She has so much, I said to myself. And what have I? Guilty memories.
I must pull myself together. I must never become like Aunt Sophie … bitter because life had passed me by. I had chosen the way I should go. Of course it was not always one’s fault that life took a certain turn. Was it Sophie’s fault that she had been disfigured in that fireworks disaster? Was it Edward’s fault that he had been cruelly injured? But we must not nurse our misfortunes. Someone had said never take them out and teach them to swim. Take them out and drown them. I must remember that.
I kissed Amaryllis.
“I feel I am the luckiest woman on earth,” she said.
“What are you going to call him?”
“Peter,” she said promptly. “After his father.”
“Does Peter want that?”
“Yes. And I do too.”
So the child was called Peter and because it was a little confusing to have two Peters in the household, he was soon known as Peterkin.
My father was undoubtedly delighted with the boy.
“At last,” he said. “A man in this household of women!”
“Don’t you call David and Jonathan men?” I asked.
“David will never have a son. As for Jonathan … well, I’m uncertain about him.”
“You’re unfair to him,” said my mother.
“Unfair? In what way?”
“Just because of that gambling business and Farmer Weston’s girl.”
“He’s got to behave himself if he takes on Eversleigh.”
“All young men sow wild oats.”
“Not on their own patch of land.”
“Well, the gambling took place in London.”
“That could affect the estate more than anything. It’s the first step on the downward path.”
“Dickon, please, not another lecture on the dangers of gambling.”
“Too much can’t be said about it.”
“You have already made that plain. Well, now you have your great-grandson and you are very pleased. You should be grateful to Amaryllis …”
“I wish Jessica …”
She silenced him. “Let’s go and have a look at Peterkin.”
It was amusing to see my father marching round the nursery with Peterkin in his arms.
“The master just dotes on that child,” they said throughout the household.
And they were right.
The christening of little Peterkin caused the usual flutter in the household. Christening robes were brought out and examined; and there was a great deal of discussion as to the guests who would be invited.
The Barringtons came from Nottingham, Clare with them. I always felt uneasy in Clare’s presence and often thought how much wiser Edward would have been if he had married her. I was sure she would have been a faithful wife; and there was no doubt in my mind that she loved him. Men so often chose the wrong women … as a servant had once told me.
Jake had prolonged his visit but he could not stay with us indefinitely. He had departed most reluctantly after extorting a promise from me to go to London as soon as the christening was over.
“Bring Tamarisk,” he said. “I should get to know my own daughter. Or… I shall come back here. Bless the child. She gives me the excuse I need for visiting you.”
He took our affaire more lightheartedly than I did. Well he might. He was not deceiving anyone … as I was.
I loved his dominating nature while I deplored it. I kept telling myself that it was one lapse on my part and it must never happen again.
The ceremony went off very well. Peterkin behaved with unusual decorum and was duly christened. I don’t know who was more proud of him—his father or mine.
They had their precious boy.
Amaryllis looked beautiful. She was radiantly happy. Lucky Amaryllis, for whom life ran so smoothly.
There was a reception in the great hall at Eversleigh and the usual toasts were drunk. Peterkin, by this time, was sleeping in his cot and several of the guests were taken up to admire him. I was with them. The old Eversleigh nursery had new life in it. Helena was there seated on the floor building a castle with bricks. The perfect domestic scene, I thought enviously.
Mrs. Barrington noticed my looks, I think. She took my hand and pressed it.
“I want to have a talk with you, dear,” she said. “When we are alone.”
Alarm shot through me which was due to the sensitivity of a guilty conscience. Whenever anyone spoke to me in that way, I imagined that something had been discovered.
The moment came.
She said: “Sit down, dear. I’m a little worried.”
“Oh? What about?”
“About you, my dear. You look a little drawn.”
“Drawn?”
“Not quite yourself. I think you must be very tired.”
“Oh no, I’m not in the least tired.”
She patted my hand.
“You’ve been wonderful. We never cease to talk about you and all you have done for Edward. I know how fond of him you are … but I think you are getting a little tired.”
“You mean …”
“I just mean that you are here all the time … and you must get really worn out.”
“Oh no … no. I’ve been to London. I went for the Waterloo celebrations. Edward insisted that I did and so I went.”
“I understand, dear. But I think you need help. That is why we have decided that Clare shall stay here … to help you.”
“Clare?”
“Why not? She is like a sister to Edward. They are fond of each other.”
“I know she has always been fond of Edward.”
“And he of her. But it is you I am thinking of, my dear. It will give you a little respite.”
“It is not necessary.”
The last thing I wanted was for Clare to come here. I always felt she had been resentful of me. I thought: She will be watchful. And I could not afford to be closely watched. She would try to find fault with me. Heaven knew that should not be difficult.
I protested again, but Mrs. Barrington had made up her mind.
“Do you know,” she went on, “being forced to go back to Nottingham has put new life into us both. Father didn’t really want to retire. It was those mobs that upset him. Well, that’s quietened down now. The punishment was getting so severe that they thought better of making all that trouble.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking of the man, Fellows, who had been hanged for what he had done.
“So you see, we can do without Clare quite easily. She will help with Edward.”
“It is so kind of you, but I really can manage quite well.”
“I know you can, dear. But Clare will stay and I’ll send on what she needs.”
There was only one thing to do and that was thank her graciously.
There were letters from Jake—one for me, one for Tamarisk.
He had written what could only be called a love letter, telling me how lonely it was in London without me. He would have to go to Cornwall, he supposed, and he would hate to be so far away. Suppose he asked me to bring Tamarisk for a visit? Since I had given him such irrefutable proof of my love, he could not do without me. He lived over and over again those hours we had spent in Blore Street and separation was unendurable.
I read the letter and put it away. I knew I should want to read it again and again.
Tamarisk was pleased with her letter, and although she assumed an indifference I believed she was really delighted to find herself with a father. I think she was a little fascinated by him.
“Would you like to go to London?” I asked her, trying to keep the lilt out of my voice.
“I don’t mind,” she said, coolly but with her eyes sparkling at the prospect.
“Your father thinks it would be a good idea if I took you. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t mind,” she repeated.
I decided I would talk the matter over with my mother. The prospect of a visit to London always excited her. She said she thought it was a good idea and Tamarisk ought to see more of her father.