Dorothy Cannell - Withering Heights

I reminded Mrs. Malloy that it was something to discover that she had been a person as exciting as a tightrope walker in a previous life. And a cat too, if one discounted the possibility of Madam LaGrange’s having made that part up. Come to notice it, in close proximity Mrs. Malloy and Tobias did bear a certain rememblance to each other, around the eyes and the twitch of their mouths.

“Go on, say it, Mrs. H; you think she’s a fraud.”

“But sincere about it,” I consoled. “It could be she’d do better in another specialty.”

“She did say she’s just finished a postdoctoral course on séances and is thinking about going into them full-time.”

“Well, there you are! Her heart wasn’t really in her session with you.”

“Still, I don’t think it’d be wise for me to dismiss that bit about her seeing a woman falling in front of a bus in the rain.” Mrs. Malloy’s pious gaze shifted to the windows, where the storm was still going at it, hammer and tongs. “Or that business about the old girlfriend showing up. That sort of thing can ruin the best marriage.”

“Possibly.”

“Take Mr. H, for starters.”

“Yes, do let’s.” Had Tobias presently been within reach, I would have thrown him at her.

“Not that I think he’d seriously misbehave himself.” Mrs. Malloy solemnly shook her head. “But there’s no getting around it, he’s a very attractive man, besides being able to cook like a dream at home as well as at work. An old girlfriend might go all out-plunging necklines, skirts up to her knickers-to win back the chance she’d missed. Of course, like I said, it wouldn’t come to anything in the end, but-”

“Interesting you should mention Ben’s culinary talent.” I got up to put the tea things in the sink. “His latest cookery book will be out next month. There’s a review of it, an excellent one, in the magazine Cuisine Anglaise that arrived in this morning’s post. But getting back to Melody, I think that having given Madam LaGrange a try you should attempt the more conventional approach. Go see your sister.”

“It wouldn’t do any good. There’s never been no talking to Melody when she’s in one of her snits.” Mrs. Malloy came up beside me with the teapot. “Like I told you, this one’s lasted close on forty years.”

“That’s nothing.” I added more washing-up liquid. “For Moses that was a walking tour in the desert, hardly enough time to get sunburn. And speaking of fresh air and relaxation, it occurs to me that you’re due for a holiday. Now don’t argue.” I held up a soapy hand. “With the children away at their grandparents’ and my not having any decorating jobs going at the moment, this would be the ideal time to reunite you with Melody.”

“There is that.” Mrs. M picked up a dish towel and stood with it draped over her arm as if auditioning for the part of a waiter. “And Madam LaGrange did say I was about to take a trip to foreign parts, which I suppose could be Yorkshire, seeing as the people there talk different from the way we do. Then again, I’m not so sure I want to spoil a nice long tiff with Melody by trying to make it up. Especially if it means having to go and see her on me own.”

I knew exactly where this was leading and I wasn’t having it. There would be no twanging on my heartstrings. My loving duty was to my husband, who I knew was desperate to be alone with me without fear of our three imps capering into the bedroom. As for a former girlfriend daring to show up, I wasn’t worried as I scrubbed the shine off a couple of plates. Hadn’t Ben assured me when he asked-begged-me to marry him that I was the only woman he had ever loved? And aren’t men always especially truthful at such glowing moments?

The answer, that all dark-browed romantic heroes have their secrets, should have stared me in the face. But, alas, I was as blindly foolish as any gothic miss descending the darkened staircase of a gloomy manor house at dead of night with only a candle’s frail flickering light to ward off the terrors awaiting her.

Our drawing room at Merlin’s Court lends itself to tranquillity. It was early evening, and the storm had ceased several hours before. Sunlight skimmed the polished surfaces. The scent of roses drifted in through the open latticed windows, and the portrait of Abigail Grantham, first mistress of Merlin’s Court, smiled serenely down from above the mantelpiece. Unfortunately, there was nothing remotely tranquil about Ben’s mood that evening.

He was seated in the fireside chair across from mine. A softly lit table lamp dramatically highlighted his profile. He was looking dangerously attractive in faded blue jeans and a worn sweatshirt: a lethal combination, as I had often told him. He was wearing his reading glasses, which only added to his appeal. But far from sending loving glances my way, he appeared oblivious to my presence. Eight years of marriage had accustomed me to these occasional down moments. Even so, this was to have been a special evening. If he resented Mrs. Malloy’s spending the night, that wasn’t my fault. I had just persuaded her she’d be better off mulling over a reconciliation with Melody in her own house when he’d walked in and announced that it had been hell driving home in the storm and anyone with any sense would stay put for the evening. She had graciously agreed with him and gone upstairs immediately to lay out guest towels for herself.

The silence thickened. Ben’s dark head was bent. He was gripping a glossy magazine with agonized intensity. It was the latest issue of Cuisine Anglaise, the one that contained the review of his soon to be released book, A Light Under the Stove . As I had told Mrs. Malloy, I had thought it extremely complimentary. I even thought it improved the seventh or eighth time Ben read it aloud to me. Alas, being prey to the tortured sensibilities of a man of letters, he had fixated on one line-the one that described his prose as somewhat floury .

My attempts to convince him the comment was not as damning as he thought had fallen on determinedly deaf ears. Reminders that his other books had done extremely well had failed to cheer him. Sensing that he needed time to savor the savage belief that his writing career, if not his life, was over, I focused on my regrets. It seemed my hopes for a romantic evening were doomed to disappointment.

Such a pity! Ben had, without raising a dark sardonic eyebrow in my direction, reminded me why I had known on first meeting him that there would be no joy in my remaining an unattached overweight female with a bunch of finely tuned neuroses. So much had happened since. I know longer needed two mirrors to get a good look at myself. But I still thrilled to the image of him striding across the moors with the wind whipping his black hair to a wild tangle. The intent set of his shadowed jaw, the opal fire of his blue-green eyes, and the way his mouth curved in wry amusement all mocked the impudent folly of the elements in enlisting him as an opponent.

A wife, however, knows when it is time to reenter the fray. I didn’t put on a pair of boxing gloves, not having any readily to hand, but I did speak sternly. “Darling, put that magazine down; you’ve been wallowing long enough. It’s bad for the complexion.”

His response was a weary grimace.

“Do I have to take it away from you?”

“No.” He tossed Cuisine Anglaise across the room. I sucked in a breath as it narrowly missed the yellow porcelain vase on the secretary desk before landing in a flutter of pages on the bookcase. Watching him slump back in his chair caused my patience to dwindle.

“It isn’t a bad review, and even if it were it’s not the end of life on earth.”