son go to sea, to fight a wretched war? How could you abandon him?’

‘Oh my God,’ he gasped. ‘Charles Coram was our son?’

‘Of course he was our son. You knew he was our son. He was the image of you. Now unburden your conscience before you meet your maker.’ Molly stood above him in a frenzy. ‘You are pathetic, Thomas. I would have given my life for you and our son, but you! You deserve this.’ She let out her breath, as if she could rid herself of her grief. ‘You Keyts are all the same!’ She turned to go, but he caught her arm with surprising strength.

‘Molly, I didn’t know! You have to believe me. I didn’t know!’ She saw the disbelief and horror on his face, and realized in a flash that he was speaking the truth. She sank down to the floor, keening with despair. She saw it now; Dorothy alone had orchestrated this. If Dorothy had entered the room at that moment, Molly would have killed her.

She looked at Thomas and picked up his hand, knowing her words would destroy him.

‘Listen. Your sister paid me to give him to the Foundling Hospital.’ Her grip tightened on his hand. ‘Then I saw you with him, Thomas. On the night of the concert you gave him a gift. What was I to think?’ She paused to control herself. ‘Now I have paid for my sins. Our son was killed in a fruitless war on a distant sea; I will have to live with that for the rest of my life.’

He cried then and she took him in her arms.

‘It’s all right, my love, it’s all right.’

‘But it’s not all right,’ he replied, sobbing into her chest. ‘I am a coward, it’s true. I was afraid to find you, to come after you. Look where it has brought me: I am dying with no love and no life, when I could have had it all.’

‘We can have it now, Thomas. Get well and we can still have it all.’

He fell back to bed, exhausted. ‘Yes, my love, we can start again.’

Molly bent to kiss him. ‘I’ll come again tomorrow,’ she said, brushing his dry lips with her own.

They enjoyed one week together.

‘It will always be like this when you are well, Thomas. I’ll look after you; I’ll never leave you again.’

‘Molly, I won’t be well. It has gone too far,’ he answered sadly. ‘But there is something you can do for me. I wish to leave my papers in order. Perhaps your brother can help us?’

She sent for Will, and as Molly watched them, she indulged in imagining the life they could have had together. Pride and preconceptions had kept her from Thomas. She had assumed he would want a different life, refusing him the chance to prove otherwise.

‘So, I’ve finally met the author of the poem,’ Will said as he sat beside the bed.

‘I have always loved your sister,’ Thomas replied sadly. ‘Please will you ensure that she receives this farm and the living that goes with it? All my possessions, my books, my writing, I bequeath to her. I wish my sister to retain only my prayer book, for she has wronged me, wronged us both. Perhaps she will find forgiveness within its pages, for I cannot find it within my heart.’

When he had finished, he lay back against the pillow, his face grey. Molly took his hand and sat beside him. He smiled and shut his eyes and she could see he was at peace.

‘I can go now, knowing that you will never struggle again. I came to this house in the knowledge that you loved it. I remember your words when I asked your opinion of Norton: “Master Thomas, I like it enough, but the house in the dip with the chickens outside reminds me of home. That one I like a lot.” When I moved here, I felt close to you. Now it is yours. Perhaps, when I have gone, you will feel close to me.’

Molly put her head upon his chest and wept, for how could she let him go when she had only just found him again?

‘Molly, look at me,’ he said. ‘I can’t bear to see you cry. Please be brave for me.’

‘Your sister said the same thing: “Be brave for me, my dear friend, and let me go.” But how can I?’

‘You can let me go now because I have found happiness. You can help me through the door, and I’ll wait for you, and then we’ll be together for eternity.’

She did let him go. She held him while he slipped away, and though their time together was brief, it gave her the strength to go forward.

August 1756

On Dorothy’s arrival in Surrey, the children hurled themselves at their mother’s skirts.

‘Mama, I’ve missed you!’

‘Mama, thank goodness you are home!’

‘Dorothy, I may not be the most demonstrative man,’ her husband said as he welcomed her. ‘Sometimes I believe I am not all that you had hoped for, but may I say that the house has been quiet and wretched without you.’

When the children were in bed, they ate together in the small dining room. ‘You are a remarkable woman,’ he said, putting down his fork. ‘You make the journey to Gloucestershire each and every year, unselfishly and with devotion. I am proud of you, even if I would like more of your time, and possibly more of your heart.’ Dorothy was ashamed. She was sorely tempted to tell her husband that the woman he loved had lied, cheated and deceived, but she couldn’t bear to shatter his belief in her.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ she said, ‘I only wish I could live up to your expectations.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘you are too modest.’ Dorothy watched his slim fingers play nervously with the stem of his glass, the brown eyes cautious and diffident.

She was married to a good man, a truly kind man, and she had hurt him, too. His belief in her decency gave her the courage she needed. She would return to Gloucestershire. She would tell Thomas. When the truth was out, she would tell her husband, too. Afterwards, if he still wanted her, she would give him all of her love.

‘Gilbert, I’m sorry, but I am going back. There is something I must do.’

‘But my dear, you have only just arrived.’

‘Please, Gilbert, trust me. I will not be able to rest until I have met with my brother.’

‘Of course I trust you. Go if you must. Just come home soon.’

On the long journey back to Gloucestershire, Dorothy rehearsed her lines.

‘Thomas, I have betrayed your love and trust. I know you will never forgive me, but if I can give you a chance of happiness, your contempt will be a small price to pay. I can never make up for the past, but perhaps you will now have a future.’

Refusing to contemplate the consequences, she took the red leather volume from her bag. As Miss Byrne’s writing swam before her eyes, she remembered the day she had left.
Take care of that brother of yours … I have all the faith in you, all the faith in the world
.

The coach arrived at Hidcote as the sun sank behind the gabled house. Stepping down she waited for George Heron, who had entered her mother’s service.

‘May I take your bags, my lady?’

‘Thank you, I would be most grateful.’ She was climbing the steps to the front door when she froze. Hanging above the entrance, a black canvas hatchment stirred in the evening breeze.

‘Heron, what does this mean?’ she asked, pointing to the hatchment. ‘It carries only a single coat of arms. What is going on?’

‘Forgive me, my lady. I’m truly sorry.’

‘What do you mean you are sorry? Tell me quickly, man!’

When his eyes shifted away, avoiding her own, she knew the worst.

‘Sir Thomas is dead, my lady, struck down with the fever. The good Lord saw fit to take him. We sent word by messenger, but you had already left.’

‘Why wasn’t I told that he was sick?’

‘I don’t know, my lady.’ He looked away in embarrassment. ‘We had our orders.’

Throwing herself to the ground, she hammered her fists upon the cobbles. ‘Thomas!’ she cried. ‘Thomas, forgive me!’ Through her tears she could see the bleak years ahead. There would be no deliverance, no absolution.

They buried the last of Dorothy’s siblings in the family vault, and, as the bearers lifted the coffin upon their shoulders, Dorothy held her mother’s fragile form in her arms.

‘It’s an unnatural order,’ she cried. ‘Three children, my husband – what in heaven’s name have I done, that I should be punished thus?’

‘You are blameless, Mama. Let us go inside.’

They were sitting in the pew when she saw her. She had chosen a place in the south transept, and as Dorothy looked at the handsome woman who sat beneath the Keyt coat of arms, she was bombarded with emotions. With appalling clarity she realized that her hatred and envy had blinded her to the truth. If in the eyes of the Church Molly Johnson was an adulteress, she knew at that moment that her sin was still greater.

When the tomb was sealed, she turned to her mother. ‘This is the end, Mama; God has done his worst.’

‘I wish to be amongst them,’ Lady Keyt replied. ‘I am too tired to fight any more. You have your own family. May you know peace and a measure of happiness. It is my only remaining desire.’

She kissed her mother’s cheek, and as she looked up, she saw Molly waiting.