'But I am quite accustomed to drunken women,' Mrs Frant said as we sat opposite each other by the parlour fire half an hour later. 'When liquor is taken to excess, a woman is no different from a man. If a person is intoxicated, a sudden elevation of the spirits, or a sudden depression of them, may have a disproportionate effect. The emotions bolt like a horse.'
'Having first reared and thrown off their rider?' I inquired.
'What?'
'I beg your pardon – I ventured to extend your metaphor. If the emotions are a horse, then we may at least hope that Reason is their rider.'
'Ah. I understand you. We have made a pretty conceit between us, have we not?' After a pause, Mrs Frant went on: 'You must not wonder at my knowledge. I have lived in the world and am used to its ways. When I was a child, my father could not bear to part with me, especially after my mother's death, so I followed him from place to place.'
She was about to continue but there were footsteps in the passage and she fell silent. A moment later came a knock at the door. Miss Carswall's maid entered.
'If you please, ma'am, Mrs Johnson's sleeping like a baby.'
'If I have retired by the time your mistress comes in, be sure to tell her that Mrs Johnson is unwell. You may add that there seems no cause for alarm.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
The woman left us alone. One of the candles guttered, and we stared at its swaying flame until it died and the room became suddenly darker.
Mrs Frant murmured, 'What concerns me is whether there is more to this than brandy.'
'Something that drove her to run such risks?'
'Precisely. Though we shall never know what it is unless she chooses to make confidants of us, and that is unlikely enough. You do not think she may be – that her mind may be deranged?'
'It is possible.' I was happy to encourage this line of thought, though I believed Mrs Johnson to be as sane as Mrs Frant. I was relieved, too – I did not think Mrs Frant would talk so coolly if she had discovered a letter in her husband's handwriting on Mrs Johnson's person.
Then she took me by surprise, as so often: 'I hope I may not be a cause of her behaviour.'
'But how could that be?'
'She dislikes me, I am afraid.' Mrs Frant raised a hand to prevent my interrupting. 'You must have remarked it. At Grange Cottage, for example.'
'Yes,' I said. 'There was indeed a coldness.'
'More than that.' She turned her face away. 'In fact she hates me. There is no reason why you should not know the truth – you deserve to hear it after tonight. Long before my marriage to Mr Frant, or Mrs Johnson's to her husband, there was an understanding between them.'
'While Mr Frant was living at Monkshill?'
'No – the family left Monkshill when Mr Frant was no older than Charlie. After that he lived chiefly in Ireland when he was not at school, until he started at Wavenhoe's. But his mother was connected by marriage to the Ruispidges, and during his vacations he would sometimes stay at Clearland-court. Mrs Johnson grew up at Clearland, quite as one of the family. So they were thrown together a good deal.' She hesitated. 'Neither she nor Mr Frant had a penny to their name. Otherwise they would certainly have married.' She paused again and then added sadly, 'I – I have no reason to doubt my informant on that score.'
I looked at her, and her large eyes shone with unshed tears. I suspected then that it had been Mr Frant himself who had told her, that he had taunted her with his prior attachment.
'Who knows?' she murmured. 'She may even hold me responsible for what happened to Mr Frant.'
'But that would be nonsense, ma'am.'
'One does not think clearly when one's mind is in turmoil.' Her voice trembled. 'His murder might well have shaken her reason. God knows, it was frightful enough in all conscience – and the uncertainty makes it worse, that and the fear that something even more terrible may yet – I myself have felt that-' She broke off and again turned her head away from me. In a moment she resumed in a calmer tone. 'Tell me, did you ever feel that you were not entirely in possession of your senses?'
'Yes.'
A glowing coal fell from the grate to the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks. I bent to retrieve it with the tongs. Her question had thrown me into confusion. She and I were the same people we had been at the start of the evening. But something had changed, something invisible and profound, and I could only guess at its nature and its implications.
I raised my head. 'When I was wounded, it seemed to me I was wounded in mind as well as in body.'
She nodded. 'My father once remarked that in war a man sees such terrible sights that he may see them for ever.' We sat in silence for a moment. Then: 'What happened?'
'My body healed more quickly than my mind. For many months, nothing truly mattered very much, and I was angry. I was angry that I had been wounded, and that all those men had died, and that I had done nothing and yet I was still alive. I despised myself.' I hesitated and then added: 'And there were dreams, every night there were dreams. Now I believe I was as much afraid as angry. Or perhaps anger and fear are different aspects of the same thing.' I thought briefly of Dansey with his Janus face. 'But I must not weary you.'
'When I first saw you, you looked ill. No, that is not quite the word: you looked as though there were a sheet of glass between you and the rest of the world. And if the glass broke, then so should you.'
I said, picking my words one by one from the silence, 'I fell so far into despair that one day I lost my senses. Only for a moment but it was enough. I threw a medal at an officer in the Park. His horse reared, and he fell. They arrested me. I was afraid they would shut me up for ever, or transport me. But I was fortunate: I came up before a humane magistrate, who decided that I was but a temporary lunatic whose madness would yield to a course of treatment.'
'I am very often afraid,' Mrs Frant remarked. 'If a woman has a child she must be afraid for him, if not for herself. And at present there is so very much to be afraid of.' She was quiet for a moment. Then she raised her head and went on in a sudden rush of words: 'Why did you join the army, Mr Shield?'
I looked down the years at my younger self and marvelled at its folly. 'A girl jilted me, ma'am. I drowned my sorrows, and when I was drunk, I spoke intemperately to the girl's father, who was also the master at the school where I was teaching. As a result, I lost my position. To show the world how little I cared, I took the King's shilling – and regretted it as soon as I was sober again.'
'I beg your pardon. You must think me impertinent. I should not have asked.'
'It is of no consequence.'
'Oh, but it is.'
Her eyes stared into mine. I was alarmed by what she might see – such a degree of longing, such overwhelming desire. Simultaneously, I realised I was holding my breath, as if by not breathing I might prolong the moment indefinitely, as if I might stop time itself.
Then came a great knocking on the street door, and the sound of voices and laughter outside. I let myself breathe once more, and went to sit at the table, returning to the newspaper I had abandoned, it seemed in another life. Mrs Frant did not speak.
In a moment we heard footsteps in the passage and the sound of Mr Carswall's voice raised in triumph: 'And he did not know I had the last heart, the poor fool, he thought Lady Ruispidge had it. No, it was neatly done, by God, and after that trick, the rubber was ours.'
The door flew open, colliding with the back of a chair. In an instant the quiet parlour had filled to overflowing with lights, noise, people. As well as Mr Carswall, there was Miss Carswall, Mrs Lee, Sir George and the Captain. Lady Ruispidge had retired for the night but her sons had insisted on escorting Mr Carswall's party back to Fendall House.
Mr Carswall was not drunk, merely boisterous. In Mrs Johnson's absence, Lady Ruispidge had condescended to partner him and I believe he felt he had acquitted himself well, both at whist and in society in general. Mrs Lee and a clergyman had opposed them in the card room, and Mrs Lee did her best to appear complacent about the losses she had sustained.
