Читать книгу Caroline Terrace - Warwick Deeping - Страница 9

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Isabella’s room was situated at the back of the house, neither up nor down, but recessed on a level of its own, half-way up the first flight of stairs. Two steps ascended to it. More like a glorified cupboard than a room, it was just capable of containing a jejune bed, and a minute dressing-table by the window. The wash-basin was a tripod affair tucked in between the dressing-table and the wall. There was no cupboard, but three wooden pegs on a board attached to the door. The mirror was cracked, all the furniture second-hand.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Miss Luce’s possessions were so few that they could be housed in this meagre room. Her dozen or so books had taken refuge under the bed. The window gave on the slated roof of the kitchen and the backs of the stables of Caroline Mews. The garden was hidden by the kitchen roof. An old rug welcomed her feet when she got out of bed in the morning, and the bed itself was a cantankerous contraption.

But the room was hers. Here she could be sometimes and for short periods at peace, especially so when the children had gone to bed, and Mrs. Pankridge was not wanting someone to fetch her smelling salts or procure her slippers. Here, at night, by the light of a candle on a bracket, she could lie in bed and read her Shelley and her Keats, and Scott and Dickens. Endymion in a back bedroom, Ivanhoe splendid by candlelight. Yet, even her reading was limited, for Mrs. Pankridge was careful about other people’s candles. Servants and governesses should not be wasteful.

Numbered among her books was one bound in red leather, the reflections of Marcus Aurelius, and on its title page its original owner had signed his name: ‘David Hatherway.’

Sometimes she would take this book with her in her reticule with a piece of embroidery when she was out with the children, and could sit on a seat or the grass while they played. The original owner had marked certain passages or lines, and to Isabella the written words could become a voice. If there was tragedy here it could be translated into her own little world. She had ceased from shuddering over certain memories, though they could fill her with anxiety and fear. This red book was a secret relic, sacred to youth’s tragedy. She would tuck it away under her skirts or in her reticule if anybody approached.

Then she had a mirror in her bedroom, even if that mirror was cracked. She could look at her face and dream, as all women should dream. Did he find her comely? Did he like dark hair and eyes? Was her voice pleasing to him? For women, especially lonely women, can misread a man, and fall into some romantic infatuation in their hunger to be loved.

Mr. Travers was flitting around. The situation was complex. It was not easy to find Miss Luce alone, nor could she steal out and meet a lover as she pleased. Mrs. Pankridge was too particular, and, having heard rumours, knocked at Miss Luce’s bedroom door at night to satisfy herself that Isabella was properly in bed. The Pankridge prudery was phenomenal. Miss Cripps, at the gazebo, could and did observe certain developments. Miss Luce took the children more often into the Shrubbery, and Mr. Travers was showing an inclination for sylvan retreats.

Isabella had the red book with her one morning on a seat in the holly walk. Mr. Travers had arrived, and been persuaded by Albert and Victoria into a game of hide-and-seek, and the children had to be propitiated. Isabella was wise in this respect. Why should not the world think that George had a passion for children? She heard ecstatic screams and laughter, and the sound of chasing feet.

A flight of steps faced with rough bricks led from the holly terrace to a shaded path. The chase was ascending. Miss Luce saw Victoria scurrying up. She reached the steps, stumbled, fell. Screams that were not playful. Miss Luce dashed for the child, leaving the red book on the seat. Victoria’s face had made contact with a rough corner of brick. Her cheek and mouth were cut and bleeding.

Isabella, suddenly frightened, gathered the child up. Assuredly, this accident might be charged to her as carelessness. She was half-way across the Terrace before Mr. Travers and Albert overtook her.

‘What happened? Let me take her.’

‘She fell and hit her face on a step.’

‘I’ll take her.’

But Miss Luce would not surrender the screaming child to him. The burden and the onus were hers. Mr. Travers, having watched her vanish into the house, strolled cliffwards, looking a little peeved and sheepish, holding a sobered Albert by the hand.

Miss Luce, climbing the stairs with Victoria in her arms, a Victoria who was still screaming, saw the drawing-room door open.

‘Good heavens, Miss Luce, what has happened?’

Isabella was breathless.

‘I’m afraid she fell and hit her face.’

Victoria screamed ‘Mumma, mumma,’ and was reft from Miss Luce by a tempestuous mother.

‘Good heavens! Her poor little face! How could you let such a thing happen? Don’t stand gaping; run for the doctor.’

Isabella fled. So the guilt would be hers. She hurried to No. 8, and rang the bell. Most probably the doctor would be out. A maid appeared. No, the doctor was not at home. Could he be found? The girl did not know.

‘There has been an accident. Will you ask him to come to Mrs. Pankridge’s directly he returns?’

‘Of course, miss.’

No. 12A was in a state of turmoil. Mrs. Pankridge had tugged hysterically at the nursery bell, and then sat down on Albert’s bed, the child’s bleeding face pressed to her bosom. If there was to be a scene it would be a super-scene.

‘Ellen, I’m going to faint. My poor darling’s face.’

Ellen, the cook, attempted to take the child in her arms, but Victoria screamed and kicked.

‘Now, now, my pet——’

Mrs. Pankridge had no intention of fainting.

‘Where’s Miss Luce? It was all her fault. I sent her for Dr. Rollinson.’

‘I’m afraid he will be out, ma’am.’

‘He can’t be out; he mustn’t be out. Where’s Mr. Pankridge? Send someone to find the doctor. I must put my poor darling to bed. There—there, poppet. Where’s that girl? Hasn’t she come back yet?’

Isabella returned, to find Mrs. Pankridge half-collapsed in a chair, with handkerchief and smelling bottle, and the cook and the housemaid putting Victoria to bed.

‘Miss Luce, is the doctor coming?’

‘I am afraid he is out, madam. I left word.’

‘Good heavens, what use is that, girl? I want the doctor for my darling. Where’s Mr. Pankridge? Find my husband. My heart’s not strong. Oh, dear, oh, dear! What gross carelessness! I am sure she will be disfigured for life. Don’t stand there, girl. Find Mr. Pankridge. Tell him we—must—have the doctor.’

Once more Isabella fled. She appeared on the Terrace and stood looking helplessly up and down it. She saw a groom and a horse outside the garden of Major Miller’s and she hurried towards them, just in time to catch the Major as he appeared.

‘Oh, Major Miller, could you find the doctor? We’ve had an accident.’

‘Of course. I’ll do my best, Miss Luce. Someone been hurt?’

‘Victoria.’

Major Miller mounted his horse.

‘I’ll call at the surgery and see if the dispenser can tell me where the doctor might be found.’

‘Oh, thank you so much, sir, so very much,’ and Miss Luce clung to the garden railings.

Major Miller trotted off, and the groom—one Howell—an elderly and fatherly fellow, stood looking at the lady, who was steadying herself against the railings. Was she going to faint?

‘Are you all right, miss?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’m a little out of breath.’

Benjamin Howell watched her return to No. 12A, and his eyes were kind. Caroline Mews had sat in judgment upon Clarissa Pankridge, and if sympathy was needed it would go to the governess. A pretty, gentle creature, much too good to be wasted on those turbulent and spoilt brats, and scolded by a dressed-up She-Dog. Caroline Mews could cultivate candour.

It so happened that Mr. Lardner came strolling along the holly walk some five minutes after this minor tragedy. He saw the red book on the seat, paused, turned aside, and picked the book up. Someone had forgotten it, and Mr. Lardner proposed to return it to the owner if that person could be identified.

He opened the book at the title page and saw the signature: ‘David Hatherway.’

Mr. Lardner’s grizzled eyebrows bristled. His whole face stiffened.

‘Good God! Hatherway! By all the prophets—now—I think I remember. The daughter. Had to cross-examine her in court. Poor creature.’

Mr. Lardner stood reflecting, with the red book in his hand. Then he closed it, and replaced it on the seat, and walking to the end of the holly walk sat down on another seat. It would be interesting to see if anyone came to recover the book, and if so—who that person was. Yes, a Judgment of Solomon. Leaning forward so that he could watch the holly walk, he waited.

Miss Luce was half-way up the stairs when she remembered the book. Her face went white and panic-stricken. Had she left the book on the Shrubbery seat for someone else to find? She dashed down and out across the road, a scurrying figure of fear. Turning into the holly walk she came to the seat, an empty seat, and saw the book lying there. Oh, God be thanked! She clutched at it and stood a moment holding the book to a breathless bosom. She saw nobody, for Mr. Lardner had sat back in the recess, and was invisible to her. He had seen that which he had waited to see.

‘Poor creature! Yes, I remember now. She must have taken her mother’s name.’

Isabella recrossed the roadway to the Pankridge house, climbed the stairs to her room, closed the door, and slid the red book under the bed. She sat down on the bed. Her heart was racing. She closed her eyes, and her shoulders drooped. Oh, thank God! How utterly foolish of her to forget that book!

A voice was calling.

‘Miss Luce, Miss Luce. Where has that girl got to?’

Isabella straightened, rose with a suggestion of effort, and opened her door. Mrs. Pankridge loomed on the landing, a fan in one hand, her smelling salts in the other.

‘Oh, there you are. What were you doing in your room? I sent you to find the doctor.’

‘Major Miller has gone to try and find him, madam.’

‘Indeed! And was I not to be told, to have my agony relieved?’

Miss Luce was mute, while Clarissa fanned a furious face. Anguish—indeed! But Isabella was wondering what Mrs. Pankridge would say and do were she to discover the secret of that book.

‘I did all I could, madam.’

‘Indeed. I would remind you that the accident was all due to your carelessness. Where is Albert?’

‘I think—with Mr. Travers.’

‘Mr. Travers? So—you——’

‘Mr. Travers was playing with the children.’

Mrs. Pankridge emitted a most unpleasant laugh, a vulgar laugh.

‘Ah—yes. Mr. Travers was playing with the children. I—quite—understand. You had better go to your room, Miss Luce.’

Isabella turned, climbed the two steps, and closed the door after her. She sat down on the bed, groped for the red book, opened it, and tore out the title page. She gave one tragic glance at the familiar signature, and then crumpled the sheet and slipped it into a pocket. She would burn that piece of paper and let the ashes drift out of the window. Her bedroom candle would serve.