The Children's Book

draggled, or were before Elsie took over.”

“And Elsie seems to be saying that she isn’t paid.”

“That isn’t right.”

“It’s not. Is it our business?”

“What about him in all this,” asked Marian Oakeshott. “He’s another, you don’t know what he thinks, or feels, or what drives him, except the making of beautiful pots. For which it appears he needs Philip.”

“I do not know them well,” said Phoebe Methley. “But I have to say, I have never seen him address one word to his wife. Not one word. Once I had noticed this, I observed him a little. He may have married her for her beauty, but his eye passes over her as though she were a jug, and not a masterwork of ceramics, but a common earthenware crock.”

They were overexcited by their own openness. Miss Dace did not feel able to speculate about anyone’s sex instinct or sexual behaviour.

Indeed she preferred to ignore such matters. But Marian Oakeshott, daring, said to Phoebe

“I saw him brush against her on the lawn. He flinched. And she turned that head of hers the other way.”

“Are we any nearer to knowing what to say to her?” asked Miss Dace.

“Has she any substance to oppose to our decisiveness?” asked Marian. “Can we not overwhelm her with our calm certainty about what is best to be done?”

The day they went to speak to Mrs. Fludd was a bright spring day. They found her sitting in the orchard in a sagging basket chair, working—or about to work—on a circular tapestry frame, with a basket of wools open in the grass at her side. Marian Oakeshott, who had seen some Impressionist paintings, thought that Seraphita resembled a painting by Monet or a painting by Millais. The apple branches cast dappled shadows over the chalky face, which gave the impression of being blurred, as though rapidly and sketchily filled in. She was wearing floating dove-coloured muslin, which again appeared brushed-up, in the half-shadow, and her long fingers and long neck were insubstantially slender and very slightly textured, shantung, not smooth silk. Her large eyes were surrounded by slatey skin, slightly puffed, with liquid under it. The skeins of wool in the basket were bright jewel colours, emerald, amber, jacinth, sapphire, ruby. They were precise and sharp amongst the floating cloudiness. She greeted them without rising. It was delightful to see them, she said. Where was Elsie? Elsie would bring more chairs, and make tea. Marian said Elsie had gone into Rye, and that she herself would find more chairs, which she did, dragging them in from other parts of the orchard and garden. They had something particular to say, said Marian. It was no accident that Elsie was out.

Seraphita dropped her frame into her lap, and had to hunt for her needle. She said she hoped Elsie had done nothing bad.

“Have you noticed nothing—about Elsie?” asked Phoebe.

“No,” said Seraphita flatly, her eyes widening.

“Elsie is expecting a baby,” said Miss Dace. “In the summer. She hasn’t seen a doctor, it is not precise.”

There were several long moments whilst Seraphita took this in, and seemed to decide what to say. Her face creased up, with thought perhaps, although it looked as though she was about to cry. She said in a faint voice “Who…?”

As she didn’t finish the sentence, none of the ladies felt a need to answer.

Seraphita next brought out “I should send her away …?”

This exasperated all three ladies, who all knew that Elsie cost Seraphita nothing, and saved her a good deal. Marian, more kindly, noticed a plaintive hint of social fear in the wavering voice. Seraphita was afraid of being judged for not sending Elsie away. Marian said

“We came to discuss with you the possibility of not doing that, Mrs. Fludd. We are very aware of the importance of Elsie’s work to the comfort of this household—you and your family,” she said, lying, “have often told us so. And it is a very happy circumstance that both Elsie and her brother have been so welcome here, and contributed so much. Philip confided in the Reverend Mallett, who consulted us, as, so to speak, busybodies or good fairies, we hope. With your agreement, we can make arrangements for the lying-in, and for the care of the child, should Elsie wish to keep it, and continue to keep her place here.”

Seraphita went white, which might have been thought impossible. Even her lips blanched. She breathed a series of unachieved phrases, kind, too kind, such a shock, so unexpected, and again who… ? and the whispered word “responsible”? Marian could see her trying not to think of either her husband or her son in connection with that word. Unlike Phoebe Methley, Marian did not have a clear idea of the unmentionable male, and had wondered about both Benedict Fludd, and the lively and handsome Geraint. She answered obliquely

“I am sure if Elsie feels that there is no obstacle to her staying here, you need not worry, Mrs. Fludd. And we have talked to Elsie, who accepts our plans, or appears to.”

“She doesn’t feel very well,” said Miss Dace. “I hope you will encourage her to work less hard for a few months. I am arranging for her to see my doctor.”

Seraphita did not offer to pay the doctor. She was beginning to tremble. She said

“Do as you think best… infinitely grateful…” She said, in a different voice, staring into space,

“It is a terrible thing to be a woman. You are told people like to look at you—as though you have a duty to be the object of… the object of… And then, afterwards, if you are rejected, if what you… thought you were worth … is after all not wanted… you are nothing.”

She gave a little shrug, and pulled herself together, and said “Poor Elsie,” in an artificial, polite, tea-party voice, though she had not offered, and did not offer, to make tea.

The secrets in the house in Portman Square were of a more innocent kind, which might be thought odd, since Basil and Katharina Wellwood inhabited the fringes of the new, naughty social world of the pleasure-loving King. Both children, Charles/Karl and Griselda, were secretive, which distressed their parents, who nevertheless did not bring the subject up. Katharina Wildvogel had inherited a great deal of money, and employed a large number of servants. Her secret was that she was temperamentally a hausfrau. She would have loved to bake and sew and discuss clothes with her daughter, and perhaps even advise her son on affairs of the heart. She herself had no pretensions to beauty—she was slender,