“If you had taken his ring you should at least have kept it hidden.”
“It was an accident.”
He laughed. “I’m sure it was. Now a word in your ear. If you attempt any more of these follies don’t rely on me to get you out of them.”
“I’m surprised that you bothered.”
“It was necessary to save us all.”
I turned away and ran into the house. I shut myself in my room. I had never felt so unhappy in all my life. If only he had given me one word of tenderness. If only he had been concerned for me! But he had made me feel that had I alone been involved he would not have taken the trouble to save me.
He had looked at me with a certain contempt and I wondered why a man such as he was who was fond of women—some said too fond—should find nothing to care about in his own daughter. I wondered what he would say if he knew the extent to which I had been involved with Jocelyn. He would be horrified, I was sure. Yet according to what I had gathered he had had adventures at a very early age. What was natural for him and those who shared his pleasures was shocking in his daughter. This was strange, for he was a logical man in other matters.
A few days passed, and when the possibility that I might be going to have a child came to me I was jerked out of my misery momentarily. I had not thought of this. I had been so wrapped up in my grief. Now I was faced with a problem. If it were to be so, what should I do?
I could not marry because the father of my child was dead. I did not want to tell my mother. I could not bear to think what my father’s reaction would be. If Leigh or Edwin were here I might confide in them. They would help me, both of them. But they were far away and I did not even know where.
My emotions were in turmoil. I did not know whether I was glad or not that this had happened. I was filled at one moment with the wonder of it and the next with a fearful foreboding.
A child—the result of that night we had spent on the mist-shrouded island! Our wedding night, Jocelyn had called it. And our marriage was to have taken place as soon as we returned to the mainland.
Oddly enough a change had settled on me. I was more serene, which seemed strange in view of the enormity of the problem which was arising before me. It was almost as though Jocelyn were speaking to me from beyond the grave in which they had laid his poor mutilated body.
Then I was certain. It was to be.
I tried to work out what I must do. I needed help, but I did not want my mother to know. As to my father—I shivered at the thought. I could not talk to Christabel. Since our return I had avoided her. I kept wondering why she had not told me that it would be dangerous to go to the island and I could not completely convince myself that she had forgotten. She had played a big part in the tragedy and I felt unsure of everyone, including myself.
There was, of course, Harriet. I wrote to her, carefully disguising what was wrong but wondering whether a woman of her worldliness might guess. I had to see her, I said. I wanted to talk to her, as I could not talk to anyone else. Would she invite me please?
Her response was immediate.
My mother came to my room holding a letter in her hand. “It’s from Harriet,” she said. “She wants you to go over for a visit. She thinks it would be good for you. Would you like to go?”
“Oh, yes,” I said fervently.
“Perhaps it would be a good idea.”
“I should like to get away for a while.”
She looked at me sadly, and I went on angrily: “I think my father would be delighted not to have to see me.”
“Oh, Priscilla, you must not say that.”
“But it’s true.”
“It is not true.”
“It is. Why do we have to pretend? He has never wanted me. I was of the wrong sex. He wanted a boy who would be just like himself. I am expected to go through my life apologizing for not being a boy.”
“You are overwrought, my dearest.”
“Yes, I should like to go away,” I said firmly.
I could see how hurt she was and I was sorry.
She put her arm about me and I was stiff and unyielding. She sighed and said: “Christabel should go with you.”
I did not protest although I would rather have gone alone.
At Eyot Abbas, Harriet greeted me warmly.
“I was afraid you would not want to come here again,” she said. “I feared it might bring it all back too clearly.”
“I had to come,” I told her. “And I want to remember … I want to remember every minute.”
“Of course you do.”
Harriet greeted Christabel with warmth but I did not think she greatly liked her. Harriet was a superb actress though, and one could never be sure.
I knew it would not be long before we were alone together and Harriet soon contrived that. I had been in my room only five minutes when she arrived. She had given Christabel a room on the next floor and I guessed there had been a purpose in this. Harriet anticipated many an uninterrupted talk.
She came in conspiratorially, her lovely eyes alight with speculation.
“Tell me, my dear, just tell me.”
“I am going to have a child,” I said.
“Yes. I thought that was it. Well, Priscilla, we must see what can be done. There are people who can be of assistance.”
“You mean get rid of it. I don’t want that, Harriet. I should hate it.”
“I thought so. Well, what do you propose? What will your parents say?”
“They’ll be horrified. My father will be quite contemptuous.”
“He would. Having himself played the masculine role in dramas of this nature, he would be deeply horrified at his daughter’s taking the feminine one. Such men always are. I want to snap my fingers at them.”
“You don’t like him, Harriet, I know. He is one of the few people I have heard you speak quite vehemently against.”
“No, I don’t like him. To be perfectly honest I think it’s because he never liked me.”
“All men like you, Harriet.”
“Most of them,” she agreed. “He hardly looked at me. He was all for your mother. She was the one he wanted.”
“I know he has a very special feeling for her. I wish they were more gentle with each other.”
“He’s not the kind. But what are we doing talking of him? We have our problem.”
It was typical of Harriet that she should call it “our problem.” That was the charm of her. She was not in the least shocked and she was going to summon all her ingenuity to help me.
I felt the tears come to my eyes and she, seeing them, patted my hand and said practically: “We’ve got to get down to serious planning. You’re sure, are you?”
“Yes.”
“And you are going to keep the child?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Have you thought what this will mean? The child will always be there in your life. You see, this matter does not now end with Jocelyn’s death. He will always be there through this child. Now, you have your own life before you. It has scarcely begun. You should ask yourself whether you want this child to be there for the rest of your life. It is possible to get rid of it. I know how that can be done, but it will have to be now. It is dangerous later. In fact it could be dangerous now. I hope you won’t want to do it, Priscilla. But if you decide …”
“I couldn’t. I want the child. It has already made a difference to me. I no longer feel as though I died with him. I now feel there is something for me in the future.”
“Very well, that’s settled. But what are we going to do? Are we going to tell your parents?”
“I don’t want to. I’d rather go away.”
“Does anyone else know this? Does Christabel?”
“No. No one.”
“So at the moment it is our secret … yours and mine.”
I nodded.
“You could go to your mother and tell her. She would consult your father. They might decide on two alternatives: to send you away where you could have your child in secret and then get it adopted, or marry you off to some willing young man who will take you for a price and it will be pretended that your child was born prematurely. No one will believe it, of course, but it helps the conventions. Do either of these prospects appeal to you?”