Authors: Christianna Brand
And thought: There is no mark—no specific mark. Is
this
what he intended me to see?
The ravaged face, staring, glaring back at her. Sickly pale, and yet with a strange dark look as though a cobweb obscured the soft sheen of ivory: thin, eyes feverishly bright. The great scar gleaming bone-white across the hollow of the cheek. A face that had been filled with kindness and love, with nothing in it now but anger and bitterness. Is this me? Can this be me?—that girl that I was so short a time ago? Filled with hate, filled with cruelty, with rage and resentment—at the mercy of… At the mercy of… And she tore herself from the torment of that face looking out at her, flung herself down on her knees, crouched there, helplessly weeping. What forces are these that work within me, that will not let me be? In her mind she knew that his betrayal had been contrary to his own heart’s desire: had been on his part also, a sacrifice, to put out of his reach once and for all, the possibility of bringing into the world more children to suffer… To suffer as she suffered now. What forces compel me? she had asked herself—and knew that they lay in that malediction that had been pronounced so long ago upon the family of the Hilbournes of Aberdar. Why pretend?—why pretend no such thing exists? I
know
that it exists. I dreamed… I dreamed… But force her mind as she would, she could not recall the dream. Could not recall those words cried out in wild vengeance for that young man robbed of his bride-to-be. Never again… Never again…
She rose at last and returned to the looking-glass and faced herself once more; and even as she gazed, the tears seemed to dry on her ravaged cheeks, the look of piteous helplessness to change back to one of bitter resolution. She moved away sharply, rang the bell, said to the manservant, attending, ‘See to the fire, Rod, what are you about? This room is like an icehouse.’
She held out for two days more but on the third when they would soon be expected, she wrote the note that must destroy all her promises, and directed that a man make the journey, taking it to Greatoaks by hand.
‘Lyneth and me feel much better this morning,’ said Christine the next day.
M
ISS TETTERMAN HAD WORN,
in a suitable modesty, her quiet greys and sepia browns. Lady Hilbourne made no change in her dress: richer materials, certainly, but that was all, and very stiffly and grimly as the years went by did she move through her days. No embargo was placed any longer upon the children’s meetings with others of their age: comings and goings were frequent between the Manor and Plas Dar up on the hill across the stream; Lawrence Jones and their cousin Arthur, who spent most of his holidays there, were their constant companions. With Sir Thomas and Lady Jones, she was on terms of cool civility, she exchanged calls with such neighbours as must one day provide backgrounds for the girls’ entry into society.
Beyond this, she had no friend or acquaintance in the world. To pained reproaches from Greatoaks Park at the time of the cancelled visit, she had replied that promises had been broken not by her own wish or will; but that since she appeared yet again to have lost favour in her ladyship’s eyes, she would give up the unequal struggle, and that should be the end. She locked away in a drawer the loving gifts of the sad old man, the ‘regard’ ring, the small box with its enamelled forget-me-nots: with a face like iron, tore across and across the long-hoarded letters and threw them away. These fingers are not mine, she thought, as she wrenched at the folded pages: other hands direct my hands. I need make no apology. I am not in my own power.
‘I foresee that a day will come,’ Hil had said to her, ‘when you will betray us—when you will destroy us all.’ Little knowing what she did, she now clung, with all her terrified heart, to what seemed the only redeeming feature in the breakdown of all her true personality, which she seemed powerless to prevent—her selfless devotion, her love for the two little girls.
That fatal love.
Meanwhile, however, a sort of alliance grew up between herself and Madame, arising from this subject of company for growing-up little girls. ‘
Ce pauvre Edouard, c’était une idée fixe, que les petites seront élevées en solitude. Mais, enfin, ce n’est pas naturelle, il faut avoir des amis, comment faire de bonnes manages quand le jour est arrivé
…?’
And what more exquisite relief to that urban heart, than to embark upon the dressing and grooming and polishing of so enchanting a pair of dolls? So a conspiracy was entered into, as to party frocks for little girls, for growing-up little girls, for young ladies ‘arrived’; as to music teachers to be introduced, and dancing masters, art masters, all the rest—the lessons of Greatoaks had not been lost upon one now committed to the launching of pretty young husband-hunters into such world of fashion as existed in the great houses in the beautiful country on the borders of beautiful Wales. Orders went to the estate office for new carriages, for horseflesh capable of longer journeys; Ebony and Ivory must give way to larger ponies, supplanted at last by a pair of thoroughbreds suitable for elegant young ladies to go riding with their compeers. Tante Louise actually undertook a journey to Paris in search of the just-right dresses and bonnets and boots and little kid gloves. A lady’s maid replaced simple Bethan, equipped to accompany her mistresses, once ‘out’, on over-night visits for parties and balls; fine uniforms were designed for Owain, promoted to head coachman now, and a footman, to place carriage rugs and open doors, to deal with bonnet boxes without turning them upside-down; both groomed by sharp lessons from her ladyship in conducting themselves correctly on the box of the carriage, or in servants’ halls other than their own…
And so at last a day came…
‘Oh, Tetty, I know I told Tante that I wanted the white lace dress to be mine—but now, tonight, I
would
rather have the one with the flounces. Christine, you have the frilly lace one and I’ll let you have the rose-wreath with the pink ribbons that was supposed to be worn with the other…’
‘But it belongs with it, Lyn. It would be all wrong to separate them. And we did agree that I should have the lace dress.’
‘Oh, darling, but I love it, I adore it—just for this once, just on our coming-out night, let me have my own way!’
‘It’s my party too,’ said Christine.
‘Oh, Tetty, do ask her!’
‘You must make up your own mind, Christine.’
‘Tante Louise—?’
‘Well, but Lyneth…
Mais, encore
—for that matter, Christine,
les—comment on dit?—les
frills on you would be so pretty,
ma chérie
. And then, yes, with the frills will go so very nice the little wreath avec des roses, Lyneth is so kind to give you this. And the small little one with the flowers made of feathers, that will suit Lyn, it go with the dress quite all right. Come, Christine, it is nice to make the little sacrifice,
non
? And always you are so kind…’
So spineless, thought their stepmother. Why can’t the foolish child stand up for herself? But when Christine fought back in the matter of the pink satin slippers to match the rosebuds in the wreath, she came down in judgment on the side of their being worn with the white feather headdress. ‘If Lyneth comes downstairs all in white without a touch of colour, good heavens, they’ll think she’s a ghost—’ She corrected herself quickly, ‘—a bride. And that reminds me, darlings—not more than two dances with Lawrence, Christine! And not more than two for you, Lyneth, with your cousin Arthur! It is not
comme il faut
.’
‘I don’t
want
more than two with Arthur,’ said Lyneth, pettishly. ‘I’d much rather dance with Lawrence.’
‘Well, well, my pets, Lawrence and Arthur aren’t the only two young men in the world. There’ll be queues lining up to fill in the programmes of the Belles of Aberdar.’ She glanced rather anxiously, nevertheless, from one sweet, lovely face to the other. For one of the Belles of Aberdar, she knew all too well, there
was
only one young man in the world: and what Christine wanted today—already Lyneth was beginning to lay claim to.
Dancing, dancing in his arms—in the lacy white dress with the little wreath of pink roses perched on her shining head…‘Oh, Christine, I could dance like this, holding you in my arms, for ever!’
‘Oh, Lawrence…!’
‘Would you get tired of it, Christine, would you grow weary of it—dancing only with me? Dancing through all this evening, only with me?’
‘Not just for this evening, Lawrence. I’ll never be tired of you.’
‘Christine—if I could ask you! But my father… You are only seventeen, my father says that’s too young for any girl to make up her mind.’
‘Your father doesn’t know much about girls,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I made up my mind when I was six years old.’
‘I think I did too. Well, when I was ten, perhaps. Except that, you and Lyn being so much alike, when one was a little boy it was difficult to know…’
Did he know now? ‘Oh, Tetty,’ she said, subsiding on to one of the little gold ballroom chairs, leaning her cheek for a moment against that stiff, unyielding shoulder which yet was a haven to the two only beings in the world she cared for, ‘do you think he loves me? He says that when he was little, he couldn’t make up his mind between me and Lyneth. But Lyn has Arthur, Arthur loves her and she has so many other admirers.’
‘So have you many admirers, my dearest; quite as many as Lyn.’
‘I don’t want other admirers, I just want Lawrence.’
‘Well then, you must put up a fight, Christine, mustn’t you? A man, your Aunt Louise would say, will always want what is not easily available: he wants the peach that grows highest on the wall. You shouldn’t place yourself where he may just reach out his hand and take you.’
‘But so he
may
reach out his hand and take me. I can’t play silly girls’-games, not with Lawrence.’ But she glanced across the room to where the handsome dark head bent over the fair head with its coronet of white feathers, and felt her heart lurch in her breast. ‘Tetty—you don’t think Lyn is playing such games with Lawrence?
She
isn’t playing at being the peach highest on the wall?’
Was Lyneth playing games? Lyneth who had always wanted what Christine wanted, only because Christine wanted it. And what Lyn wanted… But this is going too far, she thought. It means too much to Christine; Lyn can have any man she wants, she must leave Lawrence alone. He didn’t really know his own mind, he was still such a boy; but she must see to it—however much she might wish for her favourite to have her own way—must see to it that for a jealous whim, Christine’s faithful heart was not broken for the rest of her life.
Christine’s hands were clasped around her arm. ‘Tetty—if you could speak to Lyn, if you could tell her, now, tonight, before it’s too late! Not plead with her, that only makes her want things even more: but just tell her, forbid her to tease Lawrence and flirt with him… Lyn can always get her way, with everyone. But if you were just to tell her: she’d obey
you
—you know she would.’
Yes, she knew. Here was the moment—one word from her now, call Lyneth over and tell her quietly to behave herself… Lyn would obey. What, then, prevented her? What but that force which from somewhere outside her, that chill hand across her heart that over the long years still impelled her to the resistance which must spell disaster. For in the terrible days to come, she knew that even before Christine spoke, the wrong, the cruel decision had been made. Christine saying, blindly pursuing her own inward thoughts, ‘Hil thinks so too; he said quite sharply to Lyneth that she shouldn’t play games and try to take Lawrence away from me—’ And she broke off, frightened. ‘Oh, Tetty, I’m so sorry! I know I shouldn’t mention Hil.’
Her mouth went stiff. ‘Oh, but of course, my dear—if Hil has the matter in hand, let
him
speak to Lyneth.’ And she detached her arm from the beseeching hands and moved sharply away. And the moment was gone.
Dancing. Dancing with Lyneth. ‘You are as light as a feather, Lyn, in these little pink shoes. I feel as if I could dance with you like this for ever.’
‘I have strict instructions, Master Lawrence,
not
to dance with you for ever. Not, in fact, more than twice. Besides, my cousin Arthur—’
‘Oh, confound your cousin Arthur—!’
‘With all my heart. But there is also Sir Edwin Groome on my programme, and a splendid young blade called—Lord Something—’
‘He is merely the Honourable James; not a Lord at all!’
‘Well, the no-Lord Something then. How Tetty would exult, would he but make me a no-Peeress! Because even a no-Lord becomes at last a yes-Lord: doesn’t he?’
‘Do you care that he should? But you don’t—you say all this just to make me jealous.’
‘And are you jealous?’
‘No, of course not, you ridiculous girl!’ said Lawrence, stoutly.
‘Oh, Lawrence!’ A tear like a dew-drop twinkling in each lovely blue eye.
‘For goodness sake, Lyn, you don’t care a row of pins whether or not I’m jealous! Your heart is set on far greater heights than ever I could offer you. What price, for example, your future yes-Lord?’
‘It’s her ladyship’s heart that is set on the yes-Lords; and Tante Louise’s. There is no rein,’ said Lyneth laughing, ‘to their ambitions for the Twin Belles of Aberdar.’
He said with a sudden sinking: ‘You mean—Christine—?’
‘Why not Christine? She is full as much a belle as I am. And with much the same—ambitions.’
‘She speaks to me,’ he said slowly, ‘in a rather different key. She has almost let me believe—’
‘Good heavens, Lawrence, do you still not know when Christine and I are teasing you? We’ve been teasing you all our lives.’
‘Including this evening?’
‘Especially this evening—evidently,’ said Lyneth. And, joining her sister, sitting close under Lady Hilbourne’s wing, she said laughing, ‘I do believe Lawrence Jones is growing up at last! Positively, he has been flirting with me. He and our cousin Arthur, I dare say, have been rehearsing pretty speeches to recite to their various partners.’ She looked down complacently at the pink satin shoes peeping out from beneath the white flounces. ‘Imagine his exclaiming that he wished he could dance with me for ever!’