liked Fabia.
'You may sit down,' Fabia offered with a gleam of humor in her eyes.
'Thank you.' Hester sat on the dressing chair covered with blue velvet, and looked around the room at the other, lesser paintings and the few photographs, stiff and very posed for the long time that the camera required to set the image. There was a picture of Rosamond and Lovel, probably at their wedding. She looked fragile and very happy; he was facing the lens squarely, full of hope.
On the other chest there was an early daguerreotype of a middle-aged man with handsome side-whiskers, black hair and a vain, whimsical face. From the resemblance to Joscelin, Hester assumed it to be the late Lord Shelburne.
There was also a pencil sketch of all three brothers as boys, sentimental, features a little idealized, the way one remembers summers of the past.
'I'm sorry you are feeling unwell,' Hester said quietly. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'
'I should think it highly unlikely; I am not a casualty of war-at least not in the sense that you are accustomed to,' Fabia replied.
Hester did not argue. It rose to the tip of her tongue to say she was accustomed to all sorts of hurt, but then she knew it would be trite-she had not lost a son, and that was the only grief Fabia was concerned with.
'My eldest brother was killed in the Crimea.' Hester still found the words hard to say. She could see George in her mind's eye, the way he walked, hear his laughter, then it dissolved and a sharper memory returned of herself and Charles and George as children, and the tears ached in her throat beyond bearing. 'And both my parents died shortly after,' she said quickly. 'Shall we speak of something else?'
For a moment Fabia looked startled. She had forgotten, and now she was faced with a loss as huge as her own.
'My dear-I'm so very sorry. Of course-you did say so. Forgive me. What have you done this morning? Would you care to take the trap out later? It would be no difficulty to arrange it.'
“I went to the nursery and met Harry.'' Hester smiled and blinked. 'He's beautiful-' And she proceeded to tell the story.
She remained at Shelburne Hall for several more days, sometimes taking long walks alone in the wind and brilliant air. The parkland had a beauty which pleased her immensely and she felt at peace with it as she had in few other places. She was able to consider the future much more clearly, and Callandra's advice, repeated several times more in their many conversations, seemed increasingly wise the more she thought of it. The tension among the members of the household changed after the dinner with General Wadham. Surface anger was covered with the customary good manners, but she became aware through a multitude of small observations that the unhap-piness was a deep and abiding part of the fabric of their lives.
Fabia had a personal courage which might have been at least half the habitual discipline of her upbringing and the pride that would not allow others to see her vulnerability. She was autocratic, to some extent selfish, although she would have been the last to think it of herself. But Hester saw the loneliness in her face in moments when she believed herself unobserved, and at times beneath the old woman so immaculately dressed, a bewilderment which laid bare the child she had once been. Undoubtedly she loved her two surviving sons, but she did not especially like them, and no one could charm her or make her laugh as Joscelin had. They were courteous, but they did not flatter her, they did not bring back with small attentions the great days of her beauty when dozens had courted her and she had been the center of so much. With Joscelin's death her own hunger for living had gone.
Hester spent many hours with Rosamond and became fond of her in a distant, nonconfiding sort of way. Callan-dra's words about a brave, protective smile came to her sharply on several occasions, most particularly one late afternoon as they sat by the fire and made light, trivial conversation. Ursula Wadham was visiting, full of excitement and plans for the time when she would be married to Menard. She babbled on, facing Rosamond but apparently not seeing anything deeper than the perfect complexion, the carefully dressed hair and the rich afternoon gown. To her Rosamond had everything a woman could desire, a wealthy and titled husband, a strong child, beauty, good health and sufficient talent in the arts of pleasing. What else was there to desire?
Hester listened to Rosamond agreeing to all the plans, how exciting it would be and how happy the future looked, and she saw behind the dark eyes no gleam of confidence and hope, only a sense of loss, a loneliness and a kind of desperate courage that keeps going because it knows no way to stop. She smiled because it brought her peace, it prevented questions and it preserved a shred of pride.
Lovel was busy. At least he had purpose and as long as he was fulfilling it any darker emotion was held at bay. Only at the dinner table when they were all together did the occasional remark betray the underlying knowledge that something had eluded him, some precious element that seemed to be his was not really. He could not have called it fear-he would have hated the word and rejected it with horror-but staring at him across the snow-white linen and the glittering crystal, Hester thought that was what it was. She had seen it so often before, in totally different guises, when the danger was physical, violent and immediate. At first because the threat was so different she thought only of anger, then as it nagged persistently at the back of her mind, unclassified, suddenly she saw its other face, domestic, personal, emotional pain, and she knew it was a jar of familiarity.
With Menard it was also anger, but a sharp awareness, too, of something he saw as injustice; past now in act, but the residue still affecting him. Had he tidied up too often after Joscelin, his mother's favorite, protecting her from the truth that he was a cheat? Or was it himself he protected, and the family name?
Only with Callandra did she feel relaxed, but it did on one occasion cross her mind to wonder whether Callandra's comfort with herself was the result of many years' happiness or the resolution within her nature of its warring elements, not a gift but an art. It was one evening when they had taken a light supper in Callandra's sitting room instead of dinner in the main wing, and Callandra had made some remark about her husband, now long dead. Hester had always assumed the marriage to have been happy, not from anything she knew of it, or of Callandra Daviot, but from the peace within Callandra.
Now she realized how blindly she had leaped to such a shortsighted conclusion.
Callandra must have seen the idea waken in her eyes. She smiled with a touch of wryness, and a gentle humor in her face.
'You have a great deal of courage, Hester, and a hunger for life which is a far richer blessing than you think now- but, my dear, you are sometimes very naive. There are many kinds of misery, and many kinds of fortitude, and you should not allow your awareness of one to build to the value of another. You have an intense desire, a passion, to make people's lives better. Be aware that you can truly help people only by aiding them to become what they are, not what you are. I have heard you say 'If I were you, I would do this-or that.' T am never 'you'-and my solutions may not be yours.'
Hester remembered the wretched policeman who had told her she was domineering, overbearing and several other unpleasant things.
Callandra smiled. 'Remember, my dear, you are dealing with the world as it is, not as you believe, maybe rightly, that it ought to be. There will be a great many things you can achieve not by attacking them but with a little patience and a modicum of flattery. Stop to consider what it is you really want, rather than pursuing your anger or your vanity to charge in. So often we leap to passionate judgments-when if we but knew the one thing more, they would be so different.'
Hester was tempted to laugh, in spite of having heard very clearly what Callandra had said, and perceiving the truth of it.
'I know,' Callandra agreed quickly. 'I preach much better than I practice. But believe me, when I want something enough, I have the patience to bide my time and think how I can bring it about.''
'I'll try,' Hester promised, and she did mean it. 'That miserable policeman will not be right-I shall not allow him to be right.''
'I beg your pardon?'
'I met him when I was out walking,' Hester explained. 'He said I was overbearing and opinionated, or something like that.'
Callandra's eyebrows shot up and she did not even attempt to keep a straight face.
'Did he really? What temerity! And what perception, on such a short acquaintance. And what did you think of
