The vivian inheritance, p.25
The Vivian Inheritance, page 25
‘How nice to see you, Hal!’ she cried. ‘Now what can be of such importance that you would leave your railway line?’
There was a touch of irony in her humour, but he did not mind. He was watching Mary’s flight across the sands.
‘Oh, I had a meeting with my partner in Manchester yesterday,’ he answered lightly, ‘and finding myself free upon a Saturday morning, decided to play truant for a while. I have not had a holiday in years, and wondered whether I might take lodgings here for a couple of nights? Or, failing that, I can catch a coach back this evening, and no matter. At least, if you will permit me, I can spend the day with you all.’
‘But how kind of you to think of us! You are welcome to stay as long as you please,’ said Charlotte, wondering. ‘As to lodgings, there will be no difficulty, for we are almost alone here now. It is the end of the season.’
At her feet sat Philomena, spooning sand into an old cup with fierce concentration, and tipping it out to form lopsided mounds. The beach was deserted. Mr Hicks, his morning duties accomplished, had retreated to his cottage. Lytham’s two bathing machines stood, forlorn castaways, at the edge of the sea.
‘I cannot offer you a chair,’ Charlotte said, ‘but if you spread one of those rugs upon the sand, you may sit down in picnic fashion.’
‘First of all,’ continued the Cornishman amiably, making himself as comfortable as he could, ‘I wanted to see how you were, though everyone fetches back good reports. We shall be glad to have you home again. Millbridge is a sorry place without the ladies of Thornton House — a sentiment with which, I feel, Ambrose and Jeremy would agree!’
Here his shoe accidentally came into contact with one of Philomena’s sand moulds, which promptly collapsed. She stopped in the midst of her labours, stared at the shoe with dark displeasure, and struck it with her wooden spoon.
‘Oh, Lord! I beg your pardon, little miss!’ cried the Cornishman, all contrition. ‘Were you building a sandcastle?’
Her reply was as neat and precise as herself.
‘No. Pies,’ said Philomena briefly, and pursed her lips.
‘Shall I build you a fine big castle?’ he asked, anxious to make amends, but she shook her head grandly. ‘With a moat? And bridges?’ Attempting to ingratiate himself. She turned disdainfully away from him and began to refill the cup. ‘Shall you not even let me help you, Philly?’ he begged. She cut him dead.
‘How old is she now?’ he asked, amused.
‘She was three in May; but she is an old-fashioned little soul.’
‘And whom does she resemble?’ Intrigued.
‘Oh, she is Mrs Dorcas all over again,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Quite uncannily so. I feel that time has played a trick on me, and fetched my mother’s childhood into my old age. And though she is Mary’s darling, I must confess to taking a quiet delight in her myself.’
Here Polly came up, grumbling over Mary’s wet bathing gown.
‘Miss Mary’s in a funny mood. And she says I’m to take Phillermeen into the house for her dinner and her rest, Mrs Longe.’
‘Not so early, surely?’ said Charlotte, tired but firm. ‘Tell Mary that Mr Vivian is come and we should like her to join us. And shall you fetch us out a jug of Mrs Harvey’s lemonade and a barrel of biscuits?’
The Cornishman had laid aside his hat and coat. He found a suitable piece of driftwood. He marked a wide circle with the ferrule of his cane. He began to dig.
The child, aware of his movements, glanced quickly and covertly at him. Then, as he seemed to be unconscious of her, she ceased patting and ladling, and observed him intently.
Charlotte laughed and lay back on her cushions, watching them.
Now Hal Vivian — first asking permission of Charlotte — removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves with theatrical gestures, and set to work in earnest. A rough hillock emerged, surrounded by a rough trench. He straightened up and slapped his waistcoat pockets, looked all about him, saying, ‘I wish I had a cup. Or a spoon!’
Philomena’s face reflected her thoughts. She drew her brows together, determined not to yield, but her mouth quivered. In a moment or two, as though her mind were upon higher matters, she stuck the wooden spoon into her pinafore pocket, scrambled to her feet, stared at some point miles beyond the Cornishman, and ran towards it. As she came level with the sandcastle, she tossed the spoon wildly into the trench like some comical blessing from heaven.
He played his part superbly, crying, ‘Why, here is a spoon!’
She stopped in mid-course, smiling secretly to herself. She ran back again and fetched the cup. Again she trotted swiftly towards that far horizon, again bounced her gift at the feet of the Cornishman. But this time, as he cried, ‘Why, here is a cup…’ she could contain herself no longer. Throwing her arms wide, she ran round and round in ever-decreasing circles until at last she fell down laughing.
So that Mary walking shyly, and Polly carrying lemonade, merged into the little group without embarrassment, with spontaneous delight.
Hal Vivian turned to meet them, but looked only at Mary. Sea, sand, sky rushed away from her, rushed towards her. The moment crystallised in her eyes and his. It was too much. She saw Charlotte become aware, Polly look triumphant and knowing. She faltered.
He returned them both to earth. He held out his hand, smiling like the old friend he was. Saying, ‘I have been trying to please miss!’
Amazed at her composure, Mary heard herself laugh and reply.
‘Oh, miss is very hard to please!’
‘Yes, look what I have had to do to scrape an acquaintance.’
‘But how splendid, Mr Vivian!’
She knelt to admire the sandcastle, which had been built by a fine engineer. She dared to look at him again. And found herself inside that private world she had yearned for so long ago. They smiled on one another in an understanding which was mutual and complete.
They heard Polly say, ‘Are you feeling the cold, Mrs Longe?’
They heard Charlotte reply, ‘No, I am entirely content.’ They knew she meant she was content with them.
TWENTY-ONE: AN END AND A BEGINNING
An understanding had been reached but not established. The Cornishman departed for Wyndendale two days later, leaving an impression both joyful and indistinct. His note of thanks to Charlotte was warm. He stressed how much he looked forward to seeing them in early October. Yet the matter of himself and Mary was left open.
On the other hand, there was no doubt about the intentions of a blotched letter from Kit’s Hill, which arrived in the same post.
‘Is it bad news, Aunt Cha?’ Mary asked, seeing her turn suddenly white and weary.
Charlotte handed it to her across the breakfast table.
‘There is a decision for you to make,’ she said quietly, ‘as I feared there might be. And at the most inopportune time.’
Mary looked from the letter to Philomena, and back again, as pale as her aunt.
‘What I say to you now I shall never say again, love,’ Charlotte began, ‘for I have not the strength either to argue or to discuss the matter. So listen carefully, make your own decision, and then abide by it. Whatever you decide to do, I shall accept.
‘You know, of course, what your father is asking? And that he has not thought the matter through to its logical conclusion? But then, Dick was always short-sighted where people are concerned.’
Mary temporised.
‘He only asks us to keep Philly for another month or two, while Susan recovers and the new baby grows stronger.’
Charlotte said sternly, ‘If we are not to speak the truth to one another, we may as well be silent. I have no use for pretence.’
‘Very well, Aunt Cha,’ said Mary, after a pause. ‘Tell me how you view the letter, and then I can answer you.’
Charlotte spoke drily and directly.
‘Susan nearly died in childbed and will be an invalid for the rest of her days. The infant is sickly, and mercifully might die also. Young Harriet is trying to run the household and has her hands full. They have neither the energy nor the time to cope with Philomena, and would be obliged if she extended her visit indefinitely.’
Mary considered this statement with a rueful countenance.
‘That is not exactly what he says, Aunt Cha.’
‘It is exactly what he means. And though he talks of “us” looking after the child, he knows very well that there is no question of “us”. I cannot even look after myself! He means you, Mary. He is asking you to take full responsibility for Philomena. At best for some months, more probably for life. He would, of course, be shocked if he realised exactly what he was expecting. Fortunately for him, he can evade the issue. But evasion is a luxury which neither you nor I can afford. So what are you going to tell him?’
The girl cried, ‘How can we deny him, Aunt Cha? What will happen to Philly if we send her back?’
Charlotte said inexorably, ‘They will find they can manage.’
‘You know I cannot do that. You know I have no choice, Aunt Cha!’
‘I think you have. And I believe that on this first decision a second may depend, which will be even more difficult. As I told you once before, a future husband may not take kindly to the idea.’
‘Oh, that is hard. Very hard, Aunt Cha!’
‘I warned you it would be.’
‘But what would you do in my place?’ Mary demanded.
‘I am not in your place. You have to make your own decision.’
Mary considered this too, and liked it no better.
‘I have no firm ground upon which to base this argument,’ she said, trembling, ‘but if you are thinking about … the Cornishman … he is very fond of Philly, and very sweet to her.’
‘He wishes to please you,’ Charlotte replied, ‘but I do not know what his reaction might be if he found she was a permanent dependant.’
Trapped, Mary cried, ‘Surely he sees that she is part of my life?’
‘He sees her as a much-loved guest, and accepts her as such.’
‘But you cannot judge how he will behave!’ Angrily.
‘Nor,’ said Charlotte, ‘can you.’
Wearily, at length, Mary said, ‘Well, I must take Philly and the consequences, Aunt Cha. I cannot do otherwise. Do not blame me for it.’
Charlotte summoned up the last of her strength.
‘Very good. Now I know your mind, I can tell you the arrangements I have made. And I have discussed them with Ambrose, so you need not worry about him. He is quite content.
‘I shall leave Thornton House and its contents to you, and an income sufficient to keep you. No, love, do not speak. Do not thank me. I have so little energy, and I must finish. There are provisos. Ambrose and Jeremy can picnic anywhere, but they have no home. I ask you to allow them to stay in the house until you marry or come to sell it.’
Mary nodded vigorously.
‘And I leave you the responsibility of Polly’s welfare. She is too old and set in her ways to be Ambrose’s housekeeper. Pray take care of her for me. Now, and when she can work no longer.
‘You will find all this in my Will. Nick Hurst helped me to draw it up a few years ago, when I realised that you had become a permanency. Since Ambrose is not in the least practical I have tied up the capital I am leaving him, but it will bring him a good and steady income. So he has no reason to feel that you have robbed him of his inheritance — not that the idea would occur to him anyway.’
She had finished.
She said, ‘Please to ring for Polly. I shall not sit on the beach today. It is too cold. It is the end of the season.’
Charlotte and her small entourage were fetched back from Lytham in the ironmaster’s carriage on the first Thursday in October, but Hal Vivian was not able to call until the Saturday, though he had left a visiting card to greet their return. Nor was he surprised to hear that Charlotte still lay abed at four in the afternoon, but said he would pay his respects to Miss Mary instead. And, walking cheerfully into the front parlour, he found that young lady romping on the carpet with Philomena.
While laughter subsided and Mary attempted to tidy her hair, the child provided a focus of conversation beneath which a more important conversation might conceivably flower.
‘Welcome home, cousin!’ said the Cornishman, kissing Mary’s hand with great gallantry. ‘And good day to you, Miss Phil!’ Putting out a finger for her to grasp.
Philomena ignored the courtesy, but they saw her smiling to herself, and so could smile at each other over her small dark head.
‘And when does miss go home?’ he asked, lifting his coattails, preparatory to sitting in Grandfather Wilde’s armchair.
Mary did not reply at once, but occupied herself by ringing the bell and asking Prue to bring in the tea. She found it a difficult matter to meet his pale gaze, for more than the usual reasons.
‘Oh, do you not know the news from Kit’s Hill?’ she cried.
As he shook his head, she rattled on, ‘Well, Susan is recovering but she will be a good while getting better. The baby is very weak. And my sister Harriet has taken over the household and is working wonders. Well, she is a hearty healthy girl of sixteen, and well pleased with her present importance. Very like my mother used to be, before time and children brought her down…’
‘So Miss Phil will be with us until Christmas?’ Hal Vivian said.
‘Oh, longer than that. She will not go back before Easter. She will winter with us.’ Integrity compelled her to add, ‘In fact, there are no plans to return her at all at present.’
The Cornishman became thoughtful, and contemplated the child. Talk languished. Prue’s appearance with the tray was a relief.
‘And how is Mrs Longe?’ he asked pleasantly, accepting a biscuit.
A certain light in Mary’s countenance was fading.
‘My aunt did not travel as well as we had hoped. We took the journey in easy stages, and Uncle William’s carriage is most comfortable, but she went straight to bed when we got back. And has not got up since.’
He spoke now with his old kindly mockery of her.
‘So you are mistress of Thornton House in her stead?’
‘Yes, I am captain of the ship — as Ambrose says!’
‘And how does your aunt feel about this latest arrangement over Philomena?’
For he knew of their controversy in the past.
‘She left the decision entirely to me, sir,’ Mary replied, low in voice and spirits.
He mused on the girl’s tumbled coiffure. It had begun the day as a double knot upon the crown with loose side curls, but was now the worse for a game of bears. His expression was one of tenderness and regret. He refused a second cup of tea.
‘Well, I must take my leave of you both,’ he said. ‘If Miss Phil is still with you in June of next year, you must fetch her to the opening of the Wyndendale Railway, and ride from Garth to Millbridge on my locomotive, Pioneer. What an adventure that will be!’
Mary’s expression was now so sorry as to be noticeable, but Hal Vivian kept up his easy demeanour.
‘Pray give my best wishes to Mrs Longe, and say that I will call on her again as soon as I can. I do not know when that will be. We are busy on the line and in the workshops. But there, you know me of old. My time is never my own.’
He offered a finger to Philomena, who shut her eyes very tight and opened her mouth very wide. Mary rose also, picking up the child so that the Cornishman could not kiss her hand. He bowed gravely. They looked away from each other in pain.
‘Take care of yourself, cousin. God bless you,’ said Hal Vivian.
And he was striding down the High Street before the front door had closed behind him.
Polly, coming in to light the candles, found the girl sitting with the child in her lap, staring sombrely into the fire.
‘I’m a-going to tell you somethink afore it’s too late, Miss Mary…’ she began, hands on hips.
But Mary turned such a sad little face towards her that Polly swallowed the advice, and left her to rock the child and weep in peace.
Charlotte needed little nursing. She retreated faster than life itself, spending much time in a dark and bright world of her own, coming back in mild amazement to the best front bedroom at Thornton House and whichever loving face watched by her. Her normal conversation had given way to cryptic messages, as though the secret bourne to which she travelled were equipped with a Delphic oracle. Otherwise, she ate and drank frugally, submitted to their ministrations patiently, and awaited her release.
The ironmaster took charge of the situation in his own way of course: sending fruit and flowers out of season, specialists from London, and a regular messenger from Kingswood Hall to bring back the latest report on her state of health.
Dick brought fresh eggs and butter on market days. Cicely walked down from the rectory each morning. The Reverend Jarvis prayed for her each evening. Grandchildren and nieces and nephews came and went. Callers knocked at all hours to ask how she did.
Mary was entirely taken over. She supervised the household, cared for the child, played her part in the night watch, and met everyone’s needs and demands. So that the ache in her heart became the ache in her bones at three o’clock of a cold morning, and the emptiness at her centre matched the void which Charlotte approached with so peaceable a mien.
Polly divided herself between the old mistress and the new. She was fifty-seven come Candlemas, and the greater part of her life would depart with Charlotte.
Mary’s birthday, on the twelfth of November, was acknowledged rather than celebrated. In spite of her winsome face and ebullient spirits, in spite of her wardrobe which benefited from Sophia’s Parisian castoffs, she had attained the age of twenty without acquiring a husband. In Millbridge there were rumours that the Cornishman had been interested, but his matrimonial hopes had not survived the burden of Philomena. The matchmakers whispered over their teacups that there was no hope for the girl now, unless she found a middle-aged widower with a large family. Mary was inclined to agree with them, but mentally rejected the widower. So she was desolated, at the end of this grey birthday, to see the Cornishman mount the front steps and lift the knocker.
