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Authors: Susan Howatch
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Immediately I recalled my recent letter from Ginette on the subject of the erring housemaid at All-Hallows, and immediately I saw what possibilities had confronted the mysterious Mr. O’Flaherty. One thing led, as I fear it so often does, to another until at last, to put a turgid episode in the shortest, most salutary sentence, she stooped, I conquered and we both fell from grace. I was back at school by the time my father was obliged to make a financial provision for her and I was still at school when to the relief of all concerned she miscarried and emigrated to Australia, but when I returned home for the Christmas holidays I found a most unpleasant reception awaiting me.
It was my mother who had found out. Her chilling expression was bad enough but the worst part of the affair was that my father was entirely at a loss. He was stricken. His expression of bewilderment, his painful halting attempt to reprimand me, his air of misery all formed more of a punishment than any violent demonstration of rage, and in an agony of shame I begged his forgiveness.
“I’ll turn over a new leaf, sir, I swear I will,” I added desperately, and on this edifying note of repentance the conversation ended, but I knew, as soon as I had left him, that my problems remained unsolved. I was just wondering in despair if I could secretly ask the local doctor for a drug that would suppress my carnal inclinations and was just trying to imagine the celibate future studded with cold baths that lay ahead of me to the grave—for of course I could never marry if I could not marry Ginette—when Lion banged on the door and shouted that my mother wanted to see me.
She was making a blouse for Celia and her worktable was littered with various pieces of material, but my mother herself was, as I had anticipated, sitting at her dressing table in front of the triple looking glass. Her box of assorted buttons was open before her and she was sifting through the collection in search of a suitable set for the blouse.
“Sit down, dear,” she said, not looking up. “I’ve just been talking to your father.”
I sat down. The chair was cunningly angled so that I was reflected in all three mirrors, and as I noticed this unnerving multiplication of my guilty image I felt a queasiness form in the pit of my stomach.
“Your father,” said my mother, poking away busily among the buttons, “is capable of considerable eloquence, but when a conversation is of a painful nature he often finds it difficult to be as explicit as he would wish. I have spoken of this to you before and attributed this characteristic to his Welsh temperament but we must also never forget that he was not brought up to speak English by his Welsh mother and his Welsh nursemaids and that in times of stress he thinks more easily in their language than in ours.”
Poke-poke-poke among the buttons. A swift glance into the far mirror.
“So I thought,” resumed my mother tranquilly, “that I should see you for a moment to … clarify your father’s statements in the unlikely event that you might be feeling a trifle bewildered or confused.” She paused, glanced into all three mirrors and then returned to the buttons before adding: “Now, I want to talk to you briefly about your grandmother and Mr. Bryn-Davies—your father has not, I think, yet broached the subject with you in any detail.”
I was so startled that it took me a moment to answer, “No, Mama.”
“Well, that’s as it should be. Your father is the best judge of when you should hear the whole story, but I think a word or two from me now wouldn’t come amiss, especially as the case seems strangely … pertinent to what I have to say.” She toyed with a large red button. Then putting it aside she continued with the same tranquil fluency: “Let me start with your grandmother. Now, you may be surprised to hear that I do not entirely condemn poor Grandmama for her liaison with Mr. Bryn-Davies. She loved him. Her husband had
It was my mother who had found out. Her chilling expression was bad enough but the worst part of the affair was that my father was entirely at a loss. He was stricken. His expression of bewilderment, his painful halting attempt to reprimand me, his air of misery all formed more of a punishment than any violent demonstration of rage, and in an agony of shame I begged his forgiveness.
“I’ll turn over a new leaf, sir, I swear I will,” I added desperately, and on this edifying note of repentance the conversation ended, but I knew, as soon as I had left him, that my problems remained unsolved. I was just wondering in despair if I could secretly ask the local doctor for a drug that would suppress my carnal inclinations and was just trying to imagine the celibate future studded with cold baths that lay ahead of me to the grave—for of course I could never marry if I could not marry Ginette—when Lion banged on the door and shouted that my mother wanted to see me.
She was making a blouse for Celia and her worktable was littered with various pieces of material, but my mother herself was, as I had anticipated, sitting at her dressing table in front of the triple looking glass. Her box of assorted buttons was open before her and she was sifting through the collection in search of a suitable set for the blouse.
“Sit down, dear,” she said, not looking up. “I’ve just been talking to your father.”
I sat down. The chair was cunningly angled so that I was reflected in all three mirrors, and as I noticed this unnerving multiplication of my guilty image I felt a queasiness form in the pit of my stomach.
“Your father,” said my mother, poking away busily among the buttons, “is capable of considerable eloquence, but when a conversation is of a painful nature he often finds it difficult to be as explicit as he would wish. I have spoken of this to you before and attributed this characteristic to his Welsh temperament but we must also never forget that he was not brought up to speak English by his Welsh mother and his Welsh nursemaids and that in times of stress he thinks more easily in their language than in ours.”
Poke-poke-poke among the buttons. A swift glance into the far mirror.
“So I thought,” resumed my mother tranquilly, “that I should see you for a moment to … clarify your father’s statements in the unlikely event that you might be feeling a trifle bewildered or confused.” She paused, glanced into all three mirrors and then returned to the buttons before adding: “Now, I want to talk to you briefly about your grandmother and Mr. Bryn-Davies—your father has not, I think, yet broached the subject with you in any detail.”
I was so startled that it took me a moment to answer, “No, Mama.”
“Well, that’s as it should be. Your father is the best judge of when you should hear the whole story, but I think a word or two from me now wouldn’t come amiss, especially as the case seems strangely … pertinent to what I have to say.” She toyed with a large red button. Then putting it aside she continued with the same tranquil fluency: “Let me start with your grandmother. Now, you may be surprised to hear that I do not entirely condemn poor Grandmama for her liaison with Mr. Bryn-Davies. She loved him. Her husband had
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