mirror over the mantelpiece suddenly leapt to arrest her, to prove her undeniable, flagrant presence. Look, this is you! You are here!
And had he supposed that
he
was exempt from fact? That a quarter past two might conveniently turn into half past one? She tried to guess the exact calibration of minutes by which his
lateness would be merely excused, excused but with frostiness, excused but with hot anger, not excused at all. Not excused, even with the forgiving closeness of their wedding—not excused
especially because of that.
She tried to put herself again in the shoes, the skin of Emma Hobday. On the mantelpiece was an invitation, on thick, gold-edged, round-cornered card, expensively printed with scrolling black
letters. It was an invitation to Mr and Mrs Sheringham from Mr Hobday and Mrs Hobday to the wedding of their daughter, Emma Carrington Hobday. It was a formality of course, and had been put there
on the mantelpiece simply in proud proclamation. As if they would not have gone to their son’s wedding.
‘Carrington’?
Returning to the hall, she went to stand before the tall mirror, as though to put herself in her own oddly intangible skin. She had never before had the luxury of so many mirrors. She had never
before had the means to view her whole unclad self. All she had in her maid’s room was a little square of a mirror, no bigger than one of the hall tiles.
This is Jane Fairchild! This is me!
Paul Sheringham had seen, known, explored this body better than she had done herself. He had ‘possessed’ it. That was another word. He had possessed her body—her body being
almost all she possessed. And could it be said that she had possessed and might always possess him?
And had he ever ‘possessed’ Emma Hobday? Well, he would in two weeks.
She tried to picture Emma Hobday’s naked body—how it might resemble or not resemble hers. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t even imagine Emma Hobday without clothes. What
was she wearing now, on a March day that was like June? A flowery summer frock? A straw hat? She tried to see Emma Hobday in the mirror. It was even hard to see—though he must have stood
before this mirror, a last magnificent look, orchid or no orchid, less than an hour ago—
him
.
Can a mirror keep a print? Can you look into a mirror and see someone else? Can you step through a mirror and
be
someone else?
The grandfather clock chimed two o’clock.
She had not known he was already dead.
She turned, to consider another choice of doors and, opening one and then another, found herself in the library. It was not, perhaps, such a random choice. Houses have patterns
and proper ‘houses’, even modest ones like Beechwood or Upleigh, had their libraries. In any case she was glad it was where she found herself to be.
Libraries too—libraries especially—had normally to be entered with much delicate knocking and caution, though as often as not, judging by the one at Beechwood, there was actually no
one inside. Yet even when empty they could convey the frowning implication that you should not be there. But then a maid had to dust—and, my, how books could gather dust. Going into the
library at Beechwood could be a little like going into the boys’ rooms upstairs, and the point of libraries, she sometimes thought, was not the books themselves but that they preserved this
hallowed atmosphere of not-to-be-disturbed male sanctuary.
So, few things could be more shocking than for a woman to enter a library naked. The very idea.
The Beechwood library had its wall’s worth of books, most of which (a maid knows) had hardly ever been touched. But in one corner, near a buttoned-leather sofa, was a revolving bookcase
(she liked to twirl it idly when she was cleaning) in which were kept books that clearly had been read. Surprisingly perhaps, in such a generally grown-up place, they were books that harked back to
childhood, boyhood or gathering manhood, books that she imagined might once
And had he supposed that
he
was exempt from fact? That a quarter past two might conveniently turn into half past one? She tried to guess the exact calibration of minutes by which his
lateness would be merely excused, excused but with frostiness, excused but with hot anger, not excused at all. Not excused, even with the forgiving closeness of their wedding—not excused
especially because of that.
She tried to put herself again in the shoes, the skin of Emma Hobday. On the mantelpiece was an invitation, on thick, gold-edged, round-cornered card, expensively printed with scrolling black
letters. It was an invitation to Mr and Mrs Sheringham from Mr Hobday and Mrs Hobday to the wedding of their daughter, Emma Carrington Hobday. It was a formality of course, and had been put there
on the mantelpiece simply in proud proclamation. As if they would not have gone to their son’s wedding.
‘Carrington’?
Returning to the hall, she went to stand before the tall mirror, as though to put herself in her own oddly intangible skin. She had never before had the luxury of so many mirrors. She had never
before had the means to view her whole unclad self. All she had in her maid’s room was a little square of a mirror, no bigger than one of the hall tiles.
This is Jane Fairchild! This is me!
Paul Sheringham had seen, known, explored this body better than she had done herself. He had ‘possessed’ it. That was another word. He had possessed her body—her body being
almost all she possessed. And could it be said that she had possessed and might always possess him?
And had he ever ‘possessed’ Emma Hobday? Well, he would in two weeks.
She tried to picture Emma Hobday’s naked body—how it might resemble or not resemble hers. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t even imagine Emma Hobday without clothes. What
was she wearing now, on a March day that was like June? A flowery summer frock? A straw hat? She tried to see Emma Hobday in the mirror. It was even hard to see—though he must have stood
before this mirror, a last magnificent look, orchid or no orchid, less than an hour ago—
him
.
Can a mirror keep a print? Can you look into a mirror and see someone else? Can you step through a mirror and
be
someone else?
The grandfather clock chimed two o’clock.
She had not known he was already dead.
She turned, to consider another choice of doors and, opening one and then another, found herself in the library. It was not, perhaps, such a random choice. Houses have patterns
and proper ‘houses’, even modest ones like Beechwood or Upleigh, had their libraries. In any case she was glad it was where she found herself to be.
Libraries too—libraries especially—had normally to be entered with much delicate knocking and caution, though as often as not, judging by the one at Beechwood, there was actually no
one inside. Yet even when empty they could convey the frowning implication that you should not be there. But then a maid had to dust—and, my, how books could gather dust. Going into the
library at Beechwood could be a little like going into the boys’ rooms upstairs, and the point of libraries, she sometimes thought, was not the books themselves but that they preserved this
hallowed atmosphere of not-to-be-disturbed male sanctuary.
So, few things could be more shocking than for a woman to enter a library naked. The very idea.
The Beechwood library had its wall’s worth of books, most of which (a maid knows) had hardly ever been touched. But in one corner, near a buttoned-leather sofa, was a revolving bookcase
(she liked to twirl it idly when she was cleaning) in which were kept books that clearly had been read. Surprisingly perhaps, in such a generally grown-up place, they were books that harked back to
childhood, boyhood or gathering manhood, books that she imagined might once
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