Friday's Girl Read online

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Napier suddenly pulled up his horse. ‘Well, of all the damn developments this is surely the most damned!’ He turned to look at Alfred, pointing ahead with his riding whip. ‘Behold Mrs Todd climbing out of a hackney carriage, and due to get straight back in again, I do assure you.’

  ‘Give her a chance, my dear chap, give her a chance to explain herself,’ Alfred pleaded, becoming attacked by conscience, if a little too late in the day.

  ‘I’m damned if I will!’ Before Alfred could reason with him further, Napier rode up to the side of the carriage and leaned down to the driver. ‘Take Mrs Todd back to the station, if you please, Mr Jeffrey. Tell her, if you would, that she is not welcome here, not ever again. She must go straight back to where she came from.’

  ‘But there isn’t another train until the morning, Mr Todd.’

  ‘In that case make sure that she stays at the station hotel overnight, and see her on to the first train to Cornwall, or wherever she wants to go, in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Todd.’

  Napier turned his horse and urged it into a canter. ‘Where the devil are we going now, Napier?’ Alfred called after him, following him nevertheless.

  ‘Who the hell cares?’

  Celandine stared at Edith’s pale face. She had large black shadows under her eyes. All the bloom of early pregnancy seemed to have deserted her, and she looked frailer than ever.

  ‘I am sorry to return so quickly, Celandine. I know that it will not be at all convenient, either for you or for Mrs Molesworth here, but I did not know where else to go. Well, I did think of going to the Stag, to my father, but the truth is that my stepmother would receive me with about as much enthusiasm as a bout of the measles.’

  ‘I will take her to the spare room,’ Mrs Molesworth stated, eyeing Celandine over the top of Edith’s head. ‘And I will bring her supper, and put a warming pan in her bed, and everything will seem quite different in the morning, I am sure.’ The look that once again came Celandine’s way was so significant that she knew that Mrs Molesworth must have overheard the argument between herself and Sheridan.

  ‘I am so sorry, Celandine, but I did not know which way to turn.’

  ‘Well, you would not, dearest Edith.’

  Despite all the warning looks from Mrs Molesworth Celandine found herself following Edith upstairs.

  When they were alone, Mrs Molesworth having lit the fire and bustled off to fetch all the usual comforts, Celandine turned to Edith, who was now sunk in a chair staring ahead of her as if she did not quite know where she was, but, worse, as if she did not care either.

  ‘I did as you suggested and returned to Napier, all ready to apologise and explain myself and my condition, but the hackney had hardly stopped in front of the steps at Helmscote when Napier appeared from nowhere, with Alfred of course’ – she said the last name almost bitterly – ‘and went up to the driver and told him to turn round and take me back to the station, at once.’ She looked up at Celandine. ‘The poor man, Mr Jeffrey, was so embarrassed. As well he would be, because he and I know each other well now. He is quite a friend of Mrs George. There was talk at one time of them even—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Celandine interrupted, feeling and showing her impatience, because really she could not care less what Mr Jeffrey was like or whether he had ever intended to make an honest woman of Mrs George. ‘But why would Napier turn on you like that? He must have taken leave of his senses, he truly must.’

  She paced about the room for a little while, thinking. There was only one explanation possible. When a man took a turn into madness, when he changed character to such a degree, when he turned his wife from his own front door, it was always because of another woman. When Edith had become frenzied with jealousy, it might actually have been with good cause. Napier was obviously now obsessed with Becky Snape, the way he had once been with Edith. Why else would he be painting her? She looked across the room to where Edith was seated in front of the fire and felt the utmost pity for her situation.

  ‘There can be only one answer to the situation in which we find ourselves,’ she announced finally, by the careful use of the word ‘we’ tactfully putting herself in the same situation as Edith. ‘There is only one answer, and I think, dearest Edith, that I have it.’

  Celandine looked around Aunt Biddy’s drawing room, savouring its old-fashioned fittings, its oval miniatures set about the fireplace, its long-skirted cloths covering tables that held more ornaments than she would have thought it possible for any one table to hold. It seemed so long since the summer when they had all danced in the bigger room across the hall and eaten their supper to the sound of the sea outside the open windows. She remembered how Sheridan and she had felt, and how they had finally run home to make love.

  ‘My dear Celandine!’ Aunt Biddy, as always in a crinoline skirt with a tight-waisted jacket, a high-collared blouse and a large cameo brooch, issued forth from the door, neatly avoiding her own crowded tables in such a dexterous fashion that Celandine had the feeling that when they were young, ladies such as Aunt Biddy must have been given private lessons in how to move through a crowded room in their large skirts. ‘Well, well, well.’ She smiled, taking Celandine’s hands, her head on one side. ‘It is so long since I saw you, or Sheridan. How is dear, dear Sherry?’

  ‘We are both very well.’

  Celandine tried not to look either guilty or embarrassed as she realised that this was her first visit to Aunt Biddy since the party. It was too terrible really. Rosewalls was not so far away that Sherry and she could not have come before, but now that they wanted something, well, here was Celandine, all dressed up to the nines and putting on her best smile.

  ‘I am sorry I have not been to see you before, Aunt Biddy, but I have been so busy, painting portraits, you know. And Sherry has been trying so hard to sell his paintings, there has hardly been a free moment.’

  ‘Do not you fret. Whatever you want, I shall certainly consider it,’ Aunt Biddy said, and seeing the look in her eyes Celandine realised at once that she must have heard – perhaps from some other member of the family – that Sherry’s annuity had been terminated.

  ‘It is not something that we want particularly,’ Celandine said, beginning slowly, ‘it is something that we want for someone else. A young friend. She is in terrible difficulties.’

  Aunt Biddy reached for her handbag and took out a lace-edged handkerchief. ‘Gracious, Celandine dearest, is this going to make me lachrymose?’

  ‘I hope not, Aunt Biddy, but it is certainly making me anxious. You see, she is married and—’

  Celandine stopped. Mrs Molesworth had told her that there were many unmarried ladies living in Cornwall who had no knowledge of married life, and that they were always most anxious to stay as ignorant as possible.

  ‘It seems the poor innocent has had the misfortune to find herself married to a poor sort of creature who glories in believing the very worst of her.’

  Aunt Biddy promptly pressed her handkerchief to the side of her mouth. ‘This is terrible. And who is this unfortunate person?’

  ‘It is my friend, Edith Todd. Do you remember she came to the party in the old-fashioned – in the beautiful crinoline? You took to her at once, I know you did.’

  ‘Of course I did, of course I remember. Yes, and she was quite the belle of the evening, after you, of course, my dear. Am I therefore to assume that that nice Mr Todd is the wretch to whom you just referred, Celandine?’

  ‘I am very much afraid so, Aunt Biddy. He can no longer expect our friendship. He has been too harsh on his poor innocent wife. Our friendship with him has to be considered to be at an end.’

  Aunt Biddy removed the handkerchief from its emotional position near her mouth, and put it back in her handbag. ‘My dear, I have heard . . .’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘I have heard that a man can change horribly once he is married, and that everything one fears about the opposite sex becomes true.’

  Celandine con
sidered this for a moment. She still felt that she must be at pains not to upset Aunt Biddy, but on the other hand she did not like to think that anyone would think badly of Sherry. Sherry might be irritating at times, but he was quite incapable of being unkind.

  ‘It seems,’ she said, choosing her words with care, ‘that what you have said about some men has turned out to be true, in this case.’

  ‘But how am I to help?’

  ‘I wondered, at least Sherry and I wondered, if you would mind terribly having Edith to stay? She would be more than happy to contribute to the household in any way that you should think appropriate. She is very good with her needle—’

  ‘But of course! What could be more charming than for her to come here? She will act as the most delightful companion to me.’

  ‘She would be more than happy to help Gabriel and Russo.’

  ‘Oh, Celandine, I doubt that anyone could do that, outside of the angels, that is.’ Aunt Biddy sighed. ‘No, that would be asking too much. They have their little ways, you see, and I doubt that even the good Lord understands them, for I certainly never have. I always hoped that one day they might marry, but it seems Russo is not that way inclined. So Gabrielle has become and stayed her own mistress, because she has certainly never allowed me to have much say here at Rosewalls.’

  In light of the fact that neither she nor Sherry had visited Aunt Biddy since the party, Celandine felt that she had progressed with her mission faster and better than she could possibly have hoped; and yet she knew she still had one last, very delicate hurdle to leap, and that was the little question of Edith’s interesting condition. It was a particularly difficult subject to broach since Aunt Biddy was a spinster, and moved in a society that had never been known to acknowledge the pregnant state, referring to it always, as Celandine had been repeatedly told by Mrs Molesworth, as a ‘cold’.

  ‘There is one more thing, Aunt Biddy, that I know I should mention.’ Celandine braced herself to face Aunt Biddy with the facts of life. ‘Edith Todd has a cold. It is not a particularly advanced cold, but it is a cold all the same.’

  Aunt Biddy blushed, and at once reached for her handkerchief again. ‘My dear, of course. I understand. I have great sympathy for young married women who contract colds,’ she said, faintly, after a small, significant pause. ‘And I dare say I speak for both Gabrielle and Russo too.’ She paused. ‘When might the cold be over, do you think?’

  ‘I think a cure should be effected by the spring.’

  ‘Things always do look up, as far as colds are concerned, once the spring comes. Spring and early summer in Cornwall is just what we all long for, and it is certainly the best time to be rid of a cold.’ She stood up. ‘Now, my dear Celandine, I must go for my rest, and you may tell your dear little friend, beautiful Mrs Todd, that she can come to stay here as soon as she likes, and for as long as she likes.’

  Celandine leaned forward to kiss the air around Aunt Biddy’s head, but Aunt Biddy outwitted her and she found herself being enveloped in the old lady’s ample bosom, breathing in the smell of lavender and camphor, her face rubbing against the silk of the blouse.

  ‘You have made an old lady very happy, trusting her this way, Celandine. Really, very happy.’

  She left the room in a quietly euphoric state, her lace-covered head held high, so that Celandine could also return home feeling as happy about poor Edith’s situation as Aunt Biddy was obviously happy to receive her.

  There was something about helping Edith to pack up the few clothes that she had brought with her, to sort her boxes and brush the mud from her travelling clothes, that lowered Celandine’s spirits.

  ‘It could all have been so different,’ she kept saying later that evening and the following morning to Sherry, who while maintaining a patient expression could have been forgiven for finally feeling bored.

  ‘Since you are so busy with the admiral’s portrait, dearest, why don’t I go over to see Edith?’ he asked, once Celandine had settled Edith into Rosewalls.

  Celandine agreed at once. The admiral’s portrait was an ambitious project, and one that she had at times wondered if she was really competent to undertake. But in the past few days it did seem to be progressing, to be stating something not just about him, but about England, about an island people who were always facing and as often repelling invasion.

  ‘Did you know the admiral was nicknamed Old Redoubtable when he was only twenty-eight?’

  Sheridan nodded. ‘Yes, dearest. You did tell me that.’

  He turned away. Celandine was really so caught up with this commission, she seemed to be living in a different world from him. They still loved each other as passionately as ever, but during the day he knew she was not really with him, even when they were together – and just at a time when his own progress was very intermittent. It was partly because of the weather – the storms of the past weeks had seemed incessant – and partly because of his own lack of inspiration.

  ‘Perhaps painting inside doesn’t suit you?’ Edith suggested when he called in on her at Rosewalls one morning.

  Sheridan stared moodily at his feet. He liked visiting Edith, partly because he liked talking to her, and partly because Aunt Biddy gave him such a capital luncheon, fussing over him as much as she had when he was a small boy in short trousers.

  ‘I will admit that being in the studio all day is confining, and I will also say that I miss Celandine a great deal. She is out painting this admiral fellow. I expect she told you about him?’

  Edith nodded. ‘Yes, she did,’ she admitted, adjusting her decorously cut jacket over her enlarged waistline. ‘She told me that it is the largest commission she has yet undertaken, and she was worried about it at first—’

  ‘She was worried about it? She said that? She never said that to me.’

  ‘She would not have wanted to tell you.’ Edith smiled, her head on one side, and picked up a small baby garment that she was sewing.

  ‘Why would she not have wanted to tell me?’

  Edith looked across at Sheridan. He was tall and handsome, and it always seemed to her that his generous nature shone from his eyes, but he did not seem to understand women, and made no pretence of it.

  ‘She would not want you to see that she was afraid of the undertaking, at least that is what I would feel if I were her. Women do not want to show men fear. They want to seem brave, as men do, most particularly when they do not feel anything of the kind!’

  Sheridan looked at Edith, the thought gradually dawning on him that she was not just talking about Celandine and her painting of the admiral, but was doubtless also talking about the ordeal in childbirth that she must be gradually becoming all too aware lay ahead of her.

  ‘I wish that Celandine was looking forward not to finishing a painting, but to your happy outcome. I wish she was in the same state as you,’ he confided suddenly.

  Edith did not take her eyes from her sewing. ‘I appreciate that you think you would like that very much,’ she said quietly, ‘but you would not want darling Celandine to be in my situation. Who after all would want to be expecting a child by someone who would not communicate with them? Who would want to be alone in the world and in my position? If Celandine was in the same state as me,’ she said, still sewing, ‘she would be happy, and you would be happy, and so, finally, she would not be in the same state as me. Therefore, you would not wish her to be in my situation now, really you would not, when you really think about it. Truly not.’

  Sheridan knew that it was not a reprimand, yet at the same time he felt that he had been put in his place, that he had been tactless, which was why he thought it a good moment to take his leave.

  When he arrived home Celandine had fallen fast asleep in front of the sitting-room fire. It was Mrs Molesworth’s night off, and it took Celandine for ever to put together a cold collation.

  As he waited for her to assemble the meal Sheridan thought back to the slap-up luncheon he had enjoyed at Rosewalls, and sighed inwardly. The truth of the matt
er was that if a woman was out fulfilling a commission, instead of being in supervising the house, it was inevitable that she neglected her husband. It was only the memory of Edith’s words that prevented him from complaining. Edith was unlucky. He was lucky. He had to remember that.

  The following week when Sheridan again visited Edith in Celandine’s stead he brought up the subject of the women’s vote, something about which Celandine always became most emotional.

  ‘Would you like to have the vote, Edith?’

  Edith looked at him over the top of her teacup, her large eyes momentarily amused. ‘Of course. Every woman wants to have the same rights as a man, without having to become one, that is.’ She smiled. ‘After all, as Celandine said the other day, it is surely a truly sad state of affairs when a man who is a common criminal, a man who has committed some dreadful crime, can come out of prison and have a say in the running of his country, and a woman who has the command of a large estate and runs a business with as much efficiency as anyone has no rights in the eyes of the law! It makes no sense.’

  ‘But surely a woman, being so much more sensitive, gentle and kind than a man, is best left in the home, where she finally has more power than her husband? It is surely more important for women to set an example there? A virtuous married woman is after all the person who is finally in charge of the future of the country. Women ennoble us men.’

  ‘I hope you never suggest as much to Celandine!’ Edith looked at Sheridan, and smiled mischievously. ‘To suggest that women should not have the vote because they are married means that only single women such as teachers, and street walkers, will have a say in the running of the country. That makes no sense.’

  Sheridan looked thoughtful. He had hoped that Edith with her sweet face and feminine manners might be more on his side. ‘I find it very difficult to see how men and women can ever be equal,’ he confessed.

  ‘No one can be equal; the very notion is silly. Equality is an ideal, but an ideal which nature defies. Poor darling Napier wanted everyone at Helmscote to be his equal, and it made them miserable, because he was forcing his ideas of freedom on them.’ She paused, looking sad. ‘The truth is that Napier made me miserable in the same way, trying so hard to keep me as his muse, not wanting me to be his wife until such time as his painting was completed.’