The key in the lock, p.22
The Key In the Lock, page 22
Edward turned away, and looked out into the garden. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done, these last days, without you.’
I joined him. ‘I’ve only done what anyone would.’
‘That’s not true.’ He tilted his face to the weak sun, let out a breath. ‘It could be Italy.’
I smiled. ‘I was just thinking something similar.’
He looked at me. ‘I’d like nothing better than to take you.’
I looked down. ‘I thought Father was offering to, this morning,’ I said, half laughing. ‘But he was offering to buy my wedding clothes.’ I folded my hands. ‘He wants me to accept Boscawen.’
‘You’ve had an offer?’
‘Not quite, but –’
‘You mustn’t make my mistake,’ Edward said. Then he took my hand. ‘You should think of your own happiness.’
My mouth was dry. We looked at each other for a long, long minute. Then, all suddenly, he crushed me to his chest. ‘We could go away from here. Right away,’ he said, into my hair.
I felt the words as a buzz through his flesh, and the feel of his shirt against my ear, and his chilled arms beneath the fabric.
He drew back, to look at me.
And then came the kiss.
My first jolt was that someone might be watching. But with Tremain in Falmouth, Jake gone, who would care? Besides, the glasshouse flowers concealed us, the garden concealed us. His mouth was warm, and his whiskers rough – and my face, tilted upwards, felt just as I had once hoped it would. It was just as I thought it would be, less like something new than something I was remembering inexpertly how to do.
When we parted, he said, ‘Forgive me.’
I smiled, too broadly, and said, ‘Whatever for?’
He smiled back.
We walked back from the glasshouse, hand in hand, saying nothing. My hand felt as though it might meld entirely with his own, and I kept glancing at the side of his face, wondering what he would say next. Half my mind was already plagued with questions. Where would we go? What about Father? But I hushed it with the other half. I had Edward, at last, and he had me – here was my hand in his.
He kept hold of it, even through the gap in the blast wall. Beside the pond, he stopped, and felt in his pocket for the ring. For half a moment, I thought he was going to give it back to me.
‘I fear this has only brought its wearers discontent,’ he said. ‘Father would want to pawn it, but I think –’ And he threw it into the middle of the pond. ‘You shall have another one,’ he said. ‘A better one.’
I looked at him, smiling. ‘I had better go and look in on Agnes.’
He nodded. ‘Will you tell Mrs Bly,’ he said, ‘that we’ll be dining together?’
That reassured me. And then, warmly, with a shake in his voice, he wished me a good afternoon.
I stood by the pond, in the freezing sunlight, half stunned. I could not believe it. But I must believe it. I felt a rush – of fear, of happiness – but there was still Agnes.
Before securing my own happy ending, I must secure hers.
When I went into the kitchen, there was a black stuff dress laid out on the table, with a length of black ribbon and a work basket.
Mrs Bly turned as I came in. ‘One of the old maids left this. The moth hasn’t got to it. It’ll be short in the sleeve, but –’
The style was old-fashioned, but the cloth was good. I could make a sort of cuff, from the ribbon. It would make Agnes look less abject, but still deservingly threadbare. Still grateful.
‘Is the master back?’ I said.
‘Not yet.’ Mrs Bly had turned back to what she was doing. ‘This salmon. There’s another for Friday. You’d get more meat on a minnow …’ She paused. ‘I was thinking, she ought to have a bath.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ I said. ‘Before I dine with Mr Edward.’
Mrs Bly paused minutely, and then resumed her filleting. I didn’t move.
‘I suppose you had care of Mr Edward, Mrs Bly? When he was little?’
She nodded. ‘I had the raising of him. Until he was sent to school. I cut his baby curls myself. Still got one, somewhere –’ She stopped. ‘The master didn’t – well. You know what men are like. But he was a sweet child, Master Edward, when he was little.’
‘And you would want him to be happy?’ I said. ‘Now?’
She turned and looked at me, but did not answer.
I let quiet fall a moment. ‘You’ll be taken care of, Mrs Bly. After this. Whatever happens.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said. She put her knife down.
I stepped closer. ‘I know you did not leave Agnes to burn,’ I said. I dropped my voice. ‘I know you did not rescue Tremain.’
Again, she did not answer.
I touched the scarred surface of the kitchen table. ‘Mr Boscawen was asking after your health,’ I said, in quite a bright, quite an ordinary voice.
Mrs Bly’s eyes met mine, for one moment, then another, and then they slid away.
Agnes closed her eyes in relief at the prospect of a bath. I pulled a bathtub up the stairs, and then climbed back and forth with jugs of hot water. On my way down with an empty jug, Edward emerged from the dark of the stairwell.
‘Give this to her, will you?’ he said. He held out a folded paper. ‘My dear?’
When I came up with the last jug and the soap, Agnes was holding her hands in the warm water.
‘Forgive me,’ Agnes said.
‘No, no. While it’s hot …’ I paused. ‘Would you like help with your hair?’
Agnes hesitated.
Now, I could guess why. I pulled the stool a little distance away, and sat. ‘I know about the child.’
Agnes looked at me.
‘Father told me, and Mr Boscawen,’ I said, then paused. ‘I told Mr Edward.’
Agnes was quite still for a moment. Then she turned away, and began to unbutton herself. ‘What did he say?’
‘He was appalled, of course,’ I said. ‘At what his father has done, I mean. He says he’ll speak out against him.’
Her body was a shock. How white it was, away from her reddened hands and face. I had seen women in their shifts before, of course, but never all at once like this. Her breasts were different than my own. I tried, without being caught, to assess whether she were showing yet, but it was hard to tell.
She climbed into the bath, and poured over the first pitcher of water. ‘Will he truly? He said that?’
‘He did. And Boscawen thinks we will win through. He says there is enough evidence, after all.’ I passed her the soap. ‘He was asking – to be certain – with you and Tremain – whether you were unwilling.’
Agnes passed the soap back, and looked at me, rather more coldly now. ‘It wouldn’t have counted a straw with him,’ she said, ‘whether I was willing or not.’
I looked down. ‘Well. I told him you would have hardly chosen Tremain. Left to your own devices.’
‘No,’ she said. And then, ‘You’ve got to survive, haven’t you? That’s all.’
I nodded, uncertainly.
When I’d finished helping her wash her hair, I said, ‘Mr Edward gave me this, to give to you.’
I held out the corner of the bath sheet for her to dry her hands, and produced the paper from my pocket. She unfolded it, and read it quickly. She swallowed, and passed it to me.
To whom it may concern
I can attest that Agnes Draper has during her time in my employ displayed the utmost diligence as housemaid here. She has shown herself to be thoroughly trustworthy and I unreservedly recommend –
I left off reading, and looked at her.
‘I am grateful to you, Miss Cardew,’ she said.
I moved my hand. ‘You needn’t be,’ I said.
Agnes stood up, water crashing and dripping from her, and stood still while I held out a sheet. Carefully, she climbed out of the tub. Her feet made two spreading wet prints on the mat.
‘Mrs Bly has found you a dress. I’ll alter it for you, and bring it in the morning,’ I said. ‘Everything will be fine.’
I found Edward in the drawing room, where there was a good fire. I had brought in Agnes’s dress with me, and Mrs Bly’s work basket. He stood up, when he saw me at the door, and only resumed his seat when I had taken the other chair by the fire.
I worked steadily away on the dress, breaking off only to carry salmon and potatoes up and down the stairs. It was different, without Tremain in the house. There would be no more hauntings.
Edward and I ate by pulling up the little drawing room table, as though we were at an inn, and afterwards I remained on the sofa beside Edward, he reading some days-old newspaper.
It would have felt like a foretaste of a quiet married evening, had Edward not kept jumping at every sound, and had I not been so nervous about the inquest. An inquest, I had heard Boscawen say once, was always also a trial. The coroner might want facts, but the people wanted blame. We had to make sure it was not Agnes on trial, but Tremain.
‘He ought to be back by now,’ Edward said, more than once.
At last, I paused my needle. ‘You’ll have to be ordinary with him,’ I said. ‘Or he’ll suspect.’
‘I know.’ Edward looked pensive.
I said, ‘He threatened me, you know. Yesterday. When you were at the Reverend Green’s.’
Edward looked up. ‘If he laid a hand on you –’
‘He didn’t,’ I said. ‘And besides. He’s got his reckoning coming now.’ I looked down at the cuff I had done, and bit off some thread with my teeth. ‘Will there be anything left,’ I asked, ‘when the debts are paid?’
‘I don’t know,’ Edward replied. He got up to mend the fire.
My heart twisted for him. Everything was ending. He had grown up here, knew every fire iron, the knack of every rickety door. Very likely the house would be sold, separated from the mills, perhaps, which might be acquired by one or other of the powder firms nearby. However painful his childhood had been, Polneath and the mills were what he had known, and should have been his, to set back on the proper course again. And I hardly dared think about what the loss of the mills would mean for the village.
Edward subsided again, into his chair.
It got dark. I finished with the dress, and went upstairs to hang it. Agnes was asleep. It was getting late.
When I came back in, Edward threw his newspaper aside. ‘He’ll be drinking in Falmouth.’ He put his head in his hands.
I sat beside him. ‘Where shall we go?’ I said. ‘Afterwards?’
Edward sighed. ‘I hardly know. London, perhaps? The Continent again.’ He frowned. ‘Money will be difficult.’
‘Edith says in Italy the food is free. They give it out.’
Despite himself, he smiled. He looked at me, then reached for my hand, and drew it towards himself. Kneaded the knuckles and fingers, as though seeing what they were made of.
I felt myself grow warm.
‘I won’t be able to bring much,’ I said.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘When should we go?’
‘Soon. Tomorrow.’
‘We can’t go tomorrow.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘After the inquest, there will be William …’
He hung his head. ‘Of course. The day after, then.’
‘In the morning?’
He nodded.
‘I’ll come here. First light.’
He kept kneading my hand, and the kneading had taken on a different quality.
‘But Edward, I was thinking.’
‘What?’
‘Father. I can’t leave him. For a while, perhaps, but not forever.’
Edward stopped kneading. ‘Then can’t he come? You could convince him – the climate, for his joints and so forth.’
We were both smiling, now. But then came the unmistakable creak of the front door.
Together we stood, and I followed him out into the hall. There was Tremain, slumped on the tiles. His boots were a feast of mud.
‘Where has he walked from?’ I said. I shut the gaping door.
Edward poked his father with his foot, and I felt for a flash that that was callous. But I smothered the feeling. Tremain had waived his expectations of nice treatment. I watched his eyes rolling in his head.
‘Bastard,’ Tremain said, to the air.
All at once, with a sudden, practised force, Edward raised Tremain from the floor. They started to make their lurching way up the stairs, and I followed, hovering, fearful that one of them would fall backwards. Tremain was slurring and shouting about the bank manager. Perhaps Mrs Bly had gone to bed. At any rate, she did not appear.
We came to Tremain’s room. Mrs Bly had left a lamp burning, and a window open, as Tremain liked. It was very cold. Rather than take him to the bed, Edward got free of him, suddenly, as soon as they were inside the door. Tremain wobbled, but stayed upright. Then he caught sight of me, and reached to touch my hair, to grab me by the hair. Edward moved quickly, and pushed him back.
Tremain sniffed in my direction, and closed his eyes, a dreadful smile on his face. ‘This one smells good,’ he said. ‘She’s no oil painting, but she smells good.’
‘Get to bed,’ Edward said. He moved me gently out of the room, by the arm, shut the door behind us.
‘Edward,’ Tremain shouted from inside the room. There was a thud on the inside of the door. ‘Edward –’
Another thud. The door shook in its frame. Edward took hold of the door handle, and held it, struggling. Calmly, from his pocket, he produced the key. The one William had hidden away, that I had given him, down amongst the mills. He locked Tremain’s door, from the outside, leaving the key in place.
‘Go to bed!’ Edward shouted, again, and after that there was no more thudding.
Edward looked at me, met my eyes for a long time. Something seemed to shift, decisively, between us.
‘Before you turn in,’ he said, ‘would you help me look over my mourning? I should like not to look so much of a scarecrow as last time, tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ I said. I knew precisely what he was asking.
I was terrified: but this was how it went, was it not? We were to be married, after all. I followed him along the corridor, and then he turned, nodded at me, held the door open to his bedroom. I stepped in. The room was chilly, the bed perfectly made.
‘Just in here,’ Edward said, and crossed to another door, where there was a room with a press, a chest of drawers, a wash stand, a copper bath. He began to hunt in the press, while I stood watching.
‘They’re both bad, I’m afraid.’ He brought out two suits, both black, and laid them over a chair.
I stooped to flip back one of the coats to show the lining, dark silk. A good suit, once; now it was an old one. Quite grey around the shoulders. The other was better.
I took it, my heart going too quickly, and held it out to him. ‘Try this one on a moment?’
He slipped out of the one he was wearing. Through his shirt, I thought I could see the slope of his back, the suggestion of apricot skin. I thought of touching him, with the flat of one palm, how warm he would be. He put the better coat on, and turned back, spread his arms to show himself. There was a sharp smell, of mothballs, things that have been shut away.
I nodded. ‘That one,’ I said.
I was standing very close, close enough to tip my head back to look up at him. I felt as though we were together in a box within a box within a box, buried very deep in the earth perhaps. When he turned me to reach the small button at the nape of my neck, it felt ordinary, as though now I were going to try something on, and he give his opinion. But he did not unfasten the button straight away; rather he held it, between finger and thumb, and steered me, very deliberately, back into the room with the bed. Then he unfastened it. He knew what buttons would be where, and was deft with them, and gentle; he had been married, of course. Occasionally there came a disconcerting thud, from Tremain’s room along the passage, and once the crash of broken glass.
It was cold in the room, but I was not cold. I felt I would melt, and hoped that I would smell right. Tremain’s words sprang to my head. The complicated rows of scent bottles on Emily’s old dressing table.
I did not care that there would be pain.
Edward moved on top of me, and I thought that he would be rough, as puppies can be when they fight together, but I was not expecting that sharp prising, through which my limbs were liquid, like being drunk. Edward looked drunk, too, in the half dark, his face flushed red and intent as he held my arms, and I was frightened he would crush me, and I wanted him to crush me.
Then I wanted to go back to before, with the buttons.
He stopped, and his face on mine as we rested was wonderful. We lay together like that, and after a while, I realized he was asleep. I wondered whether there would be a child. If there was, it would be as well that we were not planning to wait for a summer wedding.
I knew it would not do to be found there, when Mrs Bly got up to light the fires. That I needed sleep, to weather the inquest. And so I extricated myself – clumsily, hoping Edward would wake. But he slept on. I crept down the landing, past Tremain’s room, silent now.
Back upstairs, I washed in the water Mrs Bly had left for the morning. In the candlelight, it was too dark to say whether the water had turned red. I lay awake, and thought about our wedding, and then our life together, the real business of which would take place in darkness, between days drenched in a relentless golden light.
20.
1919
Old Tremain’s inquest file, with its verdict of suicide, contains a slim quantity of small facts. About the likely dryness of the roof timbers at Polneath, about the risk of staying to fight a fire so large, with deposits of gunpowder close at hand. It contains testimony from the manager of the Falmouth bank, who describes the oaths Tremain swore at him when he was declined a large loan, the day before his death.
It contains testimony from Mrs Bly, that she had left Tremain’s service that very day, the day his grandson’s inquest was concluded; that Mrs Mason of the King’s Arms could vouch she had been in her room at the inn at the time of the blaze. It contains testimony from Edward Tremain, the son of the deceased, who attests that his father had damaged his health with drink, had been prone to impetuous rages.
