But by then aunt Phoebe was five-and-forty, and her heart was not so brittle.
She married the second curate.”
“Was the marriage a success?”
“No,” said my cousin Rachel, “she died on her wedding night—of shock.”
She turned and looked at me, her mouth twitching, yet her eyes still solemn, and suddenly I had a vision of Ambrose telling the story, as he must have done, hunched in his chair, his shoulders shaking, with her looking up at him in just this way, concealing laughter.
I could not help myself.
I smiled at cousin Rachel, and something happened to her eyes and she smiled back at me.
“I think you made it up upon this instant,” I said to her, instantly regretting my smile.
“I did nothing of the sort,” she said.
“Seecombe will know the story.
Ask him.”
I shook my head.
“He would not think it fitting.
And he would be deeply shocked if he thought you had told it to me.
I forgot to ask you if he brought you anything for dinner?”
“Yes.
A cup of soup, a wing of chicken, and a deviled kidney.
All were excellent.”
“You realize, of course, there are no women servants in the house?
No one to look after you, to hang your gowns, only young John or Arthur to fill your bath?”
“I much prefer it.
Women chatter so.
As to my gowns, all mourning is the same.
I have only brought this and one other.
I have strong shoes for walking in the grounds.”
“If it rains like this tomorrow you will have to stay indoors,” I said.
“There are plenty of books in the library.
I don’t read much myself, but you might find something to your taste.”
Her mouth twitched again and she looked at me gravely.
“I could always polish the silver,” she said.
“I had not thought to see so much of it.
Ambrose used to say it turned to mildew by the sea.”
I could swear from her expression that she had guessed the array of relics came from a long-locked cupboard, and that behind her large eyes she was laughing at me.
I looked away.
I had smiled at her once, I was damned if I would smile at her again.
“At the villa,” she said, “when it was very hot, we would sit out in a little court there, with a fountain.
Ambrose would tell me to close my eyes, and listen to the water, making believe that it was the rain falling at home.
He had a great theory, you know, that I should shrink and shiver in the English climate, especially the damp Cornish one; he called me a greenhouse plant, fit only for expert cultivation, quite useless in the common soil.
I was city-bred, he said, and overcivilized.
Once I remember I came down to dinner wearing a new gown, and he told me I reeked of old Rome.
‘You’ll freeze in that at home,’ he said; ‘it will be flannel next the skin, and a woolen shawl.’
I haven’t forgotten his advice. I brought the shawl.” I glanced up. Indeed she had one, black like her dress, lying on the stool beside her.
“In England,” I said, “especially down here, we lay great stress upon the weather.
We have to, by the sea.
Our land isn’t very rich, you see, for farming, not as it is up-country.
The soil is poor, and with four days out of seven wet we’re very dependent on the sun when it does shine.
This will take off tomorrow, I dare say, and you’ll get your walk.”
“ ’Bove town and Bawden’s meadow,” she said,
“Kemp’s close and Beef Park, Kilmoor and beacon field, the Twenty Acres, and the West Hills.”
I looked at her astonished.