Caroline was talking about Edmund again, telling Samuel some of the stories he used to enjoy, and how he sang sometimes, and how fond he was of the girls, Sarah, Charlotte, and Emily, especially Emily because she was so pretty and she laughed easily when he teased her.
Was that really how Caroline remembered him, how she had seen him when he was drunk? Why not? It was true, it was all exactly true. What did anybody really know of anybody else?
And Samuel sat there listening with his eyes on Caroline’s as if he believed every word of it.
“Your mother must have spoken of him,” Caroline exclaimed ingenuously. “Whatever her reasons for leaving, she knew he was your father, and therefore you had to care about him.” She did not add that he must have asked her, but the implication hung in the air between them.
Mariah could hear her own heart beating. She was holding her breath, as if that could somehow stop him from answering. This was her worst nightmare come back, no longer a dream but as real as tea and toast, the maid’s footsteps on the stairs, and the smells of soap and lavender or the morning newspapers. It would become part of life, as inescapable as the past, only worse, because the wound had healed over. This would be a second time, without escape ever, and she had not the strength anymore. The first time you don’t know what is coming, and ignorance shields you. This time she did know, and the fear before would be as bad as the fact, and the morning afterwards. Except there would be no afterwards. It would never stop. As long as Caroline knew, it would be there in her eyes every time they met.
And she would tell Emily and Charlotte, and that would make life unbearable. Emily might tell Jack. The old lady could picture the pity and then the revulsion in his wide, dark-lashed eyes.
Samuel was talking about his mother again, about Alys. His face was lit with the same tenderness as before, his eyes shining.
“. . people made the mistake of thinking that because she carried herself like a lady that she hadn’t the courage to speak out or stick to her beliefs,” he said urgently. “But I never knew a woman with more courage.”
Mariah cringed inside as if he had struck her. He knew! He must know. It was there in his words, just under the surface. If it was true of Alys, then it was true of Mariah. He would know that, anyone would. People don’t change.
What possessed Alys to have told him? How could she?
Mariah imagined telling Edward! Her face burned at the very idea of it. Would he have ever believed her? If it repelled him as it did her, then he would have been unable to accept it, and he would have considered her not only mad but dangerous.
But then if that same hideous seed were in him, he would have believed, and he would never have looked at her in the same way again. The image of “mother” would be gone and that other terrible one would replace it.
And that is how Caroline would be now. The old lady refused to think about it. Every shred of dignity, of human worth or value, would be stripped from her abjectly, and leave her grotesquely naked, as no living thing should be. It would be better to be dead. Except that she had not the courage. That was at the core of it, she was a coward- not like Alys.
Samuel was still talking about Alys, how beautiful she was, how brave, how everyone admired her, liked to be in her company. She was different, breathtaking, unbearably different, and the knowledge of it was like a red-hot knife twisting in an old wound, gouging deeper till it touched the bone.
They were still talking about the past, Caroline recounting some anecdote that had happened years before. She made it sound as immediate as yesterday. It could not go on. It was only a matter of time before the truth was said. That must be prevented-at any cost.
But nothing the old lady said now would make the slightest difference-the only means of stopping this conversation would be to make it necessary for Samuel to leave. If she retired from the room, surely he would go? He said he admired his mother so much, he would attempt to behave like a gentleman.
“Excuse me,” she interrupted, rather more loudly than she had intended. “I feel a little faint. I think if you will ring for my maid, Caroline, I will retire to my room. At least until dinner. I shall see how I feel then.” She forced herself to look at Samuel. “Pardon me for ending your visit so abruptly. I have not the good health I used to.”
Caroline looked crestfallen. “I am sorry, Mama-in-law. Would you like a tisane sent up?” She reached for the bell as she spoke.
“No, thank you. I think a little lavender will suffice. It is one of the disadvantages of age, one has not the stamina one used to have.”
Samuel rose to his feet. “I hope I have not bored you, Mrs. Ellison. It was very thoughtless of me to have remained so long.”
She stared at him and said nothing. The man seemed impervious to suggestion.
The parlormaid opened the door, and Caroline asked her to send the old lady’s maid to assist her upstairs.
Samuel took his leave-he had no alternative. But even as she was climbing the stairs slowly, not having to ape the stiffness or fumbling hands on the banister-they were all too real-the old lady could hear Caroline inviting him to return and resume their conversation, and his acceptance. It was that which finally sealed the decision in her mind.
Since she had said she was ill, she was obliged to remain upstairs for the remainder of the afternoon, which was irritating because she had nothing to do and would either have to lie down and pretend to be resting, which would leave her thoughts free to torment her, or else create some task or other and affect to be busy with it. She did not want to face her decision-not yet.
Mabel was a good woman, both competent and tactful, which was the only reason she had survived in the old lady’s service for so long. She made no comment on the situation, simply brewed her a chamomile tisane, without asking, and brought her a lavender pillow. Both were refreshing, and had she suffered from the headache she professed, they would have helped her immensely.
She lay on the bed for nearly an hour, quite long enough to have recovered, then, feeling lonely and oppressed with useless thoughts and memories, she went to the small upstairs room where the maids mended the household linen and did a little dressmaking as was necessary. Most reasonably well-to-do women had three or four bought gowns for afternoon wear, the same again for evening, and they had their maids sew the others. It was cheaper, and if the maid was good, quite as effective. She knew Mabel was making something for her, because it was a permanent state of affairs. Emily was generous with supplying fabric, beads, braid, and other trimmings.
“Are you feeling better, ma’am?” Mabel asked, looking up from her needle. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you,” the old lady said, closing the door behind her. She sat down in the other chair. Mabel resumed stitching. It was growing dusk outside and the lamps were lit. The gaslight caught in the silver needle, making it look like a flash of light itself, weaving in and out of the cloth, in the thimble. Mabel was getting old too. Her knuckles were swollen, rheumatic. She did not walk as easily as she used to either. As always, the cloth she sewed was black. The old lady had worn black ever since Edmund died. Like the Queen, she was conspicuous in her mourning. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time. Grief was an acceptable emotion, very appropriate. Everyone understood and sympathized. It was so much better than guilt, although to onlookers it could appear the same. She could weep, retreat to privacy, or ask for anything, which was freely granted. She was the center of attention and no questions were asked.
She very easily fell into the habit of being “bereaved.” There never seemed a suitable time to come out of black, and then it was too late. People assumed she was devastated by Edmund’s death. It became impossible to do anything but agree. She told people what she wanted them to believe, which in time she tried to believe herself. It was better that way.
Now Samuel Ellison had turned up out of God knew where, and everything was crashing in ruins.
Mabel was threading black beads onto her needle, stitching them on the bosom of the new dress. Why in damnation should Mariah wear black for the rest of her life for Edmund’s sake? He must be laughing in whatever hell he had gone to. It had never suited her, and did so even less now that she was old and sallow-skinned. And to put rouge on her face would make her look like a painted corpse. A painted corpse! That was how she felt, dead inside but still hurting, and ridiculous.
She wanted to tell Mabel to throw it away, make something of another color-maybe purple; that was half
