“He mentions you all.”
She was pink with pleasure. She said suddenly, her face grave: “Edith was ill again this morning.”
“I believe it sometimes happens that expectant mothers are ill in the morning; as the time passes she will feel better.”
“What a good thing it is. Everyone is very happy about the baby. They say this is going to make everything right.”
“What is going to make everything right?” It was Allegra who had fallen into step beside me.
“We were talking about the baby,” Alice explained.
“Everybody is talking about the baby. Anyone would think no one had ever had a baby before. After all, they are married, aren’t they? Why shouldn’t they have a baby…People do. That’s what they marry for…or part of it.”
Allegra was looking at me slyly as though to provoke me into some reproof.
“Have you done your practice?” I asked coolly.
“Not yet, Mrs. Verlaine. I will though…later. Only it has been such a horrid morning and now the sun is out, and it’s going to rain again soon. Look at those clouds.” She was smiling at me mischievously, but almost immediately her face darkened. “I’m sick of hearing about this baby. My grandfather is a changed man. That’s what one of the footmen told me this morning. He said: ‘Miss Allegra, this baby will make all the difference to your grandfather. It’ll be like having Mr. Beau back again!’”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Alice. “It will be like having Mr. Beau back again. I wonder whether there’ll be no more lights in the chapel then.”
“There’s a perfectly logical explanation to the light in the chapel,” I said; and as they looked at me expectantly I added: “I’m sure.”
Allegra stood still, expressing her exasperation by facial contortions. “All this fuss. It nauseates me. Why should there be all this fuss about a baby? Perhaps it will be a girl and then serve them right. They seem to forget that I’m here. They never make this fuss about me. I’m Napier’s daughter and Sir William is my grandfather. Yet he scarcely looks at me and when he does his face shows…distaste.”
“Oh no, Allegra,” I said.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Verlaine. So what’s the use of pretending. I used to think it was because Napier was my father and grandfather hated my father. But it’s not that because this new baby will be Napier’s, and they are all making such a fuss before it is born.”
She ran ahead of us and started pulling a rose to pieces.
“Allegra,” warned Alice, “that’s one of your grandfather’s favorites.”
“I know,” spat out Allegra. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
“That’s not the best way to relieve your feelings,” I said.
Allegra grinned at me. “It’s one way, Mrs. Verlaine. The best available at the moment.”
Allegra had plucked another of the precious blooms and was bent on destruction.
I knew it was no use protesting and that once she had no audience she would stop, so I stepped off the path and started to walk across the lawn.
Some time before this Mrs. Lincroft had suggested that I accompany the girls when they went out riding, and I had ordered a riding habit from London as I hated borrowing clothes and Edith’s certainly did not fit me well. I admitted to myself that this was an extravagance but having acquired it I rode more frequently than I had previously.
My habit was in a becoming shade of dark blue—not quite navy; it was beautifully cut and as soon as I saw it I did not regret the money I had spent on it. The girls all assured me that I looked very elegant in it and they were constantly admiring it.
When she made the suggestion Mrs. Lincroft went on: “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you are here, Mrs. Verlaine. It’s a great help to us all now that we have this extra burden. I shall be very pleased when the new curate arrives. But then I suppose we shall have to wait until Mrs. Rendall considers he is ready to help with the teaching.”
I said that I had contributed very little and in fact enjoyed what I had done, for what I dreaded most was to have too little to do.
I was in fact delighted with the turn of events because not only did it keep me fully occupied and make me feel I was earning my salary, but I was with the girls more often and was beginning to know them better…Allegra, Alice, and Sylvia, that was. I saw less of Edith—she had given up riding now—though occasionally she would ask for a lesson at the piano; but even at such times she seemed to be shutting herself away from me as though she regretted the impulse which had almost made her confide in me.
One early afternoon when I was riding with the three younger girls, we saw Napier coming toward us.
He said: “Hello, enjoying a ride?”
I noticed how he avoided looking at Allegra—and she at him—and that her mouth formed into the sullen lines with which I was growing familiar. Why did he dislike her? Was he thinking of her mother, for whom he must have had some affection at some time. What had she been like? Exactly what had he felt for her? And what business was it of mine? Except of course that I was here to teach Allegra and I should have liked to help her if possible. A girl who bore so much resentment was storing up trouble for herself.
“It’s a lovely day,” I said. And I thought, What a trite statement of the obvious that was! And I had said it as though I was just discovering it.
I was aware of three pairs of eyes watching Napier and me rather too intently for my comfort.
“I’ll ride with you,” said Napier, and he turned his horse and we rode on, he a little ahead of us in the narrow road. As I studied his straight back and the proud set of his head, I was thinking that Allegra would be aware of everything he said, every inflection of his voice. Poor Allegra! All she needed I thought was affection—and she had none at all. Sylvia’s father would be tender and loving however much a martinet her mother might be and there was no doubt of Mrs. Lincroft’s devotion to Alice; yes, poor Allegra was the unfortunate one. I must try to do something for her.
I turned to speak to her and saw that she was trying to push Sylvia out of her saddle.
“Allegra,” I said sharply, “pray don’t do that.”
“Sylvia was teasing me,” retorted Allegra.
Napier ignored the girls and said to me: “I’m glad to see how you’ve taken to riding, Mrs. Verlaine.” We had emerged from the narrow lane and he had brought his horse neck to neck with mine.
“I never thought I could enjoy outdoor exercise so much.”
“And everything you undertake you do well.” His eyes belied the respect in his voice.
“I wish I could be sure of that.”
“But you are sure. That is why you succeed. You must have faith in yourself before you expect anyone else to…even horses. That horse knows he has a very determined rider on his back.”
“You make it sound very simple.”
“Theory always is. It’s practice that is less so.”
“That sounds profound. Do you apply it to your mode of life?”
“Ah, now you have me, Mrs. Verlaine, of course I don’t. Like most people I’m very good at giving advice…to others. But it’s true. You must admit it. I know what you’re thinking. You dreamed of becoming the greatest pianist in the world, and here you are teaching music to four very indifferent pupils—that’s so, I believe?”
“My little affairs are scarcely worthy of such a detailed analysis.”
“On the contrary they make a very good example.”
“Hardly of interest to you.”
“You are willfully obtuse today, Mrs. Verlaine.”
The impulse to fall back and wait for the girls seemed to me a wise move; but I had no intention of making it.
“You are fully aware,” he went on, glancing at me intently, “that your…past is of the utmost interest to me?”