There was a final flurry of leavetakings during the next few days. Swithin came to assure Kate of his eternal devotion; Rex and Foxey to remind Jane they were to be her cicisbeos when she landed in London. Dewar, who was making the rounds of all the homes where ladies had helped him, also stopped at Stonecroft to take a formal leave. He expressed his eagerness to see the Proctors in London, which was very well received by the lady of the house.
After the party had left the neighbourhood, things settled down to some semblance of normal. There was a feeling, however, that the dull normal of old was dispersed forever. There was a group of singers now in operation, which showed no signs of disbanding. Mrs. Abercrombie found a quarterly magazine that accepted her essay on Shakespearean theatre, and expressed some little interest in a similar work on Greek tragedy, so that she was deep into borrowing books from all her friends. The Hall sisters had taken the notion of organizing a spring flower show, and were busy with that. Mr. Prendergast and Miss Peabody had found a cottage for rent and were making it snug for a May wedding. The Proctors had the visit to London for the Season to look forward to and to plan. Everyone, it seemed, was well occupied except Holly McCormack.
Even Mr. Johnson, when he stopped at Stonecroft on his way to the orphanage, was seen to be busy and in good spirits. “I have got the contractors coming over to see to patching up the orphanage—the west wall that is cracked. I mean to get a good price from them, to enable us to have a closed stove as well. The housekeeper tells me we must have a closed stove. They have one at the Abbey, it seems, and Dewar put the notion into her head when he was in the kitchen one day. I wish he had left the money to buy it. You might be able to help raise funds, Miss McCormack. Our spring bazaar will be the next item on the agenda.”
What a dull item it seemed after the late proceedings—to make knitted slippers and embroidered money purses to sell at the bazaar, to speak to the Halls about potting up some cuttings from their conservatory, to make bonbons and paint cups to sell—it was so tedious she could hardly be bothered to do it. But of course it must be done. Duty did not stop because she had taken part in a play.
She was not the only one to find the winter dragging. Lady Proctor, too, discovered that, after a taste of the high life, she was bored in the country. By the end of January, she decided she would nip up to London a bit early to make the house ready for Jane’s debut. Naturally, Jane must go with her to visit the modistes. Equally naturally, they could not go unattended. Sir Egbert would accompany them, sneaking home on alternate weeks to see to his swine.
During his absences, Holly would be absolute mistress of Stonecroft. It was on the third day she was alone that the missive arrived from London. Its colour and odour (violet in both shade and aroma) told her the sender was her platonic lover. She was hardly more curious than vexed when she pulled it open and glanced at it. When the word ‘Dewar’ jumped out at her, halfway down the page, her heart did a little somersault, and she read quickly on to discover what Dewar was about. It settled down when she read that he was to accompany Swithin to Heron Hall with a small party, to select some
objets d’art
for inclusion in an exhibit they were planning, to raise funds for the purchase of some statue from Greece, which the government, in its sublime ignorance, considered not worth the five-thousand-pound asking price.
Swithin assured her of his continued enchantment, and signed it ‘your own Swithin.’ There was a postscript, cautioning her that her reply was to be directed to Heron Hall. The note bore little resemblance to a medieval manuscript. She had the feeling he had not put his whole heart into its production, and was somewhat relieved.
She was uncertain in her mind whether she should reply. A correspondence of this sort was not considered permissible except between betrothed parties. For a single lady to write to a gentleman struck her as a daring innovation. Yet she was strongly inclined to reply. Her interest in Grecian art was minimal, perhaps nonexistent. Her real interest in Swithin was about as strong.
As she reread the letter, she knew that her eyes skipped over descriptions of bronze fauns and such
objets
straight down to the words ‘Dewar is with me.’ This was what made her heart beat faster; this was the only reason in the world she wished to hear more from Heron Hall. Certainly it would be improper to answer his letter for such an underhanded reason. Still, she found excuses to write prowling her mind as she sat knitting a pair of ugly brown slippers for the bazaar.
Sir Egbert had a little black vase, believed to be Grecian, on the top shelf of his study. Her aunt would be thrilled to volunteer it to the cause. She went to see the vase, and noticed a v-shaped nick out of the rim facing the wall. A vase a foot high, chipped and slightly cracked, was insufficient excuse to write.
Before she had resumed her knitting, a caller was announced. Lady Dewar came puffing in. “Well, Holly, as we are both deserted, I decided to come and see you. What are you doing with yourself, eh? Making slippers—they look very comfortable. Put an insole in them and I’ll buy them at the bazaar. A nice woolen insole, to keep the chill from the feet. Those bootikins are the very thing for my corns. How do you go on without your aunt and uncle?”
“They have only been gone a few days. I have plenty to keep me occupied.”
“Any time you’re bored, come to me. Sir Laurence Digby is still at the Abbey, but he has taken to falling into a doze as soon as luncheon is over, and he don’t get up till twelve, so he might as well have left with the others. I wonder what they are up to, Dewar and the rest of them. Some new rig running, I suppose.”
It was the perfect chance for Holly to discuss her letter with an older lady, and discover whether it were proper for her to reply.
“Let’s have a look at it,” Lady Dewar said, holding out her hand. “Hmph—it ain’t sentimental at least. Not a
billet-doux.
Swithin is a ninnyhammer, but he is a gentleman. I see no harm in writing. In fact, as Chubbie is with him, I shall enclose a note myself. Or maybe you will be kind enough to do it for me. Tell him there is about a mountain of lumber landed in at the Abbey, and what does he want done with it. Roots mentioned a cheese barn—a temple is more like it, from the quantity of wood. Oh, and Parsons cannot make heads or tails of his scratchings for that book he is supposed to be copying out. Parsons is a fool. He spends what time Digby is awake talking to him about old dead Romans. I don’t see why my son must board his pensioners at the Abbey, especially when they are such demmed crashing bores. Why don’t he have any
interesting
employees?”
As soon as Lady Dewar had had her tea and taken her leave, Holly went to Sir Egbert’s study to draft her reply. She could think of very few words to say to Swithin. She acknowledged receipt of his letter, mentioned the black vase, and wished him success in the exhibition, all in a paragraph. This done, she sat nibbling the end of her pen for a full quarter hour, ransacking her mind for anything else to say. The mention of the Proctors being in London and some local trivia filled a respectable half page, then she could get on with the more interesting part of the missive; Lady Dewar’s visit and hear messages to her son.
Another of the violet letters was delivered within the week. Swithin, his passion for monkhood beginning to switch to a passion for Grecian antiquities, wrote scarcely more than she had herself. On the bottom half of the sheet, the handwriting was different. Swithin’s ornate script, enlivened in this case with birds and vines, gave way to a bolder, black slanted hand, difficult to read, Dewar was writing his own message, to be relayed to his mother.
Holly wondered that he had not written directly to the Abbey, but as she read on, with the keenest interest, she observed that the letter was as much for herself as for his mother, and wondered how on earth she was ever to show it to the countess. He wrote, Tell Mama (not that it is necessary, for she will never do anything anyway) to leave the lumber till my return. My plans for the temple to the Great God Cheddar are not final yet. If Parsons will begin at the beginning of my notes, he will find them legible. I wrote a very pretty hand in my youth, unlike this palsied scratch you are being subjected to. Poor Kate! How we all make use of you. And I have yet another chore for you too, but it is in a good cause! I have found a fine pony for our little Bath chair Mister, and want you to be certain Dr. John sees that Billie does all his exercises, so that he will be ready to ride Dobbin when I bring him home in a few weeks’ time. I hope Swithin’s eternity may have run out by then.
Do
let me know how Billie (and you) go on. Sincerely, Dewar.’
She read the letter six times, with a frown creasing her brow. The frown six times changed to a smile of anticipation when she came to the words ‘in a few weeks’ time.’ He was coming back! There was no longer any pretending she was anything but delirious for his return.
Next morning, she awoke to a sky more sunny than usual, to a breeze little short of spring-like, and felt the greatest urge to be outside. The family carriage was in London, but there was a gig in the stables which she could handle. She hitched it up and drove the boys into the village for a treat. While she was in the circulating library, the countess entered.
“Now why the deuce didn’t I think to stop and offer you a ride, Holly!” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you walked all the way from Stonecroft?”
“No, we came in the gig. Oh, and I have had a reply to your note to Dewar.”
“You might have let me know, hussy! Why didn’t you come and see me, eh? You know the way well enough. I hope you don’t need an engraved card. I told you to come any time, and took your absence as due to not having a drive. In fact, I meant to send the carriage for you this very day. But I’ll go home with you instead, and you can come to me another time. What had Chubbie to say for himself?”
The countess returned to Stonecroft and remained for luncheon. She did not ask to see Dewar’s note, but heard its contents, in a somewhat modified form. Before she left, she said, “What time shall I send the carriage tomorrow? Afternoon would be best, as you are running the house now.”
“Yes, afternoon would be best,” Holly replied, quite overcome at the honour. This amount of condescension had never been bestowed, even on Lady Proctor.
The weather reverted to a gusty, cold, thoroughly miserable February day on the morrow. Holly put on her warmest gown, old and grey, and gathered up a shawl to add to her shoulders. She had tea and a long chat with the countess—just the two of them, gabbing like a pair of crones before the fire, discussing receipts and embrocations, corns and calluses, the bazaar, and all the local doings. Before she left, Sir Laurence Digby and Parsons joined them for a cup of tea.
“How does the dramatical work go on, Parsons?” Lady Dewar demanded.
“I have unlocked the secret of his handwriting,” he said, very much at home, Holly thought, from the easy way in which he took up his accustomed chair and received his tea, already sugared as he liked. “One third of His Lordship’s l’s are e’s, a third uncrossed t’s, and the remainder are actually l’s. Other than the uncertainty as to whether a v is a w or a v, there is little else to it. It is a very interesting work. Thoroughly researched, yet not dull and dry. The best analysis of Aristophanes I have read. Of course, he wants a better translation. Dewar has got about half of
Clouds
translated. I wish he would finish the job. It is excellent. Very witty. With Aristophanes, the wording is all. He is not a terribly profound writer, but he is uniquely creative. Dewar catches the essence of it.”
“Sounds a dull enough subject—clouds,” the countess said. “One would think him an Englishman, writing a play about clouds.”
“The title is not to be taken too literally,” Parsons pointed out.
“And have you begun rounding up those Grecian things Dewar mentioned?” Lady Dewar asked.
Holly looked up, startled. This was the first indication she had that Dewar had written to the Abbey. Why did he write to her? He could have written his messages directly home. He had been at pains to demand an answer from her too. ‘Do let me know how Billie comes on.’ She had spoken to Dr. John and written back, again to Swithin, but assuring Dewar that Billie was doing his exercises. She had also hinted quite strongly for a reply by asking him if the matter of the pony was a secret, or if she might mention it to Billie.
When she received her answer, there was no farce of Swithin having anything to do with the letters. The missive bore Dewar’s frank, and his own writing on the outside. It was a good bulky letter, full of news, with only a postscript saying that Swithin had taken the day off to dash to London to hire a hall for the exhibition, and that he would call at Belgrave Square to say how-do-you-do to the Proctors. The rest of it was purely personal, and gave a great deal of satisfaction. The few friends who had gone with them were enumerated, with not a lady in the group.
He discussed the treasures being amassed for the exhibition. 'Fogle thinks we are spending more on bringing the stuff together and hiring the hall than we will make. You see, we are a vastly artistic and literary group, but need your numerate skills to bring some order to our chaos.’
Toward the bottom of the page he wrote, ‘I miss all my friends from Harknell. Pray send me all the news you can scrape together. Let me know how the Misses Hall and all their plants are surviving the winter, how the glee club progresses, and how develops Mrs. Abercrombie’s essay on Greek theatre. I have found an interesting book for her, but you had best not tell her or our clandestine correspondence will be revealed. I miss them all, not least Miss McCormack.’
She felt a very sinner to see in black and white that she was engaged in a clandestine correspondence too risqué for her friends to know about. Not with the harmless Swithin either, but with Dewar. There was no longer the excuse of relaying his messages to his mother, a very weak excuse in any case. No, she was writing to Dewar and he was writing to her, at least twice a week, with no excuse in the world but that she enjoyed it.