Inheritance Feud

Chapter 36

Chapter 36

She went out after the boy, and Paul caught a passing glance from her grey eyes where he still sat doggedly over his ale. She was beautiful, he thought, perhaps like a black-haired goddess of plenty; but sad. She looked as if she ought to be made to laugh more, as if she'd once often laughed. Perhaps

She had gone, and the room, Paul thought, seemed darker; presently he took his leave, as word had come by then from the grooms. He retrieved his freshened horse and Hermione's package, and rode off thoughtfully, still aware of the change that had come over the taproom at mention of the fact that Theon might be returning soon. It was as though a blight had touched it, almost in quality like that on the death-ship where many men had died. That tale was not, in any case, suitable for tea-time conversation at Baron, in Cousin Anna bel's elegant drawing-room.

After the Scots air was sung and the harpsichord aban doned, Godfrey's mother beckoned Paul to ask for news of her daughter. He went over, having disposed of his fluted eggshell cup, and sat down by Kitty to hear her searching, not always discreet enquiries, and later wordy messages to be con veyed to Cecily at Maddon. That she had been a loving parent to his stepmama Paul did not doubt, and unquestionably still felt an affection for her married daughter; but the pouched, disillusioned eyes, which alone among her features Kitty could not disguise with rouge and haresfoot, rested always on the group made by her son and his wife and child, as some penitent might gaze hopefully on the Madonna. It was, per haps, nearer the mark to say that Kitty might feel she had somehow acquired a set of priceless Dresden figurines, and could heed nothing else. She nodded absently at Paul's infor mation that his stepmother was well, the newest baby daugh ter also, and that they had made forty-odd pounds of jam at Maddon this summer, and bottled as many gallons of elder flower wine. "She was always adept at such things, and will make an excellent wife," said Kitty, suddenly as though dis cussing a stranger. Then, as wives were in question, she launched forth into a panegyric on Godfrey's beautiful Anna bel, so well-born and accomplished, such a constant joy to Godfrey and them all; how pretty it was to see them together, so full of affection! Did Paul know the Doons had once sent four knights on crusade? Paul had been aware of it, but listened with indulgence to Kitty's oft-repeated relation of this happy discovery. As her own folk had once (it was never spoken of) kept a draper's shop before dying in order that she be shipped out to the nabob, it was all the more miraculous to Kitty to have acquired, even at third hand, eleventh-century knights for her personal escutcheon. Then she returned to the present; did not Paul think dear Godfrey was looking stronger than he had? "He has taken such delight all this year in plan further improvements to the house garden, that it be bound to have done him good. Dearest Hermione is helpmeet him; together they pore over botany-lists, she seems to understand what the names mean, although swear don't."

She helped herself third cake, and began extend her to include small Sybilla. When had come today first she had hoped Clairette, though year two older, might catch eye, for he an eligible social order; was so plain, made attempt please, and moment had passed, although perhaps later... But, meantime, Sybilla years would rich young lady. What could prettier marry her cousin Paul? There would be danger, of fortune-hunting; the Melroses were very well dowed, as she'd taken the trouble to find out, never when Sir Sander offered for Cecily. providential, time... Kitty tried, now, inveigle Sybilla over, piece of cake to as if she had been puppy; Sybilla, shaking head golden curls bobbed again, dropped

"Mama says must not any more." "Oh. perhaps just this once? you give to pony, my darling, before he leaves. And first must show garden Papa has planted so beautifully."

Paul hastily said that must ride back. Sybilla held out hand for the cake. would like, she thought, give it Paul's horse; he was old, she sure, by now for pony; how silly Grandmama was sometimes! Sybilla adored animals, even the foreign ones whose names she learned from Papa, had seen in drawings. She the cake carefully from own muslin dress, in order not sticky "There's tidy child," said Kitty approvingly. She turned Paul tell him what pleasure it was see child well brought Sybilla; of course, this last year, they'd had an excellent young woman, Miss Glover name was, from somewhere York.

much good him," said Paul, regarded his gelding and the cake. Sybilla smiled angelically. till tomorrow. You not away until you've me him. you promise, Cousin Paul?"

rescued Godfrey, who had long ago finished his tea; he ate sparingly. He beckoned the young man over to ask knowledgeably about affairs at Mad don; for the first time that day, Paul felt at home, and he thought again what a pitiful thing it was that Cousin Godfrey should be a lifelong invalid, carried-as everyone knew-to the privy and to bed, for he could no longer stand or walk. How could he show such courage as he did from day to day? No one ever saw him pine, or lose heart or interest, or fail to sus tain people; look at the way, just now, he'd rescued Paul him self when he was tongue-tied before old Kitty Bowes.

Their talk ceased, and as such things will a silence fell upon the room. Paul was trying to broach the subject of the man at the inn, and had almost been about to tell Godfrey of it; but at that moment Hermione smiled, and clapped her magnolia petal hands together to have the tea-things removed. "And here is Miss Glover come for you, Sybilla, my dearest," she said in her clear and sweet, of late slightly affected tones; she had eard, as Clairette Bowes unkindly put it, the way the polite English talked, and was trying to imitate them and erase the native lilt from her tongue; only at times, under stress, she forgot.

Sybilla went away obediently, having curtsied to the com pany, and kissed Godfrey in his chair. His eyes followed her as she went out of the room with the plain, unexceptionable, good young woman in a drab round-gown and unadorned cap who was Jane Glover, the governess. Edgar and Elizabeth Berry shuffled the music they had with them at the further end of the room, and made ready to start again or, perhaps, take their departure. Whichever it was to be, Paul felt it necessary to blurt out the news he'd had from the returned

convict earlier; otherwise, he'd never get it said. "I met a strange man at the Fleece today," he said care fully. "He was from Australia."

He flushed at the discovery that every one of those in the room, including the two Berry's, had stopped talking to listen. It was too late to draw back, and Paul felt his tongue stumble. "He this man-bore company with Theon on the voyage out. He says-" Paul made himself leave out the parts about the Governor's silver, the n***o who acted as eyes, the terrible facts of the outward voyage as he had today heard them. One must, Papa was always saying, remember ladies were fragile beings and there were subjects not suited for their ears. "He says Theon will soon be coming home."

The silence fell again, and it was like that at the Fleece, in some manner; then young Edgar Berry played an impromptu, soft arpeggio on the harpsichord. It broke the hush that had come over them all, in which Hermione lay quite still on her Turkish sofa, as though she were indeed a china figure; her face white beneath its rouge, her gold-flecked eyes dark and blank.

Paul left shortly, aware that his main contribution to the talk of the afternoon had been clumsy, and that he'd perhaps brought on a headache for Cousin Hermione instead of making her better. It was the kind of gaffe he would never, he told himself, have made had only Papa permitted him a more extensive social education. One learned by experience, but today's had been mortifying, and he still felt several kinds of fool. Only Cousin Godfrey had taken his hand on departing as though he'd be pleased to see him again, and had pressed him to stay for supper, but of course he had not.

He was about to mount when the plain-clad governess ap peared, with Sybilla and her cake. "I hope we do not disturb you, but she would not have it otherwise," the young woman ventured timidly. Her maidenly eyes scarcely raised themselves to survey the well-set-up young man, of a kind she would never, in her circumscribed existence, meet as an equal. Sybilla fed the horse, and after some agreeable small-talk Paul rode off. He later found that the memory of the golden haired child, laughing unconcernedly up at him and his beast, solaced him, at least in part, for the fool he'd made of him self... if he had made a fool of himself. Perhaps, after all, he had not, as Theon was after all kin to all of them; why shouldn't one mention his return?

II

LIVIA JUDD awoke from sleep to find the grey light of early morning filtering in between the curtains, revealing the bed where she lay and, on the other pillow, Abel's head, the bald patch concealed by a tasselled nightcap. His mouth was open and he snored slightly. Livia closed her eyes. Abel was good to her, she knew, but she couldn't love him. Last night, for the first time in long-he was undemanding in the frequency of his rights upon her-he'd possessed her body fiercely, avidly, with the kind of brooding protective tenderness he always showed intensified in some way, for some reason. Abel would always have a reason. Perhaps it was to do with the ragged man who'd been in yesterday, and who had talked alone with Abel a long time, in the kitchen after the tavern-part was closed. She'd gone upstairs and left them still talking, and couldn't have told anyone what time the man had left. She hoped he didn't come back; they wanted another kind of customer at the Fleece nowadays.

Livia knew now what had awakened her at this early hour; she'd had a dream, and the dream had reminded her of another life, another young woman whom Abel, for all she was a good wife to him, never knew; a ragged tune ran through the dream, a tune called 'Kenmure' that Theon used to whistle often ... What had made her dream now, again, of Theon? Dur ing all the years she knew he'd be in a living hell, she herself had thrust him down and out of memory, the way they'd done, she dared say, to his body on the hulks where they changed men slowly into animals. There was nothing she could do for him.