“I have asked Mary Pascoe to stay here with me in the house as a companion.
After last night, I cannot be alone with you again.
You may join us in the boudoir, if you wish, before and after dinner.
I must ask you to be courteous.
Rachel.”
She could not mean it.
It could not be true. How often we had laughed about the Pascoe daughters, and more especially about chattering Mary, forever working samplers, visiting those poor who had rather be left alone, Mary, a stouter, even a plainer edition of her mother.
As a joke, yes, Rachel could have invited her as a joke, merely for dinner, so as to watch my glum face at the end of the table—but the note was not written as a joke.
I went out onto the landing from my room, and saw that the door of the pink bedroom was open.
There was no mistake.
A fire burned in the grate, shoes and a wrapper were laid out upon a chair, there were brushes, books, the personal paraphernalia of a stranger all about the room, and the further door, usually kept locked, which communicated with Rachel’s suite of rooms, was locked no longer, but wide open too.
I could even hear the distant murmur of voices from the boudoir beyond.
This, then, was my punishment.
This my disgrace.
Mary Pascoe had been invited to make a division between Rachel and myself, that we might no longer be alone together, even as she had written in her note.
My first feeling was one of such intense anger that I hardly knew how to contain myself from walking along the corridor to the boudoir, seizing Mary Pascoe by the shoulders and telling her to pack and begone, that I would have Wellington take her home in the carriage without delay.
How had Rachel dared to invite her to my house on such a pretext, miserable, flimsy, and insulting, that she could no longer be alone with me?
Was I then doomed to Mary Pascoe at every meal, Mary Pascoe in the library and the drawing room, Mary Pascoe walking in the grounds, Mary Pascoe in the boudoir, for evermore the interminable chatter between women that I had only endured through force of habit over Sunday dinner?
I went along the corridor—I did not change, I was still in my wet things.
I opened the boudoir door.
Rachel was seated in her chair, with Mary Pascoe beside her on the stool, the pair of them looking at the great volume with the illustrations of Italian gardens.
“So you are back?” said Rachel.
“It was an odd day to choose to go out riding.
The carriage was nearly blown from the road when I went down to call at the Rectory.
As you see, we have the good fortune to have Mary here as visitor.
She is already quite at home.
I am delighted.”
Mary Pascoe gave a trill of laughter.
“Such a surprise, Mr. Ashley,” she said, “when your cousin came to fetch me.
The others were green with envy.
I can hardly believe yet I am here.
And how pleasant and snug it is to sit here in the boudoir. Nicer even than below.
Your cousin says it is your habit to sit here of an evening.
Do you play cribbage?
I am wild for cribbage.
If you cannot play I shall be pleased to teach you both.”
“Philip,” said Rachel, “has little use for games of chance.
He prefers to sit and smoke in silence.
You and I, Mary, will play together.”
She looked across at me, over Mary Pascoe’s head.
No, it was no joke.
I could see by her hard eyes that she had done this thing with great deliberation.
“Can I speak to you alone?” I said bluntly.
“I see no need for that,” she answered.
“You are at liberty to say anything you please in front of Mary.”
The vicar’s daughter rose hurriedly to her feet.
“Oh, please,” she said, “I don’t wish to make intrusion.
I can easily go to my room.”
“Leave the doors wide open, Mary,” said Rachel, “so that you can hear me if I call.” Her eyes, so hostile, remained fixed on me.
“Yes, certainly, Mrs. Ashley,” said Mary Pascoe.