Greygallows (6 page)

'There is a distant connection,' Margaret said. 'When he first came to London, my mother thought... But it seemed I was not to his taste. He told a friend, who repeated it, that I was like a puppy, all wriggle and bounce and health. But he really did not care for dogs in the house.'

'How very rude,' I said indignantly.

'Not at all,' said Margaret coolly. 'He did not know the words would be repeated. He had rejected several young ladies of wealth and family,
so apparently his standards are high, or—or unusual. And,' she added, under her breath, 'I am relieved that it came about so.'

My aunt looked at her contemptuously; clearly she dismissed this comment as sour grapes. But as she turned, watching the Baron's slow, disdainful progress, Margaret caught at my hand.

'She is thinking of Clare for you,' she whispered. 'I beg you, Lucy, do not—'

'But why not?' I whispered back. 'Not that there is any chance of such a thing, but why... ?'

Margaret shrugged. Her rosy cheeks had lost some of their bloom.

'Think me fanciful, if you like; but there are tales, in the family ... His mother...'

My aunt turned. The interruption was dreadful to me; I had heard just enough to terrify me. And it was apparent that Margaret's suggestion was not so unlikely as I had thought. The Baron was returning in his circuit of the ballroom, and this time his eyes were fixed on our little group.

He came straight to us and greeted Margaret as a friend and family connection. It was necessary for her to present him, and if her manner lacked enthusiasm, neither my aunt nor his Lordship appeared to care.

'I have heard of Lady Russell from numerous friends,' he said, bowing over her hand in a manner which would have fascinated any woman who was not already in love with his title. 'I hope I may presume upon that fact to improve our acquaintance.'

My aunt made some flattering response, and then Clare turned to me. I scarcely heard what he said; his glowing dark eyes mesmerized me. He
claimed me for the next dance; but, as we moved off across the floor, he asked if I would not rather rest on one of the seats under the potted plants. It was gracefully done; yet I was suddenly conscious of my wretched limp, which had not troubled me for some time. Holding his arm, I glanced back over my shoulder. My aunt fairly glowed with satisfied pride; but Margaret's face was grave with a wordless foreboding.

That evening Clare obtained permission to call. He did so frequently; but his behavior bewildered me. Overly conscious, thanks to Lady Russell, of that omnipotent ten thousand a year, I did not expect Clare to be madly in love with me. Yet it was an open secret that he had rejected other girls almost as well endowed as I. So he must like me, a little ... As I say, I did not expect ardent passion. What I missed were the little things—the meaningful glance, the subtle pressure of the hand, a word charged with hidden meaning ... Any woman will know what I mean. He was gravely, exquisitely attentive; but no more.

And my feelings for him? By all rights, I should have been deeply in love. His looks alone were lovable, and his mind was as well formed as his face. We read poetry together; his deep, intelligent voice gave the verses a profound meaning. His views on natural beauty, on painting and books and music were unexceptional. His sense of humor was deficient; but no reasonable girl expects a
melancholy hero to be a wit. Two things kept me from falling in love. One was Margaret's warning.

To my fury, I found it impossible to get from Margaret any elaboration of her strange words. No doubt she would have been willing to gossip, and we saw each other several times after the ball; my aunt was eager to improve the acquaintance with her distinguished family. But my aunt and Margaret's mother, together, made confidences impossible. My aunt never left us alone, and Lady Montgomery was not anxious to improve
her
acquaintance with us. When, at Christmas, Margaret went off to the family seat in Derbyshire, I had not exchanged a single private word with her.

And by then I was in love, but not with Clare.

I was still taking lessons on the harp. There, as my aunt later owned, she erred; but she was slow to see what was transpiring. What girl in her senses, she declaimed, would have eyes for a feeble nincompoop of a music master when the handsome Baron Clare was at her feet?

I was such a girl. My adored Fernando and I had little time for dalliance, but many a sigh and sob and—yes, kiss—were exchanged behind the closed doors of the drawing room. I had to play the harp; prolonged silence would have roused my aunt's suspicions. But as I plucked the strings at random, Fernando bent over me, touching my cheek and breathing tempestuously into my hair. I made little progress in music, but I progressed greatly in love. And, like all green girls who fancy themselves unhappily in love, I pined and grew pale.

My aunt's annoyance at my pallor and feeble appetite was mitigated by Clare's admiration. He did not care for bouncing, healthy girls; he had
said so. He spoke of lilies and graceful, drooping nymphs; he recited verses about languid maidens.

During these weeks I improved my acquaintance with Mr. Beam, and came grudgingly to appreciate his better qualities. My aunt was constantly in need of money; she used our flourishing acquaintance with Clare as an excuse for greater extravagance. I was not included in the conferences between my two guardians concerning financial matters. I did not expect to be included; indeed, I would have been greatly indignant if anyone had proposed that I give up hours with Fernando, or dreaming over some romantic novel, to dreary discussions of money. But I saw a good deal of Mr. Beam, in his office and at the house.

An old bachelor, he lived a solitary life. In his dreary ancient chambers he was attended only by an equally ancient manservant. To my surprise, I found that among his few pleasures was a shyly concealed but passionate love of music. My exercises on the harp made him wince, but he liked to have me sing to him. He said I had a sweet little voice, and once, in a mellow mood, he told me of the operatic performances he had attended in Vienna and Germany.

Yet he was not really at ease with me, and I began to suspect that his interviews with my aunt were as painful for him as she claimed they were for her. Actually she enjoyed the battles; she was a combative old lady, and flourished on disagreements. But Mr. Beam was moved only by duty. I developed a reluctant admiration for his sense of responsibility, which forced him into continual uncongenial encounters. He was my guardian, and he had a poor opinion of my aunt's
good sense. In his own way he was determined to see that I was not cheated. Altogether, his was an admirable character; its only flaws were coldness and lack of imagination. Yet, in the end, his icy rectitude was as fatal for me as was the villainy of those who brought about my ruin.

My aunt mentioned that Mr. Beam owed his bachelor state to a disappointment in love. Years and years ago he had been in love with a lady, who had chosen another man. Like a knight of old he had dedicated himself to his lost love; now that she was widowed and in difficult circumstances, he pleased himself by helping her in the only way her delicacy would allow—through her son.

I had seen something of Mr. Jonathan too, though not by choice. He was occasionally delegated to entertain me while the older couple held their business meetings. Further acquaintance only confirmed my initial impressions. He was a very strange young man. At times I thought he admired me; he would sit and stare fixedly when he thought I was not looking at him. Then, again, he would say the rudest things. He made insulting comments about my intelligence, or lack thereof; but he seemed determined to improve it, with his own radical notions. His conversation was usually gloomy and invariably dull. Tedious statistics about rural unemployment, long extracts from economics books, criticisms of his own profession of the law—of such did his talk consist, and it bored me unutterably.

On one occasion, however, Mr. Jonathan's remarks did impress me. They were gloomy, but not dull. It was in early December, I believe, that this encounter took place. It was memorable for
more reasons than one.

Snow was falling outside, although it little resembled the delicate white flakes that had adorned the winter sky of Canterbury. Soot and smoke so fogged the air of the great metropolis that even the snowflakes were black. The day was dreary and dark, and we had candles lit early. Baron Clare was coming to call.

Dreaming of Fernando, I was some time in realizing that my aunt's preparations were more elaborate than usual; and when at last she urged me to change my gown, I asked her why I should.

'Mr. Beam is coming,' she explained. 'He wishes to meet Clare.'

Already we were on such intimate terms that she could refer to him without his title. I knew then what the meeting portended. Languidly I went up and changed my dress.

During those days it seemed to me that I always had a headache. It was generally admitted that the air of London was unhealthy. The House of Commons sat with the windows closed, because the stench from the river, outside the walls of St. Stephens, was enough to gag even a strong-stomached member. Most of the streets were mired with filth; open sewers ran down the pavements. It had not been five years since the cholera had swept the city, and typhoid we had as a yearly visitor.

I knew nothing of such matters. I only knew that to my aunt an open window was anathema, and that there were days when I was so limp and fatigued I could hardly stir.

Clare arrived early that day, with an enormous bunch of flowers for me and a box of French
bonbons for my aunt. His normally pale cheeks were slightly flushed. No other trace of emotion was visible in his manner; his slow, beautiful voice spoke of impersonal matters.

We were sitting in the parlor after dinner, and my aunt was preparing tea, when the butler announced Mr. Beam and his associate.

My aunt grunted. She had little use for Mr. Jonathan, but she needed Mr. Beam, and when she rose to greet them she was sweetly gracious to both.

A breath of air from the chilly hall came in with the newcomers. It roused me a trifle, as I lounged on the sofa, and I saw with some amusement that the two younger men had taken an immediate dislike to one another. With magnificent condescension Clare shook hands with Jonathan; his expression suggested that he was smelling something nasty.

Jonathan was groomed very smartly. His rampant lock of hair had been forcibly suppressed, and his cravat was tied with such smartness that he appeared about to choke. Next to Clare's poise and immaculate attire he was at a disadvantage. He looked not ten but twenty years younger, and as if he did not quite know what to do with his hands and feet.

Clare's frigid handclasp disconcerted him so that he sat down too abruptly and almost missed the edge of the sofa. The resultant jumble of his long limbs did not improve his temper, and he sat glaring at Clare as if blaming him for his awkwardness.

I disremember how the argument began, but I am sure it was Jonathan's fault. He would have
taken exception to anything Clare said, and the subject was near to his heart.

We were discussing the weather—a safe social topic, one would have thought—and Mr. Beam, coughing, grumbled about the foul air and hoped there would be no outbreak of disease.

'Cholera in thirty-two, typhus in thirty-nine,' said Jonathan with grim relish. 'It is only a matter of time until the next epidemic.'

Clare raised an eyebrow.

'Surely that is an unnecessarily pessimistic view,' he drawled. 'One must not alarm the ladies, you know.'

'The ladies are as susceptible to cholera as you and I,' Jonathan retorted hotly. 'If womanly kindness does not lead them to abhor the unspeakable conditions that produce disease, self-interest may induce them to prevent it. The conditions leading to the last epidemic are unchanged.'

'Ah, I understand.' Both Clare's eyebrows soared. 'You are one of those young—er— enthusiasts who weep over the poor oppressed working classes.'

'You see no cause for concern?'

'I do not concern myself with politics,' Clare said, with the most exquisite contempt.

Jonathan was really trying to control himself. He kept passing his teacup from hand to hand, as if it were too hot to hold; but except for that, and the ruddy color of his face, he showed no sign of temper.

'It is not a question of politics,' he said, 'but of simple human decency.
Have you not read the "Report on the Sanitary Conditions of
the
Labouring Classes"?'

Clare laughed. It was an unforgivable thing to do, but my echoing laugh was worse. I really could not help myself, the contrast between the solemn title and Jonathan's comical appearance was so funny. His efforts to restrain his hair had been in vain; it stood upright from the crown of his head and made him look like an indignant young cockerel.

He looked at me, and then I did not feel like laughing.

'I beg your pardon,' Clare said, with apparent sincerity. 'It was only that such a title, as potential reading material for the present company ... No, I have not read your "Report." I do not need to read it. I am only too familiar with the sort of assumed grievances it contains. The poorer classes have always complained; they will continue to complain, no matter what is done for them.'