Thirty-four
In the morning, I was woken from a belated sleep by Kate. There she was, leaning over me as best she could, her hand on my shoulder. There, in my room, at my bedside, with no attendants. I was sitting up in a flash: āWhat?ā
She shook her head ā Nothing ā but there was no smile. āItās just that ā¦ youāre in bed so late. Itās not like you.ā
āWhat time is it?ā
āEight.ā
Not late, then. āI didnāt sleep well,ā I mumbled, a propos of nothing. Nothing was making sense.
āNor me,ā said quickly and quietly. Then, āCan you come to my study when youāre up?ā
So, something was the matter. My stomach clenched. She said no more and left. I dressed slowly, shrugging off Bellaās attempts to help, desperate to be alone. Kate knows, I kept telling myself; told myself and told myself ā Think, Cathy, think ā but still couldnāt believe it. How did she know? How could she possibly know? And what ā exactly ā did she know? I had a sensation of her hands already around my throat; my own hands were there again and again, to check, to plead.
Kate was alone in her study when I got there; she was pacing but indicated that I should sit. I didnāt want to give myself up to the chair, but nor did I want to risk my legs giving way. Doing as I was told, sitting down, I felt trapped. The room was overly draped, caked in paint and gilt, the air laden with beeswax and motes. Kate looked as she had never before looked: as if she were sick with madness. Her huge, raw eyes darted, unseeing. I had no idea what was about to come my way ā nothing would have surprised me, and anything would have ā or how it was about to come; no idea how I might try to defend myself, what I could perhaps try to deny. So, this is the end: it was happening, at last, and of course it was. How had I ever assumed otherwise? I was going to be cast out, in disgrace. And when, really, anyway, had it ever been any different? Me, whoād been picked up for a while by a duke. Thatās all it had been, my life, the good life that Iād had. Iād never been up to it; Iād made a good show of it but Iād never, really, been up to it, and she knew it. So, this is where it ends, for me. And for me, I didnāt care: Let it come. My boys, though ā¦ No, I didnāt think of the boys, didnāt dare. Whatever was about to happen to me I deserved, but the boys, my perfect Suffolk boys, who should have been facing their perfect futures ā¦
Kate paused, leaned on the back of her chair, widened her already wide eyes and exclaimed, āItās Thomas, isnāt it!ā Rushing on in a goading, sarcastic, fake-jocular tone, āYou know, youāre going to have to help me with this one, Cathy; youāre really going to have to help me. Iām quite sure we can find a way to deal with this, you and me; there must be a way we can deal with it.ā
Me, woman of words: I had no idea what to say; there were no words inside me, none. Blood thumped in my ears, and I was trembling, shaking, quaking. How visibly? I was ridiculous, nothing but a bundle of passions and grievances. And her: unrecognisable, too, this frayed, laid-low woman. Witty and daring was how I was supposed to have been; and Kate, clear-sighted and composed. But now look at us. What Iād done had destroyed both of us.
She said, āI saw Thomas kissing someone last night,ā and, having said it, she was suddenly a picture of calm. It was me, now, who was obliged to react. Someone: sheād said someone, kissing someone. When I said nothing ā desperate for clarification, elaboration ā she continued, āAt one of the doors at the back. Midnight. I just happened to look out and there he was.ā A correction: āThere they were. Kissing.ā She broke her stillness, stepped to the window.
What had it looked like, that one, brief, reluctantly received touch of his lips to mine? There had been no passion in it. Anger burned away my breath: it had so nearly been all right but now, because of one, pointless, momentary mistake by Thomas, it wasnāt. Had she already been to Thomas with this? If so, what had he said?
āOf course, it wouldnāt surprise most people, would it, but, well, you knowā ā and she turned back to me, impassioned ā āI really did think it was something Iād never have to worry about, with him. Oh, a lot else, yes. But not that. Heās always been so very, very loving to me. I really did think āā But there she stopped. When she spoke again, it was to tell me what I needed to know: āI havenāt yet spoken to Thomas.ā
Just me and her, then, so far. I made myself ask, āWho was it? The woman.ā Subdued, my question sounded oddly nonchalant. If sheād replied, Well, it was you, wasnāt it, or, It was you, as you well know, what would I have said? Perhaps Iād have said, Oh, that kissing, you mean. Oh, that. And then perhaps, Oh, no, no, that was just ā¦
She frowned. āWho was the woman? I donāt know,ā as if this was of not much more than passing interest, or certainly not her main concern. āI couldnāt see.ā
Careful, Cathy. Perhaps she was springing me a trap. Again cautiously, I asked, āBut how could you not see?ā
āIt was dark.ā She was exasperated, genuinely: she really hadnāt seen. āIām not bothered who she was, to tell you the truth; Iām bothered that it was Thomas.ā
A spark of hope had hit my heart and taken my breath away: she really didnāt know who the woman was!
āSheās not staff, though,ā she said, and my heart flattened.
āNot staff?ā I needed to know precisely what sheād seen.
She shook her head. āOh, you know how you know: dress, demeanour ā¦ The stairs she was going up, too: this side of the house, not servantsā stairs. Whoever she was, she was one of us.ā
Us. I looked down at my hands, tried to think. āSo, how did you know it was Thomas?ā
This, she considered risible. āOh, I know.ā I know my own husband. Then, more reasonably, āI just knew, Cathy. It was Thomas.ā She knew him enough to recognise him in darkness, across a garden, merged with someone elseās silhouette.
I asked her what she was going to do.
āSpeak to Thomas.ā
What on earth would he say? He was quite likely not to lie but to tell something close to the truth. Thatās the problem with him, I realised: heās not so much a liar as a man who believes his own nonsense. āPerhaps it was nothing,ā I suggested. āNothing much.ā A kiss, I meant her to understand: one kiss, a momentary silliness of his.
Sceptical, she said, āYes, thatās probably what heāll tell me. But āā She inclined her head, absently tapped the glass in the window; she was thinking. āThere was considerable familiarity in it,ā she decided.
Panic battered my heart, because there was to be no escape. But then: familiarity. The word had sparked an idea and there it was, bright and insistent. Elizabeth. It was Elizabeth whoād been overfamiliar with Thomas. And now this, the kissing: Kate might believe it of her.
But no.
No, I couldnāt.
Could I?
āYou donāt think it was Elizabeth, do you?ā I only put it to her as an idea; didnāt claim it was Elizabeth. Wouldnāt have dared. Iād still been wondering whether to say anything at all as Iād somehow gone ahead and voiced it, and it sounded properly tentative.
She looked blank. āElizabeth?ā
What had I done?
āWell,ā I flailed, āMrs Ashley ā¦ā but I didnāt say it. Kate, too, said nothing and I feared that this was something else that was about to go against me; she might be about to throw at me, What are you? What kind of woman are you, to suggest such a thing? When she did finally speak, though, what she said was, āMy stepdaughter. My fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.ā
There had been a shift; Thomas was, now, accused. The accusation was out of my hands and had a life of its own. This was complicated, and could easily be exposed as nonsense. I almost said, āIt might not have been Elizabeth.ā I could still have said it, could have checked the momentum and brought some sense to the matter.
Kate said, āSecond in line,ā and, full of wonder, āHe couldnāt do any worse, could he.ā
She seemed to require a reply, so I had to say, āProbably not, no.ā
āDid he not think what this ā whatever it is, just a few kisses or whatever it is ā could do to her?ā
Her? Her? Oh, believe me, she gets what she deserves.
āSheās fourteen, Cathy,ā Kate despaired.
Fourteen, just as I was when ā
Kate said, āDonāt, Cathy.ā She sounded sad. āDonāt be angry.ā
Was I? Why was I? Unclenching my fists, I glimpsed a scattering of fingernail marks in each palm.
āItās for me to be angry,ā she said, āif I can work myself up to it. Iām not sure I have the energy. Problem is, Iām getting so used to stupidity from Thomas and having to deal with the consequences.ā
As if this were just another of his ill-judged plans.
The way I saw it: even if he hadnāt done what Iād said heād done, he could have, might have, probably would have. And what had he done? Far, far worse than Iād led her to believe. Heād had sex again and again with his pregnant wifeās best friend. āBut this,ā I insisted. āHow could he? And her?ā
Kate spoke wearily. āOh, I doubt Elizabeth had much to do with it. Thomas can be very persuasive.ā
Had I been persuaded? Yes and no. I didnāt know, I didnāt know the truth of it. And Kate, what about her? Had she been persuaded to marry him? Were we two women whoād let ourselves be persuaded? Is that what had happened to us?
She should rest, I insisted, and think through her approach before confronting either Elizabeth or Thomas. The truth was, I had to get to him before she did. At the door, though, opening it and glancing back, I stopped in my tracks. Because there was something odd in the way that Kate was looking at me. Sneaking a look: that was what she was doing. Moments later, Iād decide that it was as if she didnāt know me. At the time, I came up with no more than an instinctive, āWhat?ā
āNothing,ā she replied too quickly, adding a similarly quick, utterly unconvincing smile. Then, āNothing. Nothing!ā and laughing, as if giving herself a shake. Only when I was on the other side of the door did I wonder: had she been looking at me as if perhaps I fitted the shape of the woman whom sheād glimpsed with Thomas? That wasnāt it, was it? There in the hallway, hands pressed flat onto the full skirt of my gown, I wondered how distinctive an outline Iād make in semi-darkness. Not distinctive, I told myself: I might well be in other ways ā certainly Iād hope to be ā but not in my appearance, my size and shape. But, then ā¦ that look, that look of hers ā¦ Appraising, and quizzical.
I shook off that sickening doubt by rushing around Sudeley to ask after Thomasās whereabouts, all the time making sure to appear calm. Eventually, I learned that ...