Indiscretion (40 page)

‘It is,’ Captain Brunton said, with a judicious tilt of his head, ‘a long way from
here.’

‘I suppose everywhere is a long way from somewhere,’ said Caroline, and thought: Dear God, I am saying some stupid things.

‘At any rate, I will not be called upon until the new year,’ Captain Brunton said, with an interrogative look at his own large brown hand. ‘Miss Fortune, I wish I might speak with you. I had thought of writing, as you were good enough to permit it, but instead it seemed — well, I wish I might have the opportunity. To speak.’

‘Well, sir, we are speaking now, and I think we are not overheard. Can you not
... ?’

And that was the end of it, for just then the squeaking of a fiddle and a fugue of coughs announced the arrival of the village carollers at the door of the Manor: everyone went out to the hall to hear them, and Captain Brunton wrapped himself again in his gloomy cloak of silence, and did not remove it.

Was it, Caroline wondered when she went to bed that night, because of these signs of a reconciliation between Isabella and Mr Leabrook? Lady Milner might well have told her cousin of them, or Isabella, who had been in conspicuously brighter mood that day, might have hinted at it herself. If so, Caroline thought, then Captain Brunton ought not to torture himself any more. Falmouth, or indeed any other place, would be better. She resolved to tell him so; but sleet and ice, and the sort of muffled sniffling cold that is really, in its requirement that one rest and cosset, as much of a comfort as a convenience, kept her from the Manor for nearly a week after Christmas. The first meltings and drippings, however, saw her putting on her spencer and making the walk to the Manor through a world of steely sun-dazzle and crystalline puddles, a world not unlike her mood
—
which depended still on London, whence there was no news, even if no bad news: a mood mingled, unresolved.

She found all well at the Manor, and Isabella, with something of her former warmth, jumping up and urging her to the fire with kindly scoldings for coming out when she was still recovering. But Lady Milner was subdued, severe, and shook her head bleakly when Caroline asked her if she had heard anything of Fanny.

‘Nothing. Nothing. And I assume the same with you.’

‘Don’t be downcast, Stepmama,’ Isabella said, squeezing her arm. ‘I know this sounds odd, but I have a feeling
—
a presentiment that all will be well in the end. Captain Brunton, you understand what I mean, don’t you?’

‘In this case, Miss Milner, no,’ said Captain Brunton, who was standing at the window staring out, his hands tucked under his coat-tails.

‘Now, sir, I declare you are a fibster, because just the other evening you were telling me that curious story of when you were at Minorca,’ Isabella said, in a rallying tone, ‘and you had a feeling all in the dead of night that someone was in danger, and sure enough in the morning the second lieutenant nearly fell from
—’

‘You remember?’ Captain Brunton said, almost harshly, half turning from the window.

‘Why, to be sure,’ Isabella said, her eyes wide. ‘You were first lieutenant, and he was your good friend, and he was made captain after Copenhagen. Women
do
listen, you know
...
Captain Brunton, what is it that you see out there?’

He said: ‘I’m not sure. Well, it is a gig; but it has come half down the avenue, and stopped, and I thought it was about to turn and go away again. But no, here it comes at last. I do believe
...’

The window-glass made his voice hollow. ‘I recognize the lady in it.’

Isabella came and stood by him. It was the glass, perhaps, that made her voice the same as she said: ‘Mrs Leabrook.’

Mrs Leabrook: the garrulous, fond, and foolish Mrs Leabrook, perpetually to be found at Hethersett clucking amongst her hens and pigeons: here she was, quite without precedent, arriving at Wythorpe Manor in a gig driven by a sullen groom who helped hand her shawled, scarfed, turbaned, unwieldy bulk down to the gravel of the drive: where again she seemed on the point of changing her mind before, at last, coming in.

‘Lady Milner. Miss Milner. I felt I must come and talk to you.’ This was only after a long rodomontade about the weather and how she did not mind it and how various members of her family, described in detail, had withstood drought, frost, and typhoon. ‘I do appreciate this must seem rather strange
—
my calling thus, when it has not been our habit, and indeed it has long been my settled habit
not
to make calls on
my own account, and it has been quite an undertaking to venture at last
...’

For some time Mrs Leabrook, having set up camp on the sofa, congratulated herself on coming out, and might have gone on much longer had Lady Milner not put in: ‘We are very glad to see you, Mrs Leabrook, but you must see that we are also a little puzzled
—
anxious even
—
to know what this matter is that you must talk to us about.’

With hen-like fluffmgs, winkings, and croonings, Mrs Leabrook turned herself towards Isabella. ‘Miss Milner. The news I have to tell you is news that you
—
yes, I acknowledge it, you have a claim to know
—’

‘Good God,’ Isabella cried, white-lipped, ‘what is it? It must be Richard
—
what?’

‘He is married.’ Mrs Leabrook closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Yes. My son writes me today
—’
she made a pantomime of extracting the letter from her pocket, gave it up
‘—
no matter
—
the news is very simple. Yes. Very straightforward
—
but that’s how Richard is, you know, well, of course you know
...
He was married yesterday, in London, by special licence. He bids me be happy. I
am
happy. No woman, I venture to say, who has known the goodness of a son such as Richard, a son who has always made her welfare his especial care even when there are many claims upon his attention
—
no woman could refuse to bestow her blessing
...’

‘I would be obliged, ma’am,’ Lady Milner said, in a voice of ice, moving close to Isabella and laying a hand on her rigid arm, ‘if you would spare us these reflections, and tell us who Mr Leabrook has married; and how this has come about; and how he explains himself, when he was publicly engaged to my stepdaughter
—’

‘Ah, now, my dear Lady Milner, there was after all a certain degree of dubiety about how precisely matters stood between my son and Miss Milner
—’

‘Indeed there was not, ma’am. That engagement was not broken off. There was an indefinite postponement of marriage, pending the resolution of a difficulty between the parties; but certainly my stepdaughter did not consider herself released from any engagement
—
as it appears your son has considered
himself,
with what I must call the grossest and most ungentlemanly callousness.’ Lady Milner’
s
glare seemed to pin the fluttering matron to her seat. Caroline’s spinning mind registered a momentary wish that Fanny was here to see this. As for Isabella, Caroline could not tell how she was taking the news, because she simply could not bear to look at her face. ‘Now, ma’am,’ Lady Milner went on, ‘be so good as to tell us the rest,
briefly.’

Mrs Leabrook, moist-eyed, resentfully humbled, made another pantomime of searching for a handkerchief. ‘Dear me. The lady
—
the lady is Miss Downey. That is to say, she
was,
for of course now her title is Mrs Richard Leabrook, or say Mrs Maria Leabrook, for I have always preferred, in some defiance of convention, that the woman’s name
—’
A fresh glare from Lady Milner tugged her sharply away from this tempting digression. ‘Miss Downey, yes, you know her, of course, and quite a favourite of mine she has been
—
I can say I have got to know her pretty well during her stays at Hethersett, and
—
pardon me, Miss Milner, but speaking
objectively,
as it were, I really cannot reprove his choice, even so sudden as it is
—
though I collect from what he writes me that there has been a
—
a friendship, an understanding growing for some time
—
and so though it is so unexpected, in all other respects it is, you know, a most eligible match—’

‘Wait, ma’am,’ Caroline interjected, with a creeping suspicion upon her, ‘are we speaking of the same Miss Downey? For I know her well, and I know she has no portion
—
no money of her own. I hardly think you would call that an eligible match, unless
...’
Cold sure knowledge came like a cloud across the sun. ‘What was the result of the will, ma’am? You know what I mean. Miss Downey’s aunt, the late Mrs Catling. They were going to London for the reading of that will.’

Mrs Leabrook’s dim pretty eyes roamed all around the room: then she seemed to make a decision, and with a hoist of her chins adopted a proud look. ‘Miss Downey, as my son informs me, inherits her aunt’s entire fortune. This I consider, as does he I’m sure, a tribute to her character. Mrs Catling, whom I did not have the pleasure of meeting, but whom I conceive to have been an excellent woman of sterling judgement, obviously saw her niece’s worth, her beauty, elegance, taste, and accomplishment, and chose to reward it accordingly. As my son also perceived those qualities, and — and saw fit to pay them the tribute of his hand.’ Mrs Leabrook’s characteristic gasp of air was now like that of
someone who has floundered unexpectedly and triumphantly through deep water to dry land.

So Maria got everything! thought Caroline. Poor Matthew. Poor indeed. Her thoughts skipped speedily and surely. Those expensive improvements at Hethersett. Maria’s peculiar liking for country living. A friendship, an understanding
—
no, no, they have been intriguing for some time. And now Leabrook has made a very astute matrimonial choice: beauty and wealth. As for Maria — well, he is handsome, sophisticated, and also landed: in place of her unstable, peripheral life, she will be chatelaine of a mansion. And as for how they have behaved, there will be some talk, some censure, some discredit
—
but nothing they cannot weather, with riches and power.

Well, well. Except this was not so, it was ill, ill: look at Isabella. Caroline made herself look, at last. She was still, stiff, and pale — not abnormally so; but her heart was beating so high and fast it could be seen all through her, as a quiver on her breast, a pulse in her throat, a vibration in her cheeks. Isabella was not a swooner, but as she rose to her feet Caroline was convinced she was going to faint.

And then, rising, Isabella rose also to the occasion.

‘Mrs Leabrook, I am obliged to you,’ she said, in a steady voice. ‘Thank you for coming to tell us, and I hope the journey has not inconvenienced you.’

‘Oh, not in the slightest, my dear Miss Milner, and even if it had I was determined to do it, rather than that you should hear the news in some other way, which would be rather unfortunate
—
and besides I like to do things properly, it’s how I am and always have been, I believe it is a characteristic
...’

But Isabella could not be interested in how Mrs Leabrook was or where she had got it from, and with the help of a renewed firmness from Lady Milner, the visitor was very soon got rid of: explaining herself to the last even to the unimpressed maid holding the door.

And then Isabella looked blindly around. Caroline was never sure who instigated it, but it ceased to matter, anyhow, as she held her sobbing friend in her arms.

The short grey candle of winter afternoon was nearly spent when Caroline left the Manor. There had been talk — of course — though not too much, and not too deeply: it was early and difficult yet: silences, looks, the invisible binding mesh of sympathy did better. So many things were known and realized now. There must be a slow, sedimentary sinking in.

Some things, though, needed to be said, and were, between Caroline and Captain Brunton, who accompanied her to the front door.

‘I do want, just once, to kick him,’ Caroline remarked. ‘And not from the rear.’

‘I fear he would have to be standing up for that, Miss Fortune,

and in my mind I have already thrashed him to the floor,’ Captain Brunton said, with a show of fierce white teeth: then extinguished them in shame. ‘But this is monstrous violent language.’

‘Yes, thank heaven for it. Will you escort me home, Captain Brunton?’

‘Of course.’ Eyes front, the Captain took her arm as if it were a stick or umbrella. Along the oak avenue a rising wind licked at the black slush-puddles and tugged at the leafless branches like malicious fingers in hair. ‘I’m afraid I can’t speak, Miss Fortune.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you can.’

‘No, no, because if I do — if I do I must use the unconscionable word “bastard”.’

‘It is a very good word in the circumstances
...
’ This was a day, she thought decisively, for truth. ‘Captain Brunton, I’m so sorry.’