What do you say?
Shall I stay?
These flowers were only an excuse.”
I felt vaguely irritated that both she and my godfather should think me so incapable, and poor old Seecombe too, who had worked like a slave driver for the past three days.
“Good of you to suggest it,” I said, “but quite unnecessary.
We can manage very well.”
She looked disappointed.
She was evidently afire with curiosity to see my visitor.
I did not tell her that I had no intention of being in the house myself when she arrived.
Louise looked critically about the room, but made no comment.
No doubt she saw many faults, but had the tact to hold her tongue.
“You can go upstairs, if you like, and see the blue room,” I told her, as a sop to disappointment.
“The blue room?” said Louise.
“That’s the one facing east, over the drawing room, isn’t it?
Then you have not put her in Mr. Ashley’s room?”
“I have not,” I said.
“I use Ambrose’s room myself.”
This insistence that she, and everybody else, should put upon the placing of Ambrose’s room at the disposal of his widow added fresh fuel to my rising irritation.
“If you really wish to arrange the flowers, ask Seecombe for some vases,” I said, going towards the door.
“I have a mass of things to do outside, and shall be away about the estate most of the day.”
She picked up the flowers, glancing at me as she did so.
“I believe you’re nervous,” she said.
“I am not nervous,” I said,
“I merely want to be alone.”
She flushed and turned away, and I felt the prick of conscience that always came to me after wounding anyone.
“Sorry, Louise,” I said, patting her shoulder, “don’t take any notice of me.
And bless you for coming, and bringing the flowers, and for offering to stay.”
“When shall I see you again,” she asked, “to hear about Mrs. Ashley?
You know I shall be longing to know everything.
Of course, if Father is better we shall come down to Church on Sunday, but all tomorrow I shall be thinking and wondering…”
“Wondering what?” I said.
“If I have thrown my cousin Rachel over the headland?
I might do that, if she goads me hard enough.
Listen—just to satisfy you—I will ride over tomorrow afternoon to Pelyn, and paint a vivid picture for you.
Does that content you?”
“That will do very well,” she answered, smiling, and went off to find Seecombe and the vases.
I was out all morning and returned about two, hungry and thirsty after my ride, and had some cold meat and a glass of ale.
Louise had gone.
Seecombe and the servants were in their own quarters, sitting down to their midday dinner.
I stood alone in the library, munching my sandwich of meat and bread.
Alone, I thought, for the last time.
Tonight she would be here, either in this room or in the drawing room, an unknown hostile presence, stamping her personality upon my rooms, my house.
She came as an intruder to my home.
I did not want her.
I did not want her or any woman, with peering eyes and questing fingers, forcing herself into the atmosphere, intimate and personal, that was mine alone.
The house was still and silent, and I was part of it, belonging, as Ambrose had done and still did, somewhere in the shadows.
We needed no one else to break the silence.
I looked about the room, almost in farewell, and then went out of the house and plunged into the woods.
I judged that Wellington would be home with the carriage not earlier than five o’clock, so I determined to remain without until after six.
They could wait dinner for me.