wondered what Sarah and Lydia would be doing right that moment in London. She knew there was an appointment, but Sarah had not been prepared to share any details; she was eternally discreet. A shard of irritation spiked inside Bea’s gut. Why hadn’t Lydia invited her to accompany them? She could jolly well do with a jaunt into London. It would be such fun. Her soul was weary with the view from the house. The relentless browns and greens of the fields held no charm for her. The bare, spindly trees with their gnarled branches pointing like pensioners’ fingers into the melancholy sky were too familiar. She did not like to see the half-moon prints of her boot heels in the mud, tattooing her endless toing and froing into the earth. She felt tracked and trapped. Everything was despairingly well-known. She imagined her sister and her friend cosy in a café. Smoke and warmth oozing, so it was impossible to see clearly. The waitresses would be neat and efficient, able to call to mind the entire menu. Beatrice thought it must be jolly to be a waitress; to have a place to go, something to do, a uniform to wear. Not that she could ever consider it. Obviously not. Out of the question. What would people say?
Samuel had slept badly last night. She’d heard him cry out in his sleep, and then she’d heard Cecily run down the corridor, her slippers slapping on the floorboards indicating that she hadn’t taken the time to put them on properly in her haste to dash to her husband’s side. Beatrice knew better than to get up and offer help. Cecily always refused, and Samuel was frantic on these occasions, behaving as though he didn’t recognise his little sister. Instead she’d put her pillow over her head and tried to drown out his screams, tried not to think of their root cause. As a consequence, today Cecily and Samuel had slept late, or whether they slept or not, they’d stayed in their rooms, unprepared to face the day; she and Nanny were trying to muddle through. It was always the same: on the rare occasions that Sarah was away from the house, Samuel was invariably more fretful. Did Sarah have some sort of calming influence? Beatrice knew that if this was the case, she should by no means resent it, and yet she did. It must be lovely to be needed in that way. In any way. Last summer Beatrice had spent a whole week in Hove with their aunt and uncle, but her brother had not called out once. She knew, because it was the first thing she’d asked on her return.
Bea, Jimmy, the girls and Nanny all trailed back into the house, sulky and silent except for Jimmy’s helpless, tearful gasps that hadn’t quite subsided. The weighty wooden door banged behind them; the stillness of the house oppressed her. She felt the heavy air squeeze her lungs, hamper her breathing. Suddenly she couldn’t bear it. She knew she was not capable of smiling and chatting with her nieces and nephew. Momentarily she was out of resources and she needed to be alone. In her small room she could be who she was. Only there did she find any peace. Since the older nephews were now with the stable boy, Nanny could take the girls and Jimmy up to the nursery. They really weren’t Bea’s responsibility. Not absolutely. No one was.
Beatrice stumbled up the stairs and closed the door behind her. She leaned up against it and gulped the cold air of her room. There was no fire burning. She hadn’t expected one. The maid would not think to heat her room at two in the afternoon. For once she didn’t care about the chill. She felt apart, adrift, drowsy. She rejected the chair and did not pick up her novel; instead she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over her head, hiding like a child. Depression seeped into every fibre and sinew of her body. She was deeply ashamed of what she was. A woman alone in the world without a man, so desperately available, so clearly superfluous. She felt coldly redundant and discarded; she felt it in the fabric of her tweed skirts, she
Samuel had slept badly last night. She’d heard him cry out in his sleep, and then she’d heard Cecily run down the corridor, her slippers slapping on the floorboards indicating that she hadn’t taken the time to put them on properly in her haste to dash to her husband’s side. Beatrice knew better than to get up and offer help. Cecily always refused, and Samuel was frantic on these occasions, behaving as though he didn’t recognise his little sister. Instead she’d put her pillow over her head and tried to drown out his screams, tried not to think of their root cause. As a consequence, today Cecily and Samuel had slept late, or whether they slept or not, they’d stayed in their rooms, unprepared to face the day; she and Nanny were trying to muddle through. It was always the same: on the rare occasions that Sarah was away from the house, Samuel was invariably more fretful. Did Sarah have some sort of calming influence? Beatrice knew that if this was the case, she should by no means resent it, and yet she did. It must be lovely to be needed in that way. In any way. Last summer Beatrice had spent a whole week in Hove with their aunt and uncle, but her brother had not called out once. She knew, because it was the first thing she’d asked on her return.
Bea, Jimmy, the girls and Nanny all trailed back into the house, sulky and silent except for Jimmy’s helpless, tearful gasps that hadn’t quite subsided. The weighty wooden door banged behind them; the stillness of the house oppressed her. She felt the heavy air squeeze her lungs, hamper her breathing. Suddenly she couldn’t bear it. She knew she was not capable of smiling and chatting with her nieces and nephew. Momentarily she was out of resources and she needed to be alone. In her small room she could be who she was. Only there did she find any peace. Since the older nephews were now with the stable boy, Nanny could take the girls and Jimmy up to the nursery. They really weren’t Bea’s responsibility. Not absolutely. No one was.
Beatrice stumbled up the stairs and closed the door behind her. She leaned up against it and gulped the cold air of her room. There was no fire burning. She hadn’t expected one. The maid would not think to heat her room at two in the afternoon. For once she didn’t care about the chill. She felt apart, adrift, drowsy. She rejected the chair and did not pick up her novel; instead she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over her head, hiding like a child. Depression seeped into every fibre and sinew of her body. She was deeply ashamed of what she was. A woman alone in the world without a man, so desperately available, so clearly superfluous. She felt coldly redundant and discarded; she felt it in the fabric of her tweed skirts, she
Similar Books
