Patricia Wentworth - Out of the Past

“I’ve dropped a stitch, dear. You see, that is why I have to get on-I’m always dropping stitches. I can’t think why they won’t stay on the needle. Other people seem to manage it, but I’ve never been able to. That is where I miss Carmona so much. She always used to pick them up for me. It’s lovely being here with her now.” She raised her voice a little. “Darling, if you wouldn’t mind-I’m afraid there’s another one gone.”

Carmona came over and knelt beside her. Pippa lifted her head from her folded arms to say lazily,

“Darling Esther, why not do a dropstitch pattern and have done with it?”

“Well, dear, I don’t suppose I should ever manage to drop the right stitch. It doesn’t do for it to be just any one, you know. You have to follow a pattern, and I do find patterns so difficult. This is one I learned when I was at school, and I don’t seem to be able to manage any other.”

Carmona put the shawl down again in her lap and went back to where the sun was glinting on the silver gilt of Pippa’s hair. Not a breath stirred. She thought Colonel Trevor must be having a very hot walk. She wondered why one sat in the sun and baked, and thought Maisie really had the best of it when she said it would be much cooler up at the house and she would go and look for an amusing book.

Carmona waited till she had gone, to say,

“She won’t find one.”

Pippa yawned.

“Uncle Octavius didn’t rise to light literature?”

Carmona shook her head.

“Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, in sets-handsome bindings and very small print. And all the works of Mrs. Henry Wood-East Lynne, you know. And frightful memoirs, like the ones Esther solemnly brings down here every day and never reads. Uncle Octavius had never read them himself-nobody has ever read them, because the pages have never been cut. But she thinks they will improve her mind if she can get it off her knitting long enough to give them a chance, so she brings out her pet paper-knife that Penderel gave her and waits for the moment to be improved.”

In the shade of the beach hut Adela Castleton said suddenly,

“That girl’s happy, isn’t she-the marriage is turning out all right?”

Under the droopy hat which had seen better days Mrs. Field’s placid face took on a startled expression. Her hair was never tidy for very long. She pushed back a strand of it now and said quickly,

“Oh, yes. My dear, what makes you ask?”

“She doesn’t look like she used to,” said Adela Castleton. “Alan wasn’t any good for her, but she used to have that kind of lit-up look with him. It wouldn’t have lasted of course-it never does. Do you ever hear from him, Esther?”

“No.”

“You’ve no idea where he is?”

“He said he was going to South America.”

“You never knew why the engagement was broken off?”

“No.”

“And she married this James man practically the next minute!”

“It was three months, Adela.”

“Well, what do you call that? I call it the next minute. And a very good thing too. Tom was delighted. James has always been a pet of his. I’ve hardly seen him myself since he was a boy and used to spend his holidays with Mildred Wotherspoon. Is it true that he fell in love with Carmona at first sight? I can’t think why anyone should, but the most extraordinary things do happen.”

Esther Field ruffled up like a hen with one chick.

“Really, Adela!”

“What have I said? I’m very fond of Carmona, but nobody is going to pretend that she is the kind of beauty who would turn a man’s head at the first glance. She has the sort of looks that grow on you, and they generally give a girl the better chance of happiness. Beauty doesn’t always do that.” Her voice dropped a little. “Do you remember how lovely Irene was?”

The vexed look left Esther Field’s face. Warmth and kindness flowed from her.

“Oh, my dear, yes! I don’t think there was ever anyone as pretty as she was that last summer.”

Adela bit her lip. What a fool she had been to speak of Irene. She couldn’t imagine what had made her do it. A little quick jealousy over Carmona, a small cold wish to prick Esther Field, and here were her eyes smarting and the old wound aching as if it had never healed. Irene had been more than ten years dead-everything healed, everything passed. What had possessed her to speak of those old forgotten things?

Esther Field was remembering too. Irene Thane, the young sister whom Adela had loved like her own child-lovely, bright, and tragically dead at twenty. They said it had been an accident-but was it? A warm summer day and a still sea, and Irene swimming out into the blue and never coming back…

They said it must have been cramp. The best swimmer in the world may have cramp-

The word came to her lips.

“Had she ever had cramp before?”

Adela’s face hardened.

“Everyone gets it some times.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, dear. I’ve never had it myself. It wouldn’t be safe to swim out very far if one did. And Irene was such a good swimmer-so graceful in the water too. You know, my dear, I am so glad you spoke of her. It does always seem so sad when no one ever talks of them-like shutting them away and trying to forget. It’s difficult of course when one has had a shock. I felt like that when Penderel died, but I knew I couldn’t do it, because if I did I should feel as if I had lost him altogether-never speaking of him, you know. And it would have been awkward too-his name being so unusual, and strangers being so very apt to remark on it. I used to have it on my visiting cards-only one doesn’t visit so much as one used to-at least not formally. But I have always called myself Mrs. Penderel Field, and then they say, ‘Not the Penderel Field?’ and we often have quite a nice little talk about him. It is such a pleasure to find that he is remembered. Do you know, his portrait of Lord Dainton has just been bought for the Tate Gallery, and really the Daintons didn’t care very much about it at the time it was painted. Now, if it had been that lovely thing he did of Irene-I always did like that-but Lord Dainton was such a very plain old man, you wouldn’t have thought he would have wanted to be painted at all. And the Times says it is Penderel’s masterpiece! Of course he was Lord Chancellor.”

“I always thought it a very fine portrait,” said Adela Castleton firmly.

Esther Field sighed.

“I’ve never been any good at art, dear. Penderel used to tell me not to try. He said there was only one thing worse than the out and out Philistine, and that was the Philistine who pretended he wasn’t. And when I said I couldn’t think why he ever wanted to marry me, he said it was because I had the only two virtues indispensable in a wife, a sweet temper and a light hand with pastry. He had such a sense of humour, and he did love my lemon meringue tart. Do you know, that new clever young man Murgatroyd is going to write a life of him. He came to see me, and when I told him about the lemon meringue he said that was the sort of personal touch he wanted. He has just written what everyone says is a very brilliant book about Mr. Parnell. The papers all say things like his ‘being a live wire’ and ‘having quite a new approach’-if anyone knows what that means.”

“It generally means something unpleasant,” said Adela Castleton.

Esther Field dropped a stitch without noticing it.

“Oh, my dear, I do hope not! And as I said to him, ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you very much, because it was my stepson who went through his father’s papers for me.’ I was really too ill to do it myself, and so much of the early stuff had to do with Alan’s mother, so I didn’t feel-” She dropped another stitch.

“My dear Esther, you mustn’t dream of just handing those papers over to anyone! You will certainly have to go through them yourself.”