Who would have believed it! Young Mrs. Stacy and the curate! The curate of all people. Well, these things were known to happen.
“The quiet ones are the worst,” said Mrs. Bury to me. She had formed a habit of miraculously appearing at her door every time I passed; and almost on every occasion she would shake her head at me and tell me that I was the spitting image of one of those digger people. She never forgot a face.
“And married to him,” she said. “I feel sorry for her. Nice little girl, Miss Edith was. No hoity-toity about her…not like Miss Allegra. There’s one who wants a good spanking if ever anyone did. But Miss Edith and Miss Alice—always polite and well mannered, the both of them. I was sorry for her, marrying her off like that. It was the money. Well, money’s not everything, is it? If she hadn’t been a little heiress they wouldn’t have married her off to that Mr. Nap…and she could have fallen in love and married Mr. Brown all nice and respectable.”
It was the view of the village. They were all sorry for poor little Edith, and Mr. Brown had, they remembered, been such a nice young man, more approachable than the vicar and never prying into their affairs and giving them unwanted advice like Mrs. Vicar.
Sir William was deeply affected by the news. I did not see him for I did not go to play for him during this period.
Mrs. Lincroft confided in me: “He’s taken this badly. The thought of a grandchild did wonders for him, gave him a new interest, and now she’s gone and it seems the grandchild might not have been his after all. It’s changed him; he says he’ll never have her in this house again. He doesn’t want to find her and he doesn’t want a lot more talk. He wants to forget about it. He wants it to be as though Edith was never here. He doesn’t want her name mentioned and he wants enquiries stopped.”
“But,” I protested, “it’s not possible to behave as though something as important as that never happened. Napier is here and his purpose in coming was to marry Edith.”
“It is what Sir William wishes,” said Mrs. Lincroft, as though that explained everything.
Sylvia’s revelation brought a decided change. The matter in the minds of most people was neatly settled. Edith had done what others had done before her when trapped into an undesirable marriage; she had run away with her lover.
No one knew on what ship Mr. Brown had left for Africa.
“I never questioned him,” declared Mrs. Rendall. “I wanted to have no part in his harebrained schemes. And it seems that he must have left the church, for, my goodness, if we are going to let those sort of people stay in what are we coming to?”
Napier went to London and spent a week there trying to discover some news of Jeremy Brown’s whereabouts; and after a week or so he came back with the news that a Mr. and Mrs. Brown had sailed for Africa on the S.S. Cloverine, but whether this was Jeremy and Edith was not certain. It might be possible to learn more when the ship arrived. Then they could discover through the Missionary Society whether Jeremy had arrived at his destination.
So Napier came back little wiser than he had gone and I avoided him and was relieved because he seemed to avoid me too. There were times when I thought the wisest thing for me to have done would have been to slip quietly away while he was in London and disappear as irrevocably as Edith and Roma appeared to have done.
Yet the very next minute I was reminding myself that I had come to solve the riddle of Roma’s disappearance, and Edith’s made me all the more determined to do so. I was in no danger from Napier Stacy, I assured myself—nor from any man. Of course if the reason for Edith’s disappearance was her flight with a lover, it was in no way connected with Roma’s; but it was still an odd coincidence that two women should have vanished in the same place.
The belief in the cause of the trouble was strengthened when Alice and Allegra made their confessions to Mrs. Lincroft.
Allegra admitted that she had seen the lovers meeting on more than one occasion. She had said nothing to anyone because she thought it would have been telling tales. Alice admitted to once carrying a note from Edith to Mr. Brown.
So Edith had gone. Everyone was ready to believe that she had gone off with her lover. But I was not altogether sure; I kept thinking of Roma.
8
During the following weeks when I continued to avoid Napier, it occurred to me that everyone was taking the explanation of Edith’s disappearance too much for granted, and I was astonished at the attitude in the house. Mrs. Lincroft was solely concerned with nursing Sir William. Perhaps it was Mrs. Lincroft who jostled everyone into accepting the explanation because she wanted the matter put aside and forgotten—for Sir William’s sake, of course. But the girls were always whispering about it. I would catch Edith’s name often when I came upon them; then they would look a little embarrassed and talk of something else.
In the village they went on discussing the disappearance of Edith; but they were all convinced too that she had gone off with her lover. The story was embellished as the weeks passed.
I heard Mrs. Bury whispering to one of her customers. “They say she left a note telling them she couldn’t live with that Nap any more. Poor thing!”
It was amazing how these rumors, which had no word of truth in them, could start.
“It was the curse on the house,” I heard Mrs. Bury say on another occasion. “You see it should have been Master Beau’s by rights. And Mr. Nap came home and took his place. Oh I know she went off with the curate. It’s what they call predestination…part of the curse, you see.”
Whenever anyone from the house appeared it would set tongues wagging. Once I saw the three girls in Mrs. Bury’s shop I guessed she was talking to them about the curse on Lovat Stacy and Edith’s disappearance. There was an air of guilty conspiracy about them all.
I thought a great deal about Napier and that conversation when he had told me that he was not indifferent to me. I wondered how sincerely he meant those words. He had seemed genuine but this could be a method of approach. I was a woman and a widow, experienced of life. He was not free to make any honorable declaration—no more now than then. Yet he had made a declaration of a sort, and if I were wise I would stop thinking of him. But it was true that I was struggling out of my own slough of despondency as perhaps he was…if I could believe him…and it was partly due to him. Whatever I thought of him he had given me a new interest in life and because I was not thinking of Pietro every hour of the day it was rather like seeing a faint light at the end of a dark tunnel through which one had struggled for a long time—and being afraid of what one might find in the light.
I had promised myself that I would never be involved again. If I had visualized another life, marriage, children, a home of my own, I had seen my husband as a shadowy figure. I should be fond of him, but I would never give him the power to hurt me as Pietro had hurt me. Not only in dying and leaving me alone, but in our life together. Yes, I was admitting the hurts now, the carelessness, the lack of tenderness, the ruthless squandering of my career for his. This admission was new and—I must face it—it had come through my relationship with Napier. But children…I longed for children. With them I could build a new life. I might be freeing myself from my past but Napier was chained to his as surely as he had been when Edith was in the house.
Her memory was more vivid than she had been herself. Her clothes were still in the wardrobe and her room was just as she had left it. There were now Beau’s room and Edith’s room; but Edith’s would not be a shrine as Beau’s had been. I was sure that as soon as Mrs. Lincroft had nursed Sir William back to health something would be done.