stopped as though chained to my situation like a dog in a yard. At Monkshill, seeing her every day, dining at the same table, walking in the same grounds – all this had bred a false intimacy between us, in the sense that it had seemed entirely natural for a woman in her position to treat me almost as her equal. But these last three months apart had dispelled this rosy mist of illusion: now, seeing her again, I could not help but be aware of the great chasm that lay between us: of the contrast between my shabby second-hand clothes and the dark elegance of hers. I did not recognise her cloak, or the pelisse or gown I glimpsed beneath.
'Tom,' she said, 'I – I must not see you.'
'Then why did you not write me an answer to my note? Why leave me in suspense?'
She winced as if I had hit her. 'That was not what I intended. I thought a clean, immediate break was best.'
'For whom?'
She looked directly at me. 'For me. And perhaps for you. Besides, further intercourse between us would not be kind to my cousin.'
'To Miss Carswall? But what has she to do with it?'
'You should know that better than I, sir.'
I felt myself grow warm. 'Sophie – my dear, please: if you mean that last evening in Monkshill, Miss Carswall came to the schoolroom merely to wish me goodbye and to lend me some money for my journey. It was an act of kindness, nothing more.'
She turned her head away, and her hat and veil obscured her face. 'Even if that is true, there is another reason why I must not see you or write to you.'
'Is this because of the accusation Mr Carswall has fabricated against me?'
She shook her head. 'I knew that was nonsense. So did Flora.'
'He had someone sew the ring into my greatcoat. I suspect it was Pratt. By great good fortune, I found it there when I reached London. I have made arrangements for it to be returned anonymously.'
'I have been so anxious. I did not know where you were, or how you were.' Sophie spoke more quickly now, and her face was alive with animation. 'Mr Carswall changed his mind about withdrawing Charlie from Mr Bransby's. But you are no longer there, I collect?'
I nodded. 'Mr Bransby and Mr Carswall came to an understanding. I resigned before I was discharged.'
'How do you live?'
I saw her looking at me, and knew the figure I must cut in my battered hat and threadbare coat. 'I live very well, thank you. I am not without friends.'
'I am glad.'
'And you?'
Her shoulders twitched. 'I live with my cousins, as before. Mr Carswall sees to everything. He pays Kerridge's wages, and Mr Bransby's bills. I want for nothing.'
'Sophie, there is still-'
'I am looking for Mr Frant's grave,' she interrupted, and her interruption was a form of reproof. 'The headstone was set up only last week. I thought I should see it.'
I pointed. 'It is over there.'
'Mr Carswall paid for that, too.'
Uninvited, I paced in silence beside her. I indicated the headstone and we stopped. Sophie stared at it for a moment, her face pale and still. I do not think there was any trace of emotion in her countenance. She might have been studying a bill of fare.
'Do you think he is at peace?' she said suddenly.
'I do not know.'
'He was always restless. I think he would have liked to be at peace. To be nothing. To want nothing.'
Her right hand gestured towards the grave, and the movement brought to mind the way a mourner throws a handful of earth on top of the coffin before it is covered over for ever. There was a finality about it. Without looking at me, she walked away. I replaced my hat and followed.
'Sophie,' I said, because after what had happened between us I would not call her Mrs Frant. 'Will you listen to me?'
'Pray do not speak.' Her eyes were bright. 'Please, Tom.'
'I must. There may not be another opportunity. You cannot stay where you are.'
'Why not? The Carswalls are my cousins.'
'What will happen when Miss Carswall marries Sir George? You will be alone with that foul old man.'
'That is my concern. Not yours.'
'It is my concern: I cannot stand back and leave you there unprotected.'
'I do not want your pity, sir.'
'I do not wish to give you pity. I wish to give you love. I cannot give you much, Sophie, but I believe that I could through my exertions preserve you and Charlie from absolute want, even now. If you would let me, I would offer you my hand with all my heart.'
'I cannot entertain such a proposal. It is quite out of the question.'
'Then let me support you without marriage.'
'As your mistress, do you mean?' she said sharply. 'I had not thought you-'
'No, no. I mean as a sister, as whatever you wished. My lodgings are perfectly respectable, and I would put you under the protection of the woman of the house and move elsewhere.'
'No, sir, no.' Her voice had become gentler. 'It cannot be.'
'I know we should be poor at first, but in time I hope to earn a modest competence. I have friends, I am willing to work. I would do all in my power-'
'I do not doubt it, Tom.' She touched my arm. 'But it cannot be. When my year of mourning is up, I am to marry Mr Carswall.'
I stared appalled at her for a moment, my mouth open like an idiot's. Then I grasped her hand and said, 'Sophie, my love, no, you must not-'
'Why not?' She moved aside, pulling her hand from mine. 'It is for Charlie's sake. Mr Carswall has promised to settle a considerable sum on him on the day we are married, and to provide for him in his will.'
'It is damnable. Carswall is a monster. I-'
'It will be a perfectly respectable arrangement in the eyes of the world, and in the eyes of our family and friends. We are cousins. There is a disparity of age but that don't signify. I have no doubt we shall do very well. Charlie will be provided for, and I shall live in comfort. I cannot pretend these considerations mean nothing to me. And, as I have accepted Mr Carswall as my future husband, I must respect his wishes. Any acquaintance between you and me must come to an end.'
I looked aghast at her pale, determined face. Something inside me shivered and broke. I turned and ran. My vision shimmered. Tears chilled my cheeks. I pushed my way through a knot of mourners who had attended the cortege and burst through the gates of the cemetery.
Drawn up outside was a row of carriages. I glimpsed a face I recognised at the window of the nearest one, a hackney. Mrs Kerridge was waiting for her mistress.
I ran on. In my mind, the cry of that damned bird ran round like a jingle.
73
I must have walked more than thirty miles that day, from one side of London to the other and then back in great zigzags. At nine o'clock of the evening I found myself in Seven Dials. It had come on to rain, but that did not deter the drinkers and the prostitutes, the beggars and the hawkers.
By this time, I was long past the surge of misery that had enveloped me as I left the graveyard. I was cool, entirely rational. I was no longer blind to the need for self-preservation, that most resilient of instincts. I had a firm grasp on my stick, avoided dark entries and kept a wary eye on those I met.
