Читать книгу The Knot - Jane Borodale - Страница 18

Chapter XI.

Of HORSETAILE. It is good against the cough, the difficultie and paine of fetching breath, and against inward burstings, as Dioscorides and Plinie writeth.

HE IS NOT SURE WHICH IS WORSE, the fact that he has disappointed him, or believing that his father would allow himself to be manipulated into this position by that woman.

He stands, transfixed, in the hall. Across the passage he can hear Frances giggling in the kitchen over the clatter of pots. Her condition is softening her, she has begun to waddle very slightly as she moves from room to room, and listening now to her voice like that makes him feel protective. It suits her, this temporary relaxing of the rules she has set herself. He hears footsteps approaching from the kitchen, towards him standing there. The smile dies on her face.

Frances sees he has a letter in his hand. ‘What is it, Henry?’

‘From Sherborne.’ He is smarting.

Frances snatches the paper from him. ‘What does he say? I cannot make head nor tail of your father’s hand – it’s like cobwebs.’

‘Here.’ Henry directs her to the passage.

Her mouth opens a crack in disbelief as she takes it in.

‘How can he even suggest such a thing? And then seamlessly he goes on to talk of picking up the barley malt on Friday. It’s scarcely credible.’ Disparagingly she turns the paper to see if there is anything of worth to be found on the reverse. ‘This cannot warrant a reply,’ she says. ‘Do not even give him the pleasure of watching you put your attention to it.’

‘But does it sound like his usual way of speech?’

‘I scarcely know him, Henry.’

‘It is that viper woman, hissing in his ear. I know it.’ Henry bites at his thumbnail. ‘Coiled in the sand over my father’s money like a clutch of someone else’s eggs.’

‘It’s just the words of a bad-tempered old man. Pay no heed. Parents can be cruellest to their children, but they may not always mean it.’ Frances pretends that it is of no consequence but her cheeks have flushed scarlet with offence. She stands for a moment, rubbing the mound of her belly and looking at nothing.

‘But to say that God will punish me,’ Henry says. ‘And that my conscience will be nothing if not tainted. This is like a curse upon us!’

‘What has provoked it?’ she asks.

Henry does not know where to begin to answer. ‘The imminent arrival of a child can bring on … change, bring unsaid, underlying matters to a head. There is nothing like new life to unleash the past,’ he says.

‘But what underlying matter could that be?’ she says, bewildered.

Above them there is a crash on the floorboards, one of the children starts to cry and she has to rush upstairs.

So certain things begin to make sense. Here is the vile rumour laid out in black and white upon the page, in his father’s hand. He is the very source of it, the wellspring, and it is unthinkable. A more bitter blow could not be had, he thinks, than being struck down maliciously by your own father. In great anguish of mind Henry sits down and attempts a reply to his imputation. My good father, he begins. Then comes a torrent of opening lines each crossed out in favour of the next.

With deep regret I received your—

I beseech you to reconsider the harshness of your—

I cannot know by what false informant you have arrived at this—

I am sickened by your—

It is an injustice, sir, that I shall not swallow—

Henry crumples up the sheet of paper and finds a fresh one. There is black ink all over his fingers, his face. He must keep to the point, he thinks, pacing about, phrasing and recasting over and over in his head until all is garbled and makes no sense even to him. What were the circumstances of his second marriage? It is hard to remember. He takes more wasted paper to the grate and burns the pieces into flakes of ash. He will try again later.

He goes out to find solace in digging at the garden. He fetches the iron spade from the shed and chooses a difficult, untamed corner to confront, where even the most persistent robin leaves him alone. By noon, he is drenched in sweat and goes to the ewery to wash thoroughly before coming to dinner.

Frances has a great liking for eggs at the moment, so they eat whitepot alongside the meat today. Usually it amuses him to see her eat such quantities, her fine frame dominated by the firm round belly so that she puts away great slices of custard pie and boiled beef in large, eager mouthfuls with uncharacteristic speed. The baby has also meant that she cannot abide the smell of green vegetables, so has to excuse herself if salad or greens are to be served. But today he does not notice what Old Hannah brings out for her, and they avoid all mention of the letter’s content before the servants, indeed they hardly speak at all.

In the afternoon he still ignores the unwritten thoughts running through his head, and goes to work out the quarter-wages for the household staff. He notes that where last year there had twice been a change of dairymaid, Bridget had been with them now since before last Michaelmas, with a marked improvement in the keeping qualities of the butter.

His hand is uneven as he sets out these figures in his ledger, he makes several mistakes, but it is evening before he permits himself to return directly to the matter. Joan Young is very clever, he thinks, to have turned his father so hard against his own flesh and blood. He shaves a new quill to a satisfactory sharpness and sits down again to set it out clearly.

Father,

You hold that I have married another man’s wife and you intend to disinherit any issue we should have. You may cut off whom you choose, but remember that Frances carries this child as my lawful spouse without dispute. Should it be found, if it please God, to be a boy, he shall bear our family name, and through me prove ultimately to be your rightful heir as a Lyte of Lytes Cary – our shared descendance. Once this child is born of my wife’s body and cries within these four walls, in law and life Frances is bound to me in property and God’s eyes. I beg you not to go against the way of natural succession without good cause. I entreat you for your blessing, pray for your good health, and remain your obedient son.

Father, never did I wed another man’s wife.

He makes adjustments, shakes the castor and slides the document across the desk to dry. Outside in the dark a nightingale pours out its ceaseless, bubbling song. He has an incongruous recollection of an evening spent once in a garden in London. The garden itself was plain and empty, the company laughing and playing a game of lawn bowls, with wild nature just visible on the surrounding hills.